Migration (14 page)

The foam wasn’t supposed to leave a residue. Maybe it was her imagination that everything she touched in her office was faintly sticky. Mac ignored the sensation as she ignored everything but the task at hand. She was packing. Quietly, quickly. One small bag. They’d been told to take only personal valuables, to leave everything else behind. For three weeks.

Kammie had anticipated Mac’s reaction to the “take a hike” order from Norcoast perfectly. She’d known better than to bring it up in private, giving Mac a chance to launch herself at those responsible, fly to the head office, make a pointless nuisance of herself and possibly lose her post here altogether. It wasn’t only potential students who were wondering about the qualifications and commitment of a particular salmon researcher.

If she’d anger to spare, Mac thought as she zipped up her bag, she’d save it for those lackwits who’d forgotten how real scientists worked. Hands-on, with nets and serum syringes, scales and insta-freeze pouches. A zap-per to discourage bears who preferred her fishing techniques to theirs. She’d done it before.

Not that they’d listened
.

There was temporary power throughout the pods, enough for lights and to run whatever systems needed to go through an off cycle before storage.
Enough for coms to work,
Mac noticed morosely, as hers gave a fainter-than-usual chime.

Listen to them?
She grabbed her sweater instead.

A second chime. A third.

Fine
. “Mac,” she said, thumping the control with the side of her fist. About as satisfying as slamming a door when no one else was there to appreciate the gesture.

“Hi, Princess. Going that well, is it?”

Oops.
Mac sank down on the corner of her desk, shaking her head at herself. “Sorry, Dad. I should have called you back.” They’d all contacted family and friends after the earthquake, taking the time to give reassurances if no details.
She’d really meant to call again
. “Did an inspection. Held a meeting. Packed. It’s been hectic.”

There wasn’t power to waste on the vid screen—not that Dr. Norman Connor had ever needed to see her face to know.
Sure enough
. “What’s wrong?”

“Norcoast is shutting us down for three weeks.”
Shutting
me
down,
Mac told herself, penning in her now-familiar frustration.
It wasn’t his fault
. “They’re moving the pods back to the Tannu.”

“While you’re away in the field. Sounds like good timing.”

“You’d think so.” Mac sighed and stared out the window at the fittingly sullen sky. “But they won’t authorize any work until Base is up and running again.”

“That’s bloody ridiculous,” he exploded. She could picture him pacing angrily around his apartment, dodging the table he insisted belonged in the middle of the floor. “Since when do you need all that? This ridiculous nonsense of interactive data-feed. Voyeur-scientists, that’s what they are! Never get their feet wet or dirty, but oh, they want their input, oh, yes.”

Dr. Connor Sr. had spent most of a century doing fieldwork on owls, from an era when that meant disappearing for weeks at a time. His indignation, right on target, eased some of Mac’s own. “Trust me, Dad, I argued the point. But it’s a done deal. I—” A plan crystallized Mac hadn’t been aware of forming until now. “Is that guest room of yours ready? I haven’t been to your place since, well, since I came back.” When he didn’t answer immediately, she went on, feeling suddenly desperate: “We could take a trip, maybe even visit William. You could play granddad while I play aunt.”

“I’d love to have you here, Mac, you know that, but—” her father’s voice trailed away, then returned. “Now might not be a good time.”

“Why?” she asked, surprised into worry. “Is something wrong there?”

His “No. Nothing’s wrong,” came out too fast, too definite. Mac stared down at the com control, as if it could transform into his face.

“What is it, Dad?”

A pause, then, slowly: “There are vidbots hanging outside my building, Mac. Outside your brothers’ homes as well. All authorized and legal—we checked. Our guess is some nosy reporter hopes to catch you away from Base. I really don’t think you feel like giving interviews.”

Attract media attention? Oh, the Ministry would love that.
Mac shuddered at the thought of black-armored Ministry agents trying to loom discreetly among her father’s geraniums.
Bad enough she’d had to lie to her family already. How to explain that?
She rubbed her hands over her face, as if to scrub away the image. “You’re right, Dad,” she agreed. “It was just a thought. I need a break from all this.” Mac realized how wistful that sounded and went on more firmly: “Don’t worry. I’m sure Kammie could use help with her courses.”

