No happy ending, you said?
That’s right.
Then please continue, Christopher.
Okay... but you promised, though, remember? You’ll answer my questions when I’ve told you what you want to hear?
We’ve been through this—yes. Now continue. You were nearly at the Battle of Terra...
TCS Concordia;
Wing Commander’s Office
The Callimachius System, Grills Quadrant, Enigma Sector
2668.195; 0630 Hours (CST)
“Is that final?"
Colonel Christopher Blair and Colonel Jeannette Devereaux faced each other in Devereaux’s office, turmoil displayed on each person’s face.
"I’m afraid so, mon cher. The Admiral was very insistent."
"Yeah... but when I left Special Operations I thought it would give us a chance to be together now... even if only for a little while, until ConFleet would transfer me out to be wing commander on another carrier. You know?"
"Well, you’ll be taking my place as WC in my stead on the Concordia. It’s effective immediately—I’ve already informed the flight wing."
Blair took a step forward. He couldn’t understand her decision—he just couldn’t. "But, Jeannette... the Covert Ops Division? Do you even know what you’re getting into?"
"I’ll be okay, Chris." Jeannette smiled, trying to coax his concern. He couldn’t tell if it was forced. "I’ll be okay."
Your two paths parted once again.
Yes. When I spoke with her then I’d had the intention of... of asking her to marry me. I put it off, choosing to wait until her Covert Ops assignment would be over... but...
But there’s more, isn’t there?
Yes... there is. I didn’t know that would be the last time I’d ever see her again.
Shuttle Horatio Nelson
The Torgo System, Deneb Quadrant, Epsilon Sector
2669.221; 0600 Hours (CST)
Colonel Blair cut the newscreen off with a snort of disgust, shaking his head and sitting back. Idly raising a palmtop computer from his side, he read the old E-mail once again.
To: cblair@tcn.victory.crew
From: adevereaux@tcn.covert-ops
Date sent: 2669.210
Subject: A l’amour de ma vie—Happy AnniversaryBonjour, Christopher. I am so sorry we couldn’t be together on our special day. Be assured that you are always in my heart and thoughts... every moment. I do not often express my feelings for you... yet you must know how deeply you have fallen into my heart.
When this war is over, I want us to... how is it said? ... escape the hell out of a city called Dodge? I long to be free of these regulations and battles that keep us apart. I want to forget about this god-forsaken war and take your hand on a small, isolated world somewhere, on a farm, by the sea, wherever, it does not matter. But for now, mon amour, I must be content with holding you in my mind. Until we can be together again, remember my love for you runs true.
The days grow more difficult as we remain apart. As duty calls, every mission you or I fly could very well be our last. I cannot help but fear that you will be harmed in one of your many patrols. Take care, for my sake as much as yours.
Though I long to see you, I must focus all my energy on the task at hand. It is the only road to togetherness once again.
Take care, mon amour.
Angel
Not wanting to think about it at all at the moment, the Colonel’s thoughts then traveled back to his earlier visit to the Third Fleet HQ starbase above Torgo III.
"Excuse me, sir, but did you say the Victory?"
"Is there something wrong with your hearing, Colonel?"
It was Fleet Admiral Geoffrey Tolwyn, commander of the Third Fleet since the Battle of Terra, who had given Blair his new assignment after rejecting his transfer request to the Concordia-class fleet carrier TCS Bradshaw. 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 recent years as the mastermind behind a pair of great Confederation victories, the raid on Kilrah during Operation Back Lash and the Battle of Terra. But Blair had served under the man many times 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 in the run in the Cardel and Morpheus systems..."
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. After coming back from Special Operations, in Angel’s stead he’d been wing commander aboard the Concordia for a little under a year, until the Battle of Terra. 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.
An outdated ship and a crew that apparently didn’t give a damn anymore. If Concordia hadn’t been able to stand against the Kilrathi, how could the Victory be expected to even put up a fight?
Blair had to ask himself what this assignment really meant. Did Tolwyn expect him to knock the ship and crew into some kind of battle-ready shape? Or did ConFleet High Command consider that Blair and the Ranger-class 720-meter light carrier TCS Victory, CV-40, deserved each other, two old warhorses who had outlived their usefulness put out to pasture? The Ranger class had been outdated two decades ago.
As the shuttle slowly maneuvered in toward the carrier’s flight deck, Blair remembered the parting words in his conversation with Tolwyn...
"About my request, sir..."
