The Crystal Variation (17 page)

THERE WASN’T ANY WAY
to tell how the ships and the armor gained their info, so there wasn’t any use going roundabout to the ramp of Pilot Cantra’s ship. Thus the pilot ruled. As it happened, Jela didn’t disagree with her reasons or her decision. He was beginning to develop some serious respect for Pilot Cantra, even though the day was beginning to visibly wear on her.

They marched in order—pilot first, himself and the tree next, Dulsey in her stolen coveralls and not-stolen gun covering the rear. It was interesting to note that they encountered no armed lurkers or outliers. Not so much as a panhandler impeded their progress. Jela walked on, senses hyper-alert, and revised his opinion regarding the likely involvement of the armor. It wasn’t especially good strategy to depend on the equipment to the exclusion of soldiers on the ground. On the other hand, he hadn’t seen much good strategy in this op—present company excluded.

The air had cooled rapidly with the setting of the local star, however, so brisk was their march that it was unnecessary for his ‘skins to raise the temp. Above his head, the tree’s leaves were still despite the breeze of their passage, allowing him to use his ears to listen for possible enemy movement.

They came to the ramp of the pilot’s ship in good order. She mounted first, which was her right as captain; long, light stride waking not a whisper from the metal deck. He followed, the tree cradled in his arms, and Dulsey came at his back, metal ringing under her deliberate steps.

The hatch began to slide back as Pilot Cantra reached the top of the ramp. She never paused, crossing the landing in two of her strides and ducking through the gap into the lock beyond.

By the time Jela, bearing the extra inconvenience of the tree, reached the landing the hatch was wide open, the lock beyond spilling pale blue light onto the decking. The plate over the door read
Spiral Dance
. No home port.

He paused, waiting for Dulsey.

She reached his side, throwing him a wide glance out of gray eyes. “Pilot?”

Arms occupied with the tub holding the tree, he used his chin to point.

“The minute you cross into that ship, a bounty goes on you,” he said.

“Yes, Pilot. This—I am aware of that,” she answered and it might have been impatience he heard. He hoped so.

“You didn’t discuss with Pilot Cantra where you might like to be set down,” he continued. “There aren’t many worlds where those Batch-marks will go unnoticed.”

“I am also aware of that, Pilot. I thank you for your concern, but my immediate need is to depart Faldaiza. Deeper plans—deeper plans await event.”

Two “I-s” and a “my” in the same couple sentences, and nary a hesitation before any of them. She might, he thought, make it. Provided she could find some way to neutralize the Batch tats. There might even be a way to do it, short of amputating the arms and regrowing. He’d never heard of any undetectable method besides the amputations—acid baths only removed the first two or three layers of skin, and left behind telltale burns; attempts to camouflage the tats with others, done by needle, were doomed to failure.

“We should not,” Dulsey said, “keep Pilot Cantra waiting.”

“We should not,” he agreed, and jerked his chin again at the open hatch. “After you.”

SHE HIT THE PILOT’S CHAIR,
hands already on the board, opening long eyes and short, slapping up wide ears. Pilot voices began to murmur—groundside chatter, as it sounded. Nobody sounding frantic, no tightness in the banter. Good.

Her hands were starting to shake, and a high whine had started in her ears, damn it all to the Deeps. She thought about the stick of Tempo in the utility drawer. Left it there.

A racket from behind announced the imminent arrival of her crew, speaking of arrant stupidity. She pushed on a corner of the board; a hatch slid silently open, revealing a minute control panel; snapped three toggles from left to right, pressed the small orange stud. The hatch slid shut, merging invisibly with the metal surface.

Cantra spun her chair around to face the incoming.

Dulsey came first, slipping her weapon away into a pocket of the coverall. Pilot Jela came next, massive arms wrapped around a biggish pot, apparently not at all bothered by the leaves tickling his ear or the twigs sticking into his head. He took in the piloting room with one comprehensive black glance, walked over to the point where the board met the wall on the far side of the co-pilot’s station, bent and set the pot gently on the decking. He slapped open a leg pouch, pulled out a roll of cargo twine and pitched it to Dulsey, who caught it one-handed, and stood holding it, head cocked to one side.

“Secure that,” Jela said. The words fell like an order on Cantra’s ringing ears.

