Fledgling

by Sharon

He turned the stagger generated by the machine's abrupt stop into a somersault, landing light on his feet.

  There was a hesitation then, as if the rest of the pilots were weighing whether they could beat the record so far.

  Theo shook her head and walked forward.

  * * *

  Kamele rubbed her eyes and looked at the shelf again. Surely, the fifth book in the diary set she was studying had been right here on the shelf, next to the fourth, which she had just placed in the outgoing cart? She knew she was tired—they were all tired by now, but—no, she decided, she must have been mistaken. It must have been the fifth book in another set, even now under study by one of the other team members.

  Sighing, she picked up the next on her list and took it back to the study station.

  * * *

  Unlike the dance machine aboard Vashtara, this machine wanted you to lose, Theo thought. It would throw in sneaky little half-steps, and change tempo when neither made sense. It also had a sensor for how hard you hit the pad, which she'd realized just in time to avoid getting tossed off about four moves in.

  She'd started at level fifteen, so she'd have a chance to warm up, and now she was cooking, like Phobai said. While she wasn't particularly having fun, she wasn't mad anymore, either. Her legs were beginning to get tired though, and she scanned the control board, looking for the stop switch. The pattern switched into a fast jig, and she gave up her search to attend to that, fuffing her hair out her face.

  What if there isn't a stop switch? she wondered. Do I have to flub a step to make it stop?

  The idea of flubbing a step on purpose made her feel cranky all over again. The machine switched to the next level—her eighth, unless she'd lost count—with a series of movements that didn't go together at all. By the time she'd negotiated those, she was seriously considering flubbing that step. She was so sweaty, her hair was stuck to her face, and there was a stitch burning along her right side. Maybe, she thought, it wouldn't be so bad. It wasn't as she hadn't done better than—

  There was a flash of pale blue light, and a soft tone. The pattern-screen went blank and the machine . . . gently rocked to stop.

  Theo wiped her forehead on her sleeve and looked out over the exercise area. The girl with the top-knot was shaking her head, and Robit's mouth was frankly hanging open. Inspector Vidige cleared her throat.

  "Thank you, Pilot Waitley," she said. "That was most instructive."

  * * *

  Orkan Hafley was working at the carts, sorting the books the scholars had finished with onto the outgoing bin. Kamele watched as the Chair worked; she handled the volumes with respect, as any scholar would, making certain that they were arranged in short stacks, which were less likely to fall over, and using all of the shelves. When she finished with the outgoing shelf, she moved to the incoming shelf, straightening the tumbled volumes there, picking one up in her off-hand and continuing with her work. While Kamele watched, she stepped over to the outgoing cart and slipped the volume she had taken from the incoming into the back of a stack.

  Kamele came to her feet so suddenly her chair tipped backward and clattered to the hard, white floor.

  "How long has this been going on?" she cried.

  Able jerked back in her seat, clearly disoriented. Crowley, showing commendable reflexes for a man of his years, leapt up, and caught Hafley's shoulder, effectively restraining her.

  "You don't have permission to touch me!" Hafley snapped. Crowley ignored her, as he looked to Kamele.

  "Treachery, Sub-Chair?" he asked quietly.

  Kamele took a breath. "I fear so, Professor."

  * * *

  As it turned out, Inspector Vidige's Advance Class was Theo and Robit's new posting. They didn't have to change dorm rooms again—that was the good news. Theo still had math remediation—that was the bad news. That, and the fact that all of the other pilots in her class thought she'd deliberately shown up better at dance than they were, and she didn't have a chance to do any social engineering to smooth things over, because the Advance Class didn't sit by team; they sat solo.

  It made for a long school-day, and, despite the extra load of math Inspector Vidige had off-loaded onto her datapad for her off-hours work, Theo was glad when the bell rang for the free period before supper.

  "Hey, Safety First!"

  Theo turned, frowning as the blond girl—Initha, her name was—swaggered forward, her thumbs hooked in her belt. Beside her came Fruma, skating a bowli ball from hand to hand, his eyes on Theo's face. The other members of the Advance Class, including Robit, were spreading out on either side of them.

