Survival (37 page)

Before he could decide whether to drop down or remain, one of his flock staggered into the light of the torch, still burning where he'd dropped it in the dust. It was the Old One, whose ability to find water in the dry season was more valuable than her age-bleached hair or tough flesh.

Hair that had disappeared along with the skin beneath . . . flesh that was oozing away from the bones beneath. Her next and final step landed in the runnel of green, her sharp little toes melting so she fell forward.

Eah trilled like a kit for its mothers, his claws digging deeper into the stone, hearts falling out of synchrony when he didn't leap away and run, as instinct screamed he should.

But the runnel, having washed away the Old One as Eah might wash dirt from his hands, stretched out its fingers across the entrance. There wasn't room for his footpads.

Eah was not one skilled with tool or words, but things he put his hands to usually moved. Now, he used that strength, holding himself with one hand as he stretched the other as far as he could reach along the wall in the direction of the cave opening. The coming windstorm would drive sand through clothing and skin, blind and deafen those without shelter, but it was a threat he knew, a threat sent by the gods themselves. He'd rather die there, where his kin-group would find his body and carry it home again so his mothers could wash him one last time.

He drove in his claws, released the other hand, then pulled himself closer to escape. Again. Again. One claw snapped, and he almost fell into the spreading pool of green.

Drive and pull.
Again!
This time, his arm was bathed in light. He was almost outside!

Even as Eah gasped with hope, he realized something was terribly wrong.

The storm winds had a new, strange sound.

As if they carried rain.

14

 

 

 

P
ERSEPHONE—'Sephe—was waiting for Mac when she stepped out of the shower stall, dressed though damp. “I don't think I've seen anyone quite that shade of pink before,” she said with a grin.

As every portion of Mac's skin, scraped or whole, felt as though it had lost three layers then been soaked in salt, she considered several scathing replies, but restrained herself. “I take it my time's up?”

“Skim's waiting. Put this on,” the other woman ordered, “this” being a huge and hideous mottled brown cloak with a hood. “It's Derelan,” she added, then, at Mac's blank look, finished with: “—feels better than it looks.”

“That's a relief.” Mac whipped her damp, slug-free hair into its normal braid before 'Sephe could offer, tying a loose knot with the result. Feeling that much closer to normal, she walked over and accepted the cloak, surprised by its light suppleness. 'Sephe helped arrange the unusual garment over her new clothes.

They'd fit, not that Mac had expected anything less. And they weren't quite as plain as Nik's description had suggested either. A blouse, white with a gathered bodice and hem, long sleeves with actual buttons, not mem-fabric, to hold them snug to her wrists. A skirt, shimmering blue and sleek, falling to her ankles with thigh-high slits on either side giving her legs freedom to move. A slim waist pouch that could lock relieved her mind on the issue of pockets, holding, with a bit of squeezing, both her imp and the abused, but not yet studied, piece of mem-paper with the results from Kammie.

There was even new footwear, shoes with a soft, studded sole of a type Mac had never seen before that molded comfortably to her feet.
A relief after the boots
.

She hadn't expected to find frankly luxurious undergarments in the bundle, of the sort she'd never bothered buying for herself, though Emily would certainly know the labels. An intimate thoughtfulness Mac found somewhat distracting, given her last encounter with their source, but they'd provided a choice of secure locations in which to tuck her envelope.

The cloak rested on her shoulders and fell almost to the floor, the folds adding bas relief to the brown, so Mac felt disguised as a tree trunk.
Derelan
. The species was hopefully in her xeno text; it wasn't in her brain.
She'd look it up when the universe granted her time for things like breathing.
'Sephe was already at the door, her stance just short of foot tapping.

Wrapping the Derelan cloak around herself, like hiding in a cocoon, Mac didn't try to fool herself that it was only the Ro's eyes she'd like to avoid.

“Put the hood up.”

Mac complied, only to find the hood drooped over her forehead and face to her mouth. “Don't you think this is a little—obvious?” she asked, pushing up the hood so she could see Persephone.

The other woman looked serious. “Maybe to a Human. Hopefully not to our sneaky friends. We don't know if they use scanners, but the cloak's fabric is impregnated with a jigsaw puzzle of DNA fragments, which even our toys can't sort into anything more sensible than a platypus crossed with a clam.”

Mac gathered the folds more tightly around herself. “I'm convinced. Now what.”

“Your chariot awaits, Mac. We just have to retrace our way in: three corridors and a lift, all guarded. Nik—Mr. Trojanowski's in a mood, all right. We had to sweep them twice before he was satisfied.”

Aware that the other was giving her a more than curious look, Mac pulled down the hood. “Then we'd better go.”

It should have been easy—the walk through the corridors, the brief trip on the lift, all with 'Sephe's tall, strong presence at her side, in sight of two or more armed guards at any time. Mac did feel safe.

But every few steps, a tear would sting her cheeks, the skin scalded twice now. She was grateful for the hood's shadow.

These steps would be her last among Humans for the foreseeable future. Already the world she knew—of rocks, growing things, and water—seemed a dream, a vision of a paradise she'd lost. Here, nothing was irregular. Nothing struggled to survive. Nothing was alive but the people themselves—and they were encased in armor and caution.

