Crystal Soldier

by Sharon Lee

He looked over, then faced her fully, eyes as readable as ever—which was to say, not at all—lean face pleasant and attentive, mouth soft in a half-smile, arms leaning on the rests, hands nice and relaxed. A portrait of pure innocence.

  "Pilot?" he answered. Respectful, too. Everything a pilot could want in a co-pilot, saving a bad habit or twelve.

  Cantra sighed.

  "I'm interested to note, Pilot, that your damn vegetable was lashed in place in my tower when we brought Dulsey in to the first aid kit. As I distinctly remember you taking it and its pot with you when you left ship at Taliofi, and as I distinctly don't remember giving you a ship's key, I'd be interested in hearing how that particular circumstance came to be."

  He closed one eye, then the other, then used both to look at her straight on, face as pleasant as ever. Rint dea'Sord, Cantra thought grudgingly, could do worse than take lessons from Pilot Jela. Too bad he was more likely to commission them both killed— but she was getting ahead of herself.

  "I'm waiting, Pilot."

  "Yes, ma'am," he said, easily, and paused before continuing at a clear tangent. "You've got a good brace of guns on this ship."

  "I'm glad they meet your approval." Stern-but-gentle, with a slight icing of irony. "You want to answer my question?"

  "I am," he said, projecting goodwill. She held up a hand and he tipped his head, questioning.

  "Point of information," she said, stern taking the upper note. "I don't like being soothed. It annoys me."

  He sighed, the fingers of his right hand twitching assent. "My apologies, Pilot. It's a habit—and a bad one. I'll take steps to remember."

  "I'd appreciate it," she said. "Now—the question."

  "Yes, ma'am," he said again. "Your recollection is correct in both particulars—I did take the tree with me when we debarked earlier in the day and you did not give me a ship's key." The right hand came up, showing palm beyond half-curled fingers. "I didn't steal a key or gimmick the comp. But, like I was saying—those guns you've got. Military, aren't they?"

  She considered him, much good it did her. "Surplus."

  "Right." The hand dropped back to arm rest. "Military surplus. Not that old, some military craft still carry those self-same guns. I trained on them, myself."

  Cantra sighed, letting him hear an edge of irritation. "This has a point, doesn't it, Pilot?"

  "It does." He sat up straight in his chair, eyes sharp, mouth stern. "The point is that you're not fully aware of the capabilities of your gun brace. Pilot. Where I come from, that's lapse of duty. Where you come from, I'd imagine it'd be something closer to suicide."

  Well, that was plain—and not entirely undeserved. "They didn't exactly come with instructions," she told him, mildly.

  "Small mercies," he retorted. "As I said, I trained on guns like yours and believe me I know what they can and can't do." He leaned back in his chair, deliberate, and kept his eyes on hers. "So, I sweet-talked them into letting me in."

  Cantra closed her eyes. "I'm understanding you to say that you came into this ship through the gun bays."

  "That's right."

  She wanted to doubt it, but there was the fact of the tree waiting for them, and Dancer reporting no entries between the time she'd sealed the hatch behind them in the early planetary day and the time she opened it again some hours later to admit Jela, Dulsey, and herself.

  "That involve any breakage?" she asked. "Or, say—modifications?"

  "Pilot," he said reproachfully. "I'm better than that." A short pause. "I wasn't entirely sure that we wouldn't be needing the guns again on the way out."

  A pragmatist, was Pilot Jela. That being so—

  She opened her eyes, saw him sitting calm and easy again in his chair. "I'll ask you, as co-pilot, to give me training on the guns to the full extent of your knowledge," she said.

  There was a small pause, then a formal nod of the head. "As soon as we raise a likely locatioi, I'm at your service, Pilot."

  Not if I shake you first, she thought at him. Granted, she owed the man—again—but she didn't have any intention of making Pilot Jela a permanent fixture on Dancer. Still, there wasn't no sense to putting him on notice. So—

  "That'll do, then," she said, turning to face her screens—and stopping at the sight of his big hand raised, palm out.

  "I've got some questions myself, Pilot."

