Free Migration by Julie E. Czerneda

question. “That’s what I was going to ask you. A memo came through everyone’s imp, just when we were suiting up. No diving. No skim traffic. Nothing on-water today. Even the t-lev from Vancouver’s been delayed until tonight.” A sideways, very wise look from those sea-faded eyes. “That’s not usual stuff here, is it, Mac?”
    “No, Case. No, it’s not.” Mug in one hand, Mac dusted crumbs from her thighs with the other as she rose to her feet. “Then again,” she smiled, “what is? Someone’s probably forgotten to post they’re running a sensitive assay in the inlet this morning. I’ll look into it. Thanks for breakfast.”
    His “You’re welcome,” hardly registered. Mac’s thoughts were racing ahead even as she climbed the stairs to her office at her normal pace.
    Seeing the tactic for what it was, knowing she had no reason to feel any special bond to ’Sephe, any friendship, didn’t help. Mac still felt betrayed. What was ’Sephe up to? Whatever it was, if she’d interfered with Base operations . . .
    She’d be leaving on the next t-lev.

    “We’re leaving. Now.”
    As if accustomed to having his breakfast interrupted by an infuriated woman in hiking gear, Mudge put down his coffee, calmly wiped his mouth with a napkin, and left the table to find his rainsuit. He pulled on the garment, still without a word.
    Just as well . Mac doubted she could engage in reasonable conversation at the moment.
    She hadn’t found ’Sephe. She had found, however, the source of the stay-put, stay-dry order.
    Dr. Mackenzie Connor.
    Not by name, but ’Sephe—or someone—had used Mac’s codes to essentially shut down operations for the day, on a day when a good third of Base should be heading out to the field. The day before Mac herself planned to go, meaning she’d be delayed at least that long herself. She wasn’t the only one upset. Her incoming mail this morning ranged from polite protest to profanity, although Mac had taken a certain satisfaction from replying “wasn’t me” each time.
    If the Ministry agent thought this would keep her from taking Mudge to the ridge, Mac fumed to herself, ’Sephe hadn’t read the right files.
    Meanwhile, Mudge had fastened his last boot and now looked at her interrogatively, his small eyes bright with anticipation. Mac jerked her head at the door, then led the way.
    A shame security didn’t try to stop them . Mac had prepared several versions of a scathing protest at such misuse of her codes, her people, and her facility. But no one appeared to notice another two figures in rainsuits wandering the corridors, so she filed her protest for later.
    Mac waited for an empty lift to take them to the pod roof. Stepping out first, she reached back and punched in the command for the lowermost level, sending the lift where it would wait until someone from administration could be found to input the retrieval sequence. This early in the season, when students were having trouble finding their own boots, let alone responsible staff? Her lip curled with satisfaction. Why make ’Sephe’s life easier?
    “This way,” she told Mudge, walking through puddles. The rain hadn’t started again, but yesterday’s deluge had filled every depression and dimple on the roof. Not that the roof was large. In point of fact, it wasn’t supposed to exist at all, being another of those “handy, that” modifications. The original pod design had called for an irregular upper surface, transparent from within and appearing as mauve-and-gray stone from without. No one and nothing else was to be on it. Ideal camouflage, sure to appease those who wanted no sign of Human presence in Castle Inlet.
    Which had lasted as long as it had taken the first grad student to find a hammer. Tell imaginative and curious scientists they couldn’t use the top of their own building? Who’d thought that would work? All but Pod Six eventually grew a small roof consisting of a labyrinth of narrow bands and bulges