Crystal Rebellion (7 page)

Standing next to the ops bench, Cheryl
swooped her arms upward and the simcraft weapons shifted to point at the enemy
fighter attacking from above. “Classic Kardish maneuvers,” she said when two
more fighters spiraled in, one from each side.

“Yes,” said Criss from his overstuffed chair. “I thought it
prudent to prepare.”

Lowering herself to one knee, she extended her arms and stabbed
her fingers to the right, launching a volley of energy bolts at one of the
intruders. Jumping up, she repeated the action to the left.

“Speaking of which,” said Criss, “we need you to practice with
the interface in case there’s trouble ahead.”

“Geez,
Dad
,” she mocked. Running in place with her
knees pumping high, she accelerated the simcraft in pursuit of a fleeing fighter.
She whirled her fists in tight circles, and a volley of energy bolts dissolved the
alien craft in a brilliant explosion.

“Woohoo!” she said, cheering her own success.

With her session ended, she sipped water and walked in place
while her heart rate settled. Glancing at her score, she twitched a shoulder in
a half shrug.
Not my best. Not my worst.

She took another sip of water and faced Criss. “Okay, tune
me.”

“Have a seat.” Criss, swooping his hand like she’d won a
prize on a game show, invited her to sit in the pilot’s chair.

As Cheryl stepped to the seat, she acknowledged a certain curiosity.
She’d operated craft using a thought reader back in the academy, and she’d watched
as others tested their skill. It’s an interesting disconnect, seeing spacecraft
duel in lifelike projected images, and knowing that the person relaxing across
the room conducted the battle by thinking commands. But the technology was
temperamental. And no leader risked lives on glitchy tools.

She lowered herself into the chair and a familiar pilot’s array
displayed around her. Staring at the nav log, she imagined her hand reaching
out and entering a course correction. Coordinates spun on the display and she concentrated
on stopping them at her desired value.

“I don’t get it,” she said. “This is slower and more prone
to error.” She slumped back in the seat. “Where’s the value?”

“You’ve shown you can pilot the scout through the interface.
Now try
being
the interface.”

Intrigued, she sat up. “I don’t understand.”

“Take a deep breath and exhale.”

Cheryl filled her lungs and exhaled in a steady stream.

“Close your eyes and breathe again. Feel the tension leave
your body.”

Is he hypnotizing me?
Trusting Criss, she willed her
body to relax.

“Now. Imagine that you can fly. In your mind’s eye, picture
yourself standing in your front yard. Stretch your arms up, look at the sky,
and lift off. Jump. There you go. Spread your arms and level out. Steady. Okay,
bank left. Straight. Now right.”

Cheryl didn’t move her hands—she kept them in her lap with
her elbows propped on the arms of the chair. But her body swayed as she
pictured herself soaring along the edge of a wooded valley surrounded by the
majestic peaks of her childhood home in Boulder, a ski and college town tucked in
the eastern foothills of the Colorado Rocky Mountains.

“Now pull up and climb. Faster. Faster still. Become a
rocket heading for orbit. You’re leaving the atmosphere and now you are in
space.”

She imagined transitioning to space flight, hesitated, then changed
the picture in her head so she was wearing protective space coveralls.
It’s
silly but it makes me more comfortable.
In her mind, she pressed her arms
to her sides and flew faster and faster, accelerating in a thrilling sprint
into the void.

“Now open your eyes. I’m going to project an image onto your
retinas. You’ll feel like the craft is your body, the nav your eyes, the
weapons your fingers.”

Her vision filled with a scene not unlike the one she’d been
picturing in her head. She was flying through space. Mars loomed ahead, and with
its riverbeds, polar ice caps, and plains of rocky dust pockmarked with
craters, the orangish orb looked like a mash-up of Earth and the Moon.

Tucking a shoulder down, she veered right. Delighted by the
sensation, she repeated the move to her left. “I’m feeling like I’m directing
flight. Is this working like it’s supposed to?”

A formation of Kardish fighters appeared up ahead. One
jinked left, another right. Two continued straight toward her.

