Regeneration (Czerneda) (16 page)

Then Mac started walking.

She let her feet and the lay of the land dictate her choice of paths, which meant little more than avoiding the larger puddles. Two hadn’t packed extra shoes in her bag. As for getting lost, Mac was sure if she did, staff would appear from behind a tree to tactfully suggest the correct direction of the consulate. This wasn’t wilderness, despite the undergrowth and moss-coated trees. It was a politely dressed fortress, designed to protect those here as much as ensure their privacy.

Still, the illusion was pleasing, the footing deteriorating in a manner that promised something special to the intrepid hiker, be there two feet marching or more. Whistling happily under her breath, Mac came up with fourteen species she’d met who could manage this uneven ground without help, even if one didn’t have feet so much as a slime-bedecked undercarriage she’d tried to examine without success. Multispecies social events, she’d discovered to her chagrin, brought out the same annoying proprieties as any Human affair. Crawling under a chair while in evening finery, though in the interest of scientific curiosity, still collected disapproving frowns.

She ducked a low branch. The minor obstacle reduced her list to twelve. Mac grinned, almost wishing the chance to test her newfound ability to predict who she might meet, eyeball to nasal orifice, while enjoying the less tidy path. Almost.

There was something to be said for tramping alone,
she admitted, taking a deep breath.

And gagging on a smell.

“What the—”

Stopping where she was, at the base of a small rise in the path, Mac took a more restrained, scientific sniff.
Not one of her twelve.
She scowled, knowing what, or in this case who, was responsible for that cloying, expensive musk. And the only way
se
could be here, was if
se’d
flown.

Mac didn’t mind Frow as a rule.
Except this one.

“
Se
Lasserbee,” she shouted. “I know you’re here.”

The forest continued to rustle and drip overhead and to the sides. A bird, unseen but loud, expressed a similar opinion of the intruders. Quieter, more distant, Mac caught the low snarl and thump of breakers against the cliffs. She’d gone east then, away from the landing field.

She continued to watch the path ahead.

Se’s
hat appeared first, a multipointed affair that marked, according to Mudge, both military rank and present dominance mind-set.
If that was the case,
Mac decided, seeing more points than usual, Se
Lasserbee was going to be a royal pain.

The Frow were a stratocracy, their military forming the government as well as holding most civil service posts. This state had existed through so many generations of idyllic peace and prosperity that ranks were now inherited and uniforms were exaggerations of style totally without function in combat. The species itself was famed for its unique biochemistry and a certain unfortunate stress response, hence Emily’s joke. “Why don’t you put a Nerban and a Frow in the same taxi?” Mac mouthed the words. “Because the former sweats alcohol and the latter sparks when upset.”

Despite paying very close attention, she hadn’t seen any sparks fly yet.
The day was young.

Under the unwieldy hat came the rest of
Se
Lasserbee,
se’s
uniform a somber blue bedecked with thumb-sized silver springs, each marking the appropriate spot for one of
se’s
family’s honors—said honors being kept safely in the family vault at all times. Two other Frow appeared over the rise behind the first, their hats having a mere three points.
Lackeys,
Mac judged, but kept part of her attention on them. A little too easy, in her opinion, to don a misleading hat.

Se
Lasserbee’s cloud of musk proceeded
se
down the path and Mac sneezed before she could stop herself. Perfume, food choice, or medication, it had to interfere with more respiratory systems than hers. Just as well for interspecies’ tact this was the only Frow who wore the stuff. Why, no one would explain.

Probably covering up something personal.
Or some type of olfactory camouflage, however overdone to Human senses.
Or assault?

“
Se
Lasserbee. To what do I owe this effort?” Mac felt constrained to acknowledge the obvious. The Frow body form was far from ideal for a narrow, irregular footpath like this. There had to be a large custom-equipped lev on the other side of the rise. They should have waited for her to come to them.

But no. The three continued toward her, each with eyes fixed on the path. Every step had to be premeditated and carefully taken. It was like watching a slow-motion accident.

She found herself flattered.
The Sinzi-ra must have rubbed off on her.

