The Crystal Variation (21 page)

Outside, the rain had increased. Jela sighed and turned back the way he had come.

“Pilot,
you honor my humble establishment.”

Rint dea’Sord swept a showy bow, sleeves fluttering, right leg thrust out, shiny boot pointed straight forward, left leg behind and slightly bent, boot pointing at right angles. His hair fell in artful gilt ringlets below his slim shoulders. The shirt was silver starsilk, slashed sleeves showing blood-red. The breeches, tucked into high boots, looked to be tanned viezy hide, and probably was, though the probability that Ser dea’Sord had followed tradition to the point of personally killing the donor reptile with the ritually mandated stone knife was vanishingly low. Very tender of his own skin, Rint dea’Sord, though he didn’t care if yours took a scar.

He straightened out of his bow with boneless grace, the right leg coming back just a fraction too slow, an error that would have gained him a turn in the phantom lover, had he been trained in her dorm. Which, naturally enough, he hadn’t, being self-taught. For that level of education, he did well enough, Cantra allowed, and answered his bow with a Rimmer’s terse nod.

“The cargo’s ready to off-load, pending receipt of payment,” she said.

Rint dea’Sord smiled, which he did prettily enough, but he really should, Cantra thought critically, either learn to use his eyes, or camouflage them with a sweep of the lashes or—

“All business, as always, Pilot!” He laughed gently, and sat himself behind his desk, waving her to a chair with a languid hand. “Please, rest a moment and tell me your news. Will you take some refreshment?”

When Taliofi’s star froze, that was when she’d take refreshment from the likes of Rint dea’Sord. Not that she’d be so rude as to tell the man so; she’d been trained better than that. She put her hand on the back of the chair she was supposed to sit in, and smiled, using her eyes.

“I just ate,” she said, pulling the Rim accent up a little. “And my news ain’t special or interesting. Took the cargo on at Faldaiza, lifted, transitioned, and came down on Taliofi Yard a while back. Looking to collect payment due, off-load, and lift.” She smiled again, rueful. “A courier’s life is boring. Which is the way she wants it, and her clients, too.”

He folded his hands carefully atop the black ceramic desk, and considered her, his eyes blue and hard, belying his tone of courteous and civil interest.

“Come, Pilot, you are too modest! When a courier performs an unscheduled lift amid cannon-fire, surely that is news? As your client, I can only applaud the skill which allowed you to win free unscathed. It will of course be awkward for you to return to Faldaiza for the foreseeable future, but that must be accounted to the side of necessary action, must it not?”

“Right,” she said, laconic, keeping her face smooth.

Rint dea’Sord smiled. “As your client, I must ask—please do not think me discourteous!—if the contretemps surrounding your departure from Faldaiza in any way touched upon the cargo you have brought to me?”

“Separate issue,” she assured him.

“You relieve me. Would that separate issue have had to do with your passenger?”

Cantra showed him a face honestly puzzled. “Passenger?”

Rint dea’Sord clicked his tongue against his teeth, his face smooth under the gold-toned makeup. “Come, come, Pilot! Passenger, of course.”

“I’m not recalling any passenger,” she said. “Maybe your info got scrambled.”

Ser dea’Sord sighed, gently. “Pilot, surely you know that I have eyes all over this port.”

“Goes without saying—man of your position,” Cantra answered soothingly.

“Then you will know that I am reliably informed regarding your passenger.”

Since when did Rint dea’Sord concern himself with extra cargo, crew or passengers, so long as his interests weren’t put in jeopardy? She wondered, stringently keeping the wonder from showing in her face, eyes, voice or stance, and shrugged. Holding to honest puzzlement, she met the cold blue eyes, her own guileless and wide.

“Sir, I don’t doubt you’re reliably informed about everything that transpires on this Yard, and would be about my passenger, if I’d had one, which I didn’t.” She cocked her head to a side. “Got time for a let’s pretend?”

The pretty gilt eyebrows arched high, but he answered courteous enough.

“I am at your disposal, Pilot. What shall we pretend? That I am a two-headed galunus?”