“That’s hardly taking a break,” he protested.

Mac shrugged, even though he couldn’t see. “Best I can do.”

“The ice is off the lake, Mac.”

The family cabin?
She snorted. “I haven’t been there in—in a very long time. And neither have you.”

“Blake went up last month. He said the place was in great shape.”

“Have you seen Blake’s house lately?” Mac retorted. “His idea of great shape is knowing where the leaks are so he can avoid the puddles.”

Her father laughed, but went on, a warm, coaxing note to his voice. “Think about it, Mac. May at the lake. Peace and quiet.”

“I don’t need to think about it. I remember. Black flies. With occasional flurries. No thanks.”

“The birds will be coming back.”

Mac closed her eyes, tilting her head back, her hands tight around one knee for balance. “You know why I don’t like it there anymore, Dad.”

“Maybe it’s time. Things change. People.”

“I don’t.”

Mac imagined her dad shaking his head ruefully, that half proud, half exasperated look on his face she usually managed to elicit at least once a visit. “Fine. But it’s yours if you want it.”

“Kammie will need me—” Mac began.

“No, I won’t,” an unexpected voice interrupted, startling Mac’s eyes open. Kammie Noyo met her scowl with a wink. “Hi, Dr. Connor,” she added, approaching the desk. “It’s Kammie. How’re you?”

“Frustrated,” her father answered. “You ever try explaining the concept of a vacation to my daughter?”

“You’re a brave man.”

Was she invisible?
“I don’t need a vacation,” Mac growled at them both. “I don’t want a vacation. I want to get to work.”

“Well, if you change your mind, Mac, the door’s open. Let me know what you decide.”

“I will. Bye, Dad.”

“Bye. Nice talking to you, Kammie.”

“You, too, Dr. Connor.” Mac turned off the com.

“Go.”

She glared at Kammie. “Pardon?” she said at last.

The chemist put her hands on her hips, a posture which combined with her oversize white lab coat to make her resemble a small bird ready to take flight.
A whirlwind temporarily touching down was more accurate,
Mac thought warily. “You heard me,” Kammie stated. “I want twenty-one days without you. Go.”

“That’s harsh.”

“The truth.”

Mac swung her leg back and forth, then gave the other scientist a thoughtful look. “I’ve been that bad?”

“You got a few hours?” Kammie’s stern expression faded into something worried, a little frightened. She touched Mac’s shoulder, let her hand drop. “Mac. You’re the strongest person I know. But even you can break. You’ve—it’s been hardest on you, these last months. We’ve all seen it. Listen to your father. Listen to me. You need some time. To look after yourself first for once.”

Mac stood and took a step away, stopping to study her garden, with its sprouts of growth through the melting snow.
Plants had such optimism.
She felt stiff and cold inside. “What I need is my work,” she said.
It wasn’t Kammie’s fault
.

“That’s not what Em—” The other’s voice broke.

Mac turned, catching the pain in Kammie’s eyes, meeting it with her own.
Not forgotten after all
.

“I know exactly what she’d say.” Mac shook her head, her lips twitching involuntarily. “But loud music and sex aren’t the answer to everything.”

“She’d argue it,” Kammie chuckled, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief now, instead of tears.
Something had eased,
Mac decided,
but she wasn’t sure what
. “So. You going to take that vacation?”

Mac grimaced. “Let me fight the concept a while longer.”

“And then you’ll go,” the tiny chemist nodded with satisfaction. “See you in three weeks, Mac.” With that, she sailed out of the room, lab coat snapping as if finding the perfect wind.

“If not sooner,” Mac muttered under her breath. She bent to pick up her bag, wondering who’d won that little encounter.

“Mac . . . Dr. Connor? Do you have a minute?”

She straightened to find Case standing in the doorway to the terrace.
Bother.
Her own fault. She’d left the door ajar, open invitation to the sea breeze as well as anyone passing by.

Mac smiled a welcome. “Always. Come in, Case. I thought you were off to the family trawler.”

“I’m on my way. Getting a ride to Kitimat with some of the Preds,” he told her, stepping into the room, carefully avoiding the gravel section of the floor and giving her garden a bemused look as wet snowflakes began plopping down from its weather grid. May was a chancy month at Field Station One. “I wanted to say good-bye.”

“Good-bye? That sounds rather final. It’s only three weeks—so everyone keeps telling me,” Mac added darkly.

“I—well, that’s what I need to talk to you about, Mac. Unless you’re in a hurry.” He looked pointedly at her hand.

“Oh, this?” Mac dropped the bag, nudging it aside with her foot. “No rush. The haulers won’t connect until the wee hours of tomorrow morning. Besides, I haven’t made up my mind yet where I’m going. Have a seat.” While Case folded himself into one of her chairs, she took the other. The unhappy set of his mouth, the shadows under his eyes? Something was up.
Though students,
Mac reminded herself,
could escalate a minor problem to a full-fledged life crisis if they worried hard enough.
Which didn’t make the problem less real or painful.

She deliberately settled deeper, stretching out her legs. “So. Looking forward to some time at home?”

“Looking forward to it? Not really.” Case gave a strangled laugh. “But I need the open sea. I can’t hear myself think in a place like this.” This last, hurried and thoroughly miserable. His shoulders hunched.

“You don’t like it here,” she suggested, disappointed but not showing it.
Hadn’t picked him as one of the terminally homesick.

His glance up at her was shocked, followed by a quick blush Mac didn’t try to interpret. “Of course I like it here. I love it. Base is great. Everyone’s—everyone’s great. That’s not it. I need time alone. I’ve a decision to make. I don’t want to make the wrong one.”

So that was it
. Mac nodded triumphantly. “A decision about coming back. You’re not sure about working with Lee.”

“How did you know?” He gave her such a soulful look, Mac had to stop herself from smiling.

“Educated guess. Why?”

“I’m a deep-sea fisher.” Case held out his hands. They were crisscrossed with a maze of white scars. Filleting knives, hooks. Even with gloves and the latest tech, harvesting wasn’t for the thin of skin. “Tidal ecosystems are interesting, I grant you, but not what I came here for.”

Mac pursed her lips. Then asked: “Are you good at it? Harvesting, that is.”

His pale eyes gleamed. “Wilsons have been heading out to the North Sea for thirteen generations. I’ve more family drowned than buried.” A hard shrug. “Why won’t Dr. Noyo just let me work with the Harvs? That’s where I belong, Mac. Isn’t it?”

Ah. Not homesick. Intimidated
. Mac put her hands behind her head and considered Lee’s troubled student.
Just as well this had come to a head now,
she decided. She had a feeling about this one; she didn’t want Base to lose him. “In your opinion, Case,” she said carefully, “from what you’ve seen so far, nothing else, does Lee’s line of research have any relevance whatsoever to harvesting?”

Another shocked look. “Of course it does. He’s examining nutrient cycling within estuaries. Those are key feeding grounds for fish in transit, not to mention habitat and spawning nurseries. The list of species affected? Everything we’d want to haul aboard, as well as their primary food source and predators. You should see the prelims he’s done on the impact of mitigation upstream on the yield of . . .” Case’s passionate voice trailed away as he took in Mac’s rather smug smile. “You know all of this.”

“I should,” she agreed calmly. “And you find his work interesting?”

Case actually squirmed. “Yes, but that’s not the point, Mac. Lee, Uthami, the rest in the team—they’re experts at this stuff. Me? I don’t know anything.”

“Yet.”

“Sure, I could learn it. But in the meantime, I’m dead weight,” he protested. “What can I contribute? With the Harvs, at least I’d understand the terms—know what I was doing. I’m useless as a Misses.”

Mac brought her arms down and leaned forward on her elbows, holding his eyes with hers. “Listen to me, Case. You know what a catalyst is, right?” At his nod, she continued: “Kammie and I share a fondness for them. Mind you, to her, being a chemist, catalysts are what make a reaction more likely to occur—in many instances, make it possible in the first place—without being consumed themselves. But here? In a place like this? Catalysts are those individuals who can connect different lines of research. They bring together ideas which wouldn’t meet otherwise. That’s crucial to what we do here.”

He rolled his eyes. “And I felt inadequate before? You aren’t helping, Mac.”