Wing Commander Pilgrim Stars Chapter 8
| Chapter 8 | |
|---|---|
| |
| Book | Wing Commander Pilgrim Stars |
| Parts | 3 |
| Previous | Chapter 7 |
| Next | Chapter 9 |
| Pages | 76-89 |
Dramatis Personae
Text
| VEGA SECTOR, DOWNING QUADRANT BORDER |
| KIS SHAK'AR'ROC BATTLE GROUP |
| TARTARUS SYSTEM |
| 2654.082 |
| 2200 HOURS IMPERIAL STANDARD TIME |
After making four jumps and traveling for three standard days, Admiral Vukar nar Caxki's patience had worn as thin as the kaschee ceremonial scarf coiled around his neck. He emitted a steady growl as he contemplated the image pouring in through the forward viewport. The Confederation world known as Lethe shimmered like the great blue eye on the Caxki clan's temple. Scanners had already detected clouds of debris from Rapier starfighters, clearly indicating that a battle had occurred in the system not too long agobut a battle between that supercruiser and who? Probably Confederation forces trying to stop it, and Vukar prayed to Sivar that they had not succeeded in capturing or destroying her.
"Kalralahr, we're picking up more debris at coordinates five-six-two by eight-two-one," Tactical Officer Makorshk said, sitting at his station directly behind Vukar's command chair. "The debris is paniculateevidence of another gravity well. Analysis in progress. As expected, it's the remains of more Confederation Rapiers. It appears that no ships larger than their standard utility fighters were destroyed here. I believe the supercruiser made another jump. Gravitic residuum analysis in progress, but it will take some time, my Kalralahr."
"What about ion emissions?" Vukar asked.
Makorshk studied data on a convex display, his snout cast in an emerald flicker. "Sivar smiles on us. Another day or so, and all traces would have vanished. A strike carrier and two destroyers operated here within the last fifty imperial hours, though that is the computer's best estimate. Scan also detects emissions from a supercruiser. Identification positive. Emissions match the ship our destroyers encountered near K'n'Rek."
"Alert me as soon as you have its jump target plotted. I'll be in my ready room."
Makorshk grunted his acknowledgment.
Once inside his small sanctuary, Vukar advanced to the tiny shrine at the rear bulkhead. The six sivistian candles that burned in a circle around the meter-high statue of Sivar were now little more than stumps, their light shying off into reflective puddles of wax. Sivar's coppery countenance held a permanent glower, and Vukar closed his eyes and knelt before the war god. "The honor is always yours, Sivar. I find my strength in you. But I am tired now. And my quest seems foolhardy. The blood frenzy throbs within me, but I sense it will all be for naught. I sense I'm but a lowborn in a universe that cares little for me, for us, for our people's actions. Will we really be remembered? Or are we merely victims of the petty games between clans, empires, species? Show me the way, Sivar, and I will follow. I pledge my bones and blood to you. Make me worthy to accept your blessing, to receive your strength, to act according to your wisdom." Vukar stood, went to his meditation chair, and collapsed into it. He swiveled to the comm terminal, touched a key, and replayed the conversation he had had with Satorshck nar Caxki. Before leaving for the K'n'Rek system, Vukar had contacted the leader of Caxki clan to report the emperor's wishes.
"That's very interesting, Vukar. Very interesting indeed," Satorshck had said upon learning of the emperor's plan to send battle groups to Ymir and Nephele. "He's simply placating the clan leaders but failing to truly act, as we suspected. The Caxki may have been the first of the noble clans to join the emperor's new imperial alliance, but we may also be the first to secede. If you find and capture that supercruiser and its new drive system, understand that it will be the property of the Caxki clan. You will not, under any circumstances, turn it over to the emperor. Do this for the hrai , Vukar, and you will reap the rewards."
"I understand, but if I fail to obey the emperor's orders, the prince will make a challenge."
"And you will accept that challenge," Satorshck said vehemently. "And if so, you will die for the hrai , for the greatest noble clan Kilrah has ever seen."
"As you wish."
Vukar switched off the recording, then leaned back and stroked his whiskers in thought. Better to toil over what to do with the hopper drive after he had it. For now, he would patch the tear in his loyalty with a newfound desire to recover that shipnot for the emperor or his clan, but for the courageous warriors who had lost their lives under his command.
The terminal beeped. "Kalralahr?"
"You have the coordinates?" Vukar asked as he hit the vid display and Makorshk appeared on the screen.
"We do. Estimates, of course. They put the supercruiser between the Lafayette and Tamayo systems."
