ain. No wonder the man was feeling bitter . . . .
     Another  detail  caught his  eye. Marshall  was  also  the  CO  of Gold
Squadron. Blair  had decided to have  Hobbes take over that command, too. It
was one more blow to Maniac's fragile ego.
     He could reconsider the decision, of  course, and let Marshall keep his
squadron. But if Hobbes  was  going to  be Blair's wingman, the  two of them
would  have  to  fly  with  the same squadron,  and  Blair  still  felt more
comfortable  sticking with the  heavy  fighters  in Gold Squadron. Should he
reshuffle the roster to put Marshall in command  of another squadron? Maniac
certainly had the seniority,  even  if Blair doubted he  had the temperament
for squadron command.
     But which  squadron  could  Maniac  handle  best? He was  not suited to
command  bombers,  and  point  defense  work required  a  leader  who  could
subordinate  himself totally  to  the  needs  of the  fleet. Marshall  would
probably be happiest in command  of the interceptors of  Blue Squadron,  but
Blair  shuddered  at the  thought of  putting  Victory's  crucial long-range
strike fighters in Maniac's  hands. Patrol  duties would take  Blue Squadron
out  of reach of higher authority, and it needed a man  with a  good head on
his  shoulders who knew when to  fight when  to break away,  and when to get
word  of a distant contact  with the  enemy  back  to the carrier. No, Major
Marshall wasn't really suitable for  any  other squadrons. Colonel Dulbrunin
probably  made  the  same decision when making his original assignments. The
kind  of utility  combat  work  which heavy fighters drew  was  the  sort of
operation Maniac was least likely to knock off course if he lost his head in
a fight.
     Well, that  meant he would  have to stay where  he was,  at least until
Blair could  see if age and experience had mellowed  Maniac, at least in the
cockpit if not in  his dealings  with others. The  man would  just  have  to
accept flying under Blair and Hobbes.
     But Blair knew it would make a tough job much more difficult for all of
them.

     Flight Wing Officer's Quarters, TCS Victory Torgo System

     Blair was studying his predecessor's logs on the monitor above his bunk
when  he heard  a knock. "Enter," he  said sitting up as the door opened  to
reveal Lieutenant Rollins.
     "Sorry to  bother  you so  late, Colonel,"  Rollins  said,  "but  we're
boosting to  the  jump  point,  and  the  Comm  Shack's  been  buzzing  with
last-minute incoming traffic all evening. I just got off shift."
     "We've got orders, then?"
     Rollins nodded. "Orsini System. It's been pretty quiet up Stil now, but
the  scuttlebutt has  it the  cats have been moving in  lately.  Guess we're
supposed to make Sem feel safe or something."
     "Mmph." Blair stood  up. "Okay, so we're jumping and  you've been busy.
Is there something you needed from me, Lieutenant?"
     "I . . . wanted to make sure you got this. It came in with some  of the
other message traffic. Rerouted from Confed HQ, for you." He  handed Blair a
holo cassette. "Er . . . here it is, sir."
     "You don't  have to act so apologetic,  man," Blair  said realizing the
cause  of  his  embarrassed  manner. "Comm officers  see  a lot of  personal
messages.  I'm  not going  to  bite  off  your  head  for reading  my  mail,
Lieutenant."
     "Er . . . yes, sir. Thanks." Rollins left, still looking flustered.
     Blair set the cassette on the  small table beside the  bunk and touched
the message stud. Letters formed in the air above the device, spelling out a
message. The block of code numbers dated it to more than six months earlier,
before the Battle of Earth. That was typical enough for messages that had to
chase their intended recipients through space from one planet or one ship to
another.

        PRIVATE CODED COMM RELAY TO:
     Colonel Christopher Blair
     Terran Confed Armed Forces
     TCS Concordia

        CH REROUTED BY CONFED HQ TO CH
     TCS Victory

     The words dissolved after a  moment, and an image formed. It was Angel,
still heart-stoppingly beautiful, looking out at him with the expression  he
remembered so well.
     "Hello, mon ami," she began, flashing her brightest smile. "I  hope the
fight  goes  well for you and  all  the others aboard Concordia. I have been
given new  orders to head  up a mission,  so  I'm afraid we must be  apart a
little longer. Always remember je t'aime, je t'aime . . . I love you . . ."
     Blair stabbed at the switch, cutting the hologram off while tears stung
his eyes. "Je t'aime, Angel," he said softly.  "I love you, wherever you are
. . . ."


