Survival

As Brymn prepared to run for his life, the man calmly reached down and pulled one end of the mattress. Hard. The mattress, already shredded, gave way entirely—taking one of the Dhryn’s pillarlike feet with it. The alien toppled on his side like a crab tossed by a gull.

Before he could wriggle himself up again, Mac cupped her hands around her mouth and bellowed over his piteous—and loud—exclamations: “It was only a recording! You’re safe. Brymn! Calm—” She found herself yelling into a quiet room and shut up.

Mac walked to where the Dhryn could see her. His small mouth was working, as if he couldn’t help trying to speak. The vivid blue membrane flickered across his yellow-irised eyes with almost strobelike speed. She found it disconcerting and was glad when Nik joined her, going to one knee so he was face-to-face with the alien. “It’s been two days since you were attacked,” he informed Brymn, talking slowly and distinctly. “Do you require any care, Honorable Delegate?”

The flickering slowed. “Mackenzie . . . Winifred . . . Elizabeth . . . Wright . . . Connor . . . ?” the words came out punctuated by faint gasps. His eyes seemed to be searching for her without success; she wondered if the moving eyelids impaired his sight. “Mac?”

Nik leaned forward, in range of those still-restless arms. Without the suit coat to disguise it, he was built like a swimmer, with that distinctively rounded cap of muscle on each shoulder and strong curves along both back and upper chest. Emily would approve, Mac knew. For a Human, his was not a small or insignificant form, yet he was dwarfed by the more massive Dhryn.

A very large, very anxious archaeologist. The eyelids slowed to a mere nervous-looking twitch. “Nikolai Piotr Trojanowski,” Brymn said earnestly, his voice softer but prone to tremble. “We are not safe here. None of us. The Ro . . .” The violent shudder that accompanied the word seemed a reflex. “They are dangerous, evil creatures.”

It took both of them to steady the Dhryn as he rose, then settled back down more comfortably, two hands searching for and finding a bare patch of floor on which to balance his body. Touching his torso and arm was like taking his hand, Mac found. The skin was like sun-warmed rubber, dry and with an underlying musculature. This close, he had a delicate, floral scent. Mac recognized it. Her bottle of lily of the valley must have been a casualty of the attack.

“What happened?” she blurted. “After you left my office, I mean. And why did you leave?” she added, earning a slight frown from Nik, doubtless about to conduct his own, more professional interrogation.

Brymn folded his arms in an intricate pattern. Sitting, his face wasn’t much higher than Mac’s own. Right now, she couldn’t read any expression on it that made sense to her. At least his eyelids had stopped flashing that blue blankness across his eyes. “I left because you did, Mackenzie Winifred Elizabeth Wright Connor.”

“Here. I had a great deal of reading to do. The opportunity to access—” his voice faded, then strengthened, “—my apologies for my condition. I will require a few more hours to recuperate fully.” A look of surprise. “You must have disturbed my hathis, healing sleep.”

“Ah. I was saying, I came here to read the Human journals I’d requested. When attempting to reconstruct the development of theories, I prefer to study the research in the original language of the author.”

Implying he read more than English and Instella, Mac decided. Her species might appear—and act—united to those from other worlds, but there had never been a homogenization of cultures or tongues at dirt level. Part stubborn habit and part a celebration of distinctiveness. She’d read somewhere that humanity’s extra-Sol settlements were pretty much the same: Instella with company and tradition at home.

The biologist in her approved. Just as a population’s survival improved with a variety of inheritable traits, Mac suspected a civilization’s ability to cope with change was enhanced by having a choice of approach. She’d lost the debate to Emily when she’d admitted to not comparing data on humanity with that of other sentient species. As usual, her friend had scoffed at what she called Mac’s parochial attitude. There was more to the universe than opposable thumbs and nose hair, she’d insist.

Nik sent her a warning look before Mac could say a word, then crossed his arms over his chest. Meaningful mimicry of the Dhryn or thoughtless gesture? Mac felt like tossing dice.

Brymn blinked and Mac thought he looked startled. So was she. She narrowed her eyes and studied Nik. He looked solemn, almost grave, but she thought there was a bit of smugness in his expression as well.

“It is, however,” Nik interrupted without missing a beat, “my duty to inform you that your visitor’s visa has been revoked—effective immediately. You will be escorted from Earth and Sol System within the hour.”

Rather than distress, Brymn’s face assumed a look of great dignity. He unfolded four arms and spread them widely. “You see, Mac? I told you your government considered my mission of great importance. They have assigned an erumisah—a decision maker of power—as my companion and guide.” He proffered Nik one of his rising bows. “I am most gratified.”

Mac wasn’t surprised to see Nik take this in stride. He must be used to dealing with cultures as varied as their biologies. “Then you will understand, Honorable Delegate,” he said, “why I cannot permit you to remain here, potentially drawing more dangerous attention from these ‘Ro,’ unless you are willing to provide whatever information you can to help us.”