  "Oh, do you?" She sighed, sharply. "Lay 'em out and let's see which ones I care to answer, then."

  "I think it'd be best if you answered them all."

  That struck a spark from her temper. She gave her attention to the screens—showing clear, and the countdown to transition in triple digits.

  "I think," she said tightly, "that you've got a very limited right to ask questions, Pilot Jela. You gimmicked your way onto this ship at Faldaiza, and engineered an unauthorized entry at Taliofi. Not to mention cutting a deal with a man who needed to die, and ruining my rep into the bargain."

  "If I hadn't ruined your rep," he said, voice deliberately placid, but not, at least, projecting calm good feelings. "You'd have been dead, and Dulsey, too."

  "Dulsey, maybe," she said. "He wanted me alive so's I could do him a favor."

  "And you were happy to be of service," he said, irony a little heavy. "At least, that's not how I read it, listening in."

  She spun her chair back to face him.

  "You were listening in on Rint dea'Sord?" She'd tried to crack dea'Sord's comms—twice, in fact, nor was she unskilled at such things, having received certain training. "How?"

  He smiled at her, damn him. "Military secret." He touched the breast of his 'skins. "I have a datastrip which I request permission to transmit, via secure channel."

  "No," she snapped.

  He sighed. "Pilot, the information on this 'strip will guarantee that Ser dea'Sord will be too busy for . . . some number of years . . . keeping one jump ahead of the peacekeepers and bounty hunters to care about your rep or your life."

  "That's some datastrip," she said, and held out her hand. "Mind if I scan it?"

  "Yes," he said, which wasn't anything more than she'd expected he'd say, nor anything less than she'd've said herself, had their positions been reversed. Still, the notion of giving Rint dea'Sord enough trouble to keep him occupied and out of the business for years did have its appeal.

  "You're asking a lot on trust," she told Jela; "and I'm a little short where you're concerned."

  His face hardened. "Am I supposed to trust a woman who carries a can full of military grade ship-brains into such a port as Taliofi, and has a sheriekas healing unit in her ship?"

  She held up a fist, raised the thumb. "You should've checked the manifest before you signed on, if you're as tender-hearted as all that." Index finger. "You got moral objections to the first aid kit, you're free to open the hatch and save Dulsey's soul for her."

  "It's her well-being I'm concerned with." There was more than a little snap there. She supposed he was entitled, there being the likelihood of a personal interest.

  "Where did you get that healing unit?" he demanded.

  She moved her shoulders and arranged her face into amused lines. "It came with," she said, and spread her arms to include the entirety of Dancer .

  He stared at her. She smiled at him.

  "Whoever acquired that thing was trading 'way over their heads," he said, still snappish.

  She raised her eyebrows, giving him polite attention, in case he wasn't done.

  He shut his mouth and looked stubborn.

  "Leaving aside ship's services," she said after she'd taken a leisurely scan of her screens and stats and he still hadn't said anything else. "Is there a description of the cargo just off-loaded on that 'strip you think you want to transmit?"

  "There is." Right grumpy, that sounded.

  "And that's going to keep my rep clear with the 'hunters and other interested parties exactly how?"

  Silence. A glance aside showed him sitting not so relaxed as previously, his eyes closed. As if he'd f
elt the weight of her regard, he sat up straight and opened his eyes, meeting hers straight on.

  "It happens I'm in need of a pilot who knows the back ways in and out, and maybe something about the Beyond."

  "I'll be sure to put you down at a port where you might have some luck locating a pilot of that kind," she said politely, and spun back full to face her board.

  "I'd rather hire you," Jela said, quiet-like. "The people who receive my transmittal, they'll keep any . . . irregularities . . . to themselves, if it's known you're aiding me."

  She let that settle while she made a couple of unnecessary adjustments to her long-scans.

  "I thought you weren't exactly military," she said, first.

  "I'm not," he answered, and while she didn't have any reason to believe him, she did anyway.

  "What you're doing here is coercion," she said, second.

  Jela didn't answer that one—and then he did.

