Wing Commander Pilgrim Stars Chapter 10: Difference between revisions

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     They had set another rendezvous for the following day, knowing that the rumors would begin to circulate but too infected with each other to be apart. Angel had, indeed, ordered Maniac to sim practice that first day, but she could not keep up that diversion. So they would meet in her quarters. Strange, though. During that second day, Blair had asked why she had suddenly changed her mind. She had told him not to ruin what they had by talking it away. After a moment's consideration, he had realized the truth in that, though the unanswered question still troubled him.
     They had set another rendezvous for the following day, knowing that the rumors would begin to circulate but too infected with each other to be apart. Angel had, indeed, ordered Maniac to sim practice that first day, but she could not keep up that diversion. So they would meet in her quarters. Strange, though. During that second day, Blair had asked why she had suddenly changed her mind. She had told him not to ruin what they had by talking it away. After a moment's consideration, he had realized the truth in that, though the unanswered question still troubled him.


     By the third day—and the third tryst—Blair had grown frustrated with their silence. They made love repeatedly, working into each other's rhythms like musicians, but the connection between them seemed to weaken instead of strengthen.
     By the third day--and the third tryst--Blair had grown frustrated with their silence. They made love repeatedly, working into each other's rhythms like musicians, but the connection between them seemed to weaken instead of strengthen.


     On the fourth day, Blair felt as though they were just working out their anxieties on each other's bodies. Tenderness had turned to grunting. Their relationship was all about that final, pulse-pounding moment. Afterward, they would fall back and stare at the overhead, their gazes swimming through the shadows and never once falling on each other.
     On the fourth day, Blair felt as though they were just working out their anxieties on each other's bodies. Tenderness had turned to grunting. Their relationship was all about that final, pulse-pounding moment. Afterward, they would fall back and stare at the overhead, their gazes swimming through the shadows and never once falling on each other.

Revision as of 22:49, 29 March 2024

Chapter 10
Pilgrimstars.jpg
Book Wing Commander Pilgrim Stars
Parts 3
Previous Chapter 9
Next Chapter 11
Pages 105-124


Dramatis Personae

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Text

VEGA SECTOR, DAY
QUADRANT
CS TIGER CLAW
BLYTHEHEART JUMP POINT
2654.088
0400 HOURS
CONFEDERATION
STANDARD TIME


For once Blair sat through a jump with no intention of reaching out to find his mother. The secrets of being a Pilgrim no longer seemed important compared to the events of the past five days. He shifted in his jump seat and fought off the shit-eating grin that threatened to burst across his face.

     Making love to Lieutenant Commander Jeanette Deveraux would stand as one of the most memorable experiences of his life. They had spent that entire day together, beginning in his quarters, then moving stealthily back to hers. He had explored every curve of her lithe, well-toned frame, and their bodies felt smooth and right together. In candlelight, they had swayed as one silhouette on the bulkhead, growing more hungry for each other as the hours wore on. They had kept silent, speaking with their hands, their eyes. The fire grew, and they had quivered, grimaced in ecstasy, and had fallen back, exhausted and gratified for their efforts.

     While lying there after the first time, with Angel's head resting on his shoulder, Blair had half-expected Merlin to suddenly appear with his appraisal of their lovemaking: "Well, bravo, Christopher. No performance anxiety this time, eh? And Lieutenant Commander, you're quite flexible, aren't you." He had shaken off the thought, and when Angel had asked him what was wrong, he had told her that he sometimes got the shakes afterward. That much wasn't a lie.

     They had set another rendezvous for the following day, knowing that the rumors would begin to circulate but too infected with each other to be apart. Angel had, indeed, ordered Maniac to sim practice that first day, but she could not keep up that diversion. So they would meet in her quarters. Strange, though. During that second day, Blair had asked why she had suddenly changed her mind. She had told him not to ruin what they had by talking it away. After a moment's consideration, he had realized the truth in that, though the unanswered question still troubled him.

     By the third day--and the third tryst--Blair had grown frustrated with their silence. They made love repeatedly, working into each other's rhythms like musicians, but the connection between them seemed to weaken instead of strengthen.

     On the fourth day, Blair felt as though they were just working out their anxieties on each other's bodies. Tenderness had turned to grunting. Their relationship was all about that final, pulse-pounding moment. Afterward, they would fall back and stare at the overhead, their gazes swimming through the shadows and never once falling on each other.

     Out of nowhere, Blair had said, "We're close. But we're not close."

     "I know," she had admitted.

