õÉÌØÑÍ æÏÒÓÔÞÅÎ. Wing Commander: âÉÔ×Á ÆÌÏÔÏ× (engl)

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     © Copyright 1994 William R.Forstchen. Wing Commander Fleet Action
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     <img src=wing1_eng.jpg>

        PROLOGUE

     "According to the final calculations projected on your holo  screens, I
think it  is  evident  that over the next eighty days  we run  the risk of a
serious reversal that could set our war effort back by years."
     A  rumble  of stunned  and angry  growls shook the room.  Baron  Jukaga
settled back in his chair and waited for the storm to settle.
     "This is preposterous, an insult," Talmak of the Sutaghi  clan snapped,
looking  around  the room  as  if seeking to  find someone to blame and thus
sacrifice. "How did we ever get to  this  state? Our fleets are  the finest,
our warriors filled with  the zeal of skabak,  the will to die for the glory
of Kilrah.  By the blood  of Sivar,  we even outnumber the low born  scum in
nearly every  class  of ship. How did  this happen!" and as he  finished  he
slammed  his fist down  on  his  holo projector, shattering it,  as if by so
doing the grim figures would simply die.
     Baron Jukaga of the Ki'ra clan silently turned in his  chair and looked
to the end of the table where the  Emperor, and his grandson and heir Prince
Thrakhath, sat.
     "Perhaps  our Emperor can enlighten  us," Jukaga said silkily, lowering
his  head just enough to show  obeisance, but  doing it slowly, thus  subtly
revealing a disdain and defiance. The Emperor, of course, was not visible to
those  in the  room. Sitting upon his high throne  he was hidden from direct
view by a silklike screen emblazoned with  the  three  crossed red swords of
the Imperial line. Sitting at the foot of the dias was Prince Thrakhath, who
shifted slightly under Jukaga's gaze, a  soft yet audible growl echoing from
his throat as a signal  of  his readiness  to  accept challenge, and also in
reaction to the insult of directly placing a question to the Emperor.
     Baron Jukaga struggled to conceal a  flashing of teeth, a  revealing of
his true hatred for this Emperor whom  he believed to be of lesser blood and
who had attempted to place  the blame for the  disaster  at Vukar Tag on his
shoulders.
     He had endured over a year  in  exile because of that disaster. It  was
only  due to  the latest reversals that the other clans  had finally pressed
for his  release and  use of his known talents as one  who better than  most
understood the strangeness of human behavior.
     The Emperor sensed  the challenge and  the trap. He  stirred  uneasily,
framing  his thoughts. If he answered the question directly, it  would be  a
lowering of himself before  the leaders of the eight clans of Kilrah; if  he
deferred the question to his grandson, the Prince,  it would appear as if he
were shifting responsibility þ and ultimate blame.
     "You  go too far, Baron,"  a voice rumbled from the corner of the room,
breaking the impasse.
     Baron Jukaga looked over at the  speaker, Buktag'ka,  first born of the
clan of Sihkag. The Sihkag were, of the eight ruling families, considered to
be  of the  lowest  blood and as such could usually be  counted  on to curry
favor with the Emperor in a bid to elevate their status whenever possible.
     "Your  insult to the Emperor is evident," Buktag'ka  snarled, coming to
his feet and leaning over the table to stare at Jukaga. "It is not the place
of  the  Imperial blood to answer questions. We  requested your release from
exile  for the skills you  have in understanding  humans  and  as master  of
spies, not for the surliness of your tongue, the haughtiness of all  of your
blood line, nor for the plots you are known for."
     Jukaga looked around the table,  gauging the response which ranged from
nodded lowering of heads  in agreement, to rippling of manes in defiance. It
was time to change approach.
     "I stand rebuked  before the Imperial blood and intended no insult," he
said, bowing low to the shaded throne. Prince Thrakhath, who sat at the foot
of the  throne, and was  not hidden from view  like his  grandfather, nodded
curtly in reply.
     "Let us not  ask the  hows  of it,"  the Emperor's voice whispered from
behind the  screen, "there is  blame enough for  all.  Rather let us talk of
what now is, and what is to be done."
     Knowing he could not press the point, Baron  Jukaga lowered his head in
reply.
     You  low born old  bastard, Jukaga thought coldly. Everyone  here knows
that this  reversal  is  your fault  and that of your fool grandson. Yet  if
victory should  come it will be you who  will sweep the  honors  around your
feet. And  even  as he thought a concept that was beyond the range  of  most
Kilrathi, rage and intense hatred towards a sworn overlord, he still assumed
the posture of obeisance and then slowly rose up to speak again.
     "Buktag'ka is right," Jukaga said, "and I accept the rebuke."
     He looked around the room, gauging the responses  and felt it was  best
to simply push on with the facts and figures that needed to be presented.
     "We do outnumber  the human confederation  in total number of carriers,
fighters of all classes, and heavy cruisers.  However, as you can see by the
charts  projected, we will  see  no  new replacement of carriers of standard
design for the next three of eighty days. In the meantime it is projected by
my intelligence staff that  the  humans will  have four  of their  new fleet
carriers coming into operations, thus enabling  them  to form an  entire new
task force  and reach  a rough parity with our  own  carrier  forces for the
first time in this war.
     "This is due to the loss  of the construction bays and nearly completed
ships in the raids on our  construction sites over the last year. First they
hit  our primary bases  on our moon during  the Vukar  Tag  debacle," and he
could  not  resist  sparing a quick look at  Thrakhath,  "and  then  the two
follow-up raids which destroyed three other construction yards."
     He paused for a moment, looking around the room, the other clan leaders
stirring  uneasily. The successful human raids  deep within the  Empire  had
been  a  source of  extreme  embarrassment for Thrakhath and  for  the  clan
leaders. Jukaga  smiled  inwardly.  If anything  the exile  after Vukar  had
enabled him to wash his own talons of any responsibility. In a dispassionate
sort  of  way, he found he could even admire the human  who had conceived of
the strategy of using light carriers for the strikes. Spy reports both  from
their plant  high inside the ruling  circle  of the Administration, and from
prisoner interrogation,  indicated that it was Admiral Tolwyn who instituted
the plan.
     "Our  shortages," the Baron continued, "are made worse by the fact that
within the next eighty days  nearly one quarter of  our carriers are due for
overhauls,  resupply,  and  refitting,  with one needing  an entire  reactor
replacement."
     "Can't such things wait?" Buktag'ka asked.
     "It has already  been  delayed  too long," Thrakhath announced  coldly.
"The Ha'Tukaig's  reactor is leaking so  dangerously that engine  room crews
have  to be suited up and  after three duty shifts  retired. We might see  a
total reactor  failure if we push her any further. As for the other ships, a
variety  of  minor things  threaten  to  soon become major  problems if  not
addressed. Remember the  standard  rule is  that  for  every day of flight a
carrier needs one day of docking for a variety of reasons. We are stretching
that out to almost two to one, pushing our equipment too hard."
     He fell silent and Jukaga made a show of nodding his thanks.
     "I  know the argument is that  we cannot afford to move carriers out of
action at this time," Jukaga said, "but I believe Prince Thrakhath will tell
you we can not afford  not to. Unfortunately  the  humans, at least  for the
moment,  have  found  a  weak  point  and are exploiting it, using their new
escort carriers to raid deep into our Empire, seeking  not to engage in ship
to  ship combat, but  rather to shatter our ships in their construction bays
before they  are completed and launched. What is even worse is their  use of
these strike forces to hit our transports and supply ships. Our losses there
have been disastrous."
     "At least they have paid in turn," Thrakhath replied sharply.
     "That is true, my lord, but let  us look at  those figures. In the last
standard year we can be certain that we have destroyed seven of their escort
carriers, two fleet carriers  and seven eights of other ships. In  turn they
have smashed eight carriers under construction, destroyed valuable equipment
and inflicted thousands of casualties on trained personnel. And perhaps most
seriously  of all, just under  seven eight-of-eights of transport and supply
vessels."
     He paused and looked around the  room and  could see the frustration of
the  clan  leaders  as  they  looked to  Thrakhath, who was  forced  to show
agreement with Jukaga.
     "What sort of animals are these humans?" Buktag'ka asked  rhetorically.
"What honor, what glory is there to be possibly gained by smashing a carrier
when it cannot even  fly? Their gods  must vomit  in disgust at  such craven
cowardice."
     "I don't think their god  sees it quite the same  way ours do,"  Jukaga
said dryly, realizing the irony of what he was saying was completely lost on
those present
     That  was the weak point.  In his  studies  of  humans he at least  had
gained  some  small understanding of  just how alien was  their logic, their
beliefs, and  their  concept of the nature of war. To try  to translate that
understanding  to those gathered around him,  no matter how intelligent they
were, was nearly impossible; the gap was simply too broad to leap.
     It  was,  as well, the weak link in their military. All  their previous
enemies  had been totally destroyed in  wars that lasted, at  the longest, a
little more than four  years, and  that was simply due to  the sheer size of
the Hari  empire  which had  to be occupied  and destroyed. In  such a case,
where victory was  usually assured from within hours of the  first assaults,
the need to truly understand ones enemy was moot. The human war was now four
eights of years old and still most of those who led  the  Empire into battle
did not truly understand the thinking of their foes.
     "With honor,  or without, a carrier  destroyed is  still dead,"  Jukaga
said quietly, "a fact which can not be debated."
     He  looked over at Thrakhath, and to his surprise actually saw a nod of
agreement
     "The real crisis,  however, is in our logistical support, our transport
ships supplying the fleet."
     There  were several snorts of disdain from the clan leaders. Such ships
and those who served in them  were considered to be beneath contempt. Any of
fighting age who accepted  assignment to one was disgraced  within his clan,
deemed not worthy to sire heirs for  himself, but rather only  to sit at the
edge of the feasting tables, heads  lowered,  when boasts of war were shared
and  arm veins opened to  pour  out  libations on the  altars of Sivar.  The
quality of personnel could be readily inferred from this.
     "It  is  a simple fact  that,  without fuel,  food, replacement  parts,
weapons, and even such basics as air  to breathe and water to drink  a fleet
is  useless. The  humans  have  hit  upon the  strategy  of  avoiding direct
confrontation and  striking  instead  to  our rear,  cutting  our  supplies,
destroying our  transports,  forcing us to detail off precious frigates  and
destroyers to  escort them.  Their escort carriers attack  and  against them
even destroyers  are  outclassed,  so  that now heavy cruisers  must  escort
convoys. As a  result  there are  not enough  heavy cruisers  to escort  our
carriers and our  own construction  of these new light carriers  has yet  to
come fully on line."
     He paused for a moment and  looked at the charts projected on the  holo
screens.
     "We  have  lost  over seven eight-of-eights of  transports in  the last
year, along with four yards for their  construction. That is our weak point.
We have reached the stage where, for the moment, our carriers must leave the
front  and  return  all  the  way to  Kilrah to resupply since there are not
enough transports to bring supplies to them. As a result, in actual  numbers
of ships  at the front, our strength has been cut  in  half, and so, in most
sectors, Confederation ships outnumber us."
     He paused again for effect and  saw  the cold looks  of disbelief, that
something as mundane, as  undignified  as this issue, could actually  affect
their fighting of the war.
     "What I hear is impossible," Yikta of  the Caxki clan snarled. "Are you
truly saying we have lost the war because of such a thing?"
