The Crystal Variation (75 page)

“But a singleship is meant to be guided by one pilot’s hand,” the old man finished. “My piloting days were long ago, child. The jumpseat is well enough for me; I will enjoy observing you at your art.”

Jela placed the old man carefully, stood back, saluted—

“Go, M. Jela!” Master dea’Syl snapped.

“I’m gone!” Jela responded—and he was.

THE SMALY TUBE SPAT
her pallet out; it lofted and slammed onto the feeder-tracker, the mags locking solid. Groaning, she raised her head, saw the stacker up ahead, opened her hands, slid off the pallet and dropped through the gap in the mags. She heard shouts, distantly. Then her head smacked ‘crete and she didn’t hear anything else.

EYES NARROWED AGAINST
the wind of their passage, Jela raced the carry-chair toward the gleaming line of warehouses. The tree, lashed to the cargo-plate, bent and danced, leaves fluttering like scarves. He caught the edge of an image of storm, boiling clouds and driving rain, and an echo of jubilation.

Speeding, he reviewed his plan, such as he had one. First, to the trade transport, then to Osabei Tower. After he was in Osabei Tower—there were too many unknowns to usefully plan. The main objective—to recover Cantra yos’Phelium or, as he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe, though it was the most probable—her body. And if he had to take Osabei Tower down stone by stone to do it—well, he’d been ripe for a fight for days . . .

He was among the warehouses now, pushing the carry-chair for all it could give him—and more. His eye snagged on the pointer to the tradesmen walks, and he whipped the little craft around, dodging between a robofreighter and a port ambulance, while the tree cheered rain-lash and lightning.

Inside, the path went along a catwalk, to keep casual strollers out of the line of work, Jela thought, and sent the chair up the ramp at a brisk clip.

From the tree, an urgent sending—the golden dragon, one wing folded beneath her, blood bright against gleaming scales—

Jela braked and looked down, sharpening his vision on the figures in medic ‘skins bent over a—blood on her hair, blood on her face, blood soaking her tattered robe—

“Cantra!” he yelled and threw the chair into reverse.

“What’re they thinking of
up there?” The shift boss yelled at Jela. “She came
through the smaly
! Damn lucky she didn’t get crushed, or knocked loose or—”

Jela pushed past the man, as gently as he could, “Hazing,” he said shortly. “The scholars are having a party.”

“Some party,” the lead medic muttered. She glanced up at him, eyes widening, then quickly down again.

He looked at Cantra’s bruised and bloody face. Still breathing; and the medics had quick-patched the cuts. What other damage there might be—

“Took a pretty bad knock when she fell off the stacker,” the lead medic muttered, not looking at him. “Her good luck she did, too, before she got crushed. Got some funny readings on the scan . . .” A pause, before she raised her head and looked at him again. “You have an interest in this case?” she asked. “Sir.”

He looked at her, seeing the signs now—this one had served, and knew all too well what an M Series soldier looked like.

“I’m prepared to relieve you,” he said, meeting her eyes.

“Right then.” She motioned to her mate, who began to pack up the kit, his head also studiously bent. The lead stood and faced him, keeping her eyes pointed at a spot just beyond his shoulder.

“There’s paperwork, and a fee for port services,” she said, stiff-faced. “You settle up at the portmaster’s office.”

“I’ll do that,” he said insincerely, and turned to make the necessary adjustments to the carry-chair, reformatting the seat into a stretcher, that he could steer by standing on the folded out booster step.

“Let’s get her on the stretcher . . .”

“Hold on, here!” shouted the shift boss. “You just can’t send her—suppose she dies? Or this—person—did you even ask for ID?” he demanded of the lead medic.

She sighed, jerking a chin at her partner to carry the kit out to the ambulance, while Jela webbed Cantra into the stretcher.

“As it happens, I was on-call two nights ago when this trader got into a little discussion with the wrong people on the old port,” she said tiredly. “I’ve got his particulars on file.” She pulled a portable unit from her belt and held it up, one hand on her hip and a frown on her face. “Want to see?”

The shift boss considered her, and—wisely, in Jela’s opinion—decided not to pursue the matter.

“Nothing to me,” he said. “I just don’t need any trouble, is all.”

