Fledgling

by Sharon Lee

  Cho touched the discreet button set into the tabletop and entrusted her order to the smiling young person who shortly arrived at their alcove. By the time Kamele Waitley had folded her screen away, the server was returned, bearing a tray with two pots, two cups, the single sweet and the utensils with which to address it. These were deftly set out with a murmured wish that the diners enjoy, and they were once again in private.

  Kamele poured coffee. Cho poured tea, looking up to see what the other would do—and delighted to find that she took but a single sip from her cup before placing it gently on the tabletop, her eyes steady on Cho's face.

  Here indeed was a fully capable woman, Cho thought, admiringly, and stifled a sigh at the memory of the person to whom she sat second.

  Well.

  Cho took the ritual sip and likewise put her cup aside, returning Kamele Waitley's regard.

  "At our shared meal last evening, the so-delightful Professor Crowley allowed me to know that the scholars of Delgado travel to Melchiza, there to undertake a search of literatures."

  "That's right," the other woman said, a small line appearing between delicate brows. "We checked the Advisories available to us and found no warnings of . . . danger more than would await any traveler, ignorant of local custom."

  Gods, the woman was quick! Cho inclined her head.

  "The Advisories are . . . adequate for most travelers. Melchiza values its tourists even more than it values its trade. What concerns me is this search which your team would undertake. For Melchiza holds its intellectual treasures close, and does not easily share."

  Kamele Waitley's face smoothed. Almost, she smiled. "I thank you for your concern," she said softly. "But we go as scholars to scholars, with an identical regard for the treasures of the intellect. That common bond will, I think, bridge our differences." She reached for her cup and raised it, apparently of the opinion that the meat of their interaction was consumed. "We've been in contact with the curator of the items we wish to examine, and she's been everything that's obliging and scholarly."

  Well, and perhaps not so quick, after all. Cho picked up her cup. But no, she chided herself, as she savored the truly excellent ship's blend—that was unkind, and likely also untrue. Kamele Waitley thought in terms of her team's mission, and those arrangements that scholars made between scholars. Of those other influences upon her mission which were yet outside of it—of those things, she was ignorant. And how not?

  "It is," she said softly, "doubtless exactly as you say. Certainly, there are those ports where I would scarce dare set foot, except for the surety of meeting a like mind."

  She would, Cho thought, consider a bit more, and weigh whether the warning repeated, and more strongly, might cause more harm than good. There was time. And it might, after all, be true that the scholars would stand sheltered within the shadow of their kin in research and never catch of glimpse of the more . . . peculiar . . . aspects of Melchizan culture.

  In the meanwhile, she smiled and nodded at the untouched sweet between them.

  "Please, let us enjoy this together." She picked up the spoon that had been set by her hand, and saw with a breath of relief that Kamele Waitley also picked up hers. She had not offended. That was well. One did not like the notion of offending Kamele Waitley.

  * * *

  Theo's head was buzzing, like she still heard the norbears purring there; and she felt—charged with 'way too much energy, and if she didn't do something to channel it, or contain it, then—

  "I need to make lace!" she exclaimed, feet jittering against the deck as they walked away from the pet library.

  "And to think that they are merely domestic norbears!" Win Ton's voice sounded like her head felt, bright and full of unexpected edges. "How might we have fared, faced with—what?" He looked down at her, brown eyes glittering. "You need to make—lace?" She hadn't realized he was so close; she could feel the excitement jumping back and forth between the two of them, arcing, like electricity . . .

  "No," she said, and forced herself to stop, to keep both feet firmly on the deck and both arms at her sides. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to think through the buzz. When she had the thought firm, she looked up at Win Ton, who was standing forcibly still, not even a hand's breadth away.

  "I don't want to make lace," she said, speaking slowly and clearly. "I want to dance."

  He grinned. "Now that may indeed be the tonic that cures us! Hold a beat." He spun rapidly on a heel, arm shooting out and up, pointing at the sign that flashed and spangled across the wide hallway.

  Arcade.