"Yes... it came as a bit of a surprise to me," Tolwyn had replied, knowing full well he meant to inquire about Angel, still out there somewhere in Covert Ops. "But as you know, Colonel Devereaux’s status is on a need-to-know basis."
But there was a need-to-know, wasn’t there?
Yes... for god’s sake...
TCS Victory;
Wing Commander’s Quarters
2669.222; 2100 Hours (CST)
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 Ted "Radio" Rollins, the Victory’s comm officer.
"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 ’til now, but the scuttlebutt has it the Cats have been moving in lately. Guess we’re supposed to make’em 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 GIF cube. "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 GIF cube 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, just before the Battle of Terra. 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 RELAY TO:
Colonel Christopher "Maverick" Blair, TCSF <cblair@tcn.concordia.crew>
- REROUTED BY CONFED HQ TO -
Colonel Christopher "Maverick" Blair, TCSF <cblair@tcn.victory.crew>
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 the Concordia. I have been given new orders to head up a Covert Ops mission by Admiral Tolwyn, 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..."
I put that GIF cube in my locker in the berths... after just about every mission I’d replay it...
I... see. Go on.
Okay...
TCS Victory;
Wing Commander’s Quarters
The Blackmane System, Day Quadrant, Vega Sector
2669.229; 1930 Hours (CST)
Vespus... he was back on Vespus again, and Angel was with him. They walked hand-in-hand along the top of a bluff overlooking the glittering sea, with a light breeze blowing off the water to stir her auburn hair.
Blair knew it was a dream, but the knowledge didn’t change the intensity of the illusion. He was really with her, on Vespus, the week they’d taken leave together before she’d told him her decision about Covert Ops. It was a time when neither of them had imagined ever being part again.
The view from the clifftop was beautiful: the setting sun, one of the three great moons hanging low above the horizon, sea and sky red with the gathering twilight. But Blair turned away from the spectacular vista to look into Angel’s eyes, to drink in her beauty. They kissed, and in the dream that kiss seemed to last for an eternity.
Now they were sitting side by side, lost in each other, oblivious to their surroundings. Another kiss, and a long, lingering embrace. Their hands explored each other’s bodies eagerly as passion stirred.
"Is this forever, mon ami?" Angel asked, looking deep into his eyes, almost into his soul.
"Forever’s not long enough," he told her. They came together...
The dream changed. Vespus again, where sea and shore came together, but stark, bleak, with storm clouds gathering on the horizon. Blair stood with Brigadier General Taggart, this time, looking down at the broken spine of the hulk that had been the TCS Concordia. He stirred, but he couldn’t awaken, couldn’t recapture the other dream...
Now he stood on the flight deck, near the podium, as a line of coffins rolled past. The General was with him again, reading out the names of the dead in deep, sonorous tones. "Colonel Jeannette Devereaux..."
Blair snapped awake, stifling a cry. His hands groped on his bedside table until they wrapped around the GIF holocube she had sent him. For a moment he fumbled with it, and then her image appeared, lips moving soundlessly with the volume turned down.
He stared at the ghostly figure and tried to control his breathing. Blair was never a superstitious man, but the nightmare was like an omen, a vision. Angel was gone, and he was afraid that he would never get her back.
You knew, didn’t you, Christopher?
...
TCS Victory;
Flight Deck
The Delius System, Day Quadrant, Vega Sector
2669.233; 1600 Hours (CST)
Colonel Blair checked his instruments for what seemed like the hundredth time, knowing that nothing had changed yet feeling compelled to do something. Every one of the Victory’s fighters in the squadrons of the carrier’s 36th Fighter Wing was crewed and ready, even a pair that the technical staff had downchecked as unreliable. Now they were waiting, and that was an agony worse than any combat situation.
The carrier had opened up a fair lead over the Kilrathi ships, bulling her way through the asteroid field with point-defense turrets blazing to clear away any chunk of rock big enough to pose a threat to the ship. The Imperial vessels were more cautious, keeping to a tight formation and lumbering slowly after the Victory as if reluctant to commit themselves to an attack. Perhaps they had learned to respect the Terrans in earlier clashes... or perhaps they simply regarded it as triumph enough to drive the ship away from Delius Station, leaving the Terrans there—including a small contingent of the carrier’s crew still on liberty—completely at the mercy of the Kilrathi task force.
Blair was starting to hope they might not have to beat off any genuine attack, but the threat remained. They wouldn’t be able to relax their guard until they made the jump to Tamayo, if then.
"Colonel, sensors are reporting a launch in progress from the lead Kilrathi carrier." Lt. Rollins gave him a welcome distraction, however grim his news might be. "It’s the flagship... Hvar’kann. Looks like you’ll be having a party after all."
