Fledgling

by Sharon Lee

  "If you will call me," Kamele said, "should there be any difficulty, or misunderstanding, and before any remediation is applied, that would satisfy our customs."

  "I understand." There was a pause. "I'll do the best I'm able, Professor, as far as the customs of Melchiza allow."

  Theo expected Kamele to argue, or press for a firmer agreement. Instead, her mother nodded gravely.

  "Thank you," she said. "I appreciate your care of my daughter."

  "The schedule, Professor Waitley!" Gidis called from the top of the ramp.

  He might as well have been on Delgado for all the attention Kamele gave him. She turned, opening her arms. Theo stepped into her hug, leaning her forehead against her mother's shoulder.

  "You have everything?" Kamele asked quietly.

  "Everything" in this case, Theo knew was more than her school book, her clothes and her ID. It also included the emergency backup ticket that she was to use without prejudice, as Professor Crowley had it, if she felt her safety was compromised. Theo was pretty sure that undertaking a starship voyage to a place she'd never heard of would compromise her safety more than anything she could imagine happening at school, but he and Kamele had looked so serious, she hadn't bothered to argue. The ticket was in the secure pouch hanging 'round her neck by its string.

  "Yes ma'am," she said now, her nose filled with the scent of Kamele's hair, feeling her mother's arms around her, strong and firm. She raised her head and looked into serious blue eyes.

  "Be careful, Kamele," she said impulsively.

  Her mother smiled. "I will be as careful as I can and still pursue my duty," she said. Her arms tightened slightly and they exchanged one of their rare kisses before Kamele stepped back, ruffling Theo's hair, like she was a littlie.

  "Learn well, Daughter!" she said, loud enough for Gidis to hear at the top of the ramp.

  "Keep well, Mother," Theo answered. "I'll—see you soon."

  "You'd better go," Instructor Tathery said, low voice. "It'll be points off for the driver and the Guide if they're late on the schedule."

  "Professor Waitley!" Gidis sounded somewhere between angry and anxious.

  "Coming," Kamele called, and ran lightly up the ramp.

  Gidis stepped back to let her in, the door closed and Theo gulped, eyes stinging.

  "All right, Theo Waitley," Instructor Tathery said. "Let's get you settled and some dinner in you. Tonight's study work will be on the comdeck. Breakfast at four bells, and a map of the school . . ."

  * * *

  "We are agreed, then?" Jen Sar Kiladi asked Monit Appletorn.

  The long scholar leaned back in his chair and ran his hands over his hair, staring at the ceiling. Finally, he sighed.

  "We're agreed," he said, meeting Jen Sar's eyes. "When do you propose to move?"

  "Tomorrow, if your schedule can accommodate me." Jen Sar said. "The weather is predicted to be very fine."

  * * *

  The Treasure House Hotel had provided them with a suite—four private rooms around a common parlor-and-kitchen combination. In Kamele's room, the single wide bed served to remind her that she was—alone. No daughter tucked into an alcove bed, or showering in the 'fresher. No lover leaning on his elbow under the sheets, watching her with a half-smile on his interesting, unbeautiful face. No one, in fact, to testify to her existence, should she suddenly vanish from this place.

  She took a shower, trying to take pleasure in the luxurious soaps and lotions provided by the hotel. Alas, her depression was not so easily vanquished; rather than relaxing her, the shower seemed only to soften her resolve, so that all of her doubts ambushed her the moment she slipped into the bed and waved the room lights out.

  What kind of mother was she, she asked herself, breath coming short against the heavy darkness, to leave her minor daughter in the care of strangers? How could she simply have turned her back and gotten back on the bus, not knowing the conditions of her child's welfare? A mother had her duties, and Theo—

  Theo, she thought deliberately, had demonstrated an . . . astonishing level of self-sufficiency aboard the Vashtara, as befit a young woman who was soon to accept the responsibilities of adulthood.

  But a mother's duty—

  In the chill embrace of the wide bed, Kamele closed her eyes and took a deep breath—and another, keeping her attention focused on the mere act of breathing. An old lesson, this one, learned from her first singing instructor: Breathe, and when your foolish panic has passed, affirm yourself!

