was about what he expected, but that didn't make it any easier to swallow.
Five Kilrathi biowarheads exploding high above the surface of the colony
world . . . that would ensure a fast spread of the tailored disease they
carried. It would not be long before the effects of the attack became
visible.
Locanda IV was as good as dead already, and Maverick Blair, the great
pilot and war hero, was the man to blame for it all. The man who failed. . .
.
He forced the thought aside and concentrated on his fighter's controls.
Blair's Thunderbolt came through the long fight with only light damage, but
he had trouble with the port-side maneuvering thrusters, and the computer
was unable to reroute the circuits through a more dependable network.
They were near the original coordinates of the Kilrathi fleet, which
thankfully was moving away at full speed toward a nearby jump point. Blue
and Green Squadrons, after maintaining a prolonged diversionary action
against Thrakhath's flagship, had returned to Victory. Gold Squadron
remained out, however, searching for a lost sheep.
Incredibly, only Beast Jaeger's fighter was confirmed as destroyed in
battle, though several of the others were in terrible shape. How Hobbes
still flew at all was a mystery, and Vaquero's weapons systems finally
overloaded in the last fight against the Strakha. But one of the
Thunderbolts remained missing, and Blair ordered Gold Squadron to spread out
and search for the missing man . . . or some sign of his fate.
Lieutenant Alexander Sanders. callsign Sandman . . . Blair never really
knew him. He had served as Maniac's wingman throughout the current
deployment and spent most of his off-duty hours hanging with Marshall.
Although he always struck Blair as a complete opposite to Maniac Ч steady,
dependable, loyal, reliable Ч Sanders and Marshall were good friends as well
as wingmates. Neither Blair nor the lieutenant were very comfortable with
each other as a result of the on going feud dividing the colonel from the
major.
Now it looked as if Blair would never get a chance to know the man.
Maniac had allowed himself to be separated from his wingman in the battle
with the Kilrathi escort squadron while Cobra covered herself after Jaeger's
death, so no one saw Sandman fighting. He might have been destroyed, or
simply damaged and left adrift . . . or he might have ejected from his
fighter. Until they were sure, they had to look.
A refueling shuttle arrived from Victory to rendezvous with the
squadron and top off their tanks, and now the eight remaining fighters were
to form a broad search pattern, hunting for some signs of the lost pilot.
They were barely within sensor range of each other, and the comm channels
were mostly quiet. Everyone knew the mission had failed. Everyone was
exhausted by hours of continuous stress and tension punctuated by more
fighting than any of them had seen in a long, long time.
"Bad news, Colonel," Cobra broke into his reverie. "I've got a debris
field here. Material analysis reads consistent with a Thunderbolt's hull
armor . . . It's gotta be Sandy's."
"You're sure it isn't part of Jaeger's ship?"
"No way, sir. Too far from where Beast caught it."
"Start a close scan, Cobra. If there's an escape pod around there, find
it.
"I'll try, sir, but you know the cats. If they spot a pilot after he
ejects, they'll either blast him where they find him or tractor him in for
interrogation and a sporting death entertaining a ship's nobles."
"Check it out, anyway, Lieutenant. If there's any chance Sandman's
still alive, I want to find him." Blair paused. "All fighters, from Leader.
Converge on Cobra's beacon and concentrate your search there."
Bringing the fighter around, he increased his thrust. Cobra was right,
of course. The odds against finding Sanders alive were too high a bet for
anyone but a blind optimist, but he had to try.
It was a pitiful gesture set against his failure defending the colony,
but it was all he could do right now.
Bridge, TCS Victory Locanda System
С'Approaching Gold Squadron's search grid now, sir.
"Very good, Mr. DuBois," Eisen acknowledged the helmsman's report. "Go
to station-keeping. Sensors to full sweep. Let's help the Colonel look for
his man. Any word, Lieutenant Rollins?"
"Nothing from Gold Squadron, sir." Rollins turned in his chair to face
the captain. "Coventry's broadcasting updates on the Kilrathi fleet. Several
of their ships have jumped, but it looks like Sar'hrai is delaying. Probably
to pick up stragglers from the cat fighter strike. If we teamed up with the
cruiser, sir, we might get a few licks in . . ."
"This is a carrier, not a dreadnought, Lieutenant," Eisen told him. "A
carrier with a fighter wing that isn't likely to be able to pull a strike
mission for quite a while. And that close to a jump point you always run the
risk of something popping in when you least expect it."
"Yes, sir," Rollins said. He sounded disappointed.
"Look, I know how everybody feels. The cats broke through, and the
colony's probably . . . in trouble. You want to hit back. So do I, believe
me. But there's no sense in compounding one tragedy with another. ConFleet
can't afford to throw away ships on meaningless gestures, and that's what it
would be if we tried to take Sar'hrai."
They were the right words, Eisen told himself. But he didn't like them
at all.
"Captain?" That was Tanaka, the Sensor Officer. "Sir, I'm only reading
seven fighters in the search grid. There ought to be eight . . ."
"What the devil?" Eisen demanded. "Find that other fighter. And Rollins
. . . get on the line and tell Blair it's time he took roll call!"
Thunderbolt 300 Locanda System
"Sensors confirm it, Colonel. Lieutenant Peters didn't respond to your
orders to tighten the search grid. Instead she's vectored off toward the
Ariel jump point."
"Goddamn. . ." Blair didn't finish the curse. "She must've been
listening on the comm channel when you filled me in on enemy movements.
Decided to even some scores with the Kilrathi fighters you said were likely
to get left behind."
He should have watched Flint more closely, he told himself, angry and
bitter. She had been a model wingman throughout the battle, but it must have
been dreadful for her to see those last few fighters escape to launch their
deadly missiles at the colony.
At her homeworld . . .
All she needed was one more kill to fill the score to avenge her
brother, with nearly sixty more for her father. But how many more Kilrathi
would Flint have to kill to avenge the population of an entire world?
"Colonel," Eisen broke onto the channel. "There s still a Kilrathi
carrier near the jump point. Possibly some undamaged fighters as well. Your
Lieutenant Peters is heading right into a slaughterhouse, and she's not
acknowledging our return-to-ship orders. Can you do anything to stop her?"
The captain paused for several seconds. "It's your call, Blair."
He stared at Eisen's image on his comm screen, his mind racing. Flint
had a huge head start, and by the time he mounted any sort of rescue mission
she might be dead. Gold Squadron was battered, exhausted, with missile
stocks low and battle damage plaguing every one of the Thunderbolts. Common
sense dictated that they cut their losses now and let Flint have her final,
suicidal gesture. No matter how upset she might be, Robin Peters was no
fool. She just wanted to go down fighting.
But there was another part of Blair that couldn't just give up on her.
The same part that prolonged the search for Sandman. Good pilots don't give
up on their own, especially not on their wingmen.
"I'll go after her, sir," he said at last. "See if there's anything I
can do."
Eisen didn't respond right away. "Understood, Colonel," he said at
last. "And . . . Godspeed."
"This is Leader," Blair said, more crisp than before. "If Sanders had
managed to eject, we would have found him by now. Pack it in, people.
Hobbes, get Сem down to the deck I'm going after Flint."
"My friend, you cannot go alone Ч " Hobbes protested.
"I'm with you, Colonel," Cobra overrode Ralgha's soft voice. "Lets
move!"
"I'm alone on this one," Blair said firmly. "That's a direct order. All
fighters return to Victory. One rogue pilot in a day is enough."
"But Ч " Cobra sounded ready to start another war.
"A direct order, I said." Blair paused. "But . . . Cobra, you and
Vagabond have the least damage, after me. Get down on the deck, let the
techs patch anything essential that's damaged, and then rearm and refuel.
Prep another fuel shuttle and escort it toward the Ariel jump point. Flint
and I will be needing fuel before we get back."
"If you get back" Ralgha said. "I do not understand why you are doing
this, my friend. You are putting yourself in danger for no good purpose . .
."
"She's my wingman, Hobbes. I have to go. Now carry out your orders." He
cut the channel with a savage stab at the comm button, then switched on the
navigation computer to plot a course after Flint.
Blair's only hope was that he wasn't making the same empty gesture as
she was.
Thunderbolt 305 Locanda System
Flint glanced mechanically from her sensor board to the weapon status
display, hardly aware of what she was doing any more. Somehow the shock of
what had happened was dull and distant, as though she was watching someone
else react in her place. The emotion that nearly overpowered her as she had
realized her planet was under a slow, savage death sentence faded away now,
replaced by grim determination.
It felt the same way when Davie died . . . and when the news came in to
the Academy about her father. The grief and pain were there, but they were
suppressed by the overwhelming need to act, to do something.
She must do something, even though she knew it was hopeless. If she
didn't die on the firing line, her career would probably be over anyway by
the time Blair got through with her. She had disobeyed orders and let her
vengeance get in the way of the mission once again, even after the Colonel
gave her a second chance. This was the last time she would be in the
cockpit, facing the Kilrathi, one way or another.
Robin Peters intended to make this last time count.
Her navigational computer signaled that she was fast approaching the
Ariel jump point. Her autopilot cut out instantaneously, and Flint forced
herself to relax and let her combat training take over.
The sensor board came alive with targets.
Thunderbolt 300 Locanda System
"Blair to Peters. Blair to Peters. Respond, please." Blair closed his
eyes for a moment, caught somewhere between anger and concern and fear. "For
God's sake, Flint, answer me. Break off and head for home before it's too
late."
But his autopilot told him it probably was too late already. With her
head start, she would have reached the jump point zone eight minutes ago,
and eight minutes could be an eternity in a dogfight. By his best estimate
Blair's Thunderbolt was still two minutes from contact.
