ght be trying to change that definition. If the Kilrathi turned to weapons
of mass destruction on any major scale . . . the Confederation would have no
choice but to answer them in kind.
     But something else  troubled  Blair;  something  he hadn't  shared with
anyone, not even Hobbes. Given that the  Kilrathi  had  this new weapon, and
given the rumors that it had already been tested elsewhere, why Locanda? The
system  was  practically worthless  in  any  strategic  or  material  sense,
although  its  long-time  position on  the  front lines  gave  it a  certain
sentimental and media prominence the place hardly merited.  It was as if the
Kilrathi  had  picked a  place to wield  their terror weapon which was  most
likely to attract Confed attention. It would be much  more difficult for the
High Command  to seal off the system and black out the news, because Locanda
was so well known to the Confederation at large.
     A bioweapon attack  here would be like a gauntlet thrown at the feet of
the High Command;  a  challenge.  . . but why hadn't the Empire chosen  some
system where they would win more than just a propaganda stroke? Tamayo, with
its high  population and  important shipyard facilities, or the Sector HQ at
Torgo, or any  of a dozen  other systems nearby  would have  made  far  more
logical choices than Locanda. There  had to  be  something  more  behind the
Kilrathi campaign, but Blair couldn't fathom it.
     He wasn't even sure that he was working  from anything more than rumor,
speculation, and fear.
     "Hey, Colonel, tell me  again how we're contributing  to the success of
the mission," Flint's  voice  crackled on  the  radio channel.  She  sounded
bored.
     "They  can't all  be free-for-alls, Flint," he  told  her, glad of  the
interruption.  He  didn't  like  the  depressing  turn  his   thoughts  were
following.
     "You really think this latest sighting's going to pan out? I'll lay you
ten to  one that freighter  captain was drunk  when  he  logged  that sensor
echo."
     The current  reconnaissance  effort had  started after  a report from a
tramp space freighter  of multiple sensor  readings at the edge of  his scan
range two days back. It wasn't much to go on, but it was the only solid lead
they had just now.
     "No bet, Flint," Blair said, checking his sensor screen as he spoke. "I
know better than to believe in elves, goblins, or reliable tramp skippers."
     "You  want to know  what  I  think,  sir?"  Flint  said. "I  think some
Kilrathi cap ships might've  shown themselves to that freighter  just to get
us away from the colony. Know what I mean?"
     "Any special reason,  or are you just  getting good at reading Kilrathi
minds? I can get  you a cushy job with Intelligence if you can tell what the
cats are thinking." Blair  caught a flash on his sensor screen. "Hold on . .
. "I'm reading contacts at two o'clock, low, outer ring. Check me."
     There was a pause before Flint responded. "Yeah, I got óem. Three . . .
no, four bogies, inbound.  And  I  don't  think they're our buddies from Red
Squadron."
     "Shuttle, power up and get the hell out of here," Blair ordered, "we'll
cover your withdrawal. But keep in mind our guys will need a drink when they
get back here, so don t go too far unless the bad guys break through us."
     "Roger that,"  the shuttle pilot replied. Blair saw the  twin flares as
the boxy little craft  accelerated away, gathering speed. "We'll relay  word
to Victory, too."
     "Okay,  Flint,  let's welcome  our  guests," Blair  said,  bringing the
fighter  around and firing up the  engines. "Keep close formation as long as
possible,  but remember the top priority is to screen  the shuttle. You  see
somebody breaking past  and heading his way, you nail the bastard, and don't
stop to ask for permission."
     "Don't  worry,  Colonel," she replied.  "I hardly ever  ask  permission
anyway."

     Bloodhawk Leader Locanda System

     "I read  three targets, two fighters, the  other . . . a utility vessel
of some kind. It is moving off. The other two are turning our way."
     Flight Lieutenant  Kavark nodded  inside his bulky  helmet.  The report
matched what his  own sensors detected.  His  patrol, four  Darket  off  the
Imperial carrier Ras Nakhar,  was near the end of its scheduled pattern when
the targets suddenly appeared at the edge of their sensor range. He promptly
ordered a course change to investigate.
     "This  confirms my  readings,"  he  said.  "Target  computer  says  the
combatants are Thunderbolt class: heavy fighters. We have  the  advantage of
numbers even though they are better armored than us."
     "Then  the  greater  glory  accrues  to us for fighting  them!"  Flight
Lieutenant Droghar responded  eagerly.  Kavark  felt a surge  of pride.  The
pilots  in his section were warriors, one and all, and it  only enhanced his
honor to command them today . . .  even if it was a hopeless fight. "What of
the other vessel?"
     "It is an unarmed shuttle, of no importance. We may safely deal with it
after the  escort is  defeated  . .  . if  anyone feels the need for  target
practice."
     There were harsh laughs from the other three pilots. Kavark showed  his
fangs under his flight helmet, wondering briefly if any of them ever doubted
their place in  this  war. "Ghairahn, you  may have the honor of  the  first
challenge, if you wish."
     "Yes, Leader," Ghairahn replied.  He was a young pilot, newly  assigned
to the  section,  but  a distant member of Kavark's  Clan. This would be his
chance to earn his first blood in combat. "Thank you, Leader."
     "Remember the instructions. If  the renegade is detected, we  break off
the action. There will be no arguments, no loss of honor." Kavark paused. He
knew  they faced almost certain destruction by engaging, but  honor demanded
they fight. He would go through the motions, do all that was expected of him
. . . embrace death with talons unsheathed,  if that was what Sivar, the War
God,  demanded. "Now . . . for the glory  of the Empire  and  the  honor  of
Kilrah . . . attack!"
     He  forced  himself  to  bare  his  fangs  again in  a  savage smile as
Ghairahn's Darket fighter broke formation and accelerated toward the enemy.

     Thunderbolt 300 Locanda System

     "Here they come!"
     The  first  Darket was  at maximum thrust,  bare seconds  away from the
Thunderbolt's weapon range. A second fighter supported close behind, but the
other two, true to Kilrathi practice, had not yet  broken their formation to
join  the  battle. This gave  the Terran pilots  a brief  advantage, since a
Darket was no match for a Thunderbolt in a stand-up, one-on-one fight.
     They made use of this  advantage quickly.  To  cripple  or destroy  the
first two fighters before  the other Kilrathi ships  joined the fray was the
plan. If the enemy started  swarming around either Terran ship with superior
numbers, the odds could quickly turn against Blair and Flint.
     Energy weapons blazing, the lead Darket  dived directly  toward  Blair,
not even trying to use evasive tactics. The pilot was either very  confident
or very  inexperienced, Blair thought. He held off  returning fire. Instead,
he kept a  target  lock  on the  Darket  while allowing it to approach so he
could achieve the maximum effect from his weaponry.
     "For the honor of my noble race," a computer-generated voice translated
the Kilrathi pilot's radio call. "My claws  shall grasp  your  throat today,
human."
     Blair didn't respond. He watched the Darket streak in, keeping one  eye
on  the  shield  readouts.  His  forward screen took the  full brunt  of the
Kilrathi attack, and the power level was dropping fast . . . maybe too fast.
He rolled  sideways, killing  his forward speed with a hard  reverse  thrust
that  wrenched  his gut.  As the fighter  slowed,  he  used his  maneuvering
thrusters to put the fighter into a fast spin just as the Darket,  surprised
by the maneuver, darted past with weapons now probing uselessly into space.
     For a few brief moments, the Kilrathi's vulnerable stern was visible in
Blair's sights. Smiling  grimly, he powered up  his engines again and opened
fire  with  full blasters,  adding a heat-seeking missile for good  measure.
"Curl your claws around this, furball," he said.
     The volley cracked the Imperial fighter's rear shields and  the missile
flew right up the  tailpipe. It exploded, and  the  fighter came  apart in a
spectacular ball of raw energy.
     "You really nailed him, Colonel," Flint said. "Now it's my turn . . ."
     She drove her  Thunderbolt  right into the guns  of the  second Darket,
ignoring the withering fire her opponent was laying down. A moment later she
spoke  again. "Bye bye, kitty," she said.  Missiles and beams leapt from her
fighter's underbelly, and  the Darket went up in a second brilliant fireball
that momentarily dimmed the stars. "Never mess  with a gal on her home turf!
That makes nineteen, Davie . . . and more to follow!"

     Bloodhawk Leader Locanda System

     Kavark watched he destruction of Ghairahn's fighter with a curious lack
of emotion, showing neither anger  nor  blood  lust, nor even pride  in  the
warrior's  sacrifice. The  second Darket's loss  was the same; just  another
statistic in the long fight against the ape-spawn humans.
     Sometimes  it  seemed that the conflict  would  go on forever. Once  it
seemed a great thing, a  glorious thing, to  venture forth in battle for the
glory of  Empire and Emperor and Clan. But the fighting continued endlessly,
and  though  the Kilrathi  had  the advantage  of numbers and  sheer  combat
firepower, somehow the apes always  managed to move from the brink of defeat
to  rally and overcome the Emperor's  forces.  The Terran spirit  embodied a
refusal  to  give in despite  overwhelming  odds. And their warriors, though
outnumbered and outgunned, were superb fighters.
     "We must attack, Leader," urged his surviving pilot,  Kurthag. He never
doubted.  He saw  everything in  black  and  white,  honor against dishonor,
victory against death.
     "No, Kurthag," Kavark said. "One of  us must report  to the Fleet. They
must know where the Terrans are operating."
     "I will fight, Leader, while you withdraw . . ."
     "Sharvath!" Kavark snarled. "Would you have me abandon honor? I command
here. Mine is the honor of battle!"
     There was  a long pause. "Yes . . .  Leader," Kurthag said  at last. "I
obey . . . despite the dishonor."
     " óThe warrior  who obeys can  never be dishonored,' " Kavark told him,
quoting from the  famous words of  the Emperor Joor'ath. "Now, go. And . . .
tell my mate my last battle song will be of her."
     He cut  the channel and changed course to place his fighter between the
Terrans and Kurthag's craft.
     Sometimes  the only way  to deal  with doubts was to face them . . . no
matter what the price.

     Thunderbolt 300 Locanda System

     "They're splitting up," Blair said, studying his sensor screen. "One of
them  is  making a run  for it.  Why is  this  other idiot sticking  around?
Doesn't he know he's no match for two heavy fighters?"
     "Who  knows what  a  cats  thinking?" Flint said  sounding  distracted.
"Let's get him before he changes his mind!''
     "On my  wing, Lieutenant. We'll  take down this baby by the book . . ."
Blair continued to study the  screen as  he spoke.  If that Kilrathi fighter
was heading  for home, maybe he'd be able to lead the Terrans to the missing
Imperial fleet. Assuming they could track him somehow . . .
     "I  can get the one  who's running, Colonel," Flint announced suddenly.
"Going  to afterburners.  I'll be  back before you finish toasting  the dumb
one."
     She  suited  actions  to  words before  he could respond,  her  fighter
streaking away at maximum thrust. Blair wanted to call her back, but at that
moment the remaining  Darket  opened fire and accelerated toward him.  There
was no time to remonstrate with his headstrong wingman now.
     He looped into a reciprocal course, trying to keep his sights framed on
the Kilrathi, but this pilot was  no hotheaded  amateur.  His maneuvers were
unpredictable, and he knew just how to get the most out of his fighter..
     The combination was dangerous, even in an uneven matchup like this one.
Before Blair could line up a shot, the Darket pulled a tight turn and passed
directly under his port wing, blasters firing. None of the hits  pierced the
shield, but they weakened it. Then the Darket turned away to avoid  the  arc
of the Thunderbolt's rear turret.
     Blair turned again  at  maximum thrust, the G-force pressing him firmly
into his  seat. The enemy ship  appeared on his HUD  again, and he  tried to
center the  targeting reticule  on the fighter despite the  Kilrathi pilot's
evasive  action.  But the  other pilot seemed to anticipate his every  move,
weaving  in under him a second time,  unloading  a full volley of  beams and
missiles against the same weakened spot.
     A red light  flashed on his console. "Burn-through, port shield.  Armor
damage. Structural fatigue at ten percent." The computer's flat, unemotional
report  was incongruous, and  Blair didn't  know if he  wanted to scream  or
laugh.
     The Kilrathi fighter spun in a tight turn and started another run. "Not
this time, my friend," Blair muttered under his breath.
     The weakness on the port side of the Thunderbolt would be a real danger
now; another good hit in  the same area could seriously damage the  fighter.
Ironically,  it gave Blair an opportunity. There was little doubt as to what
the Kilrathi pilot would do this time. He would be drawn to repeat that same
attack a third time . . .
     Blair initiated a turn  before the  attack developed, letting  his nose
swing  down  and left. The enemy pilot opened fire, but the shots caught the
forward shields, not the  port side. Simultaneously, Blair triggered his own
weapons, and the Kilrathi  ship flew  right into the firing  arc.  A pair of
missile launches exhausted Blair's stocks, but they were sufficient.
     The  pilot  had time for one last  transmission before the end.  "There
must be . . . something more . . . than Death without end . . ."
     And then the fighter was gone.

