Migration (40 page)

Mac snorted. “Very quickly, as you may remember.”

“He saved Mac’s life, Sinzi-ra Anchen,” the Myg told her. “I, for one, place a high value on that.”

“As do we all, Arslithissiangee Yip the Fourteenth. What is your wish for him, Mac?”

She glanced at Fourteen, who nodded encouragingly as if they’d discussed the issue beforehand.
That obvious, was she?
“My wish, Anchen, is that Oversight—Mudge—be offered the chance to stay and contribute to the Gathering. He’s—”
a minor stretch here,
“—been essential to my work over the years. I believe he’d be an asset.” And she did.
In his annoying, pinpoint-every-flaw, way.

“And if he chooses not to stay?”

Mac imagined Mudge working at his desk, completely oblivious to the row of black-visored guards behind him.
That wasn’t the problem.
“He would be at risk,” she admitted. “There could be others, like Kay, interested in any information about the Dhryn and the Ro. He’d need protection. He wouldn’t like it.”
Any more than she had.

“Among those gathered is a Human-ra of diverse and as yet unproductive individuals,” said Anchen, no readable expression on the sculpted contours of her long face. “It is my understanding you are accustomed to coordinating such a research group. If you wish to undertake that responsibility, I will look into ways Charles Mudge III can be included.”

Blackmail—very civil and reasonable—blackmail.
Was Mudge worth it?
Mac didn’t hesitate. “I agree, of course. I’ll let him know.” Then, more as a test than anything else: “If I think of anyone else who might be of help, what should I do?”

“By all means, let me know at once, Mac. I will consider every suggestion.” If there was a hint of irony in the voice, Mac was willing to ignore it. “If there is nothing else? Then I will leave you to your preparations, Mac. Arslithissiangee Yip the Fourteenth.” Her long-toed feet made virtually no sound on the tiled terrace, less on the sand.

Fourteen went back to the table. “Idiot.”

“Me?” Mac joined him, eyeing the complex of workscreens still displayed over the pair of imps he’d laid out. “Why?”

He gave his vest a proud tug. “You didn’t check the clothing before she left. What if it doesn’t fit?”

She grinned. “Irrelevant. I’ll walk beside you and no one will notice me.” Fourteen barked his laugh. “So what’s all this?” asked Mac, waving at the displays but careful to keep her fingers out of them.

“This,” he slid one of the imps closer to her, “is for you. I accessed your messages—oh, don’t rumple your face. I didn’t read them.”

“I didn’t rumple—” Mac began.

Another laugh. “I’ve loaded it with schematics for the consulate—at least those areas for which the Sinzi provide schematics. You will find the latest list of attendees—again, those the Sinzi wish known to all, as well as some information about each. Our number is presently four hundred and thirteen beings. I counted Anchen as one. Hmm. Four hundred and twenty-three, if you count the Nerban translators who travel with each of the Umlar delegates. Their mouthparts can’t handle Instella. Idiots refuse to use appliances.”

Never put a Nerban and a Frow in the same taxi . . .
Mac shook off the memory of Emily’s voice. “Any external genitalia I should know about?”

That sly look. “Didn’t you bring your drugs?”

She grinned. “I see you’re back to normal. Thanks for this.” Mac picked up the imp. She turned it over in her hands. Not much to see on the outside. A palm-length dark cylinder, stubbier than the Human version, but otherwise plain. She spotted what should be the activation pad and looked inquiringly at Fourteen.

“Your first entry locks in your code,” he assured her. “Do it once, then repeat.”

Automatically, Mac tapped in the code from her imp at Base. She almost changed her mind, then shrugged and repeated it.
Odds were good she’d forget a new one anyway.

The workscreen was crisper than hers, but either the Myg used the Human interface or he’d preset this one to suit her vision.
And hers,
Mac admitted to herself,
had been in the water more than a few times, let alone its trips with her through no-space to the Dhryn worlds.
Mac put the device on the table, then drew a finger through its display to lift it to vertical from horizontal. No problem accessing the data Fourteen had provided. Mac held her breath.

The consulate schematics were visual representations of rooms and corridors. Furniture was absent—reasonable enough, furniture was often moved—but there were symbols showing each room’s function floating within it. Mac was entranced. Someone, more likely several someones, had gone to a great deal of trouble to design symbolic representations of functions not necessarily shared—or done the same way—by different species. The washroom symbol alone was a master-piece of tactful suggestion.

Text. Text. Text. None of it more legible than the IU’s letter. Mac poked through the ’screen until she found the audio option. A selection began reading itself to her.
In Fourteen’s distinctive, somewhat gravelly voice
. Stopping it, she looked through the display at him. The Myg appeared remarkably smug. “My entire family adores my reading voice,” he proclaimed.

“No offense, but since I’m neither a relative nor a Myg, how do I change it?”

His generous lips actually pouted.
As likely mimicry as a shared expression,
Mac decided. “We’d need a recording of another voice. Does it matter? Who uses audio anyway?”

She hadn’t told him about having trouble reading. Or Kay. Or Mudge. Or anyone who didn’t already know or have to know, for that matter.

It had been possible to hide it at Base, where Mac knew everything and everyone.

She needed help.

“I suffered more damage than losing an arm and hand, last fall.” As she spoke, Mac focused on the display, finding a visual list of delegates and starting to scroll through their faces—or what corresponded to a face. “My language center was affected. You heard me telling Oversight that I can speak and read Dhryn. That’s true. What I didn’t tell him—” Mac considered the possibility others were listening and nodded to herself.
They’d have to take her as she was. Bent. A bit scuffed. But capable.
“—I didn’t tell him it’s now very difficult for me to read anything else. I can muddle through English and Instella. Sometimes. Others, the words fragment in front of my eyes.” She was startled by her own face in the list and closed the display. “So you see, it does matter. I find it less—frustrating—if it’s my voice reading to me.”