“Nothing that hard,” she said. “Let’s just pretend that, instead of the two of us talking about your cargo and how I’m going to get paid real soon now so I can off-load and lift—let’s pretend I had two clients on this port, and I’m with the second. And let’s pretend that this second client, having paid her shot and arranged the off-load, starts inquiries into your cargo, which it ain’t any business of hers. And so she says to me, ‘I’m a big noise on this Yard and I’m reliably informed that you’re carrying cargo for Rint dea’Sord. Tell me about it.’ Now,” Cantra finished, watching him watch her out of those hard, cold eyes, “what’s my proper response, given the cargo isn’t got the young lady’s name on it, but your own?”

There was a small silence during which Rint dea’Sord unfolded his hands and put them flat on the top of the desk.

“Let me see . . .” He murmured, and raised one finger in consideration. “Would it perhaps be, ‘Cargo? I’m not recalling any cargo.’”

Cantra smiled. “You’ve played before.”

“Indeed I have,” he said, and didn’t bother to smile back. “While I value your discretion—and your warning—I believe that the nature of this particular passenger warrants my attention as a—what was the phrase? Ah!—as a
big noise
on this Yard. Certainly, my attention must be aroused when a courier whom I am known to have employed is seen abetting the escape of a renegade Batcher.”

Cantra visibly stifled a yawn. “Runaway Batcher,” she said, on a note of reflection.

“It is possible of course,” said Rint dea’Sord, “that you were deceived into believing her a natural human, such as yourself. A Batcher traveling alone, without the rest of her pod, would seem to be as individual as you or I.”

“Might’ve been traveling on behalf of her owner,” Cantra said, by way of stalling him, while she tried to think it through. He was focusing on Dulsey, acting like she’d been the only one coming off
Spiral Dance
, saving Cantra. Had his bragged-on eyes somehow missed the substantial fact of Pilot Jela? Or had Jela decided to ingratiate himself with the Yard boss? Fast work if he had—and she didn’t put it beyond him.

“Is that what she told you?” dea’Sord asked. “That she was traveling on behalf of her owner?”

Cantra sighed silently, bringing her full wits back to the conversation in progress.

“She can’t have told me anything, since she doesn’t exist,” she said, letting aggravation be heard. “Ser dea’Sord, there’s the matter of payment sitting between the two of us. Your cargo’s secure in the hold of my ship. As soon as I have the promised coin, I can off-load and we can both get back to the business of turning a profit.”

This time Rint dea’Sord did smile, and Cantra wished he hadn’t.

“As it happens, Pilot, I am pursuing a profit even as we speak.” He moved a hand to touch a portion of his desk top. A door opened in the wall behind him, and a burly man in half-armor ‘skins stepped through, a limp form wound in cargo twine tucked under one arm. dea’Sord beckoned and the fellow walked up to Cantra, dropped his burden at her feet, and fell back to the desk, hand on his sidearm.

Cantra looked down. Dulsey was unconscious, which was maybe a good thing; her face was swollen and beginning to show bruises; her nose was broken, and there was blood—on her face, in her hair, on those bits of her coverall not hidden by cargo twine.

The cargo twine was a problem, being smartwire’s dimmer cousin. Cargo twine could crush ribs and snap vertebrae. Not that anyone would care what damage a Batcher picked up for bounty took, so long as she was alive—stipulating that the contract called for it.

“Your passenger, I believe, Pilot?” Rint dea’Sord was having way too much fun, Cantra thought, suddenly seeing all too clearly where he was going with this.

“No, sir,” she said, her eyes on Dulsey—still breathing, all the worse for her.

“Pilot—”

She raised her eyes and looked at him straight. “Much as I’d like to accommodate you, she wasn’t no passenger.”

The thin mouth tightened. “What was she then?”

“‘prentice pilot. Sat her board neat as you’d like. ‘Course, being an engineer . . .”

“An engineer.” He laughed. “She was a restaurant worker before she turned rogue, murdered her owner, and terminated the others of her Pod.”

Cantra glanced down at Dulsey. “Why’d she do that?”

“Who can know what motivates such creatures?” He gave a delicate shudder. “Perhaps she believed that, with the others gone, she might pass as a real human.
Why
scarcely matters. In a short while Efron here will be taking the Batcher across the port, where a bounty hunter will receive her and pay him our finder’s fee.”

“Right,” she said, keeping her eyes on his face. “What’s it got to do with me and my fee?”

“Pilot.” He looked at her with sorrow, as if she were a favorite student who had unaccountably flubbed a simple question. “I think you are well-aware of the penalties attached to giving aid to an escaped Batcher. Whether she was an apprentice pilot or passenger really makes no difference.”

