Crystal Soldier

by Sharon Lee

  'Course, the room hadn't been locked that couldn't be escaped, but Jela had also impressed her as cool-headed, not to say sensible. There wasn't any use to him in irritating her right at present. Much more productive to just take a nap and bide his time, being sure that they'd outrun whoever wasn't after him. No, the vulnerable moment with Jela would be when Dancer was on Taliofi Port. She'd have to be slick in her ditching, which she was confident she could be. What wasn't known, of course, is if she could be slick enough.

  Well, that was a worry for later. She turned and went back to the piloting chamber, slipping into her seat and making the straps secure just as the timer in the forward screen went to zero.

  The weapons came up, the shields went down, the screens went gray, the timer reset itself and began counting down from twelve.

  . . . eleven . . . ten . . .

  Spiral Dance shivered.

  . . . nine . . .

  . . . calmed . . .

  . . . eight . . . seven . . .

  . . . twisted like a Sendali contortionist. The straps tightened across Cantra's torso; at the far side of the board Jela's little tree snapped a bow, its leaves in disarray.

  . . . six . . . five . . .

  . . . calm again, but Cantra wasn't believing it . . .

  . . . four . . . three . . .

  Dancer twisted again, with feeling. The pot containing Jela's tree thumped hard against the bulkhead, despite the restraints. Cantra gasped as the straps pressed her into the chair . . .

  . . . two . . . one . . .

  Normal space.

  Her hands moved, one for the weapons board, one for the scans and shields, ready, ready—

  The screens showed stars, all around; the scans showed clear, likewise. The image unfolding in the navigation screen showed her course overlaying the pattern of stars, with an estimated time of arrival at Taliofi just under twelve ship-hours. Ahead of schedule, thanks to the early lift. Still, she didn't feel like taking the scenic route. The quicker she got down—even at Taliofi—the better she'd feel.

  She sighed, notched the weapons back to stand-by and scanned again, just being sure.

  If there were any ships with hostile intent inside the considerable range of her eyes and ears, they were both cloaked and cool—which made them watchers, dangerous in their own ways, but not needful of her immediate attention.

  A blue light lit on the edge of the navigation screen. She touched it, and info flowed down the screen, the short form of it all being that one and one-quarter ship hour's could be shaved off real-space transit to Taliofi, if she was willing to fly like a Rimmer.

  She grinned, fingers already feeding in the amended course.

  * * *

  THE HAMMOCK SWUNG hard and Jela woke, felt the ship steady, and took a breath, expanding his chest so the webbing wouldn't grab too tight on the next bounce.

  "All right down there, Dulsey?" he asked.

  "The pilot is kind to inquire," her voice came, breathlessly. "This humble person is well."

  "Good. Stay put, hear me? I don't think we're done dancing ye-"

  The ship bounced again, gratifyingly on cue. The straps snapped taut, and the hammock swung out and back, smacking Jela's hip against the metal wall hard enough to sting though padding and 'skins. He scarcely noticed it, himself, but his cabin-mate didn't have his advantages.

  "Dulsey?"

  "What transpires?" An edge was added to the breathlessness; Jela figured she'd taken a pretty good bump herself.

  "My guess is we're translating with weapons on-line," he said. "With a ship this size, that's bound to introduce a bobble or two."

  "Bob—" she began, and stopped as the ship settled around them once more. "We are out."

  He considered it, listening with his whole body in a hammock that hung calm from its gimbals.

  "I think you're right," he said at last.

  "The door is still locked."

  He was sorry to hear that, but the info didn't surprise him.

  "I figure the pilot has other things on her mind," he told Dulsey, keeping his voice easy despite his own dislike of the situation. "Even given that we lifted out early and should be ahead of whatever delivery schedule she might have, she doesn't know who might be coming after. If I was in the pilot's chair, I'd want to minimize my exposure. It might be Pilot Cantra's going to do some flying—" That was what they had said in his training wing, when a pilot needed to produce the impossible. "I'd expect us to be in here until the ship's on port."

