“Liaden Scout” must now be seen as a misnomer, for to become a Scout is to become other than Liaden. It is to turn one's face from the homeworld and enter a state of philosophy where all custom, however alien, is accepted as equally just and fitting.
We are told by certain instructors that not everyone may aspire to—nor all who aspire, attain—that particular degree of philosophical contrariness required of those who are said to have “Scout's eyes.”
For this we must rejoice, and allow the Scouts full honor for having in the past provided refuge for the disenfranchised, the adventurous and the odd.
—Excerpted from remarks made before the Council of Clans
by the chairperson of the Coalition to Abolish the Liaden Scouts
“A wager,” Aelliana repeated. “You fabricated an entire person—for a wager?”
“Well,” he said apologetically, “at first, it didn't seem so difficult—comparative linguistics was near enough to a portion of a Scout's course of study. By the time the wager had come against its deadline, Kiladi had defended his first degree and taught a seminar or two, and it seemed impossible that I just stop. He had colleagues, correspondents, students—in a word, he would be missed, poor fellow. I could scarcely murder him out of hand.” He sipped, and admitted, “Besides, I was curious to know how long he might support himself.”
Aelliana reached for her glass and sipped wine. It was not very good wine, being what was on offer at the Pilots Mart, but it was well enough for its purpose.
“How long has Scholar Kiladi persisted?”
He sighed. “Nearly fifteen Standards. I admit, it will be hard to end the Scholar's life.” In fact, it was remarkably dismaying, the thought that Kiladi would no longer be with him. It was not as if the scholar had been a constant companion; his needs were modest: time and resources for his researches, and leave to produce his papers and keep current with his correspondence . . .
“Why must you?” Aelliana asked, fortuitously breaking this increasingly bleak line of thought.
“The terms of the wager were that the fabrication might continue only until it was discovered. Even though he has far outlived the circumstance that birthed him, he has been found out, and thus is forfeit.”
She shook damp hair back from her face.
“But he has not been found out,” she said. “The man on the port just now—Chames Dobson—he admitted a likeness, but was convinced at the last that you were not his teacher.”
“Be it as may be, yet you are wise to Kiladi's secret, Aelliana.”
“Yes, but I am your lifemate,” she answered serenely.
“Are you?” he asked, softly.
She frowned. “Am I not?”
“In the eyes of the world, you are not until there is a contract between us,” he said, and wondered at himself, that he pushed this point at her now.
Her frown became more pronounced.
“That is a separate issue,” she said sternly. “Which I am not prepared to discuss. At the fore is Scholar Kiladi's life. Has he a resume? A bibliography?”
“He has. Shall I download his file for you from the Scholar Base?”
“There is no need to trouble yourself; I have an account.”
She rose, taking her glass with her.
It was no small effort to keep his tongue behind his teeth and his posture inoffensive. Aelliana was plainly annoyed with him and he had no wish to provoke her further.
“I will want an hour alone,” she said.
He bowed his head. “Of course, Pilot.”
* * *
Jen Sar Kiladi's bibliography was extensive. She was by no means an expert in his fields, but that mattered not at all. His work had been studied—not to say scrutinized—by those who were expert, and had formed the basis for further illuminations and scholarship.
The words brilliant, radical, original were more often than not the descriptors applied to Scholar Kiladi's work. There was of course a leavening of popinjay, recluse, and dangerous madman from his detractors, but those served more to relieve than alarm her. A scholar who did not make collegial enemies was a scholar who was not exercising his intellect to its fullest extent.
It might seem odd that a Liaden had taken all of his degrees at Terran universities, but it appeared that Scholar Kiladi had originated upon a Terran world which also housed a lesser Liaden population. This early living astride two cultures, so he had written in his supplication letter to the Admitting Officer at Dobrin University, was what had first excited his interest in the field of cultural genetics, an interest that had only deepened as he pursued his degrees first in comparative linguistics and then in the dynamics of diaspora.
She requested half-a-dozen papers from various stages of his career and skimmed them, finding evidence of a supple mind and subtle thought. His arguments were solid, his presentation confiding and occasionally playful. His conclusions, while sometimes risky, in her sample never lacked the support necessary to their weight.
In fact, Scholar Kiladi was brilliant, Aelliana thought, leaning back in her chair and looking at last to the copilot's station, where Daav sat cross-legged; freshly showered and relaxed in a long-sleeved sweater and soft pants, his hair loose and fresh along his shoulders.
No, she thought—not relaxed. Daav was awaiting her judgment, and he was . . . concerned of what it might be.
