The Crystal Variation by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee

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