The Crystal Variation

by Sharon Lee

  In a business where the faint of heart failed and the ruthless prevailed, Rint dea’Sord was known as a man not to cross. He paid well for his commissions, if not always at full price, and he paid well for errors, too, with interest. A bitter enemy was dea’Sord, so the word went, and a man with a galaxy-wide reach. No one cheated Rint dea’Sord, and the same could not be said for himself.

  Garen had refused to deal with the man at all, which might have said something positive about her sanity after all. Cantra’s dealings with him had been exactly two. Both times, she’d come away with enough of her fee in hand that she thought three times whenever a deal involving a Taliofi delivery came up—once for the money and twice for Ser dea’Sord.

  This instance, she’d thought four times, the money was that good. And in the end it was the money that had convinced her, despite the client’s known tendencies. If she actually received even a third of the promised fee, it would represent a tidy profit. Profits being what motivated the pilot and fueled the craft, she’d taken the job.

  And now here she was, thinking a fifth time, which was a plain waste of time and thought-channels. She was down, a fact that couldn’t fail to escape the notice of those with a tender regard for her cargo. Lifting now got her nothing but ruined. Best to collect her pay, off-load, and commence about ditching her so-called crew.

  She might should’ve had qualms about leaving them in such a port, but she judged Jela able to take care of himself, and while Taliofi wasn’t a nexus, it wasn’t back-system, either. A pilot with Jela’s skills should have no trouble hiring himself onto a ship heading for his favorite coordinates.

  The other matter was a little less certain, but Dulsey’s chances of long-term survival were in the negative numbers no matter how you rolled it. Cantra found as she locked the board down that she did feel something bad about that, which was another side of senseless. Dulsey’d made her choices and Taliofi was as good a place for a runaway Batcher as any—and considerably better than some.

  Lock-down finished, she released the webbing and stood. She was well ahead of her appointed time. Might be best to switch her priorities, and get her crew up and gone before Rint dea’Sord took note of them. With that detail taken care of, she could lift directly she’d off-loaded, which did appeal. She’d go on to Horetide, and pick up work there.

  Half-a-dozen steps brought her to the little tree. There was a dent in the pot from where it had smacked into the wall, and it had lost three leaves to the decking. Loss of leaf wasn’t likely to do it harm, she thought, and bent a little closer. The branches and the thin trunk appeared intact—and the fruits still hung in their places. So far, so good.

  Time to skin-up and see if her passengers had fared as well.

  COCOONED IN HIS WEB of calculation, Jela felt the ship come to ground. He let the current probability analysis run itself to an outcome he liked even less than the previous one, and opened his eyes.

  “We’re down, Dulsey,” he said, neither loud nor soft. The walls rumbled a little when his voice struck it.

  “Thanßk you, Pilot; I am awake,” came the composed answer. “Do you think Pilot Cantra will let us out now?”

  “I think that’s the most likely scenario,” he said, and released the webbing, taking a moment to be sure that it was untangled and ran smooth on its rollers, in case the next tenant of the bunk needed to strap down in a hurry.

  Satisfied, he eased onto his side, face pointed toward the door, and told himself that it took time to lock the board and file pilot’s intent with the port and—

  There was a sound—small in his super-sharp hearing—and the door opened, framing a long, lean figure. Her face was amiable, which he knew by now meant nothing with Pilot Cantra, and her head was cocked to one side, tawny hair brushing the shoulder of her ‘skins.

  “I’m glad to see the two of you looking well-rested,” she said, her voice smooth and unhurried, the Rimmer accent just a tickle against the ear-bone. “Time to get up and do some errands.”

  “Where are we?” Dulsey asked, surprisingly sharp.

  One of Cantra’s winged eyebrows lifted, but she gave answer calm enough. “Taliofi. That inform you, Dulsey?”

  There was a pause, long enough for Jela to read it as “no,” but Dulsey surprised him.

  “Yes, Pilot. What errands are required?”

  “As it happens, I’ve got a list.” She raised her head and fixed Jela in her foggy green gaze. “Ace, Pilot?”