  Grim silence for a count of five.

  "What shall we do?" Dulsey asked finally.

  Jela sighed, quietly; trying not to remember how very much he disliked doing nothing; and did not wish for a computer, a database, or a stack of reports to read.

  "Sleep?" he suggested.

  She didn't answer, and grimness lingered for a bit. Then he heard her breathing smooth out and knew she'd taken his advice.

  Now, if only he could take his advice, he thought crankily, and moved his head against the hammock's pad.

  Well. Enough of sleep and dreaming memories. What was needed was analysis and a plan. It was not to Pilot Cantra's benefit to keep him with her, so she would think and she was quite possibly correct to think it.

  However, Pilot Cantra's benefit was secondary to his own. His departure from Faldaiza had been strategic retreat—remaining would not only have been foolhardy but would have endangered himself and his mission, those two elements being inseparable, and Pilot Cantra and her ship had been available. The question now became: What was best for him to do in order to recover the ground he had lost?

  It was a knotty question, he thought with some satisfaction, as he began to assign decision priorities.

  He hoped he had an answer by the time Pilot Cantra unlocked the door.

  Fifteen

  Spiral Dance

  Taliofi

  TALIOFI WASN'T EXACTLY the garden spot of the Spiral Arm, nor was it quite so law-bound as, say, Faldaiza. It was by no means the worst world on which to put down a ship carrying irregulars, and the lack of an interested local constabulary generally made it a likely port for a pilot in Cantra's line of trade. The fact that it wasn't one of her favorite ports had less to do with the various briberies involved, which could go as high as ten percent of receipts, and most to do with it being home to Rint dea'Sord.

  In a business where the faint of heart failed and the ruthless prevailed, Rint dea'Sord was known as a man not to cross. He paid well for his commissions, if not always at full price, and he paid well for errors, too, with interest. A bitter enemy was dea'Sord, so the word went, and a man with a galaxy-wide reach. No one cheated Rint dea'Sord, and the same could not be said for himself.

  Garen had refused to deal with the man at all, which might have said something positive about her sanity after all. Cantra's dealings with him had been exactly two. Both times, she'd come away with enough of her fee in hand that she thought three times whenever a deal involving a Taliofi delivery came up—once for the money and twice for Ser dea'Sord.

  This instance, she'd thought four times, the money was that good. And in the end it was the money that had convinced her, despite the client's known tendencies. If she actually received even a third of the promised fee, it would represent a tidy profit. Profits being what motivated the pilot and fueled the craft, she'd taken the job.

  And now here she was, thinking a fifth time, which was a plain waste of time and thought-channels. She was down, a fact that couldn't fail to escape the notice of those with a tender regard for her cargo. Lifting now got her nothing but ruined. Best to collect her pay, off-load, and commence about ditching her so-called crew.

  She might should've had qualms about leaving them in such a port, but she judged Jela able to take care of himself, and while Taliofi wasn't a nexus, it wasn't back-system, either. A pilot with Jela's skills should have no trouble hiring himself onto a ship heading for his favorite coordinates.

  The other matter was a little less cer
tain, but Dulsey's chances of long-term survival were in the negative numbers no matter how you rolled it. Cantra found as she locked the board down that she did feel something bad about that, which was another side of senseless. Dulsey'd made her choices and Taliofi was as good a place for a runaway Batcher as any—and considerably better than some.

  Lock-down finished, she released the webbing and stood. She was well ahead of her appointed time. Might be best to switch her priorities, and get her crew up and gone before Rint dea'Sord took note of them. With that detail taken care of, she could lift directly she'd off-loaded, which did appeal. She'd go on to Horetide, and pick up work there.

  Half-a-dozen steps brought her to the little tree. There was a dent in the pot from where it had smacked into the wall, and it had lost three leaves to the decking. Loss of leaf wasn't likely to do it harm, she thought, and bent a little closer. The branches and the thin trunk appeared intact—and the fruits still hung in their places. So far, so good.

  Time to skin-up and see if her passengers had fared as well.

