Migration: Species Imperative #2 Page 15

  Mac looked at Kay. “Nothing,” she warned him, “is obvious about the Dhryn.”

  “Except the destruction they leave behind,” he countered, upper eyestalks rigid. “The only Eelings to escape had crowded into sublight ships and scattered through their system to hide. They are delicate beings, Mac, too delicate for such stress. Most died before they could be found and rescued. Those we did save were taken to our systems, Trisulian and Myg, but a pitiful few are of breeding age, even if they have the will. The Eelings didn’t colonize other worlds.”

  Fourteen dropped his hands, his eyelids glistening with moisture. “It is the end of a vibrant species.”

  How could the mind comprehend a loss on that scale? Mac didn’t even try.

  “Worse than that,” added Kay. His fingers were busy combing the hair down the front of his head. A nervous habit, Mac decided. “We fear—” he made a sharp quelling gesture when Fourteen opened his mouth as if to protest, “—we fear our systems will be next. We’ll either feed the Dhryn, or become the chosen battle-ground where they are fought by the IU. That we will lose, no matter the outcome.”

  Bureaucracy. Hierarchies. When survival was at stake, Mac thought sadly, how soon they could become a threat instead of protection. How little the parts could seem to matter, when the whole was in peril.

  She studied the two of them. Whatever else, she had no problem reading the anxiety in their body language—no matter how alien, they shared that peculiar tension of limbs needing to move but forced to wait. “Then we’ll have to trust this gathering will think of safer alternatives.” Mac tapped her head with a knuckle. “It might just be a case of digging out the right idea.”

  Fourteen lunged from the couch to grab Kay’s arm. “Hurry!” he urged. “There are knives and a spatula in the kitchen!” He peered at Mac. “Perhaps a spoon.”

  Kay’s left eyestalk twisted to glare at him and he shook his arm free. “Mygs have the most inappropriate sense of humor,” he said to Mac.

  Mac didn’t quite smile. “It helps, sometimes.”

  “Exactly.” Fourteen rubbed his palms together, then slapped them on his knees. He cried out and lifted his hands again. From the shocked look on his face, he’d forgotten both sunburn and ointment.

  “Now that’s funny,” Kay announced, eyestalks waving.

  Mac sniffed. Sure enough.

  “Why don’t we continue this on the porch?” she suggested. Where there was fresh air. “You go ahead. I’ll make some coffee and bring it out.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Mac stood and went to the kitchen. Her hands were trembling as she lifted them to push open the door. She frowned at them. This was no time to be thinking about a devastated world and its survivors.

  Yet she couldn’t help remembering . . . Brymn had come to Earth, sought her out for one reason. Mac’s work with salmon considered populations in terms of genetic diversity; she calculated evolutionary units, the minimum amount of diversity required for a group to respond to evolutionary stress without going extinct. The Dhryn . . . he’d asked her about determining the evolutionary unit for an entire species. For a world.

  Without knowing what was to come, what he’d become, Brymn had desperately wanted to know it was possible, that she could produce a number, reveal some formula to show how many must survive, in order for some to continue.

  Mac pressed her forehead to the door and closed her eyes.

  They’d both been so dangerously ignorant. He’d asked for the sake of his kind, fearing their persecution by the Ro, sensing an approaching doom. She’d become his friend, begun to work on the problem, only to learn, too late, it wasn’t the Dhryn who were threatened.

  But what if Brymn had asked the right question, after all? Mac thought. Not about any one species. About the Interspecies Union. That population. That diversity.

  How few species could it contain, and survive? At what minimum would the transects between systems fail, if they weren’t first destroyed to keep out the Dhryn?

  What if Earth was alone, again?

  Mac shoved the door open with all her strength.

  The resulting bang didn’t startle the man sitting at the kitchen table, who merely leaned back in his chair.

  “You do keep interesting company, Dr. Connor,” Nikolai Trojanowski remarked.

  - Encounter -

  THE IMRYA fleet waited with the patience of their kind, settled into position where the Naralax Transect was locked into their system’s space, orbiting Mother Sun with the other transects’ mouths like one pearl among many. A perilous black-hearted pearl.

