Crystal Soldier

by Sharon Lee

  "Turn it?" That got his attention.

  "Right." She raised her hand, showing palm. "Say the pilot was a fool, which I'm not saying she didn't have her moments. Can't say for certain if that was one of them, though, because the truth is she did turn it, playing easy meat, while I sat my board sweating and feeding everything I dared into the shields, which were peeling like old hull paint."

  "So I'd think."

  "We kept its attention until we was sure it was on course for Out-and-Away. Shields were just about gone by then, and I was starting to fear for the navigation brain, not to say the biologics, when the pilot decided we'd done what we could, and nipped us into transition."

  "Transition," he repeated. "Using what for reference points? If it can be told."

  "Had the Rim beacons on long-scan, like I mentioned," she lied glibly. "Did the math on the fly."

  "I—see." He had a go at his glass, and she did the same, to finish, and put the empty on the table.

  She'd come too close to a slip, she thought, half-irritated and half-regretful. Time to be moving on, before she got any stupider.

  "I want to thank you," she said formally, and his Deeps-black gaze flicked to her face. "For your companionship. The time was pleasant and informative. Now, I must take myself off."

  She stood, leaving the embrace of the chair with a pang. Paused for one last listen of the singing water—and very nearly blinked as the other pilot came to his feet.

  "As it happens, it's time for me to leave, too," he said blandly, and moved a hand toward the curtained exit. "Please, Pilot. After you."

  * * *

  PILOT CANTRA WAS AN interesting case, Jela thought, following that lady down the tiled hallway toward the foyer and the front door. The tale about turning the world-eater had rung true, though there had been, he had no doubt, a certain few tricky facts greased in the telling.

  She wasn't being easy to file, either. He'd've said prosperous free trader, from the quality of the 'skins and the fact that she was eating at a subdued place on the high end of mid-range. On the other hand, there was that story and the easy-seeming familiarity with the Rim—and beyond. According to his considerable information, Rimmers had a flexible regard for such concepts as laws, ownership, and what might be called proscribed substances. Not that all Rimmers were necessarily pirates. Just that none of the contributors to the reports he'd been force-fed had ever met one who technically wasn't.

  Given that she wasn't at all who he'd been expecting—he'd been expecting Pilot Muran, who was now some local days overdue for their rendezvous—he counted himself not unlucky in the encounter. She was a fine-looking woman—tall, lithesome, and he didn't doubt, tough. Her weapon was quiet, but there for those who knew how to look—and he appreciated both the precaution and her professionalism.

  He'd entertained the notion that she might be somebody sent on by Muran, when he found himself unable—and dismissed it when the meal took its course and she failed to produce either code words or a message from the tardy pilot.

  That she was only a pilot who had wanted company over her meal—that seemed certain, and he made a mental note to chew himself out proper for supposing that any pilot who would choose such a restaurant would come complete with co-pilot, client, or companion. Getting civilians into soldier trouble, that was bad.

  Though there was no guarantee that there was or would be trouble, he thought, trying that notion on for not the first time. Muran being late—that could be explained by a couple things short of catastrophe.

  Muran not sending a reason or a replacement—that couldn't. Jela sighed silently and owned to himself that he was worried.

  Pilot Cantra had reached the curtain, swept it away with one long arm and stepped to a side, holding the doorway clear for him.

  "Pilot," she said, and it could've been irony he heard in her voice, "after you."

  He nodded and slipped past her, fingering coins out of his pocket as he approached the console.

  Behind him, he heard the curtain go down. He deliberately didn't turn, but finished counting the price of the meal out into a pile, and a few more coins, into a second, smaller pile, over which he held his hand, fingers outspread.

  "For the attendant," he said to the master's raised eyebrow. "The service was excellent and I am grateful."

  The master's fee had come off the top when he had made his initial reservations. Jela had made a point of tipping the attendant on every visit.

  Nodding, the master gathered up the meal-price, thumbed his drawer open and deposited the coins.

