Survival (46 page)

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 . . .

And one
Homo sapiens
.

As for a sky?

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.

Be grateful,
she reminded herself.

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.

For which she was also grateful,
Mac thought, watching rain wall the world.
For however long it took
.

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
.

None had Progenitors of their own.

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 furniture was fine,
Mac told herself.
She was fine.

There wasn't much choice in attitude for either.

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.

She couldn't bear to think of the ocean about to disappear, being literally flushed away.
It didn't matter
.

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.

She didn't judge. But, as each waking hour passed, she felt a little of herself slip away.

“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.

“Is this typical Human behavior, or are you mad?”

Mac scrambled to her feet. “You aren't Brymn,” she blurted at the Dhryn standing in front of her.

“Are Humans incapable of recognizing individuals?” the being asked reasonably.

“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.

“Do Humans make assumptions?”

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?”

“You invited me. These are for the esteemed Academic.”

“Brymn?”

Ceth shuffled impatiently from foot to foot. “He is waiting.”

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.

“Because—What are you doing in my kitchen?”

“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.

“STOP!”

The three Dhryn paused to look at Mac. She coughed and said more politely. “Who are you and why are you here?”

“I am Ceth—”

“I know who you are. These others?”

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.”

“And I brought more,” Ceth volunteered.

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?”