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Twenty-One

 

Vashtara
EdRec Level
Pet Library

Theo jumped out of the elevator at the EdRec Level following the blue lines marked "Education" to the right, while most of her fellow passengers went left, pacing the glittery orange sparkles to "Recreation."

She'd looked Breakfast All Year and the Pet Library up on the shipmap, then scanned the info-page for the library.

Sadly, there were no cats listed in the Pet Census, though the entry did say that the kind and number of creatures on inventory was subject to change. She'd been about to look up norbears when the Tutor in her traveling school book noticed that she'd finished the math solo it had set her to, and the self-test, and called her attention to the next lesson in series. That one had been a little harder, and the Tutor had insisted that she finish the self-test for it, too.

"I'll be late for an appointment," she told it, half of her mind on the self-test.

Skillset remediation: Time Management, the Tutor noted.

"I manage my time just fine!" Theo said hotly, her fingers continuing to work out the problem while she spared a glare at the dialog box. She'd heard that the AIs in the traveling 'books were old, but nobody had mentioned cranky. Just her luck to draw one with a disciplinarian streak.

Had you moved on immediately to the next lesson, you would have completed your work early, the Tutor answered. Instead, you chose to do unauthorized research, and wait for a prompt.

A prompt that the Tutor, Theo suspected darkly, had put off providing until it knew she'd have to rush to finish. She stuck her tongue out at the dialogue box, and filed the answer to the last problem with a tap that was harder than it needed to be.

There was a long moment when nothing happened at all, then the Tutor's dialog box flashed green.

Self-test satisfactory, it allowed—grudgingly, Theo thought. The student may undertake mother-approved social project. Next lesson is chemical theory, at eighth gong.

Theo tapped the "recess" button as she came out of her seat. The door had closed behind her by the time the screen blanked.

Even with the Tutor's nidjit delay, Theo thought she'd have plenty of time to get to Breakfast All Day. Unfortunately, she had reckoned without the sheer size of the ship.

While it was very true that the belt to the 'vator bank serving the EdRec Level was directly across the Retail Concourse, that area was far larger than the shipmap had led her to expect. Nor had she counted on the other impediments in her path.

The belts—the few that were in service—moved slow, and none of the other passengers seemed to be in a hurry. They ambled from one side of the main promenade to the other, peering into shop windows, playing with the auto-vend units, stopping dead in the center of the walkway to talk to each other . . . 

She'd never seen so many adults with nothing to do—and so inadvertent in doing it!

At long last, the 'vator bank came into view. She slid in between leisurely closing doors, last one in, and very shortly first one out, remembering to walk-not-run, though surely it was all right to walk fast when you were going to be late for an appointment. . . . 

Walking fast, Theo outstripped the eight passengers who had turned to follow the Ed lines with her. Directly ahead an ID shimmered above a store front, resolving, as she came closer, to a graphic of a large yellow cup with steam rising from it. The cup faded, replaced by the words, "Breakfast All Year."

A subdued and genteel gong sounded down the corridor, counting five.

"Chaos!" Theo did run the last few steps across the hall, dodging the cluster of chatting adults blocking the entrance—and froze just inside, stomach sinking.

I'll never find him in this! she thought dismally.

Hundreds of glossy dark tables and chairs stretched away and up three curved, bright yellow walls. It might, Theo thought, have been meant to create the illusion of being inside of a coffee cup.

Inside of a full-to-overflowing coffee cup.

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 complement, 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 the 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 the 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 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 . . . 

"What?" she asked, leaning in, because . . . 

"I said," he said against her ear, "that this machine goes up to level eighteen, though these tourists are hardly more skilled than the first level people, and surely not worthy of us. Up with you, she who dances, up!"

Theo tried to give him a quieting glance, but he was already on the ramp, heading for the third level, and there was nothing she could do but follow him.

The silver platform was more than a tall head's height above the common floor, and a fair number of people were watching the two dancers on the leftmost pads.

The scores for both dancers were rising steadily, the right one more rapidly than the left. Forcing herself to concentrate, Theo watched them, noting that the nearer dancer's eyes were half-closed, as if he was barely watching the pattern while his body wove from move to move. His partner, on the other hand, was staring intently at the pattern, every motion deliberate.

