by Sharon Lee
And that thought he put quickly away, tagging it mentally as a mention-to-none, a category that by now seemed to include half of his thoughts in any case.
Jela consulted the other clock in his head, saw that it would soon be time for his breakfast, and rose to do stretching exercises. When the techs entered, en masse as they did at the beginning of each of his days, he’d be good for a full schedule of work, sleepless half-night or not.
The combat warning came before breakfast, and the transition warning overlaid it almost instantly. Neither his bunk nor his chair were attached to the deck within his isolation unit—nor was the tree secured. His orders were clear—he was to observe the tree until released to general duties.
Jela yanked his bunk against the wall of the wider room, ignoring the ripples in the flex-glass, and pushed the tree, still within its own cocoon and attached to its various umbilicals, into the corner thus made. Flinging himself against the bunk he hugged the tree’s base through the flexible walls, internal clock counting the beats until—
“Go, dammit! Go!”
His voice rippled the flex-glass walls, and that was all the effect it had. The ship shuddered with the familiar shrug of launching fighters . . . but no stand down from the transition warning followed. He did the calcs out of habit, assuming a nearby threat in the line of travel—why else launch now?
There was another kind of shudder in the ship now—this one less familiar. Perhaps a jettisoning of mines, or an unusual application of control jets?
Maneuvering was starting. The direction of up shifted slightly, and then again, and as if it hadn’t already sounded, the transition buzzer went off again.
He ought to be with his wing! His duty—
He took a breath, and another, and did what he could to relax. Around him, the ship went absolutely still as it slipped into transition. He wondered, then, and with an effort, how long breakfast would be delayed, and how many pilots they’d left behind so that breakfast was an issue.
BREAKFAST FAILED TO arrive, and it was nearing time for lunch. Jela remained close to the tree, concerned that any moment might bring them into normal space with unwanted, deadly, motion. He was still sitting beside the tree when the commander arrived, four hurried helpers in tow.
“Take your samples, quickly,” she ordered. She half-bowed, half-saluted Jela, who rose as quickly as he could.
“Wingleader, the medical department has been advised that they are no longer concerned with the possibility that you have become infected by contact with your tree. As they assure me you show no signs of physical abnormalities, other than those any M grade soldier might show at this point in his career, we shall shortly have an opportunity to discuss the matter I spoke of earlier. Please, Wingleader, prepare your computer for removal as well.”
Jela went to the desk and snapped the unit together, watching with some relief as the technicians inserted a hosed connection to the outer lock of his chamber. In a few moments, the structure sagged around him and the outer flex-glass rippled as the technicians peeled apart the seal. A moment later and the inner seal sighed open and two technicians strode in, heading toward the tree. Only one was face-marked.
“The tree? I may take that with me?” he asked the nearest tech—the unmarked one—but was rewarded only with a half-formed shrug. He risked annoying the officer, whose attention was focused on a medical reader connected to the room’s telemetry.
“Commander? The tree—I will take the tree with me as well, I assume?”
She didn’t look up from her study of the reader, her answer heavy with irony. “Yes—the tree, the computer, your boots—whatever will make you comfortable, Wingleader!”
He nearly laughed; then wondered if he’d really put up that much of a fuss when they’d told him to leave his boots outside the isolation area. Yet, as a soldier and a pilot, he deserved certain politeness, and he was as aware as they that his treatment had misused his station.
The commander was quick.
“You, Corporal. You will carry this computer, and walk with us to the Officer’s Mess. You, Wingleader, may help the other tech as you will, or carry the tree if you prefer, and we shall together retire to the mess so that you may be fed.”
In the end, Jela carried the tree, while one of the techs carried his boots and his computer; they made a strange procession through a ship unnaturally quiet, and it had taken a moment or two of confusion to see everything placed when they arrived at the mess. At last, the techs were sent on their way, and the Commander preceded him through the lunch line—open early, apparently for their convenience.
“So, Wingleader Jela, we have arrived at a place I’d hoped not to arrive at.”
He looked up from his meal, startled, and she smiled a mirthless smile.
“No, it is not that I dislike the food onboard ship, as rumor might imply! Rather it is that our hand is forced—my hand is forced—and all of this ripples things set in motion long before either of us took our first breath.”
Jela thought for a moment, waited until he was sure an answer was required.
“This is always the case with soldiers,” he said carefully. “From the colors of our flags and uniforms to the names of our units to the choice of worlds we must defend, none of it is beyond the influence of what went before us. It is a matter of soldierlore that we often die for the mistakes made generations before.”
She was eating as if she, too, had been denied breakfast, but Jela saw that his remark had sparked something, for she put her fruit down and took a sip of her water, while raising a hand to emphasize . . .
“Which is the problem I deal with,” she said, moving her hand almost as if she wanted to break into hand-talk; Jela followed her fingers for a moment, but she resisted or else failed to find the appropriate signs.