        CHAPTER THREE

     Flight Control, TCS Victory Orsini System

     "Now hear this,  now hear this," the  shipboard tannoy blared. "Prepare
for Flight Operations. Flight Deck personnel to launch stations."
     Blair's  stride  was  brisk and purposeful  as  he entered  the  Flight
Control Center,  his helmet under one  arm.  It was good to be back in his G
suit again, even if  the mission at hand was no more than  a routine patrol.
In  his  two weeks aboard the Victory,  he  had  been unable  to strap  on a
fighter once, but today he would finally  get a chance to be free of  a wing
commander's console work and move among the stars where he truly belonged.
     Chief Technician Rachel Coriolis looked up from a computer display with
a  grin. He had met her only once, in a general meeting of the flight wing's
support personnel, without time  to exchange more than a few words. That was
Blair's  problem ever  since he  took command  of  the wing: plenty of work,
reports,  plans,  forms,  and  requisitions  to be  filled out, but precious
little chance to know the rest of the crew.
     Chief Coriolis  was Gold Squadron's senior  crew chief, and as such led
the team of technical  experts who  maintained Thunderbolt 300, the  fighter
set aside for Blair's use. She  was young CH not yet thirty CH and attractive,
though her customary  baggy coveralls and the inevitable  layer of dirt  and
grime streaking her clothes and face tended to obscure her beauty. According
to  her personnel  file, she was  a competent technician  with an  excellent
service record. Blair hoped she would live up to those reports.
     "Colonel," she said,  straightening as he approached. "They say  you're
taking this patrol yourself. Your bird's just about ready."
     "Good," Blair responded.
     "Kinda strange seeing  the big brass flying  a routine patrol, though,"
she continued, apparently not affected by rank or seniority. "I don't  think
I ever saw  Colonel Dulbrunin fly  anything short  of  a  full  all-fighters
magnum launch."
     "I'm  not Dulbrunin,"  Blair  told her.  "I like  to get a few hours of
flight time as often as possible, so don't be surprised if you discover that
my bird needs more servicing than you planned."
     She  gave  a nod  in  satisfaction.  "Glad  to hear  it, skipper.  Your
predecessor   knew  how   to  fly  a  console  well  enough,   a   top-notch
administrator. But I like pilots who fly the real thing. Know what I  mean?"
She cocked  her  head to one side. "Are you really taking  on Hobbes as your
wingman?"
     "You got a problem with that, Chief?" Blair growled.
     "No,  sir,"  the technician said, shaking  her head. "I say it's  about
jolly well  time.  That cat's one hell of a good pilot, and I'm  glad to see
him back on the roster."
     Blair studied her for a long moment, then gave  an approving nod. "Glad
to hear  it, Chief," he  said, warming to her. At least there was someone on
the  flight deck  who  appreciated Ralgha  nar Hhallas.  Her  praise sounded
sincere. Rachel Coriolis struck  him as the kind of tech  who judged a pilot
on  how he handled his  fighter, not  on superficial  things like species or
background. "So . . . give me a status report on my bird."
     Using a remote, she switched on a set of  viewscreens filled  with data
readouts  on  the  fighter. "Here she is one  Thunderbolt; prepped,  primed,
locked, and loaded . . . and ready to kick some serious ass out there."
     Blair studied the data display for a few moments then gave an approving
nod. "Looks good, Chief," he finally said. "What about the ordinance?"
     "All taken care of,  skipper. The Captain  downloaded the mission specs
while  you  boys were finishing  your  briefing.  I doped  out  the  weapons
requirements and loaded her. You're all set for this one.
     Blair frowned. "Better let me review the load, Chief," he said slowly.
     "Typical," she said,  calling  up the ordinance display  on  one of the
monitors. "You flyboys just don't think anybody else knows what you're going
to need out there."
     He  checked the  weapons mix,  then  reluctantly  nodded.  "Looks  good
enough," he admitted.
     "Maybe next time you'll trust your Auntie Rachel with the loadout, huh,
skipper?"  She gave  him a quick smile. "I promise you, Colonel, I'll  never
disappoint you."
     "I'll bet you  won't," he said. Blair took a  last look  at the fighter
