He turned to face the bulkhead and the roll of honor listing all those who had died while serving aboard the ship. Coming to attention he saluted the honor roll and then noticed that the commissioning flag which should be to the right of the honor roll was missing. He felt a flicker of anger over that, wondering who had taken it down, and turning started for the airlock door which was secured to the shipyard docking station. Turning the corner, he saw a small line of men and women waiting for him: Doomsday, Sparks (his head of fighter maintenance), Kevin Tolwyn, and last of all Ian Hunter looking strange indeed dressed in civilian mufti, having been already retired from the fleet the day before. The group came to attention, saluted, and Kevin stepped forward to hand Jason a folded flag, the commissioning pennant of Tarawa.
"Thought you'd want this, sir," Kevin said with a grin. "Someday you might want to hang it back up again."
"Thanks, Kevin."
To one side he saw a group of technicians, the mothballing crew, who would finish the shut down of the ship for cold storage. Though the government had agreed to the armistice and with it an immediate cut back of fifty percent of the active fleet, at least they were not taking the ships out and simply cutting them up as the Kilrathi had first suggested; the military had managed to stop that mad idea. It had become a major fly in the ointment in the four weeks since the armistice, with the Kilrathi threatening to pull out of the peace talks but so far the civilian government had not budged, though Jamison was screaming for even deeper cutbacks. The inactive fleet was therefore, at least for the moment, secured, the ships hooked to orbital bases for power and maintenance. Rodham, however, had agreed to the ship's crews being paid off and assigned to inactive reserves as a cost cutting measure, a fact which meant that hundreds of thousands of highly trained personnel were being pulled from their ships and demobilized as quickly as ships were pulled from the front and sent to the main bases either above Earth, Sirius, or out at Carnovean Station.
He turned to face back down the corridor and bowed his head for a moment.
"Good-bye, my friends," he whispered, remembering all those who in a way would be forever young, and forever bound to his ship. Fighting back the tears he turned without another word and went through the airlock, his friends following in silence.
* * *
"Rear Admiral Geoffrey Tolwyn, approach the court."
Walking stiffly, Geoff came up before the court martial officers and saluted.
Admiral Banbridge, as the presiding officer, stood up, his hands shaking as he unfolded a single sheet of paper.
"Rear Admiral Geoffrey Tolwyn, it is the decision of this court that you have been found guilty of disobedience of fleet orders, in that you knowingly attacked a vessel of the Kilrathi Empire after being made fully aware of General Order number 2312A, ordering the suspension of all hostilities.
"It is the decision of this court that you hereby be stripped of your rank and suffer a dishonorable discharge with the loss of all privileges and honors due your rank."
Banbridge lowered his head and nodded. A Marine captain came forward and took Tolwyn's ceremonial sword, which had rested on the desk of the court martial officers since the opening of the trial. He placed the tip of the sword on the ground and held it at an angle. Raising his foot he slammed his heel down on the side of the blade, snapping it in half. The crack of the sword breaking echoed through the chamber and Geoff winced at the sound. The Marine tossed the hilt of the sword on the floor by Geoff's feet and then stepped up to Geoff.
The Marine looked him straight in the eyes and Geoff could see that the man hated what he was about to do.
Grabbing hold of the insignias of rank on Geoff's shoulders the Marine tore them off with a violent jerking motion so that Geoff swayed and struggled to keep at attention. The Marine again looked him in the eyes.
"I'm sorry, sir," he whispered and Geoff nodded a reply.
The Marine turned back to face the court and placed the torn bits of fabric and brass on the desk.
Geoff looked squarely at Banbridge and snapped off a salute, trying not to notice the tears in his old mentor's eyes. Breaking with tradition he leaned over and picked up the broken hilt and blade of his sword, turned, and marched out of the room. After he left a side door opened and a lone figure came through it, bending low and then standing up to his full height.
