fighters. There were more Confederation craft out there now, a whole new
group that had not been in the fight until now. It was a masterful trap,
worthy of a Kilrathi hunter.
"Break off!" he snarled. "Break off the action against the carrier and
regroup. It seems we have to give the hairless apes another lesson before we
can finish this."
Then he had no more time for talk. A pair of heavy Terran fighters
suddenly appeared out of nowhere and were trying to lock onto him from the
rear. Arrak needed all his skill and concentration to keep the enemy from
winning that decisive advantage. He pulled a tight, high-G turn to
starboard, using his attitude thruster to make the Dralthi swing around even
faster, and opened fire with all guns at once. The Terran fighters shields
absorbed most of the damage, but his sensors registered a hit against the
underlying armor as well.
"You fly well," the Terran pilot commented, using the standard Imperial
tactical band. "Are you worth fighting? Declare yourself if you wish the
honor of battle with Ralgha nar Hhallas."
Arrak showed his fangs under his flight helmet. The renegade! He
couldn't reply, lest he reveal to his superiors his disobedience of standing
orders, but he could defend himself against the enemy attack . . .
The Kilrathi passed mere meters from the Terran fighter, close enough
to see the bulky spacesuited shape of his adversary through the viewport.
It would be a battle to remember.
Thunderbolt 300 Tamayo System
"A hit! A hit! That'll show the kitty who's the boss!"
"Rein it in, Maniac, and do your job," Blair snapped. He lined up a
shot and launched a heat-seeker at the nearest Darket, his eyes already
searching the sensor screen for a fresh target. He hardly needed to look to
know when the lighter Kilrathi ship blew up. He had encountered these
fighters often enough over the years to know just about what level of
punishment they could take, and he was rarely wrong.
Close by, Flint was heavily engaged with a Dralthi, the two fighters
weaving a complex pattern as they circled and dodged, looking for a moment's
advantage to administer a lethal strike.
"You need an assist, Flint?" Blair asked, steering toward the
dogfighters.
The Thunderbolt delivered a sustained burst of energy beams at the
Dralthi and dived in hard and fast. "Find your own party, Colonel," Flint
said. "This furball is all mine!"
A pair of missiles streaked from the underside of her wings and struck
home just above the Dralthis engine mountings. An expanding ball of
superheated gas and whirling debris consumed the Kilrathi ship, and Peters
drove her Thunderbolt straight through the fireball with a triumphant shout,
"Yes! That's another one for you, Davie!"
Blair wondered who she was talking about or to, but only for a moment.
His attention returned to the monitor showing the Terran trap closing
perfectly. By having Rollins pass his orders by tight-beam communications
links, he was able to prime the entire Terran force to fall back on his
broadcast command. It looked and sounded like a panic-stricken withdrawal,
but in fact everyone knew their precise jobs and prepared for a
counterattack as soon as he gave the signal. Now the carrier was laying down
a withering barrage, and the four refueled interceptors from Blue Squadron
appeared to join the Hellcats and Thunderbolts in closing off the enemy
escape route.
Now the Terran fighters were spread in a rough hemispherical formation,
trying to keep the Kilrathi from escaping the trap. Even if they did, the
Kilrathi took heavy losses in the counterthrust. They knew they were in a
fight, that much was certain.
"Hobbes, can you help me out?" That was Vagabond, his breathing sharp
and rapid. "I got two of these guys all over my tail! I need help here . .
."
"I cannot assist," Ralgha replied. "My opponent is pressing me very
hard."
Blair checked his screen, noted the two fighters. They weren't far
away. "Flint, you back up Chang," he ordered. "I'll backstop Hobbes. Got
it?"
"Got it," Flint confirmed. "Vagabond, you just keep the little bastards
busy. I'm on the way!
Ralgha and his opponent were well-matched, though the heavier
Thunderbolt should have given Hobbes an edge. That was probably offset by
the fact that the Dralthi was more maneuverable, at least in the hands of a
good pilot, and from the looks of things this one was little short of
brilliant. Before Blair could get into effective range, the enemy ship
executed a perfect fishhook maneuver, angling away from the Thunderbolt
until just the right moment, then suddenly turning back on itself and
driving in fast with guns blazing. Somehow Ralgha managed to evade the worst
of the fire and loop around to settle on the other pilot's tail as he shot
past, but a moment later the Dralthi applied full braking thrusters and
Hobbes shot past him. Now their roles were reversed, with the enemy pilot
tailing Ralgha.
The targeting reticule on Blair's HUD flashed red, the signal for a
target lock. Blair opened fire, concentrating on a weakened spot in the
Kilrathi's shields. The enemy ship took a hit, then rolled out of the line
of fire and accelerated off at an unexpected angle.
"Damn," Blair muttered. "This guy's good."
"Agreed," Ralgha said gravely. "But not, I think, good enough to fight
us both, my friend. He withdraws now."
His sensor screen confirmed Ralgha's comment. The enemy pilot was still
accelerating away from the two Terrans, evidently content to leave them
alone for the time being.
Hunt Leader Tamayo System
Flight Commander Arrak felt his blood lust begin to fade. For a few
moments he nearly lost himself to the battle madness, until the second
Terran fighter appeared and launched its devastating attack. Although he
managed to evade the worst of it the enemy fire shorted out his weapons
systems and left Arrak without armaments, unable to carry on the dogfight.
Some Kilrathi pilots might have continued in the battle anyway, seeking
one good chance to ram an opponent and die with his claws figuratively at
the enemy's throat. That was the stuff of battle songs and the Warrior's
Path. But Arrak was a flight commander, and he owed duty to his warriors as
well as to his Clan and his honor. Right now it was Arrak's duty to
extricate as many of his pilots from this debacle as possible. There was no
way that throwing himself into a collision with the renegade or another
Terran ship would help to accomplish what needed to be done.
He studied his tactical display with a sinking feeling that was only
partial regret for failing to finish the fight. Only one fighter in four of
his original force of four eights was still flying, and most of those were
damaged. Still they broke clear of the Terran defensive line while the
Confederation fighters engaged their less fortunate comrades. Now it was the
Imperial force that was outnumbered and outgunned, and there was little hope
of achieving any sort of dramatic success now. They might take out a few of
the Terrans, but at an even heavier price than they had paid already.
"All ships return to Sar'hrai," Arrak ordered reluctantly. "Withdraw
and return to Sar'hrai immediately."
"Flight Commander, not all of our comrades have disengaged," a pilot
argued, snarling anger. "If we withdraw they will fall to the fangs and
claws of the apes . . ."
"Then stay and die with them!" Arrak snapped. "And your Clan will know
the dishonor of owning a warrior who disobeys a direct order in the face of
battle!"
He didn't wait for a reply. At full acceleration, the Dralthi turned
away from the disastrous battle and drove through the empty dark, seeking
the security of home.
Flight Deck, TCS Victory Tamayo System
Blair's fighter was last to return after the battle, and it took
several minutes for the backed-up traffic handlers on the flight deck to get
to him. By the time his Thunderbolt rolled to a stop in its repair bay, the
deck was fully pressurized and the gravity was restored to Earth-normal. All
three shifts of technicians were assembled to handle the returning fighters,
and there was a lot of activity on the deck when Blair finally climbed out
of his cockpit and started toward the entrance to Flight Control.
A welcoming committee met him, not just technicians and some of his
pilots but crewmen from every department of the ship, surging into the
expanse of the flight deck, cheering loudly. Eisen was at the head of the
pack, with Lieutenant Rollins close behind him. Rachel Coriolis stood to one
side with a grin on her face, flashing him a thumbs-up sign.
"Good job, Colonel, Eisen said. "A credit to the ship. You did the old
girl proud today."
"Outstanding!" Rollins added. "You really outfoxed those kitties
today!"
Blair returned their smiles, but inside he was feeling anything but
triumphant. They had barely beaten off the Kilrathi attack; a few more enemy
fighters would have turned the tide against the Terrans. Then there was the
inevitable butcher's bill: Mad Max Lewis was dead, along with five pilots
from Red Squadron and one from Blue. Seven dead out of twenty-four pilots
engaged . . . steep losses indeed. And some of the ones who made it back
suffered serious damage in the fighting. They could easily have lost twice
as many ships if the Kilrathi had only been a little luckier or a little
better armed.
Everyone else saw it as a great victory, but for Blair it was just one
more battle. One more chance for good men to die staving off defeat for a
little while longer without accomplishing anything significant in the
process. That had been the story of the war for as long as he could remember
now: meaningless victories, defeats that drove the Confederation further and
further down, and always death. Death was the only constant through it all.
He left the cheering throng behind and pushed through to the steps that
led up to Flight Control. Maybe the others could celebrate, but all Blair
felt like doing now was mourning the dead.
Flight Wing Rec Room, TCS Victory Tamayo System
There was another victory party scheduled for the evening, and it
promised to be even bigger and more boisterous than the earlier one. Blair
knew he would have to put in an appearance, but he decided to drop by the
rec room early to get a drink or two under his belt before things got too
far out of hand.
When he arrived, he thought for a moment that he was already too late.
He opened the door to a blast of raucous music just as he had at the
previous celebration. But this time there were only a handful of people
clustered around the bar.
An officer was sitting at the terminal controlling the sound system,
one hand making tiny adjustments to the board while the other tapped to the
rhythm of the music. The man slumped in his chair, his eyes closed,
completely mesmerized by the sound. Blair recognized his aquiline profile.
He was Lieutenant Mitchell Lopez, callsign Vaquero, the man he had assigned
as wingman for Cobra in the middle of the battle.
