Wing Commander Pilgrim Stars Chapter 1: Difference between revisions

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(Created page with "{{infobox Novel Chapter |faction = terran |title = Prologue |image = image:pilgrimstars.jpg |book = Wing Commander Pilgrim Stars |parts = |previous = |next = Chapter One |pages = x-xvi }} == Dramatis Personae == * Covum nar Caxki (Gold Claw Three) * Flight Captain Torshk nar Caxki (Gold Claw Leader) * Flight Leader Norj'ach (Black Claw Leader) * Gold Claw Five * Gold Claw Four * Gold Claw Seven...")
 
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{{infobox Novel Chapter
{{infobox Novel Chapter
|faction = terran
|faction = terran
|title = Prologue
|title = Chapter 1
|image = image:pilgrimstars.jpg
|image = image:pilgrimstars.jpg
|book = [[Wing Commander Pilgrim Stars]]
|book = [[Wing Commander Pilgrim Stars]]
|parts =  
|parts = 2
|previous =  
|previous = [[Wing Commander Pilgrim Stars Prologue|Prologue]]
|next = [[Wing Commander Pilgrim Stars Chapter One|Chapter One]]
|next = [[Wing Commander Pilgrim Stars Chapter 2|Chapter 2]]
|pages = x-xvi
|pages = 1-14
}}
}}


== Dramatis Personae ==
== Dramatis Personae ==


* [[Covum nar Caxki]] (Gold Claw Three)
{| class="wikitable"
* [[Flight Captain Torshk nar Caxki]] (Gold Claw Leader)
|-
* [[Flight Leader Norj'ach]] (Black Claw Leader)
!
* [[Gold Claw Five]]
! Part 1
* [[Gold Claw Four]]
! Part 2
* [[Gold Claw Seven]]
|-
* [[Gold Claw Six]]
! POV
* [[Gold Claw Three]]
|valign=top|
* [[J'talc of the Kur'u'tak]] (mentioned)
[[Christopher Blair|Christopher "Pilgrim" Blair]]
* [[Kalralahr Bokoth nar Kiranka]] (mentioned)
|valign=top|
* [[Sh'ahte nar Caxki]] (Dark Eye)
[[Christopher Blair|Christopher "Pilgrim" Blair]]
* [[Sivar]] (mentioned)
|-
! Speaking
|valign=top|
[[Jeanette Deveraux|Jeanette "Angel" Deveraux]]<br>
[[Paul Gerald]]<br>
[[Todd Marshall|Todd "Maniac" Marshall]]<br>
[[Adam Polanski|Adam "Bishop" Polanski]]<br>
[[Elise Rolitov|Elise "Zarya" Rolitov]]
|valign=top|
[[Jeanette Deveraux|Jeanette "Angel" Deveraux]]<br>
[[Paul Gerald]]<br>
[[Todd Marshall|Todd "Maniac" Marshall]]<br>
[[Adam Polanski|Adam "Bishop" Polanski]]<br>
[[Ian St. John|Ian "Hunter" St. John]]<br>
[[Peterson]]<br>
[[Raznick]]<br>
"[[Gangsta]]"
|-
! Non-Speaking
|valign=top|
[[Sachin "Cheddarboy" Rapalski|Sachin Rapalski]]<br>
[[Ian "Hunter" St. John|Ian St. John]]<br>
"[[Gangsta]]"<br>
"[[Sinatra]]"
|valign=top|
[[Mackey]]<br>
[[Sachin Rapalski|Sachin "Cheddarboy" Rapalski]]<br>
[[Elise Rolitov|Elise "Zarya" Rolitov]]<br>
"[[Sinatra]]"<br>
Unnamed Ordnance Specialists (2)
|-
! Mentioned
|valign=top|
[[Rosalind Forbes|Rosalind "Sassy" Forbes]]<br>
[[Geoffrey Tolwyn]]<br>
[[Devi Soulsong]]
|valign=top|
[[Rosalind Forbes|Rosalind "Sassy" Forbes]]<br>
[[Joseph Khumelo|Joseph "Knight" Khumelo]]<br>
[[Tanaka Mariko|Tanaka "Spirit" Mariko]]
|-
|}


== Text ==
== Text ==
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{{infobox wcm
{{infobox wcm
|line1 = VEGA SECTOR, <BR>DOWNING QUADRANT
|line1 = VEGA SECTOR, <BR>DOWNING QUADRANT
|line3 = NEAR THE KILRATHI<BR>BORDER
|line2 = CS <i>TIGER CLAW</i>
|line4 = 2654.079
|line3 = EN ROUTE TO MYLON<BR>SYSTEM JUMP POINT<BR>2654.079
|line5 = 1100 HOURS<BR>IMPERIAL STANDARD<BR>TIME
|line4 = 1340 HOURS<BR>CONFEDERATION<BR>STANDARD TIME
}}
}}


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Flight Captain Torshk nar Caxki drew in a long breath of nutrient gas, felt his whiskers brush annoyingly against the inside of his helmet, then shifted his head to fix tawny eyes on the void that enveloped his Dralthi fighter. Four plastisteel talons extended from the wings of his craft like burnished spikes threatening to impale any ship or sentient who dared venture into Kilrathi territory. For the moment, though, there were no trespassers, and Torshk predicted that he and the rest of Gold and Black Claw Squadrons would not engage in battle any time soon. Their task force of two Ralari-class destroyers and a Thrakhra-class ConCom ship had been ordered to break off from the <i>Shak'Ar'Roc</i> battle group to perform a routine border patrol. If Torshk had his way, they would be penetrating Confederation space and attacking Confederation ships, not sniveling like lowborns on their side of the fence. But Torshk knew he must obey his orders without question, focus on the strongest threat if one miraculously presented itself, and respond to any challenge. Yes, he understood the Kilrathi social constructs that dictated his behavior, but a blood frenzy simmered within, one that would soon reach a boil.
=== Part One ===


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Reports had come in of Kalralahr Bokoth's death, and Torshk found it difficult to believe that the emperor had not ordered a retaliatory strike on the Confederation. Bokoth had been one of the empire's most revered admirals and a member of the imperial house. He had taken the famed super-dreadnought KIS <i>Grist'Ar'Roc</I> into Vega Sector, had destroyed the Confederation's Pegasus Naval Station, and had managed to steal the station's Navcom AI, a computational system that would guide the Kilrathi through the Charybdis Quasar and directly to Earth. According to spy satellite reports, Bokoth's ship had reached the Sol system but had been brutally ambushed by a Confederation battle group. The hairless apes had taken Bokoth's life with, it now seemed, impunity. Though Torshk did not belong to Bokoth's clan, he felt the blow just as painfully. The emperor had already begun uniting the major noble clans of Kilrah, and Tor-shk's clan, the Caxki, had been one of the first to join the new imperial alliance. Before scrambling for the patrol, Torshk had discussed his frustration with the rest of his squadron. They understood his rage and had tried to quell it by reminding him of the rumors that Bokoth's ship may have been destroyed by a grav-ity well and that the admiral's plan to attack Earth relied upon his trust in a human traitor, a human who belonged to an ancient and strange clan of humans called Pilgrims. Torshk refused to believe that one as highborn as Bokoth could make such an error. He shook his pale head and bared fangs as a hiss rose from his gut. <i>No, Bokoth. You did not dishonor the imperial house. You died a warrior's death and your soul shall find solace in Sivar's hand.</i>
Lieutenant Christopher Blair sat in the <i>Tiger Claw</i>'s flight wing briefing room, arms folded over his chest, a definite smirk forming on his clean-shaven face as he listened to Lieutenant Todd "Maniac" Marshall wax evangelic about his piloting prowess to Elise "Zarya" Rolitov, a slim dove recently assigned to the 88th Fighter Wing, First Squadron. "And we didn't just come in hot, honey. We came in hot <i>and</i> inverted."
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Swallowing a bitter tang, Torshk toggled on his tactical display as a diversion from his introspection. A schematic of the task force appeared on the screen. The two destroyers glided directly overhead, their cylindrical hulls and stubby prows affirming their battering power. Rotating sensor dishes and an array of imperial satellite link antennae crowned T-shaped super-structures whose viewports appeared as silhouettes since the ships operated in stealth mode. Above the destroyers hung the ConCom ship, a command and communications vessel with a hull design that reminded Torshk of his own Dralthi. Shoots of sharp-edged plastisteel extended amidships, curved forward, and reached well past the bow like Koractu swords. A lone portside wing jutted out and supported two hardpoints for six ship-to-planet missiles that should have been replaced by ship-to-ship missiles, but departure orders had allowed no time for that. The ConCom probed the area of operations with powerful, long-range sensors, searching for electromagnetic emissions and for sudden releases of photons and neutrinos--part of any invading ship's post-jump residuum. Torshk doubted they would pick up anything. "Gold Claw Leader to Dark Eye. Report on contacts."


