Survival

MAC HAD HAD her preconceptions of other worlds. They’d all be Earths, of a sort, perhaps with different shapes to their treetops or unusual birds in their skies. She’d even imagined some sort of alien marketplace, filled with otherworldly scents and sounds. But there would be treetops, birds, and skies.

Until she was brought to Haven, home of the Dhryn, enclave of Progenitors, and home to only three forms of life: cultured fungi, the Dhryn . . .

She’d never complain about the rain at Base again, Mac vowed, staring out her window. It hadn’t stopped pouring since their arrival. Four days without variation, without thunder, lightning, or wind, just this heavy, monsoonlike drenching. Handy for distilling, but she’d filled every container Brymn had obtained for her by the end of day one.

Water and food. On her second day, Mac had received a portable analytical scanner to rival any at Base. In fact, it had been exactly the same model Kammie had ordered last year for her lab. Mac couldn’t recall the species of manufacture, just the price tag. Seemed the Dhryn, like many Humans, obtained technology “off the shelf.” They’d even adopted the habit of having tiny vidbots along their streets and hallways, in such numbers that they seemed more like swarms of small round insects than machines. Useless against the Ro, but perhaps it reassured the average Dhryn to know there were watchers on their streets. Mac did her best to ignore them.

After testing various Dhryn offerings other than spuds, while arguing with her stomach that it could exist empty a while longer, Mac had succeeded in finding several preparations that contained nutrients her body needed, without toxins to cause less happy results. Although the food ranged from bland to eye-watering heat in taste, and lack of texture was definitely a Dhryn issue, she had the start of a diet to live by.

Day, night, weeks. Like most sentient species in the IU, the Dhryn divided and tracked time. Mac had entertained herself by working out Earth equivalents. A twenty-seven hour rotation, with eight of that being night—summer, perhaps? A more northern latitude?

Not that the Dhryn allowed the dark outside their rooms. From what Mac could see from her window and terrace, the city was illuminated throughout the night, buildings and concourses aglow to extend the dull light of Haven’s day. A city that extended from pole-to-pole, she’d been told. Perhaps the light did as well.

Brymn had professed himself in awe of this place. While Mac had tested tray after tray of sculptured, vividly colored fungal concoctions—most with hair—he’d explained how the rain was deliberate, part of an ongoing program to remove an ocean from the other hemisphere by filling artificial underground reservoirs here. The lighting? A convenience for a species that needed very little sleep and prided itself on productivity. He’d assured her Dhryn colonies were also highly developed and civilized, with full weather control, of course. Then he’d looked wistful. Very few colonies could approach the population and energy of the home system. All had to rely on the home system for oomlings.

She might be safe from them here. At the thought, Mac closed the shutter, a process that took two hands and force. Doors were hinged as well, as if Dhryn didn’t waste power on what could be slammed by six strong arms. Quaint, until the second day of struggling with what could have been controlled by civilized wall plates.

Where was Brymn? He’d come faithfully the first three days, though his visits were shorter each time. Mac presumed his duties elsewhere were increasing. But he hadn’t come or sent word since. All she knew was that he’d warned her not to leave her apartment, that she had to wait for the Progenitors’ permission.

Mac adjusted a lamp, then fussed the bright gold and red tablecloth into a straighter alignment, wondering why she bothered. Her hosts had provided generous accommodations for her, but the furnishings from the Pasunah looked lost and out of place in rooms designed for Dhryn, the perpendicular angles of chairs and tables at war with walls that tilted in—or out—and asymmetrical window frames placed at differing heights. Lining up the tablecloth only fueled the discord.

The Dhryn, at least in this area, lived in apartments which appeared to be built on top of preexisting ones. Mac’s was the highest on an elongated pyramid, with access to one of a spiral of round private terraces that stuck out like so many tongues. She’d braved the rain out there more than once to try and make out the details of her surroundings. At best, she’d gained a vague impression of rounded rooftops and irregular shapes, punctuated by straight towers. A great deal of traffic flew overhead, at all hours; not skims, but vehicles at once longer and sleeker. Silent and grouped, they were like so many schools of fish passing through the gray ocean of cloud.