     "Guess I shouldn't complain. I'm getting what most guys want, right? Sex with no emotional baggage."

     "I can't give you any more than that. Not yet."

     He had rolled to face her. "But there's hope?"

     "You don't know what I'm risking here."

     "I think I do."

     Blair had closed his eyes and had taken her into arms. She had buried her head in his chest, and he had simply held her there, trying to show that he wouldn't let go, that he would be there for her for as long as fate allowed.

     On the early morning of the fifth day, Blair had tiptoed out of his quarters, had keyed himself into hers, and had spooned her for an hour or two before the jump alarm sounded. During that simple moment he had felt more bonded to her than any other time. He had listened to her breathe and had let her silky hair fall in curtains across her face. Her scent, a light blend of perfume and coconut shampoo, had lulled him to sleep.

     I always was a dreamer, he reflected, now feeling the ship rumble under his feet. Lieutenant Commander Obutu's voice broke over the intercom: "Jump in five seconds, four, three, two—"

     The familiar moment of frozen silence embraced the flight wing ready room, and after a second--or an eternity--a collective groan rose from the pilots. Blair added his own gasp to the racket.

     "What the hell was that?" someone asked.

     "All hands, this is your captain. We just experienced a minor fluctuation in the jump field, but the jump was successful. Repeat, the jump was successful. Standby to initiate flight operations. Launch reconnaissance patrol." The general quarters alarm punctuated Gerald's report. A second Klaxon announced a flush scramble, and Blair threw off his straps and joined a white water rush of pilots.


Most of the techs who worked on the flight deck had grown accustomed to flush scrambles that had every operational fighter and bomber in the Claw's arsenal launching within the next few minutes. Despite the crew's experience, anxiety painted their faces, and tensions ran expectantly high. A minor fuel spill had Boss Peterson raising hell with two techs near the bomber berths, and two ordnance specialists had the hood raised on their fully loaded missile cart, which had broken down in the middle of the runway. As the techs took heat from their supervisor, the bulky deckdozer was already en route, its driver lowering the broad hydraulic blade affixed to the vehicle's nose. Blair observed a few more verbal entanglements between pilots and maintenance crews as he picked his way along the port bulkhead, aiming for his Rapier's berth.

     To his mild astonishment, he saw Paladin striding toward him from the opposite end of the flight deck. The commodore caught his gaze, then waved him over. Blair leapt twice over fuel lines that obstacled his path, then reached the man, out of breath. "Sir?"

     "You'll be flying in the Diligent with me, Lieutenant."

     "Sir?"

     "Angel's loaned you to me. Come on." He started up the deck, in the direction Blair had come.

     The Diligent sat a short walk ahead, her thrusters already idling, her disc-shaped forward fuselage auguring missions of quiet efficiency rather than capital ship battles. In fact, the idea of him riding with Paladin aboard the merchantman seemed more than a little odd. Who would take a merchantman out against a supercruiser when nearly five score of fighters and bombers were ready to do the job?

     "I suppose you'd like to know what's going on," Paladin said as they reached the ship's gangplank.

     "Yes, sir. I assume we've detected the Olympus. But you're qualified to pilot Broadswords and Rapiers. Why are we launching in the Diligent?"

     "Because, son, we're not going out to fight."


Maniac attached his O2 mask, then finished his abbreviated preflight checklist. External moorings released. Fuel topped off. Jump drive, tow system, Tempest targeting and navigational AI, and life support standing tall in the green. Thrusters growling like the Dobermans they were. Neutron gun pulse generators fully charged, with alternate or synchronous fire settings available. Heads Up Display crisp, clear, and alive with data bars that told him everything but the damned ball score. Comm channel open. Right Visual Display Unit full of static, left displaying ship damage in quadrants. The armor and shield indicator, just right of center, glowed at full strength all around. It would stay that way. No Pilgrim jock would deliver even a glancing blow if Maniac had anything to say about it. And he'd said it before: They'd meet the best--and die with the rest.

     Yet all of the adrenaline-induced bravado failed to extinguish the guilt that had him sweating in his flight suit. Killing Kilrathi had become as routine as stomping on ants; however, killing other people who had once been Confederation pilots seemed like a terrible waste. And besides, he had come to know a Pilgrim, if only a half-breed. His relationship with Blair made him feel even worse now. Thank God Blair had been loaned out to the commodore.

