The Crystal Variation

by Sharon Lee

  “Some party,” the lead medic muttered. She glanced up at him, eyes widening, then quickly down again.

  He looked at Cantra’s bruised and bloody face. Still breathing; and the medics had quick-patched the cuts. What other damage there might be—

  “Took a pretty bad knock when she fell off the stacker,” the lead medic muttered, not looking at him. “Her good luck she did, too, before she got crushed. Got some funny readings on the scan . . .” A pause, before she raised her head and looked at him again. “You have an interest in this case?” she asked. “Sir.”

  He looked at her, seeing the signs now—this one had served, and knew all too well what an M Series soldier looked like.

  “I’m prepared to relieve you,” he said, meeting her eyes.

  “Right then.” She motioned to her mate, who began to pack up the kit, his head also studiously bent. The lead stood and faced him, keeping her eyes pointed at a spot just beyond his shoulder.

  “There’s paperwork, and a fee for port services,” she said, stiff-faced. “You settle up at the portmaster’s office.”

  “I’ll do that,” he said insincerely, and turned to make the necessary adjustments to the carry-chair, reformatting the seat into a stretcher, that he could steer by standing on the folded out booster step.

  “Let’s get her on the stretcher . . .”

  “Hold on, here!” shouted the shift boss. “You just can’t send her—suppose she dies? Or this—person—did you even ask for ID?” he demanded of the lead medic.

  She sighed, jerking a chin at her partner to carry the kit out to the ambulance, while Jela webbed Cantra into the stretcher.

  “As it happens, I was on-call two nights ago when this trader got into a little discussion with the wrong people on the old port,” she said tiredly. “I’ve got his particulars on file.” She pulled a portable unit from her belt and held it up, one hand on her hip and a frown on her face. “Want to see?”

  The shift boss considered her, and—wisely, in Jela’s opinion—decided not to pursue the matter.

  “Nothing to me,” he said. “I just don’t need any trouble, is all.”

  “Right,” the lead medic said, snapping the portable back onto her belt. “None of us needs trouble.” She sent a quick, speaking glance to Jela.

  “None of us,” he agreed. “Thank you, medic.” He stepped onto the carry chair platform, reached for the stick, and got them gone.

  THEY WERE AT THE weaving—delicate work requiring concentration, a light touch and strong protections. It was not enough to be merely invisible, of course; the Iloheen would suspect so simple a gambit. No, it was necessary to seem to be part of the fabric of space itself, and in order to make such a disguise convincing, it was also necessary to partake of the surrounding space and integrate it into their essences.

  It had been his lady who devised the way of it, meaning only to grant them protection from the Iloheen. For his part, he had merely noted that sharing their essences thus created them less like the poor limited creatures of flesh whose form they mimicked, and more like unto that which he had been before his capture and enslavement.

  So it was that the Great Weaving arose from the simple necessity to hide. There were but thirteen dramliza at the work, for it required not only skill, and daring, and a desire above all else to see the Iloheen annihilated, but the willingness to accept a total melding of subordinate and dominant, and a phase-state which would be like no other—

  The ley lines flared and spat. Lute extended his will, seeking to soothe the disturbance, but the lines writhed, stretched to the breaking point of probability, mixing what was with what could be, shuffling the meanings of life and death—and across the limitless tracks of space, at the very edge of his poor diminished perception, a Shadow was seen, and the awful flare of dark energies.

  The Iloheen! he sent, and threw himself back from the weaving, seeking his lady.

  Here. Her thought was a lodestone, guiding him. He manifested beside her within the pitted rock that was their base, and spread his defenses, shielding her behind the rippling rainbow of his essence, as the Shadow spread, sending the lines into frenzy. The asteroid phased wildly, becoming in rapid succession a spaceship, a hippogriff, a snail. Lute rode the storm of probability, felt his Lady take up the burden of maintaining their defense, and reached out, daring to snatch the lines that passed most nearly and smooth them into calmness. A small circle only he produced—enough to draw upon, not so much as to elicit the Shadow’s notice.

