CHAPTER I
Shuttle Horatio Nelson
Torgo System
"ETA for TCS Victory now ten minutes . . . mark." The soft computer-generated voice in his ear made Colonel Christopher Blair shift uneasily in his seat. He didn't like being a passenger aboard any small craft, even a workhorse orbital shuttle like this one. For eighteen years now Blair had been a fighter pilot in the Terran Confederation Navy, and he had flown everything in the Navy's arsenal short of a frigate. It was still difficult to sit back and leave the controls to someone else, especially when his monitor screens functioned intermittently at best. Having a computer read canned approach announcements just made matters worse. If he had been in the cockpit with the control stick in his hand, he would have read times and distances, thrusts and vectors, with the instincts of a combat pilot, honed in years of almost continuous warfare—and the ride might even have been infinitesimally smoother.
Warfare . . . the war between the Kilrathi Empire and the Terran Confederation started before Christopher Blair was born. For nearly forty years now, the two sides had hammered away at each other, and the Kilrathi showed no signs of letting up. Sometimes Blair wondered if he would live to see the war end. And sometimes he was afraid he would.
With his monitor still not working, he switched his attention to the tiny newscreen clipped to one arm of his flight couch. Hesitantly, Blair tapped the green key at the bottom of the device. The logo of the Terran News Channel filled the screen for a moment before being replaced by a head-and-shoulder shot of the TNC's best-known anchorwoman, Barbara Miles. Her attractive features were almost too perfect, and Blair smiled fleetingly at the memory of a shipboard bull session a few years back where some of his shipmates claimed that the woman was actually a computer-generated simulation.
The recording was paused, of course, waiting for Blair to tap in his choice of news items from a menu in one corner of the screen. He selected war news, then listened as the anchorwoman summarized recent events in the struggle against the Kilrathi . . . the ones that had been declassified.
He had heard most of it already from previous TNC newsbriefs or official channels at the Confed HQ complex on Torgo III. News traveled slowly across interstellar distances, and the average lifetime of any particular report was apt to be long, especially from worlds along the more distant frontiers.
His attention snapped back to the screen as the report passed from news stories to a more general commentary.
"Despite recent losses in several densely populated sectors, Confederation spokes-people insist that humanity maintains the upper hand in its galactic struggle with the Kilrathi. However, our sources document a consistent under-reporting of Kilrathi incursions, especially against civilian and industrial bases."
The woman paused, looking directly into the camera, while conveying thoughtful, serious concern for her viewers. "There are even reports of Confed plans for a 'doomsday evacuation' of Earth to replant the seeds of humanity in a distant part of the galaxy. The question is . . . who would go? Who would be left behind? And, most importantly, who is making these decisions?"
Blair cut the newscreen off with a snort of disgust. Leave it to TNC to come up with that ancient evacuation rumor! That thing had been making the rounds of ships' wardrooms when Blair was a junior lieutenant. The sheer logistical nightmare of a wholesale evacuation from human space made the whole idea laughable. Anyway, it was a plain fact that any place mankind could reach, the Kilrathi could follow. There was no place for humanity to run.
Still, it was certainly true that the heavily censored news released by the Confederation was slanted to hide the truth about this war. After forty years of warfare, that was not new. But Blair was afraid that some of the top brass were actually starting to believe their own propaganda mills, and that was a very bad sign indeed.
Admiral Tolwyn, for instance . . . there was a man who badly needed a reality check.
It was Admiral Geoffrey Tolwyn who had given Blair his new assignment. A vigorous man in his sixties who spoke in a clipped British accent and radiated the very essence of spit-and-polish military precision in everything he said and did, Tolwyn had earned quite a reputation over the years as the mastermind behind a pair of great Confederation victories, the raid on Kilrah and the Battle of Terra. But Blair had served under the man before, and he knew that a lot of the legend was little more than luck and PR hype.
Still, Tolwyn had been brimming with confidence and determination when Blair reported to his office. "Things are looking up, Colonel," he had said with a smile. "The Confederation has been making some very positive strides. The Kilrathi are on the run at Gardel and Morpheus. . . ."
True enough, except that the Terrans had lost three systems to new Kilrathi offensives at the same time, and in much more strategically vital sectors. And, of course, there was the loss of the Concordia.
