version right here in this office, four years ago, when Hing was a freshman.
Ever since then he'd kiddingly referred to her that way, after watching how easily she made and kept friends.
The student sighed, then nodded. Rob relaxed, realizing .that he'd won her over. "She's had a rough time?" Hing asked.
Rob nodded assent, then hesitated, wondering what he could answer that would give Hing something to go on without compromising Heather's confidentiality. Another passage from the file caught his eye:
Heather Farley's telepathic index tops the scale. We cannot measure her innate ability. Extremely precocious intellectually, her intelligence approaches the genius range. This, coupled with
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an artificial sophistication gained from her indiscriminate telepathic contacts, makes her seem, at first encounter, older than her years .. . Unresolved feelings of abandonment due to trauma incurred from loss of maternal parent at age five have resulted in stunted emotional development. . .
Maternal parent, Rob thought impatiently. Why can't they just say "mother"?
Her father, he remembered from his earlier reviews, was still alive. If you could call it that. . . . paranoid schizophrenic, with frequent violent psychotic episodes exacerbated by his telepathic ability. . . delusional, subject to hallucinations . . . first institutionalized two weeks after death of his wife, he has shown little improvement in the intervening years . .. prognosis for recovery is poor.. .
Poor kid, Rob thought grimly. When he glanced at Heather's birth date, he realized the girl was two months older than his own daughter, Claire. Pity stirred in him again as he struggled to find words to answer Hing. "Heather hasn't had it easy. Her mother is dead, and her father--it's not possible for her to live with him, for ... health reasons. She lived with an aunt and uncle for a while, but that didn't work out.
"Since then, there's been a succession of foster homes. She's been shuffled around from pillar to post. After the mandatory telepathic screening in school turned up her abilities, Heather was offered the chance to go to Melbourne and try to pass the profiles for StarBridge. She jumped at it, and she did very well there. She's earned the chance to try to make it out here, and we all want her to succeed."
Hing nodded slowly, and Rob saw from the expression in her black eyes that she had indeed read between the lines of his carefully worded explanation.
"So what does she need from me?"
"Mostly, a friend ... someone like you, who's easygoing and knows the routine. She'll need some leeway while adjusting, but she'll be expected to follow the rules." Rob took another swig of his coffee, then added, "What Heather needs, after the time she's had, is stability in her life, and we'll try to provide it here."
"Okay," Hing said, and for once there was no glint of laughter in her eyes. "I'll do it. I owe you, Rob, like everyone else at this| school. You can count on me."
"Don't look so serious," Rob said, smiling at her gratefully. "I'm not asking for your right arm. It's just that Heather's going to need someone to show her around, keep an eye on her."
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He buttered a muffin. "Someone . .. older, responsible, studious, trustworthy ... a senior student who will be a good example, someone she can look up to . .."
Hing had crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue before he was halfway through. Rob chuckled. "Okay, yeah, I'm laying it on a little thick. Just be her friend, Hing. Help her out. Remember that if she makes it, with her telepathic abilities, she'll be a real asset to the school."
Hing nodded. Rob glanced at his watch, then made abrupt shooing motions.
"Oops, that took longer than I thought. Hurry and catch up with Janet aboard the King, so you can ride back with the kid, take her under your wing, okay?"
She gave him a thumbs-up. "Tell 'em I'm on my way." As she started out the door, Rob was seized again with the urge to mention that Serge LaRoche would be on that shuttle, too, but as he hesitated, she was gone with a last wave, and it was too late.
He shrugged and finished the dregs of his cold coffee, then poured himself another cup and hastily reviewed the end of Heather's file. .Early testing showed incipient megalomania coupled with a tendency toward compulsive fabrication. . . Psychologists' jargon, he thought morosely, taking a bite of muffin. Why can't they just say that she's self-absorbed, extremely selfish, and lies a lot?
