Migration (13 page)

“And I don’t see why it has to be the color of bile.”

Mac had remembered to keep her arms up as the foam rose up their legs and bodies, stopping chest high on her. During a test of the system, years ago, she’d left them down and spent three hours unable to deal with a maddening itch on the side of her nose. The foam was harmless, if you didn’t mind the paralysis aspect. You could lie down on the floor and be completely covered.
Not her first choice.
The foam arched overhead as well, following the wall and ceiling material to effectively seal anything that might otherwise shake loose and fall on their heads. Its join was, presumably, also waterproof. Even if the pods were flipped right over, they should be safe.

The Ro had known. They’d known to disable the pods’ protections before sabotaging their anchors. They’d been told how by Emily Mamani, their spy. Emily, who had come to Base to find out why Mackenzie Connor and her obscure work so interested a Dhryn. Emily, who had come to use that interest to hunt the Dhryn’s weakness, their Progenitors. Emily, who with the Ro had used Mac to befriend a Dhryn and betray his kind, for the good of all others.

“Mac? How can you sleep through this?”

“Thinking, not sleeping.” Mac looked down at Kammie. The other woman’s pupils were dilated. Otherwise, she looked calm enough. Mac glanced along the corridor. Everyone in sight looked reasonably comfortable, if a bit nervous. Understandable—the floor was tilting beneath them and, from the feel of her stomach, the pod was dropping at the same time. Mac raised her voice. “Hope you like roller coasters, folks. At least none of us has had breakfast yet.”

A few laughs at that.

“There’ll be a few more tremors—aftershocks. And probably a few wave events—” The pod gave a sharp roll back and left, its pinned occupants gasping in reaction. Mac waited until everything settled, then continued. “Like that. The foam will be dispersed once the sensors—” This time the swing of the pod was to the right and up, putting Mac and those with her temporarily where the ceiling should be. Several students now below her hooted and waved as the pod rocked back to level, trying their best to intercept someone’s hat as it tumbled along the foam’s surface. Beside Mac, Kammie shook her head in disgust.

“—once the sensors say everything’s settling down,” Mac finished. “Meanwhile,” she grinned at Kammie. “You might as well enjoy the ride.”

“Three skims are still missing, but I ’spect those will turn up on shore someplace. You can see for yourself the condition of the walkways. They’re a total loss. Otherwise—Mac, are you listening?”

Skims. Walkways.
As if those mattered
. Mac rested her chin on her fists, elbows on the cowling of the lev, and tried to pay attention to Tie’s briefing. They were circling the pods, assessing damage, and it was all she could do not to cry.

Base had survived. The pods had bobbed like so many corks, and several people had to be treated for nausea, but the foam had vanished under the mist of dispersal agent and very little had been shifted, let alone broken.

She couldn’t say the same about the landscape.

The ridge that stretched between Castle Inlet and the strait beyond had been scraped clean, as if the coating of forest and soil had been a frosting licked away. Close enough. The quake had momentarily liquefied the sandy substrate beneath, creating a downward sag and flow rather than a landslide’s bump and tumble. Now only rock showed in a swatch stretching from the highest point to the shoreline, the fresh dark line of a fault plain to see. The shore? It was a confusion of mud and debris, leaves and branches sticking out at random as though a child had decorated a mud pie. Scale was impossible. What appeared twigs from this distance were giant tree trunks, snapped and torn. What appeared lines of gravel and sand were boulders. Mac spotted an eagles’ nest, half covered by the remnants of a mem-wood dock. Streams and river mouths would be choked, some completely dammed.

The air stank of ruined trees and rotting kelp.

The sea hadn’t been spared. It was brown and clouded as far as she could see, dotted with drowning bits of land-adapted life, sediment quietly smothering what aquatic life couldn’t swim away.

At least it had been a minor earthquake, 4.3 on the revised Barr-Richter scale, barely rattling cups in Prince Rupert, unnoticed in Vancouver or Anchorage. A local event. Hadn’t brought down anything more than this slope. Hadn’t seriously affected rivers beyond this side of the inlet.

Hah
, thought Mac.

One of her first priorities would be to assemble a team of researchers to record the state of land and water, to monitor the successional stages as the ecosystems rebuilt. Some of the scientists were, very quietly, overjoyed by the opportunity. It was rare to have such access to the destruction of a well-studied area, to be the first to see life restore itself. Their work would have immense value.

Mac watched as a gull settled on a root now aimed skyward, perhaps attracted by the line of silent, unmoving tiggers perched on a nearby scar of rock. The servos were still on guard, protecting what was to come.

“Mac. Stuff happens.”

She looked at Tie. His weary face was streaked with drying mud and a line of grease. A bit of pink foam was stuck in his hair above his left ear. “That it does,” she agreed. “Let’s head back. I’ve seen enough.”

And if she believed this earthquake “happened,”
Mac told herself, so far beyond mere fury she felt nothing but cold,
she should invest in that fabled bridge across the Bering Strait.