Blair fought back a shudder. He'd been wing commander aboard the Concordia for three years, until the Battle of Earth. If he hadn't taken that Kilrathi missile which left him grounded for six long months, Blair would have been on board when Concordia fought the rearguard action over Vespus: fought and died. Blair had been part of the survey crew that had discovered the carrier's broken hull lying half-submerged in the waters off the Mistral Coast.
Concordia was gone, and so were the men and women who had served with Blair for so long, through so many battles. More casualties of the war. Statistics tallied up in news reports or concealed in the falsehoods of a Confed press release. But those people were more than mere statistics to Christopher Blair. They had been more than comrades, more than friends . . . a family, united by the strongest possible bonds of shared dangers and difficult service far from home and loved ones.
Blair closed his eyes, summoning up familiar faces. Iceman . . . Spirit . . . Knight . . . Bossman . . . the list kept growing, year after year. Shipmates went to the firing line and died, and a fresh crop of kids from the Academy came in to replace them . . . to die in their turn. Sometimes it seemed as if the war had lost all point or purpose. Now it was nothing more than good people giving their lives fighting for some chunk of rock that wouldn't have deserved a second look before the war.
Christopher Blair was tired: of fighting, of death, and of this endless war.
Fate had spared him while so many others died. Now Blair, certified to be ready to return to full active duty, had received his new assignment from Admiral Tolwyn's own hands. Wing commander once again . . . but wing commander aboard the Victory.
As if reacting to his bitter thoughts, the monitor finally lit up with an external view from the shuttle's nose camera. Victory rode in free fall less than half a click ahead. She was everything Blair expected (which wasn't much).
She was a light carrier left over from a bygone era, designed nearly half a century before the beginning of the Kilrathi War. With most of the newest carriers in the Confederation fleet either lost in action or held in the Terran Defense Fleet, ships like the old Victory were becoming more common on the front lines. Perhaps, Blair reflected, that was why the Kilrathi seemed to have the edge these days.
Even over this distance, it was plain she had seen better days. There were burn marks down one side of her hull, and deeper scars in her superstructure where battle damage had been crudely patched.
One thing was certain . . . she was no Concordia.
The monitor flickered off again. This shuttle was part of Victory's complement of small craft, and it was clear that non-essential systems were getting short shrift when maintenance schedules were being drawn up. The interior of the vessel was distinctly shabby, with faded paint, fraying flight couches, and missing access plates which revealed jury-rigged repair work. It suggested the low standards in play aboard Victory, but Blair planned to see things change once he took charge of the flight wing. Perhaps the crew of the battered old carrier did not care enough to do more than go through the motions, but if Blair had his way, that attitude would soon change.
"Preparing for final docking approach," the computer voice announced quietly.
An outdated ship and a crew that apparently didn't give a damn any more. If Concordia hadn't been able to stand against the Kilrathi, how could Victory be expected to even put up a fight?
Blair had to ask himself, as the shuttle slowly maneuvered in toward the carrier's flight deck, what this assignment really meant. Did Tolwyn expect him to knock the ship and crew into some kind of battle-ready shape? Or did the High Command consider that Blair and Victory deserved each other, two old warhorses who had outlived their usefulness put out to pasture?
Flight Deck, TCS Victory
Torgo System
The boarding ramp made a grinding noise as it swung down to touch the deck. Blair winced at the sound. His first view of the interior of his new home made him wince again. It was even shabbier than he had imagined. There was a distinct smell in the air; an odor of sweat, lubricants, burned insulation, and other unidentified unpleasant scents. Apparently, the air circulation systems were not capable of keeping the atmosphere fresh and clean.
He slung his flight bag over his shoulder and started slowly down the ramp. Crewmen were drawn up in ranks in the huge open hangar area, most of them dressed in utility fatigues which had seen better days. Blair glanced at the end of the hangar where open space was visible beyond the faint glow of the force fields which kept the deck pressurized. He found himself hoping that they, at least, were maintained better than the rest of the ship. He pushed the thought away, trying to keep his feelings hidden from the crew.
A knot of senior officers awaited him at the foot of the ramp, dominated by a broad-shouldered black man with graying hair and the four stripes of a Line Captain prominently displayed on his sleeve. He didn't give Blair time to study his surroundings further, but stepped forward to meet him.
