Fledgling

by Sharon

  She hesitated, biting her lip, not knowing whether she should even ask . . .

  "Speak," he said lightly. "If the scheme is more than my aged self can support, be certain that I will tell you so immediately. My sense of self-preservation is strong."

  "All right," Theo said carefully. "I'd like to—" She cleared her throat. "I wonder if we can't just go—go hom—to your house and have toasted cheese sandwiches and tea?"

  He tipped his head, eyes slightly narrowed, then nodded.

  "A rigorous course, but I believe I may withstand it," he said, motioning her to walk with him. "If we stop at the fresh air market on our way, we might also have a salad, if you'd like it."

  Theo let go the breath she'd been holding. "I'd like that," she said. "Very much."

  "Then that is what we will do." They turned right into the service hall that led to the tiny faculty parking bay.

  "Does your friend aspire to anthropology?"

  Theo blinked. "Kartor? No . . ." She sighed and shifted her bag, wincing. "He's auditing Traveler's Etiquette. He wants to get a job on the station."

  The click of the stick against the surface of the hall echoed oddly, almost as if he'd used it to punctuate something he'd thought but forbore to say aloud. His words, when they did come were fluid and thoughtful.

  "Does he indeed? But surely his mother will want him with her in Systems."

  "I think his mother is . . . more concerned with his sisters," Theo said slowly. "It sounds like, from things he's said, that she doesn't much care what he does, as long as he doesn't . . . get into trouble."

  "Well, you mustn't blame her for that. I believe that many parents wish that their off-spring would refrain from getting into trouble."

  Theo bit her lip, and the two of them strolled down toward Father's pride-and-joy—the car he delighted in describing to new acquaintances as a "burnished green neo-classic rally coupe."

  Some of his new acquaintances returned from his show-off ride smiling, others . . . did not. But he was serious about his joy, and periodically engaged in events put on by Delgado's only road rally club.

  "How have you occupied your time during the last few days, Theo?" he asked, opening the little car's boot.

  Theo slid her pack off and put into the boot next to his bag, then straightened and met his eyes.

  "I haven't exactly been trouble-free," she confessed.

  "Splendid!" He gave her one of his brilliant grins, slammed the boot, and waved her to the passenger's side. "You must tell me all about it."

  Theo slid into the low seat, snapped the safety belt into place, then sat with her hands in her lap, chewing her lip. This isn't, she thought dismally, going to be easy. She'd tried to prepare; reasoning it out, reminding herself that she had been willfully ignoring social cues, like Coyster pretending that he couldn't see a bowl full of substandard cat kibble.

  You've got to do this, she told herself; you can't keep on not calling him anything, and besides, it's probably . . . upsetting to him to be called Father when he's not anymore, really, and he's just been too kind to say so.

  That this particular variety of kindness was hardly a hallmark of her companion's character did not occur to her until she had licked her lips and made herself say, "Professor Kiladi?"

  He turned his head, one eyebrow well up.

  "Dear me," he murmured. "I apprehend that I have fallen into your black book, Theo. You must tell me how."

  Theo considered him warily. "Black book?" she repeated.

  "Ah." He inclined his head. "The reference is to a notebook in which the names of all those who have done one a mischief are recorded. Allow it to be one of those quaint off-world customs of which Delgado does not partake."

  "Delgado doesn't seem to partake of many off-world customs," Theo commented, thinking of Gorna Dail.

  "Yes, but it has a plenitude of its own, similarly quaint, not to say infuriating." He settled back into his seat without pressing the starter switch.

  "That was a very credible attempt to change the subject. My congratulations. Now, if you please: Professor Kiladi?"

  She took a breath and met his eyes. "I—Marjene said that, since you're not Housefather now, I—that it's antisocial to . . . to call you 'Father.'"

  "Ah! Marjene." He sighed the name, elongating it into something comically musical. "All is explained. And yourself?"

  She blinked. "Pardon me?"

  "Do you find Marjene's argument resonates with you?"

