Prince Thrakhath stood before the throne with head lowered.
"You failed me, grandson."
The Prince remained silent.
"When your new fleet left for Terra you promised that the war was at an
end, that the humans would be finished. Now you return, half your fleet
destroyed, a fleet that strained our resources to the utmost to build. Our
coffers are empty, grandson . . . ." The Emperor paused
"Empty!" His voice thundered in the audience hall.
Thrakhath looked back up.
"What now?" the Emperor roared. "Wait another half of eight years to
build more carriers? And how will they be crewed? Too many firstborn sons of
the nobles rode to their deaths aboard your fleet."
"They died gloriously for the Empire," Thrakhath replied calmly. "Their
names shall be enshrined in the temples of their ancestors."
"Do you really expect them to believe that any more?" the Emperor
gasped. "I am talking about our survival. After your defeat before Terra two
assassination plots against me were barely thwarted. The other clans are
poised on the edge of open rebellion."
Thrakhath looked at his grandfather in open amazement.
The Emperor nodded slowly.
"And if they had succeeded I daresay you would already be dead now as
well."
The old warrior sighed and fell back into his chair.
"I want the new weapon unleashed," the Emperor finally said.
Thrakhath growled angrily. "That has never been our way. It is without
the joy of the kill."
"I know, I know. But this war has changed beyond all our understanding,
thanks to these humans. Let me make this plain to you. We can not sustain
this war another yeer. It is not the humans. No, I believe the reports that
they are crippled as well. We are two fighters who have battered each other
into exhaustion. It will take but one more blow to finish them. The real
threat now is what we fear lurks beyond our distant borders on the other
side of the Empire."
"They are stirring?"
The Emperor nodded. "New reports came in while you were gone. They are
still years, perhaps eights of years away, but they are coming in our
direction again. When they arrive we must be ready, our other borders
secured. All our resources must now be marshaled for that threat. For that
reason alone I order that this war with the humans be finished, whether you
like the methods or not. Secondly, and more immediate, is the clans. One
more defeat like the last one and I fear the grasp of our family upon the
imperial throne will be finished."
Thrakhath stood in silent rage at the mere suggestion that those
beneath him could even dare to dream of overthrowing his clan's rightful
claim to rule. The last baron who dreamed of it was now dead, and he had
thought the infection of this alien thinking was gone with him.
"I demand that this new weapon be tested as soon as possible," the
Emperor announced. "The humans are to be exterminated like the vermin that
they are. Honor and the taste of blood are things of the past. Test this
weapon, and if it works you are to kill them all, kill them all without
warning.
The Emperor hesitated and then grinned, his teeth bared. "And once that
is done, if any of the clans dare to resist me, we shall turn this new
weapon on them as well.
CHAPTER ONE
Shuttle Horatio Nelson Torgo System
"ETA for TCS Victory now ten minutes . . . mark." The soft
computer-generated voice in his ear made Colonel Christopher Blair shift
uneasily in his seat. He didn't like being a passenger aboard any small
craft, even a workhorse orbital shuttle like this one. For eighteen years
now Blair had been a fighter pilot in the Terran Confederation Navy, and he
had flown everything in the Navy's arsenal short of a frigate. It was still
difficult to sit back and leave the controls to someone else especially when
his monitor screens functioned intermittently at best. Having a computer
read canned approach announcements just made matters worse. If he had been
in the cockpit with the control stick in his hand, he would have read times
and distances, thrusts and vectors, with the instincts of a combat pilot,
honed in years of almost continuous warfare þ and the ride might even have
been infinitesimally smoother.
Warfare . . . the war between the Kilrathi Empire and the Terran
Confederation started before Christopher Blair was born. For nearly forty
years now, the two sides had hammered away at each other, and the Kilrathi
showed no signs of letting up. Sometimes Blair wondered if he would live to
see the war end. And sometimes he was afraid he would.
With his monitor still not working, he switched his attention to the
tiny newscreen clipped to one arm of his flight couch. Hesitantly, Blair
tapped the green key at the bottom of the device. The logo of the Terran
News Channel filled the screen for a moment before being replaced by a
head-and-shoulder shot of the TNC's best-known anchorwoman, Barbara Miles.
Her attractive features were almost too perfect, and Blair smiled fleetingly
at the memory of a shipboard bull session a few years back where some of his
shipmates claimed that the woman was actually a computer-generated
simulation.
The recording was paused, of course, waiting for Blair to tap in his
choice of news items from a menu in one corner of the screen. He selected
war news, then listened as the anchorwoman summarized recent events in the
struggle against the Kilrathi . . . the ones that had been declassified.
He had heard most of it already from previous TNC newsbriefs or
official channels at the Confed HQ complex on Torgo III. News traveled
slowly across interstellar distances, and the average lifetime of any
particular report was apt to be long, especially from worlds along the more
distant frontiers.
His attention snapped back to the screen as the report passed from news
stories to a more general commentary.
