Wing Commander in Real Time - Day 1 - 2130 Zulu

Script

9E EXT. EARTH'S SOLAR SYSTEM

The Diligent, a merchantman, speeds by Venus. Behind it,

spinning slowly, we can clearly see Earth.

9F INT. DILIGENT - TINY CABIN (PREVIOUSLY SC. 26)

BLAIR, mid twenties, straight out of the academy, is

sprawled out on the tiny bunk, no shirt. He's fingering

a silver cross that hangs around his neck. On closer

examination, we see that it is inscribed with

astrological symbols and ends in a dagger point. It's a

PILGRIM CROSS.

A VERY SMALL MAN, about sixteen inches tall, appears to

sit on a shelf just above his head, watching. This is, in

fact, a HOLOGRAM projected by Blair’s portable personal

computer (PPC), MERLIN.

MERLIN

I know there's a war going on -- but a

requisitioned merchantman? What are we

on, a garbage run? Delivering

groceries?

BLAIR ignores him and keeps reading. This irks Merlin.

MERLIN (Cont'd)

"The Diligent?" Please -- "The

Dilapidated" is more like it. "The

Deluded." "The Dilatory."

BLAIR

(finally looking up)

"Dilatory?"

MERLIN

"Inclined to delay, tardy, slow. From

the Latin, Dilator"

(heavy sarcasm)

I’m not keeping you up, am I?

BLAIR

Where did you pick up that sarcasm?

I didn't put that in your program.

MERLIN

I don't just sit around waiting for you

to power me up. The sarcasm I downloaded from the main-frame at the

Academy while you were in --

(suddenly all business)

Lt. Marshall's approaching the hatch.

Blair hides the cross in his book, just as the hatch

opens, revealing TODD 'MANIAC' MARSHALL. He hasn't earned

his "Maniac" moniker just yet - For now people just call

him Lt. Marshall. But for script simplicity we'll refer to

him as Maniac through out. Maniac is Blair's age and a

fellow pilot, but the resemblance ends there.

Where Blair seems closed-off and brooding, Maniac's an

open book -- big-boned and with a slightly crazed gleam in

his eye.

MANIAC

Up and at 'em, Captain wants you on the

bridge. Top priority.

He glances up at Merlin, who now sits immobile, but with

eyes that seem to follow you around the room, like a

creepy optical illusion.

MANIAC

(to Merlin)

What are you looking at?

(to Blair)

What a waste of artificial

intelligence.

MERLIN reactivates.

MERLIN

Funny Lieutenant, I was thinking the

same about you.

BLAIR

Merlin, off.

Merlin shoots an indignant glance at Blair just as he

vanishes.

MANIAC

There weren't enough know it alls in

the universe, you had to program

another one.

(a beat)

Come on, we better get upstairs.

BLAIR

I'll meet you.

Maniac starts to say something, then shrugs and leaves.

Blair lifts his Pilgrim cross from the book and slips it

over his head. He grabs his shirt and pulls it on

hastily.

9G INT. DILIGENT - BRIDGE

A grim, ruggedly handsome man of indeterminate age,

looking more like a pirate than a merchant, comes out of

the GALLEY with a hot cup of coffee. This is James

Taggart, better known as PALADIN. Maniac sits idly in the copilot's seat.

BLAIR arrives, ducking through a small hatch-way.

BLAIR

Sir?

PALADIN looks strangely at Blair. Blair realizing his

cross is still partially visible, tucks it away. Paladin

doesn't say anything.

PALADIN

I don't' know who you know Lieutenant,

but you just received a CONFED Code One

secure communication.

BLAIR sits at the center console, slides over to the comm

screen, keys a code.

BLAIR

Blair, Christopher, Lieutenant.

...Screen powers up and ADMIRAL TOLWYN appears on the

screen. Reflexively, Blair straightens up.

TOLWYN

At ease, Lieutenant?

BLAIR

Yes sir, Admiral.

TOLWYN

Good. You are currently outbound for

Vega sector and the Tiger Claw. I need

you to hand deliver an encrypted

communications chip to her captain.

Captain Sansky. Message is incoming.

