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 —" 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."

CHAPTER VIII

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 them 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 — 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 — simple and straightforward — was all that remained for him.

CHAPTER IX

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 one of them was dedicated to Davie's memory, so he'd have a proper escort of cats to join him in the afterlife. They said . . . they said he died trying to nail number twenty-two, which would have matched Davie's age, but Dad didn't make it." Her voice was flat, level, but Blair could see a hint of tears in her eyes. "I've made eighteen kills since I left the Academy. Four more for Davie, and then I start racking them up for Dad. Maybe I won't score fifty-seven for him, but I'm damned well going to try."
   Blair didn't say anything for a long time. He wasn't sure what bothered him most, the woman s preoccupation with vengeance or the cold, matter-of-fact way she talked about it. It was almost as if she was so wrapped up in her quest that she had lost touch with the emotions that set her on the path in the first place.
   Finally he changed the subject, gesturing toward the viewport. "Which one was home?"
   She pointed to a distant gleam of blue-green, barely showing a disk. "Locanda Four. The main colony world." She paused. "It's a pretty world . . . or it was. Dark purple nights, with bright moons that chased each other across the sky. The insects would sing . . . different serenades, depending on the closeness of the moons. Davie and I would sit up late together, just listening . . ."
   "I could try to get you some planet leave, while we're here," Blair offered. "You must have some family left? Or friends, at least?"
   "Just my uncle's family," she said. "I haven't been in touch with any of them for years." Flint hesitated, still staring at the distant point of light that had been her home. "No, thanks, Colonel. I appreciate the offer, I really do, but I've got too much I need to do here with the rest of the wing. I can't be on the sidelines if the cats are really planning a fight. Not here of all places. I need to be a part of whatever comes down."