The Crystal Variation

by Sharon Lee

  The pale blue eyes considered her seriously now. “When’s the last time you saw Jela, Pilot?” He held up a hand. “Need to know.”

  Cantra took a hard breath. “I last saw Jela on Vanehald, about eleven Common Days ago. You’ll also have a need to know that the last I saw Vanehald, it looked to be overrun by the Enemy.”

  Wellik nodded. “I have intelligence from Vanehald, thank you, Pilot. But you last saw Jela on Vanehald. You left him alive?”

  “He was leading a defensive squad, rear guard at the port,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “I saw him fall.”

  “Eleven Common Days ago,” the big man repeated thoughtfully. “And he was hale enough to lead that squad . . .”

  Cantra sighed. “The medic at Vanehald Garrison gave him a couple months more. Reason was the fact he’d absorbed some sheriekas energy off the event that destroyed the birth lab he was in at the time.”

  Wellik frowned. “Stupid—” He caught himself and glanced aside. “Eh, well. The medics have their own arts. What’s important to me is that date.” Another quick blue glance over her shoulder. “Dismissed to the door, Corporal.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kwinz answered, sharp as you like. There came the sounds of her departure, which Cantra didn’t turn to see, preferring to keep both eyes on Captain Wellik.

  The door shut with a hiss and a bump, and the captain’s thoughtful blue gaze was back on her face.

  “Your message, Pilot?”

  Right. She took a breath and raised her hand. “It’s inside my jacket,” she told Wellik, in case he had a nervous disposition. He nodded, and she used that same hand to reach, slow and careful, into the jacket, fetched Jela’s book out of the inner pocket, and held it out.

  “Well, now.” He received it with respect, and Cantra dropped her hand to her side, fingers curling to preserve the feel of the worn leather against her skin.

  Wellik opened the book, riffled the pages with rapid gentleness, then closed it and slipped it into his right leg pocket. Cantra saw it disappear with a pain that was like a knife thrust through the gut. She ground her teeth, met Wellik’s eyes and gave a sharp nod of the head.

  “That’s done, then,” she said, briskly. “I’ll be on my way.”

  “Actually, you won’t,” Wellik said, stepping aside and jerking his head at the door his bulk had concealed. “Step into my office, please, Pilot.”

  “Why?” she demanded, giving him as good a glare as she had in her.

  “Something you can help me with,” he said. “It’ll take but a moment of your time.”

  She considered turning around and walking out, but there was Kwinz on the outside, not to mention a good many other soldiers between her and the gate, and she’d gone and promised Jela to see his damn’ tree safe, which she couldn’t likely do as a dead body.

  Not that she had much chance as a live body, either.

  So, she gave Wellik a shrug and moved forward. The door opened ahead of her and she stepped into what was properly the captain’s office, blinking at the crowd of folk around the table—

  “Pilot Cantra!” One of the crowd leapt to her feet, and rushed forward. She paused just a few steps away, her face suddenly Batcher bland.

  “Dulsey,” Cantra said, keeping her voice slow and easy with an effort. “Nice to see you again.”

  “It is good to see you again, too, Pilot,” Dulsey said softly. Slowly, she extended her hand, keeping it in sight. Cantra brought her own hand up in reaction.

  “Careful, Dulsey.”

  “Indeed,” she said, voice breaking, as sudden tears spilled down her cheek. “Indeed, Pilot. As careful as may be.” Her hand moved, slowly, slowly, and Cantra stood frozen, aware of Captain Wellik at her back, and the stares of the other Batchers from ‘round the table.

  Dulsey’s hand touched hers, warm fingers slipping between her cold ones.

  “He’s gone,” Dulsey whispered. “I can see it in your face.”

  Cantra stared at her. “Not exactly comforting, Dulsey,” she said, and for the second time in an hour heard her voice break. She swallowed. “He died in battle, like he wanted to.” The room was going a bit fuzzy at the edges. She took a hard breath and focused herself, suddenly realizing that she was gripping Dulsey’s hand hard—hard enough to hurt, it must’ve been.

