The Crystal Variation (16 page)

Cantra eased onto a stool and picked up the ‘glass, finding it already set to study a circle ‘round
Dancer’s
position. Not hard to find a ship, after all; a quick search on her name run against the roster of ships down during the last day local would net the info fastest.

She sat for a heartbeat, just staring down into the black surface, then put her hands on the wake-ups.

The surface cleared, and she was looking at the yard,
Dancer
so close on her right hand she could read the name and the numbers on the pitted side. The view panned back, showing a range of ships, and energy overlays on two of them.

“Get on the portmaster’s bad side, holding weapons live on the yard,” she commented.

Jela didn’t answer, except to say, “To the right about thirty degrees, if you might?”

Which she obediently did, and the view changed, displaying a piece of construction equipment lazily moving behind a distant fence in its storage yard, like it was looking for a place to park.

“Up the magnification a notch.”

She shrugged . . .

Right. She had him figured now for some kind of security pro, so he’d notice what she might miss. And she would have, too. Not construction equipment after all, the armored crawler was a dark wolf among the yard’s more regulation equipment, staying a prudent distance back from the fence. The energy overlay on that flickered as it moved, as if it were shielded.

“Check the ships again.”

She drew a ragged breath, did so, and the screen showed those ships and the energy overlays still on high, then faded to black as she thumbed the power.

Eyes closed, she sighed, then spun the stool and glared at Jela.

“So?” she asked.

He shrugged his big shoulders, showing her empty palms.

“Didn’t seem neighborly to let you walk into that,” he said, projecting a certain style of soothing calm that she found particularly annoying.

She took another deep breath.

“One,” she said. “Like I said before—you don’t need to go to all that trouble for me. Two. I’d appreciate an explanation of what the pair of you think you’re doing, snooping my ship.”

“Looking for a lift out,” he said.

Cantra snorted. “I don’t take passengers.”

“Understood,” he said, still projecting calm, which was going to get his nose broke for him sometime real soon. “Nobody expects you to take passengers. Hate ‘em myself. But nobody here’s a passenger. I’m willing to sit second. If you don’t mind my saying it, Pilot, you were looking to be on the wild side of edgy when we met for dinner. Could be a run with some downtime built into it is just what you—and your ship—need.”

“I’m the judge of what me and my ship need,” Cantra snarled. “And what neither needs is to be taking up a man whose friends are shyer than his enemies and a Batcher on the run from her owner.”

“This humble person,” Dulsey said, “is fully capable in cargo handling, communications, and outside repair. Also, this person has received some small training in the preparation of foods, which the pilot may find of use during the upcoming journey.”

Cantra looked at her.

“Repair, comm, and cargo?”

“Yes, Pilot.”

“What was you doing working in a restaurant?”

Dulsey looked aside. “The manufacture of our Pod was commissioned by Enclosed Habitats, which specialized in constructing and maintaining research stations. When the cost of maintaining the stations exceeded the contracted sums, the company failed. All assets were sold at auction, including the worker pods. The master purchased those of our Pod who remained for The Alcoves.”

“How many of your Pod’re left now?” Cantra asked, though she didn’t really have to.

“One.” Dulsey whispered.

Right.

“That’s too bad,” Cantra said. “Doesn’t change that you’re a runaway Batcher—or will be, pretty soon—which puts you on a course to there being none of your pod left by—call it mid-day tomorrow, local.”

“There is benefit to the pilot in accepting the assistance of Pilot Jela and this—and myself.” There was a note of panic in the Batcher’s voice, despite the bravura of ‘myself’, and the gray eyes were wide.

Cantra cocked an eyebrow. “I’d argue opposite, myself, but there don’t seem to be a need just now.” She glanced over to Jela.

“I need a roster, a comp, and a talkie.”

He pointed beyond her, at a stand next to the work table. “Lift the top of that. It’s all right there.”

THE NAME OF THE SHIP
was
Pretty Parcil
. Cantra spent a few moments jinking with the feeds, not wanting to be interrupted in her conversation, nor particularly needing the garage day-shift to take delivery of trouble that wasn’t theirs. Jela watched her, silent in his borrowed chair. He was still projecting calm, but he’d either eased up some or she was getting used to it.

