The Crystal Variation Page 7

  Jela’s back-brain applauded the attempt to match this relatively new experience with an unutterably ancient one, and to adjust that template on the fly, as it were.

  The scary thing—and it was scary, on the face of it—was that the template continued to evolve, as if the tree were able to reach into Jela’s own store of memories and capture details it could never have known of and for itself.

  As he watched, the dragon’s wings began to bulge at wing-root—but that was surely because Jela knew the craft on the way was an air-breather for much of the trip and would have engines buried there. Too, the keening of mighty dragons was giving way to not one, but two sets of incoming jet sounds, yet the approaching craft was still some moments beyond the range where any human ears might actually hear them.

  He shivered then, did Jela, and let his attention return to the exact here and now that he breathed in, letting the template fade from his thought. The first craft was on final approach over the distant river and the second was making its turn—and now the engine sounds hit him, waking a touch of nostalgia for the first time he’d flown an air-breather.

  There, the landing gear glinting, and there, the slight flare-out as a moment of ground-effect lift floated the graceful plane a heartbeat above the cermacrete runway.

  A beautifully light landing then, with hardly a sound from the gear and barely a sniff of dust, and the underwhine ratcheting down quickly . . .

  The fuselage hatch opened and two people stood inside, one to a side, as the craft rolled to a stop directly in front of him. The plane obligingly folded its gear to bring Jela within reach of the short step-ramp, and the two inside jumped the final knee height to his side to help him up, each flashing a salute, despite the fact he had no insignia on his near-colorless ‘skins.

  One of the assistants took his kit, the other considered the tree for a moment, decided on the proper way to hoist . . .

  And that quickly was Jela within the plane, and the tree beside him, the only occupants of a small if comfortable passenger cabin. The engines began revving, the plane started rising on its gear to take-off height, and the assistants helped Jela snap into his belts.

  Two more salutes and the assistants stepped off the plane, leaving the tree, taking the kit, and closing the hatch against the sound and the breeze.

  On the wall before him was the flashing “Lift in Progress” sign, but he’d already felt the plane’s gear lock and the motion of the completed turn. He settled in, envisioning—for the tree—what had just occurred, and then relaxed as the craft hurtled down the runway and into the air. The small thwap of the gear-doors closing mirrored a jolt of acceleration, and the nose rose.

  Through the cabin’s small view port he caught a glance of the second craft, now landing. Like this one, it bore no markings.

  “Well,” he said conversationally to the tree, “guess I get a new wardrobe when we get where we’re going!”

  He closed his eyes as the comfortable push of the ship’s lift continued, indicating a pilot in something of a hurry.

  Being neither pilot nor co-pilot, the best thing he might do for the troop at the moment was sleep. Which he did, willingly.

  AS USUAL HE WOKE quickly, finding the plane about him barely an instant after deciding to wake. The afterimage of his working dream was a reprise of his last meeting with the language team. Of all the work—ranging from new and surprisingly interesting methods of killing, to explosives, to studies of maths far beyond those that he’d aspired to—it was the language work which had been a non-stop challenge. And the dream left him with the impression that he still needed work, that his skills were not quite adequate for the task to hand.

  It was then that the craft banked, and the door to the piloting chamber slid open. A voice, somewhat familiar, drifted back.

  “Captain Jela, welcome. Please come forward and take the second seat.”

  Jela unstrapped, pleased. He hated to be bored.

  The flight deck was exactly like the trainers they’d tested him on—no surprise. Nor was the pilot’s face.

  “Commander.” He nodded as he strapped in. Her ‘skins, like his, were without markings, he saw.

  She nodded in return.

  “Your board will be live in a few moments. We’ll hit the boost shortly—but there—see your screen for details. Soon we’ll rendezvous with a ship carrying your crew and you’ll begin simming on your new command.”

  “Your board is live, Captain,” she said quite unnecessarily. “And, as you’ll find in your info pack when we arrive, I am Commander Ro Gayda. Welcome to the real war.”

