Migration: Species Imperative #2

by Julie E. Czerneda

  “What I’m doing is wondering why all the hardware, the secrecy, here. I thought you cooperated with the consulate.”

  He tipped his head toward the now-empty bedroom. “Your friend.”

  “Oversight?” Mac said in disbelief. “Don’t tell me you suspect him of anything other than being difficult.”

  “You know I can’t tell you things like that, Mac.” She waited.

  Jones’ caramel skin blushed nicely. “I don’t know,” he qualified. “Our orders were to keep him under surveillance and intercede before he found out more than he should about the present situation. Which, by the way, he seems to have done without any help.”

  “He’s annoying that way,” Mac agreed. “But the gear?”

  “Just staying anonymous.” He grinned. “It works with most people, Mac. Trust me.”

  “Trust him?” The words were like cold water on her skin, but Mac made herself smile. “It’s nice to see a familiar face. Although I suppose I can’t ask you any questions.”

  Jones’ forefinger tapped the table, then stopped. “Everything back at Base is as you left it,” he offered.

  “Including, by the way, your fish heads and barnacles. Pretty slick, Mac. Zimmerman still can’t believe we fell for it.”

  She tilted her head. “That’s okay. Neither can I.”

  He smiled comfortably, but didn’t admit a thing. She hadn’t expected he would. “Last I heard, they were on schedule for the move. There hasn’t been much media attention.”

  “You need bodies for that,” Mac said. She gathered herself with an effort Jones noticed.

  “You look about to fall on your face, Mac.”

  “Oh, not quite yet. First, help me out here.” She smiled at the sudden caution in his eyes. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing compromising. I’m under the IU now, remember? Not your responsibility.”

  “Maybe not the Ministry’s. We still watch your back.”

  “We” implying she would recognize others without their helmets, Mac realized, but didn’t press him. She acknowledged the words with a grateful nod, then said frankly: “I need my things.”

  Jones’ eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What things this time?”

  “My imp, clothes, records from my office. Anything else would be appreciated. No one knows how long this Gathering will take. I asked Anchen, about my stuff, but . . .” She gave an expressive shrug. “It didn’t sound promising.”

  “Because Pod Three’s sealed and being towed,” he pointed out.

  “I know. Not to forget security systems . . .” Mac let her voice trail off.

  “Oh, let’s not forget those.”

  She held his eyes with hers. “Sing-li, you know I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important. I’ve files on my imp that aren’t in Norcoast’s main system: my research on the Dhryn, on what we’re here to accomplish. There are references, notes in my office I want here. I can’t wait weeks or more until Base is set up and running again.”

  “I’ll have to consult, Mac.”

  “Consult all you want,” she told him, then added with abrupt ferocity: “You asked me to trust you, Sing-li. I trust you to know if I find out Pod Three was capsized and ruined so your people could fetch my underwear—”

  “Mac. Mercy. Please.” He held up both hands. “It won’t come to that, believe me. We’ve been keeping watch on the pods; we’ve people on the hauler. Give me a day.”

  Mac drew a breath that shuddered and caught in her throat. She nodded, mute.

  He put on his helmet, the man she knew disappearing behind the visor. But his voice was the same, warm with concern. “Now. Bed for you. And no arguments.”

  She accepted his help, a strong arm, but when they were standing beside the bed, she squeezed it once and let go. “Good night, Sing-li. And thanks.”

  Mac stayed standing until the door closed. Only then did she collapse on the most comfortable bed on the planet, not bothering to do more than close her eyes.

  For once, she didn’t dream.

  - Encounter -

  The sacred caves were, as they had always been, ancient, hal lowed, and worn. They were, as they had always been, shelter to all who sought protection from the elements or war; source of gods’ comfort for those in need or grief.

  Now, for the first time in recorded history, disaster had struck and the sacred caves were empty. Oh, they had sheltered the people. They had taken in the terrified flocks and foodstuffs, accommodated what belongings could be carried. They had even accepted the wild things, driven from the fields.

  But shelter did not mean safety.