  “Sorry,” she said, and tried to unlace their fingers, but Dulsey wasn’t having any.

  “And his tree?” she asked. “He guarded it with his life . . .”

  “He did. Tree’s on Dancer, hale and well.”

  “Good,” said Dulsey. “That is good, Pilot.” She tugged on Cantra’s hand, pulling her toward the table.

  “Come,” she said softly. “Sit down and rest.”

  Wasn’t any use trying to talk her out of it, Cantra thought, especially not with Wellik at her back like a mountain to be gone through, if she tried to leave now. She sighed, and dredged up a smile.

  “A sit-down would be welcome, as it happens,” she said. “Thank you, Dulsey.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Solcintra

  JELA’S FRIEND WELLIK WAS ACE, all right, Cantra thought as she poured herself a cup of tea. Another man might’ve put an obvious Rimmer claiming to be his old friend’s partner in an actual lock-up, with smooth cermacrete walls, a constant, unwavering light source, and nothing to do but chew over regrets. Wellik, though—friendship counted with him. He’d had her escorted to a nice little apartment up inside the garrison, with a foldout bed, a kitchenette, and a blast-glass window overlooking the courtyard where a plentitude of soldiers went about their lawful business. There were only two minor inconveniences: The door was locked, and there was a guard standing on the hall-side of it.

  She sipped her tea, watching the soldiers move to and fro in the growing dusk. Dulsey and her crew had been escorted elsewhere, and were doubtless enjoying their own comfortable imprisonment. She did own to a small amount of gratitude, that she hadn’t been confined with the Batchers, though that happenstance likely had more to do with Captain Wellik not wishing them to come up with a consistent story to beguile him than any kind consideration for her feelings.

  The story that the Batchers had told on their own—it was enough to give a Rimmer religion, if that Rimmer hadn’t made the acquaintance of Rool Tiazan and his gentle lady. The sudden transition from mine shaft to ship, the route locked and untouchable, that had the warm, homey feel of dramliza interference. Not that she’d managed to say so, there being no reason to frighten the children.

  Jela’s notion that the Batchers might serve Liad dea’Syl—that was interesting, too. They hadn’t said, precisely, but she had received the definite impression that the Uncle wasn’t ignorant of the whereabouts of his treasure team. And if Jela had deliberately called in the Uncle, what did that say about his belief that his good friend Wellik would do the needful with regard to the old scholar’s equations?

  Sighing, she leaned her forehead against the cool glass. She’d studied the math Jela’d given her as hard and as deep as she’d been able, given time constraints, and there was no way she had them cold, nor even understood a half of what those ‘quations were trying to tell her. Jela . . . Jela’d lived with those numbers for—well, she didn’t know how long, really, but she had a qwint that said it’d been years. There was a damn-on-to-certain chance that he had got them cold, not to say able to make them stand up and do tricks.

  There was a slight sound at the door. Cantra turned, poised, the half-full mug held innocently between her palms.

  The sound came again and the door opened to admit none other than the boy pilot—Tor An yos’Galan. Without his jacket, dressed in plain shirt and pants, he looked even younger than he had earlier in the day, his yellow hair crisp; his eyes wide open and the color of amethysts.

  Two steps into the room, he stopped and bowed to her honor, just like she was respectable—which, come to scrutinize it, she might well be, to a boy who’d only known her as a true-and-for-sure Osabei scholar.

&nb
sp; That being so, she returned the bow, as serious and respectful as she was able. “Pilot,” she murmured, “what can I do for you?”

  “I bear a request from Scholar dea’Syl, that you share a cup of wine with him,” he said, in his soft, mannerly voice.

  Cantra blinked, and sent him a hard look. He met her eyes with calm patience, clearly waiting for her response.

  Funny—he didn’t look like a half-wit.

  She inclined her head. “I am honored,” she said, “by the scholar’s notice. Alas, I am not at liberty, and so must decline the invitation.”

  The boy frowned slightly, and glanced over his shoulder at the open door, beyond which the guard’s shadow could be seen.

  “Not at liberty?” he asked. “In what way?”

  Cantra sighed. “Why do you think there’s a guard on the door, if it’s not to prevent my leaving this room?” she snapped.

