Survival (33 page)

She ignored him, walking toward Nik until she could put both hands against his chest and stare up into his face. “Please. Tell me.”

He hesitated, then took her shoulders in his hands. There was a darkness in his eyes that had nothing to do with twilight. “There were casualties, Mac. Not many,” he added, tightening his grip as she flinched involuntarily, “but I won't lie to you. There may be more. I don't know how many injuries were life threatening and—” he took a long breath and Mac held hers, afraid. “—and they've sent divers into Pod Six. It was totally submerged.”

“It heard us play the recording,” Mac said, lips numb. “It knew I was responsible.”

His nod was almost imperceptible, as if he wanted to spare her, but knew she expected the truth. “They were after you, Mac. Once you were gone, there was no sign of them. As I said, leaving was the best thing you could have done.”

Brymn burst out: “We must go!”

Without taking his eyes from hers, Nik replied with unexpected heat. “Where? Where will she be safe from them? Not here!” Only now did he turn his head and glare at the alien. “This is where they landed the first time! What were you thinking, Brymn? Were you saving Mac—or bringing her straight to them?”

“They were here?” Brymn shuddered. “I didn't know. I was trying to reach the nearest spaceport.” He flailed two arms over his head at the forest. “Is there no civilization on this planet?”

“A spaceport? You wanted—you were going to take me to a Dhryn world,” Mac said faintly, understanding at last. She leaned forward until her cheek rested on the cold hardness covering Nik's chest. She wasn't surprised.
Armor for a black knight
. His arms went around her, a welcome Human comfort, despite the flash of pain it sent through her damaged rib. She fought to focus on what mattered, fought to overcome a terror greater than anything she'd faced before.

“The Dhryn protect their—their
oomlings,
” she reminded Nik—and herself—in a hoarse whisper. “They can protect me.”

“Yes. Yes. Yes. Now,” Brymn insisted anxiously. “Without the gift of more time to our enemies. They hunt Mac because of the importance of her work to mine. They will never stop! We must keep Mac safe!”

“I study salmon,” Mac muttered out of habit.

A hand, five-fingered and Human, stroked the back of her head. Words, hushed on warm breath, stirred her hair: “Mac. You don't have to do this. We'll find another way.”

“Before the Ro attack again?” she asked. “Before something worse happens to anyone in the way?” Mac pushed gently and Nik let her go. She offered him a smile. From his worried expression, it wasn't a very good one. “Emily is always telling me to travel more. Here's my chance.”

He understood what she wanted him to—Mac could see it in the way his gaze sharpened on her face. Emily had visited Dhryn worlds. Here was an opportunity to find out why, perhaps find a clue to why the Ro had taken her and where.

And if leaving home protected her friends, her family?
Mac straightened to her full height: “Get us tickets. Or a ship. Or whatever one does to go—thaddaway.” She blithely pointed up to the canopy.

And beyond.

13

 

 

 

T
HE ADVICE of a blue-skinned archaeologist had brought Mac to the one place on Earth she'd never planned to be. The orders of a hazel-eyed spy had locked her in a box and so prevented her from seeing any of it. The fabled Arctic Spaceport, one of fifteen on Earth, was reputed to be an impressive spectacle, blending the awe-inspiring tundra landscape with the world's longest slingshot track, capable of heaving freight directly into orbit.

Of course orbit was the other place Mac had never planned to be, and one she also doubted she'd get to admire through a window.

“Are we there yet?” Mac asked after a novel series of bumps announced something different from the steady vibration of the t-lev.

The woman, older but fit-looking, dressed in a suit twin to Nikolai Trojanowski's usual disguise, had been reasonable company, if you liked your company silent and preoccupied with reading what appeared to be streams of mathematical data. At the question, she looked through her 'screen, blinking her dark brown eyes as if surprised Mac had a voice. “They'll let us know, ma'am.”

Ma'am.
Mac didn't have a name. Nik had been clear on that. She wasn't to give information about herself to anyone. She wasn't to bring out her imp where it could be scanned. She was, as he'd so tactfully put it, luggage on a conveyor belt.

Filthy, damp luggage, with scratches and scrapes that itched furiously.
Probably getting infected.
“Will there be a place where I can clean up?” Mac asked, drawing the woman's attention again.

“I'm sure I don't know, ma'am. Would you like a drink?”

Not without a bathroom in the offing,
Mac grumbled to herself. Mind you, this place might be one of the armored cubicles in a city transit station, for all there was to look at or do. The box held only two chairs with straps, bolted to the floor; a small table, also bolted; and a bag tied to the table, from which her nameless companion would produce bottles of water. And, of course, the two of them, locked in for however long the journey from Hecate Strait to Baffin Island to orbit would take.

Mac squirmed, the thought as uncomfortable as the chair. Like all uncomfortable thoughts—and the damned chair—it refused to be ignored, cycling back and back through her consciousness until she paid attention to it.

The last hours had been a blur in which the world moved past her. Mac had followed Nik's instructions, without question or argument, grateful not to think, clinging to the anchor of his calm voice. She'd waited for the two-person levs to appear in the forest, then sat behind a stranger. She'd flown between trees whose girths made her feel like an insect, then been swept out over the ocean as if in pursuit of the setting sun. They'd met a t-lev larger than any that came close to shore, towing a dozen barges laden with crates and boxes.

