rest in the matter. But it  would  not  be easy, in  the heat of a major
battle, to carry out those instructions.
     The  renegade was  better  dead  anyway.  Years  ago  he  had defected,
carrying an  entire capital  ship  and  enough vital secrets to set back the
Imperial war effort by a decade. Since that time, the scum  (once a  Lord of
the Empire but now  nothing more than  an  outcast) actually dared fly human
fighters against his own kind.
     Well, the confusion of  battle made it  difficult to  know  when orders
were  violated  accidentally . . . or deliberately. And given  any chance at
all, Arrak knew he would  not turn from destroying the traitor Ralgha if the
chance presented itself.
     "Hunt Flight," he said, exulting at the approach of battle. "Prepare to
engage!"

     Thunderbolt 300 Tamayo System

     "Here they come!"
     "Maintain  formation. Meet the  enemy with  overwhelming  force, and he
will be ours."
     "Look sharp, people . . ."
     The voices on the radio were growing  more and more excited, except for
the  rigidly  controlled  growl  from  Hobbes.  Blair  could  feel  his  own
adrenaline pumping  as if he was already on the firing line beside the other
pilots. He fought to keep from adding encouraging comments of his own to the
radio traffic that was already out there.
     He checked his autopilot display again. ETA four minutes . . .
     Blair  was torn  between  waiting for  the  outlying  patrol  ships  to
assemble and refuel so the  entire force could  strike at once, and plunging
straight into  the  fray  as  quickly as  he  and Flint could to  reach  the
vicinity of  the Victory. Eisen had urged them not to lose  any time,  but a
larger relief force would certainly have been worth a few extra minutes.
     In the  end, though, Blair had decided that he and Flint needed to join
the  others as quickly as possible. The question of  how well  Hobbes  could
control the wing loomed over him in addition to the potential ill effects on
morale if Blair missed the  second large-scale fight mounted  by his  flight
wing. So he  left instructions for  the  two interceptor  patrols to form  a
single  relief  flight,  but he and  Flint were already  on their  way  into
battle.
     He was  glad  of the decision now.  It would be four minutes before the
two  Thunderbolts could  join  their  comrades, and in combat,  four minutes
could be an eternity.
     "They're breaking formation," a voice announced.  Blair  thought it was
Lieutenant Chang. "Starting their attack runs . . . now!"
     "I've  got the  first hairball," Maniac  Marshall  announced. "Watch my
tail, Sandman."
     "Do not lose contact  with your wingmen," Ralgha's voice urged. "And do
not let them draw you away from the carrier."
     From the chatter, Blair could  picture the unfolding battle even before
Rollins fed him tactical information on his  monitors. They counted at least
thirty incoming Kilrathi ships, a mix of  Dralthi and lighter Darket, ranged
against  eighteen  Confed  fighters  and  the  larger  but  less  responsive
hull-mounted defensive batteries aboard Victory.  From the sound of  things,
Hobbes was trying to  keep the Terran craft in  a rough defensive line, with
paired wingmen watching over one another.  But hotheads  like  Marshall were
likely to let  themselves be distracted  by  individual  opponents and drawn
into dogfights, forgetting the big picture.
     The Kilrathi had  ships to spare. They  would still be able  to  hurl a
powerful force against the Terran carrier after  all  the screening fighters
were accounted for.
     "I've got  the  next one."  That voice,  cold  and deadly, belonged  to
Lieutenant Buckley. Another pilot easily drawn by the enemy, if she took her
attitude into the cockpit with her. "See how you like this, kitty!"
     "I always heard  about target-rich environments!" Blair  recognized the
voice  as belonging to Captain Max  "Mad Max" Lewis, another  Gold  Squadron
pilot. "C'mon, Vaquero, let's show ‘em a thing or two!"
     "Scratch one!  Scratch one! We have achieved  kitty litter!" Marshall's
cry was triumphant.
     "Make  that  two," Cobra chimed in a moment later. Despite the depth of
her  hatred, she  sounded as  tightly  controlled  as Hobbes, as if the wild
passion were translated into a cold, deadly intensity.
     Blair checked his autopilot. Two minutes . . .
     "Flint,  go to  afterburners,"  he  ordered. "Full power. Let's get  up
there!" He shoved his throttles fully into the  red  zone, feeling the extra
G-force press him against his seat.
     "Maniac! Maniac! I've got two on my tail! Give me a hand, Maniac!" That
was Marshall's wingman, Lieutenant Alex Sanders, running name Sandman. After
a pause, he went on, voice rising with excitement . . . or panic. "For God's
sake, Maniac, give me a hand!"
     "Break left on my signal, Sandman," Ralgha's voice cut him off. "Steady
. . . steady . . . break!"
     The  tactical  sensors were picking up details  of the  battle now, and
Blair watched as the symbols representing Hobbes and Vagabond moved together
to support the beleaguered Sanders. Maniac Marshall was far away now, almost
at the  limit of the scans, hotly  engaged with a Dralthi and  paying little
attention to the other Confed pilots.
     One of the  Kilrathi ships  pursuing  Sandrnan  disappeared  under  the
onslaught of Ralgha's sudden attack,  while Chang dove in toward  the second
and forced it to break off.
     "Thanks, Hobbes,"  Sanders said,  a little  breathless  now.  "I  . . .
thanks."
     "I'm hit! Front armors gone .  . . my shields . . ."  Mad Max Lewis was
almost incoherent. "He's coming in for another pass . . . Noooooo!!"