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The ConCom's communications officer, Sh'ahte nar Caxki, peeled back his gray lips, and the thick fold of skin on his brow lowered in fury. "Gold Claw Leader, you have disobeyed the order for silence."
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Blair lifted his smirk in Maniac's direction, but the blonde braggadocio's gaze held tight on Zarya, who made matters worse by returning an expression of awe, tugging fingers through her short, auburn hair, and fidgeting in her seat. That kind of body language would propel Maniac to newfound heights of lust and conceit. Blair bolted to his feet and crossed a few chairs down to face Zarya. He raised his voice over the other five pilots jabchatting around them. "What he won't tell you is that he nearly mowed down the deck boss while pulling that stunt. Take it from me, Lieutenant. If you want to keep out of trouble, keep away from this guy."


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Torshk narrowed his eyes and took several long breaths. "There are no contacts, are there?"
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Zarya cocked a slender brow. "Trouble is what we're about, Lieutenant"--she read his nametag--"Blair."


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Break transmission now."
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He could live with the retort, but they had already met, and she had not remembered his name. "Maniac here deals in a particular brand of trouble that will get you booted off this ship before you've finished checking in."


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Extending a serrated nail through a slot in his gauntlet, Torshk flicked a toggle and broke the signal. <i>We cower here like boryangee!</i> He summoned an image of the frail, hairy creature that often raided the garbage heaps on Kilrah, then glanced side-long at Covum nar Caxki, a cousin two years his junior who flew the Dralthi at his wing. Covum bowed his head, but Torshk could sense that the younger warrior did not approve of his pub-lic display of frustration.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She nodded. "I'll take my chances."


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;How could so many of Torshk's clan deny who they were? Descended from predators, from pack hunters, the Kilrathi peo-ple were not prone to lying in wait without a plan to attack. Were his clansmen able to suppress their instincts? He doubted that. Did they know something that he did not? He would chal-lenge all who concealed information from him. His growl con-firmed that thought.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Maniac smiled tightly, eyes aglow in the fire of a new ally with whom he intended to bump uglies. "Lady's got taste. Can't fault her there, Ace."


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Dark Eye to Gold Claw leader," the comm officer began excitedly, his wide, flat nose and bulbous eyes filling a monitor. "Photon and neutrino emissions detected. Uploading coordinates now."
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Ten-hut!" someone shouted.


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Torshk recoiled in a wave of surprise as quickly overcome by his tingling blood frenzy.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Lieutenant Commander Jeanette "Angel" Deveraux hustled into the room, stepped onto the dais, then moved behind the holograph control podium. "At ease. Give us another moment, people." She flipped nervously through pages on a clipboard and frowned.


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A Confederation attack.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Blair remained at attention, noting how Angel's long, wavy mane had been pulled into a bun and how the overhead lights cast her in a sheen that suggested her call sign. He imagined him-self close to her and reminisced on the moment he had nearly kissed her pouty lips. He felt the sudden urge to damn social convention and military regulations to hell, march up there, and take her. If nothing else, that would leave Maniac speechless. He sighed inwardly and continued to stare.


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;It had to be.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Yes, she looked well for a woman still recovering from frostbite and hypothermia. She had saved the <i>Tiger Claw</i> by destroying a Kilrathi Skipper missile, but her Rapier had been wrecked by the blast wave and she had ejected in her pod. Blair knew very well what it felt like to float powerless and adrift in space, waiting for the cold to take you.


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Now he would make the hairless apes pay for Bokoth's death. His laser cannons would light the path of revenge. He studied the coordinates scrolling down his navigation display, and the grooves in his cheeks deepened. A ship had jumped into the quadrant, but it had not followed any known jump path. In fact, the coordinates placed it within striking range of the K 'n' Rek system. He looked to his cousin. "Leader to Gold Claw Two. Break off from escort."
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A blow to the shoulder broke his thought. "Hey, lover," Maniac cooed, leaning in front of Zarya. "I see our squadron commander's up. Shouldn't you get her back into bed?"


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Covum throttled up and swept under the destroyers, toward the anitgraviton flux some twelve hundred grid points ahead. Twin thrusters dimmed into the void as Torshk watched his cousin advance.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Blair found his black look.


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Young Covum had twice proven his bravery. He had saved Torshk's life by destroying a Confederation Rapier fighter that Torshk had been unable to outmaneuver because of thruster damage. And he had accepted a challenge from J'talc of the Kur'u'tak clan. J'talc's jealousy had flared when Covum had received the Banner of Fa'orc'al, given by the emperor himself to the most courageous pilots. J'talc had felt that he deserved the banner. The killing rage had consumed both warriors, <i>vorshaki</i> dueling blades had flashed, and in minutes J'talc's blood had warmed the cold flight deck. Covum regretted the incident, but he had behaved honorably.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Maniac draped an arm over Zarya's shoulders. "He talks about me getting into trouble. Well, what if I told you that he and our dear squadron commander--"


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Torshk now felt apprehensive over sending out his cousin as decoy, despite the honor Covum would garner. The strategy of using a decoy had been born of instinct, born of ancient times when Kilrathi would dispatch one warrior to lure a pack of opposing clansmen. The pack would chase the lone warrior into a designated area, where they would fall prey to an ambush. Torshk stiffened in anticipation of Covum's rapid and safe return with the enemy in his wake. He considered opening a channel but thought better of it. <i>Patience.</i> There seemed little honor in that act. He squinted through the canopy and remained in that position for several minutes--
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Ten-hut!" Blair shouted as acting Captain Paul Gerald arrived, offered a curt nod, then headed for the dais.


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Until impatience overwhelmed him. He accelerated ahead of the destroyers, along Covum's vector.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Though Gerald's promotion remained unofficial until the paperwork came in, most officers had already taken to calling him by his new rank. Blair wouldn't go that far. Not yet. He called Gerald "sir." After all, the guy still hated Pilgrims, half-breeds, and Pilgrim sympathizers since fighting in the war against them. Blair's mother Devi Soulsong had been a Pilgrim. Blair couldn't change that. He didn't want to. Pilgrims might have originated as religious fanatics who saw themselves as the "elect," as the only humans destined for the stars, but the war had ended over twenty years ago, and most Pilgrims had peacefully rejoined Confederation society. Gerald simply had to get over the past. Admittedly, the man had confessed that he needed Blair, that he did respect Blair's skill as a pilot and had made him a command-approved wing commander, but that was as far as it went. There would never be any love lost between them. That was a shame. Blair could learn a lot from the man, but if Gerald continued to treat him indifferently, he would return the same.


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A pinpoint of reflected light birthed in the distance. Even as Torshk noted the speck, a proximity beacon wailed. The tactical display showed Covum's Dralthi headed toward him. Something huge trailed his cousin, and the targeting system had trouble identifying the contact. Fluctuating geometric patterns glowed and intertwined across the Heads Up Display. The image finally coalesced into the crimson schematic of a vessel shaped like a spearhead--a Concordia-class supercruiser. Six of its thirty point-defense missile stations had already launched ordnance in Covum's direction, while two of its tubes had opened to fire tor-pedoes at the ConCom ship two hundred meters above.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Have a seat," the captain said, wearing a new haircut to complement his new command. Gone were the dark curls in favor of a low maintenance flat top. He self-consciously patted his hair, then pursed his lips as the squadron settled in. "Our scheduled space dock has been delayed again." This to a chorus of moans as an opportunity for shore leave--once so close they could taste it--withered before the pilots' eyes. Even Blair, usually silent during such collective complaints, added his voice to the discord.


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Torshk stared at the oncoming supercruiser, rapt by the view, by the startling fact that it bore no insignia and traveled without escorts. Standard Confederation protocol called for supercruisers to be escorted by at least two destroyers and a cruiser or larger battleship. Transports, ship tenders, and resupply operators fre-quently accompanied the convoy.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"All right," Angel snapped.


