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  “The Honorable Delegate needs a fair amount of space,” said an unapologetic and by-now familiar voice in her ear. “Yours were the biggest available, Dr. Connor. I’m sure you understand.”

  Grad students had a finely honed instinct for when to become invisible, while staying close enough to catch the juicy details. The light slap of seawater against the floats underfoot was suddenly louder than the rain.

  Mac gritted her teeth and stared longingly at Pod Three, where her admittedly spacious quarters waited, complete with shower and clean clothes. “What about my things?” she demanded, turning to glare at Trojanowski.

  The bureaucrat eased back a step, a move that put him against the railing. “The furnishings are satisfactory,” he assured her warily. “Brymn is very accommodating about such things.”

  “Your personal stuff is piled in the main hall,” Jeanine sniffled in Mac’s ear. “Beside the spare generator. We didn’t have time to do anything more with it.”

  First Brymn in her river, the envelope, being summarily dragged back to Base, and now this? Ignoring Emily’s alarmed protest, Mac planted both hands against the dry fabric of Trojanowski’s suit and shoved with all her might. The bureaucrat was over the rope rail of the walkway and into the water before he could do more than tighten his grip on his umbrella.

  As the students cheered, Mac resumed walking to the pods. No one else got in her way. Emily kept up, making a few strangled noises as if testing her voice.

  “What?” Mac growled.

  “Think he can swim?”

  “Think I care?”

  “Point taken.” Another few steps. “You realize the poor man probably lost his glasses.” Em lifted her cast. “We old-fashioned types are at such disadvantage.”

  “He had a spare suit. He’ll have spare glasses,” Mac said, resisting a twinge of remorse. She paused at the intersection of the walkways to Pods Three and Two, then resignedly turned away from “home.” “Mind if I borrow your shower?”

  “And some clothes, no doubt. I’ve a nice little number in red that should fit.”

  The walkway became a ramp, shifting gently underfoot as they climbed in synchrony. There was another splash in the distance. Mac presumed either the bureaucrat was being rescued or her helpful students had tossed him in again. “Base coveralls will do. You were issued three pairs, remember?”

  Emily made a sound of disgust. “Fit for scrubbing bilge.”

  “That could be what I’m doing.”

  “Not with what you’re carrying.”

  Mac wiped her hand dry on her shorts before slapping it on the entry pad. “We don’t know what I’m carrying,” she said in a low voice as the door opened. “We don’t know anything yet—but I intend to get some answers. And my quarters back.”

  “No argument here. No offense, but having you for a roomie would seriously cramp my lifestyle.”

  “Spare me the details, please.”

  Each pod had two floors above sea level and one below. The submerged space was used for wet labs and as bays for the underwater research equipment and vehicles. The first floor above the surface was divided into dry labs and offices, while the uppermost held residences and lounges.

  Pod Six, the newest addition to Norcoast, was the only exception to this plan. Larger and broader than the others, its interior was hollow and flooded, an isolated chunk of ocean protected from the elements. Entire schools of fish could be herded inside, scanned, then released. They’d even housed a lost baby humpback whale until acoustic and DNA samples could locate his mother and aunts.

  Pod Two was reserved for visiting researchers, like Emily, so its walls were free of the bulletins, vids, and outright graffiti that adorned the student habitats: Pods Four and Five. Pod One held the fabrication and repair shops, while Pod Three held Norcoast’s administration and archives—as well as Mac’s year-round home.

  Until now. Mac let Emily lead the way up the stairs that ringed the inside of the pod’s transparent outer wall. Mac found it perfectly appropriate that the stunning view of inlet, coast, and mountain was opaqued by rain.

  “His being here has to be a secret,” Emily said, halfway up.

  “Brymn’s? What makes you say that?”

  Emily rapped the wall with her knuckles. “No tiggers mobbing a crowd; I didn’t see any vidbots either.”

