The Crystal Variation Read Free Page B

longer of late, and longer still if he could. There wasn’t a whole lot of water left and he’d stopped counting. That he was in the valley helped, since the cutting wind—though noisier—was much less in evidence here among the fallen trees at river height.
    But he’d been thinking about something . . .
    Trees.
    That was it. Like the singers, the trees had helped hold off the sheriekas , he was sure of it. But why then had the sheriekas not taken the planet and the star system, the trees being dead? Why did they skulk about the edge of the system, rather than occupying the place, or blowing up the star, as they had become so fond of doing the last decade or two?
    The singer-woman and her ilk were every bit as needed as was his ilk, if they could sing or pray or startle the enemy to a standstill. The trees, too, if they were on their own inimical to the scourge. The trees. Why if the trees, without human help or human thought—had fought the sheriekas to a standstill he should have them—he should take a piece for cloning, plant them throughout the Arm and—
    He sat, suddenly, not noticing that he landed on rock. There was something here to be thought on. If worse came to worse, which it rapidly was, he would need to write this down, or record it, so that the troop could see this new ally in its proper light.
    Before writing or recording anything, he reached to the left leg pouch and took hold of the water container. Beneath, in the next down, was one more. And then, of course, there was his right leg, with its water . . .
    He gently squeezed a drop or two onto his fingers first, carefully rubbing them together, then wiping his upper lip and clearing some of the grit away from his nose. Then he sipped.
    As he sipped, he thought.
    There had to be a connection between the trees, the pattern of their flight, and the attack from which the sheriekas had withdrawn. Almost, he had it, that idea of his. Almost.
    Well. It would come.
    One more sip for the moment. One more right now for the soldier.
    He sighed so gently a lover sitting beside him might have missed it.
    So he was a soldier. In various places, humans saw the fighting and withdrew, saw the fighting and played the warring parties against each other, fought as these trees had fought to draw every bit of water from the dying world, fought to hide and survive and perhaps outlast the madness of the battle.
    In the end, the powers-that-were had permitted the experiments to resume. To fight augmented humans, one needed special humans. Not quite as adjusted and modified, perhaps, as the sheriekas or their manufactured allies, and perhaps lacking the power to sing away the death of worlds, but fighters who were more efficient, stronger, and often faster.
    Did he survive this world and a dozen more he’d not live the life nor die the death of an ordinary citizen.
    Retire? Quit?
    “Not me!” His voice echoed weirdly against the grating of the wind. He sighed, louder this time, sealed the partial bulb and replaced it in its pocket. Then, he staggered—truly staggered—to his feet.
    He centered himself, felt the energy rise—somewhat, somewhat—danced a step or two, did the stretch routine, settled.
    Things to do. He had things to do. With or without his ID on his face, he was M. Jela Granthor’s Guard, a Generalist in the fight to save life-as-it-was. Who could ask more?
    He laughed and the valley gave his laugh back to him.
    Heartened, he followed the march of the trees.
    HE’D MANAGED TO WAKE, which he took for a good thing, and he managed to recall his name, which was something, too. Eventually, he bullied his way through a two-day old partial ration pack, knowing there weren’t many more left at all, at all, not at all, and glanced at his location sensor.
    The map there seemed clearer and his location more certain. There were still just three satellites working instead of the ideal seven, but they were working hard—and all on this side of the planet at the