     The  symbol  representing the  Terran  Thunderbolt faded  from  Blair's
tactical  screen. The  rest  of  the fighters were jumbled together, a  mad,
chaotic dance played on the screen while Blair clenched his hands around his
steering yoke in frustration. Gold Squadron was fully engaged now, while the
lighter  craft of  Red Squadron  operated on  the  fringes  of  the  battle,
surrounding any Kilrathi ships that penetrated the defensive  line.  But the
sheer weight of numbers began to play a major role as more and more Kilrathi
pilots jumped into the fray. Even though they flew as individuals, they were
still a team determinedly pressing their Terran opponents.
     "Enemy   coming  into  range,  Colonel!"  Flint  warned.  "What's  your
pleasure?"
     "Stick close, Flint," he said, powering up his weapons and locking  his
targeting array on the nearest Dralthi. "And watch my back. Things are going
to get pretty damned rough out here in a second or two!"
     His target chased a Thunderbolt, the two fighters circling each  other,
attempting to find some type of advantage. Now, as Blair and Flint appeared,
the  Dralthi broke  off and rolled left,  dodging and  juking as it tried to
gain some distance.
     "Not this  time,  fuzzball," Blair said, lining up  the  crosshairs and
opening fire with his blasters. The energy bolts  raked along the top of the
enemy  fighter, hitting  directly  behind  the cockpit,  between two  large,
forward-sweeping bat-wings.  The Kilrathi  fighter  seemed  to  stagger  and
wrenched away to port as the pilot tried  to evade. Blair used his thrusters
to spin  his ship  in  flight and lined  up on  the Dralthi again before the
Kilrathi could finish his turn.
     His  fingers tightened  over  the  firing  stud, and  the blasters tore
through the weakened shields and armor. The fighter disappeared in a ball of
flame  and spinning debris. "Got  him!" Blair  said.  He checked his  sensor
rnonitor for a fresh target.
     "Thanks for the assist, Colonel," said the pilot of the  fighter he had
rescued. It was Lieutenant Mitchell Lopez, Vaquero,  who had been  Mad Max's
wingman.
     "Welcome to the  battle,  my friend," Ralgha said. "Will  you take over
the command?"
     "I  relieve you,  Hobbes," Blair told him.  "Gold Squadron, from Blair.
Reform on me! You're getting too damned spread out. Repeat, reform  skirmish
line around me. Hobbes, what's the story?"
     "One  Thunderbolt and  two  Hellcats destroyed,  Colonel,"  Ralgha said
formally. "And Lieutenant Jaeger's Thunderbolt is severely damaged."
     "Right. Jaeger, disengage.  If you  think you can make  a safe landing,
get  back to the carrier. Otherwise pull  back and we'll help you in  later.
Who's your wingman?"
     "Cobra, sir," Helmut "Beast" Jaeger responded.
     "Okay. Vaquero, Cobra, you're teamed now. Cover Beast's withdrawal  and
then get back in formation. Got me?"
     "Understood," Vaquero replied.
     There was a  pause before Cobra spoke up.  The tactical display  showed
she was still engaged with a Darket, but her opponent suddenly vanished from
the screen. "I'm on it, Colonel," Lieutenant Buckley said at last. "Let's do
it, Vaquero, so we can get back in there and kill us some cats!"
     The three Thunderbolts  peeled  off, while the rest of the Terran craft
began to take their positions around Blair and Flint . . . all except one.
     "Marshall!" Blair rasped. "Maniac, if you don't get your tail back here
I'll open fire on you myself!"
     "Coming, Mother," Maniac responded, unabashed.
     The  fighting was still going on,  and Blair  restrained  himself  from
flinging  himself  into  the action  as  he issued  orders  and  studied the
tactical situation. By now the  battle had moved close enough to the Victory
for the carrier's big guns to join in the defense, and that  was forcing the
Kilrathi force  to  be  cautious. Their casualties  were  heavier  than  the
Terrans', but they still  outnumbered Blair's command slightly, and more  of
their ships  were  comparatively fresh  and undamaged. The odds still didn't
look too good.
     Blair's mind  raced, grappling with the tactical picture on his screen.
Somehow the Terrans had to take the initiative force the Kilrathi  to battle
under  conditions favoring the defenders. Victory's guns would go a long way
toward redressing the balance. So would the four interceptors, but they were
still at  least six minutes away, and after  the initial  surprise  of their
arrival   they  could  not  sustain   a   long-term  advantage  under  these
circumstances. What  they  needed was a  way  to  maximize all of the Terran
assets in one thrust, something the Kilrathi would not see coming.
     He  found  himself  smiling  grimly  under  his helmet.  There  was one
maneuver that just might work . . .
     "Kennel, Kennel, this is Watchdog Leader," he said urgently. "Come  in,
Kennel."
     "Reading you, Colonel," Rollins replied.
     "Go to tight-beam and scramble,"  he ordered, switching the circuits on
his comm system. A moment  later  a green light  shimmered  under  the  comm
screen, indicating that Rollins  had  set up a tight laser-link  between the
carrier and his fighter. The system  was excellent for secure communications
between large ships or between the carrier and an individual fighter, but it
was inefficient for ship-to-ship transmissions between fighters due to their
smaller size, higher speeds, and unpredictable maneuvering.
     But what Blair wanted to do now must be kept secret until his trap  was
sprung.
     "I want you to  pass the word to each  fighter, Lieutenant," Blair said
without preamble. "New orders for all ships. On my mark . . .