  The frown vanished. “Ah! It is true that Captain Wellik wishes to hold you secure,” he said. “However, you are certainly free to accept the scholar’s invitation. That has been cleared.”

  “Oh,” Cantra said. “Has it.” She bowed. “In that case, I am very pleased to accept the scholar’s invitation. Lead on, Pilot.”

  LIAD DEA’SYL WAS SITTING in a power-chair by the window, an orange cat on his lap. He inclined his head in answer to Cantra’s bow.

  “Forgive me, that I do not rise,” he said. “I ceded Age my legs that I might keep my reason. It seemed a well-enough trade at the time, but lately, I wonder. I wonder.” He moved a frail hand, showing her the chair opposite him, and she sat, hearing the small sounds the boy made over in the galley area.

  “I hear from Tor An that the estimable M. Jela has departed this coil of intrigue and treachery. Please accept my condolences on your loss.”

  She swallowed, and inclined her head. “I thank you, sir.”

  “Not at all, not at all. I knew him only a short time, and feel his absence keenly. Quite remarkable, the pair of you.”

  “The pair of us, sir?”

  “Certainly. Tor An has shared with me the information which M. Jela felt it safe for him to have. While I understand that such information was of necessity edited and simplified, yet I feel confident that the pair of you are remarkable, indeed. Ah.” This as the kid approached with a tray, bearing a pair of wine cups.

  “Serve our guest first, child,” the old man directed. “She will wish to choose her own.”

  If Tor An found anything odd in that, he kept it to himself, merely stepping to her side and offering the tray.

  “Pilot?”

  “Thank you,” she murmured and took a cup at random. What, she wondered, had Jela told the boy, which was then passed on to the old scholar? The possibilities were limitless, knowing Jela . . .

  “Master,” Tor An handed the scholar the remaining cup and faded back to the kitchenette, tray in hand.

  “He is a good lad,” Liad dea’Syl said, “and has been a great help to me in my work here. I commend him to you as an excellent pilot.” He raised his cup.

  “Let us drink to absent friends,” he murmured.

  Cantra raised her cup in turn. “Absent friends,” she whispered, and sipped.

  “Excellent,” the old man sighed, which, if he happened to be talking about the wine, it was. Cantra had another sip, eyes half-slitted in pleasure.

  “My friend vel’Anbrek, who was for many years my eyes and ears in Osabei Tower, fretted that I would fall into the hands of one whom he had determined to be an agent of the Tanjalyre Institute,” Scholar dea’Syl said softly. “It was, therefore, with a good deal of amusement that I heard him propose to put me into the hands of a second such agent.” He sipped his wine. “He said ‘twas the presence of the M Series soldier which had convinced him that submitting to you, Pilot, was the lesser of a triad of evils, and so he conspired to place me in your way.” He had another sip of wine, and Cantra did the same, keeping her face and her body language carefully neutral.

  “I see,” Liad dea’Syl murmured, smiling slightly. “But surely you have a client, my dear.”

  “I did,” she said shortly. “M. Jela Granthor’s Guard was my client. Our arrangement was that I’d run interference while he liberated your updated work from Osabei Tower’s brain. When he found that he was being offered you, presumably with your work in your own brain, he varied.” She sipped her wine. “He sent you here, and I’m thinking there’s an end to my involvement.”

  “Ah. And yet you are here.”

  “I am,” she said, and sighed. “Jela’d asked me to bring some things of his to Captain Wellik. That errand’s been discharged as well. At the moment, I’m being held against my will, and I’m none too pleased by the circumstance.”

  “And your plans?” the old scholar murmured. “Forgive me if I pry. You will return to Tanjalyre Institute?”

  “My line was edited years ago, sir. I’ve spent my life since avoiding the notice of the Directors. That’s what I’ll go back to, as soon as Captain Wellik lets himself understand that there’s nothing more he wants from me.”

  A small silence, then, as the scholar sipped wine. The orange cat, which had been sitting quiet on his lap, suddenly stretched tall, jumped to the floor and strolled over, giving her knee a friendly bump before leaping onto her lap.

