Freedom's Choice

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Hold it there a minute, sergeant,” Rastancil said, getting to his feet. “Thought you dismantled all those mechanicals so that the Farmers would come and see who was vandalizing their planet.”

  “That was the only option open to us then, sir. But we’ve been having discussions about that,” and Mitford gestured to Easley, Fetterman, and up the hill toward Camp Narrow. “Nor was I the only one who wanted to get off this planet then.” He paused. “I’m not so sure I want to leave now. And I know a lot of others have had second thoughts like me. But that,” and he pointed back toward the scout ship, “alters everything. Or…hell, you should see that as well as I can.” And he ended with his arms at his sides, waiting for reaction.

  “Definitely the situation has changed,” Easley said, and heard murmurs of seconds to that. He seemed to be appraising the moods around him. “Phase Two seems feasible but, as Sergeant Mitford says, it’s going to need some intense planning and good timing…even with weapons at our disposal. I suggest that we adjourn and discuss ways and means.”

  “Scout hides,” Zainal said, and pointed toward Camp Narrow.

  “You’re going to fly it in?” asked a man with a rather rakish mustache as he got to his feet, brushing off the seat of his coverall. “I’d like permission to be aboard, sir. I was mission control on the last shuttle project. Trained as a test pilot. Gino Marrucci.”

  Zainal looked to Mitford, who nodded. Then Zainal looked to Scott. “You come, too?”

  Someone stifled a chuckle but Scott, controlling his expression, stood up. “I would like to.”

  “Ship only holds eight at the most,” Kris said, though she’d hoped to be one. “You have to go, sergeant.”

  “Then you do, too,” Mitford said, jutting out his chin.

  “One more,” Zainal said. “Air force man?”

  “I was air force,” the black general said, getting to his feet. “John Beverly.”

  “That’s settled then,” Peter Easley said. “Shall I drive your runabout back to Camp Narrow, sarge? And be sure that garage’s…or should I say, hangar’s…ready.”

  “Good idea,” Mitford said.

  Zainal pivoted and, without looking back to see who followed, led the way back down the field.

  “Always meant to go see the display at Houston but never found the time,” Mitford said conversationally to no one in particular in the group walking in step with him. He grinned as Kris made a hasty leg change to match strides with the others. “Happens all the time with us military types.”

  * * *

  “Okay, okay,” Joe Latore was saying when he saw the phalanx moving in on the spaceship, and gestured for those in line to see the ship to make way. Grumbling started until Mitford swung into view, when it was replaced by cheers for Zainal and Mitford.

  “We’re gonna fly this baby up to Narrow now,” Mitford said. “You’ll get a chance to look inside later.”

  “You mean, the Catteni are goin’ to be lookin’ for it?” a man asked in a nervous tone.

  “Naw,” Bert said, appearing in the open hatch. He grinned when he saw the delegation, and jumped to the ground, waving those behind him from the last tour to make a quick exit. “Why would a Catteni in his right mind want to live on Botany if he could get off?”

  There was good-natured laughter, as those still hoping to see inside the prize began to drift back up the hill.

  “Gentlemen.” Bert waved the new group in. “Shall I…” he began to Zainal, as if he anticipated being replaced.

  “You must watch me do it,” Zainal said. “These watch, too.”

  “I’ll bet they do,” Bert murmured low enough for only Kris and Zainal to hear as they passed him.

  Kris stepped up, into the hatch, ahead of the brass. She wasn’t going to be left behind this time. Mitford did give precedence to Scott, Beverly, and Gino Marrucci. When they reached the bridge, Raisha was in the second seat and hastily got to her feet.

  Zainal gave her a nod and then pointed to Bert to take her place, while he folded himself into the pilot’s chair.

  “Secure hatch, Raisha,” Zainal said, and looked at the arrangement of those standing in the cramped space of the small bridge. He nodded and gestured for them to stay where they were.

  Kris inched closer to Mitford, who was just behind Zainal.

