Wing Commander Pilgrim Stars Chapter 15
| Chapter 15 | |
|---|---|
| |
| Book | Wing Commander Pilgrim Stars |
| Parts | 3 |
| Previous | Chapter 14 |
| Next | Chapter 16 |
| Pages | 173-186 |
Dramatis Personae
| Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | |
|---|---|---|---|
| POV | |||
| Speaking |
Christopher "Pilgrim" Blair |
||
| Non-Speaking |
Unnamed Marines |
||
|
Amity Aristee |
Dax'tri nar Ragitagha |
Text
| VEGA SECTOR ROBERT'S QUADRANT |
| 15 HOURS FROM ALOYSIUS SYSTEM KILRATHI BORDER |
| CS OLYMPUS |
| 2654.112 (Z MINUS 46 DAYS TOLWYN CLOCK) |
| 0730 HOURS CONFEDERATION STANDARD TIME |
Sprawled out on his cot, head pillowed in his hands, Christopher Blair closed his eyes and transported himself back to Angel's quarters. His pulse quickened as he relived that precious time he had spent with her before coming aboard the Olympus. He could see her clearly, remember the fragrance of her hair and the way she breathed his name, but every time he reached out to touch her, he couldn't remember the texture of her skin, as though someone had stolen that sense. Why can't I remember!
I'm sorry, Brotur, came a voice in his head. It's my fault. I'm just jealous, I guess.
An unseen hand stroked Blair's cheek. He sat up, shivering, fingers pressed to his cheek as though he could touch the someone who had touched him. "You said you would come," he whispered aloud. "It's been over two weeks." His shoulders slumped. He stared at the gray wool blanket covering his mattress.
I've been busy. Besides, you haven't been ready to receive me.
What does that mean?
It means what it means.
He ignored the impulse to roll his eyes. Do you know anything about Commodore Taggart? Do you know what's going on up there?
Her reply did not come, and it dawned on Blair that maybe her voice, her touch, the glimpses he had caught of her were all products of stress or some virus he had contracted. His illness targeted his senses, caused him to hallucinate. She existed only in his head, and somehow Johan McDaniel had wormed his way into Blair's thoughts and learned of Blair's contact with her. Or maybe she had been created by McDaniel for some reason.
"I'll tell you who I am. I'll tell you all about me--if you'll let me."
The voice sounded different now, much more distinct, like the soft notes of a piano. He looked up from the blanket--
And locked gazes with a woman about his age whose large, azure eyes seemed, for a moment, to be the only source of light. A dozen shades of gold laced through long hair that spilled over her shoulders and partially veiled her small but firm breasts. Her Pilgrim robe fit her very well, or did she just seem more comfortable wearing it? She smiled tightly, her face bearing angles so delicate and precise that were it not for the blemish near her nose, Blair would have sworn she was an automaton. Unlike Amity Aristee, whose beauty seemed derived from the shadows and unseen energies of the night, this woman maintained an aura by remaining close to suns, to people who offered their own light. She would be perfectly at home on a sailboat, the wind fluttering through her hair, the sun baking her a deep, reflective brown. The mere act of recognizing her stunning beauty struck guilt in Blair. His heart belonged to Angel, but this woman's presence left him warm and trembling.
"I'm Karista Mullens," she said.
Though Blair now saw the woman and had heard her voice, he still had difficulty believing that she actually existed, even as she keyed open the cell door and moved slowly inside. The door thumped shut, giving way to Maniac's incessant snoring. Blair's wingman was probably dreaming up more ridiculous plans of escape. His feigned illness had inspired the guards to new heights of harassment.
Blair rubbed the sleep grit from his eyes, then climbed off the cot. He pulled his robe closer to his neck and held his grip as Karista took a seat on his bed. She surveyed the utilitarian splendor of his cell, and Blair thought he detected a trace of melancholy in her expression. He didn't know what to say, where to begin. "Why do you keep contacting me? Why are you here?"
She patted the mattress, gesturing that he take a seat beside her.
He shook his head. "Were you a Confederation officer?"
"No. I was a chanter and dancer in the protur's personal troupe. Now I perform for liberty, for a chance to regain what was ours."
Blair returned a weak sneer. "To be honest, ma'am, that speech is getting old."
"Have you forgotten Peron?"
"No, but I don't obsess on it, either. I'm not going to blame the Confederation or the Pilgrims for the death of my parents. It just happened. And I've had to deal with it all of my life."
"Have you ever seen holos of the atrocities committed by the Confederation?" She withdrew a small holoplayer from one of her robe's two deep pockets.
