Fledgling (43 page)

"This is fabrication."

"Alas, it is not, though I admit you have no reason to believe me. My theory, which is complex, is that you were approached by an agent from off-world, who purposed to show you a way to attain that simplicity which the Chapelia hold as ideal. The Chapelia, after all, had once sought to destroy the university and burn the library in their quest to turn complexity aside. They did not succeed, but I allow it to be a simple solution. This new solution—do not
burn
the library, but make the information it contains suspect. The result will be the same, in time. Students will fail of arriving, scholars will leave in search of funds and opportunity for research elsewhere, the university will dwindle. Perhaps it will even fail. Simplicity returns, and the Chapelia are strong once more."

"That does seem," she agreed, "a simple plan."

He smiled at her. "Except for the part where the world is cut off from trade and from custom. Not all of those outside the Wall are Chapelia. Indeed, Chapelia are but fifteen percent of the world population. How will you handle riots?"

"There is no reason why there should be riots. A return to simplicity—"

"You must," Appletorn interrupted, "study history. Indeed, you
must
study—my assertions, and those of Professor Kiladi, are easily checked. It may be that the Chapelia have not acted . . . wisely. Or it may be that they have acted with sagacity. If they have acted without study . . . then it is less likely that their actions are . . . uniformly wise."

The symbol-bearer closed her silver eyes.

"What," she asked, "do you want?"

"The name of your compatriot inside the Wall," Jen Sar said.

"Why would I need a compatriot inside the Wall?"

He shook his head. "To give you access to the technical facility, and to mask what predations the AI might produce." He turned to Appletorn.

"Your point is well-made. We must allow the symbol-bearer time for study."

Appletorn nodded. "I could not, in conscience, ask her to make a decision based only upon what we have told her. She must inform herself."

"I agree." Jen Sar looked back to the Chapelia sitting behind her desk. "I would ask, if you find that your research leads to an altered conclusion, that you contact me with the name of your associate."

"If I reach an altered conclusion," the symbol-bearer said, picking the black eye wear off of her desk, and rising, "I will consider that course." She slid the lenses over her eyes, and stared at them blackly. "Good-day, Scholars."

* * *

The visiting scholars' dormitory consisted of the bunk room, and a common area in which a kaf unit, disposal, two tables and eight chairs fit like the pieces of a puzzle.

"It reminds me of my student days," Able commented, lowering and raising the privacy curtains around one of the beds. "Only roomier."

Kamele smiled, remembering the dorm room she had shared with Ella and two other women at the start of their academic careers. Four bunks, four desks, a table, kaf and disposal crammed into a room two-thirds the size of the common room, with a shared 'fresher down the hall.

"Perhaps we can set up a table and have a few rounds of ping-pong after the evening meal," Crowley said, as he inspected the kaf. "Kamele, such a shame that your daughter isn't with us; I know how she enjoys soy noodles."

"We'll just have to make up for her absence with our own enthusiasm," Kamele said. From the corner of her eye, she saw Orkan Hafley smile, and shivered slightly, as if in a sudden breeze.

"If you have inspected sufficiently for the moment, Scholars," Director Pikelmin said from the doorway, "I will guide you to the study room."

They followed her a few dozen paces down the thin hall, and into yet another comfortless space, this one containing two rows of four utilitarian plastic desks, each backed by a forbidding plastic chair. The light from overhead was bright enough that the furniture cast sharp shadows onto the hard white floor. Along the right side of the room were two movable shelves, one marked "Incoming," the other "Outgoing." The ambient temperature was slightly less than comfortably cool.

"Well," Crowley said. "No distractions to scholarship here."

Kamele turned to Jeyanzi Pikelmin, who was leaning in the doorway. "How will we communicate with Solmin?" she asked. "I don't see an intercom . . ."

"You may input the titles you wish to have brought to you into that datapad—" Pikelmin nodded at the wall-mounted screen. Solmin will come in every interval to deliver requested texts and to take away those texts you have finished with; you may communicate with him then."

