Survival (10 page)

The room, which had been buzzing with voices and the tinkle of utensils as students experimented with theirs, fell silent.

“Welcome, Mackenzie Winifred Elizabeth Wright Connor!” The Dhryn's deep boom shook the windows. “Welcome, Emily Mamani Sarmiento!”

Definitely infrasounds under there,
Mac told herself, now obliged to look directly at her guest for the first time since poking him in the whatever.

The Dhryn had reapplied his makeup, adding sequins along his ear ridges. The bands of silk wrapping his torso were now bright crimson, a color that went rather well with the Dhryn's mottled blue skin. There were gilded bobbles hanging from those bands showing above the sloped tabletop.
Dressed for the occasion
. As were, Mac registered belatedly, everyone else who possibly could be. Even the students were in their civvies, looking en masse like a riotous garden of floral shirts punctuated by the inevitable black T-shirts. No coveralls in sight.

Mac could feel Emily's
I told you so
. She sat a little straighter, taking what comfort she could in being clean. At least her hair wasn't trying escape its usual asymmetrical lump at the back of her head. Despite her cast, Emily had managed to pull the mass upward into a tight French braid, leaving only the length down Mac's back free to cause trouble. While it felt as though something with little claws and attitude was sitting on the top of her head, even Mac had to admit she looked more dignified than usual. Maybe she should wear it like this for her next meeting with Mudge, which now seemed by far the simpler half of her life.

“It is we who welcome you, Honorable Delegate,” Mac responded, unsure if she was supposed to use his name in public, since even the Secretary General hadn't used it in the message. As she sought frantically for anything else to say, well aware the entire room was listening, she found herself transfixed by the alien's gold-irised eyes. They seemed to hold a great sadness, despite the polite smile the Dhryn wore.

Could the disappearances of the Dhryn on Cryssin have involved individuals close to Brymn? His family, perhaps? Mac hadn't the slightest idea what a Dhryn family unit might be, but she trusted her instincts.
Whatever reason brought Brymn to her,
she decided,
it was something personal
. “We will help you,” she promised quietly, “if we can.”

Brymn's lips formed a small, closed circle. A bead of glistening yellow moisture trembled at the opening of one large nostril. Even as Mac hoped this was an indication of a positive emotional response and not a virus, the Dhryn flung his uppermost arm around her shoulders. “I knew I was right to come here.
Slimienth om glathu ra!
Thank you, Mackenzie Winifred Elizabeth Wright Connor! Thank you, all!” Brymn's voice vibrated the glasses on the table.

With each “thank you,” the arm squeezed tighter. Forget bruising. Mac began to seriously worry if her bones could take the pressure. She managed a little squeak of protest which the Dhryn fortunately understood. Or he was about to let her go anyway. She was, Mac decided, saved from damage either way.

The buzzing of voices started up again as the students spotted the food trolleys being wheeled from the back. The buzz rose to near-deafening levels.
An extreme reaction to pizza, even from this group.
Mac squinted, trying to make out what was coming.

“ ‘My treat.' Is that the expression?” One of the advantages of multiple limbs was apparent as Brymn gestured grandly in all directions at once. “There was to be a grand supper at the Consulate for me tonight. I insisted the food be sent here instead. This is acceptable?”

From the exclamations of rapture spreading across the gallery, Mac had no doubts at all. “Thank you. Although I hope this won't cause you any difficulties.” She wondered what a formal meal would be like at the IU Consulate and was ashamed when the first image in her mind was feeding time at an old-fashioned zoo.

“Difficulties, no.” The Dhryn tilted forward conspiratorially. “But I suspect the consular staff would like to serve me for supper,” he told her in what was presumably his notion of a whisper.

She almost smiled. “Here's hoping that doesn't happen.”

“Indeed,” Brymn agreed, leaning upright again. “I imagine there could be considerable discomfort involved!”

Mac chewed her lower lip for a second, then decided. She turned in her chair to more directly face the alien. “I want to apologize for—for—”

“What? Not letting me bully you?” His small lips could fashion quite an infectious grin. “Dear Mackenzie Winifred Elizabeth Wright Connor, I'm lucky you don't work for the Consulate, or there'd be no treat on these tables tonight!”

“Why, you—” Mac shook her head, then found herself smiling. “You had me worried, I'll admit.”

Brymn picked up two water-filled glasses, passing one to her. “To mutual understanding,” he offered, lifting his glass to hers.

“Psst.” Emily's breath tickled her ear. “Check out Seung and the rest of the Preds.”

As she sipped her water, Mac let her eyes drift across the tables. They'd doubtless been arranged in tidy rows before the students arrived and “modified” their environment. Now, they were clearly in clusters by research preference.

The Harvs were near the back wall.
She was slipping,
Mac told herself, not to have noticed those who should have been in the kitchen to help prepare food were sitting with the rest. Missies, catch-all slang for other, miscellaneous topics, filled the bulk of the room, subclustered by interests in benthic organisms, competition, long-term climatic trends, water or soil chemistry, and so on.

The Preds had claimed a group of five tables to the far right of Dhryn's table, aligned so they could run for the nearest exit if whales sang into their hydrophones. They were busy tossing buns to—or at—the occupants of one of their tables.

Clad in a black T-shirt, likely a loan from a student, and hefting a bun himself, Nikolai Trojanowski had blended remarkably well. Mac appreciated the effectiveness of Emily's radar for the new and male. She took another sip as she studied him. At least he had his glasses.

