CHAPTER ONE
James Taggart, Assembly Master of the Confederation Senate, retired brigadier, and ex-spy, looked up at the vaulted ceiling of the Hall of the Great Assembly. The Great Hall's acoustics had been designed to allow a speaker to address the highest galleries without electronic amplification. The acoustics also concentrated all the sound in the room down on the dais.
The Senate was in full cry. Eminent men and women from across the Confederation shouted and gestured at each other, each trying to be heard above the din. News services from a half dozen affiliated worlds aimed pin-mikes at their representatives. Lobbyists and flesh pressers of a dozen stripes worked the aisles, hobnobbing with the legislators who allocated power and, more importantly, money. Taggart found the whole show cynically amusing, very pathetic, and utterly fascinating.
It occurred to him that he had come a long way since the war. Then, as "Paladin," he had plugged along in silent obscurity, spying and doing one classified operation after another for king and country. He would have vanished into obscurity had it not been for Admiral Tolwyn and his spectacular failure with Operation Behemoth.
Taggart had put his own scheme together. Colonel Blair had gotten lucky over Kilrah, dropping the Temblor bomb and knocking Kilrah out of the war and Taggart into the limelight. Taggart had come away as "the man who saved humanity," especially as Blair had fled the public's adoration.
He laughed as he recalled how little time it had taken before the deal makers and the image shapers came snooping after him. They'd helped him ride the rising tide of his fame to the Senate, then to the Master's Chair. It was an almost unprecedented honor for a freshman Senator, especially as he'd refused to open his black bag of tricks to engineer his promotion. His election had been done openly and honestly, and it was one of his proudest moments.
Taggart glanced at his watch. The time for unstructured debate had finally ended. He took the heavy wooden gavel and began to tap the handle against the clapper. The sound, electronically enhanced, thumped out across the floor, warning the Senators that it was time to bring their remarks to a close. He kept politely tapping for several minutes, then reversed the hammer in his hand. The second sweep crossed the hour. Now he could get serious. He raised the gavel to shoulder level and brought it down hard.
Boom! Boom! Boom! The heavy wood struck the clapper, resonating throughout the chamber. The nearest Senators actually winced as the thrumming washed over them. Taggart continued to pound the gavel until the sound diminished enough for him to be heard.
"Order," he demanded, "order."
The Senate quieted, the last diehards sitting only as Taggart threatened to whack the gavel again.
"You will all have the opportunity to voice your opinions on the occurrence on our Border Worlds frontier," he said soothingly. Damn, Paladin, he thought to himself, you really are becoming a politician. When did dead pilots and ambushed ships become an "occurrence"? He gritted his teeth, projecting a false smile before he continued. "But we will first hear from the Commander of the Strategic Readiness Agency. Admiral Tolwyn has graciously agreed to appear before us and provide us with his preliminary assessment of the raids." He half-turned towards his guest. "Admiral Tolwyn."
Admiral Geoffrey Tolwyn stepped up to the podium, resplendent in his dress uniform. Taggart noted that the admiral had worn all of his decorations, gilding his chest in gold, silver, and bronze. It was an impressive show, at least to the rubes in the cheap seats.
Taggart suspected that Tolwyn's star had fallen enough after his pet project had failed for the admiral to feel he had to resort to such theatrics to make his point. In Taggart's assessment, he believed that Tolwyn had rebounded nicely, and was again ascendant, but apparently the admiral was taking no chances.
Taggart watched the admiral step up to the podium and look out onto the ranks of assembled notables. Tolwyn's gaze seemed coolly appraising, as though taking the Senators' measure. His expression grew grave as he pulled a thin sheaf of papers out of his tunic and spread them out on the lectern.
It occurred to Taggart, as he watched Tolwyn, that the admiral was the best politician of all of them. How else could the man—who'd nearly been cashiered after the Behemoth debacle—bounce back to run the Strategic Readiness Agency as his personal fiefdom? The man was a survivor, with more lives than a cat.
Admiral Tolwyn cleared his throat and began. "Ladies and gentlemen of the Assembly: as the Commander of the SRA, I am charged with many duties. Foremost among these is the protection of the frontiers of our galaxy."
He looked down briefly. Taggart noticed that while Tolwyn had notes, he hardly referred to them. It was also clear that Tolwyn had mastered political speech-making, using the slightly stiff, overblown rhetoric that was all the rage with the log-rolling set. The Tolwyn of old would neither have been so polite to those he considered mealy-mouthed civilians, nor would he have stooped to talk to them in their own language.
"Unfortunately," the admiral continued, "I don't have any answers. The attacks have left no survivors and precious little evidence. Confed Intel has given it their best shot, and to date has come up empty."
Taggart knew the last to be a subtle dig at himself. His own service was Intel, and semi-independent of the Fleet. Paladin had kept it that way, in spite of Tolwyn's attempts to absorb the uniformed element of the intelligence community.
"We have," Tolwyn continued, spreading his palms humbly, "absolutely no proof of who is doing this."
The Senate erupted in chaos. Many senators had constituents who were affected, owned ship lines, or wanted to put in a plug for "law and order" on general principles. Some blamed pirates while others accused the Border Worlds militia of treachery. Other, darker theories, of conspiracies and secret Kilrathi attacks, were bandied about. Taggart banged his gavel.
Tolwyn raised his hand—and the room quieted, much to Taggart's concealed irritation. He wished he commanded as much respect from the legislators. He recalled, to his sour amusement, that he had until he became one of them.
Tolwyn gave Taggart a wintery sidelong look. "Well, I'm sure we all have our theories. . . ." He rolled his eyes slightly, allowing Taggart to see that his contempt for civilians was intact. "But let me tell you," he said, raising one index finger for emphasis, "that while it is a mystery now, it will not be one for long." Taggart wondered if Tolwyn was going to give some inkling of his plan.
The admiral instead humbly lowered his eyes, a gesture Taggart knew to be pure artifice. "As most of you know, I've spent a lot of time on the frontier, both fighting the Kilrathi, and in building the peace. The Border Worlds are a wild lot—full of rogues, privateers, and the Border Worlders themselves." His voice took on disapproving tones. "Their loose society encourages irresponsibility and indiscriminate growth rather than cooperative and controlled development of resources for the benefit of all humans."