The arms wrapped back around the torso and Brymn looked at her, then at Nik, then at her again. “It is not permitted to speak of them,” he began. Mac felt the vibration through the floor as he uttered something more in the infrasound and held up her hand to silence the Dhryn.

“We can’t hear that,” she advised him, then remembered what Brymn had told her about the lack of Dhryn biologists. “Our ears are not adapted to respond to the same range of sound frequencies as yours, Brymn.”

He looked startled and glanced at Nikolai as if seeking confirmation. The man nodded. “We feel vibrations that tell us you are making certain sounds, but not what you are saying. If we need to hear them to understand you, Honorable Delegate, we’ll have to bring in the appropriate audio equipment.”

“This is fascinating. Let us find out—” The Dhryn uttered a series of hoots, each lower in pitch than the preceding. He hit some lovely bass notes Mac was reasonably sure no Human voice could reach unassisted, then went deeper still. Suddenly, though his mouth appeared to be making a sound, she couldn’t hear it. Mac raised her hand at the same instant Nik lifted his. Brymn closed his mouth, his eyes wide with what appeared to be astonishment. “You’re deaf!” he exclaimed.

Mac dredged up memories of choral practice, took a deep breath, and did her best to nail a high C. From Nik’s pained expression, she mangled it nicely, but Brymn’s brow ridges wrinkled at the edges. “And I must also be deaf,” he admitted. “This is most—awkward. You have never heard my full voice. Or the foul tongue of the Ro. Then how—?”

Another shudder ran through his arms. “It was realistic enough. But do not worry about our conversations, my lamisah. From this moment, I speak to you as if you were an oomling. It isn’t respectful, but you need not worry about being deaf.”

Nik’s mouth quirked, but he bowed slightly. “You are most kind. For our part, we’ll avoid shrill.” Mac might have blushed, but the man went on immediately. “Am I right to say one or more of these Ro were waiting here when you arrived?”

“I was ambushed,” Brymn agreed, fingers spasming open and closed. “With no time to call for help, nowhere to flee. I regret the damage to your quarters, Mackenzie Winifred Eliz—”

None of this mattered. “Why did they take Emily?” Mac interrupted, well past impatient. “Where would they take her?” The redundant Will they hurt her? died on her lips. Nik had said the blood on the walls had been Emily’s alone.

“Emily Ma—” Perhaps the Dhryn had learned to read Human expressions. “She’s gone? This is dreadful!” Despite his promise to keep his voice within human hearing, Mac felt the hairs on her arms rising and the floor vibrate. Emotional distress, she guessed, feeling sufficient of her own.

Mac suspected Nik would have preferred to have other answers from the Dhryn first, but he gave no outward sign of it. “Dr. Mamani’s quarters were left in a similar state,” he told Brymn, indicating the ruin of Mac’s living room. “We’ve evidence she was involved in a struggle with the same type of beings as left you bound here, possibly at the same time. We’re very concerned about her well-being. Anything you could tell us to help direct our search . . .” He let his voice trail away hopefully.

“I am so sorry,” Brymn said to Mac, his lips drawn down at the corners. Moisture glistened in his nostrils. More briskly: “You said this happened two days ago? Standard or Terran days? Wait, no matter. They differ by mere minutes. So.” He lifted his supporting hands from the floor and rose to a stand. “I know little beyond rumor and legend, my lamisah, but we believe the atmosphere the Ro require can sustain our species. I presume this means yours as well.”

A new nightmare. Mac looked desperately at Nik, who did his best to look reassuring. “It seems unlikely they’d take such risks if their goal was supper, Brymn,” he pointed out.

But the Dhryn rocked his big head from side to side, a passable imitation of the Human gesture. “My people have searched for it, but to no avail. They are as much a mystery to us now as when they first began to harass our worlds.”

Brymn brought his arms down again. “We are both scientists, Mac. But I must tell you, there are things which defy logical analysis. Such is the terrible malady the Ro inflict on my species. They use their stealth technology to slip through our defenses, but not to steal valuables or attack our cities. No, they come to terrorize our oomlings, touching them as they sleep . . . waking them with their hideous voices . . . taking those they wish and leaving the others bound as I was.” Mac couldn’t help looking up to where the remnants of the painful webbing scarred her ceiling. “Only the most rigorous protections now keep the Ro at bay.” A heavy sigh. “Beyond the vanishing of oomlings and those left to suffer, we know nothing more.”

Nik had finished his call and was listening intently. When Brymn stopped, his passion spent, he asked: “Why haven’t the Dhryn reported any of this to the Interspecies Union?”

