Serpent's Gift

by A. C. Crispin

  we are all in mourning for them. May the Stars shine forever upon their Spirits, and guide them to peace and the Oneness."

  Mahree's eyes widened. "Sabotage! That's terrible! Who would do that? And whyl"

  The elderly Mizari thought of Heather, then decided it would take too long to explain the entire thing. Doctor Blanket, whom the Liaison respected greatly, stoutly maintained that Heather was innocent, as did Rob. But the child's power was so new, so frightening, that Ssoriszs didn't know what to think. It all sounded extremely dangerous to him--and to Janet, whom he'd spoken to yesterday.

  "We do not know," the alien said sadly. "It makes no rational sense."

  "Have there been any more incidents?"

  "No. This appears to be an isolated instance."

  "But why!" she wondered again, catching the tail end of the thick brown braid she wore over her shoulder and twirling it slowly. "If Andreiovitch and Rizzshor had been political figures, or something, I can see it. But... a mining engineer and physicist and an archaeologist?" Mahree frowned. 'To quote another old saying, "There's something rotten in Denmark,' Esteemed One."

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  "Where is Denmark?" the Mizari asked. "And why are things prone to spoilage there?"

  Mahree looked up, poised to explain, then saw that the Liaison was teasing her. "Don't kid me, Rob told me about that time you two went to Copenhagen," she said accusingly. "And I know you've read Shakespeare."

  "I have," Ssoriszs admitted. "He has a voice in his writing that reads almost like music sounds."

  "I'm sure he'd be pleased to hear you say that." She smiled at the Liaison, then sobered. "Tell me, Esteemed One . . ."

  "Yes?"

  "How is Rob taking all of this?"

  "I do not know. I have been so ... unsettled in my own thoughts, I have had little energy to worry about another's," the Mizari admitted ruefully. "But Janet Rodriguez seemed to find it disturbing that Rob was watching It's a Wonderful Life the other day, and eating some comestible called fudge-marble cheesecake."

  Mahree stared at the Liaison in dismay. "It's a Wonderful Life? In July? Oh, dear! And he only eats fudge-marble cheesecake when he's feeling lower than a sna--" she bit her lip, stopped herself, finished, "lower than low! Poor Rob!"

  'This is a disturbing sign?"

  She nodded. "It makes me want to climb on the next shuttle and come out there."

  "Right now, we need a radonium expert, not another diplomat," Ssoriszs said practically. "Still, I am sure that you will be able to help out some way when you return to Shassiszss."

  "I'll do my best, of course," she said absently.

  "If you see my grandson, Zarshezz," the Liaison began, then he hesitated.

  "Yes?" Mahree prodded.

  "Tell him--tell him I am sorry that I have not been able to speak with him, but that I have so little energy and free time during this crisis, I must guard them jealously. Tell him I wish very much to speak with him, but not until this is over. Whatever the outcome may be."

  Mahree stared at the old alien, obviously looking for shades of meaning in his message, then she nodded. "Certainly I'll tell him, Esteemed One. The next time I see him."

  The Mizari bowed. "Many thanks, Esteemed Mahree."

  She bowed back, hands tented above her head. "You are welcome, Esteemed Ssoriszs. Farewell. . . until we meet again."

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  "May it be soon," said the Mizari, giving the next phrase in the formal words of parting. "Yes, may it be soon," she echoed solemnly.

  "But, Mr. LaRoche, Ms. Own, just one more question!" squawked Joan Wallace as Serge and Hing turned away from her and keyed open the door to Docking Bay Nineteen. "How does it make you feel to know that your ordeal was caused by an unknown saboteur?"

  Serge maintained the stony silence and expression he'd assumed the moment that Wallace had asked him whether the repairs to his hands would allow him to play the piano again.

  But Hing turned back to the woman. "Why don't you take a good guess?"

  she said viciously. Serge had never seen her so angry--her eyes flashed, and they were the color and hardness of onyx. "You don't really care what we think, or how we feel, you've made that disgustingly obvious. So just send your article in with what you wish we'd say, and we'll both be happy--

  you because you got your stupid article, and me because I don't have to say another word to you!"

