Crystal Soldier (29 page)

Dulsey tipped her head. "Is it so ill a place, Pilot?"

Cantra came away from her lean against the wall and took a heartbeat or two to consider.

"The Uncle wants to control all, and there's no one to control him," she said eventually. "That's bad business, as far as I'm concerned. I won't say he spends lives without cause, on account he has a cause. And spend lives for it, he surely does. I wouldn't want to be under the Uncle's care, speaking personally. On the other hand, I never been trade goods. It could be you'll find him and there everything you want." She paused, weighing it—and decided she might as well say the rest, for what it was worth.

"The Uncle will want you to devote your whole self to his project. For the good of all Batcher-kind, it is, or so he says. You still won't have anything like a free life."

Dulsey bowed. "It has been the observation of this humble person that all lives are confined by birth, skill, and circumstance. It is the degree of confinement only which is at issue." She straightened and gave Cantra a direct look from serious gray eyes.

"If the pilot has no more need of me, I will refresh myself and then prepare a meal."

Cantra inclined her head. "It's your course," she said. "Fly at will."

Another look, this one on the speculative side.

"Thank you, Pilot," Dulsey said and headed back toward quarters.

After a moment, Cantra followed her.

HE CONSIDERED ERASING the message—and decided against. There was no particular reason for Cantra to take his word for what had happened. Not that there was any more reason for her to take the word of a unknown X Strain commander, no matter how straightforward the report.

The fact that he'd been making free with ship's comm for some time now would come as no surprise to the pilot, or she wasn't the capable, conniving woman he knew her to be. There might be some interest to pay, now that he was out in the open—or not. Either way, she needed the info—and as co-pilot it was his duty to see that the pilot had the info she needed.

So he left the message, carefully trimmed of all IDs saving the commander's name, on the pilot's forward screen and took himself off to quarters for a quick clean-up and a change into ship civvies.

The tiny shower wasn't conducive to dawdling, and in any case he wanted to be done and clear before Dulsey came in wanting her own refresh. The ship civvies—a long-sleeved black sweater woven from
skileti
, which hugged him like a second dermis, and long black pants made from the same fabric—were warm, durable and easy, with nothing trailing to get caught in machinery, or to obscure a section of the piloting board.

He slid his feet into slippers and turned, careful in the tiny space, just as the door chuckled and slid back, revealing his bunk mate.

"Hey, Dulsey," he said easily. "How's the balancing going?"

"Done," the Batcher said, inching into the room. "Pilot Cantra is able with her numbers. She scarce needed my help at all." The door closed and she leaned on it, hands behind her back.

"Pilot Jela," she said, unwontedly serious, even for Dulsey.

"Right here," he answered.

"I wonder, Pilot—do you
trust
Pilot Cantra?"

Now, that was a meaningless question, wasn't it? Except it seemed apparent from Dulsey's face that she considered it full to overflowing with meaning. Well, maybe he'd misunderstood.

"Trust her in what way?" he asked.

Dulsey blinked. "There is more than one way?"

"In my experience," he said. "The Enemy, for instance—you can trust them to obliterate life wherever they find it. Back when I was active, I could trust a certain one of my team-mates to get bored and unruly when we were at leave and take to breaking up the bar by way of relieving his feelings. On duty, I could trust that same team-mate to be solid at my back and not let so much as a flea through to me." He shrugged, considering her. "That wasn't what you were asking, I take it?"

"Not . . . in so many words, no." She took a deep breath and met his eyes. "I specifically wonder if you believe that Pilot Cantra tells the truth, that she will keep her word and stand your friend, no matter what should happen."

"Hah." He thought about that, then shrugged again. "I think Pilot Cantra has her priorities, in this order: Ship, then pilot—and I trust her to act in ways which are consistent with those priorities. So, no—I don't believe she'll stand my friend, or at my back, if doing either puts her priorities at risk. No reason she should. Keeping her word? As a general thing, I think she does. On specific topics—again, there're those priorities to add into the equation." He tipped his head.

"Afraid the pilot won't take you to this Uncle of yours, Dulsey?"

She chewed her lip.

