Survival (42 page)

“Are you damaged?”

She shook her head, once and gently, then rubbed her temples. “No. Well, a few bruises. I seem to have a whale of a headache, though.”

“I deactivated it for you.” He held up her still dripping imp. “I trust it isn't damaged by water.”

“Not and survive my line of work,” she said absently, busy looking for the duplicate device.
Good, it was out of sight in the luggage—one less thing to explain
. Mac wondered when she'd become quite this paranoid.

She also wondered what could have been in that capsule instead of, or with, the Subrecor. Sub-teach might be boring and restrictive; it certainly wasn't painful. Her head felt swollen as well as sore. With all the flexibility and speed of someone five times her age, Mac rose to her feet, tugging her soaking wet clothes into some order. Her hair, as always, was hopeless. “How long until we reach the transect?”

Brymn blinked, one two. “Tomorrow. And may I compliment you on your word use? It is unexpectedly sophisticated this soon.”

It was Mac's turn to blink. “It is?” She repeated the two words without sound, holding her fingers to her lips. Her mouth wasn't moving as it should be. “I'm speaking another language—I'm speaking Dhryn?” Then, the words “this soon” penetrated and her eyes shot to him. “You knew I would be. How?”

“You were using the subliminal teacher,” he said matter-of-factly. “For what other purpose could it be than to accept Emily Mamani Sarmiento's gift?”

For a moment, Mac believed she was hallucinating under the drug, that she still lay on the floor, dehydrated and dying, only dreaming Brymn had stormed through the door to her rescue with buckets of odd-tasting water marked . . . she stared at them, reading “sanitation room” with no problem at all.

The words weren't in Instella or English. They were in some convoluted, narrow script that made perfect sense to her.

“Where did this water come from?” she heard someone ask.

Brymn waved four of his arms, two more helping him sit and the seventh, as always, tucked away. “Don't worry. No one will miss it. It is a regular product of our bodies. Most Dhryn don't care to know how it is removed from the ship.”

She was drinking Dhryn urine.
And was covered in it.

Somehow, that wasn't the shock it might have been.

“You knew Emily left me a sub-teach of the Dhryn language.”
Possibly explaining the headache,
Mac told herself, given her brain had been forcibly retooled to think in—whatever this was. She couldn't tell if she was thinking in English, Instella, or blue marshmallow bits. Her temper started rising. “How did you know?”

“I helped her build it.” Brymn paused. “It's the
oomling
tongue, so you do not have to worry about your disability with sound. All who hear you speak will adjust. It will be useful everywhere you find Dhryn. We thought you'd be pleased.” He seemed a trifle offended. There was the hint of a pout to his mouth, which was almost cute in a giant seven-armed alien wearing sequined eyeliner.

Who had probably just saved her life
, Mac reminded herself, although why was a question for later.

“You—” Mac found herself wanting to say “lied,” but failed to find a word to utter that conveyed her meaning. Closest was “delayed information.” She tried another tack. “Emily visited Dhryn colony worlds. Was she visiting you?”

“Yes, yes. Although my research keeps me moving about.” His brow ridges lowered. “Why, Mac, do you ask what you already know?”

“Because I didn't. Not until now. Not about Emily. Not about you knowing her. Not about the sub-teach.”

A silence that could only be described as stunned. Mac used her elbows to support herself against the mattresses, feeling a certain sympathy for the big alien. “You didn't?” Brymn echoed finally.

Mac thought back to their conversations as a three-some. She'd been the one leading the conversations with Brymn; Emily had volunteered very little. Why would Brymn have thought to mention what he supposed she knew? As for any Humanlike show of familiarity, for all Mac knew it wasn't polite for a Dhryn to rush up and greet an old “friend” in front of others.

Emily had only needed to keep quiet while Mac blundered on, never guessing, never suspecting.

She'd blamed herself for drawing Emily into danger.
Had it been the other way around?

“My humble apologies for any misunderstanding—”

“Don't worry, Brymn,” Mac heard a new edge to her voice. “There are many things about my friend I'm learning as I go.”

“I'll answer any questions, of course, Mackenzie Winifred Elizabeth Wright Connor, but if you will excuse a personal comment, you are beginning to sway from side to side in a most alarming manner.”

He had a point
. Mac steadied herself with an effort. “Pass me that piece of luggage, please.” When the Dhryn put the larger case on the mattress within her reach, Mac opened it and pulled out the medical kit.

He crowded close, eyes dilated. “This is how you correct damage to the body?”

Mac tried to find better language equivalents for illness and injury, but failed. “There are some—chemicals with specific effects on the body. I'm looking for a . . . here it is.” She ran her fingers over what she'd intended to use as a last recourse, then made her decision. Having Brymn here, and cooperative, was not a chance to waste by passing out. “This is what the students call Fastfix: a high concentration of nutrients and electrolytes—whatever's necessary to bring a depleted Human body chemistry closer to normal—plus a powerful stimulant of some sort. I should feel more energetic.”
As opposed to about to fall on her face
. She held up the loaded syringe. “The needle is a way to deposit the chemicals under my skin, where they will do their work.”

“Isn't that causing more damage?”

“Skin—Human skin—closes after the needle is removed.” It was hard enough steeling herself to shove the thing in her arm, without Brymn looming overhead, hands twitching as if he longed to dig into the medical kit for himself. Mac gritted her teeth and pressed the point into herself as hard as she could. The syringe was intended for novices, set to puncture only as deeply as required by the type of medicine loaded in its tube, and sterilizing on insertion and withdrawal, so she could use it again if necessary.