"Despite recent losses in several densely populated sectors,
Confederation spokes-people insist that humanity maintains the upper hand in
its galactic struggle with the Kilrathi. However, our sources document a
consistent under-reporting of Kilrathi incursions, especially against
civilian and industrial bases."
The woman paused, looking directly into the camera, while conveying
thoughtful, serious concern for her viewers. "There are even reports of
Confed plans for a doomsday evacuation' of Earth to replant the seeds of
humanity in a distant part of the galaxy. The question is . . . who would
go? Who would be left behind? And, most importantly, who is making these
decisions?"
Blair cut the newscreen off with a snort of disgust. Leave it to TNC to
come up with that ancient evacuation rumor! That thing had been making the
rounds of ships' wardrooms when Blair was a junior lieutenant. The sheer
logistical nightmare of a wholesale evacuation from human space made the
whole idea laughable. Anyway it was a plain fact that any place mankind
could reach the Kilrathi could follow. There was no place for humanity to
run.
Still, it was certainly true that the heavily-censored news released by
the Confederation was slanted to hide the truth about this war. After forty
years of warfare, that was not new. But Blair was afraid that some of the
top brass were actually starting to believe their own propaganda mills, and
that was a very bad sign indeed.
Admiral Tolwyn, for instance . . . there was a man who badly needed a
reality check.
It was Admiral Geoffrey Tolwyn who had given Blair his new assignment.
A vigorous man in his sixties who spoke in a clipped British accent and
radiated the very essence of spit-and-polish military precision in
everything he said and did, Tolwyn had earned quite a reputation over the
years as the mastermind behind a pair of great Confederation victories, the
raid on Kilrah and the Battle of Terra. But Blair had served under the man
before, and he knew that a lot of the legend was little more than luck and
PR hype.
Still, Tolwyn had been brimming with confidence and determination when
Blair reported to his office. "Things are looking up, Colonel," he had said
with a smile. "The Confederation has been making some very positive strides.
The Kilrathi are on the run at Gardel and Morpheus . . ."
True enough, except that the Terrans had lost three systems to new
Kilrathi offensives at the same time, and in much more strategically vital
sectors. And, of course, there was the loss of the Concordia.
Blair fought back a shudder. He'd been wing commander aboard the
Concordia for three years, until the Battle of Earth. If he hadn't taken
that Kilrathi missile which left him grounded for six long months, Blair
would have been on board when Concordia fought the rearguard action over
Vespus: fought and died. Blair had been part of the survey crew that had
discovered the carrier's broken hull lying half-submerged in the waters off
the Mistral Coast.
Concordia was gone, and so were the men and women who had served with
Blair for so long, through so many battles. More casualties of the war.
Statistics tallied up in news reports or concealed in the falsehoods of a
Confed press release. But those people were more than mere statistics to
Christopher Blair They had been more than comrades, more than friends . . .
a family, united by the strongest possible bonds of shared dangers and
difficult service far from home and loved ones.
Blair closed his eyes, summoning up familiar faces. Iceman . . . Spirit
. . Knight . . . Bossman . . . the list kept growing, year after year.
Shipmates went to the firing line and died, and a fresh crop of kids from
the Academy came in to replace them . . . to die in their turn. Sometimes it
seemed as if the war had lost all point or purpose. Now it was nothing more
than good people giving their lives fighting for some chunk of rock that
wouldn't have deserved a second look before the war.
Christopher Blair was tired: of fighting, of death, and of this endless
war
Fate had spared him while so many others died. Now Blair, certified to
be ready to return to full active duty, had received his new assignment from
Admiral Tolwyn's own hands. Wing commander once again . . . but wing
commander aboard the Victory.
As if reacting to his bitter thoughts, the monitor finally lit up with
an external view from the shuttle's nose camera. Victory rode in free fall
less than half a chick ahead. She was everything Blair expected (which
wasn't much).
She was a light carrier left over from a bygone era, designed nearly
half a century before the beginning of the Kilrathi War. With most of the
newest carriers in the Confederation fleet either lost in action or held in
the Terran Defense Fleet, ships like the old Victory were becoming more
common on the front lines. Perhaps, Blair reflected, that was why the
Kilrathi seemed to have the edge these days.
Even over this distance, it was plain she had seen better days. There
were burn marks down one side of her hull, and deeper scars in her
superstructure where battle damage had been crudely patched.
One thing was certain . . . she was no Concordia.
The monitor flickered off again. This shuttle was part of Victory's
complement of small craft, and it was clear that non-essential systems were
getting short shrift when maintenance schedules were being drawn up. The
interior of the vessel was distinctly shabby, with faded paint, fraying
flight couches, and missing access plates which revealed jury-rigged repair
work. It suggested the low standards in play aboard Victory, but Blair
planned to see things change once he took charge of the flight wing. Perhaps
the crew of the battered old carrier did not care enough to do more than go
through the motions, but if Blair had his way, that attitude would soon
change.
"Preparing for final docking approach," the computer voice announced
quietly.
An outdated ship and a crew that apparently didn't give a damn any
more. If Concordia hadn't been able to stand against the Kilrathi, how could
Victory be expected to even put up a fight?
