Crystal Dragon (45 page)

For now.

Ilneri set them a business-like, unalarming pace down that long row of watchful faces, and Cantra let out the breath she hadn't known she'd been holding when they finally passed through the gate and were inside the garrison proper.

"Ah!" Tor An gasped and would have stopped, excepting Stile reached out and gently pushed him onward.

"There's the lieutenant up ahead, Pilot," she said to him, in a large whisper. "We'll need to get cleared."

Twelve paces out from the officer's position, Ilneri stopped, smacked his heels together smart and whipped off a salute so sharp it was like to cut somebody.

"Sergeant Ilneri and Specialist Stile escorting Pilots yos'Phelium and yos'Galan," he rapped out. "Sir."

"Troops report to Technical Services," the lieutenant said. "Pilot yos'Phelium. You and your co-pilot are to report to Captain Wellik, soonest."

"There's no compromise on Captain's Justice," Cantra said for the third or eighty-fourth time. Her voice was barely more than a cracked whisper after all these hours of negotiation, and at that she wasn't the most worn of those at the table. The boy—Tor An—he was running on guts and honor; and Vel Ter jo'Bern—second on the Service Families side—was actually trembling. The first on the Families' side of the table, and Cantra's opposite, was one Nalli Olanek, who looked as fresh and as perky as a new coin, damn her timonium-wrapped nerves.

"Pilot," Nalli said again, "surely you must see that we cannot submit to the decision of a single individual in matters of life and death—"

Cantra pushed back her chair and stood. Tor An blinked, and came to his feet within the next heartbeat—a proper co-pilot, backing his pilot's judgment. Vel Ter jo'Bern gaped. Nalli Olanek waited, her hands folded neatly on the table.

"We been through this," Cantra told her; "and I'm only going to say it one time more, after which we'll be leaving you gentles to decide just how much you want a ride out of here. I will take leave to remind you it's the Service Families seeking this contract, not the pilots. The pilots have a vessel and are free to depart as they will. Their need for passengers is—" She bent forward slightly, staring hard into Nalli Olanek's gray eyes. "Let's just say our need for passengers isn't
acute
. That read out clear to you, Speaker?"

The other woman inclined her head, face bland.

"Good. Now—Captain's Justice. Despite whatever might work on the ground here in terms of councils and consensus, on a ship there can only be one voice that's law; one person who decides for the ship, and therefore the common good. The difference between a ship's life and death is sometimes only heartbeats—there's no time to consult a committee and have the matter discussed and re-discussed until a compromise can be had. If it comes down to it—which, Deeps willing, it won't—and the choice is whether to jettison half the outer ring in order to preserve the other half and the pilots—then that decision of ship's survival rightly falls to the captain. Not to the passengers, and not to the co-pilot, neither, saving if the captain's incapacitated. The hierarchy of a ship, Speaker—- as I've said, and as Pilot yos'Galan has likewise said—is this: The co-pilot cares for the pilot. The pilot cares for the ship and for the passengers. In that order." She took a hard breath and traded long stares with Nalli Olanek.

"If you and yours can't abide by that hierarchy, then you and yours can find some other way off this world."

Nalli Olanek inclined her head. "Your insistence that the captain be the final arbiter of any disputes between the passengers is—"

"Is non-negotiable," Cantra interrupted. "Part and parcel of the captain's duty to the greater good. If the integrity of most of the passengers can be insured by spacing one person, you can be sure that's what will happen. Now." She bent forward, putting her hands flat on the table, and looked from Olanek to jo'Bern.

"If you object to the captain having final judgement over your folk, then all you have to do is solve your own problems and never let them reach the captain's ear. Once the captain's aware of a problem, it
will be
solved. Am I clear here, Speaker? I don't want to leave you any doubts."

Stares again, and for a wonder Nalli Olanek looked away first.

"Pilot, you are clear. We should perhaps, as you suggest, adjourn, and meet here again in six hours to finalize the contract."

"Suits." Cantra pushed herself upright and caught the boy's eye. "Pilot."

He bowed to the two Grounders. "Speaker," he murmured. "Elder Hedrede." Cantra let his courtesy count for both of them and strode to the door, knocked and strode out when it opened, the boy at her heels.