stats then turned toward the door. It was time to launch.
     "Good luck, skipper," the technician said, "and Godspeed."
     He  left Flight Control and  took the  elevator to the next level down,
emerging  on the main hangar  deck in the midst of a confusion of people and
machines engaged in  the familiar purposeful chaos of pre-launch operations.
Hobbes  was already there,  with  his  helmet  on  but  his  faceplate open.
"Fighters up, Colonel," he said seriously. "Ready to fly."
     "Then let's get out there," Blair responded, lifting his own helmet and
settling it over  his head carefully. His flight suit and gauntlets made the
motion awkward, but Hobbes helped him get seated and dogged down.  A pair of
technicians bustled around guiding  them toward the fighters resting side by
side in their launch cradles.
     Blair climbed into  the cockpit, his stomach churning the way it always
did in anticipation of a launch, as techs supervised the final preparations,
checked  the seals  on the  cockpit canopy, removed external  power and fuel
feeds, studied  readouts,  and compared  them with the  incoming  data  from
Flight Control. Blair ran through his own checklist.
     When all the lights on his panel glowed green,  he nodded his head  and
lowered  his  faceplate  into  place. He switched  his radio  to the command
channel. "Thunderbolt three-double-zero," he said. "Ready for launch."
     "Flight Control,"  Rachel's  voice sounded  in  his  ear.  "Confirming,
Thunderbolt three zero zero ready for launch."
     Blair's faceplate came alive with a Heads Up Display of  the  fighter's
major  systems.  Seconds  ticked  away on  a countdown  clock in  the  lower
left-hand  corner  of  the HUD  readout.  The time seemed  to drag  into  an
eternity, but at last  the readout flashed  through the  final few  seconds.
Blair  took a firm grip on the steering yoke with  one hand while the  other
rested on the engine throttles. Three . . . two . . . one . . .
     Blair  rammed  the  throttles  forward  and  felt the  engines  engage.
"Thunderbolt  three-double-zero, under power," he reported. Then he was free
of the carrier, climbing outward into the star-studded depths of open space.
     A moment later Hobbes came on the line, his voice slightly distorted by
the  computer  reconstruction  of  his  encoded  transmission.  "Thunderbolt
three-zero-one, under power."
     "Roger that,  three  hundred,  three-o-one," the  voice  of  Lieutenant
Rollins rang  loudly  in his headphones. "Your mission designation  is Snoop
Flight, repeating Snoop Flight."
     "Confirming,"  Blair  replied.  "Snoop  Leader,   establishing   flight
coordinates now." As Hobbes added his  own  response,  Blair tapped a key to
check the  autopilot's  flight  plan on  the  navcomp.  A  flight from  Blue
Squadron had detected signs of possible enemy activity on long-range sensors
around three different  coordinate points, but pursuant  to standing  orders
had  not investigated closely. Instead, they brought their information  back
to the Victory. Now Eisen wanted those potential trouble  spots checked more
thoroughly, with Gold Squadron's heavier Thunderbolts  doing the scouting in
case they ran into opposition.
     A routine patrol . . . except that Blair had long since learned that no
mission was ever entirely routine.
     The two fighters flew in close formation, side by side, with  a minimum
of  conversation passing  back and forth  between  them or the  carrier. The
first  of the three target  areas were  free  of  enemy ships, although some
random space debris did show up on sensors to  suggest what the first flight
had  detected.  They remained  in the area  long enough  to double-check all
their sensor  readings, then  set course for the second navigation  point on
the flight plan.
     "Range  to  navpoint,   eight  thousand  kilometers,"  Hobbes  reported
finally. "Switching to full-spectrum sensor sweep . . . now."
     "Confirmed," Blair replied  tersely,  activating his own  sensor array.
What  seemed like extremely  long  seconds  passed  as the computer began to
process the information pouring  through  the system. The tracking screen in
the center of his control console lit up with a trio of red lights.
     "Fighters,  fighters,  fighters,"  Hobbes  chanted  over  the  tactical
