Wing Commander Pilgrim Stars Chapter 7

Chapter 7
Book	Wing Commander Pilgrim Stars
Parts	3
Previous	Chapter 6
Next	Chapter 8
Pages	66-75

Dramatis Personae

	Part 1	Part 2	Part 3
POV	William Santyana	Amity Aristee	Richard Bellegarde
Speaking	Pris Santyana Lacey Santyana	Hawthorne Johan McDaniel	Geoffrey Tolwyn Wilks
Non-Speaking	Unnamed Guards (2)
Mentioned	Amity Aristee Ivar Chu McDaniel	Ivar Chu McDaniel Carver Tsu the Second	Arnold Blair Christopher "Pilgrim" Blair Sandra Gregarov Sivar

Text

VEGA SECTOR, DAY QUADRANT

CS OLYMPUS

MIDPOINT LAFAYETTE AND TAMAYO SYSTEMS

2654.082

1430 HOURS CONFEDERATION STANDARD TIME

Part One

William Santyana swore at the two Pilgrim Marine guards who had escorted him from the flight deck to his quarters, then he slammed the hatch in their faces. He entered the main living area and threw his helmet at the viewport. It bounced off the Plexi and hit the floor with a clang that sent Lacey running into the room. "Daddy?" The three-year-old looked at the helmet. "Why'd you throw that?"

     "Daddy's just mad, honey. That's all."

     "Will?" Pris appeared in the narrow corridor that led to the bedroom. She wore a white robe made of a fabric that resembled silk, though it lacked the luster. Pictorial symbols Santyana recognized as Pilgrim "storicals" had been stitched into the hem, sleeves, and collar of the robe, forming an ornate, multicolored border. The storicals told stories about the first Pilgrims and had been modeled after Egyptian hieroglyphs. "Well, they finally got us some clothes," Pris said.

     Only then did he realize that Lacey wore an identical robe that perfectly fit her tiny frame. He hunkered down to the little girl. "Do you like that robe?"

     She nodded. "The nice lady gave it to me."

     "Well, you'll have to take it off." He looked to Pris. "And you, too."

     "But we don't have any other clean clothes. Unless you'd like your daughter to run around naked. They gave us these robes, we'll wear them. You will, too. Besides, the woman who dropped them off said they're made of ko'a'ka; it's supposed to have a calming effect on the central nervous system. I do feel more at peace now."

     "That's funny, considering the war this bitch is waging."

     Pris tipped her head toward Lacey. "Watch your language."

     He exhaled loudly, stood, and massaged his temples. "She made me fly against Confederation fighters. They lost an entire squadron when we jumped."

     "You told me."

     "And now she's got me flying patrols."

     "You told me that, too." She came to him, buried her head in his shoulder. "Stop thinking about it. Just do what she says. Please, Will. For Lacey's sake. We can deal with this. We can. I'm starting to understand these people."

     He gripped her shoulders, shifted her back. "How?"

     "They took us to a meeting today."

     Chills fanned across his shoulders. "What kind of meeting?"

     "They called it a con-crit session. Five or six of them were there. I think they were civilians; I'm not sure. It wasn't weird or cultic or anything. Just a distorted history class, biased to be sure, but interesting in that they really go to extremes to illustrate Confederation atrocities. They put on this little play. Actually, they're really good actors. Told the story of the Peron Massacre, the exodus to McDaniel's World, and their exile after the alliance fell. They said today is the Holy Day of Acclivity. And did you know that some of their ancestors used to live on ring stations? The ones who lived closest to the hull had trouble having children. The embryos had mutated and weren't allowed to come to term. They called it Space Syndrome Mutation. Did you know that it was from those mutations that their powers of navigation emerged?"

     "I know all about the reports and the book of Ivar Chu McDaniel," he answered disgustedly. "He's the fanatic who started all of this. Probably bought it in some gravity well, but now he's a deity. My parents made me memorize the story. He headed out to the Sirius system with twelve hundred followers and was translated directly to a higher plane of existence. He directs us from there. What a crock."

