Crystal Dragon

by Sharon Lee

  Jela stared at her. "I'm hearing you say that the device exists, but can't be moved."

  "That is correct."

  He thought about that, considering his next question carefully. "Dulsey, have you seen this device?"

  "I have seen plans of the installation in the outer fort," Dulsey said after some consideration of her own. "Understand, when I say 'installed', I mean to convey that it is hardwired into this planet, especially tuned to its composition. It may well be that such a device could be duplicated on another planet, indeed, the project has a certain appeal. However, with current technology, it would take on the order of eighteen hundred years, Common, to produce and mount it."

  Jela considered her. "Eighteen hundred years," he repeated slowly. "I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to see it through to completion." The tree, now, he thought, with its dizzingly long life—

  "Nor would I," Dulsey said. She hesitated, then blurted—"Pilot Jela, are you well?"

  "Well?" he repeated, genuinely startled by the change of subject. "Why wouldn't I be well?"

  She frowned, outright irritable. "I observe that you have lost weight," she said, ticking the points off on her fingers—"more than 'short rations' might account for—especially as Pilot Cantra, who I believe would share such rations as there were equally, has not suffered a similar reduction. I observe that your hair is turning grey, and that you are favoring your right leg. Last evening, I observed Pilot Cantra, who was—startled—to see you." She drew a deep breath. "So, I wonder if you are ill, Pilot. Forgive me if the question intrudes. I ask as one who holds you in esteem and bears you nothing but good will."

  Who would have known, he thought, that he had so many comrades? He sighed. There were, after all, certain courtesies owed to comrades, such as a clear answer when information was requested.

  "I'm functioning according to design," he said to Dulsey's serious eyes. "More or less."

  She blinked, once. Waited. Jela sighed again.

  "Pilot Cantra didn't expect to see me because I'd told her good-bye and gone to the garrison to report to the medic, and do the necessary paperwork before being decommissioned. As it happens, I misremembered my date, but the signs you see—those are in line with the design. I'm old, Dulsey. Typically, what happens with an M is we have all our old age in one short burst, and then—we stop."

  Another blink; a hard breath. "Such design characteristics may sometimes be circumvented," she said, in a voice of calm reason. "Come with us to the Uncle, Pilot Jela, and—"

  He shook his head. "I doubt there's a work-around. The military does a tight job on its soldiers, and there's been a good bit of time to work all the design bugs out of the Ms." He gave her a smile, trying to ease the sadness in her eyes. "Don't think I'm ungrateful, Dulsey, but I've got my duty, and my life isn't really my own."

  She bowed then, full low. "I understand."

  "Yes," he said slowly. "Of all the people I've met in the last half-dozen years, you're probably the only one who does understand." He cleared his throat. "Now," he said, returning to the matter at hand, "about those artifacts."

  Dulsey straightened with a startled look.

  "The artifacts are many and varied," she said. "Truly, Pilot Jela, this planet is a treasure house! There are grids, data tiles, and maps enough to keep Arin for thirty years and more! There are devices—"

  "Dulsey," he interrupted, "did you hear Pilot Cantra say yesterday that what's in these mines besides your treasure is timonium? Raw timonium?"

  "Yes, but—"

  He interrupted again, ruthlessly. "The sheriekas have an ...affinity for timonium. Think about it—all the captured sheriekas tech—all the old battle tech left over from the First Phase—what's the power source?"

  She paled. "Timonium."

  "Timonium. Which is why Vanehald was so hotly contested in the First Phase—for the timonium. That's my hunch, anyhow, based on research. Tell me now, has your team activated any of those devices?"

  "Of course," she began—and stopped, horror filling her eyes. "They are operating in various energy states," she said rapidly, "within a certain limited range of frequencies and harmonics. Only last evening, Jakoby said that it seemed they were building a network..."

  "Building a network," he finished, "and getting ready to send a beacon to the sheriekas."

  "If they have not already done so," Dulsey said grimly. "If we have called the Enemy down upon this world...."

  "The sheriekas have a long memory," he said. "They know what's here and why they were defeated. I'm wondering whose idea it was to stockpile First Phase equipment here...." He paused, made his decision.

  "Dulsey, listen to me. I know the Uncle sent you here for treasure, but I urge you—I strongly urge you—to lift out of here on a heading for Solcintra. Send a bounce to the Uncle telling him that I said that the only chance for his people to survive the upcoming chaos is to immediately raise Solcintra and put himself and his at the service of a man named Liad dea'Syl."

  She bowed, stiffly. "I will bring this to Arin immediately. And, Pilot Jela, if I do not see you again—go with my very best good wishes."

  "Thank you, Dulsey," he said, warmed. "You do the same."

  * * *

  WITH AN ASSIST FROM Dancer and Jela's local detail map, it wasn't hard to pinpoint a couple likely spots to look. The first and most likely from the scans and map—wasn't, viewed up close. The second possible, though—that was everything a fond smuggler could want.