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Gold Claw Leader? The prey comes!" Covum cried.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Our own Damage Control Crews will continue as scheduled," Gerald went on. "Yes, we're still licking our wounds from our last engagement with the Kilrathi, but this war won't wait for us, and I wanted to brief you myself because matters have grown, in a word, delicate. Admiral Tolwyn has ordered us to Mylon Three." He tapped a control on the podium, and a holograph of the Mylon system shimmered into view. Four planets orbited a medium-sized star that a data strip indicated was slightly more massive than Sol. The aforementioned third planet tossed up a verdant glow with jagged continents splayed like leather patches over its watery backdrop. "You can consult your data readers for more detailed information on Confed settlements there. According to a drone intercepted by the CS <i>Rigaria</i>, on zero-seven-seven at nineteen hundred hours local time an unmarked Confederation supercruiser launched a planet-wide attack."


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The tactical report showed the destroyers adjusting tack. They would make a series of intercept approaches, feinting until the last moment when they would increase thrust and spring on their catch.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Murmurs erupted.


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;But Torshk could not ignore the oddity of a supercruiser trav-eling alone through Kilrathi-held space. Had the ape in command lost his senses? If so, weren't there other apes aboard who knew better? Or was the rest of its battle group preparing to jump in behind it? A chill coiled up Torshk's spine as his gaze wandered over the cap ship's immense hull, past a few of the many torpedo tubes and the colossal antimatter guns mounted on the upper deck. His display reported the battleship's length at 855 meters, but he swore she was bigger. He stole a final look at her superstructure, rising several dozen meters from the deck like a durasteel volcano, then cocked his head as Covum's fighter darted by with a pair of missiles chewing through his thruster wash.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Lieutenant Adam "Bishop" Polanski, who sat to Blair's left, leaned forward, his expression of incredulity buckling the ragged scar on his cheek. "Sir, was the ship captured by the Kilrathi?"


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Torshk seized his control yoke and yawed to port, heading at full throttle toward his cousin, the supercruiser now rushing in behind him. "I will assist!"
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Maybe there was a mutiny," Zarya chipped in.


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The missiles tightened their gap on Covum's Dralthi as Tor-shk plowed through exhaust trails, activated his targeting computer, and centered his reticle over the starboard rocket. Meson fire leapt from his blasters, struck the rocket with accelerated subatomic particles that instantly decayed inside the missile and heaved a terrific internal explosion. Torshk roared through the fireball to glimpse the second missile--even as it tore into Covum's Dralthi.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Mutiny?" Polanski snickered. "No way."


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"For my <i>hrai</i> For my--" Covum released a strangled cry as his fighter blossomed into fire-licked wreckage.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Intelligence is still gathering data," Gerald said. "As it stands, we're the principal element of a Space Warning and Control Mission. Our Marine detachment will deploy to MyGov, the primary settlement's capital, while Black Lion Squadron will recon the area of operations, eliminating any unfriendliness or mines and searching for survivors."


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Torshk's howl rose from the core of his being and rang pierc-ingly through his helmet. Every sense registered the throbbing agony of his cousin's loss. Panting, he increased velocity and soared above the destroyers--just in time to watch the ConCom ship explode in a coppery mushroom of smoke and fleeting fire. Howling again, Torshk steered toward the five remaining Dralthi in his squadron. "Gold Claw Squadron! Standby to attack!"
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Sir. Just one squadron to recon the entire zone?" Blair asked. "With short-range sensors that could take hours, maybe days."


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Even as the destroyers shifted to port and fired a quartet of torpedoes at the supercruiser, Torshk reached the others and flew as the poisonous tip of a tight wedge formation. They swooped down toward the cap ship's bow. Torshk toggled off his missile safety and surveyed the targeting report in his HUD. The com-puter automatically selected the ship's most lethal points and pri-oritized the attack while simultaneously receiving data from Black Claw squadron's targeting computers. Torshk noted that the seven Dralthi fighters of Black Claw planned to concentrate fire on the ship's stern in an attempt to knock out ion engine con-trol. Since they would take out propulsion, his warriors would focus on weapons. "Claws Three and Four. You will target the forward guns. Claws Five, Six, and Seven will concentrate fire on torpedo stations."
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"I'm aware of that, Lieutenant. We'll be entering the system in stealth mode. Those people were just attacked by--for the sake of argument--a <i>Confederation</i> ship. The arrival of another Confed ship will alarm them. And there's a strike base on planet. If it hasn't been taken out, we could encounter SAM fire and elements of the nineteenth fighter wing."


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"She has not launched fighters, Gold Leader!" That from Gold Claw Three, whose voice bore an icy astonishment.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"We'll run three patrols on this one, Ladies," Angel said. "Bishop, Hunter, and Cheddarboy got point. Sinatra and Gangsta? You're with me. Maniac, Blair, and Zarya? You got reserve."


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"And where are her escorts?" Gold Claw Four added.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Maniac snorted.


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Two of the ship's antimatter guns pivoted toward them, bar-rels lifting.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Angel's gaze locked on. "Problem, Lieutenant Marshall?"


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;With widening eyes, Torshk gave the final order: "Break and attack!"
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"No, ma'am."


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Two Dralthi rolled away, dropping sharply in sixty-degree dives toward the guns. The other three cut hard to starboard and would skim along the hull, targeting torpedo stations and dis-patching missiles at point-blank range. Human blood would spill. Sivar would smile.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"I take it you'd rather fly point."


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;As Torshk eased his control stick forward and the targeting computer locked on to the cap ship's bridge, a beeping alarm diverted his attention to his tactical display. His gaze barely met the screen when the voice of Flight Leader Norj'ach of Black Claw squadron burst through the channel. "Torshk! Look at our destroyers!"
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Absolutely, ma'am."


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Squinting at his display, Torshk could not find the glimmering representations of the destroyers. He noted the tiny dots flitting about the supercruiser and the sudden appearance of an odd, cir-cular distortion positioned about eight hundred meters ahead of the cap ship. The thing's diameter measured nearly five hundred meters, though it fluctuated by several dozen meters along its perimeter. The report showed concentric yellow rings forming horizontal to the supercruiser and funneling down nearly three hundred meters to a solid point. A sidebar displayed something about "gravitic warping in progress." Torshk jerked back the stick, pulling into a high-G climb. He rolled to port and leveled off, taking in the view with his own eyes.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Which is exactly why you will remain close to the ship, in ready status. Showboaters call too much attention to themselves."


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The two destroyers' bows had dropped ninety degrees, and both were being dragged into a whirlpool of wavering gloom. Torshk switched to their comm channel and suddenly wished he hadn't. Once bold warriors now squealed in horror as their bat-tleships slowly broke into meter-sized fragments that hurtled toward the darkness amid tendrils of jettisoned gases and stream-ers of multicolored liquids. A powerful blow rocked Torshk's Dralthi and drowned out the comm channel. Thrown forward, he suddenly found himself barreling toward the abyss. He reversed thrust, and the engines whined against an overwhelming force. Reports from his comrades echoed distantly in his headset, voices smearing into each other:
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Yes, ma'am." Maniac bit his lower lip, and Blair read the curse balanced there.


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Gold Leader? Praise it has to Sivar me! Can home now come to see honor by for clan be so the Lord and this die for blood to can for truth Sivar and know what heart is me in for..."
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"If we do encounter resistance, you will <i>not</i> engage," Gerald said. "We're going there to bandage the wound—not rub salt in it."


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The supercruiser passed swiftly below Torshk's fighter. He braced his control stick with both paws and watched the ship draw close to the gravity well's perimeter. <i>We embrace in death! Sivar grants justice this day !</i>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Sir? How many people are we talking about?" Zarya asked.


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;But the cap ship did not descend into the whirlpool. A veil of shimmering light fell over the vessel as five hundred meters ahead, on the opposite side of the well, an identical flash lifted into space. <i>It jumped ... it jumped the well.</i>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Five major settlements. As Confed colonies go, it's a small one. Five, maybe six million. Most of them reside on the northern continent."


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Enraged by their escape and by the certainty of his fate, Tor-shk reversed thrust once more, charging at full tilt toward a cave of filmy night. No, he would never die by their hand. He still had that much control.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"And supercruisers routinely carry strategic munitions," she said gravely.


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;As the seconds burned away, he thought about how it would feel to die, if there would be pain, if he could take that pain with honor and not shame himself by crying out. The control stick sud-denly shook free of his grip. His seat restraints snapped, and he floated out of the chair, feeling himself shake independently of the ship, teeth chattering, joints grinding, spittle dappling his helmet. He listened to the sound of his labored breathing, saw only a blur of gray, and sniffed at the smoke from damaged instruments that wafted in his nutrient gas line. His bones pushed against his skin.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Yes, they do. We'll hope for the best." He regarded the group. "Other questions? No? Dismissed."


