Wing Commander Pilgrim Stars Chapter 14
| Chapter 14 | |
|---|---|
| |
| Book | Wing Commander Pilgrim Stars |
| Parts | 2 |
| Previous | Chapter 13 |
| Next | Chapter 15 |
| Pages | 160-172 |
Dramatis Personae
| Part 1 | Part 2 | |
|---|---|---|
| POV | ||
| Speaking |
Makorshk nar Caxki |
Paul Gerald |
| Non-Speaking |
Sachin "Cheddarboy" Rapalski | |
| Mentioned |
Text
| VEGA SECTOR, DAY QUADRANT |
| PEPHEDRO SYSTEM JUMP POINT |
| KIS SHAK'AR'ROC BATTLE GROUP |
| 2654.098 |
| 0330 HOURS IMPERIAL STANDARD TIME |
Admiral Vukar sat rigid in his command chair, his gaze traveling intently from station to station as the Shak'Ar'Roc's bridge crew prepared to jump. His officers had just come off a five hour respite, and they appeared invigorated by the notion that they would once more pick up their quarry's scent. Every heart was in the hunt
Tactical Officer Makorshk had predicted that the supercruiser would go to the Hell's Kitchen system, to a planet called Netheryana, to a Pilgrim enclave called Triune that stood directly in the supercruiser's last known trajectory. At tremendous risk, they had jumped back to Lafayette, moved on to Montrose, then on to Pephedro. Vukar felt certain that they had been spotted by Confederation reconnaissance probes, but he also felt certain that if they kept moving, they would remain relatively safe. He had already driven his battle group to its limit and had lost the Fralthi-class cruiser Caxkolee along the way. The ship's drive system had malfunctioned, and those warriors assigned to her had been transferred to the battle group's remaining six cap ships. As usual, they had set the cruiser to self-destruct to avoid its confiscation and study by the apes. Vukar wished they could hide the cruiser's debris from Confederation detection, but he lacked the time and resources for such a massive clean-up operation in enemy territory.
"Distance to jump point?" he asked Makorshk.
"Two-point-nine kilometers. Jump in three-point-zero-one standard minutes. All ships report positive lock on target. Final course corrections have been initiated. Jump commitment will occur in exactly three-point-one-one standard minutes, my Kalralahr."
Vukar flexed his fingers impatiently. He pictured himself seizing the supercruiser's captain by the neck and lifting him into the air. He would strangle the life out of the ape, demonstrating that their species had at least one tenet in common: justice through revenge. He stole another look at his tactical officer and considered the second fang's demise should the calculations prove wrong. For ten long days Vukar had placed his trust in the young warrior. On the other side of the jump point lay Makorshk's fate, and Vukar suspected that his subordinate knew that. Three days ago, the second fang had come to Vukar's ready room to assure him that their course was logical. Vukar had not wanted to hear about logic. He had asked Makorshk what his heart told him.
"My heart tells me nothing," Makorshk had replied.
"Listen more closely."
"As you wish."
"Fail to listen, fail to rely on your instincts, then you fail. This is the way of Sivar."
Since then, Vukar sensed that the second fang had reweighed his primitive beginnings and might draw on them now as a source of power. Makorshk had not come to Vukar with this revelation, but the glimmer in the young warrior's eyes seemed generated by an innate energy and not by thoughts of self-satisfaction. Makorshk had finally committed his heart to the hunt.
"Time?" Vukar asked the second fang.
"Thirty seconds to jump point."
"Mute the alarm before it sounds."
Makorshk threw a switch. "Alarm muted."
"All stations at pre-jump readiness," reported Comm Officer Ta'kar'ki. "Escorts confirm that Point of No Return velocity for Hell's Kitchen jump point has been achieved."
Syl'rkai, the present radar officer, suddenly lifted his voice. "Kalralahr? We have acquired a contact bearing one-one-two by three-three-seven at a range of nine-point-four-one kilometers. Velocity is two one four KPS. It is a Confederation communications drone broadcasting a holographic message on multiple long-range frequencies. Language: Terran standard."
"Helm is locked to autojump system," Second Fang Yil'schk cut in with his necessary report.
Vukar swiveled his chair to face Syl'rkai. "Translate that message and route to bridgecomm."
The communications officer grunted his acknowledgment and beat a near-steady rhythm on his touchpad to initiate the command.
"Twenty seconds to jump point," Makorshk said.
Vukar narrowed his gaze on Syl'rkai. "Do you have the message?"
"Message translated and stored," the officer said. "Routing to bridgecomm."
