Survival (13 page)

Mac stared out across the inlet, at the mountains beyond. The mouth of the Tannu was hidden from sight behind tree-coated islands. Her salmon would find it, no trouble at all. They could be there now, in their hundreds of thousands, in their millions.

But what she'd learned from Brymn—what might be happening—that mattered, too.
“How soon I go back depends on what you want from me, doesn't it?”

Trojanowski closed the pouch and stood, reaching down one hand to pull Mac to her feet. She had the impression her question troubled him. “It isn't what I want—or the Ministry,” he began. “Brymn's the one who asked for you, Dr. Connor. He hasn't told us why. Did he tell you? That is why he insisted on your missing supper, wasn't it? To talk to you without me.”

Mac didn't answer immediately, distracted by the way he'd kept her hand in his.
Social quandaries weren't her strength
. Should she tug her hand free, in case he'd simply forgotten to let go, or leave it there, in case he wanted to hold it even longer—which led to another complicated series of possibilities she really didn't need to consider under the circumstances.
What if he thought
she
was holding on to
him
and was going through the same choices?
No, definitely he was the one holding. Her hand was just lying there, innocent of any intention.

“Dr. Connor?” Trojanowski gave her an odd look.

Mac eased her hand back the tiniest amount, not hard enough to say she was offended, but enough to remind him it was there. He let go, his hand staying palm up between them for an instant longer, as if surprised to be empty.

Mac wrapped her fingers around the railing and coughed her voice back into existence. “Brymn's obviously familiar with my work. Some of it, at least. But nothing he said explained how it might help investigate these terrible disappearances. I don't see any relevance.”

“Frankly, neither do I. I've sent a complete set of his publications to your office. Maybe you can find a link we can't.”

Mac gave him a dismayed look. “Brymn is an archaeologist. I study salmon.”
Why did she have to keep explaining that?

“You'll be back to your fish sooner, Dr. Connor, if you can establish that Brymn's line of investigation is—invalid. If he even has one.”

The sun was dipping into the ocean. Where the pod wall shadowed the terrace, lights began to glow along the underside of the railing, more outlining the steps of the stairs. It reflected in his glasses, hiding his eyes.

“And you won't have to baby-sit,” Mac said, sure she was right.

“We both have other duties being neglected, Dr. Connor. I have to consider the possibility that the Honorable Delegate is, intentionally or not, playing tourist at our expense.”

“What if Brymn is on to something significant?”

Trojanowski gave an expansive gesture, including the inlet and pods. “We are here,” he reminded her, “in hopes he is. What else did he tell you?”

The impromptu feast had brought them closer.
Such moments never lasted,
Mac told herself. “I can't say,” she said firmly.

She might have thrown a switch.
Trojanowski frowned, his voice sharp and officious. “Can't—as in won't?”

Mac nodded.

“You must know that's not an option, Dr. Connor. The Ministry expects your full cooperation.” Trojanowski took the next step and turned to face her, his hand on the railing below hers. The move effectively blocked her path down the stairs.

It also started her temper rising.
She hated being trapped
.

“I told you, Mr. Trojanowski: I can't say,” Mac pressed her lips together, then settled for: “It was nothing that would matter to you.”

“Let me be the judge of that, please. It's my job, Dr. Connor.” No antagonism, no threat. Just an implacable purpose sheathed in courtesy.

He wasn't a Charles Mudge she could outshout or bluff.

Honesty, then,
Mac decided. “I'm sorry, Mr. Trojanowski. But Brymn asked me to promise I wouldn't share our discussion. I did and I won't.”

“I see.” He took his hand from the rail, and backed down another step, giving her room, not a sense that he was giving up. She hadn't expected he would. “It's not possible to fulfill every promise we make, Dr. Connor,” he said reasonably. “In this case, I think you must realize—”

“I keep my word, Mr. Trojanowski,” Mac interrupted stiffly. “Don't you?”

