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  He watched the young man leave the hangar not quite as cocky or relaxed any longer. It seemed that the Home Defense squadron had truly dumped a hard-shelled case on the Navy. Dillon was an inexperienced kid who carried a major's rank and the powerful protection of a wealthy family to boot. Dillon would soon learn that neither benefit would mean much when the wing went into action. It was ironic, in a way His father had probably put him into the HDS to get him out of the dangerous job of test pilot

  Blair found himself hoping the kid would not have to learn his lesson the hard way. Not that he particularly cared what happened to this young showoff. . . but if he turned out to be the weak link in the wing, he could take better men and women down with him before it was all over.

  * * *

  Wing Commander's Office, TCS Victory.

  Locanda System

  The ship completed the jump to the Locanda System and began normal operations immediately. Blair spent a long day in Flight Control, supervising the first patrols dispatched to scout the region of space around the jump point and trying to get a feel for the new pilots in his command. As Whittaker had predicted, the new additions to Red Squadron seemed to be settling in well, but Flash was another matter. It still bothered Blair to have an inexperienced combat pilot with such a high rank, and the problem had caused him a sleepless night before he finally decided how to handle it.

  He needed to team Dillon with a wingman who outranked him, that much was evident. Let Flash be the ranking officer on some patrol mission which ran into trouble and the result would be disaster. Blair knew he would have to match Dillon with either himself Hobbes, or Maniac Marshall — the only three pilots in Gold Squadron with the rank to keep Dillon under tight control.

  Blair was sorely tempted to assign Flash as Maniac's wingman. The two deserved each other, and it might have been a valuable lesson for Marshall to see what it was like to fly with someone unreliable on his wing. But that would have been a risky choice at best. If Maniac didn't rise to the challenge, Blair would end up with two dead pilots. Even unreliable fighter jocks were assets not to be squandered so carelessly.

  So the choice remained between himself and Hobbes. He hesitated over it for a long time before finally putting Flash on Ralgha's wing. Blair was concerned that he was letting his personal distaste for the younger man cloud his judgment. but in the end, he decided that the Kilrathi renegade's calm, tightly-controlled manner was the right counterbalance to Dillon's inexperience and enthusiasm.

  Flash accepted the match-up with equanimity. Apparently he harbored no special feelings against the Kilrathi, and seemed content to fly with Hobbes. The two left on patrol soon after the jump and the patrol was successful, without incident.

  But Blair found himself resenting the necessity which forced him to assign Hobbes and Flash together. He missed flying with Ralgha on his wing. Flint had done a competent job, and he had flown a couple of patrols with Vaquero that went well, but it wasn't the same. He still didn't know the others in the squadron the way he knew Hobbes, and he couldn't count on them to know his mind the way the Kilrathi always did.

  Blair wearily straightened in his desk chair. Sometimes it seemed as if he would never get a handle on the assignment to Victory. He had always found it easy to meld into a new ship's company, but this time was different. He came on board determined to remain distant from the others. Blair needed to avoid getting too close, as he had done with his comrades on the Concordia. Blair doubted he could handle losing another shipload of friends . . . but he was finding it difficult to deal with day-to-day life among people who were still essentially strangers. Perhaps he had made the wrong decision from the start.

  He slowly rose. The day's work was done and his bunk was waiting for him.

  All that really seemed to matter anymore was getting through one more day, performing his duties, and somehow staying sane in the face of a war that seemed more insane every day. It was a far cry from the dreams of glory that had once beckoned Christopher Blair into the life of a fighter pilot, but duty — simple and straightforward — was all that remained for him.

  CHAPTER IX

  Flight Wing Rec Room, TCS Victory.

  Locanda System

  At first glance, there were no customers in the Rec Room when Blair entered, only the grizzled old petty officer who ran the bar. He was a member of the crew from the old Leningrad years ago; one of the handful of survivors who managed to escape the Kilrathi attack that destroyed her. The wounds he suffered in the escape were enough to have him invalided out of active duty, but Dmitri Rostov loved the Service too much to really retire. So he tended bar and swapped stories about the old days, never complaining about the arm and the eye sacrificed in the service of the Confederation.

