The Crystal Variation (35 page)

The system lights went down one by one and in good time the ship was off-line, saving life-support.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her nod, once, then put her finger on the release and let the webbing snap noisily back.

“Up, up!” she said, spinning her chair around to grin first at him, then at Dulsey. “Best not to dally and make our escort irritable.”

He mistrusted the grin, just like he mistrusted the total lock down of the board—in all his experience of her Cantra had never locked the board down tight. That she chose to do so here, at a docking she plainly distrusted was—notable. Coupled with the mandate that all three of them step off for a stroll through an asteroid habitat controlled by questionable forces, it became out-and-out worrisome.

On the other hand, there
wasn’t
any arguing with her—she was ship’s captain, and the only one ammng them who had previous experience of the Uncle.

Carefully, then, he unstrapped and stood, finding Dulsey already on her feet, face shadowed.

“Second thoughts, Dulsey?” Cantra asked.

Dulsey’s chin came up and she met Cantra’s eyes.

“Not at all, Pilot.”

The grin this time was more amusement and less artifice, by Jela’s reading. Which didn’t make it any more comforting.

“I’m glad to hear you say that. The Uncle I knew, he placed a certain value on boldness. For what it’s worth.”

Dulsey bowed slightly. “I am grateful to the pilot for her advice.”

Cantra sighed, then abruptly waved a long hand toward the door and presumably the hall beyond.

“The two of you get on down to the hatch. I’ll catch you in six.”

Jela felt the hairs at the back of his neck try to stand up all at once. If this was a vary
now
—but he couldn’t for the life of him see how, with the ship shut down into deep asleep, so he grinned, nice and easy, for the shadow across Dulsey’s face, and nodded at the door.

“After you.”

“Yes, Pilot,” she said, subdued, turned—and turned back.

“Pilot Cantra.”

The winged brows lifted over misty green eyes.

“What’s on your mind, Dulsey?”

A hesitation, and then another bow, this one very deep, and augmented with the stylized gesture of the right hand which roughly meant
I owe you
according to particular civilian signing systems.

“The pilot has acquitted herself with honor,” Dulsey murmured in the general direction of the decking. “I am grateful and I ask that she remember my name, should there come a time when my service might benefit her.”

Jela held himself still, already hearing Cantra’s pretty, sarcastic laughter in his mind’s ear—

“Stand tall, Dulsey.” Her voice was firm, and if it held any grain of sarcasm, it was too fine for Jela’s ear to detect.

The Batcher straightened slowly, and brought her eyes again to the pilot’s face. Jela, watching that same face, found it . . . austere, the green eyes bleak.

“
A person is worth as much as the value of their debts
,” she quoted softly. “You’ve heard that said, Dulsey?”

“Yes, Pilot. I have heard it said.”

“Then you want to take some time to sort over who I am and what I’m about in the general way of things. Most would hold that an honorable freewoman shouldn’t ought to devalue herself by standing in debt to the likes of me.”

Dulsey smiled.

“A honorable freewoman must be the judge of her own worth, Pilot. Is this not so?”

Cantra’s mouth twisted, unwilling, to Jela’s eye, toward a smile.

“You’ll do, Dulsey. Now the two of you get outta here. I’ll meet you at the hatch in six. Ace?”

“Ace, Pilot,” Dulsey said serenely, and turned to the door. “Pilot Jela?”

“Just a sec,” he said, catching a ghost-view of dry sand behind his eyes.

He returned to his station, pulled open the hatch and removed a sealed water bottle from the pilot’s emergency provision cache. Cracking the seal, he walked toward the tree, heard a murmuring inside his head, saw a flicker of visuals he couldn’t quite sort . . .

“I know it’s not much,” he said, softly, dampening the dirt over the roots. “We’re not intending to be long. You keep a good watch and let me know if anything odd happens while we’re away.”

Bottle empty, he straightened, reaching up to touch a couple of the higher leaves. Taller than he was, now. Not that that was such a trick.

There was a sudden quick rattle, along with image of a pair of dragons nipping at a tree limb to grab . . .

“Fair’s fair, I guess,” he said, catching the fruit pod as it snapped itself from the branch and fell.

