Shadow World (4 page)

"Why me?" he countered. "I'm sure there are plenty of other [people who would enjoy the opportunity." As he finished, Mark seemed to realize how rude that sounded, and amended, ("Sorry, no offense, but I'm just not in the mood." His hazel eyes were shadowed and unhappy.

¦
He looks like he hasn't got a friend in the universe,
Cara thought. "I can see that," she said, "but that's exactly why I want to interview you. You see, I'm doing a documentary, and every student I interviewed today, Mizari, Simiu, Chhhh-kk-tu, human, whatever, they all told me how wonderful StarBridge is and how much they love it here. I'm sure that's true, but as a journalist, I know it can't be true all the time."

"So you're looking for the other side of the story?" "Right!"

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"Well, I'm not it. I agree with the rest of them. The Academy is great." He took a determined bite of his sandwich.

"It didn't look so great for you in the hall today," Cara said bluntly.

Mark stopped chewing and stared at her, then shrugged. "School is school, no matter where. You don't do your assignments, you get a lecture."

"But isn't it weird to get that lecture from a big snake?"

For the first time strong emotion flared in the young man's hazel eyes; he glared at her indignantly. "We don't have
snakes
here, Ms. Hendricks. We have
people.
If you're going to do a documentary on this place, you need to get ideas like that out of your head. In fact, it's that kind of humanchauvinist bigoted thinking that this school is dedicated to--"

He broke off, staring hard at her. "Wait a minute. You didn't mean that ... you were just getting a rise out of me."

"Very quick," Cara said approvingly. "For a fish that bit the line hard, you sure spit the hook right back out. I used to go fishing a lot back home," she added in response to his quizzical look. "In the Appalachian wilderness park, only hour's hop from home. I'm from Old NorthAm. Southeast!

Metroplex--Atlanta division. How about you?"

"Uh ... Earth. Old NorthAm." He didn't say what part.

"Look, I apologize for baiting you," Cara said. "I do understand the school's mission. I've read Mahree Burroughs'
First Contacts
three times, and admired the whole idea of this school ever since the project was first proposed."

He smiled wryly, but at least there was genuine humor in it. "When Rob Gable and Esteemed Ssoriszs first proposed the school, you were still in diapers. I was barely four."

She grinned back. "Okay, point conceded. But I do agree wholeheartedly with the StarBridge mission. However, a good journalist tries to examine all angles to a story. No place in the universe is perfect, right?" Mark had stiffened up again so she shrugged and waved reassuringly. "Okay, never mind. Let's just chat a minute. Off the record."

"Off the record?" Mark asked skeptically, but then he sighed and smiled again. "Okay, I surrender."

"Great! Thanks," said Cara. "For one thing, I'm trying to boil down all the information I learned today into quick

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expotion for my viewers. Everyone knows about the human students who are telepaths, and are studying to go out on the exploratory ships. But lots of people on Earth are still foggy about the distinction between translators and interrelators. So will you correct me if I'm wrong?" she requested.

He nodded.

"Okay. Translators major in languages, perhaps as many as four or even five different ones. They learn to translate accurately and rapidly, and after graduation, most of them wind up working for the CLS on Shassiszss for several years. Right?"

"You've got it. After translators work for a while as interpreters, they're apt to go on to other professions--medicine, interstellar law"--he nodded at Cara--"interstellar journalism--you name it."

She made a note using her computerpen. "Good. Now, the interrelators ...

they learn only one or maybe two other languages, aside from the basic Mizari everyone has to know just to attend here. But they learn more than just a world's language. They learn about the people, the history, the cultures
of
a planet. Right?"

"Basically. But it's more than that, even. Interrelators study the laws, social customs, mores, taboos--all facets of the culture and the forces that shaped it. An interrelator's goal is to be prepared to live on an alien world, as part of the diplomatic team. They learn to truly understand the point of view, the
mind-set
of another species."