  The stairs hadn't even been guarded. Oh, there'd been an old spy-eye on the door at the top of the flight, which it had taken her half-a-heartbeat to disable before she turned her affectionate attention to the lock. That had been a bit more of a challenge, being older than the tools in her kit were used to dealing with. She'd finally resorted to her thinnest zipper and a ceramic pick, which did the trick neat, and she was through, the door closed and locked behind her, and down the stairs.

  The door at the bottom of the flight was slightly newer, and bore a sign warning her that only authorized personnel of Osabei Tower had the right to open it. The standard tool made short work of that lock and she was in.

  What she was in—that was a question worth asking. She'd expected a control room, and she supposed that's what she had, though it wasn't like any control room she'd ever seen. There weren't any screens; there weren't any chairs, just an old steel stool in the corner. The walls were cast out of cermacrete, like the rest of the fort, and there were niches and handholds formed into them, though what they were for, or how they were to be manipulated was a matter, she thought with a sinking feeling in her gut, for study.

  At the center of the room, a tangle of burnt looking wire was crumpled into a shallow depression, lined with—Cantra squinted, eased closer and went down on a knee, feeling the fine hairs on the back of her neck tremble and try to rise.

  "Don't go jumping to must-bes;" she told herself, her voice coming back weird and mushy off the cermacrete; "could be any old rocks that happened to come to hand." She opened her kit, pulled out the scan, and punched it up. Sighed.

  Timonium.

  Well. The man'd only asked her to find the thing and get a good look at it. She'd done both. There was also the question of was it working, which she supposed Jela might have a passing interest in knowing, and to which her uninformed answer was—no. Whether it could be made to work, she had no idea, lacking the manual. Whether it could be extracted from this room—Deeps, the thing was the room, and the room was an integral part of the ancient pour that was the fort. It wasn't coming loose for anything short of a pretty persuasive explosion—and maybe not then. Cermacrete was tough, which was why there was still so much of it in use and being occupied all this time after the Old War'd been fought and, barely, won.

  She slipped the scan back into the kit and pulled out the ambicorder. Might as well get as much as she could. Judging by the layer of dust on the pile of burnt wires and the old stool in the corner, the place wasn't exactly a popular meeting spot; she s
hould have plenty of time to record conditions.

  * * *

  JELA HURRIED BACK toward the fort, thinking, his quick steps startling the rare casual passersby. The sheriekas tech was a present danger. He'd have to alert whoever was in command at the garrison now that Gorriti was gone, which could call into question how he knew these things, and might entail a trip to the psychs—though there his M nature would stand him in good stead. Ms almost never went delusional, and he was prepared to stand his brain in front of the doctor for a second time if need be—if the mission demanded it.

  Between one step and another, he became aware of someone walking beside him, matching step for step down the dusty, near-deserted path, and turned his head.

  His companion smiled, red curls disordered by the breeze. "M. Jela," he murmured. "I hope I find you well?"

  "Rool Tiazan. What brings you to this garden spot?"

  "The ardent desire to renew your acquaintance, dear sir! What else might I be doing?"

  "I'd hate to have to try to imagine," Jela said honestly.

  Rool Tiazan laughed with every evidence of delight. "My apologies, sir. We did not mean to disconcert you at our last meeting. But, here! I bring news that I am certain you will be eager to have!"

  Jela eyed him. "News," he repeated.

  "Indeed." The little man smiled. "I was only just now visiting my associates who ready themselves to battle the sheriekas upon their own terms. While there, I was made privy to certain of their intelligence, which I feel must be of very close interest to yourself. Therefore, I made all haste to your side."

  "Intelligence?" Jela asked. "Military intelligence?"

  "Just so!" Rool Tiazan paused and looked around him, at what passed for day on Vanehald, with the chill breeze carrying dust and the light a weak and unappealing tan. "What a delightful planet!"

  "I've seen better," Jela said, pausing as well, his weight distributed so as to put less strain on his right leg.

  "Ah, but I have policies, M. Jela. And one of them is to find any planet which has successfully stood against the sheriekas to be delightful."

  "There's that," Jela agreed. "But you said you had news. Of Master dea'Syl?"

  "I have news of Master dea'Syl, if you would like to hear it," the dramliza said agreeably. "He and the cat and the young pilot have arrived at Solcintra and been made welcome by your good friend Wellik. All should go forward as desired, to the hopeful ascendence of our cause." He turned his hands up as if he had heard Jela's impatience.

  "Forgive me, M. Jela, I chatter while you pine for intelligence. You wish to know what it is that my associates have discovered. It is this: The sheriekas, whose memories are long, are determined to have Vanehald, and to that end they have dispatched a great many of your kindred on purpose to take the planet, the mines, and the shield."

  "My—kindred?" Jela frowned. "I don't—" He stopped, skin prickling, and looked into Rool Tiazan's depthless blue eyes. "The prototypes," he breathed. "The sheriekas Ms."