He stood behind the man and waited for a long while, wincing a little
at the loud music. When it was clear that Lopez wasn't planning to come up
for air any time soon, he finally tapped the pilot on the shoulder.
"Hey, man, can't you have the decency to wait for the piece to end?"
Vaquero said without opening his eyes.
"Lieutenant . . ." Blair said the word blandly, but Lopez recognized
his voice at once. He was out of his chair and standing at attention in one
quick movement. Blair had to fight to keep from smiling at the man's
reaction.
"Uh, sorry, sir," Lopez said, stammering a little. "Didn't expect you
here until the party, sir."
"At ease, Lieutenant," Blair said, smiling.
Vaquero relaxed. He caught the look Blair gave in the direction of the
speakers and hastened to turn down the volume. "Just getting the system set
for tonight, sir," he explained.
"Aren't there technical people who're supposed to do that?" Blair
asked. He gestured to the seat Vaquero had vacated, and when the lieutenant
was sitting, Blair took another chair nearby.
"The last guy who did this job had a tin ear and ten thumbs," Lopez
said with a grin. "And his musical taste left a lot to be desired, too. So I
just kind of took over."
"Musical taste," Blair repeated.
"Yes, sir. You know, music really does set the mood. Playing something
with nothing but minor chords makes you want to run a suicide mission. But
this is different." He waved a hand toward the board. "Rockero from the
Celeste System. It's bright, it heats your blood, it makes you want to live
a long life."
Blair gave him a sour look. "It makes me want to put on a flight helmet
to filter out some of the noise," he said, smiling briefly to take the sting
out of the comment. "I like something a little more soothing . . . like a
bagpipe duet or a couple of cats in heat."
The Argentine pilot laughed. "I guess my musical taste isn't for
everyone. But I've had no complaints so far . . . until you, that is."
"I'm not complaining, Lieutenant. Just pleading for a little
moderation." Blair signaled a waiter. "Can I buy you something to drink?"
"Tequila," Vaquero said. The waiter nodded, taking Blair's order for a
scotch as he left. "That was quite a fight today, wasn't it, Colonel?"
Blair nodded. "I'll say. We were damned lucky."
"Yes, sir. Uh . . . thanks again for the way you bailed me out. Thought
I'd played my last tune for sure."
"Are you a pilot or a musician, Lopez?"
"Oh, I'm a pilot, sir. Pretty good one, too. Check my kills; you'll
see." He looked down at the table. "But my family, they made guitars for
many generations. I've got one that's almost two hundred years old. The
sound just gets richer as it gets older, you know?"
Blair nodded, but didn't speak. There was something in the man s eyes
that made him unwilling to break his mood.
"I'm the first one from my family to go into space," Lopez went on a
moment later. He sounded wistful. "The first to be a fighter instead of a
craftsman or a musician. But some day I'm going to open a cantina and bring
in the best to play that guitar. We need a place for old fighter jockeys
like you and me, Colonel, where we can get together and swap lies about our
battles and tell each other how much different things are without the war .
. ."
Blair looked away. It was a pleasant dream, but he wondered if Lopez
would ever really get his wish. The war had existed longer than either of
them had been alive, and it didn't look like humanity was likely to end it
soon. He was afraid that the only way the war would end in his lifetime was
in a Kilrathi victory. More likely it would claim them all, and drag on to
claim another generation's hopes and dreams. "Hope there's enough of us to
keep you in business, Vaquero," he said quietly.
"Don't you worry, sir. We'll make it through. And you and I can sit at
a quiet table, watch the beautiful women and listen to the music of that
guitar . . ."
"You still don't sound much like a pilot, Vaquero," Blair told him.
"Don't get me wrong, sir. I do my job, whatever it takes. But some of
the others, they actually like the killing. Me, I do it because I have to,
but I take no pleasure from it. And when it's over, I will walk away with no
regrets."
Command Hall, KIS Hvar'kann Locanda System
"My Prince, the shuttle from the Sar'hrai has arrived. With Baron
Vurrig and the prisoner."
Thrakhath, Crown Prince of the Empire of Kilrah, showed his teeth.
"Bring them, Melek," he said, not bothering to hide the contempt in his
voice. His talons twitched reflexively in their sheaths.
A pair of Imperial Guardsmen ushered two newcomers before the lonely
throne at the end of the Command Audience Hall. Here, by long tradition, the
noble commander of a ship in space dispensed justice to the warriors under
his command. Today Thrakhath upheld that tradition yet again.
"My Lord Prince." Khantahr Baron Vurrig nar Tsahl dropped to one knee.
The other officer, hands in manacles, sank awkwardly to both knees beside
the noble. "Sar'hrai is at your command, as ever."
"Indeed?" Thrakhath fixed the Baron with an icy stare. "I wanted the
jump point from Orsini cut, and the Terran carrier damaged beyond capability
to interfere with Operation Unseen Death. But the blockade was only
partially effective and the attack on the carrier was repulsed without
touching the ape ship. Is that a fair assessment of your performance?"
"Lord Prince . . ." Vurrig quailed under his stare. "Lord Prince, there
were many . . . complications, especially due to the renegade. We could not
press home attacks against ships he escorted without risking a breach of
your orders . . ."
"This one did, or so your report claimed."
"Yes, Lord Prince. This is Flight Commander Arrak. He engaged the
traitor in battle despite my specific orders to the contrary."
"But Ralgha was not harmed?"
"No, Lord Prince."
"So, Arrak, you are inept as well as insubordinate, is that it?"
Arrak met Thrakhath's stare with unexpected spirit. "In battle, Lord
Prince, it is not always so easy to set conditions," he said defiantly.
Thrakhath felt a stir of admiration. The flight commander knew he was
doomed for his disobedience, so he met his fate with a warrior's pride.
Baron Vurrig on the other hand, danced and dodged like prey on the run from
the hunter.
"Let Arrak have a warrior's death. He may fight any champion or
champions who wish the honor of dispatching him." Thrakhath noted Arrak's
nod. He was proud to the bitter end. "As for you, Baron . . . because of you
we must push back the timetable for Operation Unseen Death. We must await
additional ships so that we may ensure the Terrans not intervening when we
launch our strike. You will be relieved as commander of Sar'hrai . . . and
suffer the penalty for your incompetence. Death . . . by isolation. The
coward's end, alone, ignored, cut off until you die from thirst, starvation,
or madness. See to it, Melek."
"Lord Prince Ч " Vurrig began. He was grabbed by the guardsmen and
dragged away, his appeals for mercy echoing hollowly in the chamber.
"I regret the failure, Lord Prince," Melek said quietly, "but at least
the renegade came to no harm."
"We must hope that the War God continues to smile on us, Melek,"
Thrakhath said coldly. "The time is not yet ripe to deal with Lord Ralgha .
. . but it is coming. As is the day of our final victory."
Captain's Ready Room. TCS Victory Tamayo System
"According to Chief Coriolis, the last of the battle damage should be
repaired by this afternoon," Blair concluded. "So the wing will be up and
running . . . except for the ships we lost."
"Good job, Colonel," Eisen said. "I'd say three days is a pretty good
turn-around time, considering the way your fighters looked when they touched
down. Give my compliments to the Chief for a job well done by her techs."
"Yes, sir. They did a fine job." Blair paused, then cleared his throat.
"About the losses . . ."
"We've already taken care of the situation," Eisen told him. "Mr.
Rollins?"
The Communications Officer consulted his portable computer terminal.
"No problem at all on the Hellcats, sir," he said. "The CO at Tamayo Base
called for volunteers from the point defense squadron stationed there.
They'll be aboard first thing tomorrow."
"Fast work, Lieutenant," Blair commented.
"The commander was pleased with the support he's been getting from the
Navy. He was eager to help." Rollins frowned. "I'm not so sure about Mad
Max's replacement."
"What's the problem, Lieutenant?" Eisen asked.
"There's a home defense squadron on Tamayo that flies Thunderbolts,
sir," Rollins said slowly. "Strictly reservists, mostly rich kids who
figured it was a good dodge to avoid active military service and still get
to wear a pretty uniform and boast about being hot fighter pilots. The
squadron was activated into Confed service when the cats moved into the
system."
"Well, we've had green pilots before," Eisen said. "I dare say the
Colonel can break in one of these kids fast enough. Or are they being sticky
about transferring someone?"
"Oh, they're willing to give us a pilot and his fighter, sir, Rollins
said. "A little too willing, the way I see it. I think they're planning on
handing us one of their discipline problems."
Eisen shrugged. "Hardly unusual. We'll just have to ride him until he
snaps to attention. Right, Colonel?"
"Or ground him and find another qualified pilot," Blair said, nodding.
"What makes you think he's going to be a problem, Lieutenant?"
"Hey, I told you, Colonel," he responded with a grin. "Radio Rollins
always has his ear to the ground. One of my . . . sources at Tamayo Base was
warned by the Home Defense boys that they were looking for a place to dump
this guy. I just gotta wonder though, what kind of a screwup gets thrown out
of an HD squadron? Know what I mean?"
"As long as he can fly and he's got a Thunderbolt, I can use him in
Gold Squadron," Blair said. "He can't be any more difficult to handle than
Maniac Marshall."
"I hope you and Major Marshall can work out your little . . . problem,
Colonel," Eisen said quietly. "I don't like to have this kind of conflict
between two senior officers. Marshall's record is impressive, even if it's
not quite as outstanding as yours. I'm not sure I understand why the two of
you have such difficulties with each other."
"Part of it's purely personal, Captain," Blair said. "We've been
competing against each other since the day we met. At least he's been
competing with me." He smiled. "I, of course, am blameless in the whole
thing."
"Of course," Eisen said blandly. Rollins chuckled.
