Plan B by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee

eyelids. He saw, incredibly, the small ship fire back, the first wave of the battleship's energy deflected up and away by some tremendous effort of shielding.

    Now the small ship could be seen from a more distant camera, firing in several directions as the General raised his voice.

    "Bring all available batteries to bear, transports. . ."

    And that quickly it was both too late and all over, for the Liaden ship had launched missiles and beam hard on target in the moments before it exploded, leaving a smoking crater in its stead.

    He had no doubt of it even before the stunned com tech relayed the word. "General—the Spraghentz—the transport is gone!"

    Nelirikk blinked—once, twice. "Honored foe," he thought treasonously, for Liadens were never such, "we salute you."

    The General turned from the screen and folded his hands upon the table. "No-Troop will report to Security with Captain Kagan," he stated. "Now."

     

    Stars like fists of ice above the rocks and trees.

    Nelirikk sat with his back against a boulder, rifle and pack to hand, and stared at the stars until his eyes teared, ringing each bright dot with rainbows.

    Ah, Jela, to be once more upon a world!

    This, this was what they'd trained him for, from the time they'd plucked him from among his fellows in boot camp. They'd trained him for exploration, made him something other than a mere troop, that the Troop and the Command might be served more fully. Training. . .

    He closed his eyes, abandoning himself, here, under the free stars, to memories he had not dared recall in ten full Cycles.

    Training, yes: piloting, scouting, weapons—not only the soldier's carbine and grace blade, but also other, more subtle things. They'd trained him to operate—to make judgment and form appropriate response—without recourse to superiors, regulations, subordinates, or comrades. Trained him to make decisions. Trained him to impart information. Trained him, even, to command.

    They'd made him a misfit, that they had. A troop with a voice of command. A commander with imagination. They'd made him a misfit and sent him alone to the stars, to find out—to report back. And when he returned from his most important mission with urgent information? Why, then they'd made him a no-troop, and buried his report so thoroughly that not even a description of the ship had survived.

    Nelirikk sighed.

    His mess orders had last—and quite recently—changed hands in an all-night betting game of the officers. Rumor was that Captain Kagan had lost one of the bouts of small-skills, and thus won the housing of the no-troop. Nelirikk had not been assigned to Captain Kagan's command, nor had he been given duties within the Troop. He had merely been relieved of the chit entitling him to eat from Captain Bestu's supplies and given another with Kagan's account number on it. To have that same no-troop call a General's attention upon himself had done Captain Kagan's credit no good at all.

    Nelirikk opened his eyes and stared wearily up at the stars. In a moment, he straightened, ran through a mind-clearing exercise he'd learned with the rest of his age-mates in the creche.

    The General, now. . .

    Security had taken him to a room that held no sign of the devices most usually employed to punish the recalcitrant. Neck-hairs prickling, Nelirikk glanced around him, locating at least three grills and two lights that most likely held microphones and cameras. Three chairs, two computer terminals, a table upon which sat a carafe of water and three glasses—unthinkable courtesies for a rogue no-troop. Nelirikk was suddenly very tired.

    Without orders he should not sit.

    He sat.

    No voice from a hidden loudspeaker ordered him up.

    Security would have his records and files, Nelirikk considered, and would know his training and abilities—

    Would know that he was not to be trusted, though some chance cruelty of the High Command dictated that he should be made to continue living, rather than