  Such disturbing analogies were produced each day and posted throughout the fleet, from engine rooms deep in the bowels of every ship, to the suites of the battle cruisers where officers maintained households, from navigation arrays to the galleys. For the Imrya were a lyrical folk, renowned for their poetry as well as the interminable amount of time it took for them to get to any point in conversation.

  Trade negotiations with non-Imrya were best accomplished by remote.

  Months ago, an Imrya outpost had been decimated by Dhryn. Not that they’d had a name for the attackers back then. Imrya news-casters had spent weeks composing anguished rhapsodies about an unseen terror, an unimaginable power able to eat through safety seals and make entire crews simply vanish as if they’d never existed.

  But now the IU had named this fear, that name and warning sent to all. The Imrya, as befitted a species who had contributed to the IU for generations, one of the strong arms upon which all depended, had received even more. Details of ship structure. Potential weaknesses. Unconfirmed rumors of attack strategy.

  Warning that where the Dhryn had been, they would come again.

  If the Dhryn dared return, the Imrya fleet would be ready. Watching the poisoned fruit in their orchard.

  That which is Dhryn feels fear, knows dread, but not of others.

  There is only that which is Dhryn.

  All else . . . sustains.

  That which is Dhryn fears time, dreads distance.

  Being too slow? Losing the Taste?

  Either ends the Great Journey.

  - 7 -

  PRODIGAL AND PROBLEMS

  MAC QUIETLY CLOSED the kitchen door behind her and latched it. What did it say about her that her first thought on seeing Nik again, here and now, no matter what else was on her mind, was “yummy?”

  Emily would agree, of course. The Ministry’s favorite spy was dressed camper-casual: a faded brown shirt with long sleeves rolled to his elbows and open at the neck, shorts, and sandals. The clothes revealed a pleasing expanse of tanned skin and the working of lean muscle. His brown hair had grown out its office trim, reaching his collar at the back, and was now more waves than curl. No glasses hid his hazel eyes, but a charmingly scruffy beard framed what was almost a smile.

  Yummy.

  Mac coughed. Her second thought: keep it safe. “Is this an official visit?” Cool, a little formal.

  She thought he’d been about to rise and come to her, only to check the impulse as she spoke. She was probably mistaken.

  For her part, Mac concentrated on the spot of floor beneath her bare feet, a spot she had no intention of leaving without answers. “Well?”

  “No,” Nik said, putting his arm on the table and rubbing the tabletop with his fingers. If it made any sense, Mac thought, she’d swear he looked shy. “I had some personal time coming.”

  As if she believed that . . . Mac focused. “Which doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

  “No?” The word invited fantasy. Mac felt herself blush. Wood floor. Toes. Wood floor. Toes.

  “No,” she echoed.

  “I got a report about the quake. I wanted to see for myself if you were okay. Are you?” This last with concern.

  How odd, Em, Mac said to herself, to be almost more afraid of an answer than of asking the question. She steeled herself. “Did you cause it, Nik? Did you destroy the ridge?”

  “Oh.” A wealth of comp
rehension in one syllable. “No, Mac,” Nik said finally. “It wasn’t me.”

  She hadn’t been sure. It might have been a wild guess, a slip toward the paranoia she feared as much or more than anything else. To counter the tendency of the floor to betray her and tilt, Mac laid her hand on the side of the nearest cupboard. “So it wasn’t natural. Those—” She launched into a lengthy description involving several unlikely acts and more than a few unprintable adverbs.

  “Feel better?” Nik asked when she paused for breath.

  “I knew it! An earthquake? How bloody convenient—for everyone but us.”

  “And our people on the mountain.”

  “What? Oh, no.” Remembering those visored heads looking up at her on the mountainside, Mac stumbled to the chair next to Nik’s. There had been over a dozen. “How—how many were trapped?”

  “Luckily, only two. Robillard and Masu were guarding the Ro site. When the quake hit and the slide followed . . . they didn’t have a chance.”

