Crystal Soldier (45 page)

"Nasty," Cantra said, and meant it. She looked directly at the lady. "So, why're you still walking, if it can be told? From what Jela tells me, I don't expect the Enemy likes deserters none."

The lady smiled tightly.

"This pairing is a—miscalculation, Pilot. When we realized the extent and kind of our abilities, we used them to liberate as many of our kind as possible. However, the
sheriekas
have other means of disposal at their beck, and time grows short—" she sent a swift glance to Jela—"for all."

He nodded. "I'm sorry to interrupt, Lady, and glad of an explanation of how your corps operates."

"Ah. Then I may proceed?"

"Please."

"So. Our colleague Lute and his dominant have determined that it may be possible for them and for those
dramliz
of like mind, to insert themselves into the fabric of the universe as it decrystallizes and to exert their wills in such a way as to—form a bubble universe in which life might thrive, surrounded, yet apart from, the
sheriekas
eternity."

There were few enough times when Cantra had reason to think kindly on her schooling—and this was one of those rare occasions. She neither blinked nor laughed, and was confident that her face hadn't changed expression. A quick glance to the side showed Jela doing pretty well, too, though he did raise a hand, signing
clarification
.

"Yes?" the lady said, none-too-gentle.

"I wonder why they think this is possible," Jela said mildly, which was as fine a bit of understatement as Cantra'd heard lately.

The lady glared, apparently finding Jela too dim for conversation, for it was once again Rool Tiazan who answered.

"They see it merely as a return to a more efficient former state, M. Jela, and anticipate little difficulty in re-crystalizing a life-friendly universe from some portion of decrystallized matter."

"I . . . see," Jela said carefully. "What about you—do you think this is a reasonable plan?"

There was a short pause, then the lady sighed.

"Wingleader, you must understand that what the
sheriekas
attempt—what they are accomplishing at an ever more rapid rate— is . . . unprecedented. The
dramliz
—we are pushing the edge of what we know to be possible, and while we may be closer to the enemy in kind and talent than any living thing, we are as children."

"That being so," Cantra heard her own voice ask, "you're still talking in terms of escape?"

The lady turned to look at her, amber eyes serious.

"We—Rool, Lute, my sister and I—we seek escape. We believe that escape, in one form or another, is possible. There are others of us who believe that the
sheriekas
can be defeated."

"Can they?" Cantra asked, fascinated despite herself. Deeps knew, the Enemy was a threat to everything in the path of themselves or their works—had been for all her life, and all of Garen's too. But the notion of—descrystallizing, whatever that was meant to say—the known galaxy in the hopes of creating one better, out of will and cussedness alone—

"M. Jela," Rool Tiazan said, so soft he might have been a part of her thoughts, "has a good bit of the math which describes the process, Lady Cantra."

She glared. "Read that right out, didn't you?"

He smiled at her, and glanced down at the top of his lady's head.

"Neither I nor the majority of the philosophers among the free
dramliz
believe that the
sheriekas
may be defeated," the lady said in her prim, serious voice. "Not by the
dramliz
, nor by the forces of humanity, nor even by those forces combined." She glanced aside, down the room to where Jela's tree stood tall in its pot, leaves at attention.

"Had we a dozen worlds of
ssussdriad
at the height of their powers, with legions of dragons at their call—we do not believe even that would be enough to defeat the
sheriekas
."

"But there are
dramliz
who are going to engage the enemy, even knowing they'll fail," Jela said, more like he was checking facts than questioning the sanity of the proposition.

"There are those who
must
fight, M. Jela," Rool Tiazan said gently. "As to failure—all we attempt, as a force and individually, may yet end there."

"We hope that it will be otherwise," his lady added.

"Right." Jela shifted a little in his chair, eyes on the farthest corner of the tower.

"What I see, from soldier's eyes, is that your corps has a dual-pronged campaign on the board: A group of fighters to draw the enemy's attention and forces while those with Ser Lute attempt to capture and keep a reduced territory. The question comes back: What do you want from us?"

He moved a hand, enclosing himself, the tree and Cantra in the circle of "us," which was cheek—or maybe not. She'd eaten the damn' nuts, hadn't she?

There was a small silence, as if Rool Tiazan and his lady took lightning counsel of each other on a level not available to the rest of them.

"Wingleader," the lady said, "we have, in fact, a
three
-pronged plan. For our part, Rool and I have determined to liberate the mathematician Liad dea'Syl, whose work has continued to evolve and now transcends that with which you are familiar."

She closed her lips and refolded her hands, as if that explained all.

Cantra sent a glance to Jela, only to have it bounce off ungiving black eyes. Right.

She looked back to the
dramliza
.

"I'm not following," she said to the lady.

The prim mouth opened—and closed. Her thin red brows pulled sharply together.

"Rool?"

"Indeed," he murmured. His eyes were open, but Cantra was willing to lay steep odds that he wasn't seeing anything like
Dancer's
piloting tower.

"What is it?" That was Jela, quiet, so as not to startle the look-out.

"A hound has discovered us," the lady said softly, shifting around on the jump seat so that she faced her mate. "It may be possible—"

"Neutralized," Rool Tiazan said, in a flat, distant voice. He took a breath, his focus coming rapidly back to the present, the tower, his lady.

"The absence will be noted," he murmured, looking down into her eyes. "Soon."

"What did they see?" the lady demanded.

He moved a hand, the stone on his forefinger throwing out flickers of black lightning.

