Serpent's Gift (7 page)

"A can of ration pellets and a fragment from a traveler's waste-disposal bag,"

Serge finished, then glancing at Heather's crestfallen face, he laughed softly.

"Not very glamorous, those last two, are they?"

"No," the girl admitted.
Frankly, none of them sound glamorous,
she thought sourly. "What's the songharp like?"

"Very similar to modern ones, actually. But this one was made by a master craftsman, we believe. Sallzor lived thousands of years ago, and was one of the most famous songharp makers ever. Rather like" the Mizari version of Stradivarius."

"Who?"

"A famous violin maker who lived hundreds of years ago on Earth. Some of the violins he made are still in use in orchestras. They have a tone that remains unmatched."

There was something in his voice as he spoke of musical instruments ... a hint of some old hurt, old longing. Heather was sensitive to nuances and hidden meanings--she'd had to be, because Uncle Fred had an explosive, unpredictable temper. She watched Serge closely. "Can the songharp still be played?"

He shrugged. "Perhaps ... if the warped top could be straightened, or if it could be tuned to compensate ..."

"Have you ever played one? You play, don't you?" she asked, certain that she'd guessed right.

For the first time since she'd met him, Serge's eyes narrowed with anger.

"Heather, have you been reading my mind?"

The girl shook her head vigorously. "No, Serge, I swear I haven't!"
And I
didn't,
she thought, mentally crossing her fingers,
at least not about this. . .

yet.
"It was just that.. . there was something in your voice when you spoke about music, and I thought... I wondered. .."

Slowly his tight shoulders relaxed, then he nodded. "You are very perceptive," he said quietly. "I used to play songharps, and other instruments. But that was a long time ago. I don't play these days."

36

It was there, on the surface of his mind, a memory . .. Heather touched it effortlessly and received a sharp image of a younger Serge, wearing a funny outfit with a long-tailed black coat and a white bow tie, walking onto a stage.

Spread out before him was an excited, glittering audience, applauding as he bowed, then hushing quickly as he seated himself at a shining grand piano in the center of the stage. He raised his hands, concentrating, feeling the music flow through him, his mind filled with the liquid beauty and passion of Rachmaninoff, his fingers tingling with anticipation. Then, bending forward, he touched the keys, and was enveloped by the music, the music . . .

Heather blinked herself back to reality. Serge, concentrating on the controls again, hadn't noticed her lapse. She was shaken by the intensity of that memory.
Damn, that's awful,
she thought.
To be that good, and then not be
able to play again .. .

"Is it hard work, digging in those caves?" she asked after a moment.

Serge hesitated. "Not exactly. We have instruments that do much of the physical work. We no longer have to do much actual digging. But we must-be very careful, because we are working above one of the largest deposits of radonium in the whole asteroid."

Heather knew that radonium was the stuff that powered spaceships and space stations. Everyone knew that, just as everyone knew that the Mizari had donated this asteroid, with its valuable radonium deposits, as a site for StarBridge Academy. The school had deliberately been situated out in deep space, rather than near any planet, because the Academy was supposed to remain independent of political influence.

"Isn't that dangerous?" she asked, feeling a tinge of anxiety for Serge.

"Radonium isn't something that you can take chances with. You could get radiation poisoning, or cause an explosion."

"We are very careful," Serge reassured her. "Radonium is not terribly dangerous. It is radonium-2 that is so hazardous and volatile. And the radonium at StarBridge is stable; they monitor the deposits constantly."

"But if you're right on top of it--"

Serge smiled at her. "Do not concern yourself, Heather! We truly are very careful. The radonium deposit is, at a minimum, five meters below the floor of the cavern, and we are shielded by solid rock." He pointed to the viewscreen. "You are missing our final approach."

37

Heather watched in fascination as the
King,
now controlled by the docking guidance beam, swooped toward the surface of the asteroid. She tensed as the shuttle seemed to drop too close to the jagged, crater-scarred surface, but a second later they were gliding slowly into the hangar dome, then settling gently to a perfect landing.

Serge finished shutting down the controls, then keyed the intercom.

"Welcome to the Academy at StarBridge. Passengers may unstrap at this time. Please check that you have all your carryon bags or containers before leaving the shuttle."

Heather released her safety harness, then started to stand up, but Serge raised a hand to forestall her. "One moment," he said. "If you will wait for me to finish the last of my systems shutdowns and my log entry, I will help you find your assigned room."

He really likes me! He wants to spend more time with me!
Heather thought for an exhilarating instant, then she glanced at the viewscreen again and realized why he'd made his offer. The screen now showed the shuttle's ramp, and Khuharkk' and Hing were just debarking.
Shit,
the girl thought disgustedly,
he just wants to keep me away from that Simiu. He doesn't want
any more trouble.

Serge had followed the direction of her gaze, and when he turned back to regard Heather, his blue eyes were intent. "Heather ... remember your promise."

She hadn't forgotten her carefully worded statement.
Oh, I remember, Serge,
she thought, expertly concealing the anger still seething within her.
And I'l
keep that promise--to the letter. But, fortunately, I don't have to speak to
Khuharkk' or spend a single nanosecond in his presence to get my revenge.

That damned monkey will be sorry he ever left his homeworld, and that's a
promise, too.

Heather Farley smiled sweetly at Serge. "I remember," she said, tracing her fingers across her flat chest in a quick X. "Cross my heart."

38

Serge had a difficult time getting through his Intro to Archaeology course the next morning. Usually he enjoyed teaching--and was good at it--but today it was a real effort to concentrate on his students. He kept seeing Hing's face in his mind, remembering how she'd confronted Khuharkk' ... so calm, yet resolute.

Intro was a popular course, and he'd been assigned one of the large classrooms that was half laboratory. Normally, Serge and his class spent much of their time in the laboratory, but today the students were presenting their first reports of the term, so they met in the classroom portion. Serge sat in the back, listening, keying notes for grades and ideas for tests into his computer link, resolutely not glancing at his watch.

The Mizari who had been giving his report on the development of Egyptian art during the reign of Akhenaton finally finished with a last flourish of his manipulatory tendrils, and Serge straightened, nodded. "Thank you, Sarrhezz. I have seen Tell-el Amarna, the Heretic Pharaoh's city and final resting place, and you gave a very vivid and accurate portrait of it. Your visual references were particularly effective." He glanced around at the class. "Who wishes to be next?"

Lisa Castillo, a tall, heavyset girl with sparkling dark eyes and curly brown hair, waved her hand. Serge nodded to her, and she rose and launched into her report, which compared early Terran pottery types from the Old World and the New. She'd

39

done a nice job researching the subject, her visual presentation was outstanding, and the accompanying text gave just enough information to be interesting and lively. Unlike some students, she didn't bury her audience in dry facts and figures. She'd even taken the time to shape and fire a fairly good replica of a Nasca vessel to illustrate one of her points.

The last student to speak was Nightsingerr a Heeyoon. He reported on recent excavations on Drnia that had uncovered a totally new dynasty that had flourished three thousand years ago. Serge noted that the material was well researched, but that the organization needed work. Nightsinger was bright and creative, but he tended to be scatterbrained. Serge listed suggestions for improvement and made a note to call the student in for a conference.

As Nightsinger returned to his pallet on the floor, where he sat on his haunches, ears pricked alertly, Serge walked up to the front of the class and raised a hand for attention. "Thank you, Nightsinger. It is always exciting to hear about brand-new discoveries in the field. The dig at Kal-syr is helping to write a new page in Drnian prehistory."

He paused to be sure he had their full attention. "I am certain that all of you recall our last session, when Anatoly asked whether our class could visit the Lamont Cliffs dig, as the Intermediate and Advanced Archaeology classes have done. After conferring with Professor Greyshine, he and I have decided that a field trip to the Lamont Cliffs would be beneficial for this class, also."

