Serpent's Gift

by A. C. Crispin

  "No, he won't," Hing said firmly. "I know Serge, and that's not his way. By now, he's probably kicking himself for losing his temper and cussing out a poor defenseless kid." She gave her roommate a wry grin. "He'll probably wind up apologizing to you."

  "I tried to tell him I'm sorry ..."

  "I know. I'll talk to him, smooth it over. Leave it to me, okay?"

  Heather gave the young woman a grateful look. "Would you?"

  "Sure. I can't have two of my favorite people not speaking, can I?" Hing asked, giving the girl one of her wide, mischievous grins. Slowly, Heather was able to summon a wan smile in return.

  "But right now, there's something you need to see," Hing said firmly. "Just wait." Moving with most of her old energy, she strode over to the wall unit and keyed in a program. "Watch. And, most importantly, listen."

  The holo-vid screen on the opposite wall rippled, then filled with a view of a huge baroque concert hall. Crystal chandeliers hung suspended like showers of diamonds and ice, trembling slightly with the collective breath of the huge audience. An enormous grand piano stood alone on the stage.

  "Vienna," Hing said quietly.

  As Heather watched, a shorter and much younger version of Serge LaRoche walked up to the piano and seated himself. He

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  was dressed in an outfit similar to the one she'd seen in his mind, tight black pants and funny jacket with long tails, and a white bow tie. His hair was much shorter, and stood up in a soft brush. He looks like he's around my age, Heather thought.

  For a long moment Serge regarded the keyboard as though it were a feast and he a starving child. Fingers poised, he took a deep breath, then his hands swooped down, descending upon the keyboard with a lover's

  passion. His concentration was total as music, soft at first, then building, swelling to a triumphant climax, filled the hall.

  That's beautiful! Heather thought in amazement as the prodigy's hands flashed up and down the keyboard. She didn't recognize the piece--the girl knew next to nothing about classical music--but the beauty of it awed her. It was so flowing, so pure, so deceptively simple.

  "That's Mozart," Hing said softly.

  As the piece ended, the view rippled, and there he was again, this time in all-white tails, accompanied by a full orchestra. The music was different, more syncopated, with jazzy overtones that made the girl nod her head in time to the music. "Gershwin," Hing whispered.

  The concerts continued in a pastiche of settings, outfits, and composers.

  Softly, Hing identified each composer as the program continued, and Heather watched, rapt.

  Beethoven . . . Schubert. . . Satie . . . Rachmaninoff. . .Tchaikovsky . . .

  Liszt. . . Chopin . .. Brahms . ..

  Serge played them all, and more.

  The last two compositions Hing did not identify, but Heather recognized one.

  StarBridge Academy's anthem, a stirring piece that she'd heard many times at school functions in Melbourne. Then the last piece, an etude (as identified by Hing) had Serge's fingers flashing up and down the keys like dancers, with a melody so unexpectedly lyrical that she closed her eyes to savor its beauty ...

  "Oh, Serge," Heather whispered reverently, when the program ended. "Oh, God, Serge," she repeated, her throat tight. The girl was embarrassed by her emotion until she noticed the tears sparkling on Hing's cheeks. "That was . . .

  beautiful. I see now why he can't bear to have his music mentioned. Hing . .."

  Heather whispered, "who wrote those last two pieces? The Academy's anthem and the etude?"

  "Who do you think?" Hing asked simply.

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  "Serge?"

  The Cambodian girl nodded. "He wrote the anthem long before the school was built, so it could be played at all the fundraisers."

  "And now, because of the accident, it's all gone," Heather whispered, shifting restlessly. She was stiff with sitting still for so long. "What must it be like, to be able to play like that, then to know you can never play again?"

  Hing's mouth twisted. "That's the hell of it, really. He could play, if he wanted to," she said bitterly. "If Serge wanted to, he could play anything he used to."

  "But his hands--"

  "Work even better than the originals. The Mizari designed them very well.

  Too well, maybe."

  "What do you mean?"

