He raised his head and studied the ranks of officers and crewmen gathered on the flight deck, assembled in orderly rows, and wearing their dress uniforms to mark the solemn occasion. Pilots from the four combat squadrons were prominent in the front of the formation. Even Maniac Marshall looked solemn today as he mourned the loss of his best friend on board.
Commander Thomas White, Victory's chaplain, gave Blair an almost imperceptible nod.
"We're here to say good-bye to the men and women of the flight wing who gave their lives in battle yesterday," Blair began slowly. "Nine pilots were killed fighting the Kilrathi, dedicated warriors whose places will be as difficult to fill in our hearts as they will be to replace on our roster. I haven't served on this ship very long, and I didn't know any of them all that well, but I know they died heroes."
He paused for a long time before continuing, fighting back a wave of emotion. These nine officers would hardly be noticed in comparison to the population of the colony on Locanda IV, but their deaths were much more immediate and vivid to Blair. They died trying to carry out his orders in a failed mission, and as wing commander he carried the full burden of responsibility for their deaths — and for the colonists they were unable to protect — squarely on his own inadequate shoulders.
"I wish I knew the right words to say about each and every one of these lost comrades," he went on at last. "But the only accolade I can give them now is this: each of them died serving in the best traditions of the Service, and they will be sorely missed."
He stepped back from the podium and gave a signal. Behind him, the first of nine sealed coffins rolled forward. Only one of them actually held a body, since Captain Marina Ulyanova was the only pilot who managed to eject before her ship was destroyed during the fighting around the Kilrathi flagship. She died from her wounds a few hours later. The other coffins were empty except for plaques identifying the pilots they commemorated.
"Present . . . ARMS!" the Confed Marine commanding the seven-man honor guard barked. The first coffin stopped moving for a moment, ready for launch.
From his place in line, Hobbes looked up and spoke in slow, measured tones. "Lieutenant Helmut Jaeger," he said.
Up in Flight Control a technician activated the launch sequence. The coffin hurtled into space on fiery boosters, and the second one rolled in to replace it.
"Lieutenant Alexander Sanders," Hobbes went on. Beside him Maniac bowed his head, his lips moving silently. In prayer? Or just saying good-bye? Blair didn't know.
When the third coffin was in place Amazon Mbuto took over the roll call. "Captain Marina Ulyanova," she said. Then, "Lieutenant Gustav Svensson.
The grim muster went on until all nine coffins were ejected. When the task was completed, the honor guard raised their weapons and fired three low-power laser pulses through the force field at the end of the hangar deck, then stepped back, standing at attention. Chaplain White stepped forward. "We commit these men and women to the empty depths of interstellar space," he said slowly. "Watch over them, Lord, that they may find peace who died in the fires of war. In the name of Jesus . . . Amen."
"You wanted to see me, Colonel?"
Blair was hard-pressed to speak. Instead he nodded and gestured toward the chair near his desk. This was one interview he didn't want to conduct.
Lieutenant Robin Peters sat down. "I guess I know what this is about," she said, almost too softly to be heard. "You might have died out there, chasing after me."
He found his voice. "I might have."
"The captain ordered you . . ."
"No." Blair shook his head. "It was my call to make."
"Well . . . I suppose you had your reasons. In your shoes, I would have stayed put. Let the stupid bitch get what she deserved." She looked away. "Sorry, Colonel. I've never been very good at saying thanks."
"You're welcome," he told her dryly.
"I want you to understand, sir —"
"Understand? There's nothing to understand, Flint. You lost it out there. Maybe you had good reason. Lord knows what it's like to have your homeworld . . . infected, like that. All at once, and despite everything we could do." Blair paused. He didn't want to go on, but he knew he must. Even though he understood Flint's feelings, he couldn't simply ignore her actions. "We don't just decide to fly off on a suicide mission because we're hurting. You have to fly with your head, Flint, not with your heart."
"You've never done that, sir? Flown with your heart?"
He fixed her with a steady stare. "The day you see me do that, Lieutenant, you can shoot me out of space yourself." A part of him, though, was well aware that he might have done the same thing himself. No pilot was an automaton, able to ignore his feelings at will. "We already talked once about this, Flint. And I told you what would happen if you let your heart get in the way of your duty. You haven't left me a hell of a lot of choices."
"I know, sir," she said, dropping her gaze. "I guess I was kind of hoping you'd let me off easy, let me keep flying. But you can't."
"No, I can't," Blair said, voice level and cold. "We can't afford to let every pilot pursue some private little war. That's a sure way to let the Kilrathi win. Until further notice, Lieutenant, your flight status is suspended. You're grounded."
Now it was Blair who couldn't meet her eyes . Something left them both, and only the expression of hopelessness and death remained.
"Dismissed," he added, and turned back to his computer terminal. He waited until she left the office before sagging into his chair, feeling as though he had just taken on an entire Kilrathi squadron on his own.
"Sit down, Colonel. I'll only be a minute."
"Take your time, sir," Blair said, settling wearily into a chair while Eisen turned his attention back to a computer terminal.
Victory's captain looked even more tired than Blair felt, with the haggard expression of a man who had gone too many nights without enough sleep. Everyone had been working overtime in the five days since the battle off Locanda IV. Yesterday they had jumped from Locanda to the Blackmane System, leaving behind a world already in the grip of spreading panic and plague.
Eisen finished whatever he was working on and turned his chair to face Blair. "Well, Colonel. How's the work going with the flight wing?
"About what you'd expect, sir. The techs have most of the fighters up and running again. There was some battle damage we couldn't fully repair, but we're getting back on track. I hope we can get some replacement birds from Blackmane Base . . . and some pilots to fill the roster out, while we're at it."
Eisen frowned. "That won't be so easy, but I'll see what I can do."
"Sir?"
"Word just came in. With Locanda Four gone and the whole system quarantined, HQ's decided to consolidate our resources in this sector. That means Blackmane Base is being shut down. Everything's shifting to Vespus and Torgo. Anybody who can herd a boat will be needed to fly ships for the evacuation. I might be able to snag some fighters. They'll probably be glad to unload a few from their reserve stocks and save space for other outgoing cargo."