He ran a quick inventory of his weaponry. There was still one
fire-and-forget missile slung under his wing and both his gun turrets were
fully charged. If there was any real opposition waiting ahead, it would be
all too inadequate, but he didn't plan to remain for a long dogfight. Blair
wanted to find Flint in one piece, then persuade her to withdraw in a hurry.
Hopefully, the Kilrathi would be too concerned with getting their fighters
back to Sar'hrai so she could jump to worry about chasing two foolhardy
Terrans . . .
If not . . . well, it wasn't likely to be a long battle in any event.
The computer beeped a warning and cut the autopilot, and Blair focused
on the sensor board as it began to register targets. The view before him
wasn't encouraging.
The Kilrathi carrier dominated the scene, huge and menacing, hovering
near the jump point. There was a great deal of activity around the big ship,
and for a moment, Blair feared that Flint had driven straight in to attack
the capital ship, a brave but utterly futile gesture indeed. But the blips
he was registering were all Kilrathi, and after a moment, he realized that
the bulk of the targets were keeping close to the carrier to protect
incoming fighters attempting to land on Sar'hrai's flight deck.
Then he picked up Flint. She had not pursued the carrier after all, but
she was heavily involved with a trio of Vaktoth fighters which locked her in
a classic wheel attack circling her fighter and pounding at her shields
without mercy. Flint handled her Thunderbolt impressively, managing somehow
to dodge and turn out of the line of fire again and again, but inevitably
some of those enemy beams penetrated her defenses. It was only a matter of
time before her shields finally failed, leaving her fighter exposed to the
full fury of the Kilrathi attack.
Blair took in the scene in an instant and cut in his afterburners. The
Thunderbolt surged forward as if eager for battle, and in mere seconds his
targeting computer locked on to one of the heavy fighters ahead. He would
have to make this fast before any of the other Imperial fighters decided to
intervene.
His blasters caught the Vaktoth at its weakest point, in the rear
section just above the engines. There was a flaw in the shield pattern
there, making the fighter vulnerable to a concentrated attack, but even the
weak spot on a Vaktoth was formidable by anyone's standards. Blasters could
punch through the shields, perhaps even damage armor underneath, but they
didn't cycle fast enough to allow the Thunderbolt to exploit a successful
hit. The usual tactic was to add a missile to the mix, preferably a
heat-seeker that could fly light up the enemys main thruster outlet while
the shields were off-line . . . or, lacking missiles, to rely on a wingman
to finish the attack.
Blair couldn't count on his wingman, not until she snapped out of her
crazy urge for vengeance. He must use his last missile.
It was over in an instant. The Vaktoth came apart in a blinding
fireball. The other two Kilrathi pilots broke the wheel and turned away, but
Blair knew they weren't ready to run yet. They just wanted to regroup,
assess the new threat.
And perhaps call in reinforcements.
"Flint!" he called. "This is the only chance we're going to get. Break
off now!"
"Break off. . . Colonel? What are you doing? You're supposed to be back
at the ship . . ."
"So are you," he snapped. "I decided you needed a personal invitation."
On his screen he saw the two Vaktoth making slow, wide, outer loops to
launch a converging attack from two directions. There was no sign that
others planned to join them, but it would only be a matter of time. Sooner
or later more fighters would reinforce these two, unless the two Terrans
abandoned the battle.
"Leave me here, Colonel. I'll cover your retreat."
"Forget it, Lieutenant," he told her. "I don't abandon my wingmen . . .
not even when they abandon me. Either we both go back to the ship or neither
one of us does."
"I . . . yes, sir." Her voice was like lead.
"Those two are coming in fast," he said, still studying the sensor
board. "We'll have to fight our way out. Follow my lead, Flint. I'm counting
on you."
He banked left, accelerating, driving toward one of the two
widely-separated Vaktoth. Flint stuck close to his wing, trailing a little
but evidently obeying him.
Blair locked on his targeting computer, but held his fire. The Vaktoth
grew in his crosshairs, looming closer. It opened fire, and blaster shots
slammed into the Thunderbolt's shields where the earlier fighting had
already weakened his defenses. There was precious little armor left under
those intangible barriers of energy, and if they failed now it would be the
end.
He pulled his steering yoke up hard at the last possible second,
sliding over the top of the Kilrathi ship with only meters to spare. Blair
spun the Thunderbolt around using maneuvering jets, praying the damaged one
wouldn't let him down this time. Then, applying full thrust, he tried to
kill his velocity while opening fire with his blasters at point-blank range.
Shot after shot pounded the rear shields of the Vaktoth until the blasters
exhausted their energy banks.
Blair spun the fighter around again and accelerated before the Kilrathi
pilot reacted. Moments later Flint was there, unleashing her own beams in a
furious attack on the weakened Vaktoth. The enemy ship began bringing its
weapons to bear, but too late. Flint's blaster fire penetrated the hull and
set off a chain reaction of explosions in the fighter's fuel and ammo
stores.
For the first time since he'd flown with her, Blair didn't hear Flint
counting her score.
"Let's get going, Lieutenant. Before the rest of the welcoming
committee catches us."
The last Vaktoth came into weapon range, firing a few random shots just
to measure the distance. On his screen, Blair could see four more ships
detaching themselves from the force watching over the carrier.
If they got too involved with this one, they'd soon be facing those
reinforcements, and Blair doubted he could manage another stand-up fight.
"Your hull looks pretty bad, Colonel," Flint said, echoing his
thoughts. "I'll drop back and hold them."
"You'll follow my lead, like I said before." More shots probed after
them, and Blair could feel the sweat starting to run down his forehead under
the flight helmet despite the carefully-maintained environment of the
cockpit. He wasn't sure he could pull another rabbit out of his hat this
time.
"Colonel! Targets! Targets ahead!" Flint's voice was more alive as she
called the warning.
Four blips appeared ahead, blocking their escape route back to Victory.
With pursuers behind and this new force ahead, they couldn't evade another
battle for long. Blair knew they couldn't last once engaged.
Suddenly the four new blips changed from amber, the color-code for an
unidentified bogie, to green. Friendlies . . . Confed fighters. Blair could
hardly keep himself from whooping in sheer joy at the sight.
"This is Flight Captain Piet DeWitt of the destroyer Coventry," a
cheerful Terran voice announced. "Captain Bondarevsky tells me you carrier
hot-shots need a little assist. We're here to escort you home, Colonel. Fall
in ahead of our formation, and leave the bad guys to us."
"We're in your hands, Captain," Blair said, breathing out a long, soft
sigh. Already the nearest Vaktoth broke off at the sight of the four Arrow
interceptors, and the rest of the Kilrathi pursuit was slowing noticeably as
they studied the newcomers and tried to assess what the Terrans would do
next. "We thank you all."
"Compliments of Captain Bondarevsky, Colonel. He told me to tell you
this makes up for that time off New Sydney."
Blair felt the relief flowing through him, and with it another
sensation . . . fatigue. Now that the pressure was gone, it took the full
force of his will to program the autopilot to take the Thunderbolt home.
Then, at last, he slumped in his acceleration couch exhausted. He
didn't win any victories today, but he survived, and Flint with him. And
maybe that was enough.
Flight Deck. TCS Victory Locanda System
Blair stepped to the makeshift podium reluctantly, and bowed his head
for a moment before speaking. There were many aspects of a wing commanders
duties he didn't like, but this morning s duty was the worst of them all.
He raised his head and studied the ranks of officers and crewmen
gathered on the flight deck, assembled in orderly rows, and wearing their
dress uniforms to mark the solemn occasion. Pilots from the four combat
squadrons were prominent in the front of the formation. Even Maniac Marshall
looked solemn today as he mourned the loss of his best friend on board.
Commander Thomas White, Victory's chaplain, gave Blair an almost
imperceptible nod.
"We're here to say good-bye to the men and women of the flight wing who
gave their lives in battle yesterday," Blair began slowly. "Nine pilots were
killed fighting the Kilrathi, dedicated warriors whose places will be as
difficult to fill in our hearts as they will be to replace on our roster. I
haven't served on this ship very long, and I didn't know any of them all
that well, but I know they died heroes."
He paused for a long time before continuing, fighting back a wave of
emotion. These nine officers would hardly be noticed in comparison to the
population of the colony on Locanda IV, but their deaths were much more
immediate and vivid to Blair. They died trying to carry out his orders in a
failed mission, and as wing commander he carried the full burden of
responsibility for their deaths Ч and for the colonists they were unable to
protect Ч squarely on his own inadequate shoulders.
"I wish I knew the right words to say about each and every one of these
lost comrades," he went on at last. "But the only accolade I can give them
now is this: each of them died serving in the best traditions of the
Service, and they will be sorely missed."
He stepped back from the podium and gave a signal. Behind him, the
first of nine sealed coffins rolled forward. Only one of them actually held
a body, since Captain Marina Ulyanova was the only pilot who managed to
eject before her ship was destroyed during the fighting around the Kilrathi
flagship. She died from her wounds a few hours later. The other coffins were
empty except for plaques identifying the pilots they commemorated.
"Present . . . ARMS!" the Confed Marine commanding the seven-man honor
guard barked. The first coffin stopped moving for a moment, ready for
launch.
From his place in line, Hobbes looked up and spoke in slow, measured
tones. "Lieutenant Helmut Jaeger," he said.
Up in Flight Control a technician activated the launch sequence. The
coffin hurtled into space on fiery boosters, and the second one rolled in to
replace it.
