Free Star Soldier by Vaughn Heppner Page A

reached the tiled floor. They wore large hats with three sprouting prongs and seemed older and graver than anyone else. Several burly-shouldered, combat-armored protectors hovered at their elbows. Everyone showed deference to the two robed men.
    “In here,” said her security man, pointing to a door that had just swished up.
    Osadar followed him into a tiny room—it seemed more like a closet—and sat down beside a bored old woman at a computer terminal. She wore a loose orange dress and wore silver bangles on her wrists that clashed as she typed on the keyboard.
    “Name?”
    “Osadar Di.”
    The old woman typed that in and studied the screen. “From the Jupiter system, Taiping Hab?”
    “Yes, but—”
    “Pilot rated first class?”
    “That’s right.”
    “You piloted the Manitoba from the Saturn system, Winnipeg Hab?”
    “Yes,” Osadar said with a sinking feeling.
    “Do you freely admit to smuggling—”
    “The owner lied to me about his cargo.”
    The old woman glanced at Osadar. Then jangle, jangle, jangle went the bangles as she typed some more. “Your credcard number, please.”
    “I don’t see what bearing that has on this.”
    The old woman wouldn’t look up, but she said, “Dear, don’t be a trouble-maker. Just give me your card number.”
    “MC: 3223-233-6776.”
    The old woman typed that in, jangle, jangle, jangle, and she blinked at the screen. Her face tightened.
    The security man noticed. He’d been leaning against the wall, watching. He groaned as he stepped near. “No credit?” he asked.
    “None,” said the old woman.
    “What!” said Osadar Di. “That’s impossible. I have over three thousand credits.”
    “Deserters don’t carry credits out of the Jupiter Confederacy,” the old woman said sourly.
    “That’s just great,” complained the security man.
    “Why are you upset?” Osadar asked him.
    “Come on,” he said, grabbing her by the arm and dragging her out of the room. The hall was empty now. She squinted. Far down the corridor, she saw the ship owner, a fat man with baby soft skin. He spoke urgently to one of those people with huge collars.
    “Hey!” Osadar yelled.
    The ship owner looked up and had the decency to blush. Then he turned his back on her and gently led the huge-collared man with the computer folio farther down the corridor.
    Osadar tried to follow. The security man tightened his grip. “Forget it,” he said.
    “He sold me out.”
    “What did you expect?”
    “Huh?” Osadar asked, looking into the security man’s dark visor.
    “His fine was stiff. So he must have sold information to the court.”
    “You mean about me?” Osadar asked angrily.
    “You piloted the ship, didn’t you?”
    “He hired me.”
    “So you admit your guilt. I fail to understand your anger.”
    Osadar shook her head. She knew this would happen. It was fated.
    He marched her down a different hall. By a side door, they entered a larger room. In the front, a short man in a black robe and with thick gray hair sat behind a computer terminal. The rest of the room contained tables and benches. The two long-robed men with their three pronged hats sat apart in throne-like chairs. Their protectors stood behind them. The others sat at the tables, with computer styluses poised.
    The black-robed man, the judge surely, studied his screen as Osadar entered.
    “Osadar Di, a deserter from the Jupiter Confederacy Military Branch,” the security man said.
    “That’s not right,” Osadar said.
    “The smuggler?” asked the judge in a surprisingly high-pitched voice.
    “Yes, your Honor,” said the security man. “She piloted the Manitoba from the Winnipeg Habitat, Saturn system.”
    “Look,” Osadar said, trying to use a reasonable tone, “I think there’s been a mistake.”
    “Silence,” said her security man, shaking her. “Stand over there.” He pointed to a red square near the judge.
    Osadar debated refusing. She shrugged and stepped deliberately into the red