Taggart looked at Tolwyn, contemplating the admiral with hooded eyes. Tolwyn had just disclaimed knowing who the culprits were, and now was steering the senators towards the Border Worlds. He wondered what agenda the admiral had tucked up his gold-braided sleeve.
One senator leapt to his feet, interrupting both Tolwyn's speech and Taggart's line of thought. Taggart glanced at the man, whom he really thought should be old enough to know better. "Scoundrels!" the senator thundered, pounding his hand on his desk for effect. "That's what they are! They should be punished for what they've done!"
Another backbencher, unwilling to be outdone, also stood. "They're hoodlums! Rebels who're preying on innocent ships!" Taggart saw they were playing to the cameras and dismissed them.
Tolwyn didn't. He shook his head sadly. "Let me remind you, senators, that during the long war with the Kilrathi, the Border Worlds were a strong ally."
Another senator jumped up to interrupt. "And now they're attacking us!"
Taggart sighed. It must be the full moon, he thought. They seemed, after just the tiniest bit of nudging from Tolwyn, to be ready to blame the Border Worlders on general principles, much less on hard evidence. He looked up into the galleries, relieved to see that while many faces were hard with anger, many others looked contemplative and skeptical.
Tolwyn, again the voice of reason, continued. "Do not allow lust for revenge to cloud your thinking . . .'' He gave Taggart another sidelong glance and a tiny, wintery smile. "We mustn't forget who our friends are."
Many of the senators present nodded assent, agreeing with the admiral's sentiments and missing the byplay on the dais.
Taggart had no doubt whatsoever that the admiral had just put a shot across his bows. Counterintelligence had actually been Admiral Richard's bailiwick and not his, but the hard truth remained the same. Counter Intel had failed to catch the Kilrathi renegade, Hobbes, before he'd betrayed his human allies and returned to his own kind. That lapse had cost Tolwyn his precious Behemoth and his shot at ending the war. Tolwyn had made no secret of the fact he thought Paladin might have sabotaged his pet project.
"However," Tolwyn said, his voice hardening as he delivered what Taggart thought would be his real pitch, "we must also keep in mind that during the war, certain social and political changes were taking place along the frontiers." He paused. "We don't know what is going on inside the Border Worlds themselves. We don't know if these raids may reflect a change within the Border Worlds governments, the rise of criminal elements on the frontier itself, or if these are just random terrorism events or even common piracy." He paused. "Until we get hard evidence, however, we must assume that the Border Worlds are as they have always been . . ." He paused, showing the slightest hint of skepticism, "our friends."
Terrorism, Taggart thought, is many things, but it is never "random." And it was common knowledge that the Border Worlds had refused to release the carriers acquired from Earth until long after the Kilrathi had begun their assault. The frowns he saw in the gallery suggested that he wasn't the only senator to make that connection. He smiled slightly, amused at Tolwyn's ability to play both sides of the aisle.
Tolwyn grasped the podium with both hands, taking physical control of it as he thrust his head aggressively forward. "I don't know who is doing this," he said, slowly and distinctly, letting the moment build, "but I shall find out. And then . . . I will see to it that it stops."
The senators clapped and cheered. Taggart banged his gavel repeatedly, trying to restore order. He waited until the clamor had been reduced to a buzz, then looked down at Tolwyn. Tolwyn had played the body masterfully, gathering the senators in and building his case. Any legislator challenging Tolwyn's position would be seen as coddling the Border Worlds or condoning the attacks. No one wanted to be put in that position with so many cameras about.
Taggart saw he had two choices: he could tack with Tolwyn's gale, or be blown by it. The decision wasn't especially difficult. He put on what he called his "political face," the bland, friendly expression everyone in the Hall wore most of the time.
"Admiral," he began, trying to match Tolwyn's sense of presence. His own style was more folksy, and didn't lend itself well to this type of occasion. ". . . our relations with the Border Worlders have been damaged by these, um, incidents. They've claimed to suffer from attacks similar to ours, and share similar concerns. Tensions between our government and the Border Worlds are high and we want this situation defused as quickly as possible. Time is of the essence."
Tolwyn nodded gravely. "I shall assume personal control of the investigation." He raised his voice. "And I shall use all of the forces at my disposal to find the perpetrators . . . and defuse them." He grinned then, a shark's smile.
Taggart swallowed at the thought of Tolwyn's fleet carriers deploying to the frontier, and how the Border Worlds were likely to respond to that. He tried to think of a way to put some back-pressure on what was happening, to slow the tides of the moment. He opened his mouth to suggest a more low-key response, then glanced up, uncomfortably aware that all of the vid-cams in the Hall were pointed at him. "The Assembly looks forward to the results of your investigation," he said lamely. He tried to change the spin of Tolwyn's victory, to make his commission investigative, rather than active. "We shall decide a course of action within, ah . . . a fortnight of your completed report."
Tolwyn made a show of gracious acceptance. Taggart knew Tolwyn had gotten what he wanted, and now could afford to be gracious. Tolwyn turned slightly. Taggart was certain he did it to be better seen by the cameras. He raised his voice slightly, enunciating clearly for the journalists. "Thank you, Paladin. When you served under my command I knew I could always count on you," the admiral said. "I accept your vote of confidence on behalf of the Strategic Readiness Agency, and we shall endeavor to match your timetable for action."
"Two weeks," Taggart said, convinced Tolwyn was playing him, annoyed at Tolwyn's pointed reference to his once having been subservient to him. He searched for some sign of smugness or victory in the admiral's eyes, and saw nothing. Tolwyn's expression remained cool and still.
The admiral gave him another small smile. "Two weeks."
Taggart shook his head fractionally as Tolwyn turned back to the lectern. He had just been backed into agreeing to a fortnight's unspecified operations with unspecified forces along a potentially explosive frontier. He just hoped that Tolwyn knew what the hell he was doing. For all their sakes.