     As it had over Lethe, the battle would become more surreal since their opponents flew in identical ships. Were it not for electronic identification systems, friendly fire would become the rule of the day instead of the exception. He almost wished he had been assigned something less personal that would take him out of the killing loop. Most people who knew Maniac would never believe that he had doubts about going out and doing his job. He had once told somebody that if researchers analyzed his DNA, they would discover a new gene--one they would find in only the best pilots. Flying wasn't a learned skill; you were born to it or not. And when you got the target in your sights, you never thought about the children you might be orphaning. You focused on racking up one more for the killboard. So why don't I feel all gung ho and jingoistic now?

     "Hunter? Bishop? Slot, clock, and burn," Angel said over the comm. "Sinatra? Cheddarboy? On deck. Zarya and Maniac? On their heels. And Gangsta? You're on my wing. Last out and last in. Ladies, while we're waiting for the bombers to launch, I suggest you pull data on the AO. The zone's an ally, not an obstacle."

     "Yeah, yeah," Maniac grunted over the old reminder. He had never been one to spend hours analyzing the Area of Operations before heading into combat. Sure, you could learn a lot more about the star system, its planets, its moons, but you might also succumb to a false sense of security because you thought you knew what lay ahead. Maniac's experience had taught him to expect a surprise with every tug on the control stick. But for the hell of it—and to appease Angel, who could tap into his systems at any time to see if he were actually scanning the data—he pulled up the skinny on McDaniel's World.

     Well, there's nothing Earth-shattering here to report to the Terran News Channel, he thought as he scanned the info spilling across his display. Star: McDaniel (Is everything in the system called McDaniel?) . Spectral type: G2 (Anyone care?) . Absolute magnitude: 4.27 (Absolutely unimportant.). Apparent visual magnitude: 0.2 (Apparently they don't realize how boring this shit is.). Temperature: 6600 degrees K (Yeah, like my temper right now.) . Mass: 1.1 times Sol Standard (My life has new meaning.). Planets: four terrestrial, two gas giants. Twenty-one known satellites in the system, three in orbit around the third terrestrial planet dubbed McDaniel's World (My God, what an original name!) .

     The right VDU focused on the planet, bringing up a three-dimensional simulacrum rotating imperceptibly in real time. Oxygen worlds were as rare as good pilots in Vega Sector, but even rarer still were worlds with masses nearly equal to Earth's. This rock represented such a place, defying odds and suggesting a sort of cosmic symmetry that allowed for remarkably similar planets to exist billions of kilometers apart. Easy to see why the Pilgrims quickly claimed the world for their own. Talk about a real estate windfall. ... McDaniel emitted a bluish green aura, and her raggedly shaped continents yielded just under half as much habitable land as Earth's. The tides created by her three moons played a lot more havoc with her shorelines than Luna played with Earth's, however.

     And there, behind McDaniel's largest moon, a gray, potato-shaped eyesore named Lyatta, hovered the Olympus. Maniac tapped in a command, bringing up a nav schematic. A trio of bundled yellow lines that represented the swiftest course to the moon extended from a blue blip marked Tiger Claw. He noted that on full afterburners they would be in strike range in one-point-three minutes. Good. Waiting too long to engage would make his itchy trigger finger even itchier.

     Hallelujah; Boss Raznick finally sounded over their channel. "Angel, flight control. First pair is clear for launch. ICQ and AO recon reports uploaded. We have confirmation of multiple bandits headed our way. No response to hails."

     "Thanks, boss. Okay, ladies. I want a tight box at one K out. You know your positions. Make no mistake, they've been trained the same as us and know all the tricks. Exploit their errors. We'll let them beat themselves. They'll probably jam the Claw's long-range scans, so if anyone catches sight of or reads a tube door opening, inform me ASAP."

     "Thought she wouldn't target this planet?" Bishop asked.

     "We don't think she will. But if Aristee knows she's going to die, she might want to save her homeworld by destroying it," Angel said, emphasizing the irony.

     "So let her," Hunter argued. "My universe could use a few less fanatics."

     "The Confed recognizes McDaniel as neutral territory and has agreed to come to the aid of her citizens should the Kilrathi or any other hostile force attack," Angel reminded him. "So everybody stow your bigotry and do your jobs. Hunter? Bishop? Line 'em up."

     Maniac let his head fall back on the seat. No, he wouldn't wait long for the battle, but he still had to wait to launch with Zarya. He pulled up her private frequency, flashed her a wink with the eye that wasn't covered by his HUD viewer. "Hey, I just wanted to say that you're the best looking wingman I've ever had."

     "What about Rosie Forbes?" she challenged, cocking a brow.

