Survival

Mac, her nose touching her left knee, thought this should be obvious even to a Dhryn, but as she uncurled, she wheezed: “Exercising.”

Brymn walked around her as she continued to lift her head and shoulders from the floor and lower them again. He leaned up and down with her, as if keeping her face in focus, arms carefully folded. “Is this pleasant?”

Surprised into a laugh, Mac gave up. She tucked her chest to her bent knees and wrapped her arms tightly around her legs, feeling the stretch in her lower back as she squeezed. “It’s better than the alternative,” she informed the alien. “Don’t your muscles atrophy without regular use?”

This was a hint, Mac knew. Now that Brymn was allowed to visit her on the Pasunah, he preferred to stay with her. She’d had to insist on privacy while she slept-—or rather crashed—yesterday, a blissful oblivion that lasted about three and a half hours before he’d walked in to find out how much sleep a Human required and was she finished?

Not that she’d minded the company, but she’d been groggy enough to keep the conversation to safe, neutral topics like the difference between Coho and King salmon, Brymn countering with an enthused lecture on ways to detect technological remains, such as electronics, under layers of soil and rock.

With the perversity of an exhausted body granted peace, Mac hadn’t been able to fall asleep right away. The ’fix had raced along her nerves for restless hours. Then, when she had dozed off . . .

She flushed, remembering she’d dreamed hazel eyes and a kiss . . . dreamed warm breath along her neck . . . dreamed more and more until the heat of her body had awakened her to lie gasping and alone. Staring at the ceiling, bright with the Pasunah’s version of morning instead of any hope of home, Mac had judged herself a pathetic fool. It hadn’t been passion. It had been a release of tension between virtual strangers, perhaps attracted to one another, nothing more.

She’d known herself vulnerable at the same time. She hadn’t been caught in such intense fantasy about anyone since Sam. What did it say about a woman whose fantasy lovers died after a kiss?

Mac focused on Brymn. Exercise surprised him? She’d assumed the Dhryn had evolved under heavier gravity, but that in the Pasunah was set to what felt Earth normal. Through that thick skin, it was impossible to tell which was a lump of muscle and which of fat. “How often do you need to eat?” she asked, getting to her feet while ignoring the immediate growling of her stomach. She’d manage on nutrient bars until Haven. The Pasunah’s crew was unwilling or unable to understand her request for analytical equipment. After their dessert, Mac had no intention of further personal experimentation.

“Adults do not become hungry until food is within reach. To feel otherwise would be impractical. Oomlings are preoccupied with the seeking of food—but they have little else to do.”

Mac chuckled. “Reminds me of students.” Which reminded her of less happy things, wiping the smile from her lips. What was happening back home?

Today, before they reached Haven—who knew what access she’d have to Brymn there?—it was time to discuss what they hadn’t yesterday. Things less safe and definitely not neutral. “Did you get an answer about the com packet?” Mac asked, dropping into a chair. Intersystem communications traveled the transects as packets, signals collected at an entry, then cued to a particular exit. Regular and reliable. If you had access to the result.

“There have been several since we entered Haven,” he told her, but his expression turned sober. Not a good sign. “I’m told they go directly to Haven for distribution and only those affecting the operation of this ship within the system would be shunted to us.” Some of her disappointment must have shown, for he offered: “I can ask again.”

Mac took a long drink of water—imagining it tasted better after being filtered through several layers of fabric—and shook her head. “Getting them faster won’t change what’s happened. And there’s no guarantee a packet to Haven would carry news from Earth anyway.”

No guarantee, although Mac couldn’t help but hope. Maybe Nik or the Ministry would find a way to send her a message. Maybe they’d plant something in the news for her benefit, something broadcast so widely it offered no clues to the Ro, but might reassure her.

The more pragmatic part of her, the part that relied on Mac first and the universe second, disagreed. Maybe they wouldn’t bother. After all, she was here now, where they’d wanted her to be. Mac wasn’t naïve enough to imagine her peace of mind was important in the larger scheme of things, although being informed about other attacks by the Ro could be useful.

“Where is Haven in relation to the attacks?” she asked Brymn, very aware of the Ministry envelope in the waist pouch she now wore waking or sleeping. Then Mac realized her mistake and blushed. Distance was irrelevant, given the attacks were along the same transect.

But the Dhryn, perhaps as little attuned to the rigors of space travel as she, didn’t think it a foolish question. “The reports coming from the Consulate were of locations farther and farther from here. More importantly, Mac, the Progenitors of Haven have recorded no attempt against Dhryn for several years. Here you are as safe as any oomling. It is why we came to this place, over all others. For you.”

