Migration by Julie E. Czerneda Page A

jump.
    “My—” Her voice caught.
    “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded, but went on without waiting for an answer, hoarse with frustration. “You did bring it? Oh, I know it’s not ideal. This—” a wave of the recorder, “—would be better, much better, more complete and reliable.” He shoved it into a pocket, the rubber protesting. “Piece of junk. I assume your imp has at least basic data recording capabilities, ambient conditions, that sort of thing? I have to collect as much as I can . . . make notes.”
    Nodding, Mac took out the small device and laid it on her palm, unable to help stealing glances in every direction. She tapped in her code with a finger, lower lip between her teeth.
    The workscreen formed before her face, its display so bland and normal she gasped with relief.
    “Good,” Mudge said, either oblivious or assuming Mac’s emotions reflected his own. “Let me use it.”
    Without warning, the current display, a checklist of her field supplies, disappeared. In its place, a string of incomprehensible symbols tumbled among the raindrops in the air, flaring yellow, then red. A message? Mac jabbed a finger through the ’screen to save it.
    As she did, the symbols were replaced by a flicker of light that, so briefly it could have been her imagination, formed a face.
    Then the display winked back to its list of equipment, tents, and rations.
    Mac closed her fingers over her imp. Rain washed her cheeks, conveniently hiding the tears she couldn’t control. Of joy or terror? Interesting question, she told herself. But whatever she was feeling, Mac knew she hadn’t imagined what she’d seen. Or rather who.
    Emily .
    “Well? Are you going to let me use it or not, Norcoast?”
    “What? Oh. Not. Sorry.” Mac opened her rainsuit and secured the now-precious gadget in the upper zipped pocket of her coveralls. “Old model,” she said smoothly. “Forgot it doesn’t have direct data recording. Try yours again.”
    His expression was the familiar “are you nuts?” one she’d grown accustomed to ignoring over the years. Presumably hers was the equally familiar “willing to wait forever” one, because Mudge didn’t bother arguing. Instead, he grabbed out his recorder and activated it one more time, grumbling under his breath all the while. Then his eyes widened. He gave her a shocked look. “It’s working!”
    Why wasn’t that reassuring? As Mac suspected the answer involved the Ro, or at least their technology, neither far enough away, she was proud of her calm: “Oh, good. Shall we proceed?”
    “I expect you to show me what’s been happening here, Norcoast,” Mudge scowled fiercely. “No tricks.” He started moving without waiting for an answer, the walkway edges flashing green with each impatient step.
    So much for sharing the beauty of the place, Mac sighed to herself. “I don’t know what you think you’ll find, Oversight,” she informed his back as she followed behind. “There’s been no one here since the last field season and you’ve seen those reports.”
    The walkway climbed with the mountain, each step etched in light. Mac forced herself to stop looking for Emily at every turn. She’d been given a message, that’s all. ’Sephe and company would help her find out what it meant. At least now, there was hope.
    If only Emily’s face hadn’t looked so . . . strange.
    Mac and Mudge soon reached the section where the walkway spiraled both up and around a series of mammoth tree trunks, each wider than a transport lev, rising vertically as if they were columns supporting the unseen sky. An otherworldly place, Mac thought, trying to shake free of the aftermath of Emily’s message. There had been a time when being here gave her a sense of permanence, of safety, of life that needed nothing but itself to continue.
    Having walked on one of the lifeless worlds of the Chasm, she knew better. The trees were something else at risk . Something else to lose.
    The rain