There, still lacking a shoe for her right foot, she'd climbed into one of those boxes with this tall, dark stranger. The box, Nik had told her, would join a procession of identical boxes, only the others would contain refined biologicals for shipment offworld. The boxes would be lifted to orbit-—here he'd cautioned her about the sometimes rough treatment the slingshot provided cargo—then scooped up and brought to a way station. There, she'd enter the transport taking them along the Naralax Transect, bound for the supposed safety of a Dhryn world. Once safely “loaded,” Mac would be free to move around like any other passenger. Brymn would meet her there.

What if he'd lied
, Mac's thoughts whimpered.
What if this box was taking her straight to the Ro? What if it opened to vacuum? What if . . . ?
She looked at her companion and gave herself a mental kick in the pants. They'd hardly bother with someone to keep her company if this was anything but what it was: the way to move her that risked the fewest lives.

“Thank you.”

The woman looked up, frowning slightly. “For what, ma'am?”

Mac gestured to their surroundings. “Good to have some company in here.”

Her companion's sudden smile was magical, transforming her face from grim to gamin. “I know you wouldn't catch me in one of these alone,” she confided with a wink. “Bad enough as it is.”

“Could use a little decorating,” Mac smiled back. “A cushion or two wouldn't hurt. Not to mention a mirror or—” she felt the tangled lump where her hair should be “—or maybe not.”

The other woman gave another wink, then reached into her suit pocket and produced a thick-toothed comb. “If it works on my mop,” she said, giving her tight black curls a tug, “it will work on yours.”

“If you say so . . .” Mac yanked the rest of her hair from its hiding place down the back of her shirt, holding her hand out for the comb. The other woman tsked and, leaving her chair, came to stand behind Mac.

“Lean back and close your eyes, ma'am,” she ordered softly, her voice low and rich, spiced by some accent Mac couldn't place. “Relax a while. Excuse a personal comment, but you look like you could use the rest.”

Mac wriggled as deeply into the chair as she could, careful of the rib she'd decided was more likely bruised than cracked, and closed her eyes with a sigh. “There's likely bark,” she warned,
though hopefully none of the blue that had oozed from the Dhryn's scratches
. “Sap's a distinct possibility. Insects.” This last a mumble.

The comb slipped into the hair at the top of her forehead and worked back, firm yet gentle, making slow progress. “If I find something interesting, I'll start a collection.”

Mac felt some of the tension leaving her shoulders and neck. Whoever this woman was, fellow passenger, spy, or guard, she'd combed out tangles before, for someone she cared about.
Or for a horse in from the range,
Mac told herself, laughing inwardly.

As each crackling lock came free, her “groom” carefully twisted it into a miniature braid, then laid it over Mac's right shoulder. Lock after lock, braid after braid, until the mass rippled down Mac's chest and lap, and wisps tickled her ear.

Although there wasn't much but hair in the tangles, the process took time. Mac found herself drifting in and out of sleep, too uncomfortable in the chair to truly rest, but too exhausted to be anything more than a boneless lump. When she was finished combing, the woman gathered the tiny braids by the handful and began twisting those together, humming to herself all the while.

“You've lovely hair, ma'am.”

Mac didn't open her eyes but snorted. “Has a mind of its own. As you can tell.”

She felt the larger braids being pulled up into one long rope.
Interesting
. The woman gave it a gentle tug. “Yet you haven't cut it.”

Because I promised
. Mac remembered when. It was like yesterday.

Behind her closed eyelids, she could see the party lights strung along the Jacksons' dock as if she stood there again, admiring how they reflected in the tiny ripples across the lake. She could hear the band playing back at the cottage, something loud to get everyone dancing.

As if the memory had to replay itself to the smallest detail, Mac remembered how she'd smacked her neck to dislodge a mosquito from her bare shoulder, her new, daringly low-cut dress an invitation insects accepted, if not him. She'd gone down to the dock to escape both the effort and the reason for it.

Sam hadn't noticed she was a girl before, in all those years they'd been best friends and classmates—why would he now, the night before he left Earth?

She'd glared at the stars until they blurred. Why was he going? What was out there in the cold and dark that could match the splendor right here? They'd been accepted to the same universities. Were those schools not good enough? Not challenging enough?

“There you are, Mac. Seneal said you'd gone home.”

Mac had stiffened at Sam's voice, as mortified as if he'd somehow guessed her thoughts. “Wanted some air,” she'd managed to say.

“Know what you mean.” He'd come to stand beside her, gazing out over the lake. The night air had carried the scent of him, brought his warmth to her skin. “I'm going to miss this place.”

Then why go?
had trembled on her lips. But before she'd dared speak, Sam had playfully tugged her hair loose from the mem-shape she'd paid a week's salary from her summer job to have installed for the party, hoping its uplifted complexity would make her seem different, older, so he'd notice at last.

Then: “There. It looks happier.”

“My hair?” She'd felt stupid.

Then, wonder of wonders, Sam had run his hand through her hair, from forehead to shoulder, leaving his fingers there to burn her skin with their touch. “Always loved it. Don't cut it while I'm gone, okay?” Before she could speak, he'd kissed her, so quickly she might have imagined it but for the tang of salsa on her lips. “C'mon back to the party, Mac. We're supposed to be celebrating, remember? I can't do that without you.”

Wearily, Mac shook free of the past. “Never seem to get time for a cut,” she told her companion in the box stealing her from Earth. “As long as it's out of my face I'm happy.”