Mac caught the phrasing. He’d said almost those exact words when first asked about the attack. In a Human, it would be a statement of emotional preference, a plea to avoid a difficult or upsetting memory. From an alien, might it mean something else—perhaps be literally true? Could Dhryn deliberately pick and choose what they would deal with in life, and refuse to think about the rest? A willing blindness?

Waiting didn’t get any easier. While Brymn had packed and Nik made his “arrangements” for their move to the IU Consulate, Mac had sat here in the gallery. She’d managed to force down a tasteless supper, reading in fits and starts. She hadn’t managed to ignore her fear of what was sending them away.

“That you could detect,” she corrected, shutting down her ’screen. He didn’t appear surprised. Neither was she. Brymn hadn’t been able to tell them much more about the Ro or the Null or whatever she was to call them now. The Dhryn, as a species, apparently felt the taking of precautions to protect their oomlings was sufficient and the entire existence of the invaders should now be ignored unless annoying Humans insisted on discussing it. But one thing was clear. The technology that had hidden her intruder from her eyes worked very well indeed to evade any other form of looking tried so far.

Nik dropped into the seat opposite her, looking decidedly rumpled. It wasn’t his clothing, back to its bureaucratic perfection, she thought, so much as the strain around his eyes. Had he slept at all since arriving at Field Station Six? “Where have I been, my dear Dr. Connor?” Nik echoed, just short of a growl. He leaned the chair back, holding the table with both hands. “I’ve been doing my utmost to convince several levels of idiots that there could be such a thing as a starship able to fool our sensors. Then came the interesting part of convincing them that, even if they couldn’t see it—which they wouldn’t—it was still most likely in orbit around our Moon and did they not find it reasonable to tighten security at every possible point? Which they wouldn’t without seeing the invisible ship! Do you want me to go on?”

Mac grinned and shoved her bottle of iced guava in his direction. “Not really. I’m familiar with the rock and a hard place syndrome. Don’t forget, I deal with the Wilderness Trust to find ways to do research without breaking rules designed to prevent any such thing.”

Nik put the bottle to his lips and drank half in one long gulp. Mac guessed he would have preferred something other than juice. “Thanks. How do you manage?” he asked, handing it back.

Emily was fighting for her life on an invisible alien ship, a mysterious threat was facing the Human, as well as other, species, at any second she’d be leaving her home and responsibilities for who knew what—and here she was, trading bottle and banter with this—this . . .

Mac took another, deeper look. With this close-to-exhaustion, rather decent public servant who was in all likelihood also trying to find a moment without worrying about all of the above. And likely more. Mac was very glad not to have the secrets that rode Nikolai Trojanowski’s back. So she eased her smile into something more normal and added: “In case you haven’t noticed, Nik. My charm, that is.”

But he undid all the good of her analysis and intentions by offering her no smile at all in return. Behind his lenses, his eyes, a paler hazel in the gallery lights, were unreadable. “It doesn’t matter what I notice, Dr. Connor. You can’t afford to get close to anyone right now,” he told her. “There’s too much at stake. I warned you before, for your own good. I’ll keep doing it.” He stood. “I’d better see what’s keeping Brymn.”

What did you expect? Mac scolded herself. She was the first to admit she didn’t do meaningless babble well, although she didn’t think she’d said anything to send Nik bolting from her company. Mac’s social conversations normally slowed to a cautious crawl the moment they meant something to her. Emily? She was a different story. Em had the gift of gab, as Mac’s father called it, able to send any conversation into pleasant, freewheeling innuendo.

The gift of gab. Mac brought up her ’screen again, but couldn’t concentrate on the list hovering before her. Don’t get close to anyone? He hadn’t meant himself, not entirely. He’d meant Emily.

Mac could understand her friend not bothering to tell her about offworld trips. Heaven knows, Mac had made her lack of interest in anything extraterrestrial abundantly clear on too many occasions. But not once Brymn arrived. It would have been natural—more than natural, unavoidable—for Em to offer whatever she knew abut the Dhryn to help Mac work this all out.

Mac shuddered. She’d been flirting with someone who thought such terrible things for a living. “Don’t get close.” Had Nik been warning her, or merely revealing his own survival strategy?

Whichever it was, Mac didn’t like it. Any of it. She planned to give Emily Mamani a piece of her mind the next time she saw her. After they hugged to be sure each was whole.

She sniffed, detecting the distinct odor of old salmon and new soap, then found a smile, reaching up to pat Seung’s hand on her shoulder. “I will be. Tired. Waiting for answers. Just like everyone else here.”

Seung gave her a final squeeze, then slid into the chair beside Mac. He moved like the animals he loved so much, the great orcas and sharks, possessing a rare combination of grace and impulsive speed. His worshipful students regularly arranged athletic competitions with other research groups, counting on Seung to win the prize, whether pizza, beer, or mainland transport on a weekend. Unfortunately for their hopes, as often as not he’d be called away seconds before the finish, leaving the Preds to gaze wistfully after their defaulted winnings before following their professor back to work.