     "It's not any more far-fetched than some of the stories you'll find in the Bible."

     "You're defending them?"

     "No, I just think that if we're stuck here, we might as well get to know our enemy. And maybe they're not really the enemy. They're just misguided. And, when it comes down to it, they're who you are."

     He crossed to the narrow, thinly padded sofa and collapsed on it. "They kill six million people--and they're just misguided? Wait a minute. I get it now. You want to know more about them because you think you'll learn more about me. Well, you won't. I'm not them. I'm a retired Confederation officer who just happened to be born into the wrong family."

     She stood over him, lip twisted in anger. "Maybe I wouldn't be so curious if you talked about it. But you won't. We've been together for more than five years and I hardly know anything about your past. It's not fair."

     "Mommy? Can you play with me?"

     Pris's expression softened as she regarded Lacey. "Okay, honey. We'll play that game on the terminal." She took Lacey's hand and led her toward the bedroom, their robes fluttering behind them.

     Santyana closed his eyes. His imagination swept him into visions of Pris and Lacey being drugged or cerebrally altered by the Pilgrims, being turned into stereotypical cultists blind to the injustices and atrocities committed by their "broturs" and "sosturs." Yes, they would become Sostur Pris, Sostur Lacey, and Brotur William, and they would subscribe to the notion that Terrans had plundered known space and needed to be eradicated.

     They would pad around in their robes, drink and eat the Pilgrims' "sanctified" offerings, and fall blithely to their deaths in an act of spiritual servitude. He shivered off the thought, then imagined himself taking his Rapier head on toward the Olympus's bridge. Amity Aristee would stone up in horror as his neutron cannon belched out a lethal spray a second before he tore through the command and control center. His funeral pyre would consume them all. But even if Aristee died, she might have standing orders to have Pris and Lacey killed. There had to be another way out. But they kept him so closely guarded. He needed a plan to smuggle his family off of the ship.

     If he only had an ally. There had to be someone aboard whose loyalty faltered. Yes, that was it. Instead of ignoring the rest of his squadron, he would talk to them, probe for weakness, exploit it, and win a soul or two to his side. They were Pilgrims, but they suffered the same frailties as humans. He would play on their guilt, on their instinct toward self-preservation, and even on their egos. How many others had families they might never see again? How many others questioned Aristee's actions? How many others were motivated by fear instead of duty? How many others saw no future in serving a renegade? Santyana swore he would find out.

Part Two

"Talk to me, Brotur Hawthorne," Aristee said, staring at the comm monitor.

     Hawthorne, the Olympus's forty-five-year-old hopper drive control officer, gazed back at her, his woolly hair gone awry, his unshaven face drawn up in a look of sheer frustration. "We're still having containment problems, ma'am."

     "How much longer?"

     "We've been working on it around the clock. I can't give you an accurate estimate."

     Her jaw stiffened. "Let me spell it out for you. If we don't jump by oh-seven-thirty tomorrow, the Tiger Claw, Oregon, and Mitchell Hammock will arrive. Don't underestimate their ability to track us."

     "I'm not. We're doing everything we can. At least modifications to the drive are proceeding as scheduled. We should be able to extend the gravitic cloak from five hundred meters to at least thirteen kilometers, as you ordered. However, a cloak that size will pull in many more objects than usual, and I'm not sure how well the drive's AI will compensate for the increased number of distortions. We'll have to test it, and we'll need Frotur McDaniel's help."

     "As long as we keep moving, we'll have time for that. Continue updating me hourly."

     "Yes, ma'am."

     "Was that my name I heard?"

     Aristee turned away from the starboard observation station to meet gazes with Frotur Johan McDaniel, the last living descendant of Ivar Chu McDaniel. The frotur's hazel eyes seemed to light up his surroundings, and they took no exception with the bridge. Attired now in his ko'a'ka robe and sandals, he resembled a pool-bound vacationer who had taken a very wrong turn. But when the next hour chimed, every soul aboard would shed the old Confederation skins of slavery and don the ceremonial garments of a new age. And the timing could not be better: this was the Pilgrim Holy Day of Acclivity, the day that marked Ivar Chu's rise to become one with the space-time continuum. Some argued that he resided on an even higher plane incomprehensible to mortal minds. Aristee had always leaned more toward pragmatic explanations, toward theology born of science, toward a blurring of those lines. She smiled now at the frotur with a deep, heartfelt reverence, with a love that transcended anything she had ever felt for her parents--both traitors to the Pilgrim cause. "Brotur Hawthorne says he might need your assistance with the hopper drive."