A few meetings were actually fun—those rare events involved pizza, a tub of ice-cold beer, and the joyous task of celebrating a colleague’s latest success, whether publication or offspring.

Most, like this one, were thinly disguised battles, usually with the outcome predetermined and of no joy to anyone.

Mac planned to make it quick. Speed didn’t help when pulling off bandages, but she hoped in this case it would limit the fallout. With any luck, everyone would leave mad at her instead of each other.

“Let’s get started,” she ordered quietly, surveying the gallery from the centermost seat at the head table. That table was raised on a small dais, allowing the entire roomful of people a clear view of Mac, Kammie, and the other five senior scientists. Or guest speakers, hired bands, talent shows, and the like.

No one expected entertainment today, not with Pod Three reverberating each time a floating, dying tree bumped and scraped against its supports, not with the view out the transparent walls showing an ocean stained with the blood of a mountain.

“We’ve conferred with—”
everyone possible,
Mac almost said, then changed it to “—experts. The bottom beneath the pods is stable, but seriously disturbed. You’ve seen for yourselves the state of the shoreline. Rather than reinstall the permanent anchors and resume our work here—” The shock traveled across the room, mirrored in all of their faces.
Did they think nothing would change?
Mac raged—but kept it to herself. They didn’t need her pain as well as their own. “—Pods One, Three, Four, Five, and Six will be towed to a new site.”

From any other group, there might have been pandemonium or some protest. Not here, not now. Three hundred and fifteen faces looked back at her, many of them familiar, some new, very few she didn’t know on sight yet. Her eyes couldn’t find Persephone, but she took that as a positive.
Someone better be investigating what had happened
. Just as likely, ’Sephe hadn’t dared face her. Mac spotted Case, sitting with Uthami and John Ward. Everyone was silent, waiting.

They knew there was more to come.

“The process, barring storms or more rumblings from beneath, will take three weeks. Norcoast is sending haulers to tow the pods. We’ll have to secure all gear—move out what’s going to be needed during that time. Check your imps for details. The sooner we’re ready, the sooner we can get moving.”

“Where?” came a voice from the back.

Mac glanced at Kammie. That worthy stood, having learned long ago her soft, high-pitched voice needed all the help it could get to project past the first line of tables. She smoothed the front of her immaculate lab coat with both hands. A nervous habit.
Who wasn’t on edge?
Mac thought with sympathy. “We’re returning Base to its original home, beside the mouth of the Tannu River itself,” Kammie informed them. “It’s an ideal location. And was ideal, until the natural disaster before this one. I assume that when history repeats itself, Base will be towed back here again.” Her comment drew a laugh and Kammie smiled faintly as she sat down.

Mac resumed her part of the briefing. “Pod Two is being refitted as a self-contained research unit, to accommodate what will be an ongoing, multiyear, and very well-funded exploration of the successional recovery of the life in this area. Congratulations to those who will be staying. We look forward to your findings.” Martin Svehla, freshly minted head of the new unit, beamed beatifically at the world at large. Mac was reasonably sure he wasn’t hearing much else.

A hand rose.

“Yes, Case.”

He stood, glancing once around the room before looking up at her. “Dr. Connor. What does this mean for those of us packed and ready to head to the field?”

“It means—” Mac began answering.

Kammie stood so quickly her glass of water rocked on the table. “It means a temporary postponement,” she interrupted, steadying the tumbler. “You’ll have the choice of going home for three weeks, travel costs covered by Norcoast, or joining some of us on the University of British Columbia’s campus for course credit. I believe there will be four topics offered.”

So this was how it felt to be ambushed by a puma,
Mac told herself. Only the cat had good reason for pouncing on you from behind and driving its fangs into your skull.

“Dr. Noyo is talking about some individual circumstances,” Mac said harshly.
If you didn’t want to be lunch, you fought with whatever you had.
“Each case will be decided on its own needs and merits—”

Unfortunately, tiny Kammie Noyo was more dangerous than a hungry puma. “Now, Dr. Connor,” she interrupted again. “We mustn’t confuse the issue. Norcoast will not be broadcasting power during the tow. The main system will not be operating. There will be no backup of data, no supplies, no—”

Mac leaped to her feet. “So bloody what? I don’t need all this—” she waved her hand around furiously, “—to do my work. I’ll use a pencil if I have to!”

But the others at the head table didn’t meet her eyes when she looked to them for support.

“Norcoast has been very clear, Dr. Connor,” Kammie said into the painful pause. “They won’t send anyone into the field until Base is up and running to support those efforts. It’s only three weeks—a month at most.”

“A month—” The first runs would be over. The first salmon would be dead, their legacy mere specks of eyeball and yolk left in the redds, the nests their mothers dug in the gravel upstream.

Mac closed her mouth, afraid of what might come out next, afraid she was wrong, that she was overreacting for reasons incomprehensible to both mystified students and troubled colleagues.

Most of all, she was afraid of staying here one more instant.
What else would she lose if she did?

She sat, slowly. With an effort that left her dizzy, she nodded at Kammie, gesturing graciously that the other was to continue.

Mac didn’t hear another word that was said.