Crystal Soldier (23 page)

"Usual routes and habits," she repeated, a corner of her mouth going up in a half-smile. "Pilot, I don't think you're a fool. I think you know we lifted out of Taliofi empty of anything valuable—excepting yourself and Dulsey, neither of which I gather are up for trade . . . and even if you were, I ain't in the business of warm goods. One can's carrying generic Light-goods for the entertainment of any port cops we happen to fall across. That means we can go wherever your fancy takes us, with the notable exception of any of my usual stop-overs. It might be that the two of us're cozy kin now, but I see no reason to introduce you and your troubles to my usuals."

Reasonable, Jela thought, and prudent. Especially prudent if Pilot Cantra expected to dump him and retreat to safety, which had to be in her mind, despite her apparent surrender. He was beginning to form the opinion that the pilot's order of priority was her ship and herself, all else expendable. It was a survivor's order of priority, and he couldn't fault her for holding it, though duty required him to subvert it. Not the greatest thing duty had required of him, over a lifetime of more or less obeying orders.

Yet, he couldn't help thinking that it would have been better for all—the mission, the pilot, the soldier if it mattered, and the Batcher—if Pilot Muran had made his rendezvous.

In point of fact, it would've been better for all if the
sheriekas
had blown themselves up with their home world. While he was wishing after alternate histories.

He looked to Pilot Cantra, sitting unaccountably patient, and showed her his empty palms.

"We have a shared problem in need of solving, first," he said, which was true, and bought him time to consider how best to follow up a rumor and a whisper, lacking the info Muran had been bringing to him.

The pilot's pretty eyebrows lifted. "Do we, now. And that would be?"

"Dulsey," he said, and the eyebrows came together in a frown.

"I'm thinking Dulsey's your problem, Pilot—or no problem. She's likely to go along with whatever you say."

"I don't see it that way," he said. "She couldn't leave me fast enough at Taliofi. You remember she said that she had business, and might not make it back in time for lift? She was so intent on that business she missed the fact that her further services as crew were being declined."

A short pause while the pilot looked over her board, and twiddled a scan knob that didn't need it.

"You're right," she said finally, her eyes staying with the scans. "Dulsey was plotting her own course soon's she heard we was down at Taliofi. Rint dea'Sord intercepted her before she made her contact, I'm guessing." She moved her shoulders.

"Not like him to plan so shallow," she said slowly. "That favor he wanted—he wanted it from
me
. Thinking on it, damn if it don't look like the whole deal was rigged. Easy enough for a man with his connections to learn where my last-but-one was taking me. Dulsey—that must've been a vary, cheaper than whatever else he had planned on. Gave him a reserve." She got quiet then, the picture of a pilot attending her board.

Jela took a breath, and by the time he'd exhaled had decided on his plan of attack.

"He thought you were
aelantaza
," he said. "Any truth to that?"

That got him a look, green eyes a trifle too wide.

"No," she said, and spun her chair to face him square. "I don't think I heard what Dulsey has to do with your choice of a next port o'call. She's a deader wherever she goes, unless she can lose the tats, which you know and I know she can't."

"She can regrow, if she gets to the right people."

"She can, but they're looking for that dodge now. One arm younger than the rest of you—that's rehab, all legit. Two arms—you're a Batcher gone rogue, and better off dead."

That was, Jela thought, probably true.

"What else, then?" he asked her. "Not all runaway Batchers get caught."

"Well." She wrinkled her nose. "If they're willing to limit themselves to the RingStars, or the Rim, or the Grey Worlds, all they need is to hang paper, work up some convincing files, and maybe a dummy control disk. Expensive. No guarantees."

"But it can be done," Jela said, watching her face.

The green eyes narrowed. "Anything can be done," she said the Rim accent hard, "if you got money enough to buy it."

"Do you—" he began and stopped as a chime sounded from the rear of the chamber.

Pilot Cantra jerked her head toward the alcove where the first aid kit sat.

"Hatch'll be coming up soon. You might want to be standing by, in case there's a problem. I'll take the scans."

She spun back to her board.

Jela got up and walked, not without trepidation, back to the first aid kit.

THE HATCH WAS UP, the greenish light giving Dulsey's pale hair and pale face an unsettling and alien cast. Her eyes were closed and he could see her breathing, deep and slow, like she was asleep.