     Flight Deck, TCS Victory Locanda System

     Blair scrambled from the cockpit  as soon  as the environmental systems
in the  hangar  were  restored, brushing  past the technicians  and ignoring
Rachel's grinning "Looks like you took a real pounding  out  there" comment.
Seething, he crossed  to Flint's fighter  and  waited for  the woman to come
down.
     By the time  he'd dealt with  the Darket, Flint had already engaged the
fleeing ship. She had dealt with it  quickly and competently, taking none of
the damage Blair had suffered in  his engagement. Her target had turned into
expanding gases in a matter of seconds.
     Before  Blair could  read  her the riot  act, though, the  shuttle  had
returned,  and  the sensors registered the  approach of the four Hellcats on
the return leg  of their patrol. He refused to dress down another pilot over
an  open  channel. But all the way back. his anger  had been building. Flint
had blown their best chance to track the enemy.
     She  let go of the  ladder  halfway down and dropped to the deck beside
him,  pulling off her flight helmet  to  reveal a grin. "Score's twenty now,
Colonel," she said. "Davie'll have his escort soon enough."
     "Only if you're flying, Lieutenant,"  he said, his voice low but harsh.
"And I'm not sure  how long that's going to be,  after what I saw out  there
today."
     "But þ "
     "You talk when I say  you can talk, Lieutenant," he cut her off. "First
you listen. I gave you a direct order to stay on my wing when I engaged that
second Darket. Instead, you went charging after the other one. I expect that
kind of attitude  from Maniac  or even a rookie like Flash but not from  the
pilot I pick as my wingman."
     "But,  Colonel,  you  didn't  need  me  to  deal  with  a Darket,"  she
protested, looking stricken, "and I was able to make it a clean sweep."
     "A  clean  sweep,"  he  repeated. "That's  what it  was, all  right. Of
course, if there had been one survivor running for cover we might have  been
able to lie back at  extreme sensor range and track him  back to his  mother
ship. Maybe we'd find the whole damned Kilrathi fleet. But a clean sweep . .
. that's certainly worth passing up a result like that for, isn't it?"
     She took a step back. "Oh, God . . . Colonel, I never thought . . ."
     "No, you didn't," he said. "You never  thought. Well, Lieutenant, think
about this. Intelligence  thinks the cats are planning  an all-out attack on
Locanda Four,  not just a raid but something big and nasty. And if  we don t
find  their  fleet and pinpoint it pretty damned soon they will have a clear
shot. So when  your pretty  purple  skies are filled with Kilrathi missiles,
you  think about whether  we  could  have nailed them today if  you had just
obeyed orders instead of playing your little revenge game."
     She looked down. "I . . . I  don't know  what  to say,  sir," she  said
slowly. "I'm sorry. Were you serious . . . about yanking my flight status, I
mean?"
     He didn't answer right away. "I don't want to," Blair finally told her.
"You're  a  damned  good  pilot,  Flint,  and  you  know  how  to make  that
Thunderbolt dance. But I told you before that I need a wingman I can trust."
He paused. "Consider this a final  warning.  You screw  up again, Flint, and
I'll have your wings. You get me?"
     "Yes,  sir." She met  his angry eyes. "And.  . . thanks,  Colonel,  for
giving me a second chance."
     As  she  turned and walked slowly away, Blair  hoped he wouldn't regret
the decision later.


        CHAPTER XI


     Flight Wing Rec Room, TCS Victory Locanda System

     Blair paused at  the entrance  to the rec room and glanced around. This
evening the lounge  was  fairly busy,  the Gold  Squadron  particularly well
represented.  Vagabond,  Maniac, Beast Jaeger, and  Blue  Squadron's  Amazon
Mbuto were  playing  cards. Judging from  the  stack of  chips in  front  of
Lieutenant  Chang,  he was ahead. Vaquero  was  alone at another table  with
headphones over his ears, his eyes closed, and his hands tapping  out a beat
as  he  blissed out  on his rockero  music.  Hobbes and  Flash were  talking
earnestly at a table by the viewport, and Sandman was  sharing drinks with a
blonde from the carrier's weaponry division.
     Lieutenant Buckley, alone at the  bar with  a  drink in her  hand and a
half-empty  bottle on the counter  in front of her, looked up at Blair.  She
stood with exaggerated care and walked over to him.
     "I hear you're down on Flint," she  said, the  words slurring a little.
"What's the matter, Colonel, you only like pilots who've got fur?"
     He looked at her coldly. óYou've had too much to  drink Lieutenant," he
said. "I think you'd better head back to your quarters and get some rest."
     "Or  what? You'll ground me? Like you  threatened Flint?" She jabbed  a
finger at  him. "You  save your high-and-mighty Colonel  act for  the flight
deck or the firing line. I'm on down-time now . . ."
     He grabbed her shoulder as she staggered, steering her back to the bar.
"I don't know what set you off, Lieutenant, but. . ."
     "What set me off? I'll tell you what  set me off, Colonel, sir. Flint's
one of the best damned pilots on this tub, and you treat her like dirt. Just
like you treat all the pilots,  ócept  your furball  buddy over there. After
she  came  off  the flight deck  this  afternoon, she  was ready to  find an
airlock  and cycle herself  into space. I spent the  whole damned  afternoon
trying to straighten out the damage you created, chewing her out that way."
     "She  screwed  up,"  Blair  said  softly.  "And  we  can't  afford  any
mistakes."
     "Can t you let her be human once in a while? Do you have any idea  what
kind of strain  Flint's under? This is her  home system, you know . . .  and
everybody's talkin' about the cats planning to use bioweapons here."
     "There have been stories about bioweapons," he said guardedly. Inwardly
he wondered who had been talking. Probably not Rollins; he'd sounded sincere
when he promised not to  spread  the story. But  everyone  at  the  squadron
commanders' briefing  knew about the rumors now, and some of them þ  Maniac,
for example  þ wouldn't think twice before sharing the stories with the rest
of  the  crew.  "Right  now  they're  just  that:  stories.  Whoever's  been
circulating them probably wouldn't know a bioweapon from a biosphere."
     "Oh, come  off it, Colonel,"  Cobra  said. "The cats've been working on
these kinds of weapons for  years. They use human  test subjects from  their
slave  camps. They've tried their bugs out on  other  human planets already.
It's only a matter of time before  they start using them  routinely. If  the
grapevine says it'll be here, I wouldn't argue with it.
     "You  know a  hell  of  a  lot  about  what  the  Kilrathi  are  doing,
Lieutenant," Blair said "Maybe you should spend more of your time talking to
Intell, and a little less on telling me how to run my Wing."
     "Intell! I've had enough  of  Intell people  and  their questions!" She
shook  her head. "Anyway, you're  just  trying to  change  the subject.  The
simple  fact is, Colonel, that there are  some damn fine people on this ship
who deserve better than what you're givin' óem. Flint's jus' the worst case.
But if I was you, I'd start  treating  people right,  or you just might find
out what friendly fire's all about sometime þ " She broke off and started to
stagger to another seat but ended  up sitting down heavily where she was and
putting her head down on the bar next to her bottle.
     "Should  I  call Security to give her  an escort to her quarters, sir?"
Rostov asked from  behind  the bar. Blair  wasn't  sure  how long  he'd been
there.
     He shook his head.  "Let's keep  this in  the family," he said, looking
around. He caught Flash's eye and summoned him with a wave. "Major, I need a
favor.  Could you help lieutenant Buckley back to her quarters please? She's
had a little too much to drink . . ."
     "Sure, Colonel," Flash said with a grin. "I  was starting to wonder how
much  booze  she  was going  to be able  to  put away  before she  pulled  a
crash-and-burn." He helped Cobra to her feet, wrapped one of her arms around
his shoulders. "Come on, Cobra, let's get you home."
     Blair watched  them  leave,  then  let out a  sigh.  "Give me  a drink,
Rosty," he said, feeling suddenly weary. "A double  anything. It's been that
kind of a day."
     He  took  the  glass from the one-armed bartender, but  didn't drink it
right  away. Instead he  stared into  the amber liquid, his mind a whirl  of
conflicting emotions. From the very start he was an outsider here, unable to
pass the barriers his  pilots  held against him. Sometimes it felt as if  he
was flailing the air. Most of  these pilots had been  through a lot together
and felt the same  type of comradeship he had shared with the men  and women
of the Concordia. They resented him, resisted him,  and everything Blair did
only seemed to make things worse.
     At least there were a few people he could still trust. Blair  picked up
the glass and  took  a sip, then walked to the table  where Ralgha was still
sitting, alone now. "Mind if I join you, Hobbes?" he asked.
     "Please, my friend,"  the  Kilrathi said, gesturing courteously  toward
the chair Flash had relinquished. "It would be  good to spend some time with
someone who . . . truly understands what this war is about."
     "I take it you and Flash don't see  eye to eye?" Blair sat down  across
from his old comrade.
     "That  cub!"  Ralgha  was   uncharacteristically  vehement.   "He  sees
everything through the eyes of youth. No judgment. No experience. No concept
of the truth of war."
     "When he  gets to be  our age, he'll  know better," Blair  said. "If he
lives  that long. But I know  what you mean. Things sure have changed  since
the old days."
     Ralgha  gave  him a very human smile. "Maybe not so much,"  he said. "I
can recall times when I thought I was immortal . . . and when you would  get
drunk and tell off a superior officer."
     Blair shot him a look. "You heard all that?"
     "My race has better hearing than  yours," Hobbes reminded him. "And the
lieutenant was not exactly concerned with keeping her voice low. Alcohol may
cause some people to speak and act in very strange ways, my friend. I do not
think there was any serious intent behind her words."
     "In vino veritas," Blair said.
     "I am  not  familiar  with those  words," the  Kilrathi  said,  looking
puzzled.
     "It's Latin. A dead Terran language. It means óthere is truth in wine.'
"
     "I  do  not  think Cobra  would  actually  fire  on  you," Ralgha said.
"Perhaps me,  given the intensity of her  dislike.  But  despite  her  anger
tonight, I believe  she respects you as a  pilot. . .  and even as a leader.
Unfortunately, she also has a high regard  for  Lieutenant Peters, who saved
her life  in  the  last battle before the  ship refitted at Torgo.  And  you
should understand what it means  to  defend a friend from  what you  see  as
unjustified persecution."
     "Yeah,  I understand. I just wish there was a way to get through to her
. . . to all of them."
     "Perhaps you should consider unbending somewhat," Hobbes  said  slowly.
"You have seemed . . . aloof . . . on  this mission. That contributes to the
trouble."
     "I know that, too," Blair admitted.  "But.  . . I don't know, Hobbes. I
just keep thinking  about all the other times aboard the Tigers Claw and the
Concordia. It  seems  like every  time  I make friends  and  start  to share
something  with good people,  they end up  dead.  When I  first  arrived,  I
thought I  would  be  better  off keeping  my distance. I thought  maybe  it
wouldn't  hurt as  much, if  it happened again. But  that isn't  the answer,
either,  because  even  if  I  can't  call  them  my  friends,  I still feel
responsible for these people. I respect them. And  I'll  still mourn them if
they buy it out there."
     "I doubt it could  be any other way,  my friend,"  Hobbes said gravely.
"Not as long as you are . . . yourself."
     "Maybe so." Blair drained his glass. "Well, who knows? Maybe we're into
the last  game, after  all, like all the Confed press releases claim.  Maybe
the Kilrathi Empire is about to give up the whole thing as  a  bad idea, and
we'll have peace and harmony and all that sweetness and light."
     Ralgha shook his head  slowly. "It  is a time  for strange  ideas,"  he
said.  "My people have invented a word  for surrender, a concept I can still
barely  grasp after years among your kind." He gestured toward the viewport.
"I used to raid these worlds with my brethren. Now I  defend them  . . . and
my people talk of giving themselves up without further struggle."
     The Kilrathi paused, and for a moment Blair thought he looked  lost. "I
cannot guess at  what my one-time  comrades  might  do next. But  I  do  not
believe that the Imperial family  can change  so totally. If there is peace,
it  will  be because the  Emperor  and  Thrakhath  are overthrown, and their
supporters broken. That will not  happen without a major  change in  the way
this war progresses "

