“This way,” Lyle offered gently, no longer grinning at her. She looked that desperate, did she? “The Grimnoii did us a favor by annoying the captain—not to mention Charles has been sending memos every half hour since boarding. They’ve opened the level above this one for us—more quarters. Should be ready any time.” He picked up most of her bags. “You’ve got your own, Mac. I’ll take you.”
Oversight comes through again.
Relieved, she grabbed the rest of her things and followed Lyle.
She wasn’t the only one on the move. The end of the corridor was stacked with belongings, if not people. “We’re taking advantage of the new space to reorganize,” he explained. “Charles and my roommates are heading upstairs. And we’ve put the Grimnoii closest to the entry station. In case the crew has to clean. And—” Lyle opened the hatch-like door that had previously been sealed, revealing a vertical shaft and ladder, “—they don’t like climbing. So far, there’s been only one glitch in the new assignments.”
A flicker of shadow in the shaft and a pointy hat protruded from the top of the doorway. “Ah, Dr. Connor!” Se Lasserbee said happily. “Isn’t this wonderful?” Se turned and disappeared upward, the click of claw on metal echoing in the shaft. Not echoes, Mac realized, so much as companions. They must all be in there.
“That would be the glitch,” she guessed.
“The Frow won’t leave the shaft,” Lyle admitted. “But there’s a bright side. Watch.” He tossed one of her bags into the shaft.
Before Mac could do more than reach out in a futile reflex, her bag reappeared in the firm grip of one of the lackeys, who swarmed up the ladder using three limbs. Another Frow appeared from below and hung in front of them, membranes fluttering as if eager.
She obliged, lobbing a bag into the shaft. The alien snatched it and was gone. Mac could swear ne chortled with glee. “Handy, that,” she said.
“To a point. They’ll bring everything back down again if you let them. And—they don’t share well.”
“Share what?”
Lyle gestured to the ladder itself.
“You’ve got to be—”
He shook his head. “Hold on tight. You’ll be fine. It’s only one level. Take one rung at a time.”
The ladder ran through the center of the circular shaft, its rungs an easy step from the opening. Mac glanced down and swallowed hard. “It’s more than one level,” she told her companion, stepping back. At least cliffs ended in rocks you could imagine hitting. The shaft appeared to go on forever. For all she knew, it ran through the ship’s interconnected arms.
“The rest are sealed to all but crew—unless there’s an emergency.” Lyle, apparently having no height or falling issues, leaned into the shaft. “If we need to evacuate, this is our closest exit. There’s an evac drill scheduled before we enter the gate. Hey!”
A flurry of blue uniform and dark membrane swooped past, and Lyle dodged back into the corridor, the little hair on his head now mussed. There were whoops from inside the shaft. “They think it’s a game,” he said unnecessarily, running his hand over his head.
Did they? Mac wondered, but didn’t bother to comment out loud. Far be it from her to disturb the archaeologist with things like territorial imperatives and the type of physical signals likely important to a species that clung to walls. Sometimes, blissful ignorance went a long way in interspecies communication.
Her own approach to the ladder was somewhat grim. Knowing she couldn’t match the Frow in speed, she didn’t bother letting them know she was coming by looking first. Instead, Mac stepped out and took hold. Firmly.
The Joy did have internal breezes, almost imperceptible but distinct. Mac quite liked them. But the wind that buffeted her seconds after she wrapped her arms around the ladder had nothing to do with any circulation system. All three Frow had plummeted by her, membranes expanded to move as much air as possible.
Cute.
Mac glanced up at the open door. About twenty rungs, she estimated.
The Frow had stopped some distance below, waiting, no doubt, for her to start climbing. That was what a Human would do.
Is that what a Frow leader would do?
Without stopping to consider the consequences if she were wrong, Mac closed her eyes and let go, spreading her arms out wide.
“Mac!” Lyle shouted as she began to tip backward and fall. “Mac!”