Christopher Blair picked up his wrench and counted to ten. His knuckles still throbbed from where he'd bashed them while trying to open the aerator pump's access cover. Sweat rolled down his face, soaking his shirt and dripping into the pump's guts. He rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead, then pinched his fingers together on the bridge of his nose to try and wipe away the stinging stuff.
He looked up at the thin blue sky and Nephele Prime. Prime was an insignificant main sequence yellow G-type star on the edge of nowhere. Nephele Two was tucked just on the inside of the "green band," the range of distances that a planet could occupy that would support human life. Two barely fit the criteria, resulting in a biosphere only marginally adaptable for human beings. The planet's principle exports were sand and rare earths, with just enough agriculture to provide the locals with some vegetables.
Blair had picked the place for its isolation, as had most of the other emigrants. His nearest neighbors were a monastic group of Zen Buddhists, whose hobbies appeared to be meditating and leaving him alone.
The long lines of sight had been the hardest thing for him to get used to on Two. The ability to see all the way to the horizon was something that just wasn't possible on a carrier deck. It had taken him a long time to decide he liked having room to stretch his elbows.
Nephele also offered air that hadn't been through a 'fresher, water that didn't have a chemical aftertaste, and unrecycled food. It was paradise, compared to the Fleet. Or so he told himself. Daily.
He looked down at his salt-crusted watch. It was only nine a.m., local time, but the temperature was already up over 42 degrees centigrade. He suspected that it would top 45 before noon. That conclusion took very little deductive reasoning. Two topped 45 degrees every day.
The blazing heat drew his attention back to the task at hand. The broken pump was supposed to draw water from the aquifer deep below the farmstead and up into porous pipes below ground. The water would then be forced into the soil around the plants, giving them the precious liquid they needed to survive in Two's desert regions. Losing either the pump or suction in the well shaft would require repriming the system, a costly and difficult prospect. Meanwhile, his plants would broil in the brutal sun.
He applied the spanner to a broken solenoid, removing it in only twice the time the manual said it should take. He replaced it, dropping the new part in the sand and bashing his hand. He finally got the access panel closed. The pump hummed and clicked to itself as it ran its internal diagnostics program, then flashed system ready on a tiny screen.
Blair crossed his fingers and hit the starter button. The machine began to shake and rattle as the old solar-powered engine tried to turn over. "Come on, you old piece of . . ." he said, then stopped as the pump rumbled to life. He exhaled in relief, then dropped his head in frustration as it died.
He checked the diagnostics. The display read system fault.
"No kidding," he grumbled. He took the wrench and attacked the solenoid again, tightening and loosening it in its socket to try and get a better contact. He hit the starter again. The machine flared to life, sputtered, and died.
Blair sighed in frustration and looked across the hectare or so of crops that surrounded him. The plants would be wilted by nightfall if he couldn't get water to them, and surface irrigation was out of the question. Water pumped onto the plants during the day would either evaporate at once or would act as a lens, concentrating the sunlight and searing the vegetation even more. He needed to get the pump operational, and soon, or his crop was finished.
He thought he'd done well to eke as much life out of the desert as he had, and with virtually no experience. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time . . . to spend his days creating life rather than destroying it. The process, though, had proven to be full of heartache and physical pain. He couldn't decide if he was proud of his meager accomplishment or sorry he'd ever begun it.
He knelt beside the aerator again and began to work the wrench into the solenoid's socket. He thought that perhaps the new part was bad. He hadn't thought to bench test it before he tried to install it. He cursed. It wouldn't have been the first time the Farm Bureau had sent him a new part that arrived broken.
He gave the engine a third try. It sputtered and died. This time a sound like a gulp came from the inside of the machine as it failed. Blair swore sulphurously as the display flashed system integrity lost—pipe pressure failure. He had no choice now but to have the pump reprimed. He'd lose a significant portion of his crops before that happened.
He threw the wrench down with an oath and stalked off towards the run-down-looking house, noticing for the dozenth time that the place needed a new coat of paint. He wasn't especially disposed to do much more than recognize that the need existed. His domestic urges didn't include painting, especially in Neph's blistering heat. The notion of contracting a job like that locally was laughable. Not that he could afford it, even if he could cozen someone into doing it.
He stepped around the clutter on the steps and went inside to make the repair call. The house's main room was cluttered rather than dirty, with memorabilia covering every horizontal surface. The walls had no decoration other than old two-dees of comrades (many long dead), his framed citations and promotions, and curios picked up during twenty years of war. The room looked, he mused tiredly, like a display from a military museum. Which, in a way, it was.
He stepped over to the fridge plugged in next to his easy chair, reached in, and grabbed a beer can. He pressed the icy-cold plastic against his sweaty forehead, sighing in relief at the feel of the container against his heated skin. He glanced around, looking for his holo-comm controller. It was, for the moment, lost. He decided he wasn't particularly in the mood to look for it. The Farm Bureau could wait. God knows, he thought, they're going to make me wait, once I call.
He plopped into his chair, surrounded by a litter of magazines, books, and a trash bin half full of dead beer cans and food cartons.
The remote control for the holo-box was still sitting on the chair's arm. He picked it up and idly turned on the box. The news channel appeared to be carrying a feed from Earth. He checked the caption on the bottom of the screen. It was a delayed telecast from the Assembly Hall on Earth, and only two days old. He raised his eyebrows in surprise. The short delay suggested that the news must be really hot. Nephele was so far from Earth that what tapes they got were usually ten days old at the earliest. He settled back in his chair and opened his beer, interested in what the government had to say.
He cued the sound. The announcer's voice came from multiple speakers that were supposed to have been set into the walls but were instead scattered around the floor. ". . . and we've been told," her earnest, young voice said from off-camera, "that Admiral Tolwyn himself will be addressing this session of the Assembly on behalf of the Strategic Readiness Agency. Assembly Master Taggart's office has informed us that the nature of Admiral Tolwyn's remarks is not yet ready for release. We've heard from 'highly-placed sources' that the admiral's address will deal with the raids on Confederation shipping, likely by Border Worlds forces. Back to you, Miguel."
