ins looked like he was about to say something, but he didn't. After
a moment's silence, Blair spoke up. "When do we jump?"
     "Two  days.  Time enough to get  our rookies settled  and take on fresh
stores. Then we're out of here."
     "And smack in the  middle of  trouble," Rollins muttered. Blair doubted
that Eisen heard the comment.
     "The flight wing'll be ready, sir," he said formally.
     "Good. If it's true the cats are building around Locanda, we'll have to
be ready for anything." Eisen looked from Blair to  Rollins. "That's all for
now. Dismissed."
     Outside  the ready room door, Blair touched  the comm officer's sleeve.
"A moment, Lieutenant," he said.
     "Sir?"
     "I had the feeling  you knew something more about this Locanda op. Am I
imagining things, or have you been listening to more of your . . . sources?"
     Rollins met  his eyes  with a steady gaze. "You  sure you want  another
dose of paranoia, Colonel?"
     "Cut the crap, Lieutenant. If you know something about this operation .
. ."
     "It's nothing  definite, Colonel," Rollins said reluctantly. "Not  even
from the official channels. Captain doesn't know anything about it."
     "Tell?"
     "I know  a guy  on  General Taggart's  staff  in  Covert  Ops. He  said
Thrakhath was  reportedly working on some new  terror weapon  which was just
about ready for testing. I don't know if  this has anything to do with that,
but if Thrakhath's really in Locanda then this could be the  test.  It makes
sense, when you think about it."
     "How so?"
     "Well, like  you  said,  Locanda's  past  its  prime. It's of  no  real
strategic value, depleted of all valuable resources. The Kilrathi could raid
it for slaves, but they can get slaves anywhere. If they really do have some
new weapon something big enough that it will cause mass destruction, Locanda
Four would be a pretty good place  to try it. Whether it works  or not,  the
cats don t take out anything they want . . . but if it did work, it would be
a pretty damn good demonstration.
     "Any idea what this wonder weapon is?"
     "My guy didn't say.  But I've got my suspicions that Intelligence knows
more than  they're  telling us about  the whole  mess."  Rollins lowered his
voice. "You know those transports we've been trying to pump through the jump
point to Locanda? They've all been medical ships like the  High Command  was
getting ready for a lot of casualties."
     "Bioweapons," Blair said, feeling sick.
     "That's my take,"  the Communications Officer agreed. "Think about  it.
Thrakhath would love to get his hands on  the Confed  infrastructure. Except
for  a  small  stock of slaves, the  Kilrathi  don't  want  humans around to
compete with them. Seeding choice colony worlds with some new kind of plague
would  be the perfect way to kill us with a minimum  of damage to technology
or  resources. If the weapon tests  well,  you can bet the Kilrathi  will be
hitting someplace important the next time around: Earth."
     "Yeah  .  . . maybe. We  certainly showed  ‘em the  way,  back when the
Tarawa made the  raid  on Kilrah  a couple  of years ago. If they've  got an
effective biological  agent and a  reliable  delivery  system,  a handful of
raiders  could wipe us out.  Blair fixed Rollins  with a  stern look. "Still
this is all just speculation, Lieutenant, based on  your leak over at covert
Ops and a lot of guesswork.
     "Theory fits the facts, sir . . ."
     "Maybe so.  But  it's still just a theory  until you get genuine proof.
Don't  spread this around, Rollins. There's no point in getting everybody in
an uproar over a possibility. You read me?"
     The lieutenant  nodded slowly. "Yes,  sir. I'll keep it to  myself. But
you  mark  my words, Colonel, this is going to be one hell of a  nasty fight
this time."

     Flight Control, TCS Victory Tamayo System

     Flight Control  was fully crewed  with a  dozen techs  and  specialists
monitoring the activity going on around the  carrier and on the flight deck.
This morning, Blair  decided to preside over operations himself. He took his
place on the raised platform which  dominated the center  of the compartment
at  a horseshoe-shaped  console  that  could  tap  into all aspects of  wing
activities.