  "This humble person is delighted to hear that the pilot is pleased," he said.

  Jela felt a presence at his side and looked up, expecting to see the female attendant. What he did see, to his somewhat surprise, was Pilot Cantra, leaning forward to offer a credit chit. Yellow, he noted, being in the habit of noting such details. Whatever Pilot Cantra was, she was in funds today.

  "The meal was fine, the company welcome," she said, her husky voice giving the formal words an interesting texture.

  "This humble person delights in the pilot's pleasure," the master assured her expressionlessly, running the chit through the console's reader. There was a ping as the amount was deducted, and the chit was passed back. Green now, Jela noticed, but still at a more than respectable level for a pilot on Faldaiza Port.

  Cantra received her chit and slid it away without giving it a glance. When her hand came out of her pocket, she leaned over and put a stack of coins next to Jela's stack.

  "For the attendant," she said. "She served well."

  "The pilot's generosity is gratifying," the master said and raised his hand. His Batch-sister slipped around the edge of the curtain, and came forward until she was standing behind the console, facing Jela.

  She was a compact woman, efficient-looking without being at all lithe. She bowed, precisely, and gathered the coins into her gloved hands.

  "Pilots. It is the pleasure of this humble person to serve. Walk safely."

  He felt Pilot Cantra stiffen beside him and hoped he had masked his own shock more fully.

  Turning, he looked up into the other pilot's eyes. They were green, he saw, which he hadn't been sure of, in the dimness of the dining alcove, and calm, despite her start of shock.

  "Shall we proceed, Pilot?" he asked, expecting her to push past him and stride out into the port on her own. Which would clarify one thing or another.

  But it appeared it was his hour for surprises.

  "Why not?" Cantra said.

  * * *

  OUTSIDE, THE SHADOWS were lengthening into the leisurely local evening. Jela hung back a step, intending to let the other pilot make the first move.

  "I don't see anything worth worrying about," she said easily, dawdling by his side—just two friends, finishing up a chat started inside over food and wine. "You?"

  "Not immediately," he said with a smile for the joke she hadn't made. "Maybe we should move on, in case they're running late?"

  "Good idea." She turned to the left and he went along, matching her long stride easily.

  "Now I'll ask you," she said, without looking at him. "Was the Batcher having a little fun with us?"

  It was an interesting question, all things considered, and Jela did consider it, alongside of a couple other facts and oddities, among them the lack of Pilot Muran—and the presence of Pilot Cantra, who might be an innocent civilian, or who might be something else.

  "No reason to believe she was," he said slowly, not particularly liking the direction his thought was tending, but letting it have its head.

  "Other question being," Cantra mused, and he approved the way she scanned the street as they walked along—eyes moving, checking high points, low, possible places of concealment. "Who's likely to be wanting to talk with you in a serious way? I can think of some couple who might want to have a cozy chat with me, but nothing that can't wait."

  There shouldn't, he thought, be anyone wanting to talk to him in any serious way, except
ing the absent Muran.

  They'd set up the rendezvous carefully, that being how they did things. And they'd arranged for a back up, just in case the primary went bad. He'd checked the back up, and needed to do so again—now, in fact. All things considered.

  He glanced at the woman beside him and found her watching him, green eyes—amused?

  Not easy to scan at all, was Pilot Cantra. And it came to him that he'd better make sure of her, if he could.

  "I'm after a bit of noise and maybe something else to drink," he said. "You?"

  Slim eyebrows arched over those pretty green eyes, and he thought she might turn him down. But—

  "Sounds good," she said easily.

  "I know a place just a couple steps over there." He cocked his head to the left, and she moved a slim, ringless hand in the pilot's sign for lead on.

  Nine

  On the ground

  Faldaiza Port

  PILOT JELA'S "PLACE," a bar-and-drinkery calling itself Pilot's Choice, was considerably more than a couple steps, situated as it was in the shadow of the port tower. Giving the pilot his due, it wasn't a pit, nor showing any 'jack spaces on offer. What it was, was full of pilots, loud voices, and something that might've been music—in fact, was music.