Vukar stood. "Sound the pre-jump alarm. Plot best course to those coordinates."
"Course already plotted, my Kalralahr. I'm afraid it will take two-point-seven-five standard days to get there, providing we do not meet any resistance at the jump points. We'll have to jump at Montrose and Lafayette, both well-guarded Confederation systems. Also, I should remind you that those coordinates will place us well away from jump points and deep within Day Quadrant. That will be dangerous, but what troubles me even more is why the supercruiser would venture there in the fist place, unless it is rendezvousing with another ship."
"That may be the case. Perhaps they're taking on supplies."
"Or perhaps they require a position well away from gravitic interference. Perhaps they're testing their hopper drive."
Vukar lowered his thick brow. "Testing it? I believe it functions properly. Over two hundred Kilrathi souls will testify to that."
"Yes, but earlier I said that they could use the drive as a planet killer. Since then I've been analyzing the data and discovered that I was wrong. That drive's gravitic cloak extends for about five hundred meters and funnels down about three hundred meters. A gravity well that small would have to be placed within a planet's atmosphere to consume matter, and the supercruiser cannot operate within most atmospheres."
"Then maybe it's not as dangerous as we first thought."
"But Kalralahr, consider this: If the gravity well created by the drive could be made larger, then it could be placed beyond a planet's atmosphere and still pull it in. Imagine that supercruiser jumping into orbit around Kilrah. We surround it. There is no chance it can fire a planetary torpedo and cause damage. But, without warning, it activates its hopper drive, and the resulting gravity well instantaneously pulls in every ship and our homeworld. It all happens much more quickly and efficiently than a conventional attack. The supercruiser jumps the well while everything behind it is ripped out of existence."
"All the more reason to find that ship." Vukar pawed off the terminal and left the room, stepping back onto the bridge, where Makorshk regarded him with a quick bow of the head.
"Stations report pre-jump readiness," Comm Officer Ta'kar'-ki said, switching off the gonging alarm. "PNR velocity for Tartarus jump point achieved."
"Engage jump-drive," Vukar said to the helmsman, Yil'schk. "This, I sense, will be a long hunt
"
Blair jerked awake as the high-pitched alarm for general quarters sounded. He stared at the overhead of his quarters for a second, then checked his watch: 0730 hours standard time, eighty-third day of the year. Damn, he'd forgotten what the time and date meant.
"Somebody burned breakfast," Maniac said through a yawn. He rolled over and covered his head with a pillow.
"It's jump day. We're still tailing that supercruiser, remember?"
Maniac didn't answer. Blair rolled quickly out of his cot, and cussed as his bare feet connected with a glacier that looked remarkably like durasteel. "Maniac? Wake up."
"Maniac who?"
"Five minutes to stations or that'll be two more demerits. I can afford 'em. You can't. You're lucky that you're still on the roster after your little torpedo maneuver."
"I'll always be on the roster," Maniac said, removing the pillow. "It's supply and demand, Ace. And speaking of demand, my sore muscles demand that I stay right here. Tell your sweetheart I'm sick."
Blair hustled to his locker, withdrew a clean uniform and Skivvies. "She's not my sweetheart."
"I know, loser. The reg against fraternizing is the first one I break." Maniac worked himself a little deeper into his mattress, and Blair knew very well why the pilot had so much trouble waking up. Maniac had been up until the wee hours, tripping the light fantastic with Zarya in the rec. She had been teaching him an old-fashioned dance called "swing" that had him literally swinging her through the air as though she were a drum majorette's baton. The music, Blair had to admit, thrummed with an infectious rhythm punctuated by lively saxophone and guitar improvisations. The lyrics focused mainly on the dance itself, with allusions to something called "jive" and references to people as "cats." That seemed ironic to Blair, but Zarya had assured him it was all part of the fun.
After dressing quickly, tossing some warm water over his face, and wetting down his short locks, Blair looked once more at his pathetic bunkmate, then hurried out.
With thirty seconds to spare, Blair made it to the flight wing ready room and strapped into a jumpseat between Hunter and Bishop. Pilots lined the walls, chatting with each other or staring straight ahead, sleeping with their eyes open. The six squadron commanders entered from a hatch that led to the flight control room. They eyed the rows, taking silent attendance. Blair glanced at the empty seat that belonged to Maniac. Zarya sat beside the seat, her gaze focused on the entrance in anticipation of Maniac's arrival.
"Lieutenant Marshall?" Angel asked, inspecting the room to be sure she hadn't missed him.
"Uh, he's sick, ma'am," Blair said. "I think he was going to see a medic and strap in down there."
