Crystal Soldier (15 page)

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.

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.

Cantra eased onto a stool and picked up the 'glass, finding it already set to study a circle 'round
Dancer's
position. Not hard to find a ship, after all; a quick search on her name run against the roster of ships down during the last day local would net the info fastest.

She sat for a heartbeat, just staring down into the black surface, then put her hands on the wake-ups.

The surface cleared, and she was looking at the yard,
Dancer
so close on her right hand she could read the name and the numbers on the pitted side. The view panned back, showing a range of ships, and energy overlays on two of them.

"Get on the portmaster's bad side, holding weapons live on the yard," she commented.

Jela didn't answer, except to say, "To the right about thirty degrees, if you might?"

Which she obediently did, and the view changed, displaying a piece of construction equipment lazily moving behind a distant fence in its storage yard, like it was looking for a place to park.

"Up the magnification a notch."

She shrugged . . .

Right. She had him figured now for some kind of security pro, so he'd notice what she might miss. And she would have, too. Not construction equipment after all, the armored crawler was a dark wolf among the yard's more regulation equipment, staying a prudent distance back from the fence. The energy overlay on that flickered as it moved, as if it were shielded.

"Check the ships again."

She drew a ragged breath, did so, and the screen showed those ships and the energy overlays still on high, then faded to black as she thumbed the power.

Eyes closed, she sighed, then spun the stool and glared at Jela.

"So?" she asked.

He shrugged his big shoulders, showing her empty palms.

"Didn't seem neighborly to let you walk into that," he said, projecting a certain style of soothing calm that she found particularly annoying.

She took another deep breath.

"One," she said. "Like I said before—you don't need to go to all that trouble for me. Two. I'd appreciate an explanation of what the pair of you think you're doing, snooping my ship."

"Looking for a lift out," he said.

Cantra snorted. "I don't take passengers."

"Understood," he said, still projecting calm, which was going to get his nose broke for him sometime real soon. "Nobody expects you to take passengers. Hate 'em myself. But nobody here's a passenger. I'm willing to sit second. If you don't mind my saying it, Pilot, you were looking to be on the wild side of edgy when we met for dinner. Could be a run with some downtime built into it is just what you—and your ship—need."

"I'm the judge of what me and my ship need," Cantra snarled. "And what neither needs is to be taking up a man whose friends are shyer than his enemies and a Batcher on the run from her owner."

"This humble person," Dulsey said, "is fully capable in cargo handling, communications, and outside repair. Also, this person has received some small training in the preparation of foods, which the pilot may find of use during the upcoming journey."

Cantra looked at her.

"Repair, comm, and cargo?"

"Yes, Pilot."

"What was you doing working in a restaurant?"

Dulsey looked aside. "The manufacture of our Pod was commissioned by Enclosed Habitats, which specialized in constructing and maintaining research stations. When the cost of maintaining the stations exceeded the contracted sums, the company failed. All assets were sold at auction, including the worker pods. The master purchased those of our Pod who remained for The Alcoves."

"How many of your Pod're left now?" Cantra asked, though she didn't really have to.

"One." Dulsey whispered.

Right.

"That's too bad," Cantra said. "Doesn't change that you're a runaway Batcher—or will be, pretty soon—which puts you on a course to there being none of your pod left by—call it mid-day tomorrow, local."

"There is benefit to the pilot in accepting the assistance of Pilot Jela and this—and myself." There was a note of panic in the Batcher's voice, despite the bravura of 'myself', and the gray eyes were wide.

Cantra cocked an eyebrow. "I'd argue opposite, myself, but there don't seem to be a need just now." She glanced over to Jela.

"I need a roster, a comp, and a talkie."

He pointed beyond her, at a stand next to the work table. "Lift the top of that. It's all right there."

THE NAME OF THE ship was
Pretty Parcil
. Cantra spent a few moments jinking with the feeds, not wanting to be interrupted in her conversation, nor particularly needing the garage day-shift to take delivery of trouble that wasn't theirs. Jela watched her, silent in his borrowed chair. He was still projecting calm, but he'd either eased up some or she was getting used to it.

Satisfied at last with her arrangements, she opened a line to the piloting station on
Pretty Parcil
.

There was a click and a voice, sounding sterner and older than he had earlier in the day.

"
Parcil
. Pilot on deck."

"Is that Pilot Danby?"

A pause about wide enough to hold a blink, followed by a specifically non-committal ack on the ID, then, "Pilot. What happened?" No more than that. Likely he wasn't alone in the tower. That was all right.

"Turned out to be a mistake," she told him. "I'm at liberty and mean to stay that way."

"Mistake?" He was a bright boy, and not too young to understand that there were mistakes—and mistakes.

"I give you my word of honor,"
for what it's worth
, she added, silently, "that there's no bounty out on me."

She heard his sigh—or might be she imagined it. "Good. What can I do for you, Pilot?"

"I'm wondering if you can confirm for me," she said. "I've got two ships on scan showing live weapons. Don't want to think my scanner's gone bad, but . . . "

"I'll check," Danby said, and over the line there came the sound of various accesses being made, then a bit of silence . . . .

"Nothing wrong with your scanner," he said eventually. "You protest to the portmaster?"

"Not yet," she said, and Jela leaned forward on his stool, black eyes showing interest.

"I'm wondering," she said to Danby, "if a protest from a Parcil Family ship might get a little extra snap into the belay order. I'm small trade, myself. Just me and my co-pilot, like I told you . . . "

"Got it," he said. "I can file that protest, Pilot. Stay on line?"

"Will do."

She heard him open a second line, and request the portmaster's own ear for "First Pilot, Parcil Trade Clan Ship
Pretty Parcil
." There was silence, then, which she'd expected, and—much sooner than she'd hoped—his voice again.

"Portmaster, we've just completed a security scan and have identified two vessels on-yard with weapons live." A pause, then a calm recitation of the coords of both ships, and, "Yes ma'am, I am filing formal protest of these violations. I request that you issue a cease-and-desist to those vessels immediately, to be enforced as necessary."

Another short silence, and a respectful, "Thank you, ma'am. We will monitor.
Parcil
out."

Cantra smiled. Jela came of the chair and moved to the work table, doubtless to have a looksee via the spy-glass.

"Protest filed, Pilot." Danby was back with her. "The portmaster promises a shut-down inside the local hour."

"Much obliged," she said, and meant it. "I'll get back to my prelims, then, and hope I won't have to ask you to verify my long-scans."

"We've been watching long," he said. "Pilot's Undernet has reports of pirate activity in-sector. Faldaiza shows clear to out orbit. So far."

"Obliged again," she said. "If I catch anything suspicious on the long, I'll pass it on."

"I'll be here," he said. "Thanks for the heads-up, Pilot. Good lift, fair journey."

"Fair journey, Pilot," she answered, just like she was as legit as he was, and closed the line before folding the desktop down.