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  Greg looked into the journalist’s eyes, catching the hint of fear before it fled. “What was your question again?”

  Jiro took his hand. “Jiro Yamashita; journalist.”

  Greg shook his hand, but held on for long enough to make Jiro uncomfortable. “Every single person in the 301st—humans and our non-human compatriots—has been trained for a job. Ask us why we do it, it’s the same reason you do your job. You’re trained for it, you’re good at it, and it’s not something other folks can do. That’s the core of it. Everything else is window dressing.”

  Jiro nodded as he slipped his hand from Greg’s grasp. “Let me tell you where I’m coming from, okay? Why I’m out here.”

  “Rock and roll.”

  Jiro did not lower his voice as decorum on that night demanded. This endeared him to Greg. “The Qian are not telling us everything. Yeah, they’ve presented a nice story, they’ve asked for our help, they’ve punched all of our buttons. I’m sure they’ve had ships scouring the galaxy for our broadcasts and know exactly what makes us tick. They were invaded by a totalitarian regime—they say. There was a surprise attack, children have been murdered; they pretty much went down the checklist. Hell, they even had a picture of the Qian ambassador’s daughter hugging up on a puppy while the puppy licked her face.”

  Greg nodded. “Had to be a dog. Cats hiss when around them.”

  “You’ve seen that?”

  “I have.” Greg said it firmly, and could visualize the cat’s reaction, but couldn’t tag a time, date or place to the memory. As with so many things since the accident.

  “The Qian met with world leaders, they have invited the world’s religions to put chaplains on their stations and worlds, they embrace all of our values while helping people. They’re faery godmothers who need our help. Potent stuff.”

  “Okay.”

  Jiro looked around, pausing as the President, the 301st’s commander and their Qian liaison exited the flight deck. “So, I got to wonder, what do they really want from us? They’re giving a lot, they’re asking for a little. I’m wondering when the accounts will be balanced.”

  “And you’re wondering what other deals have been cut by human leaders?”

  Jiro nodded. “I thought you might have some insights on that latter point.”

  “I wish I did.” Greg’s right hand hardened into a lumpen grey fist. “Maybe we’re out here for the same reason after all. There are lots of questions floating about, and out there’s the only place we’ll find answers.”

  –2–

  Colonel Nicholas Clark’s first act on reaching his office was to darken the window that looked out onto the flight deck. Camera flashes became little more than distant lightning at midnight. He’d never taken to crowds, didn’t much care for ceremonies and in the eighteen months since his selection to head up the 301st, he grown even more contemptuous of politicians and journalists—all with an ease that surprised him.

  Of the two, he disliked journalists more. Politicians would tell you that they were telling the truth, but a man had to have the IQ of a slug not to know they were lying. Journalists, on the other hand, professed themselves as the champions of truth. In reality what they did was write up scandalous story lines to spark interest, and delivered information that didn’t even go skin-deep on most issues. They used multiple interviews from various sources to provide perspective which, somehow, was superior to analysis. They were like used-jetcar salesmen pointing out how clean the inside was and how shiny the outside was, but never showing anyone that the car just wouldn’t fly.

  He moved to his desk and glanced at the darkened windows. Jiro Yamashita took his job a bit more seriously. He’d bear watching. Even so, the whole operation had enough chaff blowing through it that it would distract him. Hell and damnation, it distracts me.

  He sighed, opened a drawer and pulled out two glasses and thirty-year-old bottle of Scotch. He set them on his desk, but didn’t pour. He’d wait. He’d always made a rule never to drink alone. Though he wanted a drink badly—and this was a very special occasion—he stuck by his rule.

  More chaff. The journalists had loved him when he got tapped for the command. They never talked to him, of course, since the Qian had whisked him away after the President had saddled him with the job. They’d devoured his dossier, found folks who remembered him fondly, and for a week he’d even been listed as the world’s #1 eligible bachelor. He’d gotten offers of marriage from around the world—and it was hinted that the females of the Qian Commonwealth were even setting their caps for him.