Nor would it to those who were only concerned with collecting their bounties. And as for the penalties for aiding and abetting, she did know them: Three years hard labor, and confiscation of all her goods. Which would be
Dancer
. By the time her years at labor were done—assuming she survived them, which wasn’t the way the smart money bet—she’d be broken and broke. She also knew that an aid-and-abet charge against a natural human, which in unlikely fact she happened to be, was subject to an appeal before an actual magistrate. The odds of her coming out a free woman on the other side of that appeal were laughable, and the accumulated penalties for her various crimes and sins against the law-abiding would add up to more and worse than the aid-and-abet.

Which simple arithmetic Rint dea’Sord had done, and then exposed himself and his operation to considerable risk by summoning a bounty hunter. Cantra supposed she ought to be flattered, that he thought her worth so much.

She smiled at him, wide and sincere.

“What do you want?” she asked, thinking the important thing was not to let Efron get twine around her. That likely meant a discussion of weapons right here and now—in fact, it would be best if it were here and now. She made a mental note to save a dart for Dulsey.

Rint dea’Sord was smiling again.

“Excellent, Pilot.
Do
allow me to admire your perspicacity. While it is true that I would enjoy owning your ship and your effects, I would enjoy having you in my employ even more.”

Cantra frowned. “Ser dea’Sord, you don’t need a Dark trader in your employ.”

He laughed, gently, and fluttered his fingers at her. “Pilot, Pilot. No, you are correct—I
don’t
need a Dark trader in my employ. I do, however, find myself in need of an
aelantaza
.”

Cantra felt her blood temperature drop. She jerked a shoulder up, feigning unconcern.

“So, contract for one.”

“Alas, the matter is not so simple,” he said. “The directors do not look upon my project with favor.”

The projects the directors refused to write paper for weren’t many, the directors being conveniently without loyalties, and wedded to their own profit. If she hadn’t already been chilled, the information that they had turned Rint dea’Sord down would’ve done it.

Well. How info did change a life. Cantra sighed to herself and eyed Efron. She counted four weapons, in addition to the showpiece on his belt. Two were placed awkwardly, but that wouldn’t count as a benefit unless they had a much longer conversation that she was planning for.

Rint dea’Sord was another matter. He was the man at the control board, and he’d have to go first. If she were quick—

There was a loud noise on the far side of the wall behind the desk. Rint dea’Sord reached to his desk, frowning. Efron stood as he had, damn the man, and tested the slide of the gun, his eyes very much on her.

She smiled and showed him her empty, innocent hands. He relaxed, mouth quirking at the corner just a bit—then spun as the door went back on its slide, screaming wrongful death the while.

Cantra pulled her number one hideaway and pointed it at Rint dea’Sord’s head just as Jela cleared the door.

Efron’s gun was out and leveled, no boggles, fast and smooth.

Jela, however, was faster and smoother. A kick and Efron’s gun went one way, a slap and Efron went the other, landing in a crumpled, unmoving heap. Jela kept walking, not even breathing hard, and knelt next to the unfortunate mess that was Dulsey.

“Cargo twine,” Cantra told him, being not entirely sure of his state of mind, though he looked as calm as usual.

“I see it,” he said, and set to work, not sparing a glance over his shoulder. Trusting her to cover him. Again.

Rint dea’Sord sat, hands flat on his desk, his eyes on Cantra’s.

“Who is this?”

“My co-pilot,” she told him, mind racing. Killing Rint dea’Sord was an extraordinarily good way to ruin herself in the trade. On the other hand, he held info—info he shouldn’t have had—and where he’d gotten it, and who he might share it with, had to be a concern. And he would never forget that she’d drawn on him. So, the choice: Ruined with a live enemy or a dead one on her back trail?

“A co-pilot and an apprentice,” dea’Sord said. “That’s quite a lot of crew for a woman who reportedly runs solo.”

“I missed the notice that I needed to clear my ship’s arrangements with you.” Damn it all, there was no choice. Rint dea’Sord was going to have to die.

She saw him realize that she’d taken her decision, which was nothing more than idiot ineptitude on her part.

He lunged across the desk, and she fired, hitting him high, the force of the impact slapping him backward to the floor. Swearing at herself for clumsy shooting, she moved forward to finish the job—and found Jela there before her, hauling dea’Sord up by his silken collar and throwing him none-too-gently back into his chair.