     Hunt Leader Tamayo System

     Flight Commander Arrak  gave a snarl of triumph as he  listened to  the
computer translation of the Terran command frequency radio broadcasts.
     We can't  take any more of this!"  the human commander was saying. "All
ships, break off and withdraw! Break off while you still can!"
     That was what Arrak had been waiting to hear. The Terrans put up a good
fight, but they were outnumbered and  outgunned,  and he  knew they would be
stretched too thin sooner or later. This was his chance.
     "They are beginning  to withdraw," he  said, the battle madness singing
inside him. Concentrate fire on the carrier. We will deal with the apes once
the capital ship is destroyed!"
     On his  tactical screen, the Terran fighters were breaking off to  flee
past the covering bulk of the carrier. Arrak showed his fangs and pushed his
throttles forward. He sensed a moment's regret  that he was unable to corner
the ship he had identified as the renegade's, but his duty now was clear.
     The  renegade would still be out there,  and helpless, once the carrier
was destroyed.
     "Talons  of  the Emperor!" he  called,  the  old  battle cry making him
tremble with anticipation of glory. "Attack! Attack! Attack!"


        CHAPTER SEVEN

     Thunderbolt 300 Tamayo System

     "They're heading in," Blair said. "Look sharp, people."  On his screen,
he  saw the blips representing the Kilrathi attack force gathering speed  as
they advanced  toward the Victory. With the Terran fighters withdrawing from
the battle, the Kilrathi could begin high-speed  attack runs on the carrier,
using  maneuverability  and  velocity  to evade  the beams from  the capital
ship's defensive batteries. It was exactly the kind of situation every pilot
hoped for: a  big, clumsy  carrier stripped  of its  defensive fighters  and
lying almost helpless against a massed bombing run.
     Only this  time, the  carrier  wouldn't  be quite  as  helpless as  she
appeared . . .
     "Captain says any time you're ready, Colonel," Rollins said, a note  of
worry creeping into his voice.
     He  didn't  let the lieutenant's  fears push him into  acting too soon.
Blair checked his sensors again,  saw  the four interceptors beginning their
swing  to bring them squarely  behind the  attackers.  His own fighters  had
started  this  maneuver  feigning  panic and disorder,  but  now  they  were
beginning to reform into four distinct groups.
     The time was almost right . . .
     "Execute!" He almost shouted the order as he wrenched the steering yoke
fiercely  and advanced the throttles into the afterburner red zone again. By
the  time this counterthrust was over  he  would be nearly  dry  again,  but
hopefully none  of the Confed  fighters would  need  any fuel reserves after
this. "Execute turn and attack at will!"
     Inevitably, someone — it sounded like Maniac — gave a whoop and shouted
"Who's Will?" Blair ignored it and concentrated on the enemy ships clustered
ahead.
     The carrier opened fire with a barrage  from her main batteries. One of
the attackers  flew straight into the  beams. It came  apart, looking like a
spectacular fireball that seemed to herald the beginning of the new phase of
this savage fight.
     Blair hoped it would be the final phase.

