The Crystal Variation (85 page)

A small silence, then, as the scholar sipped wine. The orange cat, which had been sitting quiet on his lap, suddenly stretched tall, jumped to the floor and strolled over, giving her knee a friendly bump before leaping onto her lap.

“My apologies for not returning him immediately,” said Liad dea’Syl. “Your cat has been a comfort to us, Pilot.”

She looked up from rubbing the square orange head. “My cat?”

“So M. Jela had it. In the case that it has slipped your mind, his name is Lucky.”

The cat was purring. Loudly.
Lucky
, she thought. Now there was a sterling name for a cat . . .

“Tor An?” the scholar called. “Pray attend us.”

A rustle and the movement of shadows heralded the boy’s arrival from the kitchenette. “Master?”

“I wonder if you might recount for the pilot those things regarding his mission that M. Jela thought it wise to share with you.”

“Certainly.” He turned to Cantra. “I had asked Jela why he was pretending—not very well—to be a kobold. He said that you and he were after certain updated and expanded equations, which were necessary to winning the war. He said that you were a volunteer, who had undergone . . . protocols . . . which . . . made it possible for you to accept as truth those things you would ordinarily reject as falsehood. He gave me a copy of the equations, so far as he had them, with annotations.” He glanced at the old scholar sitting still and attentive in his chair— “which I have given to the master.” He paused, waiting for some sign from her, or so it seemed. She inclined her head.

“Yes,” he murmured, and cleared his throat. “He then said that—that the safety of the galaxy rested on you alone, and that he would have no other, save his true and courageous friend—bear the burden.”

“
Jela
said that?” She stared at him, fingers arrested over the cat’s head. “He was having some fun with you, Pilot. Be sure of it.”

“With all respect, I believe not. It seemed—it seemed to me that his duty pressed him hard, and he wished to ally me to his cause. Time was short, and I do not begin to believe that I was told everything of which he—or you—are aware. But I do believe that what little I was told, was truth.”

The scholar cleared his throat, drawing her attention back to his face. “I have, as Tor An tells you, the annotated equations that M. Jela provided as earnest of his good intentions,” he said. “The annotations, if I may say so, are remarkable. They show a depth of understanding and intuition that astonishes as well as delights. May I know if these insights are your own?”

“Not mine,” she said, as the cat bumped her fingers forcefully with his head. “Jela had studied your work for years, Scholar. Those are his notes.” She rubbed an orange ear, waking a storm of deep purrs.

The old man sat back into his power-chair. “Then I feel his loss even more keenly.” He sighed, and drank off the last of his wine. Tor An slipped forward and received the empty cup.

“More, Master?”

“Nay, lad, I thank you.”

“Pilot?”

“Thank you, Pilot, but no.” Cantra handed off her cup, and sighed as the cat curled onto her knees, purrs unabated.

“There are several matters which I would like to discuss with you, Pilot,” the scholar said, and continued without giving her a chance to say that she didn’t feel like talking.

“Firstly, the fact that the intelligence which grasped my work so fully has informed us that you are the determiner of the fate of the galaxy. The fate of the galaxy is, as our good Captain Wellik believes, soon to be decided. What he does not say, but which I think must be in his mind, is that fate will not favor us, but rather the Enemy. I would, in such circumstances, allow M. Jela’s assertion to bear a great deal of weight.”

Cantra sat, the cat warm on her lap, and did her best to radiate patient, weary, politeness.

Scholar dea’Syl smiled once more. “You must tell me someday why your line was edited, Pilot.” The smile faded.

“My second topic is one which I had hoped to be able to lay before the intellect behind those remarkable annotations. As this is no longer possible, I will, with your permission, put them to you, his partner and the person to whom he remanded the fate of the galaxy.

“I find that I cannot complete the necessary equations with the necessary precision. I wonder if you might—”

A bell sounded, and the old scholar held up a hand as Tor An walked to the door and opened it. There was a moment’s subdued discussion, and then the kid was back, bowing apologetically, but Cantra had already risen, putting the cat on the chair she’d vacated.

“Captain Wellik sends an escort for you, Pilot,” Tor An said.

“Thank you, Pilot,” she answered, holding to polite and civilized for all she was worth. She bowed to the old scholar.

“I am sorry not to be able to help you, sir.”

“Perhaps later,” the old man said. “Will you take your cat?”