She lay like he had put her, flat on her back, arms at her sides, legs straight, the bloodstained coverall—

The blood was gone, and much of the grime. The green-cast face was evenly toned, showing neither bruises nor swelling; the nose, last seen bent to the left, was straight. Her hair was clean.

Her eyes opened.

"Pilot Jela?"

"Right here," he said. "You're in what Pilot Cantra styles a first aid kit. You're looking better than you did when you went in. You'll have to tell me how you feel."

She frowned and closed her eyes. He waited, his own eyes slitted in protest of the unnatural light, until she moved her head against the pallet.

"I feel—remarkably well," she said slowly. She raised a hand and touched her face lightly, ran a finger down her nose. Took a deliberately deep breath. Another.

"I believe I am mended, Pilot. May I be permitted to stand up and test the theory more fully?"

He realized with a start that he'd been hanging over the device, blocking her exit. Hastily, he stepped back.

"Might as well try it."

She sat up slowly, from the intent expression on her face, paying attention to each muscle and bone. Carefully, she got her legs over the edge and her feet on the floor, put her palms flat against the pallet, pushed—and stood.

"Ace?" he asked.

She took a step forward. "Ace," she answered.

Behind her, the hatch began to descend, hissing lightly as it did. She turned to look at it.

"A remarkable device," she commented. "Am I correct in believing that it was constructed by the Enemy?"

"I think so," Jela said. "Pilot Cantra doesn't deny it."

"Remarkable," she said again. She turned to face him and held up her left hand, palm out.

"Pilot, you have, I believe, very fine eyesight. Do you see the scar across my palm?"

Her palm was broad and lined. There were no scars.

"No," he said. "Was it an old scar? They fade, over time."

"They do," Dulsey said. "But it was a recent scar, still noticeable. Will you look again? It was rather obvious—from the base of the thumb very nearly to the base of the little finger, somewhat jagged, and—"

"Dulsey," he interrupted. "There's no scar."

She took a long, hard breath. Her face, he saw, was tight, her eyes sparkling.

"Thank you, Pilot." Her voice was breathless. She raised her other hand, fumbled a moment with the wrist fastening, then peeled the sleeve of the coverall back, exposing pale flesh, smooth, hairless, unscarred.

"It's gone," Dulsey breathed. Fingers shaking, she unsealed the other wrist, pushed the sleeve high.

"And it." She looked up at him. "Pilot—"

"They're both gone," he said, keeping his tone matter-of-fact, despite the fact that his neck hairs wanted to stand up on their own. He raised a hand.

"Use your brain, Dulsey. You know those tats are cellular. Just because they've been erased on the dermis doesn't mean they're gone."

"True," she said, but her eyes were still sparkling.

"Dulsey—" he began . . .

"Transition coming up," Pilot Cantra called from the wider room. "Pilot Jela, you're wanted at your station. Dulsey, strap in."

THEY TRANSITIONED WITH the guns primed, and the passage was just as bad as it could be.

As a reward, they reentered calm, empty space, not a ship, nor a star, nor a rock within a couple dozen light years in any direction.

"Well," said Cantra and looked over to her co-pilot, sitting his board as calm and unflapped as if he hadn't been bumped and jangled 'til his brain rang inside his skull.

"Lock her down, Pilot," she said when he turned his head. "We'll sit here a bit and us three can have that talk about where we're going, now that we're nowhere in particular."

"Right," he said, briefly, fingers moving across his board.

Cantra turned to look at Dulsey, who was already on her feet by the jump seat. The coverall's sleeves were rolled up, showing pale, unmarked forearms. Cantra didn't sigh, and met the Batcher's sparkling eyes.

"Trouble with that first aid kit," she said, conversationally, "is it don't think like you an' me. There's no deep reader on this ship, Dulsey, and you dasn't believe that what you got there is more than a simple wipe. Keep your sense hard by."

"The pilot is prudent," Dulsey said. "Shall I make tea?"

"Tea'd be good," Cantra answered, and added the polite. "Thank you."

"You are welcome, Pilot. I will return." She went, her steps seeming somewhat lighter than usual.

Cantra spun back to her board, letting the sigh have its freedom, and began to lock down the main board.

