Fledgling

by Sharon Lee

  "The kaf will give you a cup of tea," her mother said, interrupting in her turn. "All you need to do is ask."

  Tea from a kaf unit was not, in Theo's estimation, tea. It was a tepid, watery, tasteless beverage that happened, via some weird and as-yet-uncorrected universal typo, to be called tea. Real tea had body, and taste, and—

  Her mumu thweeped the eighth of the hour.

  "I suggest that you choose your breakfast quickly," Kamele said, and stalked past her to confront the kaf.

  Two sharp jabs at the keypad, a flicker of lights across the face screen, a hiss when the dispenser door slid up. Kamele slid the tray out and carried it to the bar. Acrid steam rose from the extra large disposable cup.

  Theo wondered if kaf coffee tasted any better than kaf tea, but it didn't seem like the time to ask. Instead, she stepped up to the machine, punched one button for juice and another for hot cereal, and very soon thereafter was sitting across from her mother at the bar.

  Kamele was drinking the coffee, though not like she was enjoying it, and staring down into her bowl so intently that Theo knew she couldn't actually be seeing it or her cereal. She sighed and dug into her own breakfast. Father and Kamele were both prone to sudden fits of intense abstraction, when they would simply . . . step away from whatever it was they were doing to pursue a certain fascinating thought. Theo guessed it came of being a scholar and having so many interesting things to think about, and she had early learned not to interrupt a fit of abstraction with small talk.

  The cereal wasn't too bad, though it was sweeter than she liked; the juice was room temperature and astringent. Theo ate quickly, keeping an increasingly worried eye on her mother, who continued to drink coffee and stare a hole into her cereal.

  Theo cleared her throat.

  "Early class this morning, Kamele?" she asked, trying to sound bright and interested—and hoping to bring her mother to a realization that her cereal was getting cold.

  Her mother glanced up, her eyes soft and not really focused.

  "Yes," she murmured. "I do have the early class this morning, Theo. Thank you for reminding me. I'd best be on my way." She slid off the stool, carried her untouched bowl and the half-empty cup to the disposal.

  Well, Theo thought, that didn't work, did it?

  Kamele bent to pick up her bag.

  "Don't dawdle," she said, slinging it over her shoulder. "I'll be a little late this evening—there's a meeting. If it looks like it'll go long, I'll text you." She bent and brushed her lips against Theo's cheek.

  "Learn well," she murmured, and was gone, moving quickly toward the receiving parlor, her footsteps sounding sticky against the slick floor. Theo heard the outer door chime and cycle.

  This, she thought, finishing her cereal hurriedly, is not good. She sat back, reaching for the leg pocket where her mumu rode. She'd just text a quick message to Father, and ask him to—

  Or, she thought, hand poised above the pocket, maybe not. For all she knew, Kamele wasn't speaking to Father, and would refuse anything he sent to her. She was certainly behaving like—Theo took a breath. Until somebody told her something, she couldn't dismiss the possibility that Kamele had—had released Father. There were signs, she thought carefully. Before last night, Kamele had always referred to Father as "Jen Sar." "Professor Kiladi," in all its stiff formalness—that was how a junior academic referred to a senior, not how a woman spoke of her onagrata.

  Theo sighed. She hated not knowing what was going on. Maybe the best thing to do was wait for Oktavi's dinner with Father, and ask him again.

  Maybe he'd even give her a better answer than "local custom."

  Grumbling to herself, she stuffed the disposables into the receptacle, shut the door to the kitchen, and glanced at the readout set into the top of the table. Still plenty of time to meet Lesset before class, if the bus didn't run late.

  "Bus!" she said out loud, and smacked fingertips against her forehead. She didn't have to catch the bus today. She lived inside the Wall now; school was just a belt ride away.

  "Great," she muttered, and slung her pack over her shoulder. "So I'll be early."

  She was at the Team's usual table in the Ready Room, working on the lace flower again, her tongue between her teeth as she tried to figure out how to make it 3D and all one piece, when Lesset wandered in—and stopped just inside the door, blinking.

  "Theo! What're you doing here this early? Is something wrong?"

  Theo frowned up at her. "If something was wrong, I'd be late, wouldn't I?"

  "It would depend," her friend said reasonably, "on what was wrong."

  "I guess." She sighed and reached for her pack. "Actually, something is wrong. Kamele moved out of Father's house. We're Mice now."

  "You're living in the Wall? Really?" Lesset blinked, then grinned. "That's tenured!"

  Theo eyed her sourly. "No, it's not." She bent to put her hook and thread away into her bag.

  "Seriously tenured," Lesset insisted. "Where's your nest?"

  "Quadeight Twobuild, right on the belt."

  Lesset's grin went from wide to round. "Fact?"

  "No, theory!" Theo snapped. "What'm I gonna do, make up the direction?"

  "But that must be—it's gotta be. . . . Chaos!" Lesset sat suddenly, her pack bumping the table, and there she continued to sit, staring right through Kartor and Roni when they came in. Kartor flopped into the chair on Theo's right, his eyes pinned to the screen of his mumu. Roni dropped her bag on the table and went over to Team Two's table, just like she always did.

  "Any time you're ready," Theo muttered, and Lesset turned to her, putting a quick hand on her arm.

  "I'm sorry," she said, though she didn't sound particularly contrite. "It just came to me that you're living—you must be living in, you know—her apartment."

  Theo sighed, and wished she hadn't put her handwork away. "Her who?"

  Lesset frowned. "Don't you ever read The Faq?"

  The Faculty-Administration Quarterly carried the daily university news—lists, mostly. Lists of people who were applying for grants. Lists of people who had gotten their grants. Lists of people going on sabbatical. Lists of people coming back from sabbatical. Changes of address.

  Kamele said that once, in the long ago past, The Faq really had only been published once a quarter, but the level of news generated by such a large faculty and administration forced a more frequent publication schedule. She read it, and Father, too, though Theo thought they had different reading experiences. For instance, Kamele called it The Faq or, sometimes, The News.

  Father called it The Scandal Sheet.

  "I skim it sometimes," Theo said, and made a face. "Bor-ing."

  Lesset sighed and shook her head. "Information is never boring," she said in a prim voice that made her sound exactly like her mother.

  "Long lists of names are boring," Theo answered, then prodded. "You were going to tell me who her is."

  "Well . . ." Lesset chewed her lip. "Professor Flandin—the sub-chair of the History of Ed—"

  "Lesset, I know who Professor Flandin is! Kamele's in EdHist!"

  "All right, don't roar at me! How'm I supposed to know what you know?"

  "I'm sorry," Theo said, noticing that her shoulders had climbed up nearly to her ears. She relaxed them, deliberately, and looked at her friend. "So you think we're in Professor Flandin's apartment? Why? She go Topthree?"

  "Topthree!" Lesset laughed and patted Theo's arm. "You really don't read The Faq, do you? Professor Flandin didn't get promoted. She got disbarred."

  Having delivered this last in a penetrating whisper, Lesset folded her hands on her knee, and gave a single, solemn nod.

  "Disbarred?" Theo frowned. Now she came to think about it, she'd heard something . . .

  "Falsifying data," she said, suddenly remembering. She looked at Lesset. "She falsified cites in her last two pubs."

  Lesset smiled. "You do pay attention sometimes! So, anyway, if Professor Waitley's been assigned—Quadeight's only two ram
ps down from Topthree!—been assigned to Professor Flandin's apartment, that must mean the dean approved her temp-posting to sub-head. That wasn't in The Faq yet!"

  "Maybe they're waiting to make the announcement at the Faculty Meeting," Theo said, but she was thinking about Kamele—Temp Sub-Head!—and she hadn't said anything—not a word. That felt pretty bad, like Kamele didn't trust her. But, Theo thought, her spirits rising considerably, if the temp appointment was the reason Kamele had moved to the Wall, then that meant they could go home after the search was finished and the department had appointed someone permanent!

  The knot in her stomach eased, and she looked up with a smile as the first whistle sounded.

  "Time to go," Lesset said, as she and Theo rose and shouldered their packs.

  Roni rushed over from Team Two's table, grabbed her pack, and marched off, calling, "Don't be late!" over her shoulder.

