Fighters landed on their carriers one by one as the guide officers directed.
But set against the tide of them at setting out,
they came in thin and scattered now.
Some carriers waited a long while for a single fighter to land.
The general's fighter landed safely too.
Because of who he was, his landing was naturally given priority.
The fighter came slowly down on the lift platform.
Its hull was unmarked.
But its missiles were spent.
That was because he had fired them in the last stage, covering the withdrawal of Zhao Chen's people.
Given who he was, no one would have agreed to let him take risks.
Had that last covering action carried any danger, he would have had no chance to fire them.
"General!"
In the hangar a body of people had been waiting for his return.
The general climbed down from his fighter.
But paid his waiting subordinates no attention.
"Where is Zhao Chen's fighter?" the general asked outright.
At the question, the waiting officers were dumbfounded.
Why should the general suddenly care about this pilot named Zhao Chen?
"Why does no one speak?" The general frowned at them.
Someone came to himself, looked it up, and reported: "Zhao Chen's Eighteenth Squadron was assigned to land in combat hangar 8."
Without waiting for more, the general set off for hangar 8.
They all followed.
And soon they noticed a strange thing.
Namely that any pilot landing who learned they were going to find Zhao Chen fell in behind them.
Even the wounded, with no more than a rough dressing, came along,
unless they had truly fainted and could not walk.
In no time, they were following the general by hundreds and by thousands.
A stranger would have thought some Alliance dignitary had come to inspect.
And when they reached hangar 8, they found to their surprise that a crowd had gathered there long since.
"Make way. Make way." A subordinate, quick to serve, went ahead to move people aside.
Those being moved were annoyed at first, but seeing the general.
They stood aside meekly.
One senior officer, seeing it, noticed that those gathered were not only the Eighteenth Squadron, nor even only the Third Flight Group.
There were other flight groups too.
Even the Fifth Flight Group, said to be on bad terms with the Third and bound to it by a wager before the battle, had sent no few.
Strange.
Why should all these people gather here?
And why should the general insist on coming here first of all to see Zhao Chen?
What on earth had happened on that battlefield?
Those who did not know the truth were full of the question.
At last,
everyone present fell quiet.
For a fighter they all knew was coming slowly down on the lift platform.
Gold striping on the hull.
None other than Zhao Chen's craft.
Under everyone's eyes, Zhao Chen's canopy opened.
Zhao Chen stood and took off his helmet.
And looked at the crowd gathered in the hangar.
Whip.
Suddenly they all saluted him,
out of reverence and gratitude from the heart.
Reverence for how Zhao Chen had shown in this battle, that flying, that astonishing command of a fighter force.
Gratitude for the benefits he had won them; they had come back safe, but their comrades who had not.
Would all have that good fortune.
And gratitude, too, that he had brought them home.
Zhao Chen climbed down from his fighter in silence.
Helmet in one hand, he walked quietly forward.
The crowd parted to make him a path.
Then a group ahead did not move aside.
Zhao Chen raised his head and saw the general and his senior officers.
"General, I am rather tired. If there is business, may we speak of it later?" Zhao Chen said flatly.
The general was taken aback, then nodded. "You have indeed had a hard time of it. Rest well; if you need anything, report it straight to the bridge. When you have rested, come to the bridge and find me."
As he spoke, he handed Zhao Chen a crystal card bearing the Alliance's mark.
"With this card you may go anywhere on this ship."
Zhao Chen did not stand on ceremony, and took it.
The general stepped quietly aside and made Zhao Chen a path.
The other senior officers, though startled that the general should give way himself, followed suit since he had.
And were all the more curious now about what had happened out there.
Zhao Chen said nothing, and walked quietly out.
He went to the Eighteenth Squadron's ready room.
Zhao Chen walked in.
He raised his head and looked around the room.
Whip.
Thirteen had already returned; seeing their leader come in, they stood at once and saluted.
"Squadron Leader."
"Sit," Zhao Chen said.
Then sat down himself, facing the door, as though waiting for something.
After that, every returning member of the Eighteenth Squadron saluted him on coming in, then went quietly to his place.
More and more seats filled.
But against the empty ones, they were thin all the same.
"Squadron Leader… everyone… is present," a voice said at Zhao Chen's ear.
Only then did Zhao Chen come to himself; he looked at this deputy he had appointed.
"And Old Li?"
"Deputy Leader Li… was killed." The deputy bowed his head, holding back his grief.
Zhao Chen said nothing, and drew a deep breath.
He stood and went to the front.
"Everyone, to your places. We begin the roll."
The roll call is, in most squadrons, a thing that may as well be skipped; it happens that a man's fighter shows destroyed on the roster while the man himself withdrew safely.
But most squadron leaders do not mind that; a 'dead' member need only report himself.
"Li Da." Zhao Chen read the first name.
The room was utterly silent.
Zhao Chen was just about to read the next.
"Here!"
Several members answered at once.
Zhao Chen raised his head and looked at them.
Then went on: "Pan Sheng."
After a moment's silence,
the whole room answered in one voice.
"Here!"
After that, as each name was called, either one man answered, or a crowd of them did.