The Crystal Variation

by Sharon Lee

  “Master?” Her voice came from somewhere deep within the shadow of the barrels.

  “Call the Scouts.”

  “GRIGORY,” the man who stood up from behind the desk was long, craggy and lean. His hair was hullplate gray, short, but not buzzed; his eyes dark and deep. He smiled, which was worth sixth thoughts. Uncle in an affable mood was never good news.

  Well, there wasn’t nothing for it, now. He was here. Just get it over with, like Raisy said.

  Thinking that, he nodded, respectful-like, and made himself smile.

  “Uncle Yuri,” he said, soft-voiced. “You’re lookin’ well, sir.”

  The older man nodded, pleased with him. “I’m doing well,” he allowed, “for an old fellow.” He moved a hand, showing Grig a deep, soft chair at the corner of the desk.

  “Sit, be comfortable! Raisana, your brother wants a brew.”

  Grig sat, though he wouldn’t have owned to comfortable, and raised a hand. “No brew for me, thanks. Can’t stop long.”

  Uncle didn’t frown, but he did let his smile dim a bit. “What’s this? You haven’t seen your family—your own sister!—for twenty Standards and you can’t stop for a couple hours, have a brew, catch us up on your news?”

  Raisy had settled on the arm of a chair somewhat back from the desk; Grig dared a quick look at her out of the corner of his eye, much good it did him. She had on her card-playing face, and if there was only one thing certain in the universe as it was configured, it was that Grig would never be his sister’s equal at cards. Sighing to himself, he put his attention back on Uncle Yuri.

  “Raisy said you wanted to talk to me, Uncle. Made it sound urgent, or I wouldn’t have come today. Ship’s down for refit and there’s only me and Seeli to do the needful, with part-time help from young Khat.”

  Uncle’s smile had dimmed even more. He sat, carefully, and folded his hands on the desk. “I didn’t realize you were doing the refit yourself,” he said, only a little sarcastic. “I’d’ve thought even Iza Gobelyn would be smart enough to bring her ship to a yard.”

  Grig sighed, letting it be heard. “She did, but there’s issues and the yard wants close watching. They started out shorting us on the shielding and when Iza called it, the boss pushed her into a fistfight and had her banned from the yard, on risk of losing the Market.”

  Uncle’s face was a study in disinterest. Tough. Grig settled his shoulders against the back of the chair and made himself smile again.

  “So, we got Iza bailed out and off-planet with a nice, safe pilot’s berth, and the rest of the crew’d already done the same, excepting Khat, who signed on as a willfly for the port—and Seeli, who’s Admin and hasn’t got no choice but to stay. And me, backing up, just like I was born to do.”

  That last, it maybe wasn’t smart; a sideways glance at Raisy’s face certainly left him with that impression, but Uncle was still holding course on affable, despite the provocation—and that was bad.

  “I’m glad to hear you’re such a rich resource for your ship,” Uncle said. “You do your family proud.”

  Uh-huh. Grig ducked his head. “Thank you, sir.”

  There was a small pause, during which Uncle traded stares with Raisy, which didn’t do much for Grig’s stomach. Raisy was his sister, but she advised Uncle—and handled him—that too. Another thing she’d always been better at than Grig.

  “In fact,” Uncle said, having gotten whatever advice Raisy had to give him, “it was about your ship that I wanted to talk. Word is that Arin’s youngest brother is missing—and that Gobelyn’s Market no longer trades in fractins.”

  Grig shrugged. “There’s a wobble in your info, sir. For instance, the boy ain’t ‘missing’—he’s ‘prenticed. The fractins—what there was left of ‘em, after certain experiments and explorations—he’s got them, too.”

  Uncle’s smile was back, full-force, mixed with no little measure of relief.

  “The work continues, then. Excellent. And you are to be commended for your part in securing the position with the Liaden trader. Our studies indicate that there are many caches within Liaden-held space.”

  Old studies, those were. Extrapolations and wishful thinking. Gettin’ wishfuller as the timonium ran down toward inertia.

  “I didn’t have no part in gettin’ Jethri his ‘prenticeship—he did that his own self,” he said, into the teeth behind Uncle’s smile. “And I don’t exactly think he knows that there’s any work he oughta be carrying on, for the good of the family, or otherwise.”

