Migration: Species Imperative #2

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Lyle didn’t hesitate: “A sealed bottle.”

  “A sealed bottle that can sustain life,” Mac elaborated. “The Dhryn didn’t escape, folks. They were preserved.”

  All that could be heard was breathing, some of it rather odd to Human ears. That, and a shuffle of feet.

  Followed by a cheerful bellow from the back row: “My colleague warned me you were full of surprises, Dr. Connor. Glad to see it’s true.” There was an abrupt parting of the line—Mac suspected a shove—and the new Myg made her way forward, Fourteen predictably behind. “Preserved, is it? By who? And why?”

  “Who is obvious.” This from one of the wrinkled Cey. “The only species with that level of no-space technology are the Myrokynay.”

  The female Myg, Unensela, seemed the only one not shocked by this bold statement. Unensela and her—Mac blinked—her family.

  The Myg was built so much like Fourteen she’d have had trouble telling the two apart, if it weren’t that Unensela’s hair was short, sparse, and black, compared to his short, sparse, and red hair. Their features were a match as well, though Unensela was wearing color on cheeks, forehead, and lips. All the same shade of vivid fuchsia. She wore a crisp white lab coat, open at the front apparently to supply a view for her offspring.

  There were six looking out at the moment, each about the size of a half grown kitten and, as far as Mac could tell, identical to one another and their mother. Naked, they clung with hands and feet to a harness Unensela wore under her coat. Their necks were flexible enough to allow them to stare over their shoulders with huge brown eyes that reminded Mac of Sam’s irresistible beagle, who had successfully haunted so many supper tables.

  Unensela, meanwhile, was peering under her thickened pink eyelids at the Cey. “Idiot,” she proclaimed. “Why would the Myrokynay ferry the Dhryn to a new home and keep them there?”

  “A prison,” shouted someone else. There was a chorus of “yes, aye, has to be,” and species-appropriate nods. “What else could you do with them?”

  “What they’d do to us.”

  Everyone looked at Lyle after he spoke. He was standing now, too, his cheeks suffused with red. There were a few nods, some quick, some reluctant. With the exception of six Myg children, everyone listening understood what he meant.

  Genocide.

  Mac coughed. “Fortunately,” she said, “we’re not being asked to make that decision. We’re being asked to provide answers to help those who must.”

  “We don’t have the power of the Myrokynay.” “We need to contact them.” “Get their help!”

  “In this room—” Mac stopped and raised her voice to be heard over the bedlam. “In this room, our job is to understand why the Dhryn are acting as they are.” She lowered her voice back to normal as they began listening. “Where they came from. Origins. Focus on that, people. There are plenty of experts here working on other aspects of this problem—and its solution. Have you seen the daily reports from the Sinzi-ra?”

  Mudge was the only one who nodded brusquely at this. Mac wasn’t surprised. Of course he paid attention to everything going on, read every scrap of information. Even the deluge of information synthesized by Anchen for dispersal.

  They’d have to talk, she decided. Meanwhile . . .

  “If you have ideas how to contact the Ro, give them to any member of the consulate staff on your own time. My time, you are on my questions. Is that understood? Let’s get back to work.”

  As they exchanged wary looks and sorted themselves out, grabbing lunch remains on the way, the Myg stepped up to Mac. “Well? What questions do you have for me?” Unensela demanded. “This is a bunch of irrelevant archaeologists.” One of her children started to wail and she patted it absently. “And idiots.”

  At least she didn’t point at the ghoul chasers, Mac thought. There was sufficient tension in the room as it was.

  “I promised you a famous xenopaleoecologist, did I not, Mac?” Fourteen pushed himself forward. A sly tilt of his head. “Is she not thoroughly splendid?”

  Unensela ignored him. “Well?”

  “I want you to work with To’o and Kirby,” Mac said, choosing to ignore Fourteen for the moment as well. So long as he doesn’t start drooling over her console, Emily. “They’ll provide you with what climatological information we have. I believe Oversight has obtained scans from cores into the planet itself.”

  Mudge, who’d stayed tucked behind his corner desk during all this, gave a start at the sound of his name. “Scans? Scans?” He realized he was repeating himself and shut up with a nod.

