Migration by Julie E. Czerneda Page B

the, well, call them ‘less familiar’ aliens visiting Earth. The weirder the better. Some of the stories he’d tell? Let’s leave it that if they weren’t in filed reports, I’d say he made them up.”
    Mac had no wish for ’Sephe to give an example of “weirder.” Her own studies into alien life-forms and their cultures had progressed sufficiently to realize her wildest imaginings probably brewed beer or its equivalent, gambled on a preplanned vacation at least once in a lifetime, and contemplated their existence in terms of joy, tedium, or despair, depending on the moment and substance involved. It didn’t help her feel capable of understanding an alien mind. It did help explain why the IU had picked Nikolai Trojanowski as Brymn’s guide while on Earth.
    Nik’s motivation? Nothing so simple. The Ministry had had its own agenda, which included maneuvering Mac herself offworld to learn more about the Dhryn.
    She’d learned too much.
    And not nearly enough.
    ’Sephe mistook her thoughtful silence. “Mac. He wants you safe. We all do. Don’t resent the precautions we’re taking, our presence here. But—”
    “What we want can’t always come first,” Mac finished calmly. “You don’t need to tell me, ’Sephe. Nik and I have had this conversation.”
    “Watch yourself. Okay? He can be a ruthless bastard.”
    Mac blinked. She considered taking the bait for no more than a heartbeat. Trust was earned, she told herself. And she’d prefer to learn about Nikolai Trojanowski on her own terms. “Isn’t that part of the job description?” she replied.
    “It’s recently been added.”
    Lines drawn and acknowledged . The two women shared a moment of perfect understanding, then Mac yawned so widely her jaw cracked. “We’ve all summer,” she concluded. “You are planning to work the full season.” It wasn’t a question.
    “Unless the world ends.”
    “Not funny.”
    “No.”
    “Where on that scale . . .” Odd, how the reminder was a comfort. Exhaustion from chasing Mudge through the dark, Mac decided. Or maybe it was finally having someone else who knew, so she could believe she wasn’t the only one facing the truth.
    “Good night, Dr. Stewart. Welcome to Base.”
    “Good night, Dr. Connor. And thanks.”

    Later, as Mac lay sleepless in the clarity of the dark, she clutched the sweater covering her upper body with hands real and synthetic, and considered the truth.
    Had Nik, who doubtless knew ’Sephe very well indeed, made sure she heard about the opening in John Ward’s fledgling department, so suited to her true interests?
    Mac nodded to herself. Likely, she decided. Why? How better to get ’Sephe here, close to Mac, than to have the woman think it was her own idea? More importantly, how better to convince Mac herself that in ’Sephe she had a potential new friend, someone to let close?
    It would have worked, Em, before you.
    Mac shook her head. Too much left to chance. Nik made opportunities. He didn’t wait for them.
    So. Easy enough to orchestrate that opening on staff. Mac could have done it herself. Simply arrange a flood of applications for John’s proposed new courses. Applications weren’t students nodding in their seats Monday morning.
    Still too much chance.
    What if the request for a new staffer had been tailored to match ’Sephe’s own passions?
    An image of John Ward in Trojanowski’s trademark suit and cravat floated up behind Mac’s eyelids.
    Where had that come from? If there was one thing Mac could be sure of, it was that her transparent postdoc was incapable of anything more clandestine than his biweekly beer run for the Misses, a trip John somehow continued to believe was his deep, dark secret. No one had the heart to tell him his routine was so well known that Mac herself put in orders on occasion.
    Perception was everything, Mac mused.
    Or was it nothing? However Persephone Stewart had been brought to Base, Mac could only be sure of one thing: it wasn’t to