Migration: Species Imperative #2 Page 7

  Or was Emily on Earth, sipping margaritas in a bar decorated with parrots, teaching bawdy verse to handsome tourists . . .

  Swearing under her breath, hiding the trembling of her hands, Mac yanked aside the weather screen covering the end of the shed.

  Was Emily dead? Had it happened months ago?

  Or had she waited for rescue, for friends, only to die alone?

  “It’s nothing fancy,” she warned Mudge, her voice less steady than would have been reassuring under the circumstances, “but it’ll get us to shore.”

  “In one piece?” he asked, eyes dropping from the parrot to stare in dismay at the personal lev cowering inside the shed. It was, as Tie referred to it, at that delicate age between junk and vintage. To survive long enough to be vintage, it shouldn’t have belonged to Mac.

  She wiped cobwebs from the yellowed canopy. “It’s this or nothing. Help me push it out.”

  Together they wrestled the old lev out of its shelter. The gentle light of early morning wasn’t kind. There were more patches than paint on its sides, the upholstery had endured too many buckets of overripe salmon, and a regrettable, although essentially harmless encounter with a barge had permanently resculptured its prow. Remarkably, last year’s tip and righting of the pod didn’t seem to have added any more dents. As far as she could tell.

  Mac gave the lev a surreptitious kick for luck. She’d bought the thing well and truly used her first year of tenure at Norcoast. Granted, it had been shiny, clean, and intact back then. Even better, dirt cheap. It was only later that Mac learned why few people bothered with levs for anything smaller than freight transport. Compact antigrav units were, to be generous, finicky beasts prone to suicide.

  Levs, boots. Same thing. Mac was satisfied when either got her where she wanted to go with dry feet, although she had noticed footwear was more reliable. Little wonder everyone at Base conspired with Tie to arrange to ferry their co-administrator from place to place, keeping her lev in this shed and out of his workshop.

  Which kept it out of inventory, too. More problems for ’Sephe and crew, Mac rejoiced.

  Much to Mac’s surprise, the engine started on the first try. No death rattle or strange clanking marred the steady hum. That slightly strangled wheezing? Hardly noticeable.

  “You get in first,” Mudge said after a moment’s thoughtful consideration.

  “Brave man,” Mac quipped, not entirely sure herself. Then she looked out at their destination, the outstretched arm of Castle Inlet, where mist hung like dust-gray garlands around the deep green trees. “Let’s go.”

  Besides, she told herself optimistically, it wasn’t far.

  Mac shut down the lev’s engine, which continued to wheeze and gasp noisily as if to prove its rise into the air, plunge to a handbreadth above the ocean, and subsequent erratic hobble over the boulders and logs of the shore to land here had been a fluke.

  “WE COULD—” the last wheeze died and Mudge stopped shouting to be heard over the racket, “—swim back,” he finished.

  Mac patted the lev. “It just needs a rest.” Not a bad landing, she congratulated herself, hands sore from holding the controls perhaps a little tighter than useful. The tendency of levs to simply drop if their antigrav failed had crossed her mind on the way here. Several times. Over a combination of height, wave, and rock that didn’t make such a drop appealing in the least, given the high probability of deer mice in the safety chutes. This was much better.

  Much. Mindful of the Trust, and her companion, Mac had brought them down on a bare outcropping on the ocean side of the ridge, close to one of the pathways leading up the ridge. The minimal damage caused by landing here would be easy to record. Mudge couldn’t fault her on this. Could he?

  Rather than ask, Mac looked out over Hecate Strait, the cool, salt-fresh wind playing with her hair and teasing the hood on her shoulders. Clouds were getting organized for the day, small puffs scudding above the waves as if on parade, longer wisps holding court above, a tumultuous line forming in the distance. There would be salmon beneath it all, driving through the depths. The young smolts preoccupied with filling their own stomachs while avoiding being food themselves; the mature, powerful adults who would never eat again, guided by the tastes and scents of home, answering that one final call, to spawn—

  “Ahhh.”