  “No, they wouldn’t.” Without thinking, Mac reached for his hand where it rested on the table and laid hers on top. “I’m sorry, Nik.”

  His hand turned, fingers wrapping around hers. Mac met his eyes as they searched her face, felt herself drowning.

  Time stopped.

  “Mac!” from the other side of the door. “Are you coming? Where’s the coffee?” A rattle. “Why won’t this idiot door open?”

  “A spill. I’m washing the floor behind it,” Mac explained, pitching her voice to make it through the hefty door. “I’ll be right out, Fourteen.” She stood. “Have to go,” she told Nik, starting to pull her hand free.

  His resisted.

  That and his smile did disturbing things to her sense of priorities. “Careful or I’ll introduce you,” Mac said.

  “Later.” Nik rose, still holding her hand, then brought it to his lips, pressing them to the inside of her palm.

  “Will you—” His beard tickled her wrist, the sensation rushing up her arm. Mac blamed it for the quite remarkable difficulty she was experiencing putting words together. “Aren’t you staying—” she heard herself say and flushed crimson. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Kay needs something for his douscent, Mac,” the alien bellowed. “He says any bovine secretion will do, but he prefers ice cream. Idiot should have taken his medication when I said so.” The voice faded, as if Fourteen muttered to himself as he walked away. “What’s a vanilla, anyway?”

  “Trisulian, I take it,” Nik said.

  “And a Myg,” Mac sighed. “If I leave them alone too long, they’ll get into an argument, there’ll be shouting, the place will start to reek—you probably know who’ll do that—and then stuff will be thrown around . . . it’ll be worse than the last day of class, trust me.”

  “Always.” Nik’s eyes laughed down at her. Her lips twitched in response.

  “It’s good to see you,” she confessed. And it was. No matter why he’d come. Emily would doubtless have something to say about that.

  Nik traced her jaw with a light finger. “I promise I’ll be back tonight. Probably late.”

  “Good thing we don’t lock doors up here.”

  His teeth gleamed. “Think that would stop me?”

  Mac put her hands on his chest and pushed gently. “What I think is that any minute now two aliens are going to break down that door in search of vanilla ice cream and coffee. Go. From the sound of it, we’re here until tomorrow at least.”

  As easily push a cliff. “You’re leaving with them?” Nik glanced at the closed door then down at her with a darkening frown. “What the hell’s going on here? What do they want? Who are they?” He started to walk past her and she grabbed his arm. It was like iron.

  “I don’t have to tell you,” Mac said quietly, “what you already know.” Without letting go, since he seemed as tightly wound as a spring—posturing or real?—she used her free hand to open her pocket and pull out the envelope. “You came to stop me from accepting their invitation. You’re too late. I’m going.” She offered it to him.

  He took it, all the while staring at her in obvious dismay. “Oh, Mac.”

  She swallowed her pride. “When you come back tonight—if—I need you to read that to me. Please. I can’t.”

  “And you still agreed to go.” Harsh.

  “You knew I would. You—” She bit off the accusation that wanted to tumble after; there was no gain to it now. “Even if I’d wanted to say no—how could I? You know what’s at stake, Nik. We all do.”

  “All I know is that you have a limitless capacity to worry me, Mackenzie Connor.”

  “That’s never been my intention.” Her hand, her real one, lingered on his arm, trapped by the heat of his skin, the texture of fine hairs, the corded strength beneath her fingertips. “I’d rather—” Mac stopped herself just in time, snatching her hand away. Emily was the bold one; she wasn’t. “—I’d rather make coffee,” she finished breathlessly, heading for the pot. “And you, Mr. Spy, should get going before you’re seen.”

  Looking over her shoulder, Mac found herself alone in the kitchen, the back door sighing as it closed. She put both hands on the counter and leaned forward, shaking her head ruefully. “And how brilliantly smooth was that, Em?” she asked.

  Did he guess what she’d almost said? What she’d wanted to say?

  Did she even know?

  “Seasick alien on the porch,” Mac reminded herself. “Serious questions to answer and ask. Saving the universe tomorrow.”