  With that, Hing turned her back on the reporter, and flounced-- no other word applied--through the door and down the docking tube. Serge followed her, fighting back a reluctant smile as he noted that Wallace hadn't followed.

  Score--Hing Own ten, Wallace zero.

  "It feels funny to walk down one of these again," Hing said, glancing around the docking tube as Serge caught up with her. "I'm glad this one isn't transparent. I wonder if I'll ever get a kick out of the clear ones again."

  "Of course you will," Serge assured her.

  Moments later they boarded the small borrowed shuttle that the station had loaned the school until--and if--the Fys was replaced. Serge spent a few minutes familiarizing himself with the controls, then eased the little vessel--

  known only as 15SS--out of its cradle. "I shall have to practice my manual dockings," he murmured to Hing, who was sitting in the copilot's seat.

  "I heard one of the med techs this morning say that the guidance beams had been certified for use again," Hing said. "But if you want to dock manually from now on, be my guest. I'll never cuss at Janet Rodriguez again."

  The past two days since their ordeal in the airlock had been restful for Hing, stressful for Serge as the Mizari healer had worked on his hands, restoring the microcircuitry that had frozen, causing the

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  artificial neural connections to lock up. But now they were completely back to normal, and he was infinitely relieved. As many times as he'd stared at his hands and hated them, Serge now knew that he never wanted to be without them again. That was to be truly crippled! He hadn't been able to feed himself, or even visit the bathroom, without someone to help him.

  "That was a low blow, asking about your hands," Hing said quietly as the little ship swooped toward the Academy.

  Serge, who had just finished verifying his flight plan with Traffic Control, glanced at her. "Reporters are frequently tactless," he said philosophically. "I fear it comes with the job."

  "Yeah, but to hear her mention it, after we spent time yesterday really talking about it, for the first time. .. well, it made me mad. Somehow it cheapens what we said, what it meant. . ."

  "No, it does not," Serge said firmly. "I was being honest when I told you that I felt more comfortable talking to you about music, and the piano, and my hands, than I ever have talking to anyone else--even Rob Gable."

  She gave him a sidelong look. "Then, will you do me a favor, Serge?"

  "Certainly," he said, knowing that whatever it was, he'd do it. He'd never been able to be that open, that trusting, with anyone before.

  "Watch the holo-vid of some of your performances with me, so I can tell you to your face how much your music, your playing has meant to me!" she pleaded, eyes shining. "I never confessed this before ... I feel silly saying it, really, but.. ."

  "Yes?" he prompted when she hesitated, gnawing at her lower lip.

  "I was an admirer of yours before I knew you," she admitted in a rush. "I guess you would say ... a fan. I never told you, but I'd seen all your performances, and the day I realized it was you, in person"--she grinned, the old impudent cheeky grin--"I just about keeled over in the middle of class.

  You remember that class we had together, Third Millennia Mizari Poetry?"

  Serge began to laugh aloud. "Is that why you stared at me so fixedly?"

  "Until I noticed that you'd noticed me staring, yeah."

  "I thought you were staring at me because I did so badly on that translation!

  Esteemed Rissaz was right in saying she'd never heard anyone deliver those lines in quite that manner before. I th
ought that you thought I was a fool!"

  Now they both laughed, companionably.

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  After a moment she sobered. "Will you do that for me?"

  Serge hesitated, and her face fell. "Never mind, I don't want to--"

  "It is not that," he assured her. "It is simply that I have been planning a surprise for you. Shall we meet for dinner at the Spiral Arm, and then I will show it to you?" He gave her a hopeful smile. "And after seeing it, if you still wish to view my old performances, we will do that. Okay?"

  "It's a deal," she said.

  They spent the minutes until docking chatting about Heather, whom they planned to visit in the infirmary as soon as they reached StarBridge. Rob had explained a little of what had happened to the young telepath to them while they were in the hospital.

  "Then, tomorrow, first thing," Serge said, "I must go see Professor Greyshine. He was released the day of the crash, but has been recuperating in his quarters."

  "I'd like to see him, too," Hing said.

