Serpent's Gift

by A. C. Crispin

  "If you do, we will both get warm," he warned, smiling, then he turned his head to nuzzle her fingers as they caressed his jaw. His tongue felt hot in the chill air as he ran it along the underside of her wrist, where the pulse was.

  "Very warm, that I promise you."

  In the end she compromised by ducking beneath his arm and leaning back against the wall. Serge could not hold her, for obvious reasons, but she held him tightly enough for both of them. The feel of his skin, and the muscles beneath it made Hing's head spin. Or was it the thin air? She couldn't tell, and at the moment she didn't care.

  Finally, it was Serge who pulled away, gasping. "Hing--Hing, stop!"

  She tilted her head, giving him a lascivious smile. 'Too much for you, eh?"

  she murmured. "Just wait, you haven't seen--"

  "Listen!" he commanded.

  She obeyed, then immediately began wriggling out from under him. The intercom!

  "Attention, Dock Five airlock," a female voice was repeating. "Is anyone there? Answer me, please! Dammit"--the voice grew fainter, as though the speaker had turned her head--"I've got an alarm from that lock here on my board, but there's no one there."

  Hing slammed her hand against the switch. "Oh, yes there is!" she cried.

  "We're here! We're alive! Get us out of here, please!"

  "Thank God!" the woman exclaimed. "Who are you? Please identify yourself."

  "I'm Hing Own, and I'm trapped here with Serge LaRoche. We're both from the Academy," Hing said in a rush. "Can you get us out of here?"

  "We're working on it. I'll alert the emergency crew in your sector," she promised. "It shouldn't be too long. Just hang on."

  "We will," Hing vowed, "but, listen, if you can't get us out right at this moment, can you at least repressurize this lock? We lost partial pressure following the crash. We're freezing and our air isn't too good!"

  "We'll work on it," the security tech said. "But systems in that area are pretty scrambled."

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  Hing grimaced and swore under her breath. "I understand," she said aloud.

  "Can you tell me whether the pressure is normal on the station side of the lock? Because if it is, we can just open the station-side door." If it's not jammed, she thought, remembering the way they'd been bounced around.

  "Negative on that!" the woman ordered sharply. "It may be okay, but we can't be sure. There are minor leaks all over. We have crews out in pressure suits checking, so we'll soon know. There is debris blocking the main entrance to Dock Five, but security is working on clearing it. Are you still losing pressure?"

  "No, at least we don't think so. If we are, it's so slight we can't notice it."

  "How bad is your air?"

  "We're breathing okay, but it's getting pretty stuffy," Hing allowed.

  "Do you have a first-aid kit?"

  Hing glanced down at the medical supplies scattered all over the floor.

  "Yes."

  "Good. You should have a temporary oxy-mask in the first-aid kit. Do you see it?"

  Hing looked, then pounced. "Yes!"

  "Trigger it. It has a fifteen-minute supply of pure oxygen. Hopefully, by the time it's exhausted, we'll be able to give you the all-clear to open the door."

  Gingerly, Hing triggered the oxygen mask, heard the faint sigh of the gas as it was slowly released. "It's working!" she announced, immensely relieved.

  "Now if it just w-wasn't so c-cold," she said, her teeth beginning to chatter despite all her efforts at control.

  "Check the aid kit again," the woman said. "There should be a thermal sheet in it."

  "Eureka!" Hing exclaimed a moment later as she unwrapped the small packet that unfolded into a gauzy sheet large enough to cover an adult.

  Quickly she draped it over Serge, then pressed the corner to activate the heat. "Whoever you are," she told her unknown savior on the other side of the intercom, "thanks a million. That'll help a lot."

  "Think nothing of it," the woman said. "By the way, my name is Ruth, and Esteemed Ssoriszs from your school is here with me. He was the one who insisted that we look for you, because he was sure you'd managed to make it to safety before the crash."

  "Tell him thanks," Hing said, using the Mizari word that meant the highest degree of gratitude. "Uh, speaking of the crash, how

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  bad was it?" she asked, feeling a pang of guilt. She'd been so busy worrying about herself and Serge that she hadn't spared a thought for Ssoriszs, the station, or the Night Storm.

