Fledgling

by Sharon

  "Dissembling gains you nothing," Ella told him, leaning forward in excitement as the whole scheme rolled out before her mind's eye. "Kamele knew there was something off-key about Flandin's departure—or, I should say, Hafley's handling of the matter. We talked about it, she and I, and then . . . She had to seem strong—she had to be unencumbered by her politically unhandy relationship with the honored Gallowglass Chair. But she never released you! Who looked for the notice in The Faq? The act of moving back to the Wall with her daughter at her side—it said everything!"

  She collapsed into her chair-back, suddenly exhausted. Kamele, she thought, life with this man has changed you more than I knew.

  Jen Sar raised an eyebrow. "You choose the oddest moments to be perceptive."

  Surprised into a laugh, Ella struggled to sit upright. "Honesty, for once!"

  The second eyebrow joined the first. "When have I lied to you, Ella?"

  "When have you told anyone a straight story?" she countered, and laughed again. "Chaos! No wonder she refused poor Monit quite so sharply, poor man."

  He tipped his head, lips parting; Ella raised her hand.

  "No, don't say it—I agree completely! Tell me instead what you intend to do."

  "I intend," he said quietly, "to find the origin of that Serpent AI. Once I have done that, I will know what needs to be done next."

  That was a sensible course, Ella admitted, and nodded approvingly at him. "Kamele was right, then. This is something much larger than a few adjusted cites."

  Jen Sar moved his shoulders and stood. "No one is right until we have proof," he said austerely, and bowed. "Good evening, Ella."

  * * *

  Alone at last in her stateroom, Kamele tapped up her 'book and opened a file, but she had no concentration for her work. 'Round and 'round the refrain echoed inside her head, "I was right! Hafley is in it! I was right!"

  She had accepted the Chair's offer, of course; how else would she obtain proof of intent to harm the university, its faculty and students?

  Kamele relaxed deliberately into her chair, closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing. She would make notes, she decided, lay out her thoughts and her concerns, exactly as she would do when opening any other line of research. In fact, it would be best to think of this as research—field research.

  She so concentrated on this task that she barely heard Theo come in, or the sound of the 'fresher being engaged.

  Twenty-Four

  Vashtara

  Gallaria Level

  Passenger Lounge

  The Consumers' Lounge on the Gallaria Level had become Theo's favorite place to meet Win Ton. It was, usually, quiet, even when, like now, there was a quartet playing music up front; the chairs and sofas were comfortable, and there didn't seem to be any rules about how long you could stay without being visited by a staff member worried that you might not be having a good time.

  It was also equidistant from their three usual destinations—Ballroom 14-B, Private Studio Blue Three, and the Pet Library.

  Just now, she was sitting cross-legged on the soft blue sofa next to the potted lemon tree. Her attention was mostly on the pattern she was trying to capture in lace. The sofa was easy to see from two of the three entrances, so even if she got too concentrated, Win Ton wouldn't miss her.

  A shadow flickered over her busy fingers, and she looked up, blinking, from her needle.

  "Win—" she began, and blinked again, because the friendly shadow didn't belong to Win Ton after all, but to Captain Cho.

  "Ah," the woman bowed her head a shade too gravely, putting Theo forcefully in mind of Father. "I am desolate to have disappointed you."

  Theo shook her hair back from her face, and grinned.

  "But, you haven't disappointed me. I was expecting Win Ton, but I'm glad to see you!"

  Captain Cho smiled—her real smile, not the too-bright one—and bowed softly. "Sweetly said, Theo Waitley. Truly, you honor me." She straightened and used her chin to point to the couch. "May I join you?"

  "Please," Theo said formally. "I'll be glad of your company." She hesitated, then added, "I will need to go in a few minutes. Win Ton—"

  "Ah, yes, the amiable and opportunistic young apprentice. As it happens, I have need of a word with him." Captain Cho sat next to Theo, and leaned slightly forward to study the pattern in progress.

  "Is this the lace-making of which you spoke—which channels excess energy? May I see?"

  "It's not finished," Theo cautioned, holding it out between careful fingers.

