The Crystal Variation (22 page)

Rint dea’Sord grunted, and shuddered, his hand pressed hard to the hole in his shoulder. He met Cantra’s eyes with a glare.

“What do you want?” He gritted, the pretty Inside accent gone now.

Cantra sighed and lifted her gun.

Jela held up his hand. “Hold.”

“We can’t deal with him, Pilot,” she said, keeping her patience with an effort. “Best to get it over with.”

“I think we can deal,” Jela said. “In fact, I think Ser dea’Sord will be happy to deal.”

Until he has reinforcements on the way
, Cantra thought, and kept the gun pointed in the right direction. dea’Sord flicked one fast glance at her, licked his lips and addressed himself to Jela.

“What’s your deal, Pilot?”

“Just this. You pay the pilot here her fee. All of her fee. We’ll take our comrade with us, go back to our ship and off-load your goods. We will then take ourselves out of your sphere of influence. Deal?”

Rint dea’Sord was no fool, though Cantra was beginning to have doubts regarding Jela. Her finger tightened, and he shifted, bringing a wide shoulder between her and her target.

“I can make that deal,” dea’Sord said. “Just let me get the money—” Jela held up a hand.

“Tell me where the money is and I’ll get it,” he said, calm and reasonable. “The pilot will guard you.”

Rint dea’Sord took a deep breath. “In the bottom drawer of the desk. It needs my fingerprint . . .”

“Fine,” Jela said. “Open it.”

Open it he did and there was no trick, which was, Cantra thought, a fair wonder of itself. She spared a glance at Dulsey, who wasn’t looking as much the better for being free of the twine as she might have. Jela, damn him, had the wallet open and was doing a fast count.

“Eight hundred flan sound about right, Pilot?”

Fifteen hundred flan had been the agreed-upon sum, but Cantra had never expected to see that much.

“It’ll do,” she said, and he nodded, sealing the wallet and tossing it to her in one smooth motion. She caught it one-handed and slid it into a thigh pocket. “Now what, Pilot?”

“Now, we tie him up,” Jela said, and produced the cargo twine.

HE CARRIED DULSEY,
and Pilot Cantra took rear guard, in which formation they reached the ship in good order and without incident. That they were under observation was a given, but without any word from command—and he’d made sure there would be no outgoing from command before he’d gone in—there was no reason for the spotters to pay them particular attention.

The hatch slid back a bare crack and Cantra waved him past, which was a nice blend of giving the wounded precedence and taking no foolish chances. He went sideways, easing his shoulders through and taking care not to jostle Dulsey.

“I’m in,” he called as soon as he gained the narrow lock. Behind him the hatch reversed, Pilot Cantra slipping through the improbably thin opening, and stood watching ‘til it sealed. Shoving her weapon into its pocket, she snaked past, managing not to bump him, or to disturb his burden.

“Follow me,” she snapped. “We’ll get her in the first aid kit. Then you can cover me while I off-load.”

He looked down at Dulsey’s battered face and didn’t say that she needed a good field doctor. A first aid kit was better than nothing, and both were better than the ‘hunters.

They crossed the piloting chamber, passing the yellow-lit board and the tree in its pot, the pilot making for the wall that should have been common with the tiny quarters where he and Dulsey had taken their “rest.” A notion tickled at the back of his brain, and Jela looked ahead, down low, and—yes, a beam, very faint, where it could not fail to be tripped by approaching feet—or by a pilot, crawling.

Pilot Cantra’s boots broke the beam, and a section of wall slid away, revealing a low box, its smooth surface so deeply black it seemed to absorb the surrounding light. Cantra bent, touched the top and up it went, the interior lit a pale and disquieting green.

“Put her down there,” she said, stepping back to give him room.

He hesitated, knowing, in his Generalist’s tricksy mind—
knowing
what it was.

In his arms, Dulsey groaned, a feeble enough sound, and there was the chance that the cord had done damage beyond whatever she’d taken from the beating. And she wasn’t a soldier, dammit, bred to be hard to break, and lacking a significant number of the usual pain receptors.

“Pilot.” There was a noticeable lack of patience edging Pilot Cantra’s voice. “I want to off-load and have space between my ship and this port before Rint dea’Sord gets himself cut loose.”

