The Crystal Variation (90 page)

The
ssussdriad
was the best husband of itself, as it had proven, many times. That which was on the physical plane Liad dea’Syl burned with a hunger for knowledge so bright that lesser urges—such as survival—paled beside it. The scholar was a danger to himself in this place, and a danger thereby to all that was.

Rool held the scholar’s precious essence furled in green-and-ebon wings, both shielding it and directing its attention—out, to that far yet too near space where the Iloheen worked their changes.

The process approaches critical mass
, he sent gently.
Observe
.

It was a small thing to observe, even from this level. Merely, a Shadow fell across lines, stars and lives, replacing all with—nothing.

The lines stretched, then parted with a sob; the stars screamed as they were extinguished, the lives they had engendered gone before they realized the danger. The anguish of unmaking struck Rool at the core, and from the one he protected came a gasp, a wail—and an ominous wavering among his energies.

You have seen enough
, he sent, and received no protest. The
ssussdriad
had already departed. Rool folded his wings and followed.

AS IT HAPPENED,
Sergeant Ilneri
had
been happy to see them, after a period of attitude adjustment which hadn’t maybe been all that good on the boy’s nerves. Test passed, though, the rest of the crew had been pleased to see them, too, and nothing would do except they show off every cranny and cubby of proud
Salkithin
, talking twelve qwint to a flan about Jela.

Happened this particular crew’d been Jela’s own from when
Salkithin
had been put to sleep, six Common Years ago and a bit. It were a mixed crew—three X Strains, two Ms, a Y and Ilneri, who was, as far as Cantra could make it, a natural human—and they all had something to tell about the “little Captain.”

There was the time Jela and two others had come down late from the work, and were set on by a gang of what passed for toughs on Solcintra. And the time that Stile—one of the Xs—the time that Captain Jela had talked Wellik out of slamming Stile into detention for—well, it didn’t exactly matter for what—saying he needed her on the roster or the work would fall behind. And the next day, didn’t the captain put her up against the wall hard and let her know he didn’t tolerate stupidity in his crew, and if there was
any
additional slippage, detention was going to look damn’ soft . . .

“There were some of the troop,” Vachik, the second and most talkative of the X Strains, told them, “some of them thought to taunt us with our captain, and called us ‘Jela’s Troop,’ like it was less than soldier’s honor to take his orders.”

“They learned better,” Ilneri said, with a wide, wolfish grin. “And we’re still Jela’s Troop.”

And so, what with one thing and a tale, it was deep into Solcintra nighttime when the shuttle settled back into its cradle at the port and her and the boy and Ilneri and Stile strolled down the ramp.

“Missed the party,” the night guard told them, jovially. “Damn’ near had us a genuine riot to quell.”

Ilneri frowned and looked around, and Cantra did, too, seeing only a peaceful backwater port about its lawful evening bidness, saving a broken window or six, and some extra trash on the street.

“What happened?” the good sergeant asked, in a tone that conveyed it would go bad if the guard was indulging himself with a short round of leg pulling.

“Service Families finally figured it out,” the guard answered, clearly disinterested in the why. “Wellik’s got the speakers-for with him now. Got the word from the gate there’s a crowd waiting for them to come out, but everybody’s staying peaceful. So far.”

“All right, then.” Ilneri looked over his shoulder. “Stay close, Pilots.”

“Right you are,” Cantra assured him with a grin. Ilneri laughed.

“B’gods, I can see why Jela liked you, Pilot. But—mind me, now:
stay close
.” He turned a stern eye on the boy. “You’re her co-pilot; make it so.”

“I am certain that the pilot will not put herself in danger,” Tor An said, straight-faced and earnest, and for all Cantra could tell, believing it as he spoke it.

Ilneri nodded, directed Stile to bring up the rear and the four of them moved on, the sergeant a bit ahead and concentrating on shadows. Cantra kept pace with the boy, and a watchful eye out.

“What,” Tor An asked, for her ear only, “did the Service Families figure out, Pilot?”

She sighed. “The man I was drinking with yesterday, before things went and got interesting, had it that the High Families were vacating the premises, which was what all the extra shipping—including that liner—was up to.”

He turned wide, shocked eyes on her, like this was the first story he’d ever heard when them what had took advantage over them what didn’t.

“They removed to safety and left the Service—but no!” He frowned. “That cannot be possible. The High Families—you understand, Pilot, that they govern. The Service Families—they do everything that is needful. They—they cannot have—”

“Thought it through, sounds like,” Cantra agreed. She put a soft hand on the boy’s sleeve. “Listen. You hear that crowd breathing?”

He tipped his head, holding his own breath, until— “Yes.”

“Good. Let’s close it up with Ilneri, Pilot. We want to pass through this quick as we can.”

He didn’t argue, nor did Stile object to coming up tighter, as they rounded the corner and saw the crowd before the gate.

Hundreds—maybe thousands, Cantra thought, standing still and watchful in the searchlights from the garrison. There were soldiers deployed, long arms on display and combat shields down over their faces, keeping the road to the gate clear. The tension rising up off the crowd was enough to make a pilot’s ears ring and the heart squeeze a little in her chest, despite everything being peaceful.

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.”

Twenty-Eight

TWENTY-EIGHT

Solcintra

“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 judgment 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.