Survival (17 page)

“I hope you are,” Mac said honestly. “I've as much as I can handle going through my mind right now. I don't need visions of skulking bureaucrats before I try to catch some sleep.”

Mac couldn't see Emily's face, but her quick hug around Mac's shoulders said enough. “Understood. As for sleeping? Sure you don't want to come back to my place? I've the couch.”

“There's a mattress on the way,” Mac assured her. “Tie promised to look after it. Anyway, we'd better get back inside and talk to our troubled friend.”

Easier said than done.
The Dhryn was gone.

“Think he was spooked by Trojanowski?” Emily asked once they were back inside. “Or whoever it was I saw?”

Mac held her tongue. Little good now to accuse Emily of scaring away their guest—
and they could be both be wrong
. “He might have needed a bathroom, for all we know.”

This drew the rueful smile she'd hoped to see. “Well, he knows where to find one. Or us. Meanwhile, you get that sleep. You look ready to drop on your face.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey, I tell it like I see it,” Emily said. Picking up the sweater from the chair, she started for the door, then paused, looking over her shoulder at Mac. There was a question in her dark eyes.

“Do I believe any of this?” Mac said for her, and shrugged. “I'm not ready to decide without more information. Tomorrow we'll talk to Brymn—and I'll talk to Mr. Trojanowski.” She forestalled Emily's complaint with a raised hand. “I'll ask if he was peeking in the window, don't worry. I hope he wasn't,” she went on uneasily. “I'd rather he didn't learn how much you know about all this, not yet anyway.”

“If you're trying to protect me from fallout over that message—”

“I was thinking more along the lines of keeping you my secret weapon, Dr. Mamani.”

The gleam of Emily's teeth was nothing short of predatory. “I had no idea you were so devious, Dr. Connor.”

“Grant proposals,” Mac explained wryly. They shared a smile, then Mac yawned.

“I can take a hint,” Emily said. “Seriously, Mac. You should take me up on that couch.”

“No, thanks. I'm going to read a bit more anyway. And since when did you want me hanging around your quarters at night?” Mac stared at her friend. “This isn't so you can berate me for another few hours, is it? Because I've had enough for one night, Em. I really have.”

Emily reached out and gently tugged Mac's braid where it draped over her shoulder. “I know. I should have left it alone. Sorry.” Then she seemed to search Mac's face, or for some odd reason was trying to memorize it. “You'll be okay,” she said finally, in a strange voice. “When push comes to shove, you do the right thing, Mac. I should remember that more often.”

“And the right thing is to send you to bed,” Mac said kindly. “You're babbling. Go get some sleep.” She gave Em a quick hug, then pushed her toward the door. “See you at breakfast.” Mac went to her desk and activated her 'screen, fighting a yawn.

She was startled to look up and see Emily hadn't left. She'd stopped, one hand on the door frame, and was watching her. “Now what?”

“Promise me something, Mac.”

Mac called up the next publication with a stroke through the 'screen. “If you'll go to bed—anything,” she muttered.

“Promise you'll forgive me.”

“I forgive you. Now go.”

“No, not now. Not today. Promise you will forgive me.”

The qualification was not reassuring
. Mac leaned around the 'screen to get a better look at Em. “What are you planning to do?”

“Just—just give me a one-shot ‘get out of trouble with Mac' card, okay? It'll help me sleep.”

Mac was disturbed by the wildness in Emily's eyes, the same look she'd get before disappearing for days with some stranger she'd picked up at a bar, or before challenging one of the students to a drinking contest he couldn't possibly win.

Then, with a sinking feeling, Mac thought she understood. “You saw him kiss my hand, didn't you? Em—”

The other woman leaned her back on the doorframe, cradling her cast and sweater against her chest. “Actually, no. I missed that. Who knew pushing a man into the ocean would have a plus side?”

“Then what?” Mac let her exasperation show. “You aren't making any sense.”

Emily rubbed her eyes with her right hand. “Forget it, Mac. You're right. I'm overtired. See you in the morning.” She turned with almost boneless grace and left.

Mac hurried to the door, catching it before it closed. Her friend was already halfway down the night-dimmed corridor. “Emily.”

Her name stopped her, but Emily didn't turn around.

“I don't know what's bothering you, Em, but you don't need me to make a promise,” Mac told her. “There's nothing you could do I wouldn't forgive. You're my friend. That's what it means.”

A whisper. “Thanks, Mac.”

And Emily walked away.

The triumphant arrival of two students bearing a mattress pad and bedding startled Mac from a cramped curl in the armchair, where she'd moved to read more of Brymn's publication list and had fallen asleep instead. With apologies and an endearing lack of coordination, the pair insisted on making up her bed. Mac dimly remembered shooing them out the door, then tripping her way on to the promised comfort.

So she was vaguely surprised some unknown time later to find herself lying flat on her back, wide awake. It was dark, without even stars glowing overhead. Darker than it should be. The light rimming the doorframes was gone, as were the pinpricks of green and red from the indicators on various gauges she should be able to see in her lab.

She must be dreaming.
Norcoast didn't have power failures. It broadcast its own power and there were backups and redundant systems galore—more than most major medical centers—necessities in an environment subject to hurricane winds and the vagaries of summer students.

Her stomach mentioned breakfast.