  * * *

  COCOONED IN HIS WEB of calculation, Jela felt the ship come to ground. He let the current probability analysis run itself to an outcome he liked even less than the previous one, and opened his eyes.

  "We're down, Dulsey," he said, neither loud nor soft. The walls rumbled a little when his voice struck it.

  "Thalk you, Pilot; I am awake," came the composed answer. "Do you think Pilot Cantra will let us out now?"

  "I think that's the most likely scenario," he said, and released the webbing, taking a moment to be sure that it was untangled and ran smooth on its rollers, in case the next tenant of the bunk needed to strap down in a hurry.

  Satisfied, he eased onto his side, face pointed toward the door, and told himself that it took time to lock the board and file pilot's intent with the port and—

  There was a sound—small in his super-sharp hearing—and the door opened, framing a long, lean figure. Her face was amiable, which he knew by now meant nothing with Pilot Cantra, and her head was cocked to one side, tawny hair brushing the shoulder of her 'skins.

  "I'm glad to see the two of you looking well-rested," she said, her voice smooth and unhurried, the Rimmer accent just a tickle against the ear-bone. "Time to get up and do some errands."

  "Where are we?" Dulsey asked, surprisingly sharp.

  One of Cantra's winged eyebrows lifted, but she gave answer calm enough. "Taliofi. That inform you, Dulsey?"

  There was a pause, long enough for Jela to read it as "no," but Dulsey surprised him.

  "Yes, Pilot. What errands are required?"

  "As it happens, I've got a list." She raised her head and fixed Jela in her foggy green gaze. "Ace, Pilot?"

  "Ace," he agreed, and produced an agreeable smile, there being no reason not to.

  "Good." She jerked her head to her left, toward the hatch. "Let's go."

  * * *

  SHE'D CONSIDERED LEAVING the tree where it was, in the interests of misdirection, but had decided against. Jela'd gone to considerable risk and trouble to bring this particular plant out of Faldaiza, and she had no intention to rob him. So, she'd untied the thing and got it—pot, dirt and fruits—onto a cargo sled, by which time she had developed a whole new respect for Pilot Jela's physical attributes, and dragged it down to the hatch.

  Jela eyed it as he entered the area, and she drew a subtle breath, ready with her story about the pot being broken and dangerous in high acceleration. But he'd only shrugged, did Jela, and bent to pick the thing up, cradling it like kin.

  "Pot took a beating, I see," was what he said. "I'll tend to it, Pilot."

  "'preciate it," she'd answered, matching his tone. If he'd planned on making a move for Dancer, now was the time, and he couldn't well make that move with his arms full of tree. She didn't doubt that he'd already understood the situation with regard to his lack of continued welcome, and she was unaccountably relieved that no fancy-work was going to be needed on his behalf. She turned.

  "Dulsey," she began, but the Batcher held up a hand, cutting her off.

  "Pilot, there are those whom I would seek out on this port. If I do not return in time for lift, please understand it is not from disrespect for yourself or your ship, but because I have made other arrangements."

  So Dulsey had contacts on Taliofi, did she? That was a piece of luck. Cantra inclined her head gravely.

  "I understand," she said, and the Batcher bowed.

  Cantra turned and opened the hatch. The day beyond showed gray and cold and raining.

  "Right," she said, and sighed as she waved them out and down the ramp. "Welcome to Taliofi."

  * * *

  THING WAS, SHE did have a list, a habit going back to Garen's insistence that "ship shape" meant something more than neat-and-clean. She stood at the top of the ramp and watched Dulsey lead the way down, saw Jela striding steadily away, looking from this angle like someone who might be able to make a night warm after all, carrying his potted tree like it weighed nothing at all.

  Cantra sighed a bit against that thought, and the feeling that she was watching the best pilot she'd seen in some years sashay right away from her, and forcibly turned her attention to the list.

  First was to do an in-person prepay for lift-off—in case news of her last lift-out had got this far already—and then do a little shopping, to top off the needfuls, no more'n that; not at Taliofi. After that, she'd scout up someplace quiet and have herself a meal, with herself for company. All this eating with crew had her half-imagining she was too old to work solo.