     "Last of the new Hellcats is down and safe, Colonel,"  a  tech reported
from a nearby work station.  "Deck  will be clear for the Thunderbolt in two
minutes."
     "Two minutes,  Blair repeated. "Well, Major,  what do you  think?  Will
they do?"
     Major  Daniel  Whittaker,  Red  Squadron's  CO,  watched  over  Blair's
shoulder while the new arrivals were coming in. He was old for his  rank and
position,  with iron-gray  hair  and  an air of  cautious  deliberation. His
callsign  was Warlock,  and  Blair had to admit he could  have passed for  a
high-tech sorcerer.
     "They  fly well enough,"  Whittaker  said  quietly. "I've  seen  better
carrier  landings,  but  these  boys and girls have  been rotting  away in a
planetside  base where you don't  get much chance  to  practice carrier ops.
We'll whip them into shape quick enough, I'd say."
     "We'll have to, Major. If the bad guys are out in force around Locanda,
point defense will get a real workout."
     "Thunderbolt  HD  Seven-zero-two,  you  are cleared  for  approach,"  a
speaker announced. "Feeding approach vectors to your navcomp . . . now."
     Blair  turned  his attention  back  to  the  external camera view.  The
computer  enhanced the image so he could see the Thunderbolt clearly against
the backdrop of brilliant  stars.  As he watched,  he could see the flare of
the fighter's engines  as  the pilot maneuvered his ship onto  its  approach
path.
     "What the hell  is that idiot doing?" someone  demanded. "He's ignoring
the approach vectors we're feeding him!"
     "HD  Seven-zero-two, you are deviating from flight plan," the comm tech
said. "Recheck approach vectors and assume designated course.
     The image on Blair's screen  swelled as  the fighter stooped in  toward
the carrier,  still  gathering  speed.  Blair  punched up a computer  course
projection  and  was relieved  to see  that  the projected flight path would
cause the ship to steer clear of  the  carrier, but it would be a near miss.
If the idiot deviated from his path now, he could easily dive right into the
deck. "Belay  that  transmission,"  he snapped,  "and  have the  flight deck
emergency crews on standby."
     An alarm,  low but insistent,  rang across  the flight deck, and  Blair
could see technicians scrambling to their emergency stations.
     The  Thunderbolt  streaked  over  the  flight deck with  bare meters to
spare, executing a roll-over as it passed. Then it looped away,  killing its
speed  with  a sharp  braking  thrust  and dropping  effortlessly  into  the
original approach path. Blair let out a sigh of relief.
     "He's on target," someone announced laconically.
     "He  does that again  and he'll be a target," someone  else said. Blair
shared the sentiment. Rollins had warned Blair that the new pilot was likely
to be  a problem, but he'd never  imagined the man would pull a stupid stunt
even  before  he  reported  aboard.  Fancy  victory  rolls  looked  good  in
holomovies and stunt  flying  by  elite  fighter show  teams, but  they were
strictly prohibited in normal carrier operations.
     The new pilot had a lot to learn.
     The   Thunderbolt  performed  perfectly,  hitting   the  tractor  beams
precisely and touching the deck in a landing maneuver  that could have  been
used  in  an Academy training  film. Moments later,  the fighter rolled to a
stop  inside the hangar deck. Gravity  and pressure were quickly restored as
the technicians secured from their emergency preparations.
     Blair, seething,  was  on  his way  to the deck before the gravity  hit
one-half G.
     The pilot climbed down the ladder from his cockpit and paused to remove
his helmet, an ornately decorated rig which carried the word FLASH in bright
letters, presumably his running name. He was a young man, under thirty  from
his  appearance, but his flight suit carried a  major's insignia. He glanced
around the hangar with an easy grin,  stopped to wipe away a  speck  on  the
underside of  the  Thunderbolt's wing,  then sauntered  casually  toward the
exit. He seemed completely oblivious to Blair.
     "Hold it right there, Mister," Blair snapped.
