Plan B Read Free Page A

with his. "We speak of the same situation, cha'trez. Liadens . . . Liadens are very formal. Very—structured. There are six ways to ask forgiveness—six different postures, six distinct phrases, and six separate bows—and none of the six is what a Terran would call an apology . Apologies are—very rare." He pushed at his hair again, leaning back.

    "You speak Low Liaden—adequately. You have some High Liaden from book-study—enough to get by, I think, if we merely work together on your accent. But language is such a small part of communication, Miri! It is as if I gave you pellets, but failed of giving you the gun."

    She closed her eyes; opened them. "You studied this Code-thing, right?"

    "Right." He was watching her, very wary. "I grew up in the culture; studied the Code through sleep-learning to correct my understanding of nuance; took what I had learned and shaped it in keeping with my own melant'i. Your melant'i is not mine, Miri. I cannot teach you how to present it. But your lifemate may counsel you on how best to guard it."

    "Is there a book?" She was conscious of her breath—shortened and half-desperate—of blood pounding in her ears and sweat on her palms. "Can I study it out of a book, and then you and me can work on the accent?" Does it have to, HAVE to be sleep-learning, gods?

    "The—book—is actually several volumes," Val Con said softly; "several large volumes. I used to stand on them to reach the top shelf in my uncle's study, when I was a child."

    "Must've been an easier way up than that," Miri said, half-grinning.

    "There was," he said repressively; "but I was forbidden to climb the bookshelves. My uncle was quite clear on the point."

    She laughed. "That uncle of yours had his share of trouble."

    "It is true that Shan and I tended to embrace—inappropriate—necessities," he murmured; "but Nova was quite well-behaved as a child." A ripple of the shoulders. "Mostly."

    Miri choked back another laugh. "What about the baby? Anthora? She as bad as the rest of you, or did your uncle get some sleep?"

    "Ah, well, Anthora has always been Anthora, you see. Her necessities are often on another plane altogether." He tipped his head, green eyes very bright. "What distresses you, Miri?"

    "I—" Hell, hell, HELL and damnation! Memory triggered and for an instant she was in the stifling cubicle in Surebleak Port, fourteen, brain-burned and reeling; and the tech was telling Liz, "I'm sorry, Commander. Doesn't look like she can take sleep-learning."

    "Miri?" The fingers brushing her cheek were warm; out of the present, not the past. "Cha'trez, please."

    "I can't." She swallowed; focused on his face. " Can't , boss, get it? Liz took me to a Learning Shop in Surebleak Port to tack on Trade before we left planet. Damn near killed me. Tech said—said I couldn't take it. Sleep-learning. Found out later that—defectives—can't take the—strain on their brains." She managed a wobbling grin. "I know I'm not supposed to tell you I'm stupid. . ."

    "Nor are you defective." He stroked her cheek, her forehead; lay his fingers lightly along her lips and then let them drop, eyes troubled. "Tell me, were you given a physical before you took the program?"

    She shook her head. "Just plugged in and left alone. It started to hurt—I remember screaming, trying to rip the wires out—"

    He frowned. "Why not use the dead-man switch?"

    "What dead-man switch?"

    Anger, jolting as an electric shock— his , not hers; then his voice, very calmly. "A dead-man switch is required in all sleep-learning modules. Lack of the switch would cost a Learning Shop its license to operate."

    Miri closed her eyes, suddenly very tired. "So, who checks licenses on Surebleak?"

    Silence; then a sigh and the warmth of his fingers closing around hers. "Let us go to the 'doc, cha'trez."

     

    She stood quietly at his shoulder while he made the inquiry, in Trade, so she could read it: MIRI ROBERTSON: PROGNOSIS FOR SLEEP LEARNING.

    The