Blair took a slug of beer and belched as the pundits took over, trying to predict what Tolwyn would say. The camera zoomed back in on Taggart, who looked faintly bored. Paladin's done well for himself, Blair thought. Taggart's moustache and hair were still more blond than gray and the smile lines around his eyes had grown a little deeper. Blair decided that life as a politician agreed with him. Taggart glanced at his watch and started banging his gavel, trying to bring the floor to order. Blair noticed that he wasn't having much luck at first. The room finally quieted, and Blair listened as Taggart introduced Tolwyn. Blair laughed again. Paladin appeared to have lost his accent. He'd always suspected Taggart's thick, Scottish brogue had been a put-on. A spy with a burr just didn't fit Blair's image of a secret agent.
Blair's laughter died as the admiral stepped up to the podium, his dress uniform aglitter with awards and decorations. The sight of Tolwyn stirred mixed emotions in Blair. The admiral had at one time thought Blair to be a turncoat, or, worse yet—incompetent, as a result of the loss of the Tiger's Claw. Blair had since proven otherwise, mostly by accomplishing more than his fair share of Tolwyn's suicidal missions.
Blair considered Tolwyn's reputation for risk taking with other people's lives to understate the facts. The admiral's willingness to sacrifice anyone or anything to achieve his objectives had long been lauded in the popular press. He was "the man who got things done."
Blair had often been placed in the position of being one of those sacrificed, a singular honor he had rarely appreciated. He'd always managed to come back. Many of his friends, also flying on Tolwyn's orders, hadn't been so lucky. Tolwyn had won more than he'd lost, the butcher's bills notwithstanding. Tolwyn, so far as Blair knew, had never expressed remorse for those who'd died pursuing his schemes.
He listened, unimpressed, as Tolwyn laid out his case for mounting a major expedition to the frontier. There hadn't been much going on since the Kilrathi War, and Tolwyn was doubtless looking for some action. He laughed. The old war-horse was trying to find an excuse to get out and ride his carriers.
The news reports had indicated that the raids hadn't been more than a pinprick. Tolwyn's reaction seemed to him to be more akin to smashing grasshoppers with a sledgehammer than a military operation, unless the press was downplaying the real situation. He shrugged. He laughed out loud as Tolwyn maneuvered the Senate into anointing him with a strike force. If Tolwyn wanted to chase pirates with a battle fleet, then that was fine with Blair.
The only part of the situation that disturbed him was Paladin's surrender. Taggart appeared to be Tolwyn's loudest cheerleader, helping to write the admiral a blank check for his private little war. Blair wondered how that boded for the future. The military, through the admiralty courts and martial law, had usurped much civilian authority in the name of protecting humanity from the Kilrathi. Blair had watched the government use one pretext after another to slow the transition back to complete civilian rule. Blair had been skeptical that Paladin, as a former military man, would do his part to restore the civilian government's prerogatives. This abdication seemed to confirm his assessment.
A chiming sounded from the depths of the room's clutter, drawing him from his ruminations. He stood, drained off his brew, and began sorting through the piles in the main room, in search of the comm-unit's remote control. He regretted the passing effort he'd made at tidying up the clutter. He'd only managed to move the piles around enough to lose track of everything.
He rooted through end-table drawers and among the seat cushions, through piles of dirty clothes, stacks of books and magazines, and piles of printouts. The comm-unit buzzed again, giving him a vector to zero in on. He found the holo-comm box hidden under an article discussing more efficient planting strategies, and a thick pile of newsfaxes.
He checked the unit, his eyebrows climbing in surprise at the flashing light. He read the display. ''Incoming—planet." He turned the unit over, trying to refamiliarize himself with the device. He couldn't remember if this was the second or third message he'd received since he'd bought the place, but he hadn't had enough mail for him to bother learning how the unit worked. He pressed one button on the side of the box. The room darkened while a section of wall slid back to reveal a holo-tank.
Rachel Corialis' face appeared, blurred and scratchy from a hundred playbacks. "Chris," her sad voice said, "I can't do this anymore. I can't spend my life on a backwater, and I can't stand the way you've crawled into that bottle." She took a deep breath, on the edge of tears. "You won't let me help you, and I can't live this way." She looked down. The playback fuzzed her voice into a scratchy whisper. "Chris . . . I love you but . . . goodbye. . . ." Her image faded as the old chip lost resolution.
"Damn," Blair said, under his breath, "I thought I erased that." He squinted at the controller again, then hit another button.
The signal jumped and flickered, then settled down to reveal Todd Marshall grinning at him from the tank. Blair groaned.
"Same to you, old buddy," Marshall said sarcastically, glancing around the part of the room he could see through Blair's pickup. "Nice place you got there. I like the style—early bachelor." He looked at Blair again. "I hope you put the goats outside before you go to bed."
Blair kept his expression still. "Hello, Maniac." He glanced at Marshall's shoulder pips, pleased that he was still a major. "Sorry about your promotion." He didn't try very hard to hide the insincerity in his voice.
The fleet had apparently decided that it was a bad idea to give a colonelcy to a pilot whose callsign described his state of mind. Blair, for once, agreed wholeheartedly with the armchair warriors. Maniac had abandoned far too many wingmen for Blair to want to entrust a squadron to him.
Marshall's face twisted in a sardonic expression that Blair had come to loathe. "Yeah, well, now that the amateurs have taken over, it's getting harder for us professionals to get ahead. I was supposed to get a squadron."
Blair kept his face still, unwilling to give Marshall an opening. He checked the source code of the call, confirming it as on-planet. "What brings you this far out?"
"I was just passing through," Maniac said, his voice thick with sarcasm, "and I smelled pigs. So I said to myself, 'I wonder what the Scourge of Kilrah is doing these days?' So I dropped by." His smile turned unfriendly. "You know, chief, most washed-up fighter jocks take on honorable occupations, like drinking or whoring." He paused. "But, farming, that's disgraceful." He chuckled.
Blair, unamused, placed his thumb over the disconnect button and held it up where Marshall could see it. "If this is a social call, Maniac," he said, "then I'm through being sociable."
