Crystal Soldier

by Sharon Lee

  "The pilot is generous. I have seen evidence. That same evidence is available to you. Follow me." She turned and walked back toward the row of sullen shops, not looking back.

  Cantra sucked air deep into her lungs and exhaled, hard.

  Then she followed Dulsey.

  * * *

  DOWN ALONG THE shops, and back a small alleyway, no more than seventy or eighty paces from where she'd been stopped, there was a small shop—"Wigams Synchro Repair and Service"—and she'd been all but dragged inside by Dulsey, past the sign showing the place wouldn't be open for business for another couple hours.

  There wasn't any sign of forced entry, and Dulsey had carefully turned the mechanical lock behind them before heading for the stairs beside the work bay. Cantra sighed gently. It looked like she wasn't the only one around with proper tools and improper training.

  She hadn't been partiaularly surprised to find it was Pilot Jela and his vegetative friend Dulsey had led her to, and not particularly surprised to find him sitting comfortably in a deep leather chair behind a shiny real wood desk with a wonderful view of the window on the top level office of Synchro Repair. The window in turn had a wonderful view overlooking the port.

  Jela hadn't bothered with a greeting, just pointed at the spy-glass sitting on the sythnwood work table beside the big desk.

  Cantra eased onto a stool and picked up the 'glass, finding it already set to study a circle 'round Dancer's position. Not hard to find a ship, after all; a quick search on her name run against the roster of ships down during the last day local would net the info fastest.

  She sat for a heartbeat, just staring down into the black surface, then put her hands on the wake-ups.

  The surface cleared, and she was looking at the yard, Dancer so close on her right hand she could read the name and the numbers on the pitted side. The view panned back, showing a range of ships, and energy overlays on two of them.

  "Get on the portmaster's bad side, holding weapons live on the yard," she commented.

  Jela didn't answer, except to say, "To the right about thirty degrees, if you might?"

  Which she obediently did, and the view changed, displaying a piece of construction equipment lazily moving behind a distant fence in its storage yard, like it was looking for a place to park.

  "Up the magnification a notch."

  She shrugged . . .

  Right. She had him figured now for some kind of security pro, so he'd notice what she might miss. And she would have, too. Not construction equipment after all, the armored crawler was a dark wolf among the yard's more regulation equipment, staying a prudent distance back from the fence. The energy overlay on that flickered as it moved, as if it were shielded.

  "Check the ships again."

  She drew a ragged breath, did so, and the screen showed those ships and the energy overlays still on high, then faded to black as she thumbed the power.

  Eyes closed, she sighed, then spun the stool and glared at Jela.

  "So?" she asked.

  He shrugged his big shoulders, showing her empty palms.

  "Didn't seem neighborly to let you walk into that," he said, projecting a certain style of soothing calm that she found particularly annoying.

  She took another deep breath.

  "One," she said. "Like I said before—you don't need to go to all that trouble for me. Two. I'd appreciate an explanation of what the pair of you think you're doing, snooping my ship."

  "Looking for a lift out," he said.

  Cantra snorted. "I don't take passengers."

  "Understood," he said, still projecting calm, which was going to get his nose broke for him sometime real soon. "Nobody expects you to take passengers. Hate 'em myself. But nobody here's a passenger. I'm willing to sit second. If you don't mind my saying it, Pilot, you were looking to be on the wild side of edgy when we met for dinner. Could be a run with some downtime built into it is just what you—and your ship—need."

  "I'm the judge of what me and my ship need," Cantra snarled. "And what neither needs is to be taking up a man whose friends are shyer than his enemies and a Batcher on the run from her owner."

  "This humble person," Dulsey said, "is fully capable in cargo handling, communications, and outside repair. Also, this person has received some small training in the preparation of foods, which the pilot may find of use during the upcoming journey."

  Cantra looked at her.

  "Repair, comm, and cargo?"

  "Yes, Pilot."

  "What was you doing working in a restaurant?"