     Hunt Leader Tamayo System

     "It is a trap! The apes have set a trap!"
     Arrak  somehow  refrained  from  cursing or snarling,  but despite  his
control he still thought longingly of sinking his fangs into the neck of the
pilot,  whoever  he  was  who  filled the comm  channel  with  his  inspired
revelations of the obvious. Yes, the apes had set a trap, drawn his fighters
in closer to  the  Terran carrier where they  would  be  caught  between the
capital ship's big guns and four . . . no, make it five converging groups of
fighters. There were  more Confederation  craft out there  now,  a whole new
group that had  not  been in  the fight  until now. It was a masterful trap,
worthy of a Kilrathi hunter.
     "Break off!" he snarled. "Break off the action against the  carrier and
regroup. It seems we have to give the hairless apes another lesson before we
can finish this."
     Then  he had no more time for talk.  A  pair  of  heavy Terran fighters
suddenly appeared out  of nowhere and were trying to lock onto  him from the
rear.  Arrak needed all his skill and concentration to keep  the enemy  from
winning  that  decisive  advantage.  He  pulled  a  tight,  high-G  turn  to
starboard, using his attitude thruster to make the Dralthi swing around even
faster,  and opened fire with all guns at  once. The Terran fighters shields
absorbed most of  the damage, but his sensors  registered a hit  against the
underlying armor as well.
     "You fly well," the Terran pilot commented, using the standard Imperial
tactical band. "Are you  worth  fighting? Declare yourself if you  wish  the
honor of battle with Ralgha nar Hhallas."
     Arrak  showed  his  fangs  under  his flight  helmet. The renegade!  He
couldn't reply, lest he reveal to his superiors his disobedience of standing
orders, but he could defend himself against the enemy attack . . .
     The Kilrathi passed mere meters from  the Terran  fighter, close enough
to see the bulky spacesuited shape of his adversary through the viewport.
     It would be a battle to remember.

     Thunderbolt 300 Tamayo System

     "A hit! A hit! That'll show the kitty who's the boss!"
     "Rein it in, Maniac, and  do  your job," Blair snapped. He lined  up  a
shot  and launched  a heat-seeker at the nearest  Darket,  his  eyes already
searching the sensor screen for a fresh target. He hardly needed  to look to
know  when  the lighter Kilrathi  ship  blew  up. He  had encountered  these
fighters often enough  over the years to  know  just  about  what  level  of
punishment they could take, and he was rarely wrong.
     Close by,  Flint was heavily engaged with a  Dralthi, the  two fighters
weaving a complex pattern as they circled and dodged, looking for a moment's
advantage to administer a lethal strike.
     "You  need  an  assist,  Flint?"  Blair  asked,  steering  toward   the
dogfighters.
     The  Thunderbolt delivered a sustained burst of  energy  beams  at  the
Dralthi and dived in hard and fast. "Find your  own  party,  Colonel," Flint
said. "This furball is all mine!"
     A pair  of missiles streaked from the underside of her wings and struck
home  just above  the  Dralthis  engine  mountings.  An  expanding  ball  of
superheated gas and  whirling debris  consumed the Kilrathi ship, and Peters
drove her Thunderbolt straight through the fireball with a triumphant shout,
"Yes! That's another one for you, Davie!"
     Blair wondered who she was  talking about or to, but only for a moment.
His attention  returned  to  the  monitor  showing the  Terran  trap closing
perfectly.  By having Rollins  pass his orders  by tight-beam communications
links, he  was able to  prime  the entire Terran force to fall back  on  his
broadcast command.  It looked and  sounded like a panic-stricken withdrawal,
but  in  fact  everyone  knew  their  precise   jobs  and  prepared  for   a
counterattack as soon as he gave the signal. Now the carrier was laying down
a  withering barrage, and the four  refueled interceptors from Blue Squadron
appeared  to join the Hellcats and  Thunderbolts in  closing  off the  enemy
escape route.
     Now the Terran fighters were spread in a rough hemispherical formation,
trying to keep the Kilrathi  from escaping the trap. Even if  they did,  the
Kilrathi  took  heavy  losses in the counterthrust. They knew they were in a
fight, that much was certain.
     "Hobbes, can you help me  out?" That was Vagabond,  his breathing sharp
and rapid. "I got two of these guys all over my tail! I need help  here .  .
."
     "I  cannot  assist,"  Ralgha replied. "My  opponent is pressing me very
hard."
     Blair  checked  his screen, noted the  two  fighters.  They weren't far
away.  "Flint, you  back up  Chang," he ordered.  "I'll backstop Hobbes. Got
it?"
     "Got it," Flint confirmed. "Vagabond, you just keep the little bastards
busy. I'm on the way!
     Ralgha  and  his   opponent  were   well-matched,  though  the  heavier
Thunderbolt  should have given  Hobbes an edge. That was  probably offset by
the fact that the Dralthi was more maneuverable, at least in the hands  of a
good  pilot, and  from the  looks of things  this  one was  little  short of
brilliant. Before  Blair  could  get  into effective  range, the enemy  ship
executed a  perfect  fishhook maneuver,  angling  away  from the Thunderbolt
until just  the  right  moment,  then suddenly  turning back  on itself  and
driving in fast with guns blazing. Somehow Ralgha managed to evade the worst
of the fire  and  loop around to settle on the other pilot's tail as he shot
past,  but a moment  later the  Dralthi applied full  braking thrusters  and
Hobbes shot past him.  Now their roles were reversed, with the  enemy  pilot
tailing Ralgha.
     The targeting  reticule  on  Blair's HUD flashed red, the  signal for a
target  lock. Blair  opened fire, concentrating on  a weakened  spot in  the
Kilrathi's shields. The enemy ship  took a hit, then rolled out  of the line
of fire and accelerated off at an unexpected angle.
     "Damn," Blair muttered. "This guy's good."
     "Agreed,"  Ralgha said gravely. "But not, I think, good enough to fight
us both, my friend. He withdraws now."
     His sensor screen confirmed Ralgha's comment. The enemy pilot was still
accelerating  away from the two Terrans,  evidently  content to  leave  them
alone for the time being.

