Zimmerman, his large head tucked deep into the collar of an orchid-print shirt, stood at the door of Pod Four. Shirt aside, he looked about as casual as the levs continuing to pass overhead. Mac smiled a greeting. “Hope my bag’s been behaving itself.”
“Hi, Mac.” Almost a whisper—but that was Zimmerman’s normal voice. “All quiet.” He looked wistfully at Pod Three. “Here, anyway.”
“Don’t worry,” she told him. “The students will be rolling home in a few hours and someone always falls in.”
“I don’t swim.” As if fearing this sounded less than professional, he added: “Tie has his skim ready. I’ll watch.”
“Did you get any ribs?”
His teeth flashed. “Did you leave any?”
“Lies. All lies,” she complained, but gestured back at Sing-li, standing in the shadows. “You can grab some while he’s here, I’m sure.”
“I’ll survive. You—some of us should be going with you, Mac,” he said glumly. “This isn’t right.”
Mac smiled. “I’m happier knowing you’ll be here, looking after my people—and yourselves, okay? You know Sing-li. He’s a troublemaker.”
“Sure, Mac.” Zimmerman heaved a melancholy sigh that strained the buttons of his shirt. He’d make a good Grimnoii, Mac thought. “You’d better get ready. The lev’s docked.” He opened the door for her.
The pod felt abandoned, as if ready to be lifted for winter storage. Only the posters lining the walls and a pile of rain boots, several large enough to be buckets, proved anyone currently lived here. Stepping around and over the boots, Mac pushed open the door to the guest quarters, so designated by a large “No Students” sign, and looked for the bag she’d dumped on the bed.
What she saw instead were large pale feet, with reddish hairs on their toes. The feet were at the end of equally pale legs, also hairy, which disappeared into a pair of dark blue baggy shorts. Case Wilson’s shorts, to be precise, Case himself snoring peacefully, using her bag as a pillow.
Mac walked to the head of the bed and tugged her bag free. Case’s head thumped down on the mattress and his eyes popped open, horror on his face the instant he saw her grinning down at him.
She’d never seen anyone scuttle from a bed quite that fast.
Or turn quite that red.
To give him time to recover, Mac took her bag to the desk, pushing aside the vase of pebbles with twig to make room for it. She rummaged inside for something intact and travel-suited. “Never let an alien do your packing, Case,” she advised, lifting out the hockey puck to show him. “Even the well-intentioned sort.”
“Mac. Dr. Connor. I’m really sorry—”
She found a serviceable pair of Base coveralls and forgave Two immediately. “Turn around.”
“I—what are you doing?” he blurted as she began undoing her shirt, then whirled to face the wall.
“Changing,” she explained, thinking it was obvious. Dropping her shorts and stepping into the coveralls, Mac added: “What I want to know is what you’re doing here instead of being at the party.” Or attending the briefings already underway. Taking her mind off what she’d started, Mac ran her finger up the coverall seam to fasten the front, then ran a hand through her hair. “Well?” she prompted.
He kept his back to her. Even his ears were glowing red, she noted, fascinated. “I . . . I . . .”
“You wanted to say good-bye?” she suggested.
This turned Case to face her, his expression nothing short of desperate. “No. Mac. I want to go with you. To the Dhryn planet.”
It had to be something in the air. Or a disease. She shook her head. “Impossible. You can’t.”
“Why? Sam’s going.”
She blinked. “Sam who?”
“Sam Schrant. Marin’s postdoc.”
“Oh.” Mac gathered herself. “That Sam. The meteorologist.” And more. Schrant was a storm chaser, presently a leader in the field of catastrophic event modeling. She’d asked Mudge to grab Schrant for their group weeks before; the request had been mired in bureaucracy ever since. “I didn’t know his clearance had gone through. I’m surprised it has, really.” She put back the puck, added shirt and shorts, and closed her bag. “Good for Oversight. Though between us, the man’s a menace. In a good way.”
Case took a step toward her, his scarred hands open at his sides. “Mac. Listen. I’m good with machines. You don’t grow up on a trawler without being able to handle hard work and whatever nature throws at you. And you know I’ve a level head.”
