The Crystal Variation (57 page)

She leaned back in her chair then, stretching ‘way back, then relaxed and sent a grin into his face.

So, what you’ll be, Pilot Jela, is a for-true Shinto kobold, escorting a genuine Chaler custom build. If anybody wants to sample your DNA, won’t do ‘em any good, on account Chaler don’t file, and I’m guessing the military don’t exactly publish the particulars regarding M Series soldier aloud and abroad.

He’d admitted that, not that he’d had to, and she bent again to her task, cutting a wandering scholar from whole cloth, seamlessly working a kobold and a horticultural specimen into her new reality, working with a concentration so absolute that he hadn’t dared disturb her to suggest anything so mundane as food, or sleep. And when she was at long last done, she’d gotten up from her work table, stretched—looked at him where he hunched over his equations, and held out a slim hand.

Him, he’d looked up at her, trying to read her face, but it was fear he thought he was seeing, and that had to be wrong. There’d never been a woman alive less afraid than Cantra yos’Phelium.

Got time for some pleasure, Pilot? I’m thinking it’ll be my last in this lifetime, and I’d like to share it with you.

It was maybe the way she’d said it, or maybe again that thing that couldn’t be fear in her misty green eyes—but he’d taken her hand, and they’d shared a grand and pleasurable time. At last, sated with delight, they napped, and though he hadn’t slept long, or deeply, when he woke she was gone, locked away and a note at his work place, telling him what he had to do next.

He’d followed orders, stowing what was needed in a backpack, and clearing out anything that showed the length of their stay, or the nature of their work. And sometime shortly after he’d begun to consider disobeying his orders, Errant-Scholar Maelyn tay’Nordif, native of Vetzu, one-time student of Master Liad dea’Syl walked into the workroom there at the lodgings, her cold green eyes brushing over him as if he were of less worth than the chair he sat in.

The shadow of a wing passed over his thoughts, and he pulled himself back to the chained present just as the door to his alcove slid open and the guard stepped forward to free him.

“Pick up the specimen, Jela,” Scholar tay’Nordif snapped irritably from the hall. “And follow me.”

THE GARRISON WAS
at some distance from the port; he hired a cab and sat quietly in the passenger’s compartment, one hand in the pocket of his jacket, fingers curled into a fist. He made himself look out onto the port and passing streets, marveling at the busy ordinariness of the day. Surely, if what he feared were so, there would be some sign here, so close to the . . . area of occurrence? Surely, if the Ringstars, with their populations of millions, had vanished, there would be—
something
, here among the nearest of their neighbors to mark their passing? Business suspended? Banners of formal mourning shrouding the shop windows?

Surely, whole star systems could not simply cease to be, unnoticed and unmourned?

And yet the trade master had behaved as if such . . . disappearances . . . were commonplace, which might be dealt with by filling out paperwork and issuing alerts . . .

His stomach clenched, and he felt ill. Resolutely, he swallowed, and took deep, even breaths.

The cab left the business district and ascended a ramp. There was a slight lurch as the internal navigator ceded control of the vehicle to the slotway overbrain, then a smooth gathering of speed, sufficient to press him out of his tense lean and back into the seat. The window he had been looking out of opaqued, obliterating the outside world. He sighed and closed his eyes. Deliberately, he brought up the image of his garden at . . . home, the last time he had seen it. The piata tree was in bloom, its multitude of tiny flowers casting a pale blue shadow over the dark, waxy leaves. He breathed in, and the imagined scent of the flowers soothed his roiling belly.

The cab slowed, canted, staggered slightly as control shifted back to the internals, and continued on at a sedate pace. Tor An took one more deep breath, the ghost of flower-spice on his tongue, and opened his eyes.

Window transparent once more, the cab stopped before a great cermacrete wall. Before the wall stood two very large individuals wearing maximum duty ‘skins, each holding a weapon at the ready.

“Korak Garrison,” the cab stated abruptly in its flat, featureless voice. The door to his right lifted. “Disembark.”

