The Crystal Variation

by Sharon Lee

  “Clean up that mess!” she snapped at him. “Then you may rest.”

  He waited ‘til the door had closed and locked behind her before allowing himself a single, luxuriously loud, sigh, the whine of the jamming device irritating his super-sharp ears. Well, there was one way to put an end to that small discomfort, he thought. Rolling his shoulders, he turned his attention to locating the concealed spy-eyes.

  * * *

  DISTANT YET IN TIME and space, the Iloheen sensed them as they phased. Rool Tiazan plucked the ley lines the way a mortal man might idly pluck at the strings of a lute he was too indolent to truly play. The Iloheen must believe them wary, fearful and furtive, all of their skill bent upon concealment, all of their intelligence focused upon escape. In this they were assisted by the natural order: the Iloheen were fell and awful, fearsome beings from which it were madness to do other than cover oneself and flee.

  The Seon Veyestra dominant had known Rool; even as she had dissolved, she had exerted her will to etch his identity into the ether.

  It was true that no dramliza fell but that the Iloheen saw. Eventually. But that last scream against annihilation, elucidating the tainted genetic code of an escaped slave—that had been heard instantly.

  The Iloheen was nearer now to where they huddled, as small and as dim as was prudent, hidden within a dense weaving of ley lines. Did they make themselves as insignificant as they might, the shimmer of energies from the lines would indeed have concealed them. For this game, however—

  Static disturbed the placid flowing of the lines, and in that place where there was neither hot nor cold, a chill wind disturbed the soul.

  We must not, the lady’s thought whispered behind the shields that protected them. We must seem neither too easy nor too bold.

  If we are then to seem craven, Rool Tiazan’s thought replied. Our moment approaches.

  Have you identified a path? she asked, as the wind grew stronger and the disruptive energies of the Iloheen drew sparks of probability off the lines.

  I have.

  Remove us, she directed.

  Rool teased his chosen line from the sparkling tangle all about them, exerted his will, and took them elsewhere.

  In the nexus of probability they had hidden within, the ley lines crackled and spat, sparks freezing against the fabric of time. The wind blew—cold . . . colder—

  And died.

  THERE HAD BEEN five snoops altogether, which, Jela thought, as he sealed the last hack and activated it, seemed excessive for a newly Seated scholar. On the other hand, maybe they were in the high-rent district.

  Hacks online, he hunkered down by the quick-built jammer and began, carefully, to dismantle it, making sure as he slotted the tiles into the case that those from which the little device had been created were well-mixed among the others. It would be bad if a couple started associating without supervision, so to speak, and built up a wild interference field.

  His best estimation was that the hacks would hold until sometime after he, Cantra, the tree, and Liad dea’Syl’s equations were gone from Osabei Tower. It bothered him that they’d likely have to be left in place until whoever had the snoops under their charge figured the game out and came to collect them; he liked to be tidy in his ops. Well, maybe a chance to remove or destroy them would come along.

  In the meantime, he was cautiously proud of his handiwork. Since they couldn’t know the details of where they’d settle, he had to build the detail in on site—and quick, before someone noticed the feeds coming from the new scholar’s quarters were off. Fortunately, he’d been able to rough in the basics beforehand; adding the detail level had gone quick. Now, whoever was so interested in the doings of a new-arrived scholar would be fed edited versions of real events. Right now, for instance, they should be receiving a nice picture from five different angles of him slumped on the floor next to the “specimen,” napping in the absence of orders.

  Data tiles slotted all nice and neat, Jela straightened and carried the case over to the worktable. His gear was out and assembled, and he’d be wanting to get to work pretty soon . . .

  He turned his head, considering the convertible chair. It didn’t look precisely robust. There’d been a stool shoved under the counter in the galley, he remembered, and he went back across the room to fetch it, moving light and smooth.

  As he passed the tree, he was suddenly aware of the minty aroma of a fresh seed pod. He paused, peering into the branches. Sure enough, one of several emerging pods had ripened, the branch on which it grew bending a little under its mature weight. The aroma grew more noticeable. Jela’s mouth watered, and the branch bent a little more, inviting him to take the pod.