Satisfied at last with her arrangements, she opened a line to the piloting station on
Pretty Parcil
.

There was a click and a voice, sounding sterner and older than he had earlier in the day.

“
Parcil
. Pilot on deck.”

“Is that Pilot Danby?”

A pause about wide enough to hold a blink, followed by a specifically non-committal ack on the ID, then, “Pilot. What happened?” No more than that. Likely he wasn’t alone in the tower. That was all right.

“Turned out to be a mistake,” she told him. “I’m at liberty and mean to stay that way.”

“Mistake?” He was a bright boy, and not too young to understand that there were mistakes—and mistakes.

“I give you my word of honor,”
for what it’s worth
, she added, silently, “that there’s no bounty out on me.”

She heard his sigh—or might be she imagined it. “Good. What can I do for you, Pilot?”

“I’m wondering if you can confirm for me,” she said. “I’ve got two ships on scan showing live weapons. Don’t want to think my scanner’s gone bad, but . . .”

“I’ll check,” Danby said, and over the line there came the sound of various accesses being made, then a bit of silence . . .

“Nothing wrong with your scanner,” he said eventually. “You protest to the portmaster?”

“Not yet,” she said, and Jela leaned forward on his stool, black eyes showing interest.

“I’m wondering,” she said to Danby, “if a protest from a Parcil Family ship might get a little extra snap into the belay order. I’m small trade, myself. Just me and my co-pilot, like I told you . . .”

“Got it,” he said. “I can file that protest, Pilot. Stay on line?”

“Will do.”

She heard him open a second line, and request the portmaster’s own ear for “First Pilot, Parcil Trade Clan Ship
Pretty Parcil
.” There was silence, then, which she’d expected, and—much sooner than she’d hoped—his voice again.

“Portmaster, we’ve just completed a security scan and have identified two vessels on-yard with weapons live.” A pause, then a calm recitation of the coords of both ships, and, “Yes ma’am, I am filing formal protest of these violations. I request that you issue a cease-and-desist to those vessels immediately, to be enforced as necessary.”

Another short silence, and a respectful, “Thank you, ma’am. We will monitor.
Parcil
out.”

Cantra smiled. Jela came of the chair and moved to the work table, doubtless to have a looksee via the spy-glass.

“Protest filed, Pilot.” Danby was back with her. “The portmaster promises a shut-down inside the local hour.”

“Much obliged,” she said, and meant it. “I’ll get back to my prelims, then, and hope I won’t have to ask you to verify my long-scans.”

“We’ve been watching long,” he said. “Pilot’s Undernet has reports of pirate activity in-sector. Faldaiza shows clear to out orbit. So far.”

“Obliged again,” she said. “If I catch anything suspicious on the long, I’ll pass it on.”

“I’ll be here,” he said. “Thanks for the heads-up, Pilot. Good lift, fair journey.”

“Fair journey, Pilot,” she answered, just like she was as legit as he was, and closed the line before folding the desktop down.

Jela had a hip hitched on the edge of the work table, black eyes intent on the image in the spy-glass.

“One’s off-line,” he said without looking up. “The portmaster doesn’t like the Clans upset.”

“Makes sense to keep the money happy,” Cantra returned, considering him. “What about that armor?”

“Nothing lit,” he said, head still bent. “Might not be anything to do with us at all.”

“On the other hand, it might be,” she finished what he didn’t say and sighed. “Man,
whose
ugly side did you get on?”

“Second one’s down,” he said, and looked up, his face about as expressive as she’d expected.

“Am I getting an answer to that, Pilot? Seems to me I’m owed.”

He frowned. “By my calculations, we’re even.”

“Not if you leave me open to more of the same, elsewhere.” She felt her temper building and took a deliberately deep breath, trying to notch it back. Her temper wasn’t her best feature, being enough to sometimes scare her. She didn’t figure it would scare the man across from her, though it might lose her bargaining points.

“The reason I’m in it at all is because we had dinner together. Honest mistake—on both our parts. I had no right to the particulars of your business up to the point my hands are ‘wired together and I’m being hauled out of a public place on a bogus bounty. At that point, you owed me info—and I ain’t been paid yet.”