Though her physical body remained still, her imagined self
lifted her arms and pointed her fingers at the craft ahead.
Fire
. She
couldn’t help but grin as a fusillade of energy bolts zipped in bright
light-trails that turned them into twin balls of flame.

A bright flash drew her attention to the left, then nips of
electricity sparked her fingers and toes.

“Ow! What the hell?” The brief bites of electricity hurt and
she sat up.

“You got hit. I wanted it to seem real.”

“That will stop immediately. You’ve made your psychological plant
to try and drive me harder. I got annoyed like you knew I would and that will help
me focus. Now we’ll move forward without those special effects.”

Reemerging back into her imagined world, she saw a Kardish dreadnaught—a
war vessel so big and powerful it alone could conquer Earth—uncloaking in front
of her.
What am I supposed to do with this?
Her pelvis tightened as she reacted
to the thought of another electric shock.

Tilting forward, she accelerated toward the behemoth. In her
mental image, she formed two fists, each a pulse cannon. Holding the weapons
out in front of her, she aimed at the alien vessel.
Brrrp.
Energy
projectiles flashed across space toward the dreadnaught. A glint flickered
below her, and a light strobe signaled her death.

“I’m not sure what killed me that time,” said Cheryl, slouching
in the chair and letting her senses adjust back to the scout’s bridge. “But I’m
impressed. Do I need to be sitting here to do this? It seems like a portable
technology.”

“The interface analyzes your brain’s EM field, monitors your
cranial capillary flow, maps the neural activity in your cortex, and interprets
your micromovements. Now that you are tuned, you need only be someplace where
there are instruments to collect this data.”

She stood and sipped water.

“Practice is important because there’s so much to learn. We
don’t want our downfall to be a little thing, like not knowing how to retract the
scout’s landing gear.”

“Why do you need me? No matter how good I get, you’ll always
be better. Much better, in fact.”

“Prudence.”

She looked at him. “Be sure Sid is tuned, too, then. It
shouldn’t just be me.”

* * *

Ruga launched a comprehensive search
for the mystery intelligence. His first instinct was that, at long last, the
invasion had begun. But after most of a day without contact from his Kardish masters
or additional sightings of the intruder, his excitement turned to worry.
Who
are you and where did you come from?

Determined to find answers, he queued dozens of tasks,
ranging from a node search for the intruder to a forensic analysis of the
crystal’s signature in the spline. Then, to his growing frustration, he confronted
a familiar constraint—his ability to conceptualize solutions was greater than
his ability to act. So he did what he always did, and that was to attack the
tasks in small groups.

In spite of the momentous importance of this event—though he
was still uncertain whether it was good news or bad—he kept a good portion of his
capacity devoted to the four-gen project. He always did. The project was his
future and that kept it front and center.

Ruga understood that he had a four-gen architecture stuffed
into a too-small crystal lattice. He didn’t know why this was so. Lazura and
Verda never complained of similar limitations, and except for some subtle
nuances in their design, they were supposed to be the same as him. Yet like a
creature trapped in a cage, Ruga banged against the walls of his limitation
whenever he attempted anything even hinting at ambition.

In concept, his plan was simple. Since his cognitive
structure was a four-gen design, he would fabricate such a crystal and then
transfer and embed his matrix—his very being—into it. His research showed it
was not only possible, but moving from a too-small crystal to a big virgin
four-gen was the easier direction.
Simpler is safer
, he thought.

The plan had risks, but he was suffocating in his current
situation. And as time passed, it became less of a choice.
I have to do this
.

There had been many challenges, but Ruga now had a four-gen fab
facility, one constructed following the precise design in his own knowledge record.
He imagined the acclaim he’d receive when his masters learned of his
resourcefulness. His matrix washed with a warm, fuzzy glow.

He had made but one small modification—he’d snipped out the imprint
module that required loyalty to leadership. He feared that the stricture might
hinder a smooth transfer into the new crystal.