She glanced down at the cat in question. Amber eyes squinted up at her.

“Keep him for me,” she said, and turned toward the door and the soldier waiting for her.

“Just some paperwork,
Pilot,” Captain Wellik said, looking up from his screen. “I won’t keep you long.”

“Paperwork,” she repeated, keeping it lightly inquisitive, and neglecting to ask if she’d be freed to her own devices afterward.

“Take a seat,” he advised, eyes back on the screen. Cantra sighed lightly and sat in one of the shorter chairs, her feet gratifyingly on the floor. Wellik tapped a few more chords, then spun, throwing something at her, hard and fast.

She caught it reflexively, only then seeing that it was Jela’s book. Her fingers closed hard around it, even as she sent a glare into his face.

Wellik grinned.

“He said you were damn-all fast and that nothing caught you by surprise,” he said, like he’d just been given a present.

Cantra sighed, and put the book on her lap, forcing her hand flat atop it.

“This is my paperwork?”

“Part of it,” he answered, pulling a file toward him across his cluttered desk. “This is the rest of it.” He flipped the file open. “It happens that Jela named you his next of kin . . .” He looked up and met her eye, though she hadn’t said anything. “You’re right that Series soldiers don’t have next of kin in the ordinary sense of things, but the protocols exist and I’m the one to make the decision, so I’ve decided to honor his request.” He glanced back at the folder. “As next of kin, there’s a certain amount of money due you—hazard prizes, battle pay, that sort of thing.”

“I don’t—” Cantra began, but Wellik kept on talking like she hadn’t said a thing.

“Next, there’s this—” Something else shot out of his hand.

Cantra snatched it out of the air, fingered it, and held it up in disbelief.

“A ship’s key? I have a ship, Captain.”

“Now you’ve got two,” he told her, flipping the file closed and pushing it across the desk. “That’s yours, too.”

She eyed it. “What is it?”

“Personnel records. Gene map. Letters of reprimand. Couple odds and ends from his various commands.”

“Why do I want that?”

Wellik rolled his shoulders. “Don’t know that you do want it, and frankly, Pilot, that’s not my concern. Jela wanted you to have it, and that
is
my concern. What you do with it is up to you.” He rummaged on his desk, pulled out an envelope and put it on top of the file. “That, too.”

Cantra sighed. “And that is?”

“Copy of a letter with your name on it. Don’t know what he was thinking, writing it all out in cipher like he did.” He gave her a fleeting, unreadable look. “Your copy’s decrypted; I’d hate to tempt you with the challenge to break the code.”

“I—”

“The money’s been transferred to your ship’s account. About that ship—it’s been in twilight for the last few years and some. There’s a crew bringing it back up—should be ready for a tour day after tomorrow.”

“I—”

“Dismissed to quarters,” he said, spinning back to his screen. “Kwinz!”

The door opened and the corporal was there.

“Escort Pilot yos’Phelium to her quarters, Kwinz,” he said without looking up. “Same protocol as before.”

“Yes, sir.” Kwinz looked to her. “Let’s go, Pilot.”

Cantra took a hard breath, deliberately riding her temper down; she stood, picked up the envelope and the file, and turned, giving Kwinz a curt nod as she stalked past.

THE GREAT WEAVING
was all but accomplished. They waited now upon the Sign, the moment of which not even the best of the prognosticators among the Thirteen could foretell, save that it would be soon. Soon.

Hovering above their base, Lute considered the order and turn of space and time. Soon, all would be different, excepting perhaps the ley lines. Though, if the Iloheen prevailed, they too would fail, shriveling in the outpouring of inimical—

The lines flashed and flared. Lute threw out a query, caught the response, and opened the way, following the visitor into the asteroid.

They manifested at once, the lady haloed in cruel energies, her submissive crouched, trembling, at her feet. Moonhawk looked up from her work, set the loom aside and rose. Lute, who knew their visitor of old, kept to the shadows and thought it wise not to manifest entirely.

“Sister,” Moonhawk said calmly. “This is an unexpected visit.”

The other lady swept out a glittering hand, dispensing with courtesy. “Have you bargained with the Rool Tiazan dominant?”

“Indeed, the Thirteen have made a pact of mutual support with Rool Tiazan. His dominant, however, is destroyed.”

“Oh no, she is not—but leave that! Have you yet discovered, Little Sister, how we have been played? Have you Seen the event of massive proportion which is bearing down upon this probability?”

