Wing Commander in Real Time - Day 2 - 0330 Zulu

Script

46A INT. TIGER CLAW - PILOTS MESS. A SHORT WHILE LATER

The scotch has loosened things up considerably, and Blair

and Maniac seemed to have been welcomed into the fold.

MANIAC looks at the chess game Forbes and Polanski are

playing.

MANIAC

(to Forbes)

Take his pony with your castle.

POLANSKI

We call them a 'knight' and a 'rook.'

MANIAC

You're kidding me, that's what you call

them?

FORBES looks at the board - damn if he isn't right. She

looks up at MANIAC who winks. SHE moves the 'pony' and

captures the rook.

FORBES

Check.

POLANSKI

Where?

MANIAC

Mate.

POLANSKI

Damn. That's cheatin'.

FORBES looks Maniac straight in the eye.

FORBES

So there's a brain behind that

mouth?

MANIAC flashes a trade-mark smile -- big and charming

smile.

SHE gets up, heads towards Blair and the bottle.

BLAIR looks up at her -- he's leaning back on a chair

with his hands in his pockets. HUNTER, sits silent, sips

his Scotch.

MANIAC grabs the bottle and pours FORBES a drink.

FORBES (Cont'd)

Your friend always this talkative?

MANIAC

He just made the fatal error of

mistaking Cmdr. Deveraux for your

average grease monkey.

She bends down to Blair's level. Blair smiles.

FORBES shoots out her hand and GRABS BLAIR BY THE

BALLS. His hands are trapped in his pockets.

FORBES

Feels like they are still there.

Pilots laugh. She squeezes a little tighter. Blair

squirms.

FORBES

If Lt. Commander Deveraux was really

pissed....Well -- you'd be

testicularly challenged, Lieutenant.

BLAIR

(taken aback)

All I did was sit in Lt. Commander

Chen's fighter.

Nature and quality of the environment changes. Smiles,

save lair's and Maniac's disappear. Some pilots look

away. HUNTER Looks up from his scotch.

HUNTER

Who?

BLAIR

Lt. Commander Chen. Bossman.

HUNTER

Bossman? Anybody here know a Bossman?

Lots of "No"s and "Never heard of him."

BLAIR

What's with you people?

HUNTER downs his Scotch, puts the glass down.

KNIGHT, big, black, friendly face, tries to intervene.

KNIGHT

Leave it alone, Blair.

BLAIR

Leave what alone?

KNIGHT shakes his head.

HUNTER

You're asking after a man who never

existed, nugget.

BLAIR

(digging in)

I'm pretty sure he did.

HUNTER's up in the instant, pushes Blair hard in the

chest, gets right in Blair's face.

HUNTER

He never existed. Now, I suggest you

change the subject, or I'll change it

for you.

MANIAC steps up behind Hunter.

MANIAC

You have a problem with my friend...

Hunter.

HUNTER

Yeah, I do.

MANIAC

Then you have a problem with me.

HUNTER turns to face Maniac.

HUNTER

Oh yeah, well you're going to love

this--

Hunter spins and grabs Blair by the shirt and pulls

him up -- -- Maniac grabs Hunter from behind --

Polanski rushes forward. Blair's shirt rips open --

suddenly Blair's Pilgrim's cross flops out so that

everyone can see it.

HUNTER (Cont'd)

He's a Pilgrim!

Hunter lets go of Blair like he's a live wire.

Everyone in the mess, including Maniac notices the

cross. The jovial air is gone. Several of the Pilots

stand up.

FORBES

Excuse me?

DEVERAUX (O.S.)

You ladies don't stand down, you're

going to have a problem with me.

All heads turn to ANGEL DEVERAUX. Blair slides the cross

under his torn shirt.

DEVERAUX (CONT"D)

I want an explanation, Hunter?

HUNTER looks at Angel. Before HUNTER can answer, BLAIR

cuts in.

BLAIR

Hunter and the others were just making

Lieutenants Marshall and me feel at

home, Ma'am.

DEVERAUX turns to Blair. The look on her face says

volumes. SHE looks at HUNTER.

DEVERAUX

Lieutenant?

HUNTER

That's right Lieutenant, ma'am.

BLAIR

(to Deveraux)

There you see, ma'am -- I guess this

conversation "never existed."

BLAIR exits.

46B INT. TIGER CLAW - CORRIDOR

BLAIR walks down the corridor, pissed.

DEVERAUX

(sternly)

Lieutenant.

BLAIR stops, his back to Angel.

DEVERAUX (CONT'D)

I need to know that you have your

priorities straight. Who the hell do

you think you are?

BLAIR

I'm a fighter pