Serpent's Gift

by A. C. Crispin

  "Send her back to Earth," Janet said stubbornly.

  "Sure ... to a system that won't understand her, has no concept of what her needs are, what her capabilities are? A system that was turning her-into a hardened criminal without even trying? No way, Janet. I won't do it. Heather needs to be right here, where we--especially Doctor Blanket--can watch her.

  Sending her back to Earth would be as immoral an act as any committed by that monstrous uncle of hers who abused her. I won't do it!" Rob's voice rose in a ringing declaration.

  Janet opened her mouth to argue, studied the expression on the doctor's face, then gave in with a shrug. She nodded bleakly and stared at Heather.

  "Okay, okay. I hate it when you're right, Clarence."

  "That's George to you, shweethart," he shot back with a grin.

  Janet watched Heather as Blanket lay silently with her, watched the rise and fall of her flat, childish chest. "Pobrecita," she murmured, and left them there to care for her.

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  CHAPTER 12

  Interlude

  "No, I have no further comment," Rob said, his voice too even to be genuinely patient. "As I already told you several times, Ms. Wallace, I know no more than you do about what caused the crash at StarBridge Station. I suggest you contact the Security Chief at the station and speak to him about that."

  Despite the lateness of the hour, he was still in his office and had been there the entire day, except for one brief visit to check on Heather Farley where she was being kept under observation in the Academy's infirmary.

  His current caller, a reporter named Joan Wallace, must have graduated from the Inquisition School of Journalism, Rob thought wearily. She seemed convinced that if she asked him the same question enough times, he'd tell her what she wanted to know. Covering his eyes with his hand, glad that he'd politely declined to activate the visual portion of the call, giving the lateness of the hour as an excuse, Rob had a brief vision of himself bound to a stake, screaming "I recant!" while robed figures--all with the faces of the succession of reporters he'd spoken with during this endless day--marched around him, chanting and waving flaming torches.

  Wallace was an attractive woman in her late twenties, but she had the energy of an army ant, the determination of a kamikaze, and the tact of a rhino. Rob was two seconds from telling her what to do with herself in words of one syllable.

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  Now, hearing the edge in his voice, she blinked huge, doe-soft dark eyes at him from under her soft fringe of brunette hair, and hesitated for the first time in her barrage. "Dr. Gable, I know it's very late, and you must be tired, but just a few more questions, and I'll have enough for my piece." She gave him a practiced, winning smile. "Okay?"

  "Depends," Rob replied warily. "Ask your few questions, then don't argue if I give you a 'no comment,' and we'll see how it goes."

  "That's fair, and I do thank you for your cooperation." Rob sighed. Wallace's mother had evidently taught her little girl that old saw about catching more flies with honey than vinegar. "First question ... I understand that the two StarBridge students who were trapped in the airlock are still in the station hospital. What is the extent of their injuries?"

  "They weren't hurt, thank God," Rob said, glad to find a question he didn't have to pussyfoot around. "They're just being held for observation, and will be released soon. They're fine."

  "That's wonderful," she said, though Rob would have bet a steak dinner that she'd have been happier if both Hing and Serge had been gorily

  dismembered. Rob had a less-than-sanguine view of the press, with good reason. He'd been misquoted enough since he'd become famous to fill an encyclopedia file.

  "Speaking of those same students, my sources tell me that their names are Hing Own and Serge LaRoche. Is that true? Aren't they the same two students who staged a rather dramatic rescue of one of your instructors almost two weeks ago?"

  "I would prefer not to reveal their names until I'm sure they've had a chance to speak with their relatives," Rob said. "That isn't the kind of information I feel free to talk about without clearing it with my students first."

  "But it was Hing Own and Serge LaRoche who rescued their Professor from that crevasse, wasn't it?" she persisted.

  The psychologist could tell that she already knew the answer, and was just letting him know that she knew. Though they'd tried to keep the radonium-2

  angle on low profile, the story of the rescue was fairly well known by now.

  "Actually, there was a third member of the rescue team, a Simiu named Khuharkk'," Rob replied. "I assure you that we're very proud of all of them.