"It had occurred to me that it was not to Pilot Cantra's benefit to assist me, and that it was perhaps not entirely to her benefit to continue her partnership with you." She sighed. "Unfortunately, these thoughts only concern me when I am absent the pilot's company. In her presence, I find myself thinking it impossible that so likeable a lady would lie."

"I see where this is going." Jela grinned. "You're worried that the
aelantaza
glamour will erode my judgment. Eh? That in Pilot Cantra's presence I'll lose what prudence you might suppose I have, being a once-soldier, and put me and you in danger?"

"You must admit," Dulsey almost-snapped, "that the 'glamour,' as you have it, is a potent weapon in the pilot's defense."

"It would be, if it worked," Jela said soothingly, and showed her his palms, fingers spread wide. "The M Strain—that's me, I'm an M—we're resistant to a long list of the known manipulations, including sabotage by pheromone."

Dulsey's face lost a little of the tense seriousness. "You are immune, then."

Well, no, he wasn't precisely immune. Pilot Cantra
did
smell nice, he'd noticed that. He'd also noticed that she moved like a dancer, possessed a quick and insightful mind, and had a well-developed appreciation of irony. Noticing those things was inescapable, but it didn't follow that his guard was down because he'd noticed them.

He had a feeling, though, that explaining any of that to Dulsey would only put on her the course to worry again, which wasn't useful for any of them.

So—"Immune," he agreed. "Most people aren't, but I've never been confused with most people."

She smiled slightly. "I am much relieved, Pilot Jela."

"Glad to be of service," he told her. "If it helps you, I believe Pilot Cantra goes out of her way to be cantankerous and irritating. She keeps people at a distance that way, where they're less likely to fall under the influence of things she can't control."

Dulsey's eyes widened. "
Can't
 . . . I had not considered that aspect of the matter, Pilot."

"It's worth spending some thought on," he said, and gave her another grin. "Is there anything else on your mind, or should I clear out so you can get a shower?"

"I believe my concerns are answered, Pilot. I thank you." She slid along the door until she reached the corner, giving him room to navigate.

"Any time," he said, and slid sideways toward, and then out of, the door.

CANTRA WAS IN the tower when he arrived, her arms crossed along the back of the pilot's chair, attention on her forward screen. She'd cleaned up and changed into ship civvies, and he paused for a moment to admire the poised grace of her slim figure.

"Who's Commander Loriton and why should I believe his info?" Her husky voice conveyed something like bored curiosity; her body language suggested that bored had the upper hand on curious. You had to admit, Jela thought, the woman was a pro.

"Commander Loriton's the military officer in charge of the sector where Rint dea'Sord's operations were consolidated," he said easily, walking toward her. "Upon receipt of my report of Ser dea'Sord's activities, Commander Loriton sent a task force to Taliofi."

"And now the task force and Taliofi are gone," she finished, and looked over her shoulder at him. "It says here."

"It does," he agreed.

Cantra straightened out of her lean and turned to face him, her movements smooth and unhurried.

"I don't want to disrespect him, but maybe Commander Loriton's charts aren't up to date?"

"That would account for Taliofi going missing on him," Jela allowed, "but it doesn't quite explain the task force. It goes bad for commanders who mislay ships, see."

"This is what you heard on the port that had you double-checking your info?"

"I heard Taliofi was gone," he said, stopping a comfortable arm's distance from her. "Loriton's memo was in-queue when I opened the comm. My other source confirms."

"The planet was mined, so says this commander." Her voice was expressionless. "What he doesn't say is why and who."

"Who—
sheriekas
," he said. "Most likely
sheriekas
, though it could've been dea'Sord himself. The info I nipped out of his system suggested he had the tech, and the ability. Why—to keep the task force from finding what there was to find."

"Taliofi's pretty far in for the Enemy to reach," she said, which was true.

"It's long been identified as one of the nexus points in the undertrade. A good bit of
sheriekas
wares come through Taliofi." He cocked an eyebrow. "Unless Rint dea'Sord didn't trade with the Enemy?"

"Rint dea'Sord traded with who and for what brought the most profit." Her voice was lazy, like they were talking about any commonplace. "Mining the planet—doesn't strike me as like him. He'd've just pulled back to one of his other worlds and set up ops there." She lifted a shoulder. "Which he might've done anyway, there being no way of telling which particular atoms in a floating cloud of debris happened to have been him."