     Hunt Leader Tamayo System

     Flight Commander  Arrak felt  his blood lust begin  to fade. For a  few
moments  he nearly  lost himself  to  the  battle madness, until  the second
Terran fighter  appeared  and launched its  devastating attack.  Although he
managed  to evade  the worst  of  it the enemy fire  shorted out his weapons
systems and left Arrak without armaments, unable to carry on the dogfight.
     Some Kilrathi pilots might have continued in the battle anyway, seeking
one good chance  to ram an opponent and die  with  his claws figuratively at
the enemy's  throat.  That  was the stuff of  battle songs and the Warrior's
Path. But  Arrak was a flight commander, and he owed duty to his warriors as
well as to  his  Clan and  his  honor.  Right  now it  was  Arrak's duty  to
extricate as many of his  pilots from this debacle as possible. There was no
way that  throwing  himself into a collision with  the renegade  or  another
Terran ship would help to accomplish what needed to be done.
     He  studied his  tactical display with a  sinking feeling that was only
partial regret for failing to  finish the fight. Only one fighter in four of
his  original force of four eights was still  flying, and most of those were
damaged. Still  they broke clear  of  the  Terran  defensive line while  the
Confederation fighters engaged their less fortunate comrades. Now it was the
Imperial force that was outnumbered and outgunned, and there was little hope
of achieving any sort of dramatic success now. They might take  out a few of
the Terrans, but at an even heavier price than they had paid already.
     "All  ships return to Sar'hrai," Arrak ordered  reluctantly.  "Withdraw
and return to Sar'hrai immediately."
     "Flight  Commander, not  all of our comrades have disengaged," a  pilot
argued, snarling  anger. "If we withdraw they  will  fall to  the  fangs and
claws of the apes . . ."
     "Then stay and die with them!" Arrak snapped. "And your Clan will  know
the dishonor of owning  a warrior who disobeys a direct order in the face of
battle!"
     He  didn't wait for a reply. At full acceleration,  the  Dralthi turned
away from  the disastrous battle and  drove  through the empty dark, seeking
the security of home.

     Flight Deck, TCS Victory Tamayo System

     Blair's fighter  was last  to return  after  the  battle,  and  it took
several minutes for the backed-up traffic handlers on the flight deck to get
to him. By the time his Thunderbolt rolled  to a stop in its repair bay, the
deck was fully pressurized and the gravity was restored to Earth-normal. All
three shifts of technicians were assembled to handle the returning fighters,
and there was  a lot of  activity on the deck when Blair finally climbed out
of his cockpit and started toward the entrance to Flight Control.
     A  welcoming committee  met him, not just technicians  and some of  his
pilots  but crewmen  from  every department of the ship,  surging  into  the
expanse of the flight deck, cheering  loudly.  Eisen was  at the head of the
pack, with Lieutenant Rollins close behind him. Rachel Coriolis stood to one
side with a grin on her face, flashing him a thumbs-up sign.
     "Good job, Colonel, Eisen said. "A credit to the ship. You  did the old
girl proud today."
     "Outstanding!"  Rollins  added.  "You  really  outfoxed  those  kitties
today!"
     Blair  returned their smiles, but inside he was  feeling  anything  but
triumphant. They had barely beaten off the Kilrathi attack; a few more enemy
fighters would have turned the tide against  the Terrans. Then there was the
inevitable butcher's bill: Mad  Max Lewis  was dead, along with  five pilots
from  Red Squadron and  one from Blue. Seven dead  out of twenty-four pilots
engaged . . . steep  losses indeed. And some  of  the ones who  made it back
suffered serious  damage  in the fighting. They could easily have lost twice
as many  ships if  the Kilrathi  had only been a little  luckier or a little
better armed.
     Everyone else saw it as a great victory,  but for Blair it was just one
more battle.  One more  chance for good men to die staving off defeat for  a
little  while  longer  without  accomplishing anything  significant  in  the
process. That had been the story of the war for as long as he could remember
now: meaningless victories, defeats that drove the Confederation further and
further down, and always death. Death was the only constant through it all.
     He left the cheering throng behind and pushed through to the steps that
led  up to Flight Control. Maybe the others could celebrate,  but all  Blair
felt like doing now was mourning the dead.