BLAIR

Why not send it by drone to the

Pegasus, sir? It would be quicker--

TOLWYN

The Pegasus is gone. it was destroyed

by a Kilrathi battle group twelve and a

half hours ago. See that Captain Sansky

gets that chip.

BLAIR

All do respect sir, why me?

TOLWYN

(Small smile)

Right now, you're all I've got.

(a beat)

I fought along side your father, in the

Pilgrim Wars. He was a good man -- you

look a lot like him.

BLAIR

People say I have my mother's looks, sir.

Tolwyn reacts, as if remembering something.

TOLWYN

Yes, it must of been hard. They were

both good people. Godspeed. Tolwyn Out

Recorder spits a small circular chip out. BLAIR takes it

and the monitor turns to fuzz.

9H INT. CONCORDIA - BRIDGE

TOLWYN steps back from the monitor. BELLEGARDE stands

behind him.

TOLWYN

You don't approve, Richard?

BELLEGARDE

Of using Blair's kid? No, sir, I do

not.

9I INT. DILIGENT - BRIDGE

PALADIN bangs coordinates into a navigational computer as

MANIAC sits idle in the copilot's seat. BLAIR looks up

from the comm screen. Paladin doesn't wait for Blair to

speak.

PALADIN

This milk-run just got a little more

interesting. Set a course for beacon

147, one quarter impulse.

MANIAC

Course for 147. One quarter impulse.

(reads screen)

147's off limit's sir. There's 100,000

kilometer no-fly zone around it.

PALADIN

I said beacon 147. It's a shortcut.

Lose the sir.

MANIAC shrugs, leans over to the controls, bangs the

course in, hits the engage button with his foot.

As PALADIN moves away, we see a black tattoo on his fore

arm. It's in a strange, jagged script: Kilrathi.

9J EXT. DILIGENT - SOLAR SYSTEM

Craft streaks by Mercury. We follow the Diligent as it

heads towards the Sun. Ahead of it, far in the distance,

we can just make out a flashing buoy. Behind the buoy,

space seems to distort, shimmer ever so slightly.

Novelization

CHAPTER 2

REQUISITIONED MERCHANTMAN DILIGENT

TERRAN CONFEDERATION ASTEROID WORLD PEGASUS

MARCH 15, 2654 2130 HOURS ZULU TIME

SOL SYSTEM

ENROUTE TO TCS TIGER CLAW VEGA SECTOR

After graduating from the Terran Confederation Space Naval Academy

on Hilthros just a month earlier, First Lieutenant Christopher Blair had

entertained a number of fantasies concerning his first non-training

assignment. He, like many of the other fledgling pilots, had put himself on

great carriers like the Concordia or cruisers like the Waterloo. Some of

Blair's classmates had actually been awarded those prestigious

assignments, much to his jealousy and chagrin, because for a month he

had been shuffled around, leading him to believe that his superiors could

not find him a home. He had served a brief, thirty-hour stint on the

destroyer Gilgamesh before being ferried back to the academy. The

commandant had asked him to give several testimonial speeches to the

new classes. But Blair felt that his wisdom had fallen on the deaf ears of

bright-eyed baby birds too excited to listen, their hearts pounding at the

thought of strapping on starfighters and hauling their particular asses

across the cosmos. But Blair couldn't blame them. He had behaved the

same way when graduates had come to speak to his freshman class.

Christopher Blair needed a home. And at last they had given him one:

the TCS Tiger Claw, the largest carrier in her class, with a crew of over

750. Less than two minutes after receiving word of the assignment, Bla,?ir

had voice-activated his Portable Personal Computer, a fingernail-sized

device embedded in his wrist, to learn more about the carrier's service

record.

In 2642 the Confederation military command had authorized the

design of the Bengal-class carrier line, and by 2644 the Tiger

Claw

launched for her shakedown cruise with a minimal space crew and

inexperienced command. She ran headlong into a Kilrathi invasion force.

With clever tactics her crew managed to suppress the superior force.

Shortly thereafter, Vega sector became the carrier's permanent

assignment.