"Ambassador Vak'ga," Banbridge said coldly, "the fleet wishes to extend its apologies over this incident and as you were informed this morning, restitution will be paid to the families of those killed in the incident. Admiral Tolwyn has been dishonorably discharged from the service in punishment."
"Does that mean that he will now commit Zu'kara?"
"Zu'kara?"
"How do you say it?" Vak'ga rumbled. "Yes, ritual suicide in atonement for an act of shame to ones hrai, I mean family."
"That's not our way, Banbridge replied coldly. "And besides, the carrier he was attacking had also launched a strike after the armistice and Tolwyn could be justified in his action by acting in self-defense. Good God, Ambassador, we've logged more than a hundred such incidents during the first day, and hundreds more since. Shutting off thirty years of war is not easy."
"So that is it?" Vak'ga snapped. "He is simply told to go away with no further punishment? With us, for such a crime, he would not even be allowed the glory of Zu'kara, his throat would be slit and his body hung by its heels like a prey animal."
Banbridge bristled.
"I'm sure that would be the case for you," he finally replied, the sarcasm in his voice evident. "As for Geoff Tolwyn, losing the fleet and his rank is the worst punishment imaginable. After all it was the only family he'd had for the last twenty years."
He knew that the Ambassador was most likely aware that Tolwyn's wife and boys had been killed in a raid; most of the holo news reports had played on that theme as a motivation for his spectacular career and his final downfall.
"I lost my family too," Vak'ga snarled, "or didn't you know that?"
Banbridge nodded but said nothing.
The Ambassador turned as if to leave.
"Mr. Ambassador, one question before you go."
"Yes?"
"The issue of POW exchange. A full accounting within twenty four standard days was promised on the day the armistice was signed. We have fully complied and you have not."
"For us it is no issue," the Ambassador replied. "Anyone who allowed himself to be captured has lost all honor, he is sa'guk, one who is already dead to his hrai. We do not care. I do not see why it is of such great concern to you."
"Because it is, damn it," Banbridge snapped. "We've lived by the agreement on every point. You are already dragging your feet. I demand a full reporting of all POWs immediately."
"Demand? We demanded the head of Tolwyn and you slap his wrist and send him away. We demanded the suppression of your raiders based on your frontier worlds and an apology from the Firekka for their belligerent statements. I will not listen to demands from you in turn on such trivial things."
He turned and strode from the room.
War was a hell of a lot easier," Banbridge said darkly.
Jason looked up from his drink as Hunter came into the Vacuum Breathers Bar.
The "Vacuum Breather" was one of the favorite watering holes just off the main military base on the moon. It had an old tradition that any patron who had breathed vacuum, that is experienced the hulling of his ship, and survived, received an honorary beer mug with his name on it. The far well of the bar was lined with hundreds of mugs. The first beer of the day was always free for such an honoree when he came in and his mug was pulled down from the rack.
Gallagher, the owner of the bar, was legendary for his love of the service. He was an old fleet lifer with over thirty years service before retiring, thus his "boys and girls" as he called them, were almost like his own family and he was always ready to loan an extra twenty, or stand a free round.
"Any luck?" Ian asked, pulling his mug down from the back o
f the room and coming back to settle in by Jason and Doomsday. The barkeep came up, took the mug, filled it and slid it back to Ian who nodded his thanks.
Sighing, Jason shook his head. Jobs, at the moment, were scarcer then a good bottle of Firekka Firewater. There'd been a lead that an old Victory-class transport, a ship that was already out of date when it was mass produced in the first years of the war, needed a co-pilot and flight engineer. When he showed up at the office he already knew it was hopeless. At least a hundred others were there to apply, a few of them old comrades that he hadn't seen since his days on Gettysburg. It was a great reunion but no job, the slots filled by the former captain of a frigate and her first officer who were willing to take pay fifty percent below standard. If it wasn't for forty/one hundred benefits — one hundred a week for forty weeks — and free housing in former barracks and training centers, nearly everyone in the fleet would be starving to death.
"How about you?"