     He faltered. "She was beautiful. But in a different way."

     "What way?"

     "Bad timing for this chat, eh?"

     "Not at all," she insisted.

     "Look, Rosie got smoked, and I really don't want to talk about it—especially now."

     "I'm not Rosie."

     "Jeez, you had me fooled."

     "Do you know what a soft monkey is?"

     "Yeah, it's no fun at all."

     "Listen, wiseass, when a mother chimp loses one of her babies, sometimes zookeepers give her a chimp doll to help her deal with the grief. It's a very old remedy, but usually very effective. I think you're still grieving. And I'm your soft monkey."

     He snorted, then the laughter came out full and hard. "I've heard some pretty wacky stuff, but--"

     "You're beyond reproach." The VDU snapped into darkness.

     Swearing, Maniac slammed down the reconnect button, and Zarya appeared, gaze averted. "I'm sorry," he said. "I get what you're saying. Call me immature, but the monkey thing sounds funny. Maybe I'm still grieving, on the rebound, whatever. But I like being with you. Can that be enough for now?"

     "I guess so. But you won't have me until your head's clear. Until it's right."

     His heart sank. A week's worth of fierce wooing to get her into his rack had just gone by the wayside.

     "Lieutenants Marshall and Rolitov, flight control. You're clear for launch, copy?" Boss Raznick said, breaking into their private link. Maniac hadn't known the boss could do that; he'd have to be more careful about what he said.

     "Copy that, boss," responded Zarya, her tone forceful and all business, ringing quite sexily in Maniac's ears. "Clock stands at ten seconds."

     They lined up beside each other, and Maniac flashed her a tentative thumbs up before saluting Deck Boss Peterson. He watched the numbers spin down in his HUD, spotted the green launch light, then slammed the throttles forward. He and Zarya roared through the flight deck and impaled the curtain of sodden energy like the sword whose name their fighters bore. The two Rapiers streaked over the runway that split the Tiger Claw in two. Dark gray bulkheads broken by maintenance planes blurred into dull, watery streaks narrowing toward a disk of stars.

     "Attack vector set. Switching to auto for five-second burn to regroup and box," Zarya announced.

     "Roger, that. In three, two, one." Maniac kicked in his afterburners while simultaneously engaging the autopilot. The fighter climbed sixty degrees away from the Claw and toward a tableau dominated by McDaniel's World and the three moons.

     Were it not for human intervention, Maniac could've mistaken the view for a painting of celestial serenity by that famous Japanese artist whose name continually escaped him. But Rapiers cut viciously across the canvas, long tails of exhaust drawing straight, even lines in an otherwise curved natural environment. At the moment, McDaniel's smallest moon shied behind the planet, only a crescent still visible. The second moon hung to port, a pale white, perfectly shaped orb with a massive crater near its north pole. The target moon, Lyatta, orbited on a steep incline relative to McDaniel's path around its sun, and the moon's many craters afforded the supercruiser's fighters with excellent cover in which to stage an ambush.

     "Burn complete," Maniac told Zarya.

     "Copy. Going manual to form up."

     Directly ahead, the other Rapiers of Black Lion Squadron had already assumed four of the eight distinct positions that comprised the box formation. Four points represented the top of the box and resembled the corners of a square. Another square would sit about twenty meters back, just beyond the forward square's thruster wash. He and Zarya would assume the base angles of the second square, with Angel and Gangsta taking the top. Angel liked the formation since it gave some of them a millisecond or two to jump once the furball hit. The side of the box closest to the incoming fighters would break first, and the other sides would follow in succession.

     Breaking a box formation was much easier than, say, a wedge, which gave you fewer vectors along your three and nine o'clock and more opportunities to crash into your neighbors. Better to be blown out of sky by an opponent than make a stupid course correction and buy it. Maniac had known two cadets who had need-lessly lost their lives while breaking from a wedge. He remembered them now as he eased off the throttle and descended into position. He tossed a look at Zarya, but she didn't see him, her gaze sweeping her instruments. He had to hand it to her. When it came to business, she was nothing but.

     Two blips lit the bottom of Maniac's radar scope and closed toward the center. The Tempest system immediately IDed them as Angel and Gangsta soaring toward their positions. Maniac glanced up at the belly of Angel's jet as she throttled down to match the squadron's velocity.

     "All right, mates. Got some of our spiritual buddies inbound," Hunter reported. "Count nine bandits targeting Lightning's squadron."

