õÉÌØÑÍ æÏÒÓÔÞÅÎ, áÎÄÒÀ ëÅÊÔ. Wing Commander-3: óÅÒÄÃÅ ôÉÇÒÁ (engl)

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     © Copyright 1995 William R.Forstchen, Andrew Keith
     Wing Commander-3: Heart Of The Tiger
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     <img src=wing3_eng.jpg>

        PROLOGUE

     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
wingman?"
     "You got a problem with that, Chief?" Blair growled.
     "No,  sir,"  the technician said, shaking  her head. "I say it's  about
jolly well  time.  That cat's one hell of a good pilot, and I'm  glad to see
him back on the roster."
     Blair studied her for a long moment, then gave  an approving nod. "Glad
to hear  it, Chief," he  said, warming to her. At least there was someone on
the  flight deck  who  appreciated Ralgha  nar Hhallas.  Her  praise sounded
sincere. Rachel Coriolis struck  him as the kind of tech  who judged a pilot
on  how he handled his  fighter, not  on superficial  things like species or
background. "So . . . give me a status report on my bird."
     Using a remote, she switched on a set of  viewscreens filled  with data
readouts  on  the  fighter. "Here she is one  Thunderbolt; prepped,  primed,
locked, and loaded . . . and ready to kick some serious ass out there."
     Blair studied the data display for a few moments then gave an approving
nod. "Looks good, Chief," he finally said. "What about the ordinance?"
     "All taken care of,  skipper. The Captain  downloaded the mission specs
while  you  boys were finishing  your  briefing.  I doped  out  the  weapons
requirements and loaded her. You're all set for this one.
     Blair frowned. "Better let me review the load, Chief," he said slowly.
     "Typical," she said,  calling  up the ordinance display  on  one of the
monitors. "You flyboys just don't think anybody else knows what you're going
to need out there."
     He  checked the  weapons mix,  then  reluctantly  nodded.  "Looks  good
enough," he admitted.
     "Maybe next time you'll trust your Auntie Rachel with the loadout, huh,
skipper?"  She gave  him a quick smile. "I promise you, Colonel, I'll  never
disappoint you."
     "I'll bet you  won't," he said. Blair took a  last look  at the fighter
stats then turned toward the door. It was time to launch.
     "Good luck, skipper," the technician said, "and Godspeed."
     He  left Flight Control and  took the  elevator to the next level down,
emerging  on the main hangar  deck in the midst of a confusion of people and
machines engaged in  the familiar purposeful chaos of pre-launch operations.
Hobbes  was already there,  with  his  helmet  on  but  his  faceplate open.
"Fighters up, Colonel," he said seriously. "Ready to fly."
     "Then let's get out there," Blair responded, lifting his own helmet and
settling it over  his head carefully. His flight suit and gauntlets made the
motion awkward, but Hobbes helped him get seated and dogged down.  A pair of
technicians bustled around guiding  them toward the fighters resting side by
side in their launch cradles.
     Blair climbed into  the cockpit, his stomach churning the way it always
did in anticipation of a launch, as techs supervised the final preparations,
checked  the seals  on the  cockpit canopy, removed external  power and fuel
feeds, studied  readouts,  and compared  them with the  incoming  data  from
Flight Control. Blair ran through his own checklist.
     When all the lights on his panel glowed green,  he nodded his head  and
lowered  his  faceplate  into  place. He switched  his radio  to the command
channel. "Thunderbolt three-double-zero," he said. "Ready for launch."
     "Flight Control,"  Rachel's  voice sounded  in  his  ear.  "Confirming,
Thunderbolt three zero zero ready for launch."
     Blair's faceplate came alive with a Heads Up Display of  the  fighter's
major  systems.  Seconds  ticked  away on  a countdown  clock in  the  lower
left-hand  corner  of  the HUD  readout.  The time seemed  to drag  into  an
eternity, but at last  the readout flashed  through the  final few  seconds.
Blair  took a firm grip on the steering yoke with  one hand while the  other
rested on the engine throttles. Three . . . two . . . one . . .
     Blair  rammed  the  throttles  forward  and  felt the  engines  engage.
"Thunderbolt  three-double-zero, under power," he reported. Then he was free
of the carrier, climbing outward into the star-studded depths of open space.
     A moment later Hobbes came on the line, his voice slightly distorted by
the  computer  reconstruction  of  his  encoded  transmission.  "Thunderbolt
three-zero-one, under power."
     "Roger that,  three  hundred,  three-o-one," the  voice  of  Lieutenant
Rollins rang  loudly  in his headphones. "Your mission designation  is Snoop
Flight, repeating Snoop Flight."
     "Confirming,"  Blair  replied.  "Snoop  Leader,   establishing   flight
coordinates now." As Hobbes added his  own  response,  Blair tapped a key to
check the  autopilot's  flight  plan on  the  navcomp.  A  flight from  Blue
Squadron had detected signs of possible enemy activity on long-range sensors
around three different  coordinate points, but pursuant  to standing  orders
had  not investigated closely. Instead, they brought their information  back
to the Victory. Now Eisen wanted those potential trouble  spots checked more
thoroughly, with Gold Squadron's heavier Thunderbolts  doing the scouting in
case they ran into opposition.
     A routine patrol . . . except that Blair had long since learned that no
mission was ever entirely routine.
     The two fighters flew in close formation, side by side, with  a minimum
of  conversation passing  back and forth  between  them or the  carrier. The
first  of the three target  areas were  free  of  enemy ships, although some
random space debris did show up on sensors to  suggest what the first flight
had  detected.  They remained  in the area  long enough  to double-check all
their sensor  readings, then  set course for the second navigation  point on
the flight plan.
     "Range  to  navpoint,   eight  thousand  kilometers,"  Hobbes  reported
finally. "Switching to full-spectrum sensor sweep . . . now."
     "Confirmed," Blair replied  tersely,  activating his own  sensor array.
