The Crystal Variation by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee Page A

quietly.
    “Wingleader, I have for you some choices. There are times in a soldier’s life when choice is available, there are times when it is preferable. So here, listen up, are some choices. Alas—you have no time but the time we sit at this table to make up your mind. I will not say that I do not care which choice you make, but I expect you will know.”
    Jela listened, swore he could hear the sound of a leaf, rattling in the breeze. Indeed, there was a breeze now—the ventilators were running at some speed, having come up unnoticed during their conversation.
    “First, you may remain Wingleader of your small squadron. It is likely to be reassigned, given that the duties of this vessel are soon to change, but it is a respectable position, in which you would do well, to the benefit of the troop.”
    His hand-signaled acknowledgment— information received in clear form .
    “Next, rather than remain as Wingleader, you may accept assignment to another squadron as a pilot. This choice I suggest in case you expect the duties of Wingleader might wear on you over time. You would be placed in the available pilot pool and we would have no way to know what or where you might be assigned, but you would have no responsibilities but those of a pilot, which are known to you and, I think, not overwhelming.”
    “Finally, you may take a long-term temporary assignment delivering a very nearly surplus vessel to a long-term storage area, with appropriate adjustment of rank. You would oversee the delivery crew and be responsible for seeing the vessel properly shut down in case it must be redeployed. You would also assist in assessing local unit response readiness, from a pilot’s viewpoint, in areas you travel through, to and from. In order to facilitate this, you would undergo a short, specialized, dangerous, and highly confidential training. It will not be an easy assignment.”
    She stopped. Looked expectant. Waited.
    Jela hand-signaled, check me—I repeat the information .
    Then he did that thing, nearly word for word, out loud.
    “Yes,” she agreed, “that’s accurate.”
    He waggled his fingers—pilot hand-talk for feigned indecision—rolled his eyes, and began to laugh. He waggled his fingers harder and laughed harder, ‘til tears came to his eyes . . .
    “ That funny?”
    “Yes. Oh yes . . .” Finally he wiped his eyes on a napkin.
    “Commander, I have one question. May I take the tree with me?”
    “With which choice?”
    “If you make me Captain Jela and have me deliver a ship, may I take the tree with me?”
    It was her turn to do the pilot’s waggle of fingers.
    “If the tree is on board this ship when you leave, it will be spaced, I assure you. A captain is permitted a mascot, after all.”
    “May I know your name, Commander?”
    “If you pass the training, Wingleader.”

Six
    SIX
    Training Base
    Mission Time: 34.5 days and counting
    JELA CAME AWAKE in the night, the scent of sea-salt competing with that of wind-driven fresh water, as if an electrical storm fresh from the sea had burst upon the mountains behind, just before dawn.
    A sense of energetic jubilation emanated from the youngers; a sense of restrained relief from the elders upstream who knew that the combination of the early rain, rising sun, and the continued run of fresh water from the hills would make this a wonderful day for growing.
    Behind that relief, an under note of melancholy drifted down from the true elders, for in their youth, this would have been a likely morning for the flyers to come and tend those whose detached branches or tangled seed-pods might cause difficulty later in the season. The seed-carriers, the branch-tenders—they had been with the trees since the dawn of awareness—and had since vanished from an awareness that yet grieved their loss.
    Awake, Jela stood beside the tree, knowing that yes, it was just about time for “sunrise” on a planet light years away from their current billeting, and knowing that in some