When it was over, Kthaara'zarthan received reports of the losses the fighters had taken. They weren't inconsiderable. But . . .
"Shall we send the carriers back to Anderson Three for more replacements, Sir?" Murakuma asked.
"I think not. Given the well established impact on the Bahgs' mental cohesion of this-" he waved a hand in the general direction of the two dead planets "-I believe that even understrength strikegroups can deal with the remaining planets."
"What about the orbital works here, Sir? They're untouched."
"They have ceased to matter. Leave them to die-we will not sully our claws. Set course for Planet II."
Irma Sanchez had managed to get away from the throng that had greeted her on her return from the dead, and actually caught a little rest as Hephaestus returned to Anderson Three. But then two unbelievably young pilots had arrived in VF-94's ready room, and she'd spent the return trip to Home Hive Five in a frenzy of improvisation that left her wondering if being lost in space had really been so bad after all.
Then had come the attack on the twin planets-shrieking past the orbital fortresses at a velocity that made them look like slingshot pebbles whizzing past, with the target planet zooming up with startling rapidity before she'd released her FRAMs. It had all been too quick.
But then had come Planet II. They'd been able to take that a little slower, because the Bugs in those fortresses had been in the grip of whatever it was that gripped them when billions of their fellows went abruptly into the flames.
And now it was time for Planet I.
The last one, she thought as she saw it growing in the fighter's little viewscreen. The reality hadn't hit her until now. Forty billion Bugs, the spooks say. The last forty billion in the universe. Shouldn't I be feeling something? Is it possible that this has become routine?
But, she realized, so suddenly that it was like some abrupt revelation, she'd emptied her cup of rage long ago. Once, approaching this planet, she would have seen Armand's face, and the sickening fury would have come roaring up like boiling acid. But now she remembered the words of Raymond Prescott, and the face that rose up in her mind's eye was that of a blue-eyed eleven-year-old girl.
No, she corrected herself, glancing at the chrono, with its date in Terran Standard. Not eleven anymore.
Then they were in, past the sluggishly responding fortresses.
Happy birthday, Lydochka, she thought as she sent her FRAMs streaking down. The now familiar fiery wall of antimatter fireballs walked across the planet, cauterizing the universe, burning away something that could not be allowed to blight any more young lives.
Afterwards, there was a long silence.
EPILOGUE
"So," Robalii Rikka said, "I suppose my carefully rehearsed farewell speech must go to waste. I'll be seeing you again before very long, in the Star Union."
"Yes, Warmaster," Aileen Sommers replied. "The Legislative Assembly's confirmation came through today. There's still some paperwork left to unravel in the Foreign Ministry, of course."
"After which you will resume your position as ambassador from the Terran Federation to the Star Union-this time with proper accreditation," Rikka couldn't resist adding. "I must say it was a remarkably intelligent decision-" the Crucian stopped just short of saying on the standards of your human politicians "-given the unique status you hold among us. You are the logical choice. Oh, by the way, congratulations on your promotion."
"Thank you, Warmaster," she said with a grin . . . after a pause of her own just long enough to confirm that she knew perfectly well what Rikka had left unsaid, even though her agreement must remain equally silent. "They did it just minutes before retiring me. The whole business was a matter of hustling me from one office to another on the same floor. I think their idea was that a retired vice admiral would seem more impressive than a retired rear admiral."
"So you'd think the same logic would apply to her military attaché, wouldn't you?" Feridoun Hafezi asked rhetorically. "They ought to have made me at least a rear admiral for the job. But no, the best they could do was commodore!"
"You're still on active duty," Sommers reminded him. "So in your case they have to play by the rules."
"Still . . ." Hafezi muttered darkly into his beard, and Rikka gave Sommers his race's smile.
"The esteem in which you're held in the Star Union has nothing to do with courtesy ranks. But if your rulers' belief that it does has caused them to give you a long-overdue promotion, then far be it from me to disillusion them."
"So the right thing gets done for the wrong reasons," Hafezi said, this time with a trace of genuine bitterness.
"In this universe," the Crucian pointed out gently, "the right thing gets done so seldom that it ill behooves us to be overly particular about the reasons when it does." He gave the slight flexing of his folded wings that presaged a return to formality. "I can delay no longer. Farewell for now."
Rikka departed, leaving the two humans alone in the lounge just inside the outer skin of Nova Terra's space station. They stood at the transparency and watched the light of Alpha Centauri A glint off the flanks of the Crucian ships. First Grand Wing, also known as Task Force 86, was preparing to return to the Star Union, where work still remained to be done.
After a moment, Hafezi spoke a little too casually.
"Well . . . have you thought about it?"
"Yes," Sommers said softly.
"And-?"
Sommers turned to face him. She looked the very picture of desire at war with a lifetime's stubborn determination to face the practicalities.
"There are a lot of problems, you know," she said.
"Such as?"
"We don't really have enough time before we leave for the Star Union."
"Yes we do. And even if we didn't, we could do it there. In fact, maybe you could do it yourself. Can't an ambassador perform marriages?"
"Be serious! There's also . . . well, we haven't had a chance to talk to your family. What are they going to think?"
"I believe they'll approve. And even if they don't . . . well, I hope they do, but if they don't it changes nothing."
"And what about you?"
"Me? Haven't I made clear enough that I couldn't care less about-"
She stopped him with the lightest touch of her fingertips to his mouth. She finally smiled.
"Are you sure you've thought everything through? For instance, I outrank you. You'll have to do as you're told."
"Me and a few billion other men," Hafezi remarked, and gathered her into an embrace.
Vanessa Murakuma gave Fujiko a final hug.
"So long for now. I know you're in a hurry, with that Marine captain of yours-Kincaid, is that his name?-waiting."
"He just asked to show me a few sights here, Mother," her daughter explained painstakingly. "He was here on Nova Terra once, you see, and . . . and he's most definitely not 'my' Marine captain! In fact, he's conceited and self-absorbed and insufferable and . . . and what was that?"
"Only something from Shakespeare, dear. Get going-you'll be late."
She watched until Fujiko had vanished down the corridor, then hurried to the nearest drop shaft. She was nearly late herself.
Ellen MacGregor's office commanded a magnificent view of the Cerulean Ocean from its lofty altitude. The Sky Marshal didn't seem to be enjoying it. She directed Murakuma to a chair with a grunt, then held up a sheet of hardcopy and spoke without any preliminary niceties.