What  seemed like extremely  long  seconds  passed  as the computer began to
process the information pouring  through  the system. The tracking screen in
the center of his control console lit up with a trio of red lights.
     "Fighters,  fighters,  fighters,"  Hobbes  chanted  over  the  tactical
channel.  "I read three fighters,  bearing  three-four-six  by zero-one-one,
range two thousand, closing."
     Blair checked his own target  readouts. "Confirmed. Three bad guys, two
of us. But I'll bet you  they're only a little bit  nervous at the odds!" He
paused  for  a  moment,   studying   the  sensor  data.  "I  read   them  as
Dralthi-class, probably type fours."
     "Then  they  should offer  only  a  mild  challenge," Hobbes  said. The
Dralthi  IV was  a good  craft, but classed  as a  medium fighter with  less
weaponry and lighter armor  than the  Terran  Thunderbolt.  "May I have  the
honor of the first engagement, Colonel?"
     Blair frowned. His instincts were at odds with what he could see on the
screen. Something wasn't quite right . . . "Wait,  Hobbes," he said. "I want
to finish the scan."
     The  sensors  covered  the whole volume around  the Terran  fighters to
their  extreme  limits,  but  the computer was  still crunching  numbers and
trying  to extrapolate detailed information from their readings. There was a
single, massive asteroid near the  same  bearing as  the enemy fighters, yet
closer  and several  degrees to  port. An asteroid  that  size  could hold a
Kilrathi depot or advanced base, perhaps armed . . . .
     "Steer clear of that rock, Hobbes," he said,  still  frowning. "I don't
like the  looks of it.  Let's keep in supporting distance until we see which
way those boys are going to break."
     "Acknowledged," Ralgha responded. Blair thought he could detect a  note
of disappointment in the alien's voice.
     "Going to afterburners," Blair said, pushing the throttles into the red
zone and  feeling  the  press of acceleration  on his  chest.  Hobbes stayed
close, matching his course and speed.
     "They see us, Colonel," Ralgha reported a moment later.
     On Blair's targeting  screen, he  could see the three fighters breaking
formation. It looked  as if they were getting  ready  for a typical Kilrathi
attack  pattern,  with  individual  ships hurling themselves  into action in
succession rather than attempting a coordinated assault. That was the legacy
of their carnivore forebears:  the  instinct to  fight as individual hunters
and warriors rather than group  together in a mass effort. Blair knew Hobbes
was  feeling the pull of that  same age-old instinct, but he also  knew  his
friend's  rigid sense  of  duty and  self-control,  which  would hold him in
formation until he was released.
     The first Dralthi accelerated toward them,  driving at  maximum thrust.
Over the open  radio channel  the enemy  pilot screamed a  challenge.  "Die,
hairless apes!" translated the  communications computer. "Die as  you  live,
without honor or value!"
     "I am no ape,"  Hobbes replied. "I am Ralgha nar Hhallas, and my  honor
is not to  be  questioned by a Kilra'hra like you!"  Blair's wingman  rolled
left, opening fire on  the Dralthi  with blasters and  a  pair of  anti-ship
missiles.
     The lead Kilrathi fighter dodged and juked, eluding one of the missiles
and  increasing thrust  as it turned  onto  a new heading  angling away from
Hobbes.  The  other  missile  scored a  hit  on shields already weakened  by
blaster fire, raising a cloud of  debris  amidships as the blast ripped into
armor plating.
     Blair started to follow his comrade's course, ready to maintain a close
formation and keep enemies  off Ralgha's back. But he spotted  motion on his
sensor  grid,  and  swore softly.  "Damn it, the other  two aren't  sticking
around to fight," he said.
     "Pursue them if you wish, my friend," Hobbes replied grimly. "I wish to
finish this one."
     He hesitated  a  moment. Blair  was a  firm  believer in  the  value of
formation fighting  and  mutual  support  between  wingmen, but  the mission
profile  called for the Terran fighters to  eliminate as  many opponents  as
possible once an engagement began. The idea was to sweep each of the suspect
areas  clean  and  not  to  allow escaping  Kilrathi  to regroup  or  summon
reinforcements to redeem an  initial defeat.  If those two broke  off, there
was no telling how many of their friends they would contact.
     Blair changed his vector to follow  the two ships as they veered toward
the shelter of the  asteroid he had noted earlier. On their present heading,
they  would not pass  close enough to  pose  any particular danger to either
pursued  or  pursuer. If they could  put the irregular lump of rock  and ore
between  their ships and Blair's Thunderbolt, they  might be able to confuse
his sensors long enough to make their escape.
     On their  present course they were  opening  the range  separating them
from the  first  Dralthi, which  was running in the  opposite direction with
Hobbes close on the enemy  fighter's tail.  That was one less thing to worry
about.  Apparently  the  Kilrathi  had  no great interest in rescuing  their
comrade.
     Blair kept one eye on his fuel gauge and the other  on the enemy ships.
High-thrust operations burned fuel at a terrible rate, and the last thing he
needed  now was to use  so  much of his reserve that he wouldn't  be able to
make  it home. Judging from the  heat outputs of the  two Dralthi, they were
not using their  full thrusters.  They  were  probably already low  on fuel,
nearing the end  of an extended patrol.  That meant he could still close the
gap and engage them . . . .
     Then  the enemy exhaust plumes started burning hotter.  The  two  craft
suddenly began to swing around, their symbols changing quickly on his sensor
readouts.  They were  turning, but not  to run.  This  time they  planned to
attack.
     In the  same  moment,  three more  targets appeared on Blair's screens,
closing from starboard.
     These,  too, were  Dralthi. Blair cursed.  The new  arrivals  had  been
lurking in the  lee  of that asteroid, dangerously  close to the huge  rock.
Evidently  the Kilrathi picked up the first patrol flight and realized there
would  be  a  follow-up mission,  so they  organized  an ambush. With Hobbes