"But I do my best to keep the personal problems and the cockpit apart,
Captain," Blair went on seriously. "I mean, you don't have to like a guy to
serve with him. But Marshall's flying style . . . it scares me, sir, and
just about everybody else who flies with him. You saw the tactical tapes on
the battle?"
Eisen nodded. "Yeah. Marshall got heavily involved out there a couple
of times."
"He chased anything he could see," Blair told him.
"Hobbes saved Sandman because Marshall was too busy playing the
personal glory game to support his own wingman. He gets kills, sir, but he
does it by ignoring the team. You of all people should know that the team
must always come first."
"Sounds like you don't want him on your team at all," Eisen said. "I'd
rather not try to transfer him . . ."
"I'm not asking you to, sir," Blair told him. "Look Maniac is not my
idea of the ideal wingman, but he's better than when we were on the old
Tiger's Claw together. And despite his lack of discipline, he's a good pilot
who knows how to score kills. Right now we need everyone like that we can
find." He paused. "I know you're concerned about having us clash, but I
guarantee that when the Kilrathi come into range we're on the same side. If
there's one thing we agree on, it's our duty."
"Glad to hear it, Colonel," the captain said. "I think things are about
to get a lot rougher for us, so I want to he sure we're all up to it."
"Rougher, sir?" Blair asked.
Eisen nodded. "That's the reason for the big scramble to get the wing
up to full strength again. We've been given new orders, Colonel. Seems the
situation in the Locanda System is getting tense. There has been a sharp
uptick in Kilrathi activity there, even a couple of sightings that could be
the Hvar'kann, Crown Prince Thrakhath's new flagship. And we know for a fact
the carrier that launched the attack on us, the Sar'hrai, withdrew through
the Locanda jump point shortly after the battle. It seems that a major
installation of troops will arrive on Locanda, so the High Command wants us
to reinforce them.
"Seems a damned strange place for a push," Blair commented. He
remembered the Locanda System: a struggling colony world with a few
scattered outposts, all of which had seen better days. "Twenty years back,
maybe, it would have made sense, but they've tapped out most of the really
valuable mineral resources. When I was stationed there, they were in the
middle of an economic depression because a couple of their biggest
industries decided to relocate out-system. I don't see the attraction for
the Empire's attention . . . certainly not the Prince himself."
"Yeah," Eisen grunted. "Intelligence hasn't been able to come up with
anything yet. But ours is not to reason why."
Rollins looked like he was about to say something, but he didn't. After
a moment's silence, Blair spoke up. "When do we jump?"
"Two days. Time enough to get our rookies settled and take on fresh
stores. Then we're out of here."
"And smack in the middle of trouble," Rollins muttered. Blair doubted
that Eisen heard the comment.
"The flight wing'll be ready, sir," he said formally.
"Good. If it's true the cats are building around Locanda, we'll have to
be ready for anything." Eisen looked from Blair to Rollins. "That's all for
now. Dismissed."
Outside the ready room door, Blair touched the comm officer's sleeve.
"A moment, Lieutenant," he said.
"Sir?"
"I had the feeling you knew something more about this Locanda op. Am I
imagining things, or have you been listening to more of your . . . sources?"
Rollins met his eyes with a steady gaze. "You sure you want another
dose of paranoia, Colonel?"
"Cut the crap, Lieutenant. If you know something about this operation .
. ."
"It's nothing definite, Colonel," Rollins said reluctantly. "Not even
from the official channels. Captain doesn't know anything about it."
"Tell?"
"I know a guy on General Taggart's staff in Covert Ops. He said
Thrakhath was reportedly working on some new terror weapon which was just
about ready for testing. I don't know if this has anything to do with that,
but if Thrakhath's really in Locanda then this could be the test. It makes
sense, when you think about it."
"How so?"
"Well, like you said, Locanda's past its prime. It's of no real
strategic value, depleted of all valuable resources. The Kilrathi could raid
it for slaves, but they can get slaves anywhere. If they really do have some
new weapon something big enough that it will cause mass destruction, Locanda
Four would be a pretty good place to try it. Whether it works or not, the
cats don t take out anything they want . . . but if it did work, it would be
a pretty damn good demonstration.
"Any idea what this wonder weapon is?"
"My guy didn't say. But I've got my suspicions that Intelligence knows
more than they're telling us about the whole mess." Rollins lowered his
voice. "You know those transports we've been trying to pump through the jump
point to Locanda? They've all been medical ships like the High Command was
getting ready for a lot of casualties."
"Bioweapons," Blair said, feeling sick.
"That's my take," the Communications Officer agreed. "Think about it.
Thrakhath would love to get his hands on the Confed infrastructure. Except
for a small stock of slaves, the Kilrathi don't want humans around to
compete with them. Seeding choice colony worlds with some new kind of plague
would be the perfect way to kill us with a minimum of damage to technology
or resources. If the weapon tests well, you can bet the Kilrathi will be
hitting someplace important the next time around: Earth."
"Yeah . . . maybe. We certainly showed Сem the way, back when the
Tarawa made the raid on Kilrah a couple of years ago. If they've got an
effective biological agent and a reliable delivery system, a handful of
raiders could wipe us out. Blair fixed Rollins with a stern look. "Still
this is all just speculation, Lieutenant, based on your leak over at covert
Ops and a lot of guesswork.
"Theory fits the facts, sir . . ."
"Maybe so. But it's still just a theory until you get genuine proof.
Don't spread this around, Rollins. There's no point in getting everybody in
an uproar over a possibility. You read me?"
The lieutenant nodded slowly. "Yes, sir. I'll keep it to myself. But
you mark my words, Colonel, this is going to be one hell of a nasty fight
this time."
Flight Control, TCS Victory Tamayo System
Flight Control was fully crewed with a dozen techs and specialists
monitoring the activity going on around the carrier and on the flight deck.
This morning, Blair decided to preside over operations himself. He took his
place on the raised platform which dominated the center of the compartment
at a horseshoe-shaped console that could tap into all aspects of wing
activities.
"Last of the new Hellcats is down and safe, Colonel," a tech reported
from a nearby work station. "Deck will be clear for the Thunderbolt in two
minutes."
"Two minutes, Blair repeated. "Well, Major, what do you think? Will
they do?"
Major Daniel Whittaker, Red Squadron's CO, watched over Blair's
shoulder while the new arrivals were coming in. He was old for his rank and
position, with iron-gray hair and an air of cautious deliberation. His
callsign was Warlock, and Blair had to admit he could have passed for a
high-tech sorcerer.
"They fly well enough," Whittaker said quietly. "I've seen better
carrier landings, but these boys and girls have been rotting away in a
planetside base where you don't get much chance to practice carrier ops.
We'll whip them into shape quick enough, I'd say."
"We'll have to, Major. If the bad guys are out in force around Locanda,
point defense will get a real workout."
"Thunderbolt HD Seven-zero-two, you are cleared for approach," a
speaker announced. "Feeding approach vectors to your navcomp . . . now."
Blair turned his attention back to the external camera view. The
computer enhanced the image so he could see the Thunderbolt clearly against
the backdrop of brilliant stars. As he watched, he could see the flare of
the fighter's engines as the pilot maneuvered his ship onto its approach
path.
"What the hell is that idiot doing?" someone demanded. "He's ignoring
the approach vectors we're feeding him!"
"HD Seven-zero-two, you are deviating from flight plan," the comm tech
said. "Recheck approach vectors and assume designated course.
The image on Blair's screen swelled as the fighter stooped in toward
the carrier, still gathering speed. Blair punched up a computer course
projection and was relieved to see that the projected flight path would
cause the ship to steer clear of the carrier, but it would be a near miss.
If the idiot deviated from his path now, he could easily dive right into the
deck. "Belay that transmission," he snapped, "and have the flight deck
emergency crews on standby."
An alarm, low but insistent, rang across the flight deck, and Blair
could see technicians scrambling to their emergency stations.
The Thunderbolt streaked over the flight deck with bare meters to
spare, executing a roll-over as it passed. Then it looped away, killing its
speed with a sharp braking thrust and dropping effortlessly into the
original approach path. Blair let out a sigh of relief.
"He's on target," someone announced laconically.
"He does that again and he'll be a target," someone else said. Blair
shared the sentiment. Rollins had warned Blair that the new pilot was likely
to be a problem, but he'd never imagined the man would pull a stupid stunt
even before he reported aboard. Fancy victory rolls looked good in
holomovies and stunt flying by elite fighter show teams, but they were
strictly prohibited in normal carrier operations.
The new pilot had a lot to learn.
The Thunderbolt performed perfectly, hitting the tractor beams
precisely and touching the deck in a landing maneuver that could have been
used in an Academy training film. Moments later, the fighter rolled to a
stop inside the hangar deck. Gravity and pressure were quickly restored as
the technicians secured from their emergency preparations.
Blair, seething, was on his way to the deck before the gravity hit
one-half G.
The pilot climbed down the ladder from his cockpit and paused to remove
his helmet, an ornately decorated rig which carried the word FLASH in bright
letters, presumably his running name. He was a young man, under thirty from
his appearance, but his flight suit carried a major's insignia. He glanced
around the hangar with an easy grin, stopped to wipe away a speck on the
underside of the Thunderbolt's wing, then sauntered casually toward the
exit. He seemed completely oblivious to Blair.
"Hold it right there, Mister," Blair snapped.
The man gave him a quick look that turned into a double-take as he
caught sight of the bird insignia on Blair's collar tabs. He drew himself
erect in something that approximated attention and rendered a casual salute.