  Uncle frowned.

  “Surely, you saw to his education, after Arin’s death. Why else were you on that ship?”

  Grig sat up straight, feeling his mouth forming a frown to match Uncle Yuri’s. “I was there as Arin’s back-up, and after he died, it fell on me to make sure the boy survived to adult. Which mostly came down to making sure Iza didn’t shove him out an airlock or leave him grounded somewhere. It sure didn’t have nothing to do with teaching him the family trade. If I’d tried, Iza’d’ve spaced me.”

  Uncle stared, not saying nothing—which was more natural. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Raisy shake her head, just a mite, but the hell with that. Grig sat forward and gave Uncle his full attention.

  “Arin shouldn’t’ve played Iza Gobelyn for a fool. He knew it an’ spent the rest of his life trying to amend it. If he’d lived, he might’ve reconciled her to the boy. If he’d lived, she might’ve been able to forget how she’d got him. Might’ve. So, anyhow, there’s Iza, and she’s got the cipher. Then Toad went down with the tilework overridin’ ship’s comps.”

  “Toad knew the risk.” That was Raisy. Grig sent her a glance.

  “They did. Some of us, though, we started asking if the risk was worth the prize.”

  “You’re telling me that Arin thought of giving up on the project?” Grig could almost taste Uncle’s disbelief.

  Grig shook his head. “I’m tellin’ you that the fractins are dying. They’re dying, no matter what we do. It’s inevitable. Irreversible. We need to give it up, Uncle.”

  “Give it up,” Yuri repeated. “You’re asking us to embrace death, Grigory.”

  “No, sir. I’m asking you to embrace life. We know what some of the Befores are capable of. We’ve made them the study of generations. Now—while the old ones still function and can serve as a baseline—now’s the time for us to start trying to build our own, based in science that we understand.”

  “Grig,” said Raisy, “some of that tech does stuff that is no way based in science we understand.”

  “That’s right,” he said, turning to face her. “That’s right. And we been lucky—lucky that all we did was lose a ship every now an’ then, or a couple arms and legs from somebody getting careless with a light-wand. Do you thank the ghosts of space that we never come across a planet-cracker? Do you, Raisy? I do.”

  “We don’t know that they built planet-crackers.”

  “Do we know that they didn’t?” he countered.

  She said nothing.

  “Grigory,” Uncle said, talking soft, like maybe Grig needed calming down. “Where, exactly, is Arin’s brother?”

  “Arin’s son,” Grig snapped, and closed his eyes. “He’s ‘prenticed to Master Trader Norn ven’Deelin. Jethri’s good at the trade—got a real flair for it. Wouldn’t surprise me if Master Trader ven’Deelin sets him up as the first trader fully licensed by Terra and by Liad, both. It’s sure how I’d work it, given what we’re seeing at trade level.”

  “And where,” Uncle continued, “are Arin’s notes?”

  Grig shrugged. “Jeth’s got ‘em, if anybody does. Understand, Iza went a little crazy when Arin died, spaced a lot stuff right off. Cris talked her into stowing the rest til she was cooler. That’s what went after Jethri—the rest. His by right.” He grinned. “Which you can’t dispute.”

  “Of course not.” Uncle put his hands flat on the desk and pushed down, though he didn’t quite stand up.

  “Grigory, it is time for
you to return to the bosom of your family. We have need of your talents and your . . . particular . . .viewpoint.”

  “No.”

  Uncle blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said,” Grig explained, and not daring to look at Raisy. “No. I’m staying with the Market.”

  “Grig . . .” Raisy began, but he shook his head without looking at her yet, and rose to his full, gangly height.

  “Sorry to leave so soon, sir,” he said to Uncle, real polite. “But, like I said, I’ve got business elsewhere.” At last he looked at his sister.

  “Favor, Raisy.”

  “You got it,” she answered, which he’d known she would.

  “Keep that headcase you got working for you away from Seeli. He wants to talk to Paitor, that’s your business, I guess. But you oughta know he was asking for duplicating units.”

  She nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Good,” he said and smiled, warmed, and feeling a little gone in the guts. Uncle allowed deviance, but there was always a price.

