Crystal Rebellion

by Doug J. Cooper

  A giddy happiness washed through him. His matrix generated the minuscule signals that would cause a synbod to smile.

  * * *

  The rockslide reached its crescendo a half second too early, and Criss modified the prime record so the tremor showed perfect alignment with the ship and tank explosions.

  The behavior annoyed him because it was wasted effort. The moment he had everything aligned just right, he scrambled it all. No one would figure out what he’d done, not from the prime record, anyway.

  But they’ll know I’ve been here.

  From the security of his console in the scout, Criss could travel the spline undetected without the locus. But until he moved a new one into the colony, his forays would leave a trace. Not an obvious one, but they would find it if they looked.

  And he’d isolated a third lattice signature, so “they” were now three crystal intelligences.

  “Was that you?” asked Sid. He bent down to help Juice as emergency lighting switched on.

  “Yes,” Criss replied. Speaking with Sid in private to avoid burdening Juice, he continued, “Trams don’t run during emergencies. The tunnels are clear. Now is the time.”

  Technology from the cloak pendant gave Criss a sophisticated monitor of Juice’s health, and he relayed his diagnoses to Sid. “She’s suffered a deep bruise on her chest, her sternum has an impact fracture, and there are indications of minor internal bleeding. She’s in pain but not in distress. If you two can make it out under your own power, we maintain some portion of our current advantage.”

  Helping Juice to her feet, Sid asked her, “Can you walk?”

  She nodded. “Yeah.” Then she blanched, sat down, folded her arms across her stomach, and rocked back and forth.

  Sid squatted beside her and moved her hair back so he could see her face. “I can carry you, but to make good time, I’ll have to put you on my back. Every step will bounce your wound against my shoulder.”

  She looked at him with a dull stare, her face white and her eyes glassy. Grasping a thick branch, she pulled herself to her feet. “Let’s go.”

  Criss welcomed her bravado. It even gave him confidence. His highest priority remained the well-being of his leadership, and he stood ready to swoop in and rescue Sid and Juice on a moment’s notice if need be. In fact, his forecast put the odds of success for that action at over ninety-nine percent.

  But such a maneuver would cause considerable damage and likely injure bystanders. So he was glad he didn’t need to make that decision now.

  From the pilot’s chair on the bridge of the scout, Cheryl looked back at Criss. “She looks bad.”

  “Her injuries aren’t life threatening in the near term. But we want her on board very soon.”

  Cheryl’s lips tightened as she studied the lifelike image of Sid and Juice projected in miniature above the ops bench. The perspective rotated from a top pan to a forward-looking view over Sid’s shoulder, and her display tracked with him as he followed Juice across the passenger platform and down onto the tram bed.

  Sid crowded Juice from behind as they entered the tunnel. She accelerated into a run and Sid followed.

  Six minutes, Criss told himself. That’s how long it would take the two to reach Ag Port at their present speed. The view above the ops bench swung to show Juice from the side. Her body moved with the practiced efficiency of a seasoned runner, though a grimace reflected her pain.

  Cheryl enabled a private channel. “I’m here, hon,” she told her.

  “Stay with me,” Juice huffed in reply, the pit-pat of her feet audible in the background.

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  The perspective swung to the front so it appeared as if both Sid and Juice ran across the ops bench toward Cheryl. Sid was behind and a little to the side of Juice, letting him watch in front of her while also guarding their rear.

  “Looking good, Sid,” she said. “You’re approaching the halfway mark.”

  He winked and then smirked. “Hey, Criss, tell me again why I shouldn’t bring a weapon into the colony?”

  Cheryl closed the audio and apologized for him. “He’s compensating because he can’t do his reckless cowboy act when he’s escorting an injured civilian.”

  Criss nodded, not because Juice was keeping pace with Sid, or because Cheryl gave emotional support to Juice, or because Cheryl explained Sid’s behavior. He nodded because Cheryl, who sat with her hands folded in her lap, her elbows perched on the armrests of the pilot’s chair, manipulated the ops bench functions using her thoughts.

