Survival (25 page)

He nodded, once. “If you're ready, Dr. Connor? Dr. Sithole? We should start as soon as possible.”

Mac caught Jabulani's longing look at her tray and snorted affectionately.
Some things never changed
. “We can pick up a bag in the kitchen,” she assured him.

The audio lab was in Pod Six, relocated there during the sojourn of the lost whale so researchers could interpret the baby's linguistic heritage and find its family; left there because the lab's space had been “mistakenly” reapportioned between its former neighbors in Pod Four almost overnight. The unspoken rule at Base held that a clear bench was a bench ready for a new owner.

Audio hadn't protested. Pod Six was hollow, fixed to the ocean floor year-round, and everything above the waterline was now unofficially theirs. Every year since, new projects had grafted themselves to the interior of the dome wall, supported by whatever means the researchers could afford or create. Despite appearances, to date only one had come loose and fallen into the water, fortunately not harming the students who'd been using that platform for a moment's indiscretion, nor unduly disturbing the otters who'd again found their way inside.

Mac led the way into Pod Six. The access door from the walkway opened on a small platform offering a choice of stairs, one set dropping down to the inner ring that floated directly on the ocean, the other newer and curving up along the wall itself.

She sensed her companions' wonder and stopped obligingly, fond of the place herself. Six was, well, unique.

From the outside, its domelike walls had the same curved, reddish stone appearance as those of the other pods, albeit with no terraces or antennae to foil the illusion. From the inside, it was a bubble of calm floating in the midst of Castle Inlet, any wave that traveled past damped to the hint of a swell. The walls, except for some necessary supports and the audio platforms, were almost transparent. They opaqued under the rare full sun to keep the ambient light level no brighter than that at a depth of ten centimeters underwater outside the dome, save for spot lighting on stairs and platform. This didn't bother the audio researchers. The interior air temperature was matched to an outside standard as well, something they did complain about—particularly when they arrived in early spring to work space close to the freezing point—but to no avail.

The floating inner ring was currently a jumble of diving gear, sample cases, and other gear, a maze busily negotiated by upward of three dozen researchers at any given time. Some waved up at them; most were too busy to notice the new arrivals. This week, Pod Six was temporarily entertaining an entire school of smolts, a combination of young salmon born last year and the year before, their bodies busy adapting to life in salt water. Varied species as well. They couldn't stay in even this huge space for long, some being eager to head to the open ocean, others destined for the mouths of estuaries and the rich feeding there. The race was on to learn as much as possible before the eight great sea doors of the pod opened to release them again.

Abruptly, someone shouted and began running along the ring in pursuit of something sinuous and brown. “I see the otters are still up to their tricks,” Jabulani noted with amusement as the student below stopped and threw up her hands in patent disgust.

“Brains enough for trouble,” Mac agreed. The boisterous river otters weren't just after the conveniently trapped smolts. They enjoyed chewing on synthrubber fittings and made toys out of anything they could tip into the water. Mac didn't doubt the animals were well aware that inside the pod they were safe from anything but the insincere ire of a few researchers.

“Which way, Dr. Connor?”

Trojanowski shouldn't need to remind her they weren't here to watch otters
. Mac flushed and took the stairs up two at a time. “You can use Denise's setup, Jabulani,” she said over her shoulder.

“Perfect!” Despite the makeshift construction, Jabulani's weight didn't budge the stairs as he rumbled eagerly behind her. “I hadn't dared hope she was still here, too.”

“You kidding? She takes fewer off-Base trips than I do.”

“Hold on a minute—”

Mac stopped on the staircase, her head below the first and largest side platform. The ones farther up overhung the water itself, but here the inward curve of the wall was barely detectable. She peered around Jabulani's thick shoulder to meet Trojanowski's gathering scowl. “Dr. Pillsworthy has the equipment,” she informed him, understanding immediately. “And she can help.”

“Dr. Pillsworthy does not have clearance—”

“Fine.” Mac shrugged and waved the two men back down the stairs. “We'll have to leave Base, then.”

“Dr. Connor—” Trojanowski didn't budge. “We must make the recording as soon as possible.”

“And I can guarantee you we won't be allowed anywhere near her equipment unless Denise stays, clearance or not. She won't let a soul, not me, not even Jabulani here, use it without her present.”

“Is there anyone here who—? No, forget I asked.” The patently exasperated Trojanowski actually ran one hand over his face before using it to gesture that she should continue climbing to the platform. “Lead on.”

Mac hid her smile by turning obediently to face the platform.

A few steps later, they crowded together on what was no more or less than an extension tacked onto the existing staircase. The extension itself hung out over the water to form the floor for what looked like, and was, a converted t-lev cargo compartment now bolted to the wall. Someone had painted “aUDiOcellAR” on the dingy gray door.

“Nice touch,” Jabulani noted, pointing to a painted window filled with a cluster of desperate faces trapped behind what appeared to be hockey sticks.

