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was able at least to speak with him when required and otherwise keep his comm-screen active with the news and goings-on of the group.
    Things might have been busier had Corporal Bicra also not been in isolation elsewhere, this news brought and left by a smirking Kinto. The corporal had touched the tree, carried her Wingleader’s burden—as both proper and prudent!—after all. Bicra being the most organized of the remaining squad, some important details were sure to be missed.
    Jela was inclined to consider Kinto a factor in the isolation as well, since he was known to be a friend of the med tech. What use any of the fooraw could be to Kinto was a mystery worth exploring at a later date; for the moment Under Sergeant Vondahl was too busy overseeing the maintenance and repair of the wing’s ships to spend time on a vital-records search.
    The med tech seemed a busybody of the highest order. Jela’s three sensor packs reported ably to the room’s central console, but the tech remained in the room nonetheless. More, he constantly checked Jela’s rate of water intake and—
    “Will you give me ten heartbeats to myself, Tech? You’ve already got cameras, body sensors, air-intake gauges, and two measurements of my weight. Do you think I’ll grow wings and leave you behind if you don’t check my color every tenth-shift?”
    Most of Jela’s attention was on his porta-comp, where he was following with interest the check on Sergeant Risto’s ship. Risto was one of the three who’d died when the primary passage had been laid open to space while they were 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 gray.
    She continued as if there had been no pause for