Wing Commander Pilgrim Stars Chapter 11

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Chapter 11
Pilgrimstars.jpg
Book Wing Commander Pilgrim Stars
Parts 5
Previous Chapter 10
Next Chapter 12
Pages 125-137


Dramatis Personae

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Text

VEGA SECTOR, DAY
QUADRANT
CS OLYMPUS
MCDANIELS WORLD,
MOON LYATTA
2654.088
0510 HOURS
CONFEDERATION
STANDARD TIME


"I'm not dead yet," Maniac whispered as his Rapier advanced into the great shadow drawn by the Olympus's superstructure. In about ten seconds, his fighter would shatter across the supercruiser's hull with all the glory and fanfare of a mosquito spattering on a windshield. He decided to stay alive long enough to remind the deity toying with him that Lieutenant Todd "Maniac" Marshall had chutzpah and flying skills up to here, and did he really want to mess with that?

     Who am I kidding? The Maniac-magic is gone, he thought as he tried for the third time to reroute power to his maneuvering jets. The cell lines had probably been severed, despite the onboard computer's failure to report the problem. The computer could at least accurately report how thoroughly screwed he was. The Rapier's nose suddenly jolted up and to starboard so that Maniac now sat parallel to the Olympus, slid sideways toward her, and had a straight view to her bow. The stars ahead had given way to the utter blackness of the Olympus's gravity well. Thousands of pieces of debris flocked toward the gaping maw, on their way to a little town known as Digestion, a town Maniac would soon visit. He laughed ironically as the brightly lit panel of his tractor system drew his eyes. He doubted the beam would be strong enough to hold him to the supercruiser.

     Then again, the well had already demonstrated a healthy and forceful appetite for debris but had only slightly affected his trajectory. He now closed in on the well at nearly the same velocity as the Olympus, as though he had glided into a neutral field enveloping the ship.

     Abandoning any more speculation, he fired up the tractor and launched a beam at the cruiser's hull. The Rapier shook a second, then panels groaned as he began reeling himself toward the cruiser. Twenty meters, ten, five, then a solid thump reverberated through the cockpit as the tip of his port wing bounced once off the hull, then settled onto the durasteel.

     Without warning, his stomach greeted his knees and a pinwheel of white light rose out of the well. He reached toward the canopy, feeling numb and disoriented as the pinwheel broadened into a blinding shimmer.


Though he was temporarily resigned to being two steps behind the supercruiser, Admiral Vukar nar Caxki had still clung to the false hope that once his battle group reached the midpoint between the Lafayette and Tamayo systems, they would finally meet up with the elusive Confederation ship.

     But they had arrived in the sector three standard days ago and had yet to read any signs of the supercruiser's passage. No gravitic residuum. No ion emissions. Had Tactical Officer Makorshk relied on inaccurate data to calculate their jump? Perhaps, but for the time being Vukar would give the second fang the benefit of the doubt.

     The atmosphere on the bridge had long since cooled from the boiling blood frenzy that had clutched everyone's hearts after they had learned of losing so many to the supercruiser. Vukar's officers now stared impassively at their instruments, some seeming lifeless, all wearing the tight lips of the sullen. Too many hours had passed without his warriors seeing combat. As much as they tried, it wasn't in their blood to sit and watch blinking lights and scan schematics. Pack hunters should be more in touch with their instincts, with their environment, if they were to remain strong. Vukar himself felt the tug of ancient desires. Everything his paw touched had been manufactured by Kilrathi hands; nothing natural existed on the bridge. This lack of nature troubled him, gave him no outlet in which to exercise his desires to leap and attack. Where were Kilrah's cliffs and caves? And more importantly, where was the prey?

     A hiss rose from the back of his throat as he shifted away from the forward viewport and drifted back to Makorshk's tactical station. "Report?"

     "Still nothing, my Kalralahr. We're simply out of emissions range. A little more time. That's all we need."

     Vukar hissed more loudly. "I've given you too much time already."

     "I have a theory, if you'd like to hear it." Makorshk slowly lifted his head, and the heat of the second fang's glare astonished Vukar.

     In a motion so quick that it caught Makorshk completely off guard, Vukar snatched the young warrior's armored collar and wrenched him out of his seat. "Only the dying assume that look with me."

     "Then strike," Makorshk said, craning his elliptical head to expose the pale folds of skin protruding from his neck. "But let me speak first."

     Every bridge officer glanced nervously at them, most holding their breaths in anticipation of Vukar's next move. Control panels thrummed and beeped, otherwise an icy stillness prevailed.