  The soft exclamation drew her around. Mudge had his back to the ocean. His arms were outstretched, his head tilted, his body dwarfed before the rising ranks of trees that began mere footsteps away. To someone else, Mac thought, he might look foolish. A man past middle age, wearing a faded yellow rainsuit that had doubtless fit better several kilos earlier, what hair he had tossed by the wind like stray grass. Standing in what could only be called worship.

  Mac felt a tightness in her throat. She didn’t interrupt. Instead, she looked where he did, tracing the underlying ridge in the arrogant skyward thrust of pine, cedar, and redwood with her eyes, understanding one thing at least.

  She’d been right to bring Mudge here.

  “I should never have brought you here,” Mac snapped, catching the branch whipping toward her face in the nick of time.

  They were walking three meters above the forest floor, using the suspended walkway set up by last year’s researchers. That forest floor was visible beneath their feet, the walkway of a transparent material which allowed the passage of not only light, but rain and small objects. Minimal presence. It conveniently glowed a faint green with each footfall, so they knew where to step next. Repellers kept the surface clear of spiderwebs and other nests.

  Repellers didn’t stop branches from growing or leaning across their path. Mac fended another from her face. Mudge either didn’t realize that what he pushed out of his way would spring into hers, or didn’t care.

  His voice floated back to her. “Why? Do you have something to hide, Norcoast?”

  Should she count on her fingers or pull out her imp to do the calculation? Mac snorted. Aloud, she said: “No. I don’t have anything to hide. But you’re—OW!” The tip of a branch snapped against her cheek despite a last second duck. “Will you stop!” she shouted.

  Mudge, for a wonder, did just that. Mac fingered her cheek and glared at him, breathing heavily. Ever since she’d showed him the path, he’d hurried along it as if possessed by demons. If she didn’t know better, Mac thought darkly, she’d believe he had a destination in mind.

  As this particular path swung all too close to the Ro landing site at the top of the ridge, she sincerely hoped not. There were some things she needed to believe, Mac admitted to herself as she studied his sweating face. Among them, that Oversight was here for his trees, nothing more.

  He was fumbling in a pocket. Before Mac could do more than tense—when had she developed that appalling reflex?—he pulled out a wad of white and pressed it into her hand. “Here. You’re bleeding.”

  Mac lifted the tissue to her cheek. “What’s the rush, Oversight?” she asked, holding his gaze with hers. His face was flushed with effort. No surprise. They were both too warm in their rainsuits and had their hoods down, even with the light drizzle falling. Drops collected in the creases beside his eyes and erased what hair he had.

  “Was I rushing?” All innocence.

  Mac waited.

  “Oh,” Mudge gave an embarrassed-sounding harrumph. “I—Sorry about that, Norcoast. It’s all a bit—much, you know. Being here.” He looked up and around, eyes wide, then back to her, his expression somehow desperate. “I must make as complete an inspection in the time we have—” he raised the hand holding the recorder, “—but there’s no way to see it all. No time.”

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Mac commented.

  “Beautiful?” Mudge blinked raindrops from his eyes. “Of course it is.” She merely gazed at him, letting silence speak. Finally, he heaved a sigh and lowered the recorder. “Of course, it is,” he repeated, more slowly and with emphasis. “Thank you, Norcoast.” He looked past her again. “It’s worth everything we do
, isn’t it,” he said softly.

  Mac nodded, drinking in the sights, sounds, and smells for herself.

  Spring. Regrowth, renewal, reproduction. They stood encompassed by living things answering those imperatives, urgently, impatiently. Birdsong, from hoarse to heartbreakingly rich, filled the air. Pollen powdered highlights of yellow on the bark of trees. Green shoots burst through the dark soil below like fireworks exploding in a night sky, their color so vivid, so intense, it seemed to leave a taste. Anywhere sheltered from the tiny raindrops, the air was filled with motes, some in flight, some adrift, all intent.

  Mac drew a deep breath through her nose, savoring the rush of molds and damp wood, of distant flowers and brand-new leaves. Regeneration. She could feel it, just being here. She would know it, when she was at the field station, waiting for the first migrating salmon of the season. Her life would regain its purpose, its balance—

  “It’s stopped working.”

  “What’s stopped working?” she echoed.

