Free Crystal Soldier by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee Page A

quickly . . .

    The fuselage hatch opened and two people stood inside, one to a side, as the craft rolled to a stop directly in front of him. The plane obligingly folded its gear to bring Jela within reach of the short step-ramp, and the two inside jumped the final knee height to his side to help him up, each flashing a salute, despite the fact he had no insignia on his near-colorless 'skins.

    One of the assistants took his kit, the other considered the tree for a moment, decided on the proper way to hoist . . . .

    And that quickly was Jela within the plane, and the tree beside him, the only occupants of a small if comfortable passenger cabin. The engines began revving, the plane started rising on its gear to take-off height, and the assistants helped Jela snap into his belts.

    Two more salutes and the assistants stepped off the plane, leaving the tree, taking the kit, and closing the hatch against the sound and the breeze.

    On the wall before him was the flashing "Lift in Progress" sign, but he'd already felt the plane's gear lock and the motion of the completed turn. He settled in, envisioning—for the tree—what had just occurred, and then relaxed as the craft hurtled down the runway and into the air. The small thwap of the gear-doors closing mirrored a jolt of acceleration, and the nose rose.

    Through the cabin's small view port he caught a glance of the second craft, now landing. Like this one, it bore no markings.

    "Well," he said conversationally to the tree, "guess I get a new wardrobe when we get where we're going!"

    He closed his eyes as the comfortable push of the ship's lift continued, indicating a pilot in something of a hurry.

    Being neither pilot nor co-pilot, the best thing he might do for the troop at the moment was sleep. Which he did, willingly.
    * * *

    AS USUAL HE WOKE quickly, finding the plane about him barely an instant after deciding to wake. The afterimage of his working dream was a reprise of his last meeting with the language team. Of all the work—ranging from new and surprisingly interesting methods of killing, to explosives, to studies of maths far beyond those that he'd aspired to—it was the language work which had been a non-stop challenge. And the dream left him with the impression that he still needed work, that his skills were not quite adequate for the task to hand.

    It was then that the craft banked, and the door to the piloting chamber slid open. A voice, somewhat familiar, drifted back.

    "Captain Jela, welcome. Please come forward and take the second seat."

    Jela unstrapped, pleased. He hated to be bored.

    The flight deck was exactly like the trainers they'd tested him on—no surprise. Nor was the pilot's face.

    "Commander." He nodded as he strapped in. Her 'skins, like his, were without markings, he saw.

    She nodded in return.

    "Your board will be live in a few moments. We'll hit the boost shortly—but there—see your screen for details. Soon we'll rendezvous with a ship carrying your crew and you'll begin simming on your new command."

    "Your board is live, Captain," she said quite unnecessarily. "And, as you'll find in your info pack when we arrive, I am Commander Ro Gayda. Welcome to the real war."

PART TWO: SMUGGLERS

Eight
On Board Spiral Dance
Faldaiza Port

    THE CARGO HAD BEEN waiting, for a wonder, and the loading expeditious, for another. She was scheduled to lift out in what passed for early tomorrow, hereabouts, which meant she had twenty-three hours, ship-time, in which to please her fancy.

    The last few ports had been something short of civilized, by even her standards, so it happened she had a fancy.

    She shut the board down as far as she ever did, having long ago learned not to turn off all the tell-tales and feeds, and never to put all systems in suspend, where she couldn't grab them out again in a hurry. With her outbound so soon, it really didn't make much sense to go through the extra half-shifts of shutdown and boot-up,