The Crystal Variation (26 page)

“You think like a trader, for all you got soldier writ all over you.”

He gave a short laugh.

“Call me a soldier if you like, but tell me if you want a brew before we walk by the place!”

“Sure,” she said, thinking that a beer would taste good, and if there was trouble at the ship, Dulsey would call.

“Wait . . .” she said, blinking at the bar they were on approach for.

“It’s here,” said Jela, and there was an under note of something excited in his voice, “or buy a ride back to the ship, I think. This is the last place on port they’ll send a runner, if they’ve got any sense at all.”

If the day-broker sent a runner at all, which wasn’t proven, or in Cantra’s opinion, likely.

She stopped on the walk, looking carefully at the doubtful exterior of the place Jela proposed for a quiet brew and a wait-out. It was decorated in antique weapons in improbable colors, the names of famous battles scrawled in half-a-dozen different scripts and languages across what looked to be blast-glass windows.

One Day’s Battle
was written a little larger than the rest, in red lumenpaint . . .

“You want me to go into a soldier’s bar?
One Day’s Battle
sounds kinda rough for a friendly drink . . .”

He grinned. “Too rough for
you
, Pilot?” he asked, and then, before she could decide if she wanted to get peeved or laugh, he continued.

“It’s the title of a drinking song long honored by several corps. I’m sure you can hold your own, Pilot—don’t you think?”

Well, yeah, she did think, and she’d done it a few times in her wilder youth, but those days were some years back.

“Safest place on port, ship aside,” Jela said, earnestly.

Damn, but the man
could
be insistent.

She looked down at him, which meant he was that close to her, which he usually kept his distance, and closed her eyes in something like exasperation and something like concentration.

It wasn’t always easy being candid with herself, training or no training, but the boy was starting to get tempting.

Well, she’d not let him hear her sigh about it, but the truth was, she didn’t want him quite that close. Oughtn’t to have him as close as he was, acting like co-pilot and trade partner. She of all people ought to know about acting. Might be a little distance could be got inside, where there’d be noise and distractions for them both.

So she pointed toward the door with a flourish and laid down the rules.

“We split. Any round you buy, I buy the next. Don’t buy a round if you think you can’t walk back to the ship from the next.”

His grin only got wider. Which, Cantra thought resignedly, she might’ve known.

“Wohoa!” he cried, shoving an exuberant fist upward. “Yes—a challenge from my pilot! I’m for it!”

“Sure you are. You break trail.”

He stepped forward with a will—and then stepped back as a pair of tall drunks wandered out, each leaning on the other, which complimentary form of locomotion was suddenly imperilled when the taller of the two tried to stand up straight and bow to Cantra.

“Pretty lady,” he slurred with drunken dignity, “take me home!”

Cantra shot a glance to Jela, but he only laughed, and led the way in.

* * *

DESPITE HER INITIAL misgivings,
One Day’s Battle
was—on the surface—a fine looking establishment, with a good number of people at tables, not as much noise as one might suppose, and lots of space to relax in. That the overwhelming number of patrons were military was a little unsettling, but nobody seemed to mind the entrance of an obvious civilian.

The place was laid out in three levels. They came in on the top level, and at the far end was a long bar manned by two assistants and a boss. A quick glance showed one of the reasons for the noise level being quite so low—there were a dozen or so noise-cancel speakers set about between levels.

To get to the next level they went down a ramp on the left, with a glass wall about thigh high on Cantra and a good bit higher on Jela; at the end of that ramp was a fan-shaped area with a bar at the wide end, and more empty tables than full. Two additional ramps led still lower, where a crowd was gathered around a big octagonal table.

That big table seemed to be where the action was—from a quick glance between the players, Cantra thought it looked like some kind of gambling sim . . .

Jela, however, was headed for the other side of the room, where he claimed an empty table overlooking the lower levels—including a view of the octagonal table and its denizens.

Cantra followed him more slowly, noting that the seats were more luxurious than those in the bar upstairs, and that the tables were topped with some rich-looking shiny substance. The slight sounds of her footsteps was silenced by springy, noise-absorbing carpet. The lighting, too, was more subdued on this level.