"Same story," Ian said with a sigh as he settled down to the bar beside him.
"I always knew it'd come to this end," Doomsday said quietly, and Jason groaned
"Damn it, man, for years all I've heard you prophesy is that the war was going to kill you. You've got eight campaign ribbons, a medal of honor, two silver stars, the Vegan victory Award with diamonds, half a dozen fighters shot out from under you and how many kills was it?"
"I lost count after sixty."
"And never a damn scratch," Jason said. "Besides that you cleaned us all out in that poker game last night. You're the luckiest damn pilot in the fleet and the most depressing."
Doomsday sighed, mumbled softly in Maori, and motioned for another beer for himself and for Ian who nodded a thanks.
"And I lose all my hard won earnings buying you guys drinks."
"Well, at least we're here to drink," Jason replied, raising his voice.
"Yeah, great, brother, beer money for us all from a grateful Confederation," someone announced from the other side of the bar.
A chorus of sarcastic laughter echoed in the room and then fell silent as first one, and then the rest of the patrons of the Vacuum Breathers Club turned and looked at the door.
A heavily built Kilrathi filled the entryway and though his frame was imposing he somehow looked a bit lost and nervous.
"Sire!"
"Oh god, it's Kirha," Ian sighed, coming to his feet and approaching the Kilrathi as he leaped down the steps. He started to drop to one knee and Ian grabbed him by the shoulders.
"Not here," he hissed, "and besides, remember I released you from your oath of fealty."
"But such an oath can never be truly broken, sire," Kirha said
"Just what the hell are you doing here? It's been years since I've seen you, I thought you were exchanged or something. Why aren't you going back home?"
"I was with the first batch of prisoners to be released last week. It was a sad sight, my lord. Many did not know where to go, what to do, not sure if their hrai will still recognize them. I heard I could find you here and thought you might know what to do."
Ian slowly grinned.
"You saved my butt once, my friend, and I must say it's a pleasure to see you again. Come on, let's have a drink.
Kirha came up to the bar, looked at the chairs which had no place for his tail to stick through, and simply leaned against the railing, towering over all the others in the room.
"Hey, we don't serve his kind in here," the bartender growled.
"Listen, buddy, the war's over, or haven't you heard, Doomsday said quietly.
"I don't care, we don't serve him."
"Say, brother, how long you been working in this bar?"
"A week."
"If Gallagher, the owner of this dive, heard you talking like that in his joint he'd throw you out on your butt. This Kilrathi's a friend of ours and that buys him a drink anywhere we are."
"I don t care, I'm not serving him."
Kirha looked around nervously.
"If this will cause trouble, sire, I can withdraw."
"Hey, Hunter, who the hell's your buddy?" a pilot wearing the insignia of a fighter squadron leader on his lapel shouted from the other side of the bar.
"You blokes heard how Paladin and me rescued that Firekka princess?" Ian replied.
Most of the men and women in the dimly lit room nodded their heads, laughed, and groaned. Ian's ability at telling stories of his heroics was legendary in the Vacuum.
"Well, this is the furball that saved my butt. I'd have been dead along with Paladin and that Firekka princess if it hadn't been for him."
The crowd nodded their approval and several came up to shake Kirha's paw, a human ritual which he still obviously found to be disconcerting.
Ian turned back to the bartender.
"So serve him his damn drink."
The man looked around nervously, and mumbled to himself.
"What was that you said about my Cat friend?" a pilot at the edge of the group snarled.
The bartender looked at Kirha
"Whatya have?" he said quietly.
"Scotch, single malt, make it a triple.
A chorus of laughter echoed around the room, breaking the tension and even the bartender forced a weak grin as he filled the glass and pushed it over. Ian started to slide a bill across.
"Sorry about the mistake, Captain. Keep it, it's on the house," the bartender replied and turned away.
Kirha took the drink up, and bowed to Ian.
"To peace between the hrai of the Kilrathi and of Humans."