  His fingers twitched, his mouth watered; he hesitated.

  “I’ve been getting a lot of these lately,” he said to the tree. “Don’t stint yourself for me.”

  An image formed inside his head: a seed pod sitting on an outcropping of grey rock, its rind broken, black, and useless.

  “Better a snack for a soldier than wasted altogether, eh? Well—” He extended a hand and the pod dropped neatly into his broad palm. “Thank you,” he whispered. It smelled so good, he ate it right then, before fetching the stool and carrying it over to the worktable.

  Comfortably seated, he cracked his knuckles, loudly, squared his screen off, and took a moment to consider, fingers poised over the keys.

  He hadn’t exactly discussed this phase of the operations with Cantra. He’d intended to, so they could coordinate. That had been before the conversation that set his hair on end, then and now.

  You know how the aelantaza operate, Pilot Jela? Her voice had been light, amused, like she was on the edge of telling some easy joke between comrades.

  He’d admitted to ignorance of the topic, which was true enough, conjecture not counting as fact, and she’d smiled a little and settled back in her chair to recount the tale.

  What aelantaza do, see, is convince everybody around that the aelantaza is exactly and beyond question who and what they say they are. The way of it’s simple to say—they convince other people because they’re convinced themselves. The way of doing it—that’s not so simple. Drugs’re a part of it—drugs the formulae of which the Directors hold more dear than their lives.

  The other part of it, that’s mind-games—meditation, play acting, symbolism. I’d tell it all out for you, but it’d sound like so much rubbish to the sensible, solid man I know you to be—and besides, we’re on a tight schedule. Just let’s leave it that those mind-games, they’re powerful. Back when I was in school, the teachers were pleased to impress on me that it was the mental preparation, not the drugs, that drew the line between a successful mission and a wipe. That an aelantaza who had prepared mentally, but had the drug withheld—that aelantaza had a better—I’m saying, Pilot, a much better—chance of completing her mission successfully than her brother who’d taken the drug without preparing his mind. So you see the odds’re in our favor.

  She’d given him a nod, then, and a straight, hard look, the misty green eyes as serious as the business edge of a battle blade.

  What they call it, that mental preparation that’s so important to preserving our good numbers—they call it the Little Death, and that’s as close to truth as anything you’ll ever have out of Tanjalyre Institute or any aelantaza you might meet. Because the point and purpose of all those mind-games is to strip out—as near as can be without losing training—one personality and lay in a different. The prelim drug makes the work easier by softening up the barriers between me and not-me. The finishing drug, that sets new-me a little tighter, so there’s less likely to be seepage from what’s left of old-me—less opportunity for mistakes on-job, or for a bobble that might crack the belief that the aelantaza is and always has been exactly who she is right now.

  He’d opened his mouth then, though he couldn’t recall what it was he’d intended to say. Cantra’d held up a slender hand.

  Hear me out, she said, and he could’ve thought that the shin
e in her eyes was tears. Just hear me out.

  He’d settled back, fingers moving in the sign for go on . . .

  Right. She sat, head bent, then her chin came up and she shook her hair back out of her face.

  While the odds favor a prepared mind, she said, her mouth twisting a little in what he thought she might have meant for a smile, we have to recollect that I’m inexperienced, and plan for to not have any bobbles. So, what I’ll ask of you, Pilot Jela, is assistance. You’ll know the old-me—what’s left—that’s beneath the new. Don’t, as you wish for us to carry the day and perform the kind lady’s bidding—don’t for a heartbeat acknowledge that ghost. The one who holds the ghost at her heart—she’s the one you’ll be dealing with. Call her only by the name she tells you. Don’t share out any of your close-held secrets with her. Don’t expect her to act or think or feel in any way like the pilot you have here before you would do. Trust—and this is going to be hard, Pilot, I know—trust that, despite all, she’ll move you to the goal we’ve set out and decided between us. Will you give me—will you give me your word on that, Pilot?