During 2649, the Claw performed a delaying action to allow Confed

transports to retreat out of Kilrathi-occupied space. The engagement,

subsequently known as Custer's Carnival, concluded with the ship badly

damaged but able to return home. She lay in spacedock undergoing

repairs and refitting until early 2050. Veteran crewers swore the old girl

never fully recovered from that mission, that battle damage still haunted

the deepest regions of her hull.

Besides hearing about the Tiger Claw's history, Blair had wanted to

review the personnel roster, but that access had been denied, since his

computer account had not yet existed. No matter. He would meet his

fellow officers soon enough.

Now he lay sprawled out and bare-chested on his rickety bunk in one of

the Diligent's tiny cabins. Exposed conduits spanned the ceiling like

rubber and durasteel cobwebs. Even the standard cot-and-locker

arrangements aboard carriers afforded more living space. And their crews

actually kept the floors clean and addressed problems such as

foul-smelling mattresses, two items clearly overlooked on the Diligent.

Trying to ignore the uncomfortable surroundings, Blair fixed his gaze

on a hard copy of Claw Marks, the onboard magazine of the TCS Tiger

Claw, a gift from one of his flight instructors. As he read the latest news

from the Terran Confederation Armed Forces CommNet, he absently

touched the four-inch-long silver cross hanging around his neck. He let his

fingers play over the strange symbol carved into its center. Resembling the

old Earth scales of justice, the symbol stood on a circular gold background

with three points of silver radiating from it to support a semicircle also

trimmed in gold. That semicircle ran the width of the cross and served as

its glimmering top. From a distance, the object appeared like a cruciform

set against a rising sun.

Out of the corner of his eye, Blair saw a magnesium-bright flash appear

on the shelf above his head. Merlin had decided to show himself. A

half-meter tall and generated by Blair's PPC, the holographic old

man/interface tossed his waist-length ponytail over his shoulder, then

smoothed out his black tunic and breeches, as though he had been

somewhere to wrinkle them.

"I know there's a war going on—but a requisitioned merchantman?

What are we on, a garbage run? Delivering groceries?" Merlin's

clean-shaven face tightened like a piece of stretched leather.

Blair ignored him, having learned since age five that Merlin's ranting

would soon evaporate were he denied an audience.

"The Diligent?" Merlin continued. "Please—the Dilapidated is more like

it. The Deluded. The Dilatory."

Frowning, Blair glanced at the disgusted little man. "Dilatory!"

Merlin snorted. "Of course. Inclined to delay, tardy, slow. From the

Latin dilator." He smirked. "I'm not keeping you up, am I?"

For a moment, Blair felt taken aback. Had he heard right? True, the

program knew quite well how to complain over every situation, but

cutting remarks of this kind should not have been at its disposal. "Where

did you pick up that sarcasm? My father didn't put that in your program.

And I know I didn't."

"Well, I don't just sit around waiting for you to power me up. I have my

own life, too, you know. I have aspirations. I dream that one day you'll

finally come to your senses and adjust my program so that I am the proper

size."

Blair rolled his eyes. "I'm not changing my mind."

"What's the point of my being scaled down?"

"My father wanted you this way. Besides, you're less obtrusive."

"Obtrusive? I am not—"

"Run a diagnostic. You are. And while you're at it, tell me where you

picked up that sarcasm."

"I downloaded it from the mainframe at the academy while you were

in—" Merlin looked up.

"What is it?"

"Lieutenant Marshall is approaching the hatch."

Slapping the magazine over his chest to conceal his cross, Blair flinched

a little as the hatch opened and Todd Marshall stepped into the cabin, his

regulation blue uniform hanging loosely from his lanky frame, his closely

cropped blond hair grazing a sweaty pipe. He raked fingers through his

hair, scowled a moment at the conduit, and muttered, "What a bucket."

Then that slightly crazed gleam returned to his eyes, and his oversized

Adam's apple worked overtime. "I was going to come down here and get

you." He smiled devilishly, raising his brow. "I found some holos in the rec

that I know you'll wanna see."

Blair drew in a deep breath and nodded his understanding. "Don't you

get tired of that stuff? I don't think those women exist."

"Of course they don't. It's all part of the fantasy. But like I said, I was

going to come down here and get you so we could watch them. But the

captain stopped me on the way. Up and at 'em. He wants you on the

bridge. Top priority."

