Blair crossed behind a small tractor that was backing up to the nose wheel of one of the wings Hellcats, and wormed his way through the crewpeople who clustered around the edge of the scene. Several growled protests until they saw the colonels pips embossed on his flight suit.
He ignored them. The pilots name and face looked familiar. He dimly recalled that Kyle had been one of the rookies on board the Victory during the last days of the war. He stepped forward, thinking he might be able to use that half-remembered contact to glean some information.
Seether continued his own interrogation, a half smile on his face. "The Geneva Convention only applies to real soldiers," he said calmly, "and real countries. Not pirates." He tipped his head to one side, studying the pilot. "And I don't recall this Border Worlds Union of yours as being a country." His smile faded. "You are a traitor—a rebel taken in arms against your government. You have no rights except those I choose to give you. Tell me what I want to know and I'll make it easy for you."
The pilot trembled visibly. "L-l-lee, K-kyle. Buh-border W-worlds. 284H5237."
"Not good enough," Seether replied. The pilot looked up and met Blairs eye. His eyes widened in recognition. Hope shined on his face, along with a silent plea for Blair to intervene.
Seether followed his gaze and saw Blair standing in the front of the crowd. Blairs sense of time slowed as Seether glanced first at him, then at the prisoner. The Border Worlds pilot grinned and opened his mouth to speak.
All sound faded as Blair took a step forward. Seether glanced again at him, then at the pilot. He drew a laser pistol from his survival vest, pressed it against the side of the pilot's head, and pulled the trigger. Blair halted in shock as hot blood and bits of brain matter spattered him. The pilot collapsed in a heap, limbs thrashing.
Blair froze, stunned by the sudden malice of the killing. He looked down at the body, then back up at Seether. The black-clad pilot met his eye, his expression one of utter contempt. Blair felt the crowd give way, stunned by the unexpected violence. The right-hand Marine dropped Seethers helmet and wiped the side of his head. He stared at his bloodied hand.
Time snapped back. The sounds of the bay flooded Blairs ears as a pool of blood poured out of the dead man's head.
"You son of a bitchl" Blair growled, his shock turning to rage as the pilot's heels drummed against the deck. He heard boot heels pounding the deck as someone on the far side of the crowd broke and ran for the maintenance bay doors. "You didn't have to kill him!"
Seether snorted and shrugged, unconcerned. "Traitors get what they deserve."
Seether's bland face and contemptuous smile infuriated him. "That man was a prisoner!" Blair yelled. He saw out of the corner of his eye that he had drawn the attention of everyone on the deck. Good. The more witnesses the better. "He had rights!"
The pilot smiled again. "He was scum, Colonel. Rebel scum." He looked at the corpse a moment, then deliberately spat on it.
Blair felt his world go red. Rage swept over him. He ground out an obscenity between clenched teeth and lunged for Seether with his fists. He knew he couldn't beat the smirking pilot, but was bound to try and smash the smile off the bastard's face. Seether raised his steaming laser to his shoulder, cocking his arm at the elbow and readying it for use.
Blair's Hellcat crew chief and the bloody Marine threw themselves between the two officers, grabbing and holding Blair back. The crowd faded back, alarmed both by the possibility of gunplay and by the sight of senior officers attacking each other on the flight deck.
"Come on, you gutless wonder," Seether snapped, "you want me. Here I am. All you got to do is get to me." He seemed more amused by Blairs struggles than concerned.
Blair, his arms pinned, fought to get free.
"Come on, coward," taunted Seether, "can't handle a little dying? How'd you kill all those Cats, then?" Blair realized through his haze of rage that Seether was actually enjoying the confrontation.
Seethers voice turned nasty. "Maybe I was interrogating the wrong traitor. You let Eisen go—didn't even fire a shot. Then you let that psycho follow him. What kind of wing are you running—Colonel?" He made Blairs rank sound like an insult.
Chris struggled against the men restraining him. "I don't kill prisoners," he said savagely.
"I do," Seether said. He raised the pistol and pointed it at Blair's head.