  "I am sure he would wish to thank you personally for your courage in rescuing him," Serge said, then he smiled. "Actually, Professor Greyshine is quite taken with you. He never left off telling me that you are the perfect mate for me!"

  Hing's mouth dropped open. "He didn't!"

  Solemnly, Serge nodded, his eyes dancing.

  "Why that old yenta!" She began to giggle, and covered her mouth with her hand automatically, a habit developed early by anyone who studied the Simiu and their language.

  After Serge had docked the little vessel, the two young people visited Heather in the infirmary. Serge was shocked and worried at her pallor, but the child insisted she was all right as she sat up in bed in her darkened room, with Doctor Blanket glowing beside her. "Seloz is teaching me how to be a responsible telepath," she announced proudly to Serge. "So that I'll never again be tempted to do anything as rude as what I did to you. I'm really sorry about that!" she said softly, earnestly.

  Serge smiled at her reassuringly. "I was the one who lost my temper," he said. "It is I who should apologize." Taking the stubby little fingers in his, he gave her his most courtly bow, then kissed her hand with more genuine affection and respect than he'd ever exhibited to any crowned head.

  Heather flushed scarlet, so pleased that she was speechless-- for once.

  After leaving the infirmary, the two split up, promising to meet again at the Spiral Arm in a couple of hours.

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  Dinner consisted of sandwiches and french fries, with tall glasses of an exotic Drnian fruit punch. Serge raised his glass to Hing formally, then looked at it, smiling ruefully. "We should have champagne for a proper toast."

  "This will do," she assured him. "Remember, Drnians can get lit off it, that ought to make it acceptable."

  "Very well." Solemnly, Serge raised his glass, and Hing raised hers. "To the most pleasant life-threatening experience anyone in any of the Fifteen Known Worlds has ever had," he said, and sipped the tart, cooling beverage.

  "Hear, hear," Hing said, grinning, and drank with him.

  Thirty minutes later she nibbled on a french fry, then put it down. "I can't. If you don't show me your surprise, I'm going to burst with curiosity!"

  Serge stood, then helped her out of her seat as though they'd been in a fine restaurant instead of the students' hangout. "Very well, then. Come along."

  "Where?"

  He held out his hand to her. "I told you, it is a surprise. Close your eyes," he directed as she took his hand.

  "Oh, come on!"

  "Please," he said, and Hing immediately obeyed, charmed in spite of herself.

  Silently, Serge led her along the halls, into the elevator, then along another series of corridors, while she followed obediently, a bemused smile on her face.

  Finally, they reached their destination--one of the practice rooms in the Music Department. Serge keyed the door open, led Hing inside, then locked the portal behind them. He was nervous enough doing this without worrying about anyone inadvertently disturbing them to ask directions or some such.

  "Can I open my eyes yet?" Hing said, standing by the doorway.

  "Soon," he promised, and led her over to the couch and seated her. He could see her sniffing the air, listening, trying to figure out where the devil she was, and he smiled. She'd never guess!

  Then he went over to the grand piano that sat waiting for him in the center of the room and gingerly seated himself behind it, flexed his hands over the keys, not quite touching them. Serge was struck by the beauty of the instrument, and his heart felt an echo of the old thrill, the old passion as he looked at the Steinway.

  "Now?" Hing said, leaning forward impatiently, eyes squeezed shut as though she had to fight with herself not to open them.

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  "Yes, now," Serge told her, and as she opened her eyes, he ran his fingers over the keys. Just a simple scale, but his timing was abominable, dreadful--

  and he actually hit a wrong note!

  "Zut!" he muttered, afraid to look up at Hing as he tried again. Much better ...

  his timing was still not what it ought to be, but perhaps it wasn't too bad for someone who hadn't done this in more than five years. His fingers worked perfectly, of course . .. no muscles to cramp, or refuse to stretch properly.

  After a few more scales had convinced him that he was rusty, but capable of doing what he'd set out to do, Serge segued into an actual composition, a tone-poem that had been running through his mind for nearly a year--a cheerful little piece that nevertheless had depth, passion, and color.

