The Crystal Variation (53 page)

Jela moved his wide shoulders, head tipped to one side. “I’ve come across them in citations, tech lit and such. Each Tower represents a discipline and includes subsets of the discipline which hold conflicting philosophies.”

Not bad, Cantra conceded. Dangerously simplistic, but not bad.

“Those conflicting philosophies, now,” she said, just offering info— “they’re more often than not the cause of blood duels and worse ‘mong the scholars. Establish enough unchallenged theory—that being equally those who don’t challenge the worth of a particular theory and those who challenged and lost—and a scholar gets moved to the High Tower and lives untouchable as a master.”

Jela frowned and moved his hand, fingers flickering—pilot-talk for
get on with it.

“Right,” she said. “Osabei Tower, now, that’s Spatial Math. Named after one Osabei tay’Bendril who brought pilot-kind the good numbers that make transition possible. Before Scholar tay’Bendril, pilots had to go the long way ‘round and it might take a lifetime or two to traverse the Arm. They prolly gave you all that in ‘mong the rest of pilot lore, same’s they gave it to me. But what they didn’t likely give you was the fact that the Towers’re closed, and fortified, and they don’t like strangers. But that’s not your first problem.”

She paused. Jela’s face showed nothing but bland interest, damn the man. Well, she was the one who’d charted this course; he hadn’t asked for her advice.

“Your first problem,” she continued, “is that it’s
Landomist
, about as Inside as you can get and not be on the other side of the Spiral. You put one boot on Landomist without a writ or a license and you’ll be exported before the second boot’s down, if you’re lucky—or memwiped and impressed to an Honorable, if you’re not.”

Jela rolled his shoulders and gave her a grin, slightly more genuine than the last.

“So, I’ll have a writ to show.”

“Assuming it’s good enough and the Portmaster’s not having a bad day, then you get a native guide to walk at your shoulder while you go about your lawful business, and to remind you when you step out from bounds.”

He laughed.

“Pilot, you know a shadow’s not going to stay with me.”

“Lose or kill your assigned guide and you’re a dead man,” she snarled, surprising herself, “and a stupid man at the last.”

Silence for the beat of three.

“Eventually, I’m a dead man, but I’d like to think not stupid,” Jela said seriously. “Tell me why I can’t just slip free, and go invisible.”

Because it’s Landomist!
she wanted to shout—but didn’t.

“Come with me,” was what she said instead, and strode out of the piloting room without looking to see if he followed, down the short hall to her quarters.

The door opened with a snap that seemed reflective of her state of mind, and she concentrated on breathing nice and even while she crossed over to her locker and opened it wide.

For a moment, she was alone in the polished metal mirror—a slender woman in trade leathers, pale hair cut off blunt at the stubborn jaw, features sharp, smooth skin toned gold, eyes a cool and misty green. Neither face, nor eyes, nor stance betrayed the slightest perturbation, nor the satisfaction she felt upon observing this.

A whisper from the rear and her reflection was joined by a second—broad shoulders and slim waist, both set off something fine by the leathers. Black hair, cropped; black eyes, bland. His face was brown, symmetrical, and a bit leaner than the shoulders predicted, with a firm mouth and strong brows. The top of his head didn’t quite hit her shoulder, despite he bore himself upright and proud.

She used her chin to point at her own reflection.

“
That
,” she announced, “is Inside norm, bred out of certified stock proven across more generations than you got time to hear or me to tell.”

“All right,” Jela said quietly.

“All right,” she repeated, and pointed at his reflection.

“
That
is a gene-tailored series biologic.”

“All right,” he said again, and met her eyes in the mirror. “You’re saying they aren’t used to seeing Series soldiers on Landomist.”

“I’m saying the only way anything other than Inside norm exists on Landomist is as property,” Cantra corrected, and turned to look down into his face.

“You can’t disappear on Landomist—and that’s before you start having to tote that damn’ tree around with you. There’s just
nobody
there who looks like you, saving maybe a few household guards some Honorable might’ve bought from the military as curiosities.”

His eyes moved and his jaw muscles tightened up, it upset him that much. Cantra reached out and touched his shoulder, taking care to keep it light and comradely, and smiled when he looked back to her.

“What you want is an agent,” she said. “Set it up right, take your time—”

He laughed, soft, and slid out from under her hand.

“Time,” he said, turning away, “is exactly what I don’t have.”

She frowned at his back. “You think the children’re likely to get caught right off? Seemed to me they had a few worthy tricks to hand.”

Jela paused, hesitated, then slowly turned to face her again.

“That’s not where the crunch is,” he said, and her ear registered absolute sincerity; unvarnished truth. He took a hard breath, and looked down at his broad, capable hands.

“It’s me that’s the problem. I’m old.”

“Old?” She stared at the hard, inarguable bulk of him. “How old can you be?”

“Forty-four years, one-hundred-fifteen-and-one-twelfth days,” he said. “Common Calendar.” Another hard breath as he brought his eyes up and met hers firmly.

“Forty-five years is the design limit,” he said steadily.

Cantra felt something cold and multi-clawed skitter through her gut.

“Design limit,” she repeated, and closed her eyes, recalling Rool Tiazan’s lady, her sharp eyes on Jela while she snapped out that time was short for each one of them.

And for some, it was shorter than others.

Anger trembled—anger at the
dramliza
. So busy about their promises. They had known—
known
that the man they’d built all their airy plans on had less than five months to live. Common Calendar. And with all the wonders the pair could likely make between them, they didn’t pause for the heartbeat it might’ve cost—

“First-aid kit,” she said, huskily, and opened her eyes to meet Jela’s calm gaze. “We put you in the first-aid kit,” she amplified when he didn’t do anything more than lift a lazy black eyebrow. “Get you put back to spec, then you take what time you need to plan out your campaign.”

“Pilot—”

She raised a hand. “I know you’re not friends with the ‘kit, but own it has its uses. You saw what it did for Dulsey—Deeps! You saw what it did for me. You climb yourself in and I’ll set us a cour—”

“
Cantra
.” He didn’t raise his voice, but there was still enough snap in it to cut her off in mid-word. She felt the muscles of her face contract and wondered wildly what she’d been showing him.

Having stopped her, Jela didn’t seem in any hurry to fill up the cabin with words of his own. He just stood there, head to a side, looking at her—and if truth be told there was something odd going on in his face, too.

He moved then, one careful step, keeping his hands where she could see them. Motionless, she watched him take her hand between both of his broad palms.

His skin was warm, his hands gentle. He craned his head back, black eyes searching her face, his absolutely open.

“Remember when the first-aid kit didn’t work?” he asked, like they were discussing what cargo was best to take on. “Garen had to take you to the Uncle for a receptor flush because the first-aid kit didn’t cure the edlin. That was why, wasn’t it? Because all the ‘kit could do was put you back to spec.”

Pain. Thoughts staggering through reeking blood-red mists . . . then coolness as reason returned in the friendly dark. The lid rose, she rolled out—and collapsed to the floor, screaming as the pain took her again . . .

“And spec included the gimmicked receptors,” she said, suddenly and deeply weary. “Right.”

“Right,” Jela said softly. “It’s in the design, Cantra. M Series soldiers are decommissioned at forty-five years.” He smiled, sudden and genuine. “Safer that way.”

“Safer . . .” she whispered and her free hand moved on its own, gripping his shoulder hard.

“Rool Tiazan,” she said after a moment. “He asked how you’d choose to die.”

“He did,” Jela said briskly. “And if the tree and me are to liberate the good scholar’s math, publish it wholesale,
and
die in battle, I’d better not take too many naps.”

She smiled slightly, and stepped back, taking her hand off his shoulder, slipping the other from between his palms. He watched her out of calm black eyes.

“If it ain’t your intention to die on Landomist Port,” she said, turning to shut the locker door, “and see the tree broken and burned before you do, you’ll employ that agent to work your will, like I said you should.”

Behind her, she heard Jela sigh.

“It has to be a frontal attack,” he said patiently. “I don’t know how to employ the sort of agent you advise. And I don’t have time to train him.”