Mac’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “All true.”
“Then I can come?” He edged closer, like some overeager puppy.
Mac edged back, trying not to be obvious about it. He was too tall for her to see his expression from this range without bending her neck an uncomfortable amount. She hit the desk and made it seem on purpose by hopping up on it, which put them at a more even height. Bonus. “No.”
“But . . .”
“Do you like dancing, Case?”
His sea-washed eyes stared down at her. “What?”
“Do you like dancing?” Mac repeated.
“No. Not really. Why?”
“Even better. I want you to be Dr. Mamani’s research assistant.”
She might have asked him to jump in the ocean. With blood-aroused sharks. “No!”
Mac frowned. “You don’t know what her research is—”
He put his hands palm-down on either side of the desk and leaned forward until his nose almost touched hers. “And I don’t care.”
Barbeque sauce breath. She stifled a giggle, quite sure that reaction would thoroughly offend the earnest young man. Who was, she guessed, upset enough. This close, all she could see were freckles and some patchy stubble.
“What’s going on here?”
Mac ducked her head to peer under Case’s arm. He lunged back, all the color draining from his face this time. She didn’t blame him. Sing-li on his own was intimidating, despite the shirt. Add Zimmerman, nostrils flared and those improbable shoulders jamming the doorway?
Poor Case probably thought he was about to be dropped into that ocean.
“Do you mind?” she said acidly. “I’m briefing Mr. Wilson. He’s applied to be Dr. Mamani’s assistant.”
The expressions as her explanation registered—on all three—were vastly entertaining. Had she time for it.
“Briefing,” echoed Sing-li, doubt in his voice and the searing look he gave Case.
“I don’t want to be Dr. Mamani’s assistant,” Case insisted.
Zimmerman, not to be left out, relaxed in the doorway and added with a sly grin, “Well, I’ve never had a briefing like that.”
“What are you implying?” The return of his fiery blush didn’t help Case’s outraged dignity one bit, but Mac gave him credit. He looked willing to take on both agents.
“I have a lev to catch,” she reminded all of them. “You three can bond later. Right now, I need another minute alone with Mr. Wilson. If you don’t mind?”
Zimmerman half bowed his way out, still smirking. Sing-li gave Mac his “I don’t like this” look but followed, saying only, “We’ll be outside.”
Once the door closed, Mac put her hands on her knees. “Sorry about that,” she told Case. “Where were we?”
“I was saying no to having anything to do with her.”
“Ah, yes.” She kept her face carefully neutral. “Not the best first impression?”
“I know you’ve worked together for years.” His honesty got the better of him. “But I don’t get how. She’s a—a—” he stopped there, probably viewing it as wise, and threw up his hands. “She doesn’t take anything seriously.”
Mac chewed her lower lip for a moment. “Emily Mamani,” she said at last, “is a brilliant scientist, an innovative engineer, and can drink someone twice her mass under the table, so don’t ever try. She’s also a fraud. Not take things seriously? She’s so serious—about everything imaginable—it’s almost killed her. Despi
te what I said to everyone today, it’s her device, the Tracer, that offers the best chance of finding whatever the Ro sent into Castle Inlet in time to make a difference.”
Case sat down on the bed and stared at her. “She’s a pretty good actor, then.”
“That, too.”
“Why does she need me?”
Because firm and energetic is easy. Mac resolutely ignored that memory, focusing on the troubled young man in front of her. “Emily’s protected by the Ministry—Sing-li and his lot. Her recovery is being monitored by Dr. Stewart, also Ministry. She’s—”
“ ’Sephe the statistician? She jams with Sasha’s band in Pod Six most nights.” He looked incredulous, as if musicians couldn’t be spies. “You’re kidding—”
Although Mac sympathized, she raised her eyebrow and Case subsided. “Emily was authorized to spend what she must, to use any and all resources here short of disrupting the season. Now that I’ve done the disrupting, her work will take priority.”
“Sounds like she has enough help.”