     "Adjust course to intercept," Angel ordered.

     Maniac squinted to his two o'clock, where a bright spattering of thruster lights headed toward the big moon. That would be Lightning's Squadron: twelve Rapiers running escort for the half dozen Broadsword bombers whose blunt noses and boxy wings hinted at their lack of evasion capacity. If Lightning's team could get those bombers in close enough, they could release their massive quartet of over-and underwing antimatter torpedoes. If the Olympus's big guns or fighters failed to intercept just one of those torpedoes, she might suffer a blow serious enough to cost her the entire battle. Captain Amity Aristee obviously knew that, and she would direct most of her fighters to intercept the bomber squadrons, while holding back a squadron or two in reserve for any bombers that penetrated her defenses.

     Jinxman's escort team of twenty Rapiers and another six bombers approached the moon from Maniac's five o'clock. They would slip under the satellite and catch the supercruiser from below. But Maniac spotted a pack of thirteen enemy Rapiers buzzing toward them.

     The sixteen Rapiers of Sixth Squadron were quick to react and bulleted under Maniac's fighter, in pursuit of the bandits that had tagged Jinxman's people.

     Meanwhile, the Exeter-class destroyers Oregon and Mitchell Hammock assumed flanking positions of the Tiger Claw and lumbered toward the moon on full impulse. At three hundred and sixty meters, they achieved a maximum velocity of one hundred and fifty kilometers per second, respectable for vessels of their size. With bows shaped like narrow isosceles triangles and pairs of short wings that swept back toward their sterns, the destroyers resembled glistening javelins honing themselves on space itself. Their eight turreted meson guns and two dozen torpedo tubes dispelled any. rumors of their weakness. At the right moment, they would come in from three and nine o'clock positions and descend upon the supercruiser in an attempt to cut it off, though they had been wisely instructed to remain behind the ship and outside the five-hundred-meter gravitic cloak created by the Olympus's hopper drive.

     The Tiger Claw would hold back while the destroyers and fighters went about their business. Maniac knew that Gerald wouldn't bring the ship into the fray unless absolutely necessary. The Claw sorely needed a dry-docking, and makeshift repairs had been performed throughout the old ship. She would deftly serve her function as a launching platform for fighters, but she couldn't bear another beating like the one she had received near the Charybdis Quasar. Fourteen Rapiers from Fifth Squadron would shadow-hug her hull as escorts, and the thirteen of Seventh Squadron would sit warm and ready on the flight deck.

     In all, twelve Broadswords and eighty-four Rapiers participated in the attack, with Second Squadron's loss sorely felt by all. Trouble always was, as pilots died or became incapacitated, they were not summarily replaced. There were often more ships than personnel to fly them, which explained why squadrons had become smaller and why cadets were being pushed through the academies, having to meet only seventy-five percent of the qualifications that Maniac had had to meet just weeks prior. The brass covered it up by renaming programs. It wasn't flight training anymore but "accelerated" flight training, which implied a tougher class that was, in fact, easier. Maniac had heard about the revised training from Zarya, whose sister had just graduated early and had been assigned to the CS Drayton as radar officer. Maniac hoped they didn't send any ill-qualified nuggets to the Claw. And if they did, he would waste no time pounding them into shape.

     "Operation Zeus," AKA "Operation Get Some" in Maniac's engagement book, relied upon simplicity—just the way Maniac preferred it. Enemy Rapiers would go after the Claw's bombers, whose escorts would stick with them and engage only the attackers who broke through the intercepting force. First and Sixth Squadrons served as the first wave of interceptors, which put Maniac and his comrades at the sword's tip to protect Lightning's team.

     "Got about eight seconds until primary weapons range," Bishop said.

     Without further ado, the order that Maniac lived to hear rattled through his headset:

     "Break and attack!" cried Angel.

     "Got the tail pair," Hunter said. "Bishop, you bag the one on the far side."

     "Got him," the pilot responded.

     The high number of fighters in the zone dictated that wingman and wingleaders would stay close and cover each other but were still free to break off when necessary. Maniac repeatedly pushed this unwritten rule to its limits.

     As the skipchatter further clogged the general frequency, Maniac glanced to his one o'clock and picked out two Rapiers bound for the lead Broadsword. He skimmed a menu of channels and dialed up the lead bomber pilot's frequency. "Hold course, Pandora. Maniac and Zarya are in to assist." Throttling up, he leaned back on the control stick and fell in behind Zarya as they tore into a forty-five-degree climb. In five seconds they would be within cannon range.