  There was pair of bouncer-types checking ID at the door, which was a good thing by her way of thinking, 'cause it meant the local lowlifes weren't allowed in—just them with proper Port clearance or genuine pilot-class credentials.

  Cantra showed her ship's key, and was gratified to see the hand motion from the sharp-eyed man requesting just a bit more . . . and so she flashed the flat-pic with numbers and such on it. He didn't bother to run-scan on it, though the machine was live—just gave her a half-salute and waved her into the dense noise and rowdy dance-and-brew scent.

  Apparently Jela was in the same boat as far as looking legit on visual, which was a shame, 'cause all she saw was him slipping his card into a semi-public pocket, the woman on that side signing out with a respectful, "Thank you, Pilot!"—and still not a polite way to find out exactly what he was a pilot of. But some information you just didn't ask if it didn't come voluntary.

  They pushed on, just like they were together. The crowd motion stopped them for a moment, 'til she could point out to Jela the direction of the bar from her greater height, which information he acknowledged with equanimity.

  Now they were further in, she could see a couple almost-nakeds on a raised platform on the opposite side of the room from the bar, dancing, they might've been. Looked interesting, whatever.

  She let Jela break trail, which wasn't any problem at all for those shoulders, and directly joined him at the bar proper, one foot on the rail, waiting for the notice of the bartender.

  "There's a man here I need to talk to," Jela said to her, his voice pitched to carry under the general hubbub. "It's probable he'll have news, maybe make some sense of our friend's concern, if you'd want to wait?"

  She gave him a smile. "I'll wait," she murmured, for his ears only. "Why not?"

  "Good. Back soon." He was gone, moving quick and light through the crowd and she watched him go, considering the wide shoulders and the slim hips with a sort of absent-minded admiration. Not her usual sort, Pilot Jela, but a well-made man, regardless.

  "What'll it be, Pilot?" The bartender's prosaic question brought her back to the now and here.

  "Ale," she said, knowing better than to ask for wine in a pilot's bar this far in to the shipyards.

  "Coming up," the 'tender promised, and up it came in a timely manner. She smiled for the quick service and slid a couple carolis across the bar.

  "Keep the change," she said. He gave her a grin and went away to tend to other customers.

  Having ale didn't mean having to drink it. Cantra kept the glass to hand, which was respectful of the house and the 'tender, and turned her back against the bar, surveying the room for possibles.

  Problem was, the room was a little too full, a little too loud. She wasn't jumpy, not that, but say that the Batcher's warning had sharpened her edge. In the general way of things, Batchers kept strictly to this-humble-person. There was good reason for that, Batchers on most worlds in the Arm being not only "biologic constructs" but property, bought and sold. What there wasn't any good reason for was a Batcher to give clear warning to a couple o'strange pilots, or even to say more than the standard humble gratitude.

  Unless, she thought, and it wasn't a thought that made her feel any smoother, the Batcher's owner had ordered her to say what she had. And if that was so—

  If that was so, there were 'way too many unknowns in the equation. Anyway, she thought, what's it matter, warned trouble or unexpected? The usual rules applied.

  She had to admit that, after the quiet time at The Alcoves she was inclined to be a bit more aware of things; and if even so small a break from routine had energized her, that was a sign she needed to get a real break soon. Like maybe right now. She'd come off the ship looking for action, and it looked like action might be all about, if she put her mind to it, and took a lead from the dancers . . .

  The couple on the platform was slow-dancing now, hip to hip and thigh to thigh. As she watched, they separated and went to opposite edges, calling for volunteers from the crowd to come up and join them.

  This proposition was greeted with such enthusiasm that at first it seemed the bar's entire pilot population would be up on the platform. The dancers, though, they were pros, and managed to keep their company down to two each—one to an arm. A couple of the chosen had drunk a bit too much ale, and the dancers had their work scheduled, keeping their dainty bare toes out from under boots.

