The Crystal Variation (15 page)

“This could get bad,” he said to her, softly. “Or it could be nothing.”

“Let us then hope for nothing,” she murmured in return, “and carry loaded weapons.”

THERE WAS NO ONE
watching the door. His ‘skins noted an anomaly as he approached the door, key out. He paused, but no warning solidified. Sighing, he slipped his key out and went forward, the first cop at his side. The gambler continued down the hall and took up a position near the lifts. The second cop moved back the way they had come, slipping into the convenient shadow of a drinks dispenser.

Jela used his key, pushed the door open and went with it, moving fast and low, gun out and aimed—

At the tree in its pot next to the open window, precisely where he had left it that morning.

“Everything fine?” the cop asked from behind him, and he straightened up slowly, letting the rest of the room seep into his awareness. It looked all right—his kit rolled and ready where he had left it, the book he’d been reading last night on the table under the lamp, the bed as tight and as shipshape as he had made it that very—

“Someone’s been in,” he told the cop, frowning at the rumple on corner of the aggressively smooth coverlet.

“They take anything?” she asked.

“Appears not.” If they’d been after info, he had it on him. He didn’t touch the sealed leg pocket where his log book rode, and frowned again at the rumpled cover. His ‘skins were still insisting on that anomaly. He moved across the room, stood to one side and yanked the privacy curtain back.

The ‘fresher was empty. He sighed, crossed the room, picked up the book, slid it into the kit, slung the kit over his shoulder and went to the tree.

“I’m leaving,” he said. “I’m feeling exposed.” He hefted the tree—bowl and all. The tree had found its new life good; it was full of leaves and the girth of its trunk had increased. These things filled Jela with a sort of wondering joy, except when he had to carry it.

“Not conspicuous or anything,” the cop commented. “Back slide?”

“I’m thinking that’s best.”

“We’ll escort,” the cop said. “Let me alert—”

From the hall came the sound of a bell, and then the gambler’s light, clear hail—followed by a single shot. Jela stumbled, fighting a lifetime of training that would have him dropping the tree and running forward. His duty—

His duty.

“Go!” snarled the cop. “I’ll cover you!”

Kit over shoulder, arms circling pot, trunk pressed against his cheek, leaves rustling in his ear, Jela moved.

Out the door he ran, spared a glance down the hall toward the lifts and saw the gambler still in her watching place. She gave him a jaunty salute. Something huddled on the floor beyond her—

The lift bell rang.

“Go!” shouted the cop coming into the hall behind him, weapon at ready.

Jela went.

AT THE MOUTH
of the alley, Cantra straightened out of her lean, eyes suddenly sharp on the pattern of people moving along the walkway between the Guard Shack and Flight Central.

“Here it comes,” she said to Dulsey. She turned her head and met a pair of determined gray eyes. “Last chance to shrug out of this and make your peace with the new master.”

“This humble person,” the Batcher said, like Cantra should’ve known she would, “will remain in the company of the pilots.”

“Have it your own way.” Cantra sighed and asked the next question anyway, though she was pretty sure she knew what the answer was going to be. “You got a weapon?”

“The master found this one to be worthy,” Dulsey said.

Cantra looked at her. “That mean yes?”

“Yes, pilot,” came the stolid reply. “I have a weapon.”

“Good. Keep it handy and you might live through this after all.”

‘Course, then she’d still have to face the new master, which Cantra understood dying to be preferable to, and which Dulsey should’ve thought of before she went and hid in the stashroom instead of getting her brain toasted alongside the old master, like a faithful Batcher ought to have.

Across the street, more people were moving against pattern, taking up this and that spot of cover; some others stopping in the shadow of the Guard Shack, small knots of friends, pausing to talk.

Cantra counted maybe fifteen, and chewed her lip. ‘Cover’ was what the man had said he’d wanted—if and only when she saw him. Fifteen on the job, though—he might not’ve expected so many. She considered the numbers excessive, herself—and that was only the front door. Who knew how many they had watching the back and the sides?

She slid her gun out of its pocket and checked the charge. Good to go, not that she’d expected elsewise. Always paid to check, though.