  “You watch good?” Zainal said to Bert, who nodded as Zainal’s fingers moved in slow sequence over toggles and switches. “Got that?”

  “Yes, yes…”

  A quick glance around and Kris saw that Bert was not the only one memorizing the sequence. Beverly and the test pilot were the most eager but Scott’s expression was less critical.

  “Ve-ry smooth,” Beverly said. He was the first to be conscious of the vertical takeoff.

  “It is extremely maneuverable craft,” Zainal said in an instructional tone, two fingers of his right hand on the grip. “One of its biggest…” He tipped his head back, toward Kris, for her to give him the word he needed.

  “Assets,” Kris supplied.

  “Ass-ets, not asses?” Zainal asked, blank-faced.

  “You pick up too much bad language, man,” she muttered as everyone else grinned.

  “In space as well?” asked Beverly.

  “Better in space,” Zainal answered, as he depressed a button on the panel in front of him and began a horizontal forward movement, skimming safely above the heads of those moving back to Camp Narrow.

  “That satellite won’t see the movement?” Scott asked.

  Kris wondered if the admiral would ever give Zainal any slack.

  “Not that kind. Very basic and geo-syn-chron-ous,” Zainal replied, twitching one shoulder. “I use only…guide…” He craned his head about, for Kris’ help.

  “Guidance,” Beverly supplied. “Thrusters? Or rockets?”

  Zainal made a gesture with his free hand as if pressing the earth away from him.

  “We’d call ’em thrusters, I think,” Beverly said. “Do they move?” and he rocked his hand to indicate different positions. Zainal, flashing a look at the signals, nodded. He was watching the landscape closely.

  “Is there much fuel left?” the test pilot said, looking over the gauges and dials. “Which one?”

  “This one,” Bert said, and tapped it—a needle point just a shade over a halfway mark.

  “Reason two for Phase Two. Transport will have fuel,” Zainal said.

  “How far will what there is take us?”

  Zainal shrugged. “Not back to your Earth.”

  “What sort of fuel do you use?” asked the test pilot.

  Zainal rattled out some Catteni sounds and then grinned at the pilot.

  “Can’t make here.” He made another correction, moved a toggle, and the pilot gasped.

  “You’re gliding in?”

  “No need to waste fuel,” Zainal said, and pointed his finger just as the entrance to Camp Narrow appeared in the hillside.

  There were a lot of people watching now, waving their hands, mouths open though no sound penetrated the scout.

  “Fraggit,” Mitford muttered, his face pale, as he grabbed for something to hang on to as the scout seemed to slide down a corridor that had once seemed much wider.

  “Easy as pie, sergeant,” Beverly said, grinning broadly as they headed inexorably toward the target barn’s wide-open doors.

  “It’ll fit?” Mitford asked, taking a firmer hold on the ceiling handle he had found.

  “No problem,” Bert said.

  Kris sympathized with Mitford. She tried not to hold her breath. The flight vanes on the rear of the fuselage must be just clearing the sides of the alley. Then she noticed someone encouraging the forward motion with hand gestures as he backed toward the barn. Zainal held up one hand, caught the man’s attention, and gestured him to stand aside. With the slightest possible touches on the thrust handlers, Zainal lifted the ship above the cliffside, and with equally delicate movements, turned the scout around, lowered it, and began backing it into
the barn. The ground crew leaped in front and now made pushing gestures, as he stood to one side so he could judge when to wave off.

  “No rear mirrors on this thing, huh?” Mitford murmured in Kris’ ear, but he had color back in his face now that they were nearly parked.

  The wave-off came and, with one final adjustment, they felt the scout ship settle to the floor.

  To Kris’ surprise, the observers clapped their hands, even Scott.

  “You’d’ve been a great Atlantis pilot,” Marrucci said.

  Zainal stood up, squeezing up against Mitford and Kris in the cramped space. “Bert, show Marrucci how to shut her down.”

  “Can we watch?” asked John Beverly.

  Zainal shrugged, looking at Mitford.