  Kartor rose automatically, his attention still on his mumu.

  Lesset sighed, her steps not as brisk as they might've been. "Professor Appletorn first thing is cruel and unusual."

  "He's not so bad."

  "He's not so bad to you," Lesset retorted. "He doesn't loathe you."

  "He doesn't loathe you, either," Theo said reasonably. "He's a teacher. His job is to make sure you learn."

  "I'm so tense in his class I don't think I'm learning anything," her friend said, as they moved out of the Ready Room. She shuddered.

  That was serious, if true. Theo had noticed that Lesset wasn't at her best in Professor Appletorn's class, but if she was letting her tension get in the way of performance, that was bad. Theo sighed, worried.

  Professor Appletorn taught Advertency, which was core. If Lesset didn't pass, she'd not only pull the Team average down, she'd have to repeat Fourth Form, and clear a higher achievement bar, to cancel out the note in her file.

  She looked around, suddenly worried on another head—and spied Estan and Anj, the last two members of the Team, rushing toward them from the pass corridor from the belt station. There must've been another Crowded Condition on the Quad Six beltway. That had been happening a lot, lately.

  "Maybe you should talk to your mentor," Theo said to Lesset, as they turned left down the hall. They were walking so slow now that lazy-moving Kartor was ahead of them, and she could hear Estan panting from behind.

  "I did talk to my mentor." Lesset sighed gustily. "She said I was learning how to deal with adverse conditions."

  "Oh." said Theo. She frowned. "Are you?"

  "I don't think so," her friend said mournfully.

  Four

  Scholarship Skills Seminar: Advertency

  Professor Stephen M. Richardson Secondary School

  University of Delgado

  Four Team Three came around the corner into the seminar hall more like a loose gaggle than a team, Estan and Anj still sweaty and breathing hard.

  Theo cringed. Professor Appletorn paid attention to such things, and graded for form. But Lesset's steps had gotten slower and slower the closer they'd gotten to the classroom, and Theo had lagged behind, too, to show support for her friend. It was important to support your friends, according their Social Engineering instructor. Even if you privately thought they were being just a little too sensitive.

  Four Team Six was ahead of them, which wasn't unusual; their Ready Room was closer to Advertency by a good three halls. They shouldn't be showing bonus just for being ahead—fairness said that such advantage would be factored in to the Team averages.

  What was unusual was the fact that they were standing in front of the seminar room like a bunch of random nonacs instead of a functioning Learning Team, blinking at the door.

  Which was shuttered.

  Theo frowned.

  "What's wrong?" Lesset asked. "Why are they standing in the hall?"

  "The door's closed," Theo said.

  "Closed?" Lesset repeated. "But why would it be closed? We have a class. Professor Appletorn insists that the door be open until he starts teaching!"

  "Did we all miss a schedule jump somehow? Is it locked?" Kartor asked, as their group joined Six in front of the shuttered door.

  Several people snatched out their mumus, fingers flying.

  "Sched clean," came a mumble, followed by a group sigh of relief.

  "Is it locked?" Kartor asked again, since the crowd of Team Six blocked his view of the status lights.

  "No-oo," Vela answered slowly, looking at him over the heads of her teammates.

  "Then," Roni said impatiently, "open it!"

  "Do you think we should?" That was Simon, Team Six's proceduralist.

  Before Estan, Team Three's proceduralist, could answer, Roni sighed loudly and lunged forward over Vela's shoulder, smacking her palm against the plate. Somebody on Team Six—probably Simon, Theo thought uncharitably—squeaked nervously, like he expected alarm bells or a team of Safeties. All that happened, though, was that the shutter folded out of the way, showing the bright, empty room beyond.

  "Was that so hard?" Roni asked, still impatient.

  Team Six traded glances.

  "No," Vela said quietly. "It wasn't hard. But we didn't have consensus, Roni."

  "To open a door?" Roni shook her head in visible disgust, which, Theo thought, Vela didn't deserve. They should have reached consensus—or at least let the proceduralists talk. Roni was weak on consensus-building—and consensus-reading, too. Consensus was one of the things the Team was supposed to help her with.

