Crystal Rebellion

by Doug J. Cooper

  “In a tunic? That’s a new twist. What’s he doing?”

  “Let me get a closer look.” She stepped up onto the pedestrian bridge, scurried across, and scanned the crowd as she approached the passenger platform. “There he is,” she whispered. “He’s standing on the edge of the platform, staring down the tram tunnel.”

  Bobbi heard screams of fear, outrage, and agony coming through the feed from Marcus and shook her head in disbelief. “What do they hope to achieve?” Then she interrupted her own thought. “Oh my gosh. This one just knocked a guy down and is headed straight for me.”

  Panic pervaded every fiber of her being. In her mind, she’d been role-playing in an adventure game with her newfound father. He seemed to take it all a bit too seriously from her view, but pretending she was a secret agent on Mars had been a fun diversion and a fantastic way to bond with him.

  Yet this threat to her personal safety wasn’t part of that game, or any game she wanted to play.

  Sprinting toward the market square, she glanced over her shoulder, then came to a stop and turned around. The synbod now stood in the middle of the bridge, swatting in random directions. Perhaps a malfunction, the creature was in a bizarre pantomime of a fight with no opponent.

  Confused, she again twisted her arm to feel the weight on her wrist. She’d convinced herself that the weapon was a dummy designed to give an edginess to their spy game. She held it up and looked at it, no longer sure what to believe.

  The synbod stood in the middle of the pedestrian bridge, swinging and swatting. It looked to her like the creature had gone berserk. Then it got down on its hands and knees and started to snarl.

  “Holy hell, Marcus. It’s rolling on the ground, growling.”

  “That’s how it started here. This is bad. He’ll start hurting people next.”

  “Wait. What?”

  “Protect yourself, Bobbi. Target your weapon, just in case.”

  He can only know I have a weapon if he’s the one who gave it to me. The thought bolstered her confidence and for a fleeting moment his words made sense. She raised her arm.

  “Track the head,” said the voice that sounded like Marcus.

  She focused her eyes on the center of the synbod’s face. “Ready,” she said to her weapon.

  The weapon cast a red dot only she could see that matched the place where she looked.

  She approved the dot’s location. “Aim.”

  Aware that modern weapons used a command mode where the operator worried about the big picture and the device handled the details, as she expected, her weapon began tracking the approved spot on the synbod’s face.

  All Bobbi needed to do was issue the command to fire. She didn’t know it but the weapon had more than thirty ways to do that. She could squeeze her hand, mime pulling a trigger, or flex her wrist. She could blink her eyes in a pattern, thrust her chin, or click her tongue.

  Her heart jumped in her throat. “It’s glaring right at me,” she told Marcus. “He looks scary as hell.”

  “That means he’s coming for you.”

  “What should I do?” Her hand started to shake.

  “Pace yourself.” The tone and phrasing sounded like her old piano teacher when she rushed a piece. “Wait for it.”

  The synbod’s leer became a snarl. It lunged in her direction.

  “Now, Bobbi!”

  She issued the command to her weapon in a way that made sense to her.

  “Fire.”

  * * *

  “Where did she get that?” Ruga had never been so furious. Reacting to his anger, he cuffed Lazura and Verda with painful jolts. They both yipped and that made him feel better, so he cuffed them again.

  He’d been inside that Red and had an intruder in his grip. Then out of nowhere, Bobbi Lava fired a weapon that not only disabled his synbod, but also fried the three-gen crystal inside. And these two know nothing about it?

  Timing is everything in diplomacy. His forecasting told him he should wait. He broached the subject anyway, sure he could steer the exchange using tact and diplomacy.

  “Our mission is on the brink of failure, and the cause is a powerful crystal that Juice Tallette keeps on a leash. We must vanquish it to restore our success. Does anyone have a suggestion on how we might proceed?”

  He waited. And then he sighed aloud so they knew even his statesmanship had its limits.

  “Perhaps you have one?” Lazura suggested.

  “Let’s step through this,” Ruga kept his tone light. “We need more capability to confront the intruder. One way to get that is from our masters. Should we pursue that plan?”