  The “tiggers” were the automated warn offs that discouraged kayakers and other adventurers from venturing into Castle Inlet. They looked more like herring gulls than the real thing, which added to the shock effect when they flew over a trespasser’s head and began intoning the hefty fines and other penalties for entering a restricted wildlife research zone, or worse, the Wilderness Trust itself. If ignored, a tigger would deposit an adhesive dropping containing a beacon to summon the law. If someone were foolish enough to try and evade the dropping—or shoot at the tigger? Suffice it to say there were other droppings in its arsenal, and a flock was a serious threat.

  Vidbots didn’t belong here either, though they were a familiar nuisance in cities. The little aerial ’bots were the eyes and ears of reporters—local, planetary, and, for all Mac knew, they reached other worlds as well.

  “That doesn’t mean it’s a secret,” she protested, unhappy at the thought of more conspiracy. The envelope was bad enough. “Maybe a Dhryn visiting a salmon research station isn’t news, Em.”

  At the top of the stairs Emily palmed the door open. They passed into a corridor with thick carpet, blissfully soft and dry underfoot. The ceiling was clear, though patterned by now driving sheets of rain. Supplementary lighting glowed along the base of the walls and around each residence door. Norcoast provided superb accommodations for its guest experts, even though they rarely had time to use them before heading into the field. It looked good on the prospectus.

  It had looked good to Mac, her master’s thesis on St. Lawrence salmon stocks under her belt and her new professor willing to send her west to Norcoast’s pods for the season. Mind you, her first quarters hadn’t quite been like Emily’s.

  Tie had been the one to welcome Mac to Norcoast, although it hadn’t seemed much of a welcome at the time. Mac hadn’t known what to make of him. The tool belt over torn shorts said one thing; the casual first-name basis with which he greeted everyone another. As he’d led her down sidewalks that bobbed alarmingly, he’d lectured her dolefully on the proper care of equipment she’d never used in her life, seeming convinced scientists and students were equally inept with any technology and it being his thankless duty to make sure it all worked regardless.

  At the residence pod, Tie had broken the unpleasant news that Mac would share her living quarters with four other students, the new pod being delayed in construction, that delay caused by other individuals also hopelessly inept with any technology whatsoever. Mac hadn’t dared venture an opinion.

  “You’ll miss all this, soon enough,” Tie had pronounced as he’d watched her thread her way among the shoes, bags, and general paraphernalia of the others to reach the bed with the least number of books stacked on it. Hers, supposedly.

  Mac had desperately wanted to appear dignified and knowledgeable; she was closer to homesick and anxious. “Miss what?” she’d asked. “Why?”

  “A bed. A roof.” Tie had laughed at her expression. “They didn’t tell you? A tent and sleeping on the ground. That’s the routine here, while the rivers are free of ice. You live with the salmon.”

  Mac brought herself to the present with a shake of her head. Tie had been right, as usual. What was she doing, worrying about something as trivial as where she slept? Must be getting old.

  “Brymn isn’t news?” Emily scoffed, as if unaware Mac’s thoughts had wandered. “I’d say he’s more news-worthy than that delicious graphic opera star you entertained here last year. Weren’t you the one telling me you had to call in the coast patrol to get rid of the reporters who followed him?”

  “Two years ago,” Mac corrected, waiting for Emily to unlock her door. “And there was n
o entertaining involved. He claimed to be making whale documentaries and had heard about our work. I offered him a tour.”

  “Tour.” The word oozed innuendo. “Really.”

  “Dibs on the shower,” Mac said quickly, taking advantage of her smaller size to squeeze by Emily and dash for the washroom.

  There were times to linger over the sheer hedonism of hot water after living under field conditions. This wasn’t one of them. Mac hit the air dry the instant her hand skimmed the last clumps of lather from her head, bending over so the jets meant to dry her skin did double duty on her hair. The locks were still damp enough to stick to her fingers when she shut off the shower and stepped out, her other hand snagging the navy blue Norcoast coveralls Emily had found for her.

  They fit, in the way shapeless, untailored, thoroughly practical clothes did. Mac rolled up the cuffs at ankle and wrist, securing each by pinching the mem-fabric in their hems. She’d had everything else she needed, including dry sandals, in her backpack.