Entertaining as it was to stare at the undersides of rapidly moving fliers, Mac wasn’t on the terrace often. Constant and straight down, Haven’s rain was—different—from the one she’d grumble happily about back home. This rain was sharper, harder, as if falling from a greater height. Drops stung any exposed Human skin, though they probably felt fine to a Dhryn.

Not that Dhryn liked being wet, but they appeared capable of cheerful endurance when necessary. On the way from the spaceport, Mac had glimpsed walkways filled with pedestrians, each clutching two, four, or six brilliantly colored umbrellas. The effect, despite the dim light, was as if giant blue-stemmed bouquets with rain-bent petals paraded between every building. Not that there were living flowers here.

Mac tugged the tablecloth askew again, knowing exactly what was the matter with her. She was so far beyond homesick, so offended by this place, it amazed her she still bothered to breathe.

The rain. It didn’t matter. There was no soil to turn to fragrant mud, no vegetation to grow lush and wild, no overflowing rivers to tempt fish into flooded meadows. Here, the rain bounced against stone, metal, umbrellas, and other lifeless things, collecting in downspouts and gutterways to be carried underground before it could disturb the tidy Dhryn.

There was no struggle here, no change, no surging, inconvenient mess of living things competing for a future. Everything Mac knew, everything she loved. Didn’t matter.

Mac refused to judge, knowing other species lived on worlds like this, where technology took the place of ecosystem. Even within Sol System, Humans had colonized sterile moons, many professing to prefer such a life.

“Maudlin Mac. Melancholy Mac. Oh, hell, let’s go straight to the Mighty Melodramatic Mac, why don’t we?” In sudden fury, Mac swept up the tablecloth and draped it over her head. She spun around and around, the fabric a maelstrom of red and gold, her hands slapping furniture to keep herself upright. “The Famous Dr. Mac—” slap, “—taking full advantage of her unprecedented access to a unique species and culture—” slap, slap, “—discovers her true calling! Self-pity!” The final slap sent a chair tumbling backward and Mac lost her balance, falling after it. The tablecloth drifted to the floor.

“Sorry.” Mac blinked, belatedly taking in details. This Dhryn was smaller than others she’d met, intact, and had adorned his face with chubby lime and pink curlicues that matched the bands of cloth wrapped around his middle. His hands were burdened with several boxes and his expression was frankly curious. “Are those for me?” she ventured.

For some reason, Mac found herself grinning. “All the time. We can recognize individuals. And yes, all Humans probably spin at some point. Mackenzie Winifred Elizabeth Wright Connor is all my name.”

“Oh! Truly magnificent!” A bow that faltered as the Dhryn realized he couldn’t clap with his hands full. He settled for tapping four of his boxes together. Mac hoped there was nothing fragile inside. “I take the name Mackenzie Winifred Elizabeth Wright Connor into my keeping. Ceth is all my name.”

“I take the name Ceth into my keeping. A privilege,” Mac said, tipping back her head and offering her own clap. “May I ask why you are in my apartment, if those aren’t my packages?”

Mac opened her mouth to say she hadn’t seen Brymn for over a day, when a clatter announced her kitchen was occupied. Wordlessly, she pointed in that direction, then followed the small Dhryn.

Her apartment had four rooms, designated in Dhryn-fashion by function. The one with a desk, other furnishings, and a door to the terrace, her place of work. Where she spun with tablecloths. The one with luggage, bed, and shower—which had thoughtfully been replaced with a sonic variety safe for Human skin—her place of recuperation. Where she longed for water and dreams that didn’t include fantasies about a man who was probably dead. An entranceway, with display screens she’d yet to figure out. Her place of greetings. Obviously not locked.