"Lieutenant Alexander Sanders," Hobbes went on. Beside him Maniac bowed
his head, his lips moving silently. In prayer? Or just saying good-bye?
Blair didn't know.
When the third coffin was in place Amazon Mbuto took over the roll
call. "Captain Marina Ulyanova," she said. Then, "Lieutenant Gustav
Svensson.
The grim muster went on until all nine coffins were ejected. When the
task was completed, the honor guard raised their weapons and fired three
low-power laser pulses through the force field at the end of the hangar
deck, then stepped back, standing at attention. Chaplain White stepped
forward. "We commit these men and women to the empty depths of interstellar
space," he said slowly. "Watch over them, Lord, that they may find peace who
died in the fires of war. In the name of Jesus . . . Amen."
Wing Commander's Office, TCS Victory Locanda System
"You wanted to see me, Colonel?"
Blair was hard-pressed to speak. Instead he nodded and gestured toward
the chair near his desk. This was one interview he didn't want to conduct.
Lieutenant Robin Peters sat down. "I guess I know what this is about,"
she said, almost too softly to be heard. "You might have died out there,
chasing after me."
He found his voice. "I might have."
"The captain ordered you . . ."
"No." Blair shook his head. "It was my call to make."
"Well . . . I suppose you had your reasons. In your shoes, I would have
stayed put. Let the stupid bitch get what she deserved." She looked away.
"Sorry, Colonel. I've never been very good at saying thanks."
"You're welcome," he told her dryly.
"I want you to understand, sir Ч "
"Understand? There's nothing to understand, Flint. You lost it out
there. Maybe you had good reason. Lord knows what it's like to have your
homeworld . . . infected, like that. All at once, and despite everything we
could do." Blair paused. He didn't want to go on, but he knew he must. Even
though he understood Flint's feelings, he couldn't simply ignore her
actions. "We don't just decide to fly off on a suicide mission because we're
hurting. You have to fly with your head, Flint, not with your heart."
"You've never done that, sir? Flown with your heart?"
He fixed her with a steady stare. "The day you see me do that,
Lieutenant, you can shoot me out of space yourself." A part of him, though,
was well aware that he might have done the same thing himself. No pilot was
an automaton, able to ignore his feelings at will. "We already talked once
about this, Flint. And I told you what would happen if you let your heart
get in the way of your duty. You haven't left me a hell of a lot of
choices."
"I know, sir," she said, dropping her gaze. "I guess I was kind of
hoping you'd let me off easy, let me keep flying. But you can't."
"No, I can't," Blair said, voice level and cold. "We can't afford to
let every pilot pursue some private little war. That's a sure way to let the
Kilrathi win. Until further notice, Lieutenant, your flight status is
suspended. You're grounded."
Now it was Blair who couldn't meet her eyes . Something left them both,
and only the expression of hopelessness and death remained.
"Dismissed," he added, and turned back to his computer terminal. He
waited until she left the office before sagging into his chair, feeling as
though he had just taken on an entire Kilrathi squadron on his own.
Captain's Ready Room, TCS Victory Blackmane System
"Sit down, Colonel. I'll only be a minute."
"Take your time, sir," Blair said, settling wearily into a chair while
Eisen turned his attention back to a computer terminal.
Victory's captain looked even more tired than Blair felt, with the
haggard expression of a man who had gone too many nights without enough
sleep. Everyone had been working overtime in the five days since the battle
off Locanda IV. Yesterday they had jumped from Locanda to the Blackmane
System, leaving behind a world already in the grip of spreading panic and
plague.
Eisen finished whatever he was working on and turned his chair to face
Blair. "Well, Colonel. How's the work going with the flight wing?
"About what you'd expect, sir. The techs have most of the fighters up
and running again. There was some battle damage we couldn't fully repair,
but we're getting back on track. I hope we can get some replacement birds
from Blackmane Base . . . and some pilots to fill the roster out, while
we're at it."
Eisen frowned. "That won't be so easy, but I'll see what I can do."
"Sir?"
"Word just came in. With Locanda Four gone and the whole system
quarantined, HQ's decided to consolidate our resources in this sector. That
means Blackmane Base is being shut down. Everything's shifting to Vespus and
Torgo. Anybody who can herd a boat will be needed to fly ships for the
evacuation. I might be able to snag some fighters. They'll probably be glad
to unload a few from their reserve stocks and save space for other outgoing
cargo."
Blair felt a sinking sensation in his gut. "Evacuate the base? Isn't
that a pretty extreme move? What about the colonists in this system?"
The captain shook his head, frowning. "Doesn't look good. Confed's just
getting stretched too damn thin. If the Kilrathi are going to start using
these bioweapons routinely, we can't mount an effective defense in every
system. So the orders are to concentrate on defending the ones that are
really vital. For the rest . . . I guess they get to rely on the good
old-fashioned cross-your-fingers defense initiative."
"If the Confederation can't protect its own civilian population
anymore, we're in worse shape than I thought," Blair said quietly. "Things
can't go on like this."
Eisen nodded agreement. "According to our resident rumor mill, Rollins,
they won't. There's supposed to be some kind of big plan circulating back at
Torgo to end the war once and for all. Tolwyn and Taggart are both supposed
to be involved somehow, and if you believe Rollins and his sources it will
be something pretty damned spectacular."
"Great," Blair said without enthusiasm. "We're stretched to the limit,
and HQ is going to unveil another one of their master plans."
"All we can do is hope it works," Eisen said. He studied Blair from
dark narrowed eyes. "Have you had a medical evaluation lately, Colonel?"
"No, sir. Blair frowned, uncertain at the sudden change in the
direction of the conversation. "Why?"
"You look like hell, for one thing."
"Right back at you, Captain. I don't think there's a man on this boat
who looks too good now . . . except maybe Flash. I've never seen him looking
anything but perfect."
"I'm serious, Blair. We've all been working hard, but I've had reports
on you. You're pulling double shifts every day. You're not eating enough,
and you're certainly not getting enough sleep. You haven't been, since
before the fight at Locanda." Eisen hesitated. "And, frankly, I have to
wonder if it hasn't been screwing up your judgment."
"My combat judgment, you mean," Blair amplified the thought for him.
The captain met his look. "You came on board with a hot reputation,
Colonel. And I'd stack your wing up against any in the Fleet. But it wasn't
enough to turn the cats back at Locanda Four. There are some people who
claim you had just . . . come back from your medical leave a little too
early, that your judgment was impaired and the mission suffered as a
consequence."
"Captain, I never claimed the reputation everyone insists hanging on
me,'' Blair said slowly. He was angry not just at Eisen's words, but at the
fact that deep down he had been trying not to think the same things himself.
"Fact is, we were just plain outmatched. There were too damn many of them,
and yet we still came within a few minutes of nailing the bastards. If it
hadn't been for those damned Strakha . . ." He took a breath. "My people did
everything humanly possible, and I think I did as well. But if you want me
to apply for a transfer, let someone better qualified take over Ч "
Eisen held up a hand "I wasn't suggesting any such thing, Colonel. All
I'm saying is that you're human, too, just like the rest of us. And if you
drive yourself too hard, something's going to give eventually. Find some
balance, man . . . before you really do screw up a mission."
"It's easier said than done, sir," Blair said. "You should know it, if
anyone does. You have to hold this old rustbucket together, come what may."
"Oh, I understand what you're going through, all right," the captain
told him. "More than you might imagine. There've been a few ops I've been on
where I didn't live up to the reputation I'd racked up, and then I'd work
twice as hard trying to recapture what I thought I'd lost. Usually I only
got half as much done in the process. Take my advice, Blair. Don't dwell on
the past too much. Even if you've made mistakes, don't let them become more
important than the here and now. And don't take out your frustrations on
other people. Like Lieutenant Peters, for instance."
Blair looked at him. "Are you overriding me on Flint, sir? Putting her
back on flight status?"
The captain shook his head. "I don't get involved in flight wing
assignments unless I have to. You grounded her. You'll have to be the one to
decide to reinstate her." He paused. "But I should tell you. She applied
this morning for a transfer to Blackmane Base. She needs to fly again, one
way or another. I turned her down. With the base shutting down, nobody needs
the complications a transfer would involve. But something'll have to be done
on that front sooner or later, Colonel. She's a pilot, and a damn good one .
. . when her head is screwed on straight. Weren't you the one griping about
wasting good pilots, back when you found Hobbes off the roster?"
"Hobbes never pulled a stunt like Flint's, sir," Blair shot back. "And
he's from a race that raised the vendetta to an art form."
Eisen nodded reluctantly. "As long as you're aware, Colonel. I agree
she needs to get her act together. But too much time on the sidelines could
ruin her."
"I know, Captain. I know."
Blair left the ready room more uncertain than ever.
Wing Commander's Quarters, TCS Victory Blackmane System
Vespus . . . he was back on Vespus again, and Angel was with him. They
walked hand in hand along the top of a bluff overlooking the glittering sea,
with a light breeze blowing off the water to stir her auburn hair.
Blair knew it was a dream, but the knowledge didn't change the
intensity of the illusion. He was really with her, on Vespus, the week
they'd taken leave together. It was a time when neither of them had imagined
ever being apart again.
The view from the clifftop was beautiful: the setting sun, one of the
three great moons hanging low above the horizon, sea and sky red with the
gathering twilight. But Blair turned away from the spectacular vista to look
into Angel's eyes, to drink in her beauty. They kissed, and in the dream
that kiss seemed to last for an eternity.
Now they were sitting side by side, lost in each other, oblivious to
their surroundings. Another kiss, and a long, lingering embrace. Their hands
explored each other's bodies eagerly as passion stirred.