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He gasped.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Blair stood and headed for the door.


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Gasped again.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Lieutenant Blair? Can I see you for a moment?"


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Knew it had come.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;As he moved back toward Angel, Maniac passed him and whispered, "Can I spank you for a moment?"


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Fought for the glory of silence.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Hiding his reaction, Blair forged on. "Yes, ma'am?"


&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And won.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"You're in command of your patrol. Keep a close eye on your people. I don't want the past to repeat itself. Understood?"
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Yes, ma'am."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The past to which she referred involved Maniac and Lieutenant Rosie Forbes, best pilot in the squadron and Angel's best friend. Horseplay and reckless courage had resulted in Forbes's death. Before Maniac had come aboard the <i>Tiger Claw</i>, Forbes had been a textbook flyer, much like Blair. But Maniac had lured her into his bed and into his flying style. He would do the same with Zarya. At least Blair wasn't the only one who saw that coming.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Angel eyed him suspiciously. "What's wrong, Lieutenant? I've never seen <i>that</i> look before."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Blair surveyed the room to be sure everyone had left. "Permission to speak freely?"
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Granted."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"How are you?"
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She averted her gaze. "Better."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Why no visitors?"
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She hesitated. "I don't know."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"You almost died out there. You come back and lie in sickbay for two days and won't let anyone see you. Did they tell you I came by five or six times?"
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"I just needed to be alone."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"I thought--"
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Don't think too much."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Okay. Sorry." He groped for something more, saw that she still wouldn't face him, then elected to leave. He prayed she would call after him.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She didn't.
 