"Didn't expect a high-ranking welcoming committee, sir," he said. His tones
were lazy, relaxed. "Major Jace Dillon, Tamayo Home Defense Airspace
Command. I'm your replacement pilot."
"That remains to be seen," Blair said. "What's the idea of pulling that
damned stunt on your approach, Dillon?"
"Stunt, sir? Oh, the flyby. Hell, Colonel, it was just a little bit of
showmanship. They don't call me Flash for nothing, you know." Dillon paused,
seeming to realize the depth of Blair's anger for the first time. "Look, I'm
sorry if I did something wrong. I just thought I had to show you Regular
boys that Home Defense isn't a bunch of no-talent weekend warriors, like
everybody thinks. Figured if you saw I knew how to handle my bird then you'd
know I could pull my weight, that's all."
Blair didn't answer right away. He could almost understand the man's
thinking. Home Defense units had a poor reputation with the regular Navy,
often entirely undeserved. There had been a time, back when Blair was this
kid's age, that he might have pulled the same kind of stunt to make a point
with a new command.
"All right, Dillon, you can fly. You proved that much. Next time I see
you in that bird of yours you better show me you know how to obey regs, too.
You hear me?"
"Yes, sir," Dillon replied.
"Your Home Defense unit. . . does it use standard Confed ranks?"
"Yes, Colonel."
"And you're a major . . ."
Dillon flushed. "Yes, sir, I am."
"I find that a little difficult to believe, Dillon. A major is usually
more seasoned."
"The rank's legitimate, sir," Dillon said, sounding defensive. "Rank
earned in Home Defense units is automatically granted in the Confed Regulars
upon activation of the unit."
"Of course." Blair studied him for a moment. "So you hold a major's
commission in the Home Defense. Let me guess . . . your father's either the
unit commander or a prominent local backer who helped fund the unit, and you
were bumped through the ranks to Major in consequence, right?"
"Sir, I'm fully qualified as a pilot . . ."
"We established that, Major. I'm interested in your rank
qualifications. Is my assessment correct?"
Dillon nodded reluctantly. "My father donated some funds when the unit
was put together," he admitted.
"But the rank is legitimate, sir. I was a test pilot with Camelot
Industries before I signed on with the HDS and I've been with my squadron
for two years now."
"Two years," Blair repeated. "Any combat action?"
"Er. . . no, sir."
He sighed. "Well, Dillon, you're a major in the Confed Navy Flight
Branch now, heaven help you . . . and the rest of us. Try to conduct
yourself as a responsible officer of this ship and this flight wing. Do I
make myself clear?"
"Yes, Colonel."
"Then . . . welcome aboard, Major Dillon. Report to Lieutenant Colonel
Ralgha for indoctrination and assignments. You're dismissed."
He watched the young man leave the hangar not quite as cocky or relaxed
any longer. It seemed that the Home Defense squadron had truly dumped a
hard-shelled case on the Navy. Dillon was an inexperienced kid who carried a
major's rank and the powerful protection of a wealthy family to boot. Dillon
would soon learn that neither benefit would mean much when the wing went
into action. It was ironic, in a way His father had probably put him into
the HDS to get him out of the dangerous job of test pilot
Blair found himself hoping the kid would not have to learn his lesson
the hard way. Not that he particularly cared what happened to this young
showoff. . . but if he turned out to be the weak link in the wing, he could
take better men and women down with him before it was all over.
Wing Commander's Office, TCS Victory Locanda System
The ship completed the jump to the Locanda System and began normal
operations immediately. Blair spent a long day in Flight Control,
supervising the first patrols dispatched to scout the region of space around
the jump point and trying to get a feel for the new pilots in his command.
As Whittaker had predicted, the new additions to Red Squadron seemed to be
settling in well, but Flash was another matter. It still bothered Blair to
have an inexperienced combat pilot with such a high rank, and the problem
had caused him a sleepless night before he finally decided how to handle it.
He needed to team Dillon with a wingman who outranked him, that much
was evident. Let Flash be the ranking officer on some patrol mission which
ran into trouble and the result would be disaster. Blair knew he would have
to match Dillon with either himself Hobbes, or Maniac Marshall Ч the only
three pilots in Gold Squadron with the rank to keep Dillon under tight
control.
Blair was sorely tempted to assign Flash as Maniac's wingman. The two
deserved each other, and it might have been a valuable lesson for Marshall
to see what it was like to fly with someone unreliable on his wing. But that
would have been a risky choice at best. If Maniac didn't rise to the
challenge, Blair would end up with two dead pilots. Even unreliable fighter
jocks were assets not to be squandered so carelessly.
So the choice remained between himself and Hobbes. He hesitated over it
for a long time before finally putting Flash on Ralgha's wing. Blair was
concerned that he was letting his personal distaste for the younger man
cloud his judgment. but in the end, he decided that the Kilrathi renegade's
calm, tightly-controlled manner was the right counterbalance to Dillon's
inexperience and enthusiasm.
Flash accepted the match-up with equanimity. Apparently he harbored no
special feelings against the Kilrathi, and seemed content to fly with
Hobbes. The two left on patrol soon after the jump and the patrol was
successful, without incident.
But Blair found himself resenting the necessity which forced him to
assign Hobbes and Flash together. He missed flying with Ralgha on his wing.
Flint had done a competent job, and he had flown a couple of patrols with
Vaquero that went well, but it wasn't the same. He still didn't know the
others in the squadron the way he knew Hobbes, and he couldn't count on them
to know his mind the way the Kilrathi always did.
Blair wearily straightened in his desk chair. Sometimes it seemed as if
he would never get a handle on the assignment to Victory. He had always
found it easy to meld into a new ship's company, but this time was
different. He came on board determined to remain distant from the others.
Blair needed to avoid getting too close, as he had done with his comrades on
the Concordia. Blair doubted he could handle losing another shipload of
friends . . . but he was finding it difficult to deal with day-to-day life
among people who were still essentially strangers. Perhaps he had made the
wrong decision from the start.
He slowly rose. The day's work was done and his bunk was waiting for
him.
All that really seemed to matter anymore was getting through one more
day, performing his duties, and somehow staying sane in the face of a war
that seemed more insane every day. It was a far cry from the dreams of glory
that had once beckoned Christopher Blair into the life of a fighter pilot,
but duty Ч simple and straightforward Ч was all that remained for him.
Flight Wing Rec Room, TCS Victory Locanda System
At first glance, there were no customers in the Rec Room when Blair
entered, only the grizzled old petty officer who ran the bar. He was a
member of the crew from the old Leningrad years ago; one of the handful of
survivors who managed to escape the Kilrathi attack that destroyed her. The
wounds he suffered in the escape were enough to have him invalided out of
active duty, but Dmitri Rostov loved the Service too much to really retire.
So he tended bar and swapped stories about the old days, never complaining
about the arm and the eye sacrificed in the service of the Confederation.
Ironically, Leningrad was destroyed by the Imperial cruiser Ras
Nik'hra, under the command of Ralgha nar Hhallas before his decision to
defect. Blair had been pleasantly surprised to learn that Rostov didn't seem
to hold a grudge against the Kilrathi, indeed he rather seemed to enjoy
talking to the renegade when Hobbes came in to drink.
It was a pity some of the people who served with the Kilrathi pilot
could not bury the hatchet the same way.
"Hey, Rosty, how's it going?" Blair gave him a friendly wave. "Don't
tell me none of my drunks are hanging out here tonight."
Rostov shrugged and grunted as Blair approached the bar, gesturing
toward the observation window on the far side of the compartment. One lonely
figure stood framed against the star field, staring out at the void. It was
Flint.
"A slow night tonight, Comrade Colonel," Rostov agreed. He ventured a
heavy smile. "Perhaps you work them too hard, tire them out too much. Even
when I get a customer, it is to look, not to drink."
"I'll take a scotch," Blair said. He waited while the one-armed
bartender programmed the order then handed him the glass, using his
thumbprint to charge the drink to his account. "Thanks, Bear."
He crossed to the window where Flint stood, but didn't speak. Part of
him wanted to respect her privacy, but another part wanted to draw her out,
discover something about the woman behind the barriers she put around
herself. She was his wingman, and Blair needed to know more about her, even
if she was reluctant to be open with others.
The lieutenant seemed totally absorbed in her own thoughts, and Blair
doubted she even noticed him. But after a moment she glanced at him. "Sir,"
she said quietly. That one word carried a range of emotion, sadness, and
loneliness mixed with a hint of stubborn pride, exposing a glimpse into
Flint's soul.
"I didn't mean to disturb you, Lieutenant," Blair said. "I was just
wondering what it was about the view that had you so . . . involved."
"Just . . . thinking,'' she said reluctantly.
"I flew here once," Blair went on. "A lot of places to hide in this
system, with the moons and the asteroids. Your first time?"
Flint shook her head ruefully. "This is my home system sir," she told
him. "My father commanded a Home Defense squadron after we settled here from
Earth. Taught me everything he knew about flying."
"A family tradition, then," Blair commented.
She looked away. "He planned to pass it on to my brother David, but . .
. the Kilrathi had their own plans."
"I'm sorry," Blair said, knowing the inadequacy of words. He should
never have questioned her, dredging up the past this way.
"Everyone's lost someone, I guess," Flint said with a little shrug.
"They don't give you medals for it. But coming back like this . . . it
brings back a lot of memories, is all. A lot of stuff I haven't thought
about since I went away to the Academy."
"You haven't been back since then?"
She shook her head. "Not much point. My mother took Davie's death hard.
She just . . . gave up. He died when I was fifteen. My Dad was killed in the
cockpit fighting the cats when they raided here the year after I left. He
scored twenty-one kills over the years after Davie was killed. He said each
group that had not been in the fight until now. It was a masterful trap,
worthy of a Kilrathi hunter.
