Voices of Chaos (4 page)

Last night, after the recital, I was too wired to sleep or study so I went up to the gym and checked out a low-gee glider and was trying that stunt, you know the forward roll over the bar you said was a really dumb one? Well, I tried it, and swear, I almost had it! But my left hand slipped and even at low gee my right wouldn't bear all my weight, and--well, okay, I fell."
Ouch,
Magdalena thought as she automatically straightened her bed. "Ah--and, um--well, I broke my back. And--well, I'd like to see you,"

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she said in a forlorn little voice; a brittle laugh broke that. "Looks like maybe now you'll have more time to tutor me in Arekkhi formal language and manners now, doesn't it? Though I guess dance is out for now." Silence, broken by the girl's long-drawn breath. "Anyway, come see me when you can. Please?"

Magdalena gazed at the screen for a long moment after the voice cut off.

That was a long drop, it must be--she didn't want to think how many meters.

Even with the gee set for gliders, it was still a long way down, and the floor was hard. The Earth girl was lucky to be alive. Magdalena scooped up her jacket, shoved her comp into the pocket, and headed out.

The hallway was fairly crowded, which was normal at this hour. Half a dozen humans chattered excitedly in Mizari-- StarBridge's common language, and the first one new students learned. Magdalena stepped back a pace, into her doorway, as two Heeyoons loped around the group of humans, on their way to the gym. A hint of cinnamon teased her nostrils as she keyed the door: Vardi had passed by a moment earlier, conversing in their unique olfactory-based language.

But as the door closed behind her, she froze; David was learning against the opposite wall, obviously waiting for her. From the look of him, he'd been there some time. Magdalena cast up her eyes briefly, shook her head, and slipped into the flow of rapid foot traffic; the tall blond boy eased his shoulders away from the wall and caught up. "Look, I
said
I was sorry," he mumbled. She eyed him sidelong, shook her head, then held up a hand for-silence.

"David, look. I said I was sorry, too, remember? But that doesn't mean I'm ready to just forget the whole messy argument yet, you said some things that hurt. And besides... I don't have time right now."

"You never have time--not for me," he began sourly. Magdalena stopped short to scowl up at him.

"David, I meant what I said!" she snapped. "Ladessa broke her back last night, and I need to see Dr. Rob--nothing to do with you or last night, either,"

she added firmly as he stared at her. ''Look, I've got to go. If you really want to talk about things, give me a couple of days, will you? I'm not ready to 22

say it's all right, and mean it." He still looked resentful, but when she moved on, he stayed put.

Magdalena sighed as she edged into the first side corridor and found herself trapped behind three giggling first-year girls from Jolie who were trying to converse in Simiu, and laughing at each other's French-accented attempts.

She managed a smile for them as she edged past and lengthened stride.

The girls giggled and she caught her name, barely recognizable in French.

The smile slipped as she hurried on, toward the infirmary. Darn David anyway. And--poor Ladessa.
She was only just picked as translator for the
Arekkhi team last month, and she was so excited!
But it was impossible to stay distracted and walk at this hour; after almost running into two Simiu who had stopped to argue about the last line of a verse of haiku, she quit trying.

Besides, everyone recognized her, and half a dozen fifth-year boys wolf-whistled in unison as she went past them. She grinned happily and whistled back, leaving them laughing.
Remember when you were too shy to even
acknowledge things like that?
That had been nearly four years ago, of course. Back when she could say "thank you" in only a handful of Earth languages.

Back when she'd no more imagined learning to shift effortlessly from Mizari to Heeyoon, to French to the clicks and growls of Simiu to Arekkhi to Chinese, than she'd imagined there would be dance on StarBridge.

Dance.
Back on New Am, when she'd stolen odd moments from her translating duties so she could take the StarBridge tests, she'd never even thought about dancing. I
gave up hope when Mother moved us into the old
cult compound back on Earth, in the Mexican desert.

Magdalena remembered nothing of her father--and little of what kind of person her mother had been before Father Saul. She could still recall every detail of the few ballet classes she took in Brownsville, Texas. But once her mother began the search for Truth, there was no time to find a new teacher, the way they'd moved around. Then no time for frivolity, and then--dance was all at once something the Devil had invented, forbidden utterly.

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She took a side corridor, away from the cafeteria crowd. Hardly anyone in this hall, just two Simiu running on all fours, racing for the elevator that would take them to the lowest level. Repairs had only recently been completed on the pool after the explosion that had injured so many and killed Hing Oun.