  Our students are smart, resourceful, and capable--and we train them how to handle emergencies effectively. You can quote me on that, Ms. Wallace."

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  Wallace wasn't interested in the hype--though she'd no doubt use the quote.

  Instead she pounced. "Serge LaRoche--isn't that the name of the child prodigy who had that tragic accident and lost his hands? This isn't the same one by any chance, is he?"

  Dammit! Rob thought. It was obvious that Wallace knew exactly who Serge was. "Serge's life before he came to the Academy is his own business, Ms.

  Wallace," he snapped. "I have no comment to make."

  Wallace had already covered Ssoriszs' plea to the CLS for emergency funds, and gotten Rob's official statement several times-- but she couldn't resist just one more try. "Dr. Gable, if the Academy at StarBridge were to close its doors, what would you, personally, do?"

  Rob gave her a sarcastic grin, though he knew she couldn't see him. "As I told you before, the Academy is not 'closing its doors.' If the day ever comes when I leave the Academy, I'll..." for a moment he had an insane desire to say "run for President of Earth--I sure as hell couldn't do worse than the current administration!" then watch her reaction, but he restrained himself with an effort.

  "Hmmm, I think I'll. .." Rob paused again, dramatically. Wallace leaned forward, ears pricked. "I'll... go fishing," Rob finished wickedly. "I haven't done that in years. There aren't any good trout pools in outer space, Ms.

  Wallace. Have you ever gone fishing? It's a great way to find inner peace."

  Wallace knew the interview was over, and there was nothing more to be gained from needling him. "Thank you so much for speaking with me, Dr.

  Gable," she said coolly.

  "My pleasure," Rob said, and managed to keep most of the sarcasm out of his voice.

  After he'd cut the connection, he leaned back in his chair, stretching, trying to ease the kinks out of his back. Bast, who had long ago realized that her master wasn't going to pay attention to her today, was across the room, munching desultorily at a bowl of cat food.

  "What a day," Rob told her. "I'd almost rather rescue trapped little hackers stuck in the AI than fend off reporters. Every time there's a disaster, they crawl out of the woodwork, like termites. Where do they all come from?" He knew that a couple of them worked out of the station, since it was a crossroads for so much interstellar traffic. Others had not come physically--

  they'd conducted their inquiries via holovid.

  "It's too bad that Cara's still en route," Rob said, still talking to the cat. "If she'd been here today, I'd have drafted her to be

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  my press secretary and let her deal with them. Fight fire with fire. What do you think?"

  Bast merely blinked her green eyes at him and did not answer.

  When Rob hadn't been talking to reporters today, he'd given Kkintha ch'aait a hand in handling all the calls from worried parents, assuring them that the school was in no danger, and that StarBridge Station, where the crash had occurred, was forty kilometers away. A few of the parents had asked about danger from the radonium-2. Rob had replied, truthfully, that they expected to hear from the engineering firm any day now that all of the radonium left on StarBridge was completely stable.

  The psychologist frowned as he realized that during the past two hectic days Jeff hadn't called at all. H
e should have called by yesterday, at the latest.

  Could he have tried to reach the school during the time when Heather had been playing hob with the computer's innards? But everything was back to normal, now, and had been for over a day. Why hadn't Jeff called?

  He wondered how Ssoriszs was holding up. The Mizari had been hard hit by the halfhearted (at best) support the school had received from the CLS, and even harder hit by Mikhail Andreiovitch's and Esteemed Rizzshor's deaths.

  And it didn't help--though it was definitely secondary in comparison to the loss of life--that StarBridge's new shuttle, the Fys, had been damaged beyond repair when the Night Storm exploded.

  Rob leaned his head back in his chair, closing his gritty eyes, promising himself that he'd get up and go back to his quarters and go to bed in just a minute ... just a few seconds more . . .

  His intercom signaled, so loud in the sleeping quietness of the school that Rob sat up with a jerk, banging his elbow against the edge of-his desk.

  "Who the hell can that be?" he wondered, tempted to let the night staff deal with it, whatever it was. He'd put in his eighteen hours today--he deserved a rest.