Maniac raised one hand, his expression turning serious. "Listen, hotshot, you gotta meet me at the starport. I'll be in the canteen. We have to talk."
"We're talking now," Blair answered.
Maniac shook his head. "Not good enough. The channel could be monitored. This is important, too important to leak." He paused. "Look, a lot of lives are on the line here. It's vital I see you." He grinned. "So, see if you can fit me into your busy schedule, okay?"
Blair thought a moment, then nodded. "All, right. I'll hear you out." He paused. "This had better not be a game."
The holo faded in a burst of static, leaving Blair in the darkened, slightly musty room. He sat long into the morning, thinking. He eventually stood and walked out onto the porch where he looked out onto his crops a long moment. He turned his back on them and went inside to pack.
Blair stepped down the shuttle's ramp, pleased that he had been able to book a last-minute hop on the intercontinental. A gust of brutally hot air seeped around the mating collar that connected the walkway to the atmospheric shuttle's side. He walked down the walkway and into an icy blast of air conditioning. He shivered in the sudden heat change, gratified that while Two's starport lacked for virtually every amenity, it did have a landing dock and collar for smaller ships. He was certain that otherwise he would have melted crossing the starport's concrete ramp. He decided that he was going to have to get a cold drink inside him before he suffered heatstroke.
The starport was located on Two's equator, where ships could take advantage of the planet's rotational velocity to boost into space. Blair's home was in the much more reasonable southern latitudes, where asphalt didn't slag and run. He made it a point of going to the port as little as possible, to avoid the heat.
He rapidly concluded that the starport hadn't improved much since the last time he had been there. He walked up the grime-covered access ramp from the shuttle and passed a small, dust-caked window that faced the small field. He paused a moment to look out the thick plexiglass.
Small freighters lined one side of the field, their structures wavering in the rising thermals. Three landing circles, their concrete basins lashed and battered by the drive streams of dozens of ships, marked the area where the outbound ships staged for departure. A pair of closed lift-trucks loaded cargo onto a dirty and smoke-streaked short-haul atmospheric transport that squatted near the port's sole runway. The hulks of a half-dozen abandoned spacecraft lay cluttered on the far side of the field.
The shuttle lifted up to ground level behind him, raised by the small elevator that served the passenger area. It rolled slowly towards the departure area. He gave some thought as to how he planned to get back home, once he'd heard Maniac's pitch, then realized he didn't really care. He was here, and that was enough. He turned away from the window, threw his flight bag over his shoulder, and walked towards the concourse.
The inside of Two's starport had been built around a commercial area, with several offices for local freight lines, a broker, a few tired-looking shops, and several restaurants and bars. The whole place was done in lively pastels that both lightened the gloomy surroundings and showed every speck of dirt. The floor was carpeted in some kind of tough, age-spotted commercial fiber that had worn through in spots.
He angled for the canteen, certain it hadn't been moved. Pilots hung out in spacer bars, usually located within spitting distance of the starport's front gate, if not on the premises. Two made it easier by packing most of its facilities in close together, to reduce the amount of air they would have to chill.
The canteen was a dive located along the far wall of a tiny plaza built off the main drag. It appeared to share space with a pawnshop and what he guessed was either a brothel or a hotel, if not both. He slung his bag more tightly over his shoulder, crossed to the canteen, and entered.
He entered the outer alcove and was immediately struck by the din of the noisy crowd within. He glanced up and saw a clock displaying the local time. Eleven-thirty, and the place was already packed. He checked his bag in a rented locker and pocketed the key before he entered the main bar. His rough plan was to do a quick recon and find a good table before Maniac entered. A sign saying no weapons allowed flashed on and off over the door.
He stepped though the inner batwing doors and glanced around. The place had been a pilots' hangout during the war, catering to the long-haul patrols and transit jockeys ferrying fighters out to the frontier. The walls were decorated with two-dee renderings of warcraft throughout the ages, from primitive prop-driven aircraft to state-of-the-art fighters and bombers. Bric-a-brac and pilot memorabilia were scattered about on shelves. Models hung from the low ceiling, scattered between the ceiling fans, dancing lights and holos of yet more machines.
The place had always seemed contrived to Blair. Two had never had enough of a military presence to support a pilots' bar on its own, so it had to depend on transients.
Blair glanced around the main bar, looking for Maniac. The bar was filled to overflowing with the flotsam of a half-dozen races and a hundred planets. Pimps and whores of every possible color and gender plied their trades next to homeless vets begging for a handout or a drink. Several spacers in the shiny boots and creased flight suits of one of the inter-system liners swapped lies and swilled drinks with a pair of Confed pilots in rumpled flight suits. The next table had a woman with a tattooed face and green hair who fed cherries from the bar to a spider monkey perched on her shoulder. Blair watched the animal a moment, uncertain if its bright blue hair was a mutation or a dye job.
Men and women, many in remnants of Confederation uniforms—mostly identifiable as Kilrathi War veterans by their decorations and badges—littered the small round tables that surrounded the central area. Many drank or were drunk, while others played cards or dominoes. They shared the bored, listless expressions that Blair had come to associate with people who had no place to be and nothing much to do. Drug dealers worked the corners of the bar, plying the drunk or stoned with their wares, and occasionally discreetly rolling the comatose. Money changers and card-sharps sized up the rubes and each other.
Terrans stood cheek by jowl with aliens, Border Worlders, and mixed races, all talking at once—jabbering, negotiating, arguing, fighting, and drinking. The noise, the activity, and the odors—sweat, and oil, and vomit—clogged Blair's senses.
He recovered some of his poise and worked his way a little deeper into the closely-packed mass, enough that he could pick up snippets of the conversations around him. Everyone was looking to score, whether it was money, stolen property, sex, power, or off-planet. They all had some need they wanted met, and were willing, often frantic, to trade.
He moved into the center of the room, shifting his ID plate and credit chips into his front pockets. He looked around the room, searching for Maniac.