Apparently it sounded that way to Dulsey, too. She dropped her eyes, mouth tightening. “Pilot,” she murmured and walked over to do what she’d been told.

Jela put himself into the co-pilot’s chair without any further discussion, his big hands deft on the controls. Seat adjusted to his satisfaction, he pointed his eyes at the board, giving it the same all-encompassing look he’d given the pilot’s tower.

“We have a scheduled lift?” he asked. “Pilot?”

“We do,” she answered, spinning back to face her screens. “We’ll be departing some earlier.”

He was opening co-pilot’s eyes, his attention on the readouts; touched a switch and brought the chatter up a mite.

“If we re-file, we give warning of our intention to anyone interested,” he said, just offering the info.

“That’s so,” she agreed. “Which is why we’re not refiling.” She eyed the readouts—nothing glowing that shouldn’t be; and the armor just where and how they’d last seen it. The chatter was staying peaceful, and long eyes brought her nothing but the serene turn of stars. She reached to her own instruments and started the wake-up sequence.

“What we’re going to do as soon as Dulsey has that damn’ vegetable secured and gets herself strapped down, is grab us out and lift.”

“Tree,” Jela said, so quiet she could barely hear him over the chatter and the ringing. He sent her a glance, lean face absolutely expressionless. “If we wait a bit, we might lull whoever could be watching into thinking we’ll keep to the filed lift.”

If we wait a bit
, Cantra thought, feeling the shake in her muscles,
the pilot won’t be fit to fly
.

She fixed him with a glare. “You sign up as co-pilot on my ship?”

Black eyes blinked. Once. “Pilot, I did.”

“That’s what I thought, too. We go now. Pilot’s choice.”

Another blink, and a return to the studious consideration of his area.

“Pilot,” he said, and there might or might not’ve been an edge to his voice. Not that she gave a demi-qwint either way.

“Dulsey,” she snapped. “Can you take acceleration?”

“Yes, Pilot,” came the cool response. “More than you can.”

Now
there
was an assumption. Cantra grinned, feeling it more teeth than humor. Navigation brain was awake. She set it to scanning for safe out-routes, and shot a fast look down-board. Dulsey was finishing up with the cord and the vegetable. Tree. Whatever.

“Get yourself strapped into the fold-out. You got ten from my mark.” She took a breath. “Mark.”

Suggested routes were coming in from navigation; she belatedly added the co-pilot to the report list, copied the first batch manually and did a quick scroll. Beside her, Jela was heard to make a sound amounting to
tsk
. She shot him a look while her fingers initiated engine wake-up.

“Prime thinkum,” was all he said, his big hands steady on the controls. “How do you want to run it, Pilot?”

She glanced at the nav screen, scrolled through the new offerings, moved a finger and highlighted a particular course. It hung there, gleaming yellow, awaiting the co-pilot’s consideration.

“We could do that,” he said, and the screen showed a second highlight, blue, two choices further down. “This one gives us more maneuvering room, in case anybody wants to throw flowers at us.”

She frowned at the suggested route, found it not inelegant. A little sloppy if the armor kept to itself, but nothing to endanger. The portmaster was going to be irritated, but that was the portmaster’s lookout.

“We’ll take it,” she said, and pressed the locking key. “If we wake up the armor, first board goes to you, since you got the experience and I don’t, at which point I’ll grab second.” Her hands moved, setting it up, except for the final confirm, which was one key within easy reach. “If nobody cares we’re leaving, saving the portmaster, I’ll stay with her. Scans?”

“Scans clean,” he replied.

“Dulsey, you in?”

“Yes, Pilot.”

“Ten,” said Cantra and gave
Dancer
the office.

* * *

SHE FLEW LIKE A bomber pilot,
did Cantra, and with as much regard for her passengers. The acceleration didn’t bother him, of course, and it seemed to not bother her at about the same level, which was—almost as interesting as a nav brain that based it simulations on lifts pre-filed and stored in the central port system. He did spare a quick glance at Dulsey, strapped down in the jump seat. She looked to be asleep.

They were up for full seconds before Tower started howling. Neither the order nor the language in which it was couched interested Pilot Cantra, by his reading of the side of her face.