  "More than a year after he lost his hands, Serge entered a competition. He'd worked hard in therapy, trying to regain what he'd lost. So he took part in the Inter-Colonial piano competition and he played very well--matter of fact, he was declared the winner. But one contestant lodged a protest, saying that Serge had an unfair advantage because his artificial hands could move faster and had slightly longer fingers than his real ones. That girl gave a press interview, during which she implied that Serge had trumped up the story about the aircar accident and had his hands intentionally amputated so he could receive artificial ones. Can you believe that?"

  Despite her shock, Heather could. She'd known a lot of twisted people.

  "What happened then?" she whispered.

  "Serge didn't even wait for the ruling. He withdrew from the competition, announcing that he had cheated and that he would never play again. And so far as I know, he hasn't. The one time I was able to get him to talk about it, even for a couple of minutes, he told me that the girl who protested was correct--oh, not about the amputation, or the reason for it, but that she'd been right to protest. He said that fake hands might be physically superior, but that they could never convey the genuine emotion an artist must feel, and thus he had no right to play anymore."

  "But to give up a gift like that. .." Heather trailed off.

  "I know. I think that in some way Serge is still punishing himself for being stupid and messing with that aircar. I think his decision is stupid and perverse, but it was his decision to make," Hing said, scowling. "You have to respect his right to decide, even if you don't agree with him. But it's awfully hard

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  for me to remember that, when I hear him play."

  "I guess I can understand how he could feel that it was unfair of him to play with his artificial hands," Heather said slowly, thinking hard, "though I don't agree. That's like saying that a photographer or a holo-vid producer can't create art because he or she uses technology to achieve the final product.

  But even if he doesn't want to play again, what about composing? There's nothing artificial about Serge's brain--or his heart!" She was surprised to hear the passion that tinged her own voice.

  Hing gave her a sympathetic look. "I said the same thing to him," she murmured. "More than once."

  "I guess he didn't listen."

  Hing sighed. "No, he's not ready to hear that," she said sadly. "Maybe he never will be."

  "That would be the real tragedy," Heather remarked quietly.

  Hing nodded.

  "Esteemed Ssoriszs?" Serge peered into the dimness in the Observatory Lounge, barely making out a massive shape coiled between two Terran sofas. The faint starlight shone through the transparent plas-steel dome, awakening a gleam from a lidless golden eye. "Is that you?"

  The shape moved, flowed, resolved itself into the Mizari as he made his sinuous way toward the young man. "Serge! I see you received my message," the alien exclaimed. "I am so relieved to know that you were not harmed. I assure you that as soon as things at the Academy return to normal, the school will recognize your courage--and that of Hing and Khuharkk', also, of course,"

  "We were definitely a team," Serge said absently. Stepping into the Observatory, he walked over and plopped down into a chair beside the Mizari. Silently, both of them looked up at the profusion of stars, seemingly close with no atmosphere to distance or distort their glory.

  "They are out there, Serge," Ssoriszs said softly. "My lost kinspeople are out there. I feel in my spirit that that is the truth."

  "I hope someday we can find where they went," the human said, his voice as quiet as the alien's. Was
it the Lost Colony that we found? Perhaps we will never know, now . . .

  "Someday, we will know what happened to them," Ssoriszs said. "I only hope that I live to see that day." After a moment he turned his eyes away from the heavens and fixed Serge with a (naturally) unblinking stare. "How is Professor Greyshine?"

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  "The doctors are keeping him sedated, in hiber-heal," Serge said. "They say it will be at least four or five days before he will be ready to be released."

  "May the stars shed their healing light upon him," Ssoriszs said, giving the words the cadence of a formal invocation.

  "Ainsi soit-il," Serge whispered, and they didn't speak for almost a minute.

  The human finally stirred, turning to regard the elderly alien. "You were at the meeting today. How did it go?"

  "The Horizons Unlimited people believe that they will be able to contain the radonium-2 outbreak," the Mizari replied. "And, Serge, they are saying that you and the Professor started the radonium breeding when you used the neutron emitter in the cavern."

  Serge gaped at him, then began sputtering indignantly. "Mais, c'est ridicule!"

  he cried, then hastily reverted to Mizari. "That's an outrageous accusation!