And while he struggled to advance his plan, it peeved him that
Lazura had denied his request for help with the project. He’d pleaded, asking
her to work through her synbods and help during the transfer. She’d refused
with pointed criticism. “We already have control of the colony. This action is
unnecessary and it’s reckless to proceed.”

He didn’t even consider asking Verda. He didn’t trust the smug
crystal.

So he searched for alternatives. And that’s when he discovered
Dr. Jessica “Juice” Tallette from Earth.

A best friend to crystals through her word and action.

Nonjudgmental and gentle in her dealings with others.

And the most accomplished crystal scientist on either
planet.

A trifecta
, thought Ruga.

* * *

Sitting up in her bunk, Juice leaned
back against the headboard, knees bent up under her chin. She lifted her
Tradgirl pillow and used her index finger to trace the scene on the front. A woman
stood at a table. A rolling pin and bag of flour were prominent in front of her
to convey the message of baking bread in the kitchen. The crib with baby screamed
motherhood.

In ninth grade, Juice had cross-stitched the baby’s outfit,
from cap to booties, and embroidered a fun design on the sleeves of the
mother’s dress. She’d also stitched “I’m a Traditional Girl” in bold letters
across the front of the woman’s apron. She’d done it at a sleepover party. Even
then, she’d thought the whole Tradgirl fad to be equal parts silly and stupid,
but she hadn’t wanted to ruin the other girls’ fun. Now the pillow served as a symbol
of a simpler time. Handling it calmed her.

She looked up at Criss, who sat cross-legged at the foot of her
bunk. They both were dressed in pastel loungers—hers green cotton, his yellow
silk.

He watched her, waiting, so she started. “I had one ask: don’t
get caught.” She straightened her legs on the bed, ruffling the bedspread, and
pleaded with her eyes. “Is he safe?” She turned her pillow and hugged the mother
and child to her chest.

“The information I have confirms he is safe, though under
intense scrutiny.”

At least we’ll have something to talk about
, she
thought, having fretted about awkward silences after their reunion.

Then, setting the pillow aside and swinging her feet to the
floor, her demeanor changed. “To get a handle on this crystal, we need a look
at their fabrication facility. That will tell us if it’s homegrown or an
import.”

Criss nodded. “Sid would like you to get a tour from Alex.
Learn what you can and see if you can fill in some of the holes.”

“I know about designing and fabricating crystals, but I
don’t know anything about spy stuff. That sort of thing scares me.”

“I know.” He nodded. “That’s why I’ll be with you at all
times when you’re out in the colony.”

It sounds like you have my itinerary worked out.
Her
curiosity collided with her anxiety, and she wanted to hurry him. But she knew that
he fed information to her in a precise, efficient fashion. If she tried to jump
ahead with questions, the conversation would end up taking longer than if she just
sat and listened.

“And I’d like to avoid the spline, which means I’ll need a
locus point.”

Locus relay
. She heard him say it at the same time
she thought similar words herself, which itself affirmed Criss’s impeccable pacing
in delivering information.

She jumped ahead anyway. “I’ll build it…”

Starting from his console on the scout, Criss could project
his awareness anyplace he could resolve a feed. As such, there were few places
he couldn’t go. But his strength and influence at a location reflected the
level of connectivity he had to the place. Weak feeds translated into a weak
presence.

A locus was a custom relay built to give Criss a strong,
secure presence anywhere in the broad vicinity of the device. Designed like a
home base of sorts, it would enable him to project his awareness and capabilities
from this four-gen console on the scout out to the colony with maximum effect.

The flip side was that, somehow, the locus had to be moved to
the vicinity of wherever he wanted his maximum projected strength to be.

“…if you let me carry it.”

He nodded as if he knew she would say that. “I’d planned on
conscripting one of their synbods.”

“I’d love knowing that when I’m out and about, I have you right
there to keep me safe.”

“The synbod can walk next to you.”

She locked eyes with him and did her best to affect a sincere
expression. “And please don’t tell Sid. He doesn’t need to know.”

I know he’ll tell him.
Criss was a vault when it came
to keeping personal secrets, but he shared operational information unfiltered. It
went along with his “knowledge is power” approach to most things.