Regeneration (Czerneda) (14 page)

“Don’t worry. I’ll get them to the way station. You get there, too.”

Mac smiled at Mudge’s anxious tone. “Just don’t leave for Myriam without me.”

Mac set her ’screen to hover beside her face as she strode briskly back to her quarters, preset at the angle permitting her to squint at it without walking into a wall, and the exact distance to stop her poking herself in the eye while manipulating the ’screen’s display. She’d managed both wall-walk and poke-eye before now, when in a hurry to be somewhere while getting things done.

As now.
She dictated in a steady whisper, ignoring any quizzical looks or neck flares from those she passed in the long white corridors. Instructions. Finishing lists. Those tripped off her tongue automatically. Moving to the field?
She could do that in her sleep.

Harder were the private messages. On the lift ride up, Mac fumbled through, erasing more than she kept. Cautions to ’Sephe about Emily, when she wasn’t sure what the Ministry agent already knew. Hints, suggestions—outright pleas for cooperation to Kammie, when there was no guarantee the other would do any of it. Kammie was being imposed upon here. Big time. In effect, Mac was asking the entire season, everything, be warped around Emily’s needs. And she couldn’t even predict what those might be.

No matter friendship or professional courtesy, Kammie would have a fit. A quiet, professional, no-holds-barred-stubborn fit.

Mac wiped her latest recording.
Too needy.

The lift opened, and she shifted well to one side to let Rumnor and four companions have the floor space the larger aliens required, particularly given the knife-encrusted bandoliers crisscrossing their torsos. “Good morning, Dr. Connor,” the alien intoned sadly as the door closed. Thick yellow tears slipped down his facial hair, barely missing her feet. “I trust your bleeding went well.”

Oh. That.
Mac squirmed inwardly.
It had seemed brilliant at the time—could have been the beer.
“About that, Rumnor—” she began, intending to clear the confusion.

“You missed a fine cider,” Rumnor interrupted, the others rumbling a doleful: “Wonderful.” “Exquisite.” “Never better.” “Remarkable.”

Then it was Mac’s floor. She swallowed her explanation and patted his arm as she squeezed by to exit. “Next time,” she promised.

“Is there cider on Myriam?”

Mac froze halfway through the lift door, turning to look up into those peppered brown eyes, rimmed in yellow crystals. “Why do you ask?”

“Dr. Connor. The lift cannot continue while you stand there.”

Mac put one hand on the edge of the door. “What about Myriam?”

Five gloomy giant teddy bears stared down at her, none offering a word.

Seconds ticked by. Minutes. Mac made herself comfortable against the lift doorframe, crossing her arms across her chest, eyes never leaving Rumnor’s.

A Grimnoii at the back made an uncomfortable sound.

“Myriam,” she suggested.

Rumnor snicked his teeth together.
Threat or exasperation?
Mac wondered. It could just as well be a nervous habit. She smiled.

Low, almost a growl. “Our people have an interest.”

In Myriam or her going there?
Mac had thought the Grimnoii neutral to indifferent, here to serve the Sinzi-ra somehow.

“What kind of interest?”

More snicking. Then silence.

“Well, if you’re planning a trip, bring your own cider,” she said pleasantly, and stood back to let the door close between them.

She filed the question of Grimnoii on Myriam for another day, almost running to her quarters. Once there, she closed the door behind her, wished for a lock, then headed for the terrace.

Where there were chairs she could move. Stripping off their cushions, Mac wedged two under the handles of the doors after she closed them, considered the arrangement, then added the remaining two chairs on top. She threaded the beads hanging to either side—her own personal Ro detectors—around the legs and backs of the chairs, twisting the ends together.

It wasn’t a lock. But it was a demand for privacy even the too-helpful consulate staff should be able to figure out.

The faint shimmer of the membrane kept out the wild sky, with its rain and now gale force wind.
She would,
Mac decided,
have preferred the weather.

She took the chair cushions to the corner where the wall curved out to meet the railing, and sat on the pile. Then she pulled off the
lamnas
and held it between her fingers—fingers which trembled ever so slightly until she frowned at them.

“It’s not as if you know what kind of message he’d send,” Mac reminded herself. “ ‘Feed my cat.’ ‘Tell Sing-li blah blah blah.’ ‘Forgot to mention . . .’ ” Here she stopped, unwilling to guess what Nikolai Trojanowski might have forgotten to say in their final, stolen minutes before he’d left.

Mac grinned.
Not that they said much.

Whatever he wanted to tell her, using this strange method, she was willing to hear. More than willing. Mac brought the small ring to her lips, feeling foolish as she kissed it, then blew gently through the loop.
Nothing.

Finally, slowly, she raised it to her right eye.

“Paging Dr. Mackenzie Connor.”