  "Maybe it is," he said, slow, like he was working it out as he went. "What I know is I've been fighting my whole life and the war's going against us. There's a chance—not much of a chance, but I specialize in those kinds of missions—that I can accomplish something that will turn the war back on the sheriekas. Or least make the odds not—quite—so overwhelming. If you agree to help me, then you have that chance, too."

  "So what?" she asked, harsher than she should have.

  "If we don't stand together," Jela said, still in that feeling-his-way voice, "then we'll fall separately. We need to face the enemy now—soldier, smuggler, and shop-keeper."

  The war had been a fact of her entire life. The concept of winning it—or losing it—was alien enough to make her head ache. The notion that she might have a hand in either outcome was—laughable.

  When the cards were all dealt out, though, Pilot Jela held the winning hand, in the form of his datastrip. If he could buy her free of Rint dea'Sord and gain her a promise of blind eyes from those who might otherwise be interested in curtailing her liberty—she'd be a fool not to go along with him.

  At least for a while.

  She sent him a studious glance; gave him a formal nod.

  "All right," she said. "Transmit your data."

  * * *

  IT APPEARED THAT Pilot Cantra had levels between her levels, Jela thought as he addressed his board and began setting up a series of misdirections. He didn't expect such precautions to thwart a determined attack, but then he didn't except a determined attack, merely a snoop, the same as any pilot who didn't entirely trust her second might do.

  He'd already established that Spiral Dance's brain was as familiar to him as her guns—one of the earlier of the Emca units; considerably smarter and more flexible than the Remle refits just off-loaded at Taliofi.

  Fingers deft and quick, he set the transmission protocol: validate, send, validate, wipe original on close of transmission, no copy to ship's log.

  A glance at the screens—clear all around, scans showing the appropriate levels of busy energies, nothing exotic or overly active, transition still some ship-hours ahead of them—and a look out of the side of his eye at the pilot sitting her board serene, long, elegant fingers dancing on the numbers pad, like as not discussing possible exit points with the navigation brain.

  If it had been his to call, he'd have opted to wait and send closer to transition, to minimize the risk of a trace. The choice not being his, the likelihood of a trace being, in his estimation, low, and the pilot possibly with her attention on something other than on him, he checked his protocols a second time and hit "send."

  The query went out, the answer came back, the data flowed away. Query again, answer—and the thing was done, beam closed. Jela tapped a key, accessing the datastrip, which showed empty, just as it ought. Good.

  He pulled it out of the slot and crumbled it in his fist. The flexible metal resisted at first, then folded, tiny slivers tickling his palm.

  The sense of being watched pulled his eyes up—and he met Pilot Cantra's interested green gaze. He waited, with the clear sense that he'd just given information out.

  But—"Scrap drawer's on your left," was all she said, calm and agreeable, and turned her attention back to her calcs.

  "Thank you," he muttered, and thumbed the drawer open, depositing the strip and making sure his palms were free of shred before closing it again and putting his eyes and most of his attention on his own board.

  Screens and scans still clear, timer ticking down to translation. Transition to where was apparently not a subject on which the pilot craved his input. He considered introducing it himself, then decided to bide his time, pending consideration of recent discoveries and events.

  If Ragil's people up-line moved fast on Rint dea'Sord's operation, they might even recover most of Spiral Dance's recent off-loaded and lamentable cargo. He'd handed the man and the cargo to others better equipped to deal with them—nothing more he could or should do, there. He therefore put both out of his mind.

  Pilot Cantra, however . . . .

  He hadn't listened long, being more interested in downloading various fascinating data regarding dea'Sord's business arrangements, but he'd listened plenty long enough to hear the by-play around the need for an aelantaza.

  It was apparently Rint dea'Sord's belief that Pilot Cantra, whose ship called her "yos'Phelium," was one of those rare and elite scholar-assassins.

  Jela admitted to himself that the proposition explained a good many puzzling things about Pilot Cantra. Unfortunately, it also raised a number of other, equally good and valid questions.

  Such as, if she were indeed aelantaza, was she presently on contract?

  Or, if she were indeed aelantaza and not on contract, who was looking for her and how much of an impediment were they likely to be to his mission?