She managed to restrain most of her sneer and the rage that lay behind it. "I hope you're right," she said, then hastened to the data net terminal beside the main hatch.
Blair looked to Zarya, who mouthed, "Where is he?"
Closing his eyes, Blair tilted his head to one side to show her. When he looked up, he saw Zarya swearing to herself.
After another moment, Angel returned from the terminal, her gaze like a flamethrower. "Lieutenant Marshall is not in sickbay. And if he's in his quarters, he's not answering my call. Any ideas, Lieutenant?"
Blair shrugged.
"I wouldn't find him dancing in the rec, would I?"
He stifled a snort. "I doubt that, ma'am."
Her exaggerated sigh said it all. She turned back to confer with Jinxman and Lightning, and for a moment the ready room's lights caught her at the perfect angle. Why did he keep seeing her in the light like this? Why did she have to be so damned beautiful?
Three days ago they had eaten breakfast together. They had drawn the stares of a few officers stuffing their faces, but she had been unfazed by that. The stares had bothered him more, and for some reason he couldn't get past the notion that he should keep his distance, that when she leaned over her food to say something, bringing her lips so close that it made him dizzy, he should keep his torso rigid. Twice he had even recoiled from her advance. They had chatted about the war, about news from Earth, about a new film showing in one of the vidrooms on Deck C. While her words came out naturally, gracefully, his dialogue felt forced, ragged, shaken by nerves and thoughts of rejection.
Anyone else would have probably asked her to come back to his quarters. Anyone else would have made love to her as though it were his last time. But Blair felt pinned under his insecurities, and when the breakfast was over, she headed back to her quarters and he sat there for an hour, damning his ineptitude. For the next two days he saw her only during training sessions. He had ghosted his way around the flight deck, hoping to bump into her, but instead bumped into Deck Boss Petersonliterally. The man ordered him off the deck. And so it went.
Then, last night, he had spotted her sitting alone in a far corner of the rec, watching Maniac and Zarya dancing. Tentatively, he had approached and had asked if he could join her. Her smile had been a perfect reply, and he had bought her next drink, an expensive beer produced by a boutique brewery on Nephele. She had never tasted it before, had said it was great, and had thanked him with a salacious look that continued flashing through his mind's eye. For the rest of the time they had just sat there, rapping idly about more trivialities until she had finished her glass, bid him good-night, and suddenly left.
Seeing her go, Maniac had looked to Blair, and his mouth had formed a single word: "loser."
Blair blinked off the memory as Maniac now scampered into the ready room, ducked by the squadron commanders, then slammed himself into his jumpseat. Zarya helped him buckle in as Lieutenant Commander Obutu rattled off the final countdown from command and control, each number booming through the ship.
The squadron commanders took their own seats, and Angel set her crosshairs on Maniac. At least the pilot knew better than to find her gaze.
Bulkheads groaned, overheads rattled, and lights flickered as the Claw's jump drive came on line. Blair had grown quite used to the shipboard effects of jumping, especially those associated with jumping known rifts in the space-time continuum. Jumping quasars, pulsars, black holes, and other unpredictable phenomena would always keep him on edge. But this standard jump freed him to focus on other things, other people, most particularly his mother. He hoped she would come to him and explain why she had not appeared during his jump of the supercruiser's gravity-well. He would demand that she explain the voice in his ears, the caress on his cheeks, the figure who had risen to beckon him from the plain of darkness.
Even as he turned his thoughts to her, the pilots' murmuring decrescendoed into nothingness. The straps of his jumpseat and the tug of his uniform surrendered to a feeling of numbness. He no longer detected the smell of detergent that lingered on everyone's uniforms, and his mouth lacked the aftertaste of last night's beer. He looked across the room at the other pilots frozen in mid-sentence, then he darted through them and into the cosmos as though strapped to a runaway drive. He orbited Earth several thousand times, slingshotted around Sol, then rocketed out of the Milky Way, heading deeper into the local group, toward Andromeda and its companion galaxies. And as he traveled, he glimpsed his mother for a moment. She looked repeatedly over her shoulder as she ran through a seemingly endless corridor of star clusters.
"Mother!"
"Don't come, Blair." She dissolved into the stars.
He willed himself after her, moved in front, and she came to a jarring halt, out of breath and beaded with sweat. The lines spreading out from her eyes had deepened since the last time he had seen her, and the color of those eyes seemed to fluctuate with the beating of her heart, sometimes green, sometimes blue, sometimes a color he could only describe as sad.
"What's wrong?"
