Survival (49 page)

Not evolved under such conditions,
Mac pondered.

“In what way, Mackenzie Winifred Elizabeth Wright Connor?” In public, where they might be overheard, Brymn was careful to use her full name. Under the circumstances, Mac wasn't about to argue.

“It seemed—bleak from my apartment,” she explained, gazing about in wonder. Here, the tiles of the walkway extended up the slope of a neighboring wall, their colors forming a mosaic. The mosaic in turn formed an illusion of other walkways and other buildings, stretching into the distance. Mac imagined at least some Dhryn walked right into it. They had a pronounced sense of humor, much of it able to tickle Mac's funny bone as well.

There were a great number of Dhryn walking everywhere she looked. As they passed one another, they'd briefly and seemingly automatically raise up their bodies and heads, then dip again, turning any dense crowd into a blue sea with waves that passed along in remarkable synchrony.

Unlike the media madhouse that had ambushed Brymn at Base—or the rapt curiosity of Base's own inhabitants—Mac found herself treated like any other Dhryn. Those passing her only bowed, as they did to Brymn. She couldn't copy the full movement without losing her step, but Mac lifted her chin each time in acknowledgment. For her neck's sake, she hoped there'd be less bowing in the portion of their tour through the tube system.

Brymn excitedly brandished a map of the system at every opportunity, as if they didn't look sufficiently like tourists.
Another behavior that apparently crossed species' boundaries.
Mac had taken a peek at it before they'd started, trying for a sense of how long they'd be traveling, but Brymn had refused to spoil what he referred to as her anticipation by providing a destination. Given she'd no idea what Brymn would consider a reasonable amount of time for a “tour,” and knowing her hosts by now, Mac had hurriedly stuffed a bag with her three sealable water bottles and some of what she'd christened “cereal bars.” They weren't bars or cereal, being more like flat, wrapped sticks of purple gelatin with thicker lumps of white along one side. But they were the most completely nutritious, to a Human, food item she'd discovered on the Dhryn menu thus far, and, well, pleasantly peppery.

On the principle that her life had become highly unpredictable, Mac had also retrieved her original imp from its bath, tucking it into the waist pouch with the envelope, the imp from Nik, and the letter from Kammie.
No one could say she didn't know how to travel light.

The tube system, according to the map, dove under the planet's surface in a maze of crisscrossing angles. If the scale was accurate, some penetrated the crust to a depth of 50 kilometers, while others skimmed barely beneath the footings of the buildings above. Mac hoped the Dhryn grasp of seismology was on a par with their chemistry, because the overall effect was that Haven consisted of more tunnel than rock.

Not to mention souterrains of every size, from small artificial chambers budding from tube junctions to what appeared to be cavities extensive enough to hold a mid-sized Human city. Altogether, the interior of Haven could well offer the Dhryn more living space than its surface.

Space for how many Dhryn?
Mac ignored the temptation to guess. Salmon were amazingly prolific, but only if you knew where—and when—to do your counting.

“There it is!” Brymn's exclamation was hardly necessary. As they turned the corner at the end of the plaza, the entrance itself loomed in front of them, easily five stories high and wide enough to accommodate several walkways. The clusters of vidbots kept to the sides as aerial traffic zipped in and out without changing speed, implying either reckless abandon or a great deal of space inside.

It made even Brymn seem small.

“Is there a fee?” Mac asked, endeavoring to be the practical one of their twosome. She hadn't seen any evidence of money or credit among Dhryn; her deliveries and supplies were apparently the responsibility of the Progenitors. That didn't mean there wasn't commerce at the service level.

“Fee? For something required by Dhryn?” Brymn was almost light on his feet. “What a Human notion,
Lamisah
.”

“Only kind I have, Brymn.”

He hooted, the volume attracting the first overt attention Mac had noticed. “Shhhh,” she urged, waving her hands at him.

“There is nothing impolite about expressing pleasure in a companion's wit,” he countered, but his voice dropped to something closer to a whisper. Brymn saw her look at the nearest hovering 'bot. “They watch for signs of trouble, not humor, Mac. Visual only.”

Mac slipped her arm around the arm nearest her, his lower right, and chuckled. “Just don't get us arrested—or whatever the Dhryn version is.”

The tube Brymn had selected for the start of their tour was immense. Mac could feel the pulses of warm, humid air climbing upward before they reached the station complex itself and she took off her raincoat, tucking it into her shoulder bag. Ahead, pedestrians boarded disappointingly normal, Human-looking trains, albeit with doors twice as wide. Fliers zoomed by overhead, disappearing beyond the first great downward dip in the distance. Mac presumed they navigated the tube under their own power and resolutely ignored the potential for disaster, in light of the nonchalant way every other being was moving toward their trains.

Mac was standing beside Brymn on one of the long, tiled platforms, waiting their turn to board, when a movement along the wall caught her eye. As the Dhryn ahead in line were now sitting where they'd been standing, she judged there was time to indulge her curiosity before the train left.

There couldn't,
in Mac's estimation,
be an entire world without its version of a rat.

She turned to ask Brymn, but he was deep in conversation with their next-in-line neighbor, again waving his map and generally making sure everyone in earshot knew he was from a colony. The vibrations of what they were saying came up through her feet.

A step to the side gave Mac line of sight. There was a slice of shadow, beginning where the end of a pushcart full of packages waited against the wall.

Mac let her gaze rest on the edge of the darkness, as patiently as she'd ever waited for a fin to reappear by a rock, keeping herself peaceful and still.

But what slipped across the line of darkness and back again wasn't a fin. It was a three-fingered hand, wizened and strange.