  Dulsey looked aside. "The manufacture of our Pod was commissioned by Enclosed Habitats, which specialized in constructing and maintaining research stations. When the cost of maintaining the stations exceeded the contracted sums, the company failed. All assets were sold at auction, including the worker pods. The master purchased those of our Pod who remained for The Alcoves."

  "How many of your Pod're left now?" Cantra asked, though she didn't really have to.

  "One." Dulsey whispered.

  Right.

  "That's too bad," Cantra said. "Doesn't change that you're a runaway Batcher—or will be, pretty soon—which puts you on a course to there being none of your pod left by—call it mid-day tomorrow, local."

  "There is benefit to the pilot in accepting the assistance of Pilot Jela and this—and myself." There was a note of panic in the Batcher's voice, despite the bravura of 'myself', and the gray eyes were wide.

  Cantra cocked an eyebrow. "I'd argue opposite, myself, but there don't seem to be a need just now." She glanced over to Jela.

  "I need a roster, a comp, and a talkie."

  He pointed beyond her, at a stand next to the work table. "Lift the top of that. It's all right there."

  * * *

  THE NAME OF THE ship was Pretty Parcil. Cantra spent a few moments jinking with the feeds, not wanting to be interrupted in her conversation, nor particularly needing the garage day-shift to take delivery of trouble that wasn't theirs. Jela watched her, silent in his borrowed chair. He was still projecting calm, but he'd either eased up some or she was getting used to it.

  Satisfied at last with her arrangements, she opened a line to the piloting station on Pretty Parcil.

  There was a click and a voice, sounding sterner and older than he had earlier in the day.

  "Parcil. Pilot on deck."

  "Is that Pilot Danby?"

  A pause about wide enough to hold a blink, followed by a specifically non-committal ack on the ID, then, "Pilot. What happened?" No more than that. Likely he wasn't alone in the tower. That was all right.

  "Turned out to be a mistake," she told him. "I'm at liberty and mean to stay that way."

  "Mistake?" He was a bright boy, and not too young to understand that there were mistakes—and mistakes.

  "I give you my word of honor," for what it's worth, she added, silently, "that there's no bounty out on me."

  She heard his sigh—or might be she imagined it. "Good. What can I do for you, Pilot?"

  "I'm wondering if you can confirm for me," she said. "I've got two ships on scan showing live weapons. Don't want to think my scanner's gone bad, but . . . "

  "I'll check," Danby said, and over the line there came the sound of various accesses being made, then a bit of silence . . . .

  "Nothing wrong with your scanner," he said eventually. "You protest to the portmaster?"

  "Not yet," she said, and Jela leaned forward on his stool, black eyes showing interest.

  "I'm wondering," she said to Danby, "if a protest from a Parcil Family ship might get a little extra snap into the belay order. I'm small trade, myself. Just me and my co-pilot, like I told you . . . "

  "Got it," he said. "I can file that protest, Pilot. Stay on line?"

  "Will do."

  She heard him open a second line, and request the portmaster's own ear for "First Pilot, Parcil Trade Clan Ship Pretty Parcil." There was silence, then, which she'd expected, and—much sooner than she'd hoped—his voice ag
ain.

  "Portmaster, we've just completed a security scan and have identified two vessels on-yard with weapons live." A pause, then a calm recitation of the coords of both ships, and, "Yes ma'am, I am filing formal protest of these violations. I request that you issue a cease-and-desist to those vessels immediately, to be enforced as necessary."

  Another short silence, and a respectful, "Thank you, ma'am. We will monitor. Parcil out."

  Cantra smiled. Jela came of the chair and moved to the work table, doubtless to have a looksee via the spy-glass.

  "Protest filed, Pilot." Danby was back with her. "The portmaster promises a shut-down inside the local hour."

  "Much obliged," she said, and meant it. "I'll get back to my prelims, then, and hope I won't have to ask you to verify my long-scans."

  "We've been watching long," he said. "Pilot's Undernet has reports of pirate activity in-sector. Faldaiza shows clear to out orbit. So far."

  "Obliged again," she said. "If I catch anything suspicious on the long, I'll pass it on."

  "I'll be here," he said. "Thanks for the heads-up, Pilot. Good lift, fair journey."