"I want so badly to talk to you, my son. But I can't."
"Why?"
"Because if I change your path, I change the paths of countless others, including my own. I can do nothing for you."
"Just tell me about"
"The voice? The caress? The figure?"
He took her shoulders into his hands, and he felt her warmth surge up his arms. "Tell me! There's no pain in knowing. The pain is my ignorance."
"Doesn't it bother you that some of us have murdered billions over the years?"
"Of course it does. It makes me question even more who and what I am."
"Don't ask that question. And don't go looking for the answer. Oh, Christopher. I didn't want to leave youI didn't. Know that, at least."
"What about the voice? The hand I felt on my cheek?"
"Beware them," she said, then repeated the words until they blurred into gibberish, became a tone that rose in pitch until he screamed for it to leave.
It did.
His chin rested on his chest. He panted as though he had just run a dozen kilometers.
"You got to lay off that beer, mate," came a familiar voice. "Hard to really tell what they put in that microbrew. Better you fix yourself right with a nice oil can of Foster's. Over six centuries of tradition. You'll learn."
Blair looked up, saw Hunter unbuckling from his jumpseat harness. Some of the other pilots were already on their feet, and a casually dressed man beamed at him from the hatchway. A harder look revealed him as Paladin, hair still wet from a recent shower, cheeks freshly shaven. For his part, the man made no remark of Blair's particularly rough post-jump appearance and came quickly forward. "Mr. Blair. It seems that the Olympus has already jumped. We can get a rough estimate of her destination from the Claw's sensors, but I think you and I can do a more accurate job. Care to take a ride?"
Within five minutes Paladin had the Diligent preflighted. The first time Blair had seen the merchantman, he had thought that she resembled a twenty-five-meter-long Ping-Pong paddle. His appraisal had not changed, but his affection for the vessel had deepened. Though no visual thrill, the old girl had, according to Paladin, never failed him. He sat at the portside helm controls while Blair handled navigation. They received clearance from Boss Raznick and rumbled out of the hangar, soaring up into the endless folds of interstellar space. A patrol of Rapiers had already been launched and had fanned out to scan the Area of Operation's perimeter. Blair caught sight of one of the fighters through the starboard viewport and double-checked his course, making sure he would avoid the fighters' vector.
"Initiate residuum scan," ordered Paladin.
Blair shifted to a small touchpad and tapped in the command. One of the nav station's screens mounted to a swivel arm abruptly illuminated with columns of data regarding the composition of the void ahead: mostly hydrogen, with traces of nitrogen, oxygen, and carbon detected by their radio emissions. Then the screen flashed as it picked up a concentration of gravitons and antigravitonsthe residuum from the supercruiser's jump. "Locked on to her jump point," he informed Paladin.
The commodore looked askance. "Thought you'd be full of questions. You all right?"
"Yeah," Blair answered softly. "And I am full of questions. But I'm not sure you can answer them."
"Try me."
"Do you
ah, it's ridiculous." Blair pursed his lips, returned his gaze to his instruments.
"You didn't look so well after our jump. Something happen?"
"Sort of. It's about my mother."
"A lovely lady."
"You knew her?"
Paladin thought a moment, a smile slowly curling his lips. "I introduced her to your father."
"Why haven't you told me?"
"When you were ready to know, you'd come asking. I've already told you a little about how the Pilgrims rose to power, then plunged to defeat. But there's so much you don't know."
"That's what my mother tells me."
A curious glint came into Paladin's eyes. "Your mother died on Peron during the attack."
"I know. But sometimes when we jump
I don't know. That moment between points, when you don't feel anything, when it seems like"
"You see her. You talk to her."
"Yeah. I mean, is it really her? Am I talking to somebody else? To a ghost? To God? Am I nuts?"
"Have you done any research on this?"
Blair frowned. "I thought this was only happening to me. Is speaking to the dead common among Pilgrims?"
"You're not talking to the dead. According to one theory, you're tapping into a script that lies in a parallel dimension. It's been suggested that the human brain isn't a device for storing information but a tool for scripting it. This other dimension, they've dubbed it the Tanque Dimension, holds the scripts for every human being that ever lived, but Pilgrims can tap into that information. That's why when you get near a quasar or pulsar or what have you, you can sense a course through it. You're actually tapping into a script written by the first Pilgrims who navigated through."
"So it's nothing mystic. It just has to do with the ability to read that information," Blair concluded.
"Yes, but explain to me how you can interact so intimately with a piece of stored information. There's no advance Al at work. I think that's when it gets mystical."