He turned his head to look out over the inlet. The sun was almost down. Mac doubted he could see much more than the silhouettes of ocean and land against the dusk-washed clouds.
Or,
she wondered abruptly,
was he looking at something else entirely?

“I don't give it, Dr. Connor,” he said at last. “Not anymore.” Then he met her eyes. His own were warm behind their lenses, their hazel darker in the changing light. “That doesn't mean you should stop. For now, I'll rely on your judgment to know what to pass along from Brymn.”

“I didn't do this to cause a problem,” Mac said uncomfortably. “Brymn was anxious, embarrassed. It was the only way to reassure him he could talk to me.” She frowned. “But that's exactly what you wanted. Brymn and I, away from anyone else. Otherwise, you would have stopped us before we left the gallery.”

His lips quirked. “You've got me there, Dr. Connor.”

“Hmmph.” Mac shook her head. “You could have just said so.”

“We weren't on the best of terms earlier today.” Definitely a grin—an infectious one. “I confess to fearing you'd toss me in the drink again, Dr. Connor.”

Mac snorted. Skims were unloading by Pod Five and she stepped down to stand beside him at the rail to watch. “You mentioned other duties,” she ventured, a peace offering of sorts. “What do you do when you aren't looking after traveling aliens and delivering scary envelopes to unsuspecting biologists?”

“Oh, that's pretty much my full-time job.” His voice was deeper when amused, feathered a bit along the edges. Mac rather liked the sound.

“There you are!”

Of all the voices Mac hadn't wanted to hear at this moment, Emily's cheerful call was at the top of the list.
What were the odds?
Trojanowski turned to give the approaching woman a pleasant smile. As turning put him closer to Mac, something Emily acknowledged with a sly look the moment she reached them, all Mac could do was hope the darkening sky would hide any blush. “Hi, Em.”

Gone was the sophisticated jumpsuit Emily had worn to supper with Brymn. Now her sandals kicked aside panels of a wild floral print skirt as she came up the stairs to join them, the fabric gathered in a knot low on one bare hip. Her top was a relatively conservative yellow shirt, with huge buttons shaped like letters spelling ‘YUM' down the front. The same word was scrawled on her cast.

Camouflage,
Mac judged it. Emily dressed as she wanted to be seen. This version was the “brain-on-hold” party animal. The question remained, was it for the media, Brymn, or the man standing beside her?
Could be all three.

“And you must be what's been keeping our Mac busy. I don't believe we've been properly introduced.” Em proffered her right hand to Trojanowski, eyes sliding up and down his lean frame with obvious approval. “I see you're nice and dry.”

“Nikolai Trojanowski, at your service, Dr. Mamani.” He touched his fingertips to hers, but didn't take her hand. Instead, he bowed his head briefly.

Emily narrowed her eyes.
Assessment,
Mac decided. “So formal. Emily, please.”

“My duty as liaison requires formality, Dr. Mamani.”

Mac knew that glint in those dark eyes.
Trouble
. To forestall it, she nodded at the stairs. “I'd better get going. I've some—reading—waiting for me.”

“Kitchen first,” Emily ordered brusquely. “You will help me make sure Mac gets something in her stomach, won't you . . . Mr. . . . Trojanowski?”

“Already taken care of,” he said.

“Really?”

“I really need to get going.” Mac suited action to words, hurrying down the remaining flight of stairs. She reached the walkway at the pod base before the other two could catch up, and headed around its curve to the entrance, only to halt in dismay. The main door was open to the night air and presently filled with strangers.

Nothing for it but to reach the Admin office the back way, which meant going back upstairs. Mac spun around, only to collide forcibly with those coming behind her.

No one was hurt. In fact, Emily laughed, loudly enough to attract attention from Pod One, let alone the curious horde waiting by the door, doubtless equipped with vids and recorders. Mac hurriedly shook off the hands that had saved her from bouncing on her rump and pushed by both of them.

“Hey, Mac. Mac! Slow down. I'm sorry!”