  PART TWO:

  SMUGGLERS

  EIGHT

  On Board Spiral Dance

  Faldaiza Port

  THE CARGO HAD BEEN waiting, for a wonder, and the loading expeditious, for another. She was scheduled to lift out in what passed for early tomorrow, hereabouts, which meant she had twenty-three hours, ship-time, in which to please her fancy.

  The last few ports had been something short of civilized, by even her standards, so it happened she had a fancy.

  She shut the board down as far as she ever did, having long ago learned not to turn off all the tell-tales and feeds, and never to put all systems in suspend, where she couldn’t grab them out again in a hurry. With her outbound so soon, it really didn’t make much sense to go through the extra half-shifts of shutdown and boot-up anyway.

  While Dancer settled in to doze, she idly watched the local port feed. Some familiar names scrolled by—a bar she knew pretty well, or at least had known pretty well, and a couple jumping-jacks.

  She considered the ‘jacks and shook her head. She was too old to think of paper sheets as anything but a last resort that’d leave her needing to do things right next port. The problem with running a solo ship—and having a reputation for liking it that way—was some folks figured you were always solo, or else somebody whose interests weren’t much in the public way. Mostly, she guessed, she fit that.

  Not that she’d always run solo. Back when she’d been Garen’s co-pilot and they’d done most of their work in the Rim—there’d been some grand flings, back then. She sighed and shook her head again.

  Wasn’t any use thinking about Garen, or about past lusts, either. Nothing good ever came out of thinking about the past.

  Now. Now what brain and body were united in wanting was a time to relax and sleep naked-to-naked, after a couple heavy duty squeezes, some teasing and some sharing . . . Now was when it was hard on a body to be solo.

  Truth told, there’d been more choices, back when. She wasn’t ever going to be a beauty, but she was a pilot, and she damn well came out for fun with plenty of money in a public pocket so she didn’t have to hold out for somebody else wanting to pay.

  Back when, she didn’t have the history of having killed a couple idiots who’d tried to take her ship; she didn’t have a record of being fined and confined for taking on—in a fair fight!—the entire executive section of a battle cruiser and leaving them on hospital leave. Nor did she, then, know that this one beat her co-pilot, and that one stole virgins, and that other one robbed the people he slept with, every one.

  And there she was, thinking about the past again. Brain melt, that’s what it was. Happened when you ran solo too long. Likely, the port cops would find her in her tower, gibbering and wailing, crying over people long dead and vapor, like tears could ever right things.

  She glanced back at the port feed, still scrolling leisurely through the various entertainment options, reached out to tap a key and zoom in on one section.

  Beautiful. Beautiful girls, beautiful boys, beautiful couples. And, the ad said, they delivered. She could have one or a pair brought right here to her, health certificates and all.

  The prospect of having a cute local pro—even a pair of cute local pros—on hand to talk to in the middle of her night warmed her not at all.

  She needed to get out, off-ship, away from metal walls and the sound of her own thoughts. Away from
the past.

  A tap on the keyboard banished the port feed. Another put the lighting back to night-rest. She stood and stretched to her full lean height, then headed for the hatch, snagging her kit-bag out of the empty co-pilot’s chair.

  First, food from something other than ship’s store, maybe with a mild stimulant, to keep the edge on. After that—not ale, not today. Today, she’d have wine. Good wine—or the best on offer. And that food—nothing out of some grab-a-bite. No. She’d have plates, and linens, and pilots. Top of the line, all the way. She could afford it today, which wasn’t always the case.

  By the time she reached the edge of the field, she’d almost convinced herself that she’d have a great time.

  FINDING A ROOM had been easy enough. The clerk at the Starlight Hotel was pleased to reduce her credit chit by a significant sum in return for a room complete with a wide bed, smooth sheets overlain with a quilted coverlet dyed in graduated shades of blue. A deep-piled blue carpet covered the floor; and the personal facilities boasted a single shower and a hand-finished porcelain tub wide enough to hold two, this not being a world which was exactly short on water.