  “Your turn, Em.” Mac kicked her ’pack into Emily’s living room, her hands busy sorting her hair into its customary braid, twisting the result into a knot to lie at the base of her neck. “Don’t dawdle.”

  Emily was stretched out on the couch, one arm trailing on the floor as if she’d melted into the furniture, the other, with its cast, resting on the couch back. She lifted her head from a cushion, her expression one of complete disbelief. “What did you do? Skip the soap? I just got comfy—”

  “I know. Sorry.” Mac pulled the envelope from a pocket, its dark blue veined with green like some exotic shell. Her name, in lighter mauve, looked ridiculous. “This shouldn’t wait much longer. And—” Mac paused, then gave words to the unease she’d felt since first touching it, an unease she’d postponed acknowledging as long as she could. “I don’t want to read this alone.”

  “Of course not,” Emily agreed, rising to her feet in one smooth motion. She took a step toward the washroom, then stopped, looking at Mac. Her eyes dropped suggestively to the envelope.

  “Fine,” Mac said, just as relieved. “I’ll open it now.” She chose to sit cross-legged on the carpet. Emily joined her.

  “Do you know how?”

  Mac turned the envelope over, running a fingertip along each edge. There were no seams. It might have been a wafer of mother-of-pearl, solid to the core. “Any ideas?”

  “Not I.” Emily leaned forward, studying their problem. “I won’t touch it either. Not with your name on it. Maybe you should call our friend Nikolai.”

  Mac remembered the searching look the bureaucrat had given her—the way he’d obviously decided not to talk to her. “He expected me to have opened it already,” she concluded out loud. “So there’s nothing high tech about it.” Before she could hesitate, Mac grabbed the envelope in both hands and ripped it in half.

  A tiny multifolded sheet slipped from the portion of the envelope in her right hand, landing on her leg. Mac put the halves aside and picked up the sheet, opening it slowly. Mem-paper, if a far finer, thinner version than those in Lee’s books. The sheet was smooth between her fingers as she angled it to read:

  TO: Dr. Mackenzie Connor, Norcoast Salmon

  Research Facility, British Columbia,

  Earth.

  FROM: Muda Sa’ib XIII, Secretary General,

  Ministry of Extra-Sol Human Affairs,

  Narasa Prime.

  Dear Dr. Connor:

  Our Ministry has been advised of a potential Category Zeta threat. This is a hazard to life on an intersystem, planetary scale. The appropriate agencies representing all signatories of the Interspecies Union have been notified and have agreed to share any findings in this matter.

  This threat, if confirmed, could affect a portion of space which includes over three hundred Human worlds and even more extraplanetary habitats. It could impact Earth herself. This threat must therefore be considered as a threat to our species’ survival, authorizing the most extreme measures, should they be necessary.

  Among the investigations being conducted is one by a Dhryn scientist who has requested access to your facility and your research, claiming it has relevance to our mutual concern. While he has not yet explained that relevance, citing its preliminary and speculative nature, his request has, of course, been granted. We expect you will offer him all possible assistance.

  We ask that you keep this information, and any findings you and the Dhryn obtain, confidential until such time as our Ministry reaches a conclusion concerning the existence of this threat and what action, if any, should be taken. While we hold little expectation for this particular line of investigation, we have nonetheless assigned a diplomatic liaison to you, who has identified himself by giving you this message. Through him, you may communicate with my office at any time.

  It is our sincere hope and belief that this threat will turn out to be spurious, another rumor to be dispelled as quickly and quietly as possible. If not, we will rely on you to provide your assistance, however and as long as required.

  Thank you, Dr. Connor.

  See Attachment

  “You look as though you’ve eaten some of Ward’s scrambled eggs. It can’t be that bad.”

  Mac shook her head, more to postpone Emily’s questions than in answer. “It doesn’t say much of anything,” she puzzled. “There’s more attached.” A light tap on the page and the memo was replaced by a list of reports. This mem-sheet was definitely more sophisticated than those in Lee’s novels. “Grab your shower, Em,” she suggested, looking up to meet her friend’s eyes. “This is going to take a while to read.”