  We made only one brief scan in there, and we double-checked the intensity calibration before we ever turned the instrument on! They are wrong!"

  "So Janet Rodriguez and I attempted to tell the Horizons Unlimited crew boss," Ssoriszs said dryly. "Morrow was willing to entertain our argument, but her mind was closed to any opinion but her own."

  "I am concerned about what those people will do to the dig," Serge said, his hands tightening involuntarily into fists. He could feel the neuron-connected components begin to strain, and forced himself to loosen his fingers. "If they find any other artifacts, they will probably do worse than move them this time.

  And the star-shrine! That is the most valuable piece, and it is covered with semiprecious gems! What if one of those workers were to steal it?"

  "That thought occurred to me also," Ssoriszs said heavily. "However, the shrine must first be neutralized before it can be removed and transported.

  That will ensure that it is not tampered with until Mr. Morrow can order in a neutralizer."

  "Janet has one, I believe," Serge said. "As part of her emergency equipment.

  Frankly, neutralizers aren't that difficult to procure or set up, Esteemed One.

  Someone bent on theft could neutralize the star-shrine, then steal it while no one was looking."

  "That would be a very risky proposition, would it not?"

  "Esteemed One," Serge said earnestly, "if that shrine proves to be the work of one of the Lost Colony masters, it would be priceless. Even a trustworthy person has been known to be

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  corrupted by the promise of great wealth. That star-shrine would be worth risking one's life."

  "But surely no dealer would purchase such a distinctive piece," Ssoriszs protested. "It would be instantly recognizable as having been stolen!"

  The human gave a harsh, humorless chuckle. "There are so- called reputable dealers in antiquities who purchase black-market items and then sell them to collectors who understand that they can never exhibit them, but who only wish to possess them for their private hoards." Serge shook his head. "The black market in stolen antiquities is flourishing and has been for centuries."

  Like most Mizari, Ssoriszs was profoundly shocked by unethical or illegal acts. Crime on his world was virtually unknown, and considered evidence of a severe mental impairment or disorder. His appendages rippling with strong emotion, the elderly Liaison struggled to find words. "I had known that a black market exists," he said finally. "But it is extremely distressing to know that it is so old--and so universal."

  "Hasn't Rob ever shown you Raiders!" Serge asked in surprise. "I would have thought..." He trailed off as he recalled the scene in which Indiana Jones dispatched the scaled denizens of the ancient Egyptian tomb, and decided that Rob had exercised discretion in sparing the Mizari that opus.

  Ssoriszs was gazing at him, politely waiting for him to continue. The young man cleared his throat. "Ummm. .. never mind. The important question is, what can we do to protect the artifacts, especially the star-shrine?"

  "Morrow said that Cavern Two is already contaminated by radiation,"

  Ssoriszs said. "But Cavern One is still safe."

  Serge rose to his feet, sudden decision brightening his eyes. "Then I believe we should go out there right now and collect the artifacts in the stasis fields,"

  he said. "Perhaps we can persuade Mr. Morrow to let us set up Janet's portable neutralizer so we can remove the star-shrine tomorrow."

  "But the radiation danger--" Ssoriszs began doubtfully.

  "I can borrow one of Janet's heavy-duty pressure suits. They've got twice the normal shielding," Serge said. "She's a tall woman, ¦I'm sure I can adjust it to fit me. And you could wear one of the extra-dense fields. That ought to be plenty of protection for Cavern One, at least."

  The Mizari's slender tongue flicked out of his mouth as he hissed with approval. "Yes! Surely once we are there, they will not deny us admittance, especially if we are wearing suitable shielding. Let us go immediately!"

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  Thirty minutes later the odd duo entered the airlock leading to the shuttle hangar. Serge was wearing one of Janet's bulky suits, which proved a tight fit, but he reassured himself that he'd only have to be in it for an hour or so.

  Ssoriszs was surrounded by a greenish-golden glow as he slithered beside the human.