  Cho studied it for three long heartbeats, tracing the lines with her eyes.

  "I feel that I am acquainted with this pattern," she said, leaning back into the sofa's mannerly embrace. "Yet, where I might have encountered it eludes me just now."

  "Well, it isn't finished," Theo said again, frowning down at the incomplete work. "And I don't think I've got this bit here exactly right . . ." She traced the questionable connections with her finger. "That's why I wanted to make the pattern." She held it out again, spread wide between her fingers.

  "It's part of a dance," she said. "The—"

  "It is the eighth menfri'at module," Captain Cho said suddenly. "Yes, I do see it, now—and you are correct. There is—not an error, I think, but rather a questionable variation in that transition phrase. It does not seem . . . entirely at ease with the intent of the next statement."

  "That's it!" Theo exclaimed. "I put in an extra stitch—a kink. But if I smooth that out, then the rest of the line will play out awfully . . . fast."

  "Indeed," Cho said softly. "The eighth module teaches us commitment to purpose. Have we come so far, only to falter? Surely not." She extended a finger and traced the kinked line. "It is the final meshing of commitment and skill which produces this speed of which you speak. Where there is certainty, there is no need to hesitate."

  Theo nodded, thinking about the Suwello—menfri'at. It was true that the modules she had been learning from Win Ton produced a statement of—of expertise, something like—how strange! She paused, staring down at the lacework in her hands, seeing Father's Look inside her head.

  "Theo?" Captain Cho murmured. "Is there something amiss?"

  She shook herself, and looked up with a grin. "No, I just—made a connection, I guess you'd say." She chuckled. "Kamele says that a true scholar never stops learning, not that I'm a true scholar, really . . ." She looked down again and shook her head. Well, she thought, she'd just have to pick out the kinked bit. That wouldn't be so bad, really . . .

  "Was it your mother who taught you this lace-making?" Cho asked.

  Theo shook her head. "No, that was Fa—Professor Kiladi." She glanced up beneath her lashes at her companion. "He was Kamele's onagrata for—well, for all my life, really. When I was a littlie, I had some excess energy issues—that's what the school report said. And . . . Professor Kiladi, he showed me how making lace could help me . . . stop fizzing, sort of, and think."

  "He seems a wise person, Professor Kiladi."

  There was an emphasis on Father's name that drew Theo's gaze upward.

  "Do you know him?" she asked. Cho was the sort of person that Father would find interesting, she thought. "He's very famous in his field—cultural genetics. Students come from all over the galaxy to study with him."

  "A great teacher spans worlds," Cho said; it sounded like she was quoting something. "Alas, I doubt that I have met him, though it would surely be an honor. It is merely the name—quite an old name—which caught my ear."

  "It is? I didn't know that." The unpicking wasn't being easy. Theo chewed her lip. "I guess it never came up," she said slowly. "Kamele did say that his . . . family had a call on him, even though he's been away all this time—studying, you know, and then teaching."

  "Indeed, one's clan does have a call upon one, down the whole length of one's life. Those of us who are fortunate—among whom I count myself—find the burden easy to bear. Others, of course . . ." She let the sentence drift off, watching Theo slowly unra
vel her handwork.

  "Who is it," she asked softly, "who is teaching you menfri'at?"

  "Win Ton—and sometimes Phobai," Theo answered. There! She'd worked back past the kink. Now, she could do it right. She looked up to find Captain Cho watching her, as if she expected a fuller answer.

  "It is pilot lore, of a kind, did they tell you that?"

  Theo frowned, puzzled. "Well, but I'd already been taught the first four modules. Win Ton . . . thought I should learn more, if I knew that much."

  "Ah. And Pilot Murchinson?"

  Theo blinked, then remembered the name stitched on the left breast of Phobai's uniform.

  "She says that I knew just enough to be a danger, but not enough to be dangerous."

  Captain Cho laughed. "Indeed! Practical to the core, Pilot Murchinson, and a treasure for all of it!" There was a small pause, then, "Do you not agree, Trainee yo'Vala?"

  Theo looked up as Win Ton approached their sofa, his hands moving in those purposeful gestures, his eyes on the captain's face.