“You will not quote me to any on board this ship, Wingleader, but we have only a few days to prepare you. First, I must ask if you have made any plans for your retirement?”
He nearly choked, hastily swallowed bread in mid-chew.
“Commander, no, I have not,” he admitted, stealing a hurried sip of juice. “I’ve always thought I would die on duty, else on penalty of some infraction . . .”
“Indeed? Then you have paid no attention to the information from the bursar’s office about time due and funds due, of the rewards of taking up a farm?”
He looked at her straight on, and then allowed his eyes to roll.
“Commander, there’s not much retirement allotted for an M. True, true, some of us have retired—I’ve heard of three, I think, but it’s not something I admire. I just spent several days too many watching a star set on a desert world—a sight I’m assured is restful and worth seeking!—and found it far from restful. I fret when I’m not busy. You’ve seen my record! When I’m idle I am as much an enemy of the corps as any . . .”
“No, Wingleader, I will not permit that statement. The truth is that you are what you say. You know you are an M; you would rather march in circles for days in payment for having had your fun than sit staring at a wall doing absolutely nothing, and often you are better informed than your commanders, for you sleep very little and begrudge it besides.”
She paused, sipped her water, went on.
“Still, there is in your record the information that you’ve taken your leaves on quite a few worlds, you’ve managed to survive in situations that killed your creche mates, and you’re a very quick study. More, when you have been in command situations, you’ve done well until faced with dealing with the—let us call it the weight—of decisions made above your head.”
Jela permitted himself a hand signal of acknowledgment, to go along with a sigh.
“I have very much been a soldier, Commander. Alas, some ‘above my head’ have been raised to different rules and understandings about soldiers, duty, and necessity.”
“A soldier’s truth, plainly put.” This time her hand did signal agreement; it was as he had supposed—whatever other training or duties she’d
had, the commander was a pilot.
She paused, pushed her plate away from her as if it were a distraction, and leaned toward him, speaking quietly.
“Wingleader, I have for you some choices. There are times in a soldier’s life when choice is available, there are times when it is preferable. So here, listen up, are some choices. Alas—you have no time but the time we sit at this table to make up your mind. I will not say that I do not care which choice you make, but I expect you will know.”
Jela listened, swore he could hear the sound of a leaf, rattling in the breeze. Indeed, there was a breeze now—the ventilators were running at some speed, having come up unnoticed during their conversation.
“First, you may remain Wingleader of your small squadron. It is likely to be reassigned, given that the duties of this vessel are soon to change, but it is a respectable position, in which you would do well, to the benefit of the troop.”
His hand-signaled acknowledgment—information received in clear form.
“Next, rather than remain as Wingleader, you may accept assignment to another squadron as a pilot. This choice I suggest in case you expect the duties of Wingleader might wear on you over time. You would be placed in the available pilot pool and we would have no way to know what or where you might be assigned, but you would have no responsibilities but those of a pilot, which are known to you and, I think, not overwhelming.”
“Finally, you may take a long-term temporary assignment delivering a very nearly surplus vessel to a long-term storage area, with appropriate adjustment of rank. You would oversee the delivery crew and be responsible for seeing the vessel properly shut down in case it must be redeployed. You would also assist in assessing local unit response readiness, from a pilot’s viewpoint, in areas you travel through, to and from. In order to facilitate this, you would undergo a short, specialized, dangerous, and highly confidential training. It will not be an easy assignment.”
She stopped. Looked expectant. Waited.
Jela hand-signaled, check me—I repeat the information.
Then he did that thing, nearly word for word, out loud.
“Yes,” she agreed, “that’s accurate.”
He waggled his fingers—pilot hand-talk for feigned indecision—rolled his eyes, and began to laugh. He waggled his fingers harder and laughed harder, ‘til tears came to his eyes . . .
“That funny?”
“Yes. Oh yes . . .” Finally he wiped his eyes on a napkin.
“Commander, I have one question. May I take the tree with me?”
“With which choice?”
“If you make me Captain Jela and have me deliver a ship, may I take the tree with me?”
It was her turn to do the pilot’s waggle of fingers.
“If the tree is on board this ship when you leave, it will be spaced, I assure you. A captain is permitted a mascot, after all.”
“May I know your name, Commander?”
“If you pass the training, Wingleader.”
SIX
Training Base
Mission Time: 34.5 days and counting
JELA CAME AWAKE in the night, the scent of sea-salt competing with that of wind-driven fresh water, as if an electrical storm fresh from the sea had burst upon the mountains behind, just before dawn.
A sense of energetic jubilation emanated from the youngers; a sense of restrained relief from the elders upstream who knew that the combination of the early rain, rising sun, and the continued run of fresh water from the hills would make this a wonderful day for growing.
Behind that relief, an under note of melancholy drifted down from the true elders, for in their youth, this would have been a likely morning for the flyers to come and tend those whose detached branches or tangled seed-pods might cause difficulty later in the season. The seed-carriers, the branch-tenders—they had been with the trees since the dawn of awareness—and had since vanished from an awareness that yet grieved their loss.