"Acknowledged," Blair said. He tapped on the PA system. "Flight wing, this is Blair. Begin launch sequence on my mark..."
At that moment his comm panel went crazy. The visual display broke up in a kaleidoscope of patterns and colors, and the speakers in his helmet squealed and whined. It took several seconds for the noise to fade and the screen to come back on-line. Blair stared at the monitor, as if it might give him some clue to what had just happened.
A glowering Kilrathi face filled the screen, a face Blair had seen many times before.
Thrakhath.
The image jumped and jittered again, then returned. Blair studied it thoughtfully, wondering what was causing the distortion. Ship to ship video transmissions used computers to encode and decode messages, and to provide automatic translations of foreign languages. For the computer to have this much trouble reconstructing whatever message Thrakhath was broadcasting meant the signal content must be massive. Evidently, the Kilrathi were trying to overload Victory’s whole comm system and jam every frequency the Terrans might be using.
Thrakhath’s image began to speak as the computers processed their translations of the Kilrathi language. "I have heard of your Terran Bible with its predictions that there will be a weeping and gnashing of teeth. These the Imperial Race will soon fulfill. We will tear out your tongues, we will scoop out your brains. You will learn to beg for the release of death."
Blair tried to switch to a different comm channel, but Thrakhath’s hissing, taunting image remained on the screen. "You will be prime examples to the other races in the galaxy, you clownish baboons. Your race will suffer a thousand torments and more. And do not think that the presence of the Heart of the Tiger among you can make a difference. Colonel Blair will be reduced to a pile of entrails, his bones will be gnawed by our young."
Hearing himself referred to directly made Blair stiffen. It wasn’t often that the Kilrathi chose to grant a name to one of their human adversaries... and it inevitably meant that the individual they chose to "honor" had become the prime target of a Kilrathi challenge.
"Heart of the Tiger, you shall pay for the blood of every Kilrathi noble you have dispatched in battle. They shall make songs of your death, of the failure and disgrace you shall know even before your death. Already you have failed, Heart of the Tiger, failed at Locanda IV, failed at Ariel... failed your lair-mate, the one known as Devereaux, the Angel."
Blair gasped as the image of Thrakhath on his monitor blacked out, only to be replaced by a new scene...
A scene from hell.
It was a large arena, red-lit, dark, with ornate fittings and decorations more suggested than seen among the shadows. A wing of Dralthi IV flew in a circle through the chamber, then disappeared above. Crowds of jeering Kilrathi were seated on all sides, watching with great interest from the shadows at what was transpiring on the arena’s ground level. A throng of Kilrathi in garb recognized as that of the high nobility were gathered in the front of the open chamber, bowing low as Thrakhath and an aged Kilrathi, the Emperor himself, entered. As the Emperor sat on the imposing throne, Blair became aware of movement in the shadows on either side of the two figures. It was difficult to judge exactly what was happening, but when he finally realized what he was witnessing, he wished he had not.
There were Terran standing huddled together on a raised dais in the arena’s center, their Confed-issue Space Force flightsuits in rags. Bulky Kilrathi guards carrying nerve-prods made sure they stayed in place, striking out almost at random, eliciting cries and moans from their captives.
"Once again an enemy threat to our very homeworld has been thwarted," the Emperor intoned solemnly, his cybernetic eye glowing. "This puny contingent of their soldiers was captured aboard a hijacked Imperial transport in orbit around Kilrathi itself."
There was a scattering of calls from the assembled nobles—shock, anger, hatred plain in their voices and bearing. "Silence, silence." The Emperor silenced them with a curt gesture and gave Thrakhath a sign to speak.
"This incursion was an act of desperation," the Crown Prince said, showing his fangs. His arms made encompassing gestures toward the victims on the arena’s dais. "They flail about now, knowing they are beaten. Look at these pathetic, hairless apes. They have failed their race utterly. There will be no interrogation for these pitiful apes... and no warrior’s death. They are offal, fit only for death."
A growling cheer rose from the crowd.
"Do what you will with them, Grandson," the Emperor said.
"Disintegration." Red light glimmered off Thrakhath’s fangs. "My brethren, they are not warriors, but maggots!" The Crown Prince waved a dismissive hand. As the guards encircling the captives backed away, a translucent blue field of plasma flared around the men and women, then enfolded them. There was nothing left... not even ash. "Only one among them is worthy of being treated as a warrior," Thrakhath spoke when it was done. "Their leader... the one they call... Angel."