The first relay races in a long time were scheduled for this morning, if she recalled correctly. Of course, if the Simiu were headed for the pool, they'd be watching and not swimming; they felt the same way about water as cats did.

The infirmary waiting area was empty at this hour except for Znaaht, a second-year Apis earning premed credits; Magdalena told the young Apis who she wanted to see. The meter-long, beelike being darted out of sight and returned almost at once, her voder translating Apis to standard Mizari:

"A short wait only, esteemed dancer."

"Thanks," Magdalena replied in Mizari; a momentary, slightly dizzying multiple view of her bronze-skinned, narrow, full-lipped face played across multifaceted eyes before the Apis quickly flew into the hall. Magdalena gazed at the wall, her dark, nearly black eyes fixed absently on a wallholo of a field of bright red flowers.

Esteemed dancer--how nice.
Her Family chores on New Am had been washing dishes, tending babies, and translating sermons and diaries--

nothing physical; she'd been a very soft fifteen-year-old. It had taken hard work, long hours at the barre and on the floor, enduring pulled muscles and mornings when it hurt to sit up, let alone get out of bed. It had paid off wonderfully last night, though--four solo dances, two ensemble numbers, and three classical duos with David.
David. What am I going to do about
him?

She glanced up as footsteps came toward the waiting room from where the private rooms were located; the steps turned and went in another direction.

Her calves were tight again: She flattened her palms against the wall and stretched them out, then began to pace, occasionally bending her knees and rising onto her toes.

Odd, how little of last night's recital she remembered: The first number, the jazzy solo, was a blur, and so was the second--half a dozen dancers in severe black against a white

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backdrop, moving in static, jerky steps to music from an old film of Dr. Rob's:
On the Waterfront.

And then had followed the first of three ballet duets for her and David. He was the only human male dancer who could partner her, and even he needed the hall's gravity lowered so he could do the lifts from the original Russian choreography. Slender, blond David Esterhazy loved dancing

"Aurora's Wedding" with her. Of course, they'd both loved it--that lush music, the classic choreography culled from one of Madame Elinka's impressive col ection of old dance videos. And audiences and dancers alike adored the trick pose at the end of the duet: the Princess upside down on his leg with her ankles crossed at the level of his ear, both dancers smiling, arms widespread--no visible support keeping Aurora in place. Even knowing how it was done because she often practiced it a dozen times a day, Magdalena still found it amazing.

The footsteps came back from wherever they'd been and headed briskly back toward the recovery rooms. She glanced toward the outer hall as Znaaht flew back into the room and, with a flick of her antennae, vanished into the infirmary.

The Firebird ballet had followed--a small portion of it for her as a solo--then a short piece composed by Serge LaRoche expressly for this conceit.

Madame had put in a long number using all the dancers but herself and David, then, giving her time to change her costume and catch her breath for the finale: the balcony scene from
Romeo and Juliet.

The footsteps were returning, and this time, a white-clad Dr. Rachel Mysuki beckoned her to follow. Magdalena swallowed. "Dr. Mysuki? How--how is Ladessa?"

"She'll be fine," the doctor replied, her voice clipped. Not unfriendly, Magdalena knew: just too busy to waste much time in lengthy conversation.

"She's going into regen as soon as she's had the chance to talk to you, though."

"Keep it short, you mean," Magdalena said with a nod. The doctor's mouth twitched in amusement.

"Just so." She gestured toward one door. "Very short, in fact. I'll be back here in five minutes." Magdalena nodded and went in.

Ladessa was even paler than usual, especially with her short,

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dark red hair tucked behind her ears. A purple bruise covered most of her forehead, and her whole body was immobilized in some kind of plas-and-tape cast. Her eyes were black, all pupil, but she managed a cheerful-looking smile as Magdalena approached the bed. "Hey, you dancer! I was so proud of you last night!"

"Hey, you flyer," Magdalena replied dryly. Normally she hugged the girl when they met; now she didn't want to even chance touching her, stopping well short of the bed and keeping her hands behind her back. Ladessa cautiously wrinkled her nose in amusement.

"It's okay, they've taken care of the pain and nothing's gonna move because of the bodysuit, so you can touch. My nose itches, and I wouldn't mind a little contact that wasn't a doctor right now."