  She hadn’t believed in the coincidence of Nikolai’s arrival—less than a day after her new guests—any more than she’d believed in the earthquake. Right on both counts, Em.

  But if she occasionally thought “yummy,” Mac decided, that was nobody’s business but her own.

  The first interspecies’ problem of the afternoon was, predictably, Emily.

  The second, less predictably, involved poodles.

  Mac took a long swallow of her beer and kicked the swing in motion. While she’d been inside, making conversation and coffee, the aliens had rearranged her porch. Kay, understandably not fond of swings at the moment, had brought out one of the overstuffed comfy chairs from inside. Fourteen, who probably did like swings, was not to be outdone, and had somehow maneuvered one of the couches through the door.

  As befitted a proper porch gathering, they’d all switched to beer when the sun was low enough to hit the back wall, and were now too warm and comfortable to budge.

  The two had listened eagerly to her synopsis of her experience with the Dhryn, asking few questions, seeming impressed—and occasionally dismayed. Now, however, both were firmly stuck trying to comprehend one aspect: Emily—or rather, Mac’s continued loyalty.

  “Dr. Mamani remains my friend,” Mac insisted, trying to find the right phrasing. “Emily—” lied and betrayed, “—acted on behalf of the Ro in order to try and stop the Dhryn. I—we—hope she’s still safe and with them. It’s perfectly normal Human behavior.”

  Fourteen chugged his third bottle in one long swallow, then belched for an impressive five seconds. “Perhaps ‘friend’ in Instella does not convey the Human meaning of the word, Mac.”

  Back to that again. “Perhaps,” Mac said, doing her best not to sound testy, “you could convey to me why finding a word to define my relationship to Emily matters, Fourteen. I keep telling you, we have shared experiences, we feel affection. We look out for one another. We get angry; we forgive mistakes. Call that combination whatever word you like and let’s move on.”

  “The clarification is important, Mac.” Kay, who’d been alternating scoops of melted ice cream with dollops of beer into his douscent—which must be about to explode by now, Mac judged—paused to wave ineffectually at the halo of black flies that had somehow passed the screens to find him. “We need any clue to help identify those of our respective species who might be, like your Emily, affiliated with the Myrokynay—the Ro.”

  “You believe they’ve recruited individ
uals from other species in the IU?” Mac considered this, then shrugged. “Maybe. But there’s the issue of the Ro technology—I explained how Emily required an implant in order to communicate with them, to help her tolerate how they travel.” Her fine olive skin, rent along one arm to reveal the depths of space and wheeling stars where flesh belonged. Mac blinked away the memory. “That’s your best way to identify their representatives. But it’s likely something not every species could integrate into their bodies.”

  “We neither believe, nor disbelieve, such recruits exist,” Kay replied. “We can’t discount the possibility. Such individuals could help us talk to the Ro, convince them to protect us. If the Ro prefer to find those who already claim loyalty and trust like yours, it is somewhere to start.”

  Mac stared into the forest for a moment. She had to squint to see past the tree trunks to the glitter marking the lake. “That won’t help you,” she said heavily, turning back to her companions. “Emily was working with the Ro long before we became friends. I didn’t tell you—I didn’t think it was important.” And still hurt.

  She kept it simple. How Emily had cultivated a rapport with Brymn, how she’d learned of his interest in Mac’s work, how she’d managed to be hired at Norcoast, how she’d cultivated Mac as a colleague and as a friend—

  Her voice faltered.

  “That’s enough, Mac,” Kay said quietly. “We’ve no wish to cause you pain. At least, now we know you were right. The word ‘friend’ in Instella will not bring us any closer to those who work with the Ro.”

  Fourteen had pressed his hands over his eyes as Mac told her story. Now he dropped them down to gaze at her. “Your Emily did not have to become your ‘friend,’ Mac,” he said. “She could have arranged what she did and still kept her distance from you, safe from exposure or compromise. Perhaps you were what she couldn’t resist.”

  This, from a being who set speed records eating or drinking, and belched or released noxious fumes without warning? “Thank you, Fourteen. You are very kind.”