Serpent's Gift

A. C. Crispin

Deborah A. Marshall

This book is dedicated to Anne Moroz, a.k.a. "Saint Anne," patient listener, staunch friend, terrific writer, and a rock of refreshing calm we all cling to when beset by the storms of writers' uncertainty and general angst. Thanks for being a pal, Annie--and for making all those dinners!

Acknowledgments

As usual, many people helped me with the technical aspects of this book, because, to borrow the phrasing of one well-known doctor, "I'm a writer, not a scientist." With the caveat that any mistakes are assuredly my own, I'd like to thank:

Gwyneth Hannaford, nuclear engineer and knowledgeable s.f. fan. Gwen basically invented radonium, its evil twin variant, and the properties ascribed to both;

Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, for technical information on music and pianists. From Quinn I learned that a pianist sits in the percussion section while playing in a symphony, and what a threnody is (a piece written in memory of someone); Henry Miller, archaeologist, who allowed me to visit a real dig;

Carol Theobold, archaeologist, who told me about banjos and thus inspired the "dowser";

Mary Frye, for checking (and correcting) my French;

Barbara Mertz, my favorite mystery author as well as a friend. Barbara generously loaned me an invaluable (and otherwise unavailable) reference book. .. Martha Joukowsky's
A Complete Manual of Field Archaeology;
Sara Scott Peterson, psychologist, who gave many helpful suggestions during the final development of this novel;

And, of course, Dr. Robert Harrington, astronomer, of the U.S. Naval Observatoryin Washington, D.C., who helped work out the

vii

dimensions and properties of the StarBridge asteroid. It was Bob who explained (in words of one syllable, so I could understand!) the fluctuations and gravitational irregularities that its odd-shaped mass would produce.

I would also be remiss if I did not acknowledge the editorial and writing help I received, because this book would never have been completed without it: Kathleen O'Malley, my unsung co-writer on this book--as always, I couldn't have done it without you. May you live forever;

Merrilee Heifetz, my agent. Her faith in me pulled me through "hell week"; Ginjer Buchanan, "Honored Editor" of the StarBridge series, who helped immeasurably with character and plot development;

Laura Anne Gilman and Peter Heck, also of the Ace staff, who always lent a sympathetic ear during trying times.

--A.C. Crispin

viii

Interstellar Incidents

Cursing under his breath, Dr. Robert Gable trotted down the crowded corridors of StarBridge Academy toward his office. The first classes of the day were about to begin, and the slender, dark- haired psychologist had to dodge hurrying students from most of the Fifteen Known Worlds.
Of all the
mornings to oversleep. ..
Rob thought, finger-combing his curly hair.
If I don't
reach that shuttle before it takes off...
Glancing anxiously at his watch, he-hissed a soft oath in Mizari.
Twenty-seven minutes late! Janet wil be leaving
any minute!

There'd been a crisis during the wee hours of what Rob and the other humans on the asteroid still thought of as "night." One of the Drnian students, Shrys, had learned just after midnight that his clanrsib had died during a betrothal ritual, and Rob had been up for hours with the grief-stricken youth.

Both the human psychologist and the Drnian counselor, Parys, had had their hands full. Shrys was distraught, determined to do The Right Thing--offer himself as death-escort and companion in the NextLife. It had taken some fast talking to convince the student that he should consult with his family before making such an irrevocable decision. Rob and Parys had arranged priority transport home, then rousted Rob's Simiu assistant out of bed to pilot them all "up" to nearby StarBridge Station.

After Rob and Parys had watched Shrys shuffle forlornly down the boarding tube and into his ship, they'd trudged silently back

2

to the
Fys,
the Academy's smaller shuttle. On the way back to the asteroid that had been his home for over six years, Rob had prayed silently that he'd see Shrys again .. . knowing all the while there was a good chance that he wouldn't. The student's family might agree that Shrys would make a perfect death- escort.

Now, amid the hurrying horde of students, Rob cursed the seconds as they slipped away. I
shouldn't have gone back to bed at all,
he thought, chagrined. But at forty, a night of lost sleep took a far greater toll than it had at twenty, or even thirty. He'd lain back down, fully clothed, telling himself that he'd just close his eyes and rest for a few minutes .. .

I'm late, I'm late. ..
The sounds of his rapidly moving feet seemed to echo in his ears as words.
Stop it,
he ordered himself disgustedly.
You sound like
the White Rabbit!

Rob rounded a curve in the carpeted, neutral-colored corridor that led to his office. He desperately needed to reach Janet Rodriguez, the Academy's Chief Engineer and pilot, who was even now readying the school's big shuttle, the
Martin Luther King, Jr.,
for the trip to StarBridge Station to pick up a group of new students.
I'm too late to reach the shuttle dome in time .
..
but
if I can just call her before she takes off.. .

His strides came faster .. . faster. ..
I'll ask Janet to delay takeoff, then I'll try
once more to reach Hing, see if she'll--

Rob's thoughts broke off abruptly as he rounded another curve in the hall--

only to find himself face-to-face with a flying Apis student!

The alien, who had been skimming along, minding her own business, swerved wildly to avoid him. Rob dug in his heels, stumbled, then caught himself, bracing one hand on the wall. He was terrified that he'd crash into her; if he did, he knew his weight would crush her brittle carapace and fragile wings.

Heart slamming, he regained his balance, hearing the meter- long beelike being buzzing at him reproachfully; she was too shaken to remember to key her voder with her antennae.

"A thousand apologies, Esteemed Ztrazz," Rob blurted in Mizari, the Academy's common language, making a hasty and apologetic bow. He was gasping with relief as much as exertion. "I'm terribly late, and I was trying to catch the shuttle before it takes off. Are you hurt?"

As she hovered before him, Ztrazz's antennae finally located the controls to her voder. Understandable Mizari emerged. "I am unharmed, Esteemed Rob," she said. "I should have been paying

3

more attention to where I was flying, but I was conjugating English verbs."

She glanced at him out of her enormous many- faceted eyes, and the doctor saw his own wild-eyed, rumpled reflection stare back at him, multiplied over and over. Evidently Ztrazz realized how shaken he was, for she added helpfully, "Would you like me to fly over to the shuttle bay for you and deliver a message?"

"Would you?" Rob knew she could make the journey in less time than it would take him to reach his office, unlock it, then activate his intercom.

"Thank you so much, Ztrazz! Ask Esteemed Janet Rodriguez to hold the shuttle until she hears from me. I'm going to call her right now."

Without taking time to reply, the alien reversed course and sped off toward the dome housing the Academy's two shuttles, plus the small scooters that were used for individual or two-person travel across the asteroid's bleak surface. Rob sighed as he glanced at his watch again.
She'll catch her... I
hope.

The psychologist moderated his pace to a swift walk as he resumed his course.
Now, if only Hing is in her--

Rob's dark eyes widened in surprise and relief as he rounded the last curve in the corridor, only to discover Hing Own waiting for him, as though his wish to see her had somehow conjured her up. "Well, I'll be damned," Rob exclaimed, doing an exaggerated double take. "It's the late Hing OwnI To what do I owe this singular honor? Surely not the message I sent you two days ago--
or
the other message I left yesterday"--he shook his head slowly--"it couldn't be that you finally got around to listening to your messages, could it?"

The petite, almond-eyed young woman with the long, heavy braid of black hair tossed over one shoulder rolled her eyes. "Sarcasm isn't your style, Rob," she observed dryly. "You don't do it well." Then, pointedly glancing at her watch, she added, "Besides, you're the one who's late this morning.
And
making me miss my Interstellar Trade Contracts class, I might add."