Face to the locker, she closed her eyes, hearing again the tiny lady’s sharp voice listing out the terms of Jela’s service:

You, the pilot and the ssussdriad will proceed to the world Landomist . . .

Not her fight, dammit. She’d not sworn to any such madness.

Pay your debts, baby
, Garen ghost-whispered from the gone-away past.
There ain’t no living with yourself, if you don’t.

Deeps knew, she wouldn’t be living at all, were it not for Jela—and, truth told full, the tree, as well.

Cantra sighed, very softly, opened her eyes and turned to face him.

“Her,” she said, and met his eyes firm, giving a good imitation of woman with a sensible decision on deck. “I can get you in.”

Three

THREE

Light Wing

Doing the Math

THE KLAXON SHRIEKED,
and Tor An’s body responded before he was fully awake, snapping forward to the board—and snatched back by the webbing as the ship dropped out of transition with a shudder and a sob.

He’d webbed into the chair before allowing himself to nod off—prudent for a pilot running solo, even in relatively pirate-free space.

Prudence had saved him a bad knock—and another when the ship twisted again, as if protesting its sudden change of state.

By then, he was well awake, and by exerting steady pressure against the restraints managed to gain his board, and get a closer look at the screens.

The board was locked and live—standard for transition—and the main screen displayed a dense, unfamiliar starfield. Across the center of the display ran a bright blue legend:
Transition aborted. Target coordinates unavailable.

Tor An blinked, reached to the board, engaged shields, called up the last-filed transition string, and sat frowning at the cheery yellow coordinates that described the location of home. Feeling a fool, he activated the library, called for the Ringstars, and did a digit-by-digit comparison between the library’s coord set and those displayed in the nav screen.

The numbers matched, which ought to have, he thought, made him feel better. After all, he
hadn’t
made a fumble-fingered entry error, or misremembered the coord set he’d been able to recite almost before he could pronounce his name.

On the other hand, a ship sent into transition defined by a correct set of target coordinates ought not to exit transition until the conditions described by the coordinates were met.

“Unless,” Tor An said to the empty tower, “the navigation brain has dead sectors, or a ship self-check determines a dangerous condition. Or pirates force you out early.”

He glared at the screens, noting the lack of pirates. He slapped up the logs, but found no dangerous condition listed. Dead sectors in the nav brain—he sighed. There was only one way to determine if that were the case.

Leaning to the board again, he set up a suite of diagnostics, punching the start key with perhaps a bit more force than was absolutely necessary. The board lights flickered; the screens blanked momentarily, then lit again, displaying the testing sequence and estimated time until completion.

Tor An released the webbing and stood. There was one more thing that might usefully be done—and, considering the age of his ship,
ought
to be done. If the transvective stabilizers had developed a wobble, the ship might have spontaneously dropped out of transition. He rather thought that such an event would have been noted in the log, but it
was
an old ship, with quirks and crotchets, and certain sporadic incompatibilities between ship’s core and the logging function were a known glitch of its class.

Two of his strides and he was across the tiny tower. He opened a storage hatch, pulled out a tool belt and slung it around his waist, snapping it as he headed for the door.

SOME WHILE LATER,
he was back in the pilot’s chair, gnawing on a high-calorie bar and scrolling through the diagnostic reports, not as pleased as he might be by the unbroken lines of “normal function.” At the end of the file, he sat back, the bar forgotten in his hand.

The stabilizers had checked out. The synchronization unit—which he knew for a glitchy, temperamental piece of work—had tested perfectly sound. Everything that could be tested, had tested normal, except for one thing.

Normally functioning ships do not spontaneously fall out of transition and report the—correctly entered!—target coordinates as “unavailable.”

“Well,” he said aloud, “it’s obviously a fabric-of-space problem.”

“Fabric-of-space problem” was Alkia in-clan for “a thing which has happened, but which cannot be explained.” There being a limited number of such events in life, the phrase was a joke—or a sarcastic jibe from an elder to a junior suspected of being too lazy to do a thorough check.

But he
had
done a thorough check, for all the good he’d gained.

“Check again,” he told himself, a trifle impatiently, “or trust the data.”