- Prologue

Dispensary

Anlingdin Piloting Academy

Floor tile can be very interesting, especially when it's a floor carefully, nay, perfectly set with borders of local stones from local artisans, and then sealed and bonded with a transparent, diamond-hard finish. The subtle blues and greys, combined with a flash of silver and the rare but welcome reds and oranges created a free-form flowing image of waterfall and fish, or stream and birds, depending on the focus of the eye, and the angle of the light.

Theo sat, staring at the beautiful work, thinking, When you have a school or college and someone gives you money to name a hall after their particular heroic family member, you can do that kind of stuff, like make a med clinic into a work of art.

Here, the floor did not merely meet the walls, it curved up and seamlessly became the wall. No errant dirt allowed, no buildup of dust, no collection point for contagion, no dimming of the beautiful floor of Sturtevan Hall's dispensary.

Theo sat in a chair, sorb-pad held to the side of her face, tension singing from her shoulders, studying the pattern of the tile, doing her best not to think too much about how she'd managed to get into a fight. She never got into fights. Well, not that often . . . and that made the tile much more interesting until the attendant came back with the med techs.

They'd shaved her hair on the left and a patch a little higher to get at the cut, the slender med tech with his grad-student tags soothing her with his quiet voice and gentle fingers as the other wielded the shave wand with dexterity.

'We have permission then, to heal these problems?'

When he said that he pulled back so she could see his startling grey eyes and serious gold-toned face. He drew his hand down the side of her face in front of her ear, perhaps illustrating these problems.

She nodded, her fingers repeating yes.

He sighed, the corners of his mouth quirking.

'Were you speechless, I would accept, but you are not speechless and we must both hear you say so; it is in the nature of being witness to each other, you understand.' Again he gently touched her face. 'So, I may heal these problems?'

'Yes,' she managed, 'you may heal this problem.'

'That is well said, Theo Waitley. No concussion for you, and none I hear for the gentleman in the next room. You may relax, please.'

She tried, thinking of a dance Bek had taught her, all languid circles and limpid ovals, but the sleepy patterns kept morphing into the sharper moves of defense dance.

'It is adrenaline,' the tech murmured lightly. 'You are well served. Here, let me look again.'

He bent close; she could hear his breathing. He spoke several syllables she didn't understand, to which the other tech made a quick reply. She heard the rustle of a lab coat, and from the corner of her eye saw a small object trade hands.

'Please, then, sit back, and be comfortable. Two steps here, if you will pull your patience together.'

She smiled and managed a weak laugh, nodding. He bent forward again, his voice so low it almost put her to sleep.

'This is fine, this is fine, ah, in a twelve-day your boyfriend will kiss it and all will be well. A clean cut after all, which the blood has cleansed, as it should. This, this stings, in a moment, but it will be well.'

Theo shivered then, the sudden thought of having Win Ton being close enough to touch her face reminding her somehow that now she had a lot of explaining to do, to Father, Win Ton, to Cho. To Kamele!

She heard the other med tech giggle something about Theo 'needing a boyfriend with quick moves' and then there came the zzzizzizit of a cool spray, which, after a moment, did sting. When her concentration came back the med tech with the spray said said, 'A moment, Theo Waitley, let me check the scalp here; your muscles are quite tense.'

His fingers touched her scalp above and then behind her ear, traced a curve down toward her shoulder.

'Dancer,' he said, so soft he was probably talking to himself. Theo relaxed under his touch.

'You will wish to dance gently tomorrow and the next day—call it a prescription: you must dance gently. You should dance every day. This will be good practice, for as a courier pilot you will need to stand as ready as you did today. A moment more, if you please, Theo Waitley; you will relax, we will together permit these muscles to relax even more . . .'

He did something with his hands, touching one close to the affected area and one to the other side of her head, spreading warmth—

'One additional therapy,' he said gently, 'and your skin will find itself and we shall soothe it together and cover with just a slight tape . . . she who flies gliders, these muscles we need to relax, we need them to relax so that the parts of you go together properly. You need not always be on the verge of fight, which is wearing and tenses muscles. So, accepting the capability to act, that is good. What is needed, now, is for you to let these muscles relax, to let the skin be natural. This is how we refuse scars the opportunity to form. Let you dance a moment in your head, with your eyes closed, the move that most powers you, then the move that most relaxes you.'

With eyes closed she saw Win Ton, dancing beside her, his eyes glinting mischief; felt her own move in response to his joy and the pattern—and sighed.

'Yes, that is fine, that is fine. Ah, excellent, let those emotions work for you. And now the coolmister . . .'

There came another zzzizzizit of spray, like fog on her face, and the touch of fingers and a flower smell that reminded her of bluebells and Coyster and home.

When she opened her eyes, the grey eyes of the med tech were surprisingly close, as if he were watching her whole face and person.