Theo leaned against Win Ton's shoulder and put her mouth next to his ear. "That's not very fair," she murmured. "The man on the right is—is a dancer, and the other one isn't!"

It seemed that Win Ton shivered, but it was probably only the norbear buzz and the excitement of the lights and the noise. He moved his hand in a gesture that was almost dancelike, then bent to speak into her ear.

"You may be right. Still, the one on the left is making a good effort. Effort should count for something, should it not?"

There was question underneath the question—she heard it without understanding what it was—and then was distracted as the dancer on the right abruptly stumbled and stepped off the pad. Laughing and shrugging, he pulled his serious friend away, and they descended the ramp, heads together, and their arms around each other's waists.

"There," Win Ton said with satisfaction. "We have it to ourselves, Sweet Mystery . . . please choose your pad." He glanced at her with a smile almost as glittery as the silver lights. "First one to give up buys lunch."

"I'm really clumsy, you know!" Theo said seriously, taking the pad all the way on the left. "And I haven't really had that many dance lessons."

Win Ton bowed. "Fairly said. I will therefore pay for the dance, as you will be paying for lunch."

He waved his key card at the panel, the lights came up, the beat started, and the pattern formed on the screen before them.

Theo put her foot forward. Challenge or not, she still wanted to dance.

* * *

They were both sweating, involved, unaware, sharing a moment of movement alone among many.

Kamele stood transfixed, watching along with dozens of others as the dancers on the high platform laughed at each other. Theo stuck her tongue out at something her partner said, her hand moving in flippant motion to the beat that was gone, waiting for the next round on the machine, entranced.

On the level below three young men were dancing hard . . . each had aspired to the higher level and had given up after a dance or two; the pair on the top hardly noticed their arrival—or their departure.

"How much longer?" Kamele asked faintly.

"They have finished level thirty-five," Cho sig'Radia said, with really remarkable calm, "my apprentice and your daughter. The game has only one more to offer—it is called 'The Overdrive Level.' "

Kamele shook her head extravagantly. "Overdrive? I must tell Ella about this!"

A woman, resplendent in a gold and red Arcade uniform, paused at Kamele's side and smiled up at the two silver-limned dancers. "They're the best we've had so far this trip," she said, sounding for all the worlds like a fond mother. "Even the really good dancers hardly get past level thirty." She nodded impartially at Kamele and Cho and passed on into the crowd.

Above them, the music started again, the pads lit and the dancers began to move, step-step-twist, the scores flickering on the machine's face insisting that they were evenly matched in skill.

They were so very closely matched . . . Kamele looked to her companion. "How old is Win Ton?"

The Liaden moved her shoulders. "A matter of some sixteen Standards, add or remove a handful of days."

"But he is—a pilot," Kamele insisted, as the dancers pirouetted above.

"Indeed, he is a very able pilot." Cho smiled. "Mind you, he has mastered Jump, and so has earned the jacket, but he has more yet to learn."

"I . . . see."

Her attention drifted upward again, to the pair now marching in time, knees high, elbows pumping. Kamele felt a sudden doubt, and looked 'round to her companion.

"He's not letting her match his score, is he?"

Cho laughed then.

"Kamele Waitley, as enchanting as your daughter may be, I think young Win Ton has not the 'let her win' wit in his head." She paused, apparently weighing the efforts of the pair on the high platform, then looked back, smiling.

"No," she said, almost too softly to be heard under the whistles, claps and encouragement shouted by the watchers on the arcade floor. "Assuredly, he is not letting her keep up."

* * *

"You almost missed that last, Theo Waitley!"

She laughed and stuck her tongue out—"Was I the one who almost fell on his face because of a simple waltz step?"

"A trick move! Who on Liad learns waltzes from Terra? I say again, a trick move."

She moved her hand, mimicking the motion he seemed to use for the more ironic flavors of "no."

"All right, and what was that thing that made you laugh, if you please?"

Win Ton laughed again, ruefully this time. "It is a preliminary move, taught in classes of marriage lore—and more than that, I will not say, though you pull my hair out by the roots!"

She snorted, her hand still carrying the beat of the last round. "Oh, and you've been married?"

He sent a glance to the far ceiling, his fingers snapping lightly.

"Nay, I was not, though I might have been, had the captain not accepted me as her apprentice. So, you see, I am doomed, whichever foot I stand upon."