  She stowed her bag, had a quick shower, hesitated over maybe putting on something a little fancier than ‘skins, decided that safety came first on Faldaiza, and headed out. The sweet smell of the hotel soaps and cleansers clung to her, distracting until she forgot them in her search for the rest of the list, which had proved unexpectedly difficult to fulfill.

  The first fancy eatery she approached advertised all kinds of exotic and expensive food-and-drinkables, but she caught the gleam of armor ‘skins as she approached and decided against. The next place, the woman holding the door acted like maybe pilot ‘skins smelled bad, and the third place was standing room only with a line out the door.

  She was about to give up on food and move on to wine and companionship, when she happened on The Alcoves.

  It didn’t look so fancy as the others, but the menu scrolling over the door promised fresh custom-made meals at not-ruinous prices, and a list of wines she recognized as on the top level of good.

  She squared her shoulders and walked in.

  The master of the dining room wore a sleeveless formal tunic, the vibrant green tats of his Batch glowed against the pale skin of his forearms, short gloves and hosen, all shimmering with embedded smartstrands.

  “Pilot,” he said, with a gratifyingly respectful bow of the head. “What service may this humble person be pleased to provide?”

  “A meal,” she said, slipping a qwint out of her public pocket. “Company, if a pilot’s asked.”

  He palmed the coin deftly and consulted his log.

  “There is one guest who has requested the pleasure of sharing his meal with a fellow pilot, should one inquire. Happily, he has only recently achieved a table, so your meals may be coordinated.”

  She felt something in her chest she hadn’t known was knotted up ease a little and realized how much she had wanted another face, another voice, another self across the table from her. Someone who spoke the language of piloting, who knew what it was like to pour your life into your ship . . .

  She inclined a little from the waist.

  “I would be pleased to accept an introduction to this pilot,” she told the master formally, and waited while he made a note in his log with one hand and raised the other, the strands of the glove glowing briefly.

  From the curtain at his back, another Batcher appeared, also in smart formals, the same glow-green tats on her arms, her face an exact replica of the man’s.

  “This pilot joins the pilot seated in the Alcove of Singing Waters,” the master said, and the waiter bowed.

  “If the pilot would consent to enter,” she murmured, and stepped back, sweeping the curtain aside with a tattooed arm.

  She stepped into a wide hallway floored in gold-threaded white tiles. A subtle sound behind told her that the curtain had fallen back into place, and she turned slightly as the attendant approached.

  “If the pilot will follow this unworthy one,” the Batcher murmured and passed on, silent in gilded sandals.

  Her boots made slightly more noise as she followed the Batcher, passing alcoves at measured distances. Across the entrance of each hung a curtain heavy with sound absorbing brocade.

  She had counted eight such alcoves on her right hand. At the ninth, her guide paused and placed her gloved palm against the drawn curtain.

  Some signal must have been traveled from the brocade to the strands in the gloves and thence to the attendant herself, for she drew back the curtain slightly and made a bow.

  “This one requests the guest’s forbearance,” the Batcher said softly. “A pilot comes to share food with a pilot, if this is still desired.”

  In the hall and some steps behind, for decency’s sake, she heard nothing from the room in response to this, but the answer must have been in the affirmative, for the attendant pulled the curtain wider and beckoned.

  “Pilot, if you please. The pilot welcomes you.”

  She went forward, walking easy, keeping her—specifically empty—hands out where they could be seen. On the edge of the alcove, she paused, letting the light outline her, giving the other pilot—and herself too, truth told—a last chance to have a change of requirement.

  The man seated in the lounger next to the wall of flowing water that apparently gave the alcove its name was dark in the hair and lean in the face. From the breadth of his shoulders she judged he’d top her not-inconsiderable height, but when he stood up to do the polite, she found herself looking down into eyes as black as the empty space beyond the Rim. His ‘skins were dark, and it was hard to definitively decide where the man ended and the dim room began.