  "Indeed, Pilot Phobai is a marvel and a wonder," he said. "Good shift to you, Theo. I pray you will excuse my lateness."

  "I've had good company," she said, smiling up at him. "And I was early." Captain Cho moved her hand, perhaps an answer to whatever Win Ton had told her.

  "I wish someone would teach me that," Theo said, and felt her face heat. She was pretty sure that she wasn't supposed to notice—

  Win Ton looked to Cho, who sighed even as she rose.

  "I will discuss it with your mother," she said. "If you will excuse me, young Theo, I require the attention of my apprentice—briefly, so I swear!"

  Cho swept her hand out—sternly, Theo thought. Apparently Win Ton thought so, too, because his mouth went straight like it did when he was being extra serious. He bowed slightly, and followed his captain away.

  * * ** * *

  At first glance, it seemed that the discussion between Captain Cho and Win Ton was mannerly and relaxed. They sat together on the red sofa, at their ease against the pillows, chatting casually.

  Their hands—that was something else again.

  Fingers danced with—energy. Maybe, Theo thought, watching out of the side of her eye—maybe even anger. And there was more than one meaningful glance in her direction. Theo sighed. She'd begun to form the opinion that Cho liked her, but—was the captain angry that Win Ton was spending so much of his time with her?

  Not that everything in the universe was about her, of course, as Kamele and Father were quick to assure her, in their variously annoying ways, whenever she began taking things "too personally." In their opinions.

  The lace was relaxing, and after awhile she settled into the pattern quite nicely, still with the odd glance toward the side. In the front of the room the quartet had bowed, nodded, and placed their instruments on stands. She hadn't heard if they were finished or merely taking a break, her attention having been toward the lace first and Cho and her assistant second, barely leaving room for . . . ah, here he came now.

  "Did I get you in trouble, Win Ton?"

  She'd surprised him; his eyes widened just a bit.

  "Captain Cho wasn't happy," she ventured . . .

  He glanced aside, but Cho was already on her way out of the lounge, gray head held high. Win Ton sighed, and looked back to her, moving his hand, carefully, toward the sofa.

  "May I at least sit before we begin interrogations?"

  She had gotten him in trouble. Theo bit her lip and patted the cushion beside her, courteously folding her work.

  Win Ton extended his hand. "May I see? My captain would have me understand that this work of yours is something out of the common way."

  "This?" She laughed and unfolded the piece, stretching it on her fingers so they could both see it. Now, she thought, pleased, it looked right.

  Like Cho before him, Win Ton leaned close to inspect the lace, then leaned back against the cushion.

  "I see—the eighth module, plain as plain. Do you often . . . record things thus?"

  "Sometimes," she said. "It helps me to really understand spatial things—my fingers are smarter than I am!"

  She'd meant it for a joke, but Win Ton didn't laugh. He only nodded and looked serious.

  "Of this other thing, and insofar as it concerns you, Theo Waitley, yes, my captain is unhappy with me. I fear that I must offer you an apology, for I was full of my own enthusiasms, and yours, and did not think to ask Kamele Waitley if her daughter might take part in bowli ball. I barely told you that we would be doing more than some light and fashionable dance. My captain reminds me that bowli ball is not considered fashionable in many quarters, and that those who play bowli ball are not always regarded as fit company. Too, and as you know, from time to time one might take abrasions, bruises or worse away from a match."

  Having taken some bruises herself, not to mention picking up a little floor-burn on her elbows—none which had been major enough to report to Kamele—Theo nodded.

  "Yes." Win Ton sighed once more. "As my captain now requires me to inform your mother of this recreation that we have been sharing, and its peculiar dangers, it may be that I will get you in . . . trouble."

  Theo thought about that. "So—you're sorry?"

  Win Ton failed to stifle his laughter.

  "May I ask that you not volunteer this to your mother or to my captain?"

  "Volunteer what?"

  "What I am about to say."

  "That depends on if it passes muster, huh?"

  He snorted.

  "Yes. But then to the point. I am sorry that I acted without first requesting clearance from your mother. I am very pleased that you have been able to participate in our games."

