Migration (43 page)

“We’ve been singing that song to deaf ears since arriving.” Another voice. More nods.

“Then don’t waste your breath. Let’s get to work.” She looked at Lyle Kanaci. He gave her the barest of nods, his eyes guarded.
Good enough
. Mac rose to her feet. “I’ll need to talk to you individually to find out your fields and areas of strength. Yes,” to those exchanging puzzled looks, “I have the conference list, but I’d rather hear what you want me to know. While I’m doing that, give Oversight here, Charles Mudge III,” she introduced quickly, hoping his glower didn’t scare anyone off, “a list of whatever you need. It can be data, people, equipment. Anything relevant; I don’t need to approve it. For once in our lives, budget is not the issue. Time is.” This induced another, happier round of murmuring. Mac raised her voice to be heard over it. “Last, but not least. While all this is going on, I’d like you to turn your attention to a particular aspect of salmon biology.”

Silence again, but this time incredulous. Mudge and Fourteen looked as dumbfounded as the rest.

Mac didn’t smile. “Most species of salmon live out their lives around a single imperative, folks. A hardwired need to leave where they are and go somewhere else, no matter what’s in their way, in order to survive as a species. Migration.”

She could identify the bright lights in the room by the way they took the word and absorbed it like a blow. Some turned immediately to colleagues. A few sat without moving. There were the inevitable individuals who still looked as though they thought she was certifiable.

But most were giving off that indefinable energy that, among scientists at least, meant a new paradigm had begun to take hold, a new framework was shifting conclusions and inferences. These were researchers who dealt in vast stretches of time, in cycles. Mac had thought they might be the ones to appreciate the significance.

If the Dhryn had ever been a migratory species, there should be evidence from their planet of origin.

If the Dhryn still answered that call, these researchers might already possess clues as to where and why.

Mac met Fourteen’s eyes across the table, quite sure he’d told Anchen her supposition about the Dhryn being on a journey. This group who had been studying the Dhryn home world were the best choice to investigate that possibility. So her working with them now had nothing to do with her qualifications as an administrator or even her history with them. With a deftness Kammie Noyo would appreciate, the Sinzi had put Mac where she had to be.

“I will personally check your story and credentials before doing anything else, Dr. Connor,” Therin said loudly, cutting through the chatter.

“Great idea,” Mac beamed at the Sthlynii. “And it’s Mac. Don’t take too long. Meanwhile . . .” she pointed to someone at random and crooked her finger. “You. Let’s grab a couple of chairs and that corner, shall we?” Without looking to see if she was being obeyed, Mac left the table and began pushing her own chair closer to the window.

Hands took over the job. Mudge. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Norcoast,” he whispered over his shoulder to her. “They aren’t convinced—not by a long shot.”

“Got you to stay, didn’t I?” she whispered back, lips twitching. “Give them time. They made a mistake. At least they’re listening.”

He harrumphed, then was pulled away by a boisterous Cey eager to know how soon she could receive a . . . Mac didn’t bother trying to make sense of the name of the device or whatever, but it sounded expensive.
She’d thought the lure of a wide-open budget would help get things moving.

“Mac.”

She positioned her chair and turned, not surprised to see it was Lyle, not the person she’d indicated, pulling his chair up beside hers.

They faced each other, with their respective pieces of furniture in hand like jousting knights waiting mounts, for a ridiculous length of time. Just as Mac was about to give in and sit anyway, he said very quietly, as if each word had to be forced out: “Myriam Myers. The woman who died. She was my wife, Connor. I’ve been hunting you, as best I could from the Chasm, ever since. Now, I . . .” His pale eyes glistened.

Mac gestured to the other chair and dropped into her own as he sat, pulling out her imp as though they were about to exchange data. Her hands trembled. “Now,” she finished for him, equally softly, “you don’t know what to do or think. You feel empty. Cheated. Lost.”

“Yes.” He looked up at her, having slumped to rest his elbows on his knees. “How did you—”

“It’s a three-pint story.”

A hint of a smile. “Haven’t heard that in a while.”

Mac shrugged. “I’m an anachronism. Either that, or I don’t get out much. But I will tell you everything that’s happened, Lyle. If we’re going to work together, you’ll need that.”

He sat a little straighter. “I needed this as well.” A nod to the rest of the large room, where everyone was now standing in small groups to talk. Except for the line that had formed behind where Mudge had taken a seat at the table, his workscreen already up. “We’ve been here two days, Mac. No one’s felt necessary until now. Oh, the IU promised to quarantine the Dhryn home world while we’re here, preserve our excavations. But they have their own people there and no one’s said when we go back. No one’s given us any direction what to do here.”

“Not to mention you heard a Dr. Connor was taking charge. No wonder you were ready to hang me from the nearest tree this morning.”

“Not quite.” His pigmentless skin blushed, beginning as rosy dots on either cheek and a band low on neck, the colors rushing together. “But that wasn’t our best moment. Now it looks like we jumped to conclusions, maybe ignored data that led elsewhere. It’s a shameful thing. I’m sorry.”

“Keep your doubts about me until you’ve checked my side of things for yourself. All I expect now is that you listen with an open mind.”

“Fair enough.” Lyle’s eyes flicked to Mac’s head. “That a three-pint story, too?”

“A misadventure with external genitalia!” supplied Fourteen helpfully, coming to stand beside Mac. “So Human.” He squinted at Lyle. “Oh. You’re Human, too. Couldn’t tell. No offense.”

“None taken.” The archaeologist almost smiled. “Sounds like a story worth hearing.”

