Survival

MAC CHECKED the time display on her desk. He should be here in a few minutes. She’d breakfasted and dressed in record time, anticipating a welcome change in routine. Brymn had promised her a tour of the city today. Maybe, Mac thought, the rain would actually let up a bit.

Eleven days. She was ready for a break. To be honest, she was ready for anything that took her out of this apartment. Already her desk was cluttered with the digital tablets the Dhryn used in place of mem-paper. More lay on chairs around the room. The Progenitors had allowed a Human on their world—they hadn’t, until today, been ready to let her walk around on it. It was being deliberated, Brymn had promised day after day, asking her for patience.

Her collection had grown rapidly: Brymn’s work, abstracts from other fields, the Dhryn version of local news reports, and even samples of fiction, though these were presented in verse and difficult to follow, since the rhyming conventions were based on tones below her hearing. It didn’t help that fiction presupposed the reader was at least familiar with the author’s culture.

Mac was doing her best to learn the Dhryn’s. She’d reached the point of being able to tell which public announcements were from the Progenitors, on topics ranging from finance to the proper education of oomlings. There was a distinctive formality, almost an aloofness—as though they considered themselves removed from the rest of Dhryn society, yet at its core.

Although she dutifully and unsuccessfully hunted references to the Ro, Mac found the Dhryn themselves becoming something of an obsession. The air of respect and mystery surrounding the Progenitors tantalized her. There were no images in any of the materials she’d assembled with Brymn’s help. He’d expressed belief such didn’t exist. So Mac had asked to meet one.

Their persecution by the Ro was another reason she’d begun to focus more of her attention on the Dhryn themselves. Apparently no adult Dhryn had ever been harmed by the Ro. The invisible beings stole or abused oomlings whenever they could; the heinous crimes stretching back almost two hundred standard years.

No wonder the Progenitors guarded the home system. Under the circumstances, Mac was amazed any Dhryn dared leave that protection, let alone continuing the practice of sending almost mature oomlings to the colonies. It was a stiff price to pay for interstellar travel, since the transects were obviously how the Ro were able to come and go. But the Dhryn had come to a sort of peace, having developed technology to keep the Ro at bay, at least here, and chose to exist that way, always on guard.

They appeared to lack interest in other things as well. Selective ignorance was a blindness Mac was beginning to deplore in herself, let alone in an entire species. She ran into it again when trying to determine if the Dhryn had evolved here or elsewhere. There were no living clues left, no animals strutting about with bilateral symmetry and three pairs of arms. A fossil record would have been helpful, but Brymn had confessed such a thing would not have been valued or saved, if found. The study of life, he reminded her regularly, was forbidden. If she was to live here, she would have to be careful no one suspected her of such interests.

Mac shuddered. Over time, a place like this, ideas like this, would kill her. She knew it. Brymn was keeping her sane as well as safe, a combination of amusingly eccentric uncle, friend, and comrade-in-arms, bundled in a package surely unusual even for Dhryn.

And rarely on time, Mac thought fondly, gazing at the clock. She pulled on her raincoat, but left it open. The Dhryn had turned down the heat in her apartment after numerous requests, although Mac still found it too warm. In their way, they were good hosts. Not xenophobic in any way she could detect—though there was that issue of her being deaf, as Brymn called it. Careful that she not be bored or neglected. Curious, where her interests crossed theirs.

Speaking their language had proved essential, as well as safer. Brymn had checked and found that only a few official translators on Haven spoke Instella. That skill was reserved for the colonies, where one might reasonably expect to need it.

Mac stepped out of the way. As she closed the door, he paused in front of her art display, which her random shuffling had left at an abstract of silver reflections of globes within globes, gave an inexplicable hoot hoot!, then kept marching into her workroom. “I have good news!”

Brymn held out a tablet with his middle left arm, his small mouth stretched into the largest smile she’d seen him produce. “Those of No Useful Function at the communications center finally admitted I was entitled to receive non-Dhryn news reports. I have collected all those from the past two weeks for you. Here.”

Mac took the tablet, her hands shaking. These would be summaries, of course. There was far too much interstellar information for every system to receive news from every other. Interests were more focused. But there could be something from the Interspecies Union. There could be . . . she fumbled at the display control.

No, Mac realized with horror, but her mind might be. The sub-teach Emily had made for her—the pain she’d felt using it. Had the input crippled her ability to communicate in other languages?

