He slowly rose. The day's work was done and his bunk was waiting for him.

All that really seemed to matter anymore was getting through one more day, performing his duties, and somehow staying sane in the face of a war that seemed more insane every day. It was a far cry from the dreams of glory that had once beckoned Christopher Blair into the life of a fighter pilot, but duty — simple and straightforward — was all that remained for him.

At first glance, there were no customers in the Rec Room when Blair entered, only the grizzled old petty officer who ran the bar. He was a member of the crew from the old Leningrad years ago; one of the handful of survivors who managed to escape the Kilrathi attack that destroyed her. The wounds he suffered in the escape were enough to have him invalided out of active duty, but Dmitri Rostov loved the Service too much to really retire. So he tended bar and swapped stories about the old days, never complaining about the arm and the eye sacrificed in the service of the Confederation.

Ironically, Leningrad was destroyed by the Imperial cruiser Ras Nik'hra, under the command of Ralgha nar Hhallas before his decision to defect. Blair had been pleasantly surprised to learn that Rostov didn't seem to hold a grudge against the Kilrathi, indeed he rather seemed to enjoy talking to the renegade when Hobbes came in to drink.

It was a pity some of the people who served with the Kilrathi pilot could not bury the hatchet the same way.

"Hey, Rosty, how's it going?" Blair gave him a friendly wave. "Don't tell me none of my drunks are hanging out here tonight."

Rostov shrugged and grunted as Blair approached the bar, gesturing toward the observation window on the far side of the compartment. One lonely figure stood framed against the star field, staring out at the void. It was Flint.

"A slow night tonight, Comrade Colonel," Rostov agreed. He ventured a heavy smile. "Perhaps you work them too hard, tire them out too much. Even when I get a customer, it is to look, not to drink."

"I'll take a scotch," Blair said. He waited while the one-armed bartender programmed the order then handed him the glass, using his thumbprint to charge the drink to his account. "Thanks, Bear."

He crossed to the window where Flint stood, but didn't speak. Part of him wanted to respect her privacy, but another part wanted to draw her out, discover something about the woman behind the barriers she put around herself. She was his wingman, and Blair needed to know more about her, even if she was reluctant to be open with others.

The lieutenant seemed totally absorbed in her own thoughts, and Blair doubted she even noticed him. But after a moment she glanced at him. "Sir," she said quietly. That one word carried a range of emotion, sadness, and loneliness mixed with a hint of stubborn pride, exposing a glimpse into Flint's soul.

"I didn't mean to disturb you, Lieutenant," Blair said. "I was just wondering what it was about the view that had you so . . . involved."

"Just . . . thinking, '' she said reluctantly.

"I flew here once," Blair went on. "A lot of places to hide in this system, with the moons and the asteroids. Your first time?"

Flint shook her head ruefully. "This is my home system sir," she told him. "My father commanded a Home Defense squadron after we settled here from Earth. Taught me everything he knew about flying."

"A family tradition, then," Blair commented.

She looked away. "He planned to pass it on to my brother David, but . . . the Kilrathi had their own plans."

"I'm sorry," Blair said, knowing the inadequacy of words. He should never have questioned her, dredging up the past this way.

"Everyone's lost someone, I guess," Flint said with a little shrug. "They don't give you medals for it. But coming back like this . . . it brings back a lot of memories, is all. A lot of stuff I haven't thought about since I went away to the Academy."

"You haven't been back since then?"

She shook her head. "Not much point. My mother took Davie's death hard. She just . . . gave up. He died when I was fifteen. My Dad was killed in the cockpit fighting the cats when they raided here the year after I left. He scored twenty-one kills over the years after Davie was killed. He said each one of them was dedicated to Davie's memory, so he'd have a proper escort of cats to join him in the afterlife. They said . . . they said he died trying to nail number twenty-two, which would have matched Davie's age, but Dad didn't make it." Her voice was flat, level, but Blair could see a hint of tears in her eyes. "I've made eighteen kills since I left the Academy. Four more for Davie, and then I start racking them up for Dad. Maybe I won't score fifty-seven for him, but I'm damned well going to try."

Blair didn't say anything for a long time. He wasn't sure what bothered him most, the woman s preoccupation with vengeance or the cold, matter-of-fact way she talked about it. It was almost as if she was so wrapped up in her quest that she had lost touch with the emotions that set her on the path in the first place.

Finally he changed the subject, gesturing toward the viewport. "Which one was home?"

She pointed to a distant gleam of blue-green, barely showing a disk. "Locanda Four. The main colony world." She paused. "It's a pretty world . . . or it was. Dark purple nights, with bright moons that chased each other across the sky. The insects would sing . . . different serenades, depending on the closeness of the moons. Davie and I would sit up late together, just listening . . ."

"I could try to get you some planet leave, while we're here," Blair offered. "You must have some family left? Or friends, at least?"

"Just my uncle's family," she said. "I haven't been in touch with any of them for years." Flint hesitated, still staring at the distant point of light that had been her home. "No, thanks, Colonel. I appreciate the offer, I really do, but I've got too much I need to do here with the rest of the wing. I can't be on the sidelines if the cats are really planning a fight. Not here of all places. I need to be a part of whatever comes down."

Blair studied her with a penetratingly probing gaze. "Look, Flint," he said at last, "I know something about the way you feel. Lord knows I've lost many people who were important to me over the years. But when we climb into our cockpits and get out there in space, I'm not sure I can afford to be with both you and your brother on my wing. I need you fighting for yourself, for the Wing, for the ship . . . not for a memory, not for vengeance. It cost your father his life. I don't want you to have to pay the same price."

She looked at him, the tears in her eyes catching the light. "I just can't give up now, Colonel," she told him. "It's too much a part of who I am and what I've become. You've seen me fly; seen me fight. You know I can get the job done. Don't take it away from me. Please . . ."

Blair took a long time to answer, sipping his drink to give himself more time to think. "All right," he said at last. "I guess you're not carrying around any more baggage than the rest of us. Maniac's still trying to prove he's the best, Hobbes is trying to live down being from the wrong damned species, and Cobra just . . . hates cats. You're in pretty good company, all things considered."

"What about you, Colonel? What baggage is Maverick Blair carrying around after a whole lifetime spent fighting in the war?" Flint's eyes held a glint of interest that made her whole face seem more alive.

He thought about Concordia . . . and about Angel, still out there somewhere on her secret mission. "Classified information, Lieutenant," he said, trying to muster a smile. "One of the privileges of being a colonel is never having to let the troops know you're human."