Stomach upset anew, Tor An climbed out of the vehicle. The two soldiers were watching him with interest, or so it seemed to his over-wrought nerves. They both had some sort of bright decorations on their faces which obscured their expressions. He did not, however, imagine the intent eyes, nor the fact that the nearer soldier moved her weapon a bit, so that its discharge slot pointed directly at him.

He swallowed. “Wait,” he said to the cab.

“Disallowed,” it answered, the door descending so quickly he had to dance back a step in order not to be struck in the head—and another two in order to avoid being run over as it made a tight turn and sped back toward the slotway.

Behind him, he heard the soldiers laugh. He gritted his teeth, took a deep breath in a not entirely successful attempt to settle his stomach and walked toward them, chin resolutely up, lips pressed together in a firm line.

“Change your mind?” the farther guard asked as he approached. “Little one?”

“I merely wished to be certain that I would have transport back to port,” he said politely.

“Not a worry,” the nearer guard said, and smiled, displaying extremely white and very pointed teeth.

They were surely attempting to unnerve him—and, truth told, succeeding in some measure. However, he had been the youngest amidst an abundance of elder cousins and siblings, and had furthermore survived the hazings which were the lot of the juniormost pilot; thus he possessed some strategies for dealing with bullies.

Accordingly, he bowed—slightly, to demonstrate that he was a man of worth who was not intimidated by mere large persons, no matter how obviously armed—and sent a grave look into the nearer soldier’s face.

The artwork—an eight-pointed star and a ship on the right cheek; a vertical series of four blue stripes on the left—was disconcerting, but he concentrated his attention and met her eyes, ignoring her amusement.

“My name is Tor An yos’Galan of Alkia Trade Clan, out of the Ringstars,” he said steadily. “Pray announce me to your commander. I bear information of some value.”

The soldier was unimpressed. She moved her shoulders, and the discharge slot described a casual arc across his chest. He ignored the weapon and kept his eyes on hers, waiting for his answer.

“What kind of information?” she asked at last, grudgingly.

“I believe it would be best for me to impart it directly to the commander,” Tor An said. “Or to the commander’s designated aide. If you are that person . . .” He let the sentence trail off delicately.

The farther guard snorted. The other frowned.

“We don’t pass people to the commander just so they can chat,” she said sternly. “Tell us what you want. If we think you’ve got a case, we’ll pass you. Otherwise, you can start walking back to port.”

He had not wished . . . And yet, she had a point, this large, rude person with her painted face. Did the doorman at home allow every self-claimed investor access to Alkia’s Voice?

He bowed again, even more slightly than previously.

“I have information that the Ringstars are—” his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and began again. “I have information that the Ringstars are—missing. A ship sent to known coordinates within the system falls from transition and reports that the target is unavailable.”

The guard’s mouth tightened, and she sent a quick over-shoulder glance at her mate.

“Old news,” he said, his voice conveying vast boredom.

“Right,” the nearer guard answered after a moment. She sighed and turned back to Tor An.

“We are aware of the situation, little one. Get out of here.”

For a moment he simply stood, the words not quite scanning—and then her meaning hit and he gasped, spine tingling with outrage.

“You
know
that the Ringstars are missing?” he asked, voice rising out of the tone of calm reason most appropriate for a trader.

The nearer guard frowned. “That’s right,” she said, and shifted her weapon meaningfully.

He ignored the hint. “What are you doing about it?” he demanded.

The farther guard barked—or perhaps it was laughter.

“Not doing anything about it,” the nearer guard said. “What do you expect us to do about it? It’s not like the Ringstars are the first system that’s gone missing in this war.” She raised her weapon this time, and again displayed her sharpened teeth—not at all a smile. “Get out of here, little one. Go back to port, get drunk, get laid. When you wake up sober, hire yourself out and get on with your life.”

But Tor An, awash in disbelief, had stopped listening. He stared up into her face. “Other star systems have gone missing?” he repeated. “That’s impossible.”

“You’re the one who came here with information that your precious Ringstars are gone,” she snapped. “If it can happen once, it can happen twice. Or don’t they teach you civilians stats and probability?”

