"It is," Dulsey said eagerly, "a most exhilarating and involving task, Pilot. But the mines are not
all
filled with antiquities, you know. Some of them—a great many of them—are still being worked."
Jela frowned. Lorit hadn't mentioned that. "Worked? What are they bringing out of the ground here?"
"Timonium," Cantra said laconically, and Jela felt ice down his spine.
Something must have leaked out onto his face, judging by the frown Cantra gave him. Dulsey, though, had noticed nothing amiss and was continuing to talk about the Uncle's project, as animated and energetic as he had ever seen her. Freedom, he thought, agreed with her.
"So rich is the area," she was saying, "that we have already extracted more artifacts than we can ship ourselves. Only today, we had been talking of perhaps sending the ship on with two of us to pilot while the second pair remained to continue the work. Such a solution would be less than ideal, for Arin is our back-up pilot, and his skill with the old records is crucial to the success of the project. However, if you and Pilot Cantra might take our few cansloads to the stockpile, then we might all remain at Vanehald."
"Sounds like it might could be worked out," Cantra said, rising and stretching to her full, long height. "Pilot Jela and me'll talk about it, Dulsey, and let you know."
"When?" asked Dulsey, "for I do not hide from you, Pilots, that time is not plentiful."
"I'll come talk to you tomorrow morning," Jela said, rising in his turn and smiling impartially all around. "Where will I find you?"
"Anytime after dawn, at Shaft Four-Four-Eight on the north end. There is a comm-box by the entrance. Call down when you arrive and I will come up to you."
"Suits," Jela said, and dared to look Cantra directly in the eyes, much good it did him. "Pilot?"
She moved her shoulders. "Your call," she said, like she didn't really care and likely, Jela thought, she didn't. She gave the gathered Batchers a cordial, insincere smile. "Good to see you, again, Dulsey. Arin, we'll be talking about that Balance." She nodded at the other two, added a "Pilot," and moved off toward the street, Jela right behind.
"Tomorrow?" Cantra murmured as they walked through the port, by silent agreement heading toward the outer gate, the ship yard and
Dancer
.
"Tomorrow," he asserted, and shot her a sideways glance. "Seems my date was off by a bit."
They walked a few steps in silence while she digested this, then, "I never knew you to have a slack memory, though I guess the stress of the last whiles might've addled your brain."
"Might have," he agreed, "but the medic confirms my recollection—I should be decommissioned over the next couple days."
"But you're not—- because?"
"Well, now, the medic seems inclined to blame the peculiar circumstances of my birth for introducing an anomaly which is only just now showing up. But I don't think we need to look any further than the tree."
Cantra sent him a look.
"The tree's keeping you alive?"
"The tree's been feeding me seedpods as fast as it could grow them," he said, talking it out to see if still made sense. "In fact, it could be that it had to produce those pods
too
fast, so there's less virtue in them, and that's why I've got a few extra months instead of the second half of a natural human life." He shot her a sidewise glance. "It's not much of a tree, after all."
Cantra didn't say anything.
"I think the tree's practicing biochemistry," he continued, figuring he might as well finish his reasoning out. "Life-extending drugs for me; a psychotropic conditioner for you..."
"Two for me," she corrected quietly. "Right before I let Maelyn tay'Nordif have her life, the tree gave me a pod to eat. I thought it was a going-away present, something to maybe comfort me, but if what you're thinking is true, it produced a good approximation of the trance-drug. All the time telling me as how it and you wouldn't let me fall—- you'd bring me on home and everything would be happy-fine."
"I saw the antidote to the scholar work," Jela said. "You went from berserk to calm sleep inside six heartbeats, and then the tree insisted that I tell you stories." He sent her another glance, and found her watching him seriously. "The only story I could think to tell you was the story of who you were. I was ...afraid... I didn't know enough to bring you back."
They were at the base of
Dancer's
ramp. Cantra gripped his arm. "You knew enough," she said huskily, then let him go and ran lightly up to the hatch.
EXUBERANT IMAGES HIT him as he came into the tower: A thousand dragons dancing against a brilliant sky, trees swaying in a warm wind, branches spread to receive nourishment from the local star...
