Crystal Dragon (32 page)

And yet—he could not have named the moment when it changed, when his jailor became dear to him and the jail itself the form he preferred, when the possibilities were without limit.

Far, far and away, though nearer than it had been, he could sense the cold encroachment of oblivion. The Iloheen went forth with their plans, as well.

And what matter, he thought, that the Iloheen should have the galaxy and all that was precious within it, when he had lost that which was infinitely more precious?

Lady Moonhawk had the right of it; he should be destroyed. Mayhap he would seek her out and ask the boon.

He considered the thought, and the far, growing glare of perfection; weighing both against the near and feeble vortex of chance and mischief which was the galaxy's best hope of survival. Those lines which passed nearest the vortex twisted in weird complexity, so dense and layered with possibility that even he could not read them with surety. Terror shook him; terror and despair. For wherever the Iloheen's future took form, there the lines did shrivel and die. The volatile marriage of possibility and luck they had nurtured; which they had sacrificed—so much—to protect—there was no way to predict what such a thing might shape, or to know if it were less inimical than the Iloheen's future.

Carefully, he extended his will toward the vortex, probing, seeking a path by which it might be understood, or perhaps, now that he was alone, influenced—

Be still
, her thought suffused him.
Be still and know that I am with you
.

SHE WALKED TO the gate of the garrison with him, which wasn't maybe the smartest thing she'd ever done, and stood to one side while he showed his papers and was passed through, walking away across the yard, shoulders level, limping off his right leg so plain it set a lump into her throat—which was nothing more than senseless.

'bout halfway across the yard, he turned and saw her standing there like an idiot. He lifted one broad hand high, fingers signing the pilot's well-wish—
good lift
.

Her own hand came up without her thinking to do it, fingers shaping the usual in reply—
safe journey
.

He caught it—she saw him smile—then he turned away again. She watched until a marching squad obscured her sight of him—and when they were gone, Jela was, too.

"Inspection?" Commander Gorriti laughed. "What use an inspection, Captain? We're pulling back. Tomorrow, I will be gone."

Jela considered the officer thoughtfully. A natural human, with a foolish face and a uniform far too fancy for his post. A show-soldier, he expected, which was poor judgment on
some
one's part. He supposed that no one of this man's commanders had taken the time to research Vanehald, and so learn that this wasteball, as Cantra had aptly termed it from orbit, occupied a pivotal place in the history of the First Phase. One of the last battles of the First Phase had been fought at Vanehald. The planet, once populous, was now very nearly deserted, largely due to the damage done to it during that battle. A few mining bases, Jela thought, a lower tier spaceport, a First Phase fort—what could possibly be here worth protecting? And so they had assigned this ...popinjay... to command the garrison, never thinking that perhaps what had been strategic once might well come into play again.

"You're pulling out tomorrow?" he asked Gorriti, who inclined his head and touched the front pocket of his shirt.

"Indeed, Captain," he said with barely concealed delight. "I am pulling out tomorrow. My orders are quite plain."

"What about transport for your troops?"

"I ordered transport," the officer said with a shrug of one elegantly clad shoulder. "That it hasn't arrived is beyond my control.
My
orders are clear." Again, he touched his pocket.

Jela frowned. "You'd abandon your troops?" he asked, unwilling to believe that even a fool and a thorough-going incompetent would do such a thing.

Another shrug. "When the transport arrives, my troops will follow." He reached into his pocket and pulled out an orders case, which he unfolded, showing Jela the authenticity of it, with its seals and ribbons straight from High Command.

"I am to report to Daelmere, departing tomorrow with as many of my troop as I am able to bring."

And how many would that be, Jela wondered, having seen the commander's craft on the apron when they came in. Perhaps a half-dozen M Series soldiers might be crammed into that tiny craft with their commander, or three of the X Strain. Not enough to matter, even if he bothered to take such a guard with him.

"What about the civilians?" Jela asked. "It's our duty—"

"Vanehald never had many civilians, and those that were here have mostly fled, saving a few miners and eccentrics," the man said unconcernedly.

"The strategic placement—" Jela began, and was cut off by laughter.

