by Sharon
She strained high on her toes, scanning the room without much hope. The restaurant was so crowded that one boy with reddish brown hair and a black jacket wasn't going to stand out—
"There you are—and prompt, as well!" His voice was so close that she jumped. She took a breath and settled slowly flat-footed before turning her head to look at him.
"Late, you mean," she said.
"Arrived directly on the fifth gong," he retorted. "I insist that this is on time—and well done, indeed, if you navigated the public halls. You might think yourself at Festival, with so many dawdlers and pleasure-seekers blocking the ways!"
"But you—come by the . . . private halls," Theo said, remembering his arrival last night—and Cho sig'Radia's apparent displeasure with his chosen route.
He laughed softly. "Never think it! Today, my captain has decreed that I am to go as a passenger-guest upon this vessel and thus sample humility."
She eyed him. The jacket he'd worn last night was gone, though he was dressed neatly enough in a brown vest over a shirt like pale sunshine, and dark trousers.
"You were kind of late for dinner," she commented.
"Kind of, I was," he agreed, then brought the tips of his fingers sharply against his temple.
"Bah! In addition to my lack of humility, I have no manners, and even less address! First, I must beg your forgiveness. This place is never so full, being in an unpopular hall of an unpopular level. The manager must have noticed this, as well, for what should there be this morning on the public band but a discussion of this little-known treasure of our ship—" He flicked his fingers at the crowded interior. "With this result."
"You couldn't have known," Theo said. "I am glad you saw me, though . . ."
He smiled. "But how could I overlook you, Theo Waitley?"
"A lot of people do," she told him seriously.
"It becomes apparent, then, that a lot of people," Win Ton announced, turning toward the entrance, "are a fool. I suggest that we continue our conversation as we walk, if we are to arrive at the lecture on time."
"Oh!" She turned with him. The noisy group blocking the doorway had grown—waiting for tables, Theo thought. Win Ton threaded his way effortlessly through the blockade. Following, Theo wondered if he would teach her how to do that.
"Are the private halls less crowded?" she asked, once they were able to walk side-by-side.
Win Ton glanced at her, looking down, she realized, but not such a long way down. She was used to being the shortest one in every group, but it was pleasant not to be so much shorter than her companion.
"For some," he said slowly, "there are private halls—and only at some times. Most usually, they are less crowded and more direct, being less concerned with—" He swept his arm out in a grand gesture that seemed to include Vashtara's entire interior—"the art of space." He grinned at her. "Or the enticement of tourists."
Whatever, Theo thought, the "art of space" was. Still, she liked to hear him talk; he had a nice voice, and his accent was . . . interesting. Rounded and . . . flowy, like he'd buffed all the sharp edges off his words.
"Did your jacket let you get into the back hallways?" she asked, which gained her another glance from beneath long, reddish lashes.
"In some measure," Win Ton said slowly, "the jacket allowed me into the private ways. Be aware, though, my friend, that the jacket is both a burden and a joy, as my piloting instructor was somewhat over-fond of telling us."
Theo blinked. "What—" she began, but Win Ton was angling toward a wall mounted with a dozen or more screens, each showing a different animal.
"The Pet Library!" he exclaimed. "Now we shall see wonders, Theo Waitley!"
* * *
In light of her long service to the Liaden Scouts, as well as her position in a clan that had given many to a similar service, it would not be wrong to suppose that Cho sig'Radia had a lamentable tendency to . . . meddle in matters that did not, perhaps, fall directly within her duty.
Indeed it could with some accuracy be said that the Liaden Scouts as an entity stood as the galaxy's premier meddler—witness her most recent assignment.
Despite which, one did not wish to unnecessarily disturb the peace of chance-met strangers, nor meddle too nearly—or at all!—in a collegial situation fraught with nuance one could not hope to master within the space of one brief seating.
And, yet . . .
Unless matters Melchizan had altered considerably since her last briefing session, there was perhaps more peril attending the scholarly group's so-dry and tedious search of literature than might be realized.
One would dislike, Cho thought, rising from her desk and running her fingers through her short hair, to find that the lack of a word in the right ear had placed innocents in the way of danger.
One would dislike that, extremely.
* * *
"Many base creatures adopt a social order," the lecturer said, in his abrupt, disapproving way. Theo couldn't figure out if he disapproved of his audience in general, of the cranky littlie who had several times announced that he wanted to "see bears now!" in particular, or if it was the subject of his lecture that he found annoying. Disapproving or not, though, he did have a number of interesting facts about norbears to impart, for which Theo was willing to forgive his uncordial lecturing style.
"Norbears are highly socialized creatures. Typically, a family group will rally around a chieftain, and claim a certain territory as their own. When the family group grows too large for the chosen territory to comfortably support, a secondary chieftain will arise, and lead a portion of the group to another territory, where they will settle and live, until force of numbers triggers the rise of a tertiary chieftain who, in his turn leads a sub-group to a new territory."
The lecturer paused. In this small silence, the fidgety littlie sighed, and asked his mother in a loud whisper to make that man be quiet.
"Norbears have few natural enemies," the lecturer resumed, carefully. "However, their natural habitat is unregulated and quite wild. Fluctuations in the availability of food are common, and, as base creatures will do, the norbears have produced a biologic coping mechanism. When food is scarce, fewer cubs are birthed. Strangely, it has been noted that domesticated groups, such as we have here on Vashtara, adapt themselves to their artificial but far safer conditions by also birthing fewer cubs."
He looked out over the audience.
"In just a moment, those of you who wish the opportunity may follow our pet librarian, Mr. Rogen, to the norbears' enclosure. Before you go, however, I would like to speak a little about expectations.