  "As long as the door's open," Kartor said, "maybe we should go in."

  Team Six exchanged another round of glances, and Theo didn't blame them. The teacher always awaited the class. The seminar room was the instructor's space, and students only entered with permission.

  On the other hand . . . Theo heard the muted twitter from her mumu, the tone she used to warn herself that she was about to be in trouble . . .

  "If we don't get to our stations soon," she said from the back of the group, "the room will mark us all late—as Teams and as students!"

  Simon bit his lip, but he turned to address his teammates. "She's right," he said. "It's the student's responsibility to be on time, no matter the conditions!"

  Vela nodded, gathered her team with a nod and a hand-wave of consensus, and entered the room. Roni, Kartor, Estan, and Anj followed, with Theo and Lesset bringing up the rear.

  There was the usual clatter as they got to stations, adjusted table heights, set up their 'books, and logged into the Learning Group Space. Then, it got . . . quiet. Theo shifted and looked around, first at the empty teacher's station where Professor Appletorn ought to be standing, and then at her classmates—which was pretty much what everybody else was doing.

  "Should we tell somebody?" Naberd asked. "Call the Safeties, maybe?"

  Simon shrugged, and Estan looked up from his 'book with a frown.

  "I can't find a procedure for what we should do if the instructor is . . ." his voice dropped, ". . . missing."

  Silence. Then Vela spoke up. "I'm going to ask for consensus to call the Safeties."

  "That won't be necessary, Ms. Poindexter."

  There were quick loud steps and a clang and clatter as an Educator's Rod was tossed haphazardly into the corner, making everyone jump in startlement.

  Professor Appletorn swept into the room, slapped the autoboard up and spun on the balls of his feet, a frown on his face.

  "The correct and studied term would be late, rather than missing, Mr. Vanderpool, and within the bounds of my contract I am neither."

  The professor stood there for some moments, hands behind his back, keeping the silent class rapt while he leisurely looked from face to face as if counting them, or verifying that both teams were in full attendance.

  "Perhaps," he said suddenly, "Mr. Vanderpool will be so kind as to remind this august gathering of scholars of the basic tenets of Advertence."

  Theo held her breath. Estan Vanderpool was a stolid, solid, meticulous boy who wasn't easily rattled. Normal
ly.

  "Well, Mr. Vanderpool?" Professor Appletorn's voice was sharp enough to slice cheese, as Father said, and he hadn't waited the full thirty seconds, either. It was like he was pushing Estan, only of course he wouldn't do that. Not really. Pushing was Physical Intimidation and that was 'way more trouble than just a note in your folder.

  Estan took a breath so deep his shoulders lifted.

  "Advertence is the quality of being heedful or attentive. It carries the connotation of consideration and deep thought. A scholar who practices advertency is a careful researcher who weighs what she has learned before forming a hypothesis to lay before her colleagues."

  Text perfect, Theo thought with relief, right out of the first lesson.

  Professor Appletorn rocked back on his heels, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his coveralls.

  "Indeed," he said softly. "And what avenues are open to the study of an advertent scholar . . ." He paused, then stabbed out with a fleshy forefinger. ". . . Miss Tibbets?"

  Theo frowned. Another of her teammates, not as stolid or as solid as Estan. Sometimes Anj was there, and sometimes—she wasn't.

  This morning, though, she was home and answering her mail.

  "The avenues of study open to the advertent scholar," she said crisply, "are: text, eyewitness, and primary source."

  "Images?" Professor Appletorn asked, almost mildly.

  "Images require an exacting level of observation and consideration, because they're so easy to manipulate. Primary source images, or those documented in the texts and which have provenance, are preferred, but even then the careful scholar will seek corroboration in another study-set."

  Their instructor nodded in silent agreement, lips pursed, then jerked his head toward row three, toward . . .

  "And what, Miss Waitley," he snapped, "do we say of the scholar who depends solely on primary sources, and shuns the validation of the texts?"

  Theo blinked, and stupidly, the first thing she thought was that Professor Appletorn was targeting their Team, singling them out one by one.

  "Well, Miss Waitley? Have you none of your priceless pearls to cast before us this morning?"