  “Sure, why not,” the sergeant said, and eased himself toward the passageway to give the others more space. But he looked over his shoulder to observe that Scott stayed as well.

  “Did it go well?” Raisha asked from her position in the passageway. “I couldn’t see a thing with all the bodies in the way but I felt it turn around.”

  Zainal undogged the hatch and stepped out into the barn, giving Kris a hand down first, and then Raisha.

  “Can this be locked, Zainal?” Mitford asked in a low voice because the man who had acted as ground crew was loping up to them.

  “There are six of these,” Zainal said, showing Mitford the small grayish-brown rectangle in his hand. “I have hidden three. Bert and Raisha each have one. Is that right?”

  Mitford looked thoughtful, almost sad. “For now but I think the flyboys and the brass will decide who gets to use this baby.”

  “Baby?” Zainal asked, turning to Kris. “Is that like ‘boy oh boy,’ and ‘man oh man’?”

  “Ships are generally referred to as ‘shes,’ female,” she said, grinning. “And special ships are ‘babies.’ Specially good ships!”

  “That’s a lot of baby,” Zainal said, with suspicious laughter glinting in his eyes as he looked down the length of the scout.

  “Hey, Zainal, that was some sweet job of piloting,” the crewman said, running up with his hand out for Zainal to shake. “I used to be flight deck officer on the George Washington…”

  “Aircraft carrier,” Kris explained.

  “Boy, you landed that baby as sweet as if you’d been backing her into this hangar all your life!”

  Zainal gave yet another of his shrugs. “I had to learn. And pay for holes made.”

  “Didja?” Somehow that pleased the man. “Need any more help with her, I’m your man. Vic Yowell’s the name.” He gave Zainal’s hand another shake and then went to prowl around the vessel.

  “All that brass isn’t going to take the ship away from us, are they?” Raisha asked, keeping her voice down and her eye anxiously on Mitford.

  “Listen up, you lot,” Mitford said, catching them with a stern glance, “that ship makes this a whole new ball game. I know General Rastancil by reputation—he has a good one. I heard good things about General Beverly…don’t know about the navy, but I do know,” and he waggled his finger at them, “that there’ll be some changes and we gotta be flexible. So let’s go with the flow. Right?”

  “Where I flow, you go,” Zainal said, poking Mitford in the shoulder with one finger with each word. “Right?”

  Mitford gave a short laugh but Kris knew that he appreciated Zainal’s statement of loyalty.

  “I don’t know about you lot, but I need some chow about this time of day.” He walked out of the hangar.

  “Me, too,” Raisha said. “I didn’t like Catteni shipboard rations. They tasted like cardboard wadding.”

  “Healthy,” Zainal said as he took Kris by the arm to follow the lead.

  “Will we get to Phase Two?” Raisha asked over her shoulder.

  “For fuel we must,” Zainal said.

  “So if I get a chance to learn to pilot the scout, I could pilot a transport vessel?”

  “You can now,” Zainal said, grinning at her surprise. “Drassi need very simple controls.”

  “Say, Zainal,” Mitford asked, “how many ships do you think we can hijack before they stop landing here or your destroyers come to have a look?”

  Zainal just grinned.

  * * *

  They had finished with the noontime meal when Bert and the others who had stayed on in Baby, as the ship was unimaginatively called, joined them at their table. Marrucci and Beverly were full of questions for Zainal about the performance levels of the ship, its cruising range, cargo capacity, weaponry, and maintenance requirements. Kris translated terms as well as she could, with help from both Bert and Raisha when she bogged down over unfamiliar words and meanings. Mitford sent someone for paper and pencil.

  “Would you have such a thing as a manual?” Ray Scott asked at one point.

  “What good would a Catteni manual do us?” Kris asked, almost defensively although Scott’s attitude had modified considerably since the docking hop.

  “Diagrams,” Scott said, and Kris was ashamed to have missed the obvious.

