Blair felt a sinking sensation in his gut. "Evacuate the base? Isn't that a pretty extreme move? What about the colonists in this system?"
The captain shook his head, frowning. "Doesn't look good. Confed's just getting stretched too damn thin. If the Kilrathi are going to start using these bioweapons routinely, we can't mount an effective defense in every system. So the orders are to concentrate on defending the ones that are really vital. For the rest . . . I guess they get to rely on the good old-fashioned cross-your-fingers defense initiative."
"If the Confederation can't protect its own civilian population anymore, we're in worse shape than I thought," Blair said quietly. "Things can't go on like this."
Eisen nodded agreement. "According to our resident rumor mill, Rollins, they won't. There's supposed to be some kind of big plan circulating back at Torgo to end the war once and for all. Tolwyn and Taggart are both supposed to be involved somehow, and if you believe Rollins and his sources it will be something pretty damned spectacular."
"Great," Blair said without enthusiasm. "We're stretched to the limit, and HQ is going to unveil another one of their master plans."
"All we can do is hope it works," Eisen said. He studied Blair from dark narrowed eyes. "Have you had a medical evaluation lately, Colonel?"
"No, sir. Blair frowned, uncertain at the sudden change in the direction of the conversation. "Why?"
"You look like hell, for one thing."
"Right back at you, Captain. I don't think there's a man on this boat who looks too good now . . . except maybe Flash. I've never seen him looking anything but perfect."
"I'm serious, Blair. We've all been working hard, but I've had reports on you. You're pulling double shifts every day. You're not eating enough, and you're certainly not getting enough sleep. You haven't been, since before the fight at Locanda." Eisen hesitated. "And, frankly, I have to wonder if it hasn't been screwing up your judgment."
"My combat judgment, you mean," Blair amplified the thought for him.
The captain met his look. "You came on board with a hot reputation, Colonel. And I'd stack your wing up against any in the Fleet. But it wasn't enough to turn the cats back at Locanda Four. There are some people who claim you had just . . . come back from your medical leave a little too early, that your judgment was impaired and the mission suffered as a consequence."
"Captain, I never claimed the reputation everyone insists hanging on me, '' Blair said slowly. He was angry not just at Eisen's words, but at the fact that deep down he had been trying not to think the same things himself. "Fact is, we were just plain outmatched. There were too damn many of them, and yet we still came within a few minutes of nailing the bastards. If it hadn't been for those damned Strakha . . ." He took a breath. "My people did everything humanly possible, and I think I did as well. But if you want me to apply for a transfer, let someone better qualified take over —"
Eisen held up a hand "I wasn't suggesting any such thing, Colonel. All I'm saying is that you're human, too, just like the rest of us. And if you drive yourself too hard, something's going to give eventually. Find some balance, man . . . before you really do screw up a mission."
"It's easier said than done, sir," Blair said. "You should know it, if anyone does. You have to hold this old rustbucket together, come what may."
"Oh, I understand what you're going through, all right," the captain told him. "More than you might imagine. There've been a few ops I've been on where I didn't live up to the reputation I'd racked up, and then I'd work twice as hard trying to recapture what I thought I'd lost. Usually I only got half as much done in the process. Take my advice, Blair. Don't dwell on the past too much. Even if you've made mistakes, don't let them become more important than the here and now. And don't take out your frustrations on other people. Like Lieutenant Peters, for instance."
Blair looked at him. "Are you overriding me on Flint, sir? Putting her back on flight status?"
The captain shook his head. "I don't get involved in flight wing assignments unless I have to. You grounded her. You'll have to be the one to decide to reinstate her." He paused. "But I should tell you. She applied this morning for a transfer to Blackmane Base. She needs to fly again, one way or another. I turned her down. With the base shutting down, nobody needs the complications a transfer would involve. But something'll have to be done on that front sooner or later, Colonel. She's a pilot, and a damn good one . . . when her head is screwed on straight. Weren't you the one griping about wasting good pilots, back when you found Hobbes off the roster?"
"Hobbes never pulled a stunt like Flint's, sir," Blair shot back. "And he's from a race that raised the vendetta to an art form."
Eisen nodded reluctantly. "As long as you're aware, Colonel. I agree she needs to get her act together. But too much time on the sidelines could ruin her."
"I know, Captain. I know."
Blair left the ready room more uncertain than ever.
Vespus . . . he was back on Vespus again, and Angel was with him. They walked hand in hand along the top of a bluff overlooking the glittering sea, with a light breeze blowing off the water to stir her auburn hair.
Blair knew it was a dream, but the knowledge didn't change the intensity of the illusion. He was really with her, on Vespus, the week they'd taken leave together. It was a time when neither of them had imagined ever being apart again.
The view from the clifftop was beautifuclass="underline" the setting sun, one of the three great moons hanging low above the horizon, sea and sky red with the gathering twilight. But Blair turned away from the spectacular vista to look into Angel's eyes, to drink in her beauty. They kissed, and in the dream that kiss seemed to last for an eternity.
Now they were sitting side by side, lost in each other, oblivious to their surroundings. Another kiss, and a long, lingering embrace. Their hands explored each other's bodies eagerly as passion stirred.
"Is this forever, mon ami?" Angel asked, looking deep into his eyes, almost into his soul.
"Forever's not long enough," he told her. They came together . . .
The dream changed. Vespus again, where sea and shore came together, but stark, bleak, with storm clouds gathering on the horizon. Blair stood with General Taggart, this time, looking down at the broken spine of the hulk that been Concordia. He stirred, but he couldn't awaken, couldn't recapture the other dream . . .
Now he stood on the flight deck, near the podium, as a line of coffins rolled past. The general was with him again, reading out the names of the dead in deep, sonorous tones. "Colonel Jeannette Devereaux . . ."
Blair snapped awake, stifling a cry. His hands groped on his bedside table until they wrapped around the holocube she had sent him. For a moment he fumbled with it, and then her image appeared, lips moving soundlessly with the volume turned down.
He stared at the ghostly figure and tried to control his breathing. Blair was never a superstitious man, but the nightmare was like an omen, a vision. Angel was gone, and he was afraid that he would never get her back.
Another evening, another day of seemingly endless work. Blair was looking forward to a tall glass and a chance to unwind, and although he wasn't eager for company, the rec room was preferable to his quarters. He spent too many nights lately staring at those four walls, awakened from sleep by the recurring nightmare. At least Angel couldn't haunt him here.