But even as her feet left the ladder, each of her arms was taken in a remarkably strong, but gentle clasp. Mac opened her eyes again to find herself rising, borne by the two lackeys. Se Lasserbee was climbing the ladder in front of her, se’s limbs moving so quickly se was a blur.
Within a matter of heartbeats, they’d put her down on the next level up.
“Thank you,” Mac said rather breathlessly to the aliens, now hanging upside down in a small cluster to look at her.
“Mac!”
“I’m fine, Lyle,” she shouted, hearing him climbing below. One of the lackeys unfolded ne’s neck ridges to look down and she added quickly, “He’s with me.”
The Frow subsided, although she thought ne appeared disappointed.
Maybe not a game, but certainly entertainment, she judged, and smiled to herself. “I hope you aren’t tired,” she told them, picking up her bags. “There’s more luggage to come up.”
“Your quarters are last on the right,” Lyle said, stepping out beside her after a wary look at the Frow overhead. He wisely didn’t ask any questions, but his eyes wondered at her.
Fair enough, Mac thought. She wondered, too.
“I’ll go settle in,” she said, impatient to check her messages. “I’ll be fine,” this when Lyle looked inclined to accompany her. “See you shortly.”
The corridor was much shorter than the one below, with only four doors per side. Most were open, with crew from the Joy busy making beds. Mac assumed they used the sealed bulkhead at the corridor’s end. She had no problem with being isolated from the rest of the ship. Not if it gave her privacy.
Her room was ready, almost identical to the one she’d briefly shared with the Mygs, but with a worktable instead of the second bed.
Mac dropped her luggage on the floor, closed the door behind her, and sat down at the table. She pulled out her imp, turning it around in her hands as she waited for her heart to calm down.
She’d made the right choice with the Frow. A fifty/fifty shot.
Now to find out if she’d made the right choice for Emily.
Taking a deep breath, Mac activated her imp and searched for messages. There. She touched the ’screen to open the first and found herself staring at her friend, as though they sat across from one another.
Then Emily spoke.
CONTACT
“SO THIS IS some Ministry cabrón’s idea of keeping us in touch?” Dark eyes flashing, Emily made a rude gesture. “I hope they do better when you get to Myriam, Mac. This is ridiculous.”
She ran a finger along her trim bangs. “Ai. All they’ll give me right now. I’d better use it. But you know I hate making recordings. If I played this back, I’d erase it all. Then you’d be mad, wouldn’t you? The things I do for friendship . . .
“First. Status check.” She tsked with her tongue against her teeth, her tone growing businesslike. “I’ve rebuilt my Tracer. Bit of a trick. Whoever took it apart wasn’t careful and I’m guessing you tried to put it back together. Tsk. But . . . gave me a chance to tweak things, make some improvements I’d come up with at the consulate, so no heads need roll.” A flash of that wicked smile, then serious again. “Haven’t tested it. Kammie’s working with a few of the others to produce a better sample for the ’bots to sniff. We need to know what I’m looking for, right, Mac? Now that it isn’t you.”
One long finger began to tap.
“I’m giving your young friend a try. He knows his way around a deck, I’ll grant you. We’re installing the Tracer on one of the harvester levs this afternoon and, I admit, he’s had some good ideas about that. Otherwis
e, he’s a thorough pain and utterly, utterly boring. You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” This without rancor. “I supposed I asked for it.”
The finger kept tapping, a quiet, regular percussion.
Emily’s lips stretched in a wide grin. “Zimmerman, though? He’s been fun. Turns out to be quite the dancer. You know what they say about big feet—or maybe you don’t. Poor Mac.”
Tap tap.
“I hate making these. You’re going to owe me, Dr. Mackenzie Connor. Where was I?” She nodded. “They’re a third done with the sweep of the inlet floor—not that any of us believe we’ll find anything that easily, but we have to start somewhere. The harvs and preds have a betting pool on the side. Who’ll be the first to find it—whatever ‘it’ is. You’d think we were looking for sunken treasure. I’m the odds-on favorite, by the way.”
Tap tap.