“Help she has, Case,” Mac agreed. “All of it complicated. All of it with strings attached. Obligations, expectations. Fear. What Emily needs is someone who won’t lie to her, for any reason. Someone she can trust. Won’t be you, not at first. It’ll take work. And,” she finished with equal honesty, “incredible patience.”
His eyes held an odd expression. “You want me to take your place.”
“You could say that.” Mac slid from the desk, then straightened her coveralls. She absently patted the pocket where she’d put her imp, checking it was there. “Will you do it?”
Case had stood as well, more slowly, as if deep in thought. He gazed down at her and grimaced. “I’d rather go with you, Mac. But if this is what you want—I’ll do my best.”
Finally, something going her way.
Mac beamed at him. “There is a bright side, Case,” she promised. “You’ll be heading out to sea. Make sure Em knows your background on trawlers when you apply.”
By his look, she’d dismayed him again. “Apply?”
Her lips quirked sideways. “Next lesson about Emily: if she makes a decision, she’ll stand by the result. Just tell her the truth—I made you do it. She’ll take a closer look. And she’ll see what I do.” Integrity, inner strength, and a nice dose of stubborn pragmatism that will annoy her constantly—and keep her sane. Mac was satisfied.
“What do you see, Mac?” Case asked in a low voice, eyes intent on hers. “I’d like to know.”
She might not have Emily’s experience with men, young or otherwise, but Mac was reasonably sure Case wouldn’t appreciate the attributes she’d listed to herself as much as she did. Instead, she made a show of checking the time. “I see I’m going to be late.” She glanced around the room once more, then gave him a nod. “Whatever happens, thank you, Case. I appreciate this more than I can say. Good luck.”
“You’re welcome,” he replied. For an instant, she thought he meant to reach for her, and she braced for a hug, but instead he opened the door. “Good luck to you, too, Dr. Connor.”
Relieved, Mac smiled at him and started through the door, already feeling the tug of impatience. Time to move. At the sight of her, Sing-li straightened from where he’d slouched against the wall in the corridor.
“Mac?”
She glanced back.
Case, who was much closer than she’d expected, ducked his head and kissed her on the mouth.
“ ’Bye,” he added, then walked away.
Sing-li snickered. Mac gave him a look and he stopped, but the smirk looked permanent.
“Can we go now?” she asked dryly.
He gestured her ahead with a gallant bow that didn’t quite work with the rows of happy-faced cookies on his shirt. “After you, Dr. Connor.”
She went out, giving Zimmerman a smile, then strode down the walkway toward the dock, her feet making reassuringly normal sounds on the mem-wood. The music from the party was still thumping. The cool night air smelled of salt and fish and growing things.
The world was as it was.
She could just make out Case, his long bare legs pale against the dark water as he headed for Pod Three, and quickly looked away.
As kisses went, it had been quick and almost clumsy. His lips had been cold.
What it hadn’t been, Mac decided with some misgiving, was the kiss of a friend.
A somber group awaited Mac at the dock’s edge, consisting of Kammie, John, Tie, and, of course, Mudge. A slightly larger and noisier group of students surrounded their fellow who, thanks to Mudge, would accompany them. ’Screens hovered in the air as they hurriedly exchanged critical information at this final moment.
Likely games.
Mac’s eyes widened when she saw Tie wearing what appeared to be an oversized flare pistol in a holster belted to his waist. “Where did you get that?” she demanded, keeping her voice down. Not that the students appeared interested. There was another sticking out of his pants pocket. “Those,” she corrected.
Tie looked abashed but determined. “They’re mine. A little old, but they work.”
“You don’t carry weapons,” she objected. “That’s their job.” A nod to Sing-li
The agent wasn’t smirking now, his face drawn in grim lines. “We can’t be everywhere at once. We did thorough backgrounds, Mac. Tie, a few others, are qualified and we contacted them. What did you expect, when you made Base a target?”
“But—” Mac closed her mouth on what was, in truth, a meaningless objection. Instead, she gazed at Tie and tried to imagine Base’s opinionated mechanic as a warrior. Having seen him defend what he considered his fleet of vessels from neglectful students, she decided, it wasn’t much of a stretch after all.