     Flight Wing Rec Room, TCS Victory Tamayo System

     There  was another  victory party  scheduled for the  evening,  and  it
promised to be even  bigger and more  boisterous than the earlier one. Blair
knew he would  have to  put in an appearance, but he decided to drop  by the
rec room early  to  get a drink or two under his belt before things got  too
far out of hand.
     When he arrived, he thought for a moment that he was  already too late.
He  opened  the door to  a  blast  of raucous  music just  as  he had at the
previous  celebration. But  this  time there were  only a  handful of people
clustered around the bar.
     An  officer was  sitting  at the terminal controlling the sound system,
one hand making tiny adjustments to the board while the  other tapped to the
rhythm of  the  music.  The  man  slumped  in  his  chair,  his eyes closed,
completely mesmerized  by the sound. Blair recognized  his aquiline profile.
He was Lieutenant Mitchell  Lopez, callsign Vaquero, the man he had assigned
as wingman for Cobra in the middle of the battle.
     He stood  behind the man and waited for  a long while, wincing a little
at the loud music. When it was clear  that Lopez wasn't planning  to come up
for air any time soon, he finally tapped the pilot on the shoulder.
     "Hey,  man, can't you  have the decency to wait for the piece to  end?"
Vaquero said without opening his eyes.
     "Lieutenant . . ." Blair said the  word blandly,  but Lopez  recognized
his voice  at once. He was out of his chair and standing at attention in one
quick movement.  Blair  had to  fight  to keep  from  smiling at  the  man's
reaction.
     "Uh, sorry, sir,"  Lopez said, stammering  a little. "Didn't expect you
here until the party, sir."
     "At ease, Lieutenant," Blair said, smiling.
     Vaquero relaxed.  He caught the look Blair gave in the direction of the
speakers and hastened to turn down the volume. "Just getting the system  set
for tonight, sir," he explained.
     "Aren't  there  technical  people who're  supposed  to do  that?" Blair
asked.  He gestured to the seat Vaquero had vacated, and when the lieutenant
was sitting, Blair took another chair nearby.
     "The  last guy who did this job had  a  tin ear and  ten thumbs," Lopez
said with a grin. "And his musical taste left a lot to be desired, too. So I
just kind of took over."
     "Musical taste," Blair repeated.
     "Yes, sir.  You know, music really does set the mood. Playing something
with nothing but minor  chords makes  you want to run a suicide mission. But
this  is  different." He waved a  hand toward the board.  "Rockero  from the
Celeste  System. It's bright, it heats your blood, it makes you want to live
a long life."
     Blair gave him a sour look. "It makes me want to put on a flight helmet
to filter out some of the noise," he said, smiling briefly to take the sting
out of  the  comment. "I like  something a little more soothing . . . like a
bagpipe duet or a couple of cats in heat."
     The  Argentine  pilot  laughed. "I  guess  my  musical taste  isn't for
everyone. But I've had no complaints so far . . . until you, that is."
     "I'm   not  complaining,   Lieutenant.  Just  pleading  for  a   little
moderation." Blair signaled a waiter. "Can I buy you something to drink?"
     "Tequila," Vaquero said. The waiter nodded, taking Blair's  order for a
scotch as he left. "That was quite a fight today, wasn't it, Colonel?"
     Blair nodded. "I'll say. We were damned lucky."
     "Yes, sir. Uh . . . thanks again for the way you bailed me out. Thought
I'd played my last tune for sure."
     "Are you a pilot or a musician, Lopez?"
     "Oh, I'm a pilot, sir. Pretty  good one,  too. Check my  kills;  you'll
see." He looked down  at the table. "But  my family,  they made guitars  for
many generations.  I've  got one that's almost  two  hundred years  old. The
sound just gets richer as it gets older, you know?"
     Blair nodded, but didn't speak. There was something  in  the man s eyes
that made him unwilling to break his mood.
     "I'm the first one from my  family to go into  space," Lopez went on  a
moment later.  He  sounded wistful. "The first to be a  fighter instead of a
craftsman or a musician. But some day I'm going to open a cantina and  bring
in  the  best  to play that guitar. We need a place for old  fighter jockeys
like you and me, Colonel, where we can get  together and swap lies about our
battles and tell each other how  much different things are without the war .
. ."
     Blair looked away. It  was a pleasant dream, but  he wondered if  Lopez
would ever  really get his wish.  The  war had existed longer than either of
them had been alive,  and it didn't look like humanity was  likely to end it
soon. He was afraid that the only way the war  would end in his lifetime was
in a Kilrathi victory. More likely  it would claim  them all, and drag on to
claim another generation's hopes and dreams. "Hope there's  enough of us  to
keep you in business, Vaquero," he said quietly.
     "Don't you worry, sir. We'll make it through. And you and I can  sit at
a quiet table,  watch the  beautiful  women  and listen to the music of that
guitar . . ."
     "You still don't sound much like a pilot, Vaquero," Blair told him.
     "Don't get me wrong, sir. I do my job,  whatever it takes. But  some of
the others, they actually like the  killing. Me, I do it because I  have to,
but I take no pleasure from it. And when it's over, I will walk away with no
regrets."