channel.  "I read three fighters,  bearing  three-four-six  by zero-one-one,
range two thousand, closing."
     Blair checked his own target  readouts. "Confirmed. Three bad guys, two
of us. But I'll bet you  they're only a little bit  nervous at the odds!" He
paused  for  a  moment,   studying   the  sensor  data.  "I  read   them  as
Dralthi-class, probably type fours."
     "Then  they  should offer  only  a  mild  challenge," Hobbes  said. The
Dralthi  IV was  a good  craft, but classed  as a  medium fighter with  less
weaponry and lighter armor  than the  Terran  Thunderbolt.  "May I have  the
honor of the first engagement, Colonel?"
     Blair frowned. His instincts were at odds with what he could see on the
screen. Something wasn't quite right . . . "Wait,  Hobbes," he said. "I want
to finish the scan."
     The  sensors  covered  the whole volume around  the Terran  fighters to
their  extreme  limits,  but  the computer was  still crunching  numbers and
trying  to extrapolate detailed information from their readings. There was a
single, massive asteroid near the  same  bearing as  the enemy fighters, yet
closer  and several  degrees to  port. An asteroid  that  size  could hold a
Kilrathi depot or advanced base, perhaps armed . . . .
     "Steer clear of that rock, Hobbes," he said,  still  frowning. "I don't
like the  looks of it.  Let's keep in supporting distance until we see which
way those boys are going to break."
     "Acknowledged," Ralgha responded. Blair thought he could detect a  note
of disappointment in the alien's voice.
     "Going to afterburners," Blair said, pushing the throttles into the red
zone and  feeling  the  press of acceleration  on his  chest.  Hobbes stayed
close, matching his course and speed.
     "They see us, Colonel," Ralgha reported a moment later.
     On Blair's targeting  screen, he  could see the three fighters breaking
formation. It looked  as if they were getting  ready  for a typical Kilrathi
attack  pattern,  with  individual  ships hurling themselves  into action in
succession rather than attempting a coordinated assault. That was the legacy
of their carnivore forebears:  the  instinct to  fight as individual hunters
and warriors rather than group  together in a mass effort. Blair knew Hobbes
was  feeling the pull of that  same age-old instinct, but he also  knew  his
friend's  rigid sense  of  duty and  self-control,  which  would hold him in
formation until he was released.
     The first Dralthi accelerated toward them,  driving at  maximum thrust.
Over the open  radio channel  the enemy  pilot screamed a  challenge.  "Die,
hairless apes!" translated the  communications computer. "Die as  you  live,
without honor or value!"
     "I am no ape,"  Hobbes replied. "I am Ralgha nar Hhallas, and my  honor
is not to  be  questioned by a Kilra'hra like you!"  Blair's wingman  rolled
left, opening fire on  the Dralthi  with blasters and  a  pair of  anti-ship
missiles.
     The lead Kilrathi fighter dodged and juked, eluding one of the missiles
and  increasing thrust  as it turned  onto  a new heading  angling away from
Hobbes.  The  other  missile  scored a  hit  on shields already weakened  by
blaster fire, raising a cloud of  debris  amidships as the blast ripped into
armor plating.
     Blair started to follow his comrade's course, ready to maintain a close
formation and keep enemies  off Ralgha's back. But he spotted  motion on his
sensor  grid,  and  swore softly.  "Damn it, the other  two aren't  sticking
around to fight," he said.
     "Pursue them if you wish, my friend," Hobbes replied grimly. "I wish to
finish this one."
     He hesitated  a  moment. Blair  was a  firm  believer in  the  value of
formation fighting  and  mutual  support  between  wingmen, but  the mission
profile  called for the Terran fighters to  eliminate as  many opponents  as
possible once an engagement began. The idea was to sweep each of the suspect
areas  clean  and  not  to  allow escaping  Kilrathi  to regroup  or  summon
reinforcements to redeem an  initial defeat.  If those two broke  off, there
was no telling how many of their friends they would contact.
     Blair changed his vector to follow  the two ships as they veered toward
the shelter of the  asteroid he had noted earlier. On their present heading,
they  would not pass  close enough to  pose  any particular danger to either
