Kaspar's Box

"None taken. Your people have gone a different way than most, but I suppose it works. You're still basically extortionists, but it's an elegant sort of extortion, the kind that even you think is a public service. I suppose I can live with that. I deal mostly with ones who just pick it up by choice or as a job of opportunity."

"So our protection is extortion while your smuggling is just unrestrained business. That right?"

"That's about it, laddie. But the big difference is that to you this is the end, the purpose of things, while to me the gatherin' of money and whatever it brings is just the means to an end. You'll never even understand the sort of dreams we mortal folk have."

"Just because we're built differently and to different purposes doesn't mean we can't understand such things," the sergeant noted.

Murphy gave a low chuckle and muttered to himself, "Aye. I had a neutered dog once."

"Sir?"

"Never mind. Nothin' of importance. But where is-ah! Looks like our pilot has arrived."

Lieutenant Chung was smaller and thinner by far than Maslovic or any of the others Murphy had seen aboard. Not that she had a figure; she reminded Murphy less of a warrior caste than of a girl permanently frozen before reaching puberty, and, like all the others, she was hairless. But if most of the navy types were built for weight lifting and fighting, the pilot class were acrobats, built for lightning-fast action and reaction, with perfect balance and genetically heightened senses, all the better to meld with their machines almost as if one and the same. He also suspected she wasn't as helpless as her tiny form suggested. That same lightning quickness and superior senses made for ideal experts in the martial arts.

Her voice, too, was high and seemed more a child's voice, yet the tone and confidence it projected suggested a lot of experience.

The sergeant came to attention but did not salute. You didn't salute inside when on a mission. He towered over her; Murphy figured that three or four of the pilots could be made out of the protoplasm in that tough marine. Still, he was properly and professionally deferential. She was, after all, an officer.

"Stand easy, Sergeant," she said crisply, putting down her own kit. "Is everyone here?"

"No, sir. The three passengers have yet to arrive," Maslovic told her.

She nodded. "Very well. I'll get everything prepped up front. Then we'll wait. They'll either show up or they won't."

The pilot went forward to the flight deck and began going through the preflight sequence. The deck had two large chairs, either one of which could have swallowed her, and a complex set of instruments, screens, and control pads. Each chair also had a headset of light mesh that would conform itself to just about any size head. While now attached to the seat back, it actually came off and was normally worn much like a cap. Chung reached up, brought it down, examined it closely, then put it on and sat back in the chair, eyes closed, hands pressed together in a fashion that made it look as if she were praying.

She remained like this for a couple of minutes, and then, without her moving an apparent muscle, the interior lights blinked and there was a sense of low vibration. In front of her, the previously inert and rather featureless console came to life, the lights and screens now actively showing data, diagrams, lines of coded numbers, and all sorts of other information that was meaningless even to an experienced pilot like Murphy. Slowly, methodically, things went on and off throughout the shuttle, from air vents to the food server controls and doors, the lights and hatches.

Murphy understood the drill and said, "Well, she seems in good shape. All we need are passengers."

Maslovic started for a moment, then remembered that the old man, for all his looks and manners, was in fact a licensed interstellar pilot himself. "Could you fly her in a pinch?"

"Oh, probably, but I wouldn't know what half the stuff was. Probably dump fuel in the coffee dispenser and go orbital upside down and backwards after putting us all into cryogenic suspension accidentally. And, of course, it wouldn't recognize me in any event. No, I take 'em out of orbit, feed 'em the navigation data, stick 'em on autopilot and sit around until we get there. The likes of an old freighter, it ain't that hard. This, now-this is a speedster. I got to say I don't feel comfortable in ships that are most definitely smarter than I am."

Maslovic looked around at the food service ports. "Would you like something while we wait? Who knows how long it's going to be before the others arrive?"

"I don't think they have the recipe in there for what I need this trip," the old captain responded. "Unless that thing can dispense a good, fillin' dark ale that would feel comfy in an Irishman's gut, I guess I'll pass for now."

Maslovic shrugged. "Let's see." He turned and said to the console, "Ale, seven percent, malt brewed, very dark."