     Command Hall, KIS Hvar'kann Locanda System

     "My Prince,  the  shuttle from the  Sar'hrai has  arrived.  With  Baron
Vurrig and the prisoner."
     Thrakhath,  Crown Prince of  the  Empire of  Kilrah, showed his  teeth.
"Bring  them, Melek," he said, not bothering to  hide the  contempt  in  his
voice. His talons twitched reflexively in their sheaths.
     A  pair of  Imperial Guardsmen ushered  two newcomers before the lonely
throne at the end of the Command Audience Hall. Here, by long tradition, the
noble commander  of a ship in space dispensed justice to the  warriors under
his command. Today Thrakhath upheld that tradition yet again.
     "My Lord Prince." Khantahr Baron Vurrig nar Tsahl  dropped to one knee.
The other officer, hands  in manacles, sank awkwardly  to both knees  beside
the noble. "Sar'hrai is at your command, as ever."
     "Indeed?" Thrakhath  fixed the  Baron with an icy  stare. "I wanted the
jump point from Orsini cut, and the Terran carrier damaged beyond capability
to  interfere  with  Operation  Unseen  Death. But  the  blockade  was  only
partially  effective  and the attack  on  the  carrier  was repulsed without
touching the ape ship. Is that a fair assessment of your performance?"
     "Lord Prince . . ." Vurrig quailed under his stare. "Lord Prince, there
were many . . . complications, especially due to the renegade.  We could not
press  home attacks against ships he escorted  without risking a  breach  of
your orders . . ."
     "This one did, or so your report claimed."
     "Yes,  Lord  Prince.  This  is Flight  Commander  Arrak. He engaged the
traitor in battle despite my specific orders to the contrary."
     "But Ralgha was not harmed?"
     "No, Lord Prince."
     "So, Arrak, you are inept as well as insubordinate, is that it?"
     Arrak  met  Thrakhath's stare with  unexpected spirit. "In battle, Lord
Prince, it is not always so easy to set conditions," he said defiantly.
     Thrakhath  felt a stir of admiration. The  flight commander knew he was
doomed for  his disobedience, so  he  met  his fate with a warrior's  pride.
Baron Vurrig on the other hand, danced and dodged like prey on the run  from
the hunter.
     "Let  Arrak  have  a  warrior's death. He  may  fight any  champion  or
champions  who wish the honor of  dispatching him."  Thrakhath noted Arrak's
nod. He was proud to the bitter end. "As for you, Baron . . . because of you
we  must push back the timetable for  Operation Unseen Death. We must  await
additional ships so that we  may ensure the Terrans not intervening  when we
launch our  strike. You will be  relieved as commander of Sar'hrai . . . and
suffer  the  penalty for  your incompetence. Death .  . .  by isolation. The
coward's end, alone, ignored, cut off until you die from thirst, starvation,
or madness. See to it, Melek."
     "Lord  Prince —  " Vurrig  began. He was grabbed by  the guardsmen  and
dragged away, his appeals for mercy echoing hollowly in the chamber.
     "I regret the failure, Lord Prince," Melek said quietly,  "but at least
the renegade came to no harm."
     "We  must  hope that the  War  God continues to  smile on  us,  Melek,"
Thrakhath said coldly.  "The time is not yet ripe to deal with Lord Ralgha .
. . but it is coming. As is the day of our final victory."