He shook his head, tiring of the game. Too much had changed since he'd retired to his farm for him to be comfortable with the situation. He made for the bar, seeking a safe haven while he pondered his next move. The bartender, seeing him place his elbows on the cheap, woodgrained plastic bar top, placed a glass in front of him and poured him a stiff drink.
Blair looked up, puzzled. "I didn't ask for this."
The bartender shrugged. "I only serve one kind here. I figured that's what you came in for."
Blair looked at the amber-colored liquid. He took a careful sniff, then wrinkled his nose at the smell of raw alcohol. He lifted the glass and took a sip, his first whiskey since Rachel had left. He coughed slightly as it burned a track down his throat. The stuff may have been rotgut, but it was better than the hooch produced by many ships' stills and far superior to the stuff he'd brought with him.
He cleared his throat. "How much?" he asked, indicating the glass.
"One point two," the bartender replied. "Standard credits only. None of that Border Worlds trash." He looked at Blair examining the glass. "It's cheap at the price."
"It'd be cheap at any price," Blair replied sourly. He handed his credit chip to the bartender. The bartender ran the charge, then looked up at Blair hopefully. "A tip?"
Blair thought a moment. "Don't go outside without a coat."
The bartender returned his credit chip and walked away, a sour expression on his face.
Blair was just turning around to scan the bar again, when someone bumped into him, spilling part of his drink on his hand. He quickly held the glass away from his clothing while he turned his head to curse at his jostler. The profanity died on his lips. A grizzled veteran, wearing the scraps of what had once been Confederation crew coveralls, looked up at him with rheumy eyes. He reeked of cheap whiskey and other, less savory odors.
The veteran wiped the back of one dirty hand across his mouth and tried to focus on Blair. "Hey, kid," the man said, "can you spare a vet a drink?"
Blair glanced over the old man's coveralls. The man's patches had been removed at some point, leaving dark shapes where they had protected the material beneath from fading. Blair thought he recognized some of the shapes. "Were you a flyer?"
The veteran drew himself up in pride and met Blair's eye. "Yep," he said, "started out as a turret gunner on a Broadsword. Got m'self a field commission as a pilot and flew em'."
"What happened?" Blair asked.
The man sighed, exhaling a stench into Blair's face, "I din't have no college, so I lost m' commission in the 'reduction in forces' when the war ended." He shrugged, his face a mix of pain and humiliation. "I flew off the ole Liberty for nineteen years. I was a plank-owner, been on her since her commissionin'. That shoulda' counted for sometin', ya know?" He glanced away and his shoulders slumped. "Poor girl—the Liberty, I mean. She fought hard an' did her part, ya' know, then got broken up for scrap. It was like she was nothing."
Blair nodded sympathetically. "Yeah, it's hell." The vet gave Blair a hard look. "I was on the Concordia," Blair supplied, "so I know all about losing a ship."
The vet dipped his head in agreement, accepting Blair as a member of the club. "Say, you don't know of any spacers takin' on crew, do ya?"
Blair shook his head. "Sorry. Why don't you go down to the hiring hall?"
The vet shrugged. "There's nothing there. The Cats got awful good at going after our transport in the tail end of the war, and with the loss of the shipyards on Earth and the scale-down after, there ain't been a whole lot of constructing. What slots there are got captains and majors scrambling for third mate's jobs." He looked morose. "It's bad, especially for a RIF'ed lieutenant like me."
"Yeah," Blair agreed.
"Ya know," the vet continued, "we fought awful hard and awful long to win the war, an' for what? There's still Cats out there, making trouble, an' pirates, an' whatnot. Nothing's going like it should. It's like we lost the war, too." He looked down meaningfully at Blair's drink. "You can't get a decent glass of whiskey." He pointed at the amber liquid. "Just bilge waste."
Blair opened his mouth to speak, only to have the vet run over him. "Prices of everything been going up. It's like everthing's failin' apart."
That's because it is, Blair thought. The war had gone on so long it had achieved a life of its own. He hadn't realized until after he had retired and had to live on the civilian economy just how much of it had become geared to support the war effort. That, coupled with the devastation of the Kilrathi attack on the home worlds, the sheer expense of the war, and the loss of the cream of human generations, had drained off what few resources were available to maintain the economic infrastructure.
The vet was looking at Blair intently. "Look, buddy, if I'm bothering you . . ."
"No," Blair replied, "sorry. I was thinking of . . . old friends. Comrades, you know?" It was the safest answer that came to mind.
The vet nodded, drawing his sleeve across his mouth again, "I didn't mean to ramble on," he said, "it's just—you spend your whole life workin' for something, working for victory, you know. Then we got it—an' then what? They throw us all out, tell us we gotta find jobs—like there was any to be found. An' they tells that now we gotta contribute, ya know." His face turned bitter. "Like we haven't been."
"Well," Blair replied, shrugging his shoulders, "I don't think anyone ever planned on what would happen if we won. I think we were so focused on just surviving that we never stopped to think about what would happen the day after peace broke out." He ground his teeth. Maybe we should have realized, he thought, we got a little taste of this during the truce before the Kilrathi surprise attack on Earth. But then we had Earth's industry and the Inner Colonies to carry some of the weight . . . and they were now ashes.
The vet cleared his throat. "Um," he said, "about that drink . . . ?"
"Sure," Blair said. He reached into his pocket for some folding money and saw Maniac through the crowd. The major looked as he always did, intense, and never more so than when he was putting the moves on a woman.
Blair thought a moment, then peeled off a five-credit note. It was little enough, but would get the vet a decent meal and a shower, if not a room. He pressed the money into the startled man's hands.
The veteran tried to refuse it. "No," Blair said, "take it. As one survivor to another."
The veteran frowned and reluctantly accepted the largesse. "Thanks, buddy," he said. He looked at Blair a long moment. "Sorry, I din't catch your name."
Blair smiled grimly. "Smith," he said, lying. His own name carried too much fame for him to use it casually. He stepped quickly away from the bar, looking for where Maniac had disappeared through the crowd with the girl. It took only a few steps to see where Maniac had drawn her. He could tell from her expression that she didn't seem overly impressed with his line of approach. He laughed to himself. If I get there in time, he thought as he walked towards the pilot, I may be able to do my civic duty and keep him from crashing and burning.