  Like everything else on Vashtara, the arcade was too big and too ornate; certainly it was too noisy. Theo followed Win Ton through the sliding gates and was nearly overwhelmed by the racket. Such a blast of sound and distracting lights would never have been allowed on Delgado; it couldn't be either safe or secure to have so many things going on at once!

  On the other hand, with the norbear buzz still in her head and the feeling she had, the will to dance so strong, the noise seemed to echo and . . . almost . . . satisfy some craving she hadn't 'til this minute known she'd had.

  Win Ton had a plan, so she kept his shoulder close to hers as he slipped deeper into the noise and the crowd.

  He paused, and she thought he'd found it . . . but maybe he was watching the woman with the stupidly tiny skirt walk by—as were half the people on deck it seemed like. Pffft . . . she didn't move half as well as Win Ton himself . . . but then his gaze traveled on. He jerked his head, like he was pointing with his chin.

  "There! Will that satisfy you, Theo Waitley?" There was a note of—of challenge—in his voice. She looked in the direction he'd pointed.

  There was a trio of platforms, one barely above floor level and swathed in a pulsing green light. The next level, up a ramp to the right, was bathed in a lurid red light with a double pulse. The third platform was higher still, glowing with a blue-silver nimbus, a dozen smaller overhead highlights reflecting off its glittering hardware.

  The beat from the first platform was plain and simple; it was occupied by three adults, trying to do something . . .

  Win Ton leaned comfortably into her shoulder, murmuring so softly that she had to practically put her ear against his lips to hear him.

  "I said, Theo, that we need not start on the base platform if you don't wish to. It only goes up to level nine."

  The three adults, Theo saw suddenly, were dancing—sort of—

  in a semi-coordinated kind of way, each following a pattern that was projected in Tri-D in front of them. The image showed them where to place their feet next, with hints for tempo and hand location . . . and they weren't all that good at it. There were . . . scores they must be, at the top of the Tri-D, points for doing things right. It looked like the three dancers were being corrected quite a bit by the machine; though they'd managed to make it to level three. The man in the center . . . he wasn't too bad, she decided, watching him catch the beat with his hips and start to move a bit more easily.

  "Have you danced this way before?" Win Ton asked.

  She shook her head no. The guy in the center had it now—he was really moving with the beat . . .

  "I've never used one," she said to Win Ton, "but I see how it works."

  "There is room on the second platform," he said, his breath tickling her ear, "if you can give over gawking . . ."

  The beat and the movement and the patterns on the Tri-D were sort of mesmerizing, and watching people was good . . . but she felt there'd been something else he thought was funny in that phrase. She turned her head so that she could see him, and caught a look on his face like—well, like Father's, when he thought something was interesting.

  "Will you dance with me, Theo Waitley?" Win Ton asked, his accent making the words into something exotic and exciting.

  "Yes," she said, like her stomach didn't feel suddenly odd. Her fingers were tingling with energy, and her feet kept shifting against the floor, feeling out the beat.

  Win T
on smiled, brilliant, and offered his hand. She took it as they skirted the first-level adults, and arrived at the red-bathed platform. Here were two younger dancers, on the first and third of the level's four dance pads. The music was louder, and Theo saw Win Ton's free hand move as if he was saying something to her . . .

  "What?" she asked, leaning in, because . . .

  "I said," he said against her ear, "that this machine goes up to level eighteen, though these tourists are hardly more skilled than the first level people, and surely not worthy of us. Up with you, she who dances, up!"

  Theo tried to give him a quieting glance, but he was already on the ramp, heading for the third level, and there was nothing she could do but follow him.

  The silver platform was more than a tall head's height above the common floor, and a fair number of people were watching the two dancers on the leftmost pads.

  The scores for both dancers were rising steadily, the right one more rapidly than the left. Forcing herself to concentrate, Theo watched them, noting that the nearer dancer's eyes were half-closed, as if he was barely watching the pattern while his body wove from move to move. His partner, on the other hand, was staring intently at the pattern, every motion deliberate.