"You better shoot straight, you son of a bitch," Blair snarled. "You won't get a second chance."
Seether smiled. "Don't worry about that, Colonel Heart of the Tiger." He sighted in. Blair heard a flurry of movement and running footfalls on the flight deck.
The men holding Blairs arms scattered as Seether began to squeeze the trigger. Blair, still straining against them, stumbled forward. He brought his arms up in a futile attempt to ward off the laser when Gunderson stepped between him and Seether. Blair saw only the back of the man's gray head and a growing bald spot.
"You want him," the master chief growled, "you gotta shoot me first."
"No problem," Seether replied, "just one more traitor."
"… An' if you kill me, I can assure you my crews'U drag you down," Gunderson said, his voice as calm as Seether's.
The pilot glanced around, seeing a dozen puffing maintenance techs, each carrying a heavy wrench or other blunt instrument. Seether appeared to be calculating the odds when Gunderson turned to face Blair.
"What the hell were you thinking of?" he said, jabbing his finger into Blair's chest and pushing him backward into the safety of the crowd. "Going up against a man wit' a gun like that?" Blair, still off balance, reeled backward. Thad stalked him, still bawling him out and putting more distance between Blair and Seether. Blair managed a quick glance over Thads shoulder and saw a line of maintenance techs separating them.
Blair clenched his fist. Gunderson leaned close, his voice softening as he hissed in Blair's ear. "Don't do it. He wants you to go for him. Then he can say it was self-defense." He shook his head. "Dammit, Blair, don't give him what he wants!"
Blair paused, then took a deep breath as he tried to get control over his emotions. Seether's smile slipped slightly as he saw Blair relax his fighting stance.
"Coward," he called.
Captain Paulson appeared, surrounded by a detachment of his Marines. He took in the whole scene: the dead pilot, Seether with the drawn pistol, the armed and grim-faced maintenance crews, and Blair, whose tempered fury was rising again. Paulson, his expression unreadable, pointed to Seether. "You," he said, "report to your quarters." His voice had more iron in it than Blair would have expected.
The black-clad pilot stood a few moments, his eyebrows raised in sardonic surprise. He holstered his pistol without comment and walked away.
Paulson rounded on Blair and Gunderson. "Master Chief," he said, "disperse this crowd and get medical up here." He turned his attention to Blair. "Colonel, come to my day cabin. We need to talk."
Blair sat, his back rigid as he fought to keep his composure. Paulson puttered around the wet bar. "Captain Eisen left an impressive collection of liquors," he said, a trifle disapprovingly. "I don't drink, of course." He gestured towards the racked bottles. "Would you care for something?"
Blair shook his head. "No." He didn't tell Paulson that, accepting Eisen's liquor from his hand felt vaguely obscene.
Paulson sat across from him, his handsome face unreadable. "I heard about the, umm… event in the landing bay," he said; his textured voice was full of tones of concern. "It was a terrible, unnecessary tragedy."
Blair raised his hand to his head, trying to ward off an impending headache. "A tragedy?" he said in a disbelieving voice. "The bastard shot him down—murdered him in cold blood."
Paulson looked uncomfortable. "Well," he said, "what Seether did was wrong, perhaps…"
"Perhaps?" Blair challenged. "That kid was scared to death. He was no threat to anyone."
Paulson pursed his lips a moment, thinking. "Sure," he said, "what Seether did was wrong." His voice grew war
mer, more persuasive. "But that pilot wasn't technically an enemy. He wasn't entitled to the protections of a prisoner of war."
"He had rights" Blair said, his voice rising as his carefully maintained control slipped a notch. "… if not as a prisoner of war, then as an accused criminal. He deserved due process, the right to trial, that sort of thing."
Paulson raised one eyebrow. "Colonel," he said, as though he were a father admonishing a cherished, yet erring, son, "I will not be yelled at. Not on my own ship." He smiled. "Please, let's try to be civilized." He sighed, as though attempting a difficult task. "That pilot was, as the law-tapes say, 'taken in arms,' serving a terrorist rebel organization." He shrugged. "He was a traitor. He deserved to be summarily executed."