“Officers’ section?” she guessed. “We up to that?”

“Officers’ mess, of sorts,” Jela agreed, “but off-duty, and thus not official. It’ll be just a bit quieter, though, and easier for us to note someone who doesn’t necessarily belong.”

He handed her into a seat, which surprised—then she realized it was proper. Co-pilot sees to the pilot’s comfort first, after all. Too, by slipping her into the seat he chose for her, Jela got the chair with the best view of the entrance ramp, which was a habit she’d noted in him before—and couldn’t much fault. A lot of his habits were like that—couldn’t be faulted if you were a pilot who sometimes walked the wrong side of a line.

Cantra leaned into the seat, realized it was a bit oversized for her. Jela’s legs threatened to dangle, except that he sat forward, leaning his elbows on the table. Cantra could see him reflected in the dark surface; he was staring into it, perhaps looking at her reflection in turn.

Then the table top shimmered, and Jela’s reflection disappeared within the image of a battle sim.

He looked up, grinning wryly.

“Sorry; looks like it’s autostart. This’ll be the battle of the day, is my guess.”

Cantra glanced into the table, recognizing some of the icons, but not all. Frowning, she bent closer—and then looked up as a tall group of soldiers walked by, talking between themselves as they headed for the bar. Their voices was easily audible, despite all the sound-proofing, and she frowned even more. It wasn’t what they were saying that bothered her as much as the fact that she couldn’t pick words out of the sentence flow—and that the sentence flow itself was—off-rhythm for any of the many languages, dialects, and cants she spoke . . .

Losing your edge
, she told herself and tapped the top of the table, drawing Jela’s attention.

“Why is this here?” she asked.

“Ah. Anyone who wants to—and who has credit enough—can play against the sim. Most prefer, as you see, to use the large table downstairs, but some of us like our comfort, and some prefer only to watch.

“This particular sim is of a battle fought some time back, so there’s always a chance that someone in the crowd may have studied—and come up with something better. Of course someone else who has studied may be sitting at another panel . . . and thus learning may take place—and wagers.”

“Great.” She sat back. “Not sure I’m up to trying to outfight history . . .”

“Sometimes,” he said, his voice sounding oddly distant as some change on the screen caught his attention, “there are battles which ought be re-fought a time or two—mistakes unmade. And some mistakes not made.”

He pointed at the screen, touched some table side control and turned it toward her.

“You see in action exactly such a case. In this battle, a new weapon was all the rage on the side of the blues; and in the actual battle brought the other side to a nearly untenable position very early on. But you see, someone down there—” he pointed to the deepest pit— “who happens to know one of the now-proven weaknesses of this weapon, has attempted an early turning of the lines here and—” he swept his hand to the other edge of the board— “over here.”

He sighed. “This is an easily refutable attempt to win the battle by guile rather than by true force of arms. The sim, if no one else will jump in, will take quite awhile to react, since it is required to work from the actual situation and toward the original goal . . .”

He stared into the screen a moment longer.

“No, foolish Green,” he muttered, “you’ve overcommitted . . .”

Suddenly, he laughed, and folded both arms atop the screen, partially obscuring the play.

“My apologies, Pilot. If this is what the corps is teaching, the Arm is in danger for truth!”

Another pair of uniformed soldiers passed their table just then—faces animated under the gaudy tats—and they, too, walked inside the odd rhythm of a conversation she couldn’t quite grasp.

Cantra looked to Jela, nodding toward the group of them.

“They from around here?” she asked.

“I couldn’t read the insignia . . .”

“Me neither. But I got good ears, and I couldn’t pick up a word they was saying.”

“I was distracted,” he admitted ruefully. “But to answer the question you asked—they are not from ‘around here’ by the look of their tattoos. To answer the question you meant—yes. They feel that they are at home here, and so they speak the language the troop wishes them to speak, which is not one you will likely be familiar with.”