“Ow!”
Practice must help,
Mac thought ruefully, rubbing her arm. Mandy's boosters didn't hurt like this. Of course, the syringe in a field kit need not be as patient-friendly as those in a clinic. “See? Easy as can be.” She put the syringe away, counting the number she had left. Two.

Everyone knew Fastfix was addictive with repeated use, the body adjusting its base level requirements upward and upward until a user became essentially nonfunctional without a fresh dose. Mac assumed the kit contained a safe number, then wondered why she'd believe that.

As she waited for the drug to work its magic, she noticed Brymn's nostrils had constricted to slits while he continued to examine the medical kit.
Well
, Mac thought,
she was soaked in Dhryn urine, or its equivalent.
“Why don't you take that in the other room while I change out of these clothes?” she offered.

“May I?”

“Sure. Just don't sample anything. I've no idea what the effect on your physiology would be.”
Not to mention her supplies were finite
.

He picked up the kit as tenderly as if lifting an infant—
assuming the Dhryn had that type of parent/offspring interaction,
Mac reminded herself. “Are you sure you will not require my assistance?” he asked, looking torn between his fascination and a desire to help.

Mac smiled and touched his near arm. “I'll be fine, my friend. Thanks to you.”

With Brymn safely preoccupied, Mac worked as quickly as she could. Although warm, the air in the
Pasunah
was so dry the dampness of her clothes evaporated rapidly, chilling her skin. She stripped, keeping only the waist pouch into which she put her imp, Kammie's note, and the Ministry envelope. She felt warmer immediately, though she couldn't be sure how much of that was an effect of the 'fix.

Mac tried not to think of the chemicals circulating in her blood. There was nothing she could do but hope she'd done the right thing. Abused by the spuds, dehydration, and Subrecor, her body systems were doubtless plotting their revenge. The 'fix was only postponing the inevitable crash.

Until then,
Mac reminded herself,
she had things to learn and do
.

First
. Despite its origin, and now perceptibly musty smell, Mac went to the bucket of mostly water and, cupping her hands, made herself drink slowly.
She'd had worse from a stream,
she judged, although part of her mind was already busy thinking of how best to distill any future contributions. As a precaution, she filled her water bottles and put them aside. Finally, she soaked her shirt and used it to scrub herself clean as best she could.

Better than the 'fix,
Mac decided, feeling herself becoming more alert by the moment. She didn't bother trying to bring order to her hair, beyond wringing out the braid and tying it up again as tightly as she could. Dressing was quick, the luggage again providing a yellow shirt and pants. Mac began to wonder if the color had significance to the Dhryn.

Or,
her hands paused on a fastener,
was it much simpler?
To Human eyes, the color would stand out, making her easier to find.

A concerned boom. “Are you all right, Mac?”

“Yes. I'm almost finished.” Fearing the Dhryn's active curiosity, Mac grabbed the other imp from the small case and crouched on the far side of the mattress stack from the now permanently open door.

Just as she was about to record what had happened, Mac closed her mouth and stared at the 'screen. She presumed she was thinking in English, because she could conceptualize terms for which there were no Dhryn equivalents. But, unlike her experience in switching from English to Instella, for all she knew, she was speaking English as well. Only the novel movements of her lips and tongue proved Dhryn, not English, was coming from her mouth.

How didn't matter—though the question was fascinating—what mattered was the consequence. What would Nik—or any Human—think of her voice suddenly switching to fluent Dhryn? Mac swallowed, feeling her pulse race.
Could they even understand her?
She had to believe so. The Dhryn had been members of the Interspecies Union long enough for actual translators to exist, although given how it had rewired her language center, Mac didn't recommend Dhryn for sub-teaching.

Brymn had told her they'd enter the Naralax Transect tomorrow. Mac checked the chronometer. Ship's night was only two hours away. Was tomorrow at midnight? How long did she have?

Mac started recording:

“This is Mackenzie Connor. I've been taught—”
how was that for skirting the issue?
“—to speak Dhryn, specifically what I'm told is the
‘oomling'
language. I—can't speak anything else at the moment.

“We'll enter the transect tomorrow. I don't have an exact time. I've met Brymn at last. He brought me water, possibly saving my life.”

Mac paused, then described, in clinical detail, her experiment with the cylinder food. She couldn't call it spuds, not in Dhryn.

“In case I am unable to add to this recording before it is sent,” she went on, keeping her voice calm and even, “please tell my father I'm all right. Please tell Nik, if he—”
lives
stuck in Mac's throat, “—if he is available, that he was right. It wasn't just one.” She hoped he'd understand she meant lies.
And Emily
.

Voices, low and angry, erupted from the other room. Mac ended the recording and secured the imp in her waist pouch under her clothes, on the principle that while the aliens would be unlikely to note a new lump around her middle, they could very well separate her from her luggage, or confiscate it altogether. She glanced longingly at the handle with the beacon, but had no way to remove it.

Mac walked into a dispute. “What's going on?” she asked, eyeing three new Dhryn, dressed in the woven blue she'd come to associate with crew of the
Pasunah
, and Brymn, resplendent in his red and gold silks. They were gathered around the table, on which Brymn had placed her medical kit. Two of Brymn's right arms were protectively covering the flat box, his left set gesticulating wildly.