The Crystal Variation

by Sharon Lee

  One could feel the air in the room sharpen as the admissions committee took minute stock of the supplicant. She knelt, motionless, pale hair hiding her downturned face. The tabard moved, slight and sweet, over her breast, revealing the unhurried rhythm of her breathing.

  Kel Var tay’Palin leaned forward slightly in his chair. “You may show your face,” he said, “and give your name into the committee’s keeping.”

  Obediently, neither so quickly that she betrayed eagerness, nor so slowly that she was read as arrogant, the supplicant lifted her head. Her face was an agglomeration of angles, sheathed in supple gold. Her eyes were an indeterminate shade of green, set perhaps a bit too wide beneath the pale wings of her brows. Her mouth in repose was non-committal; the supple skin without wrinkle or flaw. Of Common Years, thought tay’Welford, she might as easily hold as few as twenty or as many as forty.

  “Maelyn tay’Nordif,” she said, ceding her name to the committee, as she had been instructed. Her voice was high and clear, ringing sharply against the ear, and tay’Welford detected only the very least bit of tremble, which was expectable, and spoke well of her common sense.

  “What is your specialty?” ven’Halsen asked, following form.

  “Interdimensional mathematics,” the supplicant made answer. tay’Welford sighed, and leaned back in his chair.

  “Under whom,” demanded tay’Azberg, “did you study?”

  “Liad dea’Syl.”

  There was a sharp silence—as well there ought to be, thought tay’Welford. Never, in all his time on the admissions committee had one of the Master’s own students come forth to claim a chair and a place at the Tower. They, therefore, had before them not merely a supplicant, but a marvel.

  “Why,” asked dea’Bel in her wistful, cloying voice, “have you come?”

  “To beg a place,” the supplicant answered, word perfect out of the protocol book, “and that an end be made to my wandering.”

  “What token,” tay’Welford asked pleasantly, lightly, as if it were of no moment, “do you bring us?”

  “I have given my coin into the keeping of the guardian of the halls of knowledge.” Her voice betrayed no trembling now, nor her face anything but an impersonal, unnuanced respect.

  tay’Welford did not remove his gaze from the supplicant’s smooth, collected face.

  “Ostiary,” he said, allowing his voice to reflect the faintest hint of doubt, “pray bring me the supplicant’s coin.”

  The guard straddling the door spun smartly on her heel and marched forward. At the corner of his table, she bowed and opened her hand, offering on the flat of her palm a single tile, shaded green to match the supplicant’s tabard—or perhaps, tay’Welford thought whimsically, to match her eyes. He took the tile, his gaze resting yet upon the supplicant’s face. The ostiary went back a long step, straightened, turned and marched out of the room. The door whispered shut behind her.

  The supplicant’s face did not change, the calm rhythm of her breathing was preserved.

  Slowly, as though it were foregone that the work preserved on the tile would be second-rate, if not actually shabby, tay’Welford pulled the logic-rack to him, deftly re-arranged the tiles and slid the green into its place within the pattern.

  The green tile pulsed. Figures and notations floated to the surface of the reader tiles, framing an argument both elegant and facile. tay’Welford smiled in genuine pleasure as the theory routines accessed the supplicant’s data.

  “Scholar?” tay’Palin’s voice carried an edge of irritated dryness. “Perhaps you might share the joke with your colleagues?”

  He bowed his head and answered soft, acutely aware of the rebuke.

  “Forgive me, Scholar. The theory cross-check is almost—ah.” Very nearly, he smiled again. A most elegant piece of work.

  “The supplicant,” he said, “builds a compelling proof against Master dea’Syl’s decrystallization equation.”

  tay’Palin met his eyes, grimly; beleaguered as he was, still the Prime Chair was no one’s fool. A supplicant who came offering such a coin for her seat could in no case be allowed to depart.

  Therefore did Scholar tay’Palin rise to his feet, and the others of the committee with him. Hands outstretched, he approached the supplicant, who bent her head back on her long, slender neck and watched him. The pulse at the base of her throat, tay’Welford saw, was beating a little too rapidly for perfect calm. It might be that the supplicant was not quite entirely a fool, either.