"The maelstrom of the luck. Our ally the
ssussdriad
obscured much, but in the final moment the lady knew me."

"So," the lady squared her thin shoulders. "We to play decoy, then. Locate an appropriate scenario."

"Yes." He closed his eyes, and Cantra was abruptly aware of a sense of absence, as if the essence of the being known as Rool Tiazan had departed the common weal.

The lady twisted, coming off the jump-seat in a flurry of gray and spun to face Jela.

"Wingleader—your mission!" she snapped, a mouse giving orders to a mountain.

Jela moved his shoulders, but—"Tell me," was all he said.

"You, the pilot and the
ssussdriad
will proceed to the world Landomist, where Revered Scholar Liad dea'Syl is confined with all honor to Osabei Tower. You will gain his equations which describe the recrystallization exclusion function. You will then use them as you see fit, for the continuation and the best interest of life. We will draw off the
sheriekas
lord who now has our enterprise under scrutiny. The hound did not see you—only us." She paused, her thin form seemed to waver, to mist slightly at the edges—then she was as solid as the decking on which she stood. Solid as Jela, who sent a long black glance at her, and said nothing at all.

"Wingleader, I require your word," the lady said softly.

Jela spun his chair to face the tree; spun back to face the lady.

"You have my word. I will do my utmost to liberate Scholar dea'Syl's equations and use them in the service of life."

The lady turned to face Cantra, who pushed up from her lean, ready to resist any demands for her oath—

"There are two," Rool Tiazan said, in that flat, distant voice, and held out a hand.

The lady altered her trajectory, and landed at his side, her hand gripping his.

"We will diminish," he said.

"
Diminish
holds a hope that
extinction
does not," the lady answered. "Proceed."

"Nay, look closely . . . "

"I see it," she snapped. "Proceed!"

Wreathed in mist, he opened his eyes.

"M. Jela—your choice! A death in battle or of old age?"

Jela was on his feet. "What are you doing?" he demanded, but Rool Tiazan merely repeated, on a rising note.

"A choice, M. Jela! Time flees!"

"Battle, then," Jela said, calm as if he was deciding between beer and ale.

Across the chamber, Rool Tiazan smiled, and raised his lady's hand to his lips.

"So," he said softly. "It is done."

The mist was thicker around the two of them. From the midst of it, came the lady's voice, calm and sounding distant.

"This world tectonically active, and there will soon be an earthquake of major proportion. It would be well if you were soon gone. The confusion will cover your departure."

There was a sudden toothy howl of wind, harrying the thickening fog, the temperature plummeted, the mist shredded—

The
dramliz
were gone.

Cantra spun to the board, slapped it live, initiated a self-check, and spun back to glare at Jela.

"Tell me you saw that," she snapped.

"I saw it," he answered, and gave her a long, deep look. "I believe it, too."

"So, you're for Landomist."

"I am," he answered. "I thought we all three had our orders."

The board beeped readiness; the tree sent an image of dark clouds and lightning, with more and worse towering behind . . .

The ship trembled a moment, rocking on the tarmac. Alarms lit the board in yellow, orange, and red.

Swearing, Cantra hit the pilot's chair, yanking the webbing tight.

"Strap in," she snapped at Jela, "this is gonna be rough."

-END-

WE STARTED WRITING
Crystal Soldier
in 1986. Sharon was working at the University of Maryland's Modern Languages and Linguistics Department at the time and the overruns and too-light copies came home with her to become "first draft paper." First draft paper was something we needed when using actual typewriters, if you want to know how far back that really was.

We still have three attempts at a beginning for what we were then calling
Chaos and the Tree
, typed on the backs of dittoed Spanish 101 vocabulary sheets and mimeographed Russian Lit exams.

To place this as nearly as possible: We'd already written
Agent of Change
,
Conflict of Honors
, and most of a third novel, pieces of which would become
Carpe Diem
; as well as an astonishing number of fragments, sketches, scenes, and word lists. It was a time of frenetic creativity, where one idea would smack into another, and dozens of child-ideas would spin off in all directions, like some cosmic game of pool. Needless to say, darn few of those ideas sank neatly into side pockets and waited patiently for retrieval. It was all we could do note down trajectories and intentions, and hope to be able to get back at some less frenzied future time for more details.

It was during the pool game phase of our careers, then, that we realized we were going to have to write the story of Val Con's many-times-great-grandma, the smuggler, and the origins of Clan Korval, so, with the brass-plated confidence of complete ignorance, we began . . . .

 . . . and stopped.

And began . . .

 . . . and stopped.

And began . . .

 . . . and realized that we were too young in craft to do justice to the story we could feel building, like a long towering line of thunder heads, just beyond the ridge of our skill.

Having realized that we were yet too young to write about Jela, Cantra, and what befell them, we put the story aside, with a promise to the characters that we would not forget them; that we would come back when we were old enough and tell their story as it was meant to be told.

We had plenty to keep us busy in the meantime, what with one thing and another. There was a delay in the publishing, a major move, cats to feed. Along the way we'd have requests from readers wanting to know more about Clan Korval's roots. So we made a promise to the readers that we'd try to tell the beginning of the story, if we could.

Over time, we finished out the story arc concerning Cantra's trouble-prone descendants, and, when Stephe Pagel asked us what we'd be writing for him after Balance of Trade, we said that we thought we were now old enough to make good on certain promises of our youth.

Herewith is the first of two installments which will fulfill those promises. We hope you've enjoyed it. Sharon Lee and Steve Miller August 3, 2004