"Break off!" he snarled. "Break off the action against the carrier and
regroup. It seems we have to give the hairless apes another lesson before we
can finish this."
Then he had no more time for talk. A pair of heavy Terran fighters
suddenly appeared out of nowhere and were trying to lock onto him from the
rear. Arrak needed all his skill and concentration to keep the enemy from
winning that decisive advantage. He pulled a tight, high-G turn to
starboard, using his attitude thruster to make the Dralthi swing around even
faster, and opened fire with all guns at once. The Terran fighters shields
absorbed most of the damage, but his sensors registered a hit against the
underlying armor as well.
"You fly well," the Terran pilot commented, using the standard Imperial
tactical band. "Are you worth fighting? Declare yourself if you wish the
honor of battle with Ralgha nar Hhallas."
Arrak showed his fangs under his flight helmet. The renegade! He
couldn't reply, lest he reveal to his superiors his disobedience of standing
orders, but he could defend himself against the enemy attack . . .
The Kilrathi passed mere meters from the Terran fighter, close enough
to see the bulky spacesuited shape of his adversary through the viewport.
It would be a battle to remember.
Thunderbolt 300 Tamayo System
"A hit! A hit! That'll show the kitty who's the boss!"
"Rein it in, Maniac, and do your job," Blair snapped. He lined up a
shot and launched a heat-seeker at the nearest Darket, his eyes already
searching the sensor screen for a fresh target. He hardly needed to look to
know when the lighter Kilrathi ship blew up. He had encountered these
fighters often enough over the years to know just about what level of
punishment they could take, and he was rarely wrong.
Close by, Flint was heavily engaged with a Dralthi, the two fighters
weaving a complex pattern as they circled and dodged, looking for a moment's
advantage to administer a lethal strike.
"You need an assist, Flint?" Blair asked, steering toward the
dogfighters.
The Thunderbolt delivered a sustained burst of energy beams at the
Dralthi and dived in hard and fast. "Find your own party, Colonel," Flint
said. "This furball is all mine!"
A pair of missiles streaked from the underside of her wings and struck
home just above the Dralthis engine mountings. An expanding ball of
superheated gas and whirling debris consumed the Kilrathi ship, and Peters
drove her Thunderbolt straight through the fireball with a triumphant shout,
"Yes! That's another one for you, Davie!"
Blair wondered who she was talking about or to, but only for a moment.
His attention returned to the monitor showing the Terran trap closing
perfectly. By having Rollins pass his orders by tight-beam communications
links, he was able to prime the entire Terran force to fall back on his
broadcast command. It looked and sounded like a panic-stricken withdrawal,
but in fact everyone knew their precise jobs and prepared for a
counterattack as soon as he gave the signal. Now the carrier was laying down
a withering barrage, and the four refueled interceptors from Blue Squadron
appeared to join the Hellcats and Thunderbolts in closing off the enemy
escape route.
Now the Terran fighters were spread in a rough hemispherical formation,
trying to keep the Kilrathi from escaping the trap. Even if they did, the
Kilrathi took heavy losses in the counterthrust. They knew they were in a
fight, that much was certain.
"Hobbes, can you help me out?" That was Vagabond, his breathing sharp
and rapid. "I got two of these guys all over my tail! I need help here . .
."
"I cannot assist," Ralgha replied. "My opponent is pressing me very
hard."
Blair checked his screen, noted the two fighters. They weren't far
away. "Flint, you back up Chang," he ordered. "I'll backstop Hobbes. Got
it?"
"Got it," Flint confirmed. "Vagabond, you just keep the little bastards
busy. I'm on the way!
Ralgha and his opponent were well-matched, though the heavier
Thunderbolt should have given Hobbes an edge. That was probably offset by
the fact that the Dralthi was more maneuverable, at least in the hands of a
good pilot, and from the looks of things this one was little short of
brilliant. Before Blair could get into effective range, the enemy ship
executed a perfect fishhook maneuver, angling away from the Thunderbolt
until just the right moment, then suddenly turning back on itself and
driving in fast with guns blazing. Somehow Ralgha managed to evade the worst
of the fire and loop around to settle on the other pilot's tail as he shot
past, but a moment later the Dralthi applied full braking thrusters and
Hobbes shot past him. Now their roles were reversed, with the enemy pilot
tailing Ralgha.
The targeting reticule on Blair's HUD flashed red, the signal for a
target lock. Blair opened fire, concentrating on a weakened spot in the
Kilrathi's shields. The enemy ship took a hit, then rolled out of the line
of fire and accelerated off at an unexpected angle.
"Damn," Blair muttered. "This guy's good."
"Agreed," Ralgha said gravely. "But not, I think, good enough to fight
us both, my friend. He withdraws now."
His sensor screen confirmed Ralgha's comment. The enemy pilot was still
accelerating away from the two Terrans, evidently content to leave them
alone for the time being.
Hunt Leader Tamayo System
Flight Commander Arrak felt his blood lust begin to fade. For a few
moments he nearly lost himself to the battle madness, until the second
Terran fighter appeared and launched its devastating attack. Although he
managed to evade the worst of it the enemy fire shorted out his weapons
systems and left Arrak without armaments, unable to carry on the dogfight.
Some Kilrathi pilots might have continued in the battle anyway, seeking
one good chance to ram an opponent and die with his claws figuratively at
the enemy's throat. That was the stuff of battle songs and the Warrior's
Path. But Arrak was a flight commander, and he owed duty to his warriors as
well as to his Clan and his honor. Right now it was Arrak's duty to
extricate as many of his pilots from this debacle as possible. There was no
way that throwing himself into a collision with the renegade or another
Terran ship would help to accomplish what needed to be done.
He studied his tactical display with a sinking feeling that was only
partial regret for failing to finish the fight. Only one fighter in four of
his original force of four eights was still flying, and most of those were
damaged. Still they broke clear of the Terran defensive line while the
Confederation fighters engaged their less fortunate comrades. Now it was the
Imperial force that was outnumbered and outgunned, and there was little hope
of achieving any sort of dramatic success now. They might take out a few of
the Terrans, but at an even heavier price than they had paid already.
"All ships return to Sar'hrai," Arrak ordered reluctantly. "Withdraw
and return to Sar'hrai immediately."
"Flight Commander, not all of our comrades have disengaged," a pilot
argued, snarling anger. "If we withdraw they will fall to the fangs and
claws of the apes . . ."
"Then stay and die with them!" Arrak snapped. "And your Clan will know
the dishonor of owning a warrior who disobeys a direct order in the face of
battle!"
He didn't wait for a reply. At full acceleration, the Dralthi turned
away from the disastrous battle and drove through the empty dark, seeking
the security of home.
Flight Deck, TCS Victory Tamayo System
Blair's fighter was last to return after the battle, and it took
several minutes for the backed-up traffic handlers on the flight deck to get
to him. By the time his Thunderbolt rolled to a stop in its repair bay, the
deck was fully pressurized and the gravity was restored to Earth-normal. All
three shifts of technicians were assembled to handle the returning fighters,
and there was a lot of activity on the deck when Blair finally climbed out
of his cockpit and started toward the entrance to Flight Control.
A welcoming committee met him, not just technicians and some of his
pilots but crewmen from every department of the ship, surging into the
expanse of the flight deck, cheering loudly. Eisen was at the head of the
pack, with Lieutenant Rollins close behind him. Rachel Coriolis stood to one
side with a grin on her face, flashing him a thumbs-up sign.
"Good job, Colonel, Eisen said. "A credit to the ship. You did the old
girl proud today."
"Outstanding!" Rollins added. "You really outfoxed those kitties
today!"
Blair returned their smiles, but inside he was feeling anything but
triumphant. They had barely beaten off the Kilrathi attack; a few more enemy
fighters would have turned the tide against the Terrans. Then there was the
inevitable butcher's bill: Mad Max Lewis was dead, along with five pilots
from Red Squadron and one from Blue. Seven dead out of twenty-four pilots
engaged . . . steep losses indeed. And some of the ones who made it back
suffered serious damage in the fighting. They could easily have lost twice
as many ships if the Kilrathi had only been a little luckier or a little
better armed.
Everyone else saw it as a great victory, but for Blair it was just one
more battle. One more chance for good men to die staving off defeat for a
little while longer without accomplishing anything significant in the
process. That had been the story of the war for as long as he could remember
now: meaningless victories, defeats that drove the Confederation further and
further down, and always death. Death was the only constant through it all.
He left the cheering throng behind and pushed through to the steps that
led up to Flight Control. Maybe the others could celebrate, but all Blair
felt like doing now was mourning the dead.
Flight Wing Rec Room, TCS Victory Tamayo System
There was another victory party scheduled for the evening, and it
promised to be even bigger and more boisterous than the earlier one. Blair
knew he would have to put in an appearance, but he decided to drop by the
rec room early to get a drink or two under his belt before things got too
far out of hand.
When he arrived, he thought for a moment that he was already too late.
He opened the door to a blast of raucous music just as he had at the
previous celebration. But this time there were only a handful of people
clustered around the bar.
An officer was sitting at the terminal controlling the sound system,
one hand making tiny adjustments to the board while the other tapped to the
rhythm of the music. The man slumped in his chair, his eyes closed,
completely mesmerized by the sound. Blair recognized his aquiline profile.
He was Lieutenant Mitchell Lopez, callsign Vaquero, the man he had assigned
as wingman for Cobra in the middle of the battle.