Blair had to ask himself, as the shuttle slowly maneuvered in toward
the carriers flight deck, what this assignment really meant. Did Tolwyn
expect him to knock the ship and crew into some kind of battle-ready shape?
Or did the High Command consider that Blair and Victory deserved each other,
two old warhorses who had outlived their usefulness put out to pasture?
Flight Deck, TCS Victory Torgo System
The boarding ramp made a grinding noise as it swung down to touch the
deck. Blair winced at the sound. His first view of the interior of his new
home made him wince again. It was even shabbier than he had imagined. There
was a distinct smell in the air; an odor of sweat, lubricants, burned
insulation, and other unidentified unpleasant scents. Apparently, the air
circulation systems were not capable of keeping the atmosphere fresh and
clean.
He slung his flight bag over his shoulder and started slowly down the
ramp. Crewmen were drawn up in ranks in the huge open hangar area, most of
them dressed in utility fatigues which had seen better days, Blair glanced
at the end of the hangar where open space was visible beyond the faint glow
of the force fields which kept the deck pressurized. He found himself hoping
that they, at least, were maintained better than the rest of the ship. He
pushed the thought away, trying to keep his feelings hidden from the crew.
A knot of senior officers awaited him at the foot of the ramp,
dominated by a broad-shouldered black man with graying hair and the four
stripes of a Line Captain prominently displayed on his sleeve. He didn't
give Blair time to study his surroundings further, but stepped forward to
meet him.
"Colonel Blair?" he said, smiling. "I'm William Eisen. Welcome aboard
the Victory."
Blair snapped off a quick salute which Eisen returned gravely.
Theoretically, they were of equal rank þ a Colonel in the Confederation
Space Force and a Captain of the Line þ but aboard any ship in space, the
commanding officer, regardless of rank, was always the senior officer (even
if he was a mere lieutenant entertaining a visitor of higher rank).
The captain ended the salute by extending his hand. He had a firm grip
that matched his proud bearing and an aura of quiet authority. "Allow me to
present some of my senior officers, Colonel. This is Commander Ralgha nar
Hhallas þ "
"Hobbes!" Blair exclaimed, as Eisen moved aside to give Blair a clear
view of the officers. Ralgha nar Hhallas would have stood out in any human
crowd, for he was a Kilrathi nobleman. Tall and bulky, he was humanoid in
form but distinctly alien in feature, with a head too large and flat for a
man. His body and face were covered with thick fur, and his eyes, ears, and
fangs gave him a distinctly cat-like appearance. The Kilrathi were not cats,
of course, but they had sprung from carnivore hunter stock with many feline
traits, and their ways of thinking were even more alien to humankind than
those of Earthly cats.
Blair could hardly believe that more than ten years had passed since
Lord Ralgha, a ship captain of the Imperial Kilrathi fleet, defected to the
Terran Confederation. TCS Tiger's Claw was in the squadron which helped him
carry out his defection, and Blair (a junior lieutenant) had worn polish
still fresh on his flight wings. Ralgha moved from supplying information to
Terran Intelligence to serving in the Space Force, and he had remained in
Blair's squadron for a time before new assignments took them down separate
paths.
Many officers were reluctant to fly with a Kilrathi wingman, but Blair
always found Ralgha cheerful, competent, and capable: a fine pilot and an
excellent comrade. He was the one to bestow the nickname "Hobbes" on the
renegade Kilrathi after encountering the name in an ancient piece of Terran
folk art in a fellow pilots collection.
"You know the Commander, then?" Eisen asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Not with that rank," Blair said "Hobbes here is one of the best pilots
who ever flew with the Flight Corps. What are you doing wearing that Line
outfit? Getting too old to squeeze into a cockpit?"
Ralgha bowed slightly. "It warms my heart to see you again Colonel," he
said, his voice low and throaty with the odd intonation and slight accent
Blair remembered well. "But I fear now is not the time to swap life
stories."
Blair grinned. "Still the stickler, eh, Hobbes? Well, we'll talk
later."
The Kilrathi bowed again.
Eisen introduced the department heads and senior staff officers. They
were no more than a blur of unfamiliar names and faces to Blair . . . but
still he felt heartened to know that at least one old friend would be with
him on this cruise.
The captain concluded by introducing a fresh-faced young man wearing a
lieutenant's insignia. "And this is Lieutenant Ted Rollins, Communications
Officer."
"And general dogsbody," Rollins grinned. "Sir."
"I've assigned Mr. Rollins to extra duty, as your aide," Eisen
continued, ignoring the lieutenants interjection. "At least until you get
settled in and make staff arrangements of your own. I hope that will be
agreeable with you, Colonel."
Blair nodded. "That will be fine, sir. Thank you."
"The lieutenant will show you to your quarters and help you get the lay
of the land. I would appreciate you joining me in my Ready Room at . . .
shall we say sixteen hundred hours, ships time? That will give you a few
hours to get acclimated."
"Sixteen hundred hours," Blair repeated. He glanced around the hangar
again. Would any length of time be enough to get acclimated to this old
rustbucket of a ship? "I'll be there, sir."