  “Ace,” he agreed, and produced an agreeable smile, there being no reason not to.

  “Good.” She jerked her head to her left, toward the hatch. “Let’s go.”

  SHE’D CONSIDERED LEAVING the tree where it was, in the interests of misdirection, but had decided against. Jela’d gone to considerable risk and trouble to bring this particular plant out of Faldaiza, and she had no intention to rob him. So, she’d untied the thing and got it—pot, dirt and fruits—onto a cargo sled, by which time she had developed a whole new respect for Pilot Jela’s physical attributes, and dragged it down to the hatch.

  Jela eyed it as he entered the area, and she drew a subtle breath, ready with her story about the pot being broken and dangerous in high acceleration. But he’d only shrugged, did Jela, and bent to pick the thing up, cradling it like kin.

  “Pot took a beating, I see,” was what he said. “I’ll tend to it, Pilot.”

  “‘preciate it,” she’d answered, matching his tone. If he’d planned on making a move for Dancer, now was the time, and he couldn’t well make that move with his arms full of tree. She didn’t doubt that he’d already understood the situation with regard to his lack of continued welcome, and she was unaccountably relieved that no fancy-work was going to be needed on his behalf. She turned.

  “Dulsey,” she began, but the Batcher held up a hand, cutting her off.

  “Pilot, there are those whom I would seek out on this port. If I do not return in time for lift, please understand it is not from disrespect for yourself or your ship, but because I have made other arrangements.”

  So Dulsey had contacts on Taliofi, did she? That was a piece of luck. Cantra inclined her head gravely.

  “I understand,” she said, and the Batcher bowed.

  Cantra turned and opened the hatch. The day beyond showed gray and cold and raining.

  “Right,” she said, and sighed as she waved them out and down the ramp. “Welcome to Taliofi.”

  * * *

  THING WAS, she did have a list, a habit going back to Garen’s insistence that “ship shape” meant something more than neat-and-clean. She stood at the top of the ramp and watched Dulsey lead the way down, saw Jela striding steadily away, looking from this angle like someone who might be able to make a night warm after all, carrying his potted tree like it weighed nothing at all.

  Cantra sighed a bit against that thought, and the feeling that she was watching the best pilot she’d seen in some years sashay right away from her, and forcibly turned her attention to the list.

  First was to do an in-person prepay for lift-off—in case news of her last lift-out had got this far already—and then do a little shopping, to top off the needfuls, no more’n that; not at Taliofi. After that, she’d scout up someplace quiet and have herself a meal, with herself for company. All this eating with crew had her half-imagining she was too old to work solo.

  Once the eating was done, she’d find a private place, check her ‘skins and her weapons, and go pay her respects to Ser dea’Sord.

  IT WAS A WONDERFUL thing to be a Generalist, Jela thought, as he and the tree made their way across Taliofi Yard. For instance, a Generalist, with his horde of beguiling and unrelated facts and his valuable skill at putting those facts together in intriguing and uncannily correct ways would recall that . . . interesting numbers . . . of diverted sheriekas-made devices seemed to have passed—oh-so-anonymously—through Taliofi, their previous ports, if any, and their places of origin muddied beyond recovery. A Generalist would recall that Taliofi crouched
at coordinates easily raised from the Rim—and Beyondthat trade undoubtedly went both in and out.

  And a Generalist would conclude, against his will, for the woman had covered him and had held away from trying to kill him or do him any harm other than cutting him loose to pursue his own business on a port that might in charity be considered Dark—a Generalist would conclude, in the non-linear way typical of the breed, that he knew what was in Pilot Cantra’s hold, which it was a soldier’s duty to confiscate, along with detaining the pilot and her buyer.

  The weight of the tree was beginning to drag at his arms, and the cold rain was an irritation on his face and unprotected hands. He scouted ahead for a place to get out of the weather, spied what looked to be a cab stand a few dozen strides to his left and made for it, passing a goodly number of civilians about their daily business, none of whom spared one glance for a man carrying a tree. It was that kind of port.