  Behind their defenses, he felt his lady busy at some working of her own—and pause, waiting, the last link only unjoined, or he knew her not, awaiting clarity.

  Out there, across the seething chaos of probability, the Shadow coalesced, shrank—and was gone.

  Lute waited. The ley lines slowly relinquished their frenzy, spreading out from the small oasis of peace he had created. Nowhere showed a hint of Shadow.

  He felt his Lady unmake her working, dared to somewhat relax his shields—waited—and, when the levels remained clear and untroubled, brought them down entirely.

  “The others?” his lady asked.

  “I do not believe the Shadow located aught,” he replied, and paused, recalling that storm of dark energy, the untoward disturbance of the lines.

  “I shall inquire,” he said, extending his will—

  A spinning mass of darkness exploded out of probability, blazing through the levels like a meteor, haloed in silvery green.

  Lute threw his shields up. Impossibly dense, the darkness tore through, plummeting to the physical level. He grabbed for the ley lines—and felt his lady’s thought.

  Wait.

  Shackled by her will, though by no means accepting of it, he waited. Waited while the dense darkness ricocheted around them, spilling wild energy—a danger to his lady, to himself, to the destruction of the Iloheen!

  And still his lady held him impotent, as if the uncontrolled and dangerous . . . object that had invaded them was the most trivial of inconveniences.

  He coiled himself, making what preparation he could, should she loose him before—

  The invader exploded. Streamers of ebon, gold, silver, and green washed across probability, inspiring the lines once again to frenzy—and at once, all was still, and as it had been.

  Excepting the figure kneeling on the rough rock floor; back bowed until his head near touched his heels, red hair crackling, uplifted face streaked with tears.

  Lute leaned forward—his lady held up a hand to stop him, but did not compel his obedience. He considered the aspects of the ley lines, and acquiesced. Strange energies were at play here, and if this were in truth—

  “Rool Tiazan,” his lady said coolly. “We bid you welcome.”

  Slowly, he straightened; slowly bowed his head, and raised his hands to hide his face. “Lady Moonhawk,” he whispered. “It is done.”

  “I see that some portion of it is indeed done,” she agreed. “Yet I wonder after my sister, your dominant.”

  A moment he knelt silent, then dropped his hands and looked to her. “Gone,” he said somberly. “Unmade. As was foretold. She stood as a goddess against the Iloheen, Lady Moonhawk. Never could I have struck so true and straight a blow—nay, even in my youth and true form!”

  “Stand,” Moonhawk said then, and Lute felt her will, compelling obedience.

  Rool Tiazan laughed as a predator laughs, with a gleam of teeth and less mirth than menace.

  “I am beyond you, Lady.”

  “As was also foretold,” she acknowledged calmly. “You are an anomaly, Rool Tiazan. As dangerous, perhaps, as the Iloheen. Shall I destroy you, to protect our plans of survival?”

  “You swore to my lady, your sister, that you would not do so,” he returned, rising to his feet of his own will. “Her death does not free you from that oath. And I am come, as she swore I would, to show myself to you and to ask if now you will not join your forces to ours. Since last we spoke upon the subject, we have attached allies of
great potency. The lines have been cast for a victory, Lady Moonhawk. We might all yet escape the Iloheen.”

  “A victory?” She turned away. “Lute?”

  Rool likewise looked at him, a slight smile on his face, the fires of his true form very bright, as if the prison of his body was too frail to contain him. Lute shivered.

  “Show me,” he whispered, “what you have done.”

  “Certainly.” Rool rose through the levels, and Lute with him, until, side by side, they contemplated the ever-changing eternity of probability. Slowly, a particular cluster of ley lines became defined. Lute studied them closely, casting the outcomes and influences.

  “A narrow hope,” he judged at last. “The enterprise we are embarked upon has as much chance of success—perhaps more. Even if we are engulfed in the Iloheen’s disaster, yet we will be a part of the warp and woof and may thus be free to act, whereas you and yours will be annihilated, and your energies used to annihilate even more—and more quickly.”

  “There is much,” Rool admitted, “in what you say. Yet it was my lady’s wish that I return and put the question to the lady who has accepted a Name.”

