The Crystal Variation (86 page)

It comes to me that I owe you an apology—more apologies than I’ve got time left to say. A soldier does his duty, and mine pushed me to alter the course of your life, which I never should have done. Asking you to die for my mission—that was wrong, and no excuses.

It’s come to the point, now. You’ll be carrying the war on from here. I know you’ll be as strong and as brave and as tough as you need to be. I know you’ll prevail. The Enemy—they don’t have a chance.

I’ll shut it down now, before you get irritable.

Remember me for as long as you can, Cantra.

I’ll do the same, for you.

Jela

Twenty-Five

TWENTY-FIVE

Solcintra

SOLCINTRA PORT
didn’t precisely tantalize a trader with promises of wealth and treasure, be that trader Light, Grey or Dark. Point of fact, Cantra was near to calling it the sorriest port she’d ever had the misfortune to find herself on—excepting there’d been worse. Vanehald, for an instance.

It was something funny, too. There were plenty of ships in—that was not counting the slowly waking fleet under Wellik’s care. Far more ships, indeed, than she would’ve thought likely, given Solcintra; including a cruise liner that had been sitting in close orbit when she’d brought
Dancer
in. She’d’ve thought the liner’d been long departed, maybe having stopped for repair, but she’d seen more than a few luxury class uniforms on port during the course of her ramble.

The reason she was on-port, with a pass all signed and legal in her pocket, instead of cooling her heels behind locked-and-guarded doors—well, there was a tale worth repeating.

Deeps preserve me from gently brought up kiddies
, she thought. For it would be the boy who had talked Wellik into unlocking her door and vouching for her good behavior like he was even younger than he looked.

“Didn’t your grandma teach you not to speak for strangers chance-met on the port?” she’d snapped when he came to put the pass in her hand.

He’d frowned; absurd purple eyes clouding. “Surely, she did,” he answered, in a clipped, too-formal tone that he might’ve thought hid his spurt of temper. “She had also taught me that pilots aid pilots, and that a co-pilot’s first duty is to his pilot. So I put the case to Captain Wellik, who appears to have received the same lessons from his grandmother—and thus you are free to tend business on the port.” He stopped there, though she could tell he had more to say, his lips set into a straight, firm line.

She grappled with her own temper, concentrating on breathing even and deep until she was sure she could answer him mild.

“One. I’m obliged to you for your trouble, Pilot, but the fact of the matter is you ain’t my co-pilot.

“Two. All honor to your grandma, but there’s some pilots you don’t want to be laying down your good word to aid. I’m the sort of pilot who’d like to’ve curled her hair, and
ought
to curl yours. You got no way of knowing if I’m going to ever walk back in that gate once I’m on the outside of it.”

That should’ve ended the discussion, but the kid was tougher than his soft face gave a pilot to think.

“Jela vouched for you,” he said, his voice still clipped and cool. “He said you were the best damn’ pilot he’d ever seen.”

“
Jela
was the best damn’ pilot he’d ever—”

“And he sat co-pilot to
you
!” The boy interrupted in his turn. He took a hard breath and produced crisp, angry little bow. “Pilot. Duty calls me elsewhere.”

And who would’ve considered, she thought now, that so soft-looking a boy had so firm a temper?

She paused at a table to inspect a display of hand-thrown pots. Indigenous hand work was usually a good sell; even lopsided pots had their admirers. These, though, were not only lopsided, but dull, the glaze unevenly applied and the finish rough. It could, she supposed, be a School; but the smart money said it was just bad pots.

Well. She turned away, moving quiet and alert down the ragged rows.

Cool reflection established that the boy hadn’t taken as much risk in his vouching as it first seemed. There was, after all, Jela’s ship to be dealt with, though what she was likely to be able to do with a troop transport wasn’t at the moment clear to her. She supposed she might sell it to her profit—though not on Solcintra. Nor it wasn’t any such vessel as could be flown by a single pilot. Two might manage, if the voyage wasn’t long and the pilots fresh. Four were best, running shifts and rotations ‘tween them. She’d studied the specs during her happy time confined to quarters, and allowed herself to be in awe of such a ship. The keepings of a small planet could be packed into the outer ring of pods, if the balancing was done fine, and more soldiers than she felt comfortable thinking about could ride at slow-sleep in the second.