  “My apologies for not returning him immediately,” said Liad dea’Syl. “Your cat has been a comfort to us, Pilot.”

  She looked up from rubbing the square orange head. “My cat?”

  “So M. Jela had it. In the case that it has slipped your mind, his name is Lucky.”

  The cat was purring. Loudly. Lucky, she thought. Now there was a sterling name for a cat . . .

  “Tor An?” the scholar called. “Pray attend us.”

  A rustle and the movement of shadows heralded the boy’s arrival from the kitchenette. “Master?”

  “I wonder if you might recount for the pilot those things regarding his mission that M. Jela thought it wise to share with you.”

  “Certainly.” He turned to Cantra. “I had asked Jela why he was pretending—not very well—to be a kobold. He said that you and he were after certain updated and expanded equations, which were necessary to winning the war. He said that you were a volunteer, who had undergone . . . protocols . . . which . . . made it possible for you to accept as truth those things you would ordinarily reject as falsehood. He gave me a copy of the equations, so far as he had them, with annotations.” He glanced at the old scholar sitting still and attentive in his chair— “which I have given to the master.” He paused, waiting for some sign from her, or so it seemed. She inclined her head.

  “Yes,” he murmured, and cleared his throat. “He then said that—that the safety of the galaxy rested on you alone, and that he would have no other, save his true and courageous friend—bear the burden.”

  “Jela said that?” She stared at him, fingers arrested over the cat’s head. “He was having some fun with you, Pilot. Be sure of it.”

  “With all respect, I believe not. It seemed—it seemed to me that his duty pressed him hard, and he wished to ally me to his cause. Time was short, and I do not begin to believe that I was told everything of which he—or you—are aware. But I do believe that what little I was told, was truth.”

  The scholar cleared his throat, drawing her attention back to his face. “I have, as Tor An tells you, the annotated equations that M. Jela provided as earnest of his good intentions,” he said. “The annotations, if I may say so, are remarkable. They show a depth of understanding and intuition that astonishes as well as delights. May I know if these insights are your own?”

  “Not mine,” she said, as the cat bumped her fingers forcefully with his head. “Jela had studied your work for years, Scholar. Those are his notes.” She rubbed an orange ear, waking a storm of deep purrs.

  The old man sat back into his power-chair. “Then I feel his loss even more keenly.” He sighed, and drank off the last of his wine. Tor An slipped forwar
d and received the empty cup.

  “More, Master?”

  “Nay, lad, I thank you.”

  “Pilot?”

  “Thank you, Pilot, but no.” Cantra handed off her cup, and sighed as the cat curled onto her knees, purrs unabated.

  “There are several matters which I would like to discuss with you, Pilot,” the scholar said, and continued without giving her a chance to say that she didn’t feel like talking.

  “Firstly, the fact that the intelligence which grasped my work so fully has informed us that you are the determiner of the fate of the galaxy. The fate of the galaxy is, as our good Captain Wellik believes, soon to be decided. What he does not say, but which I think must be in his mind, is that fate will not favor us, but rather the Enemy. I would, in such circumstances, allow M. Jela’s assertion to bear a great deal of weight.”

  Cantra sat, the cat warm on her lap, and did her best to radiate patient, weary, politeness.

  Scholar dea’Syl smiled once more. “You must tell me someday why your line was edited, Pilot.” The smile faded.

  “My second topic is one which I had hoped to be able to lay before the intellect behind those remarkable annotations. As this is no longer possible, I will, with your permission, put them to you, his partner and the person to whom he remanded the fate of the galaxy.

  “I find that I cannot complete the necessary equations with the necessary precision. I wonder if you might—”

  A bell sounded, and the old scholar held up a hand as Tor An walked to the door and opened it. There was a moment’s subdued discussion, and then the kid was back, bowing apologetically, but Cantra had already risen, putting the cat on the chair she’d vacated.

  “Captain Wellik sends an escort for you, Pilot,” Tor An said.

  “Thank you, Pilot,” she answered, holding to polite and civilized for all she was worth. She bowed to the old scholar.