  "Well . . . I—no!" she said suddenly. "I mean, she's right—I've been ignoring a social cue. And that's not . . . honest. But, if I'm being honest," she continued in a rush, "I'd rather not call you Professor Kiladi, unless—unless you'd rather I did."

  "I am compelled to meet honesty with honesty: I'd rather you didn't." He touched the starter. The car shifted slightly as the engine engaged, like it was a live thing that gone from sleep to alert. Father went through a similar change—as if being in the driver's seat brought him to a higher level of awareness. Eyes front, he scanned the parking bay, and when he spoke, his voice was grave.

  "Theo. Far from being offended, I would be honored if you choose to continue addressing me as 'Father.' If, after due reflection, you find that you cannot in propriety allow it, then I suggest 'Jen Sar' as comfortable for us both." He flicked a quick, dark glance at her. "Is that plain?"

  Chest tight, she nodded.

  "Good. Unfortunately, and as much as it costs me to say so, Marjene's appeal to local custom is legitimate. Our relative positions being what they are, I see no choice but that Professor Kiladi must be fielded when we meet in public. I would consider it a kindness if you do not invoke him often."

  That made sense, thought Theo, and formed a workable compromise. She and Father could be comfortable—and so could Marjene and Lesset.

  "All right," she said, and, with a vast feeling of relief, smiled. "Father."

  "Hah." He put the car into motion with a touch. "Is that the awful whole, or is there more to your not-exactly-trouble-free existence?"

  Theo sighed, her momentary glow of comfort fading. "There's more," she said dolefully. "A lot more. And worse."

  "You must not keep me in suspense a moment longer, then! If you please, the round tale—and leave no detail unturned. I must have it all!"

  * * *

  There was a House Rule against talking about "critical matters" during the making and the eating of meals. "Too much angst curdles the milk," is what Father said.

  When she'd lived in the house, Theo had thought that particular rule was . . . stupid, especially since Father's rulings on what constituted "critical matters" tended to be frivolous. In her opinion.

  This evening, though, she was glad of the rule. Father had taken them the long way home, winding 'round the outskirts of Nonactown while she told the whole tale of the last few days—well, except for the bus ride; she had a feeling that he'd like that even less than Kamele had. He'd listened quietly, but with a worrisome sort of . . . immediacy, like he was experiencing everything she told him. She'd never felt anything like this from him—not anger, exactly, but—

  She wasn't really sure.

  Whatever it was, she was glad to be free of it for dinner prep. She set the table—the blue-and-white dishes and the faded blue cloth napkins, on the little table in the corner of the kitchen, next to the window that looked out over the garden.

  While Father tended the sandwiches, Theo got out the wooden bowl, swooped Mandrin from the work counter onto a nearby stool, and mixed the greens together.

  Across the kitchen, Father reached for the spatula. It slid out of his fingers, skittering away almost like it was alive. In her mind's eye, Theo saw it twirl and arc for the floor. She turned away from the salad, slid forward and captured the spatula in a left-handed snatch.

  "My thanks," Father said solemnly, receiving it from her.

  "Welcome," she answered, and got back to the work counter just in time to yank the bowl out from under Mandrin's nose. />
  "Cats are carnivores," she said, reaching for the oil. "That means you don't eat vegetables; you eat kibble."

  "And the occasional toasted cheese sandwich," Father added. "You are a pampered house-bound creature, Professor Mandrin, who has never known the bounty of the land, nor the joy of dining on fresh-caught rodent."

  "Father!"

  He shot her a wicked look. "Does your appetite desert you? Will I be forced to eat two toasted cheese sandwiches myself?"

  "You don't get mine that easy!" Theo told him, though, in fact, the idea of Mandrin eating a rodent did make her feel a little queasy. Well, the trick was not to think about it. She finished mixing the greens and carried bowl and tongs to the table. Picking up the sandwich plates, she took them to the grill, where Father bestowed a golden brown, and slightly sticky sandwich upon each.

  At the table, Mandrin was inspecting the arrangements, her back feet on Theo's chair and her front feet set daintily between the silverware.