     Nearly tasting the tension and suddenly realizing how it darkened the spirits of his officers, Vukar slowly relaxed his grip and retracted the claws of his free paw. He abruptly thrust Makorshk back into the seat, feeling invigorated and somewhat free of the anxiety that had been coiling around him for days. Yes, the old desires had been quelled for the moment. "What is your theory?"

     "That supercruiser has gone from Mylon to Lethe to out here, somewhere. I suspect it has already moved on."

     "A priestess could tell me that," Vukar spat.

     "Yes, but could she predict that ship's course?"

     "You can?"

     "A Confederation supercruiser is seized by Pilgrims. The likelihood of such an occurrence is rare, and I believe that such an act could only be carried out by Confederation officers of Pilgrim ancestry. Reconnaissance data on both the Mylon and Lethe attacks confirms that troopships were sent down to both planets. That information intrigues me."

     Vukar nodded. "Why send down troopships before annihilating the planet, unless--"

     "The Pilgrims planned on saving some of their own first. I don't believe they're attacking randomly. They're selecting planets that have high populations of Pilgrims."

     "What are they trying to do? Save all of the Pilgrims before they annihilate the Confederation? And if they plan on doing that, why only one ship?"

     Makorshk lifted his chin in the gesture of uncertainty. "Those questions won't be answered until we're aboard that ship. But their course does provide one clue. If they're focusing their attention on systems with high concentrations of Pilgrims, then look at this." The second fang's long, thick fingers worked furiously on a touchpad. His screen glowed with images of insignificant planets clustered around a feeble-looking sun. "McDaniel's World, the so-called homeworld of Pilgrims." The picture zoomed out to reveal McDaniel's position relative to their present one. "You see, my Kalrahalr? We can jump here, at Blytheheart." Makorshk tapped his screen, and another system stitched across the display.

     "But we won't reach McDaniel for another five standard days," Vukar said, reading the computer's arrival projection. "We need a plan to narrow that ship's lead."

     A screen to Makorshk's left unexpectedly flashed a message. Makorshk excitedly regarded the screen as Vukar leaned over the second fang. "Kalralahr. Ion emissions and gravitic residuum detected. Ion emissions suggest that four, possibly five Confederation cap ships operated within these coordinates."

     "Yes, the apes hunt each other," Vukar said restlessly. "That tells us nothing about how we can intercept that ship."

     "If we can't catch up with them at McDaniel, we need to discover their next stop."

     "If your theory holds true, then they would pick another world with a high population of Pilgrims."

     "Yes, perhaps for the specific purpose of recruiting some Pilgrims. A mutiny certainly occurred, and there may not be enough Pilgrim apes aboard to run her efficiently. So they're taking on officers and taking out planets as they go."

     "Very well, then, Makorshk. I charge you with plotting their next course. We will attempt to second guess them based on your estimates."

     Makorshk drew back his head and lifted his shoulders. "Thank you for the honor," he said in a gasp of delight. "We will find that ship. And you, the clan, even the emperor will come to learn that the deadliest warrior hunts with his mind, not with his nose. The old ways will not work here."

     "Be wary of such remarks," Vukar said, lifting a finger. "Even highborns cannot change their blood. The ancient stirrings in our hearts that turn rational thought to jabber are what make us who we are and what will bring the Terrans to their knees. Never forget that, lest you become more like a hairless ape than a Kilrathi warrior of the Caxki clan."

     "Yes, my Kalralahr," the second fang replied distractedly, his gaze already wandering through star charts flashing on his tactical screen.

     Should the young warrior's next set of coordinates fail to place them within striking range of the supercruiser, Vukar decided that he would challenge his tactical officer to a blood duel. That would be the only way to save face after placing so much trust in a subordinate officer.

     Breathing a heavy sigh that sent nutrient gas jetting from his nostrils, Vukar turned over command to the ship's pensive first fang, Jatark nar Caxki, then took himself to the lift, guided by pangs of hunger that demanded his immediate attention. He decided that he would never again go so long without food.

     Now, if he could only hunt his meal rather than have it handed to him like a weak lowborn or like one of the intellects in Makorshk's favor.

     A warrior does not hunt with head or his nose, Vukar thought.

     He hunts with his heart.