"I see," Kamele looked around her, her stomach tight. The elder scholars had chosen desks side-by-side, and were seating themselves, pulling pens and datapads from their pockets. Hafley hesitated, then walked to the back of the room, claiming a desk in the second row, nearest the movable shelves.

Kamele took a breath.
Necessity,
she told herself, and she smiled at Jeyanzi Pikelmin. "I think this will do splendidly," she said.

Melchiza
Transit School

Theo had always liked math, not the least because she was good at it, disposing in mere minutes problem-sets that Lesset claimed had taken her hours to derive. She had always considered that math was easy—and it had been.

Delgado math, that was.

The math taught in the Piloting Section of the Transit School was another matter altogether. She was not only behind the class's work, but her general scores were . . . low.

Theo wasn't used to having low scores. It was one thing to be physically challenged, and quite another to be . . . stupid.

True to his word, Pilot Arman had assigned her to a tutor, who drilled her in what she called "the basics" until Theo's shirt was damp with sweat. She'd been given self-paced modules, to which she devoted herself, taking the datapad with her everywhere, while her lace needle and thread languished at the bottom of her bag. Occasionally, she would blink out of a haze of temporal fractions to glance at the calendar, and wonder how Kamele was, and if the research was going well.

Running to class after a working breakfast, she was bemused to realize that she had been at school for three local days. It seemed as though she'd been taking pilot classes for half a 'mester at least. Part of that was the fact Melchiza's day was longer than Delgado's, which meant a longer school-day.

The other part was that there was so much to learn! Not just needing to catch up on math, but the mechanics class—not
theory
of mechanics, either! They were actually building and repairing devices; reminding her of pleasant hours spent in the garage with Father, handing him tools, and watching him tinker. He would tell her what he was doing and why, not as a lesson, really, and sometimes ask her help in setting a screw or reattaching a wire. She'd apparently learned more from those informal sessions than she had realized; Gayl said she'd already brought the team repair-bay average up by a dozen points.

She hurried across the room to her team's square and slid into her seat just as the bell blared the beginning of the school day. Jeren, Gayl, and Moxi were already in place.

"Hey, Theo," Gayl said. Jeren nodded.

Moxi, the lower half of his face hidden by an embroidered half-veil, turned his head slightly. Moxi was in Cleansing, Jeren had told her, preparing for his
ianota,
which sounded to Theo like a
Gigneri
. He was only allowed to speak to his teacher, his father, and his
nya
—sort of like a mentor, Theo guessed. Gayl said that, usually, boys from Ecbatana didn't travel during Cleansing;
she
speculated that there had been an emergency in Moxi's family, but of course nobody could ask him.

Theo touched her computer screen, timing in just under the wire and not a heartbeat before Pilot-Instructor Arman strolled into the room accompanied by a short woman wearing a blue shirt and a frown.

"Uh-oh," Gayl muttered.

"What?" Theo whispered.

"Physical dynamics exhibit. I shouldn't have eaten breakfast!"

"Physical dynamics" was
menfri'at
. The piloting class had
menfri'at
practice twice each day. Despite that, Theo's teammates weren't particularly skilled, and most sessions left her missing Win Ton and Phobai, though she'd have welcomed any of the pilots she'd danced with on
Vashtara
.

"Pilots arise!" Pilot Arman called, and everybody leapt to their feet, facing front, hands at their sides.

Theo stood between Gayl and Jeren. Usually, Pilot Arman would walk down the line of students—pilots—looking each one down from face to shoes, like he was inspecting them for design flaws, then he would return to the front of the room, call out a module number, and everyone would dance.

This morning, though, Pilot Arman didn't perform his usual inspection. He stood near the door, arms folded over his chest, while the blue-shirt walked forward, her frown growing more pronounced with every step.

She came to rest midway between Pilot Arman and the line of waiting pilots.

"From the left," she snapped. "Module Six."

The leftmost team came forward three steps and danced Module Six, not very well, Theo thought, but better than her team usually managed.