  “From those,” Mac continued, “I need you to tell me if there have been significant and predictable biome shifts. And why. As soon as you can. Tomorrow, if possible.”

  Unensela’s hands patted offspring at random, her attention firmly on Mac. “A challenge, Dr. Connor. Interesting.”

  “Mac. And welcome to the team. All of you,” she added, gazing into a dozen limpid eyes. “As for you, Fourteen?” Mac had every intention of assigning him a task at the other end of the room, if necessary.

  “I have my task.” The Myg held up his hands. “Yours are irrelevant,” he said. “I continue to help the idiots downstairs interpret my perfectly clear translation. Helpless without my genius.” This last directed at Unensela, who seemed to make a point of being preoccupied with her offspring.

  Mac opened her mouth, not that she was sure what was about to come out of it beyond a question concerning the usefulness of a stolen shoe to a genius, when a shout drew everyone’s attention, including hers, to the door. “Dr. Connor! Dr. Connor!”

  She stared at—yes, it was Two, back in her yellow uniform. Consular staff, in her admittedly limited experience, never shouted, much less burst into rooms. “Dr. Connor. You must come with me immediately!” Two insisted loudly. Mac glanced at Lyle, then Mudge. Both men nodded back to her, Mudge with an anxious frown.

  “I’ll be back later,” Mac promised the room at large, following the obviously impatient Two out the door.

  Out in the hall, everything seemed normal enough. A few delegates walking about. A non-oxy breather hummed down the ramp in his/her/its/their bubble. No sign of panic. “What is it?” Mac demanded, controlling the impulse to check over her shoulder first. “Is he awake? Is there a crisis?”

  “No, Mac.” Two’s voice had returned to its normal dignified calm. “Please excuse my abruptness, but we were briefed this was the most efficient way to extricate one Human from a group.”

  Mac stared at Two in disbelief. “In a life-or-death emergency, maybe. You startled everyone in that room! Including me!”

  “My apologies.” Somehow, the voice lacked sincerity. Mac harbored a sudden dark suspicion about what the staff on an alien planet did for fun.

  “Where are we going?”

  “The Sinzi-ra wishes to hear your daily insights.”

  Before they entered the lift, Mac checked the light streaming down from above. “It’s not evening. Isn’t this a bit early?”

  “I was not given the Sinzi-ra’s reason for the change in schedule, Mac.” Two’s hand paused at the control. “Would you like me to use the com system to inquire?”

  Aliens. Mac leaned a shoulder against the wall of the lift. “No. Just take me up.”

  The Sinzi-ra was waiting in Mac’s apartment, playing with salmon. Mac assumed it was play, although she was willing to believe there could be other motivation for Anchen to use her long fingers to poke a series of the statues into motion. Distraction, perhaps.

  “I’m here,” Mac announced. Two had left her at the doors.

  “Ah, Mac. Thank you for coming.” Anchen’s fingers dropped gracefully to her sides. The salmon swayed back and forth, slower each time. Their shadows had elongated as the sun dropped lower, giving them an urgent look. “I see you’ve obtained your belongings.”

  “Yes, although I hadn’t expected everything.” Mac gestured to the room. “I hope you don’t mind all this. I would have asked first, but . . .”r />
  “But your friend wished you comfortable. It is understandable.” The Sinzi took one of the jelly-chairs. She’d come alone this time. “I trust you don’t feel you require these additional security measures.”

  “The beads?” Mac smiled without mirth. “They’ve become a habit.”

  “Ah.” Anchen drew out her imp, waving it in the air like a wand before laying it on the table. A ragged tooth barracuda within the table targeted the device, then ignored it. “Shall we begin? First, please, come here. I wish to remove your bandage.”

  Mac sat cross-legged in the sand beside the Sinzi’s chair, waiting patiently as the alien’s fingertips feathered over her scalp. She felt a sudden coolness. “Excellent,” Anchen pronounced. “See for yourself.”

  “It’s healed remarkably well. Thank you,” Mac told Anchen a moment later, trying not to grin as she ran her fingers over scalp that was now intact, instead of torn. No pain or tightness. But there was—“Excuse me, Anchen, but why is my hair growing in like this?” Mac felt the fine silky stuff. It looked as though she had a pale c-shaped stripe along the side of her head. Not the fashion this decade, Em.