Mac indulged in one final sniff, then stiffened her spine. She was, after all, a scientist. Here was a chance to add to a woefully neglected data set—the Dhryn. She had Brymn, if not a friend, then an ally, by his own words. And, as 'Sephe and another figure preceded her out the door of the building, she added to her list the backing, however many light-years removed, of the Ministry of Extra-Sol Human Affairs, in the person of Nikolai Trojanowski.

He was waiting for her, standing with feet spread and apparently relaxed between another Human guard and a Dhryn, with his suit, cravat, and glasses looking as bizarrely out of place in this gathering as she likely did in her ungainly cloak. Despite that, or perhaps because he hadn't bothered with armor, Mac didn't doubt he was the most dangerous one of them all.

As if rehearsed, the Dhryn stepped to the side of their skim and gave some signal that opened its side door. It was a bigger model than most, so a ramp slid out, clanging to a stop against the flooring.

Flooring
. Mac peered up from under her hood, wanting another quick look at this amazing place. What she called a door in the building they'd just left could be an air lock, if the need arose. What she called a building was a portable stack of preconstructed forms, reassembled as needs changed. What she called a sky—Mac lifted her face to sunlight that wasn't, imagining the far-off lines of traffic were clouds.

A touch on her elbow. Mac nodded in acknowledgment and began walking toward the skim, her eyes on Nik. He gave her a look he probably thought was encouraging. It was a little too haunted for that.

The touch on her elbow pushed harder, as if to say
no, that way
. Confused, Mac turned her head.

There was no one close enough to touch her.

Mac didn't stop to think. She threw off the useless cloak and broke into a run, arbitrarily picking the direction opposite to the one the touch wanted. “They're here!” she shouted to Nik, hoping he'd understand she hadn't lost her mind.

He began to shout orders, was already in motion.

The sound electrified the Dhryn. The skim roared into the air, ramp still extended and hanging loose. The one left abandoned unsheathed his weapons and stood ready.

Mac caught all this in quick glimpses over her shoulder as she ran, arms pumping and grateful for a skirt that got out of the way of her legs. The twanging rib she ignored. She dodged around a pillar displaying notices to find herself face-to-face with a tall yellow barricade marked “under construction” in black.

Cursing the predictability of Human cities, Mac turned to run along the fence, hoping for a way around it.

Her skin crawled at the thought of another
touch;
her ears strained for any sound.
They must have cleared the area of passersby,
Mac fumed, slowing to a jog as she hunted in vain for a crowd or even an open door.
Nothing
. The place was locked up tight. Given a choice between a shadowed gap between two buildings and a wide, plazalike space, she ran into the open, hoping to be spotted.

“Mac!”

Well, that worked,
she congratulated herself, panting as she stopped to hunt the source of that reassuring shout. Her rib throbbed in reminder and she pressed her elbow into her side to shut it up.

Mac launched back into a full-out run, dodging from side to side as though trying to make her way through a crowded soccer field.

Or like a salmon, trying to work upstream through rocks—only to find the flash and power of grizzly claws waiting.

She was halfway across the deserted plaza, still hunting the voice, when a figure appeared in the shadow of a building in front of her, frantically beckoning to her. Mac sobbed with relief and found an extra burst of speed.

“No, Mac! Stop!”

That voice she knew.
Nik, but from behind?
Mac stared ahead.
Then who was that?
The figure began walking toward her.

“Mac! Stop! Wait for us!” Now she could hear the thud of footsteps, his and others.

Mac slowed to a walk, the better to see.

“Em . . . ?” The whisper tore its way up her throat as Mac started to believe her own eyes.

She was grabbed roughly from behind, held. “Mac, wait, dammit!” Nik shouted hoarsely.

She struck at him. “Let me go! That's Emily!”

A sudden
whoompf
of sound, like a punch in the air. Mac felt Nik's body stiffen against hers, then go limp, slipping through her hands as she tried to support his weight. His eyes stared at hers, a terrible urgency in them. His lips moved. Nothing came out.

“He's hurt!” Mac cried, looking up desperately for help as she eased Nik to the floor.

She saw something else. Emily, dressed from neck to toe in skintight black, walking toward them while continuing to aim what had to be some sort of weapon at Nik.

This had to be a dream,
Mac told herself.
A nightmare.

“I am helping you,” Emily insisted. “I told you I would. This isn't going to work, Mac. You have to come with me. Now. We won't hurt you.”

“Hang on, Mac!” More voices. Closer, with pounding feet as an underscore.

Beyond terror, past despair was a kind of numbness, erasing urgency and muting self-preservation. Mac sank to her knees, doing her best to keep Nik's head and shoulders off the floor. He'd lost consciousness.
Or worse,
that safe and detached part of her said. “What have you done?” she asked, as calmly as if she and Emily were still on that granite ledge, waiting for the first run.

“I'm trying to—
Ai!
” Emily dodged back as a huge shape descended on the plaza.

“Em!” A flash filled the air, bright enough to make Mac cry out in pain and close her eyes. She hunched over Nik's body, hoping 'Sephe and the others were responsible.

But the hands that tore her away were both irresistibly strong and very familiar.

Dhryn
.

15