Survival (44 page)

- Portent -

T
HE DROP WIGGLED and slipped its way down the shaft, leaving a faint green stain behind, its reflection in the gleaming metal leading the way. New, the shaft, as was all the equipment collected here.

Another drop. Another. They drummed and chimed against every surface, mirrored as they struck and stuck.

As they wiggled and slipped downward.

Until there was no surface without its trails of green.

The drops met each other in antenna couplings and on access covers, at joints and along ductwork. They grew together in pools and spread until they tumbled over new edges. Wiggling and slipping downward again.

Seals began to bubble and ooze.

More drops fell, tracing the paths of the first.

A hatch cracked. The drops poured through, a hungry flood.

Giving those inside no time to scream.

17

 

 

 

“W
HAT ARE YOU doing, Mackenzie Winifred Elizabeth Wright Connor?” boomed the voice from the doorway.

Mac, her nose touching her left knee, thought this should be obvious even to a Dhryn, but as she uncurled, she wheezed: “Exercising.”

Brymn walked around her as she continued to lift her head and shoulders from the floor and lower them again. He leaned up and down with her, as if keeping her face in focus, arms carefully folded. “Is this pleasant?”

Surprised into a laugh, Mac gave up. She tucked her chest to her bent knees and wrapped her arms tightly around her legs, feeling the stretch in her lower back as she squeezed. “It's better than the alternative,” she informed the alien. “Don't your muscles atrophy without regular use?”

“Muscles?”

Ah.
“Don't you feel stiff if you remain still for prolonged amounts of time?”

A one/two blink. “Stiff? No. Bored, yes.”

This was a hint, Mac knew. Now that Brymn was allowed to visit her on the
Pasunah
, he preferred to stay with her. She'd had to insist on privacy while she slept-—or rather crashed—yesterday, a blissful oblivion that lasted about three and a half hours before he'd walked in to find out how much sleep a Human required and was she finished?

Not that she'd minded the company, but she'd been groggy enough to keep the conversation to safe, neutral topics like the difference between Coho and King salmon, Brymn countering with an enthused lecture on ways to detect technological remains, such as electronics, under layers of soil and rock.

At least he'd left once the lights went out.

With the perversity of an exhausted body granted peace, Mac hadn't been able to fall asleep right away. The 'fix had raced along her nerves for restless hours. Then, when she had dozed off . . .

She flushed, remembering she'd dreamed hazel eyes and a kiss . . . dreamed warm breath along her neck . . . dreamed more and more until the heat of her body had awakened her to lie gasping and alone. Staring at the ceiling, bright with the
Pasunah
's version of morning instead of any hope of home, Mac had judged herself a pathetic fool. It hadn't been passion. It had been a release of tension between virtual strangers, perhaps attracted to one another, nothing more.

She'd known herself vulnerable at the same time. She hadn't been caught in such intense fantasy about anyone since Sam.
What did it say about a woman whose fantasy lovers died after a kiss?

Not that she knew Nik was dead.
And he'd kissed her three times, all told
.

Which had occasioned more thoughts, waking ones, about a fantasy lover.

Which had led to exercise.
Given the lack of cold showers.

Mac focused on Brymn.
Exercise surprised him?
She'd assumed the Dhryn had evolved under heavier gravity, but that in the
Pasunah
was set to what felt Earth normal. Through that thick skin, it was impossible to tell which was a lump of muscle and which of fat. “How often do you need to eat?” she asked, getting to her feet while ignoring the immediate growling of her stomach. She'd manage on nutrient bars until Haven. The
Pasunah
's crew was unwilling or unable to understand her request for analytical equipment. After their dessert, Mac had no intention of further personal experimentation.

“As often as I am served food.” Brymn had sat, looking content.

Semantics or biology?
“Don't you get hungry?”

“Adults do not become hungry until food is within reach. To feel otherwise would be impractical.
Oomlings
are preoccupied with the seeking of food—but they have little else to do.”

Mac chuckled. “Reminds me of students.” Which reminded her of less happy things, wiping the smile from her lips.
What was happening back home?

Today, before they reached Haven—
who knew what access she'd have to Brymn there?
—it was time to discuss what they hadn't yesterday. Things less safe and definitely not neutral. “Did you get an answer about the com packet?” Mac asked, dropping into a chair. Intersystem communications traveled the transects as packets, signals collected at an entry, then cued to a particular exit. Regular and reliable.
If you had access to the result.

“There have been several since we entered Haven,” he told her, but his expression turned sober.
Not a good sign.
“I'm told they go directly to Haven for distribution and only those affecting the operation of this ship within the system would be shunted to us.” Some of her disappointment must have shown, for he offered: “I can ask again.”

Mac took a long drink of water—imagining it tasted better after being filtered through several layers of fabric—and shook her head. “Getting them faster won't change what's happened. And there's no guarantee a packet to Haven would carry news from Earth anyway.”

No guarantee, although Mac couldn't help but hope. Maybe Nik or the Ministry would find a way to send her a message. Maybe they'd plant something in the news for her benefit, something broadcast so widely it offered no clues to the Ro, but might reassure her.

The more pragmatic part of her, the part that relied on Mac first and the universe second, disagreed.
Maybe they wouldn't bother
. After all, she was here now, where they'd wanted her to be. Mac wasn't naïve enough to imagine her peace of mind was important in the larger scheme of things, although being informed about other attacks by the Ro could be useful.

“Where is Haven in relation to the attacks?” she asked Brymn, very aware of the Ministry envelope in the waist pouch she now wore waking or sleeping. Then Mac realized her mistake and blushed. Distance was irrelevant, given the attacks were along the same transect.