Rob cheered up a little as he read the end of the Melbourne [¦ school's summary:
Since coming to Melbourne, there has been a definite and marked improvement. Heather's Social Adjustment Indices (especially the computer-linked tests) have risen significantly. Her telepathic ability, language aptitude, fluency in Mizari, and exceptional academic progress, coupled with her obvious determination to overcome her emotional problems, permit us to recommend her admission on a provisional basis . . .
> "I just hope we can help this kid make it the rest of the way," Rob muttered to his small black cat, Bast, who leaped up onto his desk and stared interestedly at the remaining muffins. He put out a finger and rubbed the animal behind one ear, feeling as well as ¦hearing the warm vibration of her purr.
Rummaging through his desk drawer, he unearthed a glittery earr ring made of a golden Mizari alloy that resembled a jeweled c lip. Fingering the telepathic distort thoughtfully, the psychologist sighed. I hate wearing this thing. It'll give both of us a headache. But if it's necessary, so be it. ..
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Another thought made him smile. "We've got another secret weapon, Bast,"
he told the cat. "The only Avernian telepathic therapist in the galaxy. If Doctor Blanket isn't more than a match for Heather Farley, I'll swallow this distort."
Glancing at his watch again, he groaned aloud. "The faster I go, the behinder I get," he muttered. Keying his intercom, he instructed Resharkk', his assistant, to hold all calls, then resolutely dug into the files of the other incoming students.
Minutes later his intercom signaled. Someone had managed to override the lockout on his private line. "Shit!" Rob muttered as he answered.
The image of a young man with black, wavy hair and finedrawn, handsome features coalesced. He flashed a wide, knowing grin at Rob. "I heard that,"
he said accusingly. "Is that any way to greet an old friend?"
Rob stared at him openmouthed, then laughed delightedly. "Jeff! I should have known. No one else could beat one of Janet's lockouts! Where have you been? It's been forever!"
Jeffrey Morrow was a former StarBridge student. He'd been nineteen back when the Academy opened, and was still the oldest freshman ever admitted.
At the time, Rob had worried that Jeff was too old to adapt to alien languages and customs, but the young man's outstanding record at MIT and his single-minded determination had convinced the review board to accept him.
But over the next year, despite Morrow's hard work, it had become painfully obvious that he had no flair for languages, He was a whiz at math, and a magician with computers, but he couldn't even master Mizari, the official CLS language and the common tongue spoken at the Academy.
Rob had admired Jeff's persistence ... but he'd admired him even more when the young man had finally accepted defeat am quietly left the Academy. He'd ached for the student as he'( watched Jeff swallow his pride and return to his father, owner of Horizons Unlimited, one of the largest human-run space engineering firms. Mike Morrow hadn't lost any time in triumphantly shoehorning his only son back into his engineering career.
"Forever's an exaggeration, but it's been more than a year since I've seen you," Morrow said. "I even managed to be on the crew that checked the radonium monitors six months ago, but they told me you were on vacation."
Rob nodded. "Mahree and Claire and I went to our cabin on Shassiszss. We had a great time, but I was sorry to find I'd missed you."
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"How are they?"
"Fine. How is Angela?" Rob had been Morrow's best man, via holo-vid, at his wedding three years ago.
Jeff's features darkened, and hi
s blue-gray eyes fell.
"What is it?" Rob exclaimed, alarmed.
"She's fine, that is, she's well, but. .. Rob, she left. She's divorcing me."
"Oh, Jeff, that's ... I'm sorry to hear that," Rob said awkwardly. There wasn't any graceful way to respond to such news, he'd discovered that long ago.
He chewed on his lower lip for a moment, then ventured, "Have you tried counseling?"
Morrow grinned crookedly, but it never reached his eyes; they were shadowed by pain and frustration. "Once a therapist, always a therapist.
Rob, I wanted to go, but she wouldn't."
"Jeff. .. what happened? You seemed so happy .. ."
"I was never home, for one thing. And she wanted to start a family, and I'm just not ready for a big step like that." Jeff's mouth tightened. "I've got too much unfinished business to have time for a kid. I told her in a couple of years, but she didn't want to wait."
"I'm sorry," Rob said lamely.
"You can listen to me cry in my beer some other time. I know how busy you are. I just called to see about getting together for dinner."