  "What do you want?" she asked Initha.

  "Want to ask you a question," Fruma answered.

  Theo looked to the right, and to the left. She stood at the center of ragged circle. Somehow, she didn't think that was good. She slipped the datapad into a pocket and shook out her hands.

  "Ask it, then," she said.

  "You know why there aren't any Delgadan pilots?" Initha, again.

  "No, why?"

  "Because," yelled Fruma, "it's too dangerous!"

  He threw the bowli ball, and Theo jumped.

  Thirty-Seven

  Melchiza

  City of Treasures

  "Well. There you are." Monit Appletorn all but dropped his cup of coffee on the table as he slumped into the chair across from Jen Sar Kiladi. There were dark circles under his eyes and a general air of weariness about him.

  "Here I am," that gentleman agreed, "and well. I hope I find you the same?"

  "Seems to me that I found you," Appletorn grumbled, ignoring the question; "though it wasn't necessarily easy. How do you do it?"

  Jen Sar raised an eyebrow. "Do what?"

  "Vanish." He raised his cup and drank deeply. "I walked past this table twice, knowing you must be here, and my eye slid by you."

  "Ah." Jen Sar moved his shoulders. "I am a short man, and you, if I may venture, are a tired man. Have you had word from our friend?"

  Appletorn shook his head. "I wish I had; it would be easier to sleep."

  "You don't find suspense a tonic for a restful night?" Jen Sar raised his mug and sipped tea.

  "Perhaps you do!" Appletorn snapped.

  "At the least, I am comforted by the observation that we both remain as yet unassassinated."

  Appletorn shook his head, finished off his coffee and put the empty cup none-too-gently on the table.

  "How—" he began, and stopped.

  Jen Sar tipped his head in polite inquiry. "Forgive me, you were about to say?"

  The other man half-laughed. "I was about to ask how Kamele Waitley . . ." Again, he hesitated.

  ". . . tolerated me for so many years?" Jen Sar concluded, and smiled. "The only explanation can be that she is a great-hearted and patient lady."

  Appletorn shook his head again and returned to the original topic, like a dog worrying at an old bone. "Do you think we will hear anything, or will they ignore us?"

  "I admit that hope of contact is growing faint. If they do ignore us, we shall need to do something . . . dramatic."

  "Taking your case directly to . . ." He glanced around them, but all the nearby tables were empty on this off-meal hour. ". . . directly to our friend—that wasn't dramatic?"

  "It was necessary," Jen Sar said, worry sharpening his own voice. "Time becomes . . . an issue, as we discussed." He sighed. "This is what comes of giving one's opponent time for study."

  "We could hardly have done otherwise," Appletorn protested.

  Jen Sar sipped tea. They could, of course, have done very much otherwise, but threatening one of the high-level Chapelia was risky, to understate the case by a magnitude of ten, and likely would have gained them no more than they held now.

  On the other hand, time did grow short. If Kamele arrived home bearing proof of tampering, as he had no doubt she would, she would become a target for the as-yet-nameless outworld agent.

  Locating that agent and her compatriots on Delgado, counting the
m and rendering them powerless—he had taken that as his responsibility, only to find that he was not equal to the challenge.

  An outworld agent would not be constrained by the mores of a Safe World. One such agent had already cost him—dearly.

  It would not happen again.

  * * *

  "What reason do you have to sabotage the work of this research team?" Kamele demanded.

  Orkan Hafley gave an amused shrug. "My dear Kamele, you're overwrought. A simple error—"

  "Not quite so simple," Able interrupted, raising her datapad. "There are three volumes here which are marked as having been ordered in. When they did not arrive I put it down to the ineptness of our research assistant, and there are other things, after all, on my list to console me."

  "I have four," Crowley said, "in similar state. I blamed myself, for hastiness begets error."

  "I have one," Kamele said, looking to Hafley. "You have been busy, Chair, but why?"