  Cheryl returned her attention to Juice while Criss scanned for threats. He monitored every synbod and human moving near the tunnel both in Ag Port and in the Quarter.

  So he became anxious when two synbods in the Quarter broke into a sprint, running down a street that led straight to the tram station. And he began refining rescue scenarios when they ran up the pedestrian bridge, dashed across the passenger platform, and entered the tram tunnel, giving chase to Sid and Juice.

  He gauged the relative speeds of the runners. Interesting. He checked again. The synbods weren’t running any faster than Sid or Juice. Unless something changed, they wouldn’t be a factor in the escape. He chose to keep the news of the chase to himself.

  Cheryl called to him. “Her pace is slowing.”

  Criss already knew Juice was struggling and had confirmed that even at the slower pace, they’d beat the synbods out of the tunnel by a good margin. “She’s doing great.”

  And then she stumbled. Helicoptering her arms and taking stutter steps, she tried, and failed, to regain her balance. She yelped when she hit the hard surface. Rolling on her side, she curled into a ball and, between soft whimpers, said over and over, “I’m all right.”

  Cheryl shot to her feet. “I’m going to help.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Criss, distracted with his rescue plans.

  Cheryl strode to the rear of the bridge. “They need my help.”

  He turned to her. “You’re talking about going outside?”

  “I don’t know another way to get there.”

  “I need you here.”

  She stopped moving, her silhouette framed in the rear passageway.

  He used a firm voice. “Please return to your duties.”

  Cheryl whirled and challenged him with a stare. She held it for three heartbeats and then walked back to the ops bench and slid into the chair. As she focused on the projected image, her lower lip edged forward.

  Criss saw her pout and, given the stress they were both under, took comfort in her behavior.

  Though she’d been part of his leadership for years, their relationship had changed during the construction of the Lunar Defense Array, a massive installation designed to fend off a Kardish invasion of Earth.

  Aware that Kardish warships could appear at any moment, they’d set crushing timelines for themselves, struggling to get yet more capability operational before the aliens arrived. He’d witnessed her tough-as-nails determination in her dealings with military leaders, corporate chiefs, and even criminal syndicates and embraced her style, accepting it as her nature.

  And in that stressful environment, Criss discovered that at an emotional level, she wanted his guidance. He’d identified that perplexing need at the same time he’d discovered how to respond to it.

  They had been in the throes of a disagreement about where to place the power plant for the Defense Array weapons systems. She’d championed a solution he’d seen as problematic, and when she’d charged ahead with her plan, he’d broken character. “No, Cheryl. We’re putting it on the surface.”

  She’d scowled at him and then looked away. “Okay.”

  Up until that moment, he’d always expressed his thoughts as suggestions or requests. But in his struggle to move construction yet faster, he’d deployed every bit of his capacity on critical tasks. Stretched beyond thin, for the first time ever he’d chosen not to recall the marginal resources required to be polite.

 
He’d regretted that decision, but she’d acceded to him before he could apologize.

  From a psychological view, her behavior intrigued him. His best guess was that, in certain situations, she felt obligated to do two things, like on the Moon when she’d sought to balance technical requirements against the egos of her engineering leads, or now when she wanted to stay with the scout and also be with her team.

  By deferring to him, she unburdened herself from having to choose, and this helped her move forward without the angst of having failed someone important to her.

  Anxious to understand how best to help her, he’d experimented. He learned right away that she didn’t react well to commands from him for everyday issues. This was about big choices and emotional struggles. And in those situations, she wanted him to rescue her, and she wanted it done in a decisive manner.

  Criss’s outer tendrils sizzled when he recalled his big mistake.

  Huge mistake.

  He’d given her a command in front of others.

  It had been during one of his rare public appearances—the annual corporate party for clients and top-tier employees. She’d had too much to drink and began flirting with a man who wasn’t Sid, who had found a reason to be anywhere but in town on that evening.

  The man, Sigurd Appopolous, had pursued Cheryl for years. She liked him and at one level wanted to reward him for his unflagging devotion.

  Criss recognized her emotional struggle. “Get your coat,” he said within earshot of a dozen people. “We’re leaving.” He’d chosen to say it out loud to see how she’d respond.

  Her jaw muscles flexed as she followed him out, and as soon as they were alone, she let loose through clenched teeth, her face reddening as she spoke. “Don’t embarrass me like that. Ever. You know damn well ours is a private matter.”

  He didn’t remind her that she refused to discuss her needs or how he could be most supportive. Instead, he’d said, “I am so sorry, Cheryl. It will never happen again.”

  “It better not,” she’d said, ending her fit with a huff.

  And on a side note, Criss learned that the entire topic was a sore point with Sid. Not Criss’s familiarity with Cheryl. Rather, Sid’s frustration rose from his own unquenchable desire to control Cheryl with firm commands.

  “How can we help?” Cheryl asked Sid, who crouched next to Juice, stroking her hair.

  “How much farther?”

  “You’re just past the three-quarters mark, so a minute and a half, maybe two, depending on your pace.”

  Sid scooped up Juice into his arms and started toward the exit.

  Criss had been watching a small group mill about at the Ag Port tram station. He’d identified everyone on the passenger platform as part of the emergency response crew assigned to that rally point, and he’d also been tracking a synbod as it traveled in from the Ag Port grow tiers. The synthetic man had reached the market square and was weaving through the crowds when Criss lost track of it.

  Angry with himself, he shifted resources to look for the man. It took two frustrating seconds for Criss to find the synbod, its gray jumpsuit now covered by a rustic brown tunic as he strode onto the Ag Port pedestrian bridge.

  Every couple of steps, the synbod’s head swiveled back and forth, giving the impression he was scanning for something.

  The emergency response crew stepped out of the way as the tunic-covered synbod walked to the edge of the platform, leaned out, and peered into the tunnel.

  Criss spun up the scout’s engines. It would save him a half second if he decided to go.

  Chapter 14

  Sid crouched next to Juice and stroked her hair. “You’re all right. I’m getting you out of here.” Scooping her off the ground, he cradled her legs with one arm and angled his elbow out to support her head with the other.

  He started for Ag Port station, swinging his long legs in a fast-paced march. He’d carried a lot of injured to safety in his day. Most had been big men. You’re a wisp of a thing, he thought, shifting her in his arms so they would both be more comfortable.

  Juice’s eyes fluttered open. “I’m sorry,” she whispered through ashen lips. Her eyes rolled up as her lids closed, and then her head slumped against Sid’s chest.

  “A synbod is waiting for you on the Ag Port passenger platform,” said Criss.

  Sid, hearing the communication inside his head and choosing not to disturb Juice, mouthed his response without actually speaking, knowing Criss would synthesize his voice at the other end for Cheryl’s benefit. “Should I head back to the Quarter?”

  Criss paused. “It seems there are two synbods following behind you.”

  “How long have they been there?”

  Another pause. “Awhile.”

  “How fast can you get to us?”

  “Thirty seconds. It will be ugly.”

  “You are to wait for an order, Criss.”

  A third pause. “Yes.”

  I just sent him into overdrive. Sid shrugged. It can’t be helped.

  Criss had no higher priority than the safety of his leadership. With orders to wait, Sid knew he’d shift resources into forecasting rescue scenarios, searching for one that was faster than the last. Soon he’d be comparing alternatives that were a thousandth of a second different, and yet he’d continue searching for ways to shave off ever-finer fractions of time. And Sid knew this was rational behavior because, in theory, a thousandth of a second could be the difference between rescue and death.

  “Are there any side doors out of here?” He walked on a flat tram bed lining the bottom of a well-lit rock tunnel—a long, broad cylinder with a smooth inner surface. The hollow thrum of ventilation played in the background as it released air with a subtle metallic scent.