Blair wanted to look away as a pair of burly Kilrathi warriors half-pushed, half-dragged a familiar petite figure into the middle of the throne room directly in front of Thrakhath. Like the other Terrans, she had been tortured, her flightsuit reduced to tattered ruin, the face that haunted Blair’s dreams bruised. There was dried blood on her forehead, a livid welt on one cheek, but she wore her defiance like a shield. Whatever the Kilrathi had done to her, Colonel Jeannette Devereaux’s spirit remained as fiery and determined as ever. At the sight of the woman, the Kilrathi nobles grew more agitated. Blair recognized the bloodlust in their eyes, in the way they bared claws and fangs as their jeered the captive. Only the sheer force of Thrakhath’s personality held them at bay as he stepped down from the Emperor’s side to inspect Angel more closely.
"Still defiant, Colonel Devereaux?" the Prince asked. "If we were to offer coexistence with your kind, would you not accept it?"
"The Kilrathi do not coexist," was Angel’s simple response.
Thrakhath took a step closer. "No, we do not... and now that the tide has turned in this conflict you should know that your defiance it is a pathetic and useless gesture. The hunt has nearly run its course, and your race is prey beneath our claws."
"You bore me, monsieur," she told him, mustering a faint smile. "Disintegrate me, so that I might join my comrades."
"You will not join them, Colonel," Thrakhath said. "Your fate... shall be different."
Angel replied by spitting in his face. There were hisses and further jeers from the crowd, a harsh growl from Thrakhath’s throat. He turned to address his nobles.
"The human cannot appreciate the honor I am about to bestow upon her. She is not only a great warrior, but her lair-mate is the Heart of the Tiger." He turned back to her; his eyes narrowed in a deadly stare. The cries of the Kilrathi reached a bloodthirsty crescendo. "You have slain many fine warriors during your career. You have earned this honor."
The Prince unsheathed his claws. With a single thrust, he jabbed them deep into her stomach and lifted her off the ground, high into the air. Blood flowed freely from the wound. The view on the screen caught her face in close-up as the life drained from her eyes. Blair thought he saw a final look of appeal there, as if she was crying out to him for rescue... or for vengeance.
Then the Prince released her from her impalement, and her lifeless body crumpled to the floor.
Thrakhath’s image filled the screen again. "Come, Heart of the Tiger," he said. "I am leading my warriors into battle today. If you would live up to the honor your lair-mate earned, come and fight. Or be shown for the pathetic coward you are."
Christopher Blair stared at the screen, his mind a whirl of anger and pain and hate. At that moment, all he wanted to do was kill...
You did, didn’t you?
Yes.
All that hate; that need for vengeance... it must have driven you. It did, didn’t it?
Yes...
But someone else entered the picture at that point, didn’t they? Someone who eased the pain; made things bearable once more?
Something like that...
Tell me about her.
TCS Victory;
Flight Deck
The Blackmane System, Day Quadrant, Vega Sector
2669.235; 1800 Hours (CST)
"Countdown to jump, one hour, fifteen minutes."
Blair glanced up at the digital readout below the Flight Control Room window to confirm the time remaining. Activity was reaching a fever pitch aboard the carrier as they approached the jump point taking them to the Loki VI System. No one really expected the Kilrathi to have much in the way of defenses at their Loki outpost, but the preparations in hand assumed they would be jumping into a combat zone. With so much riding on Admiral Tolwyn’s Behemoth, nobody wanted to make any mistakes.
Technicians prepped the fighters for launch, working quickly but with a care born of long experience and a respect for the dangers of the flight deck. Red-shirted ordnance handlers busily fit missiles and checked fire-control circuits while engineering techs dressed in blue supervised the topping of fuel tanks. Thrusters were put through their final checks. The huge hangar area was one large scene of frantic activity, and Blair felt like an outsider as he watched the crews go about their jobs.
CPO Rachel Coriolis appeared from behind the tail section of a Hellcat V. Her coveralls were considerably cleaner than usual... and so were her hands and arms. She looked, in fact, almost regulation, a far cry from her usual go-to-blazes sloppiness. Blair smiled at the sight, earning himself an angry glare.
"Don’t say a thing," she growled. "Unless you want a number-three sonic probe shoved up your nose."
"Heard you got chewed out by the Admiral himself," Blair said. "But I never thought it would actually take."
"Sloppy dress means sloppy work," she said, mimicking Tolwyn’s crisp British accent flawlessly. "Well, excuse me, but I don’t have time to change my uniform every time I swap out a part, you know?"