  “Grigory, if you leave this room, you no longer have any call on us.” Uncle’s voice was cool, spelling exactly out how much this was gonna cost. Grig nodded.

  “I can afford that, sir,” he said, his own voice just as cool. “Good-bye, now.”

  He walked out and neither one stopped him, down the long hall, to where the lift stood, door open, waiting.

  “HEALER HALL IS SENDING one of the masters,” Miandra said, her voice a little stronger, and her hair neatly combed behind her ears. “I wonder who will arrive first?”

  They were sitting in the parlor where Jethri had first met Lady Maarilex, in company with Norn ven’Deelin—and wouldn’t he give a can full of canaries to see her walk through the door right now! Jethri had changed his sliced shirt for a whole one, taking a moment to marvel at the pale pink lines down his chest, each of which matched a cut in the ruined shirt. There hadn’t been much time to wonder about it, though, and he’d hurried into the fresh shirt, hauled a brush over his hair, which mostly stayed flat, for a wonder, and run downstairs, to this very parlor, to find Miandra ahead of him, seated in the precise center of the white couch, one hand a fist around her ruby, and her face outright gloomy.

  “Maybe,” Jethri offered, deliberately trying to lighten her gloom, “the Healer and the Scout will arrive together and will entertain each other, leaving us free for other endeavors.”

  She didn’t smile. He thought she clenched the ruby tighter.

  The silence grew. Jethri shifted in his chair, looked around the room, and back at Miandra. She was staring, with great intensity, at a spot he calculated to be some ten feet beneath the vermillion floorboards.

  Jethri cleared his throat. “An . . . unusual . . . thing,” he said. “When I took my shirt off, there were these pink stripes—like brand-new scars—down my chest. I had expected, because there was blood, you know, to have found fresh cuts.”

  Miandra looked up. “Flinx was frightened,” she said, as she had in the winery. “He is a very strong cat, and I am afraid he clawed you rather badly. The adrenaline masked the pain, but you would have felt it soon enough, so Meicha Healed you.”

  Sitting in the chair, he heard the words, blinked, listened to them again in his mind’s ear, and then repeated the phrase, with the inflection that signaled a query: “Meicha Healed me?”

  Miandra’s mouth tightened. “Indeed. It is what we train to be—Healers. Meicha is—more skilled than I.”

  “Oh.” He considered that, running his hand absently down his chest. No pain. He looked, tucking his chin in order to stare down his own front. No blood on the fresh shirt. Beyond dispute, he was patched, but—

  “She—you—can make fresh wounds into new scars? In moments? How?”

  Miandra moved her shoulders. “It is a talent, much like a talent for music, perhaps—or trade. For those of us with the particular talent to Heal, the . . . physics . . . and the methods are obvious. Intuitive.” She smiled, very faintly. “Control is what must be taught, and . . . efficient use of one’s energy.”

  Right. He had the idea she was simplifying things in order to save his feelings and almost laughed, considering what he carried around in his pocket.

  “What else do Healers do?” he asked, to keep her talking, mostly. Talking, she seemed less gloom-filled, more like her usual self.

  “Heal afflictions of the spirit. That is why a Healer is most often called. Someone is—sick at heart, or frightened. Perhaps they see things which are not there, or refuse to see those things which are directly before them. Those sorts of things. Physical Healing—there are not many Healers who can do that.” Her face lightened a little—with pride, he thought. “Meicha will be a Healer to behold.”

  Well, that wasn’t too unlikely, he allowed, given Meicha. But, wait—

  “So it was—you or Meicha—who calmed me down that first day, when the curtains were open and I had the widespaces panic?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I calmed you and Meicha closed the curtains. It was not very difficult—you project a very solid . . . pattern, we call it. You are extremely easy to work with.”

  He didn’t know as he particularly liked the sound of that, but before he could pursue the matter the door to the parlor opened and Lady Maarilex entered, leaning heavily on her cane and followed by a ginger-haired man whose thinness was accentuated by his black leather clothing.

  “Scout Lieutenant Fel Dyn yo’Shomin,” said the old woman. “Here is Jethri Gobelyn, foster son of ven’Deelin. Jethri, if you please, make your bow to the Lieutenant.”