He stood behind the man and waited for a long while, wincing a little
at the loud music. When it was clear that Lopez wasn't planning to come up
for air any time soon, he finally tapped the pilot on the shoulder.
"Hey, man, can't you have the decency to wait for the piece to end?"
Vaquero said without opening his eyes.
"Lieutenant . . ." Blair said the word blandly, but Lopez recognized
his voice at once. He was out of his chair and standing at attention in one
quick movement. Blair had to fight to keep from smiling at the man's
reaction.
"Uh, sorry, sir," Lopez said, stammering a little. "Didn't expect you
here until the party, sir."
"At ease, Lieutenant," Blair said, smiling.
Vaquero relaxed. He caught the look Blair gave in the direction of the
speakers and hastened to turn down the volume. "Just getting the system set
for tonight, sir," he explained.
"Aren't there technical people who're supposed to do that?" Blair
asked. He gestured to the seat Vaquero had vacated, and when the lieutenant
was sitting, Blair took another chair nearby.
"The last guy who did this job had a tin ear and ten thumbs," Lopez
said with a grin. "And his musical taste left a lot to be desired, too. So I
just kind of took over."
"Musical taste," Blair repeated.
"Yes, sir. You know, music really does set the mood. Playing something
with nothing but minor chords makes you want to run a suicide mission. But
this is different." He waved a hand toward the board. "Rockero from the
Celeste System. It's bright, it heats your blood, it makes you want to live
a long life."
Blair gave him a sour look. "It makes me want to put on a flight helmet
to filter out some of the noise," he said, smiling briefly to take the sting
out of the comment. "I like something a little more soothing . . . like a
bagpipe duet or a couple of cats in heat."
The Argentine pilot laughed. "I guess my musical taste isn't for
everyone. But I've had no complaints so far . . . until you, that is."
"I'm not complaining, Lieutenant. Just pleading for a little
moderation." Blair signaled a waiter. "Can I buy you something to drink?"
"Tequila," Vaquero said. The waiter nodded, taking Blair's order for a
scotch as he left. "That was quite a fight today, wasn't it, Colonel?"
Blair nodded. "I'll say. We were damned lucky."
"Yes, sir. Uh . . . thanks again for the way you bailed me out. Thought
I'd played my last tune for sure."
"Are you a pilot or a musician, Lopez?"
"Oh, I'm a pilot, sir. Pretty good one, too. Check my kills; you'll
see." He looked down at the table. "But my family, they made guitars for
many generations. I've got one that's almost two hundred years old. The
sound just gets richer as it gets older, you know?"
Blair nodded, but didn't speak. There was something in the man s eyes
that made him unwilling to break his mood.
"I'm the first one from my family to go into space," Lopez went on a
moment later. He sounded wistful. "The first to be a fighter instead of a
craftsman or a musician. But some day I'm going to open a cantina and bring
in the best to play that guitar. We need a place for old fighter jockeys
like you and me, Colonel, where we can get together and swap lies about our
battles and tell each other how much different things are without the war .
. ."
Blair looked away. It was a pleasant dream, but he wondered if Lopez
would ever really get his wish. The war had existed longer than either of
them had been alive, and it didn't look like humanity was likely to end it
soon. He was afraid that the only way the war would end in his lifetime was
in a Kilrathi victory. More likely it would claim them all, and drag on to
claim another generation's hopes and dreams. "Hope there's enough of us to
keep you in business, Vaquero," he said quietly.
"Don't you worry, sir. We'll make it through. And you and I can sit at
a quiet table, watch the beautiful women and listen to the music of that
guitar . . ."
"You still don't sound much like a pilot, Vaquero," Blair told him.
"Don't get me wrong, sir. I do my job, whatever it takes. But some of
the others, they actually like the killing. Me, I do it because I have to,
but I take no pleasure from it. And when it's over, I will walk away with no
regrets."
Command Hall, KIS Hvar'kann Locanda System
"My Prince, the shuttle from the Sar'hrai has arrived. With Baron
Vurrig and the prisoner."
Thrakhath, Crown Prince of the Empire of Kilrah, showed his teeth.
"Bring them, Melek," he said, not bothering to hide the contempt in his
voice. His talons twitched reflexively in their sheaths.
A pair of Imperial Guardsmen ushered two newcomers before the lonely
throne at the end of the Command Audience Hall. Here, by long tradition, the
noble commander of a ship in space dispensed justice to the warriors under
his command. Today Thrakhath upheld that tradition yet again.
"My Lord Prince." Khantahr Baron Vurrig nar Tsahl dropped to one knee.
The other officer, hands in manacles, sank awkwardly to both knees beside
the noble. "Sar'hrai is at your command, as ever."
"Indeed?" Thrakhath fixed the Baron with an icy stare. "I wanted the
jump point from Orsini cut, and the Terran carrier damaged beyond capability
to interfere with Operation Unseen Death. But the blockade was only
partially effective and the attack on the carrier was repulsed without
touching the ape ship. Is that a fair assessment of your performance?"
"Lord Prince . . ." Vurrig quailed under his stare. "Lord Prince, there
were many . . . complications, especially due to the renegade. We could not
press home attacks against ships he escorted without risking a breach of
your orders . . ."
"This one did, or so your report claimed."
"Yes, Lord Prince. This is Flight Commander Arrak. He engaged the
traitor in battle despite my specific orders to the contrary."
"But Ralgha was not harmed?"
"No, Lord Prince."
"So, Arrak, you are inept as well as insubordinate, is that it?"
Arrak met Thrakhath's stare with unexpected spirit. "In battle, Lord
Prince, it is not always so easy to set conditions," he said defiantly.
Thrakhath felt a stir of admiration. The flight commander knew he was
doomed for his disobedience, so he met his fate with a warrior's pride.
Baron Vurrig on the other hand, danced and dodged like prey on the run from
the hunter.
"Let Arrak have a warrior's death. He may fight any champion or
champions who wish the honor of dispatching him." Thrakhath noted Arrak's
nod. He was proud to the bitter end. "As for you, Baron . . . because of you
we must push back the timetable for Operation Unseen Death. We must await
additional ships so that we may ensure the Terrans not intervening when we
launch our strike. You will be relieved as commander of Sar'hrai . . . and
suffer the penalty for your incompetence. Death . . . by isolation. The
coward's end, alone, ignored, cut off until you die from thirst, starvation,
or madness. See to it, Melek."
"Lord Prince Ч " Vurrig began. He was grabbed by the guardsmen and
dragged away, his appeals for mercy echoing hollowly in the chamber.
"I regret the failure, Lord Prince," Melek said quietly, "but at least
the renegade came to no harm."
"We must hope that the War God continues to smile on us, Melek,"
Thrakhath said coldly. "The time is not yet ripe to deal with Lord Ralgha .
. . but it is coming. As is the day of our final victory."
Captain's Ready Room. TCS Victory Tamayo System
"According to Chief Coriolis, the last of the battle damage should be
repaired by this afternoon," Blair concluded. "So the wing will be up and
running . . . except for the ships we lost."
"Good job, Colonel," Eisen said. "I'd say three days is a pretty good
turn-around time, considering the way your fighters looked when they touched
down. Give my compliments to the Chief for a job well done by her techs."
"Yes, sir. They did a fine job." Blair paused, then cleared his throat.
"About the losses . . ."
"We've already taken care of the situation," Eisen told him. "Mr.
Rollins?"
The Communications Officer consulted his portable computer terminal.
"No problem at all on the Hellcats, sir," he said. "The CO at Tamayo Base
called for volunteers from the point defense squadron stationed there.
They'll be aboard first thing tomorrow."
"Fast work, Lieutenant," Blair commented.
"The commander was pleased with the support he's been getting from the
Navy. He was eager to help." Rollins frowned. "I'm not so sure about Mad
Max's replacement."
"What's the problem, Lieutenant?" Eisen asked.
"There's a home defense squadron on Tamayo that flies Thunderbolts,
sir," Rollins said slowly. "Strictly reservists, mostly rich kids who
figured it was a good dodge to avoid active military service and still get
to wear a pretty uniform and boast about being hot fighter pilots. The
squadron was activated into Confed service when the cats moved into the
system."
"Well, we've had green pilots before," Eisen said. "I dare say the
Colonel can break in one of these kids fast enough. Or are they being sticky
about transferring someone?"
"Oh, they're willing to give us a pilot and his fighter, sir, Rollins
said. "A little too willing, the way I see it. I think they're planning on
handing us one of their discipline problems."
Eisen shrugged. "Hardly unusual. We'll just have to ride him until he
snaps to attention. Right, Colonel?"
"Or ground him and find another qualified pilot," Blair said, nodding.
"What makes you think he's going to be a problem, Lieutenant?"
"Hey, I told you, Colonel," he responded with a grin. "Radio Rollins
always has his ear to the ground. One of my . . . sources at Tamayo Base was
warned by the Home Defense boys that they were looking for a place to dump
this guy. I just gotta wonder though, what kind of a screwup gets thrown out
of an HD squadron? Know what I mean?"
"As long as he can fly and he's got a Thunderbolt, I can use him in
Gold Squadron," Blair said. "He can't be any more difficult to handle than
Maniac Marshall."
"I hope you and Major Marshall can work out your little . . . problem,
Colonel," Eisen said quietly. "I don't like to have this kind of conflict
between two senior officers. Marshall's record is impressive, even if it's
not quite as outstanding as yours. I'm not sure I understand why the two of
you have such difficulties with each other."
"Part of it's purely personal, Captain," Blair said. "We've been
competing against each other since the day we met. At least he's been
competing with me." He smiled. "I, of course, am blameless in the whole
thing."
"Of course," Eisen said blandly. Rollins chuckled.