  "Not good," the woman said grimly. "But I guess it could have been worse.

  Only one confirmed death here on the station, plus fourteen injured--but everyone aboard the Mizari ship is now confirmed dead."

  "Dr. Andreiovitch and Esteemed Rizzshor .. ." Serge murmured sadly, his expression bleak. "What a terrible loss!"

  "Thanks for giving me the news, Ruth," Hing said, feeling tears well up.

  "You're right, it could have been worse. Serge and I could have been killed, too."

  "You're very lucky to be alive," the tech agreed. "Count your blessings."

  Hing flashed Serge a watery smile. "Oh, I am," she said softly. "I am . . ."

  "Listen, Hing, I've got some more alarms to attend to. I'll call you the moment the security team signals that you can open your door," Ruth said. "Call me if you need me, okay?"

  After the technician switched off, Hing went back over to Serge, knelt, then lifted the thermal sheeting and crawled under it. Sliding her arms around him, she pressed herself against his back, exulting in the warmth that began creeping over her. Recalling survival training that advised skin-to-skin contact to combat hypothermia, she unsealed the front of her uniform, telling herself that it was standard procedure under the circumstances . .. but as she settled against him again, there was no doubt that his skin felt very good against her own.

  "Are you all right?" she asked quietly after a few minutes. "You must be getting awfully stiff." A moment later she realized her double entendre, and hastily amended, "I mean, are you sure you don't want me to take over holding on to that seal? I could wrap a fold of the sheet around me to protect my hands."

  "I am fine," he replied slowly, his accent suddenly very noticeable as he searched for words. "More than fine. Hing. .. cherie ... it is a terrible thing to say, under the circumstances, but I truthfully cannot remember having been this happy for a very long time. You know how long."

  "Serge . . ."She bit her lip, searching for words. "We can't afford to rush this. It may be just a fluke because of shared danger and almost dying. You know--

  love in the trenches." She took a deep breath. "On one hand it feels so good to be near you again... but... I can't forget the way we hurt each other. I'm scared."

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  "I bear much of the responsibility for that hurt," he said. Hing wondered what his expression was, what his eyes held. But she didn't have the strength to raise her head and look. All her energy seemed to have vanished now that rescue was on the way. She could only lean her forehead against Serge's shoulder and wait. "And ... cherie ... I have regretted the things I said every day-- sometimes many times a day. I am sorry, a million times over."

  "I pushed you too hard, Serge." It was the truth, she knew that now. "That's one of my biggest faults; I start thinking I can direct the people in my life the way I do my actors on the stage, then I get mad if they won't let me push them around."

  "I will not let you push me around," Serge promised. "But much of what you said to me that night was true, I know that now. I held you away from me, kept you out of my heart, the way I did everyone else, because I am angry inside. With Rob's help, I am learning to change that."

  "I know. I can tell."

  "Hing ... you do not want to rush, either physically or emotionally, je comprends, and that is okay. I am learning also to be patient. But--is it possible--would you be willing to try again? Perhaps .. . someday .. . wear that ring I gave you again?" He spoke hoarsely, with many pauses, as though his
throat were] tight.

  The silence between them lasted for seven heartbeats--Hing knew, because she could feel his heart thudding against her palm. Then, tenderly, she kissed the top of his shoulder. "No promises, no rush," she said quietly, earnestly. "But yes ... I want to try again."

  "Bien," he said quietly, then they lapsed again into silence, and in silence waited.

  As the minutes went by, Hing was vaguely surprised to find herself growing drowsy, and for a moment she worried that it might be hypoxia setting in, but if it was, there was nothing she could do about it. Her eyelids drooped, then closed completely, and her breathing grew regular as she drifted ... drifted...

  An unmistakable knock thudded against the airlock door! Two more

  followed.

  Hing sat bolt upright, then leaped to her feet. "Oh, God, they're here! They've found us!" she cried. It was only now, on the eve of rescue, that she realized how very frightened she'd been. Quickly she rapped back on the door, knowing that the rescue team was probably wearing pressure suits and wouldn't be able

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  to hear her voice even if she yelled. But they'd be able to feel the vibrations.

