Regeneration (Czerneda) (33 page)

Mac felt like one of her salmon.
Fish ladder or waterfall?
Without seeing the top, it was a leap into the unknown. The wrong guess meant failure and death.

She had the ear of a powerful individual. A wrong word in it now could precipitate a crisis—perhaps start a war. Emily’d warned her.
So,
Mac realized,
had Anchen.

And what did she know? Only those fragments of Nik’s memories and feelings. He’d done his utmost not to reveal more.

Mac held up her hand, the pair of
lamnas
sparkling around her ring finger. “From this? I can’t say.”

He gazed at her. Done talking, Mac slumped deeper in her seat and yawned so broadly her jaw cracked.
Exhausted biologist at your service,
she quipped to herself.
Just try getting me to make sense much longer.

The last time Mac had left home, she’d been tossed into orbit in a box, caught by a freight shuttle, then ferried to a warehouse in one of the great way stations. Despite all this clever misdirection, the Ro—and Emily—had almost ambushed her there.

Which probably explained why there’d been no arguments made to an upgrade from box to proper passenger shuttle, complete with viewports and the in-flight vid of her choice.

Now, thanks to Hollans and some abandoned Dhryn ships, they were sealed in a compartment of a Ministry courier shuttle, with no view or entertainment.

Schrant was curled in his seat, sound asleep.
Not a side effect of Hollans’ little ploy,
Mac decided, since Mudge was anything but sleepy.

“This is most irregular, Norcoast,” he announced.
Again.
With
harrumph.

She closed her eyes and wiggled a little deeper into her seat.

“Norcoast!”

Mac cracked open one eye. “What?”

“I said, this is most irregular. We had prearranged transit. I don’t understand why we aren’t using it.”

“Are you going to keep repeating that all the way there?” she asked wearily.

He gave her a strange look. “I fail to see why you don’t find this all very irregular, too.”

Much as she’d hated doing so, she’d agreed to Hollans’ insistence that his visit be kept secret, even from Mudge. She’d gone back to the cabin, sat on the step beside Sebastian, who, true to Hollans’ word, was sleeping soundly, and had waited while her visitors left. After a few minutes, to no signal Mac could detect, the dogs had stirred enough to stretch and roll over on their rooftops. Seconds later, Sebastian’s left foot had dropped off the stair and his eyes had opened.

They’d gone to their respective beds as if nothing had happened.

And now Mudge, who had every right to know and who knew her well enough to sense she was hiding something important from him, was pressing for answers.

Spy games.
Mac was growing acutely aware of their cost.

“I’m sure something’s come up,” she said, as close to the truth as she dared. “Their budget, not ours. We should both try for some more sleep.”

His eyes glittered. “I’m not tired. Amazing how quickly we all fell asleep last night. I was sure this young fellow’s squirming about would keep us awake for hours.”

“That Yukon air,” Mac offered, but her own yawn spoiled it.

Mudge fell silent and she settled back into her seat, head back and eyes shut. Mac could feel his reproachful stare through her closed eyelids, but refused to do anything but pretend to sleep. After a while, pretense gave way to reality and she drifted off.

“Mac.”

“Not here,” Mac mumbled, curling into a defensive ball.

“Yes, you are,” the voice insisted, “and so are we. We’ve docked with the transport ship. C’mon, Mac. Rise and shine.”

While she had no intention of shining anytime soon, Mac peered at Sam Schrant’s eager face, registered the flaming orange backpack already slung over his shoulder, and decided rising was likely inevitable. “Where’s Oversight?” she asked, her mouth feeling as though she’d acquired a layer of barnacles.
Probably snored for the last hour.

“It’s not as if I could have left, Norcoast,” came the caustic reply.

Man was consistent,
she’d give him that.

Mac sat up, rubbed her eyes, and looked around.
They’d docked?
Nothing had changed within their tiny compartment, except for the stiffness of a certain salmon researcher. She rose to her feet and edged through their stack of luggage to reach the space between the pairs of inward-facing seats. Once there, she began stretching as best she could without hitting either of them on the head. “How long was I out?” she asked, bending left. “And how do you know we’ve docked?” Right.

“Long enough. Mr. Mudge timed it.” This with distinct admiration.

Mac stopped stretching to give Mudge a look that was anything but admiring. “Why would you do that?”

He
harrumphed
and crossed his arms over his chest, eyes narrowed with disapproval. From the bags under those eyes, he hadn’t slept at all.

The meteorologist replied happily, “Mr. Mudge has a complete list of the capabilities of orbital shuttles. There’s a grav unit on this one, so the only way to tell when we’d reached orbit was to figure out travel time. And he was right. We just heard the clang—Mr. Mudge told me it was the clamps locking on to our air lock.”

By this point, “Mr.” Mudge was doing his utmost not to look overtly pleased with this thorough description of his cleverness. Mac lifted one eyebrow, but refrained from saying anything.
After all, she’d slept through the “clang.”

She climbed back to her seat and made sure her own bag was close at hand. She wasn’t sure how she felt about returning to the
Annapolis Joy
.

That wasn’t exactly true. Her stomach was busy informing her.