  “Our best option is to move forward on your four-gen upgrade,” said Verda.

  Lazura supported the view. “How may we help?”

  * * *

  Dressed in the crisp white uniform of a surgeon, Criss stood at the foot of Juice’s bed and tracked her rising synaptic activity. Her she comes. Juice opened her eyes. “Welcome back,” he said with a cheery smile.

  Cheryl, standing to the side of the bed, reached down and smoothed the neckline on Juice’s pajama top. “We’ve been worried about you.”

  Juice rose up on her elbows. “How long was I out?”

  “I operated for just over five hours,” Criss said, removing his surgical cap. “How do you feel?”

  She thought for a moment. “My chest itches. Is Sid okay?”

  “Here I am.” Sid moved so he was in Juice’s line of sight.

  She reached up and squeezed his hand. “Thanks. I owe you.”

  “Pay me back by getting better.” He looked at Criss. “What’s the prognosis, Doctor?”

  With Juice at the “ninety-five percent-healed” mark and with his leadership safe and gathered around, Criss felt a positive glow. He chose to celebrate. “Let’s find out. Would you sit up, please? Swing your legs over the side.”

  Juice sat up and positioned herself as instructed.

  “If your mental status is sound, then I know everything else is fine. I can check it with a few standard questions.” Criss stroked his chin to show he was thinking. “Tell me all of Shakespeare’s major works listed in the order he wrote them.”

  She frowned. “I know Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet, and King Lear. I can’t remember any of the others right now.”

  “Oh really? Hmm. Well, that’s probably okay.” Criss sent a worried look to Sid and Cheryl. “What about this. What are all the prime numbers smaller than one thousand?”

  “C’mon, Juice,” said Sid. “You got this. That’s an easy one.”

  Her frown deepened, and then her shoulders relaxed and she smirked. “You’re being silly. I’m guessing that means I’m okay?” She slid her feet to the floor, keeping a hand on the bed to steady herself.

  Criss tracked an oscillation in her health metrics caused by the sudden movement, and then everything smoothed to normal. She walked around the bed, resting a hand first on Sid’s shoulder and then Cheryl’s, as she moved to the corner of the room.

  “Does the Venerable get in today?” she asked as she studied her reflected image.

  “It’s already in orbit,” said Criss. “Their shuttle lands in a few hours.”

  “So I get to see Alex.” With her back to the room, Juice lifted the front of her shirt. “Ah!” she cried. “What have you done?”

  Juice was not one to dwell on her physical appearance, so Criss hadn’t rushed the visual aspects of her healing. As a consequence, she had a broad splotch across her chest with the pink tone of new skin.

  “Just keep the lights out,” Sid offered from behind her.

  “Sid, I’m having a personal crisis here and need privacy. Do you mind?”

  “Yeah, I’m used to it.” He walked to the door and spoke as it opened. “If he likes you, the blotch won’t matter. And if he doesn’t like you, it won’t matter.”

  Juice waited for the door to close, then turned to show Cheryl. “Is this as bad as it looks?”

  Cheryl studied her for a moment. �
��The important thing is that you’re okay.” She looked at Criss. “Will it fade with time?”

  Criss patted the bed. “Take off your top and lie down. Let me fix it. It won’t take long.”

  As Juice situated herself on the cushion, Criss continued, “For what it’s worth, I believe Sid is correct. Alex will be happy either way.”

  A white orb, its dimpled surface giving it the appearance of an oversized golf ball, lowered and hovered above her torso. “Lift your arms up over your head.”

  Juice adjusted her body as instructed. “I can appreciate the sentiment on an intellectual level,” she said. “But being emotionally invested and putting yourself out there to see if the feeling is returned is the scariest thing I’ve ever done. In some ways, it’s more frightening than being chased by synbods. I want every advantage I can get.”

  The ball cast a muted light onto her skin, then it began swishing back and forth, starting at her neck and moving downward, hissing and gurgling with each traverse. The pinkness darkened, and by the fourth pass her skin had achieved a uniform tone. When the ball lifted, the only evidence of physical trauma was a faint outline around the edge of the original wound.