“Treasure.” Emily’s pupils dilated. “We know better, you and I. If we’re exceptionally lucky, it’ll be something we can destroy. They’re outfitting the harvester with the latest and deadliest. If we aren’t that lucky? Well, at least you’re offworld.” With a mercurial shift in mood, she laughed. “There’s a switch, Mac. You gallivanting, me stuck here. Hope you’re enjoying yourself. Met anyone interesting? Oh, that’s right, you have. I don’t have to worry about your sex life, or lack of, anymore. Whew. That’s a load off my mind.”
Tap tap.
“Otherwise, not much new. I haven’t had time to do more than select a group to collate the latest info on the Survivors. ’Sephe’s helped there—she’s picked out the best statisticians among them. I’d like to bring in someone from Sencor, but that’s a no. They’re keeping the lid on pretty tight. I can’t get onshore for lunch, let alone invite company.” A pause. “That’s okay. We’re going to ship out as soon as the hookups are finalized. I’ve an idea or two for our search grid. It’s a big ocean. I told you. They knew where to hide something, Mac. That can’t be good for us.”
The tapping stopped.
Emily lowered her head, showing her cap of shiny black hair, streaked with white, then looked up, a faint smile toying with her lips. “Don’t worry so much. I’m fine. Recovery, scans, etcetera etcetera, better than expected, blah blah. That’s what having a goal does, Mac. It keeps you moving in the right direction.” Her face hardened. “You remember that, next time you look a Dhryn in the eyes.
“ ’Bye for now. Stay tuned for your next exciting message from home. Whenever they let me send one. I’ll expect some juicy details from you. Adios.”
“Hello, Dr. Connor.” Hands behind his back, Case was standing on a walkway or deck, the horizon behind him delineated by the rise and fall of ocean swells. Afternoon. “They told me you wanted updates on everything here. From me that means news about Dr. Mamani.” His cheeks reddened. “First, I want you to know I’m not going to apologize. When you get back, if you don’t want to talk to me, that’s fine. But you might not be back. So I did—well, what I had to do.”
He coughed and moved his face away from the sun, his cheekbones growing shadows. It added years. “Dr. Mamani. Emily. You were right, Mac. She’s not like anyone else. She’s—” a frowning pause, “—she’s like the ocean. Shows her surface to anyone. Calm one minute; stormy the next. But her depths? You’ll only know those before you drown. Trust me. I’ll stay clear. She scares me almost as much as she scares herself.
“Dunno if that made sense to you.” A self-conscious shrug. “But I’ve seen the faces of people who want that one big catch so badly they’ll gamble their lives—put out despite storm warnings. Emily has that look.
“Mind you,” he continued, “she could be the one to do it. I doubt she’s slept since you left and it doesn’t show. I don’t know where she gets her energy, but the rest of us catch naps when she’s not looking.
“Anyway. I’ll do what I can to help her. We’ll put to sea tomorrow,” this with transparent longing.
“You take care of yourself, Mac.”
12
MESSAGES AND MEMORIES
MAC’S FINGERS STROKED through her ’screen, opening and then closing the remaining messages. Most were brief. A hello from Tie. A comment on the weather from John. A promise for more with the next courier from Kammie. The longest was a text list of indefinitely postponed projects, prepared by Marty Svehla.
Maybe it made him feel better, to share his loss.
She didn’t bother reading it, past the venting stage herself.
Case’s message was better than she’d hoped. She’d expected him to be perceptive, but to see Emily so clearly and still stay? “I did well by you, Em,” Mac said out loud.
Emily’s message?
With a sense of dread, Mac replayed it, muting the sound and enlarging the section of image that included Emily’s fingertip on the desk. She slowed the replay and counted the rapid taps, recording each with the movement of her own finger within another field of the workscreen. When done, she closed the message, and brought up the results.
“Oh, Em,” she whispered. “No.”
Throughout her message, Emily had tapped eleven times, paused one beat, then tapped eleven times again. Over and over.
With the precision of a machine.