  "Hing!" Serge had to shout to get her attention.

  She turned back to him. "What?"

  "Perhaps you should fasten your uniform," he said, eyeing her with a smile.

  "Before you unseal the door. Not that you don't look lovely, but..."

  "Smartass," Hing said, hastily resealing her garment. Then, seeing that he hadn't moved, she reached out her hand to him. "Come on, as soon as they signal it's safe, we can get out of here."

  Serge's grin vanished; he looked away. "I am afraid that I can't move my fingers to let go," he said tonelessly. "I have not been able to move them for some time now."

  "Oh, no!" She stared in distress at his fingers as they gripped the jumpsuit smeared with the sealant. "Are they just stuck, like with glue?" she asked, knowing they weren't.

  He shook his head. "No. The artificial neural relays must be frozen. The wrists and fingers will not move, and I dare not pull the jumpsuit away--that might widen the crack in the wall. Tell them they will have to cut me free."

  Hing hammered on the door in sudden frustration, angry and worried. What if Serge's hands are ruined? It took him a year to learn to use the new ones!

  "Hey, is it safe?" she yelled. "My friend is hurt! Can I open the door?"

  She pressed her ear to the other side, and heard three knocks, then suddenly Ruth's voice erupted over the intercom. "They're giving me the all-clear, Hing! You can open the door!"

  Trembling, Hing pressed the control to equalize pressure, then open the door. Slowly the portal slid aside, revealing three people in pressure suits.

  Hing stumbled out, feeling hot tears against her cold face, wondering why she was crying now, but too relieved to be embarrassed. One of the rescuers slung a blanket around her shoulders, then half supported her as she haltingly explained Serge's problem.

  Minutes later they half carried Serge out. He was swaying, plainly too weak to stand by himself, and both hands were raised stiffly before him, fingers crooked, still clenched on the rags of his cut-away jumpsuit. As he saw Hing, he gave her what was meant to be a reassuring grin, but looked more like a grimace of pain. His rescuers quickly made him lie down on an anti-grav Stretcher, then covered him with a blanket. Hing insisted that she could walk, so she clutched her blanket around herself and stumbled in the stretcher's wake. The student

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  stared, horrified, as they passed a huge plas-steel viewport that looked out onto Docks Five and Six. StarBridge Station appeared to have been bombarded--rips and holes marred its shining exterior, and naked girders and tangles of debris clustered where the two docking tubes had extended.

  "God, this is terrible!" she muttered.

  "It sure is," the man who kept one hand beneath her elbow said. He still wore his pressure suit, but it was equipped with special pickups and speakers so he could hear and converse with those not wearing a suit.

  "Damage will run to the millions, I'm betting. We're lucky more people didn't die."

  "But what could have caused it?" Hing asked dazedly. "How did it happen?"

  "They're saying the guidance beam cut in too soon, and brought the Mizari ship in too fast," he said.

  "But--but those beams are automatic!" Hing protested. "They're controlled by the computer!"

  "Yeah, that's what makes it so weird," the rescuer said. "The computers are supposed to be fail-safe."

  "How could it happen?" Hing wondered again, speaking more to herself than to him. "How?"

  "They don't know, Ms. Own," the man said wearily. "But I can tell you one thing, you can bet they're not going to quit until they find out."

  Look at you, you're turning into a real chicken, Heather fumed to herself, glaring at the computer screen. That's what you get for being around all these namby-pure StarBridge students. You start thinking like them! It's like a damned contagious disease!

  Ever since she'd begun working on Heathertoo today, she hadn't been able to shake the growing feeling that she was doing something really wrong.

  Scowling, she manipulated one of her computerpens, tapped an

  accompanying command on the keyboard, and watched Heathertoo begin an imaginary discussion. The young programmer stared at the make-believe office, the furniture, the perfect setting. All fine. She checked Heathertoo's clothing, her hairstyle--that was okay, too.

  So why couldn't Heathertoo function on her own yet? The body stance, the facial features, the slow uptake ... they still weren't right. Heather gnawed her lip in frustration. In a moment of brutal honesty, she had to admit that her creation was about as lifelike as a cheap Heeyoon animation.