Blair shrugged. "He’s got a real thing for the regs. But you should wear the reprimand as a badge of honor. I figure it’s a wasted week if I don’t get at least one chewing out and a couple of black scowls from him, myself."
"After the war, I’m going to make it my personal mission in life to loosen the screws on all the moving parts on guys like him." She was smiling, but Blair heard the edge in her tone.
"Save a screwdriver for me, okay?" Blair said. "Meanwhile, what’s the word on the launch?"
"Pretty good, this time out," she said. "Only three downchecks." Rachel hesitated. "I’m afraid one of them’s Hobbes, skipper."
"What’s the problem?"
"Power surge fried half his electronics when we went to check his computer. It’s about a fifteen hour repair job."
Blair frowned. "Damn, bad timing. But I guess his bird was about due. What about the others?"
"Reese and Calder. One interceptor, one Hellcat. There’s an outside chance we can get the Arrow up and running by H-hour, but I wouldn’t count on it."
"Do what you can," Blair told her.
"Don’t I always?" she asked with a grin. As he started to turn away, she caught his sleeve. "Look... after the mission... what say we get together?"
He looked into her eyes, read the emotion behind them. Everyone who served on the flight deck knew that each mission might be the last one. "I’d... like that, Rachel," he said slowly, suddenly feeling awkward. "Ever since... ever since I found out about Angel, I’ve felt like you were there for me. It’s... made a big difference."
Someone called for her, and Rachel turned back to her work without another word. Blair watched her hurrying away. She wasn’t anything like Jeannette Devereaux, but there was a feeling between them that was just as strong, in its own way, as the one he’d shared with Angel. Less passionate, less intense, and yet it was a more comfortable and familiar feeling, exactly what he needed to balance the turmoil around and within him.
You thought so, didn’t you?
At the time... for a time.
And you kissed her later, didn’t you?
Yes...
And it didn’t stop at kissing, did it?
...
I’m only asking you simple questions... but forgive me. Please go on... tell me where vengeance drove you aboard the Victory...
YF-103A Excalibur 300
The Kilrah System, Kur’u’khag Quadrant, Kilrah Sector
2669.267; 1740 Hours (CST)
Kilrah was a dirty orange-brown sphere that filled his field of vision, swelling visibly as the Terran fighters pressed forward at full thrust. Colonel Blair ran his eyes over his instrument board, checking over all systems one more time and praying nothing would go wrong now that the final attack was so near.
His hull temperature gauges were just beginning to register the friction of the tenuous upper atmosphere. Soon he would have to switch to shields or drastically cut his rate of descent. Blair waited until the cockpit was noticeably hot, until the outer hull was beginning to glow faintly, before he finally cut the cloak and activated the shield generators.
Screaming through the thickening atmosphere under the dull light of Kilrah’s red-orange sun, three Terran fighters plummeted downward toward a final rendezvous with death.
KIS Hvar’kann;
Audience Hall
1750 Hours (CST)
In the audience hall of Crown Prince Thrakhath’s 22,000 meter dreadnought flagship, a flat-muzzeled kil approached in steady strides.
"Lord Prince," Chee’dyachee Melek nar Kiranka addressed Thrakhath, "the ground-based defenses have picked up three intruders. Terran fighters matching the description of those engaged yesterday."
Crown Prince Thrakhath rose from his throne and stepped down from the dais. "The ground defenses?" he demanded angrily. "Is every one of my ship captains blind, then?"
"No, Lord Prince," Melek said, voice quavering a little. "But the Terrans... are entering the atmosphere. They came out of cloak almost directly below our present orbit, descending at great speed."
"Scramble all available interceptors, Melek," Thrakhath commanded, starting toward the door. "Including my own squadron. We will show them they cannot defile the Homeworld with impunity!"
YF-103A Excalibur
300
1810 Hours (CST)
"Look out, Flint!"
Blair watched a near miss by a missile buffeted her fighter, and 1st Lieutenant Robin "Flint" Peters had to fight her steering yoke to maintain control. It had been years since she’d last had to fight a battle in a planetary atmosphere, where all the rules were different from those she was used to in deep space fighting. Shockwaves carried... and shields were weakened by the energy they absorbed from friction in high-speed maneuvers.
"They’re firing," Flint reported. "One Vaktoth... and a Bloodfang Mark II, both of them in combat range. More Ekapshi coming up fast behind them."
"Bloodfang... Thrakhath’s personal fighter," Blair spoke, his voice grim. "Damn it all!"
