scrambling.
"Not likely," admitted the tech. "I don't think there's anything in the literature about a more or less standard human being able to fly—or even grow wings. The sheriekas are said to . . . "
Jela looked up when the phrase wasn't finished.
"Are said to what ?"
The tech looked down, rising blood staining sturdy cheeks a deeper brown. "I can't say. You haven't been confirmed as Wingleader, and the information may be restricted to . . . "
Jela looked on with interest as the tech mumbled words into silence, and turned to busy himself with adjusting various dials that didn't need adjusting.
Understanding blossomed.
"I see," Jela said. "Until I'm scanned, rescanned, sampled and shown to be free of disease and healthy of mind—hah!—I might be an agent of them , magically cloned on the spot and released to destroy the defenders from within." He took a breath, decided he was still irritated, and furthermore that the tech had it coming, and continued.
"Will it ease your mind to know that I was one of the Generalists brought in to study the problem of how to spot sheriekas and sheriekas -made in their human disguises? That would be, before they sprout wings and—"
"Stop, Troop!"
This was a new voice. An entirely new voice, from a woman he'd never seen before.
Her uniform—
Jela slowly moved the keypad back, stood, and saluted.
"Commander, I have stopped."
She snorted delicately.
"I hear, Troop. I hear."
She pointed at the med tech.
"You may leave, Tech. Your monitors will warn you if there's a problem."
A quick salute from the tech, who nearly tripped in his hurry to leave the scene.
As the door sealed the commander sighed, none too gently.
" Wingleader ." She said the word as if she tasted it, as if she tested it.
" Wingleader . Indeed, it would look good on your record, were that record reviewed but not much inspected—I may allow it to stay. May."
She moved closer to the wall of his enclosure, studying him with as much interest—and perhaps even concern—as the med-tech had showed disinterest and disdain.
In his turn, Jela studied her: A woman so near his own height he barely needed to look up to meet her eyes; strongly built, and in top shape. Not a Series soldier, but a natural human, her brown hair threaded with grey.
She continued as if there had been no pause for mutual evaluation.
"Wingleader . . . Yet, I'm not sure if that would be best for you, howsoever it might serve the troop."
She peered through the inflatable, studying his reaction.
"No comment, Troop Jela?"
"Wingleader has never been in my thoughts, Commander. It is an unexpectable accident . . . "
She laughed.
"Yes, I suppose it is. I have seen your record. You always seem to rise despite your best efforts!"
Jela stiffened . . .
"Stop, Troop. Relax. Understand that you are monitored here. You are on camera. You are being tested for contagion of many sorts. There's no need to bait the tech. He's too ordinary to be worth your trouble."
Jela stood, uncertain, aware that information was being passed rapidly, aware that levels of command were being bypassed.
"Sit," the commander said finally. "Please, sit and do what you can for the moment. As time permits, we will talk."
Jela watched as her eyes found the cameras, the sensors, the very monitors on his leg. He sat, more slowly than he'd risen.
"We will talk where we might both be more comfortable. In a few days, when you will be quite recovered from your trek, Wingleader."
She saluted as if that last word was both a command and a decision, and then she was gone.
* * *
THE COMMANDER MADE no more appearances in Jela's isolation unit—a unit he'd begun to think of as a cell after the third day schedule commenced in the vessel outside his walls, and by the start of the sixth ship-day knew to be the truth, if not the intent.
He'd been in enough detaining cells in his time to see the similarities: he was on his
"Not likely," admitted the tech. "I don't think there's anything in the literature about a more or less standard human being able to fly—or even grow wings. The sheriekas are said to . . . "
Jela looked up when the phrase wasn't finished.
"Are said to what ?"
The tech looked down, rising blood staining sturdy cheeks a deeper brown. "I can't say. You haven't been confirmed as Wingleader, and the information may be restricted to . . . "
Jela looked on with interest as the tech mumbled words into silence, and turned to busy himself with adjusting various dials that didn't need adjusting.
Understanding blossomed.
"I see," Jela said. "Until I'm scanned, rescanned, sampled and shown to be free of disease and healthy of mind—hah!—I might be an agent of them , magically cloned on the spot and released to destroy the defenders from within." He took a breath, decided he was still irritated, and furthermore that the tech had it coming, and continued.
"Will it ease your mind to know that I was one of the Generalists brought in to study the problem of how to spot sheriekas and sheriekas -made in their human disguises? That would be, before they sprout wings and—"
"Stop, Troop!"
This was a new voice. An entirely new voice, from a woman he'd never seen before.
Her uniform—
Jela slowly moved the keypad back, stood, and saluted.
"Commander, I have stopped."
She snorted delicately.
"I hear, Troop. I hear."
She pointed at the med tech.
"You may leave, Tech. Your monitors will warn you if there's a problem."
A quick salute from the tech, who nearly tripped in his hurry to leave the scene.
As the door sealed the commander sighed, none too gently.
" Wingleader ." She said the word as if she tasted it, as if she tested it.
" Wingleader . Indeed, it would look good on your record, were that record reviewed but not much inspected—I may allow it to stay. May."
She moved closer to the wall of his enclosure, studying him with as much interest—and perhaps even concern—as the med-tech had showed disinterest and disdain.
In his turn, Jela studied her: A woman so near his own height he barely needed to look up to meet her eyes; strongly built, and in top shape. Not a Series soldier, but a natural human, her brown hair threaded with grey.
She continued as if there had been no pause for mutual evaluation.
"Wingleader . . . Yet, I'm not sure if that would be best for you, howsoever it might serve the troop."
She peered through the inflatable, studying his reaction.
"No comment, Troop Jela?"
"Wingleader has never been in my thoughts, Commander. It is an unexpectable accident . . . "
She laughed.
"Yes, I suppose it is. I have seen your record. You always seem to rise despite your best efforts!"
Jela stiffened . . .
"Stop, Troop. Relax. Understand that you are monitored here. You are on camera. You are being tested for contagion of many sorts. There's no need to bait the tech. He's too ordinary to be worth your trouble."
Jela stood, uncertain, aware that information was being passed rapidly, aware that levels of command were being bypassed.
"Sit," the commander said finally. "Please, sit and do what you can for the moment. As time permits, we will talk."
Jela watched as her eyes found the cameras, the sensors, the very monitors on his leg. He sat, more slowly than he'd risen.
"We will talk where we might both be more comfortable. In a few days, when you will be quite recovered from your trek, Wingleader."
She saluted as if that last word was both a command and a decision, and then she was gone.
* * *
THE COMMANDER MADE no more appearances in Jela's isolation unit—a unit he'd begun to think of as a cell after the third day schedule commenced in the vessel outside his walls, and by the start of the sixth ship-day knew to be the truth, if not the intent.
He'd been in enough detaining cells in his time to see the similarities: he was on his
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