  Well, he’d given his word, fool that he was. Soldier that he was.

  She’d smiled then, and stood, stretched her slender hand out to him, and asked him for comfort and ease.

  He’d given that, too, and the memory of their sharing was one of his better ones. So much so that he felt a bit wistful that it hadn’t happened earlier in his life, so he could have held the memory longer.

  When Scholar tay’Nordif had stalked into his life, high-handed and disdainful, he had throttled his horror and kept his word to his pilot. He had, he prided himself, never faltered, acting the part of the laborer, carrying the tree and the scholar’s burdens.

  And Cantra—or whatever there was left of Cantra in the woman who believed herself to be Maelyn tay’Nordif—she had done her part as well, or better. He doubted—yes, he’d doubted—that she’d be able to manage the jammer—and found himself squeamish about imagining the mental gymnastics involved in getting it done—but she’d done it, as clean and as fumble-free as any could have wanted.

  He waggled his fingers over the keyboard, bringing his attention forcefully back to the present and his plan of attack. First, a gentle feeling-out of the security systems protecting the Tower’s various brains, and building a map of hierarchies and interconnections.

  Enough to keep you busy for an hour or two while the scholar has herself a nice meal with her troop, he told himself and grinned.

  After he had snooped out security, he’d be in place to build himself some spies, and after he had his maps, he could start the real job of collecting the equations that would save life as it was from the enemy of everything.

  * * *

  ALA BIN TAY’WELFORD CLAIMED a glass, took up his usual position near the sours table, and surveyed the room. All about scholars were clustered in their usual knots of allies and associates, avidly engaged in Osabei Tower’s favorite pastime—the gaining of advantage over one’s colleagues.

  He turned his attention to the offerings on the table—a much more interesting prospect—debating with himself the relative merits of the berries vinaigrette and the pickled greshom wings. Impossible to be neat with the berries, and one disliked to stain one’s robes. The wings, on the other hand—he was most fond of pickled greshom wings, which were a delicacy of his home province—the wings were possessed on two days out of four of a certain unappealing graininess. He had constructed an algorithm to predict the instances of substandard wings, and according to those calculations, this evening’s would be of the unfortunate variety. He sighed, fingers poised over the plate. He might, he supposed, appease his palate with a sour cookie or—

  “So,” Leman chi’Farlo’s soft, malicious voice fell on his ear, “tay’Azberg will have it that Interdimensional Statistics has Seated a scholar of rare virtue.”

  He chose a cookie, taking care with it, and straightened. Seeing she had his attention, chi’Farlo inclined her head, the data tiles woven into her numerous yellow braids clicking gently against each other.

  “A scholar possessed of an—interesting intellect, I should say,” he answered. “To offer Osabei such a coin in trade for a chair.”

  chi’Farlo raised her glass so that her mouth was hidden. “tay’Azberg allows us to know that the scholar’s coin would disprove all the work upon which our department’s master bases his eminence,” she murmured.

  “Aye,” he said unconcernedly. “It would seem to do just that.” He bit into the cookie, chewed meditatively—and sighed. Appalling.

  “But this is dreadful!” she insisted. “If the Governors should cut the department’s budget—” chi’Farlo was of an excitable temperament. She stood next junior to him in departmental rank, and he needed her calm and focused.

  “Peace, peace,” he murmured, finishing off the cookie and taking a liberal swallow of wine to cleanse the taste from his mouth.

  She laughed sharply. “You may show a calm face to catastrophe, pure scholar that you are, but for those of us who hold hope of seeing the department attain its proper place . . .”

  “The Governors have not cut our budget,” he pointed out, “nor even have they called good Scholar tay’Nordif to stand before them and explain herself, her work, or her proofs. It is possible that they will not do so,” he continued, though in fact he considered it very likely that the Governors would take a decided interest in Scholar tay’Nordif and her proof. Saying so to chi’Farlo, however, would not serve in the cause of calming her.