  “This thing.” Mudge banged his recorder against the palm of his other hand. “It’s gone dead on me.”

  Mac couldn’t pull air into her lungs. Her eyes searched the surrounding maze of crisscrossing branches and shadow. Not that those she feared would trouble to hide. The Ro. Masters of stealth, when they wished.

  And their favorite tactic? To interfere with power supplies, broadcast or stored.

  Their strange allies. Who could be close enough to touch, and neither she nor Mudge would know.

  The Dhryn?

  Mac didn’t dare look up. If there were any above them, it was already too late.

  Mudge’s annoyed “Well, Norcoast? Where’s your imp?” made her jump.

  “My—” Her voice caught.

  “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded, but went on without waiting for an answer, hoarse with frustration. “You did bring it? Oh, I know it’s not ideal. This—” a wave of the recorder, “—would be better, much better, more complete and reliable.” He shoved it into a pocket, the rubber protesting. “Piece of junk. I assume your imp has at least basic data recording capabilities, ambient conditions, that sort of thing? I have to collect as much as I can . . . make notes.”

  Nodding, Mac took out the small device and laid it on her palm, unable to help stealing glances in every direction. She tapped in her code with a finger, lower lip between her teeth.

  The workscreen formed before her face, its display so bland and normal she gasped with relief.

  “Good,” Mudge said, either oblivious or assuming Mac’s emotions reflected his own. “Let me use it.”

  Without warning, the current display, a checklist of her field supplies, disappeared. In its place, a string of incomprehensible symbols tumbled among the raindrops in the air, flaring yellow, then red. A message? Mac jabbed a finger through the ’screen to save it.

  As she did, the symbols were replaced by a flicker of light that, so briefly it could have been her imagination, formed a face.

  Then the display winked back to its list of equipment, tents, and rations.

  Mac closed her fingers over her imp. Rain washed her cheeks, conveniently hiding the tears she couldn’t control. Of joy or terror? Interesting question, she told herself. But whatever she was feeling, Mac knew she hadn’t imagined what she’d seen. Or rather who.

  Emily.

  “Well? Are you going to let me use it or not, Norcoast?”

  “What? Oh. Not. Sorry.” Mac opened her rainsuit and secured the now-precious gadget in the upper zipped pocket of her coveralls. “Old model,” she said smoothly. “Forgot it doesn’t have direct data recording. Try yours again.”

  His expression was the familiar “are you nuts?” one she’d grown accustomed to ignoring over the years. Presumably hers was the equally familiar “willing to wait forever” one, because Mudge didn’t bother arguing. Instead, he grabbed out his recorder and activated it one more time, grumbling under his breath all the while. Then his eyes widened. He gave her a shocked look. “It’s working!”

  Why wasn’t that reassuring? As Mac suspected the answer involved the Ro, or at least their technology, neither far enough away, she was proud of her calm: “Oh, good. Shall we proceed?”

  “I expect you to show me what’s been happening here, Norcoast,” Mudge scowled fiercely. “No tricks.” He started moving without waiting for an answer, the walkway edges flashing green with each impatient step.

  So much for sharing the beauty of the place, Mac sighed to herself. “I don’t know what you think you’ll find, Oversight,” she informed his back as she followed behind. “There’s been no one here since the last field season and you’ve seen those reports.”

  The walkway climbed with the mountain, each step etched in light. Mac forced herself to stop looking for Emily at every turn. She’d been given a message, that’s all. ’Sephe and company would help her find out what it meant. At least now, there was hope.

  If only Emily’s face hadn’t looked so . . . strange.

  Mac and Mudge soon reached the section where the walkway spiraled both up and around a series of mammoth tree trunks, each wider than a transport lev, rising vertically as if they were columns supporting the unseen sky. An otherworldly place, Mac thought, trying to shake free of the aftermath of Emily’s message. There had been a time when being here gave her a sense of permanence, of safety, of life that needed nothing but itself to continue.

  Having walked on one of the lifeless worlds of the Chasm, she knew better. The trees were something else at risk. Something else to lose.