More seconds. Tower continued to issue orders, and other voices came on-line quickly—pilots on the yard, they were, some sidine with Tower, others urging
Spiral Dance
to more speed, still others laying wagers on the various angles of the thing—elapsed time to orbit, probable fines, and the likelihood of collecting them, number of years before
Spiral Dance
dared raise Faldaiza again . . .

He rode his scans, seeing nothing hot behind them, on the fast-dwindling port, and was beginning to consider that the armor had never been in it at all, that local talent wasn’t going to trouble themselves to pursue off-world, in fact, might be applauding their departure—when three bright spots blossomed on the screen. Not energy weapons—missiles!

“Trouble in the air!” Jela spat, and reached hands toward a board not yet his.

In short order, just ahead of them, a glare of light, and then the port-ward scans lighting up at the same instant as the ship’s collision alarm went off. He took it in, didn’t swear.

“Con coming your way.” Cantra’s voice was firm.

Another burst, and the pilot slapped the transfer button, swapping her board for his. His hands moved, feeding in avoids, hoping the pattern he had in his head was going to be good enough.

“Three,” Pilot Cantra said meditatively. “And the man don’t know who loves him.”

Being engaged, he let the debate go, kicked the engine up another notch, and felt the ship surge while screens one, three, and five showed explosions.

Though they were still in atmosphere he slapped up the meteor shields, then played the controls a moment to check reaction time . . . let the ship spin about the long axis, the modest airfoils working just fine at this velocity.

Tower came over the open comm, ordering the armor to cease and desist, which would do as much good as ordering any other robot unit to do the same.

“Ships coming on line behind us,” Cantra said quietly. “Main screens going up as soon as we’re clear.”

Ships coming on line—that could be bad, or good, and in either case not on his worry plate until any of them actually fired. He slid the throttle up another notch, felt the instant response in his gut as the acceleration kicked in, and then quickly backed off power as the collision alarm went off again.

“Tiny!” was what Cantra said, and she was describing the munition struggling to change course, to catch them . . .

Jela slammed the control jets, bouncing the ship and occupants around ruthlessly as the missile seemed to skitter along some unseen barrier. One final burst of acceleration now and the projectile slid helplessly behind them.

Another cluster of bursts, below them now, and—

“Shields up! Got us a ship burst—”

He frowned at his screens, reached to the reset—

“One armor gone,” Cantra said. “Tower can’t decide whether to be happy or not. ID . . .” An audible in-drawn breath. “
Pretty Parcil
.”

“Not bad,” Jela said. “For a civilian.”

She didn’t say anything, loudly. He notched the engine back, reached to access for the next item in the navigation queue—

“Nothing close, now,” he said. “I think we’ll do.”

Suddenly a blast of noise, internal, as Cantra brought the audio to the speakers.

Jela sighed. So much for a quiet departure. Ships calling for weapons, pilots demanding information, the local air defense group issuing contradictory orders . . . and all thankfully behind them.

Cantra nodded at him, with a quick hand sign that was
thanks
, in pilot hand-talk.

“I’ll rig that up for auto-run,” she said, and the lights flickered under his hands—swap back. He sighed to himself, fiddled with the comm, checked the screens and said nothing. Her ship, her rules, her call.

Pilot Cantra fed the silence, fingers moving with deliberate purpose, locking in the auto-run. At last, she sat back, unsnapped the shock straps, and leaned her head against the chair.

“Dulsey!” she called.

“Pilot?” Languid. Sounded like she’d been asleep, for true. Jela grinned. Nerves spun out of steel thread. She’d do, all right. Maybe.

“You ride a board, Dulsey?”

“No, Pilot. I regret. The Batch-grown are not allowed to hold professional license.”

Cantra sighed. “Replay what I asked you, Dulsey. I don’t care if you got a license, scan?”

Silence. Jela shot a glance over his shoulder. The Batcher woman was sitting on the edge of the jump-seat, straps pushed aside. She bit her lip.

“Pilot, I can ride a board,” she said slowly. “But I am the verymost novice.”

“Just so happens you’ll have Pilot Jela on first, and he’s something better than that, as we’ve seen demonstrated. Do what he tells you and you’ll be ace.”

She turned her head and glared at Jela, who considered the lines etched in by her mouth and the discernible trembling of her arms and her fingers, and forbore to bait her.