Crystal Soldier

by Sharon Lee

  "As long as there is life in the Spiral Arm, especially intelligent, organized life, the sheriekas will not easily reach their goal!" The memory-voice rang in his ears, for the moment obscuring the sound of the wind.

  That had been . . . who had it been, after all?

  Song-woman.

  Right.

  Jela closed his eyes, saw the small troop of them standing on a hilltop like so many ancient savages, singing, singing, singing.

  He'd been part of a survey team then, too, his very first, and he'd laughed at their belief that they were fighting some space-borne invader by standing there singing, singing in the light and long into the night.

  In the morning there had been three fewer of the singers, and word eventually came down from the frontier that three sheriekas world-eaters had simply vanished from tracking—gone, poof!

  The timer on his arm went off. He reached for a water bulb . . . . and stopped before his hand got close to the pocket. Not yet. He'd been waiting a little bit longer of late, and longer still if he could. There wasn't a whole lot of water left and he'd stopped counting. That he was in the valley helped, since the cutting wind—though noisier—was much less in evidence here among the fallen trees at river height.

  But he'd been thinking about something . . . .

  Trees.

  That was it. Like the singers, the trees had helped hold off the sheriekas, he was sure of it. But why then had the sheriekas not taken the planet and the star system, the trees being dead? Why did they skulk about the edge of the system, rather than occupying the place, or blowing up the star, as they had become so fond of doing the last decade or two?

  The singer-woman and her ilk were every bit as needed as was his ilk, if they could sing or pray or startle the enemy to a standstill. The trees, too, if they were on their own inimical to the scourge. The trees. Why if the trees, without human help or human thought—had fought the sheriekas to a standstill he should have them—he should take a piece for cloning, plant them throughout the Arm and—

  He sat, suddenly, not noticing that he landed on rock. There was something here to be thought on. If worse came to worse, which it rapidly was, he would need to write this down, or record it, so that the troop could see this new ally in its proper light.

  Before writing or recording anything, he reached to the left leg pouch and took hold of the water container. Beneath, in the next down, was one more. And then of course there was his right leg, with its water . . . .

  He gently squeezed a drop or two onto his fingers first, carefully rubbing them together, then wiping his upper lip and clearing some of the grit away from his nose. Then he sipped.

  As he sipped, he thought.

  There had to be a connection between the trees, the pattern of their flight, and the attack from which the sheriekas had withdrawn. Almost, he had it, that idea of his. Almost.

  Well. It would come.

  One more sip for the moment. One more right now for the soldier.

  He sighed so gently a lover sitting beside him might have missed it.

  So he was a soldier. In various places humans saw the fighting and withdrew, saw the fighting and played the warring parties against each other, fought as these trees had fought to draw every bit of water from the dying world, fought to hide and survive and perhaps outlast the madness of the battle.

  In the end, the powers-that-were had permitted the experiments to resume. To fight augmented humans, one needed special humans. Not quite as adjusted and modified, perhaps, as the sheriekas or their manufactured allies, and perhaps lacking the power to sing away the death of worlds, but fighters who were more efficient, stronger, and often faster.

  Did he survive this world and a dozen more he'd not live the life nor die the death of an ordinary citizen.

  Retire? Quit?

  "Not me!" His voice echoed weirdly against the grating of the wind. He sighed, louder this time, sealed the partial bulb and replaced it in its pocket. Then, he staggered—truly staggered—to his feet

  He centered himself, felt the energy rise—somewhat, somewhat—danced a step or two, did the stretch routine, settled.

  Things to do. He had things to do. With or without his ID on his face, he was M. Jela Granthor's Guard, a Generalist in the fight to save life-as-it-was. Who could ask more?

  He laughed and the valley gave his laugh back to him.

  Heartened, he followed the march of the trees.

  * * *

  HE'D MANAGED TO wake, which he took for a good thing, and he managed to recall his name, which was something, too. Eventually he bullied his way through a two-day old partial ration pack, knowing there weren't many more left at all, at all, not at all, and glanced at his location sensor.

  The map there seemed clearer and his location more certain. There were still just three satellites working instead of the ideal seven, but they were working hard—and all on this side of the planet at the moment, by happy accident, building exactly the kind of database a Generalist would love to own.

  The trees he'd been following for the last—however long it had been—now were downright skinny, as if they'd been striving for height at the expense of girth, but that was only six or eight times his own paltry height rather than a hundred times or two. Some of them were misshapen, short things, as if they'd tried to become bushes. He tried to use one as a bridge from the right bank back to the left, as he had done several times during his hike, and it broke beneath his boots, both frightening and surprising him since this was the first such bridge that had failed him.

  He'd landed in the silted river channel, not too much worse for the fall, knowing he was at the delta he'd been aiming for since he first stepped put of his lander . . . .

  He climbed, slowly, onto the firmer soil of the bank, blinking his eyes against the scene.

  Had he the water to spare he would have cried then. He'd come through the last bend of what had been a mighty river; before him the channel led out into the dusty, gritty, speckled plain of what had been a vast and shallow salt sea. Here and there were great outcrops of boulders and cliffs, and when he turned around he could see the distant hills.

