Crystal Soldier

by Sharon Lee

  "We should not," Dulsey said, "keep Pilot Cantra waiting."

  "We should not," he agreed, and jerked his chin again at the open hatch. "After you."

  * * *

  SHE HIT THE PILOT'S chair, hands already on the board, opening long eyes and short, slapping up wide ears. Pilot voices began to murmur—groundside chatter, as it sounded. Nobody sounding frantic, no tightness in the banter. Good.

  Her hands were starting to shake, and a high whine had started in her ears, damn it all to the Deeps. She thought about the stick of Tempo in the utility drawer. Left it there.

  A racket from behind announced the imminent arrival of her crew, speaking of arrant stupidity. She pushed on a corner of the board; a hatch slid silently open, revealing a minute control panel; snapped three toggles from left to right, pressed the small orange stud. The hatch slid shut, merging invisibly with the metal surface.

  Cantra spun her chair around to face the incoming.

  Dulsey came first, slipping her weapon away into a pocket of the coverall. Pilot Jela came next, massive arms wrapped around a biggish pot, apparently not at all bothered by the leaves tickling his ear or the twigs sticking into his head. He took in the piloting room with one comprehensive black glance, walked over to the point where the board met the wall on the far side of the co-pilot's station, bent and set the pot gently on the decking. He slapped open a leg pouch, pulled out a roll of cargo twine and pitched it to Dulsey, who caught it one-handed, and stood holding it, head cocked to one side.

  "Secure that," Jela said. The words fell like an order on Cantra's ringing ears.

  Apparently it sounded that way to Dulsey, too. She dropped her eyes, mouth tightening. "Pilot," she murmured and walked over to do what she'd been told.

  Jela put himself into the co-pilot's chair without any further discussion, his big hands deft on the controls. Seat adjusted to his satisfaction, he pointed his eyes at the board, giving it the same all-encompassing look he'd given the pilot's tower.

  "We have a scheduled lift?" he asked. "Pilot?"

  "We do," she answered, spinning back to face her screens. "We'll be departing some earlier."

  He was opening co-pilot's eyes, his attention on the readouts; touched a switch and brought the chatter up a mite.

  "If we re-file, we give warning of our intention to anyone interested," he said, just offering the info.

  "That's so," she agreed. "Which is why we're not refiling." She eyed the readouts—nothing glowing that shouldn't be; and the armor just where and how they'd last seen it. The chatter was staying peaceful, and long eyes brought her nothing but the serene turn of stars. She reached to her own instruments and started the wake-up sequence.

  "What we're going to do as soon as Dulsey has that damn' vegetable secured and gets herself strapped down, is grab us out and lift."

  "Tree," Jela said, so quiet she could barely hear him over the chatter and the ringing. He sent her a glance, lean face absolutely expressionless. "If we wait a bit, we might lull whoever could be watching into thinking we'll keep to the filed lift."

  If we wait a bit, Cantra thought, feeling the shake in her muscles, the pilot won't be fit to fly.

  She fixed him with a glare. "You sign up as co-pilot on my ship?"

  Black eyes blinked. Once. "Pilot, I did."

  "That's what I thought, too. We go now. Pilot's choice."

  Another blink, and a return to the studious consideration of his area.

  "Pilot," he said, and there might or might not've been an edge to his voice. Not that she gave a demi-qwint either way.

  "Dulsey," she snapped. "Can you take acceleration?"

  "Yes, Pilot," came the cool response. "More than you can."

  Now there was an assumption. Cantra grinned, feeling it more teeth than humor. Navigation brain was awake. She set it to scanning for safe out-routes, and shot a fast look down-board. Dulsey was finishing up with the cord and the vegetable. Tree. Whatever.

  "Get yourself strapped into the fold-out. You got ten from my mark." She took a breath. "Mark."

  Suggested routes were coming in from navigation; she belatedly added the co-pilot to the report list, copied the first batch manually and did a quick scroll. Beside her, Jela was heard to make a sound amounting to tsk. She shot him a look while her fingers initiated engine wake-up.