=== Part Two ===
 
Twenty minutes later, the ship reached the Ymir system and the jump point to Mylon. Blair and the others would ride out the jump in their Rapiers and launch within the first minute of their arrival. Having already completed his preflight checklist, Blair waited for a fuel Bowser to pass, then crossed the busy flight deck to where Maniac stood beside his Rapier, being chewed out by Deck Boss Peterson. The boss's furor probably had something to do with the sandwich in Maniac's hand.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"What's it gonna take?" Peterson asked, his face flushed. "A suspension? I blink. It's done. You want that?"
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Maniac's face paled. "No, sir."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Then get that food off my flight deck. Now!"
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;'"kay." Maniac took a huge bite and jogged away toward the hatch leading to the galley.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"I'm running a flight deck--not a day care," Peterson shouted. "Come back when you can read the rules." He faced Blair. "You illiterate, too, Lieutenant?"
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Blair jolted.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"No loitering on the deck. If you're not working, get out!" He spun on a heel, ripped off his headset, and stormed toward Weapons System Chief Mackey, who had launched into a tirade of his own while shaking a finger at two frightened ordnance specialists standing before the nose of a Broadsword bomber.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"This is the most uptight ship I've ever seen."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Zarya had drawn up to Blair's side. He glanced at her and sighed. "It'll get tighter because we keep turning over so many pilots. We lost Knight and Forbes, then Spirit got transferred and Sinatra got transferred in, along with Cheddarboy and Gangsta. And now you've joined the party. We haven't flown enough with each other. That's dangerous. And we're still the smallest squadron in the wing. They're calling us 'The Chihuahuas.'"
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Hey, kids." Maniac rushed over to stand between them. "You believe that guy? I think that bastard is gunning for me."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Maybe he's still mad about you nearly killing him," Zarya said. "Yeah, maybe that's it."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A series of beeps filtered through the shipwide intercom, then Gerald's voice boomed: "Attention all personnel. On jump point vector. Sixty seconds. Assume jump stations."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Whoopeedo," Maniac groaned. "We'll be sitting on our hands for this one anyway."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Just do your job," Blair said, then jogged back toward his Rapier.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Hey, Blair? What's your problem now?"
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He ignored Maniac, gave a passing nod to his flight crew, then mounted his cockpit ladder.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;It felt comforting to be back in his fighter after a three day absence, the pit like a nest of power and technology with the magic to make him forget about rejection, about the troubles his half-breed heritage brought on, about the war, about everything. He slid on his headset and helmet, buckled on the O₂ mask, then attached the power and oxygen lines to his flight suit. Routine preparations performed thousands of times now took on a peculiar reverence. He sensed a certain nobility about being a pilot, and delusion or not, he enjoyed the moment. But it was time to get down to business. He switched a toggle, and the canopy lowered into place.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Now in the muffled quiet, he surveyed his instruments, noting a few differences between his present fighter, the CF-117b Rapier, and the old F44-A he had flown only three days prior. The new model had increased missile capacity to ten guided or dumbfire missiles and packed a second generation nose-mounted rotary-barrel neutron gun that allowed for longer continuous neutron fire than the old F44's first generation cannon. A switch on his stick allowed for alternate or synchronous fire, and standard laser cannons mounted to the 117's short, upturned wings provided longer-range support. The standard Tempest targeting and navigational AI remained the same, as did the jump-capable drive array and twin thruster/afterburner package. Monitors and control panels seemed slightly smaller, but that could be an illusion. The seat felt a hell of a lot better though, with the welcome addition of lumbar support. Even as Blair brought up main power and engaged the preflight sequence, the Rapiers on either side of him did likewise. He glanced left to Hunter. The Aussie had not attached his mask yet; he would, of course, wait until the last minute so that he could chomp on his unlit cigar, the stogie as much a permanent fixture as his shaggy hair. Though Blair and Hunter had gotten off to an exceedingly shaky start, with Hunter threatening Blair's life because he did not trust Pilgrim half-breeds, Blair's actions during their last mission had apparently won Hunter's trust. During the past three days, Hunter had treated Blair as an equal, had invited him to the rec several times, and had even asked if he could buy Blair a drink. Despite all of that, Blair still sensed that the man was watching him, probing for the first sign of waning loyalty.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The pilot to his right, one Sachin "Cheddarboy" Rapalski hailed from an amazingly long line of Wisconsin dairy farmers who had weathered the twenty-third century's ecocatastrophe with the zeal and perseverance of ancient American pioneers. Cheddarboy's call sign had been chosen for him by his flight school instructor, who had used it as chide so often that it stuck. Of course the pale, baby-faced jock with the body of a fence picket hated cheddar cheese; in fact, he hated all cheese except the mozzarella on a well-done pepperoni pizza and had, in fact, split one with Blair only the night before. Now strapped into his cockpit, Cheddarboy gave Blair a terse nod, his face shielded by his mask, large blue eyes radiating with the nervous electricity of a new pilot flying his first real mission off his first real strike carrier.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Angel's voice abruptly sounded through his headset. "All right, Ladies. I take it we're all in tight. Preflight checklists have been logged and looking good--except for yours, Maniac."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Excuse me, ma'am?" Maniac responded quickly.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"That's right. You've overlooked targeting and navigation systems."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"My chief did 'em for me. Guess he forgot to log 'em in."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"You're responsible for your own checklist. You don't subcontract it to your chief. Understood?"
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Yes, ma'am."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Blair's left Visual Display Unit flashed the words INCOMING COMMUNICATION ON SECURE CHANNEL. Blair dialed up the channel, already knowing who had called. "No, she's not just being a bitch, Maniac. She's right. And you know that."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"No, <i>I</i> was being a bitch," Angel said, then her face showed on the display, or at least what wasn't rudely hidden by her helmet and mask.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"I'm sorry, I--"
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Save it. I just recommended you for some chicken guts, the Bronze Star to be exact, for exceptional bravery under fire. I'm sure it'll get approved."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Thank you, ma'am. But I'm not sure if bravery had anything to do with it."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"I don't know any other pilot who would navigate his way through a quasar without NAVCOM coordinates. If it wasn't bravery, than it was insanity. But we don't have a medal for that."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He smiled behind his mask. "We should."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Jump in ten seconds. Launch in thirty. Stand by." The VDU went blank.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;However, a fountain of light appeared before it and gathered into the shape of Merlin, the holographic interface generated by Blair's Portable Personal Computer. As was the bantam's wont, Merlin brushed off his tan tunic and breeches, slid up the rubber band that bound his long, gray hair into a ponytail, then fixed Blair with a severe frown. "It may seem ridiculous to you, but forcing me into standby mode for long periods is like stuffing me into a little box. Never mind what it does to my appearance, it's my attitude that's really suffering. I'm depressed again, Christopher. I'm feeling unneeded. I thought you should know that. I think you should do something about it."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Merlin, don't lay this crap on me now. How would you feel if you thought your holographic assistant needed a shrink? The guy's supposed to be helping you, and you wind up counseling <i>him</i>. Sometimes I feel like ripping your processor out of my wrist. My Dad programmed you because he thought he was doing me a favor. If only he could see you now."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"That's not fair. I shouldn't be feeling guilty about how I feel." His gaze turned up to probe the overhead. "Oh, dear. We're jumping again." He vanished.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Fusion engines engaged," Gerald said over the intercom.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Despite his own idling thrusters, Blair felt the characteristic rumble pulse through the entire carrier as the ship's powerful ion engines came online. Then a jolt tore through his Rapier as the <i>Tiger Claw</i> paused to get a precise bearing on the jump point that accounted for the gravity well's drift rate.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"This is the part my stomach hates," Bishop said.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Don't think about it, Mate," Hunter instructed. "Put it all in your breath and let it out."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Another jolt told Blair that the jump-drive had been engaged. Now the <i>Tiger Claw</i>'s high thrust propelled it toward the exact coordinates along the rift in space. An antigraviton field surrounded the ship, and Blair felt his senses shut down.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He knew she would come. He had tried to bury the thought of her, to bury his fear of jumping, but at the very last second, he panicked, and during the perfect moment that joined him to the space-time continuum, he saw her once more, haloed by the void--
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;His mother. Dark hair spilling like wine over her shoulders, eyes sometimes soft with understanding, sometimes narrowed in disappointment. "Christopher. I wish I could help you. At least you don't bear the pain of knowing."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Knowing what?"
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Your path."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Another warning? You said I shouldn't come here, that this isn't my continuum. Why? Tell me."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"You believe you have power over this, but you have nothing. You can't do what you feel."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"What am I? A Pilgrim? What does that really mean? Am I just a freak? A human with a sixth sense for direction? Or is there more? I want there to be more. I want to know who I am."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"If you learn who you are, you will fall. Like the others. You're too young, and the pain of knowing is too great."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"I can take the pain!"
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Who is that? That you, Blair?"
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A blurry view of the flight deck snapped out of the darkness, along with the steady hiss of his oxygen flow, the reverberation of his thrusters, and the nagging ache of his shoulder harness that he had fastened too tightly.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Hey, Blair? You with the living?" Maniac asked.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Yeah, yeah. I'm just
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;that one hit hard."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Attention all personnel. Battle Stations! Battle Stations! This is not an exercise," Gerald said. "Standard orbit of Mylon Three in ninety seconds. Deploy ground force."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Blair watched as Deck Boss Peterson waved on the wedge-shaped CF-337d Marine Corps troopship, armed to the teeth with ten missile hardpoints each packing a trio of rockets. Two turreted rotary-barrel neutron guns, not unlike his Rapier's primary weapon, jutted out on port and starboard sides. The troopship's nose bore the vivid likeness of a snarling Doberman pinscher, drool dripping from gleaming incisors. Once lined up on the runway, the vessel ignited thrusters and swept toward the environmental maintenance field's fluctuating curtain of energy. It shot through the barrier and climbed away, out of sight.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Show time, ladies," Angel said.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Hunter floated into position first, followed by Bishop and Cheddarboy. One by one, first patrol received launch confirmation from the flight boss, got the green light, then thundered across the runway. Second patrol hovered into position. Gangsta took off first, her launch a perfect demonstration of textbook maneuvering. Sinatra followed, jumped the throttle before the deck boss gave him the final signal, then got out there, the deck boss's scolding ringing in his ears. Sinatra was a damned good pilot with more experience than even Angel. His problems with authority had gotten him busted down from captain to lieutenant. Based on his years in and his age (twenty-nine), he should be a major or colonel. From what Blair could gather from his limited experience with the man, he didn't hotdog like Maniac; he simply told people exactly what he thought of them and their skills. Many of the younger pilots marveled over his political incorrectness, but Blair chose to avoid the guy, taking the same advice he had offered Zarya about Maniac.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Angel rammed her throttle forward and streaked away, gone through the energy curtain in a pair of blinks.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Reserve patrol? You're up," Flight Boss Raznick said from Blair's VDU. The boss's shaven head glimmered like an egg under a spotlight. "Zarya, Maniac, and--you figure out a call sign yet, Blair?"
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Pilgrim."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"You're kidding."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"No, sir."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Raznick snorted. "Can't say I like it better than Maverick, but it's your choice, young man."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;For the past couple of days, Blair had been contemplating a new call sign. "Maverick" had suited him well during academy training, an ironic moniker since Blair had established a reputation of flying by the book. But he felt he had outgrown the name, and since he had lost his Pilgrim cross--an obvious means of identifying himself as a Pilgrim--he figured the call sign would serve as the next best thing. He didn't want to ram his heritage down his comrades' throats, but he felt strongly about people knowing who he was. And if they had a problem with that, so be it.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Zarya took her cue from the deck boss and launched. Maniac's Rapier glided in ahead of Blair's, pivoted ninety degrees, and aimed for the energy field. Surprisingly, he took off sans his usual over-thrusting flourish and verbal high jinks.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Blair slid over the Heads Up Display viewer attached to his helmet. The viewer covered his right eye and supplied a series of data bar readouts of each of the Rapier's major systems. During combat, the targeting system would seize control of the viewer, and smart targeting reticles would replace the clutter of data. At the moment, all systems were nominal. Pressure gauges stood in the green. The nav system had already been preprogrammed with coordinates uploaded directly from flight control.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Wearing his patented sinister stare, Deck Boss Peterson flashed Blair the signal for launch. Blair hesitated just enough to widen the boss's eyes, then slapped the throttle and burst forward.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Acceleration struck like a wrestler's beefy forearm. The tall columns on either side of the deck flashed by, along with the dozens of Rapiers and Broadswords moored beneath a latticework of connecting beams. The energy draped over his canopy and suddenly sloughed off to expose the exterior runway walled in by the two great halves of the cylinder that made up the <i>Claw</i>'s fuselage. Blair waited a few seconds more for his velocity to increase before pulling up toward a sheet of darkness. Chatter clogged the squadron's general frequency as the point and second patrols gave assessments of the planet.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Mylon Three finally scrolled into view, its sun partially eclipsed and burning with a significant glare in the distance. The polarization unit kicked in, tinting the canopy so that Blair now had a clear view of the bluish green world and the black clouds blanketing nearly all of its northern hemisphere. Specks of reflected light flashed like unwelcome fireworks, some in the upper atmosphere, some in low and high orbit.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"This place is dead," Maniac said, not bothering to temper his astonishment.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"It's like a holo," Zarya added. "And hey, there go the Marines. They won't find much. Looks like MyGov has been leveled."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Advance to escort coordinates," Blair ordered, taking his Rapier between their fighters. Nearly in unison, they banked right and followed a vector that took them lateral of the <i>Claw</i>. The nav computer beeped, and the circular radar screen showed a flashing white cross, indicating they had reached their assigned position: waiting on the bench, as Maniac understood it. They lined up and throttled down. Blair had trouble removing his gaze from the planet, had trouble removing his thoughts from the millions who had died under an onslaught of planetary torpedoes. No doubt about it. The Kilrathi had to be responsible. They had somehow captured a supercruiser and intended to incite a civil war with it.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"I'm running a short-range scan, and I'm already picking up a lot of debris. I'm talking a lot of debris," Zarya said.
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Blair switched to Angel. "Reserve leader to second patrol, copy?"
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Her face lit his display. "Copy, Lieutenant."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"We're at station. No sign of hostile contacts, roger."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"None on this end either. Picking up wreckage from, I don't know, could be hundreds of ships, mostly private and commercial transports. No military craft IDed yet."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"They were probably trying to get offworld." Blair snorted in disbelief. "Bastards just shot them down."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"I've seen holos of the Peron Massacre, but that pales in comparison to this," Angel remarked. "We're looking at the total annihilation of a Confederation world. This place won't be habitable for a century, and that's with terraformers rebuilding around the clock."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"I don't get it. Why Mylon Three? It's along the Kilrathi border, but there aren't any jump points from here into their space. And from what I've read, it is--or was--your basic agricultural world. I don't understand what they're gaining from this, besides sending a message."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Maybe that's all they wanted to do. And Mylon was simply a target of opportunity since at the time of the attack, no Confed cap ships were in the immediate vicinity."
 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Angel?" Gangsta called. "Found a small shuttle, civilian registry. Or at least what's left of it. Life support still functioning. Got two live ones inside."