distracted by his one-on-one  fight  with  the  original attacker, the enemy
squadron could  concentrate  on  knocking  Blair out of action  while he was
still unsupported.
     "Hobbes," he  said urgently. "Talk to me, buddy. I've got  five bandits
surrounding  me with  damn  little running room. Break off  whatever  you're
doing and give me an assist."
     Blair  was already reversing  course as one of  the  Dralthi  broke and
plunged  toward him.  His fingers  danced over the autopilot keyboard  as he
programmed the computer to  begin random bursts of thrust  at odd vectors to
keep his opponent from getting a firm lock  on  the Thunderbolt.  Then there
was  nothing more  he could do except wait, jaw  clenched, as he watched the
Dralthi  slowly close in. Soon  the  enemy pilot  would be able to match his
vector, and when that happened . . .
     He  fired his maneuvering jets to  execute a tumbling turn  just as the
Dralthi  settled on the Terran  fighter's tail. Suddenly, the  Kilrathi ship
filled his  forward viewport,  and Blair opened fire with his blasters in  a
quick  succession of shots that burned  power  too quickly  for the  weapons
generators to respond. His  last shot was with a Dart unguided missile,  the
type pilots referred to  as "dumb-fires." But even without a homing  system,
the missile wasn't likely to miss at this range.
     The missile barely left  his  ship before Blair's  fighter was twisting
again.  He  didn't see  the missile punch through the weakened  shields  and
detonate  over the weakest  armor, around the  Dralthi's  cockpit.  But  his
sensors  registered  the blast,  and Blair  felt a  momentary  thrill  as he
realized he had scored a kill.
     But that still left four-to-one odds.
     He did not waste time. The other Kilrathi fighters  were still  out  of
range  even   though  they  were  closing  in  fast.  Blair   reignited  his
afterburners  and tried  to put some  distance between  his fighter and  the
pursuers, but  this time it was  Blair  who  was  concerned  about his  fuel
supply. The four Dralthi were running flat out, apparently unconcerned about
their reserves.
     "Talk to me, Hobbes," he said again. "Where the hell are you . . . ?"
     His  answer  was a blood-curdling, triumphant snarl  that  the computer
translator utterly failed to interpret, and for an instant, Blair thought it
was Ralgha's opponent proclaiming a triumph. Then he realized it was Hobbes,
giving  way  to  his  instincts  and  emotions  in the  heat of  battle  and
forgetting,  for  the  moment, the thin veneer of Confederation culture that
lay over his Kilrathi heritage.
     Then his rigid  control seemed to clamp down  again. "I have dispatched
my opponent," he said stiffly, as if  the earlier Kilrathi war-call had come
from someone else entirely. "I am coming to your support now, my friend."
     "Make  it soon, tall, dark, and furry," Blair said. "These guys want to
put me in a trophy room."
     Another Dralthi was approaching,  and once  again  Blair  knew  he must
steer a  fine line  if he was  going to fight. Every  time he let himself be
drawn into a dogfight, the other Kilrathi ships tightened the range a little
bit more. At that rate, he would never be able to  win. And sooner or  later
the odds would tell against him.
     This time  he didn't wait for the other ship  to get so close. Instead,
he  threw the Thunderbolt into a tight, high-G  turn and opened fire as soon
as his weapons came to bear. The Dralthi returned fire with a full spread of
blaster bolts and missiles, and for all of Blair's attempts at dodging, they
racked up  three  solid hits,  scoring away more than half the armor on  his
port wing.
     Blair  rolled away  from the  oncoming  fighter,  trying  to  keep  his
starboard  side facing the Dralthi, but the Kilrathi pilot was a veteran who
knew how to efficiently  maneuver his  craft. More  blaster shots struck his
weakened side in rapid succession, sapping his shields.
     But the attack carried the Dralthi past  Blair's Thunderbolt, and for a
few seconds the advantage went to the Terran. He slapped his weapon selector
switch and called up a Javelin heat-seeker. Blair's fingers tightened around
his steering yoke as  he  tried  to line up the  targeting reticule over the
Kilrathi fighter on his HUD display. It was close . . . very close.
     The  target  indicator glowed red,  and  Blair  fired  blasters  before
releasing the missile. The Javelin locked onto the heat  emissions from  the
Dralthi's engines and leapt outward.  Seeing his danger, the  Kilrathi pilot
made  a  fast turn,  attempting  to get under  the  missile's sensor cone to
confuse its on-board tracking system. Blair  cursed as his board  showed the
missile losing its lock.
     His energy readout  showed his guns hadn't finished  recycling yet, but
Blair took a  calculated  risk and  switched power  from  the shields to the
weaponry systems. Then, determined to keep his fighter in line with the rear
of the Dralthi  despite its twisting, turning  maneuvers, the Terran  opened
fire again. The blasters tore through the weakened  shields,  the armor, and
the  entire rear section of the Dralthi, which erupted in gouts of flame and
spinning metal. "Scratch two!" Blair called.
     Then Hobbes  was  beside Blair, firing a warning shot at long  range to
let  the  other  three  Kilrathi craft  know the odds  had  changed.  Almost
immediately they veered away,  charting new vectors, as if deciding  against
pressing the battle.
     "They are withdrawing," Hobbes said. "Do we pursue?"
     "I'm showing some pretty bad damage on the starboard side, and I'm down
to one missile," Blair replied grimly. "What about you?"
     "The first  foe put up a valiant  struggle," the  Kilrathi  replied. "I
fear my  own missiles are  exhausted, and I have forward and port-side armor
damage."
     "Those guys are fresh," Blair said. "I don't know why they're giving up
so easily, but  I  figure we'd better just count our blessings  and head for
home before they spring any more little surprises on us."
     "The Captain will not be pleased, I fear. It seems  we have not carried
out our mission."
     Blair didn't  answer his wingman's comment directly.  "Let's  get these
crates moving, buddy. Set course for home base, standard thrust."