  Then the holo-vid tank lit up, and Rob realized that someone had overridden the lockout on his private line. It was either Janet, or ... he watched unsurprised as Jeff Morrow's image formed.

  "Jeff," he greeted his friend, his eyes narrowing in concern as he took in Morrow's bloodshot eyes, disheveled clothing, and oily, uncombed hair. "Are you okay?"

  Morrow gave him a wavery grin. "Sure I am," he said, and Rob knew immediately that the engineer was drunk. He wasn't to the word-slurring stage, but he was way, way past "lit" or "mellow."

  "So how're you doing, Doc?" Jeff asked, seeming not to notice Rob's scrutiny.

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  "Tired, but I'm managing okay," Rob said neutrally. "Uh, Jeff, do you have any idea what time it is?"

  Morrow gave him an owlish stare, then grinned. "Why, it's nighttime, Rob. It's always night out here, you know that!"

  "It's past midnight, Jeff, way past midnight. Are you having trouble sleeping again?"

  The engineer laughed harshly. "Sleep? What's that?"

  "Where are you?" Rob tried to see past Morrow's image to his surroundings, but the younger man was sitting too close to his pickup. "Are you up at the station? Or out at the site?"

  "I'm at the site," Morrow replied.

  "How is the work going?"

  Jeff blinked. "What work?"

  Rob restrained himself from rolling his eyes. Be patient, Gable, he admonished himself. "The survey," he said. "You were supposed to give us the results of the whole-asteroid survey the day before yesterday at the latest."

  "That's right, I was," Jeff said, and smacked the heel of his palm against his temple. "Bad engineer! Bad!" He grinned amiably at Rob. "You're my favorite person in the universe, you know?" he said with a drunk's unrestrained, sloppy affection. "I wish you were my dad," he mumbled, looking down. "I hate Mike, Rob, you know?"

  "I know," Rob said evenly. "Jeff, why don't you get something to eat... like a sandwich or something, and drink a big glass of orange juice, then get some sleep? You can call me in the morning."

  "There is no morning here, Rob," Morrow said earnestly. "And no morning anywhere else, I've been thinking lately. Maybe mornings are just an illusion that's supposed to happen someday, but they never come. Doesn't it seem like that to you sometimes?"

  "Yes," Rob replied honestly. "But, Jeff, listen, you really need some food, some potassium, and some sleep, in that order."

  "But the survey," the engineer said. "Gotta tell you what we've found."

  "You can tell me tomorrow, when we're both more awake," Rob said reasonably, hoping the logic of this would reach through into Morrow's alcohol-fogged brain.

  "Meeting .. ." Jeff mumbled, as if it were a word in an alien language.

  "Meeting!" he repeated triumphantly. "That's why I called! 'Schedule meeting,' it says here on my list. Gotta finish my list before I can go to bed."

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  "Okay, then, as long as you promise to do just that," Rob said, quickly calling up his, Kkintha's, and Ssoriszs' schedules on his terminal. "Hmmm . .. how about sixteen hundred tomorrow, here at the school, since you're down here on the asteroid."

  "That's fine," Jeff said. Rob watched him squint at the computer as he laboriously keyed in the information, and wondered whether Jeff would remember this conversation tomorrow, and whether he was indeed entering the time and place for their meeting correctly. He decided to call Morrow back around noon tomorrow to make sure it was still on, plus verify time and location. He ought to have taken something for the hangover he's bound to have by then, Rob thought cynically.

  "Okay!" Jeff exclaimed a moment later. "We're all set!"

  "Good," Rob said. "Thanks for calling. I'll see you tomorrow." He stared intently at the inebriated engineer. "Jeff, you are going to go to bed, aren't you?"

  "Maybe," Morrow said coyly. "Depends ..."

  "On what?"

  "If that bitch Angela will just leave me alone."

  Rob stared at him, nonplussed. "Angela's with you?" he asked finally.

  "The bitch is always with me. Nagging me all the time, thinking she owns me, making demands. She wants too much, Rob!"

  "People have a way of doing that," the psychologist agreed sadly. "I'm afraid it's part of the human condition."