        CHAPTER EIGHT

     Captain's Ready Room. TCS Victory Tamayo System

     "According to Chief Coriolis, the  last of the battle damage  should be
repaired by this  afternoon," Blair concluded. "So  the wing will  be up and
running . . . except for the ships we lost."
     "Good job, Colonel," Eisen  said. "I'd say three  days is a pretty good
turn-around time, considering the way your fighters looked when they touched
down. Give my compliments to the Chief for a job well done by her techs."
     "Yes, sir. They did a fine job." Blair paused, then cleared his throat.
"About the losses . . ."
     "We've  already  taken  care of the situation,"  Eisen  told  him. "Mr.
Rollins?"
     The Communications  Officer  consulted his portable  computer terminal.
"No  problem at all on the  Hellcats, sir," he said. "The CO at Tamayo  Base
called  for  volunteers  from the  point  defense squadron stationed  there.
They'll be aboard first thing tomorrow."
     "Fast work, Lieutenant," Blair commented.
     "The commander was pleased with the support he's been getting  from the
Navy.  He was eager to help." Rollins frowned. "I'm  not so  sure  about Mad
Max's replacement."
     "What's the problem, Lieutenant?" Eisen asked.
     "There's a  home  defense squadron  on Tamayo that  flies Thunderbolts,
sir,"  Rollins  said  slowly.  "Strictly  reservists, mostly rich  kids  who
figured it  was a good dodge to avoid active military service and still  get
to  wear  a  pretty  uniform and boast about being hot fighter  pilots.  The
squadron was activated  into Confed service when  the  cats  moved  into the
system."
     "Well, we've  had  green  pilots  before," Eisen said. "I  dare say the
Colonel can break in one of these kids fast enough. Or are they being sticky
about transferring someone?"
     "Oh, they're willing  to give  us a pilot and his fighter, sir, Rollins
said. "A little too willing, the way I see it. I think they're  planning  on
handing us one of their discipline problems."
     Eisen shrugged.  "Hardly unusual. We'll just have  to ride him until he
snaps to attention. Right, Colonel?"
     "Or ground him and find another qualified pilot," Blair  said, nodding.
"What makes you think he's going to be a problem, Lieutenant?"
     "Hey, I  told you, Colonel," he responded with a  grin.  "Radio Rollins
always has his ear to the ground. One of my . . . sources at Tamayo Base was
warned by the Home Defense boys that they were  looking for  a place to dump
this guy. I just gotta wonder though, what kind of a screwup gets thrown out
of an HD squadron? Know what I mean?"
     "As long as  he can fly and he's  got a Thunderbolt,  I can  use him in
Gold Squadron," Blair said. "He can't be any  more difficult  to handle than
Maniac Marshall."
     "I hope you and Major Marshall can work out your little  . . . problem,
Colonel," Eisen said  quietly. "I don't like to have this  kind  of conflict
between two senior officers.  Marshall's record is impressive,  even if it's
not quite as outstanding as yours. I'm not sure I understand  why the two of
you have such difficulties with each other."
     "Part  of  it's  purely  personal,  Captain," Blair said.  "We've  been
competing  against each  other  since the  day we  met.  At  least he's been
competing  with  me." He smiled.  "I, of course, am  blameless in the  whole
thing."
     "Of course," Eisen said blandly. Rollins chuckled.
     "But I do my best to keep the personal problems and  the cockpit apart,
Captain," Blair went on seriously. "I mean,  you don't have to like a guy to
serve  with him. But Marshall's  flying  style . . .  it scares me, sir, and
just  about everybody else who flies with him. You saw the tactical tapes on
the battle?"
     Eisen nodded. "Yeah. Marshall  got heavily involved out there  a couple
of times."
     "He chased anything he could see," Blair told him.
     "Hobbes  saved  Sandman  because  Marshall  was  too  busy  playing the
personal glory  game  to support his own wingman. He gets kills, sir, but he
does it by  ignoring the team. You of all people  should know that the  team
must always come first."
     "Sounds like you don't want him on  your team at all," Eisen said. "I'd
rather not try to transfer him . . ."
     "I'm  not asking you to, sir," Blair told him. "Look  Maniac is  not my
idea  of the ideal  wingman,  but he's better than when  we  were on the old
Tiger's Claw together. And despite his lack of discipline, he's a good pilot
who knows how to  score kills. Right  now we need everyone like  that we can
find." He paused. "I  know  you're concerned  about having us  clash,  but I
guarantee that when the Kilrathi come into range we're on  the same side. If
there's one thing we agree on, it's our duty."
     "Glad to hear it, Colonel," the captain said. "I think things are about
to get a lot rougher for us, so I want to he sure we're all up to it."
     "Rougher, sir?" Blair asked.
     Eisen nodded. "That's  the reason for the big scramble to  get the wing
up to  full strength again. We've been  given new orders, Colonel. Seems the
situation in the Locanda  System  is  getting  tense. There has been a sharp
uptick in Kilrathi activity  there, even a couple of sightings that could be
the Hvar'kann, Crown Prince Thrakhath's new flagship. And we know for a fact
the carrier that launched the attack on us,  the Sar'hrai,  withdrew through
the Locanda  jump  point shortly after the  battle.  It  seems  that a major
installation of troops will arrive on Locanda,  so the High Command wants us
to reinforce them.
     "Seems  a  damned  strange  place for  a  push,"  Blair  commented.  He
remembered  the  Locanda  System:  a  struggling  colony  world  with a  few
scattered outposts, all of which  had seen better  days. "Twenty years back,
maybe,  it would have made sense, but they've  tapped out most of the really
valuable mineral resources. When I  was stationed there, they  were  in  the
middle  of  an  economic  depression  because  a  couple  of  their  biggest
industries  decided  to relocate  out-system. I don't see the attraction for
the Empire's attention . . . certainly not the Prince himself."
     "Yeah," Eisen grunted. "Intelligence hasn't  been able to come  up with
anything yet. But ours is not to reason why."
     Roll