Blair thought back to his first ride with Paladin. "When we jumped Scylla, you seemed surprised that I was able to navigate through her. And if you're a Pilgrim and you can tap into these scripts like me, then why didn't you jump the well itself?"
"I could have, but I couldn't have done it as easily as you. Why do you think I have all of those Pilgrim maps back in my quarters?"
"I don't know, but you're a Pilgrim."
"We're not all the same, Blair. Some say we evolved from savants. There were 'zappers' who were experts at electrical systems; 'chipheads' able to engineer flawless hardware designs; 'toolkits' who could fix things with whatever happened to be lying around; 'crunchers' who could perform complex mathematical calculations without computers; and 'rabbitfoots' who supposedly brought good luck to missions. From there, other types of abilities emerged, and one in particular is the most interesting to us: the compass. These are the Pilgrims I told you about, those with a flawless sense of direction. They were subcatego-rized into the visionary, the explorer, and the navigator."
"Which one am I?"
"From what I've seen, you're a navigator. Me, on the other hand, I'm a visionary. I can determine which systems would prove most valuable for human expansion. Visionaries can throw their minds across the galaxy, seek out new systems, and analyze their composition. You don't even need to send a ship out if you have a visionary on your team. I have to admit that my skills are pretty limited, and I've been wrong on more than one occasion. I wish I were a navigator like you."
"What about the explorers?"
"They're able to navigate through uncharted regions. Most of the Pilgrim holocartography we have today was created by explorers. Some argue that of all three subcategories, explorers are the most powerful."
"What do you think?"
"I think there's one Pilgrim who's more powerful than any individual. He's a visionary, an explorer, and a navigator, and his name's Johan McDaniel, the last living descendant of Ivar Chu McDaniel. He's kind of a legend. I met him once. Nice old man until you cross him. We're out here now because I want you to tap into his script. It's out here somewhere."
"His script? Why would it be" Blair answered his own question before even asking it. "He's on board the supercruiser."
"Amity knows him as well as I. She's using him as a supplement to her hopper drive. The calculations involved in creating and jumping a gravity well are sometimes too complex for the NAVCOM. McDaniel is handling that for her."
"What is she? A navigator like me?"
"No, she's an explorer." Paladin's hand went reflexively to his chest. The Pilgrim cross that hung hidden beneath his shirt had been given to him by Amity. Blair had once borrowed the cross and had read the inscription on its back. She wanted him to remember love across the cosmos, to remember her. Blair smiled bitterly as he realized that Paladin wasn't the only one who would remember her now.
Blair's nav computer chirped a warning. "We're right in the residuum now," he said, reading his screen.
"Okay, Mr. Blair. Get to work."
He gave his mentor an awkward look.
"Reach out and find that script. Learn where they're headed."
"Okay," Blair said sarcastically. "But I don't even know how to reach. When I jump a well, the feeling is there. I don't have to look for it."
"You learn something new every day. And here's today's lesson. On your feet, mister. Go the viewport. Just look out there. I mean really look out there." Paladin's voice came in a breathy lilt.
Blair stood, worked out the kinks in his legs, then went anxiously to the viewport. He tossed Paladin a worried look, earning himself an insistent, wide-eyed stare.
Stars, nothing but. Pinpoints against a void so familiar yet so alien that nothing Blair could do would ever change that. What am I supposed to see ?
"Me, probably," came a voice from behind.
Whirling, Blair came face-to-face with an old man dressed in a strange white robe and dark sandals. He looked past the man to Paladin, who sat motionless and unaware at the helm.
"So, Brotur Christopher. I take it you'd like to know where we're going." The old man's hazel eyes flashed like light through a prism, and his skin held a ruddy sun glow. He stood quite erect for a man so wizened, his chest bulging like a powerlifter's beneath his robe.
"Are you part of a script? Am I accessing your data?"
He chuckled. "That's a clumsy assessment, don't you think?"
"Then what are you?"
"I'm just me. And you're just you. And here we are."
"You with Captain Aristee? Are you helping her?"
The old man's brow knit as he took offense. "Of course. Where else would I be?"
"I don't know. Where are you now?"
"Why, I'm here, brotur, with you."
"Where is Amity?"
"Oh, were it that easy, young man."
"There's enough residuum here for me to estimate her destination. You can't hide that from me."
"Yes, I can. But her destination should already be quite obvious to you. If she's made a fatal mistake, this is it. Oh, I'm tired of sitting in judgment. We each have a path." He took in a long breath, sighed loudly. "Now, young Pilgrim, let me teach you about who you are, where you belong, and why life among the elect is yours."