  The airlock door slid aside and they were facing the unpressurized portion of the hangar dome--though the gravity was still CLS standard, slightly less than one gee. Several small scooters were lined up against the wall; Serge chose one that had a large cargo compartment. Carefully, grunting with effort, he hefted the portable neutralizer into place behind the pilot's seat, then strapped it on securely. When he'd finished, the Mizari draped himself into the cargo section, adjusting his massive coils in the confined space with some difficulty.

  Then it was Serge's turn to squeeze into the pilot's seat of the scooter; the bulkier suit with its extra shielding made it a tight fit, but he managed. As he activated the controls, the spidery little scooter rose up on its anti-grav jets, then glided forward as LaRoche applied thrust.

  The scooter had no cabin, and Ssoriszs had not gone back to his quarters for his voder, so they perforce rode in silence. Beneath them the grim and torturously beautiful rockscape flashed by, the slagged rocks rising and falling below Serge's feet like the cindery ghost of a long-dead sea.

  Memories of his last ride out to the dig-- could it be only yesterday?--filled the young man's mind.

  He hadn't seen Hing today. What was she doing? Did she remember how she'd huddled in the shelter of his arms on the trip back from the dig?

  And had she seen Heather? Remembering how he'd sworn at the child, Serge grimaced inwardly. He'd had every right to be angry, but he knew he'd overreacted. The poor kid had been scared, worried for Hing, and he'd been a selfish bete. He'd have to talk to her, explain why he'd been so angry, beg her pardon for what he'd said.

  Lost in his musings, the trip seemed to take only a few minutes. As he circled the scooter over the flat plain that led up to the cliff face leading into the caverns, Serge groaned aloud, though there was no one to hear him. He'd had a faint hope that they'd beaten the Horizons Unlimited crew to the site ...

  after all, it had been less than thirty-six hours since the radonium-2 alarm had first sounded. But Morrow's crew had been busy.

  Five bubbletents of varying sizes had been erected on the glassy rock plain leading up to the mountains, and brilliant floodlights

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  illuminated the entire camp. In their harsh, knifelike glare, the slag gleamed, black streaked with red, brown, and greenish-gray.

  Serge landed the scooter fifty meters from the cliff face, then he and the old Mizari dismounted and s
tarted toward the airlock. When they reached it, Serge quickly keyed in his ID code, signaling the lock to open.

  It didn't.

  Biting his lip with frustration, Serge keyed in the code again. He was angry--

  but not particularly surprised--to discover that the code had been changed.

  Suddenly a voice spoke over his radio, almost deafening after the long silence. "May I help you?" The words were polite, but the tone was surly.

  Turning to look for the newcomer's whereabouts, Serge started violently to find a tall figure wearing a heavy-duty suit standing behind him--so close they were almost touching. Peering into a face shadowed by the helmet and the floodlights, he glimpsed enough of the features to realize that the newcomer was black, but could tell little else. "Uh, hello," he stammered. "I am Serge LaRoche, one of the Academy instructors, and this is Esteemed Ssoriszs--"

  "I know who he is," the newcomer interrupted. "I was in a meeting with him for about an hour today." Serge could still not guess the sex of the speaker.

  Wishing that he could talk to the Mizari, Serge glanced uneasily at the alien.

  "I am one of the archaeologists who has been working here at the Lamont Cliffs dig," he tried again. "May I ask who you are?"

  "Andrea Lynch, crew boss," she identified herself brusquely. "Can't he"--she jerked her helmet at the Mizari--"talk to us?"

  "Not unless we step into the airlock," Serge said. "The Esteemed One is not wearing a voder at the moment."

  "Come on then," she said shortly, then keyed them into the airlock. Serge was careful to keep his helmet pointed toward her face, but his peripheral vision was excellent--he saw and memorized the code Lynch used.

  Once in the airlock, the two humans removed their helmets and Ssoriszs turned off his field. Quickly Serge explained that they wished to attach the portable neutralizer to the star-shrine, then collect the other artifacts and their equipment before everything was contaminated. Lynch began shaking her head before he was halfway through his plea, and she continued to shake it even after he was silent again.

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  "No," she said, biting the word off as though she had a bad taste in her mouth. "I can't allow that. It's too dangerous."