Kwinz was waiting at the end of the hall, looking neither rested nor tired.

"Pilots," she said, with a respectful nod. "Captain Wellik requests a word."

Cantra stopped and frowned. "There was something I meant to settle with Wellik," she said, her voice cracked and wandering. "You recall what that might've been, Pilot yos'Galan?"

The boy cleared his throat. "I am not perfectly certain, Pilot," he answered, his pretty voice scarcely more than a thread. "But I believe you intended to tear off his arm and use it to beat him to death."

"That was it." She grinned up at Kwinz. "It'll be my pleasure to have a word with the captain, Corporal. Lead on."

If Kwinz thought about grinning, she didn't share the moment. Blank-faced, she spun sharp on a heel and marched straight-backed down the hall.

THE AETHER WAS THICK with ice, the ley lines shriveled and thin. Tentatively, Lute extended his will, touched a line—felt it tremble, stagger, and sob. It lost luster even as he enclosed it within his regard, all bright promises of hope shredding away into darkness.

He released the line with a pang, while the icy wind brought him the taint of a separate poison—his lady's sister, bringing her troops and her weapons to bear.

Slowly, he slipped toward the physical plane, tarrying at the fourth level, where the Spiral Arm displayed itself in a simple dance of light—and all but cried out.

He
knew
—at the very core of his being, he knew—what it was that the Iloheen intended. And yet to see it thus—the dance blighted, the light blotted... and the Shadow—the Shadow growing so quickly...

Wailing, he fell into his body, and lifted a tear-streaked face to his lady.

"What is it?" She asked, looking up from her loom with a frown.

"The stars," he began, as if he were a child—and could go no further. He bent his head, covered his face—and looked up with a gasp when his lady's hand came warm upon his shoulder.

"Nay," she said softly, and there were tears on her face, as well. "Weep, for the dying of the light. Who has more right?"

Who, indeed? He thought, but made an effort to master himself, nonetheless.

"Your sister," he whispered. "Her lance is poised."

"Ah." Lady Moonhawk inclined her head. "We shall seek Rool Tiazan, then. When you have finished dispensing your grace."

WELLIK WAS STANDING over the tank-map behind his desk, staring into the starry depths. He glanced up as they entered, delivered himself of a brief, "Thank you, Kwinz. Dismissed." and returned to his stare.

Kwinz took her orders to heart, the door closing emphatically behind her.

"You'll want to know, Pilot Cantra," Wellik said, his attention still on the tank, "that the archeology crew vacated this afternoon. Nice, clean departure. Professional, you might say."

"Right." Cantra considered the side of his face. "Saw Arin's brother on the port yesterday, which is prolly what inspired the change in quarters."

"It's a good thing, so I've heard, to have brothers," Wellik said ruminatively. "Brothers in arms, for instance..." His voice faded, mouth tightening.

Cantra waited, and when she'd counted out a dozen heartbeats and he still stood caught in his brood, offering neither order nor invitation, she walked over to stand beside him.

"Take a look," Wellik said, as soft as his big voice might manage. "You're an astute woman, Pilot. What d'you make of that?"

She looked down into the tank, at the swirl and glitter and busyness that was the Spiral Arm in miniature.

...at the places where the swirl was ragged and wrong. At the pattern that was taking shape out of the new darkness, as if in null reflection...

"That's not looking good, if you don't mind my saying so, Captain," she said slowly. "I'm missing a lot of what I shouldn't be off a map of this caliber."

"Real-time updates," he said, and tapped a finger against the display, bringing a certain, particular sector of nothing up close and personal.

"Headquarters," he muttered, looking down. "Or—where Headquarters isn't anymore." He sent her a grin, hard and humorless. "We're on our own."

"Thought you didn't report to Headquarters."

"We didn't," he said seriously. "But even soldiers nourish expectations, Pilot. The expectation of the war eventually being won, for instance. The expectation that the High Command will spit in the faces of those who bought them, and take up true soldier's duty again." He sighed, and tapped the display, shrinking his particular bit of nothing back into the whole. "There are no expectations, now, except of an inglorious defeat, in which a few of us may survive to
run away
."