  “All those who weave have done so,” Lute said. “It is believed the Names so accepted are artifacts which will resist assimilation, through which action may be channeled, even against and within the will of the Iloheen.”

  “It may be so,” Rool conceded. “However, we shall not forsake our champions.”

  “We?” Lute inquired, but Rool had already returned to the rock base.

  Moonhawk heard his description in silence, then turned her regard once again upon Rool Tiazan.

  “We shall persevere,” she stated. “It comes to me that this movement to neutralize the Iloheen future is a jewel of many facets. Perhaps all of our actions are necessary.”

  “Lady, it may well be so,” Rool Tiazan said. “We venture where none save the Iloheen have gone before. How may we, the Iloheen’s very children, predict which action will bring success?”

  “Or, at the least, less failure,” Lady Moonhawk said drily, and bowed. “I believe our business is done, Rool Tiazan. Pray remove yourself, before the Iloheen realizes its error and seeks to correct itself.”

  “Lady.” Rool Tiazan bowed in return, straightened and swept Lute in his regard. “Brother. May we all fare well. To the confoundment of our enemy.”

  With the faintest twitch of ley lines, he was gone, leaving Lute and his Lady to consider each across the empty cavern.

  SIXTEEN

  Spiral Dance

  HE’D CARRIED CANTRA to her quarters, performed a rough-and-ready exam, finding the damage to be mostly cuts and bruises, all ably dressed by the port medics. She was still unconscious, which was the knock on the head, or the blood loss, or both, but not shocky, or feverish. Tough woman, Cantra yos’Phelium, he thought—none tougher. Having assured himself that his pilot was in no immediate need or danger, he webbed her into her bunk, in case they had to lift in a hurry, and gone to tend her ship.

  Some time later, Dancer was in queue with a scheduled departure of just under six hours, ship-time. Keeping in mind the way his pilot preferred things to be done on her ship, Jela had given the nav brain leave to suggest alternative lifts, real-time. That done, he’d perused the public charts, finding Light Wing well ahead of Dancer on the schedule, with Dimaj the filed destination, courier run the reason.

  Jela smiled, though on consideration that minor subterfuge had probably sprung from the mind of Liad dea’Syl rather than the boy pilot.

  From the tree, lashed in its spot at the end of the board, came a quick image of a young dragon, wings still wet, eyes alert.

  “That’s right,” Jela said, coming out of the co-pilot’s chair with a sigh. “A likely lad, just needs a little season.”

  He did some quick stretches, and a mental exercise to raise his attention. He’d lashed the old man’s carry-chair into the maintenance cubby just inside the lock, where it ought to ride safe enough. Which left the decision he’d been putting off making. He shot a glance at the panel concealing the secret room and the sheriekas healing unit. If it was only cuts and bruises, there was no reason to open that door. The problem was the “funny” readings the medic had reported on her scans. If Cantra’d done herself real damage, which a fall from that height with a whack on the head at the end of it might produce—

  There was a sound at his back.

  RETCHING, SHE CONVULSED against the webbing. Someone had shattered the light; there were shards and slivers of it everywhere, piercing her eyes, her brain, her nerves. Elsewhere, hidden behind the broken blare of the light, were people; she could hear them talking, talking, talking. She wanted to tell them about the light, warn them that the edges were sharp, but she couldn’t seem to find a language that fit the shape of her mouth. She tried every language she had, but they were all too big or too small or too hard or too soft, and besides the inside of her mouth was bleeding, multiply punctured by tiny daggers of light, and even if she found the right language it would hurt unbearably to speak . . .

  Inside the light, sharing the pain, were flashes of image, odor and sound. Her mother, sitting at the ‘counts table, her hood folded back onto her shoulders; a whiff of mint; the glitter of dust against starless Deeps; a scream, cut off short by the sharp snap of breaking bone; the taste of strong, sweet tea; a line of equation; a hand on her hair; hot ‘crete and cold metal—The sharp fragments of light flared and she screamed, or tried to; she twisted against the straps that held her, fingers fumbling the seals, and all at once, she was free, falling face-down onto the deck.