     "The  humans  have  a  saying that  for want of a nail a horse-shoe was
lost, for want of a horseshoe a . . ."
     "What is a horse?" Yikta asked.
     "It  is a  beast  of war which  humans  once rode  upon,  and  then  he
explained the rest of the statement and saw that it had its effect
     "No,  the  war  is  by no  means lost," Prince  Thrakhath finally said,
stirring  at  last "The Baron  tends,  I think, to overplay his thinking and
chartmaking to scare us."
     "But you will not deny that we are in trouble," the Baron retorted.
     "Temporarily," Prince Thrakhath said, "perhaps."
     "Prince Thrakhath," the Baron said smoothly,  "more  than six years ago
it  was you who detailed  off all  new  transport construction  to  your own
Project Hari. Just how many transports and other  material has your own clan
tied  up  in  that  project,  while the  main battle  suffers  for  want  of
supplies?"
     He paused, seeing the stirring of interest in the room.
     "We  are  not here  to talk  of Hari," Thrakhath snapped,  "we are here
instead to hear your own report and ideas first."
     The clan  leaders looked  from Thrakhath  to Jukaga and the Baron could
sense that more  than one  finally  wanted  the truth of this secret project
revealed. But first he would drive another point home.
     Baron Jukaga nodded to an aide standing in the far side of the room who
controlled the holo screen.
     The image shifted  to  a three  dimensional  map  of the  Empire and  a
weaving of orange and red lines.
     "Intelligence  has  found  out  that   the  humans  are  aware  of  the
opportunity that exists  for them for at least the next two  eight-of-eights
days, and are contemplating an offensive to exploit our short term weakness.
They will commit  their carriers to an opening operation  in what the humans
call the Munro  System.  They  know we  must hold Munro for it  is a  direct
doorway into  a  number of  the  shortest jump  points into the heart of the
Empire.
     "Meanwhile, on eight different fronts," and  as he  spoke orange arrows
started  to flash, "eight of their light escort carriers,  along with raider
transports will jump into the Empire,  aiming to cripple  us from behind and
to  smash  our  remaining  transport, cruiser  construction yards and  light
carrier conversion centers, while ravaging planetary bases and crippling our
few supply convoys still in operation.
     "That, in short, is the plan."
     The room was silent as the clan leaders studied the screens.
     "It is a  hideous plan," Thrakhath said coldly, "a stabbing in the back
against  defenseless positions. It lacks  all honor,  all meeting  of  steel
blade against steel blade, ship against ship."
     "But it  will cripple us even  in  its cowardice,"  Jukaga retorted and
Thrakhath could only lower his head.
     The room was silent for a moment
     "And yet," Vak of  the Ragitagha clan whispered, unable to speak louder
due to the fact that the surgeons had experienced some difficulty in putting
his mouth back together after a challenge duel, "if all goes as rumors state
regarding this project in the Hari sector, within a year we  will see such a
growth in our strength as to overwhelm the humans and end this war."
     He looked straight at Thrakhath waiting for a response.
     "Even  here,  Project Hari  should not  be  spoken of," Thrakhath  said
hurriedly.
     The clan leaders stirred. The project was nothing more than rumors, its
development under the  complete  control of  the Kiranka clan of the Emperor
and the Prince.
     "These are our brothers," the Emperor announced from behind the screen.
"Let it be spoken of."
     Thrakhath looked back at the screen behind him as if to protest.
     "Speak of it."
     Jukaga could see the hesitation. It  was known that there were a number
of security breaches  coming out  of the Imperial  Palace and the  less said
about certain things the better. He  could see as well that  the Emperor was
playing a  maneuver of  showing confidence  in  the other clan leaders, thus
winning  favor for acting as if those in his presence were trusted comrades.
He could  see  the effect  on  Buktag'ka who  puffed  up visibly  and leaned
forward to hear.
     "Even  before these  human raids  had  started,"  Thrakhath said,  "the
Emperor in his  wisdom had foreseen certain dangers  along  these lines  and
thus  ordered a  tremendous  investment of  wealth  and  material  into  the
building of a secret construction yard. It is located in the conquered realm
of the  Hari  on the  far side  of our Empire in relationship to the  Terran
Confederation."
     He  took a holo  cube out  of his breast pocket  and loaded  it. Jukaga
found  this alone to  be  interesting, that  Thrakhath had come to the  this
meeting fully prepared to reveal the extent of  Project Hari. His own people
had found out most of its well-kept  secrets to  be sure and  it seemed that
Thrakhath had expected Jukaga to force its full revelation at this meeting.
     On the main holo screen a map of the Empire appeared, the frontier with
the  Confederation at the top, Kilrah and  the Empire in the middle, and far
down at the bottom the conquered space of the now dead Hari, a collection of
a thousand stars around which orbited more than a  thousand blasted lifeless
worlds.
     Thrakhath highlighted  a single star  on  the  screen  deep  within the
former territory of the Hari.
     "Here, for the last five years, a new class of carriers has been tested
and  developed,  overcoming  the difficulties of translight jumping of ships
above a certain  size  and mass. These new carriers, what we call the Hakaga
class,  are  capable  of  carrying  and  servicing  our  newest Vatari-class
fighters to  be launched next year. With their  increased size  the carriers
have  shield generation systems capable of repulsing nearly  any weapon  the
Confederation now has, including their Mark IV & V antimatter torpedoes."
     The image in the holo screen  shifted and a carrier  appeared. The clan
leaders  looked at  it excitedly and  then Thrakhath pushed  a button on his
monitor. Beside the carrier appeared a second image, that of a current fleet
carrier. The room echoed with shouts of surprise.
     Even Jukaga could not conceal his curiosity. Though he had read the spy
reports, the only  images he had  seen  so  far were grainy two  dimensional
shots  clandestinely taken  by a  transport captain  in his  employ. The new
carrier  was at  least twice the length of the old design, and bristled with
six launch bays,  three aft and  three forward. As  the image slowly  turned
inside  the  holo  field  he  saw that the  vulnerable engine nacelles  were
completely concealed and armored.
     "The first of the carriers is already operational," Thrakhath announced
proudly,  "and undergoing final testing in the far reaches of Hari space far
beyond any prying eyes of the Confederation."
     He  looked back  at  Jukaga as if saying that  it was  also  beyond the
prying eyes of anyone else.
     "What is its capability?" Vak asked.
     "When fully  loaded it carries three eighties and six eights  of strike
craft and fighters, launching  from six separately contained bays.  Its ship
defense capabilities include four eights of mass driver quad batteries, four
eights  of  neutron and  laser  batteries, and six gatling launch tubes  for
anti-torpedo defense. It has three concentric layers  of interior armor, and
all six  bays are self  contained. Thus we can take hits on three, even four
bays and keep on fighting shifting fighters from one part of the ship to the
other  by internal access corridors.  As you  can well  guess, the  material
required to build this carrier equals over six times that of  a normal fleet
attack carrier. In addition we are building more than eighty escort ships of
frigate, destroyer and cruiser design. That  is why we suffer the  transport
shortage now. More than two hundred of them were committed to the hauling of
all that was needed from the Empire to the far side of Hari."
     He looked around the room and saw the nods of understanding.
     I  think, my comrades," he  said smoothly,  "that is  why  you can also
understand why my clan alone took full responsibilities for the construction
of these ships. We had to  maintain  the tightest of security. The knowledge
of this leaking to our enemies would give them time to analyze our new ships
and perhaps find a counter."
     He stared defiantly at Jukaga.
     "That is why  my clan placed such  security around the project and kept
it hidden for so long."
     Jukaga wanted to reply with a challenge, that it also insured the power
of the Imperial throne  with such ships  solely  in its hands,  but realized
that now was not  the time, even though the subtle insult to the other clans
had not gone unnoticed.
     "Then  commit  it  now and block this human offensive," Buktag'ka said,
pounding the table excitedly.
     Jukaga looked at  Buktag'ka and  wanted to  laugh at the boot  licker's
enthusiasm.
     "That is not the way to win war," Thrakhath replied, an edge of sarcasm
in  his voice revealing his sense that though Buktag'ka was a family leader,
he was  still of a  lower cast.  Buktag'ka quickly  looked around the  room,
hoping for  some sign of support and  saw nothing but mocking  stares and he
swallowed his rage.
     "In eighty and forty days four  more carriers of the  Hakaga class will
be ready for  their operational  tests, in  three eighty and forty days,  we
will have a full fleet of eight and four Hakaga carriers fully operational.
     "That means we will have a need for over forty  eighties of fighter and
strike craft pilots. In spite  of what the Baron might think, that  is why I
had fully intended to reveal this information to you today. The first ship's
fighter crews were drawn from my clan, but as new ships come on line we will
need  to  draw the best pilots from all clans out  of the training academies
and off existing  fleet ships. All of your hrai, your clans, are to share in
the glory of this new fleet."
     He looked  over at  the Baron and  suppressed  a scornful laugh. Though
indeed the Baron had pressured him into revealing the project  too  soon, it
was amusing to not let him think so.
     "Only  then will I release  them, when the entire fleet is ready, using
them to cleave straight through the human defenses. Our war simulations have
gone  over  the plan  repeatedly and our projection is that at least half of
these new ships  will survive to  reach Earth, while in the process smashing
the  Confederation Fleet in one final climatic battle. Within one hour after
gaining orbit above their home  planet either the  Terran Confederation will
surrender or  more than one eight  and a half hundred  of our fighters  will
deliver antimatter bombs, leaving the planet a burned out cinder.
     "The tides of  this war have shifted back and forth for more than  half
my reign,  the  Emperor interjected,  his  voice  commanding total  silence.
"Before I return to  my  ancestors,  I wish to see my grandson destroy these
low born scum and the ball of offal that they call their world."
     "I am  moved  to  joy by this plan  of Thrakhath," Jukaga  interrupted,
"however, it  is  at least eighty days,  more likely two of eighty days till
five of the  new ships are ready, and three eighty and a half days until the
other seven  he believes are required  for  victory are operational. Yet you
can all see that even if it  is not a fatal blow, the humans will succeed in
penetrating  our defenses  and  sowing a wave of destruction within the next
five  of eight  days. In this penetration, they will cripple  our logistical
support, which will still  be needed to keep Prince  Thrakhath's  new  ships
supplied  in their drive towards  victory.  If that  is crippled  the  final
offensive to Earth is crippled."
     He paused  for a moment to look at Thrakhath  who was forced to  nod in
agreement.
     "We  have  heard  Talmak  suggest  that  the  frontier  be  temporarily
abandoned and all defenses  pulled into the center,"  Jukaga  said reviewing
the earlier suggestions, "but we cannot allow such a stain on our honor, nor
can the Caxki clan, which owns many of the frontier  worlds,  allow it.  Our
Prince  has explained  how  a counter offensive into Enigma or through Munro
towards Earth  is difficult if not impossible due to the question of supply,
and that  the humans  might  ignore the threat anyhow  and still ravage  our
worlds."
     He took a deep breath and looked around the room.
     Now  it was to the true heart of  the meeting. Thrakhath  had  revealed
what his  clan  had  been planning,  but  no real  suggestions  as to how to
overcome the crisis of the moment.
     "You have brought me out of exile saying that with  my understanding of
humans I might suggest a third way and I have such away  which will bring us
victory."