  Watching them, she felt some heat building in her belly and recalled herself to the proposed task list.

  It'd be a shame to let the lodgings stand empty, she thought, and tried to bring herself into a concentration on the available options.

  Jela hadn't reappeared. It might, after all, be best if he didn't reappear, shoulders or no. He'd been a not-entirely-comfortable, if welcome, meal-mate, but she wanted something a little less—controlled—for the bed-sport side of the evening. That little redhead, for instance. Cute, quick, and not drunk yet, dancing all by himself in a vacant square of floor.

  She watched him, feeling her blood warm agreeably, and just about cussed when the music ended.

  The redhead stopped dancing, and looked around like maybe he didn't know what to do now.

  Cantra pushed away from the bar and went over to introduce herself.

  * * *

  "He was here, sure," Ragil said. Most of his attention was on the stim-stick he was rolling. Command frowned on soldiers using non-regulation stimulants. Not that Ragil had cared much for that particular reg when he was regular troop. Now that he was on the underside, he claimed the stim habit gave him "verisimilitude" in his role as bar owner. For all Jela knew, he was right.

  "So he was here," he said now, working on holding his temper. "Where is he now?"

  Ragil finished the stick and brought it to his lips, drawing on it to start the thing burning. He looked up, broad face worried.

  "How do I know? I gave him your last, that you'd be at the prime spot an extra day, same time, same code." He drew on the stick, sighed out smoke. "You're asking because he didn't connect?"

  "Why else?" Jela sighed. "Somebody else did connect, though. Scan the floor?"

  "Sure." He left the stick hanging out of the side of his mouth, tapped a code into the top of his desk. "Center screen," he said.

  Jela sat carefully back in his chair—no upscale lounger here—and watched the slow pan of the barroom. The stage was empty, the dancers down on the floor, circulating, collecting tips, no doubt, and offers of companionship, after hours. The room was crowded and he sharpened his focus, in case he missed her in the crowd.

  "Busy," he commented.

  "Damn place is always busy," Ragil returned. "And it's not 'cause the drinks are cheap. Owe you one, by the way. Your idea of getting a couple d
ancers in here paid off."

  "Getting anything useful?" Jela asked absently, eyes on the screen.

  "Who knows what's useful?" Ragil countered. "Rumor, hearsay, and speculation, most of it. What they do with it at the next level—how do I know? Heard one pilot the other day give as his opinion that there's no enemy now, nor hasn't been for longer than you or me's been fighting. Command, see, needed a reason to increase the production of soldiers, so they sorta invented an enemy."

  "I've heard that one," Jela said. "What they never explain is why Command wants soldiers, if there's no enemy."

  "Take over the Arm?" Ragil asked.

  "And hold it how?" He was beginning to think that Pilot Cantra had left the bar without—

  "There!" he said. "Grab and grow the tall woman there next to the redhead."

  Ragil obligingly did this, and Pilot Cantra's strong-boned face filled the center screen.

  "Know her?" Jela asked.

  The other took a deep drag on his stick while he considered the image. "No," he said finally. "Don't think I want to, either. What's your interest?"

  "She came to the primary, asked for a meal-mate, if there was a pilot available."

  Ragil whistled, soft and tuneless. "So—what? She's Muran's replacement?"

  "Didn't say so," Jela said, slowly. "Didn't act anything but like a pilot half-crazy from running solo and looking to have a voice that wasn't her own to listen to. Didn't make any play to stay close; I invited her along. In case." He paused, thinking, among other things, of the Batch-grown's warning, which had shocked Pilot Cantra—but for what reason? "She's a hard one to peg, and I won't say she's not fully capable."

  "So she might be a beacon?"

  "Might," he said, still not liking the idea—not that it made any difference what he liked, or ever had. "Might not."