Crystal Soldier

by Sharon Lee

  "The trader has a good eye. These and these—" the palm moved to the green rug—"are our most durable offerings. As you see, they are soft, both—" a practiced move of the hand and the corner of the green came up—"machine made, of course. They have been treated with SATA standard stain and dirt guard—to clean the rug, merely shake it out. Also, as you will see, all of our rugs have anti-skid strips at each corner, for added comfort and safety."

  "The rugs please," Cantra said, flipping up the corner of the blue and running her finger over the skid stopper. "As well-made as they are, I wonder if they might be above my touch."

  The senior merchant smiled. "Surely not. For a half-pallet of either, I ask only six hundred carolis."

  "Entirely above my means, alas." Cantra sighed, and smoothed the blue rug with her palm. "I had been hoping that we might meet at three hundred carolis."

  "Three hundred?" The senior merchant's brown eyes gleamed. "The trader jests, of course. Why—"

  And so it went, until each was certain that they had the advantage of the other, and Cantra eventually handed over her trade coin, from which the brown-eyed merchant deducted four hundred carolis. A time was set for the delivery of the half-pallet of green and they parted amicably.

  As pleased with her purchases as if she were legit and ultimately about lawful business, Cantra ambled back toward the entrance-way. She did the calcs in her head as she walked, and took time to hope that Jela's carvings were compact, and not needful of specialized packing. Some stone was fragile, despite it all, which she should've thought to say to him, and if he came in with a deal on a crate full of breakables—

  He'd be a bigger fool than you know him to be, she snapped at herself. The man's a pilot; he knows about acceleration.

  Acceleration, in fact, was only one of the fascinating things that Pilot Jela seemed to know. Nothing like the encyclopedic training she'd survived, in which the aim of the directors was to cram all known history, cultures, languages, and arts into the skull of the student.

  No, Jela seemed to specialize in the odd bit of knowledge, the random snip of lore. He had a truly awe-inspiring library of songs available to him—many of them obscene on one world or another—which he sang softly while he worked at whatever small task he had set himself to.

  She had so far, and by constant reminder to herself, managed to avoid discounting him as a mere pack-dragon, hoarding his pieces and oddments without understanding—or caring about—their wider connections. Jela had surprised her more than once during their short acquaintance, and she was allergic to surprises.

  At the intersection with the main avenue, she turned left, taking it easy, there being some while left 'til the meet-time. It was therefore with some startlement that she bespied a short, wide-shouldered figure in respectable trade leathers walking purposefully in her direction.

  She paused by an avenue sign and waited for him to join her, which he did in good time.

  It was on the edge of her tongue to ask him how the carvings deal had gone, but something in his face dissolved the words, and another set fell out in their place.

  "What's wrong?"

  "I heard something—unsettling, I'd guess you'd say. I'll need to check it when we get back to the ship." A ripple of those wide shoulders. "It's probably just rumor."

  A distinctly upsetting rumor, if it had Jela forgetting that she wasn't supposed to know about his indiscretions with Dancer's long-comm. Or, maybe, she thought, and the thought made her stomach hurt, the news carried on the rumor was dire enough to have Jela thinking again—and figuring that the time for let's pretend was past.

  "Carvings?" she asked then, and he jerked his chin over his shoulder.

  "I've got a reserve on a case lot of hand-carved telomite. Each piece unique. Good, hearty rock—won't splinter or crack under acceleration. I told them I had to clear it with my partner."

  Partner. She shook the word away; and smiled agreeably.

  "Sure," she said, easy and calm. "I've got us a lot of compressed textile, and a half-pallet of personal rugs. All paid for and delivery set up. Let's get yours settled and go on back to the ship. You can check out your rumor while Dulsey and me balance the can."

  He looked at her out of unreadable black eyes, and gave her a smile of his own. It was about as sincere as hers had been, and nothing like the genuine article.

  So, whatever the rumor was had Jela out of sorts, Cantra thought, walking with him toward the Avenue of Sculptures. That was interesting.