     But Zarya had no intention of waiting even another second. Her neutron gun spun and spewed salvos of glittering rounds that strayed wide before drumming along the starboard shields of the fighter nearest them. Now solidly locked on, she held her bead as the enemy Rapier broke off in a sharp, corkscrewing dive and vanished from Maniac's field of view. Zarya stayed with the Rapier, plunging well below Maniac.

     The other Rapier maintained course, then suddenly swooped down on the Broadsword to unleash a volley of neutron fire before Maniac could react. He pinned the throttle, lit the burners, and tore into the Pilgrim's exhaust trail. "Got this little problem," he told the enemy pilot, having locked on to the guy's operating frequency. "I'm Pilgrim intolerant. You fanatics upset my stomach and generally ruin my day. I don't like that."

     No response from the Pilgrim.

     Yes, the bravado had returned, and yes, it remained a weak neutralizer of the guilt. Maniac swore at himself, at his feelings, then tightened every muscle and gave himself to the machine. The smart targeting reticle appeared in his HUD, a green circle that floated just ahead of the enemy Rapier as it wheeled around to make another pass at the Broadsword.

     Maniac widened his eyes and jammed down his primary weapons trigger. The rotary barrel hummed and got to work, belching out an unceasing spray that caught the enemy Rapier's canopy. Shields tossed up bursts of azure light as they strained to curtail Maniac's rounds. "Now, listen to a reading from the gospel according to Maniac."

     A terrific explosion astern threw a veil of shimmering light over his fighter. Even as he cocked his head to see what the hell had happened, an alluring female whooped and shouted, "Zarya drops one! What's the delay, Lieutenant?"

     Not one to have his thunder stolen, Maniac narrowed the enemy Rapier's lead to twenty meters. The other pilot leveled off, cutting through a second furball created by Sixth Squadron. Maniac ceased fire as he wove a hair-raising, torturous course through fighters and bombers crisscrossing about a quarter kilometer away from the pockmarked moon. He scarcely believed that the enemy pilot had navigated through coordinates so densely packed with other starcraft.

     Raging aloud, he pulled up and out of the traffic, vowing that before the engagement ended, he would find and smoke that jock who had eluded him.

     "Maniac?"

     He glanced to his radar scope, speckled now with so many blips that if more popped up, the display might become a solid swirl of red and blue. He threw a toggle, and the scope zoomed in to show his wingman's position. Zarya glided at his four o'clock, about three hundred meters away. "Hold your course," he told her. "Coming down to form on your wing."

     As he barreled along the outskirts of the AO, cutting through the paths of dozens of dogfights and plowing through tumbling shards of durasteel and severed pieces of twisted hydraulic line, he jolted as his missile lock alarm woke in a rapid beeping. The computer's automatic announcement chimed in over the alarm: "Warning. Enemy projectile has positive lock. Impact in nine seconds, eight

     "

     Speed is life, Maniac thought as he re-lit his burners and brought the Rapier up to three hundred KPS, three twenty, forty, sixty, ninety—

     The right VDU showed the Tempest computer's ID on the missile, a Spiculum Image-Recognition bomb using a computer to memorize Maniac's electronic and visual signature. The damned rocket approached at velocity of 1600 KPS—his evasion would only gain him an extra second or two of life. He thumbed off a cloud of chaff but assumed the superheated fragments of wire and durasteel would do little to fool the missile's advanced guidance system. Were it a Dart Dumbfire missile, he might have a chance.

     The computer reached three seconds, two ...

     He reached for the ejection handle.

     But a powerful detonation tossed him forward. A second later, roiling flames tongued his canopy before dematerializing into the vacuum. He jerked the stick back, trying to stabilize the Rapier, and shouted, "Computer? Report!"

     "Missile detonated. Range, twenty-point-two-five meters. Severe power drain to aft shields. Armor at full strength."

     Flabbergasted, he laughed and tried to figure out why the rocket had prematurely detonated.

     The answer came quickly as Zarya's face flickered on his right VDU. "Zarya drops missile, saves rocket jock's life. Give me a pen. I'll sign your palm."

     "Zarya? Maniac?" Angel called. "We need more fire support. Come around the moon to point three-five-seven by six-two-one. Got a fresh squadron of enemy Rapiers coming in. Lay down suppressing fire and draw Lightning's people another path."