  Theo leaned against Win Ton's shoulder and put her mouth next to his ear. "That's not very fair," she murmured. "The man on the right is—is a dancer, and the other one isn't!"

  It seemed that Win Ton shivered, but it was probably only the norbear buzz and the excitement of the lights and the noise. He moved his hand in a gesture that was almost dancelike, then bent to speak into her ear.

  "You may be right. Still, the one on the left is making a good effort. Effort should count for something, should it not?"

  There was question underneath the question—she heard it without understanding what it was—and then was distracted as the dancer on the right abruptly stumbled and stepped off the pad. Laughing and shrugging, he pulled his serious friend away, and they descended the ramp, heads together, and their arms around each other's waists.

  "There," Win Ton said with satisfaction. "We have it to ourselves, Sweet Mystery . . . please choose your pad." He glanced at her with a smile almost as glittery as the silver lights. "First one to give up buys lunch."

  "I'm really clumsy, you know!" Theo said seriously, taking the pad all the way on the left. "And I haven't really had that many dance lessons."

  Win Ton bowed. "Fairly said. I will therefore pay for the dance, as you will be paying for lunch."

  He waved his key card at the panel, the lights came up, the beat started, and the pattern formed on the screen before them.

  Theo put her foot forward. Challenge or not, she still wanted to dance.

  * * *

  They were both sweating, involved, unaware, sharing a moment of movement alone among many.

  Kamele stood transfixed, watching along with dozens of others as the dancers on the high platform laughed at each other. Theo stuck her tongue out at something her partner said, her hand moving in flippant motion to the beat that was gone, waiting for the next round on the machine, entranced.

  On the level below three young men were dancing hard . . . each had aspired to the higher level and had given up after a dance or two; the pair on the top hardly noticed their arrival—or their departure.

  "How much longer?" Kamele asked faintly.

  "They have finished level thirty-five," Cho sig'Radia said, with really remarkable calm, "my apprentice and your daughter. The game has only one more to offer—it is called 'The Overdrive Level.' "

  Kamele shook her head extravagantly. "Overdrive? I must tell Ella about this!"

  A woman, resplendent in a gold and red Arcade uniform, paused at Kamele's side and smiled up at the two silver-limned dancers. "They're the best we've had so far this trip," she said, sounding for all the worlds like a fond mother. "Even the really good dancers hardly get past level thirty." She nodded impartially at Kamele and Cho and passed on into the crowd.

  Above them, the music started again, the pads lit and the dancers began to move, step-step-twist, the scores flickering on the machine's face insisting that they were evenly matched in skill.

  They were so very closely matched . . . Kamele looked to her companion. "How old is Win Ton?"

  The Liaden moved her shoulders. "A matter of some sixteen Standards, add or remove a handful of days."

  "But he is—a pilot," Kamele insisted, as the dancers pirouetted above.

  "Indeed, he is a very able pilot." Cho smiled. "Mind you, he has mastered Jump, and so has earned the jacket, but he has more yet to learn."

  "I . . . see."

  Her attention drifted upward again, to the pair now marching in time, knees high, elbows pumping. Kamele felt a sudden doubt, and looked 'round to her companion.

  "He's not letting her match his score, is he?"

  Cho laughed then.

  "Kamele Waitley, as enchanting as your daughter may be, I think young Win Ton has not the 'let her win' wit in his head." She paused, apparently weighing the efforts of the pair on the high platform, then looked back, smiling.

  "No," she said, almost too softly to be heard under the whistles, claps and encouragement shouted by the watchers on the arcade floor. "Assuredly, he is not letting her keep up."

  * * *

  "You almost missed that last, Theo Waitley!"

  She laughed and stuck her tongue out—"Was I the one who almost fell on his face because of a simple waltz step?"

  "A trick move! Who on Liad learns waltzes from Terra? I say again, a trick move."

  She moved her hand, mimicking the motion he seemed to use for the more ironic flavors of "no."

  "All right, and what was that thing that made you laugh, if you please?"