{{novelindex/pilgrimstars}}
{{novelindex/pilgrimstars}}


[[Category:Wing Commander Pilgrim Stars]]
[[Category:Wing Commander Pilgrim Stars]]

Latest revision as of 17:13, 5 April 2024

Chapter 1
Pilgrimstars.jpg
Book Wing Commander Pilgrim Stars
Parts 2
Previous Prologue
Next Chapter 2
Pages 1-14


Dramatis Personae

Part 1 Part 2
POV

Christopher "Pilgrim" Blair

Christopher "Pilgrim" Blair

Speaking

Jeanette "Angel" Deveraux
Paul Gerald
Todd "Maniac" Marshall
Adam "Bishop" Polanski
Elise "Zarya" Rolitov

Jeanette "Angel" Deveraux
Paul Gerald
Todd "Maniac" Marshall
Adam "Bishop" Polanski
Ian "Hunter" St. John
Peterson
Raznick
"Gangsta"

Non-Speaking

Sachin Rapalski
Ian St. John
"Gangsta"
"Sinatra"

Mackey
Sachin "Cheddarboy" Rapalski
Elise "Zarya" Rolitov
"Sinatra"
Unnamed Ordnance Specialists (2)

Mentioned

Rosalind "Sassy" Forbes
Geoffrey Tolwyn
Devi Soulsong

Rosalind "Sassy" Forbes
Joseph "Knight" Khumelo
Tanaka "Spirit" Mariko

Text

VEGA SECTOR,
DOWNING QUADRANT
CS TIGER CLAW
EN ROUTE TO MYLON
SYSTEM JUMP POINT
2654.079
1340 HOURS
CONFEDERATION
STANDARD TIME


Part One

Lieutenant Christopher Blair sat in the Tiger Claw's flight wing briefing room, arms folded over his chest, a definite smirk forming on his clean-shaven face as he listened to Lieutenant Todd "Maniac" Marshall wax evangelic about his piloting prowess to Elise "Zarya" Rolitov, a slim dove recently assigned to the 88th Fighter Wing, First Squadron. "And we didn't just come in hot, honey. We came in hot and inverted."

     Blair lifted his smirk in Maniac's direction, but the blonde braggadocio's gaze held tight on Zarya, who made matters worse by returning an expression of awe, tugging fingers through her short, auburn hair, and fidgeting in her seat. That kind of body language would propel Maniac to newfound heights of lust and conceit. Blair bolted to his feet and crossed a few chairs down to face Zarya. He raised his voice over the other five pilots jabchatting around them. "What he won't tell you is that he nearly mowed down the deck boss while pulling that stunt. Take it from me, Lieutenant. If you want to keep out of trouble, keep away from this guy."

     Zarya cocked a slender brow. "Trouble is what we're about, Lieutenant"--she read his nametag--"Blair."

     He could live with the retort, but they had already met, and she had not remembered his name. "Maniac here deals in a particular brand of trouble that will get you booted off this ship before you've finished checking in."

     She nodded. "I'll take my chances."

     Maniac smiled tightly, eyes aglow in the fire of a new ally with whom he intended to bump uglies. "Lady's got taste. Can't fault her there, Ace."

     "Ten-hut!" someone shouted.

     Lieutenant Commander Jeanette "Angel" Deveraux hustled into the room, stepped onto the dais, then moved behind the holograph control podium. "At ease. Give us another moment, people." She flipped nervously through pages on a clipboard and frowned.

     Blair remained at attention, noting how Angel's long, wavy mane had been pulled into a bun and how the overhead lights cast her in a sheen that suggested her call sign. He imagined him-self close to her and reminisced on the moment he had nearly kissed her pouty lips. He felt the sudden urge to damn social convention and military regulations to hell, march up there, and take her. If nothing else, that would leave Maniac speechless. He sighed inwardly and continued to stare.

     Yes, she looked well for a woman still recovering from frostbite and hypothermia. She had saved the Tiger Claw by destroying a Kilrathi Skipper missile, but her Rapier had been wrecked by the blast wave and she had ejected in her pod. Blair knew very well what it felt like to float powerless and adrift in space, waiting for the cold to take you.

     A blow to the shoulder broke his thought. "Hey, lover," Maniac cooed, leaning in front of Zarya. "I see our squadron commander's up. Shouldn't you get her back into bed?"

     Blair found his black look.

     Maniac draped an arm over Zarya's shoulders. "He talks about me getting into trouble. Well, what if I told you that he and our dear squadron commander--"

     "Ten-hut!" Blair shouted as acting Captain Paul Gerald arrived, offered a curt nod, then headed for the dais.

     Though Gerald's promotion remained unofficial until the paperwork came in, most officers had already taken to calling him by his new rank. Blair wouldn't go that far. Not yet. He called Gerald "sir." After all, the guy still hated Pilgrims, half-breeds, and Pilgrim sympathizers since fighting in the war against them. Blair's mother Devi Soulsong had been a Pilgrim. Blair couldn't change that. He didn't want to. Pilgrims might have originated as religious fanatics who saw themselves as the "elect," as the only humans destined for the stars, but the war had ended over twenty years ago, and most Pilgrims had peacefully rejoined Confederation society. Gerald simply had to get over the past. Admittedly, the man had confessed that he needed Blair, that he did respect Blair's skill as a pilot and had made him a command-approved wing commander, but that was as far as it went. There would never be any love lost between them. That was a shame. Blair could learn a lot from the man, but if Gerald continued to treat him indifferently, he would return the same.

     "Have a seat," the captain said, wearing a new haircut to complement his new command. Gone were the dark curls in favor of a low maintenance flat top. He self-consciously patted his hair, then pursed his lips as the squadron settled in. "Our scheduled space dock has been delayed again." This to a chorus of moans as an opportunity for shore leave--once so close they could taste it--withered before the pilots' eyes. Even Blair, usually silent during such collective complaints, added his voice to the discord.

     "All right," Angel snapped.

     "Our own Damage Control Crews will continue as scheduled," Gerald went on. "Yes, we're still licking our wounds from our last engagement with the Kilrathi, but this war won't wait for us, and I wanted to brief you myself because matters have grown, in a word, delicate. Admiral Tolwyn has ordered us to Mylon Three." He tapped a control on the podium, and a holograph of the Mylon system shimmered into view. Four planets orbited a medium-sized star that a data strip indicated was slightly more massive than Sol. The aforementioned third planet tossed up a verdant glow with jagged continents splayed like leather patches over its watery backdrop. "You can consult your data readers for more detailed information on Confed settlements there. According to a drone intercepted by the CS Rigaria, on zero-seven-seven at nineteen hundred hours local time an unmarked Confederation supercruiser launched a planet-wide attack."

     Murmurs erupted.

     Lieutenant Adam "Bishop" Polanski, who sat to Blair's left, leaned forward, his expression of incredulity buckling the ragged scar on his cheek. "Sir, was the ship captured by the Kilrathi?"

     "Maybe there was a mutiny," Zarya chipped in.

     "Mutiny?" Polanski snickered. "No way."

     "Intelligence is still gathering data," Gerald said. "As it stands, we're the principal element of a Space Warning and Control Mission. Our Marine detachment will deploy to MyGov, the primary settlement's capital, while Black Lion Squadron will recon the area of operations, eliminating any unfriendliness or mines and searching for survivors."

     "Sir. Just one squadron to recon the entire zone?" Blair asked. "With short-range sensors that could take hours, maybe days."

     "I'm aware of that, Lieutenant. We'll be entering the system in stealth mode. Those people were just attacked by--for the sake of argument--a Confederation ship. The arrival of another Confed ship will alarm them. And there's a strike base on planet. If it hasn't been taken out, we could encounter SAM fire and elements of the nineteenth fighter wing."

     "We'll run three patrols on this one, Ladies," Angel said. "Bishop, Hunter, and Cheddarboy got point. Sinatra and Gangsta? You're with me. Maniac, Blair, and Zarya? You got reserve."

     Maniac snorted.

     Angel's gaze locked on. "Problem, Lieutenant Marshall?"

     "No, ma'am."

     "I take it you'd rather fly point."

     "Absolutely, ma'am."

     "Which is exactly why you will remain close to the ship, in ready status. Showboaters call too much attention to themselves."

     "Yes, ma'am." Maniac bit his lower lip, and Blair read the curse balanced there.

     "If we do encounter resistance, you will not engage," Gerald said. "We're going there to bandage the wound—not rub salt in it."

     "Sir? How many people are we talking about?" Zarya asked.

     "Five major settlements. As Confed colonies go, it's a small one. Five, maybe six million. Most of them reside on the northern continent."