  "Professor Crowley said it himself—haste begets error," Hafley said. "Furthermore, age contributes to a poor memory. All of us have been working long hours and sleeping very little. I'll admit that I made one error of placement—which Kamele recovered! All's well that ends well, with the agreement of my colleagues."

  Kamele turned to Able.

  "The volumes you thought you had requested," she said urgently. "Request them again."

  "Certainly, Sub-Chair." She rose and walked over to the wall-mounted datapad.

  "Kamele, really—"

  "It has been apparent for some time," Crowley interrupted, "that this project has not enjoyed Chair Hafley's full support. My report to the Directors will reflect this, noting in particular her willingness to place this vital research into the hands of scholars unknown to us, either by reputation or by name. This incident will also be documented. I suspect that the Directors—"

  "I suspect that the Directors will know how to take such a report," Hafley interrupted in her turn. "Elderly males are well-known to suffer moments of delusion. Had I the staffing of this team, we should have had Beltaire herself, whatever she may have pretended about her health. This project demanded the weight that only such an august and senior a researcher could lend to it. Admin chose to override me, but they will not allow a report that is clearly nothing more than a work of spite to pass upward to the Directors."

  "I—" Kamele begin, and went back a step when the older woman turned to her.

  "You!" she said sternly, and shook her head. "I tried to groom you, Kamele, but you would not learn. You're ambitious—a little too much so, may I say? What sort of mother allows her desire to achieve prominence to overrule her rightful concern for her daughter's safety? Anything might happen at that school—Melchiza isn't a Safe World, you know! Who can tell but that you might find that she's been . . . harmed in some way; changed out of recognition? But you counted the possible cost to Theo too small to consider, and here you are, incommunicado, unable to protect your child—your most important duty! Small wonder you're fabricating threats out of thin air! The guilt, Kamele, that you must—"

  "I have a notation on my request, Sub-Chair," Able said from her position at the datapad.

  Kamele took a breath. "What is it?" Her voice was steady.

  "It says those volumes are no longer available to us."

  Kamele took another breath and met Hafley's hard blue eyes.

  "Not just one error, Chair Hafley," she said, and turned to the remaining members of the team.

  "Compare lists; see if there is a pattern to the volumes we weren't allowed to see. When Solmin comes in next, we will ask him to escort Chair Hafley to the dormitory and confine her there."

  "Excellent," Crowley said. Able nodded.

  "In the meantime," Kamele looked back to Hafley, feeling the quiver of horror in her stomach. Clyburn, she thought, whose mother is high in Administration. Who could have had Theo placed well in the Transit School . . .

  "In the meantime," she repeated, and her voice was breathless now. "I want to know what you've done to my daughter."

  * * *

  Theo extended her leg, carefully, and danced Module One in slow-time, like Phobai had shown her.

  "Stretching's good for your muscles and your reactions," she'd said. "Slow stretching's good for bruises."

  She sure did have bruises, though nothing as startling as Initha, who'd gotten herself a truly spectacular black eye when she'd misjudged the angle of bounce. All of them had contact burns, though only Fruma'd gotten anything broken. His hand, of course, and he'd been sent to the infirmary when Inspector Vidige broke up the game. The rest of them had been sent to clean up for dinner, without even a mention that they might've been playing a little too rough.

  At lights out, Theo had been feeling a little stiff. At wake-up, she'd been feeling a lot stiff. She'd gotten carefully out of bed, done some basic stretches and hobbled down to breakfast, where she'd found the rest of the crew, just as stiff. Initha'd nodded her to a place across from her and then they'd walked to class together, settling carefully into their solo seats.

  It was free study now, and standing was permitted. Theo figured that meant menfri'at, too, as long as she didn't get too energetic.

  Not much chance of that.

  She slid into Module Two, aware that someone was moving on her right. Turning her head, she saw Initha and, beyond her, Robit, and Stan, earrings chiming softly, as they all danced slow-time.

  "Good idea," Initha said.

  "Good game," Stan added.

  "It was," Theo said, and flowed into the next step.

  Thirty-Eight

  Melchiza

  City of Treasures

  A comparison of those volumes that Hafley had returned before they'd been used seemed to indicate that she had been opportunistic in her sabotage, rather than deliberate.

