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.
"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!"
"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 them down to the deck I'm going after Flint."
"My friend, you cannot go alone —" 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 —" 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.
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.
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.
CHAPTER XV
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 — and for the colonists they were unable to protect — 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."
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 —"
"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.
"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 —"
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.
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.
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 'consolidation' 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 — 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.
CHAPTER XVI
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 serious nail-biting, let me tell you. All we know is that the cats have escalated the war, and if we don't match the ante we might as well just fold now."
"Match the ante . . . how?" Blair asked.
"The Confederation's been working on its share of doomsday weapons, too," Tolwyn told them. "The Battle of Terra scared the hell out of all of us. The big Kilrathi offensive caught everyone off guard. I don't think I need to tell you that we're on the ropes. One more attack like that and the game's over. Remember, they managed to drop over twenty standard warheads on Earth in the last attack. If only one of them had been a bio the homeworld would be a lifeless desert today. There's no way around it, this one's to the death and we have a couple of counter punches almost ready to go."
Blair said nothing. The idea of matching the Kilrathi atrocity at Locanda with a Terran retaliation against civilians appalled him, but he tried to keep his reaction from showing in his voice or expression.
Tolwyn fixed Blair with his gaze. "One of the projects is being pushed by General Taggart and the folks at Covert Ops, and the other's my uncle's pet project. That's why he got pulled from Concordia just before it went down."
Eisen cleared his throat. "If you don't mind, Major, I'd appreciate it if you'd stick to the briefing."
"Sorry, sir," Tolwyn said. "Both projects actually stem from the same basic research. It seems some of our survey work off Kilrah during Tarawa's little end run raid there a few years back has yielded some unexpected results. Kilrah is much less stable, in planetological terms, than Terra. Subject to seismic problems, quakes, volcanoes, the whole bit. Apparently there are some severe tidal stresses at work on Kilrah that render the planet extremely vulnerable to widescale seismic activity." He paused. "Given a big enough shaking, Kilrah would literally come apart.
"And HQ has a weapon that could do it?"
"More than one, Colonel. I've not been briefed on the Covert Ops project, except for generalities. But Project Behemoth, my uncle's preference, uses high-intensity energy beams on a massive scale to trigger seismic shocks. Aimed and fired properly, the Behemoth weapon could trigger the destruction of Kilrah."
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
"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 them down to the deck I'm going after Flint."
"My friend, you cannot go alone —" 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 —" 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.
CHAPTER XV
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 — and for the colonists they were unable to protect — 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 —"
"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 —"
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 'consolidation' 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 — 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.
CHAPTER XVI
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 serious nail-biting, let me tell you. All we know is that the cats have escalated the war, and if we don't match the ante we might as well just fold now."
"Match the ante . . . how?" Blair asked.
"The Confederation's been working on its share of doomsday weapons, too," Tolwyn told them. "The Battle of Terra scared the hell out of all of us. The big Kilrathi offensive caught everyone off guard. I don't think I need to tell you that we're on the ropes. One more attack like that and the game's over. Remember, they managed to drop over twenty standard warheads on Earth in the last attack. If only one of them had been a bio the homeworld would be a lifeless desert today. There's no way around it, this one's to the death and we have a couple of counter punches almost ready to go."
Blair said nothing. The idea of matching the Kilrathi atrocity at Locanda with a Terran retaliation against civilians appalled him, but he tried to keep his reaction from showing in his voice or expression.
Tolwyn fixed Blair with his gaze. "One of the projects is being pushed by General Taggart and the folks at Covert Ops, and the other's my uncle's pet project. That's why he got pulled from Concordia just before it went down."
Eisen cleared his throat. "If you don't mind, Major, I'd appreciate it if you'd stick to the briefing."
"Sorry, sir," Tolwyn said. "Both projects actually stem from the same basic research. It seems some of our survey work off Kilrah during Tarawa's little end run raid there a few years back has yielded some unexpected results. Kilrah is much less stable, in planetological terms, than Terra. Subject to seismic problems, quakes, volcanoes, the whole bit. Apparently there are some severe tidal stresses at work on Kilrah that render the planet extremely vulnerable to widescale seismic activity." He paused. "Given a big enough shaking, Kilrah would literally come apart.
"And HQ has a weapon that could do it?"
"More than one, Colonel. I've not been briefed on the Covert Ops project, except for generalities. But Project Behemoth, my uncle's preference, uses high-intensity energy beams on a massive scale to trigger seismic shocks. Aimed and fired properly, the Behemoth weapon could trigger the destruction of Kilrah."