From across the street, ‘round toward the back of the Guard Shack, there came a flash of red light, followed by a low and drawn-out
bo-oo-oo-o-m
. The clusters and knots of chatting friends turned and ran toward the sound, and the intermittent red flickering. The concealed watchers stayed concealed, but the attention of most seemed to be on the commotion.

“Let’s go,” Cantra said to the Batcher and strolled out of the alley and down the street. When they were across from Flight Central, she paused, waiting ‘til traffic allowed, then ambled across the street.

Once across, she turned up toward the Guard Shack, then left the walk and angled between the two buildings, her pace increasing. Overhead, the three bridges glowed with a golden light, illuminating the empty passway.

As they neared the back of the building, sounds other than respectable street noise could be heard. Some sounded remarkably like shots, others like people yelling. Cantra stretched her legs until she was running lightly toward the commotion, gun in hand.

Just before she reached the corner of the Guard Shack, another low explosion disturbed the peace, a simultaneous flare dying the walls and the passway red. More yelling made up for a sudden pause in the shooting.

Cantra dodged close in to the wall, crouched and kept on. At the corner, she paused, and keeping low, carefully eased out to have a look.

The back lot was full of smoky red light. Far down toward the other side of the building, the illumination was eye-burning bright; a solid bar of flame from the edge of the building to the utility shed, from the surface of the walk to the windows three levels up. Nearer to hand, trash bins and runabouts loomed, their shapes wavering in the smoke.

And in the mid-distance, moving at speed, came a short wide-shouldered figure, massive arms wrapped around a bowl clutched ‘gainst his middle and over it all, something long and vegetative.

Cantra swore, briefly, and brought her gun up, acquiring the range
behind
the running figure, about midway to the wall of flame. Anything longer was shooting at shadows, and pursuit was sure to materialize just the instant the fastflame burned low enough to jump. Already, she could see figures through the flames, though they still reached high enough to discourage gymnastics.

The bulky runner came briskly on, despite the handicap of his burden; whether he was running faster than the flames were dying, though—

“Here!” she shouted, and he heard her—she knew he had because, incredibly, he picked up speed, skidding ‘round the corner so fast the plant he carried snapped like a whip and lost a couple leaves.

“All this for a
vegetable
?” she yelled at him.

“We’ll talk about it later!” he yelled back. “Go!”

He took his own advice, leaves blowing in his wake. Cantra waved Dulsey after.

“Cover him,” she snapped, and the Batcher flung herself down the gold-lit passway.

At the corner, Cantra dropped to one knee and turned her attention to the back trail.

The flames had thinned, though they were still more than she’d care to jump through, lacking a compelling reason. Could be that the pursuit considered Pilot Jela just that, for as she watched, three of them came through the flames, arms folded over their faces, and hit the ground running.

Cantra dropped them—one, two, three—as soon as they came into range, and by that time, four more were through and the flames weren’t looking so threatening any more.

She repeated the first exercise, with similar results, glanced over her shoulder and saw that the passway behind her was clear. Duty done. Debt paid.

A peek ‘round the corner showed that the fire had grown low enough to jump over. Time for her to start moving on her own behalf.

She got her feet under her—and ran.

Eleven

ELEVEN

On the ground

Faldaiza Port

WHEN SHE WAS CERTAIN
her back-track was clean, she set her course for the port proper,
Dancer
, a clean-up, and a well-earned nap. She thought of the big tub in her abandoned hotel room and sighed. It would’ve been nice to sit and soak, maybe another bottle of wine to hand and some interesting company to share it all with.

As it was, she’d had interesting company right enough, and too much of the wrong kind of excitement.

“Might as well been working,” she muttered to herself, checking her back-track again. Far as she could scan it—far as her ‘skins could scan it, too—she was alone in the world at present. Which suited. Port was quiet anyhow, it being about five local hours ahead of busy-time for the daily paper-pushers and cits. Not being stared at by the cits— “Look, kids, there’s one of those space pilots!” —suited, too.