"But I do my best to keep the personal problems and the cockpit apart,
Captain," Blair went on seriously. "I mean, you don't have to like a guy to
serve with him. But Marshall's flying style . . . it scares me, sir, and
just about everybody else who flies with him. You saw the tactical tapes on
the battle?"
Eisen nodded. "Yeah. Marshall got heavily involved out there a couple
of times."
"He chased anything he could see," Blair told him.
"Hobbes saved Sandman because Marshall was too busy playing the
personal glory game to support his own wingman. He gets kills, sir, but he
does it by ignoring the team. You of all people should know that the team
must always come first."
"Sounds like you don't want him on your team at all," Eisen said. "I'd
rather not try to transfer him . . ."
"I'm not asking you to, sir," Blair told him. "Look Maniac is not my
idea of the ideal wingman, but he's better than when we were on the old
Tiger's Claw together. And despite his lack of discipline, he's a good pilot
who knows how to score kills. Right now we need everyone like that we can
find." He paused. "I know you're concerned about having us clash, but I
guarantee that when the Kilrathi come into range we're on the same side. If
there's one thing we agree on, it's our duty."
"Glad to hear it, Colonel," the captain said. "I think things are about
to get a lot rougher for us, so I want to he sure we're all up to it."
"Rougher, sir?" Blair asked.
Eisen nodded. "That's the reason for the big scramble to get the wing
up to full strength again. We've been given new orders, Colonel. Seems the
situation in the Locanda System is getting tense. There has been a sharp
uptick in Kilrathi activity there, even a couple of sightings that could be
the Hvar'kann, Crown Prince Thrakhath's new flagship. And we know for a fact
the carrier that launched the attack on us, the Sar'hrai, withdrew through
the Locanda jump point shortly after the battle. It seems that a major
installation of troops will arrive on Locanda, so the High Command wants us
to reinforce them.
"Seems a damned strange place for a push," Blair commented. He
remembered the Locanda System: a struggling colony world with a few
scattered outposts, all of which had seen better days. "Twenty years back,
maybe, it would have made sense, but they've tapped out most of the really
valuable mineral resources. When I was stationed there, they were in the
middle of an economic depression because a couple of their biggest
industries decided to relocate out-system. I don't see the attraction for
the Empire's attention . . . certainly not the Prince himself."
"Yeah," Eisen grunted. "Intelligence hasn't been able to come up with
anything yet. But ours is not to reason why."
Rollins looked like he was about to say something, but he didn't. After
a moment's silence, Blair spoke up. "When do we jump?"
"Two days. Time enough to get our rookies settled and take on fresh
stores. Then we're out of here."
"And smack in the middle of trouble," Rollins muttered. Blair doubted
that Eisen heard the comment.
"The flight wing'll be ready, sir," he said formally.
"Good. If it's true the cats are building around Locanda, we'll have to
be ready for anything." Eisen looked from Blair to Rollins. "That's all for
now. Dismissed."
Outside the ready room door, Blair touched the comm officer's sleeve.
"A moment, Lieutenant," he said.
"Sir?"
"I had the feeling you knew something more about this Locanda op. Am I
imagining things, or have you been listening to more of your . . . sources?"
Rollins met his eyes with a steady gaze. "You sure you want another
dose of paranoia, Colonel?"
"Cut the crap, Lieutenant. If you know something about this operation .
. ."
"It's nothing definite, Colonel," Rollins said reluctantly. "Not even
from the official channels. Captain doesn't know anything about it."
"Tell?"
"I know a guy on General Taggart's staff in Covert Ops. He said
Thrakhath was reportedly working on some new terror weapon which was just
about ready for testing. I don't know if this has anything to do with that,
but if Thrakhath's really in Locanda then this could be the test. It makes
sense, when you think about it."
"How so?"
"Well, like you said, Locanda's past its prime. It's of no real
strategic value, depleted of all valuable resources. The Kilrathi could raid
it for slaves, but they can get slaves anywhere. If they really do have some
new weapon something big enough that it will cause mass destruction, Locanda
Four would be a pretty good place to try it. Whether it works or not, the
cats don t take out anything they want . . . but if it did work, it would be
a pretty damn good demonstration.
"Any idea what this wonder weapon is?"
"My guy didn't say. But I've got my suspicions that Intelligence knows
more than they're telling us about the whole mess." Rollins lowered his
voice. "You know those transports we've been trying to pump through the jump
point to Locanda? They've all been medical ships like the High Command was
getting ready for a lot of casualties."
"Bioweapons," Blair said, feeling sick.
"That's my take," the Communications Officer agreed. "Think about it.
Thrakhath would love to get his hands on the Confed infrastructure. Except
for a small stock of slaves, the Kilrathi don't want humans around to
compete with them. Seeding choice colony worlds with some new kind of plague
would be the perfect way to kill us with a minimum of damage to technology
or resources. If the weapon tests well, you can bet the Kilrathi will be
hitting someplace important the next time around: Earth."
"Yeah . . . maybe. We certainly showed Сem the way, back when the
Tarawa made the raid on Kilrah a couple of years ago. If they've got an
effective biological agent and a reliable delivery system, a handful of
raiders could wipe us out. Blair fixed Rollins with a stern look. "Still
this is all just speculation, Lieutenant, based on your leak over at covert
Ops and a lot of guesswork.
"Theory fits the facts, sir . . ."
"Maybe so. But it's still just a theory until you get genuine proof.
Don't spread this around, Rollins. There's no point in getting everybody in
an uproar over a possibility. You read me?"
The lieutenant nodded slowly. "Yes, sir. I'll keep it to myself. But
you mark my words, Colonel, this is going to be one hell of a nasty fight
this time."
Flight Control, TCS Victory Tamayo System
Flight Control was fully crewed with a dozen techs and specialists
monitoring the activity going on around the carrier and on the flight deck.
This morning, Blair decided to preside over operations himself. He took his
place on the raised platform which dominated the center of the compartment
at a horseshoe-shaped console that could tap into all aspects of wing
activities.
"Last of the new Hellcats is down and safe, Colonel," a tech reported
from a nearby work station. "Deck will be clear for the Thunderbolt in two
minutes."
"Two minutes, Blair repeated. "Well, Major, what do you think? Will
they do?"
Major Daniel Whittaker, Red Squadron's CO, watched over Blair's
shoulder while the new arrivals were coming in. He was old for his rank and
position, with iron-gray hair and an air of cautious deliberation. His
callsign was Warlock, and Blair had to admit he could have passed for a
high-tech sorcerer.
"They fly well enough," Whittaker said quietly. "I've seen better
carrier landings, but these boys and girls have been rotting away in a
planetside base where you don't get much chance to practice carrier ops.
We'll whip them into shape quick enough, I'd say."
"We'll have to, Major. If the bad guys are out in force around Locanda,
point defense will get a real workout."
"Thunderbolt HD Seven-zero-two, you are cleared for approach," a
speaker announced. "Feeding approach vectors to your navcomp . . . now."
Blair turned his attention back to the external camera view. The
computer enhanced the image so he could see the Thunderbolt clearly against
the backdrop of brilliant stars. As he watched, he could see the flare of
the fighter's engines as the pilot maneuvered his ship onto its approach
path.
"What the hell is that idiot doing?" someone demanded. "He's ignoring
the approach vectors we're feeding him!"
"HD Seven-zero-two, you are deviating from flight plan," the comm tech
said. "Recheck approach vectors and assume designated course.
The image on Blair's screen swelled as the fighter stooped in toward
the carrier, still gathering speed. Blair punched up a computer course
projection and was relieved to see that the projected flight path would
cause the ship to steer clear of the carrier, but it would be a near miss.
If the idiot deviated from his path now, he could easily dive right into the
deck. "Belay that transmission," he snapped, "and have the flight deck
emergency crews on standby."
An alarm, low but insistent, rang across the flight deck, and Blair
could see technicians scrambling to their emergency stations.
The Thunderbolt streaked over the flight deck with bare meters to
spare, executing a roll-over as it passed. Then it looped away, killing its
speed with a sharp braking thrust and dropping effortlessly into the
original approach path. Blair let out a sigh of relief.
"He's on target," someone announced laconically.
"He does that again and he'll be a target," someone else said. Blair
shared the sentiment. Rollins had warned Blair that the new pilot was likely
to be a problem, but he'd never imagined the man would pull a stupid stunt
even before he reported aboard. Fancy victory rolls looked good in
holomovies and stunt flying by elite fighter show teams, but they were
strictly prohibited in normal carrier operations.
The new pilot had a lot to learn.
The Thunderbolt performed perfectly, hitting the tractor beams
precisely and touching the deck in a landing maneuver that could have been
used in an Academy training film. Moments later, the fighter rolled to a
stop inside the hangar deck. Gravity and pressure were quickly restored as
the technicians secured from their emergency preparations.
Blair, seething, was on his way to the deck before the gravity hit
one-half G.
The pilot climbed down the ladder from his cockpit and paused to remove
his helmet, an ornately decorated rig which carried the word FLASH in bright
letters, presumably his running name. He was a young man, under thirty from
his appearance, but his flight suit carried a major's insignia. He glanced
around the hangar with an easy grin, stopped to wipe away a speck on the
underside of the Thunderbolt's wing, then sauntered casually toward the
exit. He seemed completely oblivious to Blair.
"Hold it right there, Mister," Blair snapped.
The man gave him a quick look that turned into a double-take as he
caught sight of the bird insignia on Blair's collar tabs. He drew himself
erect in something that approximated attention and rendered a casual salute.