The third ring was quarters and mess for wide-awake crew, while deep inside, at the very heart and soul of the cluster—that was the pilots tower. Each section had its own set of engines; the tower could be broke entirely away from its pods and run as its own ship. And even stripped right down to the tower,
Salkithin
was twice again as big as
Dancer
entire.

Not exactly the best kind of vessel for a pilot whose fondest desire in life was to fly low and unobserved. She wondered—not for the dozenth time—what Jela’d been thinking, leaving her such a monstrosity to deal with—or Wellik, for approving the transfer.

Now she was out of lock-up, she could give over wonder and turn her back on the whole mess, get to her ship and lift out, never mind she was empty. Jela’s death-and-bonus money would keep her ‘til she could raise a port that had some profit to offer. That would be the sensible thing to do—and teach the boy a needed lesson, too.

She considered that course of action, trying to visualize the sequence of events—and found herself instead hearing the echo of the boy’s voice: “Jela vouched for you . . .”

Dammit.

She bent over a jeweler’s table, not so much because the cloudy gems called to her, but to give herself time to recover from a certain shortness of breath.

Wasn’t no harm, she thought, to send word up that she’d like to inspect her new toy. She owned to a certain curiosity to see the sort of vessel Jela was accustomed to—

“Ah, there you are, my dear!” The voice was too close, unfamiliar—no. She knew whose voice it was. Sighing to herself, Cantra straightened and turned.

“Uncle,” she said non-committal and easy. He was, she noted with approval, standing at a respectful distance and slightly to one side, his hands empty and in plain view. He was wearing a layer of Solcintra port dust over a dark cloak, and his hair was in a simple, unadorned braid. No tile showing, no strands, neither. Even his rings were gone.

“Pilot Cantra.” He bowed slightly. “How fortunate I am to find you. I wonder if you may be thirsty.”

She considered him. “That depends on if you’re buying,” she pointed out. “And where.”

“Naturally.” He smiled, which expression of goodwill didn’t reach his eyes, and moved a hand, gracefully. “Please, choose a direction; I trust that you will be able to locate a suitable establishment. As the one who has extended the invitation, I will, of course, be buying.”

It fair warmed a pilot’s heart to find a man in so cooperative and expansive a mood. Not to say that she wasn’t a bit thirsty, now she put her mind to it. And—who knew?—Uncle might have a lucrative suggestion to make.

So, she smiled, no more real than he had, and inclined her head, moving off to the left. He fell in beside her with barely a rustle.

“Passed something a couple streets over this way,” she said. “Looked like a quiet place for a chat.”

“Excellent,” the Uncle murmured. “I am in your hands, Pilot.”

“Tell me,”
he said some little while later, as they settled into a back table, “how fares the excellent M. Jela?”

“He’s dead,” she said shortly, giving the room another look-around. It was dim, which was good, and the few patrons within eye-shot were mindful of their own bidness after subjecting them to the obligatory distrustful stare. The ‘tender hadn’t looked especially pleased to seem them stroll in the door, but he hadn’t thrown them out, either. She’d drunk in less hospitable places.

“Dead,” the Uncle repeated. “That is unfortunate. A sudden affliction, I apprehend?”

Cantra didn’t sigh, and she made sure her hands were nice and relaxed. Jela wasn’t on the short list of those things she cared to talk with the Uncle about, though she could hardly ignore a direct question. She could, however, demonstrate displeasure.

So, she gave him a frown with her answer, granting him leave to take the hint: “You could call an enemy invasion sudden, I’d guess.”

“Ah. An affliction we all of us hold in common,” he responded, with a look of bogus sympathy, and glanced up as the bartender approached, glower in place.

“Drinks,
kenake
?” he asked, like he was hoping they’d admit to having made a mistake, gather themselves up and go. And with
kenake
being the local impolite for not-one-of-us, he’d probably thank them for leaving.

Cantra flicked a glance to the Uncle, meeting an expression of well-bred patience.

“Please, Pilot,” he murmured. “Choose what you like.”