"Very good. Dismissed." As Blair turned away, Eisen spoke again. "We're
glad to have you aboard, Colonel."
Blair wished he could have returned the sentiment, but he knew it would
come out sounding bitter and ironic.
Command Ready Room, TCS Victory Torgo System
"Come in, Colonel. Come in. Have a seat."
Blair glanced around the room, moving from the door to the chair Eisen
gestured toward in front of the captain's desk. He noted that the tasteful
if spartan decor and the well-kept atmosphere produced a startling contrast
to most of what he had observed aboard the Victory.
"So, Colonel, I trust Mr. Rollins has been seeing to your needs." The
Captain stood, crossing to a counter at one end of the room. "Will you have
something to drink? We picked up a load of New Samarkand vodka a few months
back that has a kick like a Gratha's blasters."
"Thank you, sir." Actually, Blair didn't particularly want a drink, but
it was never wise to turn down a commanding officer's hospitality,
especially not on the first day aboard.
Eisen returned with two glasses and handed one to Blair. "A toast,
then, Colonel. To Victory!"
They touched their glasses and Blair took a cautious sip. "Is that the
ship or the concept, sir?" he asked.
"Both," Eisen said, sitting down. Thoughtfully Eisen added, "We're
going to win this war, Colonel, and I think this old ship will play a large
part in it before the shooting's over."
Blair tried to keep his expression neutral. "I hope so, sir."
The captain regarded him with a penetrating look. "I'll admit, Blair,
she's no Concordia . . ."
"Neither is the Concordia . . . any more." This time Blair didn't
bother to hide his feelings.
"It was a terrible loss," Eisen said. "It's never easy to lose so much.
You have my sympathies." He paused, looking into his glass. "Nevertheless,
you're here now, and I expect nothing less than complete dedication and
loyalty from every officer and rating on board this ship."
"You'll have mine, sir," Blair said quietly. "But if I may speak freely
. . . ?"
"Always, Colonel."
"From what I've seen so far, you need a little less dedication and a
lot more maintenance work from this crew."
Eisen leaned forward. "I'll admit she doesn't look like much, Blair,"
he said solemnly. "We're shorthanded in every department, and age and too
damn many battles have taken their toll . The old girl was slated for
retirement over a decade ago, but they put her back on the line instead.
Maybe she doesn't look as good as the big ships you've served on in the
past, but that doesn't mean she's not able to do her job. And it's the crew,
the men and women who work overtime day after day just to keep her up and
running, who are responsible for keeping us on the firing line. That
dedication makes all the difference, Colonel, and even if it doesn't extend
to slapping on a fresh coat of paint or making sure the food dispensers in
the Rec Room have a full stock of chicken soup every day, it still means
something to me."
Blair didn't answer right away. "I . . . take your point, sir," he said
at last. "I'm sorry if I seem to be running down your command . . ."
Eisen smiled easily. "I'm used to it by now, Colonel, believe me. She
doesn't look like much, I'll grant you that. But I was communications
officer on Victory's maiden voyage, my first assignment out of the Academy.
I've been with her many times throughout my career, and I guess I'm just a
little bit protective about the old girl after all."
"I can understand that, sir. You can get . . . attached to a ship, over
time." He was thinking of the old Tiger's Claw . . . and Concordia. "I'll
admit I wasn't looking forward to this assignment when Admiral Tolwyn told
me about it. But I'm feeling much better about it now."
"My pep talk was that good?" Eisen asked with a grin.
"That . . . and finding out you have Ralgha nar Hhallas aboard. He's
one of the best."
"Commander nar Hhallas? Yes, he's a good officer. He'll be my Exec this
trip . . ."
"Sir . . . with all due respect, that's a real waste of talent. Hobbes
is a natural-born fighter pilot. Putting him in a Line slot . . . I think
it's a mistake."
"It was his own request, Colonel. I know his record, but . . ." Eisen
trailed off, then shrugged. "Fact is, no one aboard will fly with a Kilrathi
on his wing."
"Fifteen years of loyal service and a string of combat kills as long as
my arm doesn't count for anything?"
The captain looked away. "Not with these people, Blair. Not after
everything they've been through in this damned war. Anyway, he made the
request for the good of the flight wing."
"Well, I'm in command of the wing now," Blair said. "And I want him
restored to flight status immediately, for the good of the wing." He paused.
"Not that I would try to tell you how to run your ship, of course . . ."
"Why not? Isn't that the accepted role of every wing commander in the
fleet? You guys always felt the Line was nothing but a bunch of glorified
taxi drivers." Eisen's smile faded quickly. "Look, Colonel, your loyalty is
admirable, and I'll willingly transfer him back to flight, but the problem
still remains þ who would have a Kilrathi as a wingman?"
"I'll fly with him," Blair said coldly. "Even if none of the others
will. He's the best damned wingman I ever flew with, and I have a feeling
we're going to need him if we're heading into a combat zone."