Not dreaming,
Mac decided, coming fully awake. Instinct kept her still.

Something
scurried
across the ceiling.

Mac's heart began to pound. She fought to keep her breathing quiet and even, as if she still slept.

She had no idea what else was in the room with her.

Scurry, scurry
.

Not a mouse or Robin's pet monkey, Superrat. The movement she heard had more in common with something insect or crablike.
No
. Too large for anything of that nature.

Silence. Sweat trickled maddeningly down Mac's neck and chest, but she didn't dare move to wipe it away. She'd always loved the dark; now, it had a weight, a suffocating thickness.

Her fingers walked across the floor, found a sandal, then threw it.

Water hitting a red-hot pan made that kind of hard
spit!
and
pop!
Right after those sounds, Mac heard the door to the terrace open and close.

The
door
?

Mac lunged to her feet, stumbling in the direction that should lead to the same door, her hands outstretched. Desk edge.
Feel along it
. Desk end. The door should be straight ahead. Two steps.
Nothing
.

She froze in place, then stretched out one foot. It touched the smooth irregularity of gravel and she sagged with relief, knowing where she was. A turn and three steps to the right. The door control was under her hand. Mac followed the cold night air outside.

Overcast. Not raining, but moisture immediately condensed on her lips and eyelids, beaded her hair. The morning fog was forming.
Dawn couldn't be far off
. Mac blinked, trying to see anything.

Again, her ears were her best sense.
Scurry . . . spit! Pop!
From the roof, this time, as if her unwanted visitor had climbed the curve of the pod wall.
Why not?
Mac thought numbly. It had been running along her ceiling. She hadn't imagined it.

Whatever
it
was
.

She knew one thing. It wasn't getting away from her that easily.

Back inside, hands groping in the dark. Mac found her desk, pulled open the second drawer, and grabbed the candle lantern she kept in there. There were matches in the base. She closed her eyes to slits before striking one and lighting the candle. The wick caught, burning brightly. Mac waited until the flame was steady before lowering the glass shield. “Thanks, Dad,” she whispered. The lantern had been a birthday gift.

Mac played the lantern's light over the interior of her office, shaking her head in disbelief. Trails of clear, glistening slime, a half meter in width, lay over the floor, walls, and ceiling. Some passed between the suspended salmon, a couple over her desk. Mac lowered the beam to the floor, following a trail that led over the bed where she'd slept. She checked her legs. Sure enough, the material below her knees shone with slime.

“I'm getting well and truly sick of alien biology,” Mac muttered, using a clean section of blanket to wipe her pant legs.

She ignored the confused pile of her belongings stacked against the far wall, refugees from her purloined quarters, hurrying instead to the storage cupboard. Putting the lamp where it would shine on the cupboard's contents, Mac pulled out what she wanted. Slicker. Hiking boots. That really old wool sweater that had belonged to her brother William which she kept for winter nights when she was too busy to head upstairs to her quarters. Warm, too big, and itchy as could be.

Mac tried to activate her imp. Nothing, despite its supposed decade-worth of stored power. “Neat trick,” she told her quarry, tossing the device aside.

It took Mac only seconds to bundle up—a side effect of innumerable excursions in the dead of winter to chip off ice and help unload surface or air transports. They'd never listened to her recommendation to bring in supplies underwater, where weather wasn't a factor.

Back out the door to the terrace. Mac opened the lantern and blew out her candle, tucking the unit into a pocket, then stood perfectly still, listening.

She knew her responsibility. To catch whatever had invaded her office and Norcoast—or at least get close enough to identify it. The too-convenient power failure had to be a ruse by the creature; waking up the rest of Base's inhabitants would only add a crowd of confused students, sure to get in her way.

Scurry
.

Fainter.
The sound was different.
“Gotcha,” Mac said to herself, making the connection. It was on the walkway below.

She ran along the terrace, guided by memory and one hand on the pod wall, heading for the stairs. Stealth wasn't as important as speed, but speed wouldn't matter if she broke her neck in the dark.

Her feet knew every centimeter, every rise and fall along the walkways.

A whiff of roses.
Dr. Reinhold's rooftop planter
. She was passing Pod Two.
Scurry . . . scurry.
It wasn't stopping. Mac wasn't surprised. Her boots made a solid drumming on the walkway. She wanted it that way.
Keep her quarry moving, panicked
. With luck, she'd corner it against one of the pod doors.

Ambush seemed unlikely—given its reaction to her sandal. Mac was sure her visitor was a thief or spy. Maybe even one of the media, sliming around for a story. She should have asked if all had been Human.
Not a question that would have occurred to her yesterday.

Whether it knew her plan or not, the creature wasn't cooperating. Mac kept stopping to listen; the susurrations continued to move straight ahead. Not to a launch pad and waiting escape vehicle, as she'd feared, but retracing the path she and Brymn had taken that afternoon.

Mac kept her fingertips sliding along the top of the right-hand rail, moving as quickly as she dared through the darkness. There were sounds behind her now—perplexed voices as people began questioning one another about the power failure. A glow of new lights reflected on the water, candles and lanterns caught on each upward swell, enough to etch out the darker line of the walkway in front of Mac's feet, so she risked starting to run.

If the creature reached land first, it might be trapped by the web gate.

If it wasn't, it would have the entire coastal forest and a continent beyond in which to lose her.