  Win Ton laughed again, ruefully this time. "It is a preliminary move, taught in classes of marriage lore—and more than that, I will not say, though you pull my hair out by the roots!"

  She snorted, her hand still carrying the beat of the last round. "Oh, and you've been married?"

  He sent a glance to the far ceiling, his fingers snapping lightly.

  "Nay, I was not, though I might have been, had the captain not accepted me as her apprentice. So, you see, I am doomed, whichever foot I stand upon."

  Theo laughed again. He used that as an excuse to step up to the board, fingers hovering above the selection for the next level.

  "Are you ready, Sweet Mystery?"

  "I am if you are," she answered.

  "Bold heart." He smacked the start plate with his toe.

  "Go!"

  The music poured through her, mixing with the norbear hum, filling up her senses. She was aware of the music, the patterns, and of Win Ton, matching her step-for-step on the pad next to hers.

  Together, they tore through the first section of the level, and then hit a complex series of moves seemingly a repeat of a much earlier level, as if the game-programmer was toying with them. Surely they weren't going to regress?

  There! The tempo picked up again, and now the music moved into something her dancing instructor called contrapuntal dysrhythmia, with the point being that the dance moves were not in sync with the music.

  Theo laughed and dared a glance at Win Ton, who saw her look and made a silly face. She laughed again, caught the next footwork and saw that, too, was being silly.

  And then she . . .

  Almost fell over.

  The music—just stopped. The platform shook with a weird rumbling. Lights flashed. Buzzers went off. The Tri-D screen showed a senseless pattern, twirling wildly. Glittery streamers fell from somewhere, tangling in her hair, cluttering the dance pad, and drifting in the air from the blowers.

  She spun, careful of her footing among the fallen streamers, and stared at Win Ton, who was stubbornly kicking at the start plate.

  "What happened?"

  He flung his hands out, eloquent of frustration. "We have beaten the machine, you and I! There are no more levels to dance."

  Theo
fuffed hair out of her face.

  "It can't be over. I still have dance left!"

  Win Ton laughed again, and suddenly pointed over the edge of the platform.

  "I fear we may have danced past lessons. There stand my captain and your mother, and I very much fear it is going to go badly with us."

  She fuffed her hair out of her face again, saw her mother waving at her to come down.

  "Kick it again," she said to Win Ton. "Maybe it'll start if we both kick it!"

  * * *

  "We scarcely had a workout at all!" Win Ton said to Cho sig'Radia across the table the four of them had claimed at Breakfast All Year.

  Kamele sipped her coffee, trying to hide her amusement. That the boy had had a workout was all too obvious. Disregarding the fact that he and Theo were both still sweat-dampened and in high color, they had between them consumed a so-called "nuncheon plate" advertised to feed four, and were making short work of the follow-on sweets tray. Theo had eaten with a delicate voracity that had frankly amazed, letting the boy do the talking, except for a few early comments regarding norbears.

  "Yet you advanced to the overdrive level," Cho pointed out. "It seemed from the floor, young Win Ton, that you and your partner ended the game in the top first percentile of players—"

  "It does not advance to the challenge level!" Win Ton interrupted, and Theo paused with her third—or possibly fourth—petit pastry halfway to her mouth to blink at him.

  "I thought we were at the challenge level!" she exclaimed.

  "No, sweet dancer—a proper machine, such as the one I am accustomed to from—" a quick glance at Cho "—from school, has several levels yet above where we found ourselves, which allow for free form, and other variations."

  He sounded, Kamele thought, genuinely aggrieved, and despite herself she chuckled.

  Three pair of eyes came to rest on her face, which was—disconcerting, but she had brought it on herself.

  "I'm sorry," she said to Win Ton, who had probably thought she was laughing at him. "I'm reminded of—of a dear friend of mine who makes similar complaints about the equipment we have at home." She sipped her coffee, marking how the boy's gaze never faltered. "His answer is usually to . . . correct . . . the poor performance into something he finds more reasonable."