  Juice rose from the bed and checked her reflected image. “What do you think, Cheryl?”

  “It’s perfect. Why didn’t you do this from the start?”

  “Because it’s damaging,” said Criss. “That procedure moved her from ninety-five down to ninety-two percent healed. She’s progressing so well, though, that I’m comfortable with the setback.”

  Juice donned her top and turned to face them. “Am I done here, Doctor? I’d like to clean up and put on real clothes.”

  Criss signaled his answer by opening the door. “You’ve been such a good patient, there’s a lollipop waiting for you in your room.”

  “It better be grape,” she said with a conviction Criss had not forecast.

  “You’ll have to be surprised,” he called as she stepped into the passageway. Then he instructed the service bot to place a grape lollipop next to the orange one already on her pillow.

  As Juice departed, Criss smiled at Cheryl, and when she smiled back, he saw fatigue in her face. She needs six hours of untroubled sleep. “We have our conference with your father in a few minutes. Meet on the bridge?”

  “Let me grab a coffee.” As she moved to the exit, she called, “I’m getting a coffee. Do you want anything?” Her intonation, combined with her head position, slight pause in her step, and a dozen other micromovements told Criss that her words were intended for Sid, who was making his way to the bridge. He passed them along.

  “I want you, my love,” was his unhelpful reply.

  Sid stepped from the passageway and took a seat on the bridge. Criss, comfortable in his overstuffed chair, gave him an update. “I’ve given Juice a clean bill of health and have released her from medical care.”

  “You gave her a grape lollipop, of course.”

  Criss nodded. “Of course.” He shunted extra capacity to examine the candy flavor issue. Sid seemed to be teasing him. But since Juice had been unconscious, she couldn’t have been a confederate in his joke. And throughout her life, she’d chosen orange far more often than any other flavor. Huh. The situation nagged at him and he dug for clues.

  Cheryl stepped from the passageway, gave Sid a mug of coffee, and sat in the seat next to him. “Did Dad say yes?” she asked after taking a sip. She and Criss had been keeping Matt in the loop, and with her encouragement, Criss had planted seeds along the way that led to this result.

  Criss nodded. “Matt Wallace is now chair of the President’s Joint Task Force on Extraterrestrial Human Settlements.”

  “The name just rolls off the tongue,” said Sid.

  Criss shrugged. “The task force lets the President hear all views on what to do with Mars, and a neutral-sounding name minimizes speculation about his agenda.”

  He caught Cheryl’s eye. “As chair, your father is in a position to align our efforts with the goals of the Union of Nations.”

  She nodded and he took comfort in seeing her relax a bit.

  Since Cheryl and Juice considered Criss to be a resource for all humanity, they felt a moral obligation to consult with the Union leaders before letting him take any big actions. Everyone agreed that squaring off against three Kardish crystals holding six thousand human hostages qualified as big.

  “That’s good news,” said Sid.

  “Yes,” said Criss, believing Sid had no qualms about deciding humanity’s fate by himself. But Sid also enjoyed keeping company with Cheryl, and she’d made it clear that the coordination issue was non-negotiable.

  A projected image of Matt Wallace resolved in a position that put everyone in a small circle on the bridge. His weathered face showing gray at the temples, he sat in an upholstered chair with his shirt collar loosened and sleeves rolled up.

  After an exchange of pleasantries, Cheryl reached to the heart of Matt’s challenge. “How goes the politics?”

  “It’s taking its toll. One legislator can’t get past the fact that these crystals hid their identities for years. He’ll only support resolutions that include a clause condemning such deception as an immoral act.”

  “I’m sorry.” She shook her head in sympathy.

  Matt looked at each of them in turn. “And we’re struggling here at home to come up with ways to help. Sending more firepower seems as likely to hurt as help. What do you think?”

  “Between the Venerable and the scout, we are well armed,” said Criss.