"I'm sorry about this," Magdalena said as she stroked a stray, damp tendril of hair behind the girl's ear, then carefully rubbed the tip of her nose.

"Yeah, so am I. I can't believe how fast it all happened. One minute I'm on top of the world--
and
the glider--and the next, well--here we are, I guess."

She sighed quietly. "Thanks, that helps. It wouldn't be so bad except for Arekkhi,
you
know. They want the Interrelator on planet as soon as they can get us--and I'm going to be forever in here, doing regen."

"Not that long, surely. And not nearly as long as you'd be trying to heal without it," Magdalena reminded her.

"Well, no, I'm exaggerating. But the Emperor and his council have been fussing because everything is taking so long."

"I didn't know that."

"Well, but you know how they feel about even probationary status, don't you?"

She nodded. "They want full status. Period."

"Pride will do that to you," the girl agreed. "Scratch my nose again?"

"Maybe Dr. Rob can lend you Bast until you can use your hands,"

Magdalena suggested, straight-faced.

Ladessa laughed briefly. "Don't think so, her claws are a little too sharp for my tastes, and besides, I'm allergic to cats,

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remember? Even if she'd let anyone but Dr. Rob close to her." She frowned.

"I hope that..."

Magdalena waited; Ladessa shook her head. "What?"

"Nothing. I think Dr. Rob wanted to---never mind." A tap at the door brought the visitor around as Dr. Mysuki came in.

"Five minutes and a little more," she announced crisply. Magdalena turned back to smile at her friend.

"All right, I'll go now. Ladessa--"

"I'll be just fine," the girl said. "And I'll--ah--I'll see you when I get out of regen."

"Shoo," the doctor added firmly. Magdalena went.

The waiting room was empty as she left, this immediate end of the hall deserted. But the general vicinity of Dr. Rob Gable's office was so crowded with students moving from one class to the next that it took her a long time to get from one side of the corridor to the other, to tap on his door.

Khyriz,
she thought with a sudden inner warmth as he called out, "Come in!"

I
have a message from Khyriz
She was smiling as she went in.

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CHAPTER 2

***

Robert Gable was heading for the door just as Magdalena walked in. She jumped, then grinned. "Gee, Dr. Rob, didn't even occur to me to wonder how I heard you all the way through the waiting room!" The school's psychologist was short and slender; and the barely lined face that made him look younger than the gray hairs in his beard suggested, was on a level with Magdalena's.

"A little too wrapped up in last night maybe?" he replied with a warm smile as he gestured for her to precede him through the small, currently unoccupied room into his large inner sanctum.

Automatically, she checked the holos on the far wall as she headed for the comfortable, human-shaped chair currently in front of his desk. One never knew what old movie posters would be displayed in here, but Magdalena privately figured they were changed frequently, and according to whatever was on his mind when an individual student came in to see him. A holo-tank occupied the other empty wall--Rob's communication screen for the outside world, as well as where his "movies" were shown on a weekly basis. Only five days ago, she'd been part of a raucous crowd watching several black-and-white Marx Brothers films; by the time
The Cocoanuts
finished the session, she'd been laughing so hard she could barely breathe.

"But I thought," Rob added from behind her, "that we'd both agreed you'd call me Rob. Since I don't call you Prima

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Bal erina Magdalena." She laughed, then dropped bonelessly into one of the visitors' chairs, slid down on her tailbone until the back of her head rested against the back of the chair, and stretched out her legs, crossing them at the ankles.

To her surprise, there was no poster from any of Madame's impressive collection of ballet vids: No
Swan Lake,
no
Romeo.
No
Kiss of the Spider
Woman.
There
was
a very small, dark picture that she couldn't quite make out, neatly centered among four large holo-posters:
The Scarlet Pimpernel
(there were several versions, but this was the very old, crackly black-and-white version from the early days of "talkies" that was her favorite of those she'd seen);
Scaramouche
(the dashing hero of the French Revolution in his black-and-white harlequin suit, long-nosed white domino mask, sword and plumed hat striking a regal pose at the top of the poster--battling the silver-clad and silver-wigged nobleman who was also his half brother, at the bottom of the holo). Bracketing both, the two mid-twentieth-century versions of
The Prisoner of Zenda,
both of which she'd seen and adored equally: The acting in the black-and-white version had been somewhat better, but the swordplay in the second--and the black-haired actor from
Scaramouche
--