"Damn it all to hell, if I get out of this I quit," Paladin snarled. "I'm heading back to Scotland and I'll be damned if I ever let my two feet get off the ground again.
"Ian, you'd better launch now. I'm glad that the Admiral managed to get a jump capable Ferret tucked into this ship's cargo bay. I thought he was a wee bit crazy trying that out. I'm ordering you to break off and try and make it through the jump point. I'm loading the information into your fighter's computers now. You've got to get that information back to Confed territory. Tarawa's either gone or bought it."
Ian looked over at Paladin. He knew Paladin was right. The swarm of enemy fighters was closing.
He wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.
Paladin looked up and forced a smile.
"Lift one for me at the Vacuum Breathers Club, laddie. Now get the hell out of here."
Ian turned and headed for the door.
"Good luck, Paladin."
Paladin shook his head and laughed.
Ambassador Vak'ga paused for a moment and looked back at the holo image on his desk. Again he felt the tug of pain and silently cursed himself for still feeling it. After all, the mourning should have ended on the first Sivar after the death of his sons. That was, after all, six years back. But no, the pain had never stopped. His seed was gone and when he died, his hrai would die with him.
He thought yet again of the agreement he had made with Prince Thrakhath on the eve before leaving for Earth. When Thrakhath had first suggested it to him his blood had burned with the thought of at last gaining vengeance. But now, it was so cold, there was no rage, no pain, just a detachment, a coldness, as if the goddess had already reached into his heart to still its beating.
The coded message to commit the act had arrived this morning, and soon the pain would stop. At least I will see my sons again, my sons taken from me by the humans. At least we will again embrace and go forth on the hunt with our ancestors.
He thought of the detonator and antimatter explosive buried in his chest cavity. Strange, there will be nothing more of me, nothing to be found to be buried. Fitting perhaps, since there will be no one to mourn me.
The Ambassador walked out of his office, not even bothering to close the door.
"How are you doing, Geoff? It's damn good to see you again."
Admiral Banbridge came around from behind his desk, hand extended. Former Rear Admiral Geoffrey Tolwyn grasped it, and to his surprise Banbridge grabbed hold of him in a friendly bear hug. Turning he looked at Kevin, who stood at attention, and smiled.
"I heard you're one of the fleet's best," Banbridge said approvingly.
Geoff smiled broadly at the compliment to his nephew. The long transit back to Landreich, and from there hidden aboard a high speed smuggler craft to Earth, had given him the opportunity, for the first time, to really find out just who his nephew truly was. In the back of his mind, in spite of Kevin's actions aboard Tarawa, he still perceived him as a child. That was now dispensed with, their relationship changing to the close bond that can form between an uncle or father, and his son who is now a man.
"Kevin, I hate to ask this, but would you mind waiting for us? My steward will show you a damn nice shower and cook up some food for you."
Kevin saluted and followed the steward into the rear of the small apartment Banbridge had down in the basement of Fleet headquarters.
"He reminds me of you at that age, Geoff," Banbridge said with a smile, as he led his old student into his office and closed the door.
"Glad you're back safe. Have a seat and fill me in."
Geoff settled down into the proffered chair, his old boss sitting down across from him.
"First of all, what the hell was this signal you had me send?"
As Geoff explained Banbridge's features lit up.
"Same trick we Americans once used against the Japanese at Midway with the fake report of a water distillery breaking down. The Japanese picked it up and reported to their fleet that retarget X was short of water, and by that little trick we knew their next target was Midway. Vance always did know his history."
"Have we had any word yet from out there? Since I left Landreich I've been out of touch."
Admiral Banbridge shook his head and Geoff silently cursed.
"What's been happening back here on Earth?"
Banbridge blew out noisily and reached around to his desk, pulling out two glasses and a small decanter of port wine, pouring out a drink for himself and Tolwyn.
"The damn fools are eating up the crap that Vak'ga and Jukaga keep feeding them. Hell, Rodham has even agreed to a cultural exchange, with a bunch of Kilrathi singer's and dancers coming to Earth next month. The damn brie and wine crowd at the capital are eating it up, begging for tickets to the performance. The Chief of Staff raised holy hell about it, pointing out that we'd have over a hundred Kilrathi running around the capital and damn near everyone of them an intelligence operative. He was hooted down by Jamison and told to, 'relax, the war is over.'"
"It's nuts, I tell you. Anyone who talks about preparedness, about keeping the fleet appropriations up, is denounced as a war monger."
"And just how is the fleet?" Tolwyn asked.
"Four fleet carriers are still on line.
"Just four?"
"It's worse. Two of them are drydocked at the moment but it's claimed they can be brought back up to operational status within thirty days.
"What about the others?"
"In drydock, reactors pulled, crews on extended leave."
"What the hell for?"
Banbridge sighed.
"Jamison convinced the President, and he convinced the Senate, that if the Kilrathi were going to make a move we'd have plenty of warning and she pointed out that all but six of the Kilrathi carriers had been put into inactive reserve as well. So as a cost cutting measure the carriers were pulled in for major refitting and overhaul. Getting them on line could take up to three months."
"God help us," Tolwyn whispered, draining his glass and then accepting a refill.
"Forty-eight percent of the rest of the ships of the fleet are still on line, the rest are skeleton crewed in reserve. Operationally we're losing our edge. Flight training time for the fighters has been cut by nearly half, even our main battle fleet ships still in active service, our heavy cruisers, are tied off with crews on leave. It'd take weeks, maybe a month to two months to even get one full Task Force Group organized and back on line.
"What's worse is the freeze on construction. We should have had a new fleet carrier and four more cruisers operational by now and a number of other ships started. We tried to get through a government decree requiring all shipyard works to stay on their jobs; that caused a hell of an uproar and some of our best technicians are quitting to look for work else where. Key war industries, which during hostilities were forbidden to strike, are now having walkouts with people wanting higher wages, made worse by what looks like an economic depression due to a freeze on new defense contracts.
"Morale is down in the gutter. The career people are sore as hell. They wanted this thing seen through to the finish. Most of our old line people know that this war won't really be over till we storm through the rubble of the imperial palace and raise the Confederation flag. Anything else is a prelude to defeat. The reservists and draftees on the other hand are all clamoring to get discharged. Hell, senators are getting flooded with letters from parents, wives, and even our own troops demanding demobilization, the old 'bring the boys and girls back home.'"