Migration (4 page)

“I’ll have you know I finished my packing last week,” Mac informed her new department head serenely. The move to the field was something felt in her bones; she grew as impatient for it as her salmon for their natal streams.
This year,
she told herself,
more than ever
. To get away from everything and everyone. To lose herself in work. To escape the temptation to obsessively scan every available news release, looking for any signs of . . . “Lunch,” Mac blurted. “I’ll meet you there.” Turning to leave, she paused and smiled at him. “Don’t worry, John. The day will come when you get to trample over other people.”

“Thanks. I think.”

With a chuckle, Mac headed for the lift. She squeezed in with a group of damp, noisy Misses, short for “miscellaneous,” the catchall phrase for those researchers looking at areas other than predator/prey interactions or harvesting issues. On the way down two floors, to the surface level and walkway, she listened with half an ear to their discussions, a jargon-rich blend of technical chatter and shameless gossip. Not to mention an impassioned debate on the aerodynamics of flying monkeys.

At moments like these, if she hadn’t seen the Ro come close to destroying this pod for herself, she could forget it had ever happened. She could forget the sinking of Pod Six, the rooms ransacked by one or more of the invisible beings, Emily being abducted—or rather recruited—by them. She could believe the story planted by the Ministry of Extra-Sol Human Affairs: that a fringe group of xenophobic Humans had used violence to protest the first visit of a Dhryn to Earth.

“You coming, Mac?”

A student was holding the lift door open for her. The rest had already walked out. Mac managed a smile and nod. “Thanks.”

The main floor was jammed shoulder to shoulder with people bustling to or from lunch in the large common gallery. This early in spring, with teams waiting to head to field stations or out to sea, Base bulged with its maximum population. Late fall saw the return influx, but most went back to their respective universities or institutes for the winter, to write papers and take other courses. Mac and Kammie stayed year ’round, with those few whose work continued despite the ice, or because of it.

Mac made her way against the flow of foot traffic, nipping between those intent on their companions, their stomachs, or both, and managing, for once, not to sacrifice her toes. Mac wasn’t short, but it seemed each new crop of students arrived larger and more oblivious than the last. She could use warning lights and stilts at this rate.

The noisy, moving crowd thinned, then was gone by the time Mac reached the main entrance. She nodded a greeting to the two in body armor standing to either side, receiving an unusually wary look from both in return. Today’s pair was Sing-li Jones and Ballantine Selkirk. Quiet, reserved men who, being lousy poker players, had already “donated” most of their free time to Tie’s pod repairs.
Knew why she was here, did they?

They were part of the team of four security personnel assigned by the Ministry to Norcoast, initially ordered to remain discreetly anonymous. This silly notion had immediately inspired the curious denizens of Base to a series of escapades aimed at filching underwear as well as identification.

Moreover, the notion had annoyed Mac. She expected names and personalities from everyone around her, even those whose job was to overdress, stand in one place, and loom. She got them.

Not that she’d needed them,
she reminded herself. Selkirk was the tallest, Norlen shortest, Zimmerman had virtually no neck, and Jones tapped his left forefinger against his holster when thinking.
Anonymous? Hardly.

Nothing against the men themselves, but on any given day, Mac’s feelings about guards of the looming variety ranged from still-annoyed to resigned. The suits of black gleaming armor made them easy to spot, if about as useful as coded door controls. At times less useful, given last week they’d let in three tourists and a census taker for the upcoming local election who’d insisted on interviewing everyone despite Mac’s repeated assurance only five people on Base qualified as residents, of whom only two ever voted.

If anything, the blinding obviousness of the guards at their post made Mac suspect other, more subtle precautions in place, not that any of the four had yet to admit it. All to protect this one pod against the return of a nonexistent group of fanatics.

Mac wouldn’t mind being guarded against the return of the real culprits, the Ro. After all, according to all experts and the Ro themselves, their previous attack had been aimed at her alone.

Not the flavor of the day,
she reminded herself.

No mistake, anywhere the Ro had been, anyone they’d touched, was being watched. But the Ro—the powerful and mysterious Myrokynay—were now sought-after allies, popular with everyone.
Everyone else,
Mac corrected to herself. Apparently they’d been aware of the dangers of the Dhryn all along; supposedly they’d tried to communicate that peril without success; the assumption was, they’d been on guard.

There was no doubt the Ro
knew
about the Dhryn and the Chasm worlds. And that knowledge was now the most important commodity in the Interspecies Union.

For regardless of anyone’s guesses as to their actions or motivations, one thing seemed clear: the Ro had been about to destroy the Dhryn Progenitors once and for all. But in a classic case of misunderstanding, the IU, with abundant and clever help from humanity, had managed to grant the Dhryn the means to expose their ancient enemy by defeating the Ro’s stealth technology.

The Dhryn? They’d vanished into the unimaginable depths of space encompassed by the transects and the planetary systems those pathways connected.

The Ro? They hadn’t been heard from since, despite what Mac was sure were frantic efforts by any culture with communications technology to reach them.

Aliens should come with labels,
she grumbled to herself. “Friend / Useless / Planning to Eat You” would cover the current possibilities nicely.

Were the Ro friends?
Not by any standard Mac accepted. The enemy of my enemy? She knew the logic. She didn’t believe it for an instant.

As now. Mac didn’t bother asking questions. The entrance was transparent—from inside, anyway—and she could see the reason for Jones’ and Selkirk’s “she’s not going to like this” looks for herself.
Though why they’d chosen
this
poor soul to lock outside was anyone’s guess.

The rain was striking so hard that each drop bounced back up from the mem-wood walkway, as if simply falling from the sky wasn’t insult enough to the solitary figure standing in its midst. Miniature waterfalls poured from every crease of his yellow coat and hood, giving him something of the look of a statue abandoned in a fountain. A hunched, thoroughly miserable statue, staring at the shelter so near and yet so unattainable.

“For the—Let him in,” Mac snapped. Instead of waiting for her order to be obeyed—or debated—she headed for the entrance control herself.

Jones and Selkirk scowled in unison. “He’s not authorized—” the latter began.

“And you started caring about this when?” Mac asked in disbelief. “Need I remind you about certain tourists? Or Ms. Ringles, the Census Queen?”

The two managed to look abashed and determined at the same time. “We have our orders, Dr. Connor.”

“Here’s your new one. Authorize him once he’s out of the rain.” Knowing full well neither would stop her, although both shifted automatically to loom in the appropriate direction, hands closer to weapons, Mac keyed open the door.

Without hesitation, the figure stomped inside, ignoring the looming guards and instantly creating his own small pond as water from rainsuit and hood puddled around his boots. Then he yanked back that hood to glare at her.

“About bloody time, Norcoast.”

Should have listened to Selkirk,
Mac sighed to herself. Aloud, and before either guard could do more than look interested, she said quickly: “It’s all right. I know this man.” Then Mac frowned. “Since when do you make house calls, Oversight?”

Charles Mudge III, the man who was the Oversight Committee for the Castle Inlet Wilderness Trust, which made him her—and Norcoast’s—personal demon, stood shivering with cold and damp. His eyes were no less fierce than his voice. “When I revoke a license to enter the Trust. Your license.”

Fresh-caught and grilled salmon, geoduck chowder, fiddleheads, new potatoes bursting their skins, wild rhubarb pies—a promising menu, though tasting would be the proof. Spring meals tended to alternate between triumph and disaster. This year they’d added a brand new kitchen to the equally new cooks. Mac was fond of the irony that by the time any given set of student cooks gained enough experience to be reliable in the kitchen, everyone, including those cooks, would be too busy to make or eat anything but cold pizza and oatmeal.