"Is this forever, mon ami?" Angel asked, looking deep into his eyes,
almost into his soul.
"Forever's not long enough," he told her. They came together . . .
The dream changed. Vespus again, where sea and shore came together, but
stark, bleak, with storm clouds gathering on the horizon. Blair stood with
General Taggart, this time, looking down at the broken spine of the hulk
that been Concordia. He stirred, but he couldn't awaken, couldn't recapture
the other dream . . .
Now he stood on the flight deck, near the podium, as a line of coffins
rolled past. The general was with him again, reading out the names of the
dead in deep, sonorous tones. "Colonel Jeannette Devereaux . . ."
Blair snapped awake, stifling a cry. His hands groped on his bedside
table until they wrapped around the holocube she had sent him. For a moment
he fumbled with it, and then her image appeared, lips moving soundlessly
with the volume turned down.
He stared at the ghostly figure and tried to control his breathing.
Blair was never a superstitious man, but the nightmare was like an omen, a
vision. Angel was gone, and he was afraid that he would never get her back.
Flight Wing Rec Room. TCS Victory Blackmane System
Another evening, another day of seemingly endless work. Blair was
looking forward to a tall glass and a chance to unwind, and although he
wasn't eager for company, the rec room was preferable to his quarters. He
spent too many nights lately staring at those four walls, awakened from
sleep by the recurring nightmare. At least Angel couldn't haunt him here.
There was a cluster of officers at the bar, Lieutenant Rollins right in
the middle. They were grouped around a newspad, watching the latest Terran
News Channel update just beamed in from Blackmane. Barbara Miles, perfect as
ever, looked out of the screen with an expression of mingled concern and
reassurance as she spoke.
"Despite denials from official Confederation channels, TNC now has
independent confirmation that the Locanda star system has been placed under
absolute quarantine in the wake of an outbreak of a virulent plague said to
be the result of a Kilrathi biological weapons attack. There are unconfirmed
rumors that this is not the first time such weapons have been used against
human colonies. It is now generally believed that the colony on Locanda Four
has already suffered heavy losses, and may be all but wiped out as the
disease runs its course."
She paused significantly. "In other news from the front, TNC has
learned that a strategic withdrawal of Confed forces is underway in several
outlying sectors. While government and military spokesmen officially deny
any such actions, unofficially several sources have suggested that these
withdrawals have been ordered as a means of consolidating the front lines by
surrendering unimportant territory in the hope that the Kilrathi will spread
themselves too thin and thus be exposed to a significant counterstroke. But
independent military analysts retained by TNC have labeled this suggestion
as spurious, and believe the Сconsolidation' is merely an improvised
response to the advances of the enemy.
"This is Barbara Miles reporting, with another TNC Infoburst . . ."
"Shut it off, Radio," a lieutenant Blair recognized as one of the
carrier's shuttle pilots growled. "Always the same old line from those cat
symps."
Rollins blanked the screen. "Hey, Trent, where've you been? We were at
Locanda . . . and they're breaking down Blackmane Base right now. I hear
tell there's been talk of sending a peace envoy to Kilrah . . . that we're
as good as ready to surrender. So how can you keep buying the fantasy that
we're actually winning this war?"
"What I want to know, Rollins," Blair said, placing a hand on the
lieutenant's shoulder, "is why you're so all-fired eager to tell us how bad
everything's going?"
"Ah, c'mon, Colonel," Rollins said. "You'd have to be blind to miss the
facts. Things are bad . . . and they're getting worse. Fact: we haven't had
a real shore leave in months. Fact: they keep shuttling this old bucket
around from one trouble spot to another, as if one battered carrier and one
fighter wing was all they could spare to cover half the sector. Fact: we've
been on one defensive op after another, and we always seem to end up pulling
back when it's over. Seems pretty damned clear to me, Colonel. This war's
winding down, all right. But we're not on the winning side."
Blair looked from Rollins to the others grouped around him. Most of
them were nodding their heads in agreement, though a few, like Lieutenant
Trent, were frowning at his words. "You want facts, Lieutenant?" I'll give
you a few to chew on. Fact: the grunts on the front lines, even the ones
with lots of well-placed sources. never see the whole picture in a war. Fact
the fastest way to lose a war is to allow morale to be sapped by half-assed
young officers with big ears, bigger mouths, and no common sense at all. And
fact: I know a communications officer with too much time on his hands who is
letting his love for gossip jeopardize the morale of this ship."
"With all due respect, sir, I'm entitled to my opinion," Rollins said
stubbornly.
"Indeed you are. But if I hear any more of this defeatist talk, you'll
be reassigned to Waste Recycling, where your crap belongs. Get my drift?"
"Telling him to shut up won't make the truth go away, sir," one of the
others spoke up.
"If it is the truth, wailing about it isn't going to change a damned
thing," Blair said. "We'll just have to play the cards we're dealt. But like
I said, the grunts at the front hardly ever know what's really happening.
Hell, maybe it's worse than old Gloom and Doom here thinks. But maybe it's a
lot better. Point is, if we decide everything's lost anyway, and give up, we
might end up letting down some folks who need us to turn things around." He
paused. "I'm not telling anyone what to think. Or even saying you can't
shoot the bull over a few drinks. But spreading the worst possible rumors Ч
that's crossing the line. I've heard my share of rumors that were a lot less
nasty, and I'm sure Rollins here has heard them too. . . but those don't get
much play, because they're not spicy enough."
Rollins gave him a long look, then shrugged. "Maybe you're right, sir,"
he said. "Maybe I do like to shoot my mouth off.
"Well, as of now, consider the safety on." Blair forced a smile.
"Anyway, aren't there better things to talk about than this damned war? The
girl you left behind . . . or the shore leave you'll never live down?" He
turned to the bartender. "Rosty . . . a round on my account. But only to the
ones who have something pleasant to talk about, okay?"
That boosted some spirits, and the others were laughing and chattering
happily as Blair moved to an empty table by the viewport. He sat there
staring into the darkness.
He could have been quoting from a manual on keeping up morale when he'd
spoken to them. The trouble was he didn't believe a word of it himself.
Captain's Ready Room, TCS Victory Blackmane System
Blair paused at the entrance to the captain's ready room, reluctant to
touch the buzzer. Victory was astir with fresh rumors today, speculations
rising from the arrival of a courier ship from Sector HQ at Torgo. No one
knew what word the ship brought to Eisen, but everyone was sure it heralded
a change of orders, perhaps fresh action. Blair wasn't looking forward to
learning what was in store for them now. He didn't feel ready to go back
into action again so soon, not with the failure at Locanda still hanging
over him. It wasn't something he could admit to anyone, either, not without
requesting a transfer to some rear-echelon outfit, off the firing line.
As tempting as that idea might be, Christopher Blair refused to give in
to it. There was no way he could let others fight the war while he sought
safety. He owed it to all his comrades who had stayed and fought.
With an effort of will, he forced himself to compose his features and
hit the buzzer.
"Enter," Eisen's voice came, and the door slid open.
"Reporting as ordered, sir," Blair said.
"Ah, Colonel, good." Eisen stood up, and the officer in crisp whites
opposite him did likewise. "This is Major Kevin Tolwyn, from sector HQ."
"Hey, Lone Wolf," Blair said, genuinely pleased to see the younger man.
He advanced to clasp Tolwyn's hand, smiling broadly. "Its been a long time,
kid."
"Another old acquaintance, Colonel?" Eisen asked.
"Yes, sir," Blair responded. "We served together on the Tarawa a few
years back." He looked Tolwyn over. Short, baby-faced, the nephew of Admiral
Geoff Tolwyn didn't look old enough to shave, much less to be a Confed
officer. "Major, now, is it? That's a pretty good bump. You were only
Lieutenant Tolwyn last time I heard . . ."
Tolwyn blushed. "Brevet rank, Colonel. I made Flight Captain after the
Battle of Terra, the brevet came through after I got wounded during the
mop-up after Vespus." He hesitated. "I guess one fighter too many cooked off
underneath me and my uncle pulled me into a staff job for awhile, he said
I'd already cashed all my lucky chips in and he wasn't going to take a
chance on next time."
"Staff slot, huh. I'm sorry to hear it. You should be on the flight
line, kid, where you belong."
"Don't I know it," Tolwyn said. "But . . . I didn't have any say in the
matter. The admiral wouldn't take no for an answer, and here I am."
Blair nodded in understanding. He'd heard stories of Admiral Tolwyn's
open displays of emotion, first when he had feared Kevin missing or dead,
then later when the younger man was recovered and returned to the fleet.
Maybe the staff job was a real effort to keep Kevin Tolwyn out of harm's
way. He was, after all, the admiral's closest surviving kin and had done
more than his share of fighting while serving on the Tarawa. The Medal of
Honor on his chest was more than enough proof of that.
"If I can interrupt the reunion, Colonel, I think we'd better get down
to business." Eisen gestured to the chairs by his desk. As they sat down, he
continued. "Major Tolwyn brings us fresh orders from HQ. It looks like the
war's heating up, at least as far as we're concerned. Major?"
"The attack on Locanda Four was a real wake-up call," Tolwyn said. "We
knew the cats were working on a number of strategic weapons projects, but we
didn't expect them to bring them into play as long as their fleet was still
able to hold its own. It s against everything in the Kilrathi philosophy to
resort to this kind of blatant genocide. They're supposed to like their
fights up close and personal, and this is a complete departure from
everything we thought we knew about them."
"Do we have any evidence they're going to use bioweapons elsewhere?"
Blair asked. "Or was this some kind of . . . special case?