"Life wants to live, Captain," she said softly, and Wellik snorted.

"So it does. Speaking of which, how do your talks with the Families progress?"

"About as well as you thought they would when you put us in the position of having to deal with them at all," she answered, too tired to even snarl. "Why's it gotta be us? You got transport to spare."

He raised his head and looked at her, as bleak as she'd ever seen a man.

"We take rear-guard," he said, stark and plain. "It's our duty and our honor to protect those who are not soldiers."

"Meaning you won't have 'em in your way." Cantra sighed. "Can't say I blame you. Don't much care to have 'em in my way."

"They do not properly grasp ship protocol," Tor An added, surprisingly, from his vantage across the tank. "Pilot Cantra has very clearly explained ship necessities and the reasons which shape each, and I believe that Speaker Olanek has finally understood that upon points of ship's safety, the Captain is the final judge."

"She better understand it," Cantra said to Wellik's upraised eyebrow. "Because if she doesn't, she and hers can stay right here, soldier honor be damned." She sighed and raked her fingers through her hair. Deeps, she was tired. "They're supposed to come back in six hours with a viable contract, and somewhere before that, the pilots have got to have some downtime."

Wellik nodded, and moved toward his desk. "I won't keep you much longer," he said. "We did an analysis on the transitions of the ships the High Families hired—they're heading In."

Tor An looked down into the tank, then to Cantra, his brows pulled tight.

"There are ...instances of Enemy action Inside, as well," he murmured. "These layers of darkness on the captain's map..."

"That's right," Wellik said. "They're taking bites where it pleases them. Or, as soldier-kind learns in creche—no place is safe." He picked something up off his desk. "Pilot Cantra," he said, and tossed it, soft and low.

She caught it—another log book like the one Jela'd carried—and riffled the pages, finding them uniformly blank.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" she asked. Wellik shrugged, and turned back to his desk.

"Whatever you want, Pilot. You seemed to have an attachment to Jela's field book, so I thought you'd maybe like one of your own. It doesn't do me any good."

"Right." The leather felt smooth and soothing against her fingers. She tucked it inside her jacket and looked at Tor An, jerking her head toward the door. He took the hint, wobbling a little as he walked.

She sent a last hard look down into the tank—so
much
darkness—and followed him. Halfway to the door, she stopped; looked to the desk, and the big man bent over it, shoulders hunched.

"Get some rest, why not, Captain?" She said, easy and gentle. Comradely.

He shot her a glance over his shoulder, inclined at first to be prideful; then smiled, lopsided.

"I'll do that, Pilot. Thank you."

"'s'all right," she said and took the boy's arm. "Let's go, Pilot. Shift's over."

THE JOURNEY TO THE inner lattices had tired the old one; the direct experience of the Iloheen's work had struck him to the core. He had returned to his body changed—as who would not be, having beheld the death of stars?—and with determination reborn within him.

"I see it," he had murmured, as Rool eased him into his bed, and his lady reached forth their hands to soothe him. "I see how it must be done..."

"Grandfather, that is well," she said gently. "Rest now, and recruit your strength. We shall all stand ready to do your biding, when you wake."

Perforce, the old man had slept, cocooned in healing energies. Rool straightened the quilt over the frail body, and smiled as the cat settled himself against the old one's hip.

"Well done," he murmured. "The scholar requires all the aid that we may give him."

He moved into the common room, and over to the window. This state of idle waiting—it was new, and odd. And unsettling, as even here, in this form, and on this plane, he could feel the Iloheen's will gathering. Soon. Very soon.

A disturbance in the energies of the room brought him 'round from the window. He bowed, gently and with no irony intended.

"Lady Moonhawk. Brother."

"Rool Tiazan," the lady answered, with unexpected courtesy. "Sister. Doubtless, you are aware of the Iloheen and the progress of their work. Indeed, I should imagine that you might find the progress of their work ...deafening."

"Nearly so," he admitted.

"You may therefore
not
be aware that our esteemed sister has put some portion of her forces into harrying the Iloheen at their work. I assume she does this to take advantage of whatever elasticity reside within the lines, thus far from the event."