The floor vibrated once, as if Brymn muttered some comment about this, but he obeyed her request. “ ‘Bulletins from the Interspecies Union are intended for the widest possible audience. Failure to disseminate such bulletins in every applicable language will result in fines, censure, and potential restriction of transect access . . .’ ”

Brymn nodded. “ ‘Humans consider it impolite to disgorge or otherwise release body fluids in public places. When eating in a Human restaurant, please notify your waiter if you will require a private room.’ ”

Mac reached inside her shirt and dug into her waist pouch for her imp. Her original, with Emily’s sub-teach, lay at the bottom of her largest water tank for safekeeping, wrapped in plastic. She carried the one from Nik, but hadn’t used the device other than to record new entries in her personal log. Now that she thought about it, Mac couldn’t recall paying attention to the ’screen, just hitting the right spots to control the function.

She cued the ’screen, in Instella first, then found herself staring into the incomprehensible mass that floated in front of her. A slide of her hand through the display changed it to English.

She sagged with relief. Some words looked odd, as if her mind was trying to reorganize the letters, but it was legible. Mac concentrated on one line, trying to read out loud in English. It sounded right to her, but Brymn, guessing what she’d been attempting, was already tilting his head from side to side in negation. “That was Dhryn.”

Mac requested an input pad and the almost transparent keys formed under her hands. She typed carefully in English. She could read the words. But when she auto-translated to Instella, they were so much gibberish floating in air.

“It appears I have some new gaps in my education,” Mac said, replacing the imp in her pouch. Her voice sounded remarkably calm under the circumstances. Why hadn’t she checked this before?

Easy. She’d been too busy using her knowledge of Dhryn to investigate her novel surroundings, too enchanted by her new power to understand something so utterly foreign. Mac thought dourly that she’d probably never have noticed, if Brymn hadn’t brought the tablet.

“In sum, I can write and read English, but not Instella. I can understand English, Instella, and Dhryn, though they sound exactly the same in my head. I speak only in Dhryn. Which also sounds the same in my head as any of the others.” She sighed. “I’ll lay odds there’ll be some researchers itching to take apart my head when I get back.”

“No, Mac. And home system technology will not match yours. I can translate for you myself, but it will take some time.” He brightened. “Or I can read to you—our tour will include several hours of traveling the tubes.”

The tablet was still in his hand. Mac looked at it hungrily. If there was any message or information for her from Earth, it would be there. Whether she trusted Brymn to read it accurately or not, she had no other choice. She nodded.

A world without vegetation, yet with individual works of art given their own plazas and viewing stands. A city wrapped around the equator that shot itself upward in magnificent towers and rooted itself with a labyrinth of spacious tunnels. Buildings whose design could be breathtakingly strange—the Dhryn no fonder of the perpendicular outside their rooms. An endless rain gathered into waterfalls and used to animate statues before plunging below the surface. And a people as varied in dress and manner as any gathering of Humans Mac had seen.

“It’s not what I thought,” Mac confessed to Brymn as they walked toward the tube entrance along a concourse shielded from the rain. She suspected Dhryn kidneys worked hard enough to remove excess water from their bodies, so it wasn’t surprising they’d avoid unnecessary exposure to more. Not slavishly. Some ventured out under umbrellas but she’d witnessed several at work in the downpour, bodies protected only by the decorative bands around their torsos. Their waxy skin was probably better protection than her raincoat.

“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.

“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.

“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.

“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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.

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.”

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.”

“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.”

“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.”

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.”

“That’s not good enough,” Mac objected. “Any such metamorphosis has a biochemical basis. You have chemists—surely some could find ways to monitor the change, control it, help those who are in difficulty—”

A rebuttal trembling on her lips, Mac made herself stop and think. Who was the alien here? she asked herself. How dare she impose her values on their biology, their culture? Chastened, she subsided, settling farther back on the luggage rack. An arm around the upright support kept her from slipping, but the rack itself was making serious efforts to reshape her posterior. “I withdraw the suggestion, Brymn,” she said quietly. “I never meant to offend you. It’s my nature, part of being Human, to be affected by such suffering. I feel a need to act . . . to help.”

He held out an empty hand and she willingly put hers into it. “I could never be offended by you, Mackenzie Winifred Elizabeth Wright Connor. Confused, yes,” this with the tiniest of smiles. “But that is the beauty of our differences, that you see possibilities I do not. Perhaps I shall surprise you, one day.”

“Oh, you’ve already done that, Brymn.” Mac gave his hand a squeeze, then let go, along with her questions. She’d find the answers herself. “Do we still have time for the tablet?”

A broad smile now. “But of course! I have taken the liberty of reorganizing the reports by system of origin. Excuse me,” he said, while he relocated himself with a bustle of moving limbs and shuffling bags—he’d slung two around his torso. Eventually he sat so his right side was against the rack and she could look over his shoulder—thoughtful, even if the words on the tablet in his hand were no more legible now than they’d been in her apartment. “There. I shall start with reports from Sol.”

As he began to read aloud, something about sports scores, Mac stretched out on her side as best she could, finding it more comfortable if she laid one arm over his warm, rubbery shoulders.