"We don't know," Tolwyn said. "And that has the High Command doing some
Five Kilrathi biowarheads exploding high above the surface of the colony
world . . . that would ensure a fast spread of the tailored disease they
carried. It would not be long before the effects of the attack became
visible.
Locanda IV was as good as dead already, and Maverick Blair, the great
pilot and war hero, was the man to blame for it all. The man who failed. . .
.
He forced the thought aside and concentrated on his fighter's controls.
Blair's Thunderbolt came through the long fight with only light damage, but
he had trouble with the port-side maneuvering thrusters, and the computer
was unable to reroute the circuits through a more dependable network.
They were near the original coordinates of the Kilrathi fleet, which
thankfully was moving away at full speed toward a nearby jump point. Blue
and Green Squadrons, after maintaining a prolonged diversionary action
against Thrakhath's flagship, had returned to Victory. Gold Squadron
remained out, however, searching for a lost sheep.
Incredibly, only Beast Jaeger's fighter was confirmed as destroyed in
battle, though several of the others were in terrible shape. How Hobbes
still flew at all was a mystery, and Vaquero's weapons systems finally
overloaded in the last fight against the Strakha. But one of the
Thunderbolts remained missing, and Blair ordered Gold Squadron to spread out
and search for the missing man . . . or some sign of his fate.
Lieutenant Alexander Sanders. callsign Sandman . . . Blair never really
knew him. He had served as Maniac's wingman throughout the current
deployment and spent most of his off-duty hours hanging with Marshall.
Although he always struck Blair as a complete opposite to Maniac Ч steady,
dependable, loyal, reliable Ч Sanders and Marshall were good friends as well
as wingmates. Neither Blair nor the lieutenant were very comfortable with
each other as a result of the on going feud dividing the colonel from the
major.
Now it looked as if Blair would never get a chance to know the man.
Maniac had allowed himself to be separated from his wingman in the battle
with the Kilrathi escort squadron while Cobra covered herself after Jaeger's
death, so no one saw Sandman fighting. He might have been destroyed, or
simply damaged and left adrift . . . or he might have ejected from his
fighter. Until they were sure, they had to look.
A refueling shuttle arrived from Victory to rendezvous with the
squadron and top off their tanks, and now the eight remaining fighters were
to form a broad search pattern, hunting for some signs of the lost pilot.
They were barely within sensor range of each other, and the comm channels
were mostly quiet. Everyone knew the mission had failed. Everyone was
exhausted by hours of continuous stress and tension punctuated by more
fighting than any of them had seen in a long, long time.
"Bad news, Colonel," Cobra broke into his reverie. "I've got a debris
field here. Material analysis reads consistent with a Thunderbolt's hull
armor . . . It's gotta be Sandy's."
"You're sure it isn't part of Jaeger's ship?"
"No way, sir. Too far from where Beast caught it."
"Start a close scan, Cobra. If there's an escape pod around there, find
it.
"I'll try, sir, but you know the cats. If they spot a pilot after he
ejects, they'll either blast him where they find him or tractor him in for
interrogation and a sporting death entertaining a ship's nobles."
"Check it out, anyway, Lieutenant. If there's any chance Sandman's
still alive, I want to find him." Blair paused. "All fighters, from Leader.
Converge on Cobra's beacon and concentrate your search there."
Bringing the fighter around, he increased his thrust. Cobra was right,
of course. The odds against finding Sanders alive were too high a bet for
anyone but a blind optimist, but he had to try.
It was a pitiful gesture set against his failure defending the colony,
but it was all he could do right now.
Bridge, TCS Victory Locanda System
С'Approaching Gold Squadron's search grid now, sir.
"Very good, Mr. DuBois," Eisen acknowledged the helmsman's report. "Go
to station-keeping. Sensors to full sweep. Let's help the Colonel look for
his man. Any word, Lieutenant Rollins?"
"Nothing from Gold Squadron, sir." Rollins turned in his chair to face
the captain. "Coventry's broadcasting updates on the Kilrathi fleet. Several
of their ships have jumped, but it looks like Sar'hrai is delaying. Probably
to pick up stragglers from the cat fighter strike. If we teamed up with the
cruiser, sir, we might get a few licks in . . ."
"This is a carrier, not a dreadnought, Lieutenant," Eisen told him. "A
carrier with a fighter wing that isn't likely to be able to pull a strike
mission for quite a while. And that close to a jump point you always run the
risk of something popping in when you least expect it."
"Yes, sir," Rollins said. He sounded disappointed.
"Look, I know how everybody feels. The cats broke through, and the
colony's probably . . . in trouble. You want to hit back. So do I, believe
me. But there's no sense in compounding one tragedy with another. ConFleet
can't afford to throw away ships on meaningless gestures, and that's what it
would be if we tried to take Sar'hrai."
They were the right words, Eisen told himself. But he didn't like them
at all.
"Captain?" That was Tanaka, the Sensor Officer. "Sir, I'm only reading
seven fighters in the search grid. There ought to be eight . . ."
"What the devil?" Eisen demanded. "Find that other fighter. And Rollins
. . . get on the line and tell Blair it's time he took roll call!"
Thunderbolt 300 Locanda System
"Sensors confirm it, Colonel. Lieutenant Peters didn't respond to your
orders to tighten the search grid. Instead she's vectored off toward the
Ariel jump point."
"Goddamn. . ." Blair didn't finish the curse. "She must've been
listening on the comm channel when you filled me in on enemy movements.
Decided to even some scores with the Kilrathi fighters you said were likely
to get left behind."
He should have watched Flint more closely, he told himself, angry and
bitter. She had been a model wingman throughout the battle, but it must have
been dreadful for her to see those last few fighters escape to launch their
deadly missiles at the colony.
At her homeworld . . .
All she needed was one more kill to fill the score to avenge her
brother, with nearly sixty more for her father. But how many more Kilrathi
would Flint have to kill to avenge the population of an entire world?
"Colonel," Eisen broke onto the channel. "There s still a Kilrathi
carrier near the jump point. Possibly some undamaged fighters as well. Your
Lieutenant Peters is heading right into a slaughterhouse, and she's not
acknowledging our return-to-ship orders. Can you do anything to stop her?"
The captain paused for several seconds. "It's your call, Blair."
He stared at Eisen's image on his comm screen, his mind racing. Flint
had a huge head start, and by the time he mounted any sort of rescue mission
she might be dead. Gold Squadron was battered, exhausted, with missile
stocks low and battle damage plaguing every one of the Thunderbolts. Common
sense dictated that they cut their losses now and let Flint have her final,
suicidal gesture. No matter how upset she might be, Robin Peters was no
fool. She just wanted to go down fighting.
But there was another part of Blair that couldn't just give up on her.
The same part that prolonged the search for Sandman. Good pilots don't give
up on their own, especially not on their wingmen.
"I'll go after her, sir," he said at last. "See if there's anything I
can do."
Eisen didn't respond right away. "Understood, Colonel," he said at
last. "And . . . Godspeed."
"This is Leader," Blair said, more crisp than before. "If Sanders had
managed to eject, we would have found him by now. Pack it in, people.
Hobbes, get Сem down to the deck I'm going after Flint."
"My friend, you cannot go alone Ч " Hobbes protested.
"I'm with you, Colonel," Cobra overrode Ralgha's soft voice. "Lets
move!"
"I'm alone on this one," Blair said firmly. "That's a direct order. All
fighters return to Victory. One rogue pilot in a day is enough."
"But Ч " Cobra sounded ready to start another war.
"A direct order, I said." Blair paused. "But . . . Cobra, you and
Vagabond have the least damage, after me. Get down on the deck, let the
techs patch anything essential that's damaged, and then rearm and refuel.
Prep another fuel shuttle and escort it toward the Ariel jump point. Flint
and I will be needing fuel before we get back."
"If you get back" Ralgha said. "I do not understand why you are doing
this, my friend. You are putting yourself in danger for no good purpose . .
."
"She's my wingman, Hobbes. I have to go. Now carry out your orders." He
cut the channel with a savage stab at the comm button, then switched on the
navigation computer to plot a course after Flint.
Blair's only hope was that he wasn't making the same empty gesture as
she was.
Thunderbolt 305 Locanda System
Flint glanced mechanically from her sensor board to the weapon status
display, hardly aware of what she was doing any more. Somehow the shock of
what had happened was dull and distant, as though she was watching someone
else react in her place. The emotion that nearly overpowered her as she had
realized her planet was under a slow, savage death sentence faded away now,
replaced by grim determination.
It felt the same way when Davie died . . . and when the news came in to
the Academy about her father. The grief and pain were there, but they were
suppressed by the overwhelming need to act, to do something.
She must do something, even though she knew it was hopeless. If she
didn't die on the firing line, her career would probably be over anyway by
the time Blair got through with her. She had disobeyed orders and let her
vengeance get in the way of the mission once again, even after the Colonel
gave her a second chance. This was the last time she would be in the
cockpit, facing the Kilrathi, one way or another.
Robin Peters intended to make this last time count.
Her navigational computer signaled that she was fast approaching the
Ariel jump point. Her autopilot cut out instantaneously, and Flint forced
herself to relax and let her combat training take over.
The sensor board came alive with targets.
Thunderbolt 300 Locanda System
"Blair to Peters. Blair to Peters. Respond, please." Blair closed his
eyes for a moment, caught somewhere between anger and concern and fear. "For
God's sake, Flint, answer me. Break off and head for home before it's too
late."
But his autopilot told him it probably was too late already. With her
head start, she would have reached the jump point zone eight minutes ago,
and eight minutes could be an eternity in a dogfight. By his best estimate
Blair's Thunderbolt was still two minutes from contact.