  So Zainal told Bert where to find the service manuals in the pilot compartment. The day became a session of terminology and translation. Engineers were sent for to decipher the schematics while Zainal struggled to explain with his inadequate technical vocabulary. For Kris there was only guesswork, but she came up with appropriate ones more often than the others did. Zainal did know the basic maintenance routines and checks required since he had often flown this type of craft and had had to make repairs.

  Worrell arrived at one point and took Mitford off with him. Reidenbacker left later on and took Fetterman with him but Kris was far too occupied with spatial and aviation words to do more than register that there were other faces where those men had sat. There was also no question that the capture of Baby was the best thing that could have happened on Botany at that particular moment.

  It was full dark before Zainal suddenly shook himself and stood up.

  “I can talk no more tonight.”

  Then everyone became solicitous and grateful and said that by all means he should get some rest.

  “You, too,” he said to Raisha and Bert. “No sleep last night. Not good. Minds must be rested to learn how to fly Baby.” He caught Kris with one hand, Raisha by the other, and gestured for Bert to follow them out.

  There was a brief lull in the various conversations as they stood, but by the time they reached the door these had picked up again, and sheets of Zainal’s meticulous diagrams were being passed around along with the manual.

  All four walked wearily to one of the less crowded end barns. A “people” door had been cut into the larger one and a narrow entry area established before three aisles sectioned off the floor space. Screens of woven reeds divided areas into living spaces, affording a certain degree of privacy. Single pallets stuffed with fluff weed, spare blankets, a rough box to hold possessions, and two stools made up the furnishings of the one Zainal and Kris took. He moved two pallets together. Kris got her boots off, emptied her pockets of the comunit and items she hadn’t realized she still had with her, and lay down. Zainal covered her with a blanket, before removing his boots and settling down beside her, reaching out to grasp her hand before he took one deep breath and fell asleep at the end of it. She wasn’t far behind him.

  * * *

  Still unaccustomed to Botany’s longer diurnal period even after nine months, and despite the excitements and exertions of the previous day and night, Kris found herself waking before sunrise. Zainal was awake, too, lying on his back, hands behind his head.

  “What’s up?” she asked in a low voice.

  He released one hand, curled his arm around her head to stroke her cheek. “Thinking.”

  “Good thoughts?”

  He nodded.

  “Share them?”

  He rubbed his knuckles against her cheek: she could see his teeth in a smile in the dim light. “I must outthink Catteni.”

  She caught his hand, holding it against
her cheek as she turned toward him, her lips closer to his ear. “Then there could be trouble over the scout.”

  “Not here yet.” She could feel his cheek muscles lifting as his smile broadened. “Lenvec may not be…fooled. Or it is ‘joke’ this time?”

  “Fooled. Why?” She tried not to stiffen against him in concern but he sensed it, far too aware of her body language now, and his hand flattened soothingly against her head.

  “He does not wish to do Eosi duty.”

  “Is he the other male you meant yesterday?”

  She felt Zainal’s shoulder twitch and the rumble of amusement in his chest. “He is next but may not be chosen.” That seemed to amuse him even more. “He has life mate and several childs already,” Zainal added as if that should be a consolation.

  “Children,” she corrected automatically. “Don’t you?” she heard herself ask.

  “No chosen has life mate but I have two males. Too young to be chosen.”

  “So if Lenvec is chosen, we don’t have to worry?”

  “He did not say how soon the chosen must go. If there is time, maybe. He will be commanded where to search first.” Then Zainal paused, and she sensed he deliberated on whether or not to continue. He stroked her head slowly. “Maybe…he gets better satellite over Botany.”

  “Higher-tech? More sophisticated?”

  Zainal nodded. “But even that will take time.” And she felt his laugh. Felt him stop, too. “I must be very careful.”

  “Shouldn’t we tell Mitford all this?”

  Zainal gave his head one shake. “Not now. He has enough troubles with—what did you call them—the brass? Beverly, Scott, Rastancil, them?”

  “Yeah, they’re all brass, admirals, generals: Marrucci was a colonel, I think. Watch out for Scott.”