Farther from the recent attacks meant closer to the Chasm. Mac took another, more deliberate swallow. In a way, it helped that the invisible Ro were more frightening than any imagined ghouls could be. Nik—perhaps others at the Ministry—saw a connection. She didn’t attempt to make one, not yet, not on so little evidence. Finding the Ro homeworld, learning how the Dhryn successfully resisted them, those were her goals. Fortunately, she had Brymn for help. “What’s Haven like?”

“I have no idea.” Her sequined, brightly garbed archaeologist actually beamed. “I haven’t been to the Dhryn home as an adult, Mac. I was sent to a colony shortly after Freshening.”

“My attempt at the real word.” He boomed something that went lower and lower, then became silent. “Freshening is like your Human passage from child to functioning adult. Emily Mamani was kind enough to explain how this affects Human behavior. If you forgive me, it’s quite bizarre, Lamisah. What is your word?”

“Puberty,” Mac supplied. She fought back a rush of questions about Emily to focus on the more pressing issue. “Are you familiar at all with Haven or its Progenitors?”

“I’ve seen images, but I’m sure they fail to reveal the true beauty of the place. This is as much an adventure for me as for you, Mac! We will be tourists together and explore this magnificent world.”

Had Brymn’s distinctiveness misled her? To a Human, individual style was a mark of self-confidence. Was it to a Dhryn? To a Human, being the first Dhryn to set foot on Earth imbued Brymn with importance. Did it to other Dhryn?

Mac sank back in her chair. At least Brymn hadn’t coauthored “Chasm Ghouls—They Exist and Speak to Me.” As far as she knew.

He might be an alien crackpot, but he’d learned to read Human expressions. “Something’s wrong, Mac. What did I say?”

There was no way to be tactful about it—and lives, including his, might be at stake. Mac straightened and looked Brymn in the eyes. “I don’t mean to insult you, Brymn, and I’m grateful—more than I can say—for the help you’ve given me. But I need to know. What’s your status among other Dhryn?”

Mac heard grathnu as a Dhryn word, as she did oomling, implying her mind held no equivalents for it in English or Instella. “Let’s not assume anything between us is obvious,” she cautioned. “What’s grathnu?”

Two pairs of hands danced in the air, making a convoluted pattern ending in a paired clap. “The creation of life. One must earn the honor. I have not yet accomplished enough in my life so Brymn is all my name. But you. Surely you have served in grathnu abundantly, to become Mackenzie Winifred Elizabeth Wright Connor.”

In Dhryn terms, she’d been listing her sexual exploits? Mac didn’t simply blush. Her face burned. Who else knew about this?

“Is there a misunderstanding?” Before Mac could possibly form a reply to that, Brymn went on anxiously: “I hope not. Your accomplishments require other Dhryn to treat you with respect and do their best to accommodate your needs. Our time on Haven will be much less comfortable and productive if I have been mistaken.”

“Of course you are,” Brymn said, eyes wide. Surprise? “Otherwise, you would not be here. Only that which is Dhryn may enter the home system.”

Mac had prided herself on avoiding any major pitfalls during her conversations with Brymn. In fact, she’d begun to think herself rather talented at this interspecies’ communication stuff.

He looked uneasy, but obliged. “When it is necessary for the survival of oomlings to think about the Ro, it is clear that all which opposes the Ro is Dhryn. I reported your deeds and your bravery—which were far beyond my own. I gave them all of your names. The Progenitors named you lamisah, ally, to all Dhryn. You, Mackenzie Winifred Elizabeth Wright Connor, are Dhryn!” He became passionate throughout this little speech, rising to his feet, his eyes almost flashing with enthusiasm. Then, a little doubt crept into Brymn’s expression. “Did I misunderstand?”

Mac crossed her fingers, a childhood habit. “No, no,” she said briskly. “You were quite right. I was only checking that the Dhryn properly appreciated my—accomplishments. Thank you. You’ve set my mind at ease.”

“I am most gratified.” Brymn settled himself, then went on in a very matter-of-fact voice: “Of course, being Dhryn, you must adhere to Dhryn ways while on Haven.” He shrugged all his shoulders as if admitting an impossibility, adding: “Or appear to do so. It’s fortunate you learned to speak fluently before our arrival. Home system Dhryn would find it alarming to meet anyone who could not communicate properly.” His little mouth assumed a grim line. “We don’t want to alarm them.”

Mac folded her hands on her lap and studied how the fingers laced together. Ten fingers, not six, twelve, or twenty-one. How wide a gulf in comprehension did those numbers represent? “You told Emily this, didn’t you.” It wasn’t a question. It couldn’t be, not when it answered too many. Why the sub-teach disguised as personal logs . . . why the logs cued to Mac’s password . . . why Emily Mamani chose to work with her and salmon instead of studying manatees . . .

As much as the Ministry and Nikolai Trojanowski had taken advantage of events to get Mac here, where no Human had been, Emily Mamani and her “allies” had wanted her here even more, and planned for years to achieve it.

“It’s time you told me everything, Brymn,” Mac said in a tone that expected complete and total compliance. “Starting with where you met Emily. And how.”

It had been a classic Emily pickup: transit station, spots a likely guy waiting and looking bored, asks directions to somewhere very close by, a place that turns out to be a cozy bar with Emily’s favorite music filling the dance floor. A playful night ensues. Mac found it eerie, hearing about something—someone—so familiar through the interpretation of a stranger.

Oh, there was a modification or two. Brymn had already been in a cozy bar, waiting for a skim ride out to an archaeological dig on Renold 20. He’d been pleasantly surprised to be approached by a Human of culture and education, even more surprised when she’d asked directions to the same dig. Another scholar, he’d thought. A common interest.

Interest? With a sour taste in her mouth, Mac thought of Emily falling asleep in her office. Exhaustion? More likely the boredom of hours pretending to read what she’d already read.

Brymn, used to being alone, had been easy to charm. He’d seen it as a mutual regard and growing friendship. Mac, hearing the steps Emily took to win his confidence, gain access to his work, saw it as something else.

Emily had chosen Brymn as her target—a Dhryn crazy enough to work on his own, far from his kind. Mac wondered if any Dhryn would have done, but it didn’t matter. Here was one ripe for the taking.

Not that Mac let her thoughts interrupt Brymn’s recital. She let him keep talking, taking sips from her water bottle, eventually pulling up her knees so she could watch him over the top of that barrier. He needed no encouragement to continue; a natural storyteller who must rarely have an audience. Emily’s rapt attention must have been intoxicating.

Brymn and Emily made plans to meet in a few months and work together. She would help Brymn with his work and teach him English so he could directly access the material of those Human researchers who didn’t publish in Instella. Meanwhile she was building a dictionary of Dhryn and wished to test terms and grammar on him.

His work. Mac knew it from her readings, but it was clearer described this way, filled with the fervor academic writing leached away. The Dhryn was hunting through the past of space-faring species, looking for evidence of the so-called Moment—the date of the destruction of the worlds within the Chasm. His hypothesis? That there had been transects connecting these worlds, and these had failed during the same catastrophe, stranding species where they hadn’t evolved.

No one doubted there had been transects—or the technology to develop them—before. The discovery by the Sinzi proved at least the beginnings had been around for over three thousand standard years. But had such a network existed within the Chasm and beyond? Could all of those transects have failed at a single point in time? If so, was that the cause of the disaster that had befallen all of those worlds?

Even “Chasm Ghouls—They Exist and Speak to Me” devoted less than a footnote to the idea. Despite his years of searching, Brymn had yet to find a single shred of evidence.

Her project. Emily had been coy, but eventually Brymn had convinced her—hah!—to admit they shared a related goal. She hoped to prove the existence of the Survivors, an entire species rumored to have escaped the Chasm. Legend painted the Survivors with everything from advanced technology to a godlike beauty no matter your physical preference. Emily’s expectations were simpler. If such existed, they might be able to explain the mystery of the Chasm once and for all.

Were the Survivors the Ro? Had Emily found them, or they her? Regardless, Mac had a question of her own. Had they escaped the annihilation of life on those hundreds of worlds—or been its cause?

Perhaps Emily would have chosen to work with manatees and travel to the Dhryn home system herself—they might never have met—but for a single consequence of teaching Brymn English. Among the obscure publications in that language, he discovered a series by that curiosity to Dhryn, a biologist. Not any biologist, but one working on how species survived catastrophic events. He expressed the desire to meet this scientist.

She could only imagine what had gone through Emily’s mind then. Why was the Dhryn interested in an obscure salmon researcher’s work? Was this a problem, or an opportunity?

Brymn went on, blithely unaware of the impact of his retelling of events on his audience, liberally adding mentions of the weather at each dig and other non-essentials. Mac lowered her chin to one knee, her arms wrapped again around her legs, but this time to hold herself in, not to stretch.