“Right,” the lead medic said, snapping the portable back onto her belt. “None of us needs trouble.” She sent a quick, speaking glance to Jela.

“None of us,” he agreed. “Thank you, medic.” He stepped onto the carry chair platform, reached for the stick, and got them gone.

THEY WERE AT THE weaving
—delicate work requiring concentration, a light touch and strong protections. It was not enough to be merely invisible, of course; the Iloheen would suspect so simple a gambit. No, it was necessary to seem to be part of the fabric of space itself, and in order to make such a disguise convincing, it was also necessary to partake of the surrounding space and integrate it into their essences.

It had been his lady who devised the way of it, meaning only to grant them protection from the Iloheen. For his part, he had merely noted that sharing their essences thus created them less like the poor limited creatures of flesh whose form they mimicked, and more like unto that which he had been before his capture and enslavement.

So it was that the Great Weaving arose from the simple necessity to hide. There were but thirteen
dramliza
at the work, for it required not only skill, and daring, and a desire above all else to see the Iloheen annihilated, but the willingness to accept a total melding of subordinate and dominant, and a phase-state which would be like no other—

The ley lines flared and spat. Lute extended his will, seeking to soothe the disturbance, but the lines writhed, stretched to the breaking point of probability, mixing what was with what could be, shuffling the meanings of life and death—and across the limitless tracks of space, at the very edge of his poor diminished perception, a Shadow was seen, and the awful flare of dark energies.

The Iloheen
! he sent, and threw himself back from the weaving, seeking his lady.

Here
. Her thought was a lodestone, guiding him. He manifested beside her within the pitted rock that was their base, and spread his defenses, shielding her behind the rippling rainbow of his essence, as the Shadow spread, sending the lines into frenzy. The asteroid phased wildly, becoming in rapid succession a spaceship, a hippogriff, a snail. Lute rode the storm of probability, felt his Lady take up the burden of maintaining their defense, and reached out, daring to snatch the lines that passed most nearly and smooth them into calmness. A small circle only he produced—enough to draw upon, not so much as to elicit the Shadow’s notice.

Behind their defenses, he felt his lady busy at some working of her own—and pause, waiting, the last link only unjoined, or he knew her not, awaiting clarity.

Out
there
, across the seething chaos of probability, the Shadow coalesced, shrank—and was gone.

Lute waited. The ley lines slowly relinquished their frenzy, spreading out from the small oasis of peace he had created. Nowhere showed a hint of Shadow.

He felt his Lady unmake her working, dared to somewhat relax his shields—waited—and, when the levels remained clear and untroubled, brought them down entirely.

“The others?” his lady asked.

“I do not believe the Shadow located aught,” he replied, and paused, recalling that storm of dark energy, the untoward disturbance of the lines.

“I shall inquire,” he said, extending his will—

A spinning mass of darkness exploded out of probability, blazing through the levels like a meteor, haloed in silvery green.

Lute threw his shields up. Impossibly dense, the darkness tore through, plummeting to the physical level. He grabbed for the ley lines—and felt his lady’s thought.

Wait
.

Shackled by her will, though by no means accepting of it, he waited. Waited while the dense darkness ricocheted around them, spilling wild energy—a danger to his lady, to himself, to the destruction of the Iloheen!

And still his lady held him impotent, as if the uncontrolled and dangerous . . . object that had invaded them was the most trivial of inconveniences.

He coiled himself, making what preparation he could, should she loose him before—

The invader exploded. Streamers of ebon, gold, silver, and green washed across probability, inspiring the lines once again to frenzy—and at once, all was still, and as it had been.

Excepting the figure kneeling on the rough rock floor; back bowed until his head near touched his heels, red hair crackling, uplifted face streaked with tears.

Lute leaned forward—his lady held up a hand to stop him, but did not compel his obedience. He considered the aspects of the ley lines, and acquiesced. Strange energies were at play here, and if this were in truth—

“Rool Tiazan,” his lady said coolly. “We bid you welcome.”

Slowly, he straightened; slowly bowed his head, and raised his hands to hide his face. “Lady Moonhawk,” he whispered. “It is done.”

“I see that some portion of it is indeed done,” she agreed. “Yet I wonder after my sister, your dominant.”