  "Exactly so." He looked over Jela's head, as if judging the progress of something discernible only to himself. "Yes," he said as if to himself, "the energy level is almost sufficient to sustain a transition point."

  "They're coming in through the mines," Jela said, abruptly seeing it all. "The devices, and the timonium—it's not a comm network they're building, but a shortcut. The shield—"

  "Activate the shield and it will only be one more source of energy to sustain the gate, this far into the proceedings."

  Rool Tiazan's eyes sharpened. "It were best that the ssussdriad, Lady Cantra, and your son be on their way—soon. And all of the lines in which I am the one to suggest this to her directly, those lines return—diminishing rates of success."

  Jela stared at him. Son? he thought, then shook it aside. There was no time to discuss the realities of M Series genetics with this oddest of his allies—not with battle soon to be joined.

  "I need to warn the garrison," he said, giving his attention to those things which were a soldier's proper concern.

  The dramliza moved his shoulders. "I am hardly one to tell a man what he must or must not, yet surely it is imperative that you move your comrades—" He paused, then, murmured distantly. "Yes. Your pardon, M. Jela, I do see—" Another pause, and Rool Tiazan appeared to fade, into or beyond the dust-filled air—"that in fact you are correct. Every moment that the Iloheen are denied surety here adds to the percentages for our ultimate success."

  Jela blinked. If his eyesight was going—the thought was interrupted once more by images of ravening rodents—and now he understood too well what the tree had been telling him this while.

  "I'll warn the garrison," he said, briskly, "and see to Cantra. The tree's aware of the danger, as it happens—" He looked to the other man, who was solid enough, now, and considering him quizzically.

  "You get Dulsey and her team out of here."

  The thin eyebrows twitched. "I?"

  "I thought we were allies?"

  "Ah. Indeed. We are allies." Rool Tiazan bowed his head. "I will arrange it, M. Jela. Allow me, also, to hurry you on your way."

  A sudden downburst of wind raised dust in a swirl. Jela threw an arm over his eyes; the wind struck again, lifting him off his feet as if he were no more substantial than a leaf, then set him smartly down again.

  He staggered, recovered his footing, lifted the shielding arm away from his eyes—and looked directly into startled face of M Sergeant Lorit.

  "I need to talk to command," he gasped. "Immediately."

  Twenty-One

  Vanehald

  "We are not," Arin said sternly, "aborting this project and going off to Solcintra on the say-so of the old M soldier. We do not take orders from M soldiers; we take orders from Uncle, who—"

  "Arin," Dulsey broke in. "The devices are calling the Enemy here. Whether or not we take Pilot Jela's advice regarding our destination, it might well be prudent to load what we can now and lift out."

  "How close d'you think the Enemy is?" Jakoby asked in her ragged whisper. "Even if the devices have networked and put out a call for aid, it's going to take some time to transition from the raw end of never—"

  "We don't know," Fern said, quietly, not looking up from her work, "where the Enemy is, Jakoby. I remember hearing tales of crews put to sleep with their ships, parked off the traveled routes, waiting. When the Enemy needs them, up they wake, with their destination already coded into the nav-brain."

  "Baby-stories," Jakoby scoffed. "The Enemy is no more or less—"

  "Arin," Dulsey said urgently. "We should go. I think that Pilot Jela has the right of it. We do not wish to be caught in a battle for this planet."

  "No," Arin said sharply. He looked at each of them in turn. "I am the team leader, Uncle's representative on this project. We will complete our assignment. I checked the ship-boards last night. There's a freighter due in within the next two local days. When it's on-port, I'll negotiate for space with the captain."

  "Arin—" Dulsey began, and he rounded on her, eyes snapping.

  "That is my final word!"

  Dulsey's mouth tightened and her shoulders sagged.

  "Yes, Arin," she said softly.

  At which point, the workroom went away.

  * * *

  CANTRA EASED OPEN the door at the top of the stair, wincing as the noise hit her: klaxons, people yelling, and the unintelligible drone of an automated voice. Carefully, she looked both ways, then slipped out into the hall and relocked the door. The ruckus was coming from the street and—she hoped—had nothing to do with her or her little look-see. Straightening her jacket and adjusting the kit over her shoulder, she ambled down the hall to have a closer look.

  The noise was both better and worse outside. Worse, because there was more of it. Better because she could finally make out what the autoshout was saying.

  "We are on attack standby! Repeat: Attack standby! All citizens are urged to evacuate. Those who choose not to evacuate and who have weapons are advis
ed to arm themselves now and report to the garrison. This is not a drill. This is not a drill. Situation Level Two: Imminent Enemy Action. Message repeats..."

  Imminent Enemy action? Loitering in her doorway, Cantra saw some people run, some laugh. Most just shrugged their shoulders and keep on about their business like announcements of imminent Enemy action were an everyday affair. She watched a woman with a old-style blunderbuss over her shoulder walking purposefully toward the garrison. A couple others followed, including a boykid with an energy pistol strapped to his leg. All in all, not much help to the garrison, if an Enemy attack really was imminent.