Where did . . . come from? No. Nothing formal . . . here . . .
/warmth/
Never with Mac . . . safe with Mac . . .

“Hi, Mac. Bear with me. Anchen . . . better with practice.” /doubt/
Concentrate . . .
“Hardest part . . . time . . . busy.” /anger/doubt/
. . . can’t trust anyone here . . . except maybe the Vessel . . .
/concern/ambivalence /
. . . doesn’t lie . . .
/belief/surprise/

Concentrate . . .
“I’ll . . . reports. Here . . . sharing . . . With you, I . . . pretending you’re here.” /heat/desire/need/
Calm it down, fool . . . she doesn’t need . . .
/need/longing/emptiness/
. . . even if I do . . .
/effort/
. . . Concentrate . . .

“. . . Vessel . . . more . . . the programming . . . complex personality, hard to pin down. Misses you. We share that.”
Concentrate . . .

 

*
layered over
*

 

—She smells metal—

The Vessel’s voice was sad but resigned. “I wish Mackenzie Winifred Elizabeth Wright Connor Sol had come with us.”

“She had other duties.”

“Emily Mamani Sarmiento. Have you news? Is she recovering?”

I wish I knew the truth. Mac . . . so worried . . . I wanted to stay, hold her, make it right . . . all I could do was walk away . . .
/tired guilt/
. . . not my job.

“The Sinzi-ra felt confident. It’s going to take some time, Vessel. Our species doesn’t recuperate as quickly as yours.”

“ ‘A Dhryn is robust or a Dhryn is not.’ We must be able to heal ourselves, Nikolai Piotr Trojanowski.”

/curiosity/ “Why?”

“The Great Journey.” As if humoring a child. “To stop for the lame or wounded would be to risk the Progenitor. She is the future.”

“The Progenitor. We haven’t heard from Her ship. Our captain has a valid point: we should confirm the rendezvous coordinates. What if She’s left?”

“Then She’s left.” A hooting laugh. “What a strange face you make,
Lamisah
. Rest easy. The Progenitor will be where She has said. That is why I was sent. To find and bring the truth to Her. She will not leave without it.”

 

*
layered over
*

 

—She tastes cinnamon and nutmeg—

“You shouldn’t meet with that Dhryn alone.” Cinder’s voice was cold. “It’s against procedure.”

/sympathy/
Hardest on her . . . losing so much to the Dhryn . . . resolve /
Need her eyes, use her hate . . . the Vessel only seems harmless . . .

“The vids were running. I knew you kept watch.”

“I watch. As well I do—in all the years we’ve worked together, Nik,” the Trisulian’s tone turned to anger, “this is the first time I’ve seen you willfully blind.”

“Blind to what?”

“This mission. The Dhryn with its so-convenient coordinates. We’re being led into a trap. Can’t you see it? I swear that female’s turned your head inside out!”

rage/
How dare she . . . /caution/
Not the only one on board who doubts the Vessel . . . who doubts Mac . . .
/effort/patience/icy calm/ “That’s why I depend on you, Partner. What say we work up a few scenarios?”

/effort/
Good little spy . . . lie to them all . . . lie to those closest . . . lead them where they must go despite their fear . . .
/pity/dread/patience /

*
layered over
*

 

—She feels weight—

Concentrate . . .
“ . . . does this work, Mac? There’s no one else I can talk to . . .”

/loneliness/

fear/vulnerability/anger/

What have you done to me?
/despair/

“. . . go . . . doesn’t . . . sense, Mac . . . better next . . .”

/emptiness/

 

 

 

M
AC SLIPPED THE RING back on her finger, turning it slowly around and around.

“That was—” She paused, considering. “Different.”

Different.
The Sinzi might refute any claims to telepathy, but what Mac had just experienced had to be the closest possible facsimile. Her mind hurt, as if pierced by shards of thought. On a more physical level, a headache brewed behind her eyes, promising worse to come.

In sub-teach, imposed images and impressions were organized; upon waking, they floated into the recipient’s consciousness already part of memory and function. Useful.

Emotion. Raw, uncensored. Nik’s. That was the easiest to sort from the rest.

Mac wiped tears from her face, yawned to ease the knot of tension in her jaw. She’d clenched her free hand so tightly while looking through the
lamnas
the nails had left purple impressions in the palm.
Had to be the real one.
She rubbed it over her thigh, doing her best to stop reacting, to process instead.

As if that was easy.
Mac blushed.
She’d felt what he’d felt.

Which brought up an interesting question. Had Nik realized the Sinzi device would record his feelings as well as whatever words he tried to convey?

Probably not,
Mac concluded. The man elevated privacy to a survival skill. This level of exposure couldn’t have been what Nik intended.