  He shouldered his way into the cab stand, kicked the door shut, used an elbow to punch the privacy button, and put the tree down on the bench. Straightening, he stretched his arms and let them fall to his sides with a sigh.

  Dulsey had set out on her own course the instant her boots hit the Yard’s ‘crete. He hoped her contacts here were solid. At least the likelihood of bounty hunters was slim, which had to count in her favor. He hoped.

  On a personal note, though, he had a problem. While it might be a soldier’s duty to confiscate and arrest, to attempt to carry out that duty without back-up was a fool’s game.

  The most effective thing he could do was collect evidence, and send it on to Ragil to pass upstream.

  Not being exactly military, he also theoretically had the option of ignoring the whole thing and getting on with the business of finding a lift out for a man and a tree.

  He considered it, because he had to, weighing the benefits—and then gave it up. His whole life had been spent fighting sheriekas and their works . . .

  From the tree, a faint rustle of leaves, though the air was still inside the cab stand, and Jela grinned.

  “That’s right. Both of us have spent our lives on that project,” he murmured, and stretched one more time before taking the pot up again and bringing the heel of his boot smartly against the door’s kick-plate.

  Outside, the rain had increased. Jela sighed and turned back the way he had come.

  “Pilot, you honor my humble establishment.”

  Rint dea’Sord swept a showy bow, sleeves fluttering, right leg thrust out, shiny boot pointed straight forward, left leg behind and slightly bent, boot pointing at right angles. His hair fell in artful gilt ringlets below his slim shoulders. The shirt was silver starsilk, slashed sleeves showing blood-red. The breeches, tucked into high boots, looked to be tanned viezy hide, and probably was, though the probability that Ser dea’Sord had followed tradition to the point of personally killing the donor reptile with the ritually mandated stone knife was vanishingly low. Very tender of his own skin, Rint dea’Sord, though he didn’t care if yours took a scar.

  He straightened out of his bow with boneless grace, the right leg coming back just a fraction too slow, an error that would have gained him a turn in the phantom lover, had he been trained in her dorm. Which, naturally enough, he hadn’t, being self-taught. For that level of education, he did well enough, Cantra allowed, and answered his bow with a Rimmer’s terse nod.

  “The cargo’s ready to off-load, pending receipt of payment,” she said.

  Rint dea’Sord smiled, which he did prettily enough, but he really should, Cantra thought critically, either learn to use his eyes, or camouflage them with a sweep of the lashes or—

  “All business, as always, Pilot!” He laughed gently, and sat himself behind his desk, waving her to a chair with a languid hand. “Please, rest a moment and tell me your news. Will you take some refreshment?”

  When Taliofi’s star froze, that was when she’d take refreshment from the likes of Rint dea’Sord. Not that she’d be so rude as to tell the man so; she’d been trained better than that. She put her hand on the back of the chair she was supposed to sit in, and smiled, using her eyes.

  “I just ate,” she said, pulling the Rim accent up a little. “And my news ain’t special or interesting. Took the cargo on at Faldaiza, lifted, transitioned, and came down on Taliofi Yard a while back. Looking to collect payment due, off-load, and lift.” She smiled again, rueful. “A courier’s life is boring. Which is the way she wants it, and her clients, too.”

  He folded his hands carefully atop the black ceramic desk, and considered her, his eyes blue and hard, belying his tone of courteous and civil interest.

  “Come, Pilot, you are too modest! When a courier performs an unscheduled lift amid cannon-fire, surely that is news? As your client, I can only applaud the skill which allowed you to win free unscathed. It will of course be awkward for you to return to Faldaiza for the foreseeable future, but that must be accounted to the side of necessary action, must it not?”

  “Right,” she said, laconic, keeping her face smooth.

  Rint dea’Sord smiled. “As your client, I must ask—please do not think me discourteous!—if the contretemps surrounding your departure from Faldaiza in any way touched upon the cargo you have brought to me?”

  “Separate issue,” she assured him.

  “You relieve me. Would that separate issue have had to do with your passenger?”

  Cantra showed him a face honestly puzzled. “Passenger?”