Flint nodded in her cockpit. Intelligence reports on the Prince’s personal fighter, code-named Bloodfang by Confed Intell, suggested it would be one hell of a tough opponent. "Don’t know if I can take the bastard, skipper," she said. "You have any bright ideas?"
"Go to afterburners," Blair ordered. "Let’s see if we can outrun them."
She kicked in the extra power, but the Ekapshi matched her... continued closing the range. Another missile detonated, even closer this time. "No joy, skipper," she said. "Looks like there’s going to be a fight..."
Laser and meson cannon fire probed at her aft shields, sapping the power levels with each hit. Cursing, she pulled up in a sharp loop and opened fire on one of her two pursuers with tachyon and ion cannons and a spread of four IFFs. The two fighters were having nearly as much trouble fighting in the atmosphere as she was, and the weakened forward shields of her target went down under the fury of her attack. The Ekapshi exploded in a shower of debris, and Flint let out a whoop of triumph over the comm.
It died on her lips as the Bloodfang opened fire. Blair watched her try to roll out, but the Bloodfang’s plasma and tachyon fire pounded at her shields. They were going down... and a pair of heat-seekers were already on the way.
"He’s got me, skipper!" she called. "Can’t... evade. Don’t forget... I could have loved—"
She didn’t live to finish the sentence.
"Flint!" Blair shouted, but it was too late. The rearmost Excalibur went up in a dazzling fireball, and Robin Peters was gone.
Knew I was right to not get close to her, Blair thought to himself, thinking of his earlier decision to pursue CPO Rachel Coriolis over her. Not another pilot like me... I can’t take another Angel... I finally understand what Jeannette meant on the Claw... we all die in this war...
A new voice crackled in his headset. "So it shall be with you as well, Heart of the Tiger," He recognized the harsh, sibilant voice. Thrakhath... "You are foolhardy, to venture with so few against my Homeworld. Once before you lacked the courage to fight me. This time, you shall not escape. Welcome, Heart of the Tiger, to Kilrah... and to your death!"
"The canyon’s in sight ahead, Colonel," Major Todd "Maniac" Marshall reported. "I’ll drop back and have the next dance. You get in there and do your stuff!"
Blair hesitated. Thrakhath had challenged him once again... and he couldn’t stand and fight. The last time it was because the Victory was jumping out of the system. It took every bit of his self-control to grit his teeth and acknowledge Marshall’s call.
Maniac executed a tight Immelman loop, swinging up and around to head back toward the oncoming Kilrathi fighters. Thrakhath’s Bloodfang was still well in the lead, but there were two others closing fast.
Blair saw the canyon ahead, a long, jagged scar on the surface of Kilrah. His target was there, at the far end of the deep trench...
"Watch your trail, Colonel!" Maniac called suddenly. "Don’t know if I can cover you!"
His HUD told the story. Thrakhath had ignored Maniac’s Excalibur entirely, refusing to be drawn into a dogfight. Instead he had plunged past Marshall, and the two trailing Vaktoth were all over the Terran pilot now. Blair cursed aloud. Maniac couldn’t last long against two heavy fighters...
And his underarmed Excalibur was no match for Thrakhath’s Bloodfang Mk2.
He swung sharply left, away from the canyon, as the Kilrathi Crown Prince opened fire. The blaster shots went wide, but the Bloodfang followed his turn, still clinging stubbornly to his tail. All the advantages lay with Thrakhath now.
Blair was only dimly aware of the explosion higher up and off to his right. His MFDs told him it was one of the Vaktoth facing Maniac. Somehow Marshall had managed to savage one of his foes, but the other was still pressing hard. For the moment Blair couldn’t afford to think about him, though. He cut in full afterburners and tried to climb up and out of range of Thrakhath’s fighter. A Kilrathi missile exploded against his aft shields, sending the power levels fluctuating wildly.
And still Thrakhath held on behind him.
"Heads up, Colonel! Incoming!" Maniac’s call was loud and almost exultant. Marshall had swung away from his second opponent and was diving down on Thrakhath, heedless of the Vaktoth behind him slashing at his shields with bolt after bolt of raw energy.
Marshall released two ImRec missiles, then two more, holding steady on his target and refusing to be drawn off by the dire threat behind him.
"Shields are failing," he said as he released the missiles, his voice almost matter-of-fact now. "Looks like you’re on your own now, Maverick. For what it’s worth, I’m proud I flew with you..."
