by Sharon
Kamele looked past her, pointedly.
"Trainee yo'Vala, how good of you to escort Theo."
The words were polite, but spoke in that too-sharp tone. Chair Hafley, Theo thought, must've been at the meeting. Maybe Clyburn, too. Out of the side of her eye, she saw Win Ton bow, slow, as if he wanted to convey some special meaning.
"Professor Waitley, I enjoy Theo's company, and . . . appreciate her kindness in permitting me to attend her—your pardon!"
The last phrase held a note of surprised excitement. Theo turned, her eye following his, but—really, there was nothing to see except the seam where the stateroom door sealed against the floor. Or—
Win Ton went to one knee, his hand going inside his jacket.
"Please," he said, with a glance up to her face; "mark where this goes, if it escapes me."
He produced a clear tubular container, thumbed the lid off as it came into view.
"What do you have?"
Theo jumped. Kamele was at her side, peering with her at the edge of the door. Win Ton's back and head were mostly in their way but there was something brownish, very nearly the colors of the floor, moving—scuttling—up the frame . . .
With a practiced air, Win Ton suddenly flicked at the scuttling something with the lid and pressed it down on the tube.
"I am not certain what I have, Professor Waitley," he said, rising easily to his feet. "Here."
He showed them the tube: within was an insect . . . or maybe not.
"If you see any more of these, would you please point them out?"
Theo frowned, staring at the thing in the tube. "It doesn't look quite right, does it? I've seen lots of bugs but this one . . . it isn't really an ant, or a beetle." She touched the tube gently. "It looks hurt or something."
Kamele leaned in, her shoulder against Theo's, looking closely at the tube.
"It also seems to be changing color," she commented, and at least she didn't sound snappish any more.
Win Ton glanced at the tube with its transforming burden, and inclined his head.
"Perhaps," he said softly, "we should take it out of the hall. Theo, do you see any more?"
She looked around the door seal, to the ceiling, along the edging that ran the length of the hall . . .
"I don't see any," she said, "but I don't think I would've seen that one. You've got quick eyes!"
"As you do," he returned. "And now that you have seen one, you will know what you are looking at, if you should see another."
Kamele approached the door, key out, and paused a moment to do her own visual check.
"It seems that it was acting alone," she said ironically.
"Good," Win Ton answered seriously.
Kamele used her key, and waved them into the stateroom.
* * *
"Should we report an infestation to the ship?" Kamele asked, staring at the tube, "Or does that require multiple sightings?"
Win Ton glanced away from tube, and looked directly into her face.
"If I had found this elsewhere, simply sitting or walking randomly on a wall or table . . . it might have been a curiosity. I would still likely have . . . taken it for a specimen, since they are rarely seen. However, finding it . . . working, as indeed it may still be working, I am made far more curious. An infestation . . . that would be an extreme. As to reporting it—"
He held the tube out to her.
"Look closely, Professor Waitley. Theo has very good reactions. Very good."
Amazing Theo, Kamele thought as she received the tube, which was lighter than she'd expected. She held it up to her face.
The . . . insect was about the length of a finger joint, and it was testing the tube's seal. Thwarted, it turned and . . . ran! . . . toward the opposite side. Stopped precipitously by the end of the tube, the insect tried to climb the slippery stuff . . .
"It appears to be autonomous action, does it not?" Win Ton's voice was so soft that it barely pierced her attention mist. "For all we know it is recording, what we say, or what it sees of us. Or it may need to establish a location before it can transmit."
She looked up at him. "You're saying this is a construct? A . . ." She groped for the proper word—"A spying device?"
"So it would seem to me. I will show it to my captain and gain the benefit of her knowledge of such things. In the meanwhile, perhaps we should let it rest." He reached into his jacket again and withdrew a small bag. It shimmered as he flicked it open, as if it had silver woven among the threads.
"What're you carrying in there," Theo asked, "a laboratory?"
Win Ton laughed gently as he slipped the tube into the bag and sealed it.
