The Crystal Variation

by Sharon Lee

  Kit over shoulder, arms circling pot, trunk pressed against his cheek, leaves rustling in his ear, Jela moved.

  Out the door he ran, spared a glance down the hall toward the lifts and saw the gambler still in her watching place. She gave him a jaunty salute. Something huddled on the floor beyond her—

  The lift bell rang.

  “Go!” shouted the cop coming into the hall behind him, weapon at ready.

  Jela went.

  AT THE MOUTH of the alley, Cantra straightened out of her lean, eyes suddenly sharp on the pattern of people moving along the walkway between the Guard Shack and Flight Central.

  “Here it comes,” she said to Dulsey. She turned her head and met a pair of determined gray eyes. “Last chance to shrug out of this and make your peace with the new master.”

  “This humble person,” the Batcher said, like Cantra should’ve known she would, “will remain in the company of the pilots.”

  “Have it your own way.” Cantra sighed and asked the next question anyway, though she was pretty sure she knew what the answer was going to be. “You got a weapon?”

  “The master found this one to be worthy,” Dulsey said.

  Cantra looked at her. “That mean yes?”

  “Yes, pilot,” came the stolid reply. “I have a weapon.”

  “Good. Keep it handy and you might live through this after all.”

  ‘Course, then she’d still have to face the new master, which Cantra understood dying to be preferable to, and which Dulsey should’ve thought of before she went and hid in the stashroom instead of getting her brain toasted alongside the old master, like a faithful Batcher ought to have.

  Across the street, more people were moving against pattern, taking up this and that spot of cover; some others stopping in the shadow of the Guard Shack, small knots of friends, pausing to talk.

  Cantra counted maybe fifteen, and chewed her lip. ‘Cover’ was what the man had said he’d wanted—if and only when she saw him. Fifteen on the job, though—he might not’ve expected so many. She considered the numbers excessive, herself—and that was only the front door. Who knew how many they had watching the back and the sides?

  She slid her gun out of its pocket and checked the charge. Good to go, not that she’d expected elsewise. Always paid to check, though.

  From across the street, ‘round toward the back of the Guard Shack, there came a flash of red light, followed by a low and drawn-out bo-oo-oo-o-m. The clusters and knots of chatting friends turned and ran toward the sound, and the intermittent red flickering. The concealed watchers stayed concealed, but the attention of most seemed to be on the commotion.

  “Let’s go,” Cantra said to the Batcher and strolled out of the alley and down the street. When they were across from Flight Central, she paused, waiting ‘til traffic allowed, then ambled across the street.

  Once across, she turned up toward the Guard Shack, then left the walk and angled between the two buildings, her pace increasing. Overhead, the three bridges glowed with a golden light, illuminating the empty passway.

  As they neared the back of the building, sounds other than respectable street noise could be heard. Some sounded remarkably like shots, others like people yelling. Cantra stretched her legs until she was running lightly toward the commotion, gun in hand.

  Just before she reached the corner of the Guard Shack, another low explosion disturbed the peace, a simultaneous flare dying the walls and the passway red. More yelling made up for a sudden pause in the shooting.

  Cantra dodged close in to the wall, crouched and kept on. At the corner, she paused, and keeping low, carefully eased out to have a look.

  The back lot was full of smoky red light. Far down toward the other side of the building, the illumination was eye-burning bright; a solid bar of flame from the edge of the building to the utility shed, from the surface of the walk to the windows three levels up. Nearer to hand, trash bins and runabouts loomed, their shapes wavering in the smoke.

  And in the mid-distance, moving at speed, came a short wide-shouldered figure, massive arms wrapped around a bowl clutched ‘gainst his middle and over it all, something long and vegetative.

  Cantra swore, briefly, and brought her gun up, acquiring the range behind the running figure, about midway to the wall of flame. Anything longer was shooting at shadows, and pursuit was sure to materialize just the instant the fastflame burned low enough to jump. Already, she could see figures through the flames, though they still reached high enough to discourage gymnastics.

  The bulky runner came briskly on, despite the handicap of his burden; whether he was running faster than the flames were dying, though—

  “Here!” she shouted, and he heard her—she knew he had because, incredibly, he picked up speed, skidding ‘round the corner so fast the plant he carried snapped like a whip and lost a couple leaves.

  “All this for a vegetable?” she yelled at him.

  “We’ll talk about it later!” he yelled back. “Go!”

  He took his own advice, leaves blowing in his wake. Cantra waved Dulsey after.

  “Cover him,” she snapped, and the Batcher flung herself down the gold-lit passway.