     The man  gave  him a quick look that  turned into  a double-take as  he
caught sight of the bird insignia on Blair's collar  tabs.  He drew  himself
erect in something that approximated attention and rendered a casual salute.
"Didn't expect a high-ranking welcoming  committee, sir," he said. His tones
were  lazy,  relaxed. "Major  Jace  Dillon,  Tamayo  Home  Defense  Airspace
Command. I'm your replacement pilot."
     "That remains to be seen," Blair said. "What's the idea of pulling that
damned stunt on your approach, Dillon?"
     "Stunt, sir? Oh,  the flyby. Hell, Colonel, it was just a little bit of
showmanship. They don't call me Flash for nothing, you know." Dillon paused,
seeming to realize the depth of Blair's anger for the first time. "Look, I'm
sorry  if I  did something wrong. I just thought  I had to show  you Regular
boys that  Home  Defense isn't a  bunch of no-talent weekend warriors,  like
everybody thinks. Figured if you saw I knew how to handle my bird then you'd
know I could pull my weight, that's all."
     Blair didn't  answer right away. He could almost  understand  the man's
thinking. Home Defense  units had  a poor reputation with the  regular Navy,
often  entirely undeserved. There had been  a time, back when Blair was this
kid's age, that he might have pulled the same kind of stunt to  make a point
with a new command.
     "All right,  Dillon, you can fly. You proved that much. Next time I see
you in that bird of yours you better show me you know how to obey regs, too.
You hear me?"
     "Yes, sir," Dillon replied.
     "Your Home Defense unit. . . does it use standard Confed ranks?"
     "Yes, Colonel."
     "And you're a major . . ."
     Dillon flushed. "Yes, sir, I am."
     "I find that a little difficult to believe, Dillon.  A major is usually
more seasoned."
     "The rank's  legitimate, sir,"  Dillon  said, sounding defensive. "Rank
earned in Home Defense units is automatically granted in the Confed Regulars
upon activation of the unit."
     "Of  course."  Blair studied him for a  moment. "So you  hold a major's
commission in the Home  Defense. Let me guess . . . your father's either the
unit commander or a prominent local backer who helped fund the unit, and you
were bumped through the ranks to Major in consequence, right?"
     "Sir, I'm fully qualified as a pilot . . ."
     "We   established   that,   Major.   I'm   interested  in   your   rank
qualifications. Is my assessment correct?"
     Dillon nodded reluctantly. "My  father donated some funds when the unit
was put together," he admitted.
     "But  the  rank is legitimate,  sir. I  was a test pilot  with  Camelot
Industries before I signed on  with  the HDS and I've been with  my squadron
for two years now."
     "Two years," Blair repeated. "Any combat action?"
     "Er. . . no, sir."
     He  sighed. "Well, Dillon, you're a  major  in the  Confed  Navy Flight
Branch  now,  heaven  help you .  .  .  and the  rest of us. Try to  conduct
yourself as a responsible officer  of this  ship and this flight wing. Do  I
make myself clear?"
     "Yes, Colonel."
     "Then . . . welcome aboard, Major Dillon. Report to Lieutenant  Colonel
Ralgha for indoctrination and assignments. You're dismissed."
     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 afterlife. 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."
     "Well,  I  say  they  feel the  need  for a  parting  shot,"  Whittaker
insisted. "Something to salve their pride when they withdraw. Three carriers
could deliver a real punch and  flatten the colony facilities before anybody
knew what hit them. Then they sail away toward their real target."
     "Perhaps," Fairfax said He looked down at his terminal again. "The only
other possibility Intelligence  can  release to us right now is what appears
to be a code name for the Kilrathi operation here. Krahnakh Ghayeer . . ."
     "Unseen Death," Ralgha said.
     Blair  exchanged a quick  glance with Rollins. Nobody spoke  for a many
moments.