She wished now that she’d had a chance to get out of Pilot Jela the name of whoever he’d annoyed. Anybody who could field the number of players she’d seen tonight likely had the means to operate elsewhere than Faldaiza. She could do without meeting them or theirs again on her next set-down—or ever.

Once again, she checked her back. Still clean. Heartened, she continued on her way, keeping to shadows when she could but not being fanatical about it. There wasn’t any sense calling attention to herself by being too stealthy. Extra caution, that would pass, pilots being who and what they were. Even extra-jumpy caution would pass, there being some pilots who just naturally did better on-ship than on-ground.

Not that she particularly argued with that better-on-ship stuff. Once you got the hang of the sound and vibrations, there wasn’t anyplace you could be on a ship and not have a good idea of what was going.

Not like here, as a quick sample, where part of the listening was wasted on identifying high squeaky sounds she’d never heard before—could be birds, could be equipment—to identifying the deep, low, shaking rumbles—might be light ground tremors, might be a storm coming in, might be equipment—hell, might be some club-band practicing with their enviroboards! If she jacked the ‘skins a bit she might get some directionals and figure the noises out, but then she’d be standin’ stock-still to listen, which would gain her attention she didn’t want or need.

Could be she was just gettin’ that tired, which ought to warn her not to run quite so close to the edge, a lesson she thought she’d learned a dozen or two times over.

She’d come into the shipyards some distance from her exit point, on the day-side, now closed up tight for the local night—and was on the approach to
Dancer’s
location, passing a strip of low cermacrete buildings—cargo brokerage office, repair-and-parts shop, automated currency exchange, and a grab-a-bite looking a degree scruffier than most.

Cantra sighed. Inside a local hour, all going well, she’d be back on her ship. Safe, as the saying went.

She strolled on past the grab-a-bite. Away near the center of the yard, she could just make out the lines of her ship. Despite herself, she smiled, and stretched her legs a little more, feeling the cermacrete under her boots.

Her ‘skins gave a yell, audible to her ears only, but she was already turning, hideaway sliding into her palm—and found herself facing a too-familiar stocky woman with determined gray eyes, wearing a pair of mechanic’s coveralls neither new nor clean, with conveniently long sleeves, clipped tight at the wrists, and “J.D. Wigams” stenciled on the breast. A work hood had been shoved up and back, hanging careless-seeming over one shoulder.

“If the pilot would follow this—” There was a marked break-off and a sharp intake of breath. “If the pilot would follow,” she repeated, firmer this time.

Cantra sighed, hideaway still enclosed in her fist. “No sense to it. I’m for my ship and a lift out. You’re on your own, except if you’re wanting a last piece of advice, which is—don’t startle people who’ve got cause to carry protection.”

“I am grateful for the advice,” Dulsey said stolidly. “As I understand the transaction, advice balances advice. So—my advice to you: Take care not to walk into a trap, believing harm has lagged behind you.”

Cantra stared at her. “You reading me good numbers, Dulsey? If not, I’ll make sure you never have to face the new master.”

“The pilot is generous. I have seen evidence. That same evidence is available to you. Follow me.” She turned and walked back toward the row of sullen shops, not looking back.

Cantra sucked air deep into her lungs and exhaled, hard.

Then she followed Dulsey.

DOWN ALONG THE SHOPS,
and back a small alleyway, no more than seventy or eighty paces from where she’d been stopped, there was a small shop— “Wigams Synchro Repair and Service” —and she’d been all but dragged inside by Dulsey, past the sign showing the place wouldn’t be open for business for another couple hours.

There wasn’t any sign of forced entry, and Dulsey had carefully turned the mechanical lock behind them before heading for the stairs beside the work bay. Cantra sighed gently. It looked like she wasn’t the only one around with proper tools and improper training.

She hadn’t been partiaularly surprised to find it was Pilot Jela and his vegetative friend Dulsey had led her to, and not particularly surprised to find him sitting comfortably in a deep leather chair behind a shiny real wood desk with a wonderful view of the window on the top level office of Synchro Repair. The window in turn had a wonderful view overlooking the port.

Jela hadn’t bothered with a greeting, just pointed at the spy-glass sitting on the sythnwood work table beside the big desk.