Mark smiled faintly, obviously reminiscing. "My friend Tesa--she's out working as an interrelator now, on Trinity-- used to say that interrelators were the best guarantee against the type of exploitation that resulted in the eradication of far too many races back on Earth hundreds of years ago."

"But most of the diplomatic teams currently operating aren't StarBridge graduates," Cara pointed out.

"That's true, and it's caused problems, believe me. Don't forget that StarBridge was only founded six years ago. But eventually, Rob and Esteemed Ssoriszs hope that all ambassadors will be Academy graduates."

"So what are you studying to be?" Cara thought she'd guessed, but wanted to hear it from him.

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His eyes grew shadowed once more, and he glanced away. "An

interrelator," he said, sounding as if the admission were dragged out of him forcibly.

"What year are you in?"

"I'm due to start my fifth year in two months."

She did a quick calculation. "So that makes you ... what? Nineteen?"

"I'll be twenty in a month or so."

"You said you'll be beginning the fifth year. That's a long time to be away from home. Don't you miss Earth?"

He shrugged, then shook his head, not meeting her eyes. "Not much."

"Someone else told me today that each student is allowed to take a long break during either the third, fourth, or fifth year, if he or she wants. But she also told me that many students elect not to take that break, since it takes six months just for the travel time, and most of them don't want to lose nearly a year. What did you decide to do? Did you take the long break?"

Mark's expression froze. He began feeding his dishes into the table's recycling slot. "I've just realized how late it's getting," he said abruptly. "Look, it was nice meeting you."

"Wait!" Cara protested. "Did I say something wrong? Is it about the breaks?

Did you lose your chance to take one because of your academic problems?"

she guessed, remembering the scene in the hallway.

"You journalists never let go, do you?" He stood up. "Get him talking, you figured, and eventually work back around to his personal life. Well, I don't consider that subject to be any of your business--or any of your viewers'

business, either!"

Cara flushed, glad that, with her coloring, Mark probably couldn't tell. She
had
been trying to draw him out, that was true. But she'd said "off the record,"

and she'd meant it. She hadn't activated her autocam while they'd been talking.
What's he so damned touchy about?
she wondered, feeling a stir of righteous anger.

"I'm sorry if that's what you think of me," she said, keeping her voice level.

"What I thought is that StarBridge students would be eager to talk about their school and their lives here, proud of what they're doing. Not defensive. And certainly not

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downright rude." Glaring at him, she finished sarcastically, "Is that what they teach you here? To be nasty?" As soon as the words left her mouth, Cara was instantly

ashamed. A good journalist was supposed to be objective, but she'd let Mark's attitude get under her skin. As her taunts

penetrated, he actually flinched.

"I'm sorry," she began hastily. "I didn't mean to--"

But Mark was already moving. He mumbled something at her, something that sounded like "not the school's fault," before he disappeared out the door.

A nightmare woke Mark again that night. He jerked up in the bed with a stifled shout, his heart pounding violently. It took a second or two to realize he was awake, and then, shuddering, he waved up the lights.

He rubbed his eyes blearily, then managed to focus.
Look at this mess,
dammit!
He used to be reasonably neat. Now there were clothes, cassettes, dirty laundry, and half-eaten snacks everywhere.

With a long sigh, Mark crawled out of bed and began to pick up the stuff littering the floor. Better to straighten up the mess than to dwell on his problems.

But his mind wouldn't cooperate, and when he found the message-cassette on the floor under the desk, his memory played it back to him with cruel clarity:

"Mark, honey, I received your hologram yesterday," he could almost hear his mother say. "So much nicer than just an audio, even if it is more expensive."

But she had sent only an audio message herself.
That alone should have
made me suspicious,
he thought. He was sure now that she had not wanted him to see the ravages of her illness in her face.

Shit, Mom, you didn't have to work so hard to hide the truth. I probably
wouldn't have noticed, no matter what kind of message you sent ... unless,
maybe, you'd held up a sign.