He ran a quick inventory of his weaponry. There was still one
fire-and-forget missile slung under his wing and both his gun turrets were
fully charged. If there was any real opposition waiting ahead, it would be
all too inadequate, but he didn't plan to remain for a long dogfight. Blair
wanted to find Flint in one piece, then persuade her to withdraw in a hurry.
Hopefully, the Kilrathi would be too concerned with getting their fighters
back to Sar'hrai so she could jump to worry about chasing two foolhardy
Terrans . . .
If not . . . well, it wasn't likely to be a long battle in any event.
The computer beeped a warning and cut the autopilot, and Blair focused
on the sensor board as it began to register targets. The view before him
wasn't encouraging.
The Kilrathi carrier dominated the scene, huge and menacing, hovering
near the jump point. There was a great deal of activity around the big ship,
and for a moment, Blair feared that Flint had driven straight in to attack
the capital ship, a brave but utterly futile gesture indeed. But the blips
he was registering were all Kilrathi, and after a moment, he realized that
the bulk of the targets were keeping close to the carrier to protect
incoming fighters attempting to land on Sar'hrai's flight deck.
Then he picked up Flint. She had not pursued the carrier after all, but
she was heavily involved with a trio of Vaktoth fighters which locked her in
a classic wheel attack circling her fighter and pounding at her shields
without mercy. Flint handled her Thunderbolt impressively, managing somehow
to dodge and turn out of the line of fire again and again, but inevitably
some of those enemy beams penetrated her defenses. It was only a matter of
time before her shields finally failed, leaving her fighter exposed to the
full fury of the Kilrathi attack.
Blair took in the scene in an instant and cut in his afterburners. The
Thunderbolt surged forward as if eager for battle, and in mere seconds his
targeting computer locked on to one of the heavy fighters ahead. He would
have to make this fast before any of the other Imperial fighters decided to
intervene.
His blasters caught the Vaktoth at its weakest point, in the rear
section just above the engines. There was a flaw in the shield pattern
there, making the fighter vulnerable to a concentrated attack, but even the
weak spot on a Vaktoth was formidable by anyone's standards. Blasters could
punch through the shields, perhaps even damage armor underneath, but they
didn't cycle fast enough to allow the Thunderbolt to exploit a successful
hit. The usual tactic was to add a missile to the mix, preferably a
heat-seeker that could fly light up the enemys main thruster outlet while
the shields were off-line . . . or, lacking missiles, to rely on a wingman
to finish the attack.
Blair couldn't count on his wingman, not until she snapped out of her
crazy urge for vengeance. He must use his last missile.
It was over in an instant. The Vaktoth came apart in a blinding
fireball. The other two Kilrathi pilots broke the wheel and turned away, but
Blair knew they weren't ready to run yet. They just wanted to regroup,
assess the new threat.
And perhaps call in reinforcements.
"Flint!" he called. "This is the only chance we're going to get. Break
off now!"
"Break off. . . Colonel? What are you doing? You're supposed to be back
at the ship . . ."
"So are you," he snapped. "I decided you needed a personal invitation."
On his screen he saw the two Vaktoth making slow, wide, outer loops to
launch a converging attack from two directions. There was no sign that
others planned to join them, but it would only be a matter of time. Sooner
or later more fighters would reinforce these two, unless the two Terrans
abandoned the battle.
"Leave me here, Colonel. I'll cover your retreat."
"Forget it, Lieutenant," he told her. "I don't abandon my wingmen . . .
not even when they abandon me. Either we both go back to the ship or neither
one of us does."
"I . . . yes, sir." Her voice was like lead.
"Those two are coming in fast," he said, still studying the sensor
board. "We'll have to fight our way out. Follow my lead, Flint. I'm counting
on you."
He banked left, accelerating, driving toward one of the two
widely-separated Vaktoth. Flint stuck close to his wing, trailing a little
but evidently obeying him.
Blair locked on his targeting computer, but held his fire. The Vaktoth
grew in his crosshairs, looming closer. It opened fire, and blaster shots
slammed into the Thunderbolt's shields where the earlier fighting had
already weakened his defenses. There was precious little armor left under
those intangible barriers of energy, and if they failed now it would be the
end.
He pulled his steering yoke up hard at the last possible second,
sliding over the top of the Kilrathi ship with only meters to spare. Blair
spun the Thunderbolt around using maneuvering jets, praying the damaged one
wouldn't let him down this time. Then, applying full thrust, he tried to
kill his velocity while opening fire with his blasters at point-blank range.
Shot after shot pounded the rear shields of the Vaktoth until the blasters
exhausted their energy banks.
Blair spun the fighter around again and accelerated before the Kilrathi
pilot reacted. Moments later Flint was there, unleashing her own beams in a
furious attack on the weakened Vaktoth. The enemy ship began bringing its
weapons to bear, but too late. Flint's blaster fire penetrated the hull and
set off a chain reaction of explosions in the fighter's fuel and ammo
stores.
For the first time since he'd flown with her, Blair didn't hear Flint
counting her score.
"Let's get going, Lieutenant. Before the rest of the welcoming
committee catches us."
The last Vaktoth came into weapon range, firing a few random shots just
to measure the distance. On his screen, Blair could see four more ships
detaching themselves from the force watching over the carrier.
If they got too involved with this one, they'd soon be facing those
reinforcements, and Blair doubted he could manage another stand-up fight.
"Your hull looks pretty bad, Colonel," Flint said, echoing his
thoughts. "I'll drop back and hold them."
"You'll follow my lead, like I said before." More shots probed after
them, and Blair could feel the sweat starting to run down his forehead under
the flight helmet despite the carefully-maintained environment of the
cockpit. He wasn't sure he could pull another rabbit out of his hat this
time.
"Colonel! Targets! Targets ahead!" Flint's voice was more alive as she
called the warning.
Four blips appeared ahead, blocking their escape route back to Victory.
With pursuers behind and this new force ahead, they couldn't evade another
battle for long. Blair knew they couldn't last once engaged.
Suddenly the four new blips changed from amber, the color-code for an
unidentified bogie, to green. Friendlies . . . Confed fighters. Blair could
hardly keep himself from whooping in sheer joy at the sight.
"This is Flight Captain Piet DeWitt of the destroyer Coventry," a
cheerful Terran voice announced. "Captain Bondarevsky tells me you carrier
hot-shots need a little assist. We're here to escort you home, Colonel. Fall
in ahead of our formation, and leave the bad guys to us."
"We're in your hands, Captain," Blair said, breathing out a long, soft
sigh. Already the nearest Vaktoth broke off at the sight of the four Arrow
interceptors, and the rest of the Kilrathi pursuit was slowing noticeably as
they studied the newcomers and tried to assess what the Terrans would do
next. "We thank you all."
"Compliments of Captain Bondarevsky, Colonel. He told me to tell you
this makes up for that time off New Sydney."
Blair felt the relief flowing through him, and with it another
sensation . . . fatigue. Now that the pressure was gone, it took the full
force of his will to program the autopilot to take the Thunderbolt home.
Then, at last, he slumped in his acceleration couch exhausted. He
didn't win any victories today, but he survived, and Flint with him. And
maybe that was enough.
Flight Deck. TCS Victory Locanda System
Blair stepped to the makeshift podium reluctantly, and bowed his head
for a moment before speaking. There were many aspects of a wing commanders
duties he didn't like, but this morning s duty was the worst of them all.
He raised his head and studied the ranks of officers and crewmen
gathered on the flight deck, assembled in orderly rows, and wearing their
dress uniforms to mark the solemn occasion. Pilots from the four combat
squadrons were prominent in the front of the formation. Even Maniac Marshall
looked solemn today as he mourned the loss of his best friend on board.
Commander Thomas White, Victory's chaplain, gave Blair an almost
imperceptible nod.
"We're here to say good-bye to the men and women of the flight wing who
gave their lives in battle yesterday," Blair began slowly. "Nine pilots were
killed fighting the Kilrathi, dedicated warriors whose places will be as
difficult to fill in our hearts as they will be to replace on our roster. I
haven't served on this ship very long, and I didn't know any of them all
that well, but I know they died heroes."
He paused for a long time before continuing, fighting back a wave of
emotion. These nine officers would hardly be noticed in comparison to the
population of the colony on Locanda IV, but their deaths were much more
immediate and vivid to Blair. They died trying to carry out his orders in a
failed mission, and as wing commander he carried the full burden of
responsibility for their deaths Ч and for the colonists they were unable to
protect Ч squarely on his own inadequate shoulders.
"I wish I knew the right words to say about each and every one of these
lost comrades," he went on at last. "But the only accolade I can give them
now is this: each of them died serving in the best traditions of the
Service, and they will be sorely missed."
He stepped back from the podium and gave a signal. Behind him, the
first of nine sealed coffins rolled forward. Only one of them actually held
a body, since Captain Marina Ulyanova was the only pilot who managed to
eject before her ship was destroyed during the fighting around the Kilrathi
flagship. She died from her wounds a few hours later. The other coffins were
empty except for plaques identifying the pilots they commemorated.
"Present . . . ARMS!" the Confed Marine commanding the seven-man honor
guard barked. The first coffin stopped moving for a moment, ready for
launch.
From his place in line, Hobbes looked up and spoke in slow, measured
tones. "Lieutenant Helmut Jaeger," he said.
Up in Flight Control a technician activated the launch sequence. The
coffin hurtled into space on fiery boosters, and the second one rolled in to
replace it.
"Lieutenant Alexander Sanders," Hobbes went on. Beside him Maniac bowed
his head, his lips moving silently. In prayer? Or just saying good-bye?