He downed the drink in a single gulp and a flash of sharp canines signaled his delight. The bartender shook his head
"I guess you're all right."
"I've waited a long time for this drink," Kirha sighed, and Ian ordered up another round.
"So what do you think of all of this?" Ian asked.
"You mean the peace agreements?" Kirha asked
"Yeah."
"It is, how do you humans say it, warmed leavings of a male cow."
A ripple of laughter echoed around the room and even the bartender smiled
"Why?"
"I know of this Baron Jukaga of the hrai of the Ki'ra. They are the most ancient of the families, their blood even thicker than that of the Imperial line. Their hatred of the Imperial family is well known."
"How's that?" the bartender asked, coming over, obviously curious.
"Before we gained space, in the Seventh Dynastic War, the family of the Emperor gained dominance over Kilrah, defeating the Ki'ra who were forced to swear allegiance. It surely would have become an Eighth Dynastic war, except for the arrival of the foolish Utara."
"The who?" the barkeep asked, leaning against the side of the bar and pouring Kirha another drink.
Kirha laughed, nodded his thanks and downed the drink in a single gulp.
"The Utara came to Kilrah offering friendship, trade, and peace. They showed us how to make spacecraft, and the secret of the jump points."
Kirha shook his head.
"As soon as we gained space we slaughtered them. They were a weak and foolish people."
Kirha laughed and pounded the bar as if he had just told an hysterical joke. His audience looked at him in silence.
"Some thanks," Ian mumbled.
"It's considered quite funny by us," Kirha said, looking around the room, still chuckling though finally realizing that his audience wasn't all that amused.
"I guess you don't see the humor."
"Maybe something got lost in the translation, mate," Ian interjected.
Kirha nodded, looking at the bar patrons.
"I see here, yet again a difference between us," he finally said. "To us, such weakness was stupidity so pathetic that it becomes funny. I take it you don't see it that way."
"Something like that," a voice from the back of the room said.
"It is why I, and those still prisoners, roared with laughter when we heard you agreed to this thing you call an armistice. It was an act of
weakness. It will cause a loss of face for you, a loss of respect that you have in some way earned by your valiant resistance against the might of the Empire. There is an old Kilrah saying 'steel against iron is not a testing.' Though we hated you, and wished to overthrow you, still we came to see that our own courage could be honorably tested by matching it against your own. That is the way of finding honor and glory.
"Your leaders have thrown that away. When we come again, it will be with contempt and the slaughter will be brutal beyond your darkest nightmares."
There was a stirring in the room.
"And will you help them out, buddy?" the barkeep asked quietly.
"I am without hrai, without country," Kirha said in reply. "I have sworn allegiance to Hunter; it is now impossible for me to ever go back."
He looked almost mournful and there were even a couple of nods of sympathy from the others in the room.
"You were telling us about this Jukaga," Jason asked.
"Ah yes, Jukaga. With the freeing from our planet and the outward rush to wars with races we had never dreamed existed, our own civil wars became a thing of the past, for at last we had found others to test our steel against. But the clan of Ki'ra never reconciled itself to the fact that it was not upon the Imperial throne, seeing this as the fluke of but one battle lost ages ago. In Jukaga this disdain became more openly voiced with the reversals of our war against you. That is something I suspect your leaders have not given full weight to."
"How so?" Jason pressed.
"The fact that it was Jukaga who made the first overture of peace I find to be surprising. It was not someone of the Imperial line. It means that he has gained enough power to actually allow the Emperor to permit him to be the voice of the throne.
"It is an interesting point of balance. The Emperor must have agreed to this peace because there was some pressure, either from your fleets, or from the other clans, perhaps both. Yet if he allows the peace to continue, without a clear cut victory, he and his grandson the Crown Prince will fall and Jukaga will rise to seize the throne their hrai has coveted for so long. Jukaga must know as well that if he seizes the throne, but the war is not then immediately started, he will fall as well, for the drive to killing is so strong in our blood that we will quickly turn upon each other."
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