"I am carrying a sampling kit, Sweet Theo, which I am required to do at all times by my captain, since I failed to carry one when I should have on another occasion. I am also carrying this . . ." He tucked the tube away, produced a bowli ball, and handed to Theo, ". . . which we shall wish to discuss shortly, and some ration bars, and candy, which I always do."
"Why," Kamele said slowly, "would it be here?"
"Maybe it got lost," Theo said.
"Perhaps it did, as Theo suggests, become lost," Win Ton answered seriously. "Or perhaps it was meant to be here. It may, after all, be a ship's tool, though if that were so, we must surely have seen others."
"Well." Kamele sighed. "I'll be interested in learning what you find out about it."
He bowed. "Certainly."
Kamele took a deep breath and smiled at the two of them. "As fascinating as this episode has been, I gather that it was not the reason I am afforded a visit to my stateroom."
"No, ma'am, it is not," the Liaden agreed, bowing again. "My captain instructs me that I should . . . be offering apologies." He glanced at Theo, a friendly, even a warm glance.
Kamele felt her stomach tighten all over again, and held onto her smile.
"In that case," she said brightly, "perhaps we should sit down."
* * *
Do you think it will lie? Aelliana asked.
"Perhaps it will," he answered, pouring a glass of wine. "Certainly, it has demonstrated some craft. We shall see."
Twenty-Six
Vashtara
Mauve Level
Stateroom
Kamele sat over there in the big chair, while Theo and Win Ton sat together over here, on the sofa. The feeling that she was a guest in her own stateroom warred with the feeling that she and Win Ton were on one team and Kamele was on an opposing team. Which was just silly, Theo told herself, fidgeting with the bowli ball. It rolled from one hand to the other, unsteadily, its erratic motion drawing her mother's eye.
Cheeks hot, Theo brought the ball under control, pressing it firmly onto her thigh. The internals vibrated against her restraining palm, like Coyster, purring. Theo blinked.
Coyster would have taken just this moment to stretch and yawn before curling around in her lap. She took a breath, pressing harder on the ball, feeling the vibration in her bones. There. She'd hold the ball like it was Coyster. That would make her feel . . . less strange.
Win Ton cleared his throat. "Professor Waitley," he said formally, "I wish to make known to you the certain activities that Theo and I have enjoyed together." He paused, like he did when he was trying to find an exact match between the Liaden word he knew and the Terran word that—usually—didn't exist.
Kamele's mouth straightened slightly, which meant that she was concerned, but trying not to interrupt.
Win Ton's pause was too long for her though, and she leaned forward—carefully, Theo thought, her fingers pressed tightly together.
"Could you continue? You have my attention."
Seated as he was, Win Ton bowed.
"Yes," he said; and again, "Yes, of course, Professor. The circumstance . . . my captain has pointed out to me that, according to the customs of her homeworld, Theo has yet to attain her majority. Since I have become accustomed to Theo's company, and to her common sense, my captain feared that I was perhaps presuming . . ."
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He paused again, his careful search for words leaving a pause into which Kamele leaned, so alert she seemed to quiver.
"My captain's concern," Win Ton began again—"and mine now that I am acquainted with my error, is that I may have presumed too much about Theo's . . . autonomy."
He paused again, and sent a glance to Theo. Since she wasn't sure what point he was making, and she didn't think she'd fool anybody by trying to look autonomous, she looked down, where the silly ball, rather than the silly cat, sat on her lap. The thought made her want to laugh, and she struggled to stay serious, gripping the ball as if in fact she were wrestling a cantankerous feline.
"Autonomy." Kamele repeated carefully, and she, too, sent a glance at Theo. "Indeed, I've found Theo to be showing distinct signs of autonomy, not to say levity."
Theo looked up, mirth startled away. Kamele waved a careless hand in her direction.
"Please," she said to Win Ton, "let's not permit Theo's mirth or her toy to interfere with your disclosure."
This isn't good, Theo thought rapidly. It was never a good sign when Kamele started talking like Father.