Blair didn't know.
When the third coffin was in place Amazon Mbuto took over the roll
call. "Captain Marina Ulyanova," she said. Then, "Lieutenant Gustav
Svensson.
The grim muster went on until all nine coffins were ejected. When the
task was completed, the honor guard raised their weapons and fired three
low-power laser pulses through the force field at the end of the hangar
deck, then stepped back, standing at attention. Chaplain White stepped
forward. "We commit these men and women to the empty depths of interstellar
space," he said slowly. "Watch over them, Lord, that they may find peace who
died in the fires of war. In the name of Jesus . . . Amen."
Wing Commander's Office, TCS Victory Locanda System
"You wanted to see me, Colonel?"
Blair was hard-pressed to speak. Instead he nodded and gestured toward
the chair near his desk. This was one interview he didn't want to conduct.
Lieutenant Robin Peters sat down. "I guess I know what this is about,"
she said, almost too softly to be heard. "You might have died out there,
chasing after me."
He found his voice. "I might have."
"The captain ordered you . . ."
"No." Blair shook his head. "It was my call to make."
"Well . . . I suppose you had your reasons. In your shoes, I would have
stayed put. Let the stupid bitch get what she deserved." She looked away.
"Sorry, Colonel. I've never been very good at saying thanks."
"You're welcome," he told her dryly.
"I want you to understand, sir Ч "
"Understand? There's nothing to understand, Flint. You lost it out
there. Maybe you had good reason. Lord knows what it's like to have your
homeworld . . . infected, like that. All at once, and despite everything we
could do." Blair paused. He didn't want to go on, but he knew he must. Even
though he understood Flint's feelings, he couldn't simply ignore her
actions. "We don't just decide to fly off on a suicide mission because we're
hurting. You have to fly with your head, Flint, not with your heart."
"You've never done that, sir? Flown with your heart?"
He fixed her with a steady stare. "The day you see me do that,
Lieutenant, you can shoot me out of space yourself." A part of him, though,
was well aware that he might have done the same thing himself. No pilot was
an automaton, able to ignore his feelings at will. "We already talked once
about this, Flint. And I told you what would happen if you let your heart
get in the way of your duty. You haven't left me a hell of a lot of
choices."
"I know, sir," she said, dropping her gaze. "I guess I was kind of
hoping you'd let me off easy, let me keep flying. But you can't."
"No, I can't," Blair said, voice level and cold. "We can't afford to
let every pilot pursue some private little war. That's a sure way to let the
Kilrathi win. Until further notice, Lieutenant, your flight status is
suspended. You're grounded."
Now it was Blair who couldn't meet her eyes . Something left them both,
and only the expression of hopelessness and death remained.
"Dismissed," he added, and turned back to his computer terminal. He
waited until she left the office before sagging into his chair, feeling as
though he had just taken on an entire Kilrathi squadron on his own.
Captain's Ready Room, TCS Victory Blackmane System
"Sit down, Colonel. I'll only be a minute."
"Take your time, sir," Blair said, settling wearily into a chair while
Eisen turned his attention back to a computer terminal.
Victory's captain looked even more tired than Blair felt, with the
haggard expression of a man who had gone too many nights without enough
sleep. Everyone had been working overtime in the five days since the battle
off Locanda IV. Yesterday they had jumped from Locanda to the Blackmane
System, leaving behind a world already in the grip of spreading panic and
plague.
Eisen finished whatever he was working on and turned his chair to face
Blair. "Well, Colonel. How's the work going with the flight wing?
"About what you'd expect, sir. The techs have most of the fighters up
and running again. There was some battle damage we couldn't fully repair,
but we're getting back on track. I hope we can get some replacement birds
from Blackmane Base . . . and some pilots to fill the roster out, while
we're at it."
Eisen frowned. "That won't be so easy, but I'll see what I can do."
"Sir?"
"Word just came in. With Locanda Four gone and the whole system
quarantined, HQ's decided to consolidate our resources in this sector. That
means Blackmane Base is being shut down. Everything's shifting to Vespus and
Torgo. Anybody who can herd a boat will be needed to fly ships for the
evacuation. I might be able to snag some fighters. They'll probably be glad
to unload a few from their reserve stocks and save space for other outgoing
cargo."
Blair felt a sinking sensation in his gut. "Evacuate the base? Isn't
that a pretty extreme move? What about the colonists in this system?"
The captain shook his head, frowning. "Doesn't look good. Confed's just
getting stretched too damn thin. If the Kilrathi are going to start using
these bioweapons routinely, we can't mount an effective defense in every
system. So the orders are to concentrate on defending the ones that are
really vital. For the rest . . . I guess they get to rely on the good
old-fashioned cross-your-fingers defense initiative."
"If the Confederation can't protect its own civilian population
anymore, we're in worse shape than I thought," Blair said quietly. "Things
can't go on like this."
Eisen nodded agreement. "According to our resident rumor mill, Rollins,
they won't. There's supposed to be some kind of big plan circulating back at
Torgo to end the war once and for all. Tolwyn and Taggart are both supposed
to be involved somehow, and if you believe Rollins and his sources it will
be something pretty damned spectacular."
"Great," Blair said without enthusiasm. "We're stretched to the limit,
and HQ is going to unveil another one of their master plans."
"All we can do is hope it works," Eisen said. He studied Blair from
dark narrowed eyes. "Have you had a medical evaluation lately, Colonel?"
"No, sir. Blair frowned, uncertain at the sudden change in the
direction of the conversation. "Why?"
"You look like hell, for one thing."
"Right back at you, Captain. I don't think there's a man on this boat
who looks too good now . . . except maybe Flash. I've never seen him looking
anything but perfect."
"I'm serious, Blair. We've all been working hard, but I've had reports
on you. You're pulling double shifts every day. You're not eating enough,
and you're certainly not getting enough sleep. You haven't been, since
before the fight at Locanda." Eisen hesitated. "And, frankly, I have to
wonder if it hasn't been screwing up your judgment."
"My combat judgment, you mean," Blair amplified the thought for him.
The captain met his look. "You came on board with a hot reputation,
Colonel. And I'd stack your wing up against any in the Fleet. But it wasn't
enough to turn the cats back at Locanda Four. There are some people who
claim you had just . . . come back from your medical leave a little too
early, that your judgment was impaired and the mission suffered as a
consequence."
"Captain, I never claimed the reputation everyone insists hanging on
me,'' Blair said slowly. He was angry not just at Eisen's words, but at the
fact that deep down he had been trying not to think the same things himself.
"Fact is, we were just plain outmatched. There were too damn many of them,
and yet we still came within a few minutes of nailing the bastards. If it
hadn't been for those damned Strakha . . ." He took a breath. "My people did
everything humanly possible, and I think I did as well. But if you want me
to apply for a transfer, let someone better qualified take over Ч "
Eisen held up a hand "I wasn't suggesting any such thing, Colonel. All
I'm saying is that you're human, too, just like the rest of us. And if you
drive yourself too hard, something's going to give eventually. Find some
balance, man . . . before you really do screw up a mission."
"It's easier said than done, sir," Blair said. "You should know it, if
anyone does. You have to hold this old rustbucket together, come what may."
"Oh, I understand what you're going through, all right," the captain
told him. "More than you might imagine. There've been a few ops I've been on
where I didn't live up to the reputation I'd racked up, and then I'd work
twice as hard trying to recapture what I thought I'd lost. Usually I only
got half as much done in the process. Take my advice, Blair. Don't dwell on
the past too much. Even if you've made mistakes, don't let them become more
important than the here and now. And don't take out your frustrations on
other people. Like Lieutenant Peters, for instance."
Blair looked at him. "Are you overriding me on Flint, sir? Putting her
back on flight status?"
The captain shook his head. "I don't get involved in flight wing
assignments unless I have to. You grounded her. You'll have to be the one to
decide to reinstate her." He paused. "But I should tell you. She applied
this morning for a transfer to Blackmane Base. She needs to fly again, one
way or another. I turned her down. With the base shutting down, nobody needs
the complications a transfer would involve. But something'll have to be done
on that front sooner or later, Colonel. She's a pilot, and a damn good one .
. . when her head is screwed on straight. Weren't you the one griping about
wasting good pilots, back when you found Hobbes off the roster?"
"Hobbes never pulled a stunt like Flint's, sir," Blair shot back. "And
he's from a race that raised the vendetta to an art form."
Eisen nodded reluctantly. "As long as you're aware, Colonel. I agree
she needs to get her act together. But too much time on the sidelines could
ruin her."
"I know, Captain. I know."
Blair left the ready room more uncertain than ever.
Wing Commander's Quarters, TCS Victory Blackmane System
Vespus . . . he was back on Vespus again, and Angel was with him. They
walked hand in hand along the top of a bluff overlooking the glittering sea,
with a light breeze blowing off the water to stir her auburn hair.
Blair knew it was a dream, but the knowledge didn't change the
intensity of the illusion. He was really with her, on Vespus, the week
they'd taken leave together. It was a time when neither of them had imagined
ever being apart again.
The view from the clifftop was beautiful: the setting sun, one of the
three great moons hanging low above the horizon, sea and sky red with the
gathering twilight. But Blair turned away from the spectacular vista to look
into Angel's eyes, to drink in her beauty. They kissed, and in the dream
that kiss seemed to last for an eternity.
Now they were sitting side by side, lost in each other, oblivious to
their surroundings. Another kiss, and a long, lingering embrace. Their hands
explored each other's bodies eagerly as passion stirred.
