Crystal Dragon by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee Page B

awesomely quick study, she hadn't lived the last five years with those numbers weaving possibles and might-bes through her sleep.

    He was no stranger to subterfuge, misdirection, and papers created solely in support of fabricated reasons for him to be welcomed into places he'd no business knowing existed. In fact, he'd long suspected that Cantra yos'Phelium had a certain way with a Portmaster's Writ herself. But what he'd witnessed from her—he'd never seen the like. What he'd been privileged to see—it was an art form, he supposed, and in retrospect held something in common with dancing. The intent to deceive was there; the intent to create a whole new fabric of reality which the audience would find not only believable, but preferable to the actual truth.

    She forged papers, working with commendable care. She forged data-tiles—trickier, but nothing he hadn't done himself. As she worked, she talked, maybe to herself, maybe to him, maybe to the long-ago teacher who'd given her the skill.

    Now, this way here, this isn't the best way to fabricate an upright citizen. Best way is to pull in some genuine papers and tile that've gone astray from their true and proper owner, then alter what's there as least you can. Doing it like that, the paper tests genuine, the tamper-coding and the hey-theres on the tile are what's expected....

    Us, we don't got the contacts and the timing's 'gainst us, so we'll build our own as best we can. We're lucky in that we ain't gonna be long and all my job is to keep 'em from looking at you—

    If he'd still had doubts regarding Cantra's status as an aelantaza -trained, they died as he watched her build her bogus docs.

    But the docs were the least of what she built.

    Now, here's something custom-made for treachery, Pilot Jela. House Chaler, what more or less owns planet Shinto. You've heard of 'em?

    He hadn't, and said so, watching her pull down data from sources he didn't dare guess at, her face soft and near dreamy in concentration.

    Horticulturists, they are. Build you a custom plant to any specs you want and be happy to lease it to you for as long as you like. Catch being that what they build, they own. Being they have extensive gardens, as you might expect, they also breed their own sort of Batcher, to work with the plants. The Batcher's being 'work units,' for use on Shinto only, they get away with not registering the details of the design. Also doesn't hurt that they're House Chaler and it's been ugly what's happened to those who was hot-headed enough to try an' push 'em.

    She leaned back in her chair then, stretching 'way back, then relaxed and sent a grin into his face.

    So, what you'll be, Pilot Jela, is a for-true Shinto kobold, escorting a genuine Chaler custom build. If anybody wants to sample your DNA, won't do 'em any good, on account Chaler don't file, and I'm guessing the military don't exactly publish the particulars regarding M Series soldier aloud and abroad.

    He'd admitted that, not that he'd had to, and she bent again to her task, cutting a wandering scholar from whole cloth, seamlessly working a kobold and a horticultural specimen into her new reality, working with a concentration so absolute that he hadn't dared disturb her to suggest anything so mundane as food, or sleep. And when she was at long last done, she'd gotten up from her work table, stretched—looked at him where he hunched over his equations, and held out a slim hand.

    Him, he'd looked up at her, trying to read her face, but it was fear he thought he was seeing, and that had to be wrong. There'd never been a woman alive less afraid than Cantra yos'Phelium.

    Got time for some pleasure, Pilot? I'm thinking it'll be my last in this lifetime, and I'd like to share it with you.

    It was maybe the way she'd said it, or maybe again that thing that couldn't be fear in her misty green eyes—but he'd taken her hand, and they'd shared a grand and pleasurable time. At last, sated with delight, they napped, and