  Nineteen

  Spiral Dance

  Ardega

  THE CAN WAS balanced, sealed and checked quick-time, which was a definite benefit of having an engineer on the job. Cantra sighed and leaned against the wall of the cargo corridor, giving Dulsey a nod.

  "That was almost painless," she said. "'preciate the help."

  "You are welcome, Pilot." Dulsey said primly, and made to move on.

  Cantra held out a hand, palm up, and Dulsey stopped, gray eyes going wary.

  "Pilot?"

  "I'd like to know," Cantra said, keeping her voice easy and calm, "on what facts you base the theory that I'm an aelantaza who survived a line edit. If it can be told."

  A moment of silence. "And if it cannot be told?" Dulsey asked, sounding breathless and defiant at once.

  Cantra flipped her hand, palm now toward the deck. "Then there's an end to it."

  Dulsey sighed. "I believe you," she said. "And that should be proof enough that you are aelantaza."

  "Why not believe me?" Cantra asked. "I'm telling the truth."

  Dulsey laughed.

  "Yes, certainly!" The laugh faded into serious. "It's scarcely a secret any more. The pilot will be familiar with the fact that many corporations contract persons to discover the secrets and weaknesses of the competition."

  Industrial espionage was among the most common jobs contracted for graduates of the Institute. Cantra inclined her head.

  "I've heard of such things," she acknowledged.

  "Then the pilot will not be surprised to learn that Enclosed Habitats contracted for an aelantaza to spy upon their competition. In the way of things, we came to know this aelantaza, for it was the habit of Master Keon to interview her in those sections under construction or repair, as they could reasonably be assumed to be lacking surveillance of any kind."

  "He debriefed her in front of you and your Pod?" Cantra demanded. "What kind of security is that?"

  Dulsey bowed. "This humble person has no existence in the common law, save as an object to be bought or sold. This humble person may not testify against one's masters, nor will she be heard should she speak against the masters. This humble person may be killed out of hand by her rightful owner for no reason whatsoever."

  Cantra sighed. "I take the point," she said. "So you got to know the aelantaza."

  "We did. And she came to know us: She knew our names and took note of the differences between us, so that she never greeted me as Ocho, nor mistook Uno for Seatay. From the rear, in repair 'skins, she knew us, each from the other. It was from her—from watching her observe and learn, from listening to her report to and . . . manipulate Master Keon, that I came to understand that I needed to think beyond protocol, to take chances, and to—to seize opportunity, if and when it should ever come to me."

  "Sounds like a learning experience," Cantra said drily. "What's it got to do with me?"

  "Two things," Dulsey said briskly. "First, she looked a great deal like you—not as much as Ocho and I, but there was definitely what natural humans style a 'family resemblance' between you and she."

  She paused. Cantra flicked the hand-sign for go on at her.

  "Secondly, there came a time when another aelantaza arrived instead, and Master Keon interviewed him as he had always interviewed the other. And so we learned that the first aelantaza—whose name was possibly Timoli, though that may have been an alias—that Timoli was of a line which had lately been found inferior, and was thus edited from the aelantaza breeding tables. Th
is was, the new aelantaza told Master Keon with great sincerity, in order to insure that flaws would not be passed on, and was to the customers' benefit, assuring them of the very best service."

  Timoli. Cantra kept her face smooth. She hadn't known her well, there having been something on the order of thirty years between them, but Timoli had been a full sister. Damn right there was a 'family resemblance.'

  She inclined her head.

  "I thank you for the information," she said formally. "I have one more question—again, if it can be told. How did you deduce that I had knowledge of the Uncle?"

  Dulsey took a deep breath.

  "That, Pilot, was a leap into the Deep. I surmised that editing a line which must have included dozens of very able and canny adults would have a potent delivery mechanism, and that the mechanism could be disarmed by one with access to the appropriate technology. It seemed to me that the Uncle might find the plight of a lone aelantaza marked for destruction . . . compelling."

  "So you guessed." Cantra grinned. "Not bad, Dulsey."

  "I am pleased that the pilot approves of my methods."

