"All ships return to Sar'hrai," Arrak ordered reluctantly. "Withdraw and return to Sar'hrai immediately."
"Flight Commander, not all of our comrades have disengaged," a pilot argued, snarling anger. "If we withdraw they will fall to the fangs and claws of the apes . . ."
"Then stay and die with them!" Arrak snapped. "And your Clan will know the dishonor of owning a warrior who disobeys a direct order in the face of battle!"
He didn't wait for a reply. At full acceleration, the Dralthi turned away from the disastrous battle and drove through the empty dark, seeking the security of home.
Blair's fighter was last to return after the battle, and it took several minutes for the backed-up traffic handlers on the flight deck to get to him. By the time his Thunderbolt rolled to a stop in its repair bay, the deck was fully pressurized and the gravity was restored to Earth-normal. All three shifts of technicians were assembled to handle the returning fighters, and there was a lot of activity on the deck when Blair finally climbed out of his cockpit and started toward the entrance to Flight Control.
A welcoming committee met him, not just technicians and some of his pilots but crewmen from every department of the ship, surging into the expanse of the flight deck, cheering loudly. Eisen was at the head of the pack, with Lieutenant Rollins close behind him. Rachel Coriolis stood to one side with a grin on her face, flashing him a thumbs-up sign.
"Good job, Colonel, Eisen said. "A credit to the ship. You did the old girl proud today."
"Outstanding!" Rollins added. "You really outfoxed those kitties today!"
Blair returned their smiles, but inside he was feeling anything but triumphant. They had barely beaten off the Kilrathi attack; a few more enemy fighters would have turned the tide against the Terrans. Then there was the inevitable butcher's bilclass="underline" Mad Max Lewis was dead, along with five pilots from Red Squadron and one from Blue. Seven dead out of twenty-four pilots engaged . . . steep losses indeed. And some of the ones who made it back suffered serious damage in the fighting. They could easily have lost twice as many ships if the Kilrathi had only been a little luckier or a little better armed.
Everyone else saw it as a great victory, but for Blair it was just one more battle. One more chance for good men to die staving off defeat for a little while longer without accomplishing anything significant in the process. That had been the story of the war for as long as he could remember now: meaningless victories, defeats that drove the Confederation further and further down, and always death. Death was the only constant through it all.
He left the cheering throng behind and pushed through to the steps that led up to Flight Control. Maybe the others could celebrate, but all Blair felt like doing now was mourning the dead.
There was another victory party scheduled for the evening, and it promised to be even bigger and more boisterous than the earlier one. Blair knew he would have to put in an appearance, but he decided to drop by the rec room early to get a drink or two under his belt before things got too far out of hand.
When he arrived, he thought for a moment that he was already too late. He opened the door to a blast of raucous music just as he had at the previous celebration. But this time there were only a handful of people clustered around the bar.
An officer was sitting at the terminal controlling the sound system, one hand making tiny adjustments to the board while the other tapped to the rhythm of the music. The man slumped in his chair, his eyes closed, completely mesmerized by the sound. Blair recognized his aquiline profile. He was Lieutenant Mitchell Lopez, callsign Vaquero, the man he had assigned as wingman for Cobra in the middle of the battle.
He stood behind the man and waited for a long while, wincing a little at the loud music. When it was clear that Lopez wasn't planning to come up for air any time soon, he finally tapped the pilot on the shoulder.
"Hey, man, can't you have the decency to wait for the piece to end?" Vaquero said without opening his eyes.
"Lieutenant . . ." Blair said the word blandly, but Lopez recognized his voice at once. He was out of his chair and standing at attention in one quick movement. Blair had to fight to keep from smiling at the man's reaction.
"Uh, sorry, sir," Lopez said, stammering a little. "Didn't expect you here until the party, sir."
"At ease, Lieutenant," Blair said, smiling.
Vaquero relaxed. He caught the look Blair gave in the direction of the speakers and hastened to turn down the volume. "Just getting the system set for tonight, sir," he explained.
"Aren't there technical people who're supposed to do that?" Blair asked. He gestured to the seat Vaquero had vacated, and when the lieutenant was sitting, Blair took another chair nearby.
"The last guy who did this job had a tin ear and ten thumbs," Lopez said with a grin. "And his musical taste left a lot to be desired, too. So I just kind of took over."
"Musical taste," Blair repeated.
"Yes, sir. You know, music really does set the mood. Playing something with nothing but minor chords makes you want to run a suicide mission. But this is different." He waved a hand toward the board. "Rockero from the Celeste System. It's bright, it heats your blood, it makes you want to live a long life."
Blair gave him a sour look. "It makes me want to put on a flight helmet to filter out some of the noise," he said, smiling briefly to take the sting out of the comment. "I like something a little more soothing . . . like a bagpipe duet or a couple of cats in heat."
The Argentine pilot laughed. "I guess my musical taste isn't for everyone. But I've had no complaints so far . . . until you, that is."
"I'm not complaining, Lieutenant. Just pleading for a little moderation." Blair signaled a waiter. "Can I buy you something to drink?"
"Tequila," Vaquero said. The waiter nodded, taking Blair's order for a scotch as he left. "That was quite a fight today, wasn't it, Colonel?"
Blair nodded. "I'll say. We were damned lucky."
"Yes, sir. Uh . . . thanks again for the way you bailed me out. Thought I'd played my last tune for sure."
"Are you a pilot or a musician, Lopez?"
"Oh, I'm a pilot, sir. Pretty good one, too. Check my kills; you'll see." He looked down at the table. "But my family, they made guitars for many generations. I've got one that's almost two hundred years old. The sound just gets richer as it gets older, you know?"
Blair nodded, but didn't speak. There was something in the man s eyes that made him unwilling to break his mood.
"I'm the first one from my family to go into space," Lopez went on a moment later. He sounded wistful. "The first to be a fighter instead of a craftsman or a musician. But some day I'm going to open a cantina and bring in the best to play that guitar. We need a place for old fighter jockeys like you and me, Colonel, where we can get together and swap lies about our battles and tell each other how much different things are without the war . . ."
Blair looked away. It was a pleasant dream, but he wondered if Lopez would ever really get his wish. The war had existed longer than either of them had been alive, and it didn't look like humanity was likely to end it soon. He was afraid that the only way the war would end in his lifetime was in a Kilrathi victory. More likely it would claim them all, and drag on to claim another generation's hopes and dreams. "Hope there's enough of us to keep you in business, Vaquero," he said quietly.