He waved her off. "You can save the show. And forget about any of your other techniques, like your, what do you call them, con-crit sessions? And your songs? Forget about them, too. I understand that Pilgrims were killed. I understand that during wartime atrocities are committed--by both sides. What I don't understand is what Aristee and the rest of you hope to gain. You're on a suicide mission, and the only message you'll send to your people is that if you defy the Confederation, you will be pounced and forgotten. She has one ship, and maybe the hopper drive is a powerful device, but she'll never get near Earth with it--not if the Confederation Navy still exists." He softened his expression. "You seem like an intelligent woman. What are you doing here?"
"Sometimes I ask myself that. Sometimes I have an answer. When I hear you talk, I remember my doubts." Her gaze lowered to her lap, and she returned the holoplayer to her pocket.
"What do want?"
She took in a deep breath and faced him, her expression growing more earnest. "The scripts of our lives are often naturally paired in the continuum. Some of us are lucky enough to recognize the pairing or have it pointed out to us by others. When you and I were just children, Frotur McDaniel discovered that your script and mine were a dyad. When I was old enough, he told me about it, but I didn't know what to do with that information. To be honest, I didn't really care. It's not an arranged marriage or anything."
"Then what is it?"
"We're always paired with our parents. And when we're close to the continuum, we can read their scripts, speak with them, with their energy, with the continuum itself. You've done that. Your mother keeps warning you not to learn too much about us. She says you'll fall like us."
Blair retreated a step. "How do you know that?"
"Because we're paired. You'll soon discover things about me that maybe I don't want you to know. But I have no choice."
"Why didn't you contact me years ago?"
"You're only half-Pilgrim. It's taken a long time for your skills to mature. You've been in touch with the continuum for only a few months now."
"How did you know I'd be here? Don't tell me you can see the future."
"I was on McDaniel when the Tiger Claw jumped into the system. I've known for a while that you were aboard that ship. I volunteered to come. I sensed you'd be here. Then I reached out for your script, and you told me to come."
"I don't remember that."
"You'd remember it as though remembering a dream. It may come. It may not." Once more, she caressed Blair's cheek without lifting a hand. He jerked back. "Would you stop that?"
"Okay. But wouldn't you like to get in touch with who you are? I can show you things, teach you things you never thought possible. Isn't that what you want, Brotur? Isn't that what you really want?"
"Maybe. But what's the price?"
"I said that pairing wasn't like an arranged marriage. And Pilgrims are free to seek whomever they choose for a lifemate. Those who obey the natural pairing are regarded as the most pure, the most powerful, and the most happy. Pilgrims who are naturally paired can combine their powers and travel through the continuum as a single entity. No union is more intimate. James Taggart and Amity Aristee are naturally paired."
"What?"
"Oh, yes, she's much more to him than an old flame. In the physical sense, paired Pilgrims are perfectly compatible with each other and experience greater sexual gratification than with any other partners. But I'm not here to seduce, Brotur. I just want you to learn the truth. And that's what you want. You can't deny that--at least not to me."
Blair realized that he still clutched his robe. He released his grip, and a pang of guilt hit him as his glance traced her curves. Her promise of unsurpassed sex sent a tremor through him.
Cunning. That was Karista Mullens. She knew exactly how to ruffle him. And her robe left little to the imagination. Their teacher-student relationship would break down within a week.
Then again, no one other than Paladin had volunteered to teach him about who he was. She did wield some power. She got into his head--or more precisely got in touch with his script--anytime she chose. Blair had done the same, but the act always felt clumsy. He wondered if his mother and Frotur McDaniel contacted him instead of vice versa. And the power to touch without touching, to manipulate a force like gravity, make it bow to your will without technology ... yes, he would like to have that power. He would like to know why it existed and if it had a greater purpose than just surprising or taking advantage of individuals. What did it feel like to touch someone like that?
She patted the mattress once more. "I won't hurt you."
With a brief sigh of resignation, Blair padded over to the cot and sat at a distance that made her frown.
"I said I won't hurt you."
"I'm not worried about that. I just don't want this to--"
"You can't hurt me, Blair. I already know you too well. I know about Angel. But for now it's just us. And I want you to know everything."
"Not everything. Just teach me to touch the way you do."
"All right. Close your eyes ..."
William Santyana double-timed down the corridor until he reached the intersecting passage. He raised his hand to halt the other three pilots who skulked along behind him. The intersection looked clear, and he signaled the rest to follow. They passed the environmental control bays, the engine room, then finally reached the main hatch leading to the brig. Two Pilgrim Marines stood guard outside, their rifles held tightly to their chests. One stepped forward. "State your business, brotur."