  "Fair journey, Pilot," she answered, just like she was as legit as he was, and closed the line before folding the desktop down.

  Jela had a hip hitched on the edge of the work table, black eyes intent on the image in the spy-glass.

  "One's off-line," he said without looking up. "The portmaster doesn't like the Clans upset."

  "Makes sense to keep the money happy," Cantra returned, considering him. "What about that armor?"

  "Nothing lit," he said, head still bent. "Might not be anything to do with us at all."

  "On the other hand, it might be," she finished what he didn't say and sighed. "Man, whose ugly side did you get on?"

  "Second one's down," he said, and looked up, his face about as expressive as she'd expected.

  "Am I getting an answer to that, Pilot? Seems to me I'm owed."

  He frowned. "By my calculations, we're even."

  "Not if you leave me open to more of the same, elsewhere." She felt her temper building and took a deliberately deep breath, trying to notch it back. Her temper wasn't her best feature, being enough to sometimes scare her. She didn't figure it would scare the man across from her, though it might lose her bargaining points.

  "The reason I'm in it at all is because we had dinner together. Honest mistake—on both our parts. I had no right to the particulars of your business up to the point my hands are 'wired together and I'm being hauled out of a public place on a bogus bounty. At that point, you owed me info—and I ain't been paid yet."

  He looked thoughtful. "You won't like the answer."

  She blinked. "So I won't like the answer," she said. "Plenty of answers out there I don't like."

  He sighed, lightly. "All right, then. The answer is, I don't know who's involved, if they're local or more—connected."

  "You're right," Cantra said, after a moment. "I don't like it. Do better, why not?"

  He spread his hands. "Wish I could."

  Her temper flared. "Dammit, we got a double-digit body count out of this night's work, including Dulsey's Batch, and you don't know who thinks you done 'em wrong?"

  "That's right," he said, imperturbable.

  "It is possible that those who ultimately seek the pilot are off-world," Dulsey said surprisingly, from her seat on a closed toolbox. "The ones who came to The Alcoves were local odd jobbers."

  Cantra spun on a heel to look at her, sitting with her hands gripping her knees and her pale face seeming to glow in the dimness.

  "How you figure off-world?"

  Dulsey moved her head a little from side to side. "Odd jobs are done for pay. Had the pilots paid for protection against harm, then the local chapter would have split—half to fulfill the contract to . . . discommode . . . the pilots; half to ensure that the pilots were not in any way impeded."

  "They don't act on their own is what you're saying?"

  "Pilot, that is correct."

  Cantra looked over at Jela.

  "Light any dials for you?"

  "Sorry."

  She sighed, then shrugged, giving it up as a hopeless case. "I'll watch my back. Business as usual." She nodded to Jela. "Be seeing you, Pilot. Safe lift."

  She was halfway to the door before she heard him say, "About that armor, Pilot Cantra . . . "

  Red at the edge of her vision. She stopped, keeping her back toward the two of them, closed her eyes, forced herself to breathe in the pattern she'd been taught.

  "Pilot?" Jela again. She ignored him, breathing—just that—until the urge to mayhem had receded to a safer, pink, distance.

  She turned and met his space-black gaze straight on.

  "It's been what I count as a long day, Pilot Jela, and my good nature's starting to wear a bit thin. If you got info bearing on the safety of my ship and her pilot, share it out short and sweet."

  "The info's nothing special," he said, and she could hear a certain care in his voice, though he'd given over the stringent projecting of calm. "Just a reminder that ground-based armor can bring weapons on-line faster than space-based."

  "By which you're meaning to tell me that armor there—" she nodded at the spy-glass sitting quiet and dark on the workbench "— doesn't have to reveal its feelings until I'm rising without challenge."

  "That's right."

  "I thank you for the reminder," she said, feeling the quiver starting in the roots of her bones, which meant the last of the adrenaline had run its course. Too long a day, by all the counts that mattered. She eyed the pilot before her, with his tell-nothing face, his big shoulders and solid build.

  "Military?" she asked, wondering how she hadn't quite managed to get him pinned down on that either.

  "Not quite," he gave back, which was answer enough in its way.