"Loriton says they got surveillance on him quick," he pointed out. "It doesn't look like he moved on. It does look like the
sheriekas
thought an example was in order."

The winged brows drew together in a frown.

"Example?"

"
We can reach in and crush you whenever and wherever we like
," Jela intoned, making his voice deep and loud enough to come off the decking like a bell. "
Your world could be next. Fear us
."

Cantra's lips twitched. "Tactics, is it?"

"Some of that. More, I'd think—and this is me, I don't have access to Commander Loriton's analysis—to destroy whatever was there that we'd be interested in and that they couldn't hope to hide, once the task force was down and searching."

"Well." Cantra glanced over her shoulder at the forward screen. "I didn't dislike the notion of holding Ser dea'Sord too busy to pursue a disagreement. I don't know that I find as much favor with a world going missing for my convenience. Our argument was with one man's ops. Extensive they were, but I have my doubts that Granny Li or Baby Ti took part in or benefit from them."

"Rint dea'Sord was trading with the Enemy," Jela said carefully. "That put him against us—by that I mean those of us who aren't
sheriekas
or
sheriekas
-made—and upgraded his actions from merely illegal to acts of war. He knowingly put that world and its people in harm's way. He knew what the
sheriekas
are and what they're capable of doing. Those deaths aren't yours—or mine—they're his."

The green eyes met his and he caught a flicker of—something, gone too fast for him to read. Her face was smooth and uncommunicative—which he knew by now was the expression that covered her retreat into the depths of herself. He waited, there being nothing else he could usefully do.

"Do the
sheriekas
have a line on this ship, then?"

The question surprised him—and then it didn't, as he recalled her priorities. He gave it the serious consideration it deserved, taking into account the things that Loriton hadn't said, and which his secondary source had touched on.

"In my estimation, the
sheriekas
have seen your ship, but there's no reason for them to have paid special attention to it, or to have it marked for reprisal. It was just one ship among many that happened to pass through Taliofi Yard."

"Not quite," her voice had a slight edge to it. He looked at her carefully.

"If you have info, Pilot, now's the time to share it with your co-pilot."

She sighed, lightly, reached behind her and spun the chair around. Dropped into it, and waved him to the co-pilot's station.

He sat, and spun to face her, arms on the rests, deliberately at ease. Almost, he began to project a line of goodwill, but caught himself, and raised an eyebrow instead, waiting.

A corner of her mouth lifted—maybe in appreciation. It wasn't any harm thinking so, at least.

"I ever tell you how I happened to be master of this ship?" Cantra asked. She must have known she hadn't, but if she was in a mood to trade camp tales, he had no objection to that.

So—"No, Pilot, you never have. I'd be willing to hear the story, though. If it can be told."

"It can be told," she answered, her voice taking on a certain, not-displeasing, rhythm.

"For some number of years, I sat co-pilot to Garen yos'Phelium, of out Clan Torvin. Garen being the very last of Clan Torvin—and for all I ever found, the first, too—when she died, the ship passed to me. No secrets there, and as straightforward and by-the-legal as you could ask for.

"Where the story gets murky and interesting, though, is a few years further back again. And the question you'll be wanting to ask yourself is this: Where did
Garen
get this ship? A pilot as fine as you are will have noticed there ain't nothing shabby or second-rate about this vessel. It has some interesting features, not the least of which is that first aid kit back there in the wall."

She sent him a sharp green glance. He lifted a hand, fingers framing,
go on
.

"Right. Now, it's well to remember that Garen didn't say much, and of those things she did say, you'd do well to discount half. Problem was knowing which half, if you take me."

"I knew somebody like that once," Jela said, to show that he was following her. "The war had taken him, shaken him up and pitched him out. He didn't have any context for the experience, couldn't put together what had happened inside his head. Worse luck, he was the only witness to an event of some interest to the military. Intelligence tried to get the info out of him by talking him through it." He raised both hands, showing empty palms. "They used drugs finally, then had the Generalists sort out the data-dump. Same problem—how to decide which was hard info and which was an attempt to rationalize what had happened."