  The rain collected in the dense canopy of leaves, branches, and moss far above their heads, so drops continued to fall long after cloudbursts ended for the day, an absentminded deluge that skewed time the way the scale of the trees skewed perceptions of self and importance. Mac could see it affecting Mudge. His pace gradually slowed from impatient to reverent, the recorder in his hand lifting until he held it like a torch.

  They were still some distance from the Ro landing site, and well away from the trampling done by, well, several individuals including herself last year, which was why Mac didn’t pay attention when Mudge disappeared from view around the next trunk. He was only footsteps ahead. Besides, the bark on that tree trunk was festooned with a string of amorous slugs, so Mac paused to do a quick count, admiring their glistening yellow and brown. Quite dapper beasts. Five . . . six . . .

  Snap. It was such an ordinary sound, Mac didn’t bother glancing up. Branches cracked all the time. Eight . . . nine . . . There was a red velvet mite, vivid and soft, climbing up the back of the tenth slug. Mac peered closer, curious as to how it was managing to find traction in the slime.

  Crash, snap, CLANG!

  “What the . . . ?” Abandoning her slugs and muttering under her breath, Mac hurried around the tree trunk, light flashing underfoot with each step. A bell-like metal-to-metal clang wasn’t ordinary. What was Mudge doing?

  She stopped in her tracks.

  Mudge was standing in the middle of the next rise of the walkway. His arms were being held by two large figures encased in the Ministry’s black armor from head to toe. Even their faces were hidden behind gleaming visors. A scuff mark on one of those visors, and the sad condition of the recorder lying at Mudge’s feet explained the clang.

  The rip through the forest ahead explained everything else.

  Another new Ro landing site. This time, they’d knocked over giants, flattened centuries’ old growth, scraped soil to expose the mountain’s very bones. Not a large area, as if they’d lost control and crashed, but of a certain size, a certain shape, as if they’d come down and shoved aside whatever was in their way.

  Levs, the silent, expensive, probably-always-work type, hovered between the standing trees. More figures, twin to those confining Mudge, moved through the debris on the forest floor. Mac sniffed. There was a faint charred smell to the air. Gone, she reasoned.

  After Emily sent her message.

  Had the Ro ship b
een waiting for her? Had they spied and known she was coming? Or had they been here all along and only now been chased away, the message a last minute attempt—at what?

  Mac shook her head free of questions. They only served to make her more anxious, not less. “Let him go,” she told the guards holding Mudge. “I’ll take him to Base.”

  “You know about this, Norcoast?” Mudge struggled, futilely, against his captors. “I demand an explanation! Do you see what’s—what’s—” words appeared to fail him as he looked out at the destruction. Then, eyes brimming with tears, he turned to her. “What have you done?”

  Mac winced. She wasn’t sure what was worse: the horror on his face, the ravaging of the forest, the return of the Ro . . .

  Or the way every visored head in view was now aimed right at her, as if waiting for something.

  “Tomorrow,” Mac said loudly and clearly, so there could be no possible misunderstanding by anyone or anything in earshot, “I am leaving for Field Station Six. To study my salmon.”

  How many times and in how many ways had the Ministry told her they didn’t want her involved any longer?

  Fine. She’d give them Emily’s message. As a bonus, she’d also let them explain a major Anthropogenic Perturbation of a Class Three Wilderness Trust to its Oversight Committee.

  Who would never talk to her again, anyway.

  “Your Mudge is not a happy man.”

  Something she had no authority or ability to change, Mac thought sadly. She tilted her office chair back so she could rest her bare feet on her desk. Her toes complained about their time in wet socks and she wiggled them slowly. “What will happen to him?”

  ’Sephe shrugged, her loose-fitting yellow shirt bright enough to use as a signal flare. If she’d been one of the black, visored entities on the ridge, there was no sign of it. Unless, Mac told herself dourly, you counted snug black jeans. She’d come quickly enough when Mac sent for her.

  Which had been after Mac had had the dubious thrill of hiking all the way down the ridge walkways to her lev, finally getting it started during the worsening rain, and somehow keeping it running until it squatted safely on the roof of Pod Three. Where the machine had given every indication of coughing out its last breath. One day, Mac vowed, she’d get a ride home.