Mac swallowed hard, doing her best to push away the past at the same time. So what if the
Joy
had remained in orbit instead of rushing her home? They’d established a firm Human presence among the species scrambling to explore the Dhryn home world. So what if she’d spent those weeks in a haze of loss and pain, her questions buried under the urgent onslaught of everyone else’s? She’d made it home eventually.

Where no one could know where she’d been.

Done was done,
Mac told herself. She swallowed again, relieved to find it easier.
She’d take anything positive at the moment.

“Will you hurry up?” This from Mudge, who was fuming as Sam repacked his belongings. Mac grinned. It looked as though the meteorologist had wanted something from the very bottom of his pack during their flight and had taken the easy route, dumping the contents over Mudge’s neat stack. “Who knows how far we’ll have to walk through the way station?” that worthy continued dolefully. “Our original plans took us into the same loading dock as our transport. Now? We could be facing a considerable journey. Perhaps requiring a skim.”

Mac made a face.
Really should have told him before snoring.
“This isn’t the way station.”
Oh, she’d seen
that
look before
. Before Mudge could launch into full volume accusation, likely involving a litany of her past indiscretions at Castle Inlet and
how could she be trusted?
she said calmly, “You’ve heard of the
Annapolis Joy,
Oversight?”

“The
J
—” His mouth formed a perfect ‘o’ and his hands groped in midair, as if trying to grab the name to look at it for himself.

The side of their compartment chose that moment to slide aside to reveal a sunlight-bright hangar, the
Joy
’s half of the air lock equation. Complete with welcoming party.

“Mac!”

She froze with her hand about to close on the handle of her bag, then recovered, hoping no one had noticed. “Doug. Kaili,” she greeted. “Nice to see you again.”

In a sense it was. The two orderlies in light green coveralls had cared for her during her stay. They’d been kind, efficient, and friendly.
Not their fault her stay had been . . .
Mac found a smile. “Doug Court. Kaili Xai. Charles Mudge III and Sam Schrant.”

The four exchanged hellos. Doug resembled a sturdy, younger version of Mudge, with an upright brush of red-blond hair and a neatly-trimmed mustache above his wide smile. Midnight-black Kaili was taller and willow-thin. Mac remembered her as the quieter of the pair, rarely expressive. Now she was beaming with pleasure.

“This is the
Annapolis Joy,
dreadnaught class,” Mudge then informed them, seemingly oblivious to the name embroidered in gold on their uniforms. “The very latest. Top of the line. Twinned Ascendis-Theta in-system drives, multiplexed transect-capable sensor arrays. Why she’s capable—”

“Oversight,” Mac interrupted. “You’re drooling.”

He shot her a desperate look. “I simply must see her bridge, Norcoast. I must—”

While having Mudge reduced to this state had its plus side, Mac was too unsettled to enjoy it. “Later. Are we supposed to have a medical?” she asked the orderlies, curious why these two had been sent to meet them. She grimaced. “I do know the way.”

“Nah. We’re surplus at the moment, Mac,” Kaili grinned. “Off shift.”

“And we asked,” Doug added. “Wanted to be the first to welcome you back. How are you?” His eyes flicked to her left hand.

Guessing what he wanted, Mac pulled up her sleeve and held out her prosthesis for inspection. “Been through a bit,” she explained, although it was unlikely even these two could see any of the repairs without a scope. Noad, Anchen’s physician self, had done a superb job of reinstalling the finger she’d broken fending off the Trisulian male. Then there was the touch-up to the burns where she’d caught spit from their visiting Dhryn.

She glimpsed Mudge’s stunned expression as he realized which ship this had to be and kept her voice steady. “Doug and Kaili were my coaches.” Mac wiggled her fingers. “See? Haven’t lost my touch.”

“Cayhill has some new—” She shook her head, just once, and Kaili stopped, finishing with, “If you want, I’m sure he’ll take a look.”

“We’re here on other business.”

“You’re right.” Doug snapped to attention. “Sorry, Mac. We’ll catch up another time. This way.”

For a ship whose external purpose was to intimidate, the interior of the
Joy
had surprised Mac with its attention to comfort—until she’d learned a typical patrol could keep the crew in space for months. The lighting resembled that received on Earth, from its spectrum to the length of a shipday. The air temperature varied accordingly. Doug had tried to convince her that on very long hauls the captain would occasionally drop it below freezing for a week or so, with everyone reporting to duty in mitts, but Mac hadn’t swallowed that one. She had admired the lightly scented breezes that would randomly rush down certain corridors. What furnishings she’d seen were covered in a wide range of materials, having in common functionality as well as variety to the touch.

Sound was the only Human sense the ship’s designers had seemingly neglected in their search for ways to stimulate the crew. Then again, the first and possibly only warning of a serious problem would be the shriek of an alarm or the cry of orders.

Mac, Mudge, and Sam followed the two orderlies from the hangar to a corridor, then to where a sequence of arched doors marked internal transit tubes. They were reserved for crew; in all her time aboard, Mac hadn’t used them. Now, she shot a questioning look at Doug, who’d stopped by the first.

“Captain’s in a hurry,” he said in answer. “Wants you and the rest stowed as quickly as possible.”

“The rest?” This from Mudge. “Do you mean to say all of our people and gear are aboard?” His eyebrows were on a collision course. “They were waiting for us at the way station. By whose authority—”