Years outdoors and both on and in the water had mottled Seung’s naturally tan skin with mahogany. Against its rich color, his eyes were a startling blue. The eyes of a hawk, Mac had always thought, full of bold curiosity and challenge. Even now, when he was obviously concerned for her, she recognized both and smiled again. “You want to know why I asked for the pulse,” she guessed.

“The AudioCell would love to get their mikes on him—he must emit in that range too, right? Wonder if he’d like to listen to some of our buddies out there.” “Out there” for Seung being the white-capped Pacific showing through the gallery windows.

Mac warmed to the enthusiasm in his voice. This was why they were here, to ask questions and puzzle out answers. “He might. We’ve no time now—scheduled to head for the mainland tonight—but if you could send me a recording, I’d be happy to play it to him and let you know what he says about it.”

“That’d be great. I’ll get on it—” He got up. “By the way, Kammie sent this down. Probably already complaining about me.” His face wrinkled in another grin as he passed Mac a curled slip of mem-paper. “You take care and we’ll try not to burn the place down while you’re gone.”

She’d forgotten about the soil assay. Kammie must have started it immediately to have finished by now. Mac burned with curiosity, but tucked the slip away in a pocket that she buttoned closed. Later.

The weather had remained generous, bright, and warm—all of which promised heavier rains tomorrow. For now, long rays of afternoon sunlight streamed across the tables and floors, warming backs and gatherings. One ray crossed in front of Mac; she laid her hand within its cheerful glow. Through the window, she could see the light frosting the tops of waves as far as the horizon. The water might be rough for anyone skimming its surface, but the effect was breathtaking. Not a cloud in sight.

Another time, Mac wouldn’t have noticed, but almost the first thing she’d read while waiting was the essay concerning invisibility technology. The refraction of light around an object was one technique. Not perfected, not by Humans at any rate. The student author hadn’t been impressed.

But Mac now found her attention caught by anything about light that wasn’t normal or easily explained. She kept her hand in the sunbeam, staring at it. The light brightened, then dimmed a second time. It dimmed slightly more. Her skin felt chilled.

Mac glanced up. The window, really a transparent wall, arched overhead to form part of the ceiling. The sky was that achingly blue color that looked ridiculous in paintings. No clouds. No haze.

Her shoulders hunched in reflex, her imagination painting a regrettably vivid image of the outer skin of Pod Three being coated by Ro. Ro about to find their way in . . .

“There you are, Mackenzie Winifred Elizabeth Wright Connor!” The bass bellow turned every head, including Mac’s, to the doorway where Brymn stood resplendent in yellow and black silk. With his slanted body posture and multiple limbs, this choice cemented an uncanny resemblance to an overweight honeybee and Mac could hear several amused comments, albeit tactfully quiet ones, being shared around the room.

Hand bathed in a beam of varying light, Mac was in no mood to laugh. Was she going crazy, or the only one to see it? It took her less than a split second to decide that being wrong wouldn’t matter—but being right? She lunged to her feet, making sure her imp was safe in another buttoned pocket, and ran for the alarm on the near wall. Ignoring the questions flying at her, she punched the control, then pressed her back against the wall, wondering what on Earth to do next.

The alarm had visual and audio components, both designed to rouse the most groggy student and penetrate every corner of Base. Yellow framed doorways and emergency exits. Strobes of red flashed across the floor. A modulated hum grated—against Human senses at least—pitched high and annoying, but changing rhythmically in volume so people could shout commands and be heard.

Not that commands were necessary. The gallery erupted in motion. Although there were false alarms every so often, usually after a bar run, the events of the last few days had left everyone on edge. No one hesitated now. The pounding of feet shook the pod floor as staff and students ran for the exits.

The entire room was moving. Out the window, the horizon tilted to an impossible ten degrees and kept going . . . twenty . . . Mac wrapped her arms around a support pillar as tables, chairs, cutlery, dishes, and people began sliding toward the kitchen.

Impossible! Pod Three was permanently anchored to the ocean floor. Even a collision wouldn’t lift it like this, and they would have heard one—felt it. Mac let go of the pillar and, ignoring the shouts of protest from those at the door, ran diagonally across the sloping floor toward the far end of the window wall. She had to see what was happening to the rest of Base.

Mac pressed her face against the transparency and cursed. Only Pod Two was visible from here, and it was . . . it was rising! The walkways, normally detached and stored before the pods were raised for the winter, were being pulled up as well, people clinging to railings for dear life. As she watched, unable to do more than pound her fists on the wall, the walkways twisted and split, spilling their Human contents into the Pacific. She could see heads bobbing in the water . . . water that was starting to lip at the wall in front of her.