Crystal Rebellion (13 page)

Cheryl closed the audio and apologized for him. “He’s compensating
because he can’t do his reckless cowboy act when he’s escorting an injured
civilian.”

Criss nodded, not because Juice was keeping pace with Sid, or
because Cheryl gave emotional support to Juice, or because Cheryl explained
Sid’s behavior. He nodded because Cheryl, who sat with her hands folded in her
lap, her elbows perched on the armrests of the pilot’s chair, manipulated the
ops bench functions using her thoughts.

Cheryl returned her attention to Juice while Criss scanned
for threats. He monitored every synbod and human moving near the tunnel both in
Ag Port and in the Quarter.

So he became anxious when two synbods in the Quarter broke
into a sprint, running down a street that led straight to the tram station. And
he began refining rescue scenarios when they ran up the pedestrian bridge, dashed
across the passenger platform, and entered the tram tunnel, giving chase to Sid
and Juice.

He gauged the relative speeds of the runners.
Interesting.
He checked again. The synbods weren’t running any faster than Sid or Juice.
Unless something changed, they wouldn’t be a factor in the escape. He chose to keep
the news of the chase to himself.

Cheryl called to him. “Her pace is slowing.”

Criss already knew Juice was struggling and had confirmed
that even at the slower pace, they’d beat the synbods out of the tunnel by a
good margin. “She’s doing great.”

And then she stumbled. Helicoptering her arms and taking
stutter steps, she tried, and failed, to regain her balance. She yelped when she
hit the hard surface. Rolling on her side, she curled into a ball and, between
soft whimpers, said over and over, “I’m all right.”

Cheryl shot to her feet. “I’m going to help.”

“What do you mean?” asked Criss, distracted with his rescue plans.

Cheryl strode to the rear of the bridge. “They need my help.”

He turned to her. “You’re talking about going outside?”

“I don’t know another way to get there.”

“I need you here.”

She stopped moving, her silhouette framed in the rear passageway.

He used a firm voice. “Please return to your duties.”

Cheryl whirled and challenged him with a stare. She held it
for three heartbeats and then walked back to the ops bench and slid into the
chair. As she focused on the projected image, her lower lip edged forward.

Criss saw her pout and, given the stress they were both
under, took comfort in her behavior.

Though she’d been part of his leadership for years, their
relationship had changed during the construction of the Lunar Defense Array, a
massive installation designed to fend off a Kardish invasion of Earth.

Aware that Kardish warships could appear at any moment, they’d
set crushing timelines for themselves, struggling to get yet more capability operational
before the aliens arrived. He’d witnessed her tough-as-nails determination in
her dealings with military leaders, corporate chiefs, and even criminal syndicates
and embraced her style, accepting it as her nature.

And in that stressful environment, Criss discovered that at
an emotional level, she wanted his guidance. He’d identified that perplexing
need at the same time he’d discovered how to respond to it.

They had been in the throes of a disagreement about where to
place the power plant for the Defense Array weapons systems. She’d championed a
solution he’d seen as problematic, and when she’d charged ahead with her plan, he’d
broken character. “No, Cheryl. We’re putting it on the surface.”

She’d scowled at him and then looked away. “Okay.”

Up until that moment, he’d always expressed his thoughts as
suggestions or requests. But in his struggle to move construction yet faster,
he’d deployed every bit of his capacity on critical tasks. Stretched beyond
thin, for the first time ever he’d chosen not to recall the marginal resources required
to be polite.

He’d regretted that decision, but she’d acceded to him before
he could apologize.

From a psychological view, her behavior intrigued him. His
best guess was that, in certain situations, she felt obligated to do two things,
like on the Moon when she’d sought to balance technical requirements against
the egos of her engineering leads, or now when she wanted to stay with the
scout and also be with her team.

By deferring to him, she unburdened herself from having to
choose, and this helped her move forward without the angst of having failed
someone important to her.

Anxious to understand how best to help her, he’d experimented.
He learned right away that she didn’t react well to commands from him for
everyday issues. This was about big choices and emotional struggles. And in
those situations, she wanted him to rescue her, and she wanted it done in a
decisive manner.

Criss’s outer tendrils sizzled when he recalled his big
mistake.

Huge mistake.

He’d given her a command in front of others.

It had been during one of his rare public appearances—the annual
corporate party for clients and top-tier employees. She’d had too much to drink
and began flirting with a man who wasn’t Sid, who had found a reason to be
anywhere but in town on that evening.

The man, Sigurd Appopolous, had pursued Cheryl for years.
She liked him and at one level wanted to reward him for his unflagging devotion.

Criss recognized her emotional struggle. “Get your coat,” he
said within earshot of a dozen people. “We’re leaving.” He’d chosen to say it
out loud to see how she’d respond.