"In fact, "Win Ton answered slowly, "My . . . disclosure—an excellent usage, which I shall remember!—my disclosure is very nearly about Theo's toy."
Abruptly, he stood, surprising Theo and, judging by the way she sat straight up, surprising Kamele, too.
"As you know, we conquered the dance machine on our first attempt. Theo has a—a very mature approach to the dance, intuitive, one may say. That she was . . . amazed to discover herself so very apt a dancer was enlightening. Self-discovery is a good thing."
"Self discovery is often a good thing," Kamele said after a moment. She glanced at Theo, who tried to keep her face calm. It wasn't comfortable being talked about like she wasn't there. She looked at Win Ton in order to avoid her mother's gaze.
"After our run, my captain forbade us to dance further at the Arcade, and, truly, the machine is so easily beaten that we would very soon have lost patience with it. However, there was still the question of energy, and exercise and, and comradeship. I therefore located several convivial acquaintances on-board, and we discovered an opportunity to continue with the theme of . . . mature self-discovery. I will also say enjoyment of discovery, for Theo so enjoys a challenge."
Theo felt her shoulders relaxing and realized she was petting the bowli ball, in small, quiet motions. Her mother glanced at her again, and this time Theo met her eye.
"So," Kamele said to Win Ton, though she continued to look at Theo. "You arranged for a . . . mature challenge for Theo."
Win Ton bowed lightly, danced one pace toward the door, one pace back.
"Yes, exactly!" he exclaimed. "The pilots, you must understand, were known to me. We found a private room, and—Theo is such a joy to challenge. I knew all this, but in my enthusiasm, I fear that I did not fully explain to Theo what we would be about, nor did I ask your permission beforehand . . ."
Kamele leaned slowly back into her chair, her hands finding each other, her fingers locking together, interleaved. What scared Theo was that Kamele's face was nearly blank, and she was staring at her hands rather than at either of them.
"I see," Kamele said quietly, but Win Ton was now following his course with some vigor, pacing energetically in the small space, and using his hands for emphasis.
"And thus, with a room, and partners, and a willing novice, I'm afraid we introduced Theo to a game many never play, a game many lack the urges and reflexes for. Knowing how physically apt Theo is, it never occurred to me that I ought to ask permission from her parent for her to play bowli ball. So I ask, Professor Waitley, that you please hold Theo blameless, and lay it all to me . . . ."
Theo saw her mother's face go from blank to . . . confused.
"Wait," she said; "if you please. I understand you to say that you and your friends found a private room so that you might play bowli ball with my daughter?"
Theo picked up the not-cat from her lap and tossed it in the air, very gently, to illustrate the phrase "bowli ball."
The motion caught Kamele's eye, so Theo tossed it higher, whereupon the ball took it upon itself to perform a mid-air detour of several hand-widths. Theo snatched it down and wrestled it guiltily to her lap.
"One of these!" she explained.
In wonder, rather than enlightenment, Kamele said, "I see. Bowli ball."
"Yes!" Win Ton said enthusiastically. He plucked the ball away from Theo, carefully cuddling it into quiet before placing it into Kamele's hands.
"It is a complex game, Professor Waitley," he went on with energy; "requiring physical dexterity, concentration, mature thoughtfulness, luck . . . it is a favorite game of pilots because of these things!"
Experimentally, Kamele tossed the ball from hand to hand, barely managing to keep it under her control.
She shook her head, and tried it again, using less energy and across less distance, really just rolling it from one palm to the other.
"What a strange idea," she murmured. "Why should you need permission for Theo to play a simple game of ball?"
"Well, it isn't so simple!" Theo broke in, indignant. "The ball goes every which way and you've got to be ready for it, and you've got to see where it gets thrown and how it's rotating and which spiral is next and . . ."
Win Ton caught Theo's eye with a motion of his hands, and she subsided, hoping that she hadn't just gotten him in more trouble with Captain Cho.