"Really? For what?"

Marshall shrugged, moving around the bunk to stare at Merlin. "He

didn't sound thrilled."

Merlin, now in standby mode and immobile for the most part,

continued to stare around the room, as though his face had become a

mask for another entity behind it. Blair had seen the effect many times,

and it didn't bother or fascinate him anymore.

But Marshall still found it spooky, intriguing. "What are you looking

at?" he asked Merlin, then regarded Blair. "What a waste of artificial

intelligence."

"Funny, Lieutenant. I was thinking the same about you." The holograph

glowered at Marshall.

"Merlin, off," Blair ordered.

"Of course I have no difficulty obeying your command, but if I may—"

"Merlin, off!"

With a huff, the little man vanished.

"Sorry about that," Blair said. "He's been hacking where he shouldn't."

"I'll hack him," Marshall said, shaking his head. "There weren't enough

know-it-alls in the universe… your father had to program another one."

Blair chuckled. "What? You don't want any more competition?"

"Now I know where the little man gets it," Marshall said, nodding. "Did

I tell you about the time I reprogrammed Marty Pinshaw's PPC so that it

would automatically read aloud his diary every time he said the word

waxed? Remember that guy back at the academy? That's all he ever said.

I waxed his ass. I waxed her ass. You get tired of listening to a guy talk

about how great he is, you know?"

"I totally agree."

"Hey, now. Come on. We'd better get upstairs." Marshall started for the

door.

"I'll meet you," Blair said, reluctant to rise and reveal his cross.

Marshall began to mouth something, then simply shrugged and left.

Lowering the magazine, Blair sat up and took in a long breath. A chill

needled up his spine as he whispered the words, "Top priority." He

reached for his shirt beside him and bolted from the bunk.

On a day when you're feeling generous, Blair thought, you could call

the Diligent's bridge a bridge. But were you to be accurate, you might call

it a machine room like the ones used a half-dozen centuries ago to house

the huge, noisy compressors of large refrigeration units. Low-hanging

conduits, exposed circuit panels, torn crew seats, and poor lighting

completed the unglamorous effect. Blair got the feeling that he now

stepped into the bowels of a cyborg with a strong inclination for spicy

food. He ducked as he shifted by a small hatchway and moved farther onto

the bridge, careful to duck once more to avoid a major contusion from a

low-hanging hydraulic line. He found Marshall seated to starboard in the

co-pilot's chair, studying a navigation screen mounted on a swivel arm.

Glancing to port, he saw the captain stepping out from the adjoining

galley, blowing on a steaming mug of coffee.

Captain James Taggart hadn't said much during the voyage. His

reticence, Blair figured, stemmed from the embarrassment of

commanding a tape-and-coat-hanger transport like the Diligent. Funny,

though. Taggart didn't look the part of a gypsy cabby contracted by the

military. Dark, neatly groomed hair. A face that barely betrayed his

middle years. And there seemed something rugged, something handsome,

something pirate-like about the guy that made you just know he had seen

a lot more in the universe than would ever escape his lips. Marshall could

take a few lessons from the man.

Blair found the captain's gaze. "Sir?"

But the man's stare lowered to Blair's chest, and a strange look washed

over his face.

A quick glance down revealed that Blair's cross had slipped out from

behind his V-neck shirt. He quickly tucked it behind the fabric and

stiffened nervously to attention, waiting for a severe interrogation.

"I don't know who you know, Lieutenant, but you just received a Confed

One Secure Communication." Taggart gestured with his coffee mug

toward the bridge's center console.

Releasing a long mental sigh over the captain's decision to ignore the

cross, Blair hurried to the console, slid over to the comm screen, and keyed

an activation code on the touchpad.

"Identify," a computer voice said.

"Blair, Christopher. Lieutenant."

"Voice print recognized. Communication establishing…"

The screen filled with the god-like face of a man for whom the phrase

"living legend" remained as inadequate as it was trite. "Admiral Tolwyn."

"At ease, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir."

"I need a favor," Tolwyn said matter-of-factly, his gray eyes flashing.

Blair swallowed. "Anything, sir."

"You're currently outbound for Vega sector and the Tiger Claw. I need

you to hand-deliver an encrypted communications disc to Captain Sansky.

Message is incoming."

As he waited for the download to complete, Blair grew more confused.

The comm recorder beeped. He removed the minidisc and held it up.

"Begging the admiral's pardon, sir, but why not send it via drone to

Pegasus? It would be quicker…"

Slowly, Tolwyn shook his head, driving Blair into sudden silence. "The

Pegasus is gone, destroyed by a Kilrathi battle group twelve and a half

hours ago."

Blair's mouth fell open. Two of his classmates, Trish Melize and Sandra

Sotovsky, had been assigned to the Pegasus. He thought suddenly of their

parents, mothers and fathers he had met at the graduation ball, at the

barbecue, at the ceremony.

The war had snapped its fingers.

And two daughters were no more.

"See that Captain Sansky gets that disc," Tolwyn added.

"With all due respect, sir. Why me?"

Tolwyn's lips curled in a remote smile. "Right now you're all I've got."

His gaze averted a moment as he seemed to consider something. "I fought

with your father in the Pilgrim Wars. He was a good man—you look like

him."

Without trying to offend the admiral, Blair pointed out a fact that had

shadowed him all of his life. "People say I have my mother's looks, sir."

At the mention of Blair's mother, the admiral's eyes narrowed, as

though he remembered something. "Yes, it must've been hard. They were

both good people. Godspeed. Tolwyn out."

Blair stared at the empty screen a moment before Marshall's voice

ruined the silence. "Can you believe he fought with your father? Man… you

got an in now. I'm you, I don't even worry about promotions."

Turning to Marshall, Blair closed his eyes. "Just shuddup."

On the Concordia's bridge, Admiral Geoffrey Tolwyn read the obvious

look of displeasure on Commodore Bellegarde's boyish face. The

commodore rarely wore that look, and Tolwyn found it impossible not to

address. He cocked a brow. "You don't approve, Richard?"

"Of using Blair's kid? No, sir. I do not."

"Why?"

Bellegarde stepped forward. "I think we both know why."

The Diligent's navigation screens woke from their powerless slumber to

create 3-D grids as Captain James Taggart began tapping in coordinates.

Blair stood behind him, watching. "This milk run just got a little more

interesting," the captain said. "Set a course for Beacon One-forty-seven,

one-quarter impulse."

Marshall nodded and worked his touchpad. "Course for

One-forty-seven. One-quarter impulse." He frowned at a flashing red

warning that appeared at the top of his screen. "One-forty-seven , is

off-limits, sir. There's a one-hundred-thousand-kilometer no-fly zone

around it."

Taggart puffed air. "I said Beacon One-forty-seven. It's a short cut. Lose

the sir."

With an exaggerated shrug, Marshall regarded his screen, banged in

the course, then booted the engage pedal.

As Taggart fell back into his chair and yawned, Blair noticed a small,

dark tattoo emerge from beneath his collar. Blair recognized the writing: a

set of four vertical lines that comprised the Kilrathi language. Taggart

caught him staring, and Blair flinched toward the forward screen.

The Diligent streaked by the mottled red orb of Pluto, its tenuous

atmosphere escaping in tendrils toward its gray moon, Charon.

Taggart got abruptly to his feet. "I'll be in my quarters. Call me when

we come within a hundred klicks of the beacon."

"You got it," Marshall said. He waited for the captain to leave, then

stage-whispered, "I don't trust this guy. What does he mean by a 'short

cut'?"

"Got me," Blair said. "Did you see his neck?"

"What about it?"

"He's got a tattoo. Kilrathi writing. Wish I got a better look at it. Maybe

I can get something on it from Merlin."

"Tell you what I think. I think he's intentionally delaying us.

One-quarter impulse? Why don't we get out and push? And now you're

telling me he's got a Kilrathi tattoo? Hello. I can't find anything right with

this picture."

"Stay cool. Let me talk to him. We just don't know what he's about."

Blair stood and turned toward the hatchway.

"Hey," Marshall called out.

Blair faced the pilot, who now waved a small sidearm he had

withdrawn from a hidden calf holster. "I know what I'm about."