  Once the eating was done, she'd find a private place, check her 'skins and her weapons, and go pay her respects to Ser dea'Sord.

  * * *

  IT WAS A WONDERFUL thing to be a Generalist, Jela thought, as he and the tree made their way across Taliofi Yard. For instance, a Generalist, with his horde of beguiling and unrelated facts and his valuable skill at putting those facts together in intriguing and uncannily correct ways would recall that . . . interesting numbers . . . of diverted sheriekas-made devices seemed to have passed—oh-so-anonymously—through Taliofi, their previous ports, if any, and their places of origin muddied beyond recovery. A Generalist would recall that Taliofi crouched at coordinates easily raised from the Rim—and Beyond—and that trade undoubtedly went both in and out.

  And a Generalist would conclude, against his will, for the woman had covered him and had held away from trying to kill him or do him any harm other than cutting him loose to pursue his own business on a port that might in charity be considered Dark—a Generalist would conclude, in the non-linear way typical of the breed, that he knew what was in Pilot Cantra's hold, which it was a soldier's duty to confiscate, along with detaining the pilot and her buyer.

  The weight of the tree was beginning to drag at his arms, and the cold rain was an irritation on his face and unprotected hands. He scouted ahead for a place to get out of the weather, spied what looked to be a cab stand a few dozen strides to his left and made for it, passing a goodly number of civilians about their daily business, none of whom spared one glance for a man carrying a tree. It was that kind of port.

  He shouldered his way into the cab stand, kicked the door shut, used an elbow to punch the privacy button, and put the tree down on the bench. Straightening, he stretched his arms and let them fall to his sides with a sigh.

  Dulsey had set out on her own course the instant her boots hit the Yard's 'crete. He hoped her contacts here were solid. At least the likelihood of bounty hunters was slim, which had to count in her favor. He hoped.

  On a personal note, though, he had a problem. While it might be a soldier's duty to confiscate and arrest, to attempt to carry out that duty without back-up was a fool's game.

  The most effective thing he could do was collect evidence, and send it on to Ragil to pass upstream.

  Not being exactly military, he also theoretically had the option of ignoring the whole thing and getting on with the business of finding a
lift out for a man and a tree.

  He considered it, because he had to, weighing the benefits— and then gave it up. His whole life had been spent fighting sheriekas and their works . . .

  From the tree, a faint rustle of leaves, though the air was still inside the cab stand, and Jela grinned.

  "That's right. Both of us have spent our lives on that project," he murmured, and stretched one more time before taking the pot up again and bringing the heel of his boot smartly against the door's kick-plate.

  Outside, the rain had increased. Jela sighed and turned back the way he had come.

  * * *

  "Pilot, you honor my humble establishment."

  Rint dea'Sord swept a showy bow, sleeves fluttering, right leg thrust out, shiny boot pointed straight forward, left leg behind and slightly bent, boot pointing at right angles. His hair fell in artful gilt ringlets below his slim shoulders. The shirt was silver starsilk, slashed sleeves showing blood-red. The breeches, tucked into high boots, looked to be tanned viezy hide, and probably was, though the probability that Ser dea'Sord had followed tradition to the point of personally killing the donor reptile with the ritually mandated stone knife was vanishingly low. Very tender of his own skin, Rint dea'Sord, though he didn't care if yours took a scar.

  He straightened out of his bow with boneless grace, the right leg coming back just a fraction too slow, an error that would have gained him a turn in the phantom lover, had he been trained in her dorm. Which, naturally enough, he hadn't, being self-taught. For that level of education, he did well enough, Cantra allowed, and answered his bow with a Rimmer's terse nod.

  "The cargo's ready to off-load, pending receipt of payment," she said.

  Rint dea'Sord smiled, which he did prettily enough, but he really should, Cantra thought critically, either learn to use his eyes, or camouflage them with a sweep of the lashes or—