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  So what? she argued. You can just go inside, become her, make her talk, walk right, make her say the right things, act the right way. . . She couldn't even convince herself.

  Sure, she could just go into the machine, manipulate the program with her mind, nudge the organical y based artificial intel igence gently a little here, a little there, make it do what she wanted it to do. Doing it again would be so easy-- the way it had been when she'd "fixed" Khuharkk's toilet. . .

  So easy. Heather swallowed. Easy, all right. Easy to get caught. That day that Hing had come in and found her while she was inside Heathertoo--that could have been it, right there, if she hadn't managed to convince her roommate that she'd fallen asleep while studying. Then, of course, they'd begun listening to Serge's music and that had occupied all of their attention.

  So it hadn't been until much later that it finally dawned on the girl exactly how close she'd come to disaster. Luckily, she'd been "out" long enough that the holo-tank had automatically dimmed to save power, so Hing hadn't seen Heathertoo's image. But she could have, if the older girl had come in only a few minutes earlier.

  Uneasily, she remembered Rob's veiled threats after the toilet incident. What he would do to her if he even suspected Heather of being able to manipulate the computer from inside didn't bear thinking about.

  Would Hing stick up for her? Heather's mouth tightened. Probably not. She liked Hing, true, but she had no illusions. Hing's job was to be a "good influence," to be a friend to the lonely little telepath--and, along with it, convince Heather to toe the line and become just another StarBridge student, upright and lily-white and oh-so-good and moral.

  Face it, if Hing had any idea what Heather was up to inside the AI, she'd burn a path to Rob's door and there'd be one less telepath complicating things at StarBridge.

  So, that means the game can go on . .. she decided, manipulating Heathertoo, adding fine details. But from now on, the main rule will be-- don

  't get caught.

  And her best chance at accomplishing that was to stay out of the damned AI.

  It was just safer that way. Besides, she was a good programmer. With a little diligence, she could do this. It was slower, sure .. . but it would work. She ta
pped in a new code, overlaid a new intel igence/initiative matrix with her pen.

  Heathertoo walked smoothly around the office, tapped a code on the keypad on her desk, moved the hair back away from

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  her face. Better, Heather thought, but not perfect. She felt her frustration surge. Dammit, why did this have to be so hard?

  "Helen," Heather said to the image, "how old are you?"

  "Twenty-six," the woman said flatly. "How old are you?"

  Heather frowned. She couldn't remember too many adults firing back such a blunt question. "Why'd you ask me that?"

  "My interpersonal relationship matrix suggested it as part of a conversational give-and-take," the woman said calmly. The inflection in her voice was still wrong. It was more modulated than before, but still preternaturally calm, like someone who'd been through too much therapy.

  Quit all this crap! she ordered herself. You could do this in ten minutes if you just went in there. This is taking forever!

  Heather closed her eyes, tried to ignore the impatient side of herself that was always getting her into trouble. She remembered Rob's warning that messing with even a simple toilet meant you were messing with the entire environmental system.

  Messing with the AI is too risky, and you know it, she told her impatient, pushy self. It was her survivor-self speaking, that canny side of her that always allowed her to come out on her two feet, if not on top. There's no way to know everything I might be affecting when I'm zipping around in there.

  Remember, nobody's ever done it before. It's not like there's a tutorial to help me do it correctly!

  Not to mention that it was scary being inside the machine. Seductive. Like you could just stay in there and do stuff forever. Computers were cooperative like that. Total y nonjudgmental.

  Grimly, she set back to work on Heathertoo. If she could make her appear real enough, Heathertoo could be independent, able to run all of Heather's financial dealings, even while her creator was off doing other things--like going to class, or having a sundae at the Spiral Arm with Hing, or even Serge and Hing. If she could perfect Heathertoo, she, Heather, wouldn't have to be tied down in front of this holo-tank, endlessly supervising her image in all the business transactions adults found so engrossing. Heather shook her head with a sigh. Talk about terminal boredom--and then,: realizing her pun, she giggled.