  Ironically, Leningrad was destroyed by the Imperial cruiser Ras Nik'hra, under the command of Ralgha nar Hhallas before his decision to defect. Blair had been pleasantly surprised to learn that Rostov didn't seem to hold a grudge against the Kilrathi, indeed he rather seemed to enjoy talking to the renegade when Hobbes came in to drink.

  It was a pity some of the people who served with the Kilrathi pilot could not bury the hatchet the same way.

  "Hey, Rosty, how's it going?" Blair gave him a friendly wave. "Don't tell me none of my drunks are hanging out here tonight."

  Rostov shrugged and grunted as Blair approached the bar, gesturing toward the observation window on the far side of the compartment. One lonely figure stood framed against the star field, staring out at the void. It was Flint.

  "A slow night tonight, Comrade Colonel," Rostov agreed. He ventured a heavy smile. "Perhaps you work them too hard, tire them out too much. Even when I get a customer, it is to look, not to drink."

  "I'll take a scotch," Blair said. He waited while the one-armed bartender programmed the order then handed him the glass, using his thumbprint to charge the drink to his account. "Thanks, Bear."

  He crossed to the window where Flint stood, but didn't speak. Part of him wanted to respect her privacy, but another part wanted to draw her out, discover something about the woman behind the barriers she put around herself. She was his wingman, and Blair needed to know more about her, even if she was reluctant to be open with others.

  The lieutenant seemed totally absorbed in her own thoughts, and Blair doubted she even noticed him. But after a moment she glanced at him. "Sir," she said quietly. That one word carried a range of emotion, sadness, and loneliness mixed with a hint of stubborn pride, exposing a glimpse into Flint's soul.

  "I didn't mean to disturb you, Lieutenant," Blair said. "I was just wondering what it was about the view that had you so . . . involved."

  "Just . . . thinking, '' she said reluctantly.

  "I flew here once," Blair went on. "A lot of places to hide in this system, with the moons and the asteroids. Your first time?"

  Flint shook her head ruefully. "This is my home system sir," she told him. "My father commanded a Home Defense squadron after we settled here from Earth. Taught me everything he knew about flying."

  "A family tradition, then," Blair commented.

  She looked away. "He planned to pass it on to my brother David, but . . . the Kilrathi had their own plans."

  "I'm sorry," Blair said, knowing the inadequacy of words. He should never have questioned her, dredging up the past this way.

  "Everyone's lost someone, I guess," Flint said with a little shrug. "They don't give you medals for it. But coming back like this . . . it brings back a lot of memories, is all. A lot of stuff I haven't thought about since I went away to the Academy."

  "You haven't been back since then?"

  She shook her head. "Not much point. My mother took Davie's death hard. She just . . . gave up. He died when I was fifteen. My Dad was killed in the cockpit fighting the cats when they raided here the year after I left. He scored twenty-one kills over the years after Davie was killed. He said each one of them was dedicated to Davie's memory, so he'd have a proper escort of cats to join him in the afterlif
e. They said . . . they said he died trying to nail number twenty-two, which would have matched Davie's age, but Dad didn't make it." Her voice was flat, level, but Blair could see a hint of tears in her eyes. "I've made eighteen kills since I left the Academy. Four more for Davie, and then I start racking them up for Dad. Maybe I won't score fifty-seven for him, but I'm damned well going to try."

  Blair didn't say anything for a long time. He wasn't sure what bothered him most, the woman s preoccupation with vengeance or the cold, matter-of-fact way she talked about it. It was almost as if she was so wrapped up in her quest that she had lost touch with the emotions that set her on the path in the first place.

  Finally he changed the subject, gesturing toward the viewport. "Which one was home?"

  She pointed to a distant gleam of blue-green, barely showing a disk. "Locanda Four. The main colony world." She paused. "It's a pretty world . . . or it was. Dark purple nights, with bright moons that chased each other across the sky. The insects would sing . . . different serenades, depending on the closeness of the moons. Davie and I would sit up late together, just listening . . ."

