Serpent's Gift (2 page)

Carefully balancing her cup and saucer, Hing turned sideways in her seat, draped one leg up over the chair arm, and relaxed with a catlike air of boneless grace. The vivid blue of her StarBridge jumpsuit clashed with the chair's rust-colored upholstery. "Okay," she said blandly, "talk to me."

Rob sipped his coffee, sighed appreciatively, then asked, "How would you like to have a new roommate?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I've gotten used to having the whole suite to myself for the past six months. Now that it's my last year, I'm in and out a lot.

We've just had tryouts for a new play, and I've got one of the leads."

Rob shook his head. "You try to cram three lifetimes into one, Hing. I don't know how you manage to keep up with your classwork."

She smiled cheekily. "But I do. You know I'll make a great Simiu translator.

So... tell me about this hypothetical roommate."

Rob steepled his fingers. "Her name is Heather Farley, she's quite bright--

and
she's a very strong telepath, both as a projector

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and receiver. Abilities right off the scale." As he spoke, the doctor pulled up the girl's file, setting it to scroll slowly as he sat back, sipping coffee. "But she's got problems."

Hing raised her eyebrows, then nodded in silent comprehension why StarBridge Academy--with its extremely high standards for linguistic and diplomatic abilities, as well as personal integrity and stability--was interested in a "problem" student. Telepaths were all too rare--telepaths who were both effective receivers and projectors were extremely scarce.

The Cooperative League of Systems needed graduates from all three tracks at StarBridge Academy--translators like Hing who could communicate in several languages, interrelators who were trained to live on other worlds as ambassadorial or diplomatic personnel, and telepaths who used their skil s when more conventional methods of communication failed.

In the past, telepaths, both human and alien, had proved invaluable in unknotting semantic Gordian tangles when problems arose in delicate negotiations between species belonging to the CLS. They also

accompanied exploratory teams to the fringes of known space and beyond, to help establish peaceful communications with any newly discovered life-forms.

"Okay, so you've got a bright telepathic problem. Go on," Hing prompted.

"Where do I fit in?"

"Heather's also the youngest human student--and, relatively speaking, the youngest student
ever--
to be admitted to StarBridge. I argued for her admission," Rob confessed, "because I was worried that if she didn't find something challenging to do with her skills, this girl would get herself into serious trouble."

Involuntarily, his eyes were drawn to the file, still slowly marching past.

Heather's skill with computers is undeniable,
the report from the Academy's Satellite School in Melbourne, Australia, asserted flatly.
Computer "tricks"

played on teachers and other disliked authority figures occurred regularly
until she came to us--for example, following her removal from her aunt and
uncle's custody (instances of neglect and abuse are discussed under
section labeled "Homelife"), Heather freely admitted that she "arranged" for
this elderly couple, pillars in their fundamentalist church, to receive nothing
but pornographic channels on their holo-vid viewer for weeks. Service
technicians were unable to solve the problem, necessitating a memory-core
wipe and replacement.

Rob smiled reluctantly, shaking his head. He'd read and reviewed this file before, but he'd forgotten that bit. But his

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expression darkened at the next paragraph:
We do not know even now
whether the power shutdown that plagued the school and delayed finals last
year was sabotage... but only Heather, out of all the students and faculty,
turned out to have complete backup cassettes of all data following the
isolated power loss that managed to bypass all fail-safe levels
simultaneously. When questioned about this, she told us she'd had a

"hunch." Even the most painstaking analysis of the systems revealed
nothing to link her with the shutdown. "System failure by unknown causes"

remains the official diagnosis. But, still, we wonder...

"Rob!" He jerked his head up, realizing that was the second time Hing had called his name.

"Sorry," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. "I missed out on my beauty sleep last night. What did you say?"

Hing regarded him over her teacup. "How old is Heather?"

Rob took a deep breath. "Eleven. Twelve at midterm."

The young woman groaned loudly. "Rob! What do I look like, a babysitter?"