     "And that is?" Buktag'ka asked, glad that it was obvious that soon this
talk would be over and the mid-day feasting could begin.
     "Sue for an armistice and promise peace."
     A roar of disbelief thundered from all the clan leaders.
     Jukaga waited for several minutes for the anger to die down and thought
for a moment that  more than one clan leader would  call for a blood duel to
avenge what they saw as an obscene slight of honor.
     "You  have been driven mad by your reading of  human books of filth and
weakness," Buktag'ka roared, coming up to Jukaga's side as if to strike him.
     There was a  moment of silence as all  waited for the ritual first blow
to  be struck across Jukaga's face and then all turned to look at the screen
behind which the Emperor sat.
     The Emperor was laughing.
     "Tell  us your plan Baron, I think I  see its merit even  though I know
the gods will not be pleased."
     "But even the gods are not immune to bribery,"  Jukaga said, a smile of
cunning  lighting his features.  "When my plan works, and is finished, Sivar
will be more than pleased with the final offerings."
     And in  the doing  of  it,  I will  be  pleased  as  well,  when Prince
Thrakhath's victory becomes mine instead, the Baron thought with a smile.


        CHAPTER ONE

     Captain Ian "Hunter" St. John crossed through the final nav check point
and turned in  on attack  approach. The lone  habitable  planet of the Munro
system was  now straight ahead. A  flurry of matter-antimatter bombs snapped
across the world, winking brightly even from thirty thousand clicks out, the
bombardment suppressing the Kilrathi ground defense systems. He clicked into
the  Marine  channel  and  listened  for  a moment  as the  second and third
divisions started their descent into their landing points. Ian switched back
to his main channel.
     "Red squadron, arm all torpedoes, Blue and Green squadrons, keep  close
in for support. Let's get the carrier!"
     Off  his  port  quarter he saw  the Yellow, Orange, and Black squadrons
comprising the  rest of the attack group fanning out into the standard delta
formation, while the red squadron Broadsword bombers lined up for a  classic
anvil attack,  swinging out to hit the Kilrathi carrier on its  X, Y,  and Z
axis.
     They were going  to lose people in the next  couple of minutes, but the
light carrier straight ahead was going to be dead as well.
     He did a quick scan on to the main tactical commlink net to check in on
how the  rest of  the  fight was going, ready to  divert part of his  attack
force, which  was  damn  near overwhelming,  if  something  was  going wrong
somewhere else.
     The  Marines  were going into their drop right on  schedule, no serious
opposition, the landing area already saturated by the heavy bombardment from
four destroyers and a cruiser which had turned a thousand square  kilometers
of the  primary landing point  into  scorched rubble. What was left  of  the
Kilrathi bases on the planet continued to glow from the antimatter strikes.
     This was a raid on one Kilrathi base which was going like clockwork and
that alone was troubling. Across the last thirty years Munro, ever since its
seizure by the Kilrathi during the open stages of  the war, had been  a long
standing  goal for recapture. Beyond the simple fact that  it was once human
territory it  also stood  as  the  primary approach  into the heart  of  the
Empire.  Conversely,  from this base the Kilrathi stood astride a  main jump
point terminus into the middle  regions of the Confederation  and from there
the main jump line straight back to Sirius and then on to  Earth. It was the
front door to both the Empire and the Confederation. A lot of good ships and
a hell of a lot of personnel had died in six  attempts to retake the planet.
Now it was falling like a ripe apple into their laps.
     He wondered how the  rest of the assault plan was going. This attack on
Munro,  though crucial, was actually  not the primary goal  of Operation Red
Three. They were to act as a focal  point for the Kilrathi to counter-strike
on and thus be drawn  away  from the main thrust of  the  offensive.  Across
fifteen hundred light years  of  frontline  that divided the Empire from the
Confederation, eight Task Groups,  each  comprised of  an escort  carrier, a
light cruiser, and four destroyers  were  poised to leap deep into the Heart
of  the Empire. Their mission  was to  strike far into  the rear to  destroy
convoys,  shatter  bases, and smash construction  yards.  It  was a tactical
innovation evolving  out of Vukar Tag which appeared to be bearing  fruit, a
constant harassing of the enemy that some claimed  was actually beginning to
wear the cats down.  He could only  hope that the politicians were not about
to blow it as latest rumors indicated they would.
     "Hunter, we got traffic, vectoring in on 032 degrees your heading true,
plus 060 degrees."
     Hunter looked at his short range tactical scan and saw the swarm of red
blips snap on.
     "Blue squadron, you on them?"
     "Lone Wolf here, sir, vectoring in, you're covered."
     "Get that double ace strip, boy, good hunting."
     "Don't worry, you'll get your bottle of scotch off me when I do,"  Lone
Wolf replied. "Wish it was a carrier in my sights instead."
     Hunter chuckled to himself. Admiral Tolwyn's nephew was eager for  this
fight and he could understand why.
     "The kid's been going nuts trying to get that strip."
     Hunter spared a  quick  glance to Griffin, his  co-pilot,  and  nodded.
Kevin Tolwyn's escort carrier, Tarawa, had  joined up with the  strike group
after the mission had already  set out. In the skirmishes leading into Munro
young Tolwyn had drawn a blank hand in half a dozen fights and was eager for
a  kill  to round up his number  to  ten. Such eagerness  could get  a pilot
wasted but Hunter could understand it.
     Hunter  looked  back down at  his  computer information  screen,  which
showed  the other  two  Broadsword  strike groups lining into  position. All
three groups  hit their jump-off marks precisely and started in on the final
attack.
     "Range one thousand clicks, speed down to 110 kps," and Griffin started
the  chant, marking off range and speed. The computer  could do the  job  as
well, but a machine  could always glitch off at a key moment and besides, he
preferred Griffin's soft feminine voice.
     Hunter watched straight  ahead, the planet filling space before him. He
could  make  out a sliver  of  reflected  light,  standing  out  against the
blue-green ocean below. The light shifted into a thin pencil-like form.
     "Target is turning, following standard evasive maneuver alpha," Griffin
announced, "coming about to a heading 002 positive 80 degrees."
     "Right on to a broadside target for us," Hunter chortled. That was  the
beauty of a well timed attack on the three axis points, no  matter which way
the enemy turned, someone would have a full broadside strike.
     A low piercing hum  echoed in his headset, the initial locking tone for
his torpedo.
     "Range fifteen kilometers, closing speed eight hundred  fifty meters  a
second and holding."
     He was damn near hanging still in space, sparing a quick glance  to his
tactical  display, filled now with  a swarm of blue and red dots. A Kilrathi
Gratha  heavy  fighter flashed by, followed by  a Rapier. He heard Jonesy in
the turret  behind him, stammering  out a curse as she snapped off  a  quick
volley.  His Broadsword shuddered, damage information blipping  red  for his
rear starboard stabilizer. A spray of mass driver  rounds arched up from the
carrier as it twisted away, and he nudged up the throttle to follow the ship
as it continued to turn.
     The  tone  in his headset started to slide up the scale, signaling that
his  torpedo  guidance  system  was breaking through  the Kilrathi  carriers
phased shielding distortion defense, the weapon gaining a secured lock.
     The  Broadsword to  his right disappeared  in a  flash. He tried not to
think about  the friends inside. A split second later Jonesy let out a whoop
from the rear turret.
     "Got the furball bastard. Burn, damn you, burn."
     Damn,  she was bloodthirsty. But then, who  could blame a nineteen year
old girl whose brothers were all dead in the war?
     The tone in his  headset started to  warble and then set off three high
pitched beeps, the  last beep going into a steady tone, indicating  that the
heavy Mark IV torpedo  was locked and armed. He felt his ship shudder as the
torpedo  broke free  from its  pylon  and streaked off towards  the  target.
Nearly a score of  silver blips appeared on his tactical screen, showing the
inbound strike. The timing was damn near perfect.
     Now was the time to test out the new weapons system
     He  slammed  up  throttle,  yanked the stick into  his gut and  punched
straight up, exposing the laser guidance system strapped  on to the belly of
his Broadsword.
     "Have  laser lock on torpedo," Griffin announced quietly, hunching over
her read-out screen. The new  laser system was designed  to provide in-bound
guidance for the  torpedo, the  designator locking on to the torpedo's tail.
If target lock should be lost, the weapons officer could  now  guide it  in,
while  also  providing  evasive  for  any  anti-torpedo  missiles and shield
jamming  by the  target's defensive  systems.  The only problem  was that it
meant that the Broadsword had to loiter in the target area,  belly  exposed,
until impact.
     It might work, Ian thought, but I'd like to take the idiot who designed
it and have him fly the wait out with me to see what it's like.
     The  Kilrathi carrier's point defenses slammed on miniguns sending  out
sprays of  marble  size  mass driver  bolts.  Several  torpedoes  detonated.
Anti-torpedo missiles streaked out  from launch bays mounted fore and aft on
the ship.
     "Still tracking, still tracking,"  Griffin chanted,  grimacing slightly
and swinging  a small joy stick over to put the torpedo into  an evasive  as
two anti-missiles closed. The evasive threw them off and they continued on.
     Still tracking, impact in five, four . . ."
     And  suddenly it  didn't seem quite right.  They were  using their  old
single bolt anti-torpedo missiles.  Hell, for nearly six months now Kilrathi
carriers  had  been  carrying  their  damn  new  sub-munitions  anti-torpedo
missiles which could break into half a dozen shots. The damn things had been
a nasty surprise. Ships armed with them were almost  invulnerable to torpedo
strikes if they could get enough of them out there.
     Fleet ordnance had been working like mad to come up with a counter, but
so far no one  had been able to snag a round for evaluation since they  were
armed with a timed detonator if they failed to strike a target, thus blowing
up anyhow and confounding the munitions experts.
     The drama played  out in seconds. Four more  torpedoes, all of them the
older  unguided models,  went down to the counter-missile strike; it  looked
like several more were hit by miniguns and then  the silver  blips converged
in on a single point two, one, got it!"
     Space erupted with  a  brilliant flash  as bright  as  the sun  and the
carrier  was  gone,  internal munitions  stores  and  fuel detonating  in  a
firecracker string of secondary explosions that ripped the ship apart.
     "Scratch one  flattop," Ian shouted, comm channel  discipline  breaking
down  as  nearly  everyone came on yelling and  cheering. He rolled his ship
over,  coming in  on  a  banking turn,  careful to  avoid  the  edge of  the
expanding cloud of debris, making sure his gun cameras  were running at high
gain. A lot  could  be learned when  the holo  tapes were  played  back  and
inspected þ did  the torpedo guidance  systems  function correctly,  exactly
where were the impact points, were any structural weaknesses revealed as the
enemy ship ruptured . . . even ship contents were important.
     Several years back one  of his old buddies, Paladin, had jumped a light
transport and wasted  it while raiding inside enemy  lines. An evaluation of
the explosion had shown a brief single frame  image  of several space  suits
blowing  out of  the  erupting  hull. It was  still  a wonder  how the  holo
evaluation  crowd had  enhanced,  magnified  and fiddled  with the shot  and
finally  figured  that  the suits  were  specifically designed  for  a  high
radiation high gravity planet. The Hot Pit, a forward base in the  Zarnobian
System fit the bill as the only military target in the sector  that  matched
up  with  the  suits.  A Marine  raider battalion was rushed in, set  up  an
ambush,  and  nailed a  landing raid  bagging a  regiment of  elite Kilrathi
Imperial shock troops.