“Who have you consulted about this? Other than Humans.”

Mac blinked at Fourteen. He seemed serious. “Who else would I consult?”
The Ro?
“Besides, with all that happened—is happening—my own government wasn’t about to let me wander too far.”

“They no longer have jurisdiction over you. Discuss this problem with Noad. The Sinzi, as you might gather, are exceptional neurologists.”

There was an idea that qualified as terrifying, Em
. “I’ll think about it.” Mac stood. “First things first. I need to get ready to meet the masses, Fourteen, not to mention talk to Oversight.”
A conversation she wasn’t looking forward to.

“I will help you choose appropriate clothing.”

Mr. Paisley Shorts?
Mac shook her head. “Out. I can manage. I need you to check in with Oversight—make sure he’s ready for this. Please.”

“Of course.” Fourteen stood, then gave a bow from the waist, deep and prolonged. When he straightened, Mac was surprised to see moisture beading his thick eyelids, and his mouth working with some emotion. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Noad has assured me that, with my wounds, I would not have survived that night alone. I’d set the temperature too low in my panic; I was too weak to voluntarily awake from torpor. By warming me, you saved my life.”

“Lucky guess, believe me.”

“It was not a guess when you continued to protect my life with yours, even when injured yourself. You could have left immediately. You could have left in the morning and sought safety for yourself. You didn’t.” He stopped and placed both hands over his eyes. “I, Arslithissiangee Yip the Fourteenth, cannot thank you, Mackenzie Connor of Little Misty Lake, for saving my valued life,” he said formally, lowering his hands again to look at her. “Twice.”

“I don’t need—”

He frowned at her and she closed her mouth.
Not done
.

Hands over his eyes. “I, Arslithissiangee Yip the Fourteenth, can only offer my firstborn offspring to you, Mackenzie Connor of Little Misty Lake, in return for saving my valued life.”

Mac’s eyes widened in shock. “No, I—”

Hands down. Another, sterner look. She closed her mouth again.

Hands up. “But since I, Arslithissiangee Yip the Fourteenth, have not yet produced an offspring and do not, in fact, ever intend to do so unless forced by my grandsires or in a weak moment under the influence of illicit drugs, I can only offer you my allegiance, flesh, mind, and spirit, so long as I may live, in return for saving my valued life.”

Mac waited.

Hands down. “That’s all of it,” advised Fourteen, sounding normal again. “Tradition. Sorry about that.”

She lifted one eyebrow. “A simple ‘thank you’ would have sufficed.”

The Myg tucked his imp back in its case. “Idiot,” he commented fondly. “Of course not. Within my sect, only ethical acts can move a lineage into the highest possible
strobis
. You do know the word?” Mac shook her head. “The closest Instella equivalent is ‘class.’ Irrelevant. To all Myg,
strobis
is the measure of a life’s value to the whole. Actions determine that value. We act according to the allegiances we hold, to ideals, to others of our kind, very rarely to an alien. Allegiance must flow toward greater value; it is thus not given lightly.” That sly look. “Though there is a recent trend, much deplored by my grandsires, to offer allegiance to favorite sports teams.”

In a Human,
thought Mac,
she’d assume he was trying to lighten the moment.
For her sake or his? Regardless of species, this was obviously a significant commitment for the Myg.

Fourteen reached out and tapped her nose. “It was a joke.”

“I got that,” Mac said dryly. “I’m honored, Fourteen, by your allegiance. I don’t see how I deserve it.”

“Irrelevant. It’s for me to give, not you to deserve. Enough. Traditions waste time. I try to tell my grandsires, but they never listen to me. You, Mac, must dress. I will go and see if the valued Mudge has done the same.”

“Tell him I’ll be right over.”

After Mac closed the doors behind Fourteen, she ran her fingers along what felt to be painted wood and frosted glass. No guarantees about the materials, but the style was vintage Human. Nice to be reminded the transfer of culture and knowledge went both ways.

She took out her new imp and sank into the jelly-chair.
Messages
. Setting her ’screen hovering above her, Mac hunted until she found the very short list. Three—she squinted—likely meeting announcements. One that seemed intended for someone named Recko San. Mac deleted that, having enough to struggle with as it was. And one more.

The source was marked ‘personal,’ with no return. A recording, not text. Her hand trembled slightly as she activated it.

“Hello, Mac.” Nik’s voice.

She stopped it immediately.

Coward
.

Mac restarted the recording. “Hello, Mac. The complete text of your letter from the IU follows. I’ve indicated the clauses I feel you need to pay particular attention to, but the overall gist is that you’ve accepted citizenship within the IU for the purposes and duration of the Gathering. Within that framework, you are protected and governed by intersystem law . . .”

Eyes closed, Mac lay back in the chair to listen, feet tucked up. His voice flowed over her, as intimate a caress as the warm waves that kissed her toes in summer. The words didn’t matter, not right now. She’d pay attention to meanings later. For now, she relaxed and let herself own this, own the sounds that had left his mouth, come from his throat, sounds meant for her.

All too soon, it was done. Mac resisted the temptation to listen again. Instead, she put away her imp and went to stand where she could see the distant horizon, a line of deepest blue against the sky, a hint of cloud marring its edge. She wrapped her arms around herself. It could be land. She’d have to see a map to know for sure.

As for Fourteen?

Here we go again, Em,
she thought.

If she’d understood Fourteen correctly, an alien she’d come to view as a friend had just sworn to be her ally for life. It was a promise that didn’t always work out well.

Her lips moved silently.
“Lamisah.”