Not surprisingly to anyone who knew her, Emily had chosen to consider Brymn’s interest an opportunity. She confessed to being a biologist and more. She claimed to be already working with the esteemed Dr. Connor. What a happy coincidence! Brymn had been delighted, especially when Emily promised to forward any new work from Dr. Connor directly to him, so he could keep up with her—their—findings.

Mac’s head lifted, nostrils widening like those of a startled doe searching for a hidden predator. She couldn’t help but remember her joy at finding Dr. Mamani’s application on her ’screen, how she’d rushed to complete the year’s budget in order to clear funds to bring the highly reputed scientist to Norcoast, even how they’d all pitched in to give the place a quick cleaning, in case appearances would make a difference.

Brymn remained oblivious, words flooding out of him now to tell her how anxiously he’d waited to receive each transmission, how honored he’d been to hold raw data and see her analysis taking shape, how enthralled by each leap to a new experiment . . . then, finally, the opportunity of a lifetime. The Interspecies Union had quietly alerted the authorities of member species along the Naralax Transect to what it called “a mysterious threat,” asking for investigators with knowledge of the Chasm to cooperate. When the Progenitors searched for such a Dhryn, there was only one choice: Brymn.

“You, Mackenzie Winifred Elizabeth Wright Connor!” he finished, holding four arms toward her. “Despite all that has happened, meeting you has been the most joyous and significant moment in my life. For this reason, I had the name of Emily Mamani Sarmiento recorded within the vault of my Progenitors, in gratitude for having made our meeting possible.” When Mac didn’t immediately reply, the Dhryn wrapped his arms around his middle and looked worried. “Are you not pleased we met?”

“I could wish for better circumstances,” she said honestly. “But not a better companion,” this with a depth of emotion that surprised her. She was, Mac scolded herself, anthropomorphizing.

Still, his sudden smile implied the Dhryn could understand and reciprocate what was, to Mac, a Human feeling. “We are lamisah, Mac, and friends. As is Emily. Do not let yourself worry. I am sure she will be able to explain what happened on the way station. She will be well—we will find her.”

Perilous thing, friendship. Mac rubbed her chin on her knee, debating which of Brymn’s illusions to shatter first. “I don’t believe Emily needs our help, Brymn.”

“What? How can you, her friend, say this?” Outrage, in a Dhryn, appeared to involve standing, lowering the torso angle, and arm waving. Brymn did all three before blurting out: “She was taken by violence from her sleep! I saw the reports, the images. There was fluid over the walls—her fluid! The Ro—” His limbs trembled. “The Ro—”

“Oh, I believe they took her,” Mac agreed miserably, hugging her legs. “But the signs of a struggle can be faked. Humans can lose a fair amount of fluid—blood—without permanent damage. Broken furniture?” She nodded at the pile in one corner, where she’d collected the remnants of her assault on the door. “Nothing easier.”

“I don’t have answers, Brymn. For what good a guess will do? Emily knew I’d never willingly leave Earth. For some reason, she—and others—wanted me to do just that. Badly enough to fake her own kidnapping. Badly enough that the dictionary she built with your help was to make a sub-teach of your language—for me. Badly enough that they made it seem impossible for me to be safe anywhere but here. In the Dhryn home system.”

“Even if it could be—why? With apologies, Mac, you make no sense. Why would they do all this to force you here, the one place you’re safe from them?”

“Then I’ll owe her a beer. More likely ten,” Mac promised. “But there’s too much at stake, Brymn, for us to ignore the evidence. Emily wasn’t working with me before you told her of your interest in my research. She lied to you. Emily knew you—she’d prepared the sub-teach in your language before arriving at Base this year, before the Union knew there was an emergency. She lied to me.”

The alien’s staunch defense of Emily—so like her own, to Nik and to herself—wasn’t making this any easier. “At this point,” Mac decided, “I don’t care about her reasons. We need to be careful. Why am I here? Why does it suit Emily, and perhaps the Ro, to have me on Haven? Something’s going on, Brymn.”

He took his hand away. “We must not trouble the Progenitors with this—supposition, Mac. They would not react well. Not well at all.”

Mac studied Brymn’s face, seeing the fear there. Reluctantly, she nodded. “When it comes to Dhryn, I must rely on your judgment.”

As he nodded, seeming more relaxed, Mac caught her reflection wavering within figure eight pupils, surrounded by gold. What did he see, when he looked at her? What did he think, feel? How could she begin to fathom what had no connection to her flesh?