     Hunter  swept  past  the edge  of the fireball,  and then  turned  back
towards  Munro,  ready to  offer  backup  support  for  the  Marine  landing
operation. The red blips of the few remaining Kilrathi fighters covering the
carrier were winking off the screen as  the  Rapier squadrons  finished them
off.
     Hunter clicked  back on to the main commlink  channel, knowing that his
exuberant  cry, "scratch one flattop," the fleet's  traditional announcement
that  a carrier had  been killed, had  already been  received  by the combat
information control officer and sent up to the other ships in the fleet.
     He found the  word  flattop to be rather interesting,  it came from old
English when carriers were  ships of the seas, but in no way could  it  ever
describe a  modem carrier with its bristling array of defenses  and  landing
bays covered over with heavy durasteel armor.
     Tradition, how the Navy loves tradition, he thought with a smile.
     "All attack squadrons, job well done."
     He stiffened  slightly. It was the  old  man himself,  Rear Admiral Sir
Geoffrey Tolwyn.
     "All strike craft return to base."
     Return to base? Hell, there was still a  major brawl going on down with
the Marines.
     "Repeat, please?" Hunter clicked in.
     "That means you, Hunter, just like everyone else. All attack  squadrons
return to base," Tolwyn snarled.
     "Yes, sir," he said. There was nothing to  be gained by arguing with an
admiral. But it was certainly strange that the old man would  actually allow
a  voice transmission on  his part. A Kilrathi listening post could  pick it
up,  figure out  who he was, and  perhaps even trace a fleet  movement  as a
result. Tolwyn knew better and it bothered him.
     "What the hell is up, Ian?"
     He looked over at Griffin and could only  shrug his shoulders. This was
definitely  not  standard  operation  procedure.  They  had dumped the  only
capital ship in  the sector, now was the time to go after the few  corvettes
and really smash up any ground resistance and save some grunt lives.
     "Say, Hunter."
     It was Kevin Tolwyn, Geoffrey's nephew.
     "Yeah go ahead, Lone Wolf."
     "I  just  heard  the  word  on Tarawa's commlink  to  our two squadrons
covering  the  ground  assault. They've been ordered to break off engagement
and withdraw out of the atmosphere."
     "Yeah, that's the  word. You got any inside stuff? What the hell is the
old man up to?"
     "Damned if I know, sir."
     "Follow orders, then,"  Hunter replied  and then  checked  through  his
channels to  make  sure that  the other squadrons were  following orders  as
well. In the heat of a successful battle like this, it was tough at times to
break an action off. There could only be one of two reasons for this, either
some major Kilrathi reinforcements had been detected and  Tolwyn was pulling
in his fighters to rearm, or  the other possibility. He  pushed that thought
aside as absurd.
     "Griffin, get us on Concordia navlock."
     "Already on, sir."
     "Let's go back and find out what the hell is going on."

     "Attention!"
     The squadron commanders, and section  officers called together for  the
staff meeting leaped out of their seats and came rigidly to attention.
     Rear Admiral Geoffrey Tolwyn, strode into the briefing room. He reached
the  podium, lowered his head  for a second and then raised it again to look
out  at the men and women in the room. He felt  a  tug  at his heart at  the
sight of them.
     "Never, for God sake never, let your people get inside your  heart, for
your job is to use them,  and if need  be  kill them," a  voice whispered to
him. It was his old mentor Banbridge's classic piece of advice.
     I guess that's what separates  me from  him,  Geoff thought. With Clara
and the boys gone this is my family. It was something he never let show,  no
matter what. He knew  that  behind his back he was "the  old man," which was
the gentlest of epithets; usually it was far worse and ofttimes  even angry.
They  never  really knew how he felt, especially when  he looked  into their
eyes just before  a  strike went out, knowing that he was  ordering some  of
them to their deaths. Well, at least that's finished for the moment.
     He clicked a comm  button which opened the public  address channel  for
the entire ship.
     "All  hands,  all  hands, this  is Admiral Tolwyn,"  his  deep baritone
voice,  clipped  with  the  refined touch of  an Oxford  education,  echoing
through the ship.
     "I have just received the following communication from C-in-C ConFleet,
it reads, óTo Tolwyn, commanding, Task Force  45.  Armistice  agreement  and
cease  fire has  been reached  with Kilrathi Empire, to  be  effective  upon
reception of this signal. All offensive operations  to cease immediately and
to  withdraw  to  navigation  point  detailed  below Repeat,  all  offensive
operations  to cease at once. Fire  only if  fired  upon.  Signed  Noragami,
commanding, Confederation Navy.' "
     He hesitated as if wanting to say something and then lowered his head
     "That is all," and clicked off the comm channel.
     He  looked  back up at his  officers  who  stood  incredulous.  In  the
corridors outside the conference room distant cheering could be heard.
     "I'm only going to say  this once," Tolwyn  said quietly. "I'm proud of
all of you for the job you've  done. In the seven years I've been in command
of Concordia  we've  taken  out eight carriers, a  score  of  capital ships,
countless fighters  and  bombers,  and  fought  in nine major fleet actions.
Concordia is not just  steel, guns and planes, in fact it is you, it is your
flesh and blood  and the spirits of all those who've  served on  her, living
and dead."
     He hesitated for a moment.
     "When it comes time for her to fight again,  I hope and pray that  I'll
be able to count on you all in our hour of need."
     "Dismissed."
     He started for the door, the room silent.
     "Damn,  we're going home!" somebody  shouted and  the room  erupted  in
cheers. Tolwyn stiffened his shoulders and walked out.
     He passed down the corridor, ignoring the cheers and the momentary lack
of discipline, retreated to his office,  closed  the door, and for the first
time  in months  poured a good stiff drink of  single malt Scotch.  Settling
back in his chair he started to  review the  first holo tapes  of the strike
mission.
     The timing was masterful, the strike  crews the finest professionals he
had  ever  served  with, nearly every Broadsword gaining lock  and launching
simultaneously. A successful strike  like that was even  more intricate than
the most finely crafted ballet, and in his eyes even more beautiful.
     Damn it.
     A knock on the door disturbed  him  and  he  set  his drink down on the
table behind his desk.
     "Come."
     The door slid open and  he could not help but allow a slight flicker of
a  smile  to  light  his  features  at the sight  of  Captain  Jason  "Bear"
Bondarevsky standing at attention in the corridor.
     "Come on in, Bear. What brings you over here anyhow."
     Jason came into the room and stood nervously in the middle of the room.
     "We'll wave regs and at  least let you have a sip," and he poured out a
thin splash of Scotch in a tumbler and passed it over.
     "Thank you, sir."
     "Have a seat."
     Jason  went  over  to the  proffered chair  by  the admiral's desk  and
settled in . He sniffed his glass and tasted the Scotch.
     "Not bad, sir."
     "The best, saved for special occasions."
     "Like this one?"
     "No, not really, I just felt a need for it."
     Jason looked down at the floor and Tolwyn could feel the tension.
     "Come on, son, out with it."
     "Sir,  something's  troubling  me,  I  thought I  better  come over and
discuss it with you privately."
     "You mean this little thing called an armistice."
     "In part," Jason said quietly.
     "Well, what is it then?"
     "Sir,  that communication from ConFleet  announcing the  armistice came
through close to fifty minutes before our strike hit the carrier."
     Tolwyn exhaled noisily and leaned back in his chair.
     "How the  hell  do you know  that, Bondarevsky?"  he  asked  quietly, a
threatening chill in his voice. "That message was directed solely to me."
     "Sir, Tarawa was the  back up carrier for  this operation. If something
should have  happened  to  Concordia  it would  have  been  my job to assume
control  of  the air  strikes. In  that situation,  I took it upon myself to
monitor all ConFleet channels and that included yours. Suppose you were hit,
sir? It  would have then been my  job  to know  the entire picture. I didn't
notice it immediately since it was  simply decoded and stored in my personal
data system.  But after  the action I was going through the signals  to dump
them off my system and I saw it."
     What Jason was confessing was  somewhat outside the regulations but  it
showed careful planning and  foresight  on his part. If something had indeed
happened to Concordia  the young officer  before him might very well have to
take full responsibility for everything that transpired.
     There was an ancient cautionary tale told in the service academies, the
incident dating back to a war once fought between England and America. In an
encounter between an American and British ship the commanding officer of the
American  vessel was mortally wounded, and  the junior officer took him down
below deck to the surgeon. In the short interval that followed all the other
officers  were hit  and, without his  even  being  aware of it,  the  junior
officer was now in command. By the time he returned to the deck his ship had
already been battered into submission  and forced to surrender  after barely
putting   up  a   fight.  The   junior   officer   was   held   responsible,
court-martialed, and found guilty of dereliction of duty,  a duty he was not
even aware had suddenly come to rest upon his shoulders. The lesson was part
of the tradition and backbone of the fleet þ there is no excuse for defeat
     Geoff looked at Jason  and realized as well that he had made  a crucial
mistake in not assuming that Jason might very well be listening in.
     "And what do you think?" he finally said quietly.
     "I  lost  two  crews  in  that  attack, two  pilots  and a  gunner. I'm
wondering how their families would feel if  they  knew their kids got killed
after a war was officially over."
     Tolwyn nodded and said nothing.
     "I don't  give  a good damn about the  furballs," Jason continued, "but
five hundred or more of them died when that carrier got cooked. I don't feel
too good about that either, sir."
     "Neither do I."
     "Then why did you do it, sir?"
     "I'd rather not say, Jason, but let me ask you a question."
     "Sure."
     "If this was just another  day in the  war,  how would  you  feel about
taking out that carrier."
     "I hate losing  people, but trading  a Rapier, a Sabre and two of  your
Broadswords for a light carrier is a damn fine piece of work  in my book.  I
wish it had always been that easy."
     Tolwyn nodded.
     "That's how I still feel about it, Jason."
     "But the war's over. We were hearing the rumors even before this attack
started out.  Something about a peace party coming into power in the Empire,
Prince Thrakhath falling into disgrace, and Foreign Minister Jamison pushing
for an armistice. Damn it, sir,  they're saying it's finally over and we can
go home."
     "And do you really believe it?"
     Jason hesitated.
     "Well, do you?"
     "I want to believe it, sir."
     "Damn it, man,  that's  exactly  it. You want to  believe  it. Everyone
wants  to believe it. But  there's a hell of a long  stretch between wishing
for  something  and  actually  seeing  it  come  true.  Anyone  who believes
something  simply  because it sounds good and  he wishes it to be true is  a
damned fool and that's why I did what I did."
     "Sir?"
     "This war is not over  by  a long shot," Tolwyn growled, "and I'll kiss
the hairy backside of  the first Kilrathi I meet  if they can ever  prove it
differently to me.
     "It's too pat, it's too damn straight  forward  and simple. I  remember
once hearing a great  line about another war, óthis is  such madness only an
idealist could  have started  it.' Well, this peace offer is the same thing,
only an idealist would be stupid enough  to believe it. By God, son, we were
finally getting an edge. We stumbled on the tactics of it all thanks to you,
realizing just how under-protected and  vulnerable their construction  sites
were. They haven't  gotten a single new  carrier on  line in the  last year.
