The Crystal Variation (31 page)

Jela sighed; his breath formed a tiny cloud of vapor, then dissipated.

“Pretty planet,” he commented to the guard.

She lifted a shoulder. “It’s pretty today. Come back during the rains and tell me what you think then.”

“I think I’d like it better than no rain at all,” he said.

“There’s that.” She jerked her head toward a two-man scooter heading toward them at a brisk clip. “Here’s the escort. Make sure your pockets are sealed. Sir.”

The escort was an X, his face bearing three modest diagonal stripes—green-yellow-green—and appeared to treasure speed above all other things. Jela had scarcely gotten astride the scooter before they were off, blowers howling, dust and frost whipping off the paving in a glittering whirl.

The noise from the blowers made talking at anything less than battle-voice an exercise in futility, and even if conversation had been possible, Jela wouldn’t have wanted to break the lad’s concentration. It was clear he thought he was very good—and, measured by the ruler of speed and missed collisions, he was. What he was not, was a pilot, though his reactions were top-notch, for Common Troop. It also seemed to Jela that a couple of the near-grazes with walls and other traffic were done not so much in the interest of haste, but to maybe see if a rise could be gotten out of the old M.

Jela sat on the back of the scooter, hands cupped over his knees, swaying bonelessly with the scooter’s rhythm and considered whether or no the corporal—the X was a corporal—was entitled to his game. It was a complex question, and he gave it serious thought as they hurtled noisily across the yard, zigged and zagged down a short series of ramps, and roared, with no diminishment of speed into the drop shaft.

There was a boggle at the edge of the shaft. The scooter wobbled and tried to skid—which was the excessive speed, of course. Jela shifted his weight, the scooter steadied, the escort racheted the thrust down, killed the lifters—and they were in, stable, upright and falling gently within a pall of blessed silence.

“Appreciate the assist,” the X said over his shoulder. “Sir.”

That was properly done, thought Jela, and decided that the kid had a right to his fun, as long as no harm came from it, and that the near-disaster with the scooter may have instructed him more than a lecture from an emissary, whose mind ought to be on the upcoming interview with the commandant, anyway.

Silently, he sighed. In his experience—which was now approaching considerable—the upcoming interview could play out along one of two broad avenues, with several minor variations of each possible, to keep things interesting.

Out here in what Pilot Cantra styled the “Mid-Rim,” it was possible that the commandant would be willing to hear him—willing to hear his message, and might also know something that would be of use to his mission. The physical shape of the garrison, with its multiply patched walls, crumbling cermacrete barracks and outmoded security system—it was clear what was going on, and unless the commandant was a fool—which had, he reminded himself, with a certain garrison commander further In foremost in his mind, been known to happen. Unless the commandant was a fool, he had to know what this lack of proper care from Command foretold. Had to . . .

The scooter’s fans came on, momentarily deafening, then they were out of the shaft and moving at an tolerably responsible speed down a wide access corridor. They gained the center hall, and hovered over a vacant scooter stand. The corporal scaled back the fans—and Jela was off and on his feet. The kid did all right with the resulting buck and snarl from the equipment and gentled it into the stand before killing the lift entirely, stepping off and giving Jela a terse nod.

“This way, sir.”

Across the center hall and down an admin tunnel they went, the corporal moving at a lope, Jela at his heels. At the end of the tunnel was a door; before it stood a guard—another X, with the same green-yellow-green tattoo favored by his escort. She took the corporal’s duty card, ran it through the reader, waited for the blue light, and waved them past. The door parted down the center as they approached and they entered the commandant’s office at a spanking pace.

Two steps into the room, Jela halted, allowing his escort to go ahead an additional four steps, halt and salute the man behind the desk.

“Corporal Thilrok reporting, sir,” he stated crisply. “I have brought the emissary.”

The commandant waved an answering salute. “I see that you have, Corporal, thank you. Please leave us.”

“Sir.” The corporal executed a nice sharp turn and marched out, eyes front. The door sealed silently behind him.

Jela stepped up to the square of rug Corporal Thilrok had recently vacated and delivered up his own salute.

