Migration by Julie E. Czerneda Page B

happens.”
    She looked at Tie. His weary face was streaked with drying mud and a line of grease. A bit of pink foam was stuck in his hair above his left ear. “That it does,” she agreed. “Let’s head back. I’ve seen enough.”
    And if she believed this earthquake “happened,” Mac told herself, so far beyond mere fury she felt nothing but cold, she should invest in that fabled bridge across the Bering Strait.

    A few meetings were actually fun—those rare events involved pizza, a tub of ice-cold beer, and the joyous task of celebrating a colleague’s latest success, whether publication or offspring.
    Most, like this one, were thinly disguised battles, usually with the outcome predetermined and of no joy to anyone.
    Mac planned to make it quick. Speed didn’t help when pulling off bandages, but she hoped in this case it would limit the fallout. With any luck, everyone would leave mad at her instead of each other.
    She hated meetings.
    “Let’s get started,” she ordered quietly, surveying the gallery from the centermost seat at the head table. That table was raised on a small dais, allowing the entire roomful of people a clear view of Mac, Kammie, and the other five senior scientists. Or guest speakers, hired bands, talent shows, and the like.
    No one expected entertainment today, not with Pod Three reverberating each time a floating, dying tree bumped and scraped against its supports, not with the view out the transparent walls showing an ocean stained with the blood of a mountain.
    “We’ve conferred with—” everyone possible, Mac almost said, then changed it to “—experts. The bottom beneath the pods is stable, but seriously disturbed. You’ve seen for yourselves the state of the shoreline. Rather than reinstall the permanent anchors and resume our work here—” The shock traveled across the room, mirrored in all of their faces. Did they think nothing would change? Mac raged—but kept it to herself. They didn’t need her pain as well as their own. “—Pods One, Three, Four, Five, and Six will be towed to a new site.”
    From any other group, there might have been pandemonium or some protest. Not here, not now. Three hundred and fifteen faces looked back at her, many of them familiar, some new, very few she didn’t know on sight yet. Her eyes couldn’t find Persephone, but she took that as a positive. Someone better be investigating what had happened . Just as likely, ’Sephe hadn’t dared face her. Mac spotted Case, sitting with Uthami and John Ward. Everyone was silent, waiting.
    They knew there was more to come.
    “The process, barring storms or more rumblings from beneath, will take three weeks. Norcoast is sending haulers to tow the pods. We’ll have to secure all gear—move out what’s going to be needed during that time. Check your imps for details. The sooner we’re ready, the sooner we can get moving.”
    “Where?” came a voice from the back.
    Mac glanced at Kammie. That worthy stood, having learned long ago her soft, high-pitched voice needed all the help it could get to project past the first line of tables. She smoothed the front of her immaculate lab coat with both hands. A nervous habit. Who wasn’t on edge? Mac thought with sympathy. “We’re returning Base to its original home, beside the mouth of the Tannu River itself,” Kammie informed them. “It’s an ideal location. And was ideal, until the natural disaster before this one. I assume that when history repeats itself, Base will be towed back here again.” Her comment drew a laugh and Kammie smiled faintly as she sat down.
    Mac resumed her part of the briefing. “Pod Two is being refitted as a self-contained research unit, to accommodate what will be an ongoing, multiyear, and very well-funded exploration of the successional recovery of the life in this area. Congratulations to those who will be staying. We look forward to your findings.” Martin Svehla, freshly minted head of the new unit, beamed