Regeneration (Czerneda) (66 page)

“Are you listening to me, Norcoast?”

Mac stifled a yawn and nodded. She could sum up Mudge’s response to recent events—
he thought she’d lost her mind
—but it would be impolite to stop him now.
Not to mention impossible without help.
“The Sinzi-ra is confident,” she pointed out.
Again.

“And the captain is not. Nor is Earthgov, or the Ministry, or any level of government represented in this solar system. Or on their way!”

There had been a steady flow of traffic through the gate.
Not surprising.
What had been a surprise was how quickly and thoroughly the Sinzi-ra managed to disseminate word of the presence and condition of their new guest.
Even her family should know by now.

There was a basic consideration that transcended the Sinzi rapture at the physical journey of this individual. There could be other Wasteds lurking in the holds of the derelict ships, individuals innocent of the crimes committed by the rest of their species, individuals who needed immediate rescue.

Though immediate was unlikely.
Any rescue attempt was now being debated by the Inner Council, Ureif—or rather Filt—participating from here. They also debated the future of the Dhryn on the
Annapolis Joy.

Good luck with that,
she wished them.

“Norcoast!” His fist thumped down on the table.

She rested her fingers on top of it. “Peace, Oversight. It’s done. Whatever happens now is out of our hands.”

He
harrumphed
at this, then sighed. “You could have left the room.”

“You,” she pointed out, “could have stayed at the Trust.”

Mudge wasn’t ready to smile. “And I suppose you would have managed without me?”

“It would have been difficult.”
Being dead.
She didn’t say it; she didn’t have to. She could see the memory passing over his face. Mac patted his fist, then rubbed her eyes. They were waiting on Captain Gillis, who’d left orders they weren’t to go anywhere until he’d clarified a few things.

Since Gillis had left to produce accommodations for his now-illustrious guest that wouldn’t offend the Sinzi but would satisfy his security staff, she shouldn’t have to face either for a while. “What time is it?” she asked Mudge, yawning again.

“Too early for breakfast, too late for a night’s sleep.”

Mac got up and went to the transparent wall that separated Gillis’ meeting room from the bridge. The tree kept its vigil to the side. The rest of the space was as incomprehensibly busy as before. “Can they see us?” She waved at one of the crew looking this way.

“Of course not.” Mudge joined her. “Too distracting.”

“There’s Fy.” Mac pressed her finger on the wall to indicate the Sinzi. “Is that the com?” Hard to tell, given the cluster of Humans, Grimnoii, and hovering ’screens.

“Yes. If it hadn’t been for the new traffic, she’d be running checks on the gate station by now, but there hasn’t been a break.” At her impressed look, he preened ever so slightly. “Darcy keeps me up to speed.”

As the station in question was little more than an orbiting box of monitoring equipment, connected remotely to the myriad other orbiting boxes that together coaxed the gate out of no-space, Mac thought the Sinzi should be quite happy to be able to work from the comfort of the ship. “ ‘Darcy,’ is it?” she teased, looking for the woman in question.

Mudge
harrumphed.
“There’s no need for that tone, Norcoast,” he began, when the lighting on the bridge went red.

Several other things happened at once. A klaxon went off, varying in volume but impossible to ignore. The organized confusion on the bridge became frantic, with some personnel diving for seats and others moving out of their way. The captain appeared through his door, one hand brushing the tree trunk as if by habit. Guards came through every other door, weapons at the ready.

Including this room.
Mac and Mudge whirled together at the sound of the door opening and heavy feet.

“What’s going on?” she demanded, but the armored man shook his head.

“There’ll be an announcement,” he told them, taking up his station by the now-closed door.

Mac whirled to Mudge, her hand tight on his arm. “The Ro. The walker. It didn’t come with the derelict—”

“What are you talking about?”

She was shaking. “It came with us,” she shouted, desperate to be understood. “They’re on the
Joy
—”

“No, they aren’t.” Mudge took hold of her shoulders, eyes intent on hers. He spoke deliberately, as if making sure she heard every word over the alarm. “You weren’t the only one who thought of that possibility, Norcoast. Security’s run constant checks, accounted for all sounds and mass within the ship. They mist the corridors and hangars at night, looking for signs. The
Joy’s
clean. We’re safe.”

“Could have—told me—” she hiccuped fiercely.

“And have you supervise that, too?” He gave her a small shake, looking more worried than he sounded. “I’m sorry, Norcoast. I didn’t want you to think about them anymore. I should have told you.”

Mac hiccuped once more, and shut her mouth. She took a deep, slow breath through her nose, Mudge nodding encouragement, then let it out. “At least we weren’t asleep in bed,” she said faintly. She found herself wondering how much, if anything, of the captain of the
Uosanah
remained to help the Dhryn understand the alarm.

Mudge’s hands squeezed her shoulders, then dropped away. “Shouldn’t be long.”