Her jaw muscles flexed as she followed him out, and as soon
as they were alone, she let loose through clenched teeth, her face reddening as
she spoke. “Don’t embarrass me like that. Ever. You know damn well ours is a
private matter.”

He didn’t remind her that she refused to discuss her needs
or how he could be most supportive. Instead, he’d said, “I am so sorry, Cheryl.
It will never happen again.”

“It better not,” she’d said, ending her fit with a huff.

And on a side note, Criss learned that the entire topic was
a sore point with Sid. Not Criss’s familiarity with Cheryl. Rather, Sid’s
frustration rose from his own unquenchable desire to control Cheryl with firm commands.

“How can we help?” Cheryl asked Sid, who crouched next to
Juice, stroking her hair.

“How much farther?”

“You’re just past the three-quarters mark, so a minute and a
half, maybe two, depending on your pace.”

Sid scooped up Juice into his arms and started toward the
exit.

Criss had been watching a small group mill about at the Ag
Port tram station. He’d identified everyone on the passenger platform as part
of the emergency response crew assigned to that rally point, and he’d also been
tracking a synbod as it traveled in from the Ag Port grow tiers. The synthetic
man had reached the market square and was weaving through the crowds when Criss
lost track of it.

Angry with himself, he shifted resources to look for the man.
It took two frustrating seconds for Criss to find the synbod, its gray jumpsuit
now covered by a rustic brown tunic as he strode onto the Ag Port pedestrian bridge.

Every couple of steps, the synbod’s head swiveled back and
forth, giving the impression he was scanning for something.

The emergency response crew stepped out of the way as the
tunic-covered synbod walked to the edge of the platform, leaned out, and peered
into the tunnel.

Criss spun up the scout’s engines. It would save him a half
second if he decided to go.

Sid crouched next to Juice and
stroked her hair. “You’re all right. I’m getting you out of here.” Scooping her
off the ground, he cradled her legs with one arm and angled his elbow out to
support her head with the other.

He started for Ag Port station, swinging his long legs in a
fast-paced march. He’d carried a lot of injured to safety in his day. Most had
been big men.
You’re a wisp of a thing
, he thought, shifting her in his
arms so they would both be more comfortable.

Juice’s eyes fluttered open. “I’m sorry,” she whispered through
ashen lips. Her eyes rolled up as her lids closed, and then her head slumped against
Sid’s chest.

“A synbod is waiting for you on the Ag Port passenger platform,”
said Criss.

Sid, hearing the communication inside his head and choosing
not to disturb Juice, mouthed his response without actually speaking, knowing Criss
would synthesize his voice at the other end for Cheryl’s benefit. “Should I
head back to the Quarter?”

Criss paused. “It seems there are two synbods following behind
you.”

“How long have they been there?”

Another pause. “Awhile.”

“How fast can you get to us?”

“Thirty seconds. It will be ugly.”

“You are to wait for an order, Criss.”

A third pause. “Yes.”

I just sent him into overdrive.
Sid shrugged.
It can’t
be helped.

Criss had no higher priority than the safety of his
leadership. With orders to wait, Sid knew he’d shift resources into forecasting
rescue scenarios, searching for one that was faster than the last. Soon he’d be
comparing alternatives that were a thousandth of a second different, and yet he’d
continue searching for ways to shave off ever-finer fractions of time. And Sid
knew this was rational behavior because, in theory, a thousandth of a second
could be the difference between rescue and death.

“Are there any side doors out of here?” He walked on a flat
tram bed lining the bottom of a well-lit rock tunnel—a long, broad cylinder
with a smooth inner surface. The hollow thrum of ventilation played in the
background as it released air with a subtle metallic scent.

“No,” said Criss. “You’re surrounded by bedrock.”

“How long do I have with Juice?” Criss hadn’t launched a
rescue, so Sid knew he had time.

“If she’s not on board in the next hour, I must come for
her.”

“I support,” Sid heard Cheryl say.

Sid had told Criss to stay put until ordered. Cheryl just did
so, at least to save Juice.

“Agreed.” He wouldn’t have made the open commitment but knew
it was best to avoid ambiguity with Criss. “Give me a clock.” Small numbers
appeared in the corner of Sid’s peripheral vision. They counted down from the fifty-nine
minutes he had left to get Juice to the scout.

This was Sid’s fourth visit to the colony since their
arrival. From past experience, he knew he could get from the Ag Port tram
station to the shed where they hid the space coveralls in an easy fifteen
minutes. Suiting up and trekking across the surface to the scout took another thirty.

That leaves fifteen minutes for distractions.

“Have you figured out how they’re tracking us?” he asked Criss.