"Strategic placement! Well." Gorriti wiped his eyes. "Even supposing it had any, my orders remain unequivocal, and I will tell you, Captain, that
I
am not one of those who feel we must hold the Arm at any cost!"

Jela took a hard breath and kept a firm grip on his temper. "I'll still need to inspect your defenses," he said, evenly, that being the reason for his visit, according to the papers Cantra had produced for him. Commander Gorriti waved an unconcerned hand.

"Go, inspect! Orders are orders, after all. Allow me to provide you an escort." He raised his voice. "Sergeant Lorit!"

The door in the right-hand wall popped open and an M Series soldier stepped briskly into the room with a sharp salute for her commander.

"Sir?"

"Sergeant, the captain here is under orders to inspect our defenses. Take him on a tour, won't you?"

"Yes, sir," she said and transferred her attention to Jela. "This way, Captain."

"Thank you, Sergeant," he said. He hesitated, trying to form something useful to say to Commander Gorriti, something that would bring him to a sense of a soldier's duty—but the man was engrossed in reading his orders, fondling the appended ribbons. Sighing, Jela crossed to the patiently waiting M, and followed her out of the room.

THE FORT, TO which Cantra turned her attention after Jela disappeared for his-forever behind the guarded inner gate, was something interesting. She set herself to walking about, getting a feel for the layout.

It was a substantial edifice, formed out of cermacrete. The first gate and all behind it to the inner, was public, and looked a deal like any spaceport, only much smaller than even the smallest she'd seen. There were three eateries, a bar, two sleepovers, some sorry looking shops selling necessaries, and a sagging trade hall where the choices on offer were "antiques" and ore.

Despite there being nothing much there, really, the public gate area of the fort was buzzing. Cantra hadn't supposed there were any law-abiding citizens left, but as it happened, her supposition was wrong. Granted, those left looked to be miners, which it was likely a charity to give them "law-abiding," and most still working claims, which explained the ore on offer, but not necessarily the type or grade.

A pilot is only as good as her curiosity bump, or so Garen'd maintained. Besides, there might be something here worth taking on, that was wanted elsewhere.
No sense
, she told herself,
lifting empty
, trying hard not to think just how empty
Dancer
was going to be.

It ain't you that's dying
, she snarled, aghast to find her vision swimming with sudden tears. She took a hard breath, and looked around her.

Live pilots need food
, she told herself carefully,
and their ships need fuel. That means cargo, Pilot Cantra. Focus.

Focus. Right. A sign advertising eats caught her eye, which seemed propitious. She crossed the street and sauntered in, looking for info.

That she shortly had, by way of one Morsh, who was agreeable to paying for her tea and rations with amiable chat about her homeworld.

The mines, according to Morsh were nicely full of timonium.

"Not like the oldays, mindee," Morsh cautioned her. "Back de before, all dem shafts fill wit stuff? Back de before, dose shafts still bean work. Yeah, it was timonium, then, too, and ollie made money hand over hand. Miners, they made considerable less, but still not too bad. Now, timonium he hide harder, so ollie pull out, de money bean less easy. Us, dough, we know where timonium hide, so we do. Not in mine-outs er garbage pits. Timonium, he hide in little pocket an sharp corner. We fine him, yeah, an we sell true de tradehall, freelance. Do bout as good as when ollie run it, and no olliecop stickin his nose where don it belong."

"Stuff in the shafts?" Cantra murmured. "Ollie leave his boots?"

Morsh snorted a dry laugh, and had her a swallow of tea. "Ollie take him boots, missy. Dat stuff, it here before ollie. M'gran, she said de Vane been mine longtime. Story was, de Vane solid timonium, clear true." She shook her head. "Ain't, dough."

"The antiques on offer at the tradehall, they're out from the mines?" Cantra persisted, thinking about Jela's world-shield, and, truth told, feeling just a little uneasy about a major cache of oddments dating back to the First Phase.

"Dey are," Morsh agreed. "Tecky like dat ol stuff."

Cantra sipped her tea. "Old stuff still work?"

"Ah, who know," Morsh said, with great unconcern. "Tecky don care. Wanna peek at de possibles, er maybe takem souvenir." She grinned. "Soften up tecky bed-bounce."