        CHAPTER IV

     Thunderbolt 300 Orsini System

     Of all the evolutions carried out by a fighter on deep space service, a
carrier landing was  the most  difficult and  dangerous maneuver. Bringing a
fighter in with battle damage was that much worse, especially when shipboard
diagnostics could not pinpoint the full extent of the harm done by the enemy
hits.  Blair studied  his readouts  as  he  drifted in  his assigned holding
pattern, waiting for Hobbes to land.  Half a  dozen amber lights  were vying
for  his  attention  in  port-side  systems,  including  thrusters,  weapons
mountings,  and landing gear. Any one of  them  could  fail if put under too
much strain, and the results would be catastrophic not only for the fighter,
but possibly for the carrier as well.
     Therefore, Hobbes was going in first. Once Rollins established the fact
that Blair  was  uninjured and in  no immediate  danger,  the communications
officer  waved him off. If Blair crashed and burned coming  in,  it wouldn't
leave Hobbes stranded with a damaged flight deck and empty fuel tanks.
     So  Blair waited-gloomy  and brooding. His first  trip off  the carrier
deck  ended  in defeat. He  should have considered the possibility  of  more
Kilrathi ships hiding near that asteroid, kept a  tighter rein on Hobbes . .
.
     Right  now  he  was mostly surprised  by their survival.  The  cats had
surprised him twice today; once by springing the ambush, then by backing off
when he and Hobbes  were ripe for  the picking.  That seemed to be the  only
reason Blair and Hobbes were still alive, and that grim thought worried him.
Was he finally losing his edge?
     He  had witnessed  this  during years  of war.  A veteran pilot with an
exemplary record would find  his skills slipping away and his judgment calls
evolving  into errors.  Such flyers would get  sloppy and careless, and they
did not live very long.
     Ever since  the Battle of Earth, and especially after Concordia's loss,
Blair  found himself growing increasingly  uncertain  about  the war and his
role in it. Were his doubts starting to sap his cockpit performance? If that
was true, maybe it was time to rethink his  whole position. He could retreat
into  the  purely  administrative side of  his job,  as his  predecessor had
apparently done . . . or he  could request a new assignment, even resign his
commission and leave  the  war for a younger  generation who still knew what
they were fighting for and had the sharpened skills needed to carry on  that
fight.
     It was  a tempting thought. But how  could Blair drop out now? Wouldn't
that be a betrayal of all his  comrades  who hadn't been so lucky? He wished
he  could  talk  to  Angel. She  always  knew  how to  put  everything  into
perspective.
     "Snoop  Leader, you  are clear for approach,"  Rollins  said  over  his
bitter reflections.
     "Roger," he  acknowledged. Blair brought his full attention back to the
problems of landing. Fighter and carrier had matched  vectors and velocities
precisely, and they were drifting less than a kilometer apart. Using minimum
thruster  power,  Blair  steered  closer, lining up  the flight deck  with a
practiced eye while  watching the damage readouts for  any  sign of a sudden
failure in  a  critical subsystem. A  pilot like  Maniac Marshall would have
made a  more  dramatic approach, coming  in  under power and killing all his
velocity in one last, well-timed braking thrust, but Blair wasn't taking any
chances this time.
     The most critical moment of any  carrier landing came at the end. Blair
had  to  steer the Thunderbolt directly into the  narrow  tractor  beam that
would  snag  the fighter and guide it down  to the  flight deck and into the
hangar  area. A tiny error in judgment could  cause him to miss the beam and
plow  into  the  ship's  superstructure.  Or he could hit the  beam with the
fighter in the wrong attitude and damage both Thunderbolt and flight deck.
     As the range in meters dropped steadily on the readout in the corner of
his  faceplate HUD, Blair  held  his breath and  activated the  landing gear
control.  A few seconds  went  by,  and the  amber damage  light  flickered,
blinked.  .  . then went out. A green light nearby  declared the wheels down
and locked, but  Blair  raised a video view from the carrier deck and zoomed
in for a close-up of the fighter's undercarriage, just to be sure. The blast
burns and  pockmarked hull plating made him wince, but the gear had deployed
and the fighter looked as ready for a landing as it ever would be.
     He  killed  almost  all of his momentum  then,  and the range countdown
slowed.  Then,  abruptly,  the fighter shuddered as  the tractor beams  took
hold. Blair kept his hands poised over the throttles  and the steering yoke,
ready  to  apply thrust  quickly  in case the tractors failed and he had  to
abort. Slowly, carefully, painfully the fighter closed in, and the carrier's
superstructure loomed large in the cockpit viewport.
     The wheels touched down evenly, and the fighter rolled freely along the
deck,  still  pulled  along  by the  tractor beams that held the Thunderbolt
despite the  absence  of gravity. The force field  at the end of  the hangar
deck  cut  off and  the  fighter  glided  smoothly  into  the  depressurized
compartment.  A moment  later  Blair's craft rolled  to a complete stop, and
Blair gratefully relaxed and started the powering-down process.
     It took several  minutes to  repressurize  the  hangar deck. Blair  was
still  running  through his  shutdown  checklist  when the  overhead  lights
flashed  red, signaling  that the atmosphere was  safe to  breathe and  that
artificial  gravity  was about to  be restored.  Outside he  saw technicians
bracing themselves. Then the welcome sensation  of weight gripped him again,
gradually  rising  until the gravity was  set at  Earth-normal.  Techs, some
fully  suited and others in  shirtsleeves,  swarmed on the  deck  around the
fighter.
     The  cockpit  swung  open. Blair unstrapped himself  and stood  slowly,
stiff yet  glad  for  the  chance to move around again. After a  moment,  he
clambered down  the ladder built into the side of the Thunderbolt. "It's all
yours, boys and girls," he told the technicians.
     Rachel Coriolis was there, her face creased in a frown. "Looks like you
were nearly cat food, skipper," she commented. "You'd take a lot better care
of óem if you were the one that had to fix óem up!"
     He  shrugged,  not really  feeling up to a snappy comeback. "And  maybe
mechanics wouldn't grumble so much if they had to be on the firing line."
     "What, and give up  all  this glamour?" Her grin  faded. "Captain wants
you and  Hobbes  in his ready  room for  debriefing. And I don't  think he's
handing out any medals today. Know what I mean?"

     Captain's Ready Room, TCS Victory Orsini System

     "If  this mission was any indication of your abilities, Colonel, then I
must say that I wonder how you earned such a good reputation."
     Blair and  Ralgha stood at  rigid  attention in  front of the captain's
desk,  listening  to  Eisen's  angry  appraisal  of  their  patrol  mission.
Victory's captain  was plainly agitated, unable to sit still. He prowled the
confines of the ready room like a caged beast, pausing from  time to time to
drive a point  home to  the two  pilots.  Neither of  them  had  ventured  a
response to Eisen, and Blair for one agreed with most of what he had to say.
The mission had been mishandled from start to finish,  and as senior officer
Blair bore the full blame for everything that had gone wrong.
     Eisen leaned heavily  on his desk. "I expected better  of both of you,"
he  said, more quietly this time.  "Especially  you, Colonel. But maybe  I'm
just  expecting too  damned much.  Maybe the Confed has just pulled off  too
many miracles in the past, and the miracles are starting to run out now." He
looked up. "Well? Do either of you have anything to say?"
     "I screwed up,  sir," Blair  said softly. "Underestimated  the Kilrathi
and  let the situation  get out  of hand instead of keeping a  grip on . . .
things." He looked  at Hobbes. "I  allowed  myself  to get separated from my
wingman, and  soaked up unacceptable damage in  the process.  That  made  it
impossible to press  the fight  when we  were  able  to hook up again,  even
though the enemy seemed unwilling to stand and fight."
     "And you, Ralgha?" Eisen asked. "Anything to add?"
     The  Kilrathi  renegade shook his head.  "No, Captain,  save  that  the
Colonel fought with skill and honor."
     "Honor  doesn't  matter  to  me  nearly  as  much  as  winning,"  Eisen
commented, straightening  up slowly, "but at least you  both got back in one
piece." He mustered a  faint smile. "The Confederation needs  every pilot it
can muster, even a couple of senile old screw-ups like you."
     "Next time out, sir, I guarantee things will be different,  Blair  told
him. "You can count on it."
     "I'll hold you  to it," the captain  said. "All right, lets move on.  I
want a heavier patrol dispatched  as soon as possible. Draw up a flight plan
for my approval. I suggest a minimum of four fighters this time, and maybe a
backstop  of four more in case the first team runs into trouble. We'll smoke
the bastards out one way or another.
     "I'll get on it, sir," Blair said. "Hobbes and I will lead em . . .
     Eisen  shook his  head. "You  know the regs.  Except on magnum ops, you
stick to the flight rotation  schedule. You're the wing commander,  Colonel,
and you  can't  start  trying to jump on board every op. That will  burn you
out, and that's the last thing we need right now."
     Reluctantly,  Blair nodded  in acceptance. "As you wish,  Captain,"  he
said slowly
     "All right, then. You're both dismissed."
     Outside the ready  room,  Ralgha reached out  and halted Blair with one
massive paw. "I am very sorry, my friend," he said  gravely. "I let you down
out there today. And yet  you were willing to accept  the blame from Captain
Eisen that should have been directed at me."
     Blair shook his head. "Sure as hell wasn't all your fault," he told the
Kilrathi. "I should have been ready for the bastards."
     "Nevertheless, I failed you.  That insolent peasant and his challenge .
. .  I should  never  have allowed  myself to  be  drawn  into fighting him,
leaving you  to face the others alone." Ralgha paused. "Did it seem  to you,
my friend, that the enemy behavior was out of character?"
     "How so?" Blair  asked. He, too, had wondered about  the  way the  trap
unfolded, but he was  especially  interested in whatever observations Hobbes
might  share. After all,  Ralgha  nar  Hhallas was the  closest thing  to  a
genuine expert on Kilrathi psychology aboard the Victory.
     "In  the  beginning,  it  seemed  to me  they  were intending to fly  a
traditional attack  plan.  There was no  good  reason to  launch  that first
attack  if their aim was to draw us into an ambush. It  was only after I was
engaged that the others broke off and attempted to draw you into their trap.
Could it be that the Empire has a particular interest in you?"
     "In me? How þ "
     "You can be  assured that the Empire has sources of  information within
the Confederation, agents  who  could have identified your new assignment to
this ship. Spies are remarkably easy to plant, particularly  when the Empire
has many human slaves to recruit."
     "You  really think  a  human would  spy for the Kilrathi?" Blair asked.
"And  that the Empire would rely on a human slave  to work  in the  Imperial
interest out of reach of the nerve lash?"
     "There are always a few who betray willingly, my friend. Their honor is
less strong  than  their ambition or  greed. And  Imperial Intelligence does
have  techniques  for  guaranteeing  cooperation  from even  the  unwilling:
personality overlays, deep conditioning . . . many things. There are  surely
spies reporting to  Kilrah.  And  with your  record  and reputation,  it  is
possible  that the Emperor or his grandson  has singled  you  out as a human
leader  to  be terminated. War is far more personal with my people than with
yours, and it would be a great triumph to eliminate a wing commander of your
stature in battle."
     "So you think the ambush was planned? That would mean there is an agent
aboard this ship . . ."
     "Not necessarily,"  Ralgha said slowly. "We know the Empire can monitor
some  of  our  ship-to-ship transmissions. I  used your rank  several  times
during radio messages, and if  that information was joined with knowledge of
your  assignment to the  Victory and of Confed troop movements .  .  .  .  I
merely feel you should consider the possibility. The trap may well have been
prepared in hopes  of your  arrival, but it was not  set in motion until the
battle had already begun."
     Blair  shrugged. "Maybe you're right. But on  the  other hand, if I had
been in command of that Kilrathi flight, I would have done my best to divide
and conquer, just the way they did; no matter who blundered into the  trap."
He paused. "Fact  is, it looked  more to me like they were damned interested
in you."
     "In me? It was only that first kilra'hra who dared challenge me."
     "That's my point," Blair  said.  "He  charged  in looking  for hairless
apes, and  it was only when you identified  yourself that  all hell  started
breaking  loose. And when you finished the first  guy off and hooked back up
with me, the other guys got pretty shy all of a sudden."
     "Are you coming to doubt me, my friend?" Ralgha asked.
     "You  know  better  than  that. I'm  just  curious,  that's all." Blair
studied  his friend's  alien features. "Maybe  it's you  they are afraid of.
Your reputation has to be at least as big  as mine, after all  these  years.
Maybe bigger  where the Empire's concerned. A renegade noble  turned  Confed
fighter pilot . .  . I could see a few Kilrathi getting  nervous if they ran
into you during a fight."
     The  Kilrathi  gave  a  rumbling  chuckle.  "That,  my  friend,  sounds
unlikely. I am a disgrace  among my people.  I  am nothing. It  is only to a
good friend like you that my poor life means anything at all." Ralgha looked
away for a moment, a surprisingly human  mannerism. "Although I must say, it
certainly  felt good to be out there  again. My gratitude for your trust and
support of me is endless."
     "Forget it, buddy," Blair told him. "You're back where you belong now."