Stretched out on his sofa, wearing only a wrinkled pair of boxer shorts, Commodore Richard Bellegarde took several long pulls on the bottle of Scotch whiskey he had picked up while in Glasgow. He eyed his Spartan quarters aboard the Concordia and came to realize that the empty box aptly represented the empty man. He had left his mistress to satisfy the admiral, but that loss leached away his spirit. While on watch, he pretended to be involved, pretended that he really cared about his career, about his life. But all he really wanted was to take back everything he had said to Trish, to resume their relationship the way it had been, to damn to hell Tolwyn's concern for his career. He took another swig of Scotch, then balanced the bottle on his bare chest and stared at a world blurred by the glass.

     His door hatch chimed. Too numb and too lazy to stand, he simply shouted, "Yeah?"

     "Richard? It's Geoff. May I come in?"

     He bolted up, spilling the whiskey down his legs. "Uh, sir, I'm not feeling so, uh

     can you give me a little time, say thirty minutes, and I'll meet you in the wardroom?"

     "This can't wait."

     Bellegarde threw his head back and chuckled. Screw getting a fleet. Screw it all. He would open the door and let the truth pour out. He got to his feet, but the deck rose and fell as though he stood on a seafaring vessel. He reached out to brace himself with the hand that gripped the whiskey bottle. He struck air once, twice, a third time before he lost his grip on the bottle and sent it crashing to the floor. At least it hadn't broken.

     "Richard, are you all right?"

     "I'm perfect," he said, then stumbled to the hatch and beat a fist on the control panel.

     Admiral Tolwyn marched in, looking neither surprised nor disgusted by Bellegarde's swagger and stench. His inspection took all of two seconds, then he crossed to Bellegarde's desk, slid out the chair, and took a seat. As usual, the admiral carried himself with an unyielding enthusiasm that seemed hot-wired to a reactor. In fact, Bellegarde had never seen the man in off-duty utilities. Even now, on his own time, Tolwyn wore his operations uniform, the large buttons running down his breasts reminding Bellegarde of what Confederation Naval officers were supposed to look like. He glanced down at his own bare, Scotch-covered form, then mustered a wan smile. "You caught me."

     The admiral shook his head. "These are your quarters, and you're free to do as you please while off duty, providing that it doesn't affect your performance. To this day, your drinking has had no bearing on your work. But take it from a man who's been there--you can't go on like this for much longer."

     "I know that. I keep telling myself that. And I keep discovering that nothing's real anymore."

     "The Navy's real. And she'll rarely let you down."

     "Why don't I believe that?"

     "Because you're still in the throes of your pity party. Forget your personal tragedy. We're all bitched from the start. So said Hemingway. I'd add that we all have our moments, and we all must make our sacrifices. But right now I need your strategist's mind."

     "You don't want to talk to me," Bellegarde said, then failed to suppress a belch. "Unless you feel comfortable taking advice from a drunk." He returned to the sofa and sat just a little too hard. The room rose brutally, then settled down.

     "We don't have time for you to sober up," Tolwyn explained. "I trust that you're in control enough to be useful."

     Bellegarde shrugged. "Very well."

     "We just received word that the Tiger Claw and the two destroyers I assigned to her engaged the Olympus at McDaniel's World four standard days ago. We're en route there now. Aristee got out pretty quickly while still inflicting significant losses on the Claw's bombers and fighters. She's obviously assembled an outstanding fighter wing."

     Tolwyn's admiration sounded a bit too healthy for Bellegarde's liking. "Where's she headed now?" he asked.

     "The Claw analyzed the hopper drive's gravitic residuum. Best estimates put her somewhere between Enyo and Vega."

     "Jesus, she crossed half the sector in a single jump?"

     "That hasn't been confirmed, but yes, I think she did. That hopper drive is a remarkable innovation."

     "Yeah, a little too remarkable." Bellegarde rubbed his eyes, imagining the carnage Aristee had already wreaked. Then he thought about ways to capture a ship with such capability when a puzzling fact hit him. "How the hell did the Claw catch up with her in the first place?"

     "I suspect that was Paladin's doing. He somehow guessed or knew she would go to McDaniel."

     "Well, can he guess her next destination?"

     Tolwyn cocked a brow. "Maybe. He's aboard the Olympus right now."

     "He's where?" Bellegarde sat up and shifted to the edge of the sofa.

     "According to Gerald, Commodore Taggart headed down to McDaniel to find Aristee. While en route, he communicated with some Pilgrims on planet, maybe even Aristee herself, and was instructed to return to the Olympus and given clearance to land. The cruiser jumped with him and Lieutenant Blair on board."

     "Blair? If Paladin went there to negotiate, why'd he take the kid?"

     "I'm not sure. I assume there's another reason besides Mr. Blair being half Pilgrim." Tolwyn stared into a thought, then abruptly said, "I have a feeling that something's gone terribly wrong."