"We have orders to interrogate the prisoners," Santyana said, matching the Marine's forceful tone. He thrust forward his forged order card.
The Marine accepted the card, unclipped the rectangular datalink from his belt, then inserted the card. He paused a moment as the device's screen lit, turning his face a shimmering olive. Santyana glanced sidelong at Douglas Henrick, one of the three Pilgrim pilots who wanted off the Olympus as badly as he did. Henrick had spent the better part of his youth in a South Philly metroplex, where he had learned to forge datacards and create falsified confirmations on datanets that would immediately erase themselves after being accessed. In centuries past he would have been called a hacker or a chiphead or a zapper. Santyana just thought of him as an old-fashioned lifesaver. Of course, that label would change radically should the card fail to work
"I don't know what the captain's thinking, but if you want to get something out of these guys, you'll have to beat it out of them," the Marine said, returning the card. "Especially Maniac. Give me five minutes with him. He'll be neutered. And cooperative."
"They won't respond to torture," Henrick jumped in. "The captain knows that. They might talk to other pilots. And they've been in there a while and had time to think. They might have grown a little soft."
The Marine turned back to the hatch and keyed in the appropriate code. "You're wasting your time."
Santyana crossed into the long corridor that divided the brig, his gaze sweeping both sides of the prison until it locked on a lanky, blond man dressed in a Pilgrim robe and curled into a fetal position on his cot. The guy communicated with his dreamworld through an atonal refrain of grunts and snorts. That would be Maniac. Santyana checked his watch, having forgotten how late it was: day 112, 2232 hours CST. He glanced to the cell next to Maniac's and found a dark-haired pilot lying on his belly, one hand draped over the side of his rack, the other placed firmly on his cheek. That would be Christopher Blair. "Gentlemen," Santyana stage-whispered.
No reaction.
"Gentlemen!"
Blair stirred a bit. Maniac pulled his knees deeper into his chest and buried his face in his pillow.
"Full flush scramble!" Henrick cried. "Out of your racks! Go! Go! Go!"
Per training and instincts, both young pilots practically exploded from their bunks and snapped to attention before the bars. They stood as sleeping statues, their eyes still tightened to slits.
"Good evening," Santyana said. "Sorry 'bout the wake-up, but we don't have much time."
"Well, you can have some of ours," Maniac said, licking his lips and grimacing over a bad taste in his mouth. "We got a lot."
"Who are you guys?" Blair asked.
"I'm Bill Santyana. This is Doug Henrick, Jadyk Charm, and Joe Pazansky." Santyana gestured to the tall black man, the short, broad-shouldered Enyoian woman, and the curly-haired athlete respectively.
"Santyana. That name's familiar," Blair said. "You weren't a test pilot, were you?"
"For a little while."
"We read about you at the academy. Holy shit, man, it's a pleasure to meet you." Blair thrust his hand between the bars.
As Santyana went to take it, Blair suddenly withdrew.
Santyana proffered his own hand. "Hey, it's all right."
"I didn't know you were a Pilgrim," Blair said, then faced the bulkhead. "Seems like all of my role models are going to hell."
"That's not on my itinerary," Santyana said with a slight smile. "Getting off this ship is."
"You guys ain't Pilgrims?" Maniac asked, his eyes finally open.
"We are," Henrick said. "We were loyal to Aristee until the massacre at Mylon Three. She never told us we would torpedo the planet. I speak for us all when I say we don't mind taking on the Confed military--but leave the civvies out of it. She wanted to make a statement. We heard her, all right."
"Then skids up," Maniac said. "Key open the door. You guys armed?"
"Can't do that now," Santyana said. "We'll try to recruit a few more, then we'll make our break before we leave Aloysius. We'll be back for you."
"Yeah, I believe that," Maniac sniped. "When opportunity knocks, your asses will be airborne without a second thought. Why did you guys even waste your time coming down here? You don't give a shit about us."
Santyana nodded his understanding. "Truth is, Mr. Marshall, we need you. Sure, the more the merrier for our escape, but you've been in contact with Commodore Taggart. We could use his help to get off this ship, but we can't get close to him."
"So your whole plan is resting on us getting Taggart's help?" Maniac asked. "Guys, we've only seen him once since we've been down here. I'm sure that Aristee's already leading him around by the--"
"If we can get him down here, talk to him," Blair interrupted, "I'm sure he'd help. He probably can't get away. And I'm sure that he's been busy trying to get Aristee to stand down."
