The Crystal Variation (45 page)

The corridor was dim with emergency lighting, the doors along it dogged to red. Cantra hadn’t wasted her few seconds with the control panel, Jela thought, and approved.

The door to the piloting chamber was dogged, too. Cantra placed her fingers on a certain spot along the frame and the door opened.

Inside, it was no brighter than the corridor, the board a blot of darkness along the far wall. Taking no chances, was Cantra yos’Phelium, canny woman that she was.

At the far end of the room, in the corner formed by the end of the co-pilot’s board and the curve of the interior wall, leaves glowing in the light from the emergency dim above it, was the tree.

Cantra walked to the pilot’s station and stood, tense but calm, her hand on the back of the chair. Rool Tiazan and his lady, however, had stopped only three steps into the room, and stood as if caught in an immobilizer beam.

Jela moved to one side, so he stood between them and the tree without obscuring their view of each other. After all, it was the tree he had wanted them to see; the tree who should make the judgment, here. The tree—

Its branches were moving slightly, though the blowers were off, and the whole tower was suddenly filled with the aroma of fresh seed-pod.

“Ah,” Rool Tiazan’s lady breathed, and glided forward on silent gray slippers. Her mate went after her, one respectful step behind.

Though this was the meeting he had wanted, Jela twitched, suddenly not sure he wanted these . . .
sheriekas
-made in position to damage—

Two steps from the pot itself, the lady sank to her knees on the decking, gray robes pooling about her, head down, tiny hands upraised, as if in supplication—or prayer.

Rool Tiazan, a step behind, went gracefully to one knee, and bent his head.

The tree . . .

There was a tumble of images in Jela’s head—of a world seen by dragon-eye, the crowns of trees so thick that the sea was barely visible as a glint in the pale light of the star. Sounds filled his ears—water rushing, waves crashing, rain striking the earth, and the wind, moving through countless millions of leaves . . .

The dragon-eye blinked, and the wind shifted—became dry and pitiless, scouring rock, stirring the dust in the dead sea-bed, moving the sand in long waves, burying the skeletons of trees were they lay . . .

Jela’s eyes filled with tears. He blinked them away, shot a glance at Cantra, standing with her slim shoulders bowed, her hair shielding her down turned face.

Before the tree, the lady raised up her head.

“We were not the agents, but we accept the guilt. We have committed crimes against life, actions so terrible that there can be no forgiveness.

“Have pity on us, who had none. Allow us to make amends. We pledge ourselves to you; we give you our lives—use them or end them. It is with you.”

A blast of hot wind rocked the inside of Jela’s head. He saw the young dragons, tumbling into the air, rolling on the soft, dry leaves at the base of a stupendous tree—and pushing out of the sheltering deadfall, hopeful new leaves on a tender trunk . . .

“Yes,” Rool Tiazan’s voice was ragged. “We have children and they are kept as safely as any may be. End us now and they will end with all else, when the
sheriekas
have had their way.” He drew a hard breath.

“I have lain down my shields; you may do what you will. It will be necessary to end me first, for I may not allow harm to befall my lady.”

Another breeze, this one scented with the hint of rain.

At the pilot’s station, Cantra suddenly straightened and shook her hair out of her face.

“My opinion, is it?” she said, and laughed on a wild note Jela had never heard from her before. “I don’t have one. Best I can bring you is something Garen used to say, that made more sense than most.” She took a breath and closed her eyes, reciting in a voice a bit deeper and a fair amount slower than her normal way of speaking:

“
In the matter of allies, you need to ask yourself two things: Can they shoot? And will they aim at your enemy
?”

She opened her eyes and nodded at the tree. “That’s my opinion, since you asked for it.”

There was a stillness in the chamber, and among the leaves of the tree. The air grew warm, which was just, Jela thought, that the blowers weren’t on . . . The
dramliz
didn’t stir from their attitudes of supplication, save that the lady lowered her hands and folded them against her robe.

Then, as if the threat of storm had passed off, the air freshened, the top-most branches of the tree moved, and Jela, prompted by an impulse not his own, walked forward, the aroma of tree-fruit in his nose.

He slipped past the kneeling
dramliz
, and held his hand out under the branches. Two seed-pods dropped into his wide palm; he began to close his fingers—and two more dropped, attached by a branch no thicker than a thread.

Well.

Turning, he touched Rool Tiazan lightly on the shoulder, and when the man looked up handed him the two attached pods. Passing on, he gave one of the remaining two to Cantra and stood by her, his own fruit cupped in his palm.

Across the field of his mind’s eye a dragon swept by, hovering on effortless wings above the crown of an enormous tree. As he watched, the dragon lowered its mighty head, and a branch lifted to meet it. The dragon selected a pod, swallowed it . . .

The image faded.

At the base of the tree, Rool Tiazan broke one pod off the tiny branch, and handed the second to his lady.

“I, first,” he murmured, and held the fruit high in his palm, where it fell into sections, releasing its aroma into the chamber.

He ate without hesitation, as a man might savor a favorite treat, and as if no suspicion—or hope—of poison clouded his heart.

His lady waited with bowed head for three heartbeats, then ate her own fruit, neatly.

“Us, now?” Cantra asked.

“It seems so,” he answered.

“Right.” She ate, and he did, and he closed his eyes.

Overhead, he heard the sound of dragon wings.

Thirty-Two

THIRTY-TWO

Spiral Dance

Gimlins

THE GRAY-ROBED LADY
was in the jump-seat, Rool Tiazan standing behind her like a paladin, or a servant.

Cantra lounged at her ease, arms folded on the back of the pilot’s chair, keeping her expression pleasantly neutral. She hadn’t offered the ship’s guests tea or other refreshment, which was her call as captain. If either noticed the lack, they didn’t mention it.

Jela was in the co-pilot’s chair, on his mettle and letting it show, face hard, eyes hooded. Having second thoughts about accepting the decision of a vegetable in the matter of allies, Cantra guessed, and carefully didn’t think about her moment of contact with that same vegetable, its question as clear as if it had whispered in her ear.

“The
sheriekas
,” Jela said, breaking the longish silence. “According to Ser Tiazan, they can’t be defeated, but they can be escaped. I’d like to hear more about that particular assertion, such as how the escape plan is configured, and what exactly you expect from your allies.”

“Ah.” That was the lady, sitting straight-backed and prim, gray slippered feet swinging some inches above the decking, her hands folded in her gray lap.

“Perhaps we ought better to have said that it is the fervent hope of many of the
dramliz
that the
sheriekas
may be escaped. We who have refused to serve are numerous, and varied, and not entirely of one mind.”

Jela frowned. “There’s no plan, then,” he said, flatly.

The lady raised a tiny, ringless hand.

“There are several plans, Wingleader Jela. There is, for an instance, the plan formulated by our esteemed colleague Lute and his dominant. They—”

“Hold it,” Jela was frowning hard now. “Explain dominant.”

The lady sighed sharply, and it was Rool Tiazan who answered.

“Lady Cantra had previously raised the question of the flaws which insure that the
dramliz
pose no threat to their makers,” he said, as calmly as if they were discussing the possibilities of a proposed trading route. “Each
dramliza
is composed of two units. While each unit is possessed of those odd talents which the
sheriekas
find good, there is a selected-for disparity between them.

“The dominant unit’s talents are the lesser—” He inclined his head to Jela. “You understand, sir, that we speak in relative terms of value.”

“Right,” said Jela.

“Yes,” murmured Rool Tiazan. “So, the dominant unit holds the lesser powers, except that she may command and direct the subordinate unit and he may not withhold himself. The subordinate is also required to defend the dominant with his life.”

“Must make for an interesting situation,” Cantra commented, “if they ever wanted to shut one of you down.”

The vivid blue gaze came to rest on her face and he inclined his head.

“Indeed. The dominant carries the seeds of her annihilation within her. When the
sheriekas
wish to terminate a
dramliza
, they merely trigger the implanted doom, and the dominant expires. Unable to regulate himself, the subordinate soon follows, unless speedily paired with another dominant.”

“Nasty,” Cantra said, and meant it. She looked directly at the lady. “So, why’re you still walking, if it can be told? From what Jela tells me, I don’t expect the Enemy likes deserters none.”

The lady smiled tightly.

“This pairing is a—miscalculation, Pilot. When we realized the extent and kind of our abilities, we used them to liberate as many of our kind as possible. However, the
sheriekas
have other means of disposal at their beck, and time grows short—” she sent a swift glance to Jela— “for all.”

He nodded. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Lady, and glad of an explanation of how your corps operates.”

“Ah. Then I may proceed?”

“Please.”

“So. Our colleague Lute and his dominant have determined that it may be possible for them and for those
dramliz
of like mind, to insert themselves into the fabric of the universe as it decrystallizes and to exert their wills in such a way as to—form a bubble universe in which life might thrive, surrounded, yet apart from, the
sheriekas
eternity.”

There were few enough times when Cantra had reason to think kindly on her schooling—and this was one of those rare occasions. She neither blinked nor laughed, and was confident that her face hadn’t changed expression. A quick glance to the side showed Jela doing pretty well, too, though he did raise a hand, signing
clarification
.

“Yes?” the lady said, none-too-gentle.

“I wonder why they think this is possible,” Jela said mildly, which was as fine a bit of understatement as Cantra’d heard lately.

The lady glared, apparently finding Jela too dim for conversation, for it was once again Rool Tiazan who answered.

“They see it merely as a return to a more efficient former state, M. Jela, and anticipate little difficulty in re-crystalizing a life-friendly universe from some portion of decrystallized matter.”

“I . . . see,” Jela said carefully. “What about you—do you think this is a reasonable plan?”

There was a short pause, then the lady sighed.

“Wingleader, you must understand that what the
sheriekas
attempt—what they are accomplishing at an ever more rapid rate—is . . . unprecedented. The
dramliz
—we are pushing the edge of what we know to be possible, and while we may be closer to the enemy in kind and talent than any living thing, we are as children.”

“That being so,” Cantra heard her own voice ask, “you’re still talking in terms of escape?”

The lady turned to look at her, amber eyes serious.

“We—Rool, Lute, my sister and I—we seek escape. We believe that escape, in one form or another, is possible. There are others of us who believe that the
sheriekas
can be defeated.”

“Can they?” Cantra asked, fascinated despite herself. Deeps knew, the Enemy was a threat to everything in the path of themselves or their works—had been for all her life, and all of Garen’s too. But the notion of—descrystallizing, whatever that was meant to say—the known galaxy in the hopes of creating one better, out of will and cussedness alone—

“M. Jela,” Rool Tiazan said, so soft he might have been a part of her thoughts, “has a good bit of the math which describes the process, Lady Cantra.”

She glared. “Read that right out, didn’t you?”

He smiled at her, and glanced down at the top of his lady’s head.

“Neither I nor the majority of the philosophers among the free
dramliz
believe that the
sheriekas
may be defeated,” the lady said in her prim, serious voice. “Not by the
dramliz
, nor by the forces of humanity, nor even by those forces combined.” She glanced aside, down the room to where Jela’s tree stood tall in its pot, leaves at attention.

“Had we a dozen worlds of
ssussdriad
at the height of their powers, with legions of dragons at their call—we do not believe even that would be enough to defeat the
sheriekas
.”

“But there are
dramliz
who are going to engage the enemy, even knowing they’ll fail,” Jela said, more like he was checking facts than questioning the sanity of the proposition.

“There are those who
must
fight, M. Jela,” Rool Tiazan said gently. “As to failure—all we attempt, as a force and individually, may yet end there.”

“We hope that it will be otherwise,” his lady added.

“Right.” Jela shifted a little in his chair, eyes on the farthest corner of the tower.

“What I see, from soldier’s eyes, is that your corps has a dual-pronged campaign on the board: A group of fighters to draw the enemy’s attention and forces while those with Ser Lute attempt to capture and keep a reduced territory. The question comes back: What do you want from us?”

He moved a hand, enclosing himself, the tree and Cantra in the circle of “us,” which was cheek—or maybe not. She’d eaten the damn’ nuts, hadn’t she?

There was a small silence, as if Rool Tiazan and his lady took lightning counsel of each other on a level not available to the rest of them.