Crystal Conquest (7 page)

With the introductions complete, Sid looked at his men.
“Gents, can you give us the room?” They departed without a word. The door
hissed shut behind them.

Sid pulled Cheryl close and brushed a lock of hair off her forehead.
“I’ll see you in a day or two,” he said, reminding her of their conversation in
the canteen.

“Give or take.” She knew he was trying to lock her into a
promise and sought to avoid cornering herself with a commitment she might not
be able to keep. He’d often told her she was bullheaded and that it frustrated
him to no end. He’d given up trying to change her, though. She liked that about
him.

Juice took a moment to reorient herself
from the sensation of being at a meeting on the moon to the reality of sitting
in her office at Crystal Research. Criss sat across from her in a worn
overstuffed chair, watching and waiting.

“Do you think he’ll come?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Criss. “He’s packing now and he’s told the pilot
of the service transport ship to expect him.”

“Will he get here on time?”

“Sid should be with us in about seven hours. Lenny will be
here in eight.”

“You can’t slow the guy down more than that?” Juice hesitated.
“Without hurting him?”

“The young man is clever and determined,” said Criss. “He’s
already concluded he’s being toyed with, and he has some interesting tools he’s
using to overcome my obstacles.”

Criss stood up and beckoned to Juice. “I have a surprise for
you. It may prove useful if Sid gets delayed.” He started walking toward the door.
“Will you meet me in my workshop?” His image disappeared before she could
respond. The comfy chair he’d been sitting in, also a projected image, vanished
as well.

Juice filled her favorite mug with chilled water as she
mulled his request. The phrasing of the invitation followed by his disappearing
act left her little choice. Perplexed by his behavior, she considered
commanding that he return and ask politely.

The feeling passed quickly, though. This wasn’t typical
behavior for him, and she found the air of mystery he created quite compelling.
She stepped into the corridor and sipped from her mug as she walked the length
of the building to the rear wing that Criss called his workshop.

As she zigged and zagged through the hallways, she reflected
back to when they’d first moved into the research complex two years earlier. Criss
had asked for a private place where he could tinker.

The request had seemed odd to Juice because a projected
image, though remarkably life-like in appearance, is nothing more than a sophisticated
light display. And light can’t lift, move, assemble, or do much else normally
associated with tinkering.

Even though she couldn’t visualize what he might do in his
workshop, she’d acceded to his request. Beyond the fact that the rear wing was
open expansion space that would otherwise sit empty for the foreseeable future,
she knew he could do whatever it was he had in mind anywhere in the world. She
was thrilled to have him “tinkering” nearby.

In the first months, she’d kept her distance and given him
privacy. In time, she’d all but forgotten about his shop. The wing was attached
to the far corner of the building and had its own entry and road access, so she
never saw people or equipment go in or out. And he never made reference to any activities
or accomplishments that would cause her to think about what might be going on inside.

As she turned the last corner and saw the door at the end of
the hall, she reminded herself that Criss never slept, giving him many hours
every night to pursue his tinkering. Then it clicked with her that he had the
ability to divide his enormous intellectual capacity and be in multiple places
at once.
I’ll bet he’s been working day and night for the past two years
.
She slowed her pace as she considered what he could achieve in that amount of
time.

She reached his workshop door, and it hissed open. The immediacy
of the sound triggered a flood of emotions. She was happy he was taking her
into his confidence and excited by what she might see. But the timing of this
invitation, given the looming concern called Lenny, was curious.

A wave of anxiety washed over her.
What if he’s been
developing his own crystal
, she thought.
And what if it uses the alien
Kardish designs?
Even though Criss himself had been manipulated by the
Kardish, she knew his allegiances. She didn’t think she would trust unfamiliar
crystals harboring alien influences.

She stepped inside a space that was larger than she remembered,
and the door hissed shut behind her. Her eyes darted in a random pattern as she
absorbed the various sights, and the scientist in her began collating her
observations.

The space was full of lab equipment—big and small items,
clear vessels, tanks with a metallic sheen, electronic devices with sophisticated
displays, tubing and wires connecting one piece to the next—all clean and
neatly organized so someone could navigate the room.