He took a step forward, hands fisted at his side. “
What are you doing about it?
” he shouted. “You’re supposed to protect us! If whole star systems are going away,
where are they going
? And why aren’t you stopping—”

“Shut up, you fool!” the nearer guard snarled, but the warning—if it were meant as anything so kindly—was too late.

A section of the wall behind her parted, and a third tall soldier stepped through.

The two guards stiffened, their weapons now definitively trained on Tor An, who was staring at the newcomer.

He, too, displayed various signs and sigils on his face—more than either of the guards, those on the right cheek so numerous that they overlapped each other. Over his maximum duty ‘skins he wore a vest hung about with many ribbons, and the belt around his waist supported both a beam pistol and a long ceramic blade.

“Captain,” the nearer soldier said respectfully.

“Corporal,” the newcomer responded, coldly. His face was turned to Tor An, the light brown eyes startling among the riot of color. “What seems to be the problem?”

“No problem, sir,” the corporal said. Tor An gasped.

“Very true,” he said and was mortified to hear that his voice was shaking. “You have made it quite clear that the fact of entire star systems vanishing is no concern of yours.” He took a breath, and inclined his head toward the captain. “This officer, however . . .”

The officer’s cold eyes considered him. If his face bore any expression at all beneath the artwork, it was more than Tor An could do to read it.

“You have information,” the captain said, his hard voice free of both inflection and courtesy, “regarding a missing star system.”

“Sir, I do.” He moved a hand to indicate the two guards. “I had requested admission to the presence of the base commander or an approved aide and was told that news of the vanishing of the Ringstars preceded me. Furthermore, I am told that the event is of no interest to this garrison. Such events are apparently become quite commonplace.”

“More so,” said the captain, “here on the frontier. I heard you asking the corporal what the military is doing about these disappearances. The corporal is not empowered to answer that question. I, however, am.” He inclined from the waist in a small, ironic bow.

“What we are doing is precisely nothing. We are under orders to withdraw. This garrison will be empty within the next thirty days, Common Calendar, and all the rest of the garrisons in this sector of the frontier.”

Tor An stared at him, suddenly very cold.

“Does this,” the captain asked, still in that inflectionless, discourteous tone, “answer your question?”

Tor An was abruptly weary, his thoughts spinning. Clearly, he would get no other satisfaction here. Best to return to the port, to his ship, and work out his next best move.

So thinking, he bowed, low enough to convey respect for the man’s rank, and cleared his throat.

“My question is answered,” he said, hoarsely. “I thank you.”

“Good,” the officer said. He turned his head and addressed the two guards.

“Shoot him.”

Six

SIX

Osabei Tower

Landomist

THE PLACE WAS A WARREN,
Jela thought as he followed Errant-Scholar—now, he supposed, Seated Scholar—tay’Nordif through twisty halls so narrow that he had to proceed at a sort of half-cant, in order that his shoulders not rub the walls, and with knees slightly bent, so as not to brush the top of the tree against the ceiling. The logistics of trying to secure such an anthill were enough to give a tactician permanent nightmares.

Lucky for them, they didn’t have to worry about securing the premises, just lifting some files and making an orderly retreat. He expected to have a line of withdrawal mapped out and secured well before it was needed. But his first order of business was keeping up with the Scholar and her guide, who moved ahead at a rapid walk without ever once looking back.

That guide, now. A soft man of about Can—Scholar tay’Nordif’s height, with a plentitude of shiny brown hair rippling down past his shoulders, his skin was the pure true gold by which the citizens Inside judged a man’s worth and value. His gaze had passed over Jela as if he were invisible, though the tree took his interest.

“Now, this is something we seldom see!” he’d exclaimed. “Have you brought us a bit of the frontier, Scholar?”

“Not at all! Not at all!” Scholar tay’Nordif extended a reverent hand and touched a leaf. “Yon specimen hails from fair Shinto, a token of regard given me by none other than Horticultural Master Panthera vas’Chaler. A most gracious lady, Scholar; I esteem her greatly. Her many kindnesses—of which the gift of a green plant to cheer me in my scholarly closet is but the most recent—her kindness is without boundary. Truly, I am at her feet.”

“She sounds a most gracious and generous lady,” the second scholar said seriously. “You are fortunate in her patronage.”