"If you say so, Colonel," Eisen said, shrugging again. "But I think
you're asking for trouble. Not that I'd tell you how to run your wing, of
course . . ."
Chapter Two
Wing Commander's Office, TCS Victory Torgo System
Blair's office was small, tucked between the Flight Control Center and
one of the wing's four ready rooms. Aside from a desk with built-in computer
links and a set of monitors, it was sparsely furnished. The only really
noteworthy touch was the wall behind the desk: a single sheet of transplast
revealing a view into the main hangar deck.
As Blair entered, Rollins looked up from one of the desktop monitors.
"Just setting your schedule, Colonel," he said, rising to give Blair the
chair. "So, I take it you got the full pep talk from the Old Man, eh?"
"Something like that," Blair said shortly. Rollins was young and eager
to please, but there was an edge about him that made Blair uncomfortable.
Rollins had a cynical air and a sharp tongue, and apparently felt free to
say whatever he thought. Blair was a skeptic himself and often outspoken,
but it seemed out of place coming from a kid fresh out of training.
"Well, take heart, Colonel. we've still got an ample supply of hot
water to shower away all the bull-shit."
Blair fixed him with a long, penetrating stare. "Captain Eisen seems to
genuinely believe in his ship . . . and in his crew. That's a good attitude
for morale."
"You haven't been monitoring the command traffic the way I have, sir,"
Rollins said. "If the Old Man told the crew half of what he knows, they'd
jump sector in half a nanosec and never come back!"
"Look, Lieutenant, I don't care what kind of paranoid fantasies you
indulge in during your down-time," Blair told him harshly. "But I'd better
not hear you sharing them with the rest of the crew. You read me, Mister?"
"Yes, sir," Rollins replied stiffly. "But I wouldn't just ignore what's
going on out there, Colonel. Maybe it's not just paranoia, you know? If you
change your mind and decide you want the straight dope, you just come to old
Radio Rollins." He paused. "Might save your life someday."
"Yeah . . . and the Kilrathi might all become pacifist vegetarians
overnight, too." Blair looked down at his desk. "I won't need you any more
today, Rollins, so you can get back to your other duties. But on your way
out, would you pass the word that I want to see Ralgha nar Hhallas? And
whoever's my Exec, too, in that order. It's time I got this outfit properly
frightened for the safety and comfort of their butts."
"Aye, aye, sir," Rollins said.
Blair's eyes followed the younger man as he left the office. It seemed
ironic for Blair to be championing the establishment, given his own bitter
feelings about the High Command and the state of the war in general, but he
didn't have much choice. Private doubts were one thing, but doubts spread
throughout the ship by someone in a position to leak classified information
. . . that was an open invitation to disaster. One sour apple like Rollins
could ruin the best of crews.
He put aside his concerns and turned to work; punching up the computer
files on Flight Wing Thirty-Six. They had been assigned to Victory for over
a year now with operations mostly in secondary theaters and rear echelons.
There were four combat squadrons in the wing plus a support squadron which
operated Victory's contingent of shuttles, small boats, and other utility
craft.
Four squadrons . . . forty fighters, interceptors, and fighter-bombers.
Red Squadron flew Arrow-class point-defense fighters designed to fly close
escort for the carrier and other capital ships. Though limited in range and
endurance, they were well-armed for their size. In a close combat situation,
they'd be worth their weight in platinum.
Blue Squadron flew space superiority fighters, Arrow-class
interceptors. These had range, speed, and endurance for long patrol
operations or sustained dogfights, but they were rather light when it came
to arms and armor. Blair had flown Arrows before but never cared much for
them. He liked a heavier ship, one with teeth, but still maneuverable enough
to outfly as well as outfight an enemy.
Heavy fighter-bombers constituted the complement of the Green Squadron.
Using the F/A-76 Longbow-class attack craft, the squadron gave Victory real
striking power for offensive operations. The Longbow had a reputation for
being underpowered and clumsy, but it had a good combat record nonetheless.
Blair never considered himself a bomber pilot and had only flown an F/A-76
in simulations.
The Gold Squadron remained, based on the HF-66 Thunderbolt heavy
fighter. Heavy fighters were used during offense and defense alike, with
enough ordinance capacity to be pressed into service as bombers if the need
arose. They still maintained the firepower and speed to be superb
dogfighters. He was glad to see the Thunderbolts listed in the inventory.
When the wing went into combat, Blair planned to be flying with Gold
Squadron in the cockpit of one of those steady and reliable old fighters. He
would have to reorganize the flight roster accordingly to accommodate Hobbes
and himself . . . .
As if on cue, there was a knock at the door. "Enter," Blair said, and
the computer picked up the order, opening the door. It was Hobbes.
Blair stood and met him halfway with one hand extended to grasp a
large, stubby-fingered paw in a hearty handshake.
"It is good to see you, old friend," Hobbes said. "You are looking fine
and fit. Does this war, then, agree with you so much?"
Blair chuckled. "Yeah, right, about as much as a pair of busted wing
flaps on an atmospheric run." He stepped back, clasping the big Kilrathi
renegade by the shoulders and looking him up and down. "Damn, it's good to
see you, buddy. Nobody told me I'd find you aboard."