  His anxiety vanished as he became lost in the sheer pleasure of actually hearing with his ears what had, up until now, only been in his mind. Never mind that it had been in his mind for months, this was the first time he'd played it--except for times when he'd found himself moving his fingers over an imaginary keyboard as the notes ran through his head.

  This is beauty! he thought, feeling the passion, the love affair with music fill him with delight. He'd missed this so much, and he hadn't even realized it.

  There had been a void in his life, his heart, a void so large it could only be expressed in stellar terms.

  Serge was nearly weeping with emotion as he finished the last notes, then sat silent, remembering Hing, afraid to look up. By her own admission, she'd seen him so many times in his heyday. Would she be disappointed? Surely she'd noticed every hesitation, every fault in the tempo. What would she say?

  It took every bit of courage Serge possessed to look up at her, but her face was glowing, and her eyes shone. Tears trembled on her lashes. "Oh, Serge!" she whispered. "That was so beautiful! I don't recognize it. Did you write it? What is its name?"

  Serge got up and went over to sit beside her, his eyes searching her face for any hint that she was merely being polite, not wanting to hurt his feelings.

  But no, she was genuinely moved. He smiled, then gently used one finger to wipe the tears away as two of them broke free. "It has no name. .. yet, Hing.

  But I wrote it, and I wrote it for you, and I wrote it about you. That melody is you, the way I see you, the way you live in my heart, Hing. I am glad you like it."

  "Like it!" For a moment he thought she was going to burst into tears. "Oh, God, I love it. I can't believe that you wrote it for me!"

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  "I had no choice," he said with a wry smile. "The music is stubborn. It persists in living in my head, and reflecting what I see around me." Gently, he slid his arms around her, then kissed her cheek. "When I kiss you, I hear music, Hing. That is an old cliche, I know, but for me it is literally true."

  She turned her head so their lips met, and then Serge lost himself again, kissing her more and more deeply, feeling his head spin at her eager response. Resolutely, he kept his hands on her back, did not kiss her throat, or the skin below it, though he longed to. He had promised not to push, and he would keep his word ... if he could. Even confining himself to kissing, he was rapi
dly getting in too deep to extricate himself easily.

  Finally he pulled back, his heart slamming, feeling half-drunk with the sweetness of her mouth, the feel of her unbound hair as it cascaded over her shoulders. "We had better stop," he muttered roughly, holding himself back from her with an effort that was painful. "We promised to wait. . ."

  Hing opened her eyes, searching his face, then she ran her fingers through his hair, then trailed them down to his open collar. With excruciating slowness, she unsealed the first fifteen centimeters of his jumpsuit. "So we did," she breathed, stroking his collarbones, then his chest. "But do you really want to wait?"

  "No!" Serge blurted, startled into the truth. "I want to make love to you .. .

  passionately, for a long, long time!" He caught his breath with an effort. "That should be obvious," he added, with a weak grin. He was literally shaking with the effect her trailing finger had on him. "We had better go," he said unevenly, and began drawing away.

  "No," Hing said, then slowly, deliberately, she unsealed her tunic, and, catching one of his hands, placed it on her breast, sliding it against her so he could feel her warmth with his real flesh. "Now we're even," she said, smiling.

  "But--but--" Serge stammered, so aroused that even speaking was an effort,

  "but--"

  "Serge," Hing said, grasping the front of his jumpsuit in both hands,

  "sometimes you're too honorable for your own good! At times like these, promises are made to be broken." Slowly, deliberately, she leaned back, pulling him over on top of her.

  As the moments passed, Serge heard their passion as music, building toward a thunderous crescendo, and it shook him as nothing ever had. "I love you," he gasped, his face pressed into her hair, his body trembling as he had trembled in the airlock--except that these were shivers of pure pleasure. "Je t'aime, cherie ..."

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  He'd never said it before, but it was the truest thing in the universe.

  "I love you, too," Hing whispered, so softly that he could only hear it because her mouth was so close to his ear. "I do, Serge. Always .. . always . . ."

  She'd never said it before, either.

  It was fortunate, Serge thought later--much, much later-- that I decided to lock that door.