     Flight Wing Rec Room, TCS Victory Orsini System

     The  victory  party  was  in full  swing when the lift  deposited Blair
outside the recreation hall set aside for use by the flight wing. He  paused
in the corridor,  reluctant to go inside. After all, they were celebrating a
successful  op that had made  good the mistakes he and Hobbes made the first
time out, and  Blair didn't much care to  be reminded of  that fact tonight.
But  as wing commander, he had a duty  to his outfit, and part of that  duty
was  to show his support for them in success and failure alike, even when it
left a bitter taste in his mouth.
     He squared his shoulders and opened the rec room door.
     The  noise was almost overpowering at  first, with the  blare of  music
competing for dominance with the babble of  conversation, laughs, and cheers
coming from a cluster of  men and  women around the flight simulator in  one
corner  of the compartment. Blair  stopped  just  inside scanning the  room.
Gradually  some  of  the noise  died  away as pilots  became  aware  of  his
presence.
     "See, the  conquering hero comes!"  Maniac Marshall proclaimed  loudly.
The half-empty glass  in his hand and the slur in his voice made it clear he
was  well under  way with  his own celebration of the successful afternoon's
battle. The major  had a female crew  member with comm  department  shoulder
tabs backed  into  a corner,  but as  he turned  toward Blair,  she  quickly
slipped  away  to join  the  spectators by the  flight  simulators,  looking
relieved.
     "So," Marshall  went  on.  "Come  to join  the victory  party,  is  it,
Colonel? Guess you have  to  find óem wherever you  can, huh? When you can't
manage to earn one, that is."
     That  provoked  a  few  nervous  laughs.  Luckily,  one  of the  pilots
approached  Maniac with  a pitcher  of beer, offering him a refill. Marshall
held  out  his  glass  unsteadily  and  let  her  fill  it for him.  In  the
comparative quiet that  followed, Blair took a  step forward and cleared his
throat. "I just wanted to drop by and congratulate Gold  Squadron for a  job
well done today," he said loudly. "I'm sure  there's nobody as  proud of you
people tonight as I am."
     "Damn  straight," Maniac interrupted. "Not just ten Kilrathi fighters þ
two of óem killed by yours truly  þ but also a cap ship. And a supply  depot
hidden inside that asteroid. All cleared out courtesy of Maniac Marshall and
the Gold Squadron . . .  with an able assist by those  two brilliant scouts,
Wrong-Way Blair and the King of the  Kitty Litter!  What would we do without
óem, huh?"
     Blair  fought down a flash  of anger. Marshall was drunk and offensive,
but  he was entitled to  a  little boasting. The major had led  three  other
fighters  to probe  the same region where  Blair  and  Hobbes  had  run into
trouble,  and flushed  out a nest of  Kilrathi fighters  and a light cruiser
that had moved in after the first battle. According to all reports, Marshall
had done  a  decent job of keeping his command together  while  awaiting the
back-up  flight's  arrival. They  accounted for ten Dralthi and  managed  to
knock out the capital ship as well. Although  some  of the Thunderbolts were
heavily  damaged, none  had  been destroyed.  All in  all  it  had  been  an
excellent job.
     "Captain Eisen  asked  me to  let you know that  the drinks tonight are
being  charged to the  shipboard  recreation  fund,"  Blair  went  on  as if
Marshall  hadn't  spoken. Usually,  drinks were  paid for  by the individual
officers  and  crewmen,  with  their  cost  charged  against  shipboard  pay
accounts.  But this was a special occasion þ the first triumph  of Victory's
new tour of duty. "So enjoy yourselves  while you can. You'll be back on the
flight line soon enough!"
     That brought cheers from everyone.  Most of the flight wing's personnel
were in  the rec room for  the party, except for pilots and technicians  who
had  duty  tonight  or first thing  in the morning. There  were also  a fair
number  of  people  from other  carrier  departments.  Blair  saw Lieutenant
Rollins  at the bar, deep in  conversation with a pretty  redhead from  Blue
Squadron.
     He  looked  around the room again and noticed a woman sitting  alone at
one of the tables, her eyes resting on him with a coldly intense expression.
He recognized her from the Wing's personnel files: Lieutenant Laurel Buckley
(callsign Cobra), a member of  Gold Squadron. That was all he knew about her
since  her  family and background  records were  sketchy.  She  consistently
received  high  marks  in Colonel Dulbrunin's quarterly  evaluations  in her
file, but beyond that she was a mystery.
     The door  opened behind Blair. He glanced over  his shoulder and smiled
at Ralgha,  receiving a slight bow in response before the Kilrathi moved  on
toward the bar.
     "Hey, Hobbes," a  new voice cut over the  chatter that filled the room.
"How about going a round with me, huh? Bet you a week's pay on one hand."
     The Kilrathi shook his head  gravely. "Thank you, no," he said, turning
to the bartender to order a drink.
     Blair  studied the man who had hailed his friend. He was seated nearby,
a Chinese flight lieutenant who looked about thirty standard years old until
you saw the age  in his eyes. The man caught Blair's look  and flashed him a
lazy grin, holding up a deck of cards in one hand.
     "What about you, Colonel?" he asked, riffling the cards expertly. "Want
to play  a hand?  Since  you're the new boy in  town, I'll  let you call the
game."
     "I think I'll keep my money if it's all the same  to  you," Blair said,