     "Well, then, it's all about our swift reaction."

     "Which is why I'm here, seeking the advice of a drunk." Tolwyn's grin defused the blow to Bellegarde's ego.

     "Sir, given Aristee's jump capability, pursuing her now without Paladin's help is a waste of time and resources. We have to do something to bring her to us."

     Tolwyn's eyes lit, the glimmer lasting but a second. "I just spoke with the space marshal this morning. She said the press is having its proverbial field day with this, and that senators from nearly all Confed worlds are advising their constituents of Pilgrim ancestry to seek shelter at designated sites. This, I'm told, is being done for their safety."

     "Those reporters and politicians are adding kindling to a fire that doesn't need it. And I'd like to see one of those 'designated sites.' Why don't they call them what they are--interment camps?"

     "They don't have to. Anyway, it's clear that the situation back home is becoming more tenuous. We have to put down Aristee now . If she causes any more deaths, this witch hunt will reach a fever pitch. We can't afford that. And we can't afford to tarnish our image any further. Our budget requests are already in jeopardy."

     "It all comes down to policy and perception," Bellegarde said acidly. "I shouldn't be surprised. I should be happy. I joined the Confederation with my fancy Ivy League degrees, but I just missed the first Pilgrim war. Now I'm getting my shot. But this

     I have a feeling Aristee knows something about the Confederation, about all of this, that we don't. What she's doing

     it might be bigger than all of us."

     "Don't get paranoid and melodramatic on me, Richard. What she's doing is remaining true to herself and her cause. Few of us are so lucky." He sighed deeply. "I've had doubts about military service all of my life. My family thought I was a fool for not pursuing a career in business. I've often thought about that life, but more lives seem to be ruined rather than saved by money. Then again, war has a similar effect." Tolwyn thought a moment more, then straightened. "So how do you propose we bring Captain Aristee to us?"

     "That, sir, will involve risking both of our careers." Tolwyn beamed at the challenge.


Angel exited the lift and moved onto the Tiger Claw's bridge. She fought to secure her gloomy expression, but judging from the worried looks of the command and control staff, she was failing miserably. Lieutenant Commander Obutu wore the deepest look of concern. The sturdy black man rose from his station to greet her at the railing along the bridge's aft section. "Commander, we don't know each other well, but--"

     "Call me Angel," she muttered quickly.

     "Yes, ma'am. I was just wondering if you'd like to join a few of us tonight. We've got a mean card game going on. Mostly command staff. You'd fit right in. We meet in the wardroom at twenty-one-hundred."

     She returned a weak grin. "I'll think about it. Thanks for the invite."

     As Obutu stepped back to his station, Angel lowered her gaze and crossed to Captain Gerald, who sat in his command chair, absently stroking his chin in thought. "Captain, I received your request, but at this time I cannot recommend anyone in my squadron for a promotion."

     "You don't have much of a squadron left," Gerald said soberly. "Lieutenant Blair is now aboard the Olympus. And Lieutenant Marshall, well, I've added his name to those we will honor at the memorial service. Despite his frequent and often blatant insubordination, he was one hell of a pilot. I'll miss that much about him."

     "Sir, may we speak in private?"

     His brows rose, then he pushed himself out of the chair. She followed him through a hatch and into the shadowy confines of the map room, a rectangular cabin dimly illumined by holo projectors and data screens on standby.

     Gerald found a control console on which to lean and regarded her with piercing eyes. "Commander?"

     "Sir, I was just curious if you knew why the commodore requested Lieutenant Blair's company."

     "Interesting question, considering the scuttlebutt regarding you and Mr. Blair. He was twice seen slipping into your quarters."

     She whirled toward the hatch. "Sorry to have bothered you."

     "Right there, Commander. We need to have this conversation."

     Slowly, she turned back, faced him, but remained rigid, part of her still traveling toward the hatch.

     "I've never enforced the standing reg against fraternization. It goes on. It's a necessary evil. I'm okay with it. But if it compromises my ship or her crew, then I will brig the participants. Now then, Admiral Tolwyn has ordered us to break off from our pursuit of the Olympus, which, I might add, works in your favor. I wouldn't feel comfortable sending you out against her with Blair and Paladin still aboard."

     The news came as a cold wind that chilled Angel to the marrow. "Sir, has Paladin already convinced Aristee to stand down?"

     "I don't think so."

     "Then why are we breaking off?"

     "The admiral has given us new orders. We're going to Hell's Kitchen. We're to assume a high orbit of the third planet, Nether -anya, and await instructions."