"Since when?" Blair retorted. "Article Nine of the Confederation Charter prohibits punishment without due process. Every kid learns that in school—it's part of the primary curriculum. Damn it, sir, we showed more compassion to Kilrathi POWs taken in battle than that bastard did to that poor kid. The Kilrathi weren't covered by any article but their pilots were warriors worthy of respect."
Paulson smiled. "The Admiralty Court
has ruled that the rebels have rejected the Confederations authority. Therefore, they are not entitled to the privileges of citizenship."
Blair was certain he looked as appalled as he felt. "Since when does a court have the power to suspend the Articles of Confederation?"
"Emergency Decree 242, the so-called Martial Law declaration, grants military authorities 'extraordinary powers.' " Paulson said in a lecturing tone. "The Assembly never rescinded it after the war."
"I didn't know that."
"Well," Paulson said, "a lot of civilian authority broke down towards the end, especially on the frontier. The military had to step in, you know, to keep the peace." He smiled thinly. "The problem is that the warlords and pirates who sprang up in the interim now have to be suppressed." He shook his head, his expression sad. "So we're caught in an undeclared war against our brethren—and all because of a few criminals and opportunists." He leaned forward, towards Blair, his palms open and spread in a gesture of supplication. "You must understand that the credibility, and ultimately the survival of the Confederation, depends on suppressing this rebellion and restoring responsible government."
Blair understood that he was beginning to get tired of Paulson's "why we fight" lecture. So far the man had done everything except wave the flag and play bugles. He had expected Paulson to play on his sense of duty, but the rehearsed delivery of the pitch caught him off balance. He was beginning to understand how Paulson had survived as anon-combatant in a war-economy Fleet, and how he'd cozened himself command of the Lexington.
"I'm rather confused on one point," Blair said. He smiled to himself, realizing just how true the statement was. "I didn't think that the Outer Worlds had signed the Articles of Confederation. So don't they have a right to be free?"
"That's the argument the terrorists use," Paulson replied, "but its simplistic in the extreme." He smiled. "If I build a new house within an existing community, do I have to formally join?" He shook his head. "Of course not. My simple presence within the community is enough to give me membership. In our house analogy, it would be the same thing as if I decided I was immune to taxes because I never was formally enrolled as a member of the community." He shrugged his shoulders. "This, of course, would be after I'd used the constabulary, the medics, and the other city services."
He looked at Blair. "The Border Worlds never needed to sign the Articles of Confederation because they already were members. They were offshoots of existing Confederated worlds, and so carried their citizenship with them."
Paulson's expression became one of determination, perfectly matched to his shifting tone of voice. Blair wondered if the captain had ever been an actor. "The Confederation must stay united if it is to survive. We must end this chaos on the frontier and we must restore order." He spread his palms. "And unfortunately that may call for harsher measures than we would all prefer. These are, after all, harsh times."
Paulson took a deep breath. "So, you see," he said, 2oncluding his speech, "what Mr. Seether did was all very legal, though his methods left something to be desired—"
"Mister," Blair said interrupting, "he's a warrant officer? Warrant officers are titled 'Mister.' "
"Umm… no, he's not," Paulson answered, after the slightest hesitation.
"Then what rank is he?" Blair pressed.
Paulson steepled his fingers in his lap. 'That's, umm, classified. Need to know only."
Blair shook his head in disbelief. He could not, in the course of his entire career, recall hearing an odder statement. "His rank is classified?"
"Yes," Paulson replied, "his duties require his rank be kept secret."
Blair leaned back in his chair. Who the hell is Seether? he thought to himself. Even the man's name made him nervous, like a snake. He thought back to the event in the bar, when Seether had slammed him into the wall. Blair knew his own reflexes and thinking speed were fast, fast enough to survive two decades of often hellish combat. The farm work had kept his upper body strong, though he had grown a paunch. He should have been able to hold his own against the pilot, yet the man had tossed him around as though he was a kitten.