And a kitchen, as well as, oddly to a Human, the biological accommodation, called the place of refreshment. Where she practiced her chemistry.

It seemed she wasn’t the only one. “You aren’t Brymn either,” Mac informed the Dhryn busy emptying the storage unit where she kept her Human-suited foods. This one wore bands of white and gold, not silk but something woven. He looked up as they entered, a packet Mac recognized in one hand. His gold-irised eyes blinked one/two beneath ridges painted silver. “And that,” Mac said, “is my supper.”

“Ah!” Looking at the packet as if it was now more interesting, the new Dhryn punctured it with a sharp, hooklike object carried in a left hand. “And why is this your supper?” he demanded as he read some type of display on the object. A scanner, she presumed. “Why not—” and he rattled off a list of food names that meant nothing to Mac.

“Have you found anything peculiar yet?” A third Dhryn, also in gold and white, squeezed into the narrow space—just missing Mac’s toes. “I made a wager with Inemyn Te.”

“I have the items you requested, Esteemed Academics,” Ceth announced, adding to the confusion as he put his boxes on top of Mac’s precious analyzer.

Despite the facial dissimilarities, all three gave her a look of thoroughly offended dignity as plain as any Mac had seen displayed by Charles Mudge III. She drew herself as tall as possible—unwilling to risk leaning forward in threat display to beings three times her mass and of unknown motive—and glared. “I am Mackenzie Winifred Elizabeth Wright Connor and these are the quarters I was provided by your Progenitors. I demand an explanation for this—this intrusion!”

“But you invited us, Mackenzie Winifred Elizabeth Wright Connor,” the one with her supper dangling from a hook said quizzically. “We are researchers interested in developing new presentations of—” he lifted the hook, “—food. You requested equipment and samples from us.”

The other Dhryn spoke up, shaking the room before uttering what Mac could hear. “—curiosity is not welcome? If so, your entry misled us.”

It seemed she had an interspecies incident brewing in her own kitchen. Had to be some kind of record—not that Mac was happy about it. “I am honored by your presence,” she said cautiously, on the assumption it was a safe enough phrase.

“Ah! You have met the Esteemed Academics!” This voice she knew. Mac turned with relief to see Brymn’s smiling face. He couldn’t fit into the kitchen unless she climbed on the lid of the accommodation, something Mac didn’t want to attempt in a room filled with so many swinging arms. Mind you, both Academics were missing at least one hand. Grathnu, she reminded herself. Great. Rank. Even more like dealing with an Oversight Committee.

“These are the individuals who made sure you had what you requested, Mackenzie Winifred Elizabeth Wright Connor,” Brymn continued glibly. “Did I not tell you they would want to examine the results of your investigation?”

Mac scowled at Brymn to let him know he most certainly hadn’t, then smiled at the scientists stuffed into her kitchen. “A moment of confusion,” she said graciously. “How may I assist your esteemed selves?”

She put her feet up on another chair and grinned. “A bit of both.” The two scientists had been charmingly fascinated by her food requirements, if a little inclined to doubt her analyses until they’d repeated each and every one for themselves. Some things, Mac had concluded with satisfaction, crossed species barriers with no trouble at all. They’d left intrigued with the challenge of finding more fungal preparations she would prefer.

Two more Dhryn wandered into the room, exchanged the briefest of bows with Brymn, then wandered out again. Mac watched them leave and sighed. “I guess this is going to happen all the time.”

Brymn wouldn’t explain until they stood in her place of greetings, nothing more than an almost square room forming the entrance to her apartment. It was marked by a door to the large common hallway that faced an inner wall decorated with a painting; the remaining walls opened into arches that led into her place of work and her kitchen. Mac waited, more or less patiently, for the big alien to get to the point.

“It’s a painting,” Mac said dubiously. “I found the display controls yesterday.” She didn’t bother mentioning that she’d gone through about fifty choices before finally settling on what looked recognizable and hopefully harmless.