  There were a few more trees ahead of him, lying neatly in a row as if each had fallen forward exactly as far as it could, and a new one had sprouted right there and—

  There was nothing else.

  Wind.

  Rock.

  Grit.

  Three thousand two hundred and seventy-five of the trees then, since he'd started counting—maybe one or two more or less as he'd walked some nights until he could see nothing.

  "Finish the job, soldier."

  He was the only one to hear the order, so it must be his to carry out.

  Dutifully, he walked those few steps more, to see it to completion. To honor the campaign, well-planned and well-fought, which had nonetheless ended in defeat.

  After, he knew, he'd need to find a shaded spot down in the dead channel. Above it he'd build a cairn, set his transponders to full power and put them on top—and then he'd settle in with his last sip or two of water to wait. The hill wasn't all that bad to look at, and he'd be comforted by the presence of fallen comrades. It was a better death than most he had seen.

  Reverently, Jela stepped over the last tree—like so many others it had fallen across the river, across the channel. It was hardly thicker than his arm, and had scarcely reached the other side of what had been a skinny riverlet, where its meager crown lay in a tangle over a rock large enough to cast a shadow.

  His boot brushed the tree, snagged in a small branch, and he fell forward, barely catching himself, the shock of the landing leaving a bright flash of sun against pale rock dancing in his head, and a green-tinged after-image inside his eyelids, strange counterpoint to the speckled brown and dun of the ex-seashore.

  He closed his eyes tightly. Heard the sound of the wind, heard the rattling in the branches that still graced the dead trunk, felt the sun.

  I could stay here, he thought, just like
this, sleep, perhaps not wake—

  He opened his eyes despite the thought, caught movement across the way, keeping time with the beat of the wind.

  There at the root of the rock, just beyond the meager crown of the downed tree, was a spot of green. A leaf—and another.

  Alive.

  Three

  On the ground, Star 475A

  Mission time: 14 planet days and counting

  DUTY WAS A STRANGE thing to think of in this moment, for he was giddy with a joy totally beyond reason, and he knew it. He felt as he had when he'd come back to the troop hall after serving seventeen days in detention for his single-handed fight against the squad from Recon. He came into the hall to absolute silence. No one spoke to him, no one said anything. He'd been so sure he'd be sent off—

  And there on his bunk was his personal unit flag—wrapped around the haft of it were green and blue ribbons of exactly the shade Recon preferred. When he had it in his hands and held it up and looked out at them, they cheered him.

  And that's how he felt, looking across at the green life dancing in the wind—as if dozens stood about it, cheering.

  And then, there was duty.

  Though the tree was alive, and mostly green, some of the leaves were browning, and his first thought was to give it water.

  Of course, he didn't have enough water to rescue it, really, just as he didn't have enough rations to rescue him. But he gave it water, anyway—the last of the partial, and a fourth of a new bulb, the same as he drank himself.

  Duty made him wonder if the tree was poisonous.

  It was a scrawny thing, barely half his height, with a fine fuzzy bark about it. Perhaps he could suck on a few of the leaves.

  There was something else, among those leaves, and he knew not if he should consider it fruit or nut. He knew not if he should eat it, for surely anything that could live in this environment was—

  Was what? He was living in this environment, after all. For a time.

  The fist-sized pod was high on the tree, its weight bending the slim branch on which it grew, and he saw the thing now as yet another soldier carrying out its duty. All of the trees he'd walked beside had marched down to the river and then down to the sea, each with the goal of moving forward, each after the other bearing the duty of taking that seed-pod, high up in the last tree this world was likely to see, as far forward as possible.

  Duty it was that made the little tree grow that pod . . . .

  And duty told him that this tree was far more important than he was. It and its kin had preserved a world for centuries, as the report he'd carefully written and repeated into voice record told those who would follow.

  At this point, even with the tree withering in spots, it would—like the satellite sensor he carried—outlast him. Duty dictated that he should help keep it alive, it being life and he being sworn, in essence, to help things live.

  He sat down, finally, for standing was taking its toll on him, and leaned against the rock where he could touch the tree, lightly. He was tired, for all that it was not yet noon, but he had shade—green shade—and could use a rest.

  If only his pick-up would come. He'd grab the tree up in a heartbeat, and take it away, for there was nothing to keep it here, or him. He'd take it someplace where water was certain. Someplace with good light and good food, and dancing girls. He was partial to dancers and to pilots—people who knew how to move, and when. They'd have a great time, him and the tree, and there'd be room for a dozen more trees—and why not?—dozens of dancers . . . .

  He fell asleep then, or passed out, and dreamed a dream of storms and floods and trees lying across swollen rivers and falling in the depths of snow, and of landers coming down from the sky, unable to rise again—and behind it all both a sense of urgency and a sense of possibility. He dreamed of his dozen dancers, too, recalling names and lust.

  * * *

  HE WOKE WITH the smell of food in his nostrils, and a clear sense that he'd made a decision. He opened his eyes and saw the leaves rattling in the breeze.