“Yes,” he said, and forced himself forward. The area immediately surrounding the box was noticeably cooler than the ship’s ambient temp. He knelt and put Dulsey down as gently as he could onto the slick, giving surface of the pallet, taking the time to straighten her arms and her legs.

“Hatch coming down,” Cantra said quietly, and he pulled back, the cool black surface almost grazing his nose.

“All right.” There was a sigh in Pilot Cantra’s voice. “Let’s get rid of the damned cargo.”

Sixteen

SIXTEEN

Spiral Dance

In Transit

THIS TIME, AT LEAST,
there wasn’t any cannon fire to speed them along, though what might be waiting at the next port in terms of surprises was enough to put a pilot off her good temper. Not that there weren’t other things.

Cantra released the shock webbing and spun her chair around.

“Pilot Jela,” she said, mindfully keeping her voice in the stern-but-gentle range.

He looked over, then faced her fully, eyes as readable as ever—which was to say, not at all—lean face pleasant and attentive, mouth soft in a half-smile, arms leaning on the rests, hands nice and relaxed. A portrait of pure innocence.

“Pilot?” he answered. Respectful, too. Everything a pilot could want in a co-pilot, saving a bad habit or twelve.

Cantra sighed.

“I’m interested to note, Pilot, that your damn vegetable was lashed in place in my tower when we brought Dulsey in to the first aid kit. As I distinctly remember you taking it and its pot with you when you left ship at Taliofi, and as I distinctly don’t remember giving you a ship’s key, I’d be interested in hearing how that particular circumstance came to be.”

He closed one eye, then the other, then used both to look at her straight on, face as pleasant as ever. Rint dea’Sord, Cantra thought grudgingly, could do worse than take lessons from Pilot Jela. Too bad he was more likely to commission them both killedshe was getting ahead of herself.

“I’m waiting, Pilot.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, easily, and paused before continuing at a clear tangent. “You’ve got a good brace of guns on this ship.”

“I’m glad they meet your approval.” Stern-but-gentle, with a slight icing of irony. “You want to answer my question?”

“I am,” he said, projecting goodwill. She held up a hand and he tipped his head, questioning.

“Point of information,” she said, stern taking the upper note. “I don’t like being soothed. It annoys me.”

He sighed, the fingers of his right hand twitching assent. “My apologies, Pilot. It’s a habit—and a bad one. I’ll take steps to remember.”

“I’d appreciate it,” she said. “Now—the question.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said again. “Your recollection is correct in both particulars—I did take the tree with me when we debarked earlier in the day and you did not give me a ship’s key.” The right hand came up, showing palm beyond half-curled fingers. “I didn’t steal a key or gimmick the comp. But, like I was saying—those guns you’ve got. Military, aren’t they?”

She considered him, much good it did her. “Surplus.”

“Right.” The hand dropped back to arm rest. “Military surplus. Not that old, some military craft still carry those self-same guns. I trained on them, myself.”

Cantra sighed, letting him hear an edge of irritation. “This has a point, doesn’t it, Pilot?”

“It does.” He sat up straight in his chair, eyes sharp, mouth stern. “The point is that you’re not fully aware of the capabilities of your gun brace. Pilot. Where I come from, that’s lapse of duty. Where you come from, I’d imagine it’d be something closer to suicide.”

Well, that was plain—and not entirely undeserved. “They didn’t exactly come with instructions,” she told him, mildly.

“Small mercies,” he retorted. “As I said, I trained on guns like yours and believe me, I know what they can and can’t do.” He leaned back in his chair, deliberate, and kept his eyes on hers. “So, I sweet-talked them into letting me in.”

Cantra closed her eyes. “I’m understanding you to say that you came into this ship through the gun bays.”

“That’s right.”

She wanted to doubt it, but there was the fact of the tree waiting for them, and
Dancer
reporting no entries between the time she’d sealed the hatch behind them in the early planetary day and the time she opened it again some hours later to admit Jela, Dulsey, and herself.

“That involve any breakage?” she asked. “Or, say—modifications?”

“Pilot,” he said reproachfully. “I’m better than that.” A short pause. “I wasn’t entirely sure that we wouldn’t be needing the guns again on the way out.”

A pragmatist, was Pilot Jela. That being so—

She opened her eyes, saw him sitting calm and easy again in his chair. “I’ll ask you, as co-pilot, to give me training on the guns to the full extent of your knowledge,” she said.