  He glanced about the room, finding tay’Palin near the door, speaking with dea’San and vel’Anbrek. The time displayed on the wall beyond that small cluster of worthy scholars was perilously close to the moment at which the door would be sealed, and all those left on the wrong side required to report first thing the Truth Bell rang tomorrow to the office of their department head for discipline.

  “Our new sister in art is late,” chi’Farlo murmured spitefully.

  “Not yet,” he answered, continuing his scan of the room—but no, Scholar tay’Nordif had not arrived when his attention was elsewhere. Pity, that. He brought his gaze to chi’Farlo’s stern, pale face. A taint of Outblood in the line, he’d always thought. Pity, that.

  “tay’Palin looks tired, poor fellow,” he said, raising his glass and cocking an eyebrow. chi’Farlo glanced over at the small cluster of scholars, and sighed.

  “He did not look tired this morning,” she said, “when he once again successfully defended his work.”

  “Indeed he did not,” tay’Welford said patiently. “Though I think we can agree that it was a spirited discussion. It is unfortunate that these challenges come so closely of late. If the scholar but had a few days to rest . . . He is formidable in defense of his work, but greatly wearied by these continual demands to prove himself. And then to have taken a wound—”

  “A wound?” chi’Farlo scoffed. “I saw no breach of his defenses this morning.”

  “Nor did I, during the proving,” tay’Welford said. “He is canny, and hid the weakness. I only know of it because I came upon him in his office while he was binding the gash.” He met chi’Farlo’s eyes squarely. “High on his dominant arm. The sleeve of his casement would have hidden it.”

  “I . . . see . . .” chi’Farlo sipped her wine, face soft in reverie. “Tomorrow perhaps our good department head will find the rest he deserves.”

  “Perhaps,” tay’Welford murmured. “Indeed, it is possible. For surely—”

  A movement across the room claimed his attention, which was certainly the door being drawn to—but stay! According to the clock, they were still some seconds short of closure, and, indeed, it was not the door, but Scholar tay’Nordif, of course still wearing her Wanderer’s garb, the black sash of a Seated Scholar accentuating her slim waist.

  “That is our new sister?” chi’Farlo’s voice was slightly edged, and tay’Welford hid a smile, remembering that his junior cared as much—if not more�
��for her standing as the department’s Beauty as for her scholarship. “She is something bedraggled, is she not?”

  “She has just come from the frontier,” he said mildly and then, because he could not resist teasing her, just a little— “Doubtless, she will be very well indeed, once she is properly robed, and rested from her travels.”

  chi’Farlo sniffed, and raised her glass. tay’Welford pressed his lips into a straight line as Scholar tay’Nordif made her way to the group of which tay’Palin stood a member and bowed deeply, fingertips touching forehead, a model of modest courtesy. tay’Palin spoke, and she straightened. tay’Welford understood from the gestures following that she was being made known to dea’San and vel’Anbrek.

  Across the room, the door closed, the bar falling with an audible clang. Scholar tay’Nordif was seen to start and turn her head sharply to track the sound, much to vel’Anbrek’s delight.

  “She will be sitting with tay’Palin at her first meal,” chi’Farlo muttered irritably. “Really, she puts herself high!”

  “Does she?” tay’Welford smiled, and moved forward, slipping a hand beneath her elbow to bear her along with him. “Then let us also put ourselves high.”

  “To what end?” she asked, keeping pace nonetheless.

  “I think our new sister might have some interesting things to tell us of the frontier,” he said.

  “Oh, the frontier!” she began pettishly, and had the good sense to swallow the rest of what she might have said as they joined the group around tay’Palin.

  “Ah, there you are, tay’Welford!” vel’Anbrek cried. “I began to believe you would miss an opportunity.”

  Unpleasant old man. It was a wonder, tay’Welford thought, that no one had challenged him simply to rid the community of a source of on-going irritation. But there, the old horror had close ties to the Governors, which was doubtless the secret to his longevity.