  “Pilot,” he said, and his voice was a clear tenor. “In peace, be welcome.”

  There weren’t many who would violate the terms of peaceful welcome, and if the small big man was one, well—she had long ago learned to err on the side of mistrust.

  So. “Pilot,” she answered. “I’m pleased to share a peaceful interlude.”

  Behind her, she heard the curtain fall. Anything that was said between them now would be absorbed and erased by the brocades. Unless there were paid listeners, of course . . .

  “The room sweeps clean,” the other pilot told her, reading the thought on her face, maybe—or maybe just naturally assuming she’d want to know and looking to save her the effort of scanning.

  As it happened, her ‘skins were on auto-scan and, lacking a warning tone, she decided to take his word for the conditions.

  “That’s good news,” she said and came another step into the room. “I’m Cantra.”

  “Welcome,” he said again, and gestured toward the loungers by the water. “I’m Jela. I sent for a bottle of wine, which should be here soon. In fact, I thought you must be it. No doubt the house will provide another glass, if you’d care to share a drink before the meal?” He raised a broad, brown hand, fingers spread.

  “You understand, I have a forgiving schedule, and set myself the goal of a leisurely meal. If your time is limited . . .”

  “I’ve got a few local hours to burn,” she said. “Wine and a relax would be—something a lot like nothing I’ve had lately.”

  He grinned at that, showing white, even teeth, and again indicated the loungers. “Have a seat, then, and listen to the singing waters, for if I’m not mistaken—” A gong sounded, softly, from the brocaded ceiling.

  “Enter!” Jela called, and the curtain parted for the female Batcher, bearing a tray holding a bottle of wine and two glasses.

  Cantra sat down and let the lounger cradle her body. Jela sought the chair opposite and the attendant brought the wine to the table between them. She had the seal off efficiently and poured a mite of pale gold into each glass, handing the first to Jela, the second to Cantra.

  Passing the glass beneath her nose brought her a rush of scent and a growing conviction that she was in the right place.

  She sipped: sharp citru
s flavors burst on her tongue, followed by a single note of sweetness.

  “I’m pleased,” Jela said to the attendant. “Pilot?”

  “I’m—pleased,” she replied, handing her glass back to the attendant with a smile. “And pleased to have more.”

  This was accomplished without undue fuss. Both pilots being accommodated, the attendant bowed.

  “This humble person exists to serve,” she said. “What may it please the pilots to order from our available foods?” She placed her gloved hands together and drew them slowly open. In the space between her palms, words formed—the house’s menu.

  Jela ordered leisurely, giving Cantra time to peruse the offerings and settle on the incredible luxury of a fresh green salad, non-vat fish steak, and fresh baked bread.

  The attendant bowed, closed the menu and departed, silently slipping past the brocade curtain.

  Cantra sipped her wine, relishing the flavors and the layers of taste. Across from her, the man—Pilot Jela—he sipped, too, cuddled deep in his lounger, forcefully projecting the impression of a man relaxed, indolent, and slow.

  She having projected just such impressions herself from time to time in the interests of not frightening the grounders—maybe she was a little too aware of what he was doing. It might have been polite, not to notice. But it irritated her, to be treated like a know-nothing, and she brought her glass down to rest against her knee.

  “You don’t have to go to all that trouble for me,” she said. “Pilot.”

  There was a short space of charged silence, as if he weren’t used to being called on his doings, then a nod—neither irritable nor apologetic.

  “Old habits,” was what he said, and lifted his glass to sip with a respect that she registered as real. The relaxation he showed now was properly tempered and much more restful to the both of them, she was sure.

  They sat quiet for a while then, each sipping, and letting the water whisper its song down the wall and disappear.

  “Where are you in from, if it can be told, Pilot Cantra?”

  “Chelbayne,” she answered. Nothing to hide there, now that she was away, the cargo delivered and the fee paid. “Yourself?”