Already on the third step, Mac glanced back. Emily was hurrying after her, but she'd expected that. Her friend was typically—and charmingly—contrite after embarrassing her. Trojanowski was there too. He pointed to the entrance. “They'll be gone any minute, Dr. Connor. Mr. McCauley's there—I assume to take them to their quarters. We can just wait, if you like.”

She would
like
to run up the stairs and avoid any chance of being interviewed
. Instead, Mac sighed and sat down where she was.
Mature behavior was expected from the coadministrator of a world-class research facility
. It was a lovely night, now that the breeze had died away. “Good idea.”

Trojanowski sat one step below hers, leaning back against the pod wall. Emily picked the same step, but closer to the railing.
The ensuing silence could only,
Mac decided,
be called painful.

There were reasons,
she thought grimly,
to avoid social interactions
.

Trojanowski spoke first. “I understand you're quite the traveler, Dr. Mamani.”

“I like to go places,” Emily said, imbuing the phrase with more than one meaning.
No chance she'd tone down the innuendo,
Mac knew. Not in this mood. She leaned back on the rail support to listen, only to sit up straight again as Emily went on: “Not like our Mac, here.”

“What?”

“C'mon, Mac. You know it's true. Your idea of an exotic landscape is anything with traffic control. You haven't been
anywhere
.”

“I just got back from Vancouver, thank you very much,” Mac retorted.

“I make my case,” Emily crowed. “Mr. Trojanowski, you work with the Interspecies Union. I'm sure you're a very well-traveled man yourself.”
Amazing—or was it appalling?
Mac debated numbly—
what that sultry voice could do with a phrase
. “Did you know you were in the presence of a woman who's never left her continent, let alone her planet? Nor plans to?”

That again?
“I'm perfectly happy here,” Mac replied somewhat testily. Emily was forever trying to convince her to travel offworld. She should have known it wouldn't stop because they had company. Of sorts.

Polite company, at least. “Not everyone enjoys space flight,” Trojanowski pointed out. “I take it you do, Dr. Mamani?”

A broad smile. “I'm the adventurous sort. But then again, I like knowing what's around me. But not our Mac. Oh, no.”

“Drop it, Em,” Mac said under her breath, doing her best to glare without being obvious.

Emily ignored her, words coming more quickly as she warmed to her topic. “What if I told you, Mr. Trojanowski, that you are in the presence of a woman—a biologist!—whose willing experience with non-Human intelligence can be summed up by a handful of entertainment vids and news clips, until the arrival of our being in blue? Who can't name the three systems closest to ours . . . who has absolutely no interest in any intelligent species but her own!” Emily stopped, the “Y” button on her shirt threatened by her deepened breathing. The light from the railing shone in her hair, but didn't reach her face.

Mac knew what was happening, if not why. For whatever reason, Emily didn't like Trojanowski—or was it his questions—and was tossing Mac between them as a diversion.
Which would have been fine, except—
Mac stopped the thought. “Are you quite finished?” she asked instead.

Emily tossed her head. “Not yet. Mr. Trojanowski is an expert—the kind we never see on Norcoast. I want to hear his opinion of such a person.”

He didn't seem to notice Mac's discomfort. “My opinion? There isn't anyone alive who doesn't have something left to learn.” He brought up one knee and rested his arm on it. “And I submit that the opposite is true. There's no one alive without something they'd like to unlearn—to forget. Wouldn't you agree, Dr. Mamani? Care to us give an example—something recent, perhaps?”

“We're talking about Dr. Connor, not me. Come on. You must see the waste. The least you can do is help me yank Mac's head out of her river—make her see there's a universe nearby.”

“I am sitting right here,” Mac protested. “On the off chance you decide to talk to me, instead of about me.”

Whatever had Emily in such fine and difficult form, it was more than Trojanowski. Em turned and stared up at her, her eyes shockingly brilliant, as if moist with tears. “I've tried talking to you, Mac,” she said, her voice low and intense. “I've tried for three years and you haven't heard a word I've said. Not a word. I might as well be shouting in a vacuum. And it's going to be too late, Mac, by the time you wake up. Too damned late for anything.”