"As I have said, norbears are natural empaths. However, they are also base creatures. If you expect intelligence, or cognition, you will be disappointed."
Another pause, and then a glance to the back of the room.
"Mr. Rogen. If you would take over, please?"
* * *
The cafe on the atrium deck was, in Cho sig'Radia's experience, underused. It had perhaps been the intention of the designers that it be a quiet place for contemplative study, or for sweet privacy of other sorts. Certainly, the tables tucked well into the embrace of fragrant foliage, and the numbers of flowering vines artfully scaling the walls spoke of a certain thoughtfulness in the matter.
That the designers had designed poorly—well, no. The place was very pleasant, for those who valued solitude. Woe to the designers that not many, at least, of this passenger compliment, desired solitude.
Cho herself was more often to be found on the Promenade Level when she was at leisure, sitting at a small table with a glass of wine to hand, and a keen eye on those who passed her by in their pursuit of pleasure. It was a pure marvel, how much people told of themselves by the simple acts of walking and talking. Her work, however, she engaged in the privacy of her cabin, venturing out when she had need of stimulation, or to beguile herself with observations and guesses while serious business sorted itself out in her backbrain.
Her quarters were quiet, despite t
he proximity of the young apprentice, who for all his youth addressed his studies with a serious intensity that might alarm a fond senior, if she had not also detected a similar intensity in his . . . less weighty . . . activities.
There were some, however, whose quarters were perhaps not so convivial as her own, and whose work might best be pursued away from the possibility of busy eyes.
It was just such a one that Cho sought now, moving casually down the wending pathways. Conscious of her mission, she made a special effort to brush up against leaves and to tread firmly upon the rare fallen stick. There was no need to startle as well as surprise.
Aha! She had not guessed wrongly! There, boldly framed in scarlet blossoms, her screen open before her, pot and cup to hand, sat Kamele Waitley. Yet, having run her quarry to ground, Cho hesitated, not wishing to add herself to the list of prying eyes, inconvenient questions, and interruption of duty.
A moment's study of the scholar at work failed to entirely reassure her. The screen was extended, yet it seemed that Kamele Waitley gazed beyond it, her face soft, her eyes unfocused. She made, Cho owned, a charming picture thus, with fawn brown hair wisping out of the knot in which she sought to confine it, and curling bewitchingly along her pale cheek. Indeed, she looked not so much like a scholar at study, or an administrator at her regulations, as she seemed a woman considering some pleasurable, but regrettably distant, item. Perhaps she thought of a favored companion; or of a particular garden-nook, of which the surrounding artful greenery was but a thin charade.
Cho dropped back a step, bestirring neither leaf nor branch, unwilling to disturb such contemplative delights. The woman at the table blinked, her eyes sharpening as she turned her head.
Discovered! How embarrassing, to be sure.
Cho stepped forward immediately, swept the bow between equals, and straightened, remembering to smile.
"Good shift, Sub-chair Waitley," she said. "Pray forgive the interruption. I do not," she added, with perfect truth, "often find an acquaintance here."
* * *
"Remember what Mr. Chorli told you, now," the pet librarian cautioned. "Norbears are natural empaths. Each one can hear a slightly different—let's call it 'music.' What you'll want to do is let them make the approach, don't rush them or show any fear. These are domestic animals; they won't hurt you." There was a slight pause while Mr. Rogen—an extremely fit man with yellow tipped black hair who Theo thought looked more like a Leisure and Recreation instructor than a librarian—gazed at the six people who had decided to brave a visit to the norbears.
The area—room was far too quaint a word for the airy and multicolored space they stood in—flowed into distinct ecological sections differentiated by lighting, color, and floor covering, as well as by the vegetation visible in the interiors of those sections.
"Twelve!" Win Ton said, approvingly.
Theo looked around her—Oh! There were twelve eco-sections. He had quick eyes!
Between the sections and the public were portals of varying transparencies and shades. Their group stood in front of one with nearly clear door. Through it, the interior's inviting greens and blues appeared ragged.
"It could be that one or even two of you won't be approached," Mr. Rogen continued. "That only means that an animal able to hear your particular music isn't present in the group.
"So, with all that said . . ." he slid opened the gate to the eco-section, and waved them through.
Theo quickly slipped 'round the edge of the enclosure and went down on one knee with her back against a thicket of skinny boughs. The floor didn't merely look ragged, it was ragged—and unexpectedly soft and springy. A closer inspection showed that it was made of vines and lichens, all woven together to form a comfortable, crinkly habitat.
The norbears—nine plump, rough-furred mammals—were on the far side of the enclosure, some half-buried in the floor-stuff, some lolling about on top, all seeming oblivious to presence of humans in their space, going about what the lecture had told them was typical norbear business—eating, wrestling, grooming, and sleeping.
Except, Theo thought, watching them with a critical eye, there wasn't much sleeping going on. Oh, there were roly-poly recumbent bodies nestled into the vines, eyes closed while rounded ears twitched and pivoted, tracking soft footsteps—or maybe listening to the new songs, measuring each against some secret norbear standard.
Which was remarkably catlike behavior for creatures that looked so very different from cats . . .
Suddenly, there was a flurry, a rustle of vegetation, and one of the norbears was on the move, rocking from side to side as she made her way across the enclosure, straight for the little boy with red hair who'd been so cranky during the lecture.
But, that's not catlike at all, Theo thought. There was no mystery about the approach, no measuring glance over one shoulder, no sitting down to groom—no suspense. Instead, the norbear bumbled merrily onward until she had run her round head practically into the boy's knee. The littlie gave a shout of laughter, and promptly sat down in the blue-green expanse, gathering his new friend into his arms.
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 l
istened 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.
