"JUMP SEQUENCE ENGAGED, the computer announced blandly. ONE MINUTE TO JUMP."

"You gave us a scare, skipper," Rachel said. "Thought you were gonna pull a bolter and miss the landing."

"I should have," Blair said. "I should have stayed out there and nailed that damned furball."

"That's exactly what he wanted," Flint told him. "If you had let him draw you into a fight, you'd never have made it back before we jumped. I thought you were the one who never let it get to you? Isn't that what you said when you were chewing me out?"

He looked at her and slowly shook his head. "Maybe so. And maybe I was wrong when I said it." Blair looked away. "I guess I'll never know, now.

Blair brushed away their offered help as the elevator doors opened and he stepped into the cab. They followed, but he ignored them both, staring rigidly ahead at the keypad controls, unwilling to talk. Inside he felt drained, empty of everything except the knowledge that he had failed.

The knowledge that Angel remained unavenged.

An honor guard greeted Thrakhath as he disembarked from his fighter, but he ignored them all in his anger. He glared as Melek approached, bowing.

"Lord Prince, the Terran carrier has jumped. The captain of the Toor'vaas reports that the asteroid base has been breached, and Assault Marines are penetrating the station. There is no sign of further resistance anywhere."

Thrakhath gave him a dismissive gesture. "I expected none," he said, not bothering to hide the angry growl in his voice. "See to it there are no apes left alive once their base has been secured."

"But, Lord Prince, there will be many suitable slaves there." Melek looked shocked. "Surely you would not deny the Clans their right to take back captives —"

"No survivors, I said!" Thrakhath snapped.

Melek stepped back as if physically stricken. "As you wish, Lord Prince," he said, bowing again.

"We have been at war with these apes for more than a generation, Melek. But I still cannot understand them. How could any sentient creature, however lacking in honor, fail to respond to a chance for vengeance?" Thrakhath studied his retainer for a long moment. "You are sure that this Blair was truly lair-mate to the one we killed?"

"Intelligence reports claimed so, Lord Prince. Based on many interrogations of captured human pilots. The knowledge was evidently widely known in their warrior community."

Thrakhath took a moment to chain his anger and speak calmly, as befitted a Prince. "Clearly the animal humans are even less civilized than we thought. They do not even respect their lair-mates enough to fight for them." He paused. "But even if the Heart of the Tiger survives, the rest of the plan shall move forward. He cannot deflect the fate that pursues the Terrans now.

"Yes, Lord Prince."

"Order a carrier to follow the Terran ship, but wait until it has had time to get well clear of the jump point before sending it Sar'hrai would be a good choice. Give his new captain a chance to prove his worth. They are to mount a close surveillance on the enemy carrier, using stealth craft. When our agent makes his move, we must be ready." Thrakhath showed his fangs for a moment. "Our claws are at their throats, Melek. They will not escape the hunt."

Once again the flight deck was crowded with officers and crewmen gathered to bid farewell to one of their own. The neat ranks of pilots, technicians, and ship's crew . . . the honor guard with weapons held in a stiff rifle salute . . . the chaplain's service, and the empty coffin waiting by the launch tube — only the names changed, but never the trappings or the emotion.

Christopher Blair slowly stepped forward to the temporary podium. He never relished this duty, but today he hated everything about it.

"Major Jace Dillon was a reluctant warrior in the Confederation's battle against the Empire," Blair said slowly. He raised his eyes to study the front ranks, especially the pilots of Gold Squadron. For a fleeting moment he wondered what Ralgha was thinking. Did the Kilrathi renegade regret letting the young Terran pilot down in that last battle? Hobbes had certainly been withdrawn ever since. It was a feeling Blair understood entirely. "Nevertheless, Flash never turned back when the going got tough. He more than made up for his youth and inexperience by flying with vigor and courage, and he died carrying the fight to the enemy."

As he stepped back to allow the chaplain to advance and carry on with the funeral ceremony, Blair's eyes rested on the lone coffin. He wished he could have said a few words about Angel, but it would have been out of place here. Still, it wasn't Flash he was thinking about as the coffin accelerated out of the hangar deck, or as the honor guard fired their low-powered volleys. And when he bowed his head to offer up a prayer, it was Angel Devereaux who was foremost in his mind.

Blair sat alone at a table by the viewport, staring down into his empty glass as if it was a crystal ball that might give him a glimpse of another time and place. He was hardly aware of his surroundings, the other pilots and crewmen who talked, laughed and carried on with their lives, with only an occasional glance at the solitary, withdrawn figure of their wing commander.

A shadow fell across the table, and he looked into the knowing eyes of Rachel Coriolis. She put a bottle down on the table beside him. "You look like you could use a little more anesthetic," she said softly.

He poured a shot and drank, wincing a little at the bite of the cheap liquor in his mouth and throat. Rachel studied him for a moment, as if waiting for him to speak. Instead he refilled the glass and held it, watching the reflections dance in the amber liquid.

"Thrakhath really got to you, didn't he?" Rachel asked. "He knew all the right buttons to push."

Still Blair didn't answer. He took a longer, slower sip, then looked up at Rachel.

"I know how you feel, Colonel," she said, even softer this time. "I know what it's like, losing someone to this damned war." She hesitated a moment. "Do you want company? Or is the bottle enough?"

Those words got through his defenses at last. He looked from Rachel to the bottle, then back at her again. "Company? Yeah." He pushed the bottle away. "Yeah, I guess talking is better than drinking, but it isn't easy."

She settled into the chair across from him. "No, it isn't. But you can't run away from people, and you can't take refuge in getting drunk. Those things just postpone the inevitable."

"I knew, deep down, that she might not be coming back," he said slowly. "I was afraid she was dead. I had nightmares about it. But seeing it like that . . . and having that bastard gloating about it . . ."

"Well, kick in a bulkhead or something. Get it out somehow, okay? Don't wait until you're back in the cockpit again. If you try to take it out on the cats — look, I've been through that already, with somebody I cared about very much. I wouldn't want to go through it again."

He met her eyes. "Somebody you cared about, . . I hope you're not thinking. . . ."

Rachel looked away. "I know better than to put the moves on somebody who's just had a kick like the one you've had," she said. "Let's just say . . . Let's just say you're a man I could care about . . . if there was nothing else holding you. And I wouldn't want to see you throw your life away, no matter what."