     Flight Wing Officer's Quarters, TCS Victory Locanda System

     Angel was with him, looking just as she had the  day she left Concordia
with her kit bag slung over one arm and the open ramp to the shuttle yawning
behind her like a black, toothless maw.
     "Farewell, mon ami," she  said. "Look after  the others for me, all our
comrades. I will come back when Paladin does not need me . . ."
     "Don't go, Angel," Blair heard himself saying the words as if from some
great distance. "Stay here. If  you  go  everything will  fall apart  . .  .
everything . . ."
     The words were wrong. He knew it, even as a shrill screech rang in  his
ear and brought him out of the dream. The words were all wrong . . .
     He  had let her go  that day without a  protest. He told Angel that  he
understood, told her that he would wait for her. But she hadn't come back to
the Concordia. And he wasn't sure she'd ever come back to him. Angel . . .
     The noise didn't go away  even after he had sat up, his eyes wide open,
staring at the  bare walls  of  his quarters. It took Blair quite a while to
realize the  noise was the shrilling sound of the General Quarters alarm. He
started  to rise when a computer voice joined the  cacophony.  "Now, General
Quarters,  General Quarters. All  hands  to  Combat Stations. This  is not a
drill. General Quarters, General Quarters . . ."
     A  moment  later the computer voice was replaced  by  Rollins, sounding
excited. "Colonel Blair, to the Captain's Ready Room, please. Colonel  Blair
to Captain's Ready Room!"
     As he  finished tugging  on his  uniform,  Blair glanced  at the  watch
implanted in  his wrist.  It read  0135 hours,  ship time. With  a  muttered
curse, he grabbed his boots and started wrestling them onto his feet.
     He wasn't sure which was  worse the dream of his loss or the reality of
the war
     Dressed  and  almost awake,  Blair forced  himself to move  through the
corridors at a brisk yet  measured pace. Never let your people see  you run,
laddie, Paladin had  told him  once back in the days they  served on Tiger's
Claw  together. Even when the whole  bloody universe is falling around  your
ears, walk like you haven't a care in the world, and  the other lads'll take
heart and fight the better for it.
     It took  all his  willpower  to remember the  old warrior's lesson this
time. The incessant alarm and the crewmen hastening to their combat stations
set every nerve on  edge. He knew long before he reached the ready room that
this mission was the one which they had been awaiting  þ and dreading  þ for
so long.
     "Blair!"  Eisen's voice  boomed out  as  he  entered  the  compartment.
"Thought I was going  to have to send somebody to roust you out of bed, man!
We've spotted the bad guys, and we haven't got a second to lose."
     He joined the captain, Rollins, and Hobbes at the big table, watched as
Eisen manipulated a  terminal,  activating a  holographic  chart in  the air
above the smooth surface.
     "Leyland and  Svensson spotted two  carriers and  five destroyers  here
eighteen  minutes  ago,"  Eisen  said,  indicating  a  set  of   coordinates
approximately  ten  million  kilometers  ahead   of  the  carrier's  present
position. "They made  a  positive ID  on both of  the  carriers. One is  the
Sar'hrai our friend from Tamayo. The other is definitely the Hvar'kann."
     "So Thrakhath  is  here, just like the reports indicated. Blair  fought
himself to suppress a betraying tremor in his voice. "I wonder  how much  of
the rest of it's true?"
     "Most of  it,  Colonel,"  Eisen  said levelly, meeting his eyes with  a
bland stare. "Intell sent us an update last night. The Kilrathi are carrying
missiles armed with biological  warheads, and  they are  going to attempt to
use  them  against  Locanda  IV.  The  missiles are a new  type,  designated
Skipper. They're too big  to carry  aboard fighters, so they'll be  launched
from capital ships."
     "They had to wait until now to confirm it?" Blair asked bitterly. "They
couldn't give us time to get ready?"
     "The confirmation only came in from outsystem yesterday. One of General
Taggart's  resources finally gave  us the full specs on the weapon . . . for
what it's worth."
     "You haven't heard the really bad news, either," Rollins put in. "These
Skipper missiles carry cloaking devices, so they'll be damned hard to track.
And as for  the warheads . . .  well, we might as well not have the specs at
all. There's no counter for those bugs. Nothing."
     Eisen  gave  Rollins  a  quick,  angry  look.  "Once  the  pandemic  is
introduced into a Terrestroid ecosystem it'll spread very quickly," he said.
"And Mr. Rollins is correct. Even the Kilrathi don't have a cure for it."
     Blair's nod was sober. "So we can't  let them get any missiles  through
to  the  planet," he said. He  looked from Eisen to Rollins.  "But how do we
stop  cloaked  missiles? Hell,  I  didn't  think  the targeting  system on a
missile  could handle cloaked flight. Everything I ever saw said you need  a
pilot to handle a bird when it's under cloak."
     "According to the specs, the Skipper doesn't  stay under cloak all  the
time," Eisen said.  "It drops out of  cloak every few  seconds to update its
flight profile. So they can be tracked . . . but only intermittently."
     "Lovely. Any more good news?"
     "Leyland  was able  to get  an accurate scan  of the Kilrathi. From the
looks  of  things,  both  carriers  had  an  absolute  minimum  of  fighters
deployed."  Eisen's eyes  studied him through the  hologram. "They  have the
escorts doing  most of their recon and CAP work. You know what that means as
well as I do."
     "Yeah." Blair nodded again. "They're prepping the fighters for a magnum
launch. Right, Hobbes?"
     The Kilrathi renegade sounded grave.  "I fear that is the  only  likely
explanation, my friend," he agreed.
     "They're  still pretty far out for  a  strike,"  Blair  said. "Range is
extreme for a run against Four."
     "I agree," Eisen said. "But if I was about to make an all-out strike on
a well-defended target, I'd prep early and  keep my people ready. That way I
could launch the moment I knew  the enemy had discovered my  ships. They may
not be  planning the  strike  right away, but they'll be good to go  at  any
time."
     "Where does that leave us?" Blair asked. "No criticism intended for the
Victory and  her crew,  sir, but I'm not wild  about the idea of us tackling
the  whole Kilrathi force alone. We might  get in some hits, but some of the
bastards will escape . . . and then where would we be?"
     "Agreed," Eisen said. He looked at Blair. "Even I'm not so proud of the
old girl  that I think she'd survive a stand-up fight with  seven cap ships.
And our battle group isn't strong enough to even up the odds, either."
     That  prompted  nods  around  the  table. Three  destroyers,  Coventry,
Sheffield, and Ajax, had joined the carrier at Tamayo as escorts, but two of
them were as old and outdated  as Victory herself. Only Coventry carried her
own half-wing of fighters. All in all,  they  weren't much when  set against
the Kilrathi force.
     "Do you have any recommendations, Colonel?" Eisen went on.
     Blair  studied the chart. "Yeah," he said slowly. He allowed himself  a
wolfish grin. "Hit óem now. . . and hit them hard."
     Eisen looked  doubtful. "It'll  be a  mismatch," he said.  "Can you  do
anything against those odds?"
     "Yes, sir, I can," Blair said, although a part of  him didn't share the
confidence  he tried to project. "We won't be going in to take  on the whole
Kilrathi  fleet. My notion is to threaten them with an attack  and make them
launch their missiles  early. That's what I'd do, if I  wasn't sure what was
hitting me. So we stir them up, make óem commit.  And then we go after those
missiles with everything we've got. Victory  won't be in any danger, because
I  don't  see how they  could mount a  counterstrike  in the middle of their
attack op. The risk falls entirely to the Wing."
     "I was hoping you'd come up with something better Colonel," Eisen said,
sounding  weary, "because that was the  only  plan I was  able to rough out,
too. And I'm afraid your pilots are going to be in for one hell of a fight."
     "Yeah,"  Blair said. "I know. But  I don't see anything else we can  do
without throwing away the one advantage we have right now."
     "Advantage?  We   have  an   advantage?"  Rollins  looked  and  sounded
incredulous.
     "Surprise,  Mr. Rollins," Blair told him  with a slow smile.  "Fact is,
nobody would be crazy enough to do what we're talking about doing."


        CHAPTER XII


     Flight Control, TCS Victory Locanda System

     "Battle Alert! Battle Alert!" the computer announced.  "Now,  scramble!
Scramble!  Scramble! All Flight  Wing  personnel  to magnum launch stations.
Scramble!"
     A monitor showed  the  view  as the  ready rooms  erupted in  a  sudden
outburst  of activity. For a few seconds it was a scene of utter chaos, with
pilots running for the Hangar Deck. Some were still  zipping up flight suits
or dogging  down helmets as they moved, but there was an underlying sense of
order beneath  all the confusion.  These people were  professionals who knew
their jobs.
     Blair glanced  around Flight  Control Center,  nodding in satisfaction.
The room  was fully crewed,  with  captain Ted "Marker"  Markham,  Victory's
Flight Boss, presiding over the technicians with his usual autocratic flair.
Ignoring the others, Blair focused his attention on Maniac Marshall, who was
with  Rachel  Coriolis near the  door. The major seemed to be  debating  his
fighter's combat  loadout with  the technician,  waving his hands in the air
and talking with an excited intensity.
     He waited until the discussion was over before crossing  to Maniac. "We
don't have any room for grandstanding today, Major," he  said quietly. "This
mission has to  be flown perfectly. Otherwise . . . scratch  a  whole colony
world and everyone on it. You read me, mister?"
     Marshall met his eyes defiantly.  "I know  my  duty, damn it.  And I've
never let my end down."
     "Just remember what's at stake. You  don't have  to like me, major, any
more than I have to like you. But  today  you'll follow my  orders,  or I'll
have your head."
     "I'll do my job," Maniac told him. "You just do yours."