  Small comfort there.

  Kamele's request that she be allowed to contact the Transit School had been denied by a stone-faced Solmin. He understood, he said, that the professor's daughter might stand at risk. He understood that a mother might feel concern—even grave concern. He could not, however, allow the professor to call, though she could of course travel to the Transit School in the company of her assigned Chaperon. If she chose to leave, she could not return to the archives for a period of one Melchizan year. Those were the rules. He was sorry, but he was certain that the professor understood.

  Kamele understood.

  "Perhaps Chaperon Gidis could be dispatched to the Transit School with a message?" she asked.

  Solmin frowned. "I will inquire of Director Pikelmin," he said austerely.

  "Thank you," Kamele said, around the needle of dread lodged in her heart. "I appreciate your effort."

  But whatever effort Solmin did or did not put forth, it hardly mattered.

  Scrutiny of the list of texts that remained unexamined, excepting those that Hafley had returned, revealed that the task was very nearly two-thirds completed. The reputable remaining members of the research team redoubled their own efforts, and inside of a day they were done.

  * * *

  "Pilot Waitley."

  Theo blinked out of her self-test and looked up into Inspector Vidige's frown.

  "Inspector?"

  "Please shut down here, Pilot, collect your belongings from your dorm and be at Entry Port Three in . . ." She glanced down at the note in her hand. ". . . in one-quarter interval."

  "Yes, Inspector," Theo said, her fingers already busy with the shutdown sequence. She looked up again, decided that the frown didn't look particularly forbidding, and ventured a question.

  "Where am I going, please, ma'am?"

  "I'm informed that a bus will be arriving to take you to the Visitors' Center, Pilot." She raised her eyebrows, and said, with emphasis, "Soon."

  * * *

  "Well, there you are, Clyburn!" Orkan Hafley settled into the seat next to her onagrata and patted his knee. "Did you have a pleasant visit with your mother?"

  "We had mo
re to talk about than I'd thought," Clyburn said as the rest of the team filed into the bus and chose seats. "Thank you, Orkan."

  "You're very welcome, my dear. I'm glad I could do you this little kindness."

  Kamele slid into a seat near the exit door, her shoulder against the window. Able, who had entered the bus behind her, hesitated as if she might chose the aisle seat. Kamele turned her head aside. Able moved on.

  "And how did your business go?" Clyburn asked Hafley.

  "It started well," she said. "Unfortunately, Kamele took it upon herself to accuse me of dishonesty, and Crowley of withholding my approval for the team's mandate—as if I would have put myself to the considerable inconvenience of traveling to Melchiza if I disapproved—but you know what old men are, dear! If you find me more rested than the majority of the team, it's because my generous colleagues evicted me from the study room for the last two days while they labored, and so I was able to catch up on my sleep."

  "Professors, professora, sir!" Gidis called, leaping up the stairs into the passenger compartment. "Your business is well-concluded, eh? We go now, immediately, to take the mamzelle up from school. From there, we go by directest route to the Visitors' Center. I will guide you to the Departure Lounge and log you in with the desk there—my last task as your elder brother! Once you are logged, you may leave the lounge only as part of the group ascending to Melchiza Station. On-station, station rule applies until you are once again aboard valiant Vashtara, and safely on your way home to Delgado! Keep your badges with you. Listen to your elder brother! Keep your badges with you while you are in Melchizan space. Once you are aboard Vashtara, you may dispose of them. Are there questions?"

  There were not.

  "Good!" Gidis said. "We are all informed. In a moment, the driver engages the route. Our schedule is close, so there will be no time to tour the school facilities, as Professora Waitley had hoped. Perhaps upon your next visit to Melchiza, eh?" He leaned over Kamele's seat and grinned at her.

  She managed a smile. "That would be pleasant," she said, and he spun away toward the driver's compartment.

  "It seems odd that Kamele would have accused you of dishonesty." Clyburn's voice was loud in the absence of Gidis. "After all, she's sub-chair, subordinate to you, Orkan."