  Another breath, deep and calming. Another. Her muscles were warming now, and she could smell the subtle aroma of the bath lotion, clinging softly to her skin.

  Another breath, and she was calm, drifting on the edge of wakefulness.

  "I am," she whispered, "a scholar of Delgado."

  Another breath, and she slipped over the edge, into sleep.

  Thirty-Three

  Melchiza

  City of Treasures

  The informational vids did nothing to prepare one for the reality of the Melchiza House of Treasures. While much of the building was of course underground; the above-ground portion dwarfed its festive and fragile attendant buildings, a hulking 'crete block, with neither finesse nor grace about it. It seemed, Kamele thought, to be daring the heavens to deliver the meteor strike that the Melchizan government insisted it would withstand.

  And then, there were the doors. The outer doors were guarded by a dozen stern-faced individuals in blue coats, gold laces shining in the faintly rosette light of Melchiza's dawn; sidearms very obvious. The team was required to pass through a checkpoint, surrender their badges, state their names, their occupation and their planet of origin into the recorder, and submit to a retinal scan.

  Badges returned, they were reunited with their Chaperon, who led them inside, across a forbidding metal lobby unsoftened by sculpture, tapestry, or other art, to an equally forbidding metal desk, behind which a woman in yet another of the ornate blue-and-gold coats awaited them, frown in place.

  She took their badges, scanned and returned them before asking their business.

  "We are here at the invitation of Professor Dochayn to do a literature comparison of the Beltaire Collection," Kamele said, keeping her voice smooth and pleasant. Beside her, she felt Chair Hafley stiffen slightly, but if she was offended by Kamele overstepping herself, she did not choose to pursue the matter.

  "I have your names on my roster," the security woman said crisply; "and your badges are in order. Your Chaperon may guide you to the next station."

  Well, Kamele thought, that wasn't difficult at all, really.

  "Thank you," she said, but the woman had apparently already forgotten them, her eyes returning to the bright bank of busy instruments at her right hand.

  Kamele gathered Gidis with a glance, and he skittered ahead of them, clutching his notebook, staring down into its screen with such concentration that Kamele feared he would trip and do himself an injury. Of course, there was nothing to trip over—there were no uneven tiles, or unruly rug-fringe marring the metal floor—though they were approaching a door with the inevitable blue-coated individual standing before it.

  Once again, they surrendered their badges, saw them scanned and received them back. The security man opened the door and Gidis dashed across the threshold, the forensic team following at a slightly more sedate pace, careful of their footing on the metal surface.

  They had been admitted to an antechamber, where a blue-coated security person sat behind a desk, quietly observing his bank of instruments. He scanned their badges and gave his permission for them to proceed.

  * * *

  There were two dozen kids in Class TS3N, slightly more boys than girls, and ages ranging from Monti, two Standard Years Theo's junior, to Yzel, three Standard Years older.

  Instructor Tathery was the teacher for the class, which was . . . odd. Who could be an expert in all subjects? Still, Theo thought, it would be interesting to see how it went. She sat down at the desk with her name on it, a
nd touched the keypad to wake up the computer.

  Yzel acted as teacher's aide, wandering the room while the class did a math warm-up, and answering questions. He was good, Theo thought, patient and quiet. He paused behind her chair while she was working out a particularly cumbersome word problem, but he didn't intervene or offer to help. When she found the derive, he moved off, soft-footed, and she felt like she'd been given approval.

  After math was culture. Everybody sat in a circle and told the group about an important holiday on their homeworld. Theo talked about Founder's Day, which was pretty tame compared to Monti's Sun Fete, and downright boring put against Ave-Su's Loki's Night.

  Culture moved seamlessly into history, Instructor Tathery leading a discussion of political alliance.

  "Political alliance is expediency, ma'am," Yzel argued. "It would be better to cultivate an ignorance of history in the cause of choosing allies."

  "Not only that, history lies!" the boy with black and gold striped hair called, speaking out of rotation.

  Instructor Tathery didn't reprimand him, or give him a down. She just waved a broad hand at him, in an almost casual invitation to continue.