     "And supercruisers routinely carry strategic munitions," she said gravely.

     "Yes, they do. We'll hope for the best." He regarded the group. "Other questions? No? Dismissed."

     Blair stood and headed for the door.

     "Lieutenant Blair? Can I see you for a moment?"

     As he moved back toward Angel, Maniac passed him and whispered, "Can I spank you for a moment?"

     Hiding his reaction, Blair forged on. "Yes, ma'am?"

     "You're in command of your patrol. Keep a close eye on your people. I don't want the past to repeat itself. Understood?"

     "Yes, ma'am."

     The past to which she referred involved Maniac and Lieutenant Rosie Forbes, best pilot in the squadron and Angel's best friend. Horseplay and reckless courage had resulted in Forbes's death. Before Maniac had come aboard the Tiger Claw, Forbes had been a textbook flyer, much like Blair. But Maniac had lured her into his bed and into his flying style. He would do the same with Zarya. At least Blair wasn't the only one who saw that coming.

     Angel eyed him suspiciously. "What's wrong, Lieutenant? I've never seen that look before."

     Blair surveyed the room to be sure everyone had left. "Permission to speak freely?"

     "Granted."

     "How are you?"

     She averted her gaze. "Better."

     "Why no visitors?"

     She hesitated. "I don't know."

     "You almost died out there. You come back and lie in sickbay for two days and won't let anyone see you. Did they tell you I came by five or six times?"

     "I just needed to be alone."

     "I thought--"

     "Don't think too much."

     "Okay. Sorry." He groped for something more, saw that she still wouldn't face him, then elected to leave. He prayed she would call after him.

     She didn't.

Part Two

Twenty minutes later, the ship reached the Ymir system and the jump point to Mylon. Blair and the others would ride out the jump in their Rapiers and launch within the first minute of their arrival. Having already completed his preflight checklist, Blair waited for a fuel Bowser to pass, then crossed the busy flight deck to where Maniac stood beside his Rapier, being chewed out by Deck Boss Peterson. The boss's furor probably had something to do with the sandwich in Maniac's hand.

     "What's it gonna take?" Peterson asked, his face flushed. "A suspension? I blink. It's done. You want that?"

     Maniac's face paled. "No, sir."

     "Then get that food off my flight deck. Now!"

     '"kay." Maniac took a huge bite and jogged away toward the hatch leading to the galley.

     "I'm running a flight deck--not a day care," Peterson shouted. "Come back when you can read the rules." He faced Blair. "You illiterate, too, Lieutenant?"

     Blair jolted.

     "No loitering on the deck. If you're not working, get out!" He spun on a heel, ripped off his headset, and stormed toward Weapons System Chief Mackey, who had launched into a tirade of his own while shaking a finger at two frightened ordnance specialists standing before the nose of a Broadsword bomber.

     "This is the most uptight ship I've ever seen."

     Zarya had drawn up to Blair's side. He glanced at her and sighed. "It'll get tighter because we keep turning over so many pilots. We lost Knight and Forbes, then Spirit got transferred and Sinatra got transferred in, along with Cheddarboy and Gangsta. And now you've joined the party. We haven't flown enough with each other. That's dangerous. And we're still the smallest squadron in the wing. They're calling us 'The Chihuahuas.'"

     "Hey, kids." Maniac rushed over to stand between them. "You believe that guy? I think that bastard is gunning for me."

     "Maybe he's still mad about you nearly killing him," Zarya said. "Yeah, maybe that's it."

     A series of beeps filtered through the shipwide intercom, then Gerald's voice boomed: "Attention all personnel. On jump point vector. Sixty seconds. Assume jump stations."

     "Whoopeedo," Maniac groaned. "We'll be sitting on our hands for this one anyway."

     "Just do your job," Blair said, then jogged back toward his Rapier.

     "Hey, Blair? What's your problem now?"

     He ignored Maniac, gave a passing nod to his flight crew, then mounted his cockpit ladder.

     It felt comforting to be back in his fighter after a three day absence, the pit like a nest of power and technology with the magic to make him forget about rejection, about the troubles his half-breed heritage brought on, about the war, about everything. He slid on his headset and helmet, buckled on the O₂ mask, then attached the power and oxygen lines to his flight suit. Routine preparations performed thousands of times now took on a peculiar reverence. He sensed a certain nobility about being a pilot, and delusion or not, he enjoyed the moment. But it was time to get down to business. He switched a toggle, and the canopy lowered into place.

     Now in the muffled quiet, he surveyed his instruments, noting a few differences between his present fighter, the CF-117b Rapier, and the old F44-A he had flown only three days prior. The new model had increased missile capacity to ten guided or dumbfire missiles and packed a second generation nose-mounted rotary-barrel neutron gun that allowed for longer continuous neutron fire than the old F44's first generation cannon. A switch on his stick allowed for alternate or synchronous fire, and standard laser cannons mounted to the 117's short, upturned wings provided longer-range support. The standard Tempest targeting and navigational AI remained the same, as did the jump-capable drive array and twin thruster/afterburner package. Monitors and control panels seemed slightly smaller, but that could be an illusion. The seat felt a hell of a lot better though, with the welcome addition of lumbar support. Even as Blair brought up main power and engaged the preflight sequence, the Rapiers on either side of him did likewise. He glanced left to Hunter. The Aussie had not attached his mask yet; he would, of course, wait until the last minute so that he could chomp on his unlit cigar, the stogie as much a permanent fixture as his shaggy hair. Though Blair and Hunter had gotten off to an exceedingly shaky start, with Hunter threatening Blair's life because he did not trust Pilgrim half-breeds, Blair's actions during their last mission had apparently won Hunter's trust. During the past three days, Hunter had treated Blair as an equal, had invited him to the rec several times, and had even asked if he could buy Blair a drink. Despite all of that, Blair still sensed that the man was watching him, probing for the first sign of waning loyalty.

     The pilot to his right, one Sachin "Cheddarboy" Rapalski hailed from an amazingly long line of Wisconsin dairy farmers who had weathered the twenty-third century's ecocatastrophe with the zeal and perseverance of ancient American pioneers. Cheddarboy's call sign had been chosen for him by his flight school instructor, who had used it as chide so often that it stuck. Of course the pale, baby-faced jock with the body of a fence picket hated cheddar cheese; in fact, he hated all cheese except the mozzarella on a well-done pepperoni pizza and had, in fact, split one with Blair only the night before. Now strapped into his cockpit, Cheddarboy gave Blair a terse nod, his face shielded by his mask, large blue eyes radiating with the nervous electricity of a new pilot flying his first real mission off his first real strike carrier.

     Angel's voice abruptly sounded through his headset. "All right, Ladies. I take it we're all in tight. Preflight checklists have been logged and looking good--except for yours, Maniac."

     "Excuse me, ma'am?" Maniac responded quickly.

     "That's right. You've overlooked targeting and navigation systems."

     "My chief did 'em for me. Guess he forgot to log 'em in."

     "You're responsible for your own checklist. You don't subcontract it to your chief. Understood?"

     "Yes, ma'am."

     Blair's left Visual Display Unit flashed the words INCOMING COMMUNICATION ON SECURE CHANNEL. Blair dialed up the channel, already knowing who had called. "No, she's not just being a bitch, Maniac. She's right. And you know that."

     "No, I was being a bitch," Angel said, then her face showed on the display, or at least what wasn't rudely hidden by her helmet and mask.

     "I'm sorry, I--"

     "Save it. I just recommended you for some chicken guts, the Bronze Star to be exact, for exceptional bravery under fire. I'm sure it'll get approved."

     "Thank you, ma'am. But I'm not sure if bravery had anything to do with it."

     "I don't know any other pilot who would navigate his way through a quasar without NAVCOM coordinates. If it wasn't bravery, than it was insanity. But we don't have a medal for that."

     He smiled behind his mask. "We should."

     "Jump in ten seconds. Launch in thirty. Stand by." The VDU went blank.

     However, a fountain of light appeared before it and gathered into the shape of Merlin, the holographic interface generated by Blair's Portable Personal Computer. As was the bantam's wont, Merlin brushed off his tan tunic and breeches, slid up the rubber band that bound his long, gray hair into a ponytail, then fixed Blair with a severe frown. "It may seem ridiculous to you, but forcing me into standby mode for long periods is like stuffing me into a little box. Never mind what it does to my appearance, it's my attitude that's really suffering. I'm depressed again, Christopher. I'm feeling unneeded. I thought you should know that. I think you should do something about it."