  Theo smiled, relieved. "I'm glad—oh!" Relief turned to dismay. "Does Captain Cho say that we can't play bowli ball any more?"

  Win Ton reached out and put his hand on her knee, his face serious.

  "That is for your mother to say, is it not?"

  Of course it was for Kamele to say, Theo thought grumpily; mothers had the right to make those decisions for their minor children.

  "So fierce a glare, Sweet Mystery! What are you thinking, I wonder?"

  She looked up at him. "I was thinking I can't wait to be grown up so nobody else has the right to make my decisions for me," she said.

  Win Ton laughed, and came to his feet, stretching, the scrape on his left wrist from a particularly vigorous retrieval during their last match almost glowing.

  "As my captain is clear on the point that my mission is not one brooking much delay, I wonder if you know where we, or at least I, may find Kamele Waitley at this hour?"

  * * *

  She was, Kamele thought, coming to value Professor Emeritus Vaughn Crowley. He had a sharp eye, a sharper ear, and an intellect keen enough to parse those things he observed. That he brought his concerns regarding Chair Hafley's timetable for the literature search to Kamele, ought, she thought, flatter her. Instead, it only made the knot in her stomach tighter. There had been a dangerous moment when she thought to confide in him, to reveal that Hafley believed her bought. The moment passed, and Crowley left their meeting unenlightened as to Kamele's double role—which was, doubtless, wisdom.

  The encounter had left her shaken and with an appreciation of the gravity of her undertaking. Deceit was hard, and yet here was Hafley, scheming to deceive the administration and faculty of Delgado University, and seeming none the worse for the subterfuge.

  You're too honest, she told herself, as the intersection with their "home" hallway approached. Surely honesty was a virtue in a scholar? It was what she had always believed. But, there, Hafley wasn't renowned as a scholar, was she?

  She rounded the corner, careful to stay close to edge in case of traffic, and there, tapping on the door to their stateroom was Theo, Win Ton yo'Vala standing quite close behind her.

  "Not here, I guess," Theo said, slipping her key out of her pocket. "Let's—"

  The knot in Kamele's stomach tightened m
ore, making her regret the coffee she'd drunk in Crowley's company. She stretched her legs. Win Ton looked up, put his hand on Theo's sleeve . . .

  "Are you looking for me, daughter?" Kamele asked.

  Twenty-Five

  Number Twelve Leafydale Place

  Greensward-by-Efraim

  Delgado

  A warm breeze wandered the garden, stroking the new leaves with fingers full of promise. Overhead, the stars stretched in a glittering tapestry, made finite by the spill of light from Efraim and the Wall.

  Jen Sar Kiladi reclined upon a bench that would later in the season be hidden by a fragrant tumble of westaria vines; one soft-shoed foot on the stone seat, one braced against the ground. His head was on the cold arm rest; and his eyes on the stars. His thoughts, however, were elsewhere.

  Theo was not the target, Aelliana said, her voice quiet inside his head.

  "I consider it unlikely. What we must consider is if Kamele is the target."

  There was silence for a time, save for the flirtatious rustling of the leaves. He did not have the sense that she had withdrawn, however; merely that she was considering the matter. As he was.

  No, she said eventually. It would require conjoined efforts from Housing and Info Systems—and how yet would they know which room she would choose as her own? There are too many hands, and too much left to chance.

  "Chance," he murmured. "Are they so slovenly, do you think, Aelliana? Or are they—" He stopped and sat up so suddenly last season's vines clattered around him.

  What is it?

  "What if it is not sloven chance, but bright cunning? Recall that Technician Singh told us 'old wire' was woven all through the elder apartments. Why confine the Serpent to one apartment?"

  If, indeed, it could be confined.

  "Precisely."

  But how to prove it?

  He smiled. "We ask an expert, of course."

  * * *

  "You needn't wonder if I'm in, Theo," Kamele said sharply. "I've just returned from a meeting."

  Right, Theo thought, another meeting. And not a good one, either, judging by her mother's tone and the set of her shoulders. Kamele being in a bad mood wasn't going to make Win Ton's apology any easier, but it was obviously too late to go away and come back later.