  "What do you want?"

  "What I said—transport out, for me, the tree, and Dulsey. I'm good for co-pilot and, yes, I do know the avoids for that class of armor."

  "Might be manned."

  He hitched a shoulder—qualified denial. "Not much room in those for personnel. Not to say there couldn't be a couple of smalls running crew. In which case the assault's randomized, making avoids more difficult, and less accurate, which assists avoidance."

  "That a fact?" This asked against a rising shake. She tried to make the follow-on sound stronger. "That stuff can be evaded?"

  "Experience shows it can."

  Cantra closed her eyes. The shaking was more pronounced, now. She was headed for a crash and no mistake. Granted, she had more than enough Tempo in stores to keep her up and fully able for some number of ship's days. Having flown that course more than once, she knew that all the drug did was put the time of the crash out, interest compounded hourly.

  And, truth told, she didn't have room for downtime on this leg—not now and not later. She had cargo, she had a deadline— and there was no way she could justify taking anyone lawful aboard her ship—nor trust anyone not.

  She flicked a look at Dulsey, sitting frozen on her toolbox, and another at Jela, standing calm and quiet, letting her think it through. What his answer might be if the product of her thought didn't match his had-to's, she couldn't guess. And, after all, it was her ship.

  She jerked her head toward the door.

  "Right. Experience. Let's go."

  * * *

  THERE WASN'T ANY way to tell how the ships and the armor gained their info, so there wasn't any use going roundabout to the ramp of Pilot Cantra's ship. Thus the pilot ruled. As it happened, Jela didn't disagree with her reasons or her decision. He was beginning to develop some serious respect for Pilot Cantra, even though the day was beginning to visibly wear on her.

  They marched in order—pilot first, himself and the tree next, Dulsey in her stolen coveralls and not-stolen gun covering the rear. It was interesting to note that they encountered no armed lurkers or outliers. Not so much as a panhandler impeded their progress. Jela walked on, sens
es hyper-alert, and revised his opinion regarding the likely involvement of the armor. It wasn't especially good strategy to depend on the equipment to the exclusion of soldiers on the ground. On the other hand, he hadn't seen much good strategy in this op—present company excluded.

  The air had cooled rapidly with the setting of the local star, however, so brisk was their march that it was unnecessary for his 'skins to raise the temp. Above his head, the tree's leaves were still despite the breeze of their passage, allowing him to use his ears to listen for possible enemy movement.

  They came to the ramp of the pilot's ship in good order. She mounted first, which was her right as captain; long, light stride waking not a whisper from the metal deck. He followed, the tree cradled in his arms, and Dulsey came at his back, metal ringing under her deliberate steps.

  The hatch began to slide back as Pilot Cantra reached the top of the ramp. She never paused, crossing the landing in two of her strides and ducking through the gap into the lock beyond.

  By the time Jela, bearing the extra inconvenience of the tree, reached the landing the hatch was wide open, the lock beyond spilling pale blue light onto the decking. The plate over the door read Spiral Dance. No home port.

  He paused, waiting for Dulsey.

  She reached his side, throwing him a wide glance out of gray eyes. "Pilot?"

  Arms occupied with the tub holding the tree, he used his chin to point.

  "The minute you cross into that ship, a bounty goes on you," he said.

  "Yes, Pilot. This—I am aware of that," she answered and it might have been impatience he heard. He hoped so.

  "You didn't discuss with Pilot Cantra where you might like to be set down," he continued. "There aren't many worlds where those Batch-marks will go unnoticed."

  "I am also aware of that, Pilot. I thank you for your concern, but my immediate need is to depart Faldaiza. Deeper plans—deeper plans await event."

  Two "I's" and a "my" in the same couple sentences, and nary a hesitation before any of them. She might, he thought, make it. Provided she could find some way to neutralize the Batch tats. There might even be a way to do it, short of amputating the arms and regrowing. He'd never heard of any undetectable method besides the amputations—acid baths only removed the first two or three layers of skin, and left behind telltale burns; attempts to camouflage the tats with others, done by needle, were doomed to failure.