"No, of course not," he hastened to assure her. "Heather will have to take responsibility for herself, just like any other student. But she needs a friend, Hing, and like many other kids, she's wary of authority figures. Like me." He spread his hands, palm up, and shrugged. "So I thought that someone the age of an older sister, someone who gets along well with just about everyone, might be just what she needs." He gave her a pleading glance.

"C'mon, O Little Friend of All the World. Here's your chance to help someone out. It'll be good for your karma."

Hing smiled, albeit a bit reluctantly, at this reminder of
Kim,
an old book for which they shared a common fondness. Rob had shown her the movie

version right here in this office, four years ago, when Hing was a freshman.

Ever since then he'd kiddingly referred to her that way, after watching how easily she made and kept friends.

The student sighed, then nodded. Rob relaxed, realizing .that he'd won her over. "She's had a rough time?" Hing asked.

Rob nodded assent, then hesitated, wondering what he could answer that would give Hing something to go on without compromising Heather's confidentiality. Another passage from the file caught his eye:

Heather Farley's telepathic index tops the scale. We cannot measure her
innate ability. Extremely precocious intellectually,
her
intelligence approaches the genius range. This, coupled with

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an artificial sophistication gained from her indiscriminate telepathic contacts,
makes her seem, at first encounter, older than her years .. . Unresolved
feelings of abandonment due to trauma incurred from loss of maternal parent
at age five have resulted in stunted emotional development. . .

Maternal parent,
Rob thought impatiently.
Why can't they just say "mother"?

Her father, he remembered from his earlier reviews, was still alive. If you could call it that. . . .
paranoid schizophrenic, with frequent violent psychotic
episodes exacerbated by his telepathic ability.
. .
delusional, subject to
hallucinations . . . first institutionalized two weeks after death of his wife, he
has shown little improvement in the intervening years . .. prognosis for
recovery is poor.. .

Poor kid,
Rob thought grimly. When he glanced at Heather's birth date, he realized the girl was two months older than his own daughter, Claire. Pity stirred in him again as he struggled to find words to answer Hing. "Heather hasn't had it easy. Her mother is dead, and her father--it's not possible for her to live with him, for ... health reasons. She lived with an aunt and uncle for a while, but that didn't work out.

"Since then, there's been a succession of foster homes. She's been shuffled around from pillar to post. After the mandatory telepathic screening in school turned up her abilities, Heather was offered the chance to go to Melbourne and try to pass the profiles for StarBridge. She jumped at it, and she did very well there. She's earned the chance to try to make it out here, and we all want her to succeed."

Hing nodded slowly, and Rob saw from the expression in her black eyes that she had indeed read between the lines of his carefully worded explanation.

"So what does she need from me?"

"Mostly, a friend ... someone like you, who's easygoing and knows the routine. She'll need some leeway while adjusting, but she'll be expected to follow the rules." Rob took another swig of his coffee, then added, "What Heather needs, after the time she's had, is stability in her life, and we'll try to provide it here."

"Okay," Hing said, and for once there was no glint of laughter in her eyes. "I'll do it. I owe you, Rob, like everyone else at this| school. You can count on me."

"Don't look so serious," Rob said, smiling at her gratefully. "I'm not asking for your right arm. It's just that Heather's going to need someone to show her around, keep an eye on her."

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He buttered a muffin. "Someone . .. older, responsible, studious, trustworthy ... a senior student who will be a good example, someone she can look up to . .."

Hing had crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue before he was halfway through. Rob chuckled. "Okay, yeah, I'm laying it on a little thick. Just be her friend, Hing. Help her out. Remember that if she makes it, with her telepathic abilities, she'll be a real asset to the school."

Hing nodded. Rob glanced at his watch, then made abrupt shooing motions.

"Oops, that took longer than I thought. Hurry and catch up with Janet aboard the
King,
so you can ride back with the kid, take her under your wing, okay?"