  "I could try to get you some planet leave, while we're here," Blair offered. "You must have some family left? Or friends, at least?"

  "Just my uncle's family," she said. "I haven't been in touch with any of them for years." Flint hesitated, still staring at the distant point of light that had been her home. "No, thanks, Colonel. I appreciate the offer, I really do, but I've got too much I need to do here with the rest of the wing. I can't be on the sidelines if the cats are really planning a fight. Not here of all places. I need to be a part of whatever comes down."

  Blair studied her with a penetratingly probing gaze. "Look, Flint," he said at last, "I know something about the way you feel. Lord knows I've lost many people who were important to me over the years. But when we climb into our cockpits and get out there in space, I'm not sure I can afford to be with both you and your brother on my wing. I need you fighting for yourself, for the Wing, for the ship . . . not for a memory, not for vengeance. It cost your father his life. I don't want you to have to pay the same price."

  She looked at him, the tears in her eyes catching the light. "I just can't give up now, Colonel," she told him. "It's too much a part of who I am and what I've become. You've seen me fly; seen me fight. You know I can get the job done. Don't take it away from me. Please . . ."

  Blair took a long time to answer, sipping his drink to give himself more time to think. "All right," he said at last. "I guess you're not carrying around any more baggage than the rest of us. Maniac's still trying to prove he's the best, Hobbes is trying to live down being from the wrong damned species, and Cobra just . . . hates cats. You're in pretty good company, all things considered."

  "What about you, Colonel? What baggage is Maverick Blair carrying around after a whole lifetime spent fighting in the war?" Flint's eyes held a glint of interest that made her whole face seem more alive.

  He thought about Concordia . . . and about Angel, still out there somewhere on her secret mission. "Classified information, Lieutenant," he said, trying to muster a smile. "One of the privileges of being a colonel is never having to let the troops know you're human."

  "And are you?" she asked.

  He let out a sigh. "All too human, Lieutenant. Believe me, I am all too human."

  They stood side by side and watched the stars for a long time in silence.

  * * *

  Flight Wing Briefing Room, TCS Victory.

  Locanda System

  "Okay, people, let's get down to business," Blair said. "I'd like to conclude this briefing sometime before peace is signed, if you don't mind."

  A few scattered chuckles greeted his sally, and the ready room quieted. Blair glanced at the faces grouped around the table: the squadron commanders, deputies from each of the four squadrons, and representatives from the Wing's technical and maintenance staff and from Victory's Intelligence Office. Rollins was there as well, still functioning as Blair's aide and liaison between the flight wing and the bridge crew

  "Okay," Blair went on. "Here's the drill. For those of you who don't pay attention to the daily shipboard news, we've jumped into the Locanda System. It's been on or near the front lines for years now, and subjected to repeated raids by the Kilrathi Empire." He pushed a stray thought of Flint and her family from his mind and continued. "Until sometime early last month, there was an Imperial base deep in the asteroid belt on a fairly large rock designated Felix on our charts."

  He activated a holographic projector to display the star system. "But three weeks ago, a patrol out of Locanda Four discovered that the Empire was no longer maintaining perimeter patrols around Felix, so a well-equipped force was sent to check it out a destroyer, a heavy fighter escort, and a transport carrying a company of Marines. They met no resistance, and they discovered that the Kilrathi base was completely abandoned. Everything had been cleaned out. That base supported at least three squadrons of fighters and a depot large enough for a carrier to do a field refit. But they gave it up — lock, stock, and fighter bay."

  "But I heard there was supposed to be all this activity here." That was Denise Mbuto, callsign Amazon, the major commanding the interceptors of Blue Squadron. "Everybody said there was going to be some kind of big push. '

  Blair nodded. "Yeah. Felix was abandoned while reports were received concerning increased Kilrathi ship activities in these parts, such as several capital ships, including three carriers. One was the Sar'hrai, which launched that strike on us at Tamayo. There was also a report placing Crown Prince Thrakhath's brand-new flagship here. Certainly there have been a lot of little dustups involving Kilrathi fighter patrols and a few light cap ships, destroyers and such.