     "Roger, ma'am," Maniac said exhaustedly. Be nice if he had a half-second to catch his breath. He eyed his tactical screen and tapped for the right grid. Then he brought the Rapier around in a hard turn to port, shifting the white crosshairs that marked the nav point to the center of the HUD. "En route to coordinates," he assured Angel. Zarya slipped up beside him and tilted her helmeted head quickly from shoulder to shoulder, a dance move and in-joke that alluded to their night of swing.

     By now the destroyers had already dropped behind Lyatta, and the moon wore a halo of intermittent light created by the dozens of explosions that occurred behind it.

     "Zarya? Maniac? I've IDed a troopship pulling away from McDaniel," Angel informed them. "You got it. Cheddarboy and Sinatra? You take their grid."

     Maniac pulled up the vessel on his tactical display, and he didn't need a detailed computer model to project its destination.

     "I'm all about the killboard today," Zarya said, lancing out ahead of him.

     "Guess you are," he admitted. "But now I'll stop holding back. You think I got this call sign for being shy?"

     "No, I assumed that--"

     "Whoa, whoa, whoa!" he cried as an enemy Rapier dove in front of his fighter and darted after Zarya. "Got one on your back! Jinx!"

     "I'm outta here," said Zarya.

     Where had the bastard come from? No warning had flashed on his scope. His gaze sought the tactical display then lifted as a bone-chilling salvo of neutron fire came within a meter of his starboard wing and razored into the distance. Another glance to the scope told him nothing. "They got us jammed up good!"

     "I know! I know! And a three-G loop didn't shake this sucker. Gonna try kickstopping him."

     Maniac wished he could watch her perform the hard ninety-degree turn to make sure that the enemy Rapier overshot her and that she pulled into the requisite one-eighty to lock on and blow his ass back to that higher plane of existence.

     But Maniac had his own problems, namely a Pilgrim pilot who bore down on him with wing-mounted laser cannons blazing and neutron gun spinning like a tornado whose eye blinked white lightning every time it fired.

     Sick and tired of these aggressive fanatics, Maniac howled a curse to the heavens, slammed down the throttle, and went ballistic, waving on the Gs like an infuriated boxer waves on his opponent. Acceleration dampeners compensated for some of the force, but he had to focus on his breathing and get his blood back into his extremities. Three Gs. Four. Four-point-five. His vision grew dark around the edges. He knew that in a few seconds he would lose consciousness. He slapped back a toggle, stalling both thrusters, then manuevering jets fired as he rolled onto his back to face the oncoming attacker. The Pilgrim apparently had no qualms about playing an old-fashioned game of chicken. He also had no idea of Maniac's experience with the game, though the Pilgrim could consult a few Kilrathi pilots who would spin him quite a tale.

     With reckless abandon coursing through his veins, Maniac snap-fired the thrusters and advanced at full tilt with neutron fire pinging off his canopy shield like droplets of neon blue jelly. He thumbed off the safety cover on his secondary weapons button, then closed his left eye, focusing on the targeting reticle as it swam around the Rapier, then blinked red as he got the lock. Even as he fired the Dumbfire missile, the Pilgrim liberated one of his own.

     Holding his breath, Maniac rolled ninety degrees, and the enemy missile glanced his port wing but failed to detonate.

     The Pilgrim plunged into a seventy-five-degree dive and swept under Maniac's Rapier. Though he had evaded Maniac's missile, the Pilgrim had not evaded the man himself. Not yet. Maniac pulled a hard U-turn and pursued the Rapier, gritting his teeth as it took agonizing seconds for him to fall squarely in on the Pilgrim's six o'clock.

     "Maniac? Little help here," Zarya said. Static burst through the audio-video transmission coming from her Rapier as she became a cushion for laser strikes.

     That was all it took for Maniac to abandon his pursuit of the Rapier and pull up her position on his tactical display. "I'll be right there. Hard brake 'em if you can."

     "Roger that. And hey, that troopship's making its final approach. It'll be aboard the Olympus in a second or two," she said glumly. "Failed that objective."

     "Who cares. Worry about that Rapier on your back."

     "Believe me. I'm worrying."

     "Five seconds 'till I'm in," he reassured her, stealing glances at his tactical and radar displays. Twin flashes scaled the void above as someone, hopefully an enemy, bought the proverbial one-way ticket.