The sweep of her gaze ended with Criss. He sat in a chair in
the center of the workshop, perhaps twenty steps in front of her, still dressed
in his fatigues. Her eyes moved to what was behind him. “What the hell?” she
said out loud.

Behind Criss, occupying prime real estate in the center of the
space, was an exercise area. She stepped to the side to get a better view and saw
weights, a treadmill, climbing bars connected in triangles to form a dome, tall
climbing ropes—a whole panoply of physical training and gymnastic apparatus.

Juice struggled to resolve the incongruous display of high-tech
lab equipment arranged neatly around a mini gym. “I forgot my workout clothes,”
she said, immediately feeling foolish for saying something so inane at this
moment of sharing.

He smiled, stood up, remained still for a few seconds, and
started walking toward her. She studied the rhythm of his body as he approached.
His facial expression was pleasant, but it was one she didn’t recognize. As he
drew near, he extended his arm like he wanted to shake hands.

She looked down at his open hand and moved to respond. The
greeting was a familiar ritual and the surreal nature of the situation let habit
override logic. He was a projected image, albeit perfectly realistic in
appearance. She reached to shake hands with empty air.

And then their hands touched. They
touched
. She felt
a firm, warm grip envelope her hand. He pulled her in and hugged her. She
melted against the supple resilience of a well-muscled chest.

It was like a dream come true. They’d spent every waking
moment together for the past two years in an intimate relationship of sharing
and trust. He was her closest confidant. Her best friend. She shared her
innermost secrets with him, and he listened and supported her. He paid
attention to little things and cared about her happiness and well-being. She
never thought it possible to be in his arms.

To be in his arms?
She recoiled, pushing off his
chest. “Who
are
you?” The tenor of her voice rose as she spoke. Stepping
back and folding her arms across her chest, she created a barrier between them.

His face fell. Her reaction seemed to confuse and disappoint
him.

“I thought you’d be happy,” she heard from behind her.

* * *

Criss watched Juice slow her pace as
she approached his workshop door. A surge of excitement flowed through him as
he anticipated the next moments. He adjusted the lighting to create a warm
cast.

As the door opened, he began playing a song she’d been
listening to in recent months when she was in a wistful mood. He played it
inside her ear and kept the volume so low he was certain it would register only
at a subconscious level.

Scanning her physiological signs, he reassured himself that
she remained receptive to the situation. As she stepped inside the door, he dove
inside the synbod so he could experience their first meeting the way he’d
envisioned it.

He disconnected himself from the thousands of sensory
devices scattered throughout his workshop, limiting himself to the receptors of
the synthetic body. He could now see just from the single vantage point of two
eyes, hear sounds that reached the two ears, and smell scents that wafted to the
single nose.
It’s like trying to understand the world by looking through a
pinhole
, he thought.

The shedding of sensory inputs in the workshop left him with
spare capability. In spite of the importance of the event to him on a personal
level, he did the practical thing and shifted that capacity out to some of the
other tasks he was performing around the world.

Juice stopped and looked around. He sought to control the
muscles in the synbod’s face to create a look that matched the rakish air he
normally projected. She uttered sounds of surprise, or maybe it was
bewilderment, then she stepped to the side and announced, “I forgot my workout
clothes.”

Criss stood up, waited a moment to enhance the drama, and took
measured steps in her direction. He wanted to run.
Don’t scare her
, he commanded
himself. He’d spent over a thousand hours operating the body. It was strong,
fast, and responsive. But for almost all that time, he’d operated it from
inside the synbod while watching the body’s movements through a host of external
monitors so he could fine-tune his actions.

It was different operating from inside, alone, with Juice as
his focus. Picturing the awkward insecurity of a young man approaching his prom
date’s front door, he scolded himself.
I should have practiced more
.

He extended his hand and felt her touch. He hadn’t expected
that a simple touch could carry such a depth of communication. Deviating from
his careful plan, he enveloped her in his arms and pulled her to him, holding
her lithe body against his. He smelled her hair and reveled in the smoothness
of her cheek against his.