     "I'm a visionary, a navigator, and a compass--but I'm still eighty-one years old. I wish these youngsters would remember that. I feel as though everyone aboard needs my help. But I'm not bitter. Just tired. I'm not used to this kind of excitement."

     "These are exciting days. I'm not sure if they'll ever live up to my dreams, but if nothing else, we will make a statement that humanity will never forget."

     "We won't survive this."

     "Of course not. And we'll never be able to spare every Pilgrim life. This new rebellion requires our sacrifice. I'm not resigned to that. I welcome it."

     "Destroying Earth won't bring an end to the Confederation," he pointed out somberly.

     "No, but it will demonstrate our power and renew our people. They won't hide anymore behind post-war edicts that are no longer valid. We'll head to McDaniel's World, continue staffing this ship, and take aboard as many as we can. Then we'll head to Aloysius. I have friends waiting for us there with supplies and more personnel."

     "We shouldn't go to McDaniel. It's not safe."

     She took his hand in her own. "Frotur, what's wrong?"

     He lowered his gaze, thought a moment, then nodded. "I've grown quite fond of you. I don't want to lose you just yet. It's in your nature to listen to the crackling of that flame that burns so hotly inside you. I did the same. But if you want to bring our people home to a free universe, you have to live long enough to create that symbol of our power. I know why you want to go to McDaniel. You want the protur's blessing for what you're doing so that when you make the ultimate sacrifice, you'll assure your place in the continuum."

     Amity had known the frotur all of her life. Her parents had been friends with him until they had turned their backs during the war. When they had been killed for their treason against the alliance, the frotur had made sure that Amity was placed in the loving care of foster parents who had raised her under Confederation colors and had attempted to instill in her Confederation ideals. But frequent visits from the frotur had kept her Pilgrim roots thriving. Even when she had first joined the Confederation Navy, she had done so with the dream of one day liberating her people. And all of these years later, the dream was finally unfolding. She had not hidden her dream from the frotur, nor could she hide anything else. He always saw what lay in her heart.

     "I'll ask for his blessing," she told him. "And he'll give it."

     "Or what? He'll die?"

     She huffed and turned toward the viewport. Starlines wove baroque patterns as the supercruiser cut through space, but she barely saw them. She saw the frotur come down from his altar, lower his hood, and condemn everything for which she stood. "I'll ask for his blessing. I need it. It'll be another symbol for our people."

     "I don't believe he'll give it. He's been influenced by too many who fought in the old war. That blood is still fresh on their hands. They don't want another." He approached from behind, slid an arm over her shoulders. "Dear Amity, I wish my blessing could be enough. But I've always been a rebel, and despite my name, my blessing hardly constitutes a symbol. I'm the trouble-making McDaniel. The blasphemer. The last. Hallelujah."

     He had drawn her smile, though she still felt very young, very vulnerable, and charged with the desire to get that blessing— though there existed more than one way to get it. "I'm sorry, frotur. As dangerous as it may be, I have to go to McDaniel. I have to try. I should've gone there first and gotten his blessing before any of this began. ButWilson 's failure came so quickly. And we desperately needed those people from Mylon and Lethe. There just wasn't time."

     "In this existence, there never is enough time. Oh, how I look forward to life in the continuum. It'll be my revenge for all of those lost hours. Come now. Let's get something to eat. The Sosturs of Promise have prepared a feast in the officer's dining room."

     "I'm not hungry," Amity said. "But I'll come anyway."