Sure enough, the wailing alarm stopped, leaving an expectant silence. The red lighting switched back to normal. Mac could see Gillis preparing to speak—he looked her way, perhaps remembering they were there. She began to relax.

Then she heard his voice, level and devastatingly calm.

“We have Dhryn incoming. A Progenitor ship has arrived through the transect gate. Repeat, we have Dhryn incoming.

“Battle stations.”

 

 

 

Mac turned to Mudge.

He took one look at her face, then grabbed her wrist and pulled her with him to the door control leading to the bridge. He had it open before the startled guard could do more than shout, the two of them stumbling down the stairs to the bridge floor.

Captain Gillis appeared to be one of those rare beings unaffected by sudden entrances or emergencies.
Or was at his best under pressure.
He greeted them with a gracious nod, waving away the guard. “Dr. Connor. Mr. Mudge. Good timing. If you’ll join me?” He led the way to the com area, where Fy had taken over the controls of three consoles, her fingers flying through their displays with that inhuman speed. Mac averted her eyes, queasy enough.

Townee was there. She looked at them with a frown. “We’re having difficulty establishing a link, sir. Their equipment isn’t IU standard.”

“Keep on it. Sinzi-ra. Any more coming through?”

“Not yet. There has been—maneuvering—on the part of ships in a direct line. I have asserted the need to avoid provocation at this point.”

Mac rubbed her thumb over the rings on her fingers.

Gillis might have been asking about the weather. “Show me.”

The air above them darkened until she might have looked outside the ship, into space itself.
The ships were too small,
she thought, but that was to include present company.

They were otherwise accurately rendered. She found the Trisulian, now at the far side of the group from the
Uosanah
. Many ships were in motion relative to one another,
moving away,
she realized. The
Joy
was still, sitting above the dotted oval representing the event of the gate, between all the others and the oncoming Progenitor Ship.

“Enlarge.”

The image of the Progenitor Ship grew larger. As it did, there were gasps. The silver hull had been
eaten
away; vast portions were little more than dribbles of what had been solid, but had somehow melted and then congealed. The rest was deformed and pitted.
A wonder the thing flew at all . . .

Mac’s pocket chirped.

To be accurate, the
salmon
in her pocket chirped.

She pulled it out with numb fingers, then looked up to see she had the full attention of those around her.

The chirping, now louder, became an arrhythmic clicking. One of Fy’s fingers reached toward Mac, the tip beckoning. She offered the carving—
whatever it was
—and the finger wrapped around it, while the Sinzi’s other fingers darted and danced furiously within the com system display.

A loud crackle, then a voice. “Do not fire. This is Nikolai Trojanowski, Ministry of Extra-Solar Human Affairs, attached to the IU Gathering. Do not fire. Our intentions are not hostile. Please send a shuttle with adjustable docking clamps to these coordinates. Repeating. This is Nikolai—”

Mac listened to the words, hearing the triumph as well as exhaustion, and smiled.

Mac thudded her fist into her pillow. She considered the situation and thumped it again.

“Of course, there have to be negotiations,” she told the cowering bit of foam. “Yes, I quite understand that means delays.”
Thump!
“Why should anything involving aliens ever—”
Thump!
”—be—“
Thump!
”—easy?!”
Thump!

The pillow succumbed, coughing up fluff and going flat at one end.

But hadn’t fooled Mudge. He’d hovered a little too overtly, offering her drinks and running interference when she’d tried—
time after time
—for some answers.

At least he’d recovered her salmon from Fy. Mac threw herself down on her stomach, then rolled over to stare at it on the clear shelf.

“Some salmon you are,” she scolded. The device within the carving had been Sinzi, a little something they’d provided Nik in case he’d been taken aboard the Dhryn ship, with its pre-IU technology. He’d had its partner, ready to coordinate com signals or whatever at the right time. Fy had been very pleased.

Mac wondered what other little surprises a certain spy had left in her life.

She pulled the blanket to her chin and stretched out her toes, yawning. The new bed was as comfortable as she’d hoped, the room private and peaceful.
And clean, right to an apologetic hint of lilac.
The Frow, while not talkative, had been on duty in the ladderway, lifting her with their accustomed flare. The Dhryn was resting, having—according to Cayhill—consumed most of the ship’s supply of raspberries and cashews, shells included, in a new broth.
The man was in his element with tubing and a perfusion pump.

She eased her hips and shoulders, almost hissing with the delicious pain of relaxing muscles. Tense muscles. She needed a good run.

Mac smiled wistfully, but pulled her thoughts firmly from
that
direction.
He’d get here when he did.

She shut her eyes, let her mind drift, intent on that too-brief clarity between committed to sleep and committing it. This was when threads wove themselves together without effort, when intuitive leaps came like breath. She’d learned not to waste it.

She let her thoughts go where they would . . .