"Colonel Blair?" he said, smiling. "I'm William Eisen. Welcome aboard the Victory."
Blair snapped off a quick salute which Eisen returned gravely. Theoretically, they were of equal rank—a Colonel in the Confederation Space Force and a Captain of the Line—but aboard any ship in space, the commanding officer, regardless of rank, was always the senior officer (even if he was a mere lieutenant entertaining a visitor of higher rank).
The captain ended the salute by extending his hand. He had a firm grip that matched his proud bearing and an aura of quiet authority. "Allow me to present some of my senior officers, Colonel. This is Commander Ralgha nar Hhallas—"
"Hobbes!" Blair exclaimed, as Eisen moved aside to give Blair a clear view of the officers. Ralgha nar Hhallas would have stood out in any human crowd, for he was a Kilrathi nobleman. Tall and bulky, he was humanoid in form but distinctly alien in feature, with a head too large and flat for a man. His body and face were covered with thick fur, and his eyes, ears, and fangs gave him a distinctly cat-like appearance. The Kilrathi were not cats, of course, but they had sprung from carnivore hunter stock with many feline traits, and their ways of thinking were even more alien to humankind than those of Earthly cats.
Blair could hardly believe that more than ten years had passed since Lord Ralgha, a ship-captain of the Imperial Kilrathi fleet, defected to the Terran Confederation. TCS Tiger's Claw was in the squadron which helped him carry out his defection, and Blair (a junior lieutenant) had worn polish still fresh on his flight wings. Ralgha moved from supplying information to Terran Intelligence to serving in the Space Force, and he had remained in Blair's squadron for a time before new assignments took them down separate paths.
Many officers were reluctant to fly with a Kilrathi wingman, but Blair always found Ralgha cheerful, competent, and capable: a fine pilot and an excellent comrade. He was the one to bestow the nickname "Hobbes" on the renegade Kilrathi after encountering the name in an ancient piece of Terran folk art in a fellow pilot's collection.
"You know the Commander, then?" Eisen asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Not with that rank," Blair said. "Hobbes here is one of the best pilots who ever flew with the Flight Corps. What are you doing wearing that Line outfit? Getting too old to squeeze into a cockpit?"
Ralgha bowed slightly. "It warms my heart to see you again, Colonel," he said, his voice low and throaty with the odd intonation and slight accent Blair remembered well. "But I fear now is not the time to swap life stories."
Blair grinned. "Still the stickler, eh, Hobbes? Well, we'll talk later."
The Kilrathi bowed again.
Eisen introduced the department heads and senior staff officers. They were no more than a blur of unfamiliar names and faces to Blair . . . but still he felt heartened to know that at least one old friend would be with him on this cruise.
The captain concluded by introducing a fresh-faced young man wearing a lieutenant's insignia. "And this is Lieutenant Ted Rollins, Communications Officer."
"And general dogsbody," Rollins grinned. "Sir."
"I've assigned Mr. Rollins to extra duty, as your aide," Eisen continued, ignoring the lieutenant's interjection. "At least until you get settled in and make staff arrangements of your own. I hope that will be agreeable with you, Colonel."
Blair nodded. "That will be fine, sir. Thank you."
"The lieutenant will show you to your quarters and help you get the lay of the land. I would appreciate you joining me in my Ready Room at . . . shall we say sixteen hundred hours, ships time? That will give you a few hours to get acclimated."
"Sixteen hundred hours," Blair repeated. He glanced around the hangar again. Would any length of time be enough to get acclimated to this old rustbucket of a ship? "I'll be there, sir."
"Very good. Dismissed." As Blair turned away, Eisen spoke again. "We're glad to have you aboard, Colonel."
Blair wished he could have returned the sentiment, but he knew it would come out sounding bitter and ironic.
Command Ready Room, TCS Victory
Torgo System
"Come in, Colonel. Come in. Have a seat."
Blair glanced around the room, moving from the door to the chair Eisen gestured toward in front of the captain's desk. He noted that the tasteful if spartan decor and the well-kept atmosphere produced a startling contrast to most of what he had observed aboard the Victory.
"So, Colonel, I trust Mr. Rollins has been seeing to your needs." The Captain stood, crossing to a counter at one end of the room. "Will you have something to drink? We picked up a load of New Samarkand vodka a few months back that has a kick like a Gratha's blasters."