There was a small pause, then a formal nod of the head. “As soon as we raise a likely location, I’m at your service, Pilot.”

Not if I shake you first
, she thought at him. Granted, she owed the man—again—but she didn’t have any intention of making Pilot Jela a permanent fixture on
Dancer
. Still, there wasn’t no sense to putting him on notice. So—

“That’ll do, then,” she said, turning to face her screens—and stopping at the sight of his big hand raised, palm out.

“I’ve got some questions myself, Pilot.”

“Oh, do you?” She sighed, sharply. “Lay ‘em out and let’s see which ones I care to answer, then.”

“I think it’d be best if you answered them all.”

That
struck a spark from her temper. She gave her attention to the screens—showing clear, and the countdown to transition in triple digits.

“I think,” she said tightly, “that you’ve got a very limited right to ask questions,
Pilot
Jela. You gimmicked your way onto this ship at Faldaiza, and engineered an unauthorized entry at Taliofi. Not to mention cutting a deal with a man who needed to die, and ruining my rep into the bargain.”

“If I hadn’t ruined your rep,” he said, voice deliberately placid, but not, at least, projecting calm good feelings. “You’d have been dead, and Dulsey, too.”

“Dulsey, maybe,” she said. “He wanted me alive so’s I could do him a favor.”

“And you were happy to be of service,” he said, irony a little heavy. “At least, that’s not how I read it, listening in.”

She spun her chair back to face him.

“You were listening in on Rint dea’Sord?” She’d tried to crack dea’Sord’s comms—twice, in fact, nor was she unskilled at such things, having received certain training. “How?”

He smiled at her, damn him. “Military secret.” He touched the breast of his ‘skins. “I have a datastrip which I request permission to transmit, via secure channel.”

“No,” she snapped.

He sighed. “Pilot, the information on this ‘strip will guarantee that Ser dea’Sord will be too busy for . . . some number of years . . . keeping one jump ahead of the peacekeepers and bounty hunters to care about your rep or your life.”

“That’s some datastrip,” she said, and held out her hand. “Mind if I scan it?”

“Yes,” he said, which wasn’t anything more than she’d expected he’d say, nor anything less than she’d’ve said herself, had their positions been reversed. Still, the notion of giving Rint dea’Sord enough trouble to keep him occupied and out of the business for years did have its appeal.

“You’re asking a lot on trust,” she told Jela, “and I’m a little short where you’re concerned.”

His face hardened. “Am I supposed to trust a woman who carries a can full of military grade ship-brains into such a port as Taliofi, and has a
sheriekas
healing unit in her ship?”

She held up a fist, raised the thumb. “You should’ve checked the manifest before you signed on, if you’re as tender-hearted as all that.” Index finger. “You got moral objections to the first-aid kit, you’re free to open the hatch and save Dulsey’s soul for her.”

“It’s her well-being I’m concerned with.” There was more than a little snap there. She supposed he was entitled, there being the likelihood of a personal interest.

“Where did you get that healing unit?” he demanded.

She moved her shoulders and arranged her face into amused lines. “It came with,” she said, and spread her arms to include the entirety of
Dancer
.

He stared at her. She smiled at him.

“Whoever acquired that thing was trading ‘way over their heads,” he said, still snappish.

She raised her eyebrows, giving him polite attention, in case he wasn’t done.

He shut his mouth and looked stubborn.

“Leaving aside ship’s services,” she said after she’d taken a leisurely scan of her screens and stats and he still hadn’t said anything else. “Is there a description of the cargo just off-loaded on that ‘strip you think you want to transmit?”

“There is.” Right grumpy, that sounded.

“And that’s going to keep my rep clear with the ‘hunters and other interested parties exactly how?”

Silence. A glance aside showed him sitting not so relaxed as previously, his eyes closed. As if he’d felt the weight of her regard, he sat up straight and opened his eyes, meeting hers straight on.

“It happens I’m in need of a pilot who knows the back ways in and out, and maybe something about the Beyond.”

“I’ll be sure to put you down at a port where you might have some luck locating a pilot of that kind,” she said politely, and spun back full to face her board.

“I’d rather hire you,” Jela said, quiet-like. “The people who receive my transmittal, they’ll keep any . . . irregularities . . . to themselves, if it’s known you’re aiding me.”