Fledgling

by Sharon

  "Scholars!" Hafley cried. "We have all been teachers. Surely we can give Professor Dochayn's trained assistants instructions regarding our needs. There's no reason to weary ourselves, to learn the filing system in use, to risk muddling the archive's records . . ."

  "I have been a scholar for seventy Standard Years," Crowley interrupted. "I have pursued source documents into hovels, where the texts were left exposed to humidity, radiation, and other damaging elements; where the notion of a filing system was to simply stack all those with matching covers in a certain corner of the room. I take offense at the statement that I would be unable to decipher the civilized and sophisticated archival system in use at this facility. The insinuation that I would somehow, in my base male ignorance, muddle the files I consider beneath reply."

  "Professor Crowley—"

  "I agree with Professor Waitley," Able interrupted the Chair. "Delgado didn't become the watchword for careful scholarship because Delgadan scholars let others do their research. We hold ourselves to scholarly rigor; it is our pride and our duty. Students come to us from the far reaches of the galaxy because we do not stint ourselves, nor take the easy path. We have our task before us; let us continue."

  Not a consensus, Kamele thought, but a majority. So be it. Hafley, however, was opening her mouth, apparently to argue or cajole further.

  "The scholars perhaps are not entirely informed on the conditions of research in the archives," Director Pikelmin said smoothly. "Dochayn would hardly have thought to mention it; she was here at all hours, herself. As you can see, we have an immense facility to maintain and protect here. What this means in terms of visiting scholars and research teams is that they may, at the invitation of a resident archivist—which your team has of course obtained—visit the relevant archive. However, checking large groups of foreign scholars in and out puts an unacceptable burden on our security personnel. That is why all visiting researchers are required to stay within the archives until they have either completed their work, or they have overstayed their welcome."

  Theo, Kamele thought, calm inside the suddenly cool room.

  "How long," she asked, "are visiting researchers welcome?"

  Director Pikelmin smiled. "One local week, Professor."

  "I see." Kamele glanced around the table, seeing agreement on two faces. "Since time is so short, I suggest that we begin immediately, if the director can find someone able to lead us directly to the archives."

  "I will myself lead you, Professor Waitley, if you must go. I should mention that conditions are perhaps not what you are accustomed to. The apartments are very small, and the food provided—alas!—not by our most excellent catering department but by a cafeteria vending service."

  Kamele did not laugh, though she did glance down at her empty coffee cup.

  "Those conditions are acceptable," she said, and looked 'round the table. "Scholars?"

  "Acceptable," Able said.

  "More than acceptable," Crowley said. "I wonder, however, if someone—perhaps our excellent Chaperon, Gidis Arkov—could be dispatched to bring our cases to us. We came, you understand, prepared to do our research, not to take up residence."

  Jeyanzi Pikelmin pressed her lips together.

  "If it's against the rules," Able said, dryly, "then think nothing of it. We'll manage. I assume that there is a sink?"

  The director looked to Hafley, who threw up her hands.

  "We have a consensus, or so it would appear! I thank you for your attempt to make our work easier."

  "Then you will also be staying in the archives, Chair Hafley?" the director asked.

  "It would seem that I have no choice."

  "Of course." She bowed slightly to the room at large. "Licensed Chaperon Gidis Arkov will fetch the scholars' cases to the archive. You will understand that this may take some amount of time, it being an extra burden upon him. Melchiza is, however, famous for its hospitality. We would not wish to leave a guest in discomfort."

  Kamele nodded.

  "That's settled, then," she said briskly, and rose, smiling brightly at the woman in her red coat and blue knot. "Director Pikelmin, let me thank you again for a most delicious meal! It's time for this research team to embrace its purpose, dreary as that might seem to some. I believe you said that you would be able to guide us . . . ?"

  "Yes, Professor Waitley," the director said gently. "I will myself escort you."