"Is this forever, mon ami?" Angel asked, looking deep into his eyes,
almost into his soul.
"Forever's not long enough," he told her. They came together . . .
The dream changed. Vespus again, where sea and shore came together, but
stark, bleak, with storm clouds gathering on the horizon. Blair stood with
General Taggart, this time, looking down at the broken spine of the hulk
that been Concordia. He stirred, but he couldn't awaken, couldn't recapture
the other dream . . .
Now he stood on the flight deck, near the podium, as a line of coffins
rolled past. The general was with him again, reading out the names of the
dead in deep, sonorous tones. "Colonel Jeannette Devereaux . . ."
Blair snapped awake, stifling a cry. His hands groped on his bedside
table until they wrapped around the holocube she had sent him. For a moment
he fumbled with it, and then her image appeared, lips moving soundlessly
with the volume turned down.
He stared at the ghostly figure and tried to control his breathing.
Blair was never a superstitious man, but the nightmare was like an omen, a
vision. Angel was gone, and he was afraid that he would never get her back.
Flight Wing Rec Room. TCS Victory Blackmane System
Another evening, another day of seemingly endless work. Blair was
looking forward to a tall glass and a chance to unwind, and although he
wasn't eager for company, the rec room was preferable to his quarters. He
spent too many nights lately staring at those four walls, awakened from
sleep by the recurring nightmare. At least Angel couldn't haunt him here.
There was a cluster of officers at the bar, Lieutenant Rollins right in
the middle. They were grouped around a newspad, watching the latest Terran
News Channel update just beamed in from Blackmane. Barbara Miles, perfect as
ever, looked out of the screen with an expression of mingled concern and
reassurance as she spoke.
"Despite denials from official Confederation channels, TNC now has
independent confirmation that the Locanda star system has been placed under
absolute quarantine in the wake of an outbreak of a virulent plague said to
be the result of a Kilrathi biological weapons attack. There are unconfirmed
rumors that this is not the first time such weapons have been used against
human colonies. It is now generally believed that the colony on Locanda Four
has already suffered heavy losses, and may be all but wiped out as the
disease runs its course."
She paused significantly. "In other news from the front, TNC has
learned that a strategic withdrawal of Confed forces is underway in several
outlying sectors. While government and military spokesmen officially deny
any such actions, unofficially several sources have suggested that these
withdrawals have been ordered as a means of consolidating the front lines by
surrendering unimportant territory in the hope that the Kilrathi will spread
themselves too thin and thus be exposed to a significant counterstroke. But
independent military analysts retained by TNC have labeled this suggestion
as spurious, and believe the Сconsolidation' is merely an improvised
response to the advances of the enemy.
"This is Barbara Miles reporting, with another TNC Infoburst . . ."
"Shut it off, Radio," a lieutenant Blair recognized as one of the
carrier's shuttle pilots growled. "Always the same old line from those cat
symps."
Rollins blanked the screen. "Hey, Trent, where've you been? We were at
Locanda . . . and they're breaking down Blackmane Base right now. I hear
tell there's been talk of sending a peace envoy to Kilrah . . . that we're
as good as ready to surrender. So how can you keep buying the fantasy that
we're actually winning this war?"
"What I want to know, Rollins," Blair said, placing a hand on the
lieutenant's shoulder, "is why you're so all-fired eager to tell us how bad
everything's going?"
"Ah, c'mon, Colonel," Rollins said. "You'd have to be blind to miss the
facts. Things are bad . . . and they're getting worse. Fact: we haven't had
a real shore leave in months. Fact: they keep shuttling this old bucket
around from one trouble spot to another, as if one battered carrier and one
fighter wing was all they could spare to cover half the sector. Fact: we've
been on one defensive op after another, and we always seem to end up pulling
back when it's over. Seems pretty damned clear to me, Colonel. This war's
winding down, all right. But we're not on the winning side."
Blair looked from Rollins to the others grouped around him. Most of
them were nodding their heads in agreement, though a few, like Lieutenant
Trent, were frowning at his words. "You want facts, Lieutenant?" I'll give
you a few to chew on. Fact: the grunts on the front lines, even the ones
with lots of well-placed sources. never see the whole picture in a war. Fact
the fastest way to lose a war is to allow morale to be sapped by half-assed
young officers with big ears, bigger mouths, and no common sense at all. And
fact: I know a communications officer with too much time on his hands who is
letting his love for gossip jeopardize the morale of this ship."
"With all due respect, sir, I'm entitled to my opinion," Rollins said
stubbornly.
"Indeed you are. But if I hear any more of this defeatist talk, you'll
be reassigned to Waste Recycling, where your crap belongs. Get my drift?"
"Telling him to shut up won't make the truth go away, sir," one of the
others spoke up.
"If it is the truth, wailing about it isn't going to change a damned
thing," Blair said. "We'll just have to play the cards we're dealt. But like
I said, the grunts at the front hardly ever know what's really happening.
Hell, maybe it's worse than old Gloom and Doom here thinks. But maybe it's a
lot better. Point is, if we decide everything's lost anyway, and give up, we
might end up letting down some folks who need us to turn things around." He
paused. "I'm not telling anyone what to think. Or even saying you can't
shoot the bull over a few drinks. But spreading the worst possible rumors Ч
that's crossing the line. I've heard my share of rumors that were a lot less
nasty, and I'm sure Rollins here has heard them too. . . but those don't get
much play, because they're not spicy enough."
Rollins gave him a long look, then shrugged. "Maybe you're right, sir,"
he said. "Maybe I do like to shoot my mouth off.
"Well, as of now, consider the safety on." Blair forced a smile.
"Anyway, aren't there better things to talk about than this damned war? The
girl you left behind . . . or the shore leave you'll never live down?" He
turned to the bartender. "Rosty . . . a round on my account. But only to the
ones who have something pleasant to talk about, okay?"
That boosted some spirits, and the others were laughing and chattering
happily as Blair moved to an empty table by the viewport. He sat there
staring into the darkness.
He could have been quoting from a manual on keeping up morale when he'd
spoken to them. The trouble was he didn't believe a word of it himself.
Captain's Ready Room, TCS Victory Blackmane System
Blair paused at the entrance to the captain's ready room, reluctant to
touch the buzzer. Victory was astir with fresh rumors today, speculations
rising from the arrival of a courier ship from Sector HQ at Torgo. No one
knew what word the ship brought to Eisen, but everyone was sure it heralded
a change of orders, perhaps fresh action. Blair wasn't looking forward to
learning what was in store for them now. He didn't feel ready to go back
into action again so soon, not with the failure at Locanda still hanging
over him. It wasn't something he could admit to anyone, either, not without
requesting a transfer to some rear-echelon outfit, off the firing line.
As tempting as that idea might be, Christopher Blair refused to give in
to it. There was no way he could let others fight the war while he sought
safety. He owed it to all his comrades who had stayed and fought.
With an effort of will, he forced himself to compose his features and
hit the buzzer.
"Enter," Eisen's voice came, and the door slid open.
"Reporting as ordered, sir," Blair said.
"Ah, Colonel, good." Eisen stood up, and the officer in crisp whites
opposite him did likewise. "This is Major Kevin Tolwyn, from sector HQ."
"Hey, Lone Wolf," Blair said, genuinely pleased to see the younger man.
He advanced to clasp Tolwyn's hand, smiling broadly. "Its been a long time,
kid."
"Another old acquaintance, Colonel?" Eisen asked.
"Yes, sir," Blair responded. "We served together on the Tarawa a few
years back." He looked Tolwyn over. Short, baby-faced, the nephew of Admiral
Geoff Tolwyn didn't look old enough to shave, much less to be a Confed
officer. "Major, now, is it? That's a pretty good bump. You were only
Lieutenant Tolwyn last time I heard . . ."
Tolwyn blushed. "Brevet rank, Colonel. I made Flight Captain after the
Battle of Terra, the brevet came through after I got wounded during the
mop-up after Vespus." He hesitated. "I guess one fighter too many cooked off
underneath me and my uncle pulled me into a staff job for awhile, he said
I'd already cashed all my lucky chips in and he wasn't going to take a
chance on next time."
"Staff slot, huh. I'm sorry to hear it. You should be on the flight
line, kid, where you belong."
"Don't I know it," Tolwyn said. "But . . . I didn't have any say in the
matter. The admiral wouldn't take no for an answer, and here I am."
Blair nodded in understanding. He'd heard stories of Admiral Tolwyn's
open displays of emotion, first when he had feared Kevin missing or dead,
then later when the younger man was recovered and returned to the fleet.
Maybe the staff job was a real effort to keep Kevin Tolwyn out of harm's
way. He was, after all, the admiral's closest surviving kin and had done
more than his share of fighting while serving on the Tarawa. The Medal of
Honor on his chest was more than enough proof of that.
"If I can interrupt the reunion, Colonel, I think we'd better get down
to business." Eisen gestured to the chairs by his desk. As they sat down, he
continued. "Major Tolwyn brings us fresh orders from HQ. It looks like the
war's heating up, at least as far as we're concerned. Major?"
"The attack on Locanda Four was a real wake-up call," Tolwyn said. "We
knew the cats were working on a number of strategic weapons projects, but we
didn't expect them to bring them into play as long as their fleet was still
able to hold its own. It s against everything in the Kilrathi philosophy to
resort to this kind of blatant genocide. They're supposed to like their
fights up close and personal, and this is a complete departure from
everything we thought we knew about them."
"Do we have any evidence they're going to use bioweapons elsewhere?"
Blair asked. "Or was this some kind of . . . special case?
"We don't know," Tolwyn said. "And that has the High Command doing some