  The green flood had greedily followed them inside, chased them deeper underground. It surged through every water-carved channel, licked away the life that dug its hopeless claws into wall and ledge, that clung to the stones called godstooth and howled for the pity of gods.

  Had he, Oah, Primelord, not howled loudest for his people? Had he not sought the highest point in the cave, the secret shelf where gods would endure only those who ruled? Had his mighty voice not been loud enough to drown out the screaming and be heard at last?

  But the gods did not mean to save them.

  Instead, they’d sent ghouls to drift through the silent caves, unmindful of the darkness. Oah, Primelord, had cowered like any milk-thieving runt at their coming, had panted like a mother in birth pain as one after the other brushed against the stone below his hiding place, had felt the bones along his spine rise in horror at their—drinking.

  When all was still, Oah, Primelord, waited in the dark, nostrils burning with acrid remnants of what he didn’t know.

  When all was still and his body weakening from hunger and thirst, Oah, Primelord, waited in the dark, pressed against the stone that should have saved them.

  When all was still and his body failed him, Oah died in the dark, Primelord and last of his kind.

  It does not matter if it this is the wrong place or the wrong time.

  That which is Dhryn hunts for the Taste, but cannot find it.

  Perhaps others have come before. Perhaps the scouts mistook the path. Perhaps technology failed.

  None of this matters.

  The Progenitor must survive to continue the Great Journey.

  That which is Dhryn turns to the oomlings.

  There is no future but now.

  - 12 -

  WONDERS AND WOUNDS

  HOLDING ON TIGHT, Mac bent as far as she could over the delicately wrought, but strong—hopefully—railing, trying to see past the outer wall of the white building. There. To the north, the building ended where the cliff continued its upward climb, a climb staggered by hanging valleys filled with green forest and braided with waterfalls that plunged to the sea. The sea itself was unusually deep here. She longed for a chance to dive it. However, first things first. Mac hunted for anything that didn’t belong. Ah. Might be a landing field, she told herself, squinting at a flat patch of lighter green within the nearest indentation in the rock.

  Or cricket pitch. It was New Zealand.

  “Careful!”

  The warning startled Mac into losing her grip and she had an unpleasantly intense perspective on the sheer drop to rock and froth before grabbing hold again. With a heave, she pulled herself back on the terrace and whirled to glare at the new arrival. “I was being careful—”

  She stopped and grinned. “Fourteen!”

  “You did not appear careful. Idiot. It would be a waste to fall from this height so soon after breakfast.”

  Mac laughed. “Glad to see you, too. How are the head and hands?”

  “Mygs heal quickly.” He held up his hands and she was astonished to see only fine green lines where there had been scrapes and gashes. “My head? All better. Unless I bump it. Which I attempt not to do.”

  He looked better. In fact, her eyes narrowed, the Myg looked very different. Gone were the ill-fitting Human clothes, replaced by a set of finely tooled leather plates made into pants and vest. Beneath the vest was a tailored red shirt, ge
nerous sleeves widest at the elbows and caught at the cuffs. There was a red gemstone at his throat and another hanging from one ear. Three small black imp cases hung from a strap across his chest. Black polished boots and a wig of immaculately groomed silver-gray hair completed the transformation from clumsy tourist to——to someone important, Mac decided, pinning down the change. Maybe a touch reminiscent of a pirate from old vids, Em, but a classy one. Not that she’d point that out.

  It was, of course, not the clothes alone or the posture that went with them. His eyes were still mere glints within those fleshy lids, but Mac thought the lines of his face had altered, as if he acknowledged a weight of responsibility.

  Given why they were here, she wasn’t surprised. “I didn’t think of a wig,” Mac told him lightly, taking one of the chairs at the little table and waving him to the other. “Looks good.”

  “Irrelevant,” he grumbled as he sat. “It’s been the fashion since my grandsires’ day. You’d think the transects would have freed us from tradition—instead, we now export it as part of our identity. Bah.”

  She brushed her fingers across her patch of bare scalp. “There are advantages.”