“We ran out of beer in the play-offs two years ago,” Mac explained. She pressed her hand on the doorplate to request entry. No use calling ahead to Denise; the audiophile detested the existing com and refused to use it, relying on runners or insisting on in-person visits. Mac had, in her first year as coadministrator, asked Denise to submit a budget proposal for the ideal system. Since that moment of weakness, Mac had agreed Pod Six wasn't too far to walk. Nor was a little company too much for someone as dedicated to her lab as Denise was to ask.

Not that Denise Pillsworthy was a gracious host
, Mac grinned to herself as a strident: “Who is it?” came through the wall.

To let Jabulani go first, Mac squeezed against Trojanowski. “Trust me,” she hissed, when he would have argued.

“One guess, Sweet Thing!” Jabulani shouted.

The door opened immediately. “It can't be—”

“Me!”

“Jabby!”

Jabulani disappeared inside the audio lab as if inhaled by a whale. Mac followed, Trojanowski right on her heels, to find the older man sitting on a stool, cradling a cooing Denise Pillsworthy in his ample lap, yellow raincoat and all.

Denise stopped cooing only long enough to toss out: “Hi, Mac! Who's that?” before continuing to pepper Jabulani's chubby cheeks with kisses.

“Dr. Connor.” From behind, low and amused. “Is everyone who works here so—so—”

“Close?” Mac suggested.
He might be amused, but she wasn't
. “You form friendships for life working in a place like Norcoast—or enemies,” she added, being honest.

Quieter still. “I'm not your enemy, Mac.”

“I didn't say you were. That doesn't make us friends,” she replied evenly. Before he could continue whispering, Mac raised her voice to carry over the giggles. “Save it for later, okay? We don't have time to spare.”

Jabulani's head lifted. “Ah, Little Mackenzie is right, Sweet Thing. We have some reconstructions to record—to help find your missing friend.”

Denise surged to her feet, poking at her hair. “You could have told me,” she grumbled. “Honestly, Jabby, you never get to the point. We're on it, Mac. What do you need, Jabby?”

As the two audiophiles began to talk a language all their own, Mac leaned on the nearest bit of equipment that wasn't blinking madly to itself. The lab was lined with cases and wires, the technology an eclectic mix of old and new—much like its operator. Denise, gray-haired and bone-thin, wore a sleeveless, eye-piercing pink sweater over a brown woven skirt of indeterminate hemline, but three pairs of state-of-the-art headsets swung around her long neck and her ears were studded with implants. Her pale blue eyes were almost buried beneath lids colored to match her sweater, but her hands were those of a concert pianist, long-fingered and strong, callused by years of slipping over guitar strings and old-fashioned wire.

Trojanowski had his own preparations to make. While Denise and Jabulani assembled equipment, he closed and locked the lab door, then came over to lean beside Mac. “Where were you when you first heard your visitor?” Before she could say anything, he brought out an imp and sent its 'screen to hover in front of her face. “Show me.”

Mac found herself staring into a view of her office, generated as if taken from above, in daylight. It hadn't been searched—it had been destroyed. Her garden was a pile of vegetation, dirt, and broken barrels. The stones had been pried from her floor. The salmon models were heaped in a corner, most broken.

The forensics team. Trojanowski.
Or both
. She realized numbly they must have been hunting for clues to her intruder. Everything still glistened with slime, as if the material had hardened into a permanent coating.
Had they found anything else?

She must have uttered a protest, for the image winked out of existence. “I'm sorry, Mac,” she heard Trojanowski say. “I didn't think of how it would look. I should have warned you—”

“It's only a room,” she replied coolly. “Show me again.” When the image reappeared, Mac swallowed and ignored everything but the task at hand. She put her finger on the mattress in front of her desk. “Here. The first time.” Trojanowski reached over to lock the display. “I was out on the terrace the second time.” He provided that image. Mac showed where she'd stood, then: “The walkway to the shore, the mem-wood section—and in front of the gate.”

He locked in her locations for each, then nodded. “I have the time of the power shutdown, of course, but do you know when you first woke up and heard it?”

“Not much before dawn,” Mac guessed. “The fog was starting to condense in the trees, but there wasn't any light on the horizon that I could see. The mountains, clouds,” she shook her head apologetically. “It's hard to say. But only minutes passed before there were people moving about—lanterns going up near Pod Three behind me.”

“Shortly after five, then,” he said, giving a small, tight smile at her look. “The police did extensive interviews and we've cross-referenced every statement. The only time line I didn't have was yours.” The 'screen reoriented itself in front of Trojanowski and he stroked through it several times. “Dr. Sithole will incorporate the appropriate environmental parameters into his reconstructions.”

“You've worked with him before,” Mac guessed.

His eyes sought the other man. Mac couldn't read their expression. “No, but I'm familiar with the process.” Trojanowski looked down at her again and said quietly: “They won't need to know anything about the creature's—appearance—or its actions, just how it sounds, so please watch what you say.”

“Or you'll have to lock us all up?”

“Hopefully not.”

“I was joking,” Mac protested.

His lips quirked, but all Trojanowski said was: “It might be a while yet. Keep your mind busy while you wait.”

“No problem.” Mac pulled out her imp and headed for the nearest stool. “I brought plenty to read.”