Migration (60 page)

She was so out of her depth, she might as well be in the Sinzi’s tank,
Mac thought despairingly.

The room itself was square, with four doors set opposite the ends of the table. No ornament visible to Mac’s eyes. No other furnishings. The lack drew her eyes back to that last, empty seat.

Mac glanced at Nik. He’d followed her look and now gave an almost imperceptible shrug.
Didn’t know either
.

“Are you ready to give us your latest report on the Dhryn, Mac?”

For once, Mac would have preferred “Dr. Connor,” which at least sounded reputable. “Yes, Sinzi-ra.”

Anchen gestured to the empty seat. “Our remaining participant will join us shortly. Implementation of the Myrokynay’s instructions is going very well at last. I’m sure none of us wish to delay it.”

Nods, a few grunts, and one of the suited figures pounded the table with a heavy fist. Mac hoped she’d remember how each indicated agreement. Not that she expected much to what she had to say.

“Mac?”

Automatically, she stood up again, resting her fingertips on the table. Real and artificial. The table felt the same to both. Mac pondered the significance of that as she collected herself. “Parymn Ne Sa Las is dead,” she said. No one moved or spoke, waiting for her to clarify. This wasn’t a group who startled easily.
Good
. “His personality has been replaced.”

“By whose?” Anchen prompted, her head tilted to one side as if one of her minds was more keenly interested than the others. Noad the physician, Mac guessed.

Time to make her first choice,
Mac told herself. If there were Ro hiding in this room, listening to what was said, dare she risk the truth? But would Nik contradict her if she lied? Had he already given his report?
She hated thinking like a spy even more than meetings.
“His personality has been superseded by another’s, called the Vessel. The Vessel is a messenger from a Progenitor, in this case, the one I met on Haven. In practical terms, he is the Progenitor, as She was before Parymn Ne Sa Las Marsu accepted his—fate.”

Even the IU’s representatives had to mutter among themselves about this. Mac gave them a moment, glancing at Nik for his reaction. Nothing showed beyond the glint of his lenses.

“Continue,” Anchen said, silencing the rest. “What does this ‘biological message’ say?”

“The Progenitor—this particular Progenitor—took damage to her ship during the Ro assault on Haven. She’s in hiding. The Vessel doesn’t know where—”

“As if it would tell us!”

Mac looked at who’d interrupted. “Dhryn has no word for lie, Mr. Hollans. The Vessel’s sole function is to communicate as accurately and completely as possible. That information wasn’t supplied for obvious reasons.” She looked to the rest. “The Progenitor has a question for us, for the Interspecies Union. She wants to know what’s happening to her species.”

Someone on the left. “She doesn’t know?”

Another moment of choice
. Mac licked her lips and nodded to herself. “She knows they have begun what she calls the ‘Great Journey.’ As far as I could determine, this journey is something cyclic, a shared compulsion, but it hasn’t occurred in living memory. The Dhryn weren’t expecting it—they hadn’t prepared. She doesn’t know why they’ve embarked on it now, only that they have.”

A shiver of gold-clad fingers. “Where are they going?”

“Home.” Mac held up her hand to stop any questions. “Which doesn’t help, I realize. I don’t know where the Dhryn ‘home’ is, if it isn’t their world of origin. The Vessel doesn’t appear to have that information—maybe the Progenitor Herself doesn’t know. However, my team has uncovered evidence supporting an hypothesis that the Dhryn might have been a migratory species. This Great Journey could be just that. In which case—”

“Migration, is it?” a low bass rumble from an alien to Mac’s right. “We have beasts who migrate on our planet. They respect no boundary, no law. You cannot train them to avoid farmland. We build fences to protect our crops. When those do not work, we are forced to destroy any herd that trespasses.”

Another delegate: “We could dismantle the transects, lock the Dhryn into one system. Trap them.”

“Sacrificing the life in that system!” bellowed another. “Whose will you pick? Mine?”