Blair decided there was something odd about Seether's look. His features were plain, almost too plain, like an unfinished canvas. His agility was almost superhuman— it had to be to beat Blairs reflexes. That, combined with his great strength and intelligence, made him seem an almost superior being.
That made him pause. Was he looking at the future of humanity? That would explain the almost primal fear the pilot struck in him. Blair couldn't help wondering if he was feeling what the Cro-Magnons felt when faced with Homo sapiens.
His thoughts drifted to the pilots who'd come on board with Seether. He recalled their cold, emotionless faces and similar features. How many Seethers were there? And what were they?
Blair looked at Paulson, who appeared content to let him sit and think. "Who are the pilots who came on board with Seether?" he asked. "Scuttlebutt says they're part of a research project. Yet I don't know any of them." He smiled. "They looked pretty grim to be researchers."
Paulson stared at him, looking as though he'd swallowed a live toad. Blair realized he'd made a serious tactical error. The guard who'd seen him on the flight deck apparently hadn't reported the contact. It was obvious that the only way Blair could have seen the pilots was for him to have been on the flight deck. That would have required him to have both disobeyed orders and concealed himself from the security teams. He watched the changes in Paulson's expression as the captain worked through the implications of Blairs remark.
Paulson looked him, his face stony. All warmth vanished from his voice. "The presence of those officers on board this ship is none of your business. You will forget you saw them. End of story."
He walked over to the desk Eisen had never used, and sat. Blair followed him, grimly aware of the change in tenor. He noted that Paulson did not offer him the facing chair. So that's how it's going to be, he thought. He assumed the position of parade rest in anticipation of an ass-chewing.
"Colonel," Paulson said grimly, "you must understand that I hold you in the highest regard. Your record and your reputation describe you as proficient and professional." He glanced downward a moment, then up. "So far, I haven't seen much evidence of either."
Blair kept his expression neutral.
"In my brief time on board," Paulson said, "you have disobeyed orders twice, once in combat when you allowed your affection for your friend to overcome your sense of duty. You have also been lax in not monitoring your pilots for signs of disaffection. That lapse cost this ship a valuable squadron commander and a top-of-the-line Hellcat V." He looked up at Blair. "Do you have anything to say?"
Blair focused on a spot on the wall over Paulson's head. He'd learned early in his career to keep his mouth shut when being called on the carpet. Still, Paul
son seemed to expect some response. "No, sir," he said.
Paulson looked at him a long moment, then rubbed his lip with his index finger. Blair noticed the nail appeared to have been manicured. He waved Blair towards the chair. "Please sit."
Blair understood the offer was not a request. He obeyed, then used the opportunity to study Paulson.
The captain tented his hands in front of his face, giving him a studious, professorial air. "We have just fought a tragic thirty-year war," Paulson said, his hard edges softening as he tried to make peace. "Yet some good came out of it." He raised one finger for emphasis, before Blair could comment. "The war did serve to focus our energy as a species, to direct all of our efforts against a single objective. The Kilrathi were a catalyst. They gave us something to focus on—an enemy we could test ourselves against."
He opened his hands, in a gesture Blair thought calculated to draw him in. "Now that the war is over, Colonel, we're beginning to drift." He shrugged. "This is a dangerous time, both socially and politically. We need… to maintain our focus, and that requires something to focus on." He tipped his head to one side. "Another catalyst. Do you understand?"
"No," Blair said, "I'm not sure I do.
Paulson took a deep breath. "The Border Worlders are barbarians, Colonel, they're criminals and iconoclasts. They even trade with the Kilrathi, for God's sake. They've no discipline, no drive—they're a blight on humanity. Most of them aren't even from good stock, good families."
"Good stock," Blair said, amused. "It sounds like you're talking about cattle, not people."
Paulson made a wry face. "Sorry. It was a poor choice of words. It's just that we've gone soft since the war. We need something to keep our edge."
Blair sat, thunderstruck. He realized with cold clarity that Paulson was talking about engineering an enemy, of creating a threat that the Confederation would need to defend against.
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