Cantra walked over and leaned on the back of the pilot's chair, arms crossed, pose non-committal. Jela went to the tree, saw the branch bent under the weight of a pod, the aroma promising all measure of good things, and reminding him of that first pod, given so long ago, that had sealed the promise between them.
His mouth watered; he wanted the pod, and what harm, he thought, would it do?
A dark shadow passed over the dragons dancing in his head, gliding lazily toward the sun-sated trees. A branch rose, and it settled—the black dragon, its scales iridescent in the downpour of light. Jela caught the impression of age—vast age—and a breadth of wisdom entirely unlike that of an elder tree.
"No," he said softly. "I appreciate the effort, but it's a bad solution. You'll use yourself up trying to keep me alive past design. A good soldier knows when a battle's not winnable, when he needs to cut his losses and rebuild his resources, so he can win a greater battle, later. You're a good soldier, from a long line of good soldiers, and I'm not telling you anything you don't know."
Silence from the tree; the dancing dragons, the sunny, joyous day vanished from his consciousness, replaced by that mental tenseness which meant the tree was paying attenion. Hard."Right," he said. "Remember you held a whole planet against everything the
sheriekas
had—held it when you were too young to leave the nursery. But you were the last soldier the world had, and duty called you up. That duty still holds you, like it holds me. And my duty doesn't allow me to steal from a comrade—and never from a brother-in-arms."
Slowly, an image: The old black dragon perched on one side of a gargantuan nest, the slim golden dragon on the other. Inside, a small creature slept curled, while the sun gently dried its wings.
"Is that true?" Cantra's voice was quiet.
The image repeated, which might have been taken for yes. Jela sighed and looked across to her.
"I don't know how it could be," he said. "It said something similar to me, once. I took it to be more general—it'll stand its duty to the next generation."
"Though it seems prone to working in particular rather than general," Cantra pointed out, and straightened out of her lean, face neutral. "Well, it'll sort itself out." She nodded at the pod-heavy branch. "You going to have that?"
It was, he told himself, already made—made especially and only for him. It would be a waste, and a bad use of a comrade's care.
"All right," he said standing forward and holding out his hand. "This is the last." The pod hit his palm and he sighed as much as in anticipation as regret. "Thank you," he said. "For everything."
He ate while Cantra did a quick check of the security systems. When she was done, she spun the chair and looked full at him, foggy green eyes wide and guileless.
"Are you wanted elsewhere this evening, Pilot?" she asked.
He thought of the narrow cot in the officers' barracks, and of duty. He smiled at her, letting her see all his admiration of her, and his care—another true comrade. And more.
And more.
"As it happens," he answered, holding his hands out to her; "I'm at liberty."
BEING ON THE PORT early in the morning seemed contraindicated after their comfortable untwining and the easy companionship of a meal. After, Cantra made a pot of garden-tea, its soft, tangy taste everything that was different from the usual ship-board brew. He savored it no less than the quiet ease between him and his comrades, and put the cup down with a pang when the tea was too soon gone.
"Business on the port?" Cantra asked, reading him sharp and accurate.
"I told Dulsey I'd come by, and I do want to talk to her," he pointed out.
She leaned back, long legs thrust out before her and crossed at the ankles. "You're thinking the Uncle is looking for that same bit of Old War tech you're after yourself," she said, "and that the rest of the treasure hunt's a shadow-play?"
"I wouldn't go that far. The rest of the artifacts are probably of interest, if the Uncle's as keen a collector as you've said. And it could be that they're the only reason the team's here."
"And it could be that Dulsey won't be telling you the truth, either side. If she knows it, which she might not. Young Arin struck me as being a thought tight on the need-to-knows."
"A man who keeps his orders to himself," Jela agreed. "I thought so, too." He hesitated, suddenly and forcibly remembering that, comfortable and comforting as he was here, he'd signed off of
Dancer's
crew...
Cantra raised her eyebrows. "Problem, Pilot?"
"I wonder," he said, slow and careful, "if you'd be willing to do me a favor."
"A favor, is it? And for a change you're asking first?" She gave him an edged grin and lifted a shoulder. "What's needed?"
"Here..." He pulled the map he'd drawn from stores out of his pocket and smoothed it down on the table between them. "Sergeant Lorit tells me that the world-shield's not in the garrison proper—and I think she was telling the truth. She suggested that it might be stashed in the mines, which is possible..."
"But you think it's nearer to hand," Cantra finished, coming out of her lean to frown consideringly down at the map. One long finger tapped the outer fort. "In here, is where I'd put it." She looked up at him. "Let me do some soundings and a bit of a wander-round. Meet you at that bar where we saw Dulsey last e'en?"
He nodded. "Mid-day," he said, standing. He looked down, but Cantra was studying the map.
"Mid-day it is," she answered absently. "Give my best regards to Dulsey, Pilot."
THERE WAS A SENSE of anticipation in the dusty air as Jela strode off across the port, angling toward the civilian mines. It made sense, he supposed; business at the port today would be featuring Commander Gorriti's leave-taking, which Jela hoped was being done with circumspection and not a marching band. If he hadn't thought it might cause a riot or a ruckus he could have shot Gorriti for desertion and been well within his standing orders...
It was about the time he was considering that option again that the distant sound of a lift-klaxon sounded, hard on the heels of the familiar vibration of tarmac.
That
would be the commander's shuttle departing, no doubt.
Into his mind came one of the tree's more unsubtle images: a large rodent, and another, rushing about.
Yes, exactly!
he agreed,
a rat hurrying to safety among other such. Much good it will do him!
The image, however, became more insistent; the number of rodents and their energy increasing as they nibbled on tender roots. It would seem that the tree had some concerns regarding the commander's influence at his next station.
No, there you're wrong, my friend,
he thought, meaning it for comfort.
That tree is rotten already!
But still the tree wanted to push the image of rodents at him, while Gorriti's ship dwindled and was lost in the tan sky.
Enough!
Jela answered.
We agree. Agreeing won't change the facts!
He strode on, the tree's images of a gnawing horde all too firmly in his mind.
"Pilot Jela." Dulsey was in full thermal 'skins, the scanplate pushed up off her face reflecting the weak light from the local star. Below it, she was smiling and animated.
"Dulsey," he answered, giving her a smile of his own, though he feared it was a good bit less heartfelt than hers. "I meant to tell you last night—this new life of yours seems to be treating you well."
"Very well," she acknowledged, and swept a hand toward the comm-shack. "Come, let us be out of the wind." She hesitated. "Will Pilot Cantra be coming?"
"Not this time," he said easily. "There's something I asked her to take a look at for me down in the port."
"Ah," she said, and pushed the door to the shed open.
"Also," Jela said, following her in and closing the door behind him. "I wonder if you've found that specific item the Uncle sent you to collect."
Dulsey's smile faded. "Pilot Jela—" He held up a hand and she stopped, face wary now.
"I'm going to try not to make you chose between loyalties," he said slowly. "But it seems to me that the Uncle is a resourceful man, who also happens, as Pilot Cantra tells me, to collect
sheriekas
tech. He's got Arin and I'm betting a dozen more like him, doing research, deciphering old records, maybe even old military and captured
sheriekas
documents from the First Phase. The Uncle also knows that the end of the war is coming fast, and there's no way we can win—"
Dulsey shifted and he raised his hand again. "Humor an old soldier," he said. "This won't take long. The Uncle knows, like I know, that we can't win this war. But he knows his military history, so he knows that an important First Phase battle took place around Vanehald. The Enemy wasn't able to land and occupy the planet, and the Frontier Fleet, despite being outnumbered and pretty much out-gunned, pushed them back.
"Now, what wasn't written down anyplace was
why
those Enemy forces couldn't land here. The device was secret—barely more than a whisper of a rumor, which I spent the last six years of my life, between other things, looking for.
"My information is that it's still here—and I'm betting the Uncle has access to information as good or better than mine. And I'm betting he sent his best engineer to bring that device back to Rockhaven."