     They had rounded the moon and now drew much closer to the supercruiser. Maniac clearly made out her outline against the ruffled sheet of the moon's surface. Her four primary antimatter guns swiveled to follow targets and dispense humbling clouds of anti-starcraft fire. All thirty of her point-defense missile systems launched Dumbfires at those Rapiers operating along the rim of the five-hundred-meter gravitic cloak zone. The Oregon and Mitchell Hammock stood about a quarter kilometer off the supercruiser's bow and stern respectively, taking light fire from a few Pilgrim Rapiers that strafed their decks. The destroyers hurled anti-cap ship missiles at the supercruiser, but most of them detonated well short of their targets, cut down by the Olympus's unrelenting antimatter guns. Maniac spotted a few missiles getting through, but the carrier's powerful shields and thick armor could withstand the pummeling, at least for a little while.

     Jinxman's squadron had yet to near the supercruiser, and three of the Broadswords in his team's escort had been destroyed. Lightning had fared even worse. His group had been thinned out to nine Rapiers and two Broadswords. Both squadrons had encountered ambushes as they had come around the moon, while First and Sixth Squadrons had been diverted into another fray. Yes, the Pilgrims had taken full advantage of those craters, and no, they weren't better shots—but they sure as hell knew how to navigate through furballs, evidenced by the Claw's blistering losses.

     "Maniac? Where are you?"

     "Look back," he said coolly as he descended from the heavens like a venom-spitting demon whose every sense focused on the Rapier pursuing Zarya. He engaged his electronic countermeasures system to, in theory, jam the bastard's radar. Relying on a reserve that had taken him his entire academy career to forge, Maniac held his fire and narrowed the Pilgrim's lead, positioning himself just three meters above the fighter. Looks good , he told himself, then felt the correct slam as the afterburners kicked in and propelled him directly over the enemy. He thumbed down on his high-hat control and belly-flopped onto the Pilgrim, driving the guy away as his own fighter rocked violently.

     And he could have kissed Zarya for taking full advantage of the diversion. She yanked into a one-eighty, pitched down, and got a lock so clean on the Pilgrim that Maniac could almost see the tactical line stretching from her missile station to the Pilgrim's fighter. Her missile flew, curved ever so slightly, then struck the enemy Rapier's rotary neutron gun in a fiery fist of devastation. The starfighter twirled away, leaving behind jagged embers of its cockpit and nose.

     "Zarya drops two!"

     "With assistance," Maniac quickly added, then began a long, swift turn to port, headed back in her direction. The supercruiser floated below him now, and he spotted the multiple bursts of breaking thrusters.

     Another ship boldly violated the five-hundred-meter zone, and Maniac did a double-take as he realized that he hadn't spotted another Pilgrim troopship, but instead Commodore Taggart's merchantman, the Diligent.

     "Hey, Maniac? Isn't that the--"

     "Yeah. What the hell's going on?" He dialed up Angel's channel. "Ma'am? I'm watching the Diligent make her approach toward the Olympus. They ain't shooting at her, ma'am."

     "No, they're not," Angel observed stoically.

     "Is Blair aboard that ship?" asked Maniac.

     "I believe he is."

     "Well, what is this? We sending over negotiators?"

     She didn't answer, her attention stolen by her instruments. "Reading gravitic distortion. All ships clear the zone. Repeat! Clear the zone!"

     Somewhere out there, far across the cosmos, a deity with a huge dislike for cocky fighter pilots looked down on Maniac's puny Rapier and thought, No, it shouldn't be so easy for this one. He's cheated fate one too many times. Now the bill has come due....

     Or at least that's what Maniac thought had happened as one of the Pilgrim Rapiers returning to the supercruiser suddenly blurred by him and fired a missile that struck between his thruster cones and detonated, drop-kicking him down toward the supercruiser amid a shrieking chorus of alarms. "Shit! I just took one up the tailpipe. Got mucho damage. Thruster control is gone. Can't maneuver. I'm falling within the five-hundred-meter zone."

     "Pop the top," Zarya cried.

     "Lost power to the ejection system," he said, gaze frantically sweeping the right VDU's damage report. "Reactor's offline. Can't even pull the plug on this one."

     "I'm coming in to get you," Zarya said.

     "Negative. Fall back as ordered."

     "No way!"

     "Lieutenant Rolitov, you will clear the zone," Angel insisted, cutting into the channel.

     "But I can get down there and tractor him in!"

     "Don't do it, Zarya," he said softly. "Just go home." He heard her panting into her headset, then a slight whimper escaped her lips. "Oh, God ..." The VDU went blank. His radar still operated on emergency reserves, and he watched her break back for the Claw's retreating fighters and bombers. Once her ship reached them, Maniac looked up. Bad idea. The supercruiser's starboard aft quarter rushed toward him.

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