  "Prime thinkum," was all he said, his big hands steady on the controls. "How do you want to run it, Pilot?"

  She glanced at the nav screen, scrolled through the new offerings, moved a finger and highlighted a particular course. It hung there, gleaming yellow, awaiting the co-pilot's consideration.

  "We could do that," he said, and the screen showed a second highlight, blue, two choices further down. "This one gives us more maneuvering room, in case anybody wants to throw flowers at us."

  She frowned at the suggested route, found it not inelegant. A little sloppy if the armor kept to itself, but nothing to endanger. The portmaster was going to be irritated, but that was the portmaster's lookout.

  "We'll take it," she said, and pressed the locking key. "If we wake up the armor, first board goes to you, since you got the experience and I don't, at which point I'll grab second." Her hands moved, setting it up, except for the final confirm, which was one key within easy reach. "If nobody cares we're leaving, saving the portmaster, I'll stay with her. Scans?"

  "Scans clean," he replied.

  "Dulsey, you in?"

  "Yes, Pilot."

  "Ten," said Cantra and gave Dancer the office.

  * * *

  SHE FLEW LIKE A bomber pilot, did Cantra, and with as much regard for her passengers. The acceleration didn't bother him, of course, and it seemed to not bother her at about the same level, which was—almost as interesting as a nav brain that based it simulations on lifts pre-filed and stored in the central port system. He did spare a quick glance at Dulsey, strapped down in the jump seat. She looked to be asleep.

  They were up for full seconds before Tower started howling. Neither the order nor the language in which it was couched interested Pilot Cantra, by his reading of the side of her face.

  More seconds. Tower continued to issue orders, and other voices came on-line quickly—pilots on the yard, they were, some sidine with Tower, others urging Spiral Dance to more speed, still others laying wagers on the various angles of the thing—elapsed time to orbit, probable fines, and the likelihood of collecting them, number of years before Spiral Dance dared raise Faldaiza again . . . .

  He rode his scans, seeing nothing hot behind them, on the fast-dwindling port, and was beginning to consider that the armor had never been in it at all, that local talent wasn't going to trouble themselves to pursue off-world, in fact, might be applauding their departure—when three bright spots blossomed on the screen. Not energy weapons—missiles!

  "Trouble in the air!" Jela spat, and reached hands toward a board not yet his.

  In short order, just ahead of them, a glare of light, and then the port-ward scans lighting up at the same instant as the ship's collision alarm went off. He took it in, didn't swear.

  "Con coming your way." Cantra's voice was firm.

  Another burst, and the pilot slapped the transfer button, swapping her board for his. His hands moved, feeding in avoids, hoping the pattern he had in his head was going to be good enough.

  "Three," Pilot Cantra said meditatively. "And the man don't know who loves him."

  Being engaged, he let the debate go, kicked the engine up another notch, and felt the ship surge while screens one, three, and five showed explosions.

  Though they were still in atmosphere he slapped up the meteor shields, then played the controls a moment to check reaction time . . . let the ship spin about the long axis, the modest airfoils working just fine at this velocity.

  Tower came over the open comm, ordering the armor to cease and desist, which would do as much good as ordering any other robot unit to do the same.

  "Ships coming on line behind us," Cantra said quiet
ly. "Main screens going up as soon as we're clear."

  Ships coming on line—that could be bad, or good, and in either case not on his worry plate until any of them actually fired. He slid the throttle up another notch, felt the instant response in his gut as the acceleration kicked in, and then quickly backed off power as the collision alarm went off again.

  "Tiny!" was what Cantra said, and she was describing the munition struggling to change course, to catch them . . .

  Jela slammed the control jets, bouncing the ship and occupants around ruthlessly as the missile seemed to skitter along some unseen barrier. One final burst of acceleration now and the projectile slid helplessly behind them.

  Another cluster of bursts, below them now, and—

  "Shields up! Got us a ship burst—"

  He frowned at his screens, reached to the reset—

  "One armor gone," Cantra said. "Tower can't decide whether to be happy or not. ID . . . " An audible in-drawn breath. "Pretty Parcil."

