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cannot change their blood. The ancient stirrings in our hearts that turn
rational thought to jabber are what make us who we are and what will bring the
Terrans to their knees. Never forget that, lest you become more like a
hairless ape than a Kilrathi warrior of the Caxki clan."
"Yes, my Kalralahr," the second fang replied distractedly, his gaze already
wandering through star charts flashing on his tactical screen.
Should the young warrior's next set of coordinates fail to place them within
striking range of the supercruiser, Vukar decided that he would challenge his
tactical officer to a blood duel. That would be the only way to save face
after placing so much trust in a subordinate officer.
Breathing a heavy sigh that sent nutrient gas jetting from his nostrils,
Vukar turned over command to the ship's pensive first fang, Jatark nar Caxki,
then took himself to the lift, guided by pangs of hunger that demanded his
immediate attention. He decided that he would never again go so long without
food.
Now, if he could only hunt his meal rather than have it handed to him like a
weak lowborn or like one of the intellects in Mako-rshk's favor.
A warrior does not hunt with head or his nose , Vukar thought.
He hunts with his heart.
Stretched out on his sofa, wearing only a wrinkled pair of boxer shorts,
Commodore Richard Bellegarde took several long pulls on the bottle of Scotch
whiskey he had picked up while inGlasgow . He eyed his Spartan quarters aboard
the Concordia and came to realize that the empty box aptly represented the
empty man. He had left his mistress to satisfy the admiral, but that loss
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leached away his spirit. While on watch, he pretended to be involved,
pretended that he really cared about his career, about his life. But all he
really wanted was to take back everything he had said to Trish, to resume
their relationship the way it had been, to damn to hell Tolwyn's concern for
his career. He took another swig of Scotch, then balanced the bottle on his
bare chest and stared at a world blurred by the glass.
His door hatch chimed. Too numb and too lazy to stand, he simply shouted,
"Yeah?"
"Richard? It's Geoff. May I come in?"
He bolted up, spilling the whiskey down his legs. "Uh, sir, I'm not feeling
so, uh& can you give me a little time, say thirty minutes, and I'll meet you
in the wardroom?"
"This can't wait."
Bellegarde threw his head back and chuckled. Screw getting a fleet. Screw it
all. He would open the door and let the truth pour out. He got to his feet,
but the deck rose and fell as though he stood on a seafaring vessel. He
reached out to brace himself with the hand that gripped the whiskey bottle. He
struck air once, twice, a third time before he lost his grip on the bottle and
sent it crashing to the floor. At least it hadn't broken.
"Richard, are you all right?"
"I'm perfect," he said, then stumbled to the hatch and beat a fist on the
control panel.
Admiral Tolwyn marched in, looking neither surprised nor disgusted by
Bellegarde's swagger and stench. His inspection took all of two seconds, then
he crossed to Bellegarde's desk, slid out the chair, and took a seat. As
usual, the admiral carried himself with an unyielding enthusiasm that seemed
hot-wired to a reactor. In fact, Bellegarde had never seen the man in off-duty
utilities. Even now, on his own time, Tolwyn wore his operations uniform, the
large buttons running down his breasts reminding Bellegarde of what
Confederation Naval officers were supposed to look like. He glanced down at
his own bare, Scotch-covered form, then mustered a wan smile. "You caught me."
The admiral shook his head. "These are your quarters, and you're free to do
as you please while off duty, providing that it doesn't affect your
performance. To this day, your drinking has had no bearing on your work. But
take it from a man who's been there you can't go on like this for much
longer."
"I know that. I keep telling myself that. And I keep discovering that
nothing's real anymore."
"The Navy's real. And she'll rarely let you down."
"Why don't I believe that?"
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