Migration (52 page)

Cinder relaxed, her hands dropping to her lap. “The Unbonded—females—may only discuss such things in private. Girl talk—isn’t that the Human expression, Nik? Maybe later, Mac, you and I can compare notes about our opposite sexes?”

The biologist in Mac rose to the bait. “I’d be delighted.” Nik’s expression turned to one of comical dismay.
Not buying it, Em,
Mac thought. Both of them were trying to distract her.

Not when her guts were churning just sitting this close to a Trisulian
.

Mac took an appreciative swallow of now-cold coffee, weighing the chances of offending both Nik and his partner. It didn’t matter.
She was who she was, Em. Honest, yes. Subtle?

So
. “If we can’t trust your species, Cinder, why should I trust you?”

Nik merely tilted his head, the light hitting his glasses and hiding his eyes. Cinder’s hands stayed calm and quiet in her lap. “Good question. All I can say is that—like you, Mac—I’m here as a member of the IU. I’m not bound by the policies of my kind, which I believe lack
nimscent
. Nik—the word?”

“Nimscent,”
Nik told Mac, “is an expression meaning ‘future thinking.’ Its lack implies going after a short-term gain in a way that may jeopardize ultimate success. Risk-taking.” He reached over the low table and smacked the Trisulian affectionately on one leather-wrapped knee. “Don’t worry, Mac. Cinder’s okay.”

Friendship? Trust.
Nik should know better.

Abruptly weary, Mac wondered if she’d ever see them as a source of strength again, and not a trap.

Dismayed by her own reaction, she did her best to smile cheerfully at both of them. It must have been a miserable effort because a worried crease appeared between Nik’s eyebrows and even the Trisulian bent a concerned eyestalk her way.

“Excuse me, Dr. Connor.”

It was One, wearing a long white coat over his yellow uniform. Mac looked at him with relief. “Yes?”

“The Dhryn is ready.”

Nik and Cinder stood to accompany her, the former giving her a small nod of encouragement, still with that worried frown.

Well, Em,
Mac told herself as she stood,
there’d been coffee
.

“Parymn Ne Sa Las.”

“This was your doing, Mackenzie Winifred Elizabeth Wright Connor Sol?”

Mac walked around the two sides of the cage left with bars, astonished. “Not alone,” she said. The other two sides of what had been the cage were now walls, one with a door leading into a biological accommodation, complete with smaller sonic shower, and the other featuring a pulldown cot, Dhryn-sized. The nearer barred side had developed a door, her size.

The Dhryn hadn’t recovered. She could see it in the way he listed as he sat. It likely didn’t help that he had no hands on his lowermost arms, so had to balance himself on the stubs of his wrists.

But, like his accommodations, he’d improved immeasurably in that short time, even without
hathis,
the comalike Dhryn healing sleep. The floor was clean, and so was his skin, glowing its rich blue. With the ooze removed, Mac could see his wounds were regular, as though he’d used the sharpened fingers of his seventh arm to carve thin stripes along his midriff and over one shoulder. None of the wounds looked dangerous. Most were days old and healing.

None,
her eyes narrowed,
appeared older than the severed wrist, his latest act of
grathnu.

Completing the picture, Parymn’s body was wrapped in bands of white silk. He’d had trouble doing it; the layers weren’t perfectly aligned. It didn’t matter. When you were used to clothing, wearing it went a long way toward restoring confidence.

That was the real difference, Em,
Mac cautioned herself. He might be weak, but Parymn was again every bit the stern, formal
erumisah
she remembered from Haven, the one who’d warned her about the impossibility of her succeeding as a Dhryn.

“I wish to be returned to my own chambers.”

“Your chambers?” Mac echoed, with a puzzled frown. “These are your chambers, Parymn Ne Sa Las—”

“Of course not.” His great black pupils dilated further.
Stress?
“My chambers adjoin the Progenitor’s. I do not know where this place might be or how I got here. Nor—” a scowl, “—why not-Dhryn have been permitted on Haven, but I rely upon the Progenitors to have good reason.”