Blair was just about to tap Marshall on the shoulder when the pilot leaned forward towards the woman. "So, baby, whaddya say? I got us a room."
The woman pursed her lips as though she'd bitten a lemon. Blair whistled in sympathetic pain as she slapped him hard across the face and stormed away. Blair stood there, a knowing smile on his face, as Maniac turned towards him. Todd Marshall rubbed his cheek ruefully.
"It's amazing how unpatriotic women get as soon as a war stops," Maniac said cheerfully. "All I did was offer to let her keep my morale up for me."
"As I recall," Blair replied dryly, "that line didn't work any better during the war."
Maniac gave Blair his trademark smug grin. "You never know till you try." He shrugged and tipped his chin towards the bar. "Who was the bum?"
Blair made a sour face. "Bomber pilot. Got caught in the RIF. No real prospects, so he hangs out here, cadging drinks."
Maniac nodded. "The RIF took out more good folks than the Cats did." He shrugged. "Things're tough, especially for the bastards who put it all on the line and now have nothing."
Blair looked back at the bar, his mood introspective. "You know, Maniac, when I was a kid, space was the place to be. It meant opportunity. The colonies were growing exponentially, the economy was good, and even the war was an exciting thing—fighting aliens for humanity. Now, it's like we've lost something. Space is like everyplace else, just another junkyard."
Maniac stared at him, as startled as if Blair had begun spouting Kilrathi mating poetry. "Colonel," he said, placing enough stress on Blair's rank to be borderline insubordinate, "are you sure you ain't been on that farm too long?"
Blair wasn't in the mood to banter. "The farm's a peaceful life, Major. Quiet. Serene. Stable. Zen Buddhists next door. You wouldn't like it."
Maniac laughed, harsh and mean. "I've always said you'd go soft. I just didn't expect your head to go first."
A loud crash spared Blair the need to answer. He turned in his seat to see the source of the commotion. He saw a man in a dark flight suit with sandy hair standing, his chair knocked over behind him. He grabbed the veteran Blair had spoken with by the collar. Blair didn't hear the exchange between the two men, but he did see the dark man give the vet a deliberate backhand across the face. The vet tumbled backward, spilling across the table. The younger man stepped up to the groaning vet and kicked him first in the hip with the point of his boot, then again in the gut as he collapsed.
Blair looked quickly around for a bouncer. No one seemed particularly interested in helping the older man. He had stood up and was rushing over to help before he considered the implications of what he was doing. The dark man cocked his foot back and kicked the man in the kidney as Blair approached. Blair grabbed the man by the shoulder and whirled him around.
"Enough," Blair started to say. He froze as the man whipped his flight jacket open. He caught a quick glimpse of the man's name tag as he whipped a short black handle from its pouch on his belt. The man flicked a switch. A red, disembodied point appeared about four inches above the tip of the weapon.
"Laser knife!" someone yelled to Blair's right.
Blair felt his guts tense. He had little experience with blades of any sort, much less any as nasty as this. All he knew was that laser knives were plunging weapons that could also inflict severe surface burns depending on whether the attack was a pierce or a slash. He glanced up, meeting the dark man's cold blue eyes.
His opponent held the knife low, with the point towards Blair's gut. He played the blade back and forth, whirling the tip in precise figure eights. Blair had no doubt the man knew exactly how to use the weapon.
He tried to remember his own hand-to-hand training. The only piece that came to mind was to watch his opponent's waist, the center of gravity. The man chuckled, causing Blair to look up again. The sandy-haired man smiled, a wintery splitting of his lips.
"Bad move, friend," he said, "I don't like being touched." He whipped the laser knife up, stabbing for Blair's midsection. Blair went to block, crossing his wrists, palms down, in front of his stomach. He realized too late that the dark man's slash was merely a feint. He had just begun to dodge back when the man hit him with a roundhouse punch to the temple. Blair staggered back, his vision exploding into a mass of stars. He staggered to the right, trying to dodge a second punch.
His attacker feinted again, this time snap-kicking him in the head. Blair managed to interpose his arm in time to keep the kick from connecting, but the shock numbed his arm. The blow staggered him, knocking him off balance and slamming him face first into a plastic laminated concrete wall. He saw, through crossed eyes, a smear of blood.
The man stepped up behind him and kicked him in the back of the knees. Blair folded up like an accordion and started to slide to the floor, turning as he fell. The man caught him by the throat and slammed him back up against the wall. Blair winced at the impact and tried to grab his arm. The noises in the bar faded as the man started to squeeze Blair's throat, choking off his air.
Blair felt his face swelling as blood, trapped by the man's grip, pooled under his skin. He scrambled his hands ineffectually as his air supply was cut off. Blair, his eyes feeling as though they were going to burst, looked frantically around the bar. The patrons, distracted from their own concerns by the action, watched silently. Their expressions ran the gamut from boredom to active interest in the blood. The bartender stopped polishing a glass, but made no effort to help.
The sandy-haired man leaned in close. "I don't like to be touched," he repeated in a low, soft voice. He loosened his grip enough for Blair to take a single, sobbing breath. "And I don't like people meddling in my private affairs."
He raised the laser knife, letting Blair see the red dot as he drew it closer to his throat. "It's going to cost you."
He smiled, his thin lips skinning back from white teeth. The grin looked feral to Blair. He began to tighten his grip once again on Blair's throat. Blair fought desperately to free himself. He felt his tongue bulge out of his mouth and a line of spittle run down his cheek. His face grew hot and his heels drummed against the wall.
The dark man had just placed the laser knife under Blair's chin when his head suddenly jerked to the left. Maniac came into Blair's blurred line of sight, a high-output laser pistol stuck in the man's ear. Maniac ground the weapon in cruelly, smiling as he leaned close. Blair saw the dark man's associates rise from their own seats and close on Maniac.