No one else appeared to have noticed. Mac eased closer. One step . . . then another . . . keeping her eyes on the boundary of shadow rather than challenge the privacy of the one hiding within.

An odor, thick and foul on the humid air. The breeze of beings passing, distant trains, the breathing of the tube itself carried it to her, then past. Again. Mac wrinkled her nose, knowing that smell.

“Are you all right?” For some reason, she whispered, as if only the being in the shadows and herself should hear. Reaching the limit of light, she slowed, then crouched lower, trying not to seem a threat. “Do you need help?”

The darkness roared at her, followed by a nightmare form that fell against her, knocking her flat. Panic-stricken, Mac fought to free herself, only to realize the weight pressing on her was completely limp, as if lifeless.

Hands tugged at her arms, shoulders, and bag, plucking her from underneath . . .
what?

Even as Brymn half carried her to the train, Mac looked back at the form collapsed on the platform, trying to glimpse what she could of it between the Dhryn walking by; the only attention they paid to the unconscious form being to avoid stepping on it.

It?
Suddenly, Mac had a clear look. A Dhryn lay there, facedown, all its limbs splayed on the pavement. The body—something about it wasn't right. Mac gasped as she saw it was shriveled, the blue skin split everywhere along thin, irregular lines, those lines dark as if oozing some fluid. The arms were no better, mere sticks with the twisted remnants of hands at each end.

One of the hands
moved,
turning so the fingers grasped at empty air.

“Brymn.” Mac resisted, a futile effort against the determined alien. “We have to help him.”

“Hush. You must not see—there is nothing there.” He heaved her in front of him and through the door. Other Dhryn were coming in behind them, blocking Mac's view.

There were windows, if no seats. Mac hurried to the nearest, muttering apologies as she bumped into already seated Dhryn.

But when she looked out to the shadow, the pathetic form was gone.

“We do not think of it.”

“What kind of answer is that?” Mac braced one foot on the luggage rack, the closest thing to a seat on the Dhryn train, and glared at Brymn. Despite the number waiting on the platform, it seemed there was more than enough room. The crowd had spread itself through the various cars. Theirs was almost deserted, shared by the usual handful of 'bots near the ceiling and a group of three Dhryn busy in their own conversation at the far end. They wore the woven blue that reminded Mac of the
Pasunah
crew.

The privacy should have made Brymn more communicative, but so far, he'd refused to admit there'd been a ‘damaged' Dhryn on the platform at all.

“I'm a trained observer, Brymn,” she said, not for the first time. “I know what I saw. What I don't understand is why you won't tell me what was wrong with that Dhryn.”

“A Dhryn is robust—”

Mac held up her hand to stop him. “I know the rest. Are you trying to tell me damaged Dhryn are left to die in the streets? I don't accept that. You may not have—”
even a
word
for medical care,
she realized with frustration, “—but you have sanitation. That being was rotting away!”

Brymn looked as miserable as she'd ever seen him, arms tightly folded, brow ridges lowered, mouth downturned. After meeting her eyes for a long moment, he said very quietly: “It is the Wasting.”

“ ‘Wasting,' ” Mac repeated, leaning forward. “What is it?”

“We do not think of it.” He shivered, looking around as if to see who might overhear.

She had an answer for that. “Speak in English.”

“English?” The Dhryn pulled out the tablet, an almost pathetic eagerness on his face. “Then shall I read the news reports, Mackenzie Winifred Eliza—”

As the Ro had been the other Dhryn reality they preferred “not to think about,” Mac had no intention letting Brymn slide past this without an answer. She pushed aside the tablet, though gently, and shook her head. “Later. Tell me about the Wasting. Please.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Asking questions is what I do.” For some reason, she thought of Nik, of how aggrieved he'd looked whenever puzzled. “I don't like mysteries—or secrets.”

“What if the answer is something you do not like?”

Mac's lips twisted. “I seek the truth. It has nothing to do with likes or dislikes.”

“Ah.” A sigh, barely audible over the soft whoosh of the train through the tube. They were moving at a pace that made Mac queasy each time she glanced at the lights flashing by the windows. “The Wasting is a truth, Mac, which we Dhryn do not like. This is why we do not think of it.” Mac held her breath as he paused, willing him to continue. After a moment, he did.

“I do not know how it is for other species, Mac, but we Dhryn have stages in our lives—moments of great change. The Freshening is the one that turns us from
oomling
to adult.” For some reason, Brymn stroked his eye ridge with one hand. “After the Freshening, next comes the—the nearest word in English is ‘Flowering.' Its timing is less predictable. We can Flower at almost any age and, for most Dhryn, Flowering is a peaceful, almost unnoticed event that marks maturation.” His expression turned suddenly wistful. “A privileged few are transformed and set on the path to becoming Progenitors.”

When he stopped, Mac could almost hear the word he didn't want to add. “But—” she offered.

“But if the Flowering goes wrong, instead of change, there is—degradation. It is the Wasting. The body loses its flesh and proper shape. The mind goes mad. Some—linger. In the colonies, they may wander into the wild areas. Here, it seems they haunt the tunnels.” Brymn's nostrils oozed yellow. Distress.
At the topic, or a memory?
Mac wondered. “None live more than a week or two.”

“And you don't do anything? Aren't there—” Mac bit her lip, then said carefully: “You could ask other species. Some must have knowledge that could help.”

Brymn gave another, deeper sigh. “It is not something one helps, Mac. The Wasted are just that—Dhryn who have failed to be Dhryn. We give them the grace of ignoring their fate.”