Fleet Action (wc-3) by William Forstchen (100 books to read in a lifetime txt) 📕

"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 of 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 There'd been a lead that an old Victory-class transport, a ship that was already out of date when it was mass produced in the first years of the war, needed a co-pilot and flight engineer.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