Mac glared at Fourteen, who took advantage of his thick eyelids to pretend not to see her. “It had its moments,” she said to Lyle. “But first—”

“But irrelevant. First, Mac,” Fourteen interrupted, “you are wanted.” Mac followed his gesture to the doorway, where a pair of consular staff stood waiting.

“Is it an emergency? The Dhryn attacking? Any sign of the Ro?”
Of Emily?

“They say Sinzi-ra wishes you to return to your quarters and rest.”

“Then please advise her I’ll do so in—” Mac did a quick calculation. Five minutes an interview—if no one was long-winded, which was unlikely, so half would go ten—twenty-four researchers left to meet. “Three hours. Plus. Make it four.”

“But, Mac—”

She finally caught and held Fourteen’s small eyes. “I could take five if you keep delaying me.”

“Very well.” From his tone, Mac might have asked him to do more dishes.

As he walked away, Lyle half smiled. “If I needed more proof you run a research station in the middle of nowhere, there it is.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re used to doing things yourself.”

“You know what they say, Lyle,” Mac said primly, smoothing the fabric of her lovely blue jacket over her thighs, “about doing something right. Now, who should I speak with next?”

As he stood to call someone over, Mac looked past and saw Fourteen arguing with the staff, who were not looking at all happy.

And sometimes, Em,
she smiled to herself,
it wasn’t about doing it right. It was about setting rules.

Either this room and all it represented was hers, or it wasn’t.

There was nothing quite as soothing as sand to tired Human feet, Mac decided as she kicked off her shoes that night. She lay back in the jelly-chair and dug in her toes, head back and eyes closed. Her scalp throbbed, her stomach was beyond empty, and she thought it likely she’d fall asleep before being able to stand again.

Every member of the group—she’d dubbed them the Origins Team—was exceptional. No surprise, given they’d organized, funded, and established an independent research camp on one of the lifeless Chasm worlds.
Not bad
. Mind you, a significant proportion of those funds came from private donors they preferred not to name, but Mac had no problem with generosity, so long as there weren’t strings attached.

Lyle Kanaci? She put her teeth together and whistled tunelessly. Brilliant, determined, responsible, obsessed. An asset she’d invite to Norcoast in an instant, if only he was as interested in living things as he was in what they built and left behind. He’d expressed the doubts Mac found many of the Origins Team shared—what could they contribute here? Even more frustrating, they’d been forced to suspend much of their work to help set up the influx of new researchers to the Dhryn world.

The new arrivals, all sponsored by the IU, hadn’t been asked to attend the Gathering in person; their findings and data were being fed here. Mac was well aware her group considered their invitation a sign their independent research was in jeopardy.

“Are you in pain?”

Mac opened her eyes and sat up as quickly as the amorous chair allowed. “Anchen. I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you come in.”
She never did.

The room was dimly lit. The Sinzi was little more than a pale, slender silhouette against the dark night sky that showed through the terrace doors. “It is I who must remember not to startle my guests, Mac. May I examine your wound, please.” It wasn’t a question.

Mac stood and let the Sinzi explore her bandaged scalp. The alien used her fingertips, gently pressing in various spots until Mac winced cooperatively. “Very good,” Anchen assured her. “The regeneration of your skin should be complete soon. We’ll be able to remove the covering shortly.” A pause, her touch lingering on Mac’s forehead. “Do you wish treatment for pain?”

“I just need some supper and a night’s sleep, thank you.”

Anchen spoke one word: “Attend.” The lights brightened and Mac stifled a yawn as a trolley of food floated through the open doors into her room, guided by another of the staff. She didn’t think she’d seen the same one twice.

“Once more, you anticipate my every need,” Mac said gratefully.

“As is always my intent. Now I wish you to anticipate mine.”

Mac, who’d found the energy to follow her supper into the sitting room, stopped and looked over her shoulder at the taller alien. “I’m afraid I don’t have your skill at anticipation, Anchen,” she said, stalling. What did the Sinzi want?
Hopefully nothing that involved a body part
. “What can I do for you?”

The Sinzi produced an imp, white and more disk-shaped than Mac’s or Fourteen’s. “I visit the team leaders each night to record their impressions and insights for the IU. I need yours, if you please.”

Mac was afraid her relief was obvious.
Still . . . there were over thirty separate research teams.
“How do you get any sleep?” she asked involuntarily.

Anchen looked amused. “At this moment, four of my ‘selves’ are asleep, Mac.”

“Oh. Of course.”
Handy
. “Why the imp?” she asked, thinking of the light fixture Mudge had suspected. “Isn’t the room monitored?”

Anchen’s head snapped up to an impressive height. “It is not. We could not host honored delegates from the IU here if they had the slightest reason to doubt their privacy.”

Her vehemence was convincing. Mac felt a twinge of guilt. Sing-li must have hidden some Ministry snooper of his own on Oversight—an abuse of consular protocol Mac doubted the Sinzi would tolerate.
If she found out
.

Mac’s stomach chose that moment to gurgle. Loudly. Being in charge of a consulate on Earth led to certain understandings. Anchen lowered her head and lifted three fingers in the direction of Mac’s supper. “You can provide this information while you eat.”

Refusing didn’t seem an option, but Mac went for a gracious, “Then please join me, Anchen.”

“I would be honored.”

They each took one of the jelly-chairs, the attendant arranging the floating trolley at Mac’s side. Before Mac could offer to share, Anchen reached to the table between them, aglow with fish, sponges, and anemones. Her fingertip pointed at a bristling shrimp, marching delicately over a coral.

“I saw that one earlier—” Mac began, then closed her mouth as the attendant extended a small rod into a long silver implement which he deftly stabbed into the table. The tip instantly adhered to the small animal and the attendant smoothly withdrew both implement and now motionless shrimp, proffering both to Anchen.