sitting  down. The man  was another pilot  from Gold Squadron, and from  all
appearances  didn't have any problem serving  with Hobbes.  That recommended
him to  Blair  right away. "I learned a  long,  long time  ago never to play
cards with the shipboard shark."
     "Well, it's a free Confed." The lieutenant put down the cards and stuck
out a hand. "I'm Vagabond. A belated welcome aboard's in  order, I guess. Or
would condolences for your little scrap this morning be more appropriate?"
     "Not much for protocol, are you?" Blair said, taking the proffered hand
in his. "Do you  always  go by your  callsign  or do you just have something
against the name Winston Chang?"
     He shrugged. "Formalities tend  to be forgotten when you spend  most of
your  time just trying to  survive, wouldn't you say?" He smiled, lifted his
drink, and took a sip. "What little spare time we have  should not be wasted
on practicing salutes and mastering the intricacies of military make-work."
     Blair looked  him  over,  liking  the  man despite  Chang's  irreverent
manner,  or maybe because of  it. "With that attitude,  I'm surprised you've
been able to adapt to the military life at all."
     Vagabond shrugged  again. "I've always  felt that  the  military should
learn how  to  adapt to me, Colonel," he said with another grin. "After all,
I'm a genuine high-flying hero type, with pilot's wings and everything!"
     Blair was about to make a sarcastic reply when his attention was  drawn
to Hobbes. The Kilrathi  had  finished his drink in silence and turned  from
the bar, heading for the  door again, probably uncomfortable in the crowd of
humans.  Ralgha, a Kilrathi noble  before his defection, never  relinquished
his aversion to large groups and  noisy  surroundings,  especially when they
involved non-Kilrathi gatherings. It was one of the reasons people found him
so aloof and seemingly unfriendly, but it was nearly  as  much  a matter  of
carnivore instinct as of aristocratic breeding.
     As he approached the exit he brushed against the woman Blair  had  seen
watching him earlier, Lieutenant  Buckley.  She reached the door just before
Hobbes and stopped to listen to someone. Hobbes barely  touched her, but she
spun  quickly  to  confront him  with an angry expression  which marred  her
attractive features. "Don't touch me!" she grated. "Don't ever touch me, you
goddamned furball!"
     Ralgha recoiled from  her as if stricken, started to speak, then seemed
to think better  of  it.  Instead  he  gave  one  of  his  bows  and circled
cautiously around her. She glared at him until the door closed behind him.
     "Excuse  me, Lieutenant," Blair  said,  suppressing  the anger  welling
inside him. "I have . . . a matter that needs to be attended."
     Chang looked  from Blair to Buckley and back again,  his smile gone. "I
understand," he said  with a nod. "But I hope you'll keep something in mind,
Colonel. We've got a lot of good people on this ship. Even the ones  who may
not fit in with your idea of . . . decorum."
     Blair  stood  up and  crossed to the door. Buckley was  still  standing
nearby,  flushed  and angry. He took her elbow and  pointed toward the door.
"Time we had a little talk, Lieutenant," he said quietly. "Outside."
     She  let  him lead her into the corridor. When the door closed  and the
party sounds were no  longer heard,  they faced each other for a long moment
in silence.
     "Want to tell me what that little  outburst was all about, Lieutenant?"
Blair asked.
     Buckley  fixed him with  an angry stare. "Ain't much to say,  Colonel,"
she said,  managing to  make the  rank sound more like a  swear  word.  "You
insisted on  flying with it,  and even after it let you down you'll probably
still take its part. Doesn't leave much scope for conversation, does it?"
     "Lieutenant  Colonel  Ralgha   nar  Hhallas  is   a  superior  officer,
Lieutenant," Blair said sharply. "You will refer to him with respect. I will
not have one of my officers treating another member  of  the  wing with such
blatant bigotry and hatred. Some day  you might have to fly on his wing, and
when that happens . . ."
     "That won't happen, Colonel," she said stiffly. "I can't fly with . . .
him,  and  if you order it, I will  resign my commission on the spot. That's
all there is to it."
     "I should take you up on that resignation right now, Lieutenant," Blair
said. "But  you're a good pilot, and we need all the good pilots we can get.
I'd rather work this thing out. If you'd just give Hobbes a chance þ "
     "You  don't  want me flying with him, sir," she said.  "Because I won't
defend  him  in a fight. Better  we go  our  separate ways . . .  one way or
another."
     "Why? What's he ever done to you?"
     "He's Kilrathi," she said  harshly. "That's enough. And there's nothing
you can do to change the way I feel."
     "I  .  .  .  see."  Blair studied  her face. It was  a bad idea to  let
something like this simmer inside the wing, but he wasn't willing to force a
confrontation. Not yet, at least. "I'll try to keep the two of you apart for
the moment, Lieutenant, but I expect you to behave like a Confed officer and
not a spoiled brat. Do you understand me?"
     "I  wasn't asking  for special favors, sir," she said, shrugging. "Just
thought you should know how things stand."
     "Just so you know where you stand, Lieutenant," he  said softly.  "If I
have to pick between the two of you, I'll  pick Hobbes every time. I'd trust
him with my life."
     She gave him a chilly smile. "That, Colonel, is your mistake to make."