"Dinner?" Rob stared blankly. "You mean you're here?"
Morrow nodded. "Close enough. I'm up at the station. Got a job to do."
"I thought you built space stations."
"I do. StarBridge Station needs an addition to its human- environment section, and I won the bidding war and got the contract. I'll be in and out over the next few months, making sure the job gets done right."
"That'll be great!" Rob said, careful not to let his first reaction show. He found it typically callous of Mike Morrow to send his son to oversee a job where he'd have to spend weeks staring at the site of his failure. He glanced at his clock, then shook his head. "Listen, Jeff, I hate to cut this short, but I've got a whole bunch of new kids coming in this morning, and I should go through these files one more time."
"I understand. We can catch up later," Jeff said. His gaze abruptly shifted, and he smiled faintly. "Here comes your shuttle, I recognize Janet's docking style. She used to give me heart failure every time she came in on manual like that. I was always sure
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that this time she'd miscalculated, and we were going to wind up splattered all over the station viewports."
"I know what you mean. About dinner... how about tomorrow?"
'Tomorrow is fine. I'll see you at eight. There's a new Japanese place up here. My treat, no arguments, okay?"
Rob grinned. "I never turn down a free meal." A sudden thought occurred to him. "By the way, Jeff, Serge LaRoche told me that H.U. funded the grant they received for the archaeological dig out at the Lamont Cliffs. You wouldn't have had anything to do with that selection, would you?"
Morrow shrugged. "I may have mentioned it to a few people."
"You did more than that," Rob said earnestly. "And don't think you're getting away without being thanked properly, Jeff. I know Serge and Professor Greyshine will want to tell you so in person, but.. . thanks. A lot."
Morrow glanced down, obviously uncomfortable at the mention of his generosity. "It was the least I could do, after my crew managed to move those artifacts while they were installing the new radonium monitors." He glanced back up at Rob with a wry smile. "Is your Archaeology Prof still cussing us for that?"
Rob shook his head ruefully. "Professor Greyshine is passionate about his work," he temporized. "But the grant no doubt helped."
"They still digging out there?"
"Every day," Rob said. "Since those were Mizari artifacts you uncovered, Ssoriszs has taken to hanging around the site, wanting to help any way he can."
Morrow laughed. "I'm trying to picture a Mizari using a shovel, but my imagination fails me." He nodded at Rob, then made a quick shooing-away gesture. "Get back to work. Don't forget, tomorrow at eight."
"I'll be there."
Hing Own watched Docking Bay Six loom closer in the viewscreen, fighting the urge to cover her eyes. This time we're not going to make it! she thought, biting her lip. I swear, we're going to--
At the last possible second before crashing against the side of the docking cradle, the King straightened out, then came to a dead stop, perfectly aligned with the docking bay airlock. Hing let her breath out slowly, sagging back in her seat. Someday, Janet
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Rodriguez, she thought. Someday ...
Tight, speedy manual dockings were Janet Rodriguez's stockintrade, especially when she was late. There was a final soft lurch as their airlock mated with the station's, then they were docked. How does she do it? Hing wondered, shaking her head.
Unsnapping her seat harness, she stood up in the narrow aisle, pulling her blue StarBridge jacket on over her jumpsuit. Hing smiled, feeling a moment's flash of pride at her new fifth-year shoulder patches and collar insignia. The StarBridge logo--a rainbow bridge connecting two planets set against a star-studded background--was emblazoned on the back of her jacket, as well as on the pin she wore on the breast of her jumpsuit.
Softly humming an old Cambodian song her grandmother had taught her, she smoothed her hair, wishing for a mirror.
"Good morning," said a voice.
The young woman tensed, recognizing the warm baritone immediately.
Damn you, Rob Gable! I'll bet you knew Serge was on this trip, she thought, even as she slowly turned to regard the man standing at the end of the passenger compartment, an uncertain smile flickering across his face.