Cantra laughed. "Maybe so." She picked up the pot and refreshed the tea mugs. "Supposing," she said. "Supposing I was interested in hunting some old stuff down in the mine-outs. How'd I go about that?"

Morsh laughed, and shook her head. "You ain no treasure-tecky, missy."

"'deed I am not," Cantra agreed. "But a woman sometimes needs a bit of extra something to keep her warm 'tween paying jobs, if you understand me."

"Timonium pay better. I sign you partner."

"'preciate," she said. "But I'm thinking I know somebody might have an interest in the old tech."

Morsh shrugged. "Get you a paydown wit pit boss," she said. "You risk, you take. You fail, nobody care. You don fail, nobody care, too."

She nodded. "Fair."

"Soldier, he take a piece on de port. You don wanna pay, you come see Morsh, she show you freedancer."

I'll bet you will
, Cantra thought, keeping her face thoughtful as she sipped her tea. "Don't know 'bout the dark market..."

"Nothing dark," Morsh said firmly. "Ain soldier port, ain soldier ore. Soldier ain sweated and toiled. Wherefore dey get a piece?"

"I guess," Cantra said dubiously and finished off her tea. "It was an idea, is all. I'll jig around and see what else might turn up."

"Do dat," Morsh said with a chuckle. "Maybe jig down Inside. Fortunes waitin for to be made Inside, I hear."

"Yeah," said Cantra rising and dropping a few coins onto the table. "I hear that, too."

THE DEFENSES, DULY inspected, were in better shape than Jela had feared, given Commander Gorriti; though it was likely the M soldiers who had made sure the old fort was defensible. There were a good many refurbs of older, not to say obsolete, equipment in evidence, and a couple outright fabrications. Lorit stood by with a blank, soldierly face while he inspected it all, not offering him much more than, "Yes, sir," "No, sir," and "Couldn't say, sir," which was how he himself would treat an unknown officer appearing on the eve of evacuation with orders to inspect the defenses.

"That's the lot, then?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," she answered stolidly.

Jela eyed her, made his decision. "I'm going to level with you, Sergeant. Your defenses are in top shape, considering what you had to work with—but you know that. The reason I'm here so close on the heels of the pull-back order is because somebody at Command realized they'd been ignoring something pertinent. There's a record from the First Phase that indicates this fort was equipped with a world-shield capable of turning away a
sheriekas
attack. That it was partly the use of this device that stopped the
sheriekas
here, and disheartened them so much that they pulled back." He gave her a straight look, which she met expressionlessly. "I'd appreciate being taken to that device, Sergeant."

She didn't say anything, and he didn't rush her. Just met her eyes straight on and let her make her own determination, trusting to her M nature—

"To the best of my knowledge, and the knowledge of the troop," she said, carefully, "there is no such device here. Sir."

"But," he prompted, and damn' if she didn't smile.

"But," she acknowledged, "this planet has so many mines through it, it's a wonder the surface doesn't collapse. And somebody, somewhen, stockpiled a shitload of First Phase tech down in the shafts. Could be your armor's down there. But I wouldn't know how to start to look for it. Sir."

Jela blinked. "How much tech," he asked, but Lorit only shrugged her broad shoulders.

"A lot," was all she said, then, "Are you done here, sir? I can escort you back to the gate."

"I'm done," he said, "but where I'd like you to escort me, if you would, is to the M services medic."

She gave him a hard stare. "Problem, sir?"

"Not necessarily," he said, keeping his voice even. "To the best of my knowledge, I'm approaching decommission."

Her stare softened, and she turned, leading him back the way they'd come. "This way, sir," she said.

CANTRA HEADED BACK to the tradehall for one more tour, though it was beginning to look like lifting empty was her option. She had a commission, should she choose to accept it—deliver a leather log-book to Solcintra, which was a fair trip from Vanehald, though not so far as Vanehald from Landomist—and nothing to trade for there, either, she thought, trying to work up some annoyance. Nobody went to Solcintra, which Solcintra liked just fine, the founders of same having explicitly wished to divorce themselves from the so-called "dissipated lifestyle" embraced by the citizens of the Inner Worlds.