"Nor did we ever expect to see the likes of Maverick Blair on the
Victory, my friend," Ralgha responded. "You must admit, it is quite a change
from Concordia and her kind."
"Yeah . . . it is that." Blair said, looking away. "Come on, sit down.
We've got some things to talk about."
"Old times?" the Kilrathi asked, lowering himself carefully into a seat
that had never been built with a Kilrathi's bulk in mind.
"Nope. New ones. I've got good news for you, buddy. You're back on the
flight roster, starting immediately, on the Gold Squadron þ pushing a
Thunderbolt."
Ralgha hesitated. "But I requested þ "
"Yeah, Eisen told me. But just because you ran into a couple of bigots
is no reason to sit on the sidelines now. We need you on the firing line,
Hobbes. I need you. You'll be flying as my wingman, at least until I knock a
few heads together and show these people the error of their ways."
"Colonel . . ." Ralgha trailed off. "There are many brave and noble
pilots on this ship, my friend."
"When my ass is on the line, I want a wingman I can trust. And you're
one of the damned few pilots I do trust, Hobbes. Like I said, I need you out
there."
"Then I shall try not to disappoint you, old friend."
"I haven't had a chance to review the rosters yet," Blair said. "You
rate as a Lieutenant Colonel in the Space Force. Do you know where that puts
you in the chain of command?"
"Now that you are with us, I will be number two," Ralgha answered
solemnly.
"My Exec?"
The Kilrathi nodded gravely, the human gesture seeming out of place. "I
believe that was the principal reason for the opposition to my presence," he
said "Colonel Dulbrunin was the previous wing commander. He was killed in a
battle just before I was transferred aboard, and I believe some of the other
pilots were reluctant to serve with a Kilrathi as their commanding officer.
Perhaps there will be fewer objections with you in command."
"I'll guarantee that much. Anyone with objections will keep them to
themselves or I'll move them to another wing."
"Do not judge them too harshly. This has been a bitter conflict. It is
difficult to avoid hatred between two such different species as yours and
mine, and there are few who can learn to distinguish between allegiance and
race when the differences are so plain to see."
"You're too damned noble, Hobbes. That's the only thing about you I
still can't deal with. I keep expecting you to act like a human being and
have a hidden dark side, but if you've got one it never shows."
"Humans, too, have hidden depths, for good or ill." Ralgha paused. "But
there are better things to discuss than philosophy, such as old friends and
comrades in arms. How is your mate, that fine pilot and comrade, Angel?"
Blair looked away again, his smile fading. He had been trying not to
think about Angel. "I don't know, Hobbes," he said reluctantly. "I haven't
heard from her in months. She's been assigned to some damn covert op, and
even Paladin's keeping quiet about it."
"I . . . am sorry if I have stirred up bad feelings," Ralgha said. "But
you know as well as I do that Angel can take care of herself. She will
return to you in time, if the War God so wills it."
"Yeah." Blair nodded, but the sinking feeling in his stomach would not
go away. Jeannette Devereaux (callsign Angel) began with Blair aboard the
old Tiger's Claw, first as a fellow pilot, then a friend, and then . . .
more, much more. But when Blair was offered the wing commander's slot aboard
the Concordia, Angel transferred to Brigadier General James Taggart's Covert
Operations Division. Blair never understood or accepted the decision,
prompted so she said, by her regard for Taggart (who had flown with them on
the Tiger's Claw under the running name of Paladin). Covert Ops seemed such
a complete departure for Angel, who was usually so cool and rational, so
completely dedicated to the science rather than the emotions of warfare.
But she joined Taggart's outfit, and though Blair continued to see her
(when possible), they had drifted apart. Finally, just after the Battle of
Earth and Blair's long confinement in the military hospital, she simply
vanished. Paladin admitted she was on a mission when Blair confronted him,
but nothing more. Covert Ops drew the most difficult and dangerous
assignments in the Confed fleet. By now, she might well be dead . . . .
Blair forced himself to put aside that bitter thought. "Look, Hobbes,"
he said slowly, "I don't want to cut this short. I'd like nothing better
than to grab a couple of jugs of booze in the Rec Room and toast the old
days with you, but I've got a pile of stuff to wade through before I can
declare it quitting time."
"I understand, my friend," Ralgha said, rising slowly. He gave Blair a
slight bow, the Kilrathi gesture of respect. "When the Captain makes my
transfer official, perhaps I can take up some of the burden as your Exec."
"Tomorrow will do fine, Hobbes. And . . . thanks."
The Kilrathi pilot had not even reached the door when there was another
knock. Ralgha ushered in the newcomer as he left, leaving Blair face-to-face
with a familiar figure, another reminder of missions past.
The man had changed little over the years. He was a little heavier than
Blair remembered him, and there was a touch of gray in his dark hair. But he
still had the same air of brooding intensity and fire in his eyes.
"Maniac Marshall," Blair said slowly. "So you managed to stay alive
somehow. Who'd have guessed it?"