Tie put two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute. “Did a stint in the military—before you were born, Mac,” he told her. “Don’t worry. My favorite discussion-closer is still a wrench.”
At that moment, Sam Schrant, his friends having left—a couple in tears, walked up and offered Mac his hand. “Hi, Mac. I appreciate this.”
His dark hair flopped over his high forehead, almost hitting the tops of his glasses. She’d tucked Nik’s in her bag. Despite bruises of exhaustion lining his eyes—Sam was infamous for his all-nighters—he looked ready to go. A neon-orange backpack hung from his shoulders, its seams ready to burst.
“We’ll see if you thank me once you’ve been to Myriam,” she said, but smiled and took his hand. “Welcome to the Origins Team, Sam.”
His eyes, tired or not, gleamed. “I’ve been doing some prelim work, Mac. That’s one incredible orbit. I can’t wait.”
She could. Mac indicated the waiting lev. “Be my guest.”
After Sam said his farewells to the rest and boarded, Mac faced Kammie and John, wondering what to say.
Find the Ro object and you can get back to work?
or . . .
Welcome to my life.
It didn’t help that Kammie, always quick to tears, was quietly sobbing into a handkerchief, or that John Ward, for the first time since they’d met, had no expression on his face at all.
A quiet harrumph shook Mac from her paralysis. “Schedules, Norcoast, schedules. We can’t keep the pilot waiting.”
“Yes, of course.” She looked toward the well-lit pod and waved. Several of the figures milling on the terrace waved back.
One, standing on the walkway below, didn’t.
“Good-bye,” Mac said, as much to Emily as Kammie and John, then walked up the ramp into the lev.
She didn’t turn around again.
CONTACT
THE WINDS CURLED AROUND the standing ones, washing their feet with red sand. Their ranks were legion; their patience greater still.
If patience was felt by stone.
Beyond, where the landscape fractured into a maze of rock cuts and channels, dark eyes watched and measured from the shadows. When the winds paused, when the first rank could be seen through clearing air, then
would begin the span of days in which the clicks of poet and penitent could be heard. Only then . . .
Only then, would the Loufta come forth to build.
Others waited, too.
“Remind me how rich we’re going to be, Se Zali.”
The Frow scampered headfirst down the sheer cliff face, fingers finding and releasing holds so quickly se appeared to be falling. “Stinking rich,” se assured se’s partner on reaching the bottom. Rather than stand, se hung like a crawling Myg sketlik, albeit with skinlike web stretched taut between se’s limbs. Se’s head twisted at an unlikely angle to show se’s smug expression.
“I don’t see why you can’t stand up properly. Idiot. You realize you accomplish Numbers Two and Three on my list of why I should never have crewed with a Frow.” Oonishalapeel’s list was long and still growing, though since his encounter with a Human medic, he now had a word for Number Two, arachnophobia, and a drug to dull the symptoms.
Putting up with the smugness of any Frow came with the territory. “You’re sure we’re safe from the Dhryn?”
“My mater’s fifteenth sib-cousin serves the home world station where all incoming data on attacks and sightings are processed, my anxious friend. You read Se Lasserbee’s latest report. No attacks. No sightings. No Dhryn. The mighty Myrokynay have destroyed them. Calm your fears, ’Peel.” Se Zali touched the solitary point on se’s hat, the Frow equivalent of polite self-deprecation. “You would do well to remember I am a soldier, capable of ensuring our safety at all times.”
“Irrelevant. And your irrelevant hat is Number Fifteen,” ’Peel proclaimed. “Though I’ll keep in mind you’re willing to die first.”
“Hush.” The Frow swung about and scuttled up the cliff in a heave of membrane, uniform, and fingers. Grit rained down. “Do you hear that?” se asked, stopping a short distance up.
’Peel made a show of dusting himself. “Making false alarms is Number Ten.”
“Forget your boring list, ’Peel. Attend. Is the wind quieting?” Se climbed a bit higher and leaned out, neck ridges unfolding. Se’s eyes closed as se listened intently. “Yes . . . I think so.”
Regeneration (Czerneda) Page 19