They still outnumber  us,  but they're hurting, hurting  even worse with the
loss of their transports. We just might be turning the edge in this war, and
now the damn fool politicians go for this armistice offer."
     "So you  disobey orders on your own and decide to  keep the war going a
little longer."
     "The target was there and I took it, a carrier that if we allowed it to
get away might cost  us  fifty to a hundred pilots  the  next  time around,"
Tolwyn said quietly. "And I think that even you, Jason, who once risked your
career to try and save a ship load of Kilrathi civilians, even you down deep
agree with me."
     Jason drained the rest of the Scotch from his glass and closed his eyes
for a moment.
     "Yes, sir, I do."
     Tolwyn could  see the struggle  such an  answer had  created. From most
other officers he would have dismissed it  as brown nosing a superior but he
knew that from Jason it came from the heart.
     "Why?"
     "Like you  said," Jason replied. "It just doesn't  smell  right. I know
that even after Vukar Tag, and the Third Enigma Campaign they still have the
edge on us. For  the Kilrathi, war  is  part of the core of their soul. This
intel stuff about a  shift in the  power structure of  the  palace.  If it's
true, the new power behind the throne would have his throat ripped out if he
tried  for  a serious peace after all the  sacrifices they've endured. Now I
don't know much about Kilrathi psychology other than what I got in the naval
college  while waiting  for Tarawa to finish out  her  refitting, but I know
enough  that  the seeking of  peace other  than  after  a total  triumph  is
anathema to them.
     "Going for  peace is impossible to their  mindset. If they  were losing
there  would be only one  possible action, a  suicidal fight to  the end; if
they were winning, a fight to ultimate triumph. There is no inbetween. Their
society functions primarily through submission to strength, with the  one in
power  gaining  complete loyalty by refraining from killing  the one who has
submitted. But since we are not of the blood, we are therefore inferior, and
as such it is impossible to submit to us. There might be exceptions, such as
that warrior  who serves Hunter, but that was through direct orders from his
superior."
     "So if  the emperor or whomever is behind the  emperor orders it,  then
why not peace?"
     "Because  the power  at the  top derives its strength through conflict.
They  know that if their aggressive  instincts are not diverted  outwards it
will turn inwards  and the families  will eventually destroy each other. And
besides, it's one thing for a lone warrior to submit, but for the highest of
noble  blood  to  do  so,  to  submit  to  someone  not of  equal blood,  is
impossible."
     "Precisely," Geoff  said  quietly, inwardly pleased  as  if  a favorite
pupil or son had mastered an intricate question.
     He felt a  flash of  warmth for  Jason,  remembering the relief he felt
when  he had jumped into  the heart of the  Empire to  pull  Tarawa out  and
discovering  that  the ship  was  still  alive.  He  felt the warmth as well
because it  was Jason who  had taken his nephew out to war as a spoiled brat
and brought him back as a man.
     "This whole  thing is a set-up,  I'm convinced of  it; and  I tell  you
this,  Jason,  if our government falls for it, all our butts will be in  the
wringer."
     "I best get  back  to my ship,"  Jason said  quietly  and  he stood up,
putting his glass down on the side table.
     "Jason?"
     "Sir?"
     "What do you plan to do about my violation of orders?"
     "If I'm asked about it,  sir, I plan to  tell the truth." He hesitated.
"I  have to tell the  truth, that you launched an attack  after knowing that
the  initial cease fire  had been agreed to. To  do  anything  else would be
dishonorable."
     Tolwyn smiled.
     "You're a good officer, son. I've always  been proud  of  you; I know I
always will be."
     He extended his hand and Jason took it.
     "Let's hope I'm wrong about this armistice, but I know I'm not."


        CHAPTER TWO

     Jason Bondarevsky  winced from  the  glare of the  lights. Damn, how he
hated  the press. He had endured "the treatment"  before when he had brought
Tarawa  back to Earth  for  refitting after  the raid  to Kilrah. The  press
swarmed over the ship, poking cameras in  his face,  asking the same asinine
questions over and over again, probing far too deeply into parts of the raid
he simply wanted  to forget. When one  had finally hit him  with a  question
about  the  death  of  Svetlana,  asking how  he  felt  while  watching  his
girlfriend  die, he had to be restrained from punching the reporter's lights
out, a fleet PR officer, all smoothness and charm, separating the two.
     The  press madness  flared up  again  when Jason was presented with the
Medal of Honor and yet again when the absolutely ridiculous holo movie about
his   raid,  First  to  Kilrah,  came   out.  The  film  was  a  humiliating
embarrassment, especially since the plot had little to  do  with the  actual
raid,  spending most of its time focused on his doomed affair with Svetlana,
with half  a dozen steamy scenes padded  in. It still made him boil that the
holo spent  precious little time  on  the hundreds of others who had fought,
sacrificed, and died with him. He wanted to take the damn money the producer
had given him and jam it down the lying scum's throat after seeing the film,
which he had  been promised would be  shot as a straight forward documentary
honoring those who had served. The only satisfaction he got out of the whole
fiasco was in donating every dollar he earned from the film to a scholarship
fund set up  for children  of the  Marines and  naval personnel lost  in the
raid.
     And now he was stuck under the lights again, all because he had taken a
wrong turn while looking for a bathroom. The same lousy reporter who was far
too curious about Svetlana  had seen  him  first and rushed over, the others
moving like a herd of cattle  when  the word spread that  "the guy they made
the  movie about,"  was  present  as  a  staff  officer  for  the  armistice
conference.
     "So whatya think of  the war ending? It's Bondevsky, isn't  it?" one of
them shouted, aiming his holo recorder at Jason's face.
     "That's  Bondarevsky,"  Jason  said quietly,  remembering  how  his old
captain O'Brian had always mispronounced the name.
     "Yeah, sorry. So tell us what you think?"
     "First of all, negotiations  for an armistice do not mean  that the war
has ended. There's a big difference between an armistice  and formal  peace,
he tried to  explain patiently. "Other than that, no  comment," and he tried
to shoulder his way through the crush.
     "Still  hate the  Kilrathi,  is that it? Seems like  you fleet officers
don't want peace," a sweating beefy faced reporter shouted.
     Jason looked back at the fat-faced reporter.
     "I'm a captain in the fleet. I'm a professional, I try to do my job and
leave the hating to others."
     "Even though they killed your lover, that Marine, Susan wasn't it?"
     He hesitated,  wanting  to  turn and belt  the reporter in the face, or
better  yet strap him into  a  tail gunner's seat  and  take  him  out for a
mission to see what it was really like. Though he hated  to do so, he turned
away and continued down the corridor, shouldering his way through the crush.
     "Military's gonna be out of work, that's what's  got  them pissed off,"
he heard a reporter sneering.
     He  turned, knowing he  shouldn't, but  he simply  couldn't take it any
longer. He put a finger into the man's face.
     "What have you been doing the last couple of years?"
     The man looked at him defiantly.
     "Working for the holos."
     "Where?"
     "On Earth. United Broadcasting."
     "While you've been sitting on your fat butt and grinning at  the camera
I've watched hundreds  of thousands die. I've seen entire continents on fire
from a thousand warhead bombardment, I've watched carriers bursting silently
in space, a thousand men and  women spilling out, their blood boiling in the
vacuum. I've heard the screams of my comrades as their fighters burned,  and
they were trapped, unable to eject. I've lost more  friends than you'll ever
have,  you belly crawling excuse for  a worm. So don't you ever  dare say to
me, or anyone else, that we  want a war. We know what the hell the price  is
while all you know is how to stuff your face and bloat your pride."
     He turned and stalked off, hearing  more than one reporter  chuckle and
give a  word  of support,  but most of  them looked at him with  a  superior
disdain, as  if  he was an arrogant  ignorant child  who  had just thrown  a
tantrum.
     A  Fleet public relations officer slipped  in beside Jason, grabbed him
by the arm and hustled him along.
     "That wasn't very  smart, sir,"  she whispered in his ear, while at the
same  time  smiling  to the press,  and  quickly  moved him  back  down  the
corridor.
     "Go to hell. I'm here  as  an aide to Admiral Tolwyn, but I'm not going
to be insulted."
     "Then stick to your  job as  an aide, things are  bad enough as is with
the damned press without you making it worse," she hissed in his ear.
     Jason forced back an angry retort  while the  other  officer seemed  to
instantly shift gears, smiling, holding up  her hand to the press, repeating
that  they'd have a story  soon  enough and  finally hustled Jason through a
door.
     "Next time you need to find a bathroom, sir," the officer said quietly,
"for heavens sake, don't wander into the press area. Those bastards are like
sharks looking for blood."
     "Well, where the hell is the bathroom?"
     The officer shook her head.
     "No time. The  meetings about to start up again  and  it wouldn't  look
good for you, a mere captain, to come wandering in late."
     Jason sighed and the officer pointed him to an airlock door.
     He suddenly felt self conscious.
     "Do I look all right?"
     She smiled, reaching up to adjust the  Medal of Honor which hung from a
blue sash around his throat.
     "Fine,  sir,  and paused for an instant. "And by the way I'm behind you
one hundred per cent with what you said back there, sir."
     He  forced  a  smile  and went  through the  airlock  and back into the
conference room.
     For  a frontier orbital base the room  was  richly appointed, with dark
wood paneled walls, soft indirect lighting, and even a real oak table taking
up most of the center  of the room. The  chairs  around the conference table
were all high backed, heavily cushioned and covered in the dark navy blue of
the fleet. In front of each desk was a small ensign denoting the rank of the
military officers present, and most of them were three and four stars.
     The  short  recess was  nearly  over  and Jason  moved to  his position
sitting directly behind Admiral Tolwyn. He looked over at Hunter, who Tolwyn
had picked as his second aide for this meeting, and Ian winked.
     "Make it?"
     "No and I'm ready to burst," Jason groaned and Hunter smiled.
     Why Tolwyn had picked  the two of them  to serve as his  aides at  this
meeting was beyond Jason. He knew  the admiral's regular staff officers were
seething over  being cut out of this armistice meeting and  Jason could only
surmise  that in  part  it  was  an act  of friendship, to  let him in at an
historic moment,  but also  as a sort of window dressing  for Tolwyn to have
two of his most decorated and famous officers sitting directly behind him.
     He looked around  the  circular table and saw  that nearly everyone was
back from the short recess, aides  sitting erect behind  their superiors who
were talking softly to each  other, some  serious, others chuckling  over  a
shared  witticism. Most of the laughter came from  the civilian side  of the
room. A  door at  the  far  side  of the room  opened and everyone rose, the
military  personnel  coming  to  stiff attention  as  the  President of  the
Confederation, Harold Rodham, stepped into the room. Jason had first met him
at  the  Medal of  Honor presentation and was  surprised with  how  short he
really was, something the holo films never seemed to pick up on.
     "Be seated, please," Rodham said quietly.
     Jason could feel the electric tension rippling through the room.
     "I'm prepared to hear any last minute presentations, but I want it done
in a calm and logical fashion."
     Jason knew that it was futile. In any  other setting, without  a sea of
admiral, commandant and generals' stars around the table he might even  have
been tempted to speak up but Admiral Tolwyn relieved him of  that by  coming
to his feet.
     "Admiral Tolwyn," Rodham said nodding his head.
     Tolwyn  looked around  the room and then focused  his attention  on the
civilians sitting around Rodham.
     "You are  all well  aware that I am the most  junior officer sitting at
this table; perhaps for that reason it might be best for me, as a front line
officer, to review one more time our objections to this armistice which  you
seem so intent on formalizing."
     Jason could see Rodham bristle slightly.
     "What you are  agreeing to is  a freezing in place of all  forces until
such time as a peace commission can be established, agreeable to both sides,
who   will  then  negotiate  a  permanent  cease  fire  between  the  Terran
Confederation and the Kilrathi Empire.  At the same time you are agreeing to
a freezing of all construction  of military ships,  the refitting of vessels
currently in dry dock, and the enlistment of new personnel."
     Rodham gave a curt nod of reply.
     "I find it difficult at best to accept this."
     "You're  in  the military and  don't  you  forget  that  you  are under
civilian  control,  so you d better accept it," Rhonda Jamison,  the foreign
minister who had been the key negotiator for the armistice announced coldly.
Rodham extended his hand towards Jamison as if to calm her.
     "Go on, Admiral."
     "I am not a politician, I am a warrior,  following in the thousand year
tradition of my family who served in the  ancient navy,  army, and air force
of  Britain and  the space forces of the Confederation . My  family has seen
the best of those  moments, proud of the  memory of six Victoria  Crosses in
our  past.  Tolwyns  served  at  Waterloo,  on the Somme,  in the  Battle of
Britain, at Minsk and the  siege of London and shed  their blood  heavily in
this latest  war. We have  seen the best and we  have endured the worst, and
sir, I fear that this decision might  very well produce  the most disastrous
defeat in the history of the human race, and perhaps even spell its eventual
annihilation."
     Jamison sniffed and then shook her head angrily.
     "Admiral, we are not discussing genealogy or ancient history, a passion
I  find  many military men are fond of indulging in. We  are discussing real
politics, the here and now."
     "And so am  I,"  Tolwyn replied. "Eighteen  months ago I feared that at
best the  war would  simply drag on forever and more likely would eventually
lead to our defeat. And then, with  new tactical innovations and  the latest
improvements in technology we appear to have not only  reached a balance but
in fact, for the first  time in thirty years of fighting, appear  to have at
least gained an edge. We found two weak spots: their logistical support, and
their construction. We  found the ways to  hit at them,  to slip  past their
main battle fleet and we are hurting them. Our intelligence net has detected
that some ships are forced  to go into action with less than seventy percent
of  their  standard armaments.  We've  noticed  dozens  of small signs.  The
crucial, the absolutely crucial element in this is to  keep the  pressure on
them, not to let it up."
     Jason could see the clear division in the room, the military personnel,
especially  the  front  line  fleet commanders, nodding  in  agreement,  the
civilian personnel sitting quietly.
     "Don't  let the pressure off  now, I'm begging  you, reminding you that
we've lost millions upon millions of our finest to get to this point. Now is
when  we  should  be  tightening  the  screws,  hitting  them  all out  with
everything we have. Until  you stopped us ten days ago. Operation Red  Three
held the promise of inflicting serious losses on the Empire  þ it might have
permanently put them off balance.
     "Might have," Jamison  replied. "That is always  part of your  military
jargon, might have. There was  no guarantee. In earlier testimony today  you
heard  Admiral  Banbridge  state  that Kilrathi  front  line  carriers still
outnumbered ours  by nearly two  to  one.  Simulation studies  of Red  Three
demonstrated  that the  probability  for full success  was less  than twenty
percent, and there was a twenty-five percent chance of a reversal and a loss
of most  of  our escort carriers  with little if anything gained.  You might
take such  things lightly, Admiral, after all  you would be  secure in  your
heavy carrier, but I lost  a son  on  one of those suicide  missions you and
your people so blithely send out."
     Tolwyn glared at Jamison.
     Her loss was well known  and she  made a point of attacking  the  fleet
whenever possible as a result.  He could feel some sympathy for her,  but on
the other side of the coin  was the fact that there was hardly anyone in the
room who had not  lost  loved ones  in  this war and  to  accuse him of  not
feeling that pain was enraging.
     He focused his thoughts and pushed on.
     "With  support  it  would have worked. But you obviously don't  want to
give that support now."
     "The question is moot," Admiral  Banbridge interjected, looking over at
Tolwyn, extending his hand in a calming gesture. "Red Three was scrubbed ten
days ago and is impossible now to restart. Kilrathi  intelligence definitely
has the plans by now."
     "You just  don't get  the  whole  picture,  do you,  Admiral?"  Jamison
snapped. "Do you know just how much it  costs to build and  launch one fleet
carrier?
     "Seventy three  billion and some change," Jamison continued, not giving
Tolwyn a chance  to  interject. "A full  compliment of fighters  another ten
billion. In  the  last three years we've lost over one  and a half  trillion
dollars worth of carriers and fighters."
     "I  rather think of it  as some  fine young men and women that we lost,
such as your son," Tolwyn bristled.
     Jamison stared at Tolwyn with hate filled eyes.
     "You can think of it that way," Jamison replied, "but I and the rest of
the government also have  to look at the war from a financial light. It cost
nearly eight trillion a  year to run  the war and  we have a deficit of over
forty trillion. It'll take generations just to pay  that off.  Shortages are
wide spread,  in a  fair part of the Confederation  rationing  of everything
from fuel  to nylon to  eggs is  in place.  You say  we  shouldn't give  the
Kilrathi  a  breather?  I think rather  it  is  we who are  lucky to have  a
breather. The civilian population is  war weary, Tolwyn and after thirty-two
years  of fighting  I  think  we have  had enough and  for  that  matter the
Kilrathi  have had  enough  as well. I'm  sick to death of the  old military
logic of having to waste more blood to somehow uphold the honor of those who
are already  dead.  It's time to let the dead rest, Admiral. Let's finish it
now and get on with the peace."
     "I  find it difficult to accept that  a full accounting of the Kilrathi
armed forces has actually been reached," Tolwyn replied, falling back on the
second position of his argument. "I find it difficult to accept that  we are
actually allowing Kilrathi  personnel into Confederation  space as observers
and in general I find it  difficult  to accept that our  leaders would be so
foolish as to actually believe this entire affair."
     The  civilians in the room  bristled,  but Rodham held  up his hand and
nodded for Tolwyn to continue.
     "In the two years prior to your agreement to this armistice we  dealt a
series  of bitter reversals to the Kilrathi. It  must have  had an impact on
their morale.  As you  know, the young captain behind  me," and he paused to
nod back towards Jason, "took part in the destruction  of six carriers right
on the doorstep of the Imperial home planet.
     "Now is not  the  time to call an armistice;  now, if anything, is  the
time to jack the pressure up to the breaking point. I've  heard some of  you
say  that we  don't really understand the Kilrathi, that  down deep they are
just like us. I don't think so. Maybe  there'll come a day when we can  live
peacefully  with them, but unfortunately it is  not now.  We must deal  with
them  through strength.  All our psy-ops  studies  have  shown  that  if the
Kilrathi have contempt for anything it is for one who displays hesitation or
weakness. Even their word for such a person, tuka, is spoken with a sneering
contempt, a word so  insulting that a Kilrathi challenged with such  a smear
will fight to  the death. And I tell you now that we  are tuka in their eyes
if we fall for this subterfuge."
     There  was an  angry ripple in the  room and  even  Tolwyn's  superiors
stirred uncomfortably.
     "Only now are we really starting to learn of their political and social
system. Take that information and use it, consider the suggestion formulated
by the psy-ops division, plan K-7, which called for specific strikes against
the holdings  of  only  one or two families, making  them  share an  unequal
burden and perhaps cause a permanent rift triggering a civil war. Now is not
the time to stop, it's the time to finish this war on our terms."
     Jason could sense the frustration and heartbreak in Tolwyn's  voice and
looking  around  the room he  saw  the  division  in  feelings, some present
nodding their heads in agreement, while others  sat in silence, their  faces
like masks.
     We are making  the agreement on our  terms,"  Jamison retorted sharply,
her voice hard with anger.
     "Our observation teams have been granted full access to  Kilrathi  ship
yards  as  a  gesture  of  good  faith  to  see  that  no  further  military
construction takes place.  They're  pulling back  their  frontier bases  and
limiting patrols to light corvette-size ships within the demilitarized zone.
I've spent countless hours hashing out the details of this with Baron Jukaga
and I know that he is just  as fervent in  his desire to see this war end as
we are."
     "He is a liar."
     A bit  startled, all  in the room turned to  the Firekka representative
who throughout the two long days of meetings had remained silent.
     Rikik, the flock leader of her  world, stood  up  and  cocked her head,
looking  about the  room.  The Firekka were  something  of  a strange sight,
looking  like eight foot  parrots  one  only encountered  in  nightmares  or
hallucinations after a few too many drinks. Jason looked over at Hunter, who
had helped to save Rikik's life after she was taken prisoner by the Kilrathi
and his friend grinned.
     "Baron Jukaga is a liar,"  Rikik announced, looking about the room. "If
you humans are so  foolish as to  believe his words  then  you  are  doomed.
Remember my planet, the  only world we lived upon, was  attacked by them for
their  Sivar ritual. Millions  of my flock died, our cities were smashed. It
will be  a generation or more before we  recover. I cannot now believe  that
you will agree to this foolishness."
     "My good friend," Rodham  said quietly, smiling as if Rikik were an old
companion who might have spoken  out of turn. "Remember we too have suffered
in this  war.  It  has  lasted for over thirty  years. More  than a  hundred
colonial  worlds, and half  a  dozen  primary planets have been  devastated.
Billions have died, billions,"  he paused for  a moment, his features pained
and Jason  knew  it was not an act, for Rodham's  youngest daughter had been
killed during the First Enigma campaign.
     He cleared his throat and continued.
     "Thirty years of our blood, our wealth, and all our ingenuity  has been
poured into this conflict. Think of what we could have done with all that we
have spent  and lost if it had  only been applied to our continued  peaceful
expansion into the universe.
     "Admiral Tolwyn claims  that the  tide was  starting  to  turn. I don't
think so.  We have become like two wrestlers  of equal strength, locked in a
hold neither can use to bring his opponent down, and yet unable to break the
hold of his opponent. How much longer must this go on? Another thirty years,
another  generation dead and  still no end  in sight, until finally, one day
we'll  have bombed and burned and  stabbed  each other back  into the  stone
age?"
     "Baron Jukaga has offered a way out, to simply stop the killing. It  is
just that simple. We simply agree to stop. I know you in  the military don't
like  this; you're thinking of all  your comrades who have  died and now you
wonder for what? I'll tell you that they did die  for  something.  It wasn't
victory, since that is impossible, but they  did prevent defeat. To call for
the  war to continue now with the argument  that  the sacrifice had to  mean
something  is simply  to ask for the pouring of yet more blood on the graves
of those who do not want it."
     He hesitated for a moment.
     "I do not want my grandchildren to die the way my daughter has. I think
she would want them to live, to grow up without fear and live in peace."
     "They'll  die,  only  it'll  be  worse.  At  least your  daughter  died
fighting, your  grandchildren will die  having  their  throats  cut  for the
Sivar, the way my people died," Rikik cried, her voice shrill.
     "I  think that's out  of order and insensitive," an aide sitting behind
Rodham snapped angrily.
     "One can't worry about  being sensitive when the issue is the  survival
of a  nation or of an entire race," Rikik said in reply. "I'm sick  to death
of  the  word sensitivity when it is a mask for those  who  wish  to advance
their own cause at the  expense of  others. If the  Confederation is foolish
enough  to  take this  deal,  then  I will  take  the  Firekka  out  of  the
Confederation.
     "And who will protect you then?" Jamison replied sarcastically.
     "You did a damn poor job of protecting us when the Kilrathi hit us last
time,  your  fleet withdrawing óout  of  strategic  necessity,' I  think you
called it. It  couldn't be any  worse on  our own, and  I'll tell  you this,
there'll be more than one frontier colonial world  that will go with us. You
don't even  see  members  of the Landreich worlds or  the  Grovsner colonies
here, since they want no part of this peace."
     "That's  treason,"  Jamison  sputtered, "and  if  the  colonial  worlds
violate the armistice they will be disciplined.
     "No, its survival and mark my words, there'll come a day when you  will
choke on the papers  you plan to sign here this day. And as for disciplining
the colonial worlds, just try it," Rikik said with a cold laugh.
     She looked  around the room, more than  one  of  the military personnel
looking at  her  and nodding. Without  another word she drew back  from  the
table and stalked from the room, followed by her one aide.
     "Old K'Kai sure has taught her niece well," Hunter  whispered, waving a
slight greeting to his Firekka comrade as she followed her  niece out of the
room.
     There was a moment of uneasy silence.
     "I think that continued debate on this subject will only serve to cause
more animosity and outbreaks," Rodham finally said.  "I thank all of you for
your input over the last two days regarding this issue.
     "Here it comes, Ian whispered.
     "I plan  to sign the articles of the armistice within the hour and with
it establish a bilateral peace commission to work towards a permanent treaty
between the Terran Confederation and the Kilrathi Empire. You are invited to
join me if you wish. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen."
     Rodham stood up and walked out  of  the room, followed by the civilians
and staff.
     "Damn them to hell!"
     Jason looked over at Admiral Banbridge who flung his memo computer down
on the table and stormed out of the room through the opposite door.
     Tolwyn turned and looked back at Ian.
     "Well,  your  Firekka friends  sure played a damn  fine scene," he said
with a grin.
     "Think they'd really do it?" Jason asked, turning to Ian.
     Ian smiled.
     "Those birds  might  not look  like much when  you first meet them, but
I'll tell you this,  they make  the  finest  liquor  in this  corner  of the
universe and straight or drunk when they make a promise they keep it."
     "What about that threat of the  colonies not observing the  armistice?"
Jason asked.
     "Let's not talk  of  that now, Tolwyn  said quietly. "Shall we go watch
the show?"
     Though he  hated to admit it, Jason found that he  actually did want to
see  what was already being hailed as  the most historic moment in a hundred
years, as if all the victories and even the  defeats of the war  had already
become secondary.
     Tolwyn stood  up and started for the door that Rodham had gone through.
Admiral  Noragami, head of  the  Joint Chiefs of Staff came around  from the
other side of the table and approached Tolwyn.
     "Nice try, Geoff, but it was doomed from the start."
     Tolwyn nodded.
     "I heard that a little  something regarding you has  just come to light
as well," Nuragami said quietly.
     Tolwyn merely smiled and Nuragami extended his hand.
     "Take care  of yourself, Geoff," Nuragami said and turning he  went out
the  opposite door taken  by Banbridge.  Knowing how Tolwyn  felt  about the
whole affair,  Jason was more  than a little surprised  that his admiral was
not boycotting the signing as well.
     They  passed down a long corridor lined with Marine security guards and
stepped into an open cavernous hall which served  as the hangar bay for this
deep  space base,  the  vacuum of space  on the other side kept out  by  the
magnetic lock field
     How many times have I looked  out a bay like that,  he thought, sitting
inside  my  fighter, strapped in and waiting for the launch signal? The mere
thought  of it  set his heart racing  again.  Even  though  he  was glad the
fighting  had  stopped,  he  knew  he'd  miss  it,  the adrenaline  rush  of
launching,  the  pure  joy  of flying the  most powerful fighter  craft ever
built.  If this peace really did  hold,  all of that was finished. It was  a
strange feeling of relief and regret all at once.
     "Gonna miss it," Hunter said softly, standing by Jason's side.
     Hunter nodded that they should  follow Tolwyn, who was  slowly  weaving
his way through the crowd to stand with the small knot of military personnel
who had decided to witness the event
     A polished durasteel table  two meters  wide  was the only furniture in
the  middle of the hangar.  On  the table,  in  ornate gold embossed folders
rested  the armistice agreement with copies in Standard English and  Kilrah.
To one side more than  a hundred  representatives of the  Confederation were
present, easily  outnumbered  by  the hundreds  of members of the press. The
other side of the table and hangar was empty.
     A door on the far side of the hangar opened and a lone Kilrathi emerged
without fanfare, dressed in a simple uniform  of scarlet and gold. The press
turned their  cameras  on  him, several breaking with  protocol and shouting
questions.
     Baron Jukaga turned, looked  at them, and smiled, raising  his paw in a
friendly wave. The press went wild, moving in closer.
     "I have  a  little  formality to attend to  first," he  announced,  his
standard English nearly perfect  and  free of  the  tendency  of  putting  a
hissing s on soft ending words and hard k's on most others, "then we'll have
a chance to talk later," and his disarming informality caused several of the
press to laugh.
     Behind  him came yet more Kilrathi,  these in the  more  formal garb of
high officers and they  filed silently past  the cameras and lined up behind
Jukaga.  Jason  noticed  that  there  was  only  one  Kilrathi  photographer
recording  the  scene  as  compared  to  the swarm  of  reporters  from  the
Confederation side.
     "We have  reached  agreement then?" Jukaga asked standing  by the other
side of the table opposite Rodham.
     The president  smiled, nodded,  and pointed at the formal documents set
in the middle of the table.
     Without hesitating Jukaga took up a pen, signed the documents, and then
slid them  back to Rodham,  who signed it  as well. The two shook and Jukaga
turned and looked back at the press.
     "Friends, this armistice is  but a start.  Let us truly come to realize
that the  universe is big enough for both of  us  and that a permanent peace
can be arrived at. These proceedings are now ended."
     A cheer erupted and Tolwyn, shaking his head, looked back at Jason.
     "He certainly knows his  Earth  history with  that closing line.  Let's
hope it isn't prophetic as to who the ultimate winner is."
     Jason wanted to ask him to explain  the reference but decided to let it
pass.
     The crowd  started to break apart into smaller groups many heading  for
the refreshments arrayed along a side wall. Jason followed in Tolwyn's  wake
and noticed a Kilrathi officer coming up to them.
     "You are Tolwyn?' the Kilrathi asked.
     "Yes."
     "I am Tukarg. I was in command of the carrier Gi'karga in what you call
the Third Enigma  Campaign.  I wished  to  tell  you your counterstrike  was
masterful."
     Taken off guard Tolwyn said nothing.
     "I also understand  you commanded the  opening of  the recent action at
Munro."
     Tolwyn  still  remained  silent.  From  behind Tukarg  another Kilrathi
appeared and Jason was surprised to see that it was the Baron.
     He was not as  tall as most Kilrathi and could even be called slight by
their  standards, though  that was still powerful when compared to  a human.
His  coat was  a smooth  golden  red,  and from what little  Jason  knew  of
Kilrathi blood lines,  the coloring was a  mark  of the most noble breeding.
His  eyes were dark, almost  coal black, but  as  he approached a  flash  of
reflected light made them appear to  glow for an  instant with the  color of
fire.
     "A nice quote of MacArthur," Tolwyn said as  Jukaga approached. "Did it
have some hidden meaning?"
     Jukaga laughed softly.
     "Maybe a bad  choice on my part; I didn't want to imply that it was you
surrendering to us."
     "I understand you've read a lot of our literature.
     Jukaga smiled.
     "A hobby I've found fascinating. Your Chaucer's tales are much the same
as our own  Backrka's óTomes of Sivar,' about a group  of pilgrims traveling
to a holy shrine.
     Tolwyn smiled.
     "A nice choice of English works to study," Tolwyn said.
     "Ah yes, you were born near Canterbury."
     "However,  the pilgrimage to the  tomb  of Thomas Becket  had  slightly
different rituals than the blood feast of Sivar," Tolwyn replied.
     "Different people, different customs,  as they say, but nevertheless  I
do enjoy your literature."
     "You've spent time then studying me?" Tolwyn asked.
     "You were an adversary. I heard you led the first wave at Vukar Tag, of
course I would want to know more of you."
     "So you read Chaucer, is that it?"
     Jukaga laughed
     "Amongst others."
     "And who are some of the others?" Tolwyn asked quietly.
     Jukaga smiled.
     "Political, intellectual writers."
     "Such as Machiavelli, Sun Tzu," Tolwyn ventured, "or perhaps some pages
from the writings of Mao or  General Giap and  his writings on how to weaken
an opponent through means other than war; or perhaps  a little Clausewitz or
the Alpha Centurian theorist Vitivius the Younger."
     "Why those in particular? Is this a recommended reading list?"
     "No," Tolwyn said quietly, "just speculation."
     "Ah,  another  mistrustful  military  man," Jukaga  replied  his  voice
pitched  a little  louder so that the press who had  gathered at the edge of
the group could hear better.
     "Your assumption, not mine," Tolwyn replied softly.
     "Yet another prophet of doom that peace will never work," and he paused
for a second, noticing  that several reporters and  cameramen were jockeying
into position to catch the encounter.
     "Admiral, aren't  we  late for  our dinner  appointment?"  Jason  said,
coming up  behind Tolwyn, lying  like mad,  but unable to think of a  better
excuse to extract his commander.
     "Don't  forget, Geoffrey .  .  ."  and Jukaga  paused,  "May I call you
that?'
     "My friends do," Tolwyn replied coldly.
     "All right,  then  Admiral. Let me remind  you that  we  Kilrathi  have
suffered  just as  much  in this unfortunate war.  We have lost  millions as
well. I've heard you people talk about atrocities, but we have suffered them
too."
     He looked over at Jason and smiled again.
     "Though there  were some of your warriors who did fight with  honor and
tried  to  protect  our  innocent  women and  children, even  if  they  were
ófurballs as you so ineloquently put it."
     Jason felt uncomfortable  by his  attention but  looked  back  at  him,
saying nothing.
     Jukaga hesitated for a moment as if not wishing to say something.
     "Speaking of atrocities," Tukarg, standing behind Jukaga, interjected.
     "Let it drop, it's over," Jukaga replied
     Tukarg shook his head
     "I  had clan  blood on that ship," Tukarg said coldly and  he turned to
look at the press.
     We have  intelligence information that your Admiral  Tolwyn launched an
attack against  one of our ships  after he  had already received the  report
that  a  preliminary  armistice  agreement  had been  reached and  that  all
offensive action was to cease. Such an act is a war crime."
     "An  honest mistake,"  Jukaga said as if almost apologizing for Tukarg.
"And besides," he said with  a  forced laugh,  "now you've gone and revealed
that we had cracked their latest fleet code.
     "I'm  sorry this has  come  up,"  Jukaga  continued, "but perhaps there
should be an investigation to clear your name."
     "There's no need for an investigation," Tolwyn said quietly
     "Oh, then of course you are innocent."
     "No, quite the contrary," Tolwyn  replied, "I did it because it was  my
duty. Now if you'll excuse me."
     He nodded curtly and turned away.
     The press swarmed after him shouting  questions,  shouldering Jason and
Ian out of the way.
     "Nicely done," Jason said coldly, looking straight at Jukaga.
     For  a  brief instant  he felt as if he could almost sense the contempt
and then the smile returned.
     "I didn't want it to happen. I know how a warriors blood can get up. It
was unfortunate but such incidents  happen in war.  It was  best to leave it
forgotten now that it is over."
     "But of course," Jason said coldly.
     "You were the one who raided our home world, weren't you?"
     "First to  Kilrah,"  Jason  said quietly,  repeating what  was  now the
slogan of his ship.
     Again there seemed to be that flash.
     "Masterful; I studied it intently afterwards."
     "I just bet you did," Ian replied.
     "Perhaps  we'll talk again someday," Jukaga said stiffly and turning he
walked off, the smile returning as he waved to the cameras.
     "Come  on," Jason said angrily, looking over at  Hunter, "let's get out
of here, I need to find a bathroom."
     Jukaga turned back and watched Tolwyn  disappear from view,  surrounded
by a horde of  press shouting questions.  Tolwyn's actions had caught him by
surprise.  It  was  a  convenient way of  removing one of  the  finest fleet
admirals of the Confederation and to discredit the fleet as well. And yet it
struck him as  strange that Tolwyn would allow his passion to get the better
of  him. It  did not  fit  the pattern at  all of a man  he  had  studied so
intently. He found that he almost felt sorry for him. How easily he had been
destroyed,  not in  battle,  but by a ruse. The ever eager reporters  of the
Confederation, who  would now destroy a man that the best  fleet officers of
the Empire found to be unbeatable.
     Yes,  he could feel sorry for him even if he  was the enemy,  and  that
realization Jukaga found to be almost troubling.


        CHAPTER THREE

     "All engines stop."
     "All engines stop, sir. Hard dock to station secured"
     Docking a  ship the size  of an  escort carrier was always  a  bit of a
tricky  job, and with the maneuver finished Jason sat back  in his chair and
took a sip of coffee.
     He looked around at  his bridge crew who stood silent. The speeches had
already  been made earlier when  the rest of  the crew, except  for the  few
hands necessary  for  this  final run out from Earth  orbit, had transferred
off.
     There was simply nothing more to be said.
     "Secure reactor to cold shut down," he said softly.
     He paused for a moment.
     "I guess that's it."
     The crew was unable to reply.
     "Dock yard officer coming aboard,"  a petty officer announced and Jason
nodded.
     A  minute  later he heard  the footsteps  in the corridor and  tried to
force a smile. A  lone  officer came on  to  the bridge,  faced  Jason,  and
saluted.
     "Lieutenant Commander  Westerlin, commander fleet yard five, requesting
permission to come aboard, sir."
     He tried to be formal in reply but his voice still caught slightly.
     "Permission granted," and returned the salute.
     The officer pulled out a small piece of paper and unfolded it.
     "By  order  of  C-in-C  ConFleet,  to Captain  Jason  Bondarevsky,  CVE
Tarawa," the  officer began,  and Jason could see he  had  been through  the
ritual so many times that he barely needed to read the orders.
     "As of  the  this date, CVE 8 Confederation Fleet Ship Tarawa is hereby
officially stricken from active list  and placed in inactive reserve. Unless
otherwise  noted in  attached  form below, all  officers and crew are hereby
discharged from active fleet service upon completion of all proper discharge
procedures and placed on inactive reserves. Signed C-in-C ConFleet."
     The officer folded the paper and hesitated for a moment.
     "Sir,  its  a  bit  out of  form but I also  received  a note  from the
Commander of Third Fleet, Admiral Banbridge, which he asked me to read."
     Jason nodded, and the officer unfolded the piece of paper.
     "Never in the annals of the fleet has so  much  been accomplished by  a
ship such  as yours. I am proud  to  have  served with all  of you. The name
Tarawa will not be forgotten, God bless you all."
     The officer handed the paper to Jason, who smiled.
     "Sir, for what's it's worth I hate this job," the officer said quietly.
"A lot of  the other ships I don t  really  care about, but your ship, sir,"
and he hesitated. "Sir, I'm sorry I have to take over this old girl. She's a
proud ship."
     "So am I," Jason sighed "Just take good care of her."
     "We'll do our best."
     He turned and looked back at his crew.
     "Time you folks shipped off. I'll be along shortly."
     One by one they filed off the  bridge, Jason  standing  by the door and
shaking the hand of each until finally he was alone except for Westerlin.
     "I'll  leave you alone  if you  want,  sir," the officer said, as if he
were  a mortician  withdrawing from the  side of a grieving widower, and  he
silently stepped off the bridge.
     Jason walked around the bridge one last time.  It  had been his  bridge
for really only a  very short time. After  the raid  on  Kilrah the ship had
been laid up for a year.  It would in  fact have  been far cheaper to simply
scrap her and  build a new one from scratch, but public opinion was dead set
against it. During that  year he'd  been stuck  Earthside,  assigned to  the
fleet war college for advanced training, finishing up with  a brief stint at
the  Academy to run their latest holo combat simulator training program. But
the ship had sailed at last, only to serve  in one final brief action before
the armistice. Yet, it was his ship, it was in fact, since Kilrah, the  only
thing he really loved.
     He could  have stayed  longer, but then farewells should never be drawn
out. Leaving the bridge without a backward glance he went into his cabin and
hoisted the  duffel bag  off  his  bed.  The room looked  sterile now,  just
another standard  ship's  room,  painted  the  usual  light green,  with one
closet, a bed, a desk, and a  computer terminal and holo projection box. The
few pictures on his desk, his brother and  himself  taken before Joshua  had
gone off to the Marines, and died  on Khorsan, a faded two dimensional image
of his mother and father taken on the day they were married, and  a shot  of
Svetlana that  one of her  friends in  the Marines had sent along  after her
death þ they were in his duffel.
     He closed the door behind him and walked down the now dimmed corridors.
He passed the flight ready  room and  had a  flash memory of  his  first day
aboard, chewing out his new pilots, and  passed on into the hangar deck. The
Rapiers, Ferrets, and Sabres lined the deck and it felt strange to  hear the
silence.  No  engines  humming,  no  shouted   commands  blaring   over  the
loudspeakers, the hissing roar of the catapult or the thunderclap of engines
kicking in  afterburners  on  a hot  launch.  It  was a  silence that was as
complete and deeply disturbing as if he were walking through a tomb.
     He turned to face the bulkhead and the roll of honor  listing all those
who had died while  serving aboard the ship. Coming to attention he  saluted
the honor roll and then noticed that the commissioning  flag which should be
to the right of the honor roll was  missing. He felt a flicker of anger over
that, wondering who had taken  it  down, and turning started for the airlock
door which was secured to the shipyard docking station. Turning the  corner,
he saw a small line  of men and women waiting for him: Doomsday, Sparks (his
head of  fighter maintenance), Kevin  Tolwyn,  and last  of  all  Ian Hunter
looking  strange  indeed  dressed  in  civilian  mufti,  having been already
retired from the fleet the day before. The group came to attention, saluted,
and Kevin  stepped forward to hand  Jason a folded flag,  the  commissioning
pennant of Tarawa.
     "Thought you'd  want  this, sir," Kevin said  with a grin. "Someday you
might want to hang it back up again."
     "Thanks, Kevin."
     To one  side he saw a group of technicians,  the  mothballing crew, who
would  finish  the shut  down  of  the ship  for cold  storage.  Though  the
government had agreed to the armistice and  with it an immediate cut back of
fifty percent of  the active fleet, at least they were not  taking the ships
out  and  simply  cutting  them up as the Kilrathi had  first suggested; the
military had managed to stop that mad idea. It had become a major fly in the
ointment  in  the  four  weeks  since  the  armistice,  with  the   Kilrathi
threatening  to  pull  out of the  peace  talks  but  so  far  the  civilian
government had not  budged, though  Jamison  was  screaming for  even deeper
cutbacks. The inactive  fleet  was  therefore,  at  least  for  the  moment,
secured,  the  ships hooked  to  orbital  bases  for  power and maintenance.
Rodham, however, had agreed to the  ship's crews being paid off and assigned
to inactive  reserves as a  cost cutting  measure,  a fact  which meant that
hundreds  of thousands of highly trained  personnel were being  pulled  from
their ships  and demobilized as quickly as ships were pulled from  the front
and sent to the  main bases either above Earth, Sirius,  or out at Carnovean
Station.
     He  turned to face back  down the corridor  and  bowed  his head for  a
moment.
     "Good-bye,  my  friends," he whispered, remembering all  those who in a
way would be forever young, and forever bound to his ship. Fighting back the
tears  he turned  without  another  word and went through the  airlock,  his
friends following in silence.

     * * * * *

     "Rear Admiral Geoffrey Tolwyn, approach the court."
     Walking stiffly,  Geoff came up before the court martial  officers  and
saluted.
     Admiral  Banbridge,  as  the  presiding  officer,  stood up,  his hands
shaking as he unfolded a single sheet of paper.
     "Rear Admiral  Geoffrey  Tolwyn, it is the  decision of this court that
you have been found guilty  of  disobedience  of  fleet orders,  in that you
knowingly attacked a vessel of the Kilrathi Empire  after  being  made fully
aware  of General  Order  number  2312A,  ordering  the  suspension  of  all
hostilities.
     "It is the decision  of this court that you  hereby be stripped of your
rank and suffer a dishonorable discharge with the loss of all privileges and
honors due your rank."
     Banbridge  lowered his head and nodded. A  Marine  captain came forward
and took Tolwyn's  ceremonial  sword, which had rested on the  desk  of  the
court  martial officers since the opening of the trial. He placed the tip of
the sword on the ground and held it at an angle. Raising his foot he slammed
his heel down  on  the side of the blade, snapping it  in half. The crack of
the sword breaking echoed through the chamber and Geoff winced at the sound.
The Marine  tossed the hilt of the  sword on the  floor by Geoff's  feet and
then stepped up to Geoff.
     The Marine looked him straight in the eyes and Geoff could see that the
man hated what he was about to do.
     Grabbing hold  of the insignias of rank on Geoff's shoulders the Marine
tore  them off  with  a violent  jerking motion so  that  Geoff  swayed  and
struggled to keep at attention. The Marine again looked him in the eyes.
     "I'm sorry, sir," he whispered and Geoff nodded a reply.
     The Marine turned back to  face the  court and placed  the torn bits of
fabric and brass on the desk.
     Geoff looked squarely at Banbridge and snapped off a salute, trying not
to notice the  tears in his old mentor's  eyes.  Breaking  with tradition he
leaned over and  picked up the broken hilt and  blade  of his sword, turned,
and  marched out of the room. After he  left  a  side door opened and a lone
figure came through it, bending low and then standing up to his full height.
     "Ambassador Vak'ga," Banbridge said coldly, "the fleet wishes to extend
its  apologies  over  this incident and  as you  were informed this morning,
r