  Rint dea’Sord clicked his tongue against his teeth, his face smooth under the gold-toned makeup. “Come, come, Pilot! Passenger, of course.”

  “I’m not recalling any passenger,” she said. “Maybe your info got scrambled.”

  Ser dea’Sord sighed, gently. “Pilot, surely you know that I have eyes all over this port.”

  “Goes without saying—man of your position,” Cantra answered soothingly.

  “Then you will know that I am reliably informed regarding your passenger.”

  Since when did Rint dea’Sord concern himself with extra cargo, crew or passengers, so long as his interests weren’t put in jeopardy? She wondered, stringently keeping the wonder from showing in her face, eyes, voice or stance, and shrugged. Holding to honest puzzlement, she met the cold blue eyes, her own guileless and wide.

  “Sir, I don’t doubt you’re reliably informed about everything that transpires on this Yard, and would be about my passenger, if I’d had one, which I didn’t.” She cocked her head to a side. “Got time for a let’s pretend?”

  The pretty gilt eyebrows arched high, but he answered courteous enough.

  “I am at your disposal, Pilot. What shall we pretend? That I am a two-headed galunus?”

  “Nothing that hard,” she said. “Let’s just pretend that, instead of the two of us talking about your cargo and how I’m going to get paid real soon now so I can off-load and lift—let’s pretend I had two clients on this port, and I’m with the second. And let’s pretend that this second client, having paid her shot and arranged the off-load, starts inquiries into your cargo, which it ain’t any business of hers. And so she says to me, ‘I’m a big noise on this Yard and I’m reliably informed that you’re carrying cargo for Rint dea’Sord. Tell me about it.’ Now,” Cantra finished, watching him watch her out of those hard, cold eyes, “what’s my proper response, given the cargo isn’t got the young lady’s name on it, but your own?”

  There was a small silence during which Rint dea’Sord unfolded his hands and put them flat on the top of the desk.

  “Let me see . . .” He murmured, and raised one finger in consideration. “Would it perhaps be, ‘Cargo? I’m not recalling any cargo.’”

  Cantra smiled. “You’ve played before.”

  “Indeed I have,” he said, and didn’t bother to smile back. “While I value your discretion—and your warning—I believe that the nature of this particular passenger warrants my attention as a—what was the phrase? Ah!—as a big noise on this Yard. Certainly, my attention mu
st be aroused when a courier whom I am known to have employed is seen abetting the escape of a renegade Batcher.”

  Cantra visibly stifled a yawn. “Runaway Batcher,” she said, on a note of reflection.

  “It is possible of course,” said Rint dea’Sord, “that you were deceived into believing her a natural human, such as yourself. A Batcher traveling alone, without the rest of her pod, would seem to be as individual as you or I.”

  “Might’ve been traveling on behalf of her owner,” Cantra said, by way of stalling him, while she tried to think it through. He was focusing on Dulsey, acting like she’d been the only one coming off Spiral Dance, saving Cantra. Had his bragged-on eyes somehow missed the substantial fact of Pilot Jela? Or had Jela decided to ingratiate himself with the Yard boss? Fast work if he had—and she didn’t put it beyond him.

  “Is that what she told you?” dea’Sord asked. “That she was traveling on behalf of her owner?”

  Cantra sighed silently, bringing her full wits back to the conversation in progress.

  “She can’t have told me anything, since she doesn’t exist,” she said, letting aggravation be heard. “Ser dea’Sord, there’s the matter of payment sitting between the two of us. Your cargo’s secure in the hold of my ship. As soon as I have the promised coin, I can off-load and we can both get back to the business of turning a profit.”

  This time Rint dea’Sord did smile, and Cantra wished he hadn’t.

  “As it happens, Pilot, I am pursuing a profit even as we speak.” He moved a hand to touch a portion of his desk top. A door opened in the wall behind him, and a burly man in half-armor ‘skins stepped through, a limp form wound in cargo twine tucked under one arm. dea’Sord beckoned and the fellow walked up to Cantra, dropped his burden at her feet, and fell back to the desk, hand on his sidearm.