A moment he knelt silent, then dropped his hands and looked to her. “Gone,” he said somberly. “Unmade. As was foretold. She stood as a goddess against the Iloheen, Lady Moonhawk. Never could I have struck so true and straight a blow—nay, even in my youth and true form!”

“Stand,” Moonhawk said then, and Lute felt her will, compelling obedience.

Rool Tiazan laughed as a predator laughs, with a gleam of teeth and less mirth than menace.

“I am beyond you, Lady.”

“As was also foretold,” she acknowledged calmly. “You are an anomaly, Rool Tiazan. As dangerous, perhaps, as the Iloheen. Shall I destroy you, to protect our plans of survival?”

“You swore to my lady, your sister, that you would not do so,” he returned, rising to his feet of his own will. “Her death does not free you from that oath. And I am come, as she swore I would, to show myself to you and to ask if now you will not join your forces to ours. Since last we spoke upon the subject, we have attached allies of great potency. The lines have been cast for a victory, Lady Moonhawk. We might all yet escape the Iloheen.”

“A victory?” She turned away. “Lute?”

Rool likewise looked at him, a slight smile on his face, the fires of his true form very bright, as if the prison of his body was too frail to contain him. Lute shivered.

“Show me,” he whispered, “what you have done.”

“Certainly.” Rool rose through the levels, and Lute with him, until, side by side, they contemplated the ever-changing eternity of probability. Slowly, a particular cluster of ley lines became defined. Lute studied them closely, casting the outcomes and influences.

“A narrow hope,” he judged at last. “The enterprise we are embarked upon has as much chance of success—perhaps more. Even if we are engulfed in the Iloheen’s disaster, yet we will be a part of the warp and woof and may thus be free to act, whereas you and yours will be annihilated, and your energies used to annihilate even more—and more quickly.”

“There is much,” Rool admitted, “in what you say. Yet it was my lady’s wish that I return and put the question to the lady who has accepted a Name.”

“All those who weave have done so,” Lute said. “It is believed the Names so accepted are artifacts which will resist assimilation, through which action may be channeled, even against and within the will of the Iloheen.”

“It may be so,” Rool conceded. “However, we shall not forsake our champions.”

“We?” Lute inquired, but Rool had already returned to the rock base.

Moonhawk heard his description in silence, then turned her regard once again upon Rool Tiazan.

“We shall persevere,” she stated. “It comes to me that this movement to neutralize the Iloheen future is a jewel of many facets. Perhaps
all
of our actions are necessary.”

“Lady, it may well be so,” Rool Tiazan said. “We venture where none save the Iloheen have gone before. How may we, the Iloheen’s very children, predict which action will bring success?”

“Or, at the least, less failure,” Lady Moonhawk said drily, and bowed. “I believe our business is done, Rool Tiazan. Pray remove yourself, before the Iloheen realizes its error and seeks to correct itself.”

“Lady.” Rool Tiazan bowed in return, straightened and swept Lute in his regard. “Brother. May we all fare well. To the confoundment of our enemy.”

With the faintest twitch of ley lines, he was gone, leaving Lute and his Lady to consider each across the empty cavern.

Sixteen

SIXTEEN

Spiral Dance

HE’D CARRIED CANTRA
to her quarters, performed a rough-and-ready exam, finding the damage to be mostly cuts and bruises, all ably dressed by the port medics. She was still unconscious, which was the knock on the head, or the blood loss, or both, but not shocky, or feverish. Tough woman, Cantra yos’Phelium, he thought—none tougher. Having assured himself that his pilot was in no immediate need or danger, he webbed her into her bunk, in case they had to lift in a hurry, and gone to tend her ship.

Some time later,
Dancer
was in queue with a scheduled departure of just under six hours, ship-time. Keeping in mind the way his pilot preferred things to be done on her ship, Jela had given the nav brain leave to suggest alternative lifts, real-time. That done, he’d perused the public charts, finding
Light Wing
well ahead of
Dancer
on the schedule, with Dimaj the filed destination, courier run the reason.

Jela smiled, though on consideration that minor subterfuge had probably sprung from the mind of Liad dea’Syl rather than the boy pilot.

From the tree, lashed in its spot at the end of the board, came a quick image of a young dragon, wings still wet, eyes alert.