A meter-wide disk located on the deck in front of Vukar's command chair began to palpitate with light, then a shimmering white column coalesced into a tall, gray-haired ape standing on the bridge of a Confederation supercruiser. The ape folded his arms over his chest and stared angrily at Vukar. His lips moved, and after a nanosecond delay, the translator engaged. "Captain Amity Driftmadien Aristee, Confederation ID number 225X741, you are hereby ordered to surrender your vessel at the nearest Confederation world. Should you fail to comply by calendar date one-five-eight, we will destroy every Pilgrim system and enclave and imprison every known Pilgrim within Confederation territory."
"Ten seconds to jump point," Makorshk shouted over the message.
"By the time you receive this, we will have already established no-fly zones around each of those settlements, which are, as you know, dependent upon imports. Don't force your people into suffering, and don't be the cause of their deaths. You may have little regard for your own life, but think of them. Do what's right for them." The ape took a step forward, his face growing tighter, more intense. "I assure you, we're not bluffing. I invite you to initiate long-range reconnaissance to confirm our presence, and I look forward to your reply. Admiral Geoffrey Tolwyn, Chief of Fleet Operations, out."
"We're at the jump point," Makorshk cried, as the ship began to shudder. "We'll reach the gravity well's PNR in ten, nine, eight, seven, six--"
Vukar shot to his feet. "Abort the jump!"
Makorshk tilted his large head in confusion.
"Aborting jump," said Helmsman Yil'schk.
Comm Officer Ta'kar'ki's voice came in a wheeze. "Relaying abort order to battle group."
"PNR reached!" Makorshk said.
"Jump drive will not shut down," said Yil'schk. "Override clock exceeded. We are committed to the jump."
"Alert all ships to immediately set course for--" Vukar heard himself finish the command, but all activity on the bridge had already ceased. His vision lasted but another second before narrowing into a world of speckled darkness. The weight of his armor lifted from his shoulders, and the bindings on his boots no longer pinched. Even the sweet aroma of nutrient gas had been neutralized into a smell that was no smell. He pricked up his ears, straining to hear something. A distant rumble finally sounded, grew louder, then suddenly roared as he coughed, blinked off flashes of piercing light, then leaned onto his command chair.
"Jump completed," Makorshk said. "Drive systems nominal."
"Escorts report successful jump," added Comm officer Ta'kar'ki.
"Relay order for all ships to stalk. Low emissions. Run ultra quiet," Vukar ordered breathlessly. "Navigation? Helm? Set course for Hell's Kitchen jump point." He strode quickly toward the viewport to examine the shining dots of the system dead ahead. The jump point lay within that system, a gravity well about twenty thousand kilometers from the planet Netheryana.
"Jump point data is already in our system," Makorshk said. "Jump calculations will be available in approximately four minutes. We'll reach jump point in four-point-four minutes. Request permission to scan for ion emissions and gravitic residuum."
"Passive scans only," Vukar snarled. "You heard the ape. They've established no-fly zones around each of the Pilgrim enclaves and systems--including this one. We've just jumped head on into a Confederation battle group."
"No, Kalralahr. Passive imager has already detected three Confederation capital ships--only three," Makorshk said, bearing his fangs. "Largest contact identified as the CS Tiger Claw. Other two are Exeter-class destroyers CS Oregon and CS Mitchell Hammock."
"Navigation? Plot evasion course to jump point."
"We're not going to engage?" Makorshk asked, his tan eyes paling in surprise. "One strike carrier and two destroyers are an easy kill."
Heads turned toward the second fang who dared question his admiral's orders.
Vukar spun to First Fang Jatark. "Remove him."
"No," Makorshk cried. "The apes are there, helpless against us. You deny us the honor, Kalralahr? And you shame me with this order of removal?"
Drawing on his instincts, Jatark lunged over Makorshk's tactical console and collided with the younger warrior. Both Kilrathi roared as they rolled across the deck in a death clutch. Makorshk drew back a paw, serrated claws springing out as he slashed Jatark across the cheek. The parallel wounds spewed blood onto the first fang's skin. As the sting of his lacerations finally set in, Jatark emitted a terrific howl, released his grip, and extended the claws on both of his paws.
But Makorshk exploited that moment to reach into his thigh sheath and withdraw his vorshaki dueling blade, a curved knife with a sharp notch representing each of the noble clans of Kilrah. Makorshk's hand shot up with extraordinary speed. He jammed the blade into Jatork's neck, twisted the handle forty-five degrees, then drove the knife up with a horrible crunch.