Moonhawk tipped her head. “Certainly. The work of the Iloheen goes forth, and the more quickly as it progresses. The Day is nigh. We all of us know this.”

“Did you also know,” the other hissed, “that we are
locked
into this probability? That the ley lines have been rendered fixed and unmoveable by some art beyond imagining, while the luck swirls as it may, obscuring all and everything on the far side of the event?”

“Ah.” Lady Moonhawk smiled. “Yes, we had discovered that.”

“And yet Rool Tiazan and his dominant have not been unmade.” The lady shifted, and a ice-fanged wind cut through the asteroid, freezing rock, loom, and—Moonhawk lifted a hand and smoothed it into a warm, gentle breeze.

“Whether or not we have been played,” she said softly, “is moot. What remains is our agreement and that Moment which so concerns us all—which would just have certainly overtaken us, were the lines fluid and malleable. The maelstrom of the luck—you are correct to be concerned. However, as you are aware, the luck is beyond the beck of even the Iloheen. What weakens our enemy must strengthen us.”

“An ill-considered sentiment,” the other lady snapped. “To invoke the luck in such measure, to lock the lines and deny us the possibility of escape to a more fortunate probability . . .”

“We are committed,” Lady Moonhawk interrupted serenely. “That is correct. Was there something else you wished to discuss? Sister.”

Their visitor flared and melted. Lute threw open the way and made himself as small as possible—and still her energies burned him as she passed. He sealed the shields and fell into the asteroid, manifesting with a stifled scream—and then sighed as his lady cooled the pain and repaired the injuries.

“Will she,” he asked, “abide by the agreement?”

“She has no choice,” Moonhawk replied, moving back to her niche and pulling the loom to her.

“It is within her scope,” he insisted, “to unmake Rool.”

“It is,” she agreed placidly. “But to do so she will have to hunt him through the luck. That the luck will deny her, I have no doubt.”

CANTRA CLOSED
the folder with a sigh and leaned back in her chair, rubbing at the crick in her neck. Deeps, but the man hadn’t been in trouble for a day of his life, had he? The reprimands stacked as thick as her thumb—and the citations did, too. He’d been a Hero, once; held rank a dozen times, and always managed to get himself busted back to a comfortable level. His last promotion—to Wingleader/Captain—had stuck for more than a half-dozen years, only, so Cantra thought, because he’d been free to carry out his orders as seemed best to him.

The citations and the reprimands, the write-ups for the offenses that earned him detention wove a kind of narrative, as if the Jela in the file was a character in a story who touched some points with the man she’d known, but was otherwise wholly imaginary. Not that she couldn’t perfectly well imagine Jela taking on an entire squad of soldiers—and winning the fight!—but the smile and the sheer joy coming off him while he courted and committed mayhem—that didn’t come through the reports. For Jela, she thought, had been bred, born, and trained to fight and destroy—and he’d been happy in his work. He’d been bred for that, too.

The gene map . . . Deeps. A military secret; it had to be. Here she had the formula for producing her very own army of M Series soldiers—which Jela had wanted her to have. That bore thinking on, since Jela had reasons for what he did. Why Wellik would have released such sensitive info to her—that was another puzzle. Though she supposed he could’ve thought there wasn’t any harm done, Ms being the past and X Strains the up-and-coming kiddies on the street . . .

She pushed the folder away, eyeing the envelope. A letter, so said Wellik, written to her, in a cipher she could be expected—pretty much—not to try to crack. And this from Jela, who always had reasons for what he did.

Her hand hovered over the envelope, fingers trembling. In the one case, she wanted—Gods of the Deeps, she wanted!—to read what he had to say to her, direct and intentional. On the other case . . .

Ship’s necessity, Pilot
, Jela’s voice murmured in her ear. She took a breath that sounded like a sob in her own ears, caught up the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of machine-copy.

Private Correspondence To: Pilot Cantra yos’Phelium

About now, if I’ve got my timing right, you’ll be wondering what I’m thinking, increasing ship’s mass by a quarter-tonne of hardcopy. Call it an old soldier’s fancy. I am a soldier, and so never gave much thought to what might go on after I fell. But I’m asking you, if you’ll humor me, Pilot—I’m asking you to carry me in that long, deep memory of yours, like you carry Garen. Maybe the files will help; maybe not. I can only give you what I’ve got, and hope.