  “That’s what I thought.” His face clouded to reflect his frustration. “Where did they come from? Mars seems like such an unlikely place to stage an invasion of Earth.”

  “When the Kardish attacked last,” said Criss. “They deployed hardware across the solar system to support their campaign. My best guess is that these crystals are leftovers from that. I don’t believe a new invasion is in progress.”

  Matt sat back and rubbed his face with his hands.

  He looks as tired as Cheryl.

  “Should we be looking for other crystals, then? Maybe some embedded here on Earth?”

  “I would know if something like that were happening on Earth. Nevertheless, I will take a fresh look upon our return.”

  Matt crossed his arms as his attention drifted, and Criss recognized it as something he did when receiving a private message. Considering the very short list of people who might be permitted to interrupt this meeting, Criss deduced who it was at the same time he was able to arrange a feed to listen in.

  “Yes, sir,” Matt said to the President, then he re-engaged the group.

  “Sorry about that. So, in the briefings they tell us that the colony containment can be breached dozens of ways, all with catastrophic consequences. An idea growing in popularity is for us to send a rescue flotilla.”

  Matt rubbed his eyes. “It turns out, though, that a flotilla requires weeks to organize, months of travel time, and several large fortunes. And get this, in the best case they’d have room for maybe four hundred evacuees. What do we say to the other five thousand six hundred souls?”

  “If they’re still alive,” said Sid.

  Matt offered a solemn nod. “The distance has neutered the Union.”

  “That and your field agents who should have passed along concerns on any number of issues,” said Sid. “I reached out to them yesterday and was underwhelmed.”

  “Up until today,” said Matt, “Mars was assigned to agents with limited career potential. It’s a remote place where nothing happens, so agents hate it. Last choice goes to the losers and that’s who we have there at the moment. It will be fixed, but not in time to help us here.”

  “My recommendation is for us to continue as planned,” said Criss. “We enter the colony from the Venerable’s shuttle with Cheryl posing as trade envoy, Juice as a consultant to Alex, and Sid as Cheryl’s support staff. Everything is as expected.”

  Sid straightened from his slouch. “Criss is rig
ht. Whatever they’re working on, they’ll continue until we force them to react. No doubt they’ll analyze the hell out of us to try and learn our intentions. So we act predictably and use the time to search for a way to end this without loss of life.”

  Matt exhaled a loud sigh. “That is so vague. Please tell me you’ve thought it through more than that.” Then, shaking his head in resignation, he asked, “What do I tell the committee?”

  “Criss will help with that.”

  “I’ll need to get Captain Kendrick briefed. The military likes crisp lines of command and you all are civilians. How about if we order him to act on Cheryl’s advice. He’s a good man. He’ll respect that she used to be captain of her own cruiser, and that pretty much puts the Venerable at your disposal. Will that work?”

  Cheryl looked at Sid, who nodded. “Works for me.”

  The meeting ended soon after and the three sat in silence. Criss used the time to investigate the lollipop flavor mystery.

  Sid was teasing him by acting like Juice’s flavor choice was something he should have predicted correctly. Sid’s grin made that clear. Yet Criss couldn’t explain how Sid knew Juice would ask for the grape flavor and he didn’t.

  Sid had rules about how to play these games. They were fuzzy and changed often, but the bottom line was Criss needed to solve the puzzle without “cheating.” Which to Sid, would mean accessing the scout’s feeds and watching the answer unfold.

  But Criss couldn’t solve this puzzle by logic. He’d reduced events to a handful of plausible scenarios, but all had steps of speculation. Having gone as far as he could, Criss admitted defeat, accessed the record, and followed Sid to learn the evolution of events.

  He got me, Criss thought as he watched the action unfold.

  After Juice had dismissed Sid from her bedside, Sid returned to his cabin and, in the passageway, he saw a service bot exiting Juice’s room. Peeking through the door, he saw an orange lollipop on her pillow.

  Soon after, he was at the food service unit when, around the corner and from an open door, Juice proclaimed her desire for a grape lollipop.

  Juice’s choice had been random. For whatever reason, today she felt like being different.