But the Dhryn, perhaps as little attuned to the rigors of space travel as she, didn't think it a foolish question. “The reports coming from the Consulate were of locations farther and farther from here. More importantly, Mac, the Progenitors of Haven have recorded no attempt against Dhryn for several years. Here you are as safe as any
oomling
. It is why we came to this place, over all others. For you.”

Farther from the recent attacks meant closer to the Chasm
. Mac took another, more deliberate swallow. In a way, it helped that the invisible Ro were more frightening than any imagined ghouls could be. Nik—perhaps others at the Ministry—saw a connection. She didn't attempt to make one, not yet, not on so little evidence. Finding the Ro homeworld, learning how the Dhryn successfully resisted them, those were her goals. Fortunately, she had Brymn for help. “What's Haven like?”

“I have no idea.” Her sequined, brightly garbed archaeologist actually beamed. “I haven't been to the Dhryn home as an adult, Mac. I was sent to a colony shortly after Freshening.”

“ ‘Freshening?' ” Mac echoed, her heart sinking.
Fine time to learn her local guide wasn't local
.

“My attempt at the real word.” He boomed something that went lower and lower, then became silent. “Freshening is like your Human passage from child to functioning adult. Emily Mamani was kind enough to explain how this affects Human behavior. If you forgive me, it's quite bizarre,
Lamisah
. What is your word?”

“Puberty,” Mac supplied. She fought back a rush of questions about Emily to focus on the more pressing issue. “Are you familiar at all with Haven or its Progenitors?”

“I've seen images, but I'm sure they fail to reveal the true beauty of the place. This is as much an adventure for me as for you, Mac! We will be tourists together and explore this magnificent world.”

Had Brymn's distinctiveness misled her?
To a Human, individual style was a mark of self-confidence. Was it to a Dhryn? To a Human, being the first Dhryn to set foot on Earth imbued Brymn with importance. Did it to other Dhryn?

He published in non-Dhryn academic journals. He associated with Humans.

Mac sank back in her chair. At least Brymn hadn't coauthored “Chasm Ghouls—They Exist and Speak to Me.”
As far as she knew.

He might be an alien crackpot, but he'd learned to read Human expressions. “Something's wrong, Mac. What did I say?”

There was no way to be tactful about it—and lives, including his, might be at stake. Mac straightened and looked Brymn in the eyes. “I don't mean to insult you, Brymn, and I'm grateful—more than I can say—for the help you've given me. But I need to know. What's your status among other Dhryn?”

He didn't appear offended, answering mildly: “I have not yet served in
grathnu,
Mac. But this is obvious.”

Mac heard
grathnu
as a Dhryn word, as she did
oomling,
implying her mind held no equivalents for it in English or Instella. “Let's not assume anything between us is obvious,” she cautioned. “What's
grathnu?
”

Two pairs of hands danced in the air, making a convoluted pattern ending in a paired clap. “The creation of life. One must earn the honor. I have not yet accomplished enough in my life so Brymn is all my name. But you. Surely you have served in
grathnu
abundantly, to become Mackenzie Winifred Elizabeth Wright Connor.”

In Dhryn terms, she'd been listing her sexual exploits? Mac didn't simply blush. Her face burned.
Who else knew about this?

Beyond doubt, Emily.
Given five minutes alone with a new species, she'd ferret out such a thing and more.

Nik? He'd known about the importance of naming, back at the Field Station.

“Oh, dear,” Mac said aloud.

“Is there a misunderstanding?” Before Mac could possibly form a reply to that, Brymn went on anxiously: “I hope not. Your accomplishments require other Dhryn to treat you with respect and do their best to accommodate your needs. Our time on Haven will be much less comfortable and productive if I have been mistaken.”

“I'm not Dhryn—” Mac started, then paused, unsure what to say next that wouldn't land her in more trouble.

“Of course you are,” Brymn said, eyes wide.
Surprise?
“Otherwise, you would not be here. Only that which is Dhryn may enter the home system.”

Mac had prided herself on avoiding any major pitfalls during her conversations with Brymn. In fact, she'd begun to think herself rather talented at this interspecies' communication stuff.

She changed her mind.

“Define,” Mac said carefully, “if you would, ‘that which is Dhryn.' ”

Brymn's eyeridges scowled exceedingly well. “Everyone knows that.”

“Humor me,
Lamisah
.”

He looked uneasy, but obliged. “When it is necessary for the survival of
oomlings
to think about the Ro, it is clear that all which opposes the Ro is Dhryn. I reported your deeds and your bravery—which were far beyond my own. I gave them all of your names. The Progenitors named you
lamisah,
ally, to all Dhryn. You, Mackenzie Winifred Elizabeth Wright Connor, are Dhryn!” He became passionate throughout this little speech, rising to his feet, his eyes almost flashing with enthusiasm. Then, a little doubt crept into Brymn's expression. “Did I misunderstand?”

Mac crossed her fingers, a childhood habit. “No, no,” she said briskly. “You were quite right. I was only checking that the Dhryn properly appreciated my—accomplishments. Thank you. You've set my mind at ease.”

“I am most gratified.” Brymn settled himself, then went on in a very matter-of-fact voice: “Of course, being Dhryn, you must adhere to Dhryn ways while on Haven.” He shrugged all his shoulders as if admitting an impossibility, adding: “Or appear to do so. It's fortunate you learned to speak fluently before our arrival. Home system Dhryn would find it alarming to meet anyone who could not communicate properly.” His little mouth assumed a grim line. “We don't want to alarm them.”