Worse than Preds scrapping over pizza.
Mac rapped on the table with her gloved knuckles. The strange sound got their attention. “I wasn’t finished,” she told them.

“Please continue, Mac.” Anchen’s eyes took in all those at the table. “There will be no more outbursts.”

“If the Dhryn’s Great Journey is impelled by a migratory drive,” Mac proposed, “it is an adaptation that has helped them survive on a planet, one planet. There, they had a destination—a ‘Home’—where they could take advantage of drastic changes in their environment. None of that applies to a space-faring civilization. There’s no reason to believe the Dhryn have a real destination anymore, that there is a ‘Home’ for them to seek.

“If they are responding to an innate drive,” she continued, “it may simply compel them to keep moving and moving until their ships fail or they run out of supplies. No matter which happens first, the Dhryn will starve and die.” Mac paused. When no one offered comment, she continued: “As that will likely be after they’ve consumed as many worlds of the IU as they can reach, the Dhryn migration must be stopped as quickly as possible.”

“By killing them all!”

“How?” Nik spoke for the first time, face impassive but his voice rising above the muttering. “We don’t know where they are, let alone where they are going. If I understand what you’re saying, Mac, they could begin picking targets at random. How will we find them then?”

“The Dhryn didn’t expect this,” Mac reminded them. Another choice that wasn’t.
She had to try.
“The Progenitor wants to know why it is happening. Migratory behavior is stimulated to begin by certain cues. And ends. If something outside the Dhryn started them moving—provided that Call—maybe something outside the Dhryn can stop them.”

“The assault on their world set them off—that’s what started it,” offered Hollans. “What we need to do is reach the Myrokynay. They can find the Dhryn—end this.”

Another chorus of agreement—from all but Nik, who was watching her.

Brymn hadn’t been ready to transform
. But he had.
He had.

The Ro had lied.

“We don’t know if that was the stimulus,” Mac countered, feeling sweat trickling down her shirt. “After all, there were Dhryn attacks, perhaps by scouts, before the assault on Haven. We need to look more closely.”

“The Myrokynay will stop the Dhryn. You have their word.”

With a wordless cry, Mac was in motion before her eyes fully comprehended what they saw, rushing toward the tall, slim,
familiar
figure standing in the now open doorway behind the N’not’k. She was only dimly aware of Nik surging to his feet, of the excited rumble of voices . . .
None of it mattered.

“Emily!”

But the face which turned in answer was the image from the Ro message: cheeks sunken, eyes like dark pits, skin cracked and shadowed. Her hair hung limp and dull with filth. Her body? A skeleton, barely filling its mockery of clothing. And the clothing? Torn and ragged, its rents going deeper than fabric, revealing tears in her flesh that held nothing but space and wheeling stars.

Mac didn’t hesitate, arms out to gather in her friend.

But the face turned away.

The body walked to the final empty seat at the table, sitting as if nothing and no one else existed.

“The Myrokynay will be gratified you have completed the signaling device,” Emily stated in that clear, dead voice. “They will respond to your messages through that medium, and through myself.”

Anchen made a graceful gesture. “It was only with your assistance that we were successful, Dr. Mamani. You have our gratitude.”

As if from a great distance, Mac heard her own voice, strange and broken. “Emily—Em? It’s me. It’s Mac.”

Hollans said something; she couldn’t hear it, didn’t know if it was impatient or kind. Someone, it was Nik, took her arm, gently but firmly, and led her from the room.

Once outside, Mac came to her senses. She whirled and tried to go back. Nik stopped her. “Not now, Mac. Please,” he pleaded.

Sing-li hovered. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Emily! Didn’t you see her?” Mac demanded, struggling wildly against Nik’s grip. She freed one hand and struck at his face. He caught the blow, holding her wrist. “She needs a doctor—help me, Sing-li!”

“Nik?” Sing-li was frowning. “What’s all this? Dr. Mamani?”