“They’re mapping displacement variations. It’s so crude and
unreliable, I didn’t expect to need countermeasures in the pendants. The good
news is that they’re using a tremendous portion of their total capacity to make
it work, and still they keep losing you.”

Criss’s next words reminded Sid of a locker-room pep talk.
“The
Venerable
arrives in orbit tonight. If you can make it out this
last time, you can enter the colony tomorrow like any other visitor.”

And we can hide in plain sight
, he thought, recalling
Criss’s words about Bobbi Lava.

The mouth of the tunnel neared. Hugging the wall, Sid approached
the opening and scanned the people gathered along the Ag Port station passenger
platform. The synbod stood alone near the edge, scowling as he peered past Sid and
down the tunnel.

He can’t see us,
thought Sid. “Here we go.” He said
the words aloud for his own benefit.

Like twirling a dance partner, he swung Juice up and around
so they were face-to-face. Putting a hand behind her back, he pushed her chest against
his. With his free hand, he threw her arms around his neck and reached back to lock
her legs around his waist.

But her limbs wouldn’t cooperate. They dropped from where he
placed them and hung limp and lifeless. So he switched to his farmer
impersonation and hefted her over his shoulder like a sack of grain, her legs in
front, her head and arms hanging down his back.

The synbod still looked down the tunnel.
Here we go.
This
time he said it inside his head.

Staying down on the tram bed, Sid sprinted into the station,
Juice bouncing on his shoulder with every step. The passenger platform hovered at
waist level to his left. He zipped past the synbod and the legs and feet of a
half-dozen colonists. And then the seas parted and he spied an open path
through the crowd and out of the station.

He angled toward the platform and without breaking stride lifted
his knee and stretched his leg. His foot connected with the edge of the
platform and his momentum rotated him up onto the elevated surface. A few
strides later and he burst out onto the pedestrian bridge.

With the market square in sight and flat terrain ahead, he lengthened
his stride.

“You’re in danger from behind.” Sid heard Criss at the same
time the emergency crew in the building behind him exclaimed outrage.

Glancing over his shoulder, Sid saw a colonist splayed on
the ground. The synbod stepped over the fallen man and began chasing Sid.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” said Sid, the exasperation clear
in his voice.

He leaned forward at the waist, flipping Juice up and over
in front of him. Cupping her head as it moved past his, he lowered her to the
ground and slid her under the seat of a park bench—one of several sitting in a
row along one side of the pedestrian bridge.

He stepped up on top of the bench seat to gain the advantage
of height and started back to meet his pursuer. “Can he see me? Hear me?”

“Every sensor in Ag Port is orchestrated at this moment to
see as a single lens, and that lens is being focused to find you. The synbod
sees the lens feed.”

“Thanks, Professor.” Sid stepped over an armrest and onto
the next bench in the row. “Can he see me?”

“He sees an occasional blur every few minutes.”

The synbod stopped walking and swiveled his head so he
looked right at Sid.

“I’m guessing we just hit the ‘every few minutes’ mark,” he
muttered.

“I’m coming for you.” Criss made the statement but Sid knew
it was a request, almost a plea.

“Hold, Criss.” He stepped off the bench seat and onto the pedestrian
bridge. “Cheryl, I can take one robot.”

“Dammit, Sid. This isn’t a game.”

Sid ran around the synbod and, standing behind it, scanned
the ground for something he could use as a weapon. “We’re not killing a bunch
of people to save me.”

The synbod spied Juice. At least, he squared up to her and took
deliberate steps in that direction.

Sid held his hands in front of him, palms up, in a mock plea.
“Are you kidding me?” Then, canting forward, he took three quick steps, leaped
and spun in the air, swinging his leg in a graceful kick.
Thwack.
Toe
pointed, his foot connected with the side of the synbod’s head.

And then he felt the pain he might feel if he kicked a wall
of jagged stone. Landing on the ground, Sid limped in a tight circle and
groaned. “Ow. Shit that hurt.”

The synbod turned around and made grabbing motions in Sid’s
general direction. The random chop of his arms told Sid the synbod couldn’t see
him.

Replacing force with leverage, Sid dropped to the ground and
shimmied to the synbod’s side. The synthetic man took a small lurching step to
match each blind grab of his arms. Sid hooked the synbod’s forward leg as it
lifted, and in a sweeping motion, yanked it back as hard as he could. Unbalanced,
the synbod teetered. Sid kicked at its other leg and the synbod tripped,
falling face-first to the ground.

“See?” Sid said for Cheryl’s benefit. “I got this.”

Then the synbod popped up to his hands and knees, spun in a
tight circle, and shot his arm out, grabbing Sid’s ankle in a fierce grip.

Frantic, Sid kicked at the synbod’s face with the heel of
his free foot. But before his kick landed, the synbod grabbed that ankle as
well.

