Heart Of The Tiger (2 page)

An outdated ship and a crew that apparently didn't give a damn any more. If Concordia hadn't been able to stand against the Kilrathi, how could Victory be expected to even put up a fight?

Blair had to ask himself, as the shuttle slowly maneuvered in toward the carriers flight deck, what this assignment really meant. Did Tolwyn expect him to knock the ship and crew into some kind of battle-ready shape? Or did the High Command consider that Blair and Victory deserved each other, two old warhorses who had outlived their usefulness put out to pasture?

The boarding ramp made a grinding noise as it swung down to touch the deck. Blair winced at the sound. His first view of the interior of his new home made him wince again. It was even shabbier than he had imagined. There was a distinct smell in the air; an odor of sweat, lubricants, burned insulation, and other unidentified unpleasant scents. Apparently, the air circulation systems were not capable of keeping the atmosphere fresh and clean.

He slung his flight bag over his shoulder and started slowly down the ramp. Crewmen were drawn up in ranks in the huge open hangar area, most of them dressed in utility fatigues which had seen better days, Blair glanced at the end of the hangar where open space was visible beyond the faint glow of the force fields which kept the deck pressurized. He found himself hoping that they, at least, were maintained better than the rest of the ship. He pushed the thought away, trying to keep his feelings hidden from the crew.

A knot of senior officers awaited him at the foot of the ramp, dominated by a broad-shouldered black man with graying hair and the four stripes of a Line Captain prominently displayed on his sleeve. He didn't give Blair time to study his surroundings further, but stepped forward to meet him.

"Colonel Blair?" he said, smiling. "I'm William Eisen. Welcome aboard the Victory."

Blair snapped off a quick salute which Eisen returned gravely. Theoretically, they were of equal rank — a Colonel in the Confederation Space Force and a Captain of the Line — but aboard any ship in space, the commanding officer, regardless of rank, was always the senior officer (even if he was a mere lieutenant entertaining a visitor of higher rank).

The captain ended the salute by extending his hand. He had a firm grip that matched his proud bearing and an aura of quiet authority. "Allow me to present some of my senior officers, Colonel. This is Commander Ralgha nar Hhallas —"

"Hobbes!" Blair exclaimed, as Eisen moved aside to give Blair a clear view of the officers. Ralgha nar Hhallas would have stood out in any human crowd, for he was a Kilrathi nobleman. Tall and bulky, he was humanoid in form but distinctly alien in feature, with a head too large and flat for a man. His body and face were covered with thick fur, and his eyes, ears, and fangs gave him a distinctly cat-like appearance. The Kilrathi were not cats, of course, but they had sprung from carnivore hunter stock with many feline traits, and their ways of thinking were even more alien to humankind than those of Earthly cats.

Blair could hardly believe that more than ten years had passed since Lord Ralgha, a ship captain of the Imperial Kilrathi fleet, defected to the Terran Confederation. TCS Tiger's Claw was in the squadron which helped him carry out his defection, and Blair (a junior lieutenant) had worn polish still fresh on his flight wings. Ralgha moved from supplying information to Terran Intelligence to serving in the Space Force, and he had remained in Blair's squadron for a time before new assignments took them down separate paths.

Many officers were reluctant to fly with a Kilrathi wingman, but Blair always found Ralgha cheerful, competent, and capable: a fine pilot and an excellent comrade. He was the one to bestow the nickname "Hobbes" on the renegade Kilrathi after encountering the name in an ancient piece of Terran folk art in a fellow pilots collection.

"You know the Commander, then?" Eisen asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Not with that rank," Blair said "Hobbes here is one of the best pilots who ever flew with the Flight Corps. What are you doing wearing that Line outfit? Getting too old to squeeze into a cockpit?"

Ralgha bowed slightly. "It warms my heart to see you again Colonel," he said, his voice low and throaty with the odd intonation and slight accent Blair remembered well. "But I fear now is not the time to swap life stories."

Blair grinned. "Still the stickler, eh, Hobbes? Well, we'll talk later."

The Kilrathi bowed again.