  “Rise, supplicant,” said tay’Palin, and she did, swaying slightly as she gained her feet. To the left, tay’Azberg and dea’Bel had risen, as well. They approached the supplicant; tay’Azberg slipped the gloves and the blade free while dea’Bel removed the yellow sash, and stepped to one side.

  tay’Welford rose and received the end of the black sash offered by ven’Halsen. They then approached the supplicant and wove the dusky length about her slim waist, tay’Palin stepped forward at the last to tuck in the ends and return blade and gloves to their proper places.

  He then opened his arms in the ritual gesture.

  “Allow me to be the first to welcome Seated Scholar Maelyn tay’Nordif home after her long wandering,” he said.

  Seated Scholar tay’Nordif took a deep breath and stepped into the embrace. tay’Palin kissed her on both cheeks, and released her.

  “Come,” he said. “Allow me to make you known to your family in art.”

  * * *

  “Alkia?” The Korak trade master frowned at Tor An, spun on the stool and slapped up her screen, her right hand already on the wheel. Clan names flashed by in a blur, froze, blinked and reformatted as she accessed Alkia’s files.

  “I’d thought there was something odd,” she muttered, whether to him or to herself he was uncertain. “But it’s all been odd of late; ships coming in behind-time; ships coming in ahead of time; whole routes collapsing under the weight of the damned war—Wait, wait . . .” She touched a button, accessing in quick sequence the shipping histories for the last month, two months, three—

  And sighed of a sudden, closing the screen with a touch that seemed nearly gentle. She sat with her back to him though there was nothing but the blank screen for her to look at, and then turned on the stool again. Her face was somber, and Tor An felt his stomach clench.

  “There is no record of any Alkia Trade Clan ship calling at any port in this sector across the last three months, Common Calendar. We have one report, unsubstantiated, that navigation to the Ringstars has become unstable.”

  He stared at her, feeling the weight of the datastrip in the protected innermost pocket of his jacket.

  “I have,” he said tentatively, “not been able to reach the Ringstars. I have data, if it—”

  She moved a hand aimlessly, or so it seemed to him.

  “I can use the data to substantiate the first report, close the route, file an amendment to the coordinate tables.” She reached beneath the counter. “There’s paperwork . . .”

  Tor An stared at her.

  “Won’t you investigate? Try to find what happened? A whole system—”

  She looked at him wearily. “Routes have gone bad before, boy. In fact, lots of routes are going bad. It’s the damned war.” She sighed. “You want to fill out the paperwork so nobody else has to go looking for something that’s not there?”

  “No,” he said sharply. “I want to know what happened.”

  She sighed. “Then you want to ask the military.”

  JELA STOOD IN THE alcove where he’d been chained, and tried not to worry.

  He was unfortunately not having very much success, and the half-humorous observation that this was no time for an M’s selected-for insouciance to fail him hadn’t derailed his distress. Nor had the tree’s cheerful image of a slim, golden-scaled dragon successfully vanquishing some sort of sharp-pinioned flying nasty with an easy wing-flick and a thoughtful application of teeth.

  Cantra was, he reminded himself for the sixth time since su
bmitting to the chain, a fully capable woman. She could handle a roomful of soft scholars. Very likely, she could handle the whole population of Osabei Tower with no help from him, which was, if he was destined to spend the greater part of his time on Landomist chained to walls, just as well.

  Not that the chain was so much of a problem; just a short length of light-duty links—not even smart—attached to a staple in the wall at the far end and a mag-lock manacle on the near. A long stretch of his arm would snap the chain, if he was feeling unsubtle; or a little judicious pressure with his free hand would spring the cuff, in case subtlety counted.

  Trouble was, either play would lose the battle and, if Rool Tiazan and his lady were to be believed, the war. No, he’d agreed to the role of laborer-class Batcher, just about smart enough to pick up a pot and carry it when given detailed instructions by his irascible high-born mistress. His brawn was entirely subservient to her brain, insured by the inhibitor implants, which obviated the need for restraints, even such toys as presently “bound” him. The question then being why they had bothered to bind him at all.

  Mostly what we’ll be dealing with is culture and the assumptions that go with not ever having been noplace but Inside and knowing deep down where it matters that Inside ways’re best, Cantra’s voice whispered from memory. Lot of what you’ll be seeing won’t make sense, and won’t necessarily be keyed to survival. Inside, the important thing is prestige. If a point can be carried by dying elegantly at the exact proper second, that’s the choice your well-brought-up Insider’s going to make, hands down, no second thoughts.

  Which led him to understand in the here-and-chained that the binding satisfied some deep-seated cultural necessity; that the chain was, in the larger sense, symbolic. What the symbol might say to the core of your general issue Insider, he couldn’t hazard, as he was short on context, but it didn’t take anybody much smarter than the Batcher he was supposed to be to figure out that the best thing to do—barring emergencies—was allow the restraints to bind him.

  How long does it take to show an equation? he thought, cycling back to worry. What if he’d flubbed the proof? The only check he’d had was Cantra, who—make no mistake!—knew her math. But she’d come fresh to the base assumptions of the decrystallization theory, and while she’d proved herself an awesomely quick study, she hadn’t lived the last five years with those numbers weaving possibles and might-bes through her sleep.

  He was no stranger to subterfuge, misdirection, and papers created solely in support of fabricated reasons for him to be welcomed into places he’d no business knowing existed. In fact, he’d long suspected that Cantra yos’Phelium had a certain way with a Portmaster’s Writ herself. But what he’d witnessed from her—he’d never seen the like. What he’d been privileged to see—it was an art form, he supposed, and in retrospect held something in common with dancing. The intent to deceive was there; the intent to create a whole new fabric of reality which the audience would find not only believable, but preferable to the actual truth.

  She forged papers, working with commendable care. She forged data-tiles—trickier, but nothing he hadn’t done himself. As she worked, she talked, maybe to herself, maybe to him, maybe to the long-ago teacher who’d given her the skill.

  Now, this way here, this isn’t the best way to fabricate an upright citizen. Best way is to pull in some genuine papers and tile that’ve gone astray from their true and proper owner, then alter what’s there as least you can. Doing it like that, the paper tests genuine, the tamper-coding and the hey-theres on the tile are what’s expected . . .

  Us, we don’t got the contacts and the timing’s ‘gainst us, so we’ll build our own as best we can. We’re lucky in that we ain’t gonna be long and all my job is to keep ‘em from looking at you—

  If he’d still had doubts regarding Cantra’s status as an aelantaza-trained, they died as he watched her build her bogus docs.

  But the docs were the least of what she built.

  Now, here’s something custom-made for treachery, Pilot Jela. House Chaler, what more or less owns planet Shinto. You’ve heard of ‘em?

  He hadn’t, and said so, watching her pull down data from sources he didn’t dare guess at, her face soft and near dreamy in concentration.

  Horticulturists, they are. Build you a custom plant to any specs you want and be happy to lease it to you for as long as you like. Catch being that what they build, they own. Being they have extensive gardens, as you might expect, they also breed their own sort of Batcher, to work with the plants. The Batcher’s being ‘work units,’ for use on Shinto only, they get away with not registering the details of the design. Also doesn’t hurt that they’re House Chaler and it’s been ugly what’s happened to those who was hot-headed enough to try an’ push ‘em.

  She leaned back in her chair then, stretching ‘way back, then relaxed and sent a grin into his face.

  So, what you’ll be, Pilot Jela, is a for-true Shinto kobold, escorting a genuine Chaler custom build. If anybody wants to sample your DNA, won’t do ‘em any good, on account Chaler don’t file, and I’m guessing the military don’t exactly publish the particulars regarding M Series soldier aloud and abroad.

  He’d admitted that, not that he’d had to, and she bent again to her task, cutting a wandering scholar from whole cloth, seamlessly working a kobold and a horticultural specimen into her new reality, working with a concentration so absolute that he hadn’t dared disturb her to suggest anything so mundane as food, or sleep. And when she was at long last done, she’d gotten up from her work table, stretched—looked at him where he hunched over his equations, and held out a slim hand.