  "Not bad," Jela said. "For a civilian."

  She didn't say anything, loudly. He notched the engine back, reached to access for the next item in the navigation queue—

  "Nothing close, now," he said. "I think we'll do."

  Suddenly a blast of noise, internal, as Cantra brought the audio to the speakers.

  Jela sighed. So much for a quiet departure. Ships calling for weapons, pilots demanding information, the local air defense group issuing contradictory orders . . . and all thankfully behind them.

  Cantra nodded at him, with a quick hand sign that was thanks, in pilot hand-talk.

  "I'll rig that up for auto-run," she said, and the lights flickered under his hands—swap back. He sighed to himself, fiddled with the comm, checked the screens and said nothing. Her ship, her rules, her call.

  Pilot Cantra fed the silence, fingers moving with deliberate purpose, locking in the auto-run. At last, she sat back, unsnapped the shock straps, and leaned her head against the chair.

  "Dulsey!" she called.

  "Pilot?" Languid. Sounded like she'd been asleep, for true. Jela grinned. Nerves spun out of steel thread. She'd do, all right. Maybe.

  "You ride a board, Dulsey?"

  "No, Pilot. I regret. The Batch-grown are not allowed to hold professional license."

  Cantra sighed. "Replay what I asked you, Dulsey. I don't care if you got a license, scan?"

  Silence. Jela shot a glance over his shoulder. The Batcher woman was sitting on the edge of the jump-seat, straps pushed aside. She bit her lip.

  "Pilot, I can ride a board," she said slowly. "But I am the verymost novice."

  "Just so happens you'll have Pilot Jela on first, and he's something better than that, as we've seen demonstrated. Do what he tells you and you'll be ace."

  She turned her head and glared at Jela, who considered the lines etched in by her mouth and the discernible trembling of her arms and her fingers, and forbore to bait her.

  "And you'll ring me, if something comes up except a clear route and easy flying, is that right, Pilot Jela?"

  "I'll do just that, Pilot," he agreed, and touched the green button at the top of his board with a light forefinger. "That'll be this?"

  "That's it." She reached to her instruments, assigned control back to him, and came to her feet, swaying slightly. "If you have to vary for any reason, it better be good, and you'll be checking with me. Right, Pilot?"

  "Right," he agreed, amiable as he knew how.

  "I'm going to my quarters," she said. "Chair's yours, Dulsey."

  She took two deliberately steady steps toward the hatch, stopped, and turned to stare at the tree.

  Jela watched her, not saying anything. She stood like a woman caught in a freeze-beam. He snapped his webbing back, noisier than it needed to be.

  Her glance flicked to his face, green eyes wide. "What is that?"

  He felt the hairs shiver on the back of his neck and produced a smile.

  "A tree, Pilot," he said, easy as he dared. "Just a tree."

  Had she been in strength, she'd've asked him more, he could see that. In her present state, though, it was sleep she needed, and she knew it. Questions later, he could see her decide, and she jerked her chin down, once, letting it go.

  "Orders. You ring me," she said again. "If anything shows odd."

  "Aye, Pilot," he returned, and the hatch snapped shut behind her.

  Twelve

  On Board Spiral Dance

  Departing Faldaiza

  PILOT CANTRA'S AUTO-RUN leaving no room for vary, nor any way short of physical tampering to take the thing off-line and just fly the ship himself, Jela amused himself for a time by running Dulsey through a series of board drills, the while keeping an eye on the screens and the scans.

  Dulsey completed every pattern he called for with competence, but without flair, her pale face displaying a tense seriousness that eventually brought to mind the fact that she had also suffered a long day.

  He stretched in his chair, and waved a hand.

  "You'll do," he said, striving for a tone of easy satisfaction. "Lean back and talk to me. Unless we get pirates on the screens, we've got nothing to do until transition."

  She leaned back, tension ebbing, leaving her serious and puzzled.

  "What shall I talk about, Pilot?"