  "I wouldn't fly that far. Still, it's good thinking—and good bluffing. You'll need both where you're bound."

  Dulsey tipped her head. "Is it so ill a place, Pilot?"

  Cantra came away from her lean against the wall and took a heartbeat or two to consider.

  "The Uncle wants to control all, and there's no one to control him," she said eventually. "That's bad business, as far as I'm concerned. I won't say he spends lives without cause, on account he has a cause. And spend lives for it, he surely does. I wouldn't want to be under the Uncle's care, speaking personally. On the other hand, I never been trade goods. It could be you'll find him and there everything you want." She paused, weighing it—and decided she might as well say the rest, for what it was worth.

  "The Uncle will want you to devote your whole self to his project. For the good of all Batcher-kind, it is, or so he says. You still won't have anything like a free life."

  Dulsey bowed. "It has been the observation of this humble person that all lives are confined by birth, skill, and circumstance. It is the degree of confinement only which is at issue." She straightened and gave Cantra a direct look from serious gray eyes.

  "If the pilot has no more need of me, I will refresh myself and then prepare a meal."

  Cantra inclined her head. "It's your course," she said. "Fly at will."

  Another look, this one on the speculative side.

  "Thank you, Pilot," Dulsey said and headed back toward quarters.

  After a moment, Cantra followed her.

  * * *

  HE CONSIDERED ERASING the message—and decided against. There was no particular reason for Cantra to take his word for what had happened. Not that there was any more reason for her to take the word of a unknown X Strain commander, no matter how straightforward the report.

  The fact that he'd been making free with ship's comm for some time now would come as no surprise to the pilot, or she wasn't the capable, conniving woman he knew her to be. There might be some interest to pay, now that he was out in the open—or not. Either way, she needed the info—and as co-pilot it was his duty to see that the pilot had the info she needed.

  So he left the message, carefully trimmed of all IDs saving the commander's name, on the pilot's forward screen and took himself off to quarters for a quick clean-up and a change into ship civvies.

  The tiny shower wasn't conducive to dawdling, and in any case he wanted to be done and clear before Dulsey came in wanting her own refresh. The ship civvies—a long-sleeved black sweater woven from skileti, which hugged him like a second dermis, and long black pants made from the same fabric—were warm, durable and easy, with nothing trailing to get caught in machinery, or to obscure a section of the piloting board.

  He slid his feet into slippers and turned, careful in the tiny space, just as the door chuckled and slid back, revealing his bunk mate.

  "Hey, Dulsey," he said easily. "How's the balancing going?"

  "Done," the Batcher said, inching into the room. "Pilot Cantra is able with her numbers. She scarce needed my help at all." The door closed and she leaned on it, hands behind her back.

  "Pilot Jela," she said, unwontedly serious, even for Dulsey.

  "Right here," he answered.

  "I wonder, Pilot—do you trust Pilot Cantra?"

  Now, that was a meaningless question, wasn't it? Except it seemed apparent from Dulsey's face that she considered it full to overflowing with meaning. Well, maybe he'd misunderstood.

  "Trust her in what way?" he asked.

  Dulsey blinked. "There is more than one way?"

  "In my experience," he said. "The Enemy, for instance—you can trust them to obliterate life wherever they find it. Back when I was active, I could trust a certain one of my team-mates to get bored and unruly when we were at leave and take to breaking up the bar by way of relieving his feelings. On duty, I could trust that same team-mate to be solid at my back and not let so much as a flea through to me." He shrugged, considering her. "That wasn't what you were asking, I take it?"

  "Not . . . in so many words, no." She took a deep breath and met his eyes. "I specifically wonder if you believe that Pilot Cantra tells the truth, that she will keep her word and stand your friend, no matter what should happen."

  "Hah." He thought about that, then shrugged again. "I think Pilot Cantra has her priorities, in this order: Ship, then pilot—and I trust her to act in ways which are consistent with those priorities. So, no—I don't believe she'll stand my friend, or at my back, if doing either puts her priorities at risk. No reason she should. Keeping her word? As a general thing, I think she does. On specific topics—again, there're those priorities to add into the equation." He tipped his head.