“Of course it’s a painting. It is also an invitation. By exhibiting food in your entry, you elicit the reaction of hunger and the expectation of a social gathering. There is a pronounced subtext of professional discourse which doubtless excited the Esteemed Academics beyond restraint. Let us hope your dispute with them over the analysis did not leave a bad taste.” He hooted at his own joke.

Mac looked at the painting, then at Brymn, then back at the painting. “You’re saying that this is why I have strange Dhryn roaming through my apartment? Because I changed the display?”

“Ah.” Brymn tapped the wall below the painting and a tiny door opened to reveal a now-familiar control. “This is the catalog that controls your greeting display,” he explained, holding up the silver oval to activate a shimmering screen on the wall, similar to that displayed on a Dhryn reading tablet. “There. This is what I left when I was here.” Now a plain green cube slowly rotated in the air before the wall. As it spun, one side flashed blue.

“Leading to your visitors. This is a request for privacy. No Dhryn would enter. The Human equivalent—” Brymn gave it thought, then looked smug. “An agenda posted on a door. Home system Dhryn expect you to display a meaningful work of art.”

“Then you’d better leave me an all-purpose ‘ignorant Human’ piece,” Mac said. “I don’t know anything about art beyond my own reaction to it. And that goes for Human as well as Dhryn.”

A quieter but no less amused hoot. “Neither do most Dhryn. Don’t worry, Mac. The catalog is organized by conversational topic. Once I show you how to search it, you will have no trouble conveying your meaning to potential visitors.” Brymn paused, then made another selection. “However, knowing you are deaf, I’m switching off the audio art option just in case.”

Brymn had brought his company—and put an end to the invasion of Mac’s apartment—but no real news. The situation remained unchanged. The Progenitors had granted Mac sanctuary; they had yet to decide if they’d grant her access to anything outside of it. The Dhryn delivered this with a wary look, as if Mac was likely to explode. Another day, she might have. Today, she simply nodded and questioned her lamisah on protocol and manners, in case any more home system Dhryn came to visit.

Whether her earlier mood had been caused by coming off the Fastfix, the change in food, or real homesickness-—or all three—Mac found herself finally jolted back into the mind-set that kept her happily busy at the most inhospitable field stations. The work. She made Brymn promise to bring more information the next day.

She almost pushed Brymn out the door. The moment he was gone, she dragged a chair into the place of greetings and pulled out her imp. The one that would transmit her data.

Focus, Mac, she told herself. The choice of art was determined by the topic about to be discussed between host and visitor, or visitors. Brymn claimed it inspired and focused the conversation, something Mac thought could be very useful at Norcoast before funding meetings. Here, Mac deemed it a stratagem to cope with a very dense population. Brymn had told her that his kind liked being close together. “A Dhryn is with other Dhryn or he is not,” had been the phrase of the moment. But even if they enjoyed close proximity, Mac thought, it must help to have a mutually understood protocol.

Brymn had shown her how to use the catalog. Many pieces were abstract, listed by mood as well as topic. Perfect. She didn’t have to know what a Dhryn thought of what he saw for her purpose.

Mac began flipping through the cataloged pieces at random, recording her emotional response to each on her imp. After a while, the place of greetings filled with semiconscious whistling as she became more and more absorbed. The chair was abandoned for the floor, then the floor for the chair.

Biological necessity interrupted, so while Mac was in the kitchen she grabbed a packet and water bottle. Back to work. Supper was a blue stick that reminded Mac of chalk, washed down with tepid water. The Dhryn didn’t refrigerate.

Globes, bubbles, spheres of all sorts. Lines and shadow plays. Harsh geometrics. Mac gave each equal consideration, sometimes wincing at the colors, sometimes struck by beauty that perhaps crossed species lines. Or her pleasure misunderstood the artist.