Awake, Jela stood beside the tree, knowing that yes, it was just about time for “sunrise” on a planet light years away from their current billeting, and knowing that in some fey fashion the tree had managed to dream too loud, so he had become encompassed as well.
The chronometer on the wall was adamant. No matter what time the tree—or Jela, for that matter—thought it was, the duty schedule indicated that breakfast, exercise, and classwork were still more than half his sleep-shift away. Alas, the schedule was obviously not designed for the convenience of an M Series soldier, but to fit some administrator’s concept of a busy day, or perhaps to answer necessities a mere M had no need to be aware of.
Schedule or no schedule, he was awake and likely to remain so. Sighing, Jela stretched and worked with a small weight set, the while trying to diminish the sadness he felt for the winged-things he’d never seen, but whose touch was familiar and missed.
Despite the exercise, the sadness hung on, threatening to encompass the universe. He knew better than to wallow, and hoped the tree did. But the tree might well still be in some in-between state of its own, and he felt no desire to disturb it.
Drawing a stim-drink from the small refrigerator, he broke the seal and stood sipping.
He’d spent the early evening reviewing troop strength charts, the attack patterns in the last wave of the First Phase, the siting of existing garrisons, their commanders, and their loyalties; the trading patterns and names of the major companies and players . . .
Now, he sat at the computer, and began once again to go over the diagrams and intelligence . . .
First, though they controlled a good bit of the galaxy, Command was split on how to proceed, with a group allied largely with the Inmost faction attempting to withdraw all forces from the Arm, in order to consolidate a line at the base.
This dangerously flawed plan had clearly been constructed by someone who had no sense of dimension, and no understanding of the nature of the enemy. For every time the sheriekas had been beaten back they’d surged forward again, each time coming closer to claiming the right to control man’s destiny.
And now? Now, the more observant of the High Commanders felt the war was almost lost, that the sheriekas were bare years away from being able to go wherever they wished, whenever they wished, to command, enslave, destroy . . .
Destroy.
It appeared that the enemy had less and less desire to control mankind and more desire to just be rid of it entirely. More, they seemed willing, or even eager, to destroy everything in existence in favor of some future where the very quarks trembled at their name.
The intelligence on this was spotty, though an M’s intuition knew it for truth.
His drink done, Jela closed the intelligence data, and opened what had lately become his most-accessed files. He was in a fair way to becoming obsessed with the problem they’d set him—two so-called math instructors his intuition told him he was unlikely, after all these days of duty, to see again.
He flicked through his data, frowning. Missing space craft were one thing, missing planets another. Both events were of course disturbing, though ordinary enough in a universe where black holes and novas and other such events were known; in a universe where the math—and hence the weapons—existed that could destroy a world with chain-reacted nuclei or the casual accidental flare of a burping solar-storm.
But lately, some other events were unfolding, as if space were unfolding, or as if the space where humanity lived among the stars was from time to time . . . dissolving.
The word unfolding had come from the younger and quieter of the two instructors; and a sharp disagreement had followed its utterance.
It quickly became apparent to Jela that the disagreement was something more—and more serious—than simple professional sniping. The elder and more voluble instructor believed that the younger’s unfolding was too simple a model; that if certain late developments were mere unfolding, the universe would simply get bigger—well, no, not bigger, not precisely, but that it would acquire another dimension, a dimensio
n of so little moment that it would take five to ten times the known life of the universe for it to materially affect the spin of something as inconsequential as an electron.
No, the operative phrase, according to the voluble one, as he scribbled on the situation board—“Here! This is the math we have to work from!”—was decrystallization.
The instructor admitted that he had not the final proofs, that the math they were working from was the partial and not yet finished work of a mathematician who had unfortunately come to the notice of those who found his theories and equations anathema. The quiet instructor spoke of the mathematician as one honorably dead in battle, and had turned to inscribe a series of equations that looked remarkably like piloting forms onto the situation board.
“The problem we face,” he murmured, “is that someone—and we must assume that someone equals the Enemy—is experimenting with dismantling the universe.”
It was said so calmly that it was only in retrospect that Jela felt a flicker of dread.
The elder instructor tossed his pen from hand to hand pensively.
“Yes,” he said finally, “that’s a reasonable shorthand for the event, no matter what the full math may describe. It’s rather as if you were able to set up a force field around a courier ship, attach it to a sector of the universe, and transition—forever.”
“Good,” said the younger, finishing up his notations and standing back. “That description allows us to use math that should be very familiar to our student.” He gave Jela an uncomfortably earnest stare before waving toward the situation board. “Let’s suppose, for example, that you wanted to visit the garrison at Vinylhaven . . .”
Unsurprisingly, the math was quite accurate for the mass of the proposed courier ship; the instructor then solved it for a location deep in the heart of the galaxy, on a heading that Jela recognized.