  “No,” said Criss. “You’re surrounded by bedrock.”

  “How long do I have with Juice?” Criss hadn’t launched a rescue, so Sid knew he had time.

  “If she’s not on board in the next hour, I must come for her.”

  “I support,” Sid heard Cheryl say.

  Sid had told Criss to stay put until ordered. Cheryl just did so, at least to save Juice.

  “Agreed.” He wouldn’t have made the open commitment but knew it was best to avoid ambiguity with Criss. “Give me a clock.” Small numbers appeared in the corner of Sid’s peripheral vision. They counted down from the fifty-nine minutes he had left to get Juice to the scout.

  This was Sid’s fourth visit to the colony since their arrival. From past experience, he knew he could get from the Ag Port tram station to the shed where they hid the space coveralls in an easy fifteen minutes. Suiting up and trekking across the surface to the scout took another thirty.

  That leaves fifteen minutes for distractions.

  “Have you figured out how they’re tracking us?” he asked Criss.

  “They’re mapping displacement variations. It’s so crude and unreliable, I didn’t expect to need countermeasures in the pendants. The good news is that they’re using a tremendous portion of their total capacity to make it work, and still they keep losing you.”

  Criss’s next words reminded Sid of a locker-room pep talk. “The Venerable arrives in orbit tonight. If you can make it out this last time, you can enter the colony tomorrow like any other visitor.”

  And we can hide in plain sight, he thought, recalling Criss’s words about Bobbi Lava.

  The mouth of the tunnel neared. Hugging the wall, Sid approached the opening and scanned the people gathered along the Ag Port station passenger platform. The synbod stood alone near the edge, scowling as he peered past Sid and down the tunnel.

  He can’t see us, thought Sid. “Here we go.” He said the words aloud for his own benefit.

  Like twirling a dance partner, he swung Juice up and around so they were face-to-face. Putting a hand behind her back, he pushed her chest against his. With his free hand, he threw her arms around his neck and reached back to lock her legs around his waist.

  But her limbs wouldn’t cooperate. They drop
ped from where he placed them and hung limp and lifeless. So he switched to his farmer impersonation and hefted her over his shoulder like a sack of grain, her legs in front, her head and arms hanging down his back.

  The synbod still looked down the tunnel. Here we go. This time he said it inside his head.

  Staying down on the tram bed, Sid sprinted into the station, Juice bouncing on his shoulder with every step. The passenger platform hovered at waist level to his left. He zipped past the synbod and the legs and feet of a half-dozen colonists. And then the seas parted and he spied an open path through the crowd and out of the station.

  He angled toward the platform and without breaking stride lifted his knee and stretched his leg. His foot connected with the edge of the platform and his momentum rotated him up onto the elevated surface. A few strides later and he burst out onto the pedestrian bridge.

  With the market square in sight and flat terrain ahead, he lengthened his stride.

  “You’re in danger from behind.” Sid heard Criss at the same time the emergency crew in the building behind him exclaimed outrage.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Sid saw a colonist splayed on the ground. The synbod stepped over the fallen man and began chasing Sid.

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” said Sid, the exasperation clear in his voice.

  He leaned forward at the waist, flipping Juice up and over in front of him. Cupping her head as it moved past his, he lowered her to the ground and slid her under the seat of a park bench—one of several sitting in a row along one side of the pedestrian bridge.

  He stepped up on top of the bench seat to gain the advantage of height and started back to meet his pursuer. “Can he see me? Hear me?”

  “Every sensor in Ag Port is orchestrated at this moment to see as a single lens, and that lens is being focused to find you. The synbod sees the lens feed.”

  “Thanks, Professor.” Sid stepped over an armrest and onto the next bench in the row. “Can he see me?”

  “He sees an occasional blur every few minutes.”

  The synbod stopped walking and swiveled his head so he looked right at Sid.