“I hate to bother you, Pilot,” Cantra’s voice carried a payload of sarcasm now. “But the sooner we’re gone, the sooner we’re back and the less time your friend there needs to pine for your return.”

Another image formed in back of his eyes, very precisely: A small dragon sitting on the grass at his feet, exercising its voice loudly—and even more loudly as a sudden fall of leaves came down over its head.

Jela laughed.

Behind him, he heard Cantra sigh. Loudly.

“Now what? It’s telling you jokes?”

Still grinning, he turned, resealing the bottle absently.

“Pilot, the tree is learning irony from you.”

Bland-faced, she considered him, then spun on one heel to address the tree in its pot, and executed as high-flying a bow as he’d ever seen, complete with a showy swoop of the left arm.

“It is my pleasure to be of service,” she said, then straightened in a snap. “
Both
of you mobile units—outta here. Now!”

“Pilot Jela?” That was Dulsey, sounding nervous, and right she probably was.

“I’m behind you,” he said, though he’d have given his accumulated leave, assuming he had any, to see how Pilot Cantra was going to gimmick the board. The tree’s gift he happily consumed before they reached the dock.

* * *

THE DOCK
was just like she remembered—rock, rock and more rock—the floor unevenly illuminated by the white glow from several cloudy columns of candesa, the ceiling lost in darkness, from which the light, so-called, woke an occasional spark—like a star glimpsed through drifting debris.

At the base of the ramp stood a figure in light-colored ‘skins, blond hair cut close to his head. The utility belt around his substantial waist supported a holstered needle gun.

Behind her, she almost heard Jela’s watchfulness click up a notch, like maybe a man didn’t have the right to wear a gun on his own dock. Feet still on the gangtube’s ramp—technically still on her own ship and not yet on the Uncle’s terms—she raised her hands to shoulder level, fingers spread. The status lights on the cuff of her ‘skins thereby brought into view glowed green-green-green. So far, so good.

The guard sniffed, but didn’t ask her to turn out her pockets, which was just as well.

“Names?” he snapped.

“Cantra yos’Phelium,” she answered, giving him mild on the theory that it would probably annoy him. “Pilot-owner of
Spiral Dance
, just like I told Admin.”

“You didn’t tell Admin who else.”

“That’s right,” she agreed, taking no visible offense. “Reason being they’re here under my protection. We have business with the Uncle. I’d appreciate a pass-through.”

The guard sneered. He had a good face for it, Cantra thought, critically.

“What makes you think he’s here?”

“Only place I knew to look,” she allowed. “Fact is, I didn’t expect to find anybody here, excepting maybe a guard or two. So, if the Uncle ain’t here, I’d appreciate a message sent, telling him Cantra yos’Phelium has something that belongs to him and where does he want it delivered?”

“What do you have?” The boy was going to go far with that kind of attitude.

Cantra sighed.

“You the Uncle nowadays?”

His face tightened. “No.”

“Then it ain’t your business,” she said, all sweet and reasonable. “Send the message or pass us through—that’s your piece of the action. Not so hard, is it?”

Another glare, which Cantra bore with slightly pained patience, then a sharp jerk of his head.

“This way.” He turned and strode off across the dock without waiting to see if, or how, they followed, which just about shouted out the information that there were other watchers—armed watchers, make no doubt—in the shifty shadows.

Behind her, she felt Jela go up another notch on the wary meter, nor she didn’t blame him. Glancing over her shoulder, she wasn’t particularly surprised to find Dulsey directly behind her, with Jela’s reassuring bulk bringing up the rear.

Protect the civilian
, she thought, and deliberately didn’t think what that made her, taking point like a damn’ fool.

Their guide was apparently leading them toward a blank stone wall. Just before his nose hit rock, the wall split, the halves sliding apart. He strode briskly through, Cantra a couple steps behind.

She passed over the threshold, felt a shift in the air currents, and looked back. The doors were reversing themselves too quickly, sliding smoothly to shut just behind Dulsey—

Jela, at the rear, brought an arm up and pushed.

The right door panel faltered in its smooth slide toward the center. Jela moved forward, not hurrying, and under no apparent strain. When he was through, he dropped his arm and the door proceeded down its track.