“M. Jela Granthor’s Guard, Pilot Captain,” he said, maybe not quite as crisp as the kid.

The officer behind the desk smiled slightly. He was a slender man, with sandy hair going thin, and lines showing around eyes and mouth—not a Series soldier.

Jela wondered briefly if the post were a punishment, then lost the thought as the commandant returned his salute and pointed at a chair which had apparently been carved from native wood back in misty memory and had applied all the time since to becoming quaintly decrepit.

“Sit, Captain, and tell me why you’re here.”

Gingerly, Jela sat, poised to come upright if the chair showed any immediate signs of collapse.

The commandant smiled more widely.

“The locals call that stonewood,” he said. “It’ll hold you, Captain—and two more just like you, sitting on your knees.”

“No need for a crowd,” Jela murmured, settling back. Not so much as a creak from the chair. He let himself relax, and put his hands on the arms, agreeably surprised by the smooth warmth of the wood under his fingers.

He looked up and met the commandant’s eyes—blue they were, and tired, and wary.

“I’m sent,” he said slowly, “to give a quiet warning. The consolidated commanders advise that it may be wise for this garrison to have local forces and supply lines in place and at ready, and for the commanding officer to be prepared to act independently.”

There was a small silence. The commandant put his elbows on his desk and laced his hands together, resting his chin on the backs.

“The consolidated commanders,” he said eventually, with the inflection of a query. “Not High Command.”

The man was quick.

“Not High Command, sir,” Jela said. “No.”

“I see.” Another silence, while the commandant looked at him and through him, then a sigh. “You will perhaps not be surprised, Captain Jela, to learn that this garrison has for some time been on short supply. We have not been receiving necessary upgrades—you will have noticed, I’m certain, the security arrangements at the entry point. Requisitioned supplies and replacement equipment simply do not show up. We’re already drawing on local resources, Captain. More than I like.”

“Understood, sir, and I wish I was here to tell you that your supply lines have been re-opened, and there’s a refurb unit on its way to bring everything up to spec.” He paused, considering the man before him—the lined face, the tired eyes.

One sandy eyebrow arched, eloquently ironic.

“We don’t often get our wishes, do we?” he murmured. “Especially not the pleasant ones. What else are you here to tell me, Captain?”

Good man
, thought Jela, approving both the irony and the sentiment.

“The High Command will soon be issuing a fall-back order.”

The commandant frowned. “Fall back? To what point?”

“Daelmere, sir.”

Three heartbeats. Four. The commandant straightened, unlaced his fingers, and placed his hands flat atop the desk.

“Captain, Daelmere is two levels in, part of the Central Cloud.”

“Yes, sir,” Jela agreed. “It is.”

Another pause—five heartbeats this time, then, in a tone of disbelief:

“They can’t be abandoning the Arm.”

“Yes, sir. High Command’s intention is to pull back, cede the Rim and the Arm, and establish a new boundary further In.”

Silence.

Jela cleared his throat. “The consolidated commanders,” he said, gently, “believe that the proper answer to the increased enemy attacks is to commit the larger portion of our troops to the Arm and the Rim. To stop the
sheriekas
here.”
If they can be stopped
, he added silently, and maybe the commandant did, too.

“A temporary headquarters and a new command chain has been established,” he added, though that was in the auxiliary information he carried. And if he was not mistaken, this commandant, with his tired face and wary eyes was going to ask—

“This could, of course, be a loyalty test,” the commandant said, irony informing his tone. “Which I have doubtless already failed. In which case, I might as well make certain that my dossier is as damning as possible. I suppose you have something to back your claims up, Captain? A name, perhaps, of one or more of these consolidated commanders?”

“Yes, sir. I’m to say, if you ask, that Commander Ro Gayda vouches for me, and that she sends you these proofs.” He touched the hidden seal on his ‘skins, and withdrew a datastrip. Leaning forward, he placed it on the desk.

“On that strip, you’ll find further information and proofs.”

The commandant looked at the strip, made no move to pick it up.

“They take an enormous risk, do they not?”

Jela moved his shoulders against the chair. “They’ve taken precautions, sir.”

“They send a single soldier, and a datastrip. What if I merely imprison you and ship you to Headquarters in chains?”

