Heritage of Flight by Susan Shwartz Page A

been struck by blizzards, a winter that might last for years and had already devastated its biosphere. That was no sort of internment camp for these children; and Becker knew it.
    "I wouldn't send these children to Marduk's World,” he continued. “Even if we win, we're not going to be able to count on having an undamaged gene pool to come home to. Did it ever occur to you, Captain, that—war or no war—we may all be defective in some way or other? Since the Earth blockade, how can we even be sure what's standard human anymore? Do you know what pure human stock is? This world's listed as .8 G. Feels good, doesn't it: after acceleration or zero-grav? But have you ever been on a perfect one G?"
    Borodin grimaced.
    "Look, man, I'm not retiring you. I need you and your skills—your command skills—here. Turn the bridge over to a younger pilot."
    "A younger pilot,” repeated Borodin. “What about Yeager? Why does she have to remain here? Dammed, man, she's service to the core. Her family's been service for generations. And she lives for flying."
    Becker glanced at Pauli, and shook his head, his lips thin. She had the idea that he saw more than the thin, short-haired woman who watched him out of eyes that burned with lack of sleep and now, soon, lack of a future. “Yeager's got more potential than pilot's training knows how to exploit. Project Seedcorn needs that potential, her reflexes, her flair for math and spatial relationships, her heredity and health, more than we do another pilot. Especially when Amherst won't have ships for them all after this last refit. Even if we take all the riders with us.” He added that last almost reluctantly.
    "You aren't leaving us a single ship?” Borodin did explode that time. It was better than begging.
    "I cannot,” said Becker. “You know how much Amherst needs equipment. And besides, sensors can track a ridership capable of Jump. Be reasonable, man!"
    He gestured Borodin away from the civilians. He followed, Pauli following him, appalled into at least temporary obedience.
    "Look, Captain, I have to have people I can trust overseeing these settlers. Look at them, will you? Alicia Pryor may be fine as a chief medic, but the rest of them—aren't they as unlikely a crew to represent Alliance government as you'd ever want to meet? You heard that chatter about the domes, didn't you? That xenobotanist—Angelou, or whatever her name is—didn't want to tamper with the ecosystem, did she? When it gets cold, will she allow the civs to build fires, or weep about the trees?"
    Against his will, Borodin had chuckled sardonically. “No. We're going to win this war. And someone—not me, perhaps, but someone—is going to come back and pick up these refugees. They're our future. So we have to leave them with people we can trust. Which is why you're staying here, Captain. You have full military authority, including the authority to decide whether or not they get to hold elections."
    "But Yeager?” Borodin protested as if he led a suicide flight.
    "Yeager stays. Even though I can't leave you a ship, she stays. She's command track, unlike the other officers here; and I saw her with the kids. They like her, and she's good with them. Even while we were offloading, she made time to talk with them. So I checked personnel files."
    Borodin grimaced, his eyes old and bitter. “Those records should have been classified."
    Becker shrugged. “Yeager is the most flexible of the pilots you have left. You may need her here; and Seedcorn certainly does. I'm sorry, Captain. I'd like your consent. But I'll have to demand your obedience. I'm shifting command to Banez. She has orders to lift the instant the Amherst is operational."
    And that, Pauli thought in despair, was that. Becker started to walk away, and ‘Cilla, the child with the ancient eyes, danced up to her, then backed off, thin hands covering her mouth. The child was preternaturally sensitive, Pauli thought. A survival mechanism, perhaps? Her