  "Yeah, well. . ." Jeff obviously hadn't followed this last. He yawned suddenly, showing a mouthful of even white teeth.

  Rob nodded approvingly. "Good! You're tired, you'll sleep like a baby. Good night, Jeff."

  "'Night, Doc."

  After he'd terminated the connection Rob sat in silence, head bowed, now fully awake. He didn't like the way Jeff had looked. During his worst depression over not making the grade here at StarBridge, he'd never looked this bad. On the other hand, he reminded himself, he'd never seen Jeff really loaded before. Liquor did bad things to nice people, as he had good cause to know.

  What the hell had gone on between Jeff and Angela for him to talk about her so nastily? Of course, he didn't really know her, had only met her in the flesh one time, when she'd been accompanying Jeff on a business trip and they'd come through StarBridge Station for a quick stopover, but she'd seemed a pleasant, easfl nest young woman, someone who had genuine caring for her new husband. M

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  He's not your patient anymore, Rob reminded himself. Anyone can have a momentary lapse, especially when he or she is really soused.

  But he couldn't get the incident out of his mind. I wonder whether Jeff was drinking because of Andreiovitch's death, he thought. He obviously had a lot of respect for the man's reputation. Maybe he was counting on him to help solve the radonium problem here.

  As he stood up, he felt the room lurch around him, and realized that he had eaten almost nothing all day. "Time to call it a day, Bast," he said, snapping his fingers at her. Obediently, she came over to him, and he picked her up, then tucked her in the crook of his arm.

  "Come on, girl. Let's go home."

  The next morning, Esteemed Ssoriszs faced another holovid transmission of a CLS official, but this time he knew he was talking to a friend and staunch supporter, so he was relaxed instead of nervous.

  "Yes, the news of the vote just reached me," Mahree Burroughs said with a sigh that was audible even across the parsecs. "I'm awfully sorry, Esteemed One. If only I had been there for that session .. ."

  But the CLS Ambassador-at-Large was currently on a fact- finding and goodwill mission to Errhoun, the Heeyoon world that had suffered so badly during its past winter. Now, with the spring rains, had come floods and a new, virulent strain of ¦ illness to threaten the beleaguered planet. Mahree was there to see whether CLS emergency support was indicated--and she'd told Ssoriszs that it definitely was.

  The elderly Mizari hissed softly, making a brushing-way gesture with his appendages. "How could you possibly have known this was in the offing, M
ahree? Our legends of the Lost Colony tell us that they had seers, who could see the future--or futures--but neither of us is such, yes?"

  Mahree smiled ruefully as she sat in the emergency hospital's bubbletent, with stacks of provisions and medical supplies behind |her. She was not really a pretty woman, as humans defined ideal beauty (a notion Ssoriszs found almost incomprehensible), her features were too severe, but her dark eyes were bright and vivacious, and the freckles across the bridge of her nose softened her, making her face one that was hard to forget.

  "You're right," she admitted. "I keep having to be reminded by people these days that the weight of the whole universe isn't

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  something I'm expected to shoulder just automatically. Shirazz tells me that I have an overactive conscience that almost equals my overhealthy ego!"

  " 'To be a leader means that one must glide straight while others circle and backtrack, even if the path traveled leads to perdition,' " Ssoriszs quoted an ancient aphorism of his people.

  Mahree laughed ruefully. "We say, 'The road to Hell is paved with good intentions,' and 'Pride goeth before a fall, and a haughty spirit before disaster,' or some such. Someone should write a book on how many ancient proverbs from different worlds tend to say much the same thing."

  "Perhaps it will be a StarBridge graduate, who is also a writer," Ssoriszs said, a glint of humor in his golden eyes. "That journalist who is returning to us--Cara Hendricks--comes to mind."

  "I just hope there will be a StarBridge Academy for her to come to," Mahree said, her expression sobering. "And a StarBridge Station for her ship to dock at! Do they have any idea, Esteemed One, of how that terrible accident happened?"

  Ssoriszs' appendages drooped forlornly. "They are checking," he said.

  "There have been rumors that it was sabotage. Rizzshor . .. Andreiovitch ...