Jela grinned. “They send a single M Series soldier under orders to act with discretion and to answer no questions, unless they’re put to him by his immediate superior.” He nodded at the datastrip, sitting unclaimed on the corner of the desk. “The information might be transmitted. The encoding might also destroy the packet when it hits Command comm protocols.”

“I see.” The commandant put out a hand, picked up the ‘strip. “Perhaps the consolidated commanders are not risking as much as they seem.” He sighed, and slipped the strip away into his ‘skins.

“Thank you, Captain. Is there anything this garrison can provide to you?”

Now was the time. Jela kept himself relaxed and tipped his head to one side, the picture of an M who had private thoughts about what duty required of him next.

“I wonder, sir . . . There’s rumor of an engine left over from the First Phase maybe stashed out here in the Rim somewhere.”

The officer’s sandy brows lifted.

“Rumor has all sorts of odd and old tech stashed out in the Rim somewhere, Captain,” he said drily. “Most of it, happily, is built from vapor.”

“Yes sir,” Jela said respectfully. “This particular engine is reported to generate a field that will repel a world-eater.”

Commandant Harrib smiled. “Well, that would be useful, wouldn’t it?” He turned empty palms upward. “I doubt the engine exists, now, Captain. If it ever had an exsitence beyond wishful thinking, it was likely sold for salvage or scrap hundreds of years ago.”

So much for that, Jela thought. Still, it had been worth asking the question.

“Is there anything else, Captain?” The question this time was pointed, and Jela took the hint.

“No, sir.” He left the stonewood chair with real regret, and saluted. “With the commandant’s permission?”

The officer moved a wiry hand—not a return of Jela’s salute, but a flicker of hand-talk:
Information offered.

“Yes, sir,” he said, suddenly feeling a bit wary himself.

“That chair, Captain—remarkable substance, stonewood. When properly finished, it has the rather useful ability to detect a falsehood spoken by the person sitting in it.” A second flicker—not hand-talk, but humorous deprecation. “I am aware that M Series soldiers possess extraordinary control of their biologic processes. I merely note that by the chair’s report, you have been as truthful as a soldier on a difficult and dangerous mission can be.” He smiled, very slightly. “The chair has been in my family for quite a number of years, and I am something of an expert in interpreting its signals.”

Jela considered that, then raised his hand, fingers acknowledging:
Information received
.

“Good.” The commandant rose and saluted, then leaned forward to push a button on his desk. “Escort will be provided to the gates. Good fortune, Captain.”

THE TEXTILE DID something
better than she’d expected; the embryos something less. All of which meant that Cantra left the halls with trade coins in her pocket, which she would shortly convert at the currency desk—taking half in cash, and half as a deposit to ship’s fund.

She sighed as she made her way through the free trade zone, dawdling a mite down long lanes of tables rented out to day-traders, locals, and others who for one reason or another weren’t able—or willing—to do business in the halls.

To hear Jela tell it, their next port o’call would be the Uncle’s doubt-it-not former place of business. That being a given, and what came after by no means assured, she was wasting time shopping the free zone for trade goods.

Still, she did shop, in order to give the brain something to do other than dwell on memories that were getting more agitated, the deeper they went into the Rim.

No use thinking about the past, baby
, Garen whispered from years agone.

Well, she’d been right about that, not surprisingly. The past was a sorrowful place, littered with mistakes and the dead. Best to ignore it entirely and keep the mind focused on the present and that small bit of the future that could be manipulated.

She came to a table covered with a black cloth, holding a spill of sadiline. The pale jewels blinked and flickered in the yellow day-light, and Cantra paused to admire the pretty little display.

She’d had a sadiline necklace once. All the students in her dorm had one—it had been the talisman of their class, so the instructors had told them.

“Natural gemstones, locally mined,” a voice said softly. “Very fine quality.”

She looked up into a pair of pale blue eyes, set deep in a face seamed, wrinkled and brown. A red scarf was tied ‘round the trader’s head, covering one ear, knotted at the back, the tails left to flow over her right breast. The uncovered ear bore a single earring—a large sadiline drop, blazing in the sun.