Part Three

Commodore Richard Bellegarde bit his lower lip as he watched four squadrons of the Concordia's fighters and a squadron of Broadsword bombers soar away from the ship, vectoring toward the Sivar-class dreadnought and three Fralthi-class cruisers at coordinates just two kilometers ahead. The Concordia had jumped into the Ymir system forty minutes ago to assist the CS Beacontree, a Bengal-class strike carrier that had been closest to the trouble zone. Tolwyn had sent the Beacontree to Ymir with orders to simply stall the Kilrathi until the Concordia and her battle group jumped in. Odd thing was, the Beacontree had arrived nearly twenty-four hours ago, and the Kilrathi had yet to make a move. They hovered between the third and fourth planets of the system, on the periphery of an asteroid belt. And they had remained there since their own arrival, over thirty-six hours ago.

     "Now we blow them back to Sivar," Tolwyn said, beating a fist into a palm. He stood, gave a cursory glance of the wide bridge, then joined Bellegarde near the viewport. "They ought to bloody well know the penalty for trespassing."

     "Either way, we'll teach it to them," Bellegarde added.

     "Any news from Nephele?"

     "Not since the last report. The Bedford Falls and the Tricaliber should be able to hold their own. But like these cats, the Kilrathi in that system are just sniffing around."

     "Here's what I think, Richard. The emperor learned of the attack on Mylon. Of course he also lost a couple of destroyers out near K'n'Rek to the Olympus. So now he's thinking that Pilgrims are responsible, since Mylon is Confederation territory. He sends out two battle groups to attack Ymir and Nephele, but then he realizes that if he starts these two battles, he'll have to finish them. And I think he lacks the resources to do that. So he gets cold feet. Sends them in here anyway to gather what intelligence they can and deploy cloaked spy satellites. Now, if you mark my words, reports will come in from our fighters that the Kilrathi are in retreat, headed toward the jump point." Tolwyn craned his neck and looked to the radar station. "Mr. Abrams?"

     "Our fighters are still pursuing the battle group, sir. The Kilrathi have altered course. Looks they're headed to the jump point."

     Bellegarde shook his head in mild astonishment. "When will you teach me that trick?"

     "It's no trick. Just think like a pack hunter. Now if our squadrons continue to pursue, they could be ambushed by one, perhaps two destroyers that broke off from the main battle group. Mr. Wilks? Give the order for recall."

     The comm officer nodded. "All fighters return to base, aye-aye, sir."

     "You see, Richard, despite the emperor's cold feet, he wants us to know that he has these battle groups within jump range. Call it posturing, but it does humble the more keen strategist."

     "Do you think he knows about the Olympus?"

     "Yes, and if I know the Kilrathi, the battle group commander whose ships were lost has sworn an oath to find her--"

     "Which makes this even more precarious."

     Tolwyn gave a sober nod. "If the Kilrathi find the Olympus before we do, then pray that they annihilate her. If they recover that hopper drive, well...."

     "This new war against the Pilgrims is more about that drive than about ideology. I'd like to know more about this drive and our knowledge of its inception."

     "Sorry, Richard. This one's compartmentalized. Orders came down directly from the space marshal. I've told you all that I can. But I am working on something of my own. When I can tell you more, I will."

     "Admiral? Data relay coming in from a drone dispatched in the Tartarus system," Comm Officer Wilks reported. "It's from the Tiger Claw."

     "Decrypt and transfer to my station," Tolwyn said, then hurried to his command chair.

     Bellegarde swung the admiral's small data screen up and into place, then shifted for a look himself. The text-only report detailed the Claw's encounter with the Olympus at Lethe. Bellegarde muttered a "whoa" as he scanned the casualty list. Then, in the final summary, a familiar name jumped out at him, and even the admiral tapped his finger on the letters.

     "Well, well, well. Young Lieutenant Blair is back at it again," Tolwyn said. "I'd almost forgotten there was another Pilgrim on board the Claw. It seems that young man saved his squadron and discovered the Olympus's jump target."

     "I know how you feel about him, sir. And about his father. But we are talking about Pilgrims here."

     "Honestly, Richard, he's not the one I'm worried about ..."