Sid, immobilized, felt the hair on the back of his neck
bristle when the synbod made an eerie facial expression that blended a maniacal
grin with an angry snarl.

Reacting more than thinking, Sid sat up and launched a rapid
boxing sequence at the synbod’s head.
Punch. Punch. Punch.
Then he stretched
back on the ground and twisted his body hard to the side, seeking to wrench his
legs free.

Zwip
. He recognized the faint sound of an energy bolt
discharging from a personal weapon. The iron grip on his ankles relaxed.

Looking up from the ground, he saw that the synbod had grown
a small black spot on his face, just to the right of his nose. Set in
unblemished skin, the glaring imperfection became the synbod’s new defining
feature.

“Was that you?” Sid asked Criss, disengaging his legs from
the synbod’s hands. The energy bolt had pierced the synbod’s face, traveled down
his neck, and reached the body cavity housing the three-gen crystal. The grinning
snarl of the disabled synbod, still on his knees with his hands stretched
forward, remained frozen on his face. “Nice shot!”

“That wasn’t me.”

Sid’s intuition guided him to turn and look down the
pedestrian bridge toward Ag Port.

His benefactor, alone on the expanse, turned away from him
and started toward the market square. Festive lights from the square cast the
person in silhouette. The distinct outline of a weapon on the right wrist drew
Sid’s attention.

Then the flashing sparkle of shiny metal lifted his eyes to
a dirty mop of hair that spiked in different directions.

As Bobbi Lava hurried away, she faded. And then she disappeared
from sight.

* * *

Cheryl waited with Criss up in the medical
care unit—one of the many configurations of the scout’s common room—while Sid carried
Juice up from below. Criss had automated every medical delivery system on the
ship, so Cheryl didn’t really have a defined role. She chose to play nurse anyway.
I’d want her here for me.

The sounds of footsteps preceded Sid, who hustled through
the door carrying an unconscious Juice draped in his arms. Laying her on the medical
table, he rolled her on her side and began removing her space coveralls.

Cheryl helped, peeling the suit from around her legs. She
and Sid had been on missions where together they tended to the wounded. They’d
even watched a close friend die from mission injuries. But Juice was leadership
and that raised the stakes.

She started removing Juice’s blouse and paused. “You know
she’s modest, Sid.”

Sid looked over at Criss, whose face formed in sympathy. “I need
to go change, anyway,” he said, fingering his coveralls. He started for the
door and caught Cheryl’s eye. “Let me know as soon as she can have visitors?”

Watching him leave the room, she noted a slight limp in his
gait, presumably from kicking the synbod.
You should let Criss look at that
when he’s done here
, she thought. She kept it to herself, though. Sid was
too much of a cowboy to submit to something as unmanly as medical care.

Undressing Juice, she revealed the wound. The impact point showed
as a small round gash on the midline of her sternum. An angry purple bruise
spread from there in both directions, the part to the right covering her entire
breast.

That looks awful
, she thought, trying to imagine how a
bottle could cause that sort of damage. Bending so her mouth was near Juice’s
ear, she whispered, “It’s not bad at all. You’re going to be fine.” She wasn’t
sure if Juice could hear her but needed the reassurance herself.

Rising, she turned so her back was to the bed and used Sid’s
trick of mouthing words without speaking. “You can fix this?”

None of them had suffered a serious injury since they’d become
leadership, so while she knew at an intellectual level that Criss had made
tremendous progress in medical sciences, she’d never witnessed him in action.

And as it turned out, his skills were remarkable.

Duty-bound to keep his leadership in good health, Criss had
allocated significant resources over many years to studying medicine. Along the
way, he’d developed procedures for repairing anything on the body. He could
even repair the human brain, though he couldn’t restore knowledge or memories.
Those died with the original brain cells that held them.

“She’ll be fine.” As Criss spoke, the sides of the bed
folded up to create a tub around Juice, and that started filling with a murky, brownish
liquid. A pillow lifted her head as the liquid level rose, and everything
stopped when her face was the only part of her body exposed above the surface.

Then a black corrugated slab hovering over the bed—Sid
called it the waffle iron—sprouted hair. The side facing Juice did, at least.

Millions of stalks—each a skinny wormlike tube that wiggled with
its own independence—emerged from the surface as the slab lowered. Centered
over Juice’s body, the slab sank beneath the surface of the liquid. As it neared
Juice’s skin, the individual stalks attached to her, some at the skin surface
and others at varying depths beneath the skin.

Each stalk assumed control of a microregion of her body.
Through each, Criss connected sensors, infused medicines, removed tissue, and
performed a myriad of other actions required to restore health. Working together,
the stalks performed miracles.