Coincidence, perhaps, that Trojanowski chose that moment to glance at the head table and catch her eyes. From this distance, Mac couldn't make out his expression. Not that she wanted to. Her face and neck flooded with heat as she remembered everything from the prickly softness of his suit under her hands to the splash when the poor man hit the water.

“What a wonderful color change,” Brymn commented.
It begged the question of whether his vision included the infrared or the color red,
Mac thought glumly.

“She's very good at it,” Emily said, leaning over the table to speak past Mac as if that worthy wasn't there and glaring.

“Is there significance? A hormonal state, perhaps?”

Mac aimed a kick under the table at her oh-so-amused friend, then decided against further physical reactions for the time being. “I'm a little warm,” she assured Brymn, then went on quickly. “What's your preferred ambient temperature?”

“This is comfortable. A warmer and drier climate would be agreeable. Not that I'm complaining, but does it always rain here?”

The boisterous agreement from all within earshot seemed to startle the Dhryn, but he recovered quickly and waved his upper arms again in what Mac took for pleased acknowledgment. She edged her chair closer to Emily's, in case the Dhryn needed more room for such self-expression.

“Do you not have technology to modify your climate?” Brymn asked. “If this isn't what you prefer yourselves, wouldn't that be the obvious course? It is the first installation on any Dhryn colony.”

“We do. There are control mechanisms in place to reduce the intensity of storms that threaten lives, or to end excessive drought in agricultural zones. Otherwise? No, we leave Earth pretty much as she is and complain about the weather.” The trolley for the head table was now behind Mac. She sniffed appreciatively, leaning to one side to let the waiter-of-the-day, a skim-tech named Turner-Jay, deposit a steaming plate in front of her. Mac's eyes widened.
If this was the appetizer, they were in for a five-star feast
. Her stomach rumbled.

“Now you and I can leave.” Brymn's low voice was almost lost beneath the clatter of knife and fork. She hadn't known he could speak so quietly.

Mac swallowed the saliva filling her mouth and looked at the Dhryn in disbelief. “Leave?” she echoed.

“A good time to speak privately is when others feast, is it not?”

She had to concede no one appeared interested in them at the moment. Even Trojanowski had his head bowed over Brymn's “treat.”
Which now seemed something other than generosity.

“As you wish.” Mac folded her napkin beside her plate and inhaled the rich aroma one last time before standing.

The rain had stopped. Not only that, but the clouds were lifting, revealing foothills and shoreline, a hint of gray-mauve cliff, and, to the southwest, a glow where the sun would kiss the sea in another two hours. A westerly breeze chuckled through the pods and walkways, teased Emily's braidwork, then left to stir up waves in the distant heart of the inlet. Mac drew the smell of sea and forest into her nostrils, savored it, then promised her stomach something more substantial later.

She led the way down the ramp from Pod Three to the walkway, glancing back to be sure her otherworldly companion could negotiate passages designed for Humans and their gear. Brymn moved like someone cautious of his balance, wise given the tendency of the walkway to rock from side to side under his greater mass. He could also have been unhappy about the ocean underfoot.

A valid conclusion, given his next request.
“Could we go onshore, Mackenzie Winifred Elizabeth Wright Connor?”

“Call me Mac.”

Whatever the words meant, it wasn't something happy. Mac stopped and turned, her fingers wrapping around the rope rail. She narrowed her eyes as she stared up at him. “You aren't planning to make that abominable noise again, I hope.”

The Dhryn was holding onto the ropes on both sides, using all six available hands. His seventh limb remained tucked under a red band.
Just as well,
Mac thought, remembering its sharp digits. Not helpful for rope grabbing, that was certain. “Are you all right?” she asked. “Should we go back inside?” Her stomach growled eagerly.

“I am well, Mackenzie Winifred Elizabeth Wright Connor. I will be even better if we can hold our discussion somewhere more private. And onshore.”

Mac weighed the pleading note in the Dhryn's voice and the message in her pocket against the rules she'd have to bend, then shrugged.
It shouldn't be a problem.
She pointed down the walkway to Pod One. “Land's that way.”

Norcoast's floating pods, like most of the homesteads, harvester processing plants, and other buildings along the coast, were kept upright and in place with anchors; ballast kept them submerged at the desired depth. In winter, Pods Three and Six remained as they were, protected from ice floes and storm winds by inflated barriers. Similar barriers, placed beneath, were used to lift the other pods free of the water until spring. The experience tended to startle those students who'd lingered through late fall to write up their theses and hadn't paid attention to the move-out date in their calendars. Someone always had to be plucked from a rooftop.

The complex of pods was linked to shore by one walkway, also removed from service during the winter months. Mudge, in his persona as Oversight Committee, had tried and failed to prevent a physical connection to the lands of the Wilderness Trust.

But it was access that could, and would, be rescinded at the first sign of complacency. All of the protective restrictions could be summed up by one phrase: no avoidable contact. Any unavoidable contact, such as the walkway holdfasts on shore, had been carefully planned for minimum impact and thoroughly documented so future researchers would be aware of all perturbations made to the area.

Which had led to some unique features in design and construction.

“It's perfectly safe,” Mac assured the Dhryn when they reached the transition between the interpod walkway and the segment leading toward land. The former was built from slats of mem-wood, grown so that each piece would fit into the next like a giant puzzle and could be dismantled as easily. The shoreward walkway was something else again.

Seeing it, Brymn came to an abrupt halt, gripping the rope rails again. “Mackenzie Winifred Elizabeth Wright Connor,” he rumbled somewhat breathlessly. “I do not wish to doubt, but are you sure?”