Fledgling (27 page)

As if that had been a signal, the rest of the norbears were suddenly moving, fairly charging the gathered humans. Theo was bumped by a white norbear with a brown spot on her spine. She reached down to pet her, and discovered that the rough-looking pelt wasn't rough at all, but plush against her skin, while—

"She's purring!" she exclaimed, glancing over to Win Ton, comfortably cross-legged on the woven floor, a black norbear snuggled against his hip.

He placed his hand gently against the charcoal fur and smiled.

"Is this catlike, then?" he asked, softly, as his friend suddenly sat up on her hind legs and grabbed his sleeve with a tiny hand.

"Not quite," Theo said. "The resonance is—it's like I'm hearing half the sound inside my head!"

"Ah. Perhaps that is the so-called 'natural empathy' at work?"

"You mean, since they can't hear on—on every frequency . . ."

"Precisely! It may be reciprocal. In fact, it
must
be reciprocal. Is it not the same with the
cha'dramliz
—ah, your pardon! I mean to say—" He blinked and sent her a wry glance. "Your pardon again, Theo Waitley. I find that I do not know what I mean, speaking in Terran."

"Maybe if you describe—" Theo began, and blinked, interrupted by the sudden arrival of a second, much skinnier—maybe younger?—norbear, who charged up her knee, grabbed onto the front of her sweater with tiny hands and climbed until she had gained the height of Theo's shoulder, where she sat up on her back legs, one hand clutching Theo's hair to keep from rolling over and down.

The shoulder-sitter was purring, too, and the interweaving of the two "sounds" inside her head was—energizing.

She laughed as the first norbear, not to be outdone, despite the fact that she was considerably more portly, grabbed onto Theo's pants leg, and began to haul herself up, hand over hand. Laughing again, Theo scooped the creature into her lap, and cuddled her. The norbear relaxed against her, purrs intensifying. Theo shivered pleasurably, and looked around the enclosure.

The littlie was rolling in the vines with his norbear, squealing with laughter. Two of the adults were sitting down, norbears at cuddle and grins on their faces. The oldest of their group was standing, his back against the wall, norbear on his shoulder, furry cheek pressed against his ear. The man's eyes were closed and he was smiling.

Mr. Rogen stood off to one side of it all, hands behind his back, face expressionless; the only one of their group not visited by a norbear.

"Have some manners!" Win Ton exclaimed from beside her, over a sudden frantic sound of claws scrabbling against cloth. "It's hardly my fault you were lost in dreams!" He extended his hand and raised it slowly, a ginger colored norbear no bigger than his hand curled down on his palm, ears quivering.

"There," he murmured. "No need to be distraught . . ."

The sounds in her head increased again, like she was maybe hearing Win Ton's norbears, too. She wondered, if she listened closely, if she'd be able to tell which purr belonged to each norbear. Theo closed her eyes for a moment, the better to concentrate—and jerked as the librarian called out.

"That concludes our lecture for the day! The norbears are available to passengers in cycle every shipday, please consult the Library's schedule for exact times! Now, please rise, and place your animal gently on the leaves. There may be a moment of dislocation as the empathic bond is—they have very little range—Yes. And please now leave the enclosure."

Theo put her norbears on the green-tangle with a pang made sharper by the skinny shoulder sitter wrapping tiny fingers around the base of her thumb, as if pleading with her not to go. Win Ton was standing, though, and the rest of the group was filing through the gate, the little boy still giggling softly to himself.

"I've got to go," Theo whispered to the skinny norbear. "I'll come back and visit—promise!"

She forced herself to pull her hand back, stand up, and follow the rest of the group out of the enclosure.

* * *

Kamele smiled and inclined her head easily, neither scrambling to stand and bow in return, nor ignoring the courtesy offered. She had not, Cho thought, been simply given a rule, for there was a naturalness to the gesture that mere rule-learning could never attain. Rather, it was the gesture of someone who had learned by proximity, over time, until the easy courtesy was part of her social repertoire.

"I came down to do some work," Kamele said, "but I think that work has done with me." She moved her hand, showing Cho the empty chair across from her. "Please, won't you join me? The coffee is quite good."

"Ah." Cho slid into the offered chair. "The tea is also entirely drinkable, as I have had occasion to discover. Also, there is a small cheesecake—small in size, but large in delight. May I order one to share, and more coffee for yourself?"

The blue eyes sharpened on her. Cho kept her face as innocent as may be, displaying restrained pleasure at this chance meeting. She was, as most Liadens were, all praise to the lessons of the homeworld culture, very good at schooling her expressions. And yet there was a moment, fleeting but poignant, in which she was convinced that Kamele Waitley had pierced her small veil of deceit.

Whatever discoveries the professor may have made, she decided not to remark upon them. The moment passed, and Kamele Waitley once more inclined her head.

"A sweet shared with an ally would be very pleasant, I thank you."

Hah. Now,
that,
Cho thought, had more of the feel of received information, as opposed to practical understanding. Still, even scholars might hold truce over table.

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 Ton 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 . . .