Despite today’s tantalizing aromas, Mac found herself with no more appetite than her “guest,” who’d brusquely refused her offer of lunch. Nevertheless, she’d brought Mudge to the gallery, hoping the sheer volume of voices and clattering utensils would keep him from shouting at her immediately. At least until she knew what was going on and could justifiably shout back.

She hoped his threat was simply to get her attention. Surely revoking their license would require hearings, presentations, proof.
Not that proof would be hard to obtain,
Mac thought glumly, staring uneasily at her visitor. It might not have been her fault, or Norcoast’s, that the Wilderness Trust lands had been disturbed so profoundly on the ridge overlooking Base. That didn’t matter. They’d joined in the lie that nothing had happened, agreed to a silence that sat on Mac’s stomach as an uneasy weight, on her conscience as a stain.

She’d hoped not to face Mudge. Not this soon. Kammie had handled the applications for the spring/summer research before Mac’s return, saying the approvals had been given. Everything was routine.

Nothing in the haggard face watching her warily from the other side of the table agreed with that assessment.

“What’s this about, Oversight?” Mac asked, bringing her imp on top of the table, ready to call up the active research proposals. The imp, or Interactive Mobile Platform, could use its own data or access that held within Norcoast’s main system. In use, it projected a workscreen almost as powerful as her desk’s. Given the number of people currently eating lunch through hovering workscreens of their own, imps were likely the most common portable technology in the gallery after forks.

“Can we talk here?” he whispered. “Talk freely, I mean.”

Was everyone around her going to act like a damn spy?
Mac glowered at him. “We don’t have vidbots hovering everywhere, if that’s what you mean. No budget and no point.” Not to mention it was illegal to put surveillance on private individuals inside their homes, which Mac considered Base to be. She’d threatened her new security force on that issue until their eyes glazed.

“If that’s so . . .” Mudge paused and leaned forward, eyes intent. “Where have you been, Norcoast?” Quiet and quick, like a knife in the dark.

“Didn’t Dr. Noyo tell you? In New Zealand—at the IU’s consulate.”

Quieter still. “Why are you lying?”

Mac tapped her imp against the table, then put it away in its pocket. She knew what she was supposed to say; she’d said it often enough. To her father and brothers. Her friends. Total strangers. Somehow, this time, the words stuck in her throat. Maybe it was the innocent din from all sides, people in her care as much as the land nearest them was in this man’s care.
Their care.
When neither she nor Mudge had any real power to protect them.

“You didn’t come here and stand in the rain to ask about my trip,” she said instead. “What did you mean, revoke our license?”

Mudge hadn’t removed his rainsuit. Not camouflage, since the only other person at Base who knew him on sight would be Kammie. The students and staff likely thought he was another insurance adjuster. No, Mac decided, he stayed rain-ready in case she had him tossed back outside.
Tempting, that
.

As he laid his arms on the table, the fabric made a wet rubber protest. His face, usually flushed, was mottled and pale.
Gave up the beard,
she noticed, with that distressingly familiar jolt of missed time. “Please.” Again, a whisper. “No one will tell me what’s been going on. No one. I waited for you, Norcoast, but they wouldn’t let me talk to you. I still can’t believe I made it this far.”

“What are you talking about?” Mac resisted the urge to look over her shoulder, but couldn’t help lowering her voice to match. “I’ve been right here. You haven’t called me. You’ve been dealing with Kammie—Dr. Noyo—”

“Pshaw! I’ve dealt with no one. And yes, Norcoast, I called
you
. They’d connect me with some nameless fool who’d prattle on about how busy you were. So I came in person. Twice.” He stabbed at the tabletop with a thick finger. “The first time, I made the mistake of using the trans-lev from Vancouver like a normal visitor. They stopped me at the dock and sent me back. This time, I didn’t tell anyone where I was going. I bribed some of your students to bring me here with them. I wouldn’t give a name or ident until you showed up at the door. Wouldn’t let them have a chance to send me away again.” He stopped to catch his breath, managing to look outraged and smug at the same time.