  * * *

  Movement was freeform; you were supposed to stretch and move around, so Ave-Su said, to get the blood back up to your brain. Theo staked out a piece of floor toward the back of the big room and danced a few phrases of menfri'at. The voices and heavy steps of her teammates fell out of her awareness before she completed the first phrase. Closing her eyes, she imagined Win Ton moving with her, which was easy since he danced so quiet—like there was a cushion of air between the soles of his boots and whatever mundane surface the rest of the population had to deal with. Captain Cho moved like that, too, and sometimes Father . . .

  She stopped in mid-phrase, her eyes springing open to behold her classmates, standing quite still, watching her, like they'd never seen anybody dance before. And coming forward was Instructor Tathery, eyes wide in a face that seemed a little paler than it had been.

  "Everybody awake?" she called out to the room in general, and the rest of the class turned toward her. "Good! We're due at the media center!"

  * * *

  "All communication devices must be checked at this station," Jeyanzi Pikelmin said. "They will be returned to you when you depart our facility."

  Kamele considered the woman. "My minor daughter is enrolled at the Transit School. The custom upon Delgado is that a mother must always have available to her the means to supervise and interact with her child."

  Director Pikelmin inclined her head gently. "Delgado's customs are well-known to me, Professor Waitley, and I honor them, on those occasions when I am on Delgado. This discussion is taking place upon Melchiza, however, and here we have our own customs. Your child is under the supervision of the instructor of her class; you may rest easy." She looked up, eyes gleaming.

  "If Delgadan custom must overrule Melchizan, then I suggest to you that it is not too late to allow experienced Treasure House staff to take the burden of your task out of your hands."

  Kamele took a breath. To be . . . incarcerated, incommunicado, for the length of a thorough search—which Able had calculated at no less than four Delgadan days, and possibly as long as seven—with her child among strangers. It was—what if something happened?

  I should have, she thought, closed my eyes and ignored the signs, stopped myself from adding up the inconsistencies. Remained in Jen Sar's house, where everything was comfortable and my daughter was protected.

  Yet—Was that how a Scholar of Delgado comported herself? Could she have lived with herself, had she turned her head? And Theo—what lesson would her daughter have taken from such an act of cowardice?

  "Professor Waitley?"

  She looked around to her colleagues, to Hafley, smirking at the director's side, and bowed slightly. It seemed to her that she heard Jen Sar murmur quietly in her ear, Necessity.

  "The Treasure House," she said composedly, "is to be commended for the care it lavishes upon those valuables that come into its keeping." She stepped to the desk and slipped her mumu from her pocket. The guard slapped a pressure-seal on it, and used her chin to point. "Fingerprints, please, Scholar."

  Kamele pressed her fingers to the seal and stepped back, making room for Crowley, who already had his mumu out.

  When it came Hafley's turn, she slid the mumu across the desk as if it were a toy. The guard picked up the seal, looked down—and looked up.

  "This device is activated," she said.

  "Again?" Hafley tsked, leaned forward and tapped the power-down key. "I really must get a new one; this habit of spontaneously powering up is very tiresome."

  The guard shrugged, sealed the device and Hafley pressed her fingers down.
>
  "There, now!" she said, turning around and smiling broadly. "Kamele, I believe you are, as always, correct! We ought to do our own research, and we should be able to make great strides, four scholars with no children beneath foot. Not that Theo is ever anything but a delight, of course, but she is quite, quite safe where she is."

  Thirty-Four

  Delgado

  Efraim Agricultural Zone

  "Have we arrived?" Monit Appletorn asked faintly from the passenger's seat.

  Jen Sar Kiladi touched the car's power switch. The prediction for a cloudless, lucent day perfect for driving had been correct, and he had, perhaps, indulged himself. He sent a sidelong glance to the other man. Appletorn's face was decidedly pale, his eyes squeezed shut so tightly that he must surely soon give himself a headache.

  "I believe that we have arrived, yes," Jen Sar said, keeping his voice soft not only from respect of that incipient headache, but also because he had noted the location of three Eye-like objects, placed with intent to conceal among the trees and other growing things.