She shifted in the too-big seat—big enough, she realized, for one of the tall soldiers to sit in comfortably—turned around, caught the bartender’s eye, and waved.

“If they’re gonna have tattoos on their faces,” she said to Jela, “and their own language, too, it might be hard for an ordinary citizen to take to ‘em much. If I may be so bold.”

He glanced away for a moment, scanning the room, she thought, then looked back to her with a slight lift of one shoulder.

“See for yourself. There are groups of those wearing tattoos, and there are groups of those
not
wearing tattoos. There are some solitary examples of each. You, I expect, will be perceptive enough to follow on these observations and . . .”

“Right. What I see is that there’s only one place where you can see both tats and no-tats together . . .”

She completed her scan of the room; looked back at him, indicating
condition is
with her free hand as she watched a rowdy bunch striding down the ramp to the big board.

“Condition is they ain’t what you’d want to call together down there, they’re competing . . .”

Condition is
, he agreed in hand talk as a tall and extremely straight-backed man in what was almost a proper uniform came to their table.

“Comrades,” he began, speaking to Jela, then looked hard at Cantra.

“Comrade
and lady
,” he corrected himself. “How may we serve you?”

Jela’s face went to that place Cantra categorized as
one step from dangerous,
and he answered firmly.

“
Pilots
will do, comrade.”

There was a pause, then a sketch of a salute.

“Pilots,” he agreed amiably enough, “your drink or meal?”

Cantra flashed
your choice
, and without hesitation Jela told the server, “The local commander’s favorite brew, with a platter of mixed cheeses and breads.”

After a slight pause—but before the question was asked—he added, “That will be a pitcher.”

* * *

IT WAS A BIG pitcher
and it was good beer, but for all of that Cantra wasn’t best pleased with her co-pilot being willing to stake out quite so much time at
One Day’s Battle
at her expense. Her figurative expense, anyway, because he hadn’t had the sense to see that she’d want to be back to the ship as soon as could. How long, after all, did he think this possible-but-not-proven “runner” would look for her?

She’d figured that they’d have a couple glasses . . . but now they’d be looking to about four or five each if she kept to her promise, and by damn she wasn’t gonna not keep to her promise.

The cheese was decent and so was the bread. The beer was more than acceptable, and, unfortunately, so was the company.

“Don’t much care for military art?” Jela asked, correctly reading her reaction to the over-done specimen of same hanging behind the bar.

She moved a shoulder and had another taste of beer.

“Not much in favor of this school, anyway,” she answered. “Could be there’s another?”

He took a couple heartbeats to study the painting.

“Could be. If there is, though, they all learned to paint the same things in the same way.” He reached to the platter and slid a piece of the spicy-hot cheese onto a slip of dark bread.

“What do you find objectionable? If it can be told.”

“Well, leaving aside the subject, the colors are too loud, there’re too few of them, the figures are out of scale and out of proportion . . .” She heard her voice taking on a certain note of passion and cooled it with a sip of beer, waving an apologetic hand at her companion.

“No,” he said, “go on. I’m interested in such things. Call it a hobby.”

“It depends,” Cantra said slowly, “what the art was meant to do. Me saying some certain piece is too garish or too . . . primitive—that has to stand against the question of the intent of the artist. If I was an honest critic—which you’ll see I ain’t—I’d be talking in terms of did yon offender make its point.”

Jela had paused with his glass half-way to his lips, his eyes fixed on her face. As she watched, he turned his head and gave the painting under discussion a long hard stare.

Cantra helped herself to some bread and cheese and wondered what was going through his head.

“I see what you’re saying,” he said at last, and finally had his sip—and another one, too. “I’d never thought of art in terms of intent.” He smiled and his fingers flickered.

Owe you.

“My pleasure,” she said aloud, her eyes drawn down again by the damn sim.

She moved her gaze by an effort of will, only to find Jela absently watching a couple their server would undoubtedly address as
ladies
wind their artless way down the ramp to the game level.

Neither one was her style, so she found herself looking again at the battle sim and trying to work out the icons and the situation.