Theo laughed again. He used that as an excuse to step up to the board, fingers hovering above the selection for the next level.

"Are you ready, Sweet Mystery?"

"I am if you are," she answered.

"Bold heart." He smacked the start plate with his toe.

"Go!"

 

The music poured through her, mixing with the norbear hum, filling up her senses. She was aware of the music, the patterns, and of Win Ton, matching her step-for-step on the pad next to hers.

Together, they tore through the first section of the level, and then hit a complex series of moves seemingly a repeat of a much earlier level, as if the game-programmer was toying with them. Surely they weren't going to regress?

There! The tempo picked up again, and now the music moved into something her dancing instructor called contrapuntal dysrhythmia, with the point being that the dance moves were not in sync with the music.

Theo laughed and dared a glance at Win Ton, who saw her look and made a silly face. She laughed again, caught the next footwork and saw that, too, was being silly.

And then she . . . 

Almost fell over.

The music—just stopped. The platform shook with a weird rumbling. Lights flashed. Buzzers went off. The Tri-D screen showed a senseless pattern, twirling wildly. Glittery streamers fell from somewhere, tangling in her hair, cluttering the dance pad, and drifting in the air from the blowers.

She spun, careful of her footing among the fallen streamers, and stared at Win Ton, who was stubbornly kicking at the start plate.

"What happened?"

He flung his hands out, eloquent of frustration. "We have beaten the machine, you and I! There are no more levels to dance."

Theo fuffed hair out of her face.

"It can't be over. I still have dance left!"

Win Ton laughed again, and suddenly pointed over the edge of the platform.

"I fear we may have danced past lessons. There stand my captain and your mother, and I very much fear it is going to go badly with us."

She fuffed her hair out of her face again, saw her mother waving at her to come down.

"Kick it again," she said to Win Ton. "Maybe it'll start if we both kick it!"

* * *

"We scarcely had a workout at all!" Win Ton said to Cho sig'Radia across the table the four of them had claimed at Breakfast All Year.

Kamele sipped her coffee, trying to hide her amusement. That the boy had had a workout was all too obvious. Disregarding the fact that he and Theo were both still sweat-dampened and in high color, they had between them consumed a so-called "nuncheon plate" advertised to feed four, and were making short work of the follow-on sweets tray. Theo had eaten with a delicate voracity that had frankly amazed, letting the boy do the talking, except for a few early comments regarding norbears.

"Yet you advanced to the overdrive level," Cho pointed out. "It seemed from the floor, young Win Ton, that you and your partner ended the game in the top first percentile of players—"

"It does not advance to the challenge level!" Win Ton interrupted, and Theo paused with her third—or possibly fourth—petit pastry halfway to her mouth to blink at him.

"I thought we were at the challenge level!" she exclaimed.

"No, sweet dancer—a proper machine, such as the one I am accustomed to from—" a quick glance at Cho "—from school, has several levels yet above where we found ourselves, which allow for free form, and other variations."

He sounded, Kamele thought, genuinely aggrieved, and despite herself she chuckled.

Three pair of eyes came to rest on her face, which was—disconcerting, but she had brought it on herself.

"I'm sorry," she said to Win Ton, who had probably thought she was laughing at him. "I'm reminded of—of a dear friend of mine who makes similar complaints about the equipment we have at home." She sipped her coffee, marking how the boy's gaze never faltered. "His answer is usually to . . . correct . . . the poor performance into something he finds more reasonable."

Win Ton's face grew thoughtful.

"I will ask my apprentice," Cho sig'Radia said, with emphasis, "to recall that he is a guest and a passenger upon this vessel."

He turned to her. "But, Captain—"

She raised a hand. "Spare the poor device, my child; it is a game only, and never meant to withstand a full testing."

"But—"

"It wasn't a test," Theo interrupted. "We were just trying to work off the—the buzz from the norbears!" She looked at Cho seriously. "And it was just what we needed. Making lace wouldn't have done at all!"

There was a small silence during which, Kamele strongly suspected, Cho sig'Radia struggled courageously with her emotions.

"Ah," she said at last, inclining her head. "You must tell me more about this lace making, if you would, young Theo. I have, as you may understand, some interest in strategies for bleeding excess energy."

 

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