     "Unseen  Death,"  Maniac   repeated  at  last.  He   sounded  unusually
thoughtful. "I don t like the sound of  that. It reminds  me of  something I
heard  back at Torgo . . ." He trailed  off, frowning. "Yeah, that was it. I
remember a guy  telling me about some backwater system the Kilrathi raided a
few months back. Only instead of just dropping in  for a quick loot'n'scoot,
they cleaned the place with some kind of  new bioweapon. Pandemic, he called
it."
     "I  heard about that, too," Pierce said with a nod. "Rumor  has it that
Confed HQ slapped a blackout on the whole thing and quarantined the system."
     Rollins was  about  to  speak until he caught the look in Blair's  eye.
"The  war's bad  enough  without listening to all the rumors flying around,"
Blair said  sharply. "If  the cats have a  bioweapon,  we'll locate  it soon
enough, you can count on that. In  the meantime, we have  to concentrate  on
what we do know  — and  on learning  what we don't  know. Isn't that  right,
Commander Fairfax?"
     The intelligence officer nodded, looking unhappy.
     "Right, then,"  Blair went on. "For the moment  the name of the game is
recon. We  know there's a  Kilrathi  squadron  in these  parts, and we think
they're planning something nasty.  If  Major Berterelli is right, we need to
look for signs  of a new base. At the very least, we need to pinpoint  areas
of enemy activity and try to  estimate both their intentions and their exact
strength."
     "So it's back to patrols, then," Amazon Mbuto said.
     "Unless one of you  has a  crystal ball  that can show us where they're
hiding," Blair  said. "We're drawing up  a full schedule of  recon  ops. I'm
doubling the shifts by putting more fighters out  at any  given time, so I'm
afraid we'll all be contracting extra duty for a  while. Major Berterelli, I
would like an assessment from you  on whether we can adapt Green Squadron to
take  over point defense work.  That would  give  us  the Hellcats for other
patrol ops."
     "Range would be  pretty short on Hellcats," Whittaker said.  "They were
never meant for long-duration patrol work."
     "After our  little  scrap  back  at  Tamayo,  I  started thinking about
in-flight refueling," Blair told him. "A refueling shuttle with an escort of
Thunderbolts could allow your whole squadron to operate over a normal patrol
route. He shrugged. "We'd better see  if the bombers can replace them before
we  talk  about  it  further.  At  any rate,  people, we've got  to find out
everything we can about the Empire's plans before they spring them.  So make
sure your pilots  are sharp and  ready for anything.  When  this thing  goes
down, whatever it is, we'll need to be ready. Dismissed."

     Command Hall. KIS Hvar'kann Locanda System

     Thrakhath lounged in  his  chair, his  thoughts far  away. The war  was
entering its final stage now, and soon the  Terrans  would  be brought  down
like prey caught in an open field. That would be his doing, Thrakhath, Crown
Prince, victor over the Terran prey, hero of Kilrah . . .
     And some  day soon his grandfather  would be dead and Thrakhath's claws
would grasp the Empire with a grip that would draw blood.
     "Lord Prince . .  ." It  was  Melek, his closest retainer  bowing as he
approached the throne.
     "Your report, Melek," he said mildly.
     "Lord Prince, the Terran carrier has been identified as the Victory. As
you predicted . . . the ship that carries the renegade."
     "The ship Sar'hrai failed to  neutralize," Thrakhath added, showing his
fangs. "It is  of small consequence. The  forces we  are mustering  now will
guarantee the success of Unseen Death, no matter what attempts the apes make
to  intervene. But be sure to emphasize that all pilots  must avoid  contact
with the renegade. I want no repetitions of the incident with Arrak."
     "Understood, my  liege," Melek  said with a bow. "Lord Prince . .  . we
know that the new weapon will work. The field tests revealed that. Why do we
not  simply mount a  raid on Earth now? It need not be a full-scale  attack.
All  that  is necessary is a single  ship, a  single missile, and the Terran
homeworld  is infected and wiped clean. That would shatter the apes,  making
them helpless prey under our talons."