The students' reaction was gratifying and immediate. Khuharkk', here on his first day of classes, voiced his approval with several barking yelps. The two Mizari hissed softly, their fangs folded back. The humans clapped and stamped their feet.

After a moment's noisy approbation, Serge waved again for quiet. "I am glad that you are pleased. We will announce the scheduled date by the end of this week. However, I must caution you--anyone wishing to go on this trip must first have passed the minimum spacesuit competency requirements."

He went on to detail the requirements, then advised any students that needed certification to schedule lessons and testing with Janet Rodriguez.

By the time he was finished, class was over. Free at last! Serge hastily thrust his notes and computer link into his case, then plunged into the crowded corridor. Yesterday at about this time he'd escorted Heather to her room, and it would only be natural, he told himself, for him to stop by and see how she was doing.

40

He crossed his fingers that Hing would
be there, too.
Last night he'd
barely slept
at
all.
Memories had filled his mind,
repeating over and
over in a chaotic whirl of images. The first time
he and
Hing had met, at the Spiral Arm, the Academy's student hangout. The time that she'd done Lady Macbeth and he'd designed and constructed the scenery for the play. Their first kiss, backstage after opening night. Dates, walks in the botanical garden, trips in the shuttle up to StarBridge Station for dinner or a show, shopping together, the time he had won the low-gee gliding championship for the second year running and Hing had come running up to him as he'd stood clutching his trophy. ..

Most vividly of all, he recalled the first time they'd made love. Self-conscious about his hands, he'd been afraid to caress her skin or even touch her clothes to undress her, though he'd known that was what she wanted. It was his first time, and she had to have realized that--just as he'd been sure that it
wasn't
her first time.

As he'd hesitated, she had kissed him tenderly, solemnly, then gave him an impish grin and ostentatiously linked her fingers behind her neck. "No hands," she announced. "Anyone using hands loses the game."

"What game?" Serge asked, amused despite his apprehension.

"The one I just invented," she declared, leaning toward him. Slowly, hesitantly, Serge followed her example .. .

They hadn't been able to play the "game" long, but by the time they abandoned it, laughing and gasping, it hadn't mattered anymore. Things had been fine--better than fine. Wonderful. Serge had never felt so
right,
so in accord with the universe. It had been like playing perfect music ...

But step by step with the good times, the bad memories had kept pace, making him toss and turn; words he should have said, things he should have done, statements and accusations he would give anything to take back. He'd been a fool to let her go, to drive her away, a stupid, stupid fool, and that lesson, learned every night for the past six lonely months, was not one he could or would forget.

But yesterday, Hing had smiled at him, at first diffidently, then, when he'd escorted Heather to her room, with real warmth. And for the first time, he'd thought that maybe it didn't have to be over ... maybe, if he were patient, more willing to share, maybe he could get her back . . .

Maybe . ..

41

Checking his watch, Serge muttered a Heeyoon imprecation under his breath (roughly translated it meant: "may parasites torment thee in midsummer") because he was running late. Quantum Physics started in fifteen minutes, and the class was not one he could afford to cut. He quickened his stride until he was nearly running down the corridor.

Even though his official status at StarBridge Academy was Assistant Instructor, Serge still attended classes at the Academy-- though he'd stopped kidding himself over a year ago that he'd ever become an interrelator. He'd had to recognize that he simply didn't have the empathy, patience, and stability to live on an alien planet as a career diplomat. . . even though his language skills were excellent and his grades in the top five percent.

For one thing, the young man's Social Adjustment Index was too low, and for another, Doctor Blanket said he wasn't ready to take on an assignment. That had clinched it, because no would-be interrelator graduated from StarBridge until Doctor Blanket pronounced him, her, or seloz (the Mizari pronoun that was used for neuters) ready.

At first Serge had considered leaving the Academy, but there wasn't anything else he wanted to do. His parents had never forgiven him for not pursuing his music career; he couldn't face returning to their silent recriminations. In his years at StarBridge, the school had become home .. .