     Thunderbolt 300 Locanda System

     Blair  and Flint launched last, joining  the  other fighters already on
station  around  the  carrier.  All  four  squadrons were  up,  thirty-three
fighters   in  all.  Leyland  and  Svensson  had  two   of  Blue  Squadron's
interceptors  in  position closer to  the enemy flight,  and  the techs  had
down-checked five fighters þ two Arrows, two  Hellcats,  and a  Longbow þ as
unable to fly the mission.
     He was glad Gold Squadron hadn't suffered any down-checks. At least all
ten Thunderbolts would be going in today.
     "All squadrons,  this is Wing Commander,'' he  announced as he  settled
his fighter  into formation  between Flint and Hobbes.  óWe've gone over the
drill  often enough, so I expect you  all know your jobs  by now. Warlock, I
wish you were with us on this one,  but in-flight refueling would complicate
things too much.  Keep your  guard up, and make  sure  the old rust-bucket's
still here for us when we get home."
     "Godspeed, Colonel," Whittaker replied.
     "The rest of us have  a fleet to catch," Blair continued. "Amazon, take
the lead. Green Squadron to  follow, Gold in the rear. Let's punch it,  boys
and girls!" He  rammed his throttles  forward as if  to punctuate the order,
felt  the engines surging to  full power and the G-force pressing  him down.
"Engage autopilots," he said. "Anybody who thinks he can sleep, this is your
last chance for a catnap before things start getting hot!"
     He doubted if anyone actually slept,  though with the autopilots set it
would have  been  possible þ assuming adrenaline and anticipation  left  any
room for  any of them to relax. It was a forty-five minute flight at maximum
thrust, and Blair spent the time reviewing his plans and trying to spot ways
to  improve  their  chances  of  success.  He saw  precious  little hope  of
shortening the daunting odds against them. Everything depended on luck, now.
     Blair was  surprised when the computer alarm sounded the warning.  They
were  close to  their navigation  checkpoint  now, and  the  autopilots were
disengaging   automatically.  He   checked   his  scanners,  saw  the  blips
representing  the  two  watchdog  interceptors trailing the  Kilrathi  fleet
ahead. The enemy  showed up on long-range sensors, which showed the presence
of large vessels, but so far his monitor showed nothing in range of the more
accurate but less powerful short-range scan.
     That was exactly as it should be. So far, so good . . .
     "Shepherd  to flock," he said, breaking  radio  silence. "Commence your
run . . . NOW!"

     Flag Bridge. KIS Hvar'kann Locanda System

     "Lord Prince!"
     Thrakhath looked  up  from  his computer display. The Tactical  Officer
sounded frightened, but whether it was due to something  on his scanners  or
the  danger of  bothering  Thrakhath  was difficult to tell. "Lord Prince, I
have  multiple targets  on close-range  sensors. Small  .  . . a  cluster of
fighter-class targets. At least four eights of them!"
     "Position?" Thrakhath rasped.
     "Bearing to port and low, range five thousand octomak and closing." The
officer paused. "They are Terran by their signatures, Lord Prince . . ."
     "Of  course they are  Terran, fool!"  Thrakhath raged. "Who else  would
send fighters against us? But how . . . ?"
     "The Terran carrier," Melek said. "Victory."
     "Victory," Thrakhath repeated, his claws twitching in and  out of their
sheaths with the violence of  his emotion. "The Terrans must  not be allowed
to stop  Unseen Death. Order all Vrag'chath  missiles fired immediately, and
launch fighters. Do it now!
     "We could deploy the Red Fang squadron to engage them, Lord Prince þ "
     "No! Red Fang has its own role to play. They will  adhere to the battle
plan!"
     "As you wish, Lord Prince. But I am  afraid that the Terrans might have
more  surprises  planned for us."  Melek's words  were  grim as he turned to
carry out Thrakhath's orders.
     The Prince summoned up a holographic tactical chart in the air in front
of his command seat. He glared into it as if the very  anger in his eyes was
a weapon to destroy the Terran with. "It  is they  who will be surprised,  I
think," he said quietly.
     Melek  glanced up from  his  console. The renegade  will be among these
pilots, Lord Prince," he pointed out. "Do the orders regarding him stand?"
     Thrakhath didn't  answer  right away. If only Sar'hrai  had carried out
the  job  of  crippling   the  Terran  carrier  at  Tamayo,  none  of  these
complications would he around to plague him now. Carrier and renegade  would
be safely ensconced in some  Confederation shipyard,  waiting for the moment
when they would join in the intricate dance  of Thrakhath's grand design. He
hoped Sar'hrai's late captain was suffering on the unending barren plains of
the Kilrathi netherworld for his failure. "If detected, the renegade must be
avoided," the Prince said at last. "It is not yet time for Ralgha to realize
his destiny . . ."

     Thunderbolt 300 Locanda System

     "The  big boys  are launching missiles, skipper." The voice in  Blair's
headphones had  been scrambled, decoded, and computer-reconstructed, but  he
recognized Vagabond's smooth, laid-back  tones. "Big suckers . .  . must  be
those Skippers you warned us about."
     "Time to give them something else to think  about,  Blair  said. "Green
Squadron, execute Plan Hammer. Amazon, give óem cover . . ."
     "Acknowledged," Major Berterelli said, his tone bland and professional.
     "On  it,  Colonel,"  Mbuto  chimed  in  a moment later. "Come  on, Blue
Squadron, let's give the cats something they can really chew on!"
     The Longbows and  Arrows peeled away, headed toward Thrakhath's command
carrier. Blair had been forced to improvise an attack plan quickly  once the
Kilrathi fleet  had been spotted, and Plan Hammer  was a  modification of  a
standing tactical operation he hoped would do the job.
     The main vulnerability  of the  Kilrathi was their reliance on a highly
organized leader  cult at all levels of their society. From the Emperor down
to  the most  ordinary noncom, leaders  were  looked  to  for  virtually all
decisions, even minor tactical choices a human  would automatically make  on
his own initiative. The chain of command in the Empire allowed for a certain
amount of  flexibility, but an Imperial force without a leader  grew rapidly
unstable.
     And Kilrathi leaders were well aware  of this. They fought honorably in
battle, like any  of their race, but they were also all too conscious of the
need for protection.
     A threat  to Thrakhath's  flagship,  then,  might  just  get  the  full
attention  of  the Kilrathi  prince, at least for  a time. He  would  almost
certainly concentrate his capital ships  to meet the danger, and  that might
just give Blair and Gold Squadron the time they needed to do something about
the Kilrathi missiles  that  were  already accelerating away from  the enemy
fleet. If the Kilrathi concentrated  on defending themselves, their missiles
might just be vulnerable.
     "Gold Squadron, stay with me," he went on.  "Let's give the heavy stuff
a wide berth if we can."
     "I'm for that!" Vaquero said. "The wider, the better."
     Still at full thrust, the Thunderbolts raced in pursuit of the Kilrathi
fighters, but despite Blair's preference their course led them directly past
one of the enemy destroyers. For a moment  he debated steering  clear of the
ship,  but that would give  the Kilrathi  strike  force too  much lead time.
Blair decided their  only choice was  to  risk the capitol ship's  defensive
fire. . . .
     "Check  your  shields, people,"  he ordered. "And  hold your fire.  Our
targets are the fighters."
     "Goddamn,"  Maniac said, almost too soft  to hear.  "We could nail this
bastard if we wanted to. . . ."
     "Stick to the program, Maniac," Blair warned.
     "I know,  I  know,"  Marshall  said.  "But  you can't  blame a  guy for
dreaming can you?"
     The  destroyer  opened fire, massive energy discharges  crackling  from
each of her turret batteries. One shot grazed Blair's starboard shields, and
his status board  lit  up red as the computer  assessed  the power loss.  It
wouldn't  take  too many such  hits  to overwhelm the  shielding  and  start
sloughing off armor.
     The biggest problem, though,  was just gripping  the steering yoke  and
trying to stay on course. Every nerve and  muscle within him  wanted to take
action,  any kind of action, but Blair forced himself to maintain his course
and press on. He hoped the others would follow his lead.
     "I'm  hit!  I'm  hit!" That  was  Beast  Jaeger.  "Direct  hit  on  bow
shielding. The generator's overloaded þ "
     "Hold  on, partner," Cobra  said.  She was flying  as his wingman again
today.  "Ease  off a bit. I'll slide in ahead of you." Blair  glanced at his
tactical display  and saw that the  lieutenant was suiting actions to words,
bringing her Thunderbolt in directly ahead of Jaeger's. She could soak up at
least some of the energy that came his way  now . . . but it was a dangerous
move, keeping such a tight formation.
     "What's your status, Beast?" he asked.
     "Bow shield  generator's off-line, Colonel,"  Jaeger  reported,  calmer
now. "But  I'm re-routing the  system now. It'll  be makeshift, but I'll get
the shields back up."
     "You could abort . . ."
     "No way, Colonel. I'm in it for the long haul."
     "Bastard's still firing," Maniac commented. "Damn near singed my wings.
I still wish I could take him down."
     "Maniac,  if  we take out  those  missiles, I  personally guarantee you
we'll  come back and toast this cat's  whiskers," Blair told him. "Any other
damage?"
     There was none. They had cleared the destroyer's primary kill zone now,
though a few stray shots might  still find them even here. But the worst was
over. . . .
     Except, of course, for stopping those missiles.

     Flag Bridge. KIS Hvar'kann Locanda System

     "The stalker  is loose among the meat-herd, Lord Prince.  Their bombers
have  damaged  the  forward  shields and  knocked  out our  primary  missile
launcher."
     "The  Terrans are prey, not predators,"  Thrakhath  snarled.  He didn't
like the  way Melek was beginning to regard the enemy. Respect or admiration
was an accolade to be accorded only to  predators, and the Terrans certainly
didn't qualify for that status  no matter how hard they fought to stay clear
of the Imperial claws and fangs.
     "Perhaps not," Melek said, almost  mildly. "But at the moment that prey
is dangerous. The threat to the flagship cannot be ignored, Lord Prince. And
it is not the only problem þ "
     "The Terran success  will not last,"  Thrakhath told him. "They are too
badly outnumbered to deal with all our ships. Particularly once the fighters
are fully deployed.''
     "The attacks  on the  flagship may be  no more  than  a diversion, Lord
Prince. The Terrans feint and threaten, but do not press home their thrusts.
Nor  are  they  eager to  engage our fighters.  We have destroyed two medium
interceptors  and  a bomber,  and  others  are  damaged. But  one  of  their
squadrons  is  pursuing the  missile  flight.  If  they  can  intercept  the
missiles,  the  whole  plan  will  be  lost. We  should  consider  diverting
additional fighters to cover the missile strike."
     "No, Melek," he said at last. "No, the Red Fangs will be sufficient for
that task. The other fighters will remain here, to support the fleet. And to
threaten the Terran carrier, once they break off their attacks here."
     "As  you  command,  Lord  Prince,"  Melek  acknowledged.  But Thrakhath
thought he could detect  an undercurrent of dispute in his  retainer's tone.
That would  have to be dealt with, at  some  point, lest it  grow  into open
rebellion.
     A pity, really, if Thrakhath ultimately was forced to do away with him.
Melek was too useful a subordinate to dispose of casually.

     Thunderbolt 300 Locanda System

     "Stay on óem," Blair said through tight-clenched teeth. "Stay on them .
. ."
     A  cluster  of  Kilrathi  missiles  glowed  bright on  his  short-range
scanner, almost  within  weapons  range now as the  Terrans continued  their
pursuit. Then they were gone again, cloaked, equally invisible to electronic
scanning and the naked  eye. It  made  the chase a  frustrating  one,  never
knowing just  when the targets might be  visible or where their  essentially
random course changes might  put them next. But patience and a little bit of
luck would still be enough to stop the Kilrathi  warheads . . . provided the
Terrans  kept  on  top  of  the  Skippers.  If  any of  them  got  past  the
Confederation  fighters,  picking  up  their  trail  again  later  would  be
well-nigh impossible.
     "Hobbes,  you and  Flash  get  to play  tag  with  these  boys,"  Blair
announced  on the tactical channel. "Stick  with it until you clean them up.
and try to let us  know if any  of them get past you. Save your missiles  if
you can .  . . there  might  be  some tougher opponents for you to go  after
later on." He paused.  "The rest of  you stay with me. We'll track down that
next batch while Hobbes has his fun here. Fire at any target of opportunity,
beams only . . . and don't deviate from your flight paths. Let's do it!"