"This is important. Have Professor Hathaway call me and I'll square it with her," Rob said, opening his door. He put a hand on the young woman's arm, ushering her into the office. Rob Gable was far from tall, but the top of the Asian student's head barely reached his chin. "I need a favor, Hing."

She grimaced theatrically. "Why do I all of a sudden feel like the fly being invited into the spider's den?"

"The idiom is 'web' or 'parlor,' not 'den,' " Rob corrected amiably. "Sit down,"

he said, waving at the visitor's chair. "I've

4

got to call Janet first thing, then I'll explain."

Moments later the holo-tank on Rob's desk filled with the image of a strikingly attractive woman in her mid-forties. Janet Rodriguez was tall and athletically lean, with vivid green eyes. Her thick bronze hair was cropped stylishly short--much shorter than Rob's hair, which nearly brushed his shoulders--but the impression was anything but masculine. As soon as she identified her caller, she grinned, revealing strong white teeth. "Yeah, I'm still here. Ztrazz caught me just as I was completing my last preflight checks. I see by the Traffic Control log that you and Parys had the
Fys
out last night.

Crisis?"

"Yeah," Rob said, then turning to Hing he mouthed, "Excuse me," and thumbed on the holo-tank's privacy field. "We had to send Shrys home. I just hope we see him again, Janet. His senior clan-sib died, and you know what that means."

"Oh, shit," Janet muttered, her expression darkening.

"We'll just have to hope his family doesn't decide Shrys would make a perfect death-escort," Rob said with a sigh.

"But that's not why you called this morning," she guessed.

Rob smiled wanly. "I need a favor, Janet. Hold takeoff for me while I talk to Hing Own. I've got her in my office now."

"Those new kids are going to be docking in about fifteen minutes," Janet warned.

"I know. But this is important, and it won't take long--I hope. Listen, if Hing isn't there in ... fifteen minutes, go ahead and prepare to take off. If I can't talk her into this . .." Rob sighed, "I'll come up with you myself, okay?"

"Okay. I'm taking the big shuttle, of course."

"I'll tell her. Who's your orientation guide today?" Rob asked, glancing sideways through the shimmer of the privacy field at the dark shape that was Hing.

"Serge LaRoche," Janet said. "He's on the schedule."

The psychologist raised an eyebrow.
Serge, eh? That could prove
interesting .. . should I warn Hing? No,
he decided after a moment,
it's none
of your business. They're adults, remember?
"Okay. Fifteen minutes, Janet.

Thanks."

"I'm waiting," she said, and cut the connection. Rob flicked off the privacy field and his brown eyes met-Hing's even darker ones. The student's tilted, thick-lashed eyes and smooth, poreless skin were her best features--her mouth was too wide and mobile for symmetry, her nose too snubbed, her jaw too square. But Rob had seen her onstage, acting the part of a lovely but doomed woman, and had completely believed in the illusion of beauty she was

i

5

able to create. Hing was one of the most talented actresses he'd ever seen.

"Thank you for waiting," he said. Taking in her wary expression, he smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry, Ms. Fly. I don't want a pint of your blood."

"Then what
do
you want, Doctor Spider?" she asked, sitting back, amused in spite of herself.

"I'm going to explain the whole thing to you," he promised. "Coffee or tea?"

'Tea, please."

The psychologist programmed the food selector in his office for a basket of muffins as well as Hing's favorite Oolong and his own coffee. Moments later he brought the tray back to his desk, and she helped him sweep aside some of the clutter.

Rob's sanctum was large, decorated in shades of tan, brown, and rust. A holo-tank dominated one wall of the space, and furniture designed for a variety of beings was pushed against the walls, ready to be moved into place to accommodate any visitor. On Friday nights, the place served as an impromptu theater, when Rob showed selections from his collection of antique films. Holoposters from the "movies" hung on the walls, changing several times each day. At the moment
Casablanca, The Philadelphia Story,
and
The Attack of the Fifty-foot Woman
provided cheerful splashes of color.