The blue-shirt nodded and called for the next team to stand forward, assigning them Module Three. They were better as a team, and one boy was pretty good. The woman pointed a finger at him when the dance was over, and he walked to the front of the room to stand next to Pilot Arman.

"Our turn," Jeren said, sounding as dejected as Moxi's shoulders looked.

Theo led the way out the floor, her head pleasurably full of something besides math. The four of them stood in a line, facing the woman in the blue shirt. Theo smiled as she relaxed into the ready position.

"Module Eight," said the frowning woman.

Theo flowed forward, arms rising together on the left side of her body, the back of the right hand reinforced by the palm of the left. She spun—and realized that she was too quick; the rest of her team was two beats behind her—Gayl nearly three.

Biting her lip, she slowed, and used the tempo-step Phobai had shown her, so they could catch her up and they'd be on the same—

"Pilot Waitley!" snapped Pilot Arman.

Theo let the move complete itself, centered herself and turned, suddenly and forcibly reminded of Gayl's comment about breakfast.

"Sir?" she asked, but it was the woman who answered her.

"Why did you amend your process?"

Theo swallowed, and met the woman's eyes. "I didn't want to over-dance my team," she said.

The woman looked to Arman, who sighed and shook his head.

"Theo Waitley," he said, "these pilots are not your crew, they are your study group. You have no obligation to them."

Theo stared. "They're my team," she repeated. "I—"

"Enough," the woman in the blue shirt directed. She pointed at Theo, who blinked, then hurried to the front of the room to stand next to Pilot Arman and the other dancer who had been pulled out of line.

The last team in line danced without distinction. The blue-shirted woman turned without a word and marched to the front of the room.

Pilot Arman nodded. "You two pilots will attend Inspector Vidige." He looked out over the room and raised his voice. "Pilots! Return to places and open to general self-test twenty-seven."

Theo stared at the frowning woman—Inspector Vidige. Was she going to be relocated again? she thought, stomach tightening even more. This woman wasn't even a teacher! What if she was taken outside of the school? What if—

"Attend me, please, pilots," Inspector Vidige said, her voice polite if not cordial. "We adjourn to another room within this building for a fuller testing of your abilities."

* * *

They fell almost too quickly into the work. During one of their meetings aboard
Vashtara,
Kamele, Able, and Crowley had divided Beltaire's list between them. Hafley was therefore assigned the chores of internal librarian and secondary fact verification—roles she accepted with surprising grace, and performed with a degree of astuteness.

The room they labored in was cold to the point of being a health hazard; they all wore multiple layers of clothing from the luggage that had appeared in the dorm room sometime during the second—or possibly the third—day. While periods of intense study such as this project demanded did tend to dim awareness of outer conditions, yet Kamele did from time to time wish for a hot cup of coffee to warm her.

That, of course, was quite impossible; Solmin would never permit the precious papers under his care to be put at risk of a coffee-spill. Kamele could sign herself out of the study room when Solmin came in on one of his scheduled pick-ups, but she would then have to time her return to his next visit, and an entire Melchizan hour was far too long to stand away from the work.

There was very little conversation; there would be time for synthesis and comparison during the return trip to Delgado. Kamele's own findings were disturbing enough, in the rare moments that she allowed herself to lose focus, that a recertification of the University of Delgado's central library, at the very least, seemed mandated. Considerations of the expense might have kept her awake, but her few hours of sleep were deep and dreamless.

And, yet, for all the work they accomplished here, they only verified what they had known: That certified copies of documents in the Delgado library had somehow been altered.

What they—what
she
—lacked even now was proof.
Suspicion
of conspiracy was not enough. Conversations were subject to interpretation, as were expectations. Jen Sar's phrase: "No one is right until there is proof," had used to infuriate her, and yet . . . she needed not only proof, but the names of those involved in what would seem to be a vast conspiracy.

Whenever she tried to count out the number of people necessary to wreak such havoc upon Delgado and Delgadan scholars, she caught up on the shoals of
who
and
why
? Who attacked historic documents? And why?