"Colonel Blair." Major Todd Marshall looked anything but glad to see
him, and the feeling was entirely mutual. Marshall was another of the old
Tigers Claw hands. In fact, he and Blair had a history together. As
classmates in the Academy, they had been rivals in everything from the
flight competitions in their final year as midshipmen to gaining the
attentions of a particular young lady.
Marshall earned his running name in the Academy from his slapdash,
hell-for-leather flying style. Always volatile and eager for glory, Maniac
never fit in quite as well as Blair. He barely squeaked through graduation
whereas Blair earned honors. While aboard Tiger's Claw, Marshall proved an
unpopular wingman who was considered unreliable, even dangerous, by the rest
of his squadron. He blamed Blair from the start for always managing to come
out ahead in kills, awards, and promotions. Blair had been delighted when
the two were posted in different ships after their tour aboard Tiger's Claw.
Now Marshall was a major, and Blair was a colonel and the high command
or some vengeful god of fate had thrown them together again.
"It's been a long time, Major." Blair didn't bother to stand, but
gestured toward the chair Hobbes had vacated. "Sit down and tell me what I
can do for you."
"Radio Rollins said you wanted to see your Exec," Marshall said as he
took the chair. He smiled, but the expression held no warmth at all. "I
guess that's me."
"That was you," Blair said bluntly. "But I've just asked the Captain to
restore Hobbes to flight status, and he outranks you, I'm afraid. He'll be
Exec and double as CO of Gold Squadron."
Marshall's face fell. "That damned kitty . . ." He stopped as he caught
the look on Blair's face. "All right, all right. Can't go around maligning a
fellow officer, and all that, right? But I never could understand what you
saw in that cat, and that's the plain and simple truth."
"That's simple enough. He's a wingman I can trust."
Maniac gave a derisive snort. "Trust someone who'll kill his own kind?
There's a great piece of command wisdom for you."
"At least I've never known Hobbes to break formation on me the way you
did at Gimle. I need to know that I can count on a wingman to back me up,
and not go hunting for glory, then yell for help when he gets in too deep .
. ." Blair shrugged. He had gone over this same speech with Maniac time and
again, but it had never done any good. He didn't imagine the man was going
to change now. "When it comes right down to it, Major, I can choose whoever
I want as my wingman. That's one of the privileges of rank, you know."
"Yeah," Marshall said, his tone hollow, bitter. "Yeah, those gold
tracers on your collar look real sharp, Colonel Blair, sir. Bet you have to
stay up pretty late at night to keep óem polished so pretty.
"No, I don't," Blair said coldly. "I assign majors to do it for me."
"The difference in our rank, sir, is just a formality," Marshall said,
standing up. "We both know who's the better man in the cockpit."
"That's right. We both do. And that's what has been eating at you ever
since the Academy, isn't it, Major?"
Maniac's look was one of pure hatred. "Will there be anything else . .
. sir? Or may I be dismissed?"
"That's all,' Blair said, turning away to look through the window into
the hangar. He waited until the door slid shut behind Marshall, then he
wearily sat down.
Blair leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, trying to calm
himself after the angry confrontation. He had wanted to sit down with the
wing XO to get an idea of the unit's strengths and weaknesses in equipment
personnel, and experience. But seeing Marshall after so many years had
driven it all out of his mind, and he had let his personal feelings overcome
his judgment. Maniac always had a talent for bringing out the worst in him.
Blair turned back to his desktop computer and called up the wing's
personnel files on his screen. He picked Marshall's records first. Studying
them, he began to understand the man's belligerence a little better.
He'd been the Exec under Colonel Dulbrunin with enough seniority to
hope for a promotion to lieutenant colonel and to become Victory's wing
commander. No doubt the arrival of Hobbes had been a blow. Blair was sure
now that Marshall was behind the ill feelings toward the Kilrathi renegade,
since Hobbes had snatched his chance at commanding the wing.
Then Hobbes bowed out, and Blair arrived aboard to dash Marshall's
hopes again. No wonder the man was feeling bitter . . . .
Another detail caught his eye. Marshall was also the CO of Gold
Squadron. Blair had decided to have Hobbes take over that command, too. It
was one more blow to Maniac's fragile ego.
He could reconsider the decision, of course, and let Marshall keep his
squadron. But if Hobbes was going to be Blair's wingman, the two of them
would have to fly with the same squadron, and Blair still felt more
comfortable sticking with the heavy fighters in Gold Squadron. Should he
reshuffle the roster to put Marshall in command of another squadron? Maniac
certainly had the seniority, even if Blair doubted he had the temperament
for squadron command.
But which squadron could Maniac handle best? He was not suited to
command bombers, and point defense work required a leader who could
subordinate himself totally to the needs of the fleet. Marshall would
probably be happiest in command of the interceptors of Blue Squadron, but
Blair shuddered at the thought of putting Victory's crucial long-range
strike fighters in Maniac's hands. Patrol duties would take Blue Squadron
out of reach of higher authority, and it needed a man with a good head on
his shoulders who knew when to fight when to break away, and when to get
word of a distant contact with the enemy back to the carrier. No, Major
Marshall wasn't really suitable for any other squadrons. Colonel Dulbrunin
probably made the same decision when making his original assignments. The
kind of utility combat work which heavy fighters drew was the sort of
operation Maniac was least likely to knock off course if he lost his head in
a fight.