In his hologram Mark had told his mother he'd decided not to take the long break StarBridge allowed at the end of his fourth year, as they'd originally planned. "The trip to Earth takes so long," he'd said. "And if I forgo the break, I can start right into my last year; it'll move the whole program and 26

graduation up earlier. Mom, I'll definitely come home for a good long visit after that," he'd promised, knowing how much she'd missed her only child these past four years.

How comfortless, bitter even, that promise must have sounded to her! Mark clenched his fingers on the cassette until his knuckles whitened. It hadn't been until weeks later, when Rob Gable called him in to gently break the news, that he'd learned that his mother knew--had known all year--that she was dying.

It didn't matter that even had he taken his break, he wouldn't have made it home in time. What mattered was that he had taken away her hope of seeing him for the last time. What mattered was that in all her messages during that last year, he'd never once picked up on her desperation and the need behind her increasingly frequent references to his trip home. What mattered was that he'd even missed the ring of finality in some of the things she'd said in her last communication.

How can I be a hotshot interrelator, someone who specializes in
understanding the other person's viewpoint, if I can't even figure out that my
own mother is dying?

Mark flung the cassette against the far wall so hard its cover cracked. He froze, wondering if he'd damaged it ... then decided he didn't really want to know, not right at the moment.

He had to get out of that room. Cautiously Mark opened his door and stepped into the living area he shared with Hamir. It was empty and silent, and the door to the other bedroom was closed. With a sigh of relief that his suitemate hadn't awakened, Mark slipped out into the main corridor.

He took a long walk through the dimly lit hallways of the Academy's artificial night. Night wanderings had become almost routine these past couple of months, and Mark's feet led him automatically to his usual final destination, the observation dome.

Thoughtfully, for a long time, he stared upward at the glowing stars, mulling over the choice that had haunted him for weeks now. It lay at the root of his inner turmoil and, Mark recognized, was probably the main reason he hadn't been able to share his feelings with Sulinda lately. His feelings lay too close to the path of his decision, a decision that had to be made by

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him alone--a decision that it was time to stop postponing.

Some will say I'm taking the coward's way out by quitting,
Mark thought. He knew differently, knew what the cost would be to him for the rest of his life.

But he had to consider the consequences, not only to him but to others; he had to do the right thing.

And so he made up his mind.

And to think there was a time when I was naive enough to think that
administering a school would be a dull job,
Rob Gable thought with a wry smile as he strode toward his office the following morning, with Cara Hendricks at his side. The school's Chief Psychologist almost voiced the thought aloud, but caught himself, remembering that the girl was a journalist.

Rob had been burned by the press enough times in his youth to have learned caution, even when the reporters seemed as pleasant and ethical as this young woman.

Rob liked Cara and was impressed by her work. He knew that she was hoping that their interview this morning would include his reminiscing about the past, and his relationship with Mahree ... and Claire, their daughter ... but it wouldn't. Rob Gable didn't talk on the record about the things that were most important to him.

With one exception ... this school.

StarBridge Academy was his baby, nearly as much as his twelve-year-old daughter. The doctor cheerfully seized every opportunity to be interviewed about the Academy, eager to keep its goals before the public eye. StarB

ridge
had
to succeed. Effective diplomacy and peaceful negotiations were no longer just ideals--they were essential. The explored universe was now a place where modern technology could wipe out an entire planet in less time than it took Rob's students to finish an evening's studies.

A Simiu student came barreling down the corridor at a headlong gallop.

"Dakk'ahrrr," Rob growled, his throat protesting against the harshness of the Simiu syllables, "in the name of honor,
slow down!"

The student skidded slightly as she hastily moderated her pace. "Apologies, Honored HealerGable," she yipped back over her shoulder.

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Rob nodded and waved her on with a resigned expression. "Freshmen!" he muttered to Cara, shaking his head.

She smiled and nodded sympathetically, but her attention was clearly divided. This morning Cara wore a voder, a Mizari-designed one resembling a jeweled ear cuff more than an extremely sophisticated translation device, and the largest part of her attention was given to the conversations going on all around her.