  Cautiously, Jethri rose, and Lieutenant yo’Shomin’s ginger-colored eyes followed his progress. There was something in the man’s stance that irritated Jethri straight off. A little bit of a thrust in the shoulder, maybe, or an attitude with respect to the hips—a subtle something that said Scout Lieutenant yo’Shomin was the better of most men alive, and infinitely superior to grimy Terran ‘prentice traders, no matter whose foster son they claimed to be.

  That being his reading of the man, in between the time it took to start to rise and reach his full height, he made short shrift of the bow—crisp and brief, it was, and it could be that it would have given Master tel’Ondor pleasure. Certainly, its recipient took the point, and his sharp face got even sharper, the narrow mouth thinning ‘til the lips all but disappeared.

  The return bow was hardly more than a heavyish tip of the head, which was arrogant, but, then, Jethri thought, wasn’t that what he had expected?

  “It has been reported that you have in your possession a piece of forbidden technology,” the lieutenant said, not even trying to sound polite. “You will surrender it at once.”

  “No.” It had been his intention to hand the device over to the Scout. It was possible, after all, that the thing had somehow called the big wind, and if that was so, then it was better off in the keeping of folks who knew its treacheries. Too bad for him, the Scout had shown him reason to doubt. He’d rather take his own chances with the device than meekly hand it over to this . . . incompetent.

  Jethri crossed his arms over his chest like Uncle Paitor did to show there was no joking going on, and added an out-and-out frown, for good measure.

  The ginger-haired Scout drew himself up as tall as he could and delivered a respectable glare.

  “The Scouts have jurisdiction in this. You will relinquish the dangerous device to me immediately.”

  Jethri kept the frown in place. “Prove it,” he said.

  The ginger eyebrows pulled together. “What?”

  “Prove that the device is dangerous,” Jethri said.

  The Scout stared.

  “Well,” Lady Maarilex said, still leaning on her cane across next to the door. “I see that this may be amusing, after all. Miandra, child, help me to the chair, of your goodness. If you please, gentlemen—a moment.”

  “Yes, Aunt Stafeli.” Miandra leapt up and moved to the old lady’s side, solicitously guiding her the
first of the blue chairs, and seeing her seated.

  “Yes—ah. A pillow for my back, child—my thanks.” Lady Maarilex leaned back in the chair and put her cane by. Miandra took a step toward the couch— “Bide,” Lady Maarilex murmured, and Miandra drifted back to stand at the side of the chair, hands folded demurely, her pendant—Jethri blinked. There was something odd about her pendant, like it was—

  “Now,” said Lady Maarilex, “the play may continue. The line is yours, Lieutenant. You have been challenged to prove that the device is dangerous. How will you answer?”

  For a heartbeat, the Scout said nothing, then he bowed, very slightly, to the old woman in the chair, and glared up into Jethri’s face.

  “The device described by Lord Ren Lar Maarilex as being in the possession of the Terran Jethri Gobelyn is unquestionably of the forbidden technology. The form and appearance of such things are well known to the Scouts, and, indeed, to Lord Maarilex, who has attended several seminars offered by the Scouts on the subject of the Old War and its leavings.”

  “Adequate,” commented Lady Maarilex, “but will it compel your opponent?”

  Jethri shrugged. “I admit that the device is old technology,” he told Lieutenant yo’Shomin. “You, sir, stated that it is dangerous, an assertion you have not yet proved.”

  The Scout smiled. “It called the wind-twist, did it not? I think we may all agree that wind-twists are dangerous.”

  “Undoubtedly, wind-twists are dangerous,” Jethri said. “But you merely put yourself in the position of needing to prove that the device created the wind-twist—and I do not believe you can do that, sir.”

  “No?” The Scout’s smiled widened. “The weather charts describe a most unusual wind pattern, spontaneously forming from conditions antithetical to those required to birth a wind-twist—and yet a wind-twist visited the Maarilex vineyard, a very short time after you were seen experimenting with the forbidden technology.”

  “I was the one,” Miandra said, quietly, from the side of the chair, “who touched the icon for ‘wind-twist’.”

  “And yet,” Jethri countered, keeping his eyes on the Scout’s face, “wind-twists do sometimes arrive out of season. I wonder if the same weather pattern anomaly was present on those past occasions, as well.”