  At the corner, Cantra dropped to one knee and turned her attention to the back trail.

  The flames had thinned, though they were still more than she’d care to jump through, lacking a compelling reason. Could be that the pursuit considered Pilot Jela just that, for as she watched, three of them came through the flames, arms folded over their faces, and hit the ground running.

  Cantra dropped them—one, two, three—as soon as they came into range, and by that time, four more were through and the flames weren’t looking so threatening any more.

  She repeated the first exercise, with similar results, glanced over her shoulder and saw that the passway behind her was clear. Duty done. Debt paid.

  A peek ‘round the corner showed that the fire had grown low enough to jump over. Time for her to start moving on her own behalf.

  She got her feet under her—and ran.

  ELEVEN

  On the ground

  Faldaiza Port

  WHEN SHE WAS CERTAIN her back-track was clean, she set her course for the port proper, Dancer, a clean-up, and a well-earned nap. She thought of the big tub in her abandoned hotel room and sighed. It would’ve been nice to sit and soak, maybe another bottle of wine to hand and some interesting company to share it all with.

  As it was, she’d had interesting company right enough, and too much of the wrong kind of excitement.

  “Might as well been working,” she muttered to herself, checking her back-track again. Far as she could scan it—far as her ‘skins could scan it, too—she was alone in the world at present. Which suited. Port was quiet anyhow, it being about five local hours ahead of busy-time for the daily paper-pushers and cits. Not being stared at by the cits— “Look, kids, there’s one of those space pilots!” —suited, too.

  She wished now that she’d had a chance to get out of Pilot Jela the name of whoever he’d annoyed. Anybody who could field the number of players she’d seen tonight likely had the means to operate elsewhere than Faldaiza. She could do without meeting them or theirs again on her next set-down—or ever.

  Once again, she checked her back. Still clean. Heartened, she continued on her way, keeping to shadows when she could but not being fanatical about it. There wasn’t any sense calling attention to herself by being too stealthy. Extra caution, that would pass, pilots being who and what they were. Even extra-jumpy caution would pass, there being some pilots who just naturally did better on-ship than on-ground.

  Not that she particularly argued with that better-on-ship stuff. Once you got the hang of the sound and vibrations, there wasn’t anyplace you could be on a ship and not have a good idea of what was going.

  Not like here, as a quick sample, where part of the listening was wasted on identifying high squeaky sounds she’d never heard before—could be birds, could be equipment—to identifyi
ng the deep, low, shaking rumbles—might be light ground tremors, might be a storm coming in, might be equipment—hell, might be some club-band practicing with their enviroboards! If she jacked the ‘skins a bit she might get some directionals and figure the noises out, but then she’d be standin’ stock-still to listen, which would gain her attention she didn’t want or need.

  Could be she was just gettin’ that tired, which ought to warn her not to run quite so close to the edge, a lesson she thought she’d learned a dozen or two times over.

  She’d come into the shipyards some distance from her exit point, on the day-side, now closed up tight for the local night—and was on the approach to Dancer’s location, passing a strip of low cermacrete buildings—cargo brokerage office, repair-and-parts shop, automated currency exchange, and a grab-a-bite looking a degree scruffier than most.

  Cantra sighed. Inside a local hour, all going well, she’d be back on her ship. Safe, as the saying went.

  She strolled on past the grab-a-bite. Away near the center of the yard, she could just make out the lines of her ship. Despite herself, she smiled, and stretched her legs a little more, feeling the cermacrete under her boots.

  Her ‘skins gave a yell, audible to her ears only, but she was already turning, hideaway sliding into her palm—and found herself facing a too-familiar stocky woman with determined gray eyes, wearing a pair of mechanic’s coveralls neither new nor clean, with conveniently long sleeves, clipped tight at the wrists, and “J.D. Wigams” stenciled on the breast. A work hood had been shoved up and back, hanging careless-seeming over one shoulder.

  “If the pilot would follow this—” There was a marked break-off and a sharp intake of breath. “If the pilot would follow,” she repeated, firmer this time.

  Cantra sighed, hideaway still enclosed in her fist. “No sense to it. I’m for my ship and a lift out. You’re on your own, except if you’re wanting a last piece of advice, which is—don’t startle people who’ve got cause to carry protection.”

  “I am grateful for the advice,” Dulsey said stolidly. “As I understand the transaction, advice balances advice. So—my advice to you: Take care not to walk into a trap, believing harm has lagged behind you.”

  Cantra stared at her. “You reading me good numbers, Dulsey? If not, I’ll make sure you never have to face the new master.”

  “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 . . .”