Eisen introduced the department heads and senior staff officers. They were no more than a blur of unfamiliar names and faces to Blair . . . but still he felt heartened to know that at least one old friend would be with him on this cruise.

The captain concluded by introducing a fresh-faced young man wearing a lieutenant's insignia. "And this is Lieutenant Ted Rollins, Communications Officer."

"And general dogsbody," Rollins grinned. "Sir."

"I've assigned Mr. Rollins to extra duty, as your aide," Eisen continued, ignoring the lieutenants interjection. "At least until you get settled in and make staff arrangements of your own. I hope that will be agreeable with you, Colonel."

Blair nodded. "That will be fine, sir. Thank you."

"The lieutenant will show you to your quarters and help you get the lay of the land. I would appreciate you joining me in my Ready Room at . . . shall we say sixteen hundred hours, ships time? That will give you a few hours to get acclimated."

"Sixteen hundred hours," Blair repeated. He glanced around the hangar again. Would any length of time be enough to get acclimated to this old rustbucket of a ship? "I'll be there, sir."

"Very good. Dismissed." As Blair turned away, Eisen spoke again. "We're glad to have you aboard, Colonel."

Blair wished he could have returned the sentiment, but he knew it would come out sounding bitter and ironic.

"Come in, Colonel. Come in. Have a seat."

Blair glanced around the room, moving from the door to the chair Eisen gestured toward in front of the captain's desk. He noted that the tasteful if spartan decor and the well-kept atmosphere produced a startling contrast to most of what he had observed aboard the Victory.

"So, Colonel, I trust Mr. Rollins has been seeing to your needs." The Captain stood, crossing to a counter at one end of the room. "Will you have something to drink? We picked up a load of New Samarkand vodka a few months back that has a kick like a Gratha's blasters."

"Thank you, sir." Actually, Blair didn't particularly want a drink, but it was never wise to turn down a commanding officer's hospitality, especially not on the first day aboard.

Eisen returned with two glasses and handed one to Blair. "A toast, then, Colonel. To Victory!"

They touched their glasses and Blair took a cautious sip. "Is that the ship or the concept, sir?" he asked.

"Both," Eisen said, sitting down. Thoughtfully Eisen added, "We're going to win this war, Colonel, and I think this old ship will play a large part in it before the shooting's over."

Blair tried to keep his expression neutral. "I hope so, sir."

The captain regarded him with a penetrating look. "I'll admit, Blair, she's no Concordia . . ."

"Neither is the Concordia . . . any more." This time Blair didn't bother to hide his feelings.

"It was a terrible loss," Eisen said. "It's never easy to lose so much. You have my sympathies." He paused, looking into his glass. "Nevertheless, you're here now, and I expect nothing less than complete dedication and loyalty from every officer and rating on board this ship."

"You'll have mine, sir," Blair said quietly. "But if I may speak freely . . . ?"

"Always, Colonel."

"From what I've seen so far, you need a little less dedication and a lot more maintenance work from this crew."

Eisen leaned forward. "I'll admit she doesn't look like much, Blair," he said solemnly. "We're shorthanded in every department, and age and too damn many battles have taken their toll . The old girl was slated for retirement over a decade ago, but they put her back on the line instead. Maybe she doesn't look as good as the big ships you've served on in the past, but that doesn't mean she's not able to do her job. And it's the crew, the men and women who work overtime day after day just to keep her up and running, who are responsible for keeping us on the firing line. That dedication makes all the difference, Colonel, and even if it doesn't extend to slapping on a fresh coat of paint or making sure the food dispensers in the Rec Room have a full stock of chicken soup every day, it still means something to me."

Blair didn't answer right away. "I . . . take your point, sir," he said at last. "I'm sorry if I seem to be running down your command . . ."

Eisen smiled easily. "I'm used to it by now, Colonel, believe me. She doesn't look like much, I'll grant you that. But I was communications officer on Victory's maiden voyage, my first assignment out of the Academy. I've been with her many times throughout my career, and I guess I'm just a little bit protective about the old girl after all."

"I can understand that, sir. You can get . . . attached to a ship, over time." He was thinking of the old Tiger's Claw . . . and Concordia. "I'll admit I wasn't looking forward to this assignment when Admiral Tolwyn told me about it. But I'm feeling much better about it now."

"My pep talk was that good?" Eisen asked with a grin.

"That . . . and finding out you have Ralgha nar Hhallas aboard. He's one of the best."

"Commander nar Hhallas? Yes, he's a good officer. He'll be my Exec this trip . . ."

"Sir . . . with all due respect, that's a real waste of talent. Hobbes is a natural-born fighter pilot. Putting him in a Line slot . . . I think it's a mistake."

"It was his own request, Colonel. I know his record, but . . ." Eisen trailed off, then shrugged. "Fact is, no one aboard will fly with a Kilrathi on his wing."

"Fifteen years of loyal service and a string of combat kills as long as my arm doesn't count for anything?"

The captain looked away. "Not with these people, Blair. Not after everything they've been through in this damned war. Anyway, he made the request for the good of the flight wing."

"Well, I'm in command of the wing now," Blair said. "And I want him restored to flight status immediately, for the good of the wing." He paused. "Not that I would try to tell you how to run your ship, of course . . ."

"Why not? Isn't that the accepted role of every wing commander in the fleet? You guys always felt the Line was nothing but a bunch of glorified taxi drivers." Eisen's smile faded quickly. "Look, Colonel, your loyalty is admirable, and I'll willingly transfer him back to flight, but the problem still remains — who would have a Kilrathi as a wingman?"

"I'll fly with him," Blair said coldly. "Even if none of the others will. He's the best damned wingman I ever flew with, and I have a feeling we're going to need him if we're heading into a combat zone."

"If you say so, Colonel," Eisen said, shrugging again. "But I think you're asking for trouble. Not that I'd tell you how to run your wing, of course . . ."

Blair's office was small, tucked between the Flight Control Center and one of the wing's four ready rooms. Aside from a desk with built-in computer links and a set of monitors, it was sparsely furnished. The only really noteworthy touch was the wall behind the desk: a single sheet of transplast revealing a view into the main hangar deck.

As Blair entered, Rollins looked up from one of the desktop monitors. "Just setting your schedule, Colonel," he said, rising to give Blair the chair. "So, I take it you got the full pep talk from the Old Man, eh?"

"Something like that," Blair said shortly. Rollins was young and eager to please, but there was an edge about him that made Blair uncomfortable. Rollins had a cynical air and a sharp tongue, and apparently felt free to say whatever he thought. Blair was a skeptic himself and often outspoken, but it seemed out of place coming from a kid fresh out of training.

"Well, take heart, Colonel. we've still got an ample supply of hot water to shower away all the bull-shit."

Blair fixed him with a long, penetrating stare. "Captain Eisen seems to genuinely believe in his ship . . . and in his crew. That's a good attitude for morale."

"You haven't been monitoring the command traffic the way I have, sir," Rollins said. "If the Old Man told the crew half of what he knows, they'd jump sector in half a nanosec and never come back!"

"Look, Lieutenant, I don't care what kind of paranoid fantasies you indulge in during your down-time," Blair told him harshly. "But I'd better not hear you sharing them with the rest of the crew. You read me, Mister?"

"Yes, sir," Rollins replied stiffly. "But I wouldn't just ignore what's going on out there, Colonel. Maybe it's not just paranoia, you know? If you change your mind and decide you want the straight dope, you just come to old Radio Rollins." He paused. "Might save your life someday."

"Yeah . . . and the Kilrathi might all become pacifist vegetarians overnight, too." Blair looked down at his desk. "I won't need you any more today, Rollins, so you can get back to your other duties. But on your way out, would you pass the word that I want to see Ralgha nar Hhallas? And whoever's my Exec, too, in that order. It's time I got this outfit properly frightened for the safety and comfort of their butts."

"Aye, aye, sir," Rollins said.

Blair's eyes followed the younger man as he left the office. It seemed ironic for Blair to be championing the establishment, given his own bitter feelings about the High Command and the state of the war in general, but he didn't have much choice. Private doubts were one thing, but doubts spread throughout the ship by someone in a position to leak classified information . . . that was an open invitation to disaster. One sour apple like Rollins could ruin the best of crews.