  Opening one of the cases on his strap, Fourteen brought out what indeed looked like an imp and put it on the table between them, after first scowling at the vase of flowers as though they took up valuable space. “Irrelevant. You do not need a wig and your head is intact. The Sinzi-ra has done us a great service with her care.” He busied himself with a second imp.

  “ ‘Sinzi-ra,’ ” Mac repeated. “Is that Anchen’s title?”

  Fourteen didn’t look up from the confusion of overlapping workscreens he’d set hovering parallel to the tabletop. “No. It’s what she is. She is the Sinzi contingent to this consulate.”

  “So she’s a physician.”

  “Noad is a physician, yes. A fine one.”

  “Another Sinzi.”

  That sly look. “You Humans are a pleasant species, but hardly important or annoying enough to require the attention of more than one.” Fourteen grinned at Mac’s expression. “Yes, Mac, I will explain. The name any Sinzi gives to a member of another species is a composite of the initials of the names of the consciousnesses within that body. It saves confusion for those less familiar with their ways. Noad is one of these consciousnesses—an expert in xeno-medicine.” He plucked a bright orange flower petal and laid it in front of Mac. “The others are Atcho, Casmii, Hone, Econa, and Nifa.

  Atcho is the consulate administrator. Efficient and very thorough. Don’t break anything.” Another petal, beside the first. “Casmii is a member of the IU’s judicial council. A powerful voice. Econa and Nifa are both scientists whose specialties have to deal with this planet of yours in some way. If you let them ask you questions, they’ll never give you a moment’s peace. Hone is a transect engineer. A bit young, if you ask me, for such responsibility.” A petal joined the group for each name, until there was a tight circle of six, their bases touching. “Sinzi-ra Anchen.”

  Talking to one alien was fraught with interspecies’ confusion. This? The potential for disaster made Mac gulp. “How do I know which one’s speaking to me?”

  A tall shadow crossed their table. “If it is necessary to identify an individual mind,” Anchen said, “for clarity or proof of intent, that identification is provided. Otherwise, all who are awake and participatory speak as one.”

  Fourteen scrambled to his feet. “I meant no disrespect, Sinzi-ra.”

  “The effort to understand one another is never disrespectful. Quite the contrary, Arslithissiangee Yip the Fourteenth.” Anchen’s head lowered in what seemed a bow. “I am honored.”

  Mac had remained seated, regarding the Sinzi with a mix of awe and regret. Few Humans met this species face-to-face; she hadn’t been wrong to tell Mudge it was the opportunity of a lifetime. But regret won. She wasn’t here to explore their differences. She was here concerning another species altogether. “If you’ve come to see if I’m fit to join the others this morning, Anchen, I am.”

  “Are you?” The alien’s fingers swayed as if the light, but growing sea breeze had the power to move them. Indecision, Mac guessed, then wasn’t sure why she thought so. “I find it unlikely you are free of pain so soon.”

  “It’s nothing—I mean, there isn’t enough pain to impair my ability to work,” qualified Mac. If ever she needed to express herself clearly and accurately, it was now, in this place, where the shortcuts of Human conversation were likely to be pitfalls.

  “The in-depth sessions are in the afternoon. Every morning, there is a greeting arena. It would be appropriate for you to attend. Several others arrived yesterday as well, so you will not be the only newcomers.” Anchen gestured expansively. “Although you and Arslithissiangee Yip the Fourteenth are the only ones who join us courtesy of the Myrokynay.”

  Mac’s blood ran cold. “The Ro are here?” she asked, schooling her voice.

  Anchen didn’t laugh, but something about her posture suggested amusement to Mac. “No. And we do not yet have the ability to invite them, much as we wish.” A more sober note to her voice, a gesture toward Fourteen. “The message you brought us only proves the difficulty. Its coding was so complex few could have deciphered it. An achievement of note. And yes, the results suggest its purpose—all agree—but the requirements to implement this signal? A puzzle we are not close to solving.” Her fingers bent upward at their lowermost joint. A shrug? Mac wondered. “If this is the Myrokynay attempting clarity, it could take years to attain true conversation.”