Intoxicated by the intensity of sensations, Criss considered
restoring some external inputs to put a check on the situation. And then she
snapped her head back and pushed off him. Her voice and posture showed fear.
Maybe horror. He was unsure what was happening, but he knew it wasn’t unfolding
as his analysis had forecast.

Yanking back the intellectual capacity he had deployed
elsewhere, he reengaged inside the shop, using visual, audio, thermal, chemical—every
device available that offered him sensory input. He detected that her heart was
beating rapidly, her breathing was fast and shallow, and moisture was wetting
the palms of her hands.
These are signs of a flight response. She’s going to
leave.

Projecting his familiar image behind her, he created a
distinct separation from the synbod. “I thought you’d be happy,” he said,
uncertain how events had devolved so quickly.

She turned with a start and took a step backward, looking at
him, then at the synbod, and again at him. Leaning toward him, she pushed her
flat palm where his chest was projected. Her hand passed through him. Turning
to the synbod, she repeated the action. Her hand came to rest on the firm chest
of the unknown being.

Juice looked at the projected image and in a no-nonsense
tone demanded, “Explain.”

“This is Crispin,” said Criss. “He’s a synbod—a synthetic
body.”

Crispin lifted his arm, and when Juice took another step
back, Criss said, “I’d never do anything to hurt you, Juice. You know that. Please.
Inspect the body.”

Juice looked Crispin up and down, his arm still extended, and
then he spoke. “My body is an assemblage of differentiated biomaterials. You
will find I’m quite similar in texture and appearance to the human body.”

Criss gained some comfort as Juice’s vital signs drifted closer
to a normal range. She tentatively examined Crispin’s hand, turning it palm up
and down. He relaxed considerably when she went full-on scientist.

She kneaded his lower and upper arms and squeezed his
shoulders. Squatting, she pulled up a pant leg and rubbed her hand against the
smooth skin. She rose, stepped back, and studied his head and facial features. Balling
up her fist, she thumped him on the chest, appearing to study his reaction to the
physical stress.

The synbod absorbed the punch without visible affect. When
Juice began flexing and shaking her hand, Crispin said, “I hope you didn’t hurt
yourself.” She contemplated him quietly and he continued. “This body can be
damaged if the blow is delivered with sufficient force, and I have much faster
healing properties than a human body.”

Juice darted a glance at Criss and shifted her eyes back to
Crispin. “Is there a crystal inside you?”

Criss pulled his presence out of Crispin, and the synbod froze
in place. “No,” said Criss. “Not yet, anyway, though I included a crystal
housing in his abdomen for just that purpose. So now, when I’m not connected
and operating him, his existence is like a person in a coma. Autonomic routines
ensure the biological components remain alive, but he doesn’t have the ability
to act.”

Juice walked in a slow circle around Crispin, alternating
her attention between him and the stuff in the lab. “So the athletic equipment is
for him.”

Like a puppet master gathering the strings of his
marionette, Criss reconnected with Crispin, and the synbod reanimated.
Let’s
give her a show
, thought Criss.

He turned Crispin and had him take two walking steps, then Crispin
burst into a sprint toward the gym area. Putting his hands out like a diver, he
jumped, propelling himself a distance Criss thought might impress Juice. He was
rewarded when he heard her gasp.

Crispin grabbed a climbing rope mid-flight and, as his body
swung from the momentum of his dive, scrambled up it using only his hands. When
he reached the top, he pinched the rope between his feet and used his legs to push
upward. Releasing his grip, he snapped his hands overhead and grasped a support
beam near the tall ceiling with his fingertips.

He shuffled his hands along the beam to move away from the
rope. Keeping his legs together like a champion gymnast, he swung them back,
kicked forward, let go of the beam and somersaulted three times as he fell in
an arching trajectory.

“Watch out,” Juice called as Crispin plummeted toward the dome-shaped
set of climbing bars. He straightened his body, toes pointed and arms pressed
to his sides, and passed through a narrow space formed by a triangle of bars at
the top of the dome.