"We got eyes," she said to Jela, "we got ears, we got teeth. We're giving out as little as possible, and while we aren't exactly in a high traffic zone, I want to be gone inside of six hours."

Finished with the board, she spun her chair, coming to her feet in one smooth motion. She moved a step, caught herself on the edge of her usual calisthenics, and instead twisted into a series of quick-stretches, easing tight back and leg muscles.

Behind her, she heard the co-pilot's chair move, and turned in time to see Pilot Jela finishing up a mundane arm-and-leg stretch. He rolled his broad shoulders and smiled.

"It's good to work the kinks out," he said, companionably.

"It is," she returned, and was saved saying anything else by the arrival of Dulsey, bearing mugs.

THEY'D EACH SIPPED some tea, and all decided that standing was preferable to sitting. So, they stood in a loose triangle, Cantra at the apex, Jela to her left and ahead, Dulsey to his left.

"This is an official meeting of captain and crew," Cantra said, holding her mug cradled between her hands and considering the two of them in turn. "Input wanted on where and how we next set down, free discussion in force until the captain calls time. Final decision rests with the captain, no appeal. Dulsey."

"Pilot?"

"Some changes while you were getting patched up. Me and Pilot Jela have consolidated. He's got some places he feels a need to visit, except he wants to see you settled as best you might be, first." She glanced aside, meeting his bright black eyes. "I have that right, Pilot?"

"Aye, Captain," he answered easily. "Permission to speak?"

"Free discussion," she said, lifting one hand away from the mug and waggling her fingers. "Have at it."

"Right." He turned to face the Batcher. "Dulsey, Pilot Cantra here tells me that there's a way to establish you—"

"If the pilot pleases," Dulsey interrupted. "I will ask to be set down on Panet."

Jela frowned and sent Cantra a glance. "Pilot? I'm not familiar with this port."

"I am."
Unfortunately
. She fixed Dulsey with a hard look, and was agreeably surprised to see her give it back, no flinching, no meeching.

"What's to want on Panet, Dulsey?"

The Batcher lifted her chin. "People. Contacts who can aid me."

"Ah." Cantra sipped her tea, consideringly. "Any kin to the contacts you didn't make on Taliofi?"

Dulsey bit her lip. "On Taliofi, the—I had the incorrect word, perhaps. Or perhaps that cell no longer exists. On Panet, however, I am certain—"

Cantra held up her hand.

"Dulsey, you won't last half a local day on Panet, even with the tats smoothed over. Your best course is to tell us what your final goal is, if you know it. It might be we can help you. Pilot Jela don't want all his trouble going to waste by seeing you taken up by bounty hunters six steps from ship's ramp, and I don't want to have to answer personal questions about did I know you was Batch-grown and what kind of hard labor I'd prefer."

Dulsey bit her lip, every muscle screaming tension, indecision. She raised her mug and drank, buying thinking time. Cantra sipped her own tea, waiting.

"I—" Breathless, that, and the muscles were still tight, but her face was firm, and her eyes were steady. Dulsey had made her decision, whatever it was.
And now
, Cantra thought,
we'll see how good a liar she is
.

"It is," the Batcher began again, "perhaps true that the pilot will know of the port I seek. I . . . had not considered that it might be possible to simply
go
rather than—" A hard breath, chin rising. "It is my intention to go to the Uncle."

The truth, curse her for an innocent
. Cantra closed her eyes.

"Uncle?" Jela's voice was plainly puzzled. "Which uncle, Dulsey?"

"
The
Uncle," she answered him. "The one who has made a tribe—- a world—populated by Batchers. Where we are valued for ourselves, as persons of worth and skill; where—"

"There ain't," Cantra said, loudly, "any Uncle."

"The pilot," Dulsey countered reproachfully, "knows better."

Cantra opened her eyes and fixed her in the best glare she had on call.

"I do, do I? You want to explain that, Dulsey?"

"Certainly. The pilot survived a line edit, I believe?"

Cantra fetched up a sigh. "You was awake enough to hear Rint dea'Sord theorize, was you? He was out, Dulsey. Do I look
aelantaza
to you?"

Dulsey bowed. "The pilot is surely aware that the
aelantaza
do not share a single physical type. It is much more important that the pheromones which induce trust and affection in those who are not
aelantaza
are developed to a high degree."