Right, then. She leaned back in her chair, sighting around the bartender to the rows of drinkables on display behind the bar. Not a very tempting display, and she was about to call for beer, when her eye caught on a distinctive shape high on the backest, darkest shelf. She looked to the Uncle.

“I’ll have a glass of Kalfer Shimni, if you please.”

His eyebrows went up, but, “Excellent,” was all he said to her, before addressing the ‘tender. “We will have the Kalfer Shimni. Bring the bottle—and two glasses.”

The man’s attitude of warm welcome got even chillier. “Coin up front,
kenake
,” he said, as ugly as you like and then some.

The Uncle sniffed, and raised a hand, displaying nothing more nor less than a qwint. The ‘tender reached for it—only to see the coin disappear inside the Uncle’s fist.

“When you bring the bottle—and be certain those two glasses ring.”

There was a quiet few moments while the ‘tender worked it out, then he turned and left them.

“Do you wonder, Pilot, how such a bottle would have found its way here?”

She moved her shoulders. “There was a luxury liner up top when I came in. Might be the crew likes to have something drinkable when they’re here.”

The Uncle pursed his lips. “My information regarding the liner is that it was engaged by the High Families.” He glanced about them, meaningfully. “This is hardly the usual sort of port for such a vessel.”

“There’s that,” she agreed and was about to pursue the High Family tangent when the ‘tender approached again, with a bottle and two glasses on a tray.

He placed the tray on the table, and stood by sullenly while the Uncle picked up each glass in turn and struck them with a delicate fingernail. Both sang, high and sweet.

Cantra took it upon herself to inspect the bottle, finding the seal in place; the special glass and the label authentic—or very, very good forgeries.

“Looks to be what we want,” she said to the Uncle’s raised eyebrows. He smiled slightly, and held out the coin.

The bartender took it in a snatch, turned, and left them. The Uncle sighed lightly, shrugged beneath his cloak, and inclined his head.

“Will you do the honors, Pilot?”

She did, with dispatch, and they both sat silent until the first sip had been savored, the Uncle with his head to one side, and a true smile on his lips.

“Excellent,” he said for a third time, putting the glass down gentle on the table. He looked at it meditatively, then transferred his glance to Cantra.

“This sudden affliction to which M. Jela regrettably succumbed,” he murmured, for her ears only. “May one know the location?”

She sighed. “Vanehald.”

“Ah, yes. Vanehald.” He loosened the brooch at his throat and shrugged the dusty cloak back over the chair. Beneath, he was wearing dark shirt and pale vest, looking like any respectable person of reasonable wealth and consequence, excepting the smartstrands wove into the shirt, shimmering just a little in the dimness.

“Tell me,” the Uncle said. “How was that accomplished?”

She blinked at him. “The enemy invasion? Buncha old tech in the tunnels started talking to each other and opened up a trans-spatial gate, is what I heard.”

“Indeed; I have also heard this. But what I had meant to say was—how were my children instantaneously transported from deep inside their claim to their ship, which was already in transition, with the course set and locked away from even the pilot’s codes?”

“Oh, that.” Cantra had another sip of brandy. Deeps, but that was good.

“Jela had some . . . interesting allies,” she said to the Uncle’s bland, patient eyes.

Silence. She let it stretch while she enjoyed another sip of brandy.

“I see,” the Uncle said softly, conceding momentary defeat with a slight tip of his head. “On a related subject—I wonder, Pilot, if you have news of my children.”

“Oh, aye,” she said easily. “They’re safe under lock and key inside the garrison. Captain Wellik, you understand, not being wishful of having anything ill befall them.”

“The captain’s care humbles me.” His voice was too quiet to hold an edge of irony. “I am to understand from the message sent me that M. Jela believed catastrophe was imminent, and that the best hope of survival for myself and my children was to hie ourselves to this . . . unfortunate planet and place ourselves at the service of a certain scholar.”

“Right. He’s at the garrison, too,” she said, and smiled to show she was being helpful.

The Uncle sighed. “I believe it may be pointless to bait me at this present, Pilot,” he said softly. “Though you must of course please yourself.” He raised his glass, and the ‘strands gleamed along his sleeve. “I must assume M. Jela realized that we do not place ourselves
at the service
of anyone. Nor am I best pleased to find my children held against their wills.”