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command of the wing: plenty of work, reports, plans, forms, and requisitions to be filled out, but precious little chance to know the rest of the crew.
    Chief Coriolis was Gold Squadron's senior crew chief, and as such led the team of technical experts who maintained Thunderbolt 300, the fighter set aside for Blair's use. She was young — not yet thirty — and attractive, though her customary baggy coveralls and the inevitable layer of dirt and grime streaking her clothes and face tended to obscure her beauty. According to her personnel file, she was a competent technician with an excellent service record. Blair hoped she would live up to those reports.
    "Colonel," she said, straightening as he approached. "They say you're taking this patrol yourself. Your bird's just about ready."
    "Good," Blair responded.
    "Kinda strange seeing the big brass flying a routine patrol, though," she continued, apparently not affected by rank or seniority. "I don't think I ever saw Colonel Dulbrunin fly anything short of a full all-fighters magnum launch."
    "I'm not Dulbrunin," Blair told her. "I like to get a few hours of flight time as often as possible, so don't be surprised if you discover that my bird needs more servicing than you planned."
    She gave a nod in satisfaction. "Glad to hear it, skipper. Your predecessor knew how to fly a console well enough, a top-notch administrator. But I like pilots who fly the real thing. Know what I mean?" She cocked her head to one side. "Are you really taking on Hobbes as your wingman?"
    "You got a problem with that, Chief?" Blair growled.
    "No, sir," the technician said, shaking her head. "I say it's about jolly well time. That cat's one hell of a good pilot, and I'm glad to see him back on the roster."
    Blair studied her for a long moment, then gave an approving nod. "Glad to hear it, Chief," he said, warming to her. At least there was someone on the flight deck who appreciated Ralgha nar Hhallas. Her praise sounded sincere. Rachel Coriolis struck him as the kind of tech who judged a pilot on how he handled his fighter, not on superficial things like species or background. "So . . . give me a status report on my bird."
    Using a remote, she switched on a set of viewscreens filled with data readouts on the fighter. "Here she is one Thunderbolt; prepped, primed, locked, and loaded . . . and ready to kick some serious ass out there."
    Blair studied the data display for a few moments then gave an approving nod. "Looks good, Chief," he finally said. "What about the ordinance?"
    "All taken care of, skipper. The Captain downloaded the mission specs while you boys were finishing your briefing. I doped out the weapons requirements and loaded her. You're all set for this one.
    Blair frowned. "Better let me review the load, Chief," he said slowly.
    "Typical," she said, calling up the ordinance display on one of the monitors. "You flyboys just don't think anybody else knows what you're going to need out there."
    He checked the weapons mix, then reluctantly nodded. "Looks good enough," he admitted.
    "Maybe next time you'll trust your Auntie Rachel with the loadout, huh, skipper?" She gave him a quick smile. "I promise you, Colonel, I'll never disappoint you."
    "I'll bet you won't," he said. Blair took a last look at the fighter stats then turned toward the door. It was time to launch.
    "Good luck, skipper," the technician said, "and Godspeed."
    He left Flight Control and took the elevator to the next level down, emerging on the main hangar deck in the midst of a confusion of people and machines engaged in the familiar purposeful chaos of pre-launch operations. Hobbes was already there, with his helmet on but his faceplate open. "Fighters up, Colonel," he said seriously. "Ready to fly."
    "Then let's get out there," Blair responded, lifting his own helmet and settling it over his head carefully. His flight suit and gauntlets made the motion awkward, but Hobbes helped him get seated and dogged down. A pair of