  “The regeneration process starts with biologically young cells,” explained Anchen. “They will mature quite quickly. By the end of this week, you should see no difference. If you wish, a staff member can apply coloration to this portion immediately.”

  Baby hair? Mac wrapped some around a finger, forming a curl. “This is fine. I’d forgotten I started blonde.” Her eyes met the Sinzi’s in the mirror and she came to a decision. “There is—I have another injury.”

  “Alexia. Word blindness. Yes. I know.”

  “You know.” She shouldn’t feel surprised, Mac scolded herself. The Sinzi and the Ministry had shared their data about her. “Good. Then you’re probably aware it’s beyond our physicians. Can you help me?”

  Anchen moved aside to let Mac step down to the sand. “Can our medical science repair the damage done to the areas of your brain involved in language? Of course.” Then she shook her head. The gesture looked forced, unnatural, as if the Sinzi had learned it in order to communicate with Humans. “But the process would risk your ability to communicate with our guest, Mac. Until the situation changes, all we dare do is begin to retrain your reading centers—your greatest need at the moment, I assume. I will provide materials to help you. Practice when you are rested. Be patient.”

  As if she had a choice, Mac thought grimly. “I understand, Sinzi-ra. I won’t say I like it.”

  “Nor I, Mac. It is a compromise—in this case one that burdens you most. You have my sympathy.”

  With a sigh, Mac nodded to the chairs. “Shall I give you my report? There’s quite a bit.”

  “And I have much to tell you. There has been another attack.”

  “Who?”

  The Sinzi didn’t answer until she’d sat, Mac following suit. The alien activated her imp. Mac squinted, but again could see no more than a glimmer. “The Trisulians have suffered a terrible loss.”

  Mac closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again. “Their males?” she asked, sure of the answer.

  “Yes. Word arrived within the hour. Trisul Primus was consumed by the Dhryn. How did you guess?”

  “It’s where the Trisulians are most vulnerable. But what I don’t understand,” Mac added aloud, but to herself, “is how that helps the Dhryn.” Mac drew both feet up on the chair and hugged her knees.

  “It did not. They paid dearly for the attack. The Progenitor’s ship and all Dhryn in the system were destroyed—thankfully in time to save the remaining populated planets: Secondus and Tierce.”

  “So the Ro came to their aid?” Mac felt a surge of relief. “The message from Emily? It worked?” This time, Em, she’d wanted to be wrong about so much.

  Anchen paired her fingertips. A cautious, slow movement. “It remains unclear whether the Myrokynay were involved and, if so, to what extent. The Trisulian Ruling Council has never been forthcoming in matters of strategy—understandable when you consider their unfortunate history with neighboring systems.” She aimed her lower eyes at Mac. “If they received help from the Myrokynay, I admit being astonished the Trisulians were able to reconfigure their technology so quickly upon receipt of the instructions in the stolen message. It is a feat our experts have yet to accomplish.”

  “Perhaps they were already close to such a device themselves.”

  A graceful tilt of the head. “It could help explain Kay’s willingness to commit violence—a last piece of the puzzle, an advantage within reach.” Anchen’s fingers rippled from shoulder to tip. “Perhaps they had reason to anticipate a Dhryn attack.”

  “Or provoked one.”

  “An insight, Mac?”

  Mac shrugged. “I’m no strategist. But the Trisulians were resettling the Eeling System. They hoped to find a way to be first in line to take advantage—that word again—of the other devastated systems. Not every predator will tolerate a scavenger on its kill.”

  The Sinzi’s fingers shot into the air as if avoiding something offensive, their rings, silver today, sliding toward her shoulders. Like a melodramatic willow, Mac thought. “You believe the Dhryn continue to watch their victims? How? Is this what our guest told you?”

  “No, Anchen.” The jelly-chair rewarded every posture but sitting up straight. Still, Mac made the effort. “I was only speculating why the Trisulians might have been a target for the Dhryn. I have no evidence, no reason for saying so. Forgive me if I distressed you.”