A proximity alarm chirped from Makorshk's station, and Comm Officer Ta'kar'ki shifted toward it, his gaze never leaving Makorshk as the second fang continued working his vorshaki into Jatork's head. Meanwhile, Ta'kar'ki snapped his finger on a small bell, an ancient tocsin used to beckon the entire bridge crew. "Kalralahr! The strike carrier Tiger Claw and one of her destroyers have altered course to intercept."
Another alarm blared from Radar Officer Syl'rkai's station. "Six inbound contacts. Identifying." Syl'rkai took another look at his screen, then his voice dropped to ominous depths. "Kalralahr? Contacts identified as cap ship missiles launched from the Tiger Claw. Missiles will have lock in four seconds. Estimated impact in thirty-three seconds."
"We have to launch countermeasures," Makorshk said, wrenching his blade from Jatork's neck. The second fang shoved Jatork's body away and stood, his face and arm drenched in dark gore. He bolted to his station and began skimming data that scrolled across a trio of screens.
Vukar glimpsed Jatark, whose paws jerked spasmodically and whose body began heaving a stench. The admiral advanced toward Makorshk, reaching for his own vorshaki blade and feeling the frenzy claw into in his head.
"A blood duel, of course," Makorshk said. "I knew it could come to this the day we lost those destroyers. But is this the time, Kalralahr?" The steady beep of incoming missiles punctuated the second fang's question.
"Kass'richak," Vukar shouted, the ancient curse jarring his crew almost as much as Makorshk's attack on Jatark. "Launch countermeasures." He regarded the helmsman. "All ships to assume defense positions. Continue on evasion course." He cocked his head to Makorshk. "We will not engage. That is not our mission.
Makorshk lifted his chin high in disrespect. "Then we flee like lowborns, and your destiny lies alongside Bokoth's. Countermeasures away."
"Missiles have lock," interjected Radar Officer Syl'rkai. "Cruisers intervening."
Tearing himself free of Makorshk's bold stare, Vukar regarded the forward viewport, where the spectacle would play out before his eyes.
Missiles took form in the distance, etching their familiar and foreboding tracks across the void. Two of his Fralthi-class cruisers soared overhead and descended to provide a moderate shield for the superdreadnought's bow, while a third cruiser hugged the ship's belly and would interdict any missile fire to that region. His single Ralari-class destroyer would shift well ahead of the battle group and unleash torpedoes in salvos of eight. Turreted lasers would attempt to pick off the incoming cap ship missiles, as would the destroyer's pair of antimatter guns. The battle group's two Sivar-class dreadnoughts now lumbered into flanking positions. At over eight hundred meters and equipped with twelve torpedo tubes each, the dreadnoughts alone could take on the apes and emerge victorious. Never mind the dreadnoughts' fighter complements of over one hundred and fifty, and the tremendous meson shields that protected their streamlined, rectangular hulls. The torpedoes would be enough to gnaw away the strike carrier's shields and reduce her to a tumbling collection of gas-and-spark-laden rubbish. But as Vukar had reminded Makorshk, they should not waste time engaging. They would move as quickly as they could to the jump point.
As the dreadnoughts added their own antimatter fire to the growing defense wall, eight cone-shaped drones transmitting false electromagnetic signatures spiraled away from the Shak'Ar'Roc in an attempt to bait any missiles that might penetrate the escort defense. Vukar tracked the path of one such drone until it vanished behind a scintillating bulwark of laser fire that originated from one of his cruisers.
At the moment, the battle resembled a strange race, rounds competing with each other as they blasted away from his ships and arrowed into the distance. With all of his senses, Vukar reached out into that distance, trying as his forefathers had to get a sense, a feel, for his enemy, but the vacuum barred him from satisfying that impulse.
"Kalralahr, two squadrons of fighters inbound," said Radar Officer Syl'rkai.
Vukar lowered his snout in expectation of the attack. "We'll let the dreadnoughts handle them."
"Shall I relay the order to launch fighters?" Comm Officer Ta'kar'ki asked.
"No."
"Kalralahr, some of those fighters will penetrate point-defense systems," Makorshk said, leaving his station and pounding his way toward Vukar. "We must launch a counterassault."
"Return to your station," Vukar growled. "Ask Sivar for forgiveness and for a swift death."
Makorshk held his unflinching gaze for a moment, then spun and trudged back. Vukar could have easily summoned a replacement tactical officer, but despite everything Makorshk had done, the second fang had more experience than any of his other tactical officers. Now, in time of combat, he wanted Makorshk at his station. After the jump, dueling blades would settle their differences.