"Didn't expect a high-ranking welcoming committee, sir," he said. His tones
were lazy, relaxed. "Major Jace Dillon, Tamayo Home Defense Airspace
Command. I'm your replacement pilot."
"That remains to be seen," Blair said. "What's the idea of pulling that
damned stunt on your approach, Dillon?"
"Stunt, sir? Oh, the flyby. Hell, Colonel, it was just a little bit of
showmanship. They don't call me Flash for nothing, you know." Dillon paused,
seeming to realize the depth of Blair's anger for the first time. "Look, I'm
sorry if I did something wrong. I just thought I had to show you Regular
boys that Home Defense isn't a bunch of no-talent weekend warriors, like
everybody thinks. Figured if you saw I knew how to handle my bird then you'd
know I could pull my weight, that's all."
Blair didn't answer right away. He could almost understand the man's
thinking. Home Defense units had a poor reputation with the regular Navy,
often entirely undeserved. There had been a time, back when Blair was this
kid's age, that he might have pulled the same kind of stunt to make a point
with a new command.
"All right, Dillon, you can fly. You proved that much. Next time I see
you in that bird of yours you better show me you know how to obey regs, too.
You hear me?"
"Yes, sir," Dillon replied.
"Your Home Defense unit. . . does it use standard Confed ranks?"
"Yes, Colonel."
"And you're a major . . ."
Dillon flushed. "Yes, sir, I am."
"I find that a little difficult to believe, Dillon. A major is usually
more seasoned."
"The rank's legitimate, sir," Dillon said, sounding defensive. "Rank
earned in Home Defense units is automatically granted in the Confed Regulars
upon activation of the unit."
"Of course." Blair studied him for a moment. "So you hold a major's
commission in the Home Defense. Let me guess . . . your father's either the
unit commander or a prominent local backer who helped fund the unit, and you
were bumped through the ranks to Major in consequence, right?"
"Sir, I'm fully qualified as a pilot . . ."
"We established that, Major. I'm interested in your rank
qualifications. Is my assessment correct?"
Dillon nodded reluctantly. "My father donated some funds when the unit
was put together," he admitted.
"But the rank is legitimate, sir. I was a test pilot with Camelot
Industries before I signed on with the HDS and I've been with my squadron
for two years now."
"Two years," Blair repeated. "Any combat action?"
"Er. . . no, sir."
He sighed. "Well, Dillon, you're a major in the Confed Navy Flight
Branch now, heaven help you . . . and the rest of us. Try to conduct
yourself as a responsible officer of this ship and this flight wing. Do I
make myself clear?"
"Yes, Colonel."
"Then . . . welcome aboard, Major Dillon. Report to Lieutenant Colonel
Ralgha for indoctrination and assignments. You're dismissed."
He watched the young man leave the hangar not quite as cocky or relaxed
any longer. It seemed that the Home Defense squadron had truly dumped a
hard-shelled case on the Navy. Dillon was an inexperienced kid who carried a
major's rank and the powerful protection of a wealthy family to boot. Dillon
would soon learn that neither benefit would mean much when the wing went
into action. It was ironic, in a way His father had probably put him into
the HDS to get him out of the dangerous job of test pilot
Blair found himself hoping the kid would not have to learn his lesson
the hard way. Not that he particularly cared what happened to this young
showoff. . . but if he turned out to be the weak link in the wing, he could
take better men and women down with him before it was all over.
Wing Commander's Office, TCS Victory Locanda System
The ship completed the jump to the Locanda System and began normal
operations immediately. Blair spent a long day in Flight Control,
supervising the first patrols dispatched to scout the region of space around
the jump point and trying to get a feel for the new pilots in his command.
As Whittaker had predicted, the new additions to Red Squadron seemed to be
settling in well, but Flash was another matter. It still bothered Blair to
have an inexperienced combat pilot with such a high rank, and the problem
had caused him a sleepless night before he finally decided how to handle it.
He needed to team Dillon with a wingman who outranked him, that much
was evident. Let Flash be the ranking officer on some patrol mission which
ran into trouble and the result would be disaster. Blair knew he would have
to match Dillon with either himself Hobbes, or Maniac Marshall Ч the only
three pilots in Gold Squadron with the rank to keep Dillon under tight
control.
Blair was sorely tempted to assign Flash as Maniac's wingman. The two
deserved each other, and it might have been a valuable lesson for Marshall
to see what it was like to fly with someone unreliable on his wing. But that
would have been a risky choice at best. If Maniac didn't rise to the
challenge, Blair would end up with two dead pilots. Even unreliable fighter
jocks were assets not to be squandered so carelessly.
So the choice remained between himself and Hobbes. He hesitated over it
for a long time before finally putting Flash on Ralgha's wing. Blair was
concerned that he was letting his personal distaste for the younger man
cloud his judgment. but in the end, he decided that the Kilrathi renegade's
calm, tightly-controlled manner was the right counterbalance to Dillon's
inexperience and enthusiasm.
Flash accepted the match-up with equanimity. Apparently he harbored no
special feelings against the Kilrathi, and seemed content to fly with
Hobbes. The two left on patrol soon after the jump and the patrol was
successful, without incident.
But Blair found himself resenting the necessity which forced him to
assign Hobbes and Flash together. He missed flying with Ralgha on his wing.
Flint had done a competent job, and he had flown a couple of patrols with
Vaquero that went well, but it wasn't the same. He still didn't know the
others in the squadron the way he knew Hobbes, and he couldn't count on them
to know his mind the way the Kilrathi always did.
Blair wearily straightened in his desk chair. Sometimes it seemed as if
he would never get a handle on the assignment to Victory. He had always
found it easy to meld into a new ship's company, but this time was
different. He came on board determined to remain distant from the others.
Blair needed to avoid getting too close, as he had done with his comrades on
the Concordia. Blair doubted he could handle losing another shipload of
friends . . . but he was finding it difficult to deal with day-to-day life
among people who were still essentially strangers. Perhaps he had made the
wrong decision from the start.
He slowly rose. The day's work was done and his bunk was waiting for
him.
All that really seemed to matter anymore was getting through one more
day, performing his duties, and somehow staying sane in the face of a war
that seemed more insane every day. It was a far cry from the dreams of glory
that had once beckoned Christopher Blair into the life of a fighter pilot,
but duty Ч simple and straightforward Ч was all that remained for him.
Flight Wing Rec Room, TCS Victory Locanda System
At first glance, there were no customers in the Rec Room when Blair
entered, only the grizzled old petty officer who ran the bar. He was a
member of the crew from the old Leningrad years ago; one of the handful of
survivors who managed to escape the Kilrathi attack that destroyed her. The
wounds he suffered in the escape were enough to have him invalided out of
active duty, but Dmitri Rostov loved the Service too much to really retire.
So he tended bar and swapped stories about the old days, never complaining
about the arm and the eye sacrificed in the service of the Confederation.
Ironically, Leningrad was destroyed by the Imperial cruiser Ras
Nik'hra, under the command of Ralgha nar Hhallas before his decision to
defect. Blair had been pleasantly surprised to learn that Rostov didn't seem
to hold a grudge against the Kilrathi, indeed he rather seemed to enjoy
talking to the renegade when Hobbes came in to drink.
It was a pity some of the people who served with the Kilrathi pilot
could not bury the hatchet the same way.
"Hey, Rosty, how's it going?" Blair gave him a friendly wave. "Don't
tell me none of my drunks are hanging out here tonight."
Rostov shrugged and grunted as Blair approached the bar, gesturing
toward the observation window on the far side of the compartment. One lonely
figure stood framed against the star field, staring out at the void. It was
Flint.
"A slow night tonight, Comrade Colonel," Rostov agreed. He ventured a
heavy smile. "Perhaps you work them too hard, tire them out too much. Even
when I get a customer, it is to look, not to drink."
"I'll take a scotch," Blair said. He waited while the one-armed
bartender programmed the order then handed him the glass, using his
thumbprint to charge the drink to his account. "Thanks, Bear."
He crossed to the window where Flint stood, but didn't speak. Part of
him wanted to respect her privacy, but another part wanted to draw her out,
discover something about the woman behind the barriers she put around
herself. She was his wingman, and Blair needed to know more about her, even
if she was reluctant to be open with others.
The lieutenant seemed totally absorbed in her own thoughts, and Blair
doubted she even noticed him. But after a moment she glanced at him. "Sir,"
she said quietly. That one word carried a range of emotion, sadness, and
loneliness mixed with a hint of stubborn pride, exposing a glimpse into
Flint's soul.
"I didn't mean to disturb you, Lieutenant," Blair said. "I was just
wondering what it was about the view that had you so . . . involved."
"Just . . . thinking,'' she said reluctantly.
"I flew here once," Blair went on. "A lot of places to hide in this
system, with the moons and the asteroids. Your first time?"
Flint shook her head ruefully. "This is my home system sir," she told
him. "My father commanded a Home Defense squadron after we settled here from
Earth. Taught me everything he knew about flying."
"A family tradition, then," Blair commented.
She looked away. "He planned to pass it on to my brother David, but . .
. the Kilrathi had their own plans."
"I'm sorry," Blair said, knowing the inadequacy of words. He should
never have questioned her, dredging up the past this way.
"Everyone's lost someone, I guess," Flint said with a little shrug.
"They don't give you medals for it. But coming back like this . . . it
brings back a lot of memories, is all. A lot of stuff I haven't thought
about since I went away to the Academy."
"You haven't been back since then?"
She shook her head. "Not much point. My mother took Davie's death hard.
She just . . . gave up. He died when I was fifteen. My Dad was killed in the
cockpit fighting the cats when they raided here the year after I left. He
scored twenty-one kills over the years after Davie was killed. He said each