  “The search for truth is worth any distress,” Anchen said feebly. One by one, her fingers gracefully slipped back down, each quivering as it moved, the whole process mesmerizing, as though the Sinzi hypnotized herself—and Mac—into a measure of peace. “But another subject would be easier at this moment. Perhaps insights about our guest? You’ve done wonders anticipating his needs.”

  Our guest. “Insights,” Mac repeated, staring down at the Sinzi’s imp. On the record, she reminded herself, unsure why she felt impelled to caution. Same side, Em. Still . . . “Anchen, should we speak freely here?” She gestured to the room.

  The Sinzi aimed all of her eyes at Mac. “We have privacy here, Mac.” She touched fingertip to her imp. “But no secrets from fellows within the IU,” she said calmly. “Particularly this Gathering.”

  Other than a room lined with the Dhryn cloaking material, complete with Dhryn. Mac’s lips twisted wryly. She understood the need for that discretion. There probably wasn’t a single researcher here who wouldn’t want to see the Dhryn—or, her blood chilled, worse.

  The Sinzi read her expression with practiced ease. Unsettling, Mac decided, when she couldn’t do the same. “I admit the inconsistency, Mac. The situation calls for some information to be—delayed. All will be recorded and shared. To those working on physiology, we have provided data; there was no need to specify its source. Nor do we see a need for experimentation or invasive tests at this time. Your interrogation of Parymn Ne Sa Las comes first. What results do you have?”

  Mac gazed into multiple reflections of herself in alien eyes, feeling twisted inside, as though her lunch expressed an opinion. “Very little yet, Anchen. He’s come to talk on behalf of his Progenitor. She wants to learn the truth.”

  “About what?” the other asked reasonably.

  “We didn’t get that far. Parymn’s unaccustomed to alien life-forms. He’s had trouble adjusting.”

  “A poor choice of ambassadors.”

  Was he? Mac frowned thoughtfully. “It would seem so,” she agreed at last. “Parymn did have a question of his own for me. He wanted to know what happened to Brymn Las.” Her voice held, steady and sure. You’d be proud, Em. “When I told him, he didn’t believe me at first. He still might not.”

  “How is this significant?”

  “I don’t know,” Mac admitted. “But the transformation to the—feeder form—is the point at which individual Dhryn become a threat. We should find out as much as we can about it.�
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  “I concur. Is there anything more?”

  Something went wrong. Brymn was to be a Progenitor. Mac, grateful she hadn’t said the words aloud, gathered herself. “Yes. I think we should be careful how literally we take what Parymn tells us. I have doubts about his ability to—” she hunted for the right word, “—reconcile his worldview with ours. What he thinks he knows? Very little may be of use.”

  “Is he insane?”

  Mac blinked. “I’m not qualified to say—”

  “Give me an opinion, Mac,” Anchen insisted. “We have already seen him be self-destructive. Is he sane for what you know of his kind?”

  “He’s angry. Frightened. Resentful. Who wouldn’t be?” Mac paused to consider, watching fish swim inside the impossible table. “Otherwise? I honestly don’t know, Anchen. I’ll need to talk with him more first.”

  “You are a remarkable being, Dr. Mackenzie Connor.”

  Surprised, Mac looked up at the Sinzi. “I am?”

  “There are few within this building I would trust near our guest, even if they had the courage to step within his cell. Fewer still I would trust to act as interpreter, under such dire and unhappy circumstances, even if they had the ability. Yet you, with what has happened, all you have endured, continue to act with clarity and compassion.” The Sinzi bowed. “Remarkable and rare. I deeply cherish our connection.”

  “Thank you, Sinzi-ra. I cherish it as well.” Mac sighed.

  “All I can I do is try my best. I hope that’s going to be enough.”

  A shrug that set rings sparkling. “So do we all.”

  Mac made her way to Parymn’s cell, having grabbed a bag of supplies before leaving her room. She’d also moved the information she wanted from the imp Fourteen had given her into her own—along with an astounding number of messages from other attendees of the Gathering, all collected within the last twenty-four hours. Which was what being named head of anything really meant, Em.

  Needing only one hand to control the lift, Mac set her imp so the list hovered in front of her, the flashing lift lights a minor distraction. She pushed the device into the waistband of her pants to free her left hand. Now to attempt to organize the mess.