Serge LaRoche was twenty-two, two years older than she. He was strikingly good-looking, with regular features, vivid blue eyes, and thick, ash-brown hair that he wore long and pushed back from his face. Tall--Hing's head had barely reached the top of his shoulder when they'd danced--LaRoche moved with an athlete's grace and balance. For two years running he'd been StarBridge's low-gee gliding champion.
"Serge!" she said, walking toward him, her hand out. Her theater training stood her in good stead, as she kept her features composed, showing only pleased surprise instead of the tension churning within her. "How are you?"
"Fine," he said, reaching out to shake hands. "It is a pleasure to see you again, Hing."
They had known each other for a long time; Hing felt, but did not react to, the inhuman smoothness and coolness of Serge's fingers as they grasped hers.
The memory of the first time they'd met filled her memory ... she'd insisted on shaking hands, human style, instead of returning his Mizari bow. But, even though she'd already known that his hands were artificial, Hing hadn't been prepared for how inhumanly cool they were--and hadn't been able to conceal an involuntary wince.
Serge had grinned tightly, but his eyes had been filled with an
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old, cold anger as he'd held up his hands, wriggling the long, tapered fingers, letting her see the too-perfect cuticles, the faint sheen of nails that would never grow or chip. "Don't worry," he said lightly, with an ease born of many repetitions, "they were fed this morning."
"Oh, God," Hing stammered, her face flaming, "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to--"
"Please..." His brittle composure softened, and a genuine smile replaced the strained grin. "Don't. It was my fault, I should have warned you."
"What.. . how ..." she trailed off, stammering, even though] she knew how it had happened.
"An accident with my parents' aircar, six years ago. I was fourteen." Serge had flexed his fingers, then snapped them. "They| work very well... in some ways better than the original ones, I was very fortunate that the doctors were able to adapt Mizari technology so successfully when they made them for me."
Now, shaking his hand, al she could think about was how long it had been since they'd spoken or been alone together. Her heart had long since stopped jumping when she'd caught sight of him in the hallways, but you couldn't just wipe out six months as though they had never happened. "It's nice to see you, too," she said quietly, noticing that he still wore her gift, a small sapphire stud, in his left earlobe. She'd taken the ring he'd given her off the night of t
heir breakup, and hadn't put it on since.
Serge smiled automatically at the pleasantry, but she could see the strain in it, and realized that he was far more nervous than she was. There was an eagerness in his eyes that made her drop her gaze and glance at her watch.
"We'd better get going," she reminded him. "Those kids are probably swinging from the ceiling fixtures by now, waiting this long."
Serge nodded, then fell into step beside her in the featureless tube of the docking corridor. "Only the Simiu ones, if we are in luck," he said, matching her light tone. Although his English was extremely fluent, he spoke with the formality of one who is not a native-born speaker; despite his years at StarBridge, he'd never lost his Gallic accent.
Hing spoke French wel herself, though she'd learned the language in Canada, and it had taken her months to get used to Serge's speech patterns and accent when he spoke his native tongue.
"What brings you to the station?" he continued. "Are you serving as an Orientation Guide now?"
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"Heaven forbid," Hing said devoutly. "I'll leave that to you, I don't have the patience. No, Rob asked me to come up and meet my new roommate."
"Who is?" He checked the student roster he carried.
"Heather Farley."
Serge repeated the name to the Mizari voder he wore on his wrist, and Hing saw an image form on the tiny screen . .. round, freckled features, pale green eyes, and unruly carrot-colored curls. "She's rather young, isn't she?" Serge said.
"Only eleven," Hing replied. "I'm going to try my hand at being a role model."
She grimaced.
Caught off-guard, Serge snorted, but managed to turn the sound into a fairly genuine-sounding cough. He was from Belgium, and his manners were perfect, touched with an Old European formality
she'd always found charming. "So, what have you been doing
these days?" he asked, evidently deciding that a change of subject was politic.
"Studying, trying to sandwich in a few extra credits in Simiu," she said. "I'm beginning to think I might like to work on Hurrreeah [ someday. Also, we're doing a new play, and I'm assistant director, as well as playing the embittered mother."
Serpent's Gift Page 2