  Or, if she was not aelantaza, as seemed most likely, why had Rint dea'Sord, a man with access to a broad range of information that he shouldn't have had, thought that she was—and what did that mean in terms of impediments or dangers to Jela's own mission?

  And there was, after all, the matter of the name. Cantra yos'Phelium. Certainly, a name. Certainly, every bit as good a name as M. Jela Granthor's Guard. Exactly as good a name, as it happened. "yos" was the Inworlds prefix denoting a courier or delivery person, and "Phelium" bore an interesting likeness to the Rim-cant word for "pilot."

  Cantra Courier Pilot, Jela thought. Not precisely the name he'd have expected to find on an aelantaza—- contracted or free. On the other hand, what did he know? Aelantaza were known for their subtlety, which didn't happen to be a trait he'd've assigned to Pilot Cantra. But, if the Dark Trader persona was a cover for something else—

  Not that he was over-thinking it or anything.

  He sighed to himself and sent a glance to the tree—receiving an impression of watchful well-being. That would be the tree's reaction to the sheriekas device in which Dulsey presently slumbered—and he owned that the fact of the thing tied into this ship disturbed him, too. All very well and good for Pilot Cantra to say it had "come with," thereby loosing another whole range of questions to tangle around the aelantaza/not aelantaza question, and—

  Stop, he told himself.

  Deliberately, he invoked one of the templated exercises. This one restored mental acuity and sharpened problem-solving. There was a moment of tightness inside his skull, and a brief feeling of warmth.

  He'd need to construct a logic-box, assign everything he knew about Pilot Cantra and—

  "Pilot." Her voice was low and agreeable, the Rim accent edgy against his ear. More of an accent than she had previously displayed, he thought, and put that aside for the logic box, as he turned his head to meet her eyes.

  "Pilot?" he answered, respectful.

  "I'd welcome your thoughts regarding a destination," she said.

  Just what he'd been wanting, Jela thought, and then wondered if she was playing for info—which found him back on the edge of the aelantaza question, tottering on his mental boot heels. He sighed, letting h
er hear it, and gave a half-shrug.

  "I thought you might have a port in mind," he said. "It'd be best not to disrupt your usual routes and habits. At least, not until I've seen a chart."

  "Usual routes and habits," she repeated, a corner of her mouth going up in a half-smile. "Pilot, I don't think you're a fool. I think you know we lifted out of Taliofi empty of anything valuable—excepting yourself and Dulsey, neither of which I gather are up for trade . . . and even if you were, I ain't in the business of warm goods. One can's carrying generic Light-goods for the entertainment of any port cops we happen to fall across. That means we can go wherever your fancy takes us, with the notable exception of any of my usual stop-overs. It might be that the two of us're cozy kin now, but I see no reason to introduce you and your troubles to my usuals."

  Reasonable, Jela thought, and prudent. Especially prudent if Pilot Cantra expected to dump him and retreat to safety, which had to be in her mind, despite her apparent surrender. He was beginning to form the opinion that the pilot's order of priority was her ship and herself, all else expendable. It was a survivor's order of priority, and he couldn't fault her for holding it, though duty required him to subvert it. Not the greatest thing duty had required of him, over a lifetime of more or less obeying orders.

  Yet, he couldn't help thinking that it would have been better for all—the mission, the pilot, the soldier if it mattered, and the Batcher—if Pilot Muran had made his rendezvous.

  In point of fact, it would've been better for all if the sheriekas had blown themselves up with their home world. While he was wishing after alternate histories.

  He looked to Pilot Cantra, sitting unaccountably patient, and showed her his empty palms.

  "We have a shared problem in need of solving, first," he said, which was true, and bought him time to consider how best to follow up a rumor and a whisper, lacking the info Muran had been bringing to him.

  The pilot's pretty eyebrows lifted. "Do we, now. And that would be?"

  "Dulsey," he said, and the eyebrows came together in a frown.

  "I'm thinking Dulsey's your problem, Pilot—or no problem. She's likely to go along with whatever you say."