     "Merlin, don't lay this crap on me now. How would you feel if you thought your holographic assistant needed a shrink? The guy's supposed to be helping you, and you wind up counseling him. Sometimes I feel like ripping your processor out of my wrist. My Dad programmed you because he thought he was doing me a favor. If only he could see you now."

     "That's not fair. I shouldn't be feeling guilty about how I feel." His gaze turned up to probe the overhead. "Oh, dear. We're jumping again." He vanished.

     "Fusion engines engaged," Gerald said over the intercom.

     Despite his own idling thrusters, Blair felt the characteristic rumble pulse through the entire carrier as the ship's powerful ion engines came online. Then a jolt tore through his Rapier as the Tiger Claw paused to get a precise bearing on the jump point that accounted for the gravity well's drift rate.

     "This is the part my stomach hates," Bishop said.

     "Don't think about it, Mate," Hunter instructed. "Put it all in your breath and let it out."

     Another jolt told Blair that the jump-drive had been engaged. Now the Tiger Claw's high thrust propelled it toward the exact coordinates along the rift in space. An antigraviton field surrounded the ship, and Blair felt his senses shut down.

     He knew she would come. He had tried to bury the thought of her, to bury his fear of jumping, but at the very last second, he panicked, and during the perfect moment that joined him to the space-time continuum, he saw her once more, haloed by the void--

     His mother. Dark hair spilling like wine over her shoulders, eyes sometimes soft with understanding, sometimes narrowed in disappointment. "Christopher. I wish I could help you. At least you don't bear the pain of knowing."

     "Knowing what?"

     "Your path."

     "Another warning? You said I shouldn't come here, that this isn't my continuum. Why? Tell me."

     "You believe you have power over this, but you have nothing. You can't do what you feel."

     "What am I? A Pilgrim? What does that really mean? Am I just a freak? A human with a sixth sense for direction? Or is there more? I want there to be more. I want to know who I am."

     "If you learn who you are, you will fall. Like the others. You're too young, and the pain of knowing is too great."

     "I can take the pain!"

     "Who is that? That you, Blair?"

     A blurry view of the flight deck snapped out of the darkness, along with the steady hiss of his oxygen flow, the reverberation of his thrusters, and the nagging ache of his shoulder harness that he had fastened too tightly.

     "Hey, Blair? You with the living?" Maniac asked.

     "Yeah, yeah. I'm just

     that one hit hard."

     "Attention all personnel. Battle Stations! Battle Stations! This is not an exercise," Gerald said. "Standard orbit of Mylon Three in ninety seconds. Deploy ground force."

     Blair watched as Deck Boss Peterson waved on the wedge-shaped CF-337d Marine Corps troopship, armed to the teeth with ten missile hardpoints each packing a trio of rockets. Two turreted rotary-barrel neutron guns, not unlike his Rapier's primary weapon, jutted out on port and starboard sides. The troopship's nose bore the vivid likeness of a snarling Doberman pinscher, drool dripping from gleaming incisors. Once lined up on the runway, the vessel ignited thrusters and swept toward the environmental maintenance field's fluctuating curtain of energy. It shot through the barrier and climbed away, out of sight.

     "Show time, ladies," Angel said.

     Hunter floated into position first, followed by Bishop and Cheddarboy. One by one, first patrol received launch confirmation from the flight boss, got the green light, then thundered across the runway. Second patrol hovered into position. Gangsta took off first, her launch a perfect demonstration of textbook maneuvering. Sinatra followed, jumped the throttle before the deck boss gave him the final signal, then got out there, the deck boss's scolding ringing in his ears. Sinatra was a damned good pilot with more experience than even Angel. His problems with authority had gotten him busted down from captain to lieutenant. Based on his years in and his age (twenty-nine), he should be a major or colonel. From what Blair could gather from his limited experience with the man, he didn't hotdog like Maniac; he simply told people exactly what he thought of them and their skills. Many of the younger pilots marveled over his political incorrectness, but Blair chose to avoid the guy, taking the same advice he had offered Zarya about Maniac.

     Angel rammed her throttle forward and streaked away, gone through the energy curtain in a pair of blinks.

     "Reserve patrol? You're up," Flight Boss Raznick said from Blair's VDU. The boss's shaven head glimmered like an egg under a spotlight. "Zarya, Maniac, and--you figure out a call sign yet, Blair?"

     "Pilgrim."

     "You're kidding."

     "No, sir."

     Raznick snorted. "Can't say I like it better than Maverick, but it's your choice, young man."

     For the past couple of days, Blair had been contemplating a new call sign. "Maverick" had suited him well during academy training, an ironic moniker since Blair had established a reputation of flying by the book. But he felt he had outgrown the name, and since he had lost his Pilgrim cross--an obvious means of identifying himself as a Pilgrim--he figured the call sign would serve as the next best thing. He didn't want to ram his heritage down his comrades' throats, but he felt strongly about people knowing who he was. And if they had a problem with that, so be it.

     Zarya took her cue from the deck boss and launched. Maniac's Rapier glided in ahead of Blair's, pivoted ninety degrees, and aimed for the energy field. Surprisingly, he took off sans his usual over-thrusting flourish and verbal high jinks.

     Blair slid over the Heads Up Display viewer attached to his helmet. The viewer covered his right eye and supplied a series of data bar readouts of each of the Rapier's major systems. During combat, the targeting system would seize control of the viewer, and smart targeting reticles would replace the clutter of data. At the moment, all systems were nominal. Pressure gauges stood in the green. The nav system had already been preprogrammed with coordinates uploaded directly from flight control.

     Wearing his patented sinister stare, Deck Boss Peterson flashed Blair the signal for launch. Blair hesitated just enough to widen the boss's eyes, then slapped the throttle and burst forward.

     Acceleration struck like a wrestler's beefy forearm. The tall columns on either side of the deck flashed by, along with the dozens of Rapiers and Broadswords moored beneath a latticework of connecting beams. The energy draped over his canopy and suddenly sloughed off to expose the exterior runway walled in by the two great halves of the cylinder that made up the Claw's fuselage. Blair waited a few seconds more for his velocity to increase before pulling up toward a sheet of darkness. Chatter clogged the squadron's general frequency as the point and second patrols gave assessments of the planet.

     Mylon Three finally scrolled into view, its sun partially eclipsed and burning with a significant glare in the distance. The polarization unit kicked in, tinting the canopy so that Blair now had a clear view of the bluish green world and the black clouds blanketing nearly all of its northern hemisphere. Specks of reflected light flashed like unwelcome fireworks, some in the upper atmosphere, some in low and high orbit.

     "This place is dead," Maniac said, not bothering to temper his astonishment.

     "It's like a holo," Zarya added. "And hey, there go the Marines. They won't find much. Looks like MyGov has been leveled."

     "Advance to escort coordinates," Blair ordered, taking his Rapier between their fighters. Nearly in unison, they banked right and followed a vector that took them lateral of the Claw. The nav computer beeped, and the circular radar screen showed a flashing white cross, indicating they had reached their assigned position: waiting on the bench, as Maniac understood it. They lined up and throttled down. Blair had trouble removing his gaze from the planet, had trouble removing his thoughts from the millions who had died under an onslaught of planetary torpedoes. No doubt about it. The Kilrathi had to be responsible. They had somehow captured a supercruiser and intended to incite a civil war with it.

     "I'm running a short-range scan, and I'm already picking up a lot of debris. I'm talking a lot of debris," Zarya said.

     Blair switched to Angel. "Reserve leader to second patrol, copy?"

     Her face lit his display. "Copy, Lieutenant."

     "We're at station. No sign of hostile contacts, roger."

     "None on this end either. Picking up wreckage from, I don't know, could be hundreds of ships, mostly private and commercial transports. No military craft IDed yet."

     "They were probably trying to get offworld." Blair snorted in disbelief. "Bastards just shot them down."

     "I've seen holos of the Peron Massacre, but that pales in comparison to this," Angel remarked. "We're looking at the total annihilation of a Confederation world. This place won't be habitable for a century, and that's with terraformers rebuilding around the clock."

     "I don't get it. Why Mylon Three? It's along the Kilrathi border, but there aren't any jump points from here into their space. And from what I've read, it is--or was--your basic agricultural world. I don't understand what they're gaining from this, besides sending a message."

     "Maybe that's all they wanted to do. And Mylon was simply a target of opportunity since at the time of the attack, no Confed cap ships were in the immediate vicinity."

     "Angel?" Gangsta called. "Found a small shuttle, civilian registry. Or at least what's left of it. Life support still functioning. Got two live ones inside."