And then his fighter was gone, too, an expanding cloud of flame and smoke and whirling debris. Blair thought he caught a glimpse of the Excalibur’s escape pod boosting clear of the explosion, straining to reach orbital velocity, but he wasn’t sure. And even if Maniac had somehow managed to survive the blast, he wouldn’t be playing any further part in this battle.
Blair was alone.
He threw his Excalibur into a tight turn to port and opened fire with his tachyon and ion cannons just as Marshall’s fire two missiles detonated against Thrakhath’s shields. The Bloodfang passed close beside Blair’s craft, and he maintained his tight turn to stay lined up on the Kilrathi fighter. The other missiles struck the Prince’s aft shields, and Blair squeezed the trigger again. Beams tore through the weakened shields, chopping through hull armor.
"Curse you, ape!" Thrakhath snarled. "You have won today, Heart of the Tiger. But it will not bring back your lair-mate... and it will not save your kind from the vengeance of the Empire. This I swear!"
Explosions tore through the Bloodfang, and it seemed to stagger in mid-air before plunging downward. Blair watched as Thrakhath fought to maintain control, saw the nose just start to come up as the Prince tried one last masterful maneuver. But it was too late. The Bloodfang ploughed into the red-lit desert floor, erupting in fire and thunder.
There were still several fighters above Blair, but they seemed stunned by the loss of their leader. He turned his fighter back toward the canyon and opened up his throttles. Perhaps there was just time to start his run before the Kilrathi recovered...
He dropped down into the steep-sided, twisting gorge. It took all his skill to weave through that narrow gash in the desert. His HUD reeled off the range to the preprogrammed drop coordinates, and Blair’s thumb grew tense hovering over the switch that would release the Temblor Bomb from the belly of his fighter.
A part of him recoiled from what he had to do. The destruction of an entire planet, warriors and civilians alike. Once he would never even have considered making this desperate gambler’s last throw. What had led to this moment, then? Was it just a thirst for vengeance? Thrakhath’s death had left him feeling curiously empty of feeling, as if all his hate after Angel’s death had been for nothing. It had been the same with Hobbes. In the end, revenge was a sterile thing. He could slaughter every Kilrathi, here and in the farthest reaches of the Empire, and the killing would never change the facts. Angel and Cobra and Vaquero and all the others would still be dead, and his life would still be empty.
He felt as if they were all there in his mind. Vagabond... Flint... even Maniac, who in the end had risen above their long rivalry and given his life so that Blair could finish the mission. But in the long run, he knew it was wrong to use that bomb in the name of those who had died.
His range indicator continued to count down and ITTS began locking...
Blair thought of the ones who hadn’t died. Brigadier General James "Paladin" Taggart and Captain William Eisen, Admiral Tolwyn and his nephew, Kevin. Rachel Coriolis, who had accepted the fact that he might never come back and still dared to love him. They were the ones who counted. And if the War went on, they would ultimately pay the same price as all the ones who had gone before. He pictured the Victory broken and shattered as he had last seen the Concordia, imagined plagues spreading across Earth as they had spread on Locanda IV. It was war to the knife with the Kilrathi.
Kill or be killed. Not for revenge. Not for hate. But for simple survival of the human species.
He gritted his teeth and watched the range tick down. The target was coming up fast, and he had ITTS lock. It was now or never...
Blair’s thumb stabbed down on the release, and as the bomb dropped away he jerked hard back on the steering yoke and cut in his afterburners.
And that was that. Kilrah was destroyed and you went happily off into the sunset with this... Rachel...?
Rachel... I’d planned on becoming part of the diplomatic staff to turn the abstract peace treaty into some kind of working reality.
You ended up becoming a farmer.
Yes. On Nephele II, where I’d grown up on as a kid with my uncle and aunt. During the Pilgrim Wars.
But that didn’t last either, did it? And neither did Rachel, did she?
No...
Planet Nephele II; Hightower
Flats
The Nephele System, Downing Quadrant, Vega Sector
2673.010; 0930 Hours (CST)
A chiming sounded from the depths of the room’s clutter, drawing the sweating Christopher Blair 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 tiding up the clutter. He’d only managed to move the piles around enough to lose track of most of his personal possessions.
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 it. 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 to try his hand at farming, 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 Coriolis’ 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 desert world, 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.
Was it post-war weariness... or something else?
"Post-war weariness"... and more, I guess.
You hadn’t gotten over Angel when you became involved with Rachel, had you?
Maybe not...
Now tell me the last thing thing you remember, Christopher... your last memory before our conversation.
Okay...
