Migration by Julie E. Czerneda

back to her. “Why? Do you have something to hide, Norcoast?”
    Should she count on her fingers or pull out her imp to do the calculation? Mac snorted. Aloud, she said: “No. I don’t have anything to hide. But you’re—OW!” The tip of a branch snapped against her cheek despite a last second duck. “Will you stop!” she shouted.
    Mudge, for a wonder, did just that. Mac fingered her cheek and glared at him, breathing heavily. Ever since she’d showed him the path, he’d hurried along it as if possessed by demons. If she didn’t know better, Mac thought darkly, she’d believe he had a destination in mind .
    As this particular path swung all too close to the Ro landing site at the top of the ridge, she sincerely hoped not. There were some things she needed to believe, Mac admitted to herself as she studied his sweating face. Among them, that Oversight was here for his trees, nothing more.
    He was fumbling in a pocket. Before Mac could do more than tense— when had she developed that appalling reflex? —he pulled out a wad of white and pressed it into her hand. “Here. You’re bleeding.”
    Mac lifted the tissue to her cheek. “What’s the rush, Oversight?” she asked, holding his gaze with hers. His face was flushed with effort. No surprise. They were both too warm in their rainsuits and had their hoods down, even with the light drizzle falling. Drops collected in the creases beside his eyes and erased what hair he had.
    “Was I rushing?” All innocence.
    Mac waited.
    “Oh,” Mudge gave an embarrassed-sounding harrumph. “I—Sorry about that, Norcoast. It’s all a bit—much, you know. Being here.” He looked up and around, eyes wide, then back to her, his expression somehow desperate. “I must make as complete an inspection in the time we have—” he raised the hand holding the recorder, “—but there’s no way to see it all. No time.”
    “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Mac commented.
    “Beautiful?” Mudge blinked raindrops from his eyes. “Of course it is.” She merely gazed at him, letting silence speak. Finally, he heaved a sigh and lowered the recorder. “Of course, it is,” he repeated, more slowly and with emphasis. “Thank you, Norcoast.” He looked past her again. “It’s worth everything we do, isn’t it,” he said softly.
    Mac nodded, drinking in the sights, sounds, and smells for herself.
    Spring. Regrowth, renewal, reproduction. They stood encompassed by living things answering those imperatives, urgently, impatiently. Birdsong, from hoarse to heartbreakingly rich, filled the air. Pollen powdered highlights of yellow on the bark of trees. Green shoots burst through the dark soil below like fireworks exploding in a night sky, their color so vivid, so intense, it seemed to leave a taste. Anywhere sheltered from the tiny raindrops, the air was filled with motes, some in flight, some adrift, all intent.
    Mac drew a deep breath through her nose, savoring the rush of molds and damp wood, of distant flowers and brand-new leaves. Regeneration . She could feel it, just being here. She would know it, when she was at the field station, waiting for the first migrating salmon of the season. Her life would regain its purpose, its balance—
    “It’s stopped working.”
    “What’s stopped working?” she echoed.
    “This thing.” Mudge banged his recorder against the palm of his other hand. “It’s gone dead on me.”
    Mac couldn’t pull air into her lungs. Her eyes searched the surrounding maze of crisscrossing branches and shadow. Not that those she feared would trouble to hide. The Ro. Masters of stealth, when they wished.
    And their favorite tactic? To interfere with power supplies, broadcast or stored.
    Their strange allies. Who could be close enough to touch, and neither she nor Mudge would know.
    The Dhryn?
    Mac didn’t dare look up. If there were any above them, it was already too late.
    Mudge’s annoyed “Well, Norcoast? Where’s your imp?” made her