  Appletorn took a rather shaky breath, and opened his eyes. Ascertaining that the car was, indeed, at rest, he cast his attention wider, taking in the pleasant aspect of the courtyard, the simple stone walk leading to the simple wooden door, set flush to the simple wooden walls.

  "We are at the Chapelia's primary circle?" Appletorn asked, his voice likewise low.

  "To the best of my knowledge and belief," Jen Sar assured him.

  Appletorn cleared his throat. "I ask, not because I doubt your abilities, sir, but because there are two decidedly complex monitoring devices concealed in this . . . garden. Surely the Chapelia, who advocate and pursue simplicity in all things . . ."

  "The Chapelia harness complexity when it suits them," Jen Sar murmured, pleased in his companion. To have immediately seen two of the concealed spy-eyes in what must surely be a bewildering profusion of leaf and branch, while one's emotions were yet in turmoil, demonstrated observational skills of a high order. But, there, Appletorn's area was advertence. Perhaps he would be useful here, after all.

  "Well!" he said brightly, releasing the door looks and easing out of his seat. "Having arrived, let us go forth!"

  He retrieved his cane from the boot while Appletorn extricated himself from the seat's embrace, locked the doors, and held the clicker out.

  Appletorn stared. "What is that?"

  "An extra key, in case it should be needed."

  "Keep it," the other said shortly. "I could not, in the direst emergency imaginable, steer that . . . device."

  "It's really quite simple," Jen Sar told him. "Only use the sticks to point it, and the pedal to accelerate. When you hit something, the town constables will be summoned to take you into custody, where you will be safe from any pursuit."

  Appletorn glared at him. "I thank you, but—no."

  "As you like," Jen Sar said agreeably, and slipped the spare away.

  There was a simple bell hanging by the door, with a string hanging from its striker. Jen Sar used the head of his cane to strike a sweet single note, then set the ferrule against stone walkway, and composed himself to wait.

  "Ring again," Appletorn said after a few minutes had passed. "They may not have heard."

  "But to ring again would be to betray complexity," Jen Sar pointed out. "Surely, in the fullness of time, a single summons will find a single—ah."

  The door opened, silent on well-oiled hinges, to reveal one of the Chapelia in her simple gray robes, face swathed in simple gray cloth, plain black lenses covering her eyes, a cowl over covering her naked head.

  Jen Sar inclined his head, very slightly. "One comes," he stated.

  The lenses glinted as the doorkeeper moved her head.

  "Two come, Seeker."

  "One comes," Jen Sar repeated, "seeking a rare simplicity." He raised his hand, drawing the sign Lystra Mason had given him in the air between himself and the doorkeeper.

  There was a long pause, doubtless as the doorkeeper had recourse to her quicklink. Jen Sar recruited himself to patience, his eyes on the shrouded face. The robes and other shrouding of course hid any minute muscle tension attending the sub-vocalization, and he allowed himself to marvel anew at the range of complexity necessary to support a simple life.

  "Two come," the doorkeeper declared, and turned her shrouded face once more to Appletorn. "Do you seek, also?"

  "I seek to study this one's actions," Appletorn said serenely; "in order to see if they might Teach."

  An excellent answer, that, and with the advantage of being true.

  The Chapelia inclined her head and stood away from the door.

  "Enter."

  * * *

  According to the opening credits, the vid was a dramatization of an ancient Melchizan folktale. The plot revolved around a pair of sibs—girl and boy—who had fallen joint heirs to an estate in the mountains. There were a number of people attached to the estate, by something called grunkild. The sister got right to work team-building, learning names, families and what everybody's job was. Her brother had brought three members of his home-team with him; they each picked out three people from the grunkild people, claimed a wing of the big house for themselves and proceeded to ignore the sister's efforts.

  Theo shifted in her seat. Except for the Melchizan social structures, this was a familiar story—very much like those told to littlies at home. What was going to happen now was that an emergency would arise, the arrogant brother and his isolationist group would get into trouble, and the team-builder would save their bacon. Then, after the emergency was over, the brother would ask to be brought into the team.