Nephilim Artificial Wormhole
Gate; Tower #7
The Kilrah System, Kur’u’khag Quadrant, Kilrah Sector
2681.034; 1350 Hours (CST)
"Great job, Casey—now get the hell out of here before you’re caught in the big bang! Blair out."
Commodore Christopher Blair keyed off his comlink PPC, then began starting back to the Marine LC he’d taken aboard, his hand hovering over his M-42 Machine Pistol sidearm. The Midway, the Confederation—all of them had been counting on him to get Stabilizing Tower #7’s shields down so Casey and the others in their F-109A Vampires could destroy it and destroy the Nephilim aliens’ artificial wormhole gateway into the Kilrah System. Both he and Casey had been successful in their respective tasks—now he just had to make it back to the LC before the whole superstructure lit up. The LC was already in sight.
It was dark in the dying Nephilim structure—dark and cold. As Blair moved on out of the tower’s control room he spotted a dead Marine lying face down on the organic-like floor. One of Colonel John "Gash" Dekker’s men in Team Two. He started backing toward the body, watching with a mixture of wary fascination and horror as the "door" of the structure that led to the command center rotated shut like some kind of pulsating valve—the whole place seemed alive.
Kneeling beside the body, he checked the soldier’s pulse just to be sure. Nothing. Feeling a ping on the comlink PPC at his hip, he keyed it on.
"Hey, boss, this place is coming apart at the seams!" shouted Colonel Dekker. "We’re picking up the last of our boys and bugging out. You get to your ship, and I’ll see you back at the Midway."
"Understood." Blair then brought up the comlink PPC’s AI, inquiring, "Computer, how long before this place self-destructs? Give me a running count."
"One minute forty seconds," the feminine voice of his comlink’s AI replied. It continued to supply him with the countdown afterward at ten second intervals.
Commodore Blair stood and started on his way. The LC wasn’t far. Just to be sure, he reached for the Marine’s M-58A1 Laser Assault Rifle when...
"Blair!" thundered an inhuman voice. It was inhuman, for no human vocal chords could have possibly produced such a deep, resounding, almost mechanically-toned voice.
One of the creatures appeared directly in his path—one of the Nephilim. It was a fearsome, praying mantis-like alien—eight feet tall, a mix of the insectoid and crustacean worlds, with long, spidery limbs, thoracic wing-like appendages, and clenched mandibles. It raised its wing-like appendages as it reared down on him after a short leap, shaking them several feet above its mass.
No sooner did it do so than Tower #7 shook violently, only a little over a minute left on the countdown to the wormhole gateway’s annihilation. Blair lost his footing and was thrown from the corridor’s walkway. Catching himself on the walkway’s precipice, his feet dangling over a fall that would lead to certain death, he pulled himself up when the shaking subsided.
He looked around—no sight of the Nephilim. Shrugging, he picked up the fallen Marine’s M-58 Assault Rifle, brought it to readiness, and started back for his LC—he didn’t have time to play hide and seek with the damned bug.
"Situation critical," droned his comlink PPC. "Estimated overload in under one minute."
Only a few seconds now...
The Commodore got two steps before he noticed a gelatinous goo dripping on the laser scope of his assault rifle. Slowly and warily, he looked up just in time to see the Nephilim that had confronted him moments ago dropping down from its place of hiding directly above him, limbs retracted and ready to scoop him up for the kill.
In the fraction of a second, Commodore Christopher Blair’s life flashed before his eyes. All of his triumphs; all of his tragedies; all of his regrets. He then thought of young 2nd Lt. Lance "Frosty" Casey, the son of the Iceman, and took comfort in the knowledge that things would continue on just fine without him, sans Confed’s aging "living legend." Blair had known from the start this would be a mission he wouldn’t be returning from.
Angel... je t’aime, Angel... I’m coming to you at last...
Blair raised his assault rifle, teeth gritted and finger already poised on the trigger, aimed it at the leering cranium of the creature rapidly descending on him, and—
Now I remember...
You should.
I’m... I’m dead?
Do you know who I am now, Christopher?
You said you were my "Guardian Angel." But... wait...
What is it?
Jeannette... it’s you...
Yes, Christopher.
Angel... my guardian angel...
Come to me, Christopher.
But it’s so cold... cold... and that light...
It won’t be cold for long, mon cher. Don’t be scared, my love—come to me... come into the light...
I love you, Angel.
And I love you as well, my Maverick. Now come to me and we’ll be together... for all of time.
You promise?
I promise you, Christopher. You don’t have to be alone anymore—neither of us do.
You promise?
I promise. Je t’aime...
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