"Tut, tut," Maniac said, screwing the pistol more deeply into the man's ear canal. He pulled the man's jacket back, revealing his name tag. "I haven't killed anybody in a week, Mr., uh, Seether, and I'm due." He gave the sidekicks a glance, then said. "If you lowlifes don't back off we're gonna find out if your boss's scalded brains'll match the decor." Blair noticed that the dark man seemed utterly unfazed by the situation. The wintery blue eyes flicked back and forth a moment, as though considering his options.
"Alright, friend," the man said to Blair, "call off your dog."
"Nope," Maniac interjected, "this is my play. You talk to me." He punctuated his sentence by forcing the pistol harder against the man's head, tilting it to the side until the muscles in the man's neck stood out in sharp relief. Blair saw the first reaction from the pilot, a gritting of the teeth as the hard metal and front sight blade dug into his ear. A thin rill of blood ran down his ear and into his collar.
The knife disappeared from Blair's sight. The dark man slowly released Blair and raised his hands to shoulder height. Blair stumbled out of the way behind Maniac and fell to his knees, choking and retching as he sucked air through his tortured windpipe. He tried to get his trembling hands under control, and failed.
Maniac stepped back, opening a kick's distance from the dark man. Blair, still rubbing his abused throat, saw the man tense and shift his weight slightly as he had before snap-kicking Blair. He was about to warn Maniac when the major whipped his gun up, extending it at arm's length and pointing it between the man's eyes. "Give me an excuse," Maniac said, "please."
The man appeared to ponder the situation a moment, then backed slowly away. He gathered his associates with tiny gestures as he retreated. "We'll meet again," he said, looking past Maniac to Blair, "that I can promise you." He backed to the door, then left, followed by his associates.
"Well," Maniac said, his voice a mix of amusement and disgust "if that don't beat all. Here I am with my gun stuck in his ear, and I can't even get the time of day from him." He looked at Blair. "Is he a friend of yours?" His eyes widened. "Colonel," he said, "you're pale as a ghost. If I didn't know better, I'd say you're scared." He paused. "Hell, you are scared."
Blair tried to control his racing heart. He swallowed several times. "I don't know," he said weakly. "He was fast, faster then me. He had me cold, Todd, and there wasn't anything I could do about it. That's never happened to me before." He dabbed his hand to his lip. It came away bloody. He realized he must have cut it when the sandy-haired man had slammed him into the wall.
Blair interpreted Marshall's expression as a mix of concern and contempt. That, if anything, made him feel worse. Maniac opened his mouth to say something, then gestured for Blair to precede him. He looked worried.
"Um, Colonel," he said diffidently, "maybe we should call this off. Maybe you should just go back to your farm and feed your pigs."
"Call what off?" Blair asked.
Maniac shrugged. "Look, I was looking for Colonel Blair, the war hero who blew away Kilrah—Mister Heart of the Tiger. I'll just tell 'em I couldn't find him."
Blair felt himself getting angry. "Maniac, you called me up here. What the hell do you want?"
Maniac shrugged. "I guess it really ain't my problem if you're not up to speed." His face gave lie to his words as he indicated a place for Blair to sit.
Blair took his chair and leaned back, trying to relax his tense body. His hands still trembled slightly in what he told himself was an adrenaline reaction. He hunched his shoulders, trying to ease the throbbing in his neck and throat. "So," he said, trying to lighten Maniac's glum mood, "what's this important matter you wanted to discuss?"
Marshall frowned. He glanced back at the area where the brawl had happened. He shrugged again, as though making an internal decision.
"Colonel Christopher Blair," he said. He tried to sound official, but his heart wasn't in it. "In the name of the Confederation Space Force Reserves and by the authority of Emergency Decree 394A, it is my duty to inform you that you have been recalled to active service in grade of full colonel, with all the pay and benefits accruing and blah, blah, blah." He punctuated his announcement with a malicious grin and a flash of his usual humor. "Have a nice day."
Blair sat stunned, his jaw open. "Haven't you heard, Maniac? The war's over. We won. I'm out of it. Retired."
Maniac shrugged. "Not anymore."
Blair rolled his drink between his hands. "Why me?"
Maniac raised his palms upward. "I dunno. All I know is that somebody thinks they need you."
Blair leaned in towards him. "Who is 'they?' "
Maniac looked offended. "You'll find out." He rolled his own glass between his hands a moment, his brow furrowed in thought. When he spoke, he wouldn't look Blair in the eyes. "Look," he said, "lemme do you a favor. Go home."
"Let me get this straight," Blair snapped, "first you drag me into this . . . then you want me out?" His eyes followed Maniac's back to the scene of the fight. "I see," he said, understanding Marshall's reluctance, "you don't think I can handle it."
Maniac shrugged. "I've seen you hurt, I've seen you angry, I've seen you every way possible, or so I'd thought. I never saw you scared before. I kept waitin' for you to kick his ass, but you didn't. You froze." He sighed, his expression that of a man facing a difficult truth. "I think you lost whatever you had, Colonel, and involving you is a mistake."
Blair sat in silence, thinking through his options. He'd wanted nothing more than to get out of fighters, to free himself of the military and the memories when the war ended. Two years on the farm, however, had softened the hard edges and put a gloss of time over the hurt. His hands, of their own accord, began to clench, as though gripping a control yoke. He realized how much he ached to get back into a cockpit—how much he'd wanted this since he'd walked away from the farm.
He looked up at Maniac. ''When do we leave?"
Maniac scratched his nose. "Well," he said, "I'm not sure we do."
Blair let his expression grow cold. "That decision, Major, is not yours to make."
Maniac studied him a moment, his expression unreadable. "Uh, well," he said at last, "I've made arrangements to have a pair of fighters staged. They're up at the port, fueled and ready."
Blair set his drink down and stood. "Let's go."
Maniac made a rude noise. "Don't we have to go to your house or something?"
"Just give me a minute," Blair answered. He fetched his phone out of his flight bag, punched in a number and waited. Maniac listened, shaking his head as Blair hurriedly said something in an unintelligible language and then clicked off.
"What was that all about?"
"I just told my Buddhist neighbors the farm's theirs. A donation to the church."
Blair forced a smile.
"Let's get the hell out of this hole."