The side walls were closer now—a hallway, as long as you didn’t mind the ceiling still out of reach of the light—standard glow-strips, and none too many of them.

Cantra glanced down at the status lights on her cuff. Dark, they were, which she’d expected, but still wasn’t pleased to see. Well, it’d been a long shot. Usual rules applied.

They passed through two more rock doors, crossed a couple of corridors and finally took a right turn onto another. Abruptly, there was rug over the rock, the glow-strips became whole panels and the ceiling, revealed at last, was a faceted vein of rose colored quartz. There were green plants there, too, like she remembered—maybe the same ones for all she knew—flanking a portal ahead.

That next door didn’t open at their guide’s approach. He put his hand on the plate in the center, breathed a word Cantra thought might have been his name.

The door slid aside, and the guard stepped back, waving at her with an impatient hand.

“The Uncle will see you.”

THE ROOM—
it was the same room, with its shelves of neatly rolled books, the tables groaning under their burdens of tech, art, logic tiles, and best-to-not-knows. Brocades were hung to hide the rocky walls, and the footing was treacherous with layers of carpet and pots and-what-not holding plants.

There were more plants than there’d been, the last time she was here—some held in wall sconces where they might benefit from being closer to the ceiling lights, others were shown off in tiered stands. Might be she was more alert this time, but it seemed there were far more flowers than she remembered. Certainly the room smelled as much of flowers as of rock and people.

A man sat at one of the tables, heedless of the languorous blue blossom hanging a couple hand spans over his head while he carefully fit tiles into a logic-rack. He glanced up as they entered, smiled and rose to his feet.

Sweeping ‘round the table, he came forward to meet them—a young man, tall and lean, his long dark hair swept into a knot at the back of his head and fixed with two porcelain sticks. He was dressed in a crimson robe heavy with embroidery, with here and there a wink of gold—smartstrands.

“My dear Pilot Cantra!”

His voice was deep and musical, the hands stretched out in greeting a-glitter with rings inset with strange stones. His eyes were a cool and calculating gray; his face beyond all reason familiar. “How delightful to see you again!”

You heard rumors, when you ran on the edge. Rumors of devices and techs that made possible what maybe shouldn’t be within grasp. You heard rumors—but hearing and seeing were two different things.

Cantra felt her stomach clench, and her throat tighten. Reflexively, she bowed, low and slow—no more nor less than what a simple pilot owed a man of power and learning—and by the time she straightened her stomach and her face were under control.

“Uncle,” she said, keeping her voice nothing but respectful. “You’re looking well.”

He folded his hands before him and inclined his sleek head.

“I thank you. I feel well. Certainly more well than when last we spoke.”

She drew a deep breath. It would gain nothing to tell the man before her that they had never met. The smartstrands—she figured it was the strands;
hoped
it was the ‘strands and not some other, more terrible technology—made it seem to him that he was the very Uncle she had known, with that Uncle’s memories and manner of speaking. Even the same voice, made young and vibrant.

She drew another breath, careful and close. Best to get her errands over with, get back to
Dancer
, and get
out
.

“I believe you told Karmin that you have something which belongs to me?” The Uncle said delicately.

Right. Errand number one.

Forcing herself to move smoothly, she turned and motioned Dulsey to step up.

“Belongs here, she says, and I don’t say she’s wrong.”

The Batcher threw her one half-panicked gray glance before obediently going forward to make her bow, so deep it looked like she was trying to sink into the rock floor beneath the patterned rug. Behind her stood Jela, legs braced, hands at his sides, face specifically noncommittal. Errand number two.

Dulsey straightened, cleared her throat. Said nothing.

The Uncle smiled, wide and delighted. Reaching out, he captured her hands in his, the rings winking balefully in the pale light.

“
Welcome
, child,” he said gently, looking down into her eyes. “What is your name?”

She swallowed, and seemed to wilt just a little, her fingers clenching the Uncle’s hands like her last hope of aid.

“Dulsey, sir,” she whispered. “Dulsey . . .” and here Cantra thought she might be adding her Batch number . . . but if she was, she swallowed it, and stood up straight and bold.

“Dulsey,” he murmured caressingly. “You are home now. All your cares are behind you.”