He looked thoughtful. “You won’t like the answer.”

She blinked. “So I won’t like the answer,” she said. “Plenty of answers out there I don’t like.”

He sighed, lightly. “All right, then. The answer is, I don’t know who’s involved, if they’re local or more—connected.”

“You’re right,” Cantra said, after a moment. “I don’t like it. Do better, why not?”

He spread his hands. “Wish I could.”

Her temper flared. “Dammit, we got a double-digit body count out of this night’s work, including Dulsey’s Batch, and you
don’t know
who thinks you done ‘em wrong?”

“That’s right,” he said, imperturbable.

“It is possible that those who ultimately seek the pilot are off-world,” Dulsey said surprisingly, from her seat on a closed toolbox. “The ones who came to The Alcoves were local odd jobbers.”

Cantra spun on a heel to look at her, sitting with her hands gripping her knees and her pale face seeming to glow in the dimness.

“How you figure off-world?”

Dulsey moved her head a little from side to side. “Odd jobs are done for pay. Had the pilots paid for protection against harm, then the local chapter would have split—half to fulfill the contract to . . . discommode . . . the pilots; half to ensure that the pilots were not in any way impeded.”

“They don’t act on their own is what you’re saying?”

“Pilot, that is correct.”

Cantra looked over at Jela.

“Light any dials for you?”

“Sorry.”

She sighed, then shrugged, giving it up as a hopeless case. “I’ll watch my back. Business as usual.” She nodded to Jela. “Be seeing you, Pilot. Safe lift.”

She was halfway to the door before she heard him say, “About that armor, Pilot Cantra . . .”

Red at the edge of her vision. She stopped, keeping her back toward the two of them, closed her eyes, forced herself to breathe in the pattern she’d been taught.

“Pilot?” Jela again. She ignored him, breathing—just that—until the urge to mayhem had receded to a safer, pink, distance.

She turned and met his space-black gaze straight on.

“It’s been what I count as a long day, Pilot Jela, and my good nature’s starting to wear a bit thin. If you got info bearing on the safety of my ship and her pilot, share it out short and sweet.”

“The info’s nothing special,” he said, and she could hear a certain care in his voice, though he’d given over the stringent projecting of calm. “Just a reminder that ground-based armor can bring weapons on-line faster than space-based.”

“By which you’re meaning to tell me that armor there—” she nodded at the spy-glass sitting quiet and dark on the workbench “—doesn’t have to reveal its feelings until I’m rising without challenge.”

“That’s right.”

“I thank you for the reminder,” she said, feeling the quiver starting in the roots of her bones, which meant the last of the adrenaline had run its course. Too long a day, by all the counts that mattered. She eyed the pilot before her, with his tell-nothing face, his big shoulders and solid build.

“Military?” she asked, wondering how she hadn’t quite managed to get him pinned down on that either.

“Not quite,” he gave back, which was answer enough in its way.

“What do you want?”

“What I said—transport out, for me, the tree, and Dulsey. I’m good for co-pilot and, yes, I do know the avoids for that class of armor.”

“Might be manned.”

He hitched a shoulder—qualified denial. “Not much room in those for personnel. Not to say there couldn’t be a couple of smalls running crew. In which case the assault’s randomized, making avoids more difficult, and less accurate, which assists avoidance.”

“That a fact?” This asked against a rising shake. She tried to make the follow-on sound stronger. “That stuff can be evaded?”

“Experience shows it can.”

Cantra closed her eyes. The shaking was more pronounced, now. She was headed for a crash and no mistake. Granted, she had more than enough Tempo in stores to keep her up and fully able for some number of ship’s days. Having flown that course more than once, she knew that all the drug did was put the time of the crash out, interest compounded hourly.

And, truth told, she didn’t have room for downtime on this leg—not now and not later. She had cargo, she had a deadline—and there was no way she could justify taking anyone lawful aboard her ship—nor trust anyone not.

She flicked a look at Dulsey, sitting frozen on her toolbox, and another at Jela, standing calm and quiet, letting her think it through. What his answer might be if the product of her thought didn’t match his had-to’s, she couldn’t guess. And, after all, it was
her
ship.

She jerked her head toward the door.

“Right. Experience. Let’s go.”