Like szcaltal flies that swarmed the skies during summer nights on Kilrah, the Confederation fighters skimmed and flitted and spun through the glistening tangles of fire, emerging unscathed and bound for the cruisers and dreadnoughts.
"Detecting Confederation Broadsword bombers now, my Kalralahr," came the still-ominous voice of Radar Officer Syl'rkai. "Two pairs with fighter escorts. They'll reach the dreadnoughts in three-point-two-zero minutes."
"Jump calculations nearly finished," Makorshk said, reading his screen.
"Drive crews report systems nominal," the comm officer relayed. "Escorts have established jump line and order."
"Can we jump before those bombers reach the dreadnoughts?" Vukar asked Makorshk.
"We can increase thrust, overshoot them, and alter the jump line. The bombers will engage them as they attempt to jump. Or we can launch fighters to engage those bombers. Kalralahr, we may lose some of those fighters, but if we do not engage, we could lose the dreadnoughts. I believe we should have those dreadnoughts launch fighters and continue to maintain our position in the rear."
Vukar spared himself further consideration. He would cut his loses at the fighters and not sacrifice even one of his capital ships. He regarded Comm Officer Ta'kar'ki and said, "Contact our dreadnoughts. Give the order to launch counterassault squadrons. Force should be equal in number."
Though he could easily fight off the pain of ordering loyal warriors to their certain deaths, Vukar welcomed the dark feeling as an immediate tribute to those brave souls who would die or be left behind. While in recent times the Kilrathi rarely took prisoners, the Terrans would attempt to bring in some of his pilots. Vukar trusted that they would not allow themselves to be shamed in that way.
It took no more than a few seconds for the first wave of Dralthi fighters to streak away from the dreadnoughts and festoon the heavens with the blue gleam of afterburners. Vukar suddenly held himself erect and mentally offered his pilots Sivar's blessing.
He could do no more.
"That battle group will reach the jump point in less than a minute," Angel cried, her cockpit instruments blinking and beeping in a rhythm as rapid as her pulse. "Bishop? Hunter? Maintain course. Draw that antimatter fire away from your bombers. Gangsta? Cheddarboy? Break off and target those guns on the portside dreadnought."
The terse replies came and went. Angel held fast to her own course, running escort for the pair of Broadswords targeting the dreadnought at her nine o'clock.
Sinatra flew at her wing, limiting his conversation to cool, curt reporting. "Bombers will be in range in nineteen seconds," he said, his chestnut brown eyes unblinking on Angel's display.
She looked away and confirmed his report on her own tactical screen. Incoming antimatter fire already wreaked havoc with her sensors, and the occasional glancing round struck the canopy shield and neutron gun with appreciable thunder. A ring of blips abruptly crawled onto her radar scope, and while she had seen the fighters launch, she had hoped they would get the Broadswords within bombing range before the Dralthis could engage. "Tick off the bombing range," she told Sinatra. "We break on one, they bomb on one. Are we ready?"
The bomber pilots, who had been monitoring the channel, uttered their assurances. Sinatra added his response then droned off the seconds with a remarkable stoicism as they plunged toward the expanse of Kilrathi plastisteel gathered into the toothy form of a dreadnought.
A vortex of fire erupted around Angel's canopy, and shield warnings darted and winked across her VDU. The Rapier could sustain three, possibly four more seconds of this intense bombardment before the shields surrendered and the incoming struck her fore armor. She would last another few seconds, perhaps even long enough for her to shift beam and run headlong into the cap ship's bridge.
Sinatra mumbled the last three seconds of the countdown and--
At once the bombers fell away and Angel lit burners. She jerked the stick sharply to starboard in a turn that made her stomach question her sanity but took her out of the incoming fire. Two Dralthis descended across her cone, and she slapped the HUD viewer over her eye.
"Torpedoes away!" announced one of the bomber pilots. "They've got a lock. Arming now."
"Got off the quad myself," the other bomber pilot said. "But I'm down to forty-five percent thrust. Port engine is offlining now. If I don't get some support in--"
A dim explosion met the corner of Angel's eye. She checked her radar scope. The Broadsword had vanished. Her heart sank, but as she always did during combat, she told herself that she had to stay with it, stay in it. She had already sighted one of the Dralthi, and the smart targeting reticle winked green and waved her on. White-knuckling her stick, she tracked the Dralthi and cut free her first salvo of neutron fire. Rounds struck sledge-hammering blows to the cat's shields as he rolled and broke.