     "There's a Pilgrim enclave there. I think it's called Triune."

     Gerald nodded. "I'm sure the admiral is positioning the rest of the fleet near the other Pilgrim enclaves. He's taking the Concordia battle group to McDaniel, and sending two others to Faith and Promise."

     "Why would Aristee go back to McDaniel or the other systems?"

     "I'm no mind reader, and even if I were, I doubt that I could make sense of a mind as complex as the admiral's," Gerald confessed. "I wish we were better informed, but that's the admiral's style. When we need to know, we'll know."

     "Is that also the commodore's style?"

     "He never told me why he took Lieutenant Blair along. And to be frank, I never questioned him. He said you had already approved, and it seemed like an excellent idea to me."

     "Sir?"

     "Let's just say that Lieutenant Blair will provide a counterweight to the commodore's mission."

     "Which is..."

     "I'm not sure if even the admiral knows."

     "Well, I owe that man my life," Angel said, remembering how Paladin had saved her when she had ejected in her life pod. "Still, I understand your feelings, and I did find it rather odd that Aristee gave him clearance to land so quickly."

     "It didn't surprise me at all." He read the question on her face, but instead of answering, he pushed himself off the console and checked his watchphone. "We'll be jumping in about five hours. I've scheduled another briefing for the department heads at sixteen-thirty. Is there anything else I can do for you, Commander?"

     "No, sir."


Fifteen minutes later, Angel sat at her desk and rested her head on an arm. She couldn't believe that Christopher Blair had so quickly vanished from her life. She could easily cling to the pathetic hope that he would return, keep those candles lit for him, but she knew better. Those candles would do no more than burn.

     Over the years, she had grown accustomed to being abandoned by those she loved. Her parents had been killed in the Pilgrim War, and the sisters who had raised her were little more than disciplinarians employed at an orphanage. Then, at sixteen, Mikhail had kissed her goodbye and had joined the Confederation Marines. Six months later she had learned of his death. The Kilrathi had torn him apart so thoroughly that only through dental work and dog tags could he be identified. Angel had fallen to her knees and had vowed never to love again.

     But that vow had been too difficult to keep. True, she had successfully avoided romantic relationships until Christopher Blair had come along, but the love she harbored for friends had already taken its toll: Zigmaster, Throne, Rosie, and Bossman had all left behind their indelible marks. The shrinks had recently told her that her inability to become intimate was a natural defense mechanism against all of the loss she had suffered. She had become a textbook study in denial and insecurity, a psychiatrist's cliche, a self-destructive fighter pilot who allowed herself to experience only the most basic and necessary emotions, knowing too well that an entire universe of sensations continually passed her by.

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

     "I think I do."

     Maybe Blair did understand her. She had never met a young man more sensitive and as attuned to his surroundings.

     But like the others, he had left.

     Seething over the fact, she bolted from the desk, ripped the pillows off her rack, yanked the mattress from its frame, and threw it across the room. Panting through gritted teeth, she grabbed the small statue of the Brussels griffon sitting atop her desk and smashed it against her hatch. The little porcelain dog fell in a score of pieces that clattered across the deck. She lowered her head, eyes stinging with tears, then, on her periphery, she noticed her small computer terminal. Its thin screen showed the words ONE unread text message in a beckoning flash. She went to the terminal, and with trembling fingers pulled up the mail:

     IP PORT STATUS: UNDOCKED

     OP PORT STATUS: UNDOCKED

     CLEARANCE KEY STATUS: insertcard.verifying_denied_accepted

     DATA SECURITY LEVEL: unclassified_confidential_secret_topsecret

     ORIGINATION: Confederation Merchantman

     Diligent

     RECEIVED: 2654.DBS O44B Hours CST

     Dear Angel,

     Paladin and I are on our way to the planet.

     He thinks Aristee's down there. I smooth-talked him into letting me send you this. We didn't get a chance to say goodbye, and I don't know how long this is going to take. To be honest with you, I don't even know why I'm here except maybe as a witness for him. He knows that most people don't trust him now. I do. But I'm worried. Anyway, take care, and if Maniac gives you any trouble while I'm gone, tell him he'll pay hell to me with interest.

     I want to sign off with love because that's how I feel, but I won't. I'll wait for you, Angel. I'll wait for as long as it takes

     Christopher

     END TEXT TRANSMISSION # B9274UH9Y299

     DUPLICATE COPY ROUTED OFFLINE MAILBOX Ť9BO2ť

     She ran a finger over his name on the screen and whispered, "Don't wait. I'm not worth it."

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