He wasn’t aware of leaving his world, Em,
Mac told herself, amazed.
Or he chose not to believe it.

“You must stay here,” she said.

Parymn Ne Sa Las pursed his small lips and stared at Mac for a moment. But he didn’t press the point, saying instead: “Then you will express my desire for warmer air to the not-Dhryn.”

Definitely back in form,
decided Mac. “So now you believe they can talk.”

He’d folded his arms just so. “Now I believe they can hear you,” he qualified. “Have you come to talk to me, Mackenzie Winifred Elizabeth Wright Connor Sol?”

Mac gestured to Two, who brought forward a tray of jiggling black tubes. They’d had her data on the Dhryn diet and no trouble reproducing something comparable—only in stopping Parymn from throwing it.

“If you eat.”

“If you do.”

Oh, in fine form—
Mac smiled. “Of course.” At her signal, Two brought the tray to her, a finger discreetly indicating the nearer cylinder. Mac deftly pulled it free, tipping its contents into her mouth. “Delicious.” Which was true, considering what she’d consumed was a fruit jelly.

The Dhryn’s turn. Mac didn’t look at Nik as she took the tray from Two and walked to the new door in the side of the cage. Mr. Trojanowski had made his objections to the door known, strenuously, and now stood close by it. His hand was in his pocket, doubtless with a weapon already in his palm.

She didn’t,
Mac shivered inwardly,
really mind
. Not that she needed to fear Parymn. Not in this incarnation, anyway. Memories were what chilled her blood as she stepped inside his enclosure, door snicking locked behind, then walked close enough to bend down and place the tray on the floor within his reach, sitting, despite Nik’s hiss of displeasure, on the floor herself.

“Eat,” she said. The rest of the tubes contained a fungal concoction that should, the dietitians said, help alleviate the nutritional cost of days spent fasting.

One arm unfolded, but instead of reaching for the tray, Parymn’s hand shot toward her head. Mac forced herself to remain still as his fingers, three in number and arranged much like petals on a flower, roughly explored her scalp. “What is this?”

Dhryn didn’t have a word for bandage
. “ ‘A Dhryn is robust or a Dhryn is not,’ ” she quoted, amazed her voice didn’t shake. Behind, she heard the door close for a second time. Nik must have started through, then backed off as he realized the Dhryn meant no harm.

“True.” His hand left her and found one of the cylinders. Mac concealed her relief as he sucked it empty, then went for a second. “These are adequate. Ask the not-Dhryn for—” and he rattled off a series of dishes.

“I’ll see what they can do,
Erumisah,
” she said doubtfully, having recognized only the first.

He was on his third tube. Adult Dhryn didn’t experience hunger until they were shown food, Mac remembered. That being the case, Parymn’s new appetite had at least days, possibly more, of starvation to overcome.

“You said the Progenitor seeks the truth,” Mac began carefully. “The truth about what?”

Parymn put down his fourth empty; his hand was markedly slower going after the fifth and last. “Where is Brymn Las?”

Mac pressed her real hand against the floor, keeping her voice steady. “Brymn Las Flowered into his final form, then—”

“Stop.” Parymn’s eyes could be very cold. “This is nonsense. He would not have done so. What are you talking about?”

“His body underwent its final transformation,” Mac explained, searching for the right words. “It wasn’t the Wasting.”

Parymn flinched at this—no Dhryn willingly acknowledged that type of death, where the body failed its change and withered. Sufferers were shunned and left to die alone, preferably in the dark.

“Brymn Las,” Mac continued with difficulty, “became one of those who serve the Progenitor.” She lifted both hands, fluttering them as if in flight.

“That is not possible.”

“I assure you it is. I was there. He was—damaged—in a storm. Then he began to change.” She fought to control her voice, to be careful what she revealed. “He didn’t survive very long after that. I was there—at the end.”