  He knew he'd die soon, but if he drank the last of his water and then—rather than going to shelter in a cave or a hole—arranged himself to die here, beside the tree, so he'd not be alone, it was likely that his fluids and remains would nourish the tree for some time, and that would be the best use of what duty he had left to him.

  And then maybe, just maybe, that seed pod would sprout, and the soldier born of it might have the chance to be found and taken away, to continue the fight.

  Food. The smell of fruit. He eaten the last partial rations—when? A day ago? A year? And the smell of the pod so close left him hungry,

  Guiltily, he got to his feet and moved a few steps away from the tree.

  No, he couldn't. It would have been one thing if he'd found the pod beside the tree, with no chance of it growing, no rainy season to hope for at this latitude any longer, no winter. But now, at best, what could it do? Give him another hour? Or kill him outright?

  He was hoping that his eyes deceived him, for the leaves around the pod looked browner now than when he'd first spotted the tree. He didn't want it to be failing so quickly. He didn't want to see it go before he did.

  The tree moved slightly, and the leaves rattled a bit in the breeze. There was snap, sudden and pure.

  Aghast, Jela watched the leaves flutter away as the pod tumbled to the silty soil.

  The pod sat there for a dozen of his accelerated heartbeats. It seemed to shiver in the breeze, almost eagerly awaiting his touch, his mouth.

  Jela pondered the sight, wondering how long such a pod might be fresh, considering how useless—and how senseless of duty—it would be to let it lie there unused and uneaten.

  He moved carefully and bent to the pod, lifting it, cherishing it. Feeling the sections of rind eager and ready to peel away in his hand, he wondered if he had waited too long, and was even now hallucinating in the desert, about to eat a pebble found next to a dry, dead stick.

  He sniffed the pod and found an aroma promising vitamins and minerals and, somehow, cool juicy refreshment.

  He saluted the tree, and then, dragging from memory the various forms he'd learned, he bowed to it, long and low.

  "I honor you for the gift freely given, my friend. If I leave this place, you will go with me, I swear, and I will deliver you into the hands of those who will see you as kin, as I see you."

  Then his fingers massaged the pod, and it split into several moist kernels.

  With the first taste, he knew he had done the right thing. With the second he recalled the joy of rushing water and spring snow, and the promise of dancers.

  And then, considering the promise of dancers yet again, weighing the fragility of the inner kernels, Jela pushed aside the restraint which suggested he try to save one kernel out, just in case . . . and he devoured the entirety.

  * * *

  THE IN-BETWEEN PLACE—the plane of existence between sleep and consciousness—was a place Jela rarely visited. It generally took drugs or alcohol to get him there, and even achieving there he rarely stayed, as his optimized body sought either sleep or wakefulness, the latter more than the former.

  His dreams, all too often, were also optimized: explicit problem solving, pattern recognizing, recapitulations of and improvements on things he'd actually done, or actually attempted to do.

  So this was unusual, this feeling of being comfortably ensconced below wakefulness. Odd in the security of it, though he had a right to be tired, having laid out an arrow of rocks—actually a double row and more of his tracks and a row of the whitest stones—pointing to the tree and his fox-den nearby.

  Perhaps it was completion he felt; he'd done the best he could, all considered, and if he were now to fall into the fullest sleep and never wake it would not have been for lack of trying to do otherwise. Certainly, he was not one who might call to him ephemeral magics and gossamer wings to fly to the edge of space and command a comet to carry him, cocooned, to a place where others of the sheriekas-b
red might find and thaw him . . .

  That briefing came to him now, of how certain of the others created by the sheriekas as spies and weapons were able to move things so easily to their wills . . . That such were rare, and as erratically dispersed as the killer things was to the good . . .

  But there, the doze was both deeper and lighter now, and he had truly not meant to sleep.

  Not dream, he'd nearly said, all the while hearing the wind and its acts: the slight rustle of leaves near his head, the sound of gritty sand-bits rushing to fill an empty sea, perhaps an elegant thunderstorm distantly giving impetus to waves on a beach and wings that beat. Perhaps the distant tremble of air as some flying thing cavorted . . .

  Now here there was comfort, for there had been flying things once, of many sizes, and if they'd fought amongst themselves at times, they'd done their work, too, moving seeds and pods about, taking away loose branches, warning of fires and off-season floods, sharing a measure of joy in the world until they were vanquished by some short-term calamity beyond the thought of trees.

  What an interesting idea . . .

  In his mind's eye he soared with great wings above a world populated by trees and quiet creatures, above seas willing to carry rafts of the flood-swept for years, rafts where nests and young might travel in the shade of those still green, growing, and accomplishing. Very nearly he could feel the weight of such a pair, singing and calling, perched in his crown at sunrise, answering the call of others across the canyon, and those passing on rafted currents along the sometimes untrustworthy coastal cliffs . . . .

  No! He knew he had never had a crown of green, nor had creatures perching in it! His mind took that thought, rejected it as it might a bad element in a dream, came back to the sounds, things that he might measure, rather than ones that might keep him comfortably immobile.

  The sounds he was hearing were old sounds, echoed off of canyon walls last week or last month or last year or . . . or when?