She gave him a thumbs-up. "Tell 'em I'm on my way." As she started out the door, Rob was seized again with the urge to mention that Serge LaRoche would be on that shuttle, too, but as he hesitated, she was gone with a last wave, and it was too late.

He shrugged and finished the dregs of his cold coffee, then poured himself another cup and hastily reviewed the end of Heather's file.
.Early testing
showed incipient megalomania coupled with a tendency toward compulsive
fabrication. . . Psychologists' jargon,
he thought morosely, taking a bite of muffin.
Why can't they just say that she's self-absorbed, extremely selfish,
and lies a lot?

Rob cheered up a little as he read the end of the Melbourne [¦ school's summary:

Since coming to Melbourne, there has been a definite and marked
improvement. Heather's Social Adjustment Indices (especially the computer-linked tests) have risen significantly. Her telepathic ability, language
aptitude, fluency in Mizari, and exceptional academic progress, coupled with
her obvious determination to overcome her emotional problems, permit us to
recommend her admission on a provisional basis . . .

>
"I just hope we can help this kid make it the rest of the way,"
Rob
muttered to his small black cat, Bast, who leaped up onto his
desk and
stared interestedly at the remaining muffins. He put out
a finger
and rubbed the animal behind one ear, feeling as well as
¦hearing
the warm vibration of her purr.

Rummaging through his desk drawer, he unearthed a glittery earr
ring
made of a golden Mizari alloy that resembled a jeweled c
lip.
Fingering the telepathic distort thoughtfully, the psychologist sighed. I
hate wearing this
thing. It'll give both of us a headache. But if it's necessary, so be it. ..

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Another thought made him smile. "We've got another secret weapon, Bast,"

he told the cat. "The only Avernian telepathic therapist in the galaxy. If Doctor Blanket isn't more than a match for Heather Farley, I'll swallow this distort."

Glancing at his watch again, he groaned aloud. "The faster I go, the behinder I get," he muttered. Keying his intercom, he instructed Resharkk', his assistant, to hold all calls, then resolutely dug into the files of the other incoming students.

Minutes later his intercom signaled. Someone had managed to override the lockout on his private line. "Shit!" Rob muttered as he answered.

The image of a young man with black, wavy hair and finedrawn, handsome features coalesced. He flashed a wide, knowing grin at Rob. "I heard that,"

he said accusingly. "Is that any way to greet an old friend?"

Rob stared at him openmouthed, then laughed delightedly. "Jeff! I should have known. No one else could beat one of Janet's lockouts! Where have you
been?
It's been forever!"

Jeffrey Morrow was a former StarBridge student. He'd been nineteen back when the Academy opened, and was still the oldest freshman ever admitted.

At the time, Rob had worried that Jeff was too old to adapt to alien languages and customs, but the young man's outstanding record at MIT and his single-minded determination had convinced the review board to accept him.

But over the next year, despite Morrow's hard work, it had become painfully obvious that he had no flair for languages, He was a whiz at math, and a magician with computers, but he couldn't even master Mizari, the official CLS language and the common tongue spoken at the Academy.

Rob had admired Jeff's persistence ... but he'd admired him even more when the young man had finally accepted defeat am quietly left the Academy. He'd ached for the student as he'( watched Jeff swallow his pride and return to his father, owner of Horizons Unlimited, one of the largest human-run space engineering firms. Mike Morrow hadn't lost any time in triumphantly shoehorning his only son back into his engineering career.

"Forever's an exaggeration, but it's been more than a year since I've seen you," Morrow said. "I even managed to be on the crew that checked the radonium monitors six months ago, but they told me you were on vacation."

Rob nodded. "Mahree and Claire and I went to our cabin on Shassiszss. We had a great time, but I was sorry to find I'd missed you."

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"How are they?"

"Fine. How is Angela?" Rob had been Morrow's best man, via holo-vid, at his wedding three years ago.

Jeff's features darkened, and his blue-gray eyes fell.

"What is it?" Rob exclaimed, alarmed.