  The other woman didn’t budge. “Not until you tell me if we’re all going to die before the weekend. If so, I’ve got plans to make first.”

  “I think your weekend is safe.”

  “Not good enough.”

  Mac’s lips quirked. “Fine. It’s from the Ministry of Extra-Sol Human Affairs—”

  “Whoa.” Emily’s eyebrows rose. “That’s weird. Earthgov, I expected. The Consulate, I could see. Any alien entering our air has to go through them. But the Ministry? To state the obvious, they don’t deal with Earth at all.”

  She was right, of course. Mac knew that much history. Humanity’s spread throughout its own solar system had produced another layer of governance, to speak for the differing needs of those living without gravity or biosphere. The Ministry, as most now called it, had served as the conduit for both complaint and accommodation. As the populations living off the planet had increased, so had the Ministry.

  In a way, that exponential growth had prepared humanity for its next great leap outward. A mere 150 years after the first Human birth on Mars, Humans gained the technology to expand to the stars. Oh, it wasn’t theirs. Very little, Mac thought ruefully, from imp to broadcast power, was. When the first non-Human probe arrived, with its standard invitation from the Interspecies Union to build and maintain transects to bypass normal space, and thus participate in its economic community of other intelligences, humanity hadn’t hesitated an instant. The Ministry, for its part, moved outward with every Human starship and colonist, a familiar safety net—and occasionally useful bureaucratic aggravation—for those brave souls venturing into the true unknown. Mind you, it turned out that much of the galaxy in Earth’s vicinity was very well known and populated, so over the last century, the Ministry had quietly evolved into a convenient way of keeping Earth’s far-flung offspring in touch with home.

  Meanwhile, the Interspecies Union, or IU, hadn’t left that home alone. It had requested, and been granted, property on Earth to build a Consulate. In New Zealand, in fact, due to the variety of climates readily available. There, visitors of any biological background could be welcomed, briefed on local customs, checked for transmissibles, and sent off to conduct whatever business they deemed worth doing on the Human home world. Little about Earth wasn’t of interest to someone or something, although Saturn’s moons boasted more alien traffic on an annual basis.

  In return, Humans c
ontinued to feast on the combined technology of thousands of other races, many more advanced in one field or another, the whole benefiting from the cross-pollination of ideas. The IU wasn’t composed of fools. Not entirely, anyway. There were always stories—

  Not that Mac paid attention to stories about aliens or their business, content to use the latest tools and stay within her field and species. Until now.

  “You’ll see why it comes from the Ministry, Em,” Mac said soberly, then read the rest of the message out loud. When done, she added thoughtfully: “I’m not downplaying the threat, but this part about Brymn coming to me? Does it sound like a plea for some diplomatic nuisance-sitting to you?”

  “Oh, as if diplomacy is your strong suit,” Emily quipped, but looked only faintly reassured. “You read the rest while I clean up. Then I want to know everything else that’s in there. Deal?”

  Mac hesitated. A little late, her conscience was bothering her. “The message said confidential.”

  Emily flashed a grin. “So don’t tell Tie. You know he spreads gossip faster than the com system—”

  “Be serious, Em.”

  A sudden, very sober look from those dark brown eyes. “I’m nothing but serious, Mac. A possible ‘Category Zeta’ threat? We can’t let word of this spread in any way. You probably shouldn’t have told even me—but now that I’m in it, I’m damned if I’ll sit by and wonder what’s going on overhead.”

  Mac acknowledged the truth of that with a single nod. “We need to talk to Brymn. Go shower. I’ll start going through this.”

  “On my way, boss.” Emily shed clothing as she went, apparently determined to challenge Mac’s speed.

  Once the door closed, Mac stretched out on her stomach, laying the mem-sheet on the floor in front of her. Unconfirmed rumor or crackpot notion, Em was right—this scale of threat had to be taken seriously until proven otherwise. Obviously, she and Em weren’t the only ones to think so.