The Crystal Variation (79 page)

And if he’d known those “last couple days” were in actuality
months
, he could have—he could have been on
Dancer
, sitting co-pilot and content. As it was,
Dancer
was no doubt long lifted, maybe even heading for Solcintra. He thought she’d take the book to Wellik, like he’d asked her to. Just like he thought she’d do her best to keep the tree safe. He had to trust to that.

He shook his head, ran through a focusing exercise—and sighed. Months. If he’d known—

No use thinking about that. And truth told, he could put months to use here, same as he’d intended to use his days. He had the info he’d lifted out of Osabei Tower’s brain, and all his generalist’s intuition to bring to bear on the problem. If he could locate that world-shield, he could send that info along to Wellik, who he trusted would use the weapons that fell into his hand. Had to trust, in fact, Wellik being the only one left.

Being as he had months, it might have been best to put himself into his bunk for a nap, but he was an M and an M hates to be idle.

So he drew a local map from stores, and headed out for a stroll through the port—whether for distraction, to gather information, or to walk off a mood hardly mattered.

“Pilot Jela!” a familiar voice shouted. He spun, spied Dulsey at the front of what the map told him was Watt’s Bar, waving at him energetically, her grin so wide it was like to split her face.

He felt his mood lighten somewhat, and changed his course.

“Dulsey,” he said, giving her a smile. “You’re the—next-to-last person I’d expected to see. How are you?”

“I am exceptionally well,” she assured him; her grin dimming somewhat as she got a good look at him.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“I—have you lost weight, Pilot Jela?”

In fact, he had, as the medic had also mentioned. No sense involving Dulsey in all that, though, so he gave her another smile and moved his shoulders in a dismissive shrug. “Had some short rations for a while,” he said easily.

“Of course.” She hesitated, then rallied. “You must come in and meet the others!”

Nineteen

NINETEEN

Vanehald

THERE WERE OTHER PEOPLE
in the bar, but he could only see one, elbow on the chipped table, next to a beer she hadn’t touched, chin resting on her palm.

“Cantra.” He had the impression he’d been about to say something else, though he couldn’t have guessed what, and in the end it was no matter. His throat had closed and squeezed off all the words.

For her part, she gave him a wide, too-bright smile, which was nothing less than he deserved. “That didn’t take long,” she said, falsely cheerful.

He cleared his throat. “The commander’s a fool,” he told her, which piece of nonsense earned him a wise look from foggy green eyes and a knowing, “Ah.”

“Here,” Dulsey broke in, intent on introducing him to her troop. She touched his arm lightly, and nodded toward a tall glowering fellow with a strong jaw. “This is Arin, our librarian and linguistic specialist.”

Jela gave him a polite nod, which Arin, despite his glower, returned.

“And this,” Dulsey continued, indicating a pale port-rat of a woman wearing her only weapon out in the open on her belt, “is Jakoby, our weapons expert—and Fern, our archeologist and pilot.” She smiled ‘round at the three of them, seeming not to notice that none of the three smiled back, and told them, “This is Pilot Jela, who the Uncle offered a place among us.”

“The soldier,” Jakoby spoke up, her voice a dry whisper, “who killed fourteen of us?”

Jela gave her a grin, feeling rather than seeing Cantra get her balance adjusted for a quick move, if it came to that—which it shouldn’t. He hoped.

“The soldier,” he said to Jakoby, “who was attacked on a dock where he and his pilot had been guaranteed safe crossing. That’s right.”

There was a sharp pause. When next anyone spoke, it was Arin, remarkably civil.

“Uncle has spoken to me often of these pilots and their role in bringing the
Fratellanzia
to his attention,” he said, and inclined his head once more, this time like he meant it.

“Pilot Jela and Pilot Cantra, I know Uncle would wish me to convey to you his gratitude as well as his feeling of obligation. If there is anything I, as Uncle’s representative, might do to serve you, please do not hesitate to ask my assistance.”

“That’s said pretty,” Cantra allowed. “Don’t exactly compensate for the loss of custom ‘skins nor Pilot Jela’s peace of mind, but I ‘preciate the sentiment. I can’t off-hand think of anything that might bring us more into alignment, but I’ll be sure to let you know if something occurs.”

Arin inclined his head yet a third time. “I am at your service, Pilot.”

“No you ain’t,” she said agreeably, “and neither Pilot Jela nor I is fool enough to believe you are. Though it might be we’ll be taking you up on that offer of balance, like I said.”

“Dulsey,” Jela said, before Arin could get his tongue around an answer to that, “what brings you here? If it can be told.”

“There are certain items of antiquity in which the Uncle has an interest,” the silent pilot—Fern—said. “Our team was sent to collect them, if they are here, as well as those other objects we deem to be useful.”

“If what I’m told about the mine-outs being full of First Phase artifacts is true,” Jela said, “I’d say you had your work cut out for you.”

“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.”

Tweny

TWENTY

Vanehald

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?”