pursued  or  pursuer. If they could  put the irregular lump of rock  and ore
between  their ships and Blair's Thunderbolt, they  might be able to confuse
his sensors long enough to make their escape.
     On their  present course they were  opening  the range  separating them
from the  first  Dralthi, which  was running in the  opposite direction with
Hobbes close on the enemy  fighter's tail.  That was one less thing to worry
about.  Apparently  the  Kilrathi  had  no great interest in rescuing  their
comrade.
     Blair kept one eye on his fuel gauge and the other  on the enemy ships.
High-thrust operations burned fuel at a terrible rate, and the last thing he
needed  now was to use  so  much of his reserve that he wouldn't  be able to
make  it home. Judging from the  heat outputs of the  two Dralthi, they were
not using their  full thrusters.  They  were  probably already low  on fuel,
nearing the end  of an extended patrol.  That meant he could still close the
gap and engage them . . . .
     Then  the enemy exhaust plumes started burning hotter.  The  two  craft
suddenly began to swing around, their symbols changing quickly on his sensor
readouts.  They were  turning, but not  to run.  This  time they  planned to
attack.
     In the  same  moment,  three more  targets appeared on Blair's screens,
closing from starboard.
     These,  too, were  Dralthi. Blair cursed.  The new  arrivals  had  been
lurking in the  lee  of that asteroid, dangerously  close to the huge  rock.
Evidently  the Kilrathi picked up the first patrol flight and realized there
would  be  a  follow-up mission,  so they  organized  an ambush. With Hobbes
distracted by his one-on-one  fight  with  the  original attacker, the enemy
squadron could  concentrate  on  knocking  Blair out of action  while he was
still unsupported.
     "Hobbes," he  said urgently. "Talk to me, buddy. I've got  five bandits
surrounding  me with  damn  little running room. Break off  whatever  you're
doing and give me an assist."
     Blair  was already reversing  course as one of  the  Dralthi  broke and
plunged  toward him.  His fingers  danced over the autopilot keyboard  as he
programmed the computer to  begin random bursts of thrust  at odd vectors to
keep his opponent from getting a firm lock  on  the Thunderbolt.  Then there
was  nothing more  he could do except wait, jaw  clenched, as he watched the
Dralthi  slowly close in. Soon  the  enemy pilot  would be able to match his
vector, and when that happened . . .
     He  fired his maneuvering jets to  execute a tumbling turn  just as the
Dralthi  settled on the Terran  fighter's tail. Suddenly, the  Kilrathi ship
filled his  forward viewport,  and Blair opened fire with his blasters in  a
quick  succession of shots that burned  power  too quickly  for the  weapons
generators to respond. His  last shot was with a Dart unguided missile,  the
type pilots referred to  as "dumb-fires." But even without a homing  system,
the missile wasn't likely to miss at this range.
     The missile barely left  his  ship before Blair's  fighter was twisting
again.  He  didn't see  the missile punch through the weakened  shields  and
detonate  over the weakest  armor, around the  Dralthi's  cockpit.  But  his
sensors  registered  the blast,  and Blair  felt a  momentary  thrill  as he
realized he had scored a kill.
     But that still left four-to-one odds.
     He did not waste time. The other Kilrathi fighters  were still  out  of
range  even   though  they  were  closing  in  fast.  Blair   reignited  his
afterburners  and tried  to put some  distance between  his fighter and  the
pursuers, but  this time it was  Blair  who  was  concerned  about his  fuel
supply. The four Dralthi were running flat out, apparently unconcerned about
their reserves.
     "Talk to me, Hobbes," he said again. "Where the hell are you . . . ?"
     His  answer  was a blood-curdling, triumphant snarl  that  the computer
translator utterly failed to interpret, and for an instant, Blair thought it
was Ralgha's opponent proclaiming a triumph. Then he realized it was Hobbes,
giving  way  to  his  instincts  and  emotions  in the  heat of  battle  and
forgetting,  for  the  moment, the thin veneer of Confederation culture that
lay over his Kilrathi heritage.
     Then his rigid  control seemed to clamp down  again. "I have dispatched