  Him, he’d looked up at her, trying to read her face, but it was fear he thought he was seeing, and that had to be wrong. There’d never been a woman alive less afraid than Cantra yos’Phelium.

  Got time for some pleasure, Pilot? I’m thinking it’ll be my last in this lifetime, and I’d like to share it with you.

  It was maybe the way she’d said it, or maybe again that thing that couldn’t be fear in her misty green eyes—but he’d taken her hand, and they’d shared a grand and pleasurable time. At last, sated with delight, they napped, and though he hadn’t slept long, or deeply, when he woke she was gone, locked away and a note at his work place, telling him what he had to do next.

  He’d followed orders, stowing what was needed in a backpack, and clearing out anything that showed the length of their stay, or the nature of their work. And sometime shortly after he’d begun to consider disobeying his orders, Errant-Scholar Maelyn tay’Nordif, native of Vetzu, one-time student of Master Liad dea’Syl walked into the workroom there at the lodgings, her cold green eyes brushing over him as if he were of less worth than the chair he sat in.

  The shadow of a wing passed over his thoughts, and he pulled himself back to the chained present just as the door to his alcove slid open and the guard stepped forward to free him.

  “Pick up the specimen, Jela,” Scholar tay’Nordif snapped irritably from the hall. “And follow me.”

  THE GARRISON WAS at some distance from the port; he hired a cab and sat quietly in the passenger’s compartment, one hand in the pocket of his jacket, fingers curled into a fist. He made himself look out onto the port and passing streets, marveling at the busy ordinariness of the day. Surely, if what he feared were so, there would be some sign here, so close to the . . . area of occurrence? Surely, if the Ringstars, with their populations of millions, had vanished, there would be—something, here among the nearest of their neighbors to mark their passing? Business suspended? Banners of formal mourning shrouding the shop windows?

  Surely, whole star systems could not simply cease to be, unnoticed and unmourned?

  And yet the trade master had behaved as if such . . . disappearances . . . were commonplace, which might be dealt with by filling out paperwork and issuing alerts . . .

  His stomach clenched, and he felt ill. Resolutely, he swallowed, and took deep, even breaths.

 
The cab left the business district and ascended a ramp. There was a slight lurch as the internal navigator ceded control of the vehicle to the slotway overbrain, then a smooth gathering of speed, sufficient to press him out of his tense lean and back into the seat. The window he had been looking out of opaqued, obliterating the outside world. He sighed and closed his eyes. Deliberately, he brought up the image of his garden at . . . home, the last time he had seen it. The piata tree was in bloom, its multitude of tiny flowers casting a pale blue shadow over the dark, waxy leaves. He breathed in, and the imagined scent of the flowers soothed his roiling belly.

  The cab slowed, canted, staggered slightly as control shifted back to the internals, and continued on at a sedate pace. Tor An took one more deep breath, the ghost of flower-spice on his tongue, and opened his eyes.

  Window transparent once more, the cab stopped before a great cermacrete wall. Before the wall stood two very large individuals wearing maximum duty ‘skins, each holding a weapon at the ready.

  “Korak Garrison,” the cab stated abruptly in its flat, featureless voice. The door to his right lifted. “Disembark.”

  Stomach upset anew, Tor An climbed out of the vehicle. The two soldiers were watching him with interest, or so it seemed to his over-wrought nerves. They both had some sort of bright decorations on their faces which obscured their expressions. He did not, however, imagine the intent eyes, nor the fact that the nearer soldier moved her weapon a bit, so that its discharge slot pointed directly at him.

  He swallowed. “Wait,” he said to the cab.

  “Disallowed,” it answered, the door descending so quickly he had to dance back a step in order not to be struck in the head—and another two in order to avoid being run over as it made a tight turn and sped back toward the slotway.

  Behind him, he heard the soldiers laugh. He gritted his teeth, took a deep breath in a not entirely successful attempt to settle his stomach and walked toward them, chin resolutely up, lips pressed together in a firm line.

  “Change your mind?” the farther guard asked as he approached. “Little one?”