  A pause. “Thus we start with basics,” Anchen continued. “Their presence has been confirmed on this world before; it was Human ingenuity which disabled the Myrokynay’s stealth technology during the attack on the Dhryn home world. It is our assumption they will continue their interest in Earth—our hope they will acknowledge this gathering and its purpose although to us, so far, the Myrokynay have been silent. But you, they contacted. And you,” a lift of a white-clawed fingertip at Fourteen, “were able to decipher the meaning of this contact. There is deep significance within your combination.”

  Which meant . . . ? Mac filed the Sinzi’s cryptic statement to mull over later. “Then it’s time to get to work,” she said hopefully, then paused. Today, Anchen’s upper fingers shone with golden rings, but she wore another of the simple white gowns, twin to Mac’s. Perhaps the garment was “significant,” too.

  The problem was, Mac’s own belongings had yet to appear. There were worse things than walking around in a nightgown, Em. Mac grimaced inwardly. Like meeting a roomful of strangers while walking around in a nightgown.

  Rings caught and shattered light as Anchen gestured to the doors and beyond to Mac’s rooms. “In that case, I trust you will find suitable attire among the selection of Human clothing we’ve provided, while you await your own things. If not, please contact the staff or myself.”

  “Thank you.” Mac let out a sigh of relief, adding before she thought: “Mind reading must be a Sinzi trait.”

  “Mac!” This exclamation, plus Fourteen’s shocked look, drew Mac to her feet, fumbling to apologize, not that she knew why or how. “Just kidding,” probably didn’t cut it. Or was there something about being multiple minds in one body that made the very concept of shared thoughts repugnant to Sinzi?

  Fortunately for interspecies’ relations, Anchen merely smiled. “We take great pride in anticipating the needs of our guests. I am gratified to have ‘guessed’ yours so well.”

  “You are a superb host. My thanks,” Mac said sincerely. “I’m grateful to have other clothes for the Gathering.”

  “You do mean to attend today, then.” At Mac’s confident nod, the Sinzi’s shoulders shuddered, the motion traveling down every finger so her rings flashed in sequence. Acceptance? Mac guessed. It could as easily be just a random shudder, and Mac could almost hear her great-aunt, who was fond of strange old rhymes, saying: “Cat walked over your grave.” “You do not have the thick skull of a Myg,�
� noted Anchen, luckily not telepathic. “I request you return to your quarters at once if you experience any significant pain or dizziness.”

  “I will.”

  Anchen bowed and turned to leave. Mac slipped around the table to intercept her. The Sinzi’s head twisted to bring her lower sets of eyes directly to bear. “I see there is something further,” she acknowledged before Mac could utter a word. “Let me ‘guess’ again. You wish to know the status of your companion, Charles Mudge III.”

  “Yes, please.”

  “He’s here?” Fourteen stood and joined them. “How did that happen?”

  Mac snorted. “Very quickly, as you may remember.”

  “He saved Mac’s life, Sinzi-ra Anchen,” the Myg told her. “I, for one, place a high value on that.”

  “As do we all, Arslithissiangee Yip the Fourteenth. What is your wish for him, Mac?”

  She glanced at Fourteen, who nodded encouragingly as if they’d discussed the issue beforehand. That obvious, was she? “My wish, Anchen, is that Oversight—Mudge—be offered the chance to stay and contribute to the Gathering. He’s—” a minor stretch here, “—been essential to my work over the years. I believe he’d be an asset.” And she did. In his annoying, pinpoint-every-flaw, way.

  “And if he chooses not to stay?”

  Mac imagined Mudge working at his desk, completely oblivious to the row of black-visored guards behind him. That wasn’t the problem. “He would be at risk,” she admitted. “There could be others, like Kay, interested in any information about the Dhryn and the Ro. He’d need protection. He wouldn’t like it.” Any more than she had.

  “Among those gathered is a Human-ra of diverse and as yet unproductive individuals,” said Anchen, no readable expression on the sculpted contours of her long face. “It is my understanding you are accustomed to coordinating such a research group. If you wish to undertake that responsibility, I will look into ways Charles Mudge III can be included.”