my opponent," he said stiffly, as if  the earlier Kilrathi war-call had come
from someone else entirely. "I am coming to your support now, my friend."
     "Make  it soon, tall, dark, and furry," Blair said. "These guys want to
put me in a trophy room."
     Another Dralthi was approaching,  and once  again  Blair  knew  he must
steer a  fine line  if he was  going to fight. Every  time he let himself be
drawn into a dogfight, the other Kilrathi ships tightened the range a little
bit more. At that rate, he would never be able to  win. And sooner or  later
the odds would tell against him.
     This time  he didn't wait for the other ship  to get so close. Instead,
he  threw the Thunderbolt into a tight, high-G  turn and opened fire as soon
as his weapons came to bear. The Dralthi returned fire with a full spread of
blaster bolts and missiles, and for all of Blair's attempts at dodging, they
racked up  three  solid hits,  scoring away more than half the armor on  his
port wing.
     Blair  rolled away  from the  oncoming  fighter,  trying  to  keep  his
starboard  side facing the Dralthi, but the Kilrathi pilot was a veteran who
knew how to efficiently  maneuver his  craft. More  blaster shots struck his
weakened side in rapid succession, sapping his shields.
     But the attack carried the Dralthi past  Blair's Thunderbolt, and for a
few seconds the advantage went to the Terran. He slapped his weapon selector
switch and called up a Javelin heat-seeker. Blair's fingers tightened around
his steering yoke as  he  tried  to line up the  targeting reticule over the
Kilrathi fighter on his HUD display. It was close . . . very close.
     The  target  indicator glowed red,  and  Blair  fired  blasters  before
releasing the missile. The Javelin locked onto the heat  emissions from  the
Dralthi's engines and leapt outward.  Seeing his danger, the  Kilrathi pilot
made  a  fast turn,  attempting  to get under  the  missile's sensor cone to
confuse its on-board tracking system. Blair  cursed as his board  showed the
missile losing its lock.
     His energy readout  showed his guns hadn't finished  recycling yet, but
Blair took a  calculated  risk and  switched power  from  the shields to the
weaponry systems. Then, determined to keep his fighter in line with the rear
of the Dralthi  despite its twisting, turning  maneuvers, the Terran  opened
fire again. The blasters tore through the weakened  shields,  the armor, and
the  entire rear section of the Dralthi, which erupted in gouts of flame and
spinning metal. "Scratch two!" Blair called.
     Then Hobbes  was  beside Blair, firing a warning shot at long  range to
let  the  other  three  Kilrathi craft  know the odds  had  changed.  Almost
immediately they veered away,  charting new vectors, as if deciding  against
pressing the battle.
     "They are withdrawing," Hobbes said. "Do we pursue?"
     "I'm showing some pretty bad damage on the starboard side, and I'm down
to one missile," Blair replied grimly. "What about you?"
     "The first  foe put up a valiant  struggle," the  Kilrathi  replied. "I
fear my  own missiles are  exhausted, and I have forward and port-side armor
damage."
     "Those guys are fresh," Blair said. "I don't know why they're giving up
so easily, but  I  figure we'd better just count our blessings  and head for
home before they spring any more little surprises on us."
     "The Captain will not be pleased, I fear. It seems  we have not carried
out our mission."
     Blair didn't  answer his wingman's comment directly.  "Let's  get these
crates moving, buddy. Set course for home base, standard thrust."


        CHAPTER IV

     Thunderbolt 300 Orsini System

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

     Captain's Ready Room, TCS Victory Orsini System

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

     Flight Wing Rec Room, TCS Victory Orsini System

     The  victory  party  was  in full  swing when the lift  deposited Blair
outside the recreation hall set aside for use by the flight wing. He  paused
in the corridor,  reluctant to go inside. After all, they were celebrating a
successful  op that had made  good the mistakes he and Hobbes made the first
time out, and  Blair didn't much care to  be reminded of  that fact tonight.
But  as wing commander, he had a duty  to his outfit, and part of that  duty
was  to show his support for them in success and fail