     Red Fang Leader Locanda System

     Flight Captain Graldak nar Sutaghi accelerated  his Strakha fighter  to
full power  and studied the tell-tales flickering on his sensor screen.  The
Terrans were among  the missiles now,  beginning to  fire as the  Vrag'chath
popped  in  and  out  of  view  to  allow  their  computers  to make  course
corrections in flight.  It was time for  Graldak's  warriors  to make  their
presence known.
     He outnumbered the Terrans, with  two eights of fighters in his command
against  eight-and-two of the Terran Thunderbolts. But it  wasn't  much of a
margin  of  superiority.  If  only Prince  Thrakhath had provided additional
fighter support for the missiles! But instead he had chosen to hold back the
bulk  of the  Imperial  fighters  to defend  his  flagship,  even  though  a
half-blind churnah could see that the Terran attack had been a mere feint to
hold Imperial assets in place around the fleet  while they tried to stop the
missiles.
     It  would be fitting if  Thrakhath's  flagship was  blown away, Graldak
thought. The  Prince and his half-senile grandfather had  done nothing right
since  the  war  with  the  Terrans  had first begun. There was  a  stirring
throughout the Empire these days, the first scent of change on  the wind. If
only the Imperial familys iron talons could be pried  loose for a  time, the
Clans would  rise and sweep  them aside. Then  the  Empire  could  end  this
fruitless  war with the humans,  come to terms with them as predators rather
than continuing to view them, as Thrakhath did, as prey.
     But  meantime  the War went  on, and  Graldak  had  duty  and honor  to
maintain.
     "Red Fang Leader to Gleaming Talon Squadron," Graldak said aloud. "Drop
out of cloak and engage the Terrans. The honor of battle is yours."
     Gleaming   Talon's   fighters   were  a  good   match  for  the  Terran
Thunderbolts, especially with  the  element of surprise  on their side. They
would  tie the Terrans up for a  few  critical minutes, at least,  and  that
would give the other flights of missiles time to get further away. Once they
were more than a few thousand  octomaks from the Terran fighters, they would
be even harder to detect.
     And, meanwhile, Red Fang squadron  would remain clear of the  fighting,
until Graldak could decide how best to intervene. After all, it  wasn't just
missiles that could hide behind a cloak.


        CHAPTER XIII

     Thunderbolt 300 Locanda System

     "We got us some company, Colonel. I count eight on an intercept course,
bearing zero-one-six by three-five-eight."
     The target reticule flashed on his HUD,  and Blair glanced  down at the
targeting data display  to his right even as Flint's words were registering.
Targets . . . ? Where had they come from?
     The  answer made a cold lump in his stomach as the computer displayed a
diagram of the nearest target, asymmetrical, with projecting horns that gave
it a menacing, alien shape. Even before he saw the name Blair recognized the
design and cursed under his  breath. He should have realized  what he was up
against immediately.
     Strakha fighters.
     They  were  comparatively  rare in  the  Kilrathi arsenal  as  yet,  an
advanced-technology  space fighter on the cutting  edge of Kilrathi science.
Intelligence had nicknamed  them "Stealth Cats"  before they'd ever actually
been  encountered  in  combat,  and  they lived  up  to the  name. They were
designed for  sneaking, pure  and simple,  with sensor-distorting  materials
incorporated into the hull and a  shape that tended to confuse most scanning
systems.  Worst of all, though, they  mounted a  cloaking device that  could
actually obscure the craft from any detection whatsoever, at least for short
periods of time. But unlike the Skipper missiles, they  could  stay  hidden,
without having to drop the cloak to make navigation checks.
     The new Excaliburs Rachel Coriolis had been drooling over a  few  weeks
back  had  been designed to incorporate  a  Terran knock-off  of a  captured
Kilrathi cloak,  but the Excaliburs weren't in production  yet Strakha were.
And they were here, in the Locanda system, right now.
     "I see them, Flint," Blair  acknowledged his wingman's call.  "Escorts,
to take our minds off the missiles."
     "Hard to ignore óem," Flint said. When they want to meet us so bad  and
all . . ."
     He  didn't answer her.  "Maniac,  Cobra,  engage  the escort  fighters.
Wingmen, stay with your leaders. The  rest  of you, stay on course  and only
engage if you have to.
     "Ready to rock'n roll!" Marshall  responded. "C'mon Sandy,  let's teach
these kitties a few new flying tricks!"
     "We're on it," Cobra added a moment later.
     Four Thunderbolts  broke formation,  Maniac and Sandman  rolling  left,
Cobra and  Beast to  the  right as  they  spread  out  to meet the  oncoming
Kilrathi craft. He hoped his people could deal with two-to-one odds.
     That left four  Terran fighters to pursue the Imperial missiles. And if
even one of them got through . . .
     Blair forced the thought from his mind. He couldn't afford doubts now.
     "Here, kitty,  kitty," Maniac was taunting. "Get  ready to  become  cat
chow!"
     The Thunderbolts  maintained formation as they drove through the  enemy
squadron. Blair's  target computer  selected the closest fighter and  locked
on, and as  the  crosshairs glowed on  his HUD Blair triggered his blasters.
Energy beams  raked  the Kilrathi  ship, not quite  enough to penetrate  the
shields. But a moment later Flint was firing. The target ship tried to dodge
out of range, but too late. Flint's blaster tore through shields, armor, and
hull, and the Strakha blew.
     "Twenty-one!"  Flint  called. She sounded  excited,  eager. "Thanks for
laying him open for me, Colonel!"
     "Any  time,  Lieutenant," Blair  told  her. "Just remember to keep your
wits about you. Keep it frosty."
     Another explosion flared  to  port, where  Vagabond  had scored  a hit.
Hobbes  and Flash, meantime,  had  broken formation to pursue the  flight of
missiles. The four remaining Thunderbolts  in Blair's  dwindling force raced
on,  past another Skipper  that Vaquero and Blair each  managed to  tag.  It
didn't blow, but Blair's targeting computer reported extensive damage to the
guidance systems and  steering jets. That made it virtually certain to  miss
its target.
     They didn't  have to destroy  their targets, just disable them. Another
advantage, however slight . . .
     They still needed every advantage they could muster.

     Thunderbolt 308 Locanda System

     "Look  out,  Beast,  you've  got  one on your tail!"  Lieutenant Laurel
Buckley bit off a curse as she brought her fighter around to support Jaeger.
Almost from the moment they'd come into weapons range  the Kilrathi had been
pressing their attack hard,  their  fighters  swarming  like  angry  hornets
around the  outnumbered Terrans.  Strakha were dangerous foes when the  odds
were even. When they had numbers on their side as well they were deadly.
     But the four  Thunderbolts could keep them  busy for a while,  and that
might give Blair the time he needed. Cobra found herself wondering, briefly,
if  the colonel's decision to order her  and Maniac to deal with the escorts
was Blair's way of getting  rid of the pilots he trusted  least. Everyone in
the Wing knew how he felt about Marshall . and she suspected he had the same
opinion of her, after their clashes over Ralgha and Flint.
     And Jaeger had the only fighter damaged by the destroyer's fire. Was he
being left as a diversion because he, too, was considered expendable?
     On the other hand, he'd kept Dillon  paired with his  precious Kilrathi
friend, and nobody figured Flash as anything but deadwood.
     No,  Blair  didn't  strike  her as the kind  to  let personal  feelings
dictate his tactical choices. He probably figured  that she and Maniac would
be better at this kind of free-for-all dogfighting than they were  likely to
be pursuing and attacking the strike craft.  Four Thunderbolts against eight
Strakha þ no, six, now, after Flint and Maniac had each managed  to take one
out þ called for aggressive flying, and that was one thing Cobra Buckley was
good at.
     "Hold  her steady, Beast,"  she said, lining up  on the fighter  behind
Jaeger. "Steady  . . . turn  port!  Port!" She squeezed  the  trigger on her
blasters as she shouted.
     Jaeger cut sharply to  the  left, then broke right  again as he applied
braking  thrust.  The  Strakha,  pounded by Cobra's beams, shot past Beast's
Thunderbolt,  and  Jaeger opened fire on the  exposed tail where the shields
were still shimmering from the fury of Buckley's attack.
     For a moment nothing  happened. Then the shields collapsed and Jaeger's
blasters tore through armor. A shot penetrated to the  power plant, and  the
Strakha exploded.
     "Nice shooting, partner!" Cobra called, grinning.
     You set it up," Jaeger said. "Only five more to go!"
     "Four!" Maniac  cut in. "I've already nailed two of the bastards.  Come
on, you two, join the party! Plenty of little kitty asses for everybody!"
     "Two more coming in, Cobra," Jaeger reported. "Up ahead . . .  shit! My
shield generator's fritzing on me again!"
     "Back off, Beast, let me handle þ
     The two Strakha dived straight in, concentrating their fire on Jaeger's
Thunderbolt. Shot after  shot raked the fighter. He was trying to turn away,
but Buckley could see he was too late. The bow shield was failing . . .
     Then it was over. The  fireball consumed Jaeger's fighter so bright her
computer cut in the polarizers for an instant to protect  her eyes. When she
could  see  again,   nothing  remained  of  Helmut  Jaeger's  craft  but   a
rapidly-expanding cloud of twisted, scorched metal fragments.
     She  could  hardly  believe it had happened so  suddenly.  One  instant
Jaeger  had  been  out there  .  . . now, nothing.  It took her  back to the
horrors of  the  Kilrathi labor camp to guards who would strike down a slave
without warning  and  to people she knew who vanished in the night. The cats
were always the  same, always killing  without warning  and  without  mercy,
taking joy from death and fear and pain . . .
     "Bastards!" she screamed,  hitting her afterburners to dive toward  the
nearest  Strakha as she  opened fire  with  all  her energy weapons at once.
"Damn cat bastards! I'll see you all in hell!"

     Strike Leader Locanda System

     Graldak nar Sutaghi bared his fangs as four Terran fighters accelerated
away from the developing battle. So, the Terran strike  leader knows how  to
hunt,  he  thought  grimly. Prince  Thrakhath had bestowed a name upon their
Flight Wing commander: The Heart of the Tiger. Today the human was living up
to the honor of that name, clinging to his mission despite all the  barriers
the Empire raised in his path.
     Did Thrakhath realize  what kind of  warrior  this ape  was? The Prince
wasn't  known  for esteeming  his  Terran  foes, even those who  received  a
Kilrathi vendetta-name.
     No matter, now. The only thing that counted at the moment was  victory,
and  that was very nearly under Graldak's claws. The Terrans  had managed to
destroy two of the four flights of missiles, and they had almost reached the
third. But they would get no further.
     "Red  Fang squadron," he  said aloud,  feeling the battle-lust  surging
through his veins. "Decloak and engage at will!"

     Thunderbolt 300 Locanda System

     "Keep  them off me!  Keep  them off me!" Vaquero's  voice was urgent in
Blair's headphones. "Where the hell are you, Vagabond?"
     "Just hang in there a little longer," the Chinese pilot responded. "The
cavalry's coming."
     Blair wrenched his attention back to his  HUD as a Strakha dived toward
him, guns blazing. This last batch of enemy fighters had come at them out of
nowhere  eight against  his four, and the Terrans  were fighting  for  their
lives. Even as he flipped the Thunderbolt  into a tight, high-G evasive turn
a part of his mind was on another part of  the  battle entirely . . . and on
the  clock.  Each  second  ticking  away took the  final  flight of Kilrathi
missiles further from  the Terran fighters, letting them spread out. Soon it
would be all but impossible to detect them even when they weren't cloaked.
     He tracked the Strakha in, holding his fire and waiting for an opening.
Then Flint swept  past, her blasters searing,  battering at the other ship's
shields. Blair joined the barrage, and the Strakha came apart.
     "Twenty-two, Lieutenant " he remarked dryly.
     "No, sir, that one was yours. I just softened him up." Flint sounded as
tired as he felt.
     "We'll debate it when we get back to Old Vic," he said, trying to sound
encouraging.  Flint  had  done  yeoman  duty  on  his  wing  today,  keeping
formation,  supporting  him constantly, never forgetting herself or yielding
to temptation. Since that first hit she hadn't scored a clean kill,  but she
didn't  seem to be concerned at missing her chance to rack up more points in
her  quest  for revenge.  After this, he wouldn't doubt her  again, he  told
himself as he turned his  attention back to his  sensor  readouts. "Scanning
for new targets."
     There were four more Strakha ahead.
     "Everybody  up  to  another  dogfight?"  he  asked. "Targets at  eleven
o'clock, low. Let's nail them!"
     The four Thunderbolts closed up into tight formation and drove for  the
newest  targets. The Strakha broke  formation promptly, not waiting for  the
usual  round  of  individual  sorties that usually  marked  a fight with the
Kilrathi. Their CO must he one hell of a leader, Blair thought.
     "Vaquero, Vagabond, you guys dance  with these four, Blair  called.  "I
want to try for the rest of the missiles. You with me, Flint?"
     "On your wing, Colonel," she told him.
     He broke  to port and increased  thrust, with Flint's fighter  sticking
close by. The other two Thunderbolts drove straight  toward the Strakha, but
these Kilrathi pilots didn't rise to the bait of close combat. Blair saw the
images on his scanner flicker and go out as the Strakha engaged their cloaks
again. He muttered a curse under his breath.
     "Keep a sharp eye out, people," he said over the comm channel. "They'll
be back. Bet on it."
     And  suddenly  they  were back,  two  of  them, at least.  The  pair of
Kilrathi fighters materialized right  on  his  tail,  releasing missiles and
then fading out of sight once again. Blair dumped a decoy missile and banked
sharply, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline in his  blood.  One  of the
enemy missiles picked up the decoy and homed in on it, but the second wasn't
fooled  by the electronic  signature  and  continued  to  hurtle  after  the
Thunderbolt. Blair  altered course  sharply again,  veering back toward  the
decoy's flight path. The timing would have to be damned tight. . . .
     His  fighter  flashed past the  two  missiles  just  seconds before the
Kilrathi warhead detonated. The  blast that  erupted behind him  was  like a
false  dawn.  His  shield indicators registered a noticeable power loss, but
nothing close to what he would have suffered if  the full force of the blast
had been absorbed by the shields  themselves. After a moment he checked  his
screens, and let out  a  sigh.  The explosion had  caught  the second  enemy
missile.
     Then  another  Strakha  was in  sight,  firing on  him  with beams  and
missiles  from  dead ahead. Blair  returned fire,  and seconds  later  Flint
joined the fray  with  all  her guns blazing. Just as Blair's forward shield
was registering zero, the  Strakha went up in a magnificent  fireball. Blair
heard  Flint cheering. A  moment later Vaquero and Vagabond were joining in,
proclaiming another kill.
     "The  other two boys are  running!"  Vaquero shouted  all  trace of the
peaceful musician submerged now. "Looks like  we've  taught em a real lesson
this time!"
     "Permission to pursue, sir?" Flint added a moment later.
     "Negative," he  snapped.  "Negative! We've still  got missiles to track
down! Get on your scanners, people. Now!"
     But it was too  late. His sensors turned up nothing but debris and open
space, out to their maximum limit  The remaining Skipper missiles,  five  at
least, were gone
     Blair  stared at  the  empty screens, unable to  accept what  they were
telling him. They'd come so damned close.

     Flag Bridge, KIS Hvar'kann Locanda System

     "A report, Lord Prince."
     "What have  you got, Melek?"  Thrakhath leaned forward in his chair  to
study the bulky figure of the retainer.
     "The  Strakha have  eluded the  Terran Thunderbolts Lord Prince." Melek
paused. "The  surviving missiles are well on  their way, and interception by
the Terrans now is most unlikely. The colony will not survive."
     Thrakhath bared his  fangs. "Good. Then we have done what we came  here
to  do.  This  will  surely  spur   the  Terrans  into  a  rash  attempt  at
retaliation."  He could barely  contain the pleasure that burned inside him.
This was the first step to  ending the long war. "The  fleet  will disengage
and set  course  to the jump  point  to the  Ariel system. Let us leave  the
Terrans  to their . . .  possession. Let them decide  if they are pleased at
the price they have paid to drive us away from their colony."
     "Lord Prince  . . . many of  the  fighters are damaged and low on fuel.
The Strakha are at the very limit of their range. Should we not move to pick
them up first?" Melek's look was almost challenging.
     "The Terran reaction will be unpredictable, Melek. They could decide to
launch  a retaliatory  strike, once  they realize that all they have left is
vengeance. We must not delay too long. Any fighters that can rendezvous with
us may do so, but we will  not wait for stragglers." Thrakhath paused.  "You
may order tankers  to refuel them  if you wish. Carry  out my orders  .  . .
now."

     Thunderbolt 300 Locanda System

     "Good  God, Colonel, what do we do now?" Flint's voice was ragged, with
fatigue or shock or  disappointment. Blair wasn't sure which. "They're . . .
gone."
     "We  do  whatever  we  still  can," he  said, hard-pressed to keep  the
despair out of his own voice. "And we pray the in-system defenses spot those
bastards before they do any damage to the colony . . ."
     "I  counted five of them all  told, Colonel,"  Vaquero said.  "Can t we
blanket the approaches and pick them up before they reach the planet?"
     "We can try," Blair said.
     "So . . we head for home, skipper?" Vaquero asked.
     "But . .  . the colony," Flint  said.  "We can t just turn back now. We
have to try to stop those missiles!"
     "We'll do  what  we  can,  Lieutenant," Blair told her. "Spread out and
keep hunting,  and  call for refueling  from  Victory.  The  Home Guard  and
whatever  other ships are  closer in to Four can search,  too.  But we can't
track what we can't see. And I don't hold out much hope at this point."


        CHAPTER XIV

     Thunderbolt 300 Locanda System

     "The last  word we received put the Kilrathi concentrating  around  the
jump point to Ariel. Looks like they  re  pulling out. Not even bothering to
gather in all their fighters, either. Could be we can round up a few more of
the bastards before the whole thing's over."
     Blair wasn't particularly interested in the Kilrathi, not any more.  He
had other concerns. "Any word on the situation on Four, Lieutenant?"
     "It doesn't look good,  sir," Rollins  said heavily. "The  reports from
the  colony indicate at least  five missiles  got through. They were set for
high airbursts, so the  ground defenses never had a chance to fire at  them.
We won't know for a while if the pandemic is as bad as everybody claims, but
. . . well, like I said, it doesn't look good."
     "Acknowledged, Victory. Leader clear." Blair nodded slowly. The  report
was about  what he expected, but that didn't  make it any easier to swallow.
Five Kilrathi  biowarheads  exploding high  above the surface of the  colony
world  . . .  that would ensure a  fast spread of the  tailored disease they
carried. It would  not  be long  before the  effects of  the  attack  became
visible.
     Locanda IV  was as good as  dead already, and Maverick Blair, the great
pilot and war hero, was the man to blame for it all. The man who failed. . .
.
     He forced the thought aside and concentrated on his fighter's controls.
Blair's Thunderbolt came through the long fight with  only light damage, but
he had trouble with  the port-side  maneuvering  thrusters, and the computer
was unable to reroute the circuits through a more dependable network.
     They were near  the  original coordinates of the Kilrathi  fleet, which
thankfully  was moving away at full speed  toward  a nearby jump point. Blue
and  Green Squadrons,  after maintaining  a  prolonged  diversionary  action
against  Thrakhath's  flagship,  had  returned  to  Victory.  Gold  Squadron
remained out, however, searching for a lost sheep.
     Incredibly, only  Beast Jaeger's fighter was confirmed  as destroyed in
battle,  though several  of the  others were in terrible  shape.  How Hobbes
still  flew  at all  was a mystery, and  Vaquero's  weapons  systems finally
overloaded  in   the  last  fight  against  the  Strakha.  But  one  of  the
Thunderbolts remained missing, and Blair ordered Gold Squadron to spread out
and search for the missing man . . . or some sign of his fate.
     Lieutenant Alexander Sanders. callsign Sandman . . . Blair never really
knew  him.  He  had  served  as  Maniac's  wingman  throughout  the  current
deployment  and  spent  most of his  off-duty hours  hanging  with Marshall.
Although he always struck  Blair as a complete opposite to Maniac  þ steady,
dependable, loyal, reliable þ Sanders and Marshall were good friends as well
as wingmates.  Neither Blair nor  the lieutenant were very comfortable  with
each other  as a result of the  on going feud dividing the colonel  from the
major.
     Now it looked as if Blair  would never  get a chance  to know the  man.
Maniac had allowed  himself to be separated  from his  wingman in the battle
with the Kilrathi escort squadron while Cobra covered herself after Jaeger's
death,  so no one saw Sandman fighting. He  might have  been  destroyed,  or
simply  damaged and left adrift .  . . or  he  might  have ejected  from his
fighter. Until they were sure, they had to look.
     A  refueling  shuttle  arrived  from Victory  to  rendezvous  with  the
squadron and top off their tanks,  and now the eight remaining fighters were
to form a  broad search pattern, hunting for some signs of  the lost  pilot.
They  were  barely within sensor range of each other, and the  comm channels
were  mostly  quiet. Everyone  knew the  mission  had failed.  Everyone  was
exhausted  by  hours of  continuous  stress and tension  punctuated  by more
fighting than any of them had seen in a long, long time.
     "Bad news, Colonel," Cobra broke  into his reverie.  "I've got a debris
field  here.  Material analysis  reads consistent with  a Thunderbolt's hull
armor . . . It's gotta be Sandy's."
     "You're sure it isn't part of Jaeger's ship?"
     "No way, sir. Too far from where Beast caught it."
     "Start a close scan, Cobra. If there's an escape pod around there, find
it.
     "I'll try, sir, but  you know the cats.  If they spot  a pilot after he
ejects, they'll either blast him  where they find him or tractor him  in for
interrogation and a sporting death entertaining a ship's nobles."
     "Check  it out,  anyway,  Lieutenant. If  there's any  chance Sandman's
still alive, I want  to find him." Blair paused. "All fighters, from Leader.
Converge on Cobra's beacon and concentrate your search there."
     Bringing the  fighter around, he increased his thrust. Cobra was right,
of course.  The  odds against finding Sanders  alive were too high a bet for
anyone but a blind optimist, but he had to try.
     It was a pitiful gesture set against  his failure defending the colony,
but it was all he could do right now.

     Bridge, TCS Victory Locanda System

     ó'Approaching Gold Squadron's search grid now, sir.
     "Very good, Mr. DuBois," Eisen  acknowledged the helmsman's report. "Go
to station-keeping. Sensors to full sweep.  Let's help the  Colonel look for
his man. Any word, Lieutenant Rollins?"
     "Nothing from Gold Squadron, sir." Rollins turned in  his chair to face
the captain. "Coventry's broadcasting updates on the Kilrathi fleet. Several
of their ships have jumped, but it looks like Sar'hrai is delaying. Probably
to pick up stragglers from the  cat fighter strike. If we teamed up with the
cruiser, sir, we might get a few licks in . . ."
     "This is a carrier, not a dreadnought, Lieutenant,"  Eisen told him. "A
carrier with a  fighter wing that isn't likely to  be able  to pull a strike
mission for quite a while. And that close to a jump point you always run the
risk of something popping in when you least expect it."
     "Yes, sir," Rollins said. He sounded disappointed.
     "Look,  I know how everybody feels.  The  cats broke through,  and  the
colony's probably . . . in  trouble. You want to  hit back. So do I, believe
me.  But there's no sense in compounding  one tragedy with another. ConFleet
can't afford to throw away ships on meaningless gestures, and that's what it
would be if we tried to take Sar'hrai."
     They were the right  words, Eisen told himself. But he didn't like them
at all.
     "Captain?"  That was Tanaka, the Sensor Officer. "Sir, I'm only reading
seven fighters in the search grid. There ought to be eight . . ."
     "What the devil?" Eisen demanded. "Find that other fighter. And Rollins
. . . get on the line and tell Blair it's time he took roll call!"

     Thunderbolt 300 Locanda System

     "Sensors confirm it, Colonel. Lieutenant Peters didn't  respond to your
orders to tighten the search grid.  Instead she's  vectored  off toward  the
Ariel jump point."
     "Goddamn.  .  ."  Blair  didn't  finish  the  curse.  "She must've been
listening  on the comm channel when you filled me  in  on  enemy  movements.
Decided to even some scores  with the Kilrathi fighters you said were likely
to get left behind."
     He should have watched Flint  more closely,  he told himself, angry and
bitter. She had been a model wingman throughout the battle, but it must have
been dreadful for her to see those last few fighters  escape to launch their
deadly missiles at the colony.
     At her homeworld . . .
     All she needed  was one  more  kill  to  fill  the score to avenge  her
brother, with nearly sixty more for her father.  But  how many more Kilrathi
would Flint have to kill to avenge the population of an entire world?
     "Colonel,"  Eisen  broke onto the  channel.  "There  s still a Kilrathi
carrier near  the jump point. Possibly some undamaged fighters as well. Your
Lieutenant  Peters  is  heading  right into a  slaughterhouse, and she's not
acknowledging our  return-to-ship orders. Can you do  anything to stop her?"
The captain paused for several seconds. "It's your call, Blair."
     He stared at Eisen's image on his comm  screen, his mind racing.  Flint
had a huge head start, and by the time he mounted any sort of rescue mission
she  might  be  dead.  Gold  Squadron  was battered, exhausted, with missile
stocks low and battle damage  plaguing every one of the Thunderbolts. Common
sense dictated that they cut their losses now and let Flint have  her final,
suicidal  gesture.  No matter how upset she  might  be,  Robin Peters was no
fool. She just wanted to go down fighting.
     But there was another  part of Blair that couldn't just give up on her.
The same  part that prolonged the search for Sandman. Good pilots don't give
up on their own, especially not on their wingmen.
     "I'll go after her, sir," he said at  last. "See  if there's anything I
can do."
     Eisen  didn't  respond right away. "Understood, Colonel,"  he  said  at
last. "And . . . Godspeed."
     "This is Leader," Blair said, more  crisp than before. "If  Sanders had
managed  to eject,  we  would have found  him  by  now.  Pack it in, people.
Hobbes, get óem down to the deck I'm going after Flint."
     "My friend, you cannot go alone þ " Hobbes protested.
     "I'm  with you, Colonel," Cobra  overrode  Ralgha's  soft voice.  "Lets
move!"
     "I'm alone on this one," Blair said firmly. "That's a direct order. All
fighters return to Victory. One rogue pilot in a day is enough."
     "But þ " Cobra sounded ready to start another war.
     "A  direct order,  I said." Blair paused. "But  .  .  . Cobra,  you and
Vagabond  have the least damage,  after  me. Get  down on  the deck, let the
techs patch anything essential that's damaged,  and then rearm  and  refuel.
Prep another  fuel shuttle  and escort it toward the Ariel jump point. Flint
and I will be needing fuel before we get back."
     "If  you get back" Ralgha said. "I  do not understand why you are doing
this, my friend. You are putting yourself in danger for no good purpose  . .
."
     "She's my wingman, Hobbes. I have to go. Now carry out your orders." He
cut the channel with  a savage stab at the comm button, then switched on the
navigation computer to plot a course after Flint.
     Blair's only hope  was that he wasn't making the  same empty gesture as
she was.

     Thunderbolt 305 Locanda System

     Flint glanced mechanically from  her sensor board to the weapon  status
display, hardly aware of what she was doing  any more.  Somehow the shock of
what had happened was dull and  distant, as  though she was watching someone
else react in her place. The emotion that  nearly overpowered her as she had
realized her planet was under a slow, savage death  sentence faded away now,
replaced by grim determination.
     It felt the same way when Davie died . . . and when the news came in to
the  Academy about her father. The grief  and pain were there, but they were
suppressed by the overwhelming need to act, to do something.
     She must do  something,  even though she knew it  was hopeless.  If she
didn't die on the firing line, her career would probably  be over  anyway by
the time Blair  got through  with her. She had disobeyed  orders and let her
vengeance get in  the way of the mission once again, even  after the Colonel
gave  her  a second chance.  This  was the  last  time she would  be  in the
cockpit, facing the Kilrathi, one way or another.
     Robin Peters intended to make this last time count.
     Her navigational computer signaled that she was  fast  approaching  the
Ariel  jump  point. Her autopilot cut out  instantaneously, and Flint forced
herself to relax and let her combat training take over.
     The sensor board came alive with targets.

     Thunderbolt 300 Locanda System

     "Blair  to  Peters. Blair to Peters. Respond, please." Blair closed his
eyes for a moment, caught somewhere between anger and concern and fear. "For
God's sake, Flint, answer me.  Break off  and head  for home before it's too
late."
     But his autopilot told him it probably  was too late already. With  her
head start, she would have reached  the  jump point zone eight  minutes ago,
and eight minutes could be an eternity in a dogfight.  By  his best estimate
Blair's Thunderbolt was still two minutes from contact.
     He  ran  a  quick  inventory  of  his  weaponry. There  was  still  one
fire-and-forget missile slung under  his  wing and both his gun turrets were
fully charged. If there  was any real opposition waiting  ahead, it would be
all too inadequate, but he didn't plan to remain for  a long dogfight. Blair
wanted to find Flint in one piece, then persuade her to withdraw in a hurry.
Hopefully, the Kilrathi would be  too concerned with getting their  fighters
back to  Sar'hrai so  she could  jump  to worry about chasing  two foolhardy
Terrans . . .
     If not . . . well, it wasn't likely to be a long battle in any event.
     The computer beeped a  warning and cut the autopilot, and Blair focused
on the sensor  board as it began  to register  targets.  The view before him
wasn't encouraging.
     The Kilrathi carrier dominated the scene, huge  and menacing,  hovering
near the jump point. There was a great deal of activity around the big ship,
and for a moment, Blair  feared that Flint had driven straight in to  attack
the capital ship, a brave but utterly futile  gesture indeed.  But the blips
he was registering were all Kilrathi, and after a moment,  he  realized that
the  bulk  of  the targets  were  keeping  close to  the  carrier to protect
incoming fighters attempting to land on Sar'hrai's flight deck.
     Then he picked up Flint. She had not pursued the carrier after all, but
she was heavily involved with a trio of Vaktoth fighters which locked her in
a  classic  wheel attack circling her  fighter and pounding at  her  shields
without mercy. Flint handled  her Thunderbolt impressively, managing somehow
to dodge and  turn out of the line of fire again and  again, but  inevitably
some of those enemy beams penetrated  her defenses. It was  only a matter of
time before  her  shields finally failed, leaving her fighter exposed to the
full fury of the Kilrathi attack.
     Blair took in the scene in an instant and cut in his  afterburners. The
Thunderbolt surged forward as if eager for battle, and in  mere seconds  his
targeting computer locked on to one  of the  heavy  fighters ahead. He would
have to make this fast before any of the other Imperial  fighters decided to
intervene.
     His blasters caught  the Vaktoth  at  its  weakest  point,  in the rear
section  just  above the  engines. There was  a  flaw in the shield  pattern
there, making the fighter vulnerable to a concentrated attack, but  even the
weak spot on a Vaktoth was formidable by anyone's standards. Blasters  could
punch  through the shields, perhaps  even damage armor underneath, but  they
didn't cycle fast  enough to allow  the Thunderbolt to  exploit a successful
hit.  The usual  tactic  was  to add  a  missile to  the  mix, preferably  a
heat-seeker that  could fly light up  the  enemys main thruster outlet while
the shields were off-line .  . . or, lacking missiles, to  rely on a wingman
to finish the attack.
     Blair couldn't count on his  wingman, not until  she snapped out of her
crazy urge for vengeance. He must use his last missile.
     It  was over  in an  instant. The  Vaktoth  came apart  in  a  blinding
fireball. The other two Kilrathi pilots broke the wheel and turned away, but
Blair  knew they weren't ready  to run yet.  They  just wanted  to  regroup,
assess the new threat.
     And perhaps call in reinforcements.
     "Flint!" he called. "This  is the only chance we're going to get. Break
off now!"
     "Break off. . . Colonel? What are you doing? You're supposed to be back
at the ship . . ."
     "So are you," he snapped. "I decided you needed a personal invitation."
On his  screen he  saw  the two  Vaktoth  making slow, wide, outer  loops to
launch  a  converging  attack  from two directions. There was  no sign  that
others  planned to join them, but it  would only be a matter of time. Sooner
or  later more fighters would  reinforce these two,  unless  the two Terrans
abandoned the battle.
     "Leave me here, Colonel. I'll cover your retreat."
     "Forget it, Lieutenant," he told her. "I don't abandon my wingmen . . .
not even when they abandon me. Either we both go back to the ship or neither
one of us does."
     "I . . . yes, sir." Her voice was like lead.
     "Those two are coming in fast,"  he said,  still  studying  the  sensor
board. "We'll have to fight our way out. Follow my lead, Flint. I'm counting
on you."
     He   banked  left,  accelerating,  driving   toward  one  of  the   two
widely-separated Vaktoth. Flint stuck close to  his  wing, trailing a little
but evidently obeying him.
     Blair locked on his  targeting computer, but held his fire. The Vaktoth
grew in  his crosshairs, looming closer.  It opened fire,  and blaster shots
slammed  into  the  Thunderbolt's shields  where  the  earlier  fighting had
already  weakened his defenses. There  was precious little armor left  under
those intangible barriers of energy, and  if they failed now it would be the
end.
     He pulled his steering  yoke  up  hard  at  the  last  possible second,
sliding over the top  of the Kilrathi ship with only meters to spare.  Blair
spun the Thunderbolt around using maneuvering jets, praying  the damaged one
wouldn't let him down  this  time. Then, applying  full thrust, he tried  to
kill his velocity while opening fire with his blasters at point-blank range.
Shot  after shot pounded the rear shields of the Vaktoth  until the blasters
exhausted their energy banks.
     Blair spun the fighter around again and accelerated before the Kilrathi
pilot reacted. Moments later Flint was there, unleashing  her own beams in a
furious attack  on the weakened Vaktoth. The enemy ship  began bringing  its
weapons to bear, but too late. Flint's blaster fire penetrated the hull  and
set  off  a chain reaction  of  explosions in  the  fighter's fuel  and ammo
stores.
     For the first time since he'd flown with  her,  Blair didn't hear Flint
counting her score.
     "Let's  get  going,  Lieutenant.  Before  the  rest  of  the  welcoming
committee catches us."
     The last Vaktoth came into weapon range, firing a few random shots just
to measure  the distance. On his screen,  Blair  could see  four  more ships
detaching themselves from the force watching over the carrier.
     If  they got too involved with  this one,  they'd soon be facing  those
reinforcements, and Blair doubted he could manage another stand-up fight.
     "Your  hull  looks  pretty  bad,  Colonel,"  Flint  said,  echoing  his
thoughts. "I'll drop back and hold them."
     "You'll  follow my lead,  like I said before." More shots probed  after
them, and Blair could feel the sweat starting to run down his forehead under
the  flight  helmet despite  the  carefully-maintained  environment  of  the
cockpit. He  wasn't sure he could pull another  rabbit out of  his hat  this
time.
     "Colonel! Targets! Targets ahead!" Flint's voice was  more alive as she
called the warning.
     Four blips appeared ahead, blocking their escape route back to Victory.
With pursuers  behind and this new force ahead, they couldn't evade  another
battle for long. Blair knew they couldn't last once engaged.
     Suddenly the  four new blips changed from amber, the color-code  for an
unidentified bogie, to green.  Friendlies . . . Confed fighters. Blair could
hardly keep himself from whooping in sheer joy at the sight.
     "This is  Flight Captain Piet  DeWitt of  the  destroyer  Coventry,"  a
cheerful Terran voice  announced. "Captain Bondarevsky tells me you  carrier
hot-shots need a little assist. We're here to escort you home, Colonel. Fall
in ahead of our formation, and leave the bad guys to us."
     "We're in your hands, Captain," Blair said, breathing out a long,  soft
sigh. Already the nearest Vaktoth broke  off at the sight of the four  Arrow
interceptors, and the rest of the Kilrathi pursuit was slowing noticeably as
they studied the  newcomers  and  tried to assess what the Terrans  would do
next. "We thank you all."
     "Compliments of  Captain Bondarevsky, Colonel.  He told me  to tell you
this makes up for that time off New Sydney."
     Blair  felt  the  relief flowing  through  him,  and  with  it  another
sensation . . . fatigue. Now  that  the pressure was gone, it took the  full
force of his will to program the autopilot to take the Thunderbolt home.
     Then, at  last, he  slumped in  his  acceleration  couch exhausted.  He
didn't win any  victories today, but he survived, and  Flint  with him.  And
maybe that was enough.


        CHAPTER XV

     Flight Deck. TCS Victory Locanda System

     Blair stepped to the makeshift podium reluctantly,  and bowed  his head
for a moment before  speaking.  There were many aspects of a wing commanders
duties he didn't like, but this morning s duty was the worst of them all.
     He  raised his  head  and  studied  the  ranks  of officers and crewmen
gathered on  the  flight deck, assembled in orderly rows, and wearing  their
dress  uniforms to mark the solemn  occasion. Pilots  from the  four  combat
squadrons were prominent in the front of the formation. Even Maniac Marshall
looked solemn today as he mourned the loss of his best friend on board.
     Commander  Thomas  White,  Victory's  chaplain,  gave  Blair an  almost
imperceptible nod.
     "We're here to say good-bye to the men and women of the flight wing who
gave their lives in battle yesterday," Blair began slowly. "Nine pilots were
killed fighting the Kilrathi, dedicated warriors  whose places  will  be  as
difficult to fill in our hearts as they will be to replace on our  roster. I
haven't  served on this  ship very long, and I  didn't know any of  them all
that well, but I know they died heroes."
     He  paused  for a long time before continuing, fighting back a wave  of
emotion. These nine  officers would hardly be  noticed in  comparison to the
population of the  colony  on Locanda  IV, but  their deaths were  much more
immediate  and vivid to Blair. They died trying to carry out his orders in a
failed  mission,  and  as  wing  commander  he  carried the  full  burden of
responsibility for their deaths þ  and for the colonists they were unable to
protect þ squarely on his own inadequate shoulders.
     "I wish I knew the right words to say about each and every one of these
lost comrades," he went on at last.  "But the only  accolade I can give them
now  is  this:  each  of them died  serving in the  best  traditions  of the
Service, and they will be sorely missed."
     He stepped back from the  podium  and gave  a signal.  Behind  him, the
first  of nine sealed coffins rolled forward. Only one of them actually held
a body, since  Captain  Marina Ulyanova was the  only pilot who  managed  to
eject before her ship was destroyed during the fighting  around the Kilrathi
flagship. She died from her wounds a few hours later. The other coffins were
empty except for plaques identifying the pilots they commemorated.
     "Present . . . ARMS!" the Confed Marine commanding the seven-man  honor
guard  barked.  The  first  coffin  stopped moving for  a moment,  ready for
launch.
     From his place in  line,  Hobbes looked up and  spoke in slow, measured
tones. "Lieutenant Helmut Jaeger," he said.
     Up in Flight  Control  a technician activated the launch  sequence. The
coffin hurtled into space on fiery boosters, and the second one rolled in to
replace it.
     "Lieutenant Alexander Sanders," Hobbes went on. Beside him Maniac bowed
his head, his  lips moving  silently.  In prayer? Or  just saying  good-bye?
Blair didn't know.
     When the  third coffin was  in  place  Amazon Mbuto took over  the roll
call.  "Captain  Marina  Ulyanova,"  she  said.   Then,  "Lieutenant  Gustav
Svensson.
     The  grim muster went  on until all nine coffins were ejected. When the
task  was completed,  the  honor guard  raised their weapons and fired three
low-power laser  pulses through the force field at  the  end  of the  hangar
deck, then  stepped  back,  standing  at  attention.  Chaplain White stepped
forward. "We commit these  men and women to the empty depths of interstellar
space," he said slowly. "Watch over them, Lord, that they may find peace who
died in the fires of war. In the name of Jesus . . . Amen."

     Wing Commander's Office, TCS Victory Locanda System

     "You wanted to see me, Colonel?"
     Blair was hard-pressed to  speak. Instead he nodded and gestured toward
the chair near his desk. This was one interview he didn't want to conduct.
     Lieutenant Robin Peters sat  down. "I guess I know what this is about,"
she  said,  almost too softly to be  heard.  "You might have died out there,
chasing after me."
     He found his voice. "I might have."
     "The captain ordered you . . ."
     "No." Blair shook his head. "It was my call to make."
     "Well . . . I suppose you had your reasons. In your shoes, I would have
stayed  put.  Let the stupid bitch  get what she deserved." She looked away.
"Sorry, Colonel. I've never been very good at saying thanks."
     "You're welcome," he told her dryly.
     "I want you to understand, sir þ "
     "Understand? There's  nothing  to  understand, Flint. You  lost  it out
there.  Maybe  you had good reason.  Lord knows what  it's like to have your
homeworld . . . infected, like that. All at once, and despite  everything we
could do."  Blair paused. He didn't want to go on, but he knew he must. Even
though  he  understood  Flint's  feelings, he  couldn't  simply  ignore  her
actions. "We don't just decide to fly off on a suicide mission because we're
hurting. You have to fly with your head, Flint, not with your heart."
     "You've never done that, sir? Flown with your heart?"
     He  fixed  her with  a steady stare.  "The  day  you  see  me  do that,
Lieutenant, you can shoot me out of space yourself." A part  of him, though,
was well aware that he might have done the same thing himself.  No pilot was
an automaton, able to ignore his feelings at will. "We  already  talked once
about  this, Flint.  And I told you what would happen if you let  your heart
get  in  the  way of your  duty.  You haven't left me  a hell  of  a  lot of
choices."
     "I  know,  sir," she said,  dropping her gaze. "I  guess  I was kind of
hoping you'd let me off easy, let me keep flying. But you can't."
     "No, I can't," Blair said, voice level  and cold. "We  can't afford  to
let every pilot pursue some private little war. That's a sure way to let the
Kilrathi  win.  Until  further notice,  Lieutenant,  your  flight  status is
suspended. You're grounded."
     Now it was Blair who couldn't meet her eyes . Something left them both,
and only the expression of hopelessness and death remained.
     "Dismissed,"  he added,  and turned  back to his computer terminal.  He
waited until she  left  the office before sagging into his chair, feeling as
though he had just taken on an entire Kilrathi squadron on his own.

     Captain's Ready Room, TCS Victory Blackmane System

     "Sit down, Colonel. I'll only be a minute."
     "Take your  time, sir," Blair said, settling wearily into a chair while
Eisen turned his attention back to a computer terminal.
     Victory's captain  looked even more  tired than  Blair felt,  with  the
haggard expression of a  man  who  had gone  too many nights  without enough
sleep.  Everyone had been working overtime in the five days since the battle
off Locanda  IV. Yesterday they had  jumped from Locanda  to  the  Blackmane
System,  leaving behind  a world  already in the grip of spreading panic and
plague.
     Eisen finished whatever he was working on and turned his chair  to face
Blair. "Well, Colonel. How's the work going with the flight wing?
     "About  what you'd expect, sir. The techs have most of  the fighters up
and running  again. There was  some battle damage we  couldn't fully repair,
but we're getting  back on  track. I hope we can get  some replacement birds
from Blackmane Base  .  .  . and some pilots to fill the roster  out,  while
we're at it."
     Eisen frowned. "That won't be so easy, but I'll see what I can do."
     "Sir?"
     "Word  just  came  in.  With  Locanda Four  gone  and  the whole system
quarantined, HQ's decided to consolidate our  resources in this sector. That
means Blackmane Base is being shut down. Everything's shifting to Vespus and
Torgo.  Anybody who  can herd a boat  will be  needed to fly ships  for  the
evacuation. I might be  able to snag some fighters. They'll probably be glad
to unload a few from their  reserve stocks and save space for other outgoing
cargo."
     Blair felt a  sinking sensation  in his gut. "Evacuate the base?  Isn't
that a pretty extreme move? What about the colonists in this system?"
     The captain shook his head, frowning. "Doesn't look good. Confed's just
getting stretched too damn thin. If  the Kilrathi are  going to start  using
these bioweapons routinely, we can't  mount  an effective  defense in  every
system. So  the  orders are  to  concentrate on defending  the ones that are
really vital.  For  the rest .  . .  I  guess they get to rely  on the  good
old-fashioned cross-your-fingers defense initiative."
     "If  the  Confederation  can't  protect  its  own  civilian  population
anymore, we're in worse shape than I thought,"  Blair said quietly.  "Things
can't go on like this."
     Eisen nodded agreement. "According to our resident rumor mill, Rollins,
they won't. There's supposed to be some kind of big plan circulating back at
Torgo to end the war once and for all. Tolwyn and Taggart are  both supposed
to be involved somehow, and if you believe Rollins and his  sources  it will
be something pretty damned spectacular."
     "Great," Blair said without enthusiasm. "We're stretched  to the limit,
and HQ is going to unveil another one of their master plans."
     "All we can  do  is hope it  works," Eisen said. He  studied Blair from
dark narrowed eyes. "Have you had a medical evaluation lately, Colonel?"
     "No,  sir.  Blair  frowned,  uncertain  at  the  sudden  change in  the
direction of the conversation. "Why?"
     "You look like hell, for one thing."
     "Right back at you,  Captain.  I don't think there's a man on this boat
who looks too good now . . . except maybe Flash. I've never seen him looking
anything but perfect."
     "I'm serious, Blair. We've  all been working hard, but I've had reports
on  you. You're pulling double shifts every day. You're  not  eating enough,
and  you're certainly not  getting enough  sleep.  You  haven't been,  since
before the fight at Locanda."  Eisen  hesitated.  "And, frankly,  I  have to
wonder if it hasn't been screwing up your judgment."
     "My combat judgment, you mean," Blair amplified the thought for him.
     The captain  met his  look. "You came  on board with  a hot reputation,
Colonel. And I'd  stack your wing up against any in the Fleet. But it wasn't
enough to  turn the  cats  back at  Locanda Four. There are some people  who
claim you  had  just . .  . come back from  your medical  leave a little too
early,  that  your  judgment  was  impaired and  the  mission  suffered as a
consequence."
     "Captain, I never  claimed the  reputation everyone  insists hanging on
me,'' Blair said slowly. He was angry not just at  Eisen's words, but at the
fact that deep down he had been trying not to think the same things himself.
"Fact is, we were just plain outmatched. There were too  damn many of  them,
an