Mac had seen vids of Frow scampering down the vertical cliffs of their home world, long arms outstretched to grab the tiniest holds. The membrane of leathery skin and fine bone from finger to ankle joint made them the closest to a flight-capable sentient encountered by the IU, other than the Dhryn feeder form. Close, but not close enough. A Frow who lost a fingerhold fell to
se, ne
, or
sene’s
death as easily as the next being. She had noticed the membrane let Frow hide what they were eating from one another, presumably a critical need before they invented social dining or cooperative daycare.

Their heads sat on stiff necks that bore accordionlike ridges on either side. Those worked independently, in Mac’s limited experience, to tilt the head an extraordinary distance one way or the other. There were two eyes with slit-pupils, four nostrils, and a fanged mouth without lips but still capable of forming understandable Instella courtesy of a thin flexible tongue. These features were tightly grouped in the lower left quadrant of the front of the head, giving a Frow the appearance of never really looking right at you, even when doing so. The rest of the face and the top of the head was kept beneath a hat, itself secured by a strap below the protruding chin.

The head and neck were set below the shoulders, but where Sinzi shoulders rose with delicate flare, those of a Frow were great lumps studded with spines that shot from the base of the fine bones supporting their membrane. Mac kept waiting to see the spines move in some display—they seemed flexible—but the Frow of her acquaintance hadn’t done anything interesting with them. The fabric spikes on their hats mimicked the real thing. Already top-heavy in appearance, given their slender torsos, short legs, and long arms, the spikes made a Frow appear ready to tip over and impale the ground at any moment.

Which was the truth. On land, flat land, they moved on two widely splayed legs and only when forced to do so, greatly preferring to lurch into position when no one was looking to assume a dignified, upright posture as if they’d been there all along. It was only polite to let Frow arrive first to any meeting for this reason. As for chairs, they were pointless. The beings didn’t sit; their torsos couldn’t bend.

Or fit inside a taxi.
Ruining a perfectly good joke.

Mac’s visitors kept their arms wrapped tightly around themselves, as if protecting their uniforms from a possible fall was more important than using them for balance. She couldn’t help putting her arms out in anticipation, though her chances of catching one if it toppled were remote.
Provide a softer landing, maybe.

Se
Lasserbee staggered to a halt, much to Mac’s relief and
se’s
own, then took a moment to compose
se-self
. As
se
wrapped
se’s
arms proudly around
se-self, se’s
membrane thus becoming a handsome mantle, the last of
se’s
companions planted a foot on an upturned root and began to leave the vertical. From that moment, disaster was inevitable. All three collided and went down in a mass of silver-sparkled blue, membraned arms flailing and hands clutching whatever was closest.

There was a plaintive rattle as they settled.

Mac froze, not knowing if it would be a breach to try and help, or if she should look into the distance until they pulled themselves apart. She compromised, staying close enough to assist if they asked, but looking, mostly, away.

Between peeks to see how they were managing.

Not well.
One of the lackeys had a grip on a tree. Another had
ne’s
long, strong fingers wrapped over most of Se Lasserbee’s face, while that worthy had
se’s
hands firmly on the first lackey’s leg. They didn’t seem able to let go.

Great instinct for a cliff dweller,
Mac thought with interest. “May I help?” she offered at last.

Se
Lasserbee’s mouth wasn’t covered. “Ah. Dr. Connor,”
se
said in
se’s
metal in bucket voice, the words preceded by a breathless pant. “Ah. What a pleasant surprise. You might want to move away.”

About to comply, Mac noticed wisps of smoke coming from beneath the motionless tangle of aliens. “You’re sparking,” she commented and then winced, having floundered yet again on the rocks of interspecies’ protocol.
Never mention bodily functions.
“I don’t mean you personally,” she qualified. “But . . . there is something burning under—” an inclusive wave, “—you.”

“Yes. Ah. Most observant. We aren’t at risk, Dr. Connor. Please. A moment.”