  "Afraid the pilot won't take you to this Uncle of yours, Dulsey?"

  She chewed her lip.

  "It had occurred to me that it was not to Pilot Cantra's benefit to assist me, and that it was perhaps not entirely to her benefit to continue her partnership with you." She sighed. "Unfortunately, these thoughts only concern me when I am absent the pilot's company. In her presence, I find myself thinking it impossible that so likeable a lady would lie."

  "I see where this is going." Jela grinned. "You're worried that the aelantaza glamour will erode my judgment. Eh? That in Pilot Cantra's presence I'll lose what prudence you might suppose I have, being a once-soldier, and put me and you in danger?"

  "You must admit," Dulsey almost-snapped, "that the 'glamour,' as you have it, is a potent weapon in the pilot's defense."

  "It would be, if it worked," Jela said soothingly, and showed her his palms, fingers spread wide. "The M Strain—that's me, I'm an M—we're resistant to a long list of the known manipulations, including sabotage by pheromone."

  Dulsey's face lost a little of the tense seriousness. "You are immune, then."

  Well, no, he wasn't precisely immune. Pilot Cantra did smell nice, he'd noticed that. He'd also noticed that she moved like a dancer, possessed a quick and insightful mind, and had a well-developed appreciation of irony. Noticing those things was inescapable, but it didn't follow that his guard was down because he'd noticed them.

  He had a feeling, though, that explaining any of that to Dulsey would only put on her the course to worry again, which wasn't useful for any of them.

  So—"Immune," he agreed. "Most people aren't, but I've never been confused with most people."

  She smiled slightly. "I am much relieved, Pilot Jela."

  "Glad to be of service," he told her. "If it helps you, I believe Pilot Cantra goes out of her way to be cantankerous and irritating. She keeps people at a distance that way, where they're less likely to fall under the influence of things she can't control."

  Dulsey's eyes widened. "Can't . . . I had not considered that aspect of the matter, Pilot."

  "It's worth spending some thought on," he said, and gave her another grin. "Is there anything else on
your mind, or should I clear out so you can get a shower?"

  "I believe my concerns are answered, Pilot. I thank you." She slid along the door until she reached the corner, giving him room to navigate.

  "Any time," he said, and slid sideways toward, and then out of, the door.

  * * *

  CANTRA WAS IN the tower when he arrived, her arms crossed along the back of the pilot's chair, attention on her forward screen. She'd cleaned up and changed into ship civvies, and he paused for a moment to admire the poised grace of her slim figure.

  "Who's Commander Loriton and why should I believe his info?" Her husky voice conveyed something like bored curiosity; her body language suggested that bored had the upper hand on curious. You had to admit, Jela thought, the woman was a pro.

  "Commander Loriton's the military officer in charge of the sector where Rint dea'Sord's operations were consolidated," he said easily, walking toward her. "Upon receipt of my report of Ser dea'Sord's activities, Commander Loriton sent a task force to Taliofi."

  "And now the task force and Taliofi are gone," she finished, and looked over her shoulder at him. "It says here."

  "It does," he agreed.

  Cantra straightened out of her lean and turned to face him, her movements smooth and unhurried.

  "I don't want to disrespect him, but maybe Commander Loriton's charts aren't up to date?"

  "That would account for Taliofi going missing on him," Jela allowed, "but it doesn't quite explain the task force. It goes bad for commanders who mislay ships, see."

  "This is what you heard on the port that had you double-checking your info?"

  "I heard Taliofi was gone," he said, stopping a comfortable arm's distance from her. "Loriton's memo was in-queue when I opened the comm. My other source confirms."

  "The planet was mined, so says this commander." Her voice was expressionless. "What he doesn't say is why and who."

  "Who—sheriekas," he said. "Most likely sheriekas, though it could've been dea'Sord himself. The info I nipped out of his system suggested he had the tech, and the ability. Why—to keep the task force from finding what there was to find."