They’d tried—all of them—to find some significance to the number. Emily had been unaware. When finally shown recordings of her obsessive counting, she’d been disturbed but could offer no explanation. She’d listened with disbelief and considerable embarrassment to her own quiet complaints about the inadequate reconstruction of her fingers. Mac had stopped mentioning any occurrences. There seemed no point in upsetting her friend.
Yet the number persisted, as if from a wound that wept instead of healing.
Alluring as the idea of real privacy was, Mac didn’t plan to waste time sitting in her new quarters. She had too much to do, starting with the Sinzi.
Too much to do, but she caught herself hesitating as she made to leave. Her lips curled to one side. “Why not?” she said, and dug into her pocket for what she’d carried since that night in the Yukon.
The little carving fit along the palm of her hand, its tail flexed to give the body a line of muscular tension. The pale blue of her pseudoskin might have been the waters of a river, the salmon surging upstream.
Her first gift, and he’d returned it. Seemed her luck with men hadn’t improved.
There was a transparent shelf over the narrow desk, the desk itself beside the bed. Mac placed the carving so she would see it even when lying down.
He’d returned it because he needed her help, and knew she’d give it.
She’d never had patience for romance. Her fault, she admitted. But what was the point in not speaking your mind? Not to mention she failed to find pleasure taking forever over an elegant candlelit meal when there was data waiting.
To Emily’s outspoken disgust, Mac usually found a way back to her data. Without her date.
Her eyes rested on the little carving. She pressed her lips to the rings on her finger.
Candles were irrelevant.
Promising herself a locked door and her own bed, Mac went in search of aliens.
The first she encountered was the Cey, Da’a, dragging a roll of fabric through the door nearest the shaft. “Hello, Mac,” he greeted, both arms around the roll. She knew it was used as part of the Cey’s mode of worship, although not how. The fabric was intricately woven and faintly aromatic, with more than enough in the roll to make a full-sized tent for the two Cey who’d come with Lyle. The other pair had stayed on Myriam, joining a Cey expedition. Had enough of Humans or not invited by the IU to the Gathering? she wondered, then thought it just as likely they’d simply preferred to stay with their work.
“Let me help with that,” offered Mac.
As well she did, for the heavy roll was slightly longer than the room and it took both of them to finally wedge the thing inside so the door would close.
“Thank you,” Da’a said when they were done. “My au’us fit in the
other room. I didn’t anticipate this problem.”
“Why did you move?”
Impossible to read a face made of heavy, overlapping wrinkles, but Mac had come to some conclusions regarding a Cey’s body language, when she had context. A slight hunch of the shoulders during a discussion signified agreement; the same posture while working alone, concentration. A gentle nodding while another spoke was the Cey equivalent of wild impatience; nodding while speaking himself, emphasis. And the ball of a thumb rolled just so against the other palm?
Amusement, at any time.
Although exactly what Cey found funny? She was still working on that.
“I changed rooms, Mac, because I was sharing with Arslithissiangee Yip the Fourteenth.”
Aha. “Gotcha,” Mac grinned widely. “I’ve heard Fourteen snore. He shook the rafters of our cottage.”
“Snore?”
She hesitated. Confusion about the word or the act itself? “My mistake, Da’a,” she said, which it likely was. If anyone should know not to jump to assumptions . . .
“Perhaps, Mac.” His shoulders hunched agreeably. “Unless we both refer to our colleague’s lovelorn poetry. Another stanza about Unensela’s tongue, and I might have run shouting into the hallway like some well-nipped sralic.”
“Poetry.”
“So he claimed. I myself judged it painful. The object of his obsession might disagree. I urged him to go recite to her, but he insisted on inflicting his verse on me. I spoke to Charles about new quarters, and took the first available.”
Mac grinned. “You’ve made a wise choice, Da’a.” She had to ask. “How did you find climbing the ladder?”
“I had no difficulties. But I believe Charles will be sending the Frow a very long and detailed memo on the subject.”
She winced. “He tried to come up?”
Da’a hunched his shoulders. “Tried would be the operative word. He used uncharacteristic language. Loudly. It did not convince the Frow.”
Regeneration (Czerneda) Page 29