Although this close their skin looked more like flexible blubber than leather, their uniforms didn’t appear flammable.
Sensible precaution,
Mac judged. Doing her best to keep a nonchalant expression, she tried to spot the source of the tiny sparks, clearly visible in the growing shadow of late afternoon.
Particularly
, she observed,
around the poor Frow on the bottom of the pile.

The likeliest candidate appeared to be a narrow channel in the skin underneath the arms themselves, from which the tips of thick solitary hairs protruded like a comb’s teeth. Might be some kind of spark-generating organ.

Or it could really be a comb,
Mac chided herself. The spikes on the shoulders looked to require a bit of buffing. Who knew what lay under the uniforms themselves?

Let alone the hats.

With agonizing deliberation, the three Frow sorted themselves out. Mac found a flatter root than most for a perch and watched, fascinated. They acted as if a false move could plummet them all into some abyss. The simplest shift of a finger involved a great deal of discussion, some of it loud, in their own language. Several times, one grip was replaced in favor of shifting another.

It took, from Mac’s surreptitious checks of the time, seventeen minutes and twenty seconds before
Se
Lasserbee stood free and proud in front of her once more.

Better safe than sorry had to be a Frow maxim,
she decided, adding that to her knowledge of their kind.

The other two spent an alarming few moments lurching around to stamp out any smoldering spots where they’d lain on the path. Not that there were many, due to the storm’s moisture. Mac held her breath until they were safely still again.

“Ah,” began
Se
Lasserbee, dignity reclaimed. “Dr. Connor. What a surprise to encounter you in this—”
se
glanced around at the forest, as if lost for the word in Instella, the IU’s common tongue, “—place.”

“Forest.” Mac stood, brushing shreds of bark from her pants. “What do you want,
Se?” Not that she couldn’t guess.

“Want? Ah. A moment of discourse with you would be pleasing, as always, Dr. Connor.”

She did her best not to scowl. The beings were sadly out of their environment. The other two had unfolded their neck ridges to lean their heads left, in order to stare at the trees.
Maybe they hoped some would be climbable.
The occasional spark continued to flash.

“A private discourse,” the Frow elaborated. “On a matter of great importance.”

They might have watched for her to leave the consulate, or simply asked any staff where she was. Mac hadn’t left instructions to be undisturbed.
Something to remember for next time.
She should have expected to be contacted by someone from the idiot faction before leaving. A pithy message she couldn’t read, perhaps. An appointment she’d somehow miss.

Hardly this ambush by the woefully unable.

Clever,
she acknowledged, and decided to oblige, curious despite good sense telling her it would be nothing she’d want to hear. “Of course,
Se
Lasserbee. Why don’t we go back inside, find a meeting room—”

Se
drew
se-self
up to full height. “What is wrong with this fine place, Dr. Connor?”

Fair enough.
“Nothing,” Mac said blandly. “Here it is. Now, what are we to discuss?”

Before
se
replied, the three Frow went through a great deal of neck ridge unfolding and looking about, which made them totter like broken twigs about to fall. Apparently satisfied they were alone with their quarry, they stopped and looked at Mac. “You are escorting Dr. Mamani to her new place, Dr. Connor,”
se
said. “I must accompany her. Take me with you.”

To Base?
“You know I can’t,” Mac replied far more mildly than she felt.
Damn aliens.
At least here, this time, she had the rules firmly on her side. “The IU must petition the Ministry for Extra-Sol Affairs for any nonterrestrial to leave the consular grounds.”

“We’ve filed such petition. Ah. But these things take time, Dr. Connor. We are aware you leave tonight. You can include me. I have a cloak.”

Mac blinked. “A cloak,” she repeated.

One of the lackeys volunteered: “A large one.”

If the Frow thought a cloak, large or otherwise, could disguise their shape or movement for an instant, they’d been reading the wrong brochures.
Or a certain Myg was involved
—Mac stopped her train of thought right there.
This was serious.
“I might be willing to convey a message to Dr. Mamani on your behalf, if I judge its contents worth her time—and that’s generous,
Se
Lasserbee. The Sinzi-ra set strict protocols for future interviews. Emily’s been through enough.” This last with a ferocity Mac couldn’t help.