  "How does history lie, Dalin?"

  "The—the, Yzel was talking about expediency. It's expedient for the history-makers on some planets to write untrue things down and file them in their libraries, in order to block competition or to serve old grudges. It's coward's warfare, my First-Father says, and those who traffic in lies ought to be held to a warrior's accounting!"

  "But," Theo protested, "on Delgado, scholars research events. If there hasn't been any research done—or, if the research that has been done is suspect for some reason, a scholar will travel to the place, talk to the people who were there—primary sources, they're called—to find out the facts of the event, as well as the causes, and write an impartial account, so that everyone is informed. Then, if two former enemies want to pursue an alliance—like Yzel says, of expediency—they have the facts of the last matter before them, to learn from, so they don't make the same mistakes again."

  "Oh, really? My First-Father says that—"

  "This is a very interesting discussion," Instructor Tathery broke in. "Rather than try to compress it into the time we have left for history, let's plan on using our open period tomorrow for an in-depth exploration. I want each of you to come prepared with an argument for or against the manipulation of history, with examples. Now, everybody up! It's time to move around, people!"

  * * *

  They had begun their pilgrimage at dawn. It was now past lunchtime, as they were passed through another metal door, and stepped into yet another antechamber with a desk, the inevitable blue-coated security person, and another; a woman wearing a red coat, a pale blue knot nattily adorning her buttonhole, who leapt to her feet as the team crossed the threshold and bustled forward.

  "You must be the Delgadan Search Team!" she said, bringing her hands together briskly in what she may have thought was the open book salute. "I am Jeyanzi Pikelmin, Third Director of the Treasure House. The Beltaire Collection falls under my administration."

  "Thank goodness!" Hafley cried, stepping forward. "I don't hide from you, Director, that I am exhausted! We have been walking for hours! If there could be someplace for me—for us—to sit down and perhaps have a bit of lunch, that would be most welcome!"

  "Also," Professor Crowley interposed smoothly, "if a message might be sent to Professor Dochayn, who is our sponsor to the collection, that would be most welcome as well, Director. The team had been under the impression that she was planning to meet us and conduct us personally to the archives."

  "Ah, but that is why you see me here, Scholars! You must accept my apologies, Professor Dochayn was granted a fellowship at the premier archival center on our sister planet of Ibenvue."

  "Really?" Crowley murmured. "She said nothing of this in our correspondence."

  "Indeed, indeed! The honor came upon her unaware, the announcement so late that she thought another had been chosen. Just between us, sir, I would say that another had been chosen, who had then been obliged to turn it down. These things happen, of course, and in this case it was to Dochayn's benefit. Off she went to Ibenvue, with scarcely a day to pack and see to her affairs here. The department is still a little hectic, as support staff scramble to divide her work between them. If you know her, sir, you know that she was always in the midst, sleeves rolled up, notebook in hand."

  "Indeed," Crowley said politely.

  "I'd hardly think the Museum would let her go on such short notice," Professor Able said, "with such a workload and no second to take up the work in her absence."

  "The Treasure House would scarcely put itself between one of our most valued scholars and so noteworthy an honor. What she will learn on Ibenvue, she will bring back to us here, while teaching Ibenvue in her turn. When she returns, the Treasure House will benefit from this synergy. Truly, we would be shortsighted with regard to our own greater good, did we refuse to allow such migrations. Temporary interruptions can be dealt with. But come!" She turned her smile and her attention to Chair Hafley.

  "I apologize for the inconvenience to which we have subjected you this morning. It will be my pleasure to provide a place to rest and a meal. Please, follow me."

  Hafley turned to walk with the Director, leaving the other three to follow. Kamele glanced to Crowley and to Able, and raised her hand, as if to make sure that her badge was securely affixed, and touched her finger to her collar in the exact location where Director Pikelmin wore her dainty blue knot.

  Crowley inclined his head, and Able, advertent scholars, both.

  Kamele inclined her head and followed Hafley down a short hallway to a conference room, where four chairs had been set around a square table.