“No!” Parymn threw the final cylinder across the room as he staggered to his feet. “None of this is possible!” He towered over her.

“It’s okay,” Mac called in Instella, knowing Nik would react. Then, in Dhryn, as steadily as she could: “Sit, Parymn Ne Sa Las. Perhaps this is part of the truth the Progenitor seeks. Please. Calm yourself and sit.”

He obeyed—
probably,
Mac thought,
more because he was about to collapse than due to her urging.
“Talk to me,” she suggested. “Tell me why you say what I saw with my own eyes is impossible.”

Parymn wrapped his free arms around his middle and rocked gently. Mac could feel thrums of distress through the floor. “He could not have changed yet. Even if he had . . . our final form is known to Her,” he whispered. “During
grathnu,
she tastes what we will be. I carry that knowledge. Brymn Las . . .” His eyes winked open and closed repeatedly, their blue covers flashing like strobes. “I had to learn his fate. Brymn Las was to be one of the glorious ones. Not—not mere hands and mouths—a mindless, servile beast. He was to be one of our lights, our guides to the Return. Our future.” He rocked harder. “It is impossible. Impossible. Impossible.”

“Brymn . . . a Progenitor?” Involuntarily, Mac’s hand rose to her mouth, as if to hold in the word. “What—what could have gone wrong?” She grabbed the Dhryn’s nearest elbow, gave it a sharp tug. “Parymn Ne Sa Las. Please. That’s not what happened. I swear it to you. Is there anything that can change the final form? Could the Progenitor have been wrong?”

“IMPOSSIBLE!” His arm flung outward, sending Mac skidding across the floor.

She rolled to her hands and knees, reassuring Nik and the others with a look, then stood, rubbing one hip.
Not good for the head either,
she told herself, shaking off a wave of dizziness.
Should have seen that coming, Em.

Parymn was huddled on the floor again. Stepping over the remains of the tray and its contents, Mac knelt by his head. She rested her hand on his shoulder. His skin was warm and dry; it quivered at her touch as if to shake her off. “I will find this truth for the Progenitor,” she promised. “I will learn what happened to Brymn Las. Rest, Parymn Ne Sa Las.”

Mac collected the tubes and tray, then went to the cage door. Nik opened it for her, his face pale and set.
He’d trusted her judgment
. Grateful, she held out her hand and Nik took it in his, using that hold to draw her from the cage. Someone else, One, took the tray.

“Are you injured, Mac?” Cinder asked, eyestalks bent forward at her.

“From that?” she forced a chuckle, but didn’t let go of Nik. “Parymn wasn’t trying to hurt me—just get rid of me. He’s a little shaky at the moment. I went a bit farther than I should.”

“What did you find out?”

For a fleeting moment, Mac had the unsettling impression that worlds upon worlds of beings suddenly hushed, waiting for her answer to Nik’s question.
Foolish, Em?

Still, for all she knew, the Sinzi
were
broadcasting what was viewed from this room.

“Mac?”

Brymn
. She couldn’t talk about him, not yet, not here, not to all those listening.

Not when she didn’t understand.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Quieter, with an undertone of concern.

“Mac,” sharper.

Mac gave Nik a smile. “Sorry. I was trying to remember the names of the foods Parymn wanted. He’s on the mend. We should have a good session once he’s rested a bit more.” She looked at those she could see, One, Two, and Cinder, and thought of those she couldn’t, then deliberately put weight on her hand in Nik’s, as if needing his support.

“Time for you to rest as well,” he said immediately. “I’ll take you upstairs.”

“Mr. Hollans awaits your report, Nik,” Two disagreed.

One added: “We will escort Mac to her rooms.” Two continued: “And discuss with her the importance of absolute discretion.”

Mac snorted and Nik smiled. “No need for that,” he informed both staff before she could make an acid comment.