  They were doing this to her. She caught the thought and pinned it against the shattered light. They were doing this to her.

  Staggering, retching, she pushed herself across the floor until she ran into the wall, then used it to claw herself upright. She could only see bits and flashes of color around all the broken light in her eyes, so she put her shoulder against the wall and followed it.

  “Cantra!” She was upright, just, listing hard against the wall, her breathing ragged. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated, and whatever she was seeing, Jela hoped it wasn’t him.

  “Cantra?” He walked toward her, easy and light, face forcibly pleasant, hands out and showing empty.

  From the tree came a sending, laced with urgency: The golden dragon, staggering in flight, landing clumsily in the crown of a monstrous tree. A branch rose, offering a seed-pod, which she greedily consumed. Jela shook the image away. “Not now,” he breathed.

  “Cantra!” she shouted suddenly, her body writhing, and it was Maelyn tay’Nordif’s voice, hoarse with horror. “You swore—you swore not to call her!”

  “Yes, I did swear,” Jela agreed. He took a deep breath, deliberately calming, and another, knowing that most people would unconsciously mimic what he was doing, and calm themselves.

  Not that Cantra yos’Phelium had ever been most people.

  “I swore, for the length of the mission,” he said, taking another step, not wanting to crowd her, but needing to be within catching distance when the agitation left her and she buckled. “Mission’s accomplished, Cantra. You can stand down.”

  “You will murder me for your own gain!” Maelyn tay’Nordif shouted at him, and threw herself forward.

  He caught her, but it was like trying to hold a wind-twist. She kicked, clawed and punched without any regard for defense, leaving herself open a dozen times for the blow he wouldn’t strike.

  A knee hit his stomach, hard enough to hurt, and a flying fist got him solid in the eye. He caught her wrist, spun her ‘round, got a leg behind her knee, twisted, and took her with him to the deck. He broke her fall as best as he could, and tucked her tight against his chest, legs pinned between his thighs, one hand holding both wrists, the other cradling her forehead.

  She twisted, shouting at him in a cargo-can load of languages, most of them unfamiliar, which, judging from those he did understand, was probably a good thing.

&n
bsp; “Cantra, Cantra . . .” he murmured, though it was doubtful she could hear him with all the ruckus she was making. From the tree came the image once more, this time with more than a taste of urgency: The golden dragon, staggering. A safe, but risky landing in the tree. The branch, the pod, the thanks.

  “Not now,” Jela said again, just as she twisted hard in his arms and got a leg free.

  He could have held her, but he would have had to break something to do it. Instead, he rolled, and she got in a couple good kicks before he had her solidly pinned, face against the deck.

  Now what? he asked himself, as she struggled to be free. If she kept up at this rate, he thought worriedly, she’d do herself an injury.

  “You cannot kill me,” Cantra ranted. “I refuse to die. My family will intervene. A scholar Seated at Osabei! My mother—”

  Something hit Jela’s knee. He looked down and saw a seedpod. As he watched, it split into neat sections. For a third time, the tree sent the saga of the weary golden dragon, this time augmenting the image with blares of lightning and rocks the size of Dancer tumbling down the sides of sea cliffs.

  Well, it was a better idea than any he’d had so far.

  Carefully, he lifted one section and brought it to Cantra’s lips, fully expecting to be bit for his trouble. She stilled, as if the pod’s fragrance had reached her—he expected that the pod was fragrant, though, strangely, he couldn’t smell it—then daintily ate the thing from between his fingers. He offered the rest in quick succession and she ate every one, after which she lay quiet until all at once her muscles released their tension and she slumped bonelessly to the deck.

  Heart in his mouth, Jela turned her, found a pulse—strong and sweet—brushed the hair out of her eyes and gently peeled back a lid. From the tree, another sending: The golden dragon drowsing on her branch; her mate the black dragon at her side, rubbing his head against her and singing.

  “What?” It wasn’t that he didn’t know any songs, but most were bawdy, or camp songs, or bits of soldier lore—and what use or need of them, when she was quiet now and on the mend . . .