"Thank you, sir." Actually Blair didn't particularly want a drink, but it was never wise to turn down a commanding officer's hospitality, especially not on the first day aboard.
Eisen returned with two glasses and handed one to Blair. "A toast, then, Colonel. To Victory!"
They touched their glasses and Blair took a cautious sip. "Is that the ship or the concept, sir?" he asked.
"Both," Eisen said, sitting down. Thoughtfully Eisen added, "We're going to win this war, Colonel, and I think this old ship will play a large part in it before the shooting's over."
Blair tried to keep his expression neutral. "I hope so, sir."
The captain regarded him with a penetrating look. "I'll admit, Blair, she's no Concordia . . ."
"Neither is the Concordia . . . any more." This time Blair didn't bother to hide his feelings.
"It was a terrible loss," Eisen said. "It's never easy to lose so much. You have my sympathies." He paused, looking into his glass. "Nevertheless, you're here now, and I expect nothing less than complete dedication and loyalty from every officer and rating on board this ship."
"You'll have mine, sir," Blair said quietly. "But if I may speak freely . . . ?"
"Always, Colonel."
"From what I've seen so far, you need a little less dedication and a lot more maintenance work from this crew."
Eisen leaned forward. "I'll admit she doesn't look like much, Blair," he said solemnly. "We're shorthanded in every department, and age and too damn many battles have taken their toll. The old girl was slated for retirement over a decade ago, but they put her back on the line instead. Maybe she doesn't look as good as the big ships you've served on in the past, but that doesn't mean she's not able to do her job. And it's the crew, the men and women who work overtime day after day just to keep her up and running, who are responsible for keeping us on the firing line. That dedication makes all the difference, Colonel, and even if it doesn't extend to slapping on a fresh coat of paint or making sure the food dispensers in the Rec Room have a full stock of chicken soup every day, it still means something to me."
Blair didn't answer right away. "I . . . take your point, sir," he said at last. "I'm sorry if I seem to be running down your command . . ."
Eisen smiled easily. "I'm used to it by now, Colonel, believe me. She doesn't look like much, I'll grant you that. But I was communications officer on Victory's maiden voyage, my first assignment out of the Academy. I've been with her many times throughout my career, and I guess I'm just a little bit protective about the old girl after all."
"I can understand that, sir. You can get . . . attached to a ship, over time." He was thinking of the old Tiger's Claw . . . and Concordia. "I'll admit I wasn't looking forward to this assignment when Admiral Tolwyn told me about it. But I'm feeling much better about it now."
"My pep talk was that good?" Eisen asked with a grin.
"That . . . and finding out you have Ralgha nar Hhallas aboard. He's one of the best."
"Commander nar Hhallas? Yes, he's a good officer. He'll be my Exec this trip . . ."
"Sir . . . with all due respect, that's a real waste of talent. Hobbes is a natural-born fighter pilot. Putting him in a Line slot . . . I think it's a mistake."
"It was his own request, Colonel. I know his record, but . . ." Eisen trailed off, then shrugged. "Fact is, no one aboard will fly with a Kilrathi on his wing."
"Fifteen years of loyal service and a string of combat kills as long as my arm doesn't count for anything?"
The captain looked away. "Not with these people, Blair. Not after everything they've been through in this damned war. Anyway, he made the request for the good of the flight wing."
"Well, I'm in command of the wing now," Blair said. "And I want him restored to flight status immediately, for the good of the wing." He paused. "Not that I would try to tell you how to run your ship, of course . . ."
"Why not? Isn't that the accepted role of every wing commander in the fleet? You guys always felt the Line was nothing but a bunch of glorified taxi drivers." Eisen's smile faded quickly. "Look, Colonel, your loyalty is admirable, and I'll willingly transfer him back to flight, but the problem still remains—who would have a Kilrathi as a wingman?"
"I'll fly with him," Blair said coldly. "Even if none of the others will. He's the best damned wingman I ever flew with, and I have a feeling we're going to need him if we're heading into a combat zone."
"If you say so, Colonel," Eisen said, shrugging again. "But I think you're asking for trouble. Not that I'd tell you how to run your wing, of course . . ."