Maniac cursed under his breath. "Blair, you're so naive."
"Taggart may still be with us," Santyana said. "But rumors have it that he and Aristee have become quite close. He's been seen on the bridge with her and seen leaving her quarters. But that's scuttlebutt. We need to know if we can count on him."
"Forget him," Maniac argued. "You guys want to get out of here? You get to a small arms locker, load up, and come back. We'll shoot our goddamned way out."
"But even if we make it to a ship, once we launch, they'll blow us out of the sky," said Henrick with a sobering nod.
Maniac shrugged. "I'd rather die trying."
"What if they can't get to Taggart?" Henrick asked Santyana. "Maybe we should leave him out of this and create a diversion of our own."
"I sayz we jet off onez we reach Aloysius," said Jadyk, her voice brushed by her Enyoian accent. "We go out on patrol and never come back. If we can get jump coordinatez, I think we can get out of range before they know what'z happening."
"That'll work for you three," Santyana said. "And if that's what you want, then I'll be your diversion. But I have a wife and child. I'm not leaving without them."
"We'll take the Diligent," Blair said. "I know the access code to her helm. But we still need cover after we launch."
"There has to be a way we can get to Taggart," Santyana said, "If only to get him down here. Look, no matter what happens, rest assured that we'll be back for you."
"I'm convinced," Maniac said, no mistaking his sarcasm.
Santyana opened his mouth to retort, but the general quarters alarm beat a loud rhythm that echoed through the brig.
"We're making orbit," Henrick said. "C'mon. They'll miss us on the flight line."
Santyana widened his eyes at Blair. "We will come back." The young man nodded. "I believe you."
With an uneasiness fueled by their proximity to the Kilrathi border and by his growing feelings for Amity Aristee, Paladin stood on the Olympus's bridge as the supercruiser shifted into a low orbit of the planet Aloysius Prime. They would meet their contacts on one of the northern continents, where lush, tropical terrain stretched to escarpments overlooking a turquoise sea that rivaled Earth's Caribbean in its beauty. While the planet's gravity remained slightly higher than the Earth standard reproduced on board the carrier, her atmosphere fully supported humans. Sure, the slightly denser air would take some getting used to and oxygen masks might be required for the first day or so on planet, but adjusting would be far easier than some of the other places Paladin had visited. Aloysius stood as one of those rare gems in the Confederation, a world whose exotic species of flora and fauna flourished under Confederation protection from colonization and tourism. The fact that Aloysius stood on the Kilrathi border only helped to dissuade poachers and other scum from plundering the planet. An elaborate satellite defense system warded off unauthorized vessels, but Amity had assured him that her people on planet, one hundred or so Pilgrim mercenaries who had been amassing foodstuffs and ordnance for nearly a year, had taken care of that problem.
Sure enough, as they continued in their orbit, they encountered no resistance. However, Confederation cap ships assigned to the quadrant frequented the system as part of their routine patrols. Aristee could not protect against that threat. She gambled that she would have enough time to collect her personnel and supplies before being spotted. Paladin had not even mentioned the Kilrathi threat; no doubt they were looking for her-- and no doubt she knew that.
In a few moments, Aristee would grace the bridge, offer him one of her loving glances, then snap into the cold efficiency that had become her trademark. He would stand by, as he had in days past, and simply observe.
I'm letting this go too far, he thought. It's been twenty-four days. What am I waiting for? She won't stand down. I know what I have to do.
But knowing doesn't help.
He should not have dined with her that first night. He should not have shared drinks. He should not have fallen back into her bed. But the bond of their pairing felt too strong to ignore. He knew he would succumb to its power, but even within that force he had thought he could still perform his duty. He had told himself that he would not be a Dante, guided by a lifelong idealized love. He would resume a relationship with Aristee, gain her trust, then sabotage her ship. He had already observed enough and had formulated several plans to do so. He had to act soon. Each day the responsibility of his position weighed heavier.
But an equally painful weight rested on his heart. He had to strike a balance somewhere. He had to dismiss his feelings and meet the expectations of the Confederation, of the intelligence community, of Admiral Tolwyn, and most importantly, of himself. I'm not this weak. Or am I?
"Thinking again?" Aristee asked.
Were they on the bridge of a Confederation supercruiser, her arrival would have been announced, but Paladin had noticed how her people embraced the practical side of military efficiency while dismissing or changing the more ceremonial aspects. No one saluted or snapped to; officers were sometimes addressed by rank, sometimes simply referred to as Brotur or Sostur. No one seemed entirely comfortable with the changes.
"Thinking again?" he repeated. "Yes. Bad habit."