  "Please, be seated," Director Pikelmin said. "Catering will be here momentarily.

  "Excellent," said Hafley, taking a chair. "Kamele, sit here, at my right."

  Stomach tight, Kamele took the seat at Hafley's right.

  "Delicious!" Hafley proclaimed. "Better than anything Vashtara served, even at the captain's own table!"

  "I will tell the catering manager that you approve of his efforts," Director Pikelmin said, bowing slightly.

  It was, Kamele admitted, very good coffee, the foodstuffs certainly equal to that served in the atrium cafe aboard Vashtara.

  "Sit with us," Able invited, "and have a cup of your excellent coffee."

  "Thank you," the director said, "but I lunched earlier."

  She straightened, suddenly appearing several inches taller. Kamele observed this with interest, having seen Jen Sar perform the same illusion innumerable times. Its success depended almost entirely upon attitude, as Jen Sar, at least, was always upright in his posture. Director Pikelmin seemed to have been slumping just a bit, and only now allowed her full height to be seen. Which was, in Kamele's opinion, cheating.

  "Now that we have perhaps made some small amends for your inconvenience of the morning, Scholars, I think we must talk of your reason for visiting our delightful planet. I believe that I learn from Dochayn's files that your purpose is to compare copies of the Beltaire papers held by Delgado University's library with the originals, held in our archives. Is this correct?"

  "That is most wonderfully correct," Crowley answered. "I carry, in addition, not supposing that it should be needed, a letter from Professor Beltaire, granting us unlimited access to her family's archive."

  "Certainly, it is wise to be prepared for all possible unpleasantness, so that one may be agreeably surprised when the way is smoother than anticipated," the director said with a smile. "Professor Beltaire's foresight—and your own, sir!—are appreciated, but the letter is not necessary."

  "What I wish to offer is an . . . option which our own Professor Dochayn appears not to have mentioned to your team. Since the archives are our own and we are very familiar with their contents and the system under which they are filed, why not spend an hour or two with Dochayn's research
assistants, outlining precisely what it is that you want, and leave all in our hands? You may take a well-deserved vacation, tour our splendid city, make the trip to Tampere Falls—spend a night, or two, in the lodge behind the falls. When you return, rested and content, your information will be waiting for you."

  "That's a very . . . interesting offer," Crowley said, looking 'round the table.

  "No!" Hafley said, astonishingly. She glared at Crowley. "It's not interesting, Emeritus Professor, it's—generous to a fault! This is what it means, to be part of the community of scholars! We may live on different worlds, abide by different cultures, but we all inhabit the universe of the mind." She smiled at Director Pikelmin. "We can do nothing else but accept. Isn't that correct, Sub-Chair?"

  This, Kamele thought, this is what I agreed to, when I said that I would stand her ally. The other members of the team were looking to her, waiting for her response. She swallowed, finished what was left of her coffee, and put the cup carefully into its saucer.

  "Actually," she said, pleased to hear that her voice was perfectly composed, "though the offer is generous in the extreme, we cannot accept. It is our duty, as Scholars of Delgado, to do our own research. We cannot ask our sisters in scholarship to prove our point for us. The request we made of Professor Dochayn was for access to the archives. Professor Beltaire's letter of permission also grants us this—access to the archives." She met Director Pikelmin's cool eyes.

  "Your offer is well-meant," she said, "but we must pursue our own course in this."

  "I think so, as well," said Crowley.

  Able nodded. "Let's finish what we came here to do."

  "Scholars!" Hafley cried. "We have all been teachers. Surely we can give Professor Dochayn's trained assistants instructions regarding our needs. There's no reason to weary ourselves, to learn the filing system in use, to risk muddling the archive's records . . ."

  "I have been a scholar for seventy Standard Years," Crowley interrupted. "I have pursued source documents into hovels, where the texts were left exposed to humidity, radiation, and other damaging elements; where the notion of a filing system was to simply stack all those with matching covers in a certain corner of the room. I take offense at the statement that I would be unable to decipher the civilized and sophisticated archival system in use at this facility. The insinuation that I would somehow, in my base male ignorance, muddle the files I consider beneath reply."