        CHAPTER FIVE

     Flight Wing Rec Room, TCS Victory Orsini System

     The rec room  was  much quieter tonight than the night of the party and
considerably less crowded. Blair finished another long shift of poring  over
reports and requisitions. He decided that a quick drink and a few moments of
simply sitting alone, perhaps  watching the  stars through the compartment's
viewport,  would  help   him  get   over  the  feeling  of  confinement  and
constriction which  plagued  him  more and more lately. As he walked briskly
through the door, he was hoping for some solitude. He wanted to forget, just
for a few  minutes, that  he had anything to do with  Victory, or the flight
wing . . . or the war.
     But the impulse for  solitude left him when he spotted Rachel  Coriolis
at a table near the bar, viewing a holocassette that seemed to be displaying
schematics of  a fighter Blair  didn't immediately recognize. The Chief tech
was one  of the few people on  board he felt comfortable around, and he  was
certain  she would know more than what information appeared  in his official
files: real stories of  some of  his pilots and their backgrounds. After the
incident  with Cobra Buckley  the  week before, Blair was  still in the dark
about  the  woman's attitudes,  and so  far he hadn't been  able to find any
answers.
     He stopped at the bar  and ordered  a glass of Tamayoan fire wine, then
walked over to Rachel's table. She  looked up as he approached, giving him a
welcoming smile. "Hello,  Colonel, slumming with the troops today? Pull up a
chair, if you don't mind being seen with one of us lowly techie types."
     "Thanks, Chief," he said.  He  sat down  across the table from  her and
studied  the holographic schematics  for  a moment. "Don't think I recognize
that design."
     "One  of  the  new  Excaliburs,"  she  said,   her  voice  tinged  with
excitement. "Isn't she a beauty? Heavy fighter with more guns and armor than
a Thunderbolt, but increased maneuverability to go with it. And I've heard a
rumor they're going  to  be  mounted with  a  sensor  cloak,  so the  little
darlings can  sneak  right past a Kilrathi  defensive perimeter and nail the
hairballs at close range!"
     "Don't they classify that stuff any more?" Blair asked with a smile.
     She  gave an unladylike snort.  "Get real, skipper.  Maybe you  flyboys
don't hear  anything ótil it gets declassified, but the techs have a network
that reaches damn near everywhere. We know what's coming off the line before
the brass does . . . and usually have all the design flaws spotted up front,
too."
     Blair chuckled. "Well, I hope  your techs don't  decide to turn on  the
rest of us. I doubt we'd last long if you did. You like your job, don't you,
Chief?"
     She  switched  off the  hologram. "Yeah.  I  always  liked working with
machines  and computers.  An engine part either works or it doesn't. No gray
areas. No double talk"
     "Machines don't lie," Blair said, nodding.
     "Not the way people do. And even when something's wrong with a machine,
you always know just where the problem is."
     Blair  didn't say anything for a few minutes. Finally he looked  her in
the eye. "I've got a people problem right now, Chief. I was wondering if you
could help me with it."
     "It ain't what I'm  paid for,"  she  told  him,  "and my free advice is
worth everything you spend for it. But I'll take a shot if you want."
     "Lieutenant Buckley. What can you tell me about her? The straight dope,
not the official file."
     She  looked  down at the table. "I heard  about her  little blowup with
Hobbes last week. Can't say anybody was surprised, though. She's never  made
any big secret out of the way she feels about the Kilrathi."
     "What I  want to know is  why? I've  been in  the Navy for  better than
fifteen  years,  Chief I've been in  all kinds  of crews, seen  all kinds of
shipmates and their  hangups. But I never met anybody so single-minded about
the  Kilrathi  before. I mean,  Maniac's got good  reason to  resent  Hobbes
personally .  . . but with Cobra, we're talking blind hatred. She won't even
give him a chance."
     "Yeah.  Look,  I  don't  know  the whole story,  so  don't take this as
gospel." The tech leaned closer over the table and lowered her voice. "Right
after she came on board a buddy of mine from the old  Hermes pointed her out
to me. She  served there a  year before she transferred here . . . her first
assignment."
     "I  was curious  about that  in her file," Blair commented.  "She seems
older than that. I'd have put her at thirty or so . . ."
     "That's about right," Rachel told him. "She got a late start. My friend
told me that the story on Cobra was that she'd been a Kilrathi slave for ten
years before the Marines rescued  her from a labor camp. She spent some more
time  in reeducation, then joined up. She won top honors  piloting, and just
cut  through  everything  with  this  single-minded determination.  I  think
sometimes that the  only thing holding Cobra's life together is the hate she
has for the Kilrathi. And I can't really say I blame her.
     Blair nodded slowly. "Maybe I can't, either," he said slowly. "I  can't
even begin to imagine what it would be like to grow up a Kilrathi slave. She
must have been taken as a kid, raised  to think of her own race as animals .
. ."
     "So it's no wonder she can't  stomach  Hobbes," the  tech said bluntly.
"You and I know he's okay, but to her he just represents everything she grew
up hating and fearing."  Rachel took a sip from  her drink. "So cut her some
slack, Colonel. If you really want to fix the problem, that is."
     "I do,"  he said quietly. "But there are limits, you know. I sympathize
with her, but sometimes you just can't bend things far enough in the Service
to make all the square pegs fit."
     "That's  why  I'd rather work with machines," she told  him. "Sooner or
later, people just screw up the works."
     "Maybe you're being too hard on people,"  he said. "Some of us are okay
when you get to know us."
     She  looked him up and  down with  a  slow  smile. "They  need  to pass
inspection,   same  as  anything  else."  She   stood   up,   collected  the
holocassette, then tucked it into a pocket of her  baggy coveralls.  "I  got
certain hours for that kind of quality control work, of course."
     Blair  returned  her smile,  warming  to her.  "You keep that  schedule
posted somewhere, Chief?"
     "Only for a select few, Colonel," she told him. "The ones with the best
schematics."

     Ready Room, TCS Victory Tamayo System

     "I  hope  you're not expecting anything  too  exciting,  Blair. This is
probably  just another milk run, from the looks of it. At  least that's what
we're hoping for."
     Blair studied  Eisen's face, trying to locate a hint  of sarcasm in his
expression. Since Gold Squadron's triumph over the Kilrathi cruiser  and its
escort, enemy activity  in  the Orsini system had virtually disappeared, and
Victory had jumped to the Tamayo  system, where they had been carrying out a
seemingly  endless string  of routine patrols. Blair  and Hobbes took  their
turn on  the duty schedule along with the rest of the wing, but so far there
was no  further combat. The only  excitement  since the first big clash came
when  a  pair  of interceptors  from Blue  Squadron tangled  with four light
Kilrathi fighters, sending them running in short order.
     Eisen  was right about the  missions  to date being milk  runs, but was
there something more behind  his comment?  Meaning  that was all Blair could
handle,  perhaps? His  impassive face gave away  nothing  as  he called up a
holographic mission plan for Blair and Ralgha to study.
     "The cats þ " Eisen broke off, shooting a look at Hobbes. "The Kilrathi
have been steering clear of the Victory, but they sent a couple of squadrons
of raiders  to work the edges of the system, near the jump point to Locanda.
In the past  week,  they've  picked off three  transports  outbound  for the
Locanda colony while we've come up empty."
     Blair frowned.  "I was posted in that system  once, a  few  years back.
There's not a  hell of  a  lot there. I'm surprised we sent three transports
that way in one week."
     The captain  didn't reply right away. Finally he gave a  I shrug. "Some
of our  intelligence sources  in the Empire received word that  the enemy is
planning a move against the Locanda System.  Confed's been pumping resources
that  way to try to catch them unprepared. Apparently  the main reason  they
are hanging  around is  to harass our supply lines." He looked from Blair to
Hobbes, then back  to Blair again. "Needless to  say, that information stays
in this room.
     "Yes, sir," Blair said. Ralgha nodded assent.
     "Right, then.  Another transport is set to make  a  run today, but this
time we're sending an escort. We want to see if we  can  break  this  little
blockade of their's once  and  for all, then open the  pipeline into Locanda
again. Your  job  is to provide  the escort and be ready for trouble. Like I
said, with luck, they will miss this  one. But  if the  bad guys return,  we
want that transport covered. Understood?"
     "Aye, aye, sir," Blair replied formally.
     "Good. Let's cover the details . . ."
     It took  a  good ten  minutes to go over the specifics  of the mission,
establishing rendezvous coordinates and other details. When it was all over,
Blair and  Hobbes stood.  "We're  ready, Captain,"  Blair  said.  "Come  on,
Hobbes, let's get saddled up."
     "A moment more, Colonel, if you please," Eisen said, holding up a hand.
He shot Ralgha a look. "In private."
     "I will see you on the flight deck, Colonel," Hobbes said. The Kilrat