"In your case, it is." She ran a finger along the collar of his robe, then let it travel over the Pilgrim cross she had given him on the day she had said goodbye. She traced the half-circle on the cross's top and added, "The sun has risen for us, James. I feel warm."
The ship's XO, a blonde, boyish-looking officer named Vyson, moved up beside Aristee. "Ma'am, our contacts on planet have transmitted landing coordinates. Escort fighters have launched and are in position. Troopship holds have been cleared out to make way for provisions and have been preflighted. They await your orders for launch."
"Give the order, Brotur Vyson."
"Aye, ma'am." He shifted back toward the communications station.
Aristee smiled over a thought. "I just came from Frotur McDaniel's quarters. He'll be supervising the cargo loading on planet."
Paladin frowned over the unlikely choice of supervisor.
"Yes, I know," she said, reading his expression. "I don't want him to go, but you know the way he is. Seems he's spent a lot of time researching this planet. Wanted to see it for himself. Of course, I'm sending along a Marine escort. Now then, are you ready? The captain's launch is waiting."
He glanced back to the planet and let his gaze wander on to the depths of Kilrathi-held space. "I think the frotur will adequately represent us, don't you? If we're attacked, well, let's just say you were lucky at Mylon and Lethe, even luckier at McDaniel. Don't push it."
"If I know Tolwyn, he's dispatched the fleet through the entire sector. Even if we do get company, we can handle them until we jump. Besides, we're running stealth mode, and my people on planet assure me that we can transport all ordnance and other supplies within forty-eight hours. And if it's the Kilrathi you're worried about, don't. Our mercenaries on planet have made a little deal with the battle group commander assigned to this border, cat named Dax'tri nar Ragitagha. He won't be giving us any trouble. His clan has been thoroughly compensated."
"With our technology, I assume. How much did your mercs hand over?"
She grinned, probably over his insight. "Not much. Most of the stuff's already outdated."
"I'm surprised the Kilrathi are still willing to deal--after what happened with Wilson ."
"Oh, I think the emperor has definitely become shy, but individual warlords are still susceptible, especially those in clans that resist the emperor's plan to form a new alliance, like the Ragitagha. For centuries the noble clans remained separate but loyal to the imperial hrai. They maintained their own power, their own identities. Some Kilrathi feel that this new alliance will strip that away because it places more power in the hands of the emperor."
Paladin drew back his head. "I didn't realize you knew so much about Kilrathi politics."
"My meres have kept me informed. I bet I know more than Confed Intelligence--no offense."
"None taken. Still, you're assuming we'll make it back in time and that the Kilrathi won't double-cross. You should be here in case that happens."
"Why James, you actually sound like you care." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Has the sex gone to your head?"
"I haven't changed and neither has my argument. You know what I think of this. You know why I came. Call me demanding, but I'd like both of us to grow very old, whether we're together or not. Am I asking too much?"
"Maybe you are. And maybe you're forgetting that our lives
they're not ours. They never were. Didn't you tell me that?"
"Yes, but think about what you've done. Has it been for the people? You don't even have the protur's blessing."
"You spoke with him," she fired back. "You know I do. Go to him now if you've forgotten."
"Oh, I've spoken with him enough. He's Protur Carver Tsu the Third, not the second. I've known for a while now."
"He's the protur," she said, spacing her words for effect.
"A protur who assumed that position after Carver Tsu the Second died suddenly of natural causes during your visit to McDaniel. Remarkable timing, wouldn't you say? You didn't even let Frotur McDaniel in on your plan, and he disagrees with what you've done. You conspired with Carver Tsu the Third. Technically, you have the protur's blessing, but he is not a protur who represents the voice of our people. They don't want this war."
She seized his arm and pulled him toward the viewport, out of the crew's earshot. "How do you know what they want? You've been away for too long. Wake up, James. This is our time."
"Yes, it's our time to die. And for what?"
"For a chance to remind our people that the stars belong to the elect. I'd die for that."
"Who are we to claim the stars? Maybe they belong to no one. Or everyone. Why are we the elect? Because Ivar Chu says we are? What if he's wrong?"
She shook her head, unwilling to hear more. "We're going down to Aloysius. Once I take care of business, you and I will finish this. Let's go." She stomped off.
He stood there a moment, staring through fractured thoughts and suddenly realizing that there wasn't anything left to talk about, that he couldn't save her from herself. He had been living in denial for twenty-four days. The time had to come to act. And to grieve.
"Brotur Taggart?" she called from the lift.
With a perfunctory nod, he left the viewport to join her.