Mac threw her weight back, tried to break free. Nik held on. “Stop it, Mac. Stop! Gods, will you let it go a minute? I don’t want to hurt you.”

The desperate tone penetrated, when the words meant nothing. Mac shuddered and stood still. “It was Emily.”

“I know. I saw. Something’s terribly wrong with her. We’ll get help—but we can’t interrupt them. We can’t force her. She’s still connected to the Ro, to no-space. Do you understand me, Mac? We have to wait.”

Mac stared up at Nik, eyes swimming with tears. “She didn’t know me.”

He gathered her in his arms like something inexpressibly fragile. “We’ll get Emily back,” he promised, lips against her hair. “She’s alive, Mac. She’s here. On Earth. It’s a start.”

“They’ve taken too much of her,” Mac whispered.

Nik heard. “Let the medical team worry about that.” He lifted her chin so Mac had to look at him. “You study salmon, remember?”

“Do I?”

“That’s the rumor.” Ignoring an interested Sing-li, Nik bent and kissed her on the mouth, once, very soundly. Mac’s eyes widened until she felt like an owl. “Go to your quarters, Mac,” he said gently.

It was all Mac could do not to look at that door, knowing who was behind it. “I’m in the IU now, not a citizen of Sol, of Earth. You told me I can’t—I can’t ask for help. But, Nik, I—”

He didn’t let her finish. “You don’t need to ask. I’ll keep an eye on our Dr. Mamani and find out what I can.” A flash of something dangerous in his eyes. “Including why her return was kept from the Ministry until now. I don’t like surprises, especially from allies.” Nik paused. “But, Mac, I’m asking you a favor in return. Please. Go.”

She gave in. “You be careful.”

“I will. Sing-li?”

“I’ve got her.”

Feeling remarkably like an unwanted parcel—which was infinitely better than feeling like an unwanted friend—Mac let Sing-li escort her to the lift.

“No.”

Mac narrowed her eyes. “ ‘No,’ as in you think you can stop me?”

“ ‘No,’ as in you aren’t going anywhere without me.” She made an exasperated sound. “You can stand by the door. You like that.”

Sing-li looked anything but willing to negotiate. He tapped his weapon. “No.”

“Fine.” Mac knocked on Mudge’s door. “But he’s not going to like having you wake him up, too.”

“I’ll take my chances, Mac.”

The left hand door to Mudge’s quarters opened a crack. Mac waved at a bleary eyeball.

“Norcoast? What—?” Mudge opened the door the rest of the way. He wore, Mac noted, managing not to smile, one of the Sinzi’s elegant nightgowns.

“May we come in?” she asked.

“We?” Mudge glared at the Ministry guard. “Certainly not. It’s three A.M!”

Ignoring his protest, Mac started walking inside. “I know. Hence the chaperon,” she told him. “The Sinzi-ra doesn’t approve of fraternization.”

Blushing furiously, Mudge moved out of the way. Mac and Sing-li followed. “At least let me put something on,” their host muttered, hurrying to the other room as fast as he could move through the sand. To his closet, to be exact, closing the door behind him.

Mac studied the place, curious. Sure enough, the room was the mirror-image of hers, right to its impossible table of fish. She noted the arrangement of anemone and corals—same view as hers as well. Feeling slightly foolish, she went to the washroom and grabbed the wrap and extra nightgown she expected would be there.
Not going to explain,
she vowed, aware of Sing-li’s rapt attention as she used the garments to cover the table.

But his attention wasn’t concerning her compulsion to redecorate. “So, Mac. How long have you and Nik been—?”

Mac’s look dared him to continue. Sing-li wisely resumed his task of silent looming.
Something,
she realized,
being in black armor allowed a large Human to do rather well.

Nik had wanted her back in her room. Mac herself wanted nothing more than her jelly-bed and some time to think—or blissful oblivion. But there wasn’t time.

“Now,” Mudge blustered, “what’s so important it can’t wait till dawn at least?” As he said this walking out of a closet, it was less impressive than he’d likely hoped.