Groaning against the Gs, Angel stayed with the Dralthi, deciding to take out her rage for the Broadsword's loss on this individual. He dove. She dove. He banked hard to port. She banked hard to port and fastened herself even tighter to the cat's shadow. He leveled off. She got missile lock. Took the shot. Tore off the bastard's port wing. Flew through the phantom of his ship. Looked back at the yawning mouth of debris. The cat's cockpit remained intact. Her VDU crackled with an image of the Kilrathi pilot, all coppery helmet and feline eyes. "This for the hrai!" With that rushed preamble, the Kilrathi got down to the business of killing itself. The cockpit burst into a thousand tiny fragments spanned by writhing but quickly-extinguished flames.
After wheeling around to face the incoming capital ships, Angel noted with grim fascination that the Broadswords' torpedoes had already impaled the dreadnought, detonated, and had quartered her unevenly, with the largest section belonging to the bow. As she had witnessed many times before, nutrient gas vented into space, along with thousands of other objects not pinned down when the bombs had struck. Kilrathi themselves spun head over heels through the devastation, serving as obscene flotsam and visceral reminders that this wasn't just about destroying ships and gaining tactical advantages on star maps; it was about killing. Killing. And killing some more.
While they had managed to take out one of the dreadnoughts, the cruisers, destroyer, and other dreadnought reached the jump point. Scoured by unremitting cap ship fire, they crunched out of existence amid ringlets of blue-white photons and neutrinos. The superdreadnought followed tightly on her escort's heels, her cannons recoiling and belting out fire to the last second. She dropped into gravity well, blurred and shrank for a moment, then threw up the blinding sheet of her exit.
Without ceremony or accompanying flourish, the battle simply ended with the jump and the successive self-destruction of the twenty or so Dralthi fighters left behind. Angel squinted as a Kilrathi at her two o'clock shook paws with Sivar.
"One cap ship for seven," Bishop grunted. "We suck."
"No, we're alive," Angel corrected. "Sucks for you, maybe." She checked her scope. With a sigh she noted that every member of the squadron had survived. "Regroup, ladies. Bishop's buying."
Angel switched off the comm and flipped back her HUD viewer. She figured that Gerald was already relaying their encounter with the Kilrathi battle group. Problem was, the task force Tolwyn had assigned to find the Kilrathi could not cut them off in time. That gravity well could take the Kilrathi to Enyo, to McAuliffe, or even out as far as Vega. Unless Tolwyn already had ships waiting in those systems, the cats would move through them, facing, perhaps, minimal resistance since the admiral had significantly tied up the fleet by establishing no-fly zones around the Pilgrim systems and enclaves.
Her VDU switched from a damage report to display an image of Gerald seated at an ob station. "Exceptional work, Commander. And now for the bad news. Two unarmed commercial transports from Nabco-Mills violated the zone during the attack. They made it past the Mitchell Hammock and into Netheryana's atmosphere."
"They made it past the Hammock?"
"I should have held back more patrols. In any event, the transport skippers refuse to turn back, and the strike base commanders on planet won't order their pilots to fire unless I take full responsibility."
"So take it."
"I have. Those transports are loaded with nothing more than foodstuffs, and each carry a crew of ten."
"Sir, why are you talking to me? You know the course."
"Yes, I do. And I shouldn't need reassurance, but I do. Thank you, Commander. And God forgive me. Captain out."
Unwelcome chills bridged Angel's shoulders as she imagined the two transports exploding into fiery bands across Netheryana's sky. The destruction would linger for hours and serve as a grim testimony to the inhabitants of Triune.
This can't go on. Even if Aristee doesn't stand down by Tolwyn's deadline, he can't possibly order the deaths of so many Pilgrims. Doing that will earn him a place in history next to Khan, Hitler, and Tralchar. It's enviable that he doesn't bargain with terrorists, but several billion innocent Pilgrims probably wish he would. If there's a way out of this, it lies with Paladin and Blair.
Damn it. Another day would pass and mark another failure. She played a game with herself now. She tried to go an entire day without thinking once of Christopher Blair. Ten days had passed since she had read his message. Ten failures. You're weak. You're nothing. You're open, vulnerable, and you'll get hurt more than you ever have before. Besides, he's probably dead already.
No, he's not. Paladin would not let that happen. The commodore needs him for something.
Okay, so maybe he is alive. Maybe he'll come back. Why does he care about you? The only thing not falling apart is your career.
He doesn't care about you. And you're burning those candles for nothing. There's no light.
Oh, God. She unbuckled her oxygen mask and touched her cheek. Just to feel him again ...
Just to feel ...