  Sure enough, the emergency was not long in coming, though its nature was . . . unexpected. Instead of bad weather, or an equipment failure, or an attempt to discredit one of the group's scholarship, it was actual physical danger that they faced.

  A group of bandits came down out of the mountains with the winter winds, and attacked the estate. Why they didn't just ask for help wasn't explained. Theo guessed it made a better story to just have them ride in and start catapulting rocks and ice against the estate's walls.

  The sister went to her team and asked them what should be done, seeking consensus, but the team members were afraid of the bandits and hid. Lacking consensus, the sister went to her room to study the problem.

  In the meantime, the brother, who had held himself away from the team, and his few friends, came around behind the bandits' position, and used firearms to frighten them away.

  And that, the narrator said, demonstrated why a leader must always keep himself aloof and vigilant for his people.

  Theo sat up straight in her seat, cold with shock. That wasn't right!

  The lights came up. She shook herself, and looked around to see if anyone else was as horrified as she felt.

  Dalin was sitting to her right, eyes half-closed. Possibly he was asleep. On the left, Ave-Su was combing her fingers through her hair, her expression decidedly bored.

  Theo took a breath. "That—" she began and started as Instructor Tathery called from the back of the room.

  "All right, students! Back to the classroom, please, and form a talk-circle. Another class is scheduled for the room!"

  Theo got up, feeling strangely shaky, like she'd made a dive during a bowli ball match, and had missed the ball. But! There was going to be a discussion. That was good. Clearly, the story had been told wrong for a reason. Maybe it was to—

  A hand landed on her shoulder. She looked up; Instructor Tathery smiled at her tightly and jerked her head to one side.

  "Come with me, Theo."

  "Yes, ma'am," she said automatically, following the big woman out into the hall, and to the right, instead of to the left, which was the way back to the classroom.

  "Is there a problem, ma'am?" she asked.

  The instructor looked down at her. "Just an administration error, Theo. You're in the wrong class."

  She frowned. "The wrong class? But my mother—
"

  "Yes, yes!" the instructor interrupted. "But she might not have considered, ah, how important dance is to Melchiza. You'll fit in much better with—Ah, here we are!"

  She waved Theo to an office on the right, where a man wearing a plain blue shirt and dark slacks stood, ignoring several comfortable chairs, his feet flat and stance ready, as if he were waiting for his dance partner—no, Theo corrected herself, remembering what Win Ton had taught her—his sparring partner to arrive. He was not as tall as Instructor Tathery, nor as substantial, but Theo felt herself respond to his presence. She stopped, dropping into the ready mode, as Phobai called it; feet flat, knees flexed, hands at rest—and looked up into his face.

  He had a hook nose, thin lips, and very, very blue eyes. The lips smiled. The eyes didn't.

  "I . . . see," he said and nodded to her, deliberately, almost like one of Father's bows.

  "I am Pilot-Instructor Arman. You may address me as Pilot. It is obvious, Pilot Waitley, that you have been misassigned. That error has been rectified, and you will now enter my class."

  Theo frowned into those cold eyes. "My mother expects me to be in Instructor Tathery's class," she said. "They had a protocol agreement."

  "So Instructor Tathery informs me. I have relieved her of her promise to your mother and taken the burden to myself." He looked over her head. "Thank you, Instructor. You did right."

  "Thank you, sir." The woman's voice was not quite steady. She cleared her throat. "Theo, your belongings will be shifted to your new room. Pilot Arman will direct you."

  "Indeed, the pilot may look to me for all things," the man said, and gave a nod of dismissal. "Your class needs you, Instructor."

  "Yes," she said, suddenly reluctant, as a new voice called out.

  "Instructor Tathery?"

  Theo spun, keeping Pilot Arman on her left, half-facing this new intruder.

  A boy not much older than she was held out a piece of hard copy to the woman. "Student reassignment, Instructor," he said cheerfully.

  "Reassignment?" She frowned as she took the hard copy—and frowned again as she glanced down.

  The messenger departed, whistling. Instructor Tathery turned back, paper upheld.