"Professor, some call bowli ball a game of wit and physics. That might suffice if it were played on a snug lawn among . . . office workers, let us say. But, with pilots, the game can become quite challenging. This is what I forgot, and why I should have asked your permission for Theo to play."
He paused, glanced at Theo, and faced Kamele directly.
"It is not unknown for those playing the game to accept a broken shoulder in order to return a pass, to sprain an ankle on an interception-and-launch, to . . . forget harm in order to follow the flow and make the connection. Truly, it is a game for pilots."
Kamele held the ball in one hand, turning it this way and that way, studying it, as if she had never seen something so gaudy and irregular in her life. Suddenly, with no warning, and without preamble, she threw the ball at Theo. Hard.
Theo was already in motion. Her hands leapt up and out, she shifted her balance on the sofa, leaned left to absorb the spin . . .
Slap! was the sound the ball made when she caught it, and it took an effort of will not to continue the momentum and . . .
Win Ton spun, centering himself, left hand rising, facing forward, right hand coming down, in case . . .
"Not here," he cautioned, sounding remarkably calm, but by then Theo had the ball stopped, stable, and purring on her knee.
In the big chair, Kamele was laughing, her eyes closed, the bridge of her nose pinched between forefinger and thumb, while she shook her head.
* * *
Professor Jen Sar Kiladi leaned discreetly against one of the extremely rare stone walls within the Wall, sipping tea from his own cup. On the wall were metallic plaques commemorating events and people from the early days of the Wall; some few pre-dated the Wall itself and had been brought from the remains of the original, burnt-out campus.
The wall being just inside Open Cafeteria Three meant it was one of the few areas where one might expect to see all levels of students and all levels of faculty intermingled. True, faculty did not always take their meals here, most preferring the private lounges, or, by necessity, a corner of their desk, but it was written that they ought to take a meal here every ten-day.
He watched. Quietly, he watched, his cane tucked behind him as if in support—but actually to disguise it from those many eyes he wished not to notice it at the moment.
By tradition, a full professor might sit anywhere. A department head, dean, or Board member could do the same and claim some minor precedence . . .
That, of course, was the start of hierarchical shenanigans,
for the corollary was that students or those lower on the food chain must not join a table claimed by a full professor without permission or invite. Associate professors and other instructional types had a leg up, of course, and it was considered bad form for a professor to sit at a table with others in order to claim it and so dismiss them to less exalted company.
Jen Sar Kiladi had the honor of being a full professor and, in effect, his own department head. He could sit anywhere.
Yet, he stood, out of the way and deliberately unobtrusive, counting tables.
There was the north wall. Seventeen tables in from it, three aisles in from the East, there ought to be . . . why yes. There was a ceramic clad column there, and against it, a table being scrupulously cleaned by a member of support staff. How gratifying.
Jen Sar sipped some more tea, waiting.
The schematic provided by the Serpent AI had been fascinating in the extreme, precisely overlaying as it did the "old wire" map Tech Singh had shown him. A simple query to the Concierge netted the names attached to those addresses, which had made for interesting reading over breakfast. Two names in particular caught his fancy, and he whiled away an entire pot of tea over the question of which he ought to attempt first.
In the end, it had come down to expediency. As exhilarating as a contest of wits might prove, yet it might keep him overlong—and he was mindful of his mother's advice to him, given so very long ago: "Do not play with your food, my child. Be careful, take all the time you need to be certain, but when you are at the final stage, act quickly, and never hesitate."
Therefore, and not without a certain pang, he turned his attention to less satisfying quarry.
The chimes of seven-bells-none rang through the hall and were echoed from countless 'books and mumus, prompting some to snatch up their belongings and rush off, others to change tables, and still others to approach the food line.
Those for whom he had waited so patiently walked past him without noticing, though that was scarcely their blame; he did not, after all, wish to be noticed. They had heads bent together, as if communing, a sweet, domestic picture, surely. Wrapt in themselves, they marched on, heedless of any in their path, their goal apparent.