Well, that meant he would have to stay where he was, at least until
Blair could see if age and experience had mellowed Maniac, at least in the
cockpit if not in his dealings with others. The man would just have to
accept flying under Blair and Hobbes.
But Blair knew it would make a tough job much more difficult for all of
them.
Flight Wing Officer's Quarters, TCS Victory Torgo System
Blair was studying his predecessor's logs on the monitor above his bunk
when he heard a knock. "Enter," he said sitting up as the door opened to
reveal Lieutenant Rollins.
"Sorry to bother you so late, Colonel," Rollins said, "but we're
boosting to the jump point, and the Comm Shack's been buzzing with
last-minute incoming traffic all evening. I just got off shift."
"We've got orders, then?"
Rollins nodded. "Orsini System. It's been pretty quiet up ótil now, but
the scuttlebutt has it the cats have been moving in lately. Guess we're
supposed to make óem feel safe or something."
"Mmph." Blair stood up. "Okay, so we're jumping and you've been busy.
Is there something you needed from me, Lieutenant?"
"I . . . wanted to make sure you got this. It came in with some of the
other message traffic. Rerouted from Confed HQ, for you." He handed Blair a
holo cassette. "Er . . . here it is, sir."
"You don't have to act so apologetic, man," Blair said realizing the
cause of his embarrassed manner. "Comm officers see a lot of personal
messages. I'm not going to bite off your head for reading my mail,
Lieutenant."
"Er . . . yes, sir. Thanks." Rollins left, still looking flustered.
Blair set the cassette on the small table beside the bunk and touched
the message stud. Letters formed in the air above the device, spelling out a
message. The block of code numbers dated it to more than six months earlier,
before the Battle of Earth. That was typical enough for messages that had to
chase their intended recipients through space from one planet or one ship to
another.
PRIVATE CODED COMM RELAY TO:
Colonel Christopher Blair
Terran Confed Armed Forces
TCS Concordia
þ REROUTED BY CONFED HQ TO þ
TCS Victory
The words dissolved after a moment, and an image formed. It was Angel,
still heart-stoppingly beautiful, looking out at him with the expression he
remembered so well.
"Hello, mon ami," she began, flashing her brightest smile. "I hope the
fight goes well for you and all the others aboard Concordia. I have been
given new orders to head up a mission, so I'm afraid we must be apart a
little longer. Always remember je t'aime, je t'aime . . . I love you . . ."
Blair stabbed at the switch, cutting the hologram off while tears stung
his eyes. "Je t'aime, Angel," he said softly. "I love you, wherever you are
. . . ."
CHAPTER THREE
Flight Control, TCS Victory Orsini System
"Now hear this, now hear this," the shipboard tannoy blared. "Prepare
for Flight Operations. Flight Deck personnel to launch stations."
Blair's stride was brisk and purposeful as he entered the Flight
Control Center, his helmet under one arm. It was good to be back in his G
suit again, even if the mission at hand was no more than a routine patrol.
In his two weeks aboard the Victory, he had been unable to strap on a
fighter once, but today he would finally get a chance to be free of a wing
commander's console work and move among the stars where he truly belonged.
Chief Technician Rachel Coriolis looked up from a computer display with
a grin. He had met her only once, in a general meeting of the flight wing's
support personnel, without time to exchange more than a few words. That was
Blair's problem ever since he took command of the wing: plenty of work,
reports, plans, forms, and requisitions to be filled out, but precious
little chance to know the rest of the crew.
Chief Coriolis was Gold Squadron's senior crew chief, and as such led
the team of technical experts who maintained Thunderbolt 300, the fighter
set aside for Blair's use. She was young þ not yet thirty þ and attractive,
though her customary baggy coveralls and the inevitable layer of dirt and
grime streaking her clothes and face tended to obscure her beauty. According
to her personnel file, she was a competent technician with an excellent
service record. Blair hoped she would live up to those reports.
"Colonel," she said, straightening as he approached. "They say you're
taking this patrol yourself. Your bird's just about ready."
"Good," Blair responded.
"Kinda strange seeing the big brass flying a routine patrol, though,"
she continued, apparently not affected by rank or seniority. "I don't think
I ever saw Colonel Dulbrunin fly anything short of a full all-fighters
magnum launch."
"I'm not Dulbrunin," Blair told her. "I like to get a few hours of
flight time as often as possible, so don't be surprised if you discover that
my bird needs more servicing than you planned."
She gave a nod in satisfaction. "Glad to hear it, skipper. Your
predecessor knew how to fly a console well enough, a top-notch
administrator. But I like pilots who fly the real thing. Know what I mean?"
She cocked her head to one side. "Are you really taking on Hobbes as your
w