  A Batch-grown question if ever he'd heard one. So perfectly Batch-grown, in fact, that he suspected Dulsey of having fun with him—unless he looked stupid. Which, he conceded, was probably the case.

  "If it's going to be up to me to choose the topic," he said, still genial and easy. "Then I'll ask you to retrace your logic for me."

  Her face tightened. "Which logic, Pilot?"

  "The reasoning which brought you to assert to Pilot Cantra that the gentlefolk responsible for making the latter part of our evening so entertaining were working for off-world interests."

  Dulsey frowned. "I believe my reasoning is linear, Pilot."

  Outright irritation. Jela raised a hand and waggled peaceable fingers.

  "Grant that I'm having trouble with it," he said. "I can go along with you, to a point—the abduction of my original contact, the people following us to the bar, the guards on our rooms. But what I can't figure is—why did they make the mess we found at The Alcoves? Local forces wouldn't have a reason, or the initiative, to vary from orders—"

  "Ah." For a split-second, it seemed that Dulsey would actually laugh. She managed to restrain herself, however, and spun her chair so she faced him.

  "It is sometimes true that unrelated events run in parallel," she said. "It is also sometimes true that the parallel-running events may share some components which makes it tempting to theorize a connection which does not, in reality, exist. Such is the case with the events of the evening, and the pilot's puzzlement may be lain to rest by understanding that what appears, from his perspective as a shared component, to be one mega-event, is in fact two unrelated occurrences."

  He considered her. "The business at The Alcoves had nothing to do with us, is what I'm hearing you say."

  "The pilot hears correctly," Dulsey said. "The fact is that the—the master had long been an . . . afficionado . . . of data. The pilot will have noted that the several alcoves in which he dined were data-mined. That the harvesting devices did not operate during the pilot's tenancies was a source of amusement for the master, who pronounced the pilot a very able fellow."

  He blinked. "I'm flattered."

  "The pilot displays appropriate respect for the master," Dulsey said, and he could've sworn it was irony he heard in her bland voice. "Unfortunately, there were others who were not so respectful, among them her heir, who, though it is not the place of this humble person to say so, is not an able fellow. The master's devices thereby harvested data which he would rather they had not, and she had begun the process to have him disbarred from inheriting. As his debts are high and his prospects otherwise limited, he took steps to insure that the master's property passed to him intact."

  "With t
he exception of your Pod," Jela commented. "I'd've thought you were valuable."

  Dulsey shrugged. "The master had allowed us much, and we knew him for what he was. Though we could not have initiated legal proceedings, nor even made a complaint to a constable, yet he would not have us. He knew the master armed some of us. He knew we had built the harvesting devices and—other—apparatus, that we assembled the records and were often required to listen to them. We were a danger to him, and best accounted for."

  Jela took a moment to consider the screens and the scans. Sighed.

  "In that case, Dulsey, he can't afford to let you be unaccounted for."

  There was a short silence. "Pilot, I believe you are correct. However, I also believe that there exists significant opportunity to escape him."

  "Not likely. All he has to do is let it out that the one missing from among the dead had a gun. Obviously, she's the culprit—a Batcher gone bad. He could even get off with offering a mid-figure bounty with a story like that."

  Dulsey closed her eyes, opened them, and stood up out of her chair.

  "Would the pilot care for a hot snack?" she asked distantly. He studied her face—closed—and her posture—tense; met her eyes and smiled.

  "Sure, Dulsey. A hot snack would be fine."

  He spun his chair back to face the board, and pointed his eyes at the instruments, pilot-mind primed to shout out at the first sign of a problem. That left a good bit of mind left on its own, unfortunately, and he was tired, too. He took a breath, centering himself, and put the part of him that wasn't watching into a doze.

  * * *

  "Pilot?"

  He started, grabbed a look at the instruments, then spun his chair to face Dulsey, standing with a mug and a bowl in her hands.

  She stepped closer, offering both, and he took them, slotting the mug into the chair-arm holder and snapping the bowl into the board-edge restraints. The bowl gave off a pleasantly spicy steam.

  "Thank you," he said, meaning it. "Feed yourself, too, right?"