  He learned all that in a briefing on his first trip back to Earth. Nick hadn’t been impressed. He pretty much wished his species had better things to do with its time, but that ship had long since left orbit. Technology might advance at lightspeed, but human nature surrendered to inertia. That would have been depressing if Nick decided to dwell on it at all.

  His office hatch opened and two black-suited security people entered. The Qian pair came first, a human woman second. They looked around, then faced the opening and nodded. The President followed them through, then they retreated and the door closed behind them, leaving Nick alone with the Commander in Chief.

  President Allen paused, looking around, taking in his surroundings. Nick’s requirements had been simple, and the Qian had accommodated him with an office which still featured wood and brass, but in more rustic incarnations complete with board squeaks and a faint pine scent. Taken out of the starship and plunked down on some lake in the woods of Maine, the decor would have fit perfectly. Everything from furnishings to faded paintings and prints on the walls—save for the monitor panel built into his desk—appeared well used and long loved.

  “I’m glad, Colonel, you have surroundings that will remind you of home.”

  “Thank you, sir. A drink?”

  Allen nodded. “No need for formality, is there, Nick?”

  “You are the Commander in Chief, sir.” Nick uncorked the bottle and poured equal measures. “I was brought up to respect the office.”

  The President raised a glass in a toast. “To the 301st and the preservation of liberty.”

  Nick touched his glass to the other man’s, then drank. He let the whisky linger on his tongue, then slowly slide down his throat. At thirty years of age, the whisky was like drinking liquid silk. That pleasure was one of the few indulgences Nick allowed himself.

  The President nodded, then turned from the desk and faced the darkened window. “There are a couple of things I need to say to you, Nick.”

  “I don’t need politicking, sir. Out there you said all the things that needed to be said to folks who vote. I don’t.”

  The President looked back over his shoulder. “When the Qian presented you as being apolitical, I had advisors who recommended against you. Were they right?”

  “My politics are simple, sir. I have a constituency of a dozen—my pilots. They don’t get a vote, they have to do what I say. The only thing I promise them is that I won’t get them killed unless I have to. Being as how that’s what politics is when all the fancy dress and fine words are stripped away, we’re good.”

  Nick sipped more whisky. “But, sir, you and I know that you and your aides didn’t hear ‘apolitical.‘ You heard ‘has no political aspirations.’ The Qian got that right, and your aides are idiots.”

  Allen turned, holding his glass in both hands. “I’d tell you it’s refreshing to have someone be so frank, but you’d think it was more political ass-kissing.”

  “Uh huh, and you phrased it that way so you could say it and pretend it wasn’t.” Nick set his glass on the desk. “You might as well save yourself time and me annoyance and just come out with it.”

  “Very well.” Allen’s eyes tightened. “I agreed to the formation of this squadron because I do have political ambition, for me and my family. I do not expect much from the Star Tigers. Whatever you do will be sufficient to guarantee that I and my family have a place in world politics for generations. You’re alread
y heroes. I don’t need you winning their war. Quite frankly, neither does humanity.”

  “Let’s take that last around the block again, sir.”

  Allen drank, then jerked a thumb toward the flight deck. “Once this ship leaves for the outer solar system, no Commonwealth vessel will be allowed inside Pluto’s orbit. Earth is a protectorate world. Fifty years from now we might be open as a tourist destination. Our exports are going to be cultural. Since our technological level is primitive, the only thing we can offer are antics and fodder for graduate studies in xeno-psychology. They’ve studied clips and colonials for a while, now they’ll see us in a our native habitat.

  The President nodded toward the hull. “If you go out and win this war, suddenly we become a threat. Our talent won’t be for humiliating ourselves in the name of entertainment, but for lethality. We’re isolated now. We could be quarantined. The Qian could see to it that humanity never gets out of this solar system—and they could exterminate us if they wish.”

