Wing Commander Pilgrim Stars Chapter 1

Chapter 1
Book	Wing Commander Pilgrim Stars
Previous	Prologue
Next	Chapter 2
Pages	1-14

Dramatis Personae

• Lieutenant Christopher Blair

Text

VEGA SECTOR, DOWNING QUADRANT

CS TIGER CLAW

2654.079

EN ROUTE TO MYLON SYSTEM JUMP POINT

     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 himself 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.

     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 thrusterIafterburner 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 ofWisconsin 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."