  "You're more trouble than Coyster," Theo said, unceremoniously dropping her to the floor. Whether it was the insult of being compared to a cat so much her junior and orange, besides, or Theo's continuing interruptions of her business, Mandrin stalked off, the tip of her tail twitching.

  Theo grinned, the teapot hooted and she turned back, only to find Father ahead of her, reaching up to the shelf where the cups were kept. He grabbed one, but jostled the cup next to it, which spun, wobbled and danced dangerously toward the edge. Father had already turned away. Theo jumped forward, catching the dancing cup just as it leapt for the floor, then did some dancing herself, to keep from knocking into counter or stool.

  "That was close!" she said.

  Father looked at her over his shoulder, and plucked the cup out of her hand with a murmured thanks. Theo frowned at his back.

  "Are you all right?" she asked, which got her another over-the-shoulder glance, as incurious as the first.

  "Perfectly. Why do you ask?"

  "Well," she said, following him to the table. "You dropped the spatula and knocked the cup off the shelf—and you never drop things!"

  "Ah." He set their cups down and slid into his seat. Theo sat across, watching his face as he surveyed the table.

  "This is very pleasant," he murmured. "It wants only some flowers, but in this season—"

  "Father."

  He looked at her, his face perfectly composed. "I'm a little tired, child. Nothing to signify. Thank you for suggesting the meal and the venue. Excellent choices, both."

  She smiled. "I think so, too."

  "We have an accord. Delightful. Eat, do!"

  Theo took a bite of her sandwich and sighed aloud in sheer bliss, her eyes on the garden, where the shadows were already growing out from the walls. She had another bite of her sandwich, served herself some salad and continued to eat while on his side he talked about the weather and how it had been a bit too dry for the sinneas to get a good start, though there was a persuasive front on the way which he hoped might deliver rain overnight . . .

  It wasn't until Theo had finished her dinner, feeling calm and almost sleepy, that she realized what he'd been doing.

  "I'm not Kamele!" she snapped, sharply interrupting a discursive and lengthy wondering about the hedge on the southern side, and whether it ought to be removed or simply trimmed.

  He blinked, searched her face earnestly, and inclined his head. "I concur. You are not Kamele."

  "You're talking to me just like you do—did—when Kamele would get upset . . ."

  ". . . and would require assistance in achieving calmness," he finished, and set his tea cup down decisively. "Consider it a service of the house. Are you done with your meal? Would you like more tea?"

  "I'm done with my meal," Theo said, and pushed back her chair. "I'll get some more tea after I clean up—"

  "Leave it," he said peremptorily. "I suggest that we adjourn to the common room, with the teapot. We will wish to be comfortable for this."

  * * *

  "Let us, by your kindness, deal with the simplest matter first," he said some minutes later from his accustomed chair next to the fireplace.

  Theo nodded, and sipped her tea, wondering what was simple about any of her recent messes.

  "It seems that Ms. Kant has been very busy on your behalf." He settled back in his chair, tea cup cradled in long fingers. "We shall leave for the moment the question of whether she has been too busy and if, indeed, it is your welfare which concerns her."

  The blinked. "Marjene's supposed—" she began, and stopped when he raised his hand.

  "I have read the same pamphlets that you have, Theo; though I have perhaps drawn different conclusions, old cynic that I am. To continue: Have you pursued the citations your mother has given to you?"

  "Yes!" Theo assured him. In fact, she'd read the information with an increasing feeling of alarm. Even the mildest of the recommended drugs seemed to promise terrifying side-effects, up to and including slight, though apparently permanent, cognitive impairment.

  "And has Marjene also shared her information with you?"

  Theo snorted. "I read the files the Safety Office has on public key. Either they haven't done their research, or they chose to ignore contrary information . . ."

  ". . . in the service of the greater good," Father finished, with the air of quoting someone who was not entirely in good taste. "You'll find, I think, that Delgado has a bias toward the greatest safety for the greatest number."

  "Kamele says that the Founders . . . made a mistake," Theo said tentatively, belatedly thinking that the relationship of this comment to their topic might not be as plain to him as it was to her.