She stopped when her eyes could no longer focus. After rinsing her head with water, Mac returned. This time, she recorded the expected Dhryn response to each abstract as claimed by the catalog. The entries were filled with florid and extravagant language—what was it about describing the impact of art?—so Mac was careful to only use those that referred specifically to reactions. There were colors listed by the catalog for which her mind had no English equivalents, implying the Dhryn saw into the ultraviolet end of the spectrum. Mac avoided those works of art as well.

Mac carried her results to her workplace, noting absently that it was night. Leaning her elbows on the desk, she watched the flickering display as her imp took her responses and compared them to the Dhryn’s.

Ah. Reasonable congruence over which shapes, colors, and tones induced feelings of peace, contentment, or harmony in both Dhryn and herself.

Turquoise, for instance, was the dominant shade in images the catalog listed as eliciting anxiety and anger. Black was not an option before civil conversation, sure to incite violence. And yellow?

“Well, well.” Mac tilted her chair back, shaking her head in disbelief. Apparently, the brighter hues were guaranteed to set one’s limbs trembling with fear. The catalog recommended its use only for hazardous material storage.

No wonder the poor Dhryn tended to be agitated around her. Mac couldn’t begin to guess what Pasunah’s captain and crew must have thought.

“Another great first impression, Em.” Mac’s chuckle came out tired, but real. “Drenching myself and my quarters in their urine couldn’t have helped.”

The next day, Mac enlisted the aid of the Esteemed Academics to make her wardrobe more suitable, envisioned panicked crowds should she walk about clad in yellow. They’d accepted the challenge with alacrity, fascinated by the various fabrics of her clothes.

She then spent two long and anxious days wrapped in a tablecloth, reading reports and hoping for the best. Eventually, Mac found herself nursing the increasingly faint hope the Dhryn had understood she expected her clothing back.

She needn’t have feared. The Dhryn managed the improbable. Even her raincoat, a thoughtful inclusion in her luggage, was returned a different, more Dhryn-friendly color.

Mac had put on the quietest of her improved wardrobe and been unsure whether to laugh or tear at her hair. Bold stripes of purple, red, blue, white, and lime-green had raced around her middle, lined both arms, and plunged to her feet. She’d just needed a pair of oversized shoes and a red nose.

“Lamisah. You look wonderful.” Brymn had applauded her new look, but Mac held dire suspicions that her Dhryn’s taste didn’t match that of anyone else on this world. She tried not to believe the Esteemed Academics had done their best to turn her into either a laughingstock or a target.

Clothing issues aside, over the following week, Mac discovered that Brymn hadn’t exaggerated the importance of her greeting hall. Her lamisah might be exceedingly casual in his approach to such matters, as Dhryn went, but home system individuals were only truly comfortable with her after the ritual exchange of names. Better still were greetings that included a lengthy admiration of whatever art was on display—a decided inconvenience, since Mac hardly knew what to admire. Fortunately the same works were available to all Dhryn, so her visitors came equipped with compliments no matter what she’d picked.

Mac wasn’t at all surprised when her increasing grasp of things Dhryn was matched by a decrease in the number of her visitors. The novelty factor she provided by simply existing must have worn off. Even the Esteemed Academics had realized she had no startling Human insights into their subject. Food, tablets, and other supplies were delivered without requiring a formal greeting. Of course, Mac, not realizing this for the first while, had done her utmost to prove she knew the protocol and insisted on bringing the delivery beings into her place of greetings to admire art. As a result, those bringing deliveries now left them outside her door, preferring to knock, then run.

Brymn found it amusing, though he still didn’t bother with any ceremony with her. As the days passed, however, her constant companion had become less so. Soon, he was coming only once each morning to deliver more reading material. Not even offers to discuss his own research would tempt the Dhryn into delay. He claimed to be busy “making arrangements” and “consulting with colleagues.” Mac, in response, busied herself as well. She was here, after all, to learn about the Dhryn.