     "Not quite, Melek," Thrakhath  said quietly.  "Do not  forget, we  have
attacked  their homeworld before, to devastating effect, and yet  done  them
only minor harm in the greater  scheme of things. Our agents claim they have
powerful  new weapons in preparation  now,  weapons  capable  of  destroying
entire planets  . .  .  even golden Kilrah  itself.  These  weapons are  not
deployed around  Terra,  so a  strike  on their homeworld will only  trigger
massive retaliation.  We cannot allow  that to happen. I  will not trade one
homeworld for another, Melek. That would be disaster."
     "But the loss of Terra . . ."
     "Would  mean less to the  apes than the  loss  of  Kilrah would to us,"
Thrakhath said, leaning forward. "You have not studied the humans as I have.
You do not  grasp their nature. If Kilrah was lost to us,  we  would  suffer
great harm. The Emperor, the heads of the great Clans, the ancient landholds
and  monuments of  our people . . .  these  are what  tie our race together,
separate us from the animals. Take those things away and the Empire withers.
But the apes are savages. Terrans would mourn the loss of their home, but it
would not destroy  them. They  would continue to  swarm in their multitudes,
disorganized but still determined."
     "Then can we truly  win this war?" Melek asked. "If we are so much more
vulnerable than they, do we have any choice but a glorious death?"
     Thrakhath smiled. "We know only a little of their doomsday weapon, this
. . .  Behemoth, as they call  it.  Our  agents say it is untested, but they
have not been able to penetrate its secrets as of  yet. We must draw out the
apes;  force them to commit their new weapon before it is  fully ready, in a
way  we can control and manipulate. Unseen Death will be the first stage. By
demonstrating our bioweapon  and proving our willingness to use it, we  will
leave the Terrans no choice but to deploy the Behemoth."
     "Against .  . .  against Kilrah?" Melek's look  was  one of horror  and
fear, but Thrakhath didn't reprimand him for his shameful display.
     "Not  at once,"  the Prince told him. "They will test it first. We will
learn where the weapon is to be tested and we will discover its  weaknesses.
For this purpose we keep the  Heart of the  Tiger in readiness. And  when we
have destroyed their one hope of retaliation, leaving their Navy demoralized
and confused . . ."
     "Then Terra dies," Melek said softly.
     "Then Terra dies," Thrakhath agreed. "The first of many human worlds  .
. . until their race is gone forever."


        CHAPTER X

     Thunderbolt 300 Locanda System

     It felt strange to be in  the  cockpit  of a fighter  and yet  drifting
free, without acceleration  or preprogrammed destination.  Blair  had  never
thought of flying a Thunderbolt as a claustrophobic experience, not with all
of  space in full glory around  him . . . but he was ready to  admit that it
could be cramped, constricted, and more than a little bit boring.
     They  had been  in the  Locanda  System  now for three days,  operating
frequent  recon flights in search of some sign of  the Kilrathi fleet. Today
was the  first time they had put up the Hellcats in a recon role,  and Blair
had  elected  to fly escort on the  refueling shuttle with Flint rather than
assign the job to  one  of the other Gold Squadron  teams. The entire force,
four Hellcats, the two Thunderbolts,  and the shuttle, had flown together to
this prearranged rendezvous point at the edge of the point defense fighters'
maximum  range.  They topped off their tanks and set out  in two  patrols to
sweep a wide arc before  they returned. Then  they would refuel and make the
return trip to the Victory together.
     Everything went like clockwork Blair hoped their luck would continue to
hold.
     The  worst part of being alone in deep space for  long amounts  of time
was  the scope it provided for brooding. The lack of specific information on
Kilrathi  intentions  and dispositions made  for  a  game of  hide  and seek
extending over an entire solar  system, and it was a game where the Kilrathi
had  all  the  advantages. The idea that they might be planning a biological
attack  on Locanda bothered  Blair more than he cared to admit. It suggested
that the Empire  was  upping  the ante by  introducing the  prospect of mass
slaughter, possibly escalating to an all-out genocide. Blair had felt  that,
before, both sides had agreed on what "winning" meant. And now the  Kilrathi
mi