  Father, however, had no trouble making the conversational leap. He cocked his head interestedly. "Does she, indeed? She had used to walk out only so far as undue optimism. In any wise—you will find that Delgado errs on the side of safety for the greater number. It is therefore up to you, and to such trusted advisers as you may gather, to protect yourself and your interests. Which may, indeed, not always be either safe or best for all."

  Theo blinked. "I don't think I—"

  Father raised a hand, the twisted silver ring glinting on the smallest finger of his right hand. "The rules of society exist to make it possible for individuals to work together in harmony. There is, however, a tension between the rules imposed by society and the necessities accepted by individuals. When that tension fails, society declines and the individuals become at risk."

  She thought about that, while Father finished his tea and put the empty cup on the side table. Mandrin jumped into his lap and he stroked her, waking loud purrs.

  "I consider you to be one of my . . . trusted advisers." she said slowly, silently adding, no matter what Marjene says.

  He inclined his head. "You honor me," he said gravely.

  She eyed him, suspecting sarcasm, or at least irony. "That doesn't mean you're not annoying."

  He laughed. "Entirely the opposite, in my experience!" He shook his head at her. "Please, I am serious. You honor me with your trust and I will strive to be worthy of it."

  "All right." She tasted her tea, which was cold, and put the cup on the table. "I intend to do my own searches, but—based on what I've read so far, I . . ." She took a breath and met his eyes, which was both easier and harder than keeping Marjene's gaze.

  "My preliminary finding is that . . . accepting even the therapy the Safety Office lists as 'mildest' is . . . not a good idea." She paused.

  Father tipped his head, waiting for her to go on.

  "What I want to ask, is what you think I should do," Theo said, suddenly plaintive. "Roni's mother wants me in Remedial, the Safeties think I'm a menace, and so does Marjene. I've got to stop hurting people, or the Safety Office is going to call Kamele up for harboring an unsafe condition, and that's just not—I can't do that!"

  "Ah. I see that you have indeed been doing your research. You are correct; additional pressure can be brought to bear upon you, through your mother. I be
lieve you are wise to think proactively in this case." Father sighed and rubbed Mandrin's ears, staring off into some distance visible only to himself.

  Recognizing the signs of deep thought, Theo folded her hands on her lap and tried to be patient.

  "My suggestion," Father said, just as she had decided that it wouldn't be . . . too rude to go look in the anything drawer for the extra needle and spool she kept there, "is that you take up dance."

  Theo blinked. "Dance?"

  "It may, for the moment at least, answer the call for rehabilitation," he said slowly. "Certainly, it will demonstrate that you are taking the concerns of the Safety Office to heart." He looked up and met her eyes. "In a word, it will buy time, giving you and your mother the opportunity to plan a strategy. It would seem that simply holding line until you are considered old enough to speak on your own behalf may no longer be possible."

  "Why?"

  He looked up and gave her a brief smile. "Because you have achieved enemies—people who actively wish you harm, as distinct from those who would cause you harm out of a sincere, if misguided, concern for your safety."

  "Roni?" Theo asked, thinking that enemy sounded so . . . grown up. "But Roni's only a kid."

  "True. However, Roni's mother—is not."

  Theo stared.

  Father bent forward to place Mandrin on the floor. He stood, in one of his flowing, effortless moves, and smiled down at her.

  "Be easy, child. You have your own corps of defenders. And yours, may I say, are somewhat more able than the honored Professor Mason."

  The mechanical clock in his study called ninebells, its chimes echoing through the house like a familiar, comfortable voice. Theo's eyes filled.

  "I wish I could stay," she said, knowing she couldn't.

  "I wish you could stay, too," he answered softly.

  He held a hand down to her. "I'm afraid I've kept you late," he said suddenly brisk. "Come along."

  Theo let him pull her to her feet, like she had when she'd been a little kid. She went in search of Mandrin, finding her sprawled on the table among the dinner dishes.

  "You are so bad," she said, and skritched the black-and-white chin. "I'll see you soon." Mandrin sighed and squeezed her eyes shut wearily. Theo grinned and followed Father out to the yard.