  "It would make little sense to abandon a well-defended base while building up the fleet presence," Ralgha said slowly. "Thrakhath is many things — arrogant, ambitious, ruthless — but I have never considered him to be a fool. There is something here which we cannot see as yet."

  "Maybe the local boys are just seeing things," Marshall said. "One carrier passes through on the way to hit us at Tamayo, and it turns into a whole damned fleet with the head kitty-cat in person commanding."

  Blair shook his head. "No. Most of the reports are too well supported by evidence. We have tracking and sensor data that bears out the notion of three carriers and maybe eight smaller capital ships. That's a pretty fair sized force to be hanging around a backwater like Locanda. And Hobbes is right. The asteroid base would have been a useful adjunct to operations . . . too useful to be abandoned casually."

  "Perhaps the fleet was sent to cover the withdrawal of the base contingent," Warlock Whittaker suggested. "It would take a lot of transports to dismantle a base that size, and if they thought we had enough ships to interfere with them, they would have a powerful escort in place."

  "They might even be moving the base," Major Luigi Berterelli, commander of Green Squadron, added. "If they were looking to expand their facilities, or if they just thought our patrols had learned too much about the post on Felix, they might have decided to set up something bigger and better elsewhere. That would require an escort, too, while the new base was still getting up and operating . . . and if they had a new base, it could be supporting whatever else the cats have planned for that flotilla of theirs." Berterelli had an anticipatory gleam in his eyes, as if he could already see this new base lined up in his bombsights. Green Squadron had not seen much active service lately, but a Kilrathi base would give the bombers a chance to show what they could do.

  "Those are possibilities," Blair agreed, "but by no means the only ones." He nodded toward Commander Thomas Fairfax, Victory's senior intelligence officer. "Commander?"

  "Headquarters has been monitoring Kilrathi radio transmissions regarding Locanda for several weeks now, trying to discover just what their intentions are with regard to the system. A courier in from Torgo this morning brought a summary of the most recent findings." Fairfax paused, consulting
a portable computer terminal. "First of all, it is believed that their original timetable for whatever is happening at Locanda has been rendered inoperative, possibly due to problems which have arisen in related missions elsewhere."

  "Tamayo, maybe?" Mbuto suggested with a savage smile.

  "Uncertain," Fairfax said seriously. "At any rate, we believe them to be behind schedule already, which means the action could get heavy any time now.

  "The real question is, what action?" Major Ellen Pierce, Whittaker's Exec, put in.

  "Linguistics are relating trouble with certain intercepted Kilrathi broadcasts." The Intelligence Officer plunged ahead as if she hadn't spoken. "One message in particular definitely refers to Kilrathi intentions for the Locanda System . . . it uses a word we've never seen before. Trav'hra'nigath."

  "Bless you," Maniac said with a grin.

  Blair glared at him. "Hobbes . . . does that mean anything to you?"

  Ralgha was giving the Kilrathi equivalent of a frown. "The nearest English translation, my friend, would be literally to grant the prize without struggle." He paused. "Surrender? That is not a concept my people embrace. Struggle is the one constant in life."

  "They are planning to surrender the system?" Blair asked. "That doesn't explain the buildup, though it would at least account for abandoning the base."

  "The implications of the messages we've intercepted suggest that the Empire intends some gesture at Locanda," Fairfax said. "A demonstration of power . . . or of intentions. Again, we're not entirely sure about the exact meaning of all that we've intercepted."

  Whittaker was nodding. "I could see that. Even if they're starting to think in terms of giving up real estate, the cats aren't likely to just quietly turn tail and run That wouldn't fit into their system of honor, would it, Colonel?" He was looking at Hobbes.

  "Ceasing to struggle for a prize one deems worthwhile is not honorable at all," Hobbes said slowly. "A tactical retreat, yes, especially if there is duty to one's followers involved, but the ultimate object is never abandoned."