  Nick frowned. “So you’re telling me we’re, what, bomb-sniffing dogs? We can go out, do our part, but not too well? What if we’re ordered on a mission that will win this war, and save countless lives doing so?”

  “It is my hope, Colonel, you’ll weigh your acceptance of your orders based on the consequences for your people.”

  I guess he missed the bit about what defines my people. “Yes, sir, I understand, sir.”

  Allen deposited his glass on a side table, then tugged at his jacket’s cuffs. “Another thing. My son.”

  “He gets no special treatment. Period.”

  “Good, very good.” Allen’s head came up. “If there is a choice between him and another pilot for a risky mission, there will be no repercussions were you to choose him. There will be no repercussions if he does not survive.”

  “Let me make sure I’m reading that right, sir. You’re not suggesting that you’d like to see your son dead, are you?”

  The President had the good graces to allow shock to settle over his face for three second and insert a strain in his voice before he replied. “Colonel, I love my son. Because of the accident, I have already endured the pain of wondering if he would live or die. I said what I said in the hopes that, knowing how painful it would be to lose him again, I would shoulder the burden and relieve others of that pain. If Greg returns, you will see no prouder a parent on that day—be it in a box or hale and hardy. Do you understand me?”

  Nick recovered his glass and drained it. “Loud and clear, sir.”

  “There is one other thing I require of you, Colonel, that humanity requires of you.” The President’s voice had regained its strength, and acquired an edge along the way. “Try as we might, the world’s best experts cannot agree upon a logical motivation for the Qian to invite us to send warriors to the stars. As we understand it, their empire is vast and their constituent population is equally huge. Our contribution to their effort, even if we do raise divisions of troops and send them out, will be so tiny that a rounding-error will eliminate it.

  “We need to know what they are getting out of our contribution. We need to know why they need us. You need to keep your eyes and ears open and discover this for us. Consider that an order.”

  Nick wanted to scoff and point out that if he did discover the Qian ulterior motive that the chances of his ever being able to communicate it back to Earth would be nil. However, the president had hit upon a question he’d been asking himself. In the time he’d spent with them there always seemed to be something else going on. At first he put it down to cultural differences, but familiarity had not eased that sense. In fact, it seemed to increase it. Whatever humans were showing the Qian, the Qian seemed to want more.

  “Understood, sir.”

  President Allen sighed. “Nick, your nation, your species, your world, are asking a lot of you. Most people will never know what you’ve sacrificed. You struck a hard bargain, and I’ll see to it that it is kept. I’ll also see to it that you’re kept in good supply with whisky and anything else you and your people need.”

  Nick shook his head. “No need for that, sir. We’ve got so many corporate gifts that the Qian are having trouble keeping the Unity in trim. And thank you for convincing folks that neither our uniforms nor our fighters should have corporate sponsor insignia on them.”

  Allen laughed. “The Qian would have allowed it, believing wearing such things was a deeply ingrained cultural aspect of humanity. You were right, of course, that 301st gear would become popular, so we have licensed the images and the 301st Foundation, as per your demand, will be in charge of the resulting funds.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Allen shook his head. “I do envy you. I didn’t lie when I said I used to want to go to the stars. Part of me still does, but I’m too old.”

  Nick laughed. “You’re never too old, sir.”

  “I defer to your expertise in that matter, Nick.” The President picked up his glass, swirled the whisky, and tossed it off. “I always dreamed about humanity leaving the solar system. I thought we’d do it under our own power. We know there’s wider galaxy out there, but we’re still trapped unless we’re the lucky few like you. By God, make the best of this.”

  You make it sound like we’re going out of state to college, not out into the galaxy to fight a war. “I think I can speak for the squadron, sir, when I say that we know the hopes and dreams of humanity are with us. We just want to make everyone proud. Our courage isn’t special, it’s the courage all humans share. We were just lucky enough to be at the front of the line.”

  The president glanced down, nodding slowly. “Very well said, Colonel.”

  Nick reached over and touched the screen built into his desk. “I wrote it down, sir, and just sent it to you. You don’t have to memorize it.”

  Allen’s head came up, the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You may be ‘apolitical,’ but you’re not politically ignorant.”

  Nick smiled openly. “Just like you, I’ve dreamed of getting out to the stars since I was a boy. Having been there, I want to make sure I am blazing a trail. You quote those words, others will follow and men who oppose you won’t be able to close our world to the outside. Consider that part of my bargain.”

  “Very well, Colonel.” The President parked his empty glass on the desk, then offered Nick his hand. “Good luck, Godspeed, and give them Hell.”

  Nick shook the President’s hand. “I’ll consider that an order, too, sir; and you can bet that’s one mission we’ll accomplish.

  –3–

  Greg Allen knocked on the half-open hatch to Colonel Clark’s office.

  “Enter.”

  Greg slipped through the opening and closed the door behind him. He strode to the middle of the floor and saluted. “Captain Allen reporting as ordered, sir.” Greg tried to keep his voice even and commanding, but the office mocked his seriousness. It felt less like a command center than a sanctuary from command.

  Nick Clark looked up from his desk and returned the salute without standing. If not for the touches of grey at his temples, a nose that had been broken at least once, and a crescent scar on his chin, the 301st’s commanding officer wouldn’t have looked even close to his mid-40s age.

  “You asked for this meeting, Captain. What can I do for you?”

  “Sir, I wanted to speak with you about …”

  Nick held a hand up, then stood before looking Greg straight in the eyes. “Let me rephrase my question. Are you here to warn me about your father, or about you?”

  Greg blinked. “Sir, I …”

  “Because, Captain Allen, I have to tell you that your being the President’s son isn’t going to insulate you from criticizing the CinC. Not going to happen under my command.” Nick’s eyes narrowed. “And, truth be told, I already have your father’s measure. His control over this unit ended the second he got on that Albatross shuttle and headed back down to Earth. Your connection to him, it doesn’t mean squat. Read me?”


  Greg nodded, not in the least trying to hide his relief. “Sir, I came to say that if he gave you any orders about me, about sparing me any danger, that I want you to ignore what he said.”

  “Do you, now?” Nick smiled quickly, but the smile died in a heartbeat. “So you’re thinking that you and your wishes should overrule those of the Commander in Chief? Do I have that right, Captain?”

  This is not going the way I’d hoped it would. Greg raised his chin. “My father is very persuasive. He’s also very smart. I don’t think he’d give you orders in that regard—not bald-faced orders.”

  Nick moved from behind the desk and walked around to where Greg could only see him from the corner of his eye. The colonel straightened a picture on the bulkhead. “So you came to me to ask me to ignore orders, then to tell me that you father wouldn’t give those sorts of orders. Are you going to be a problem, Captain? Because you’re wasting my time here.”

  “Colonel, I …”

  Nick turned to face his left shoulder. “Captain Allen, do us both a favor and be a man.”

  A jolt ran through Greg. Shame flushed his face and anger roared through him. He kept his left hand open, but his right molded itself into a mace-like fist. “Sir.”

  Nick nodded toward the hand. “Be sure to get that under control before you play poker with anyone in the squadron, Captain. But before that, learn to say what’s on your mind. I bet that wasn’t rewarded in your house, was it? Well, this ain’t your house anymore.”

  The colonel moved around so Greg could see him more easily. “What you came to ask, what you came to find out, was why you’re here. Specifically, you want to make sure you’d not here because you’re President Allen’s son. Do I read you right?”

  Greg nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Ask yourself if it would make a damned bit of difference if that were the case. Your daddy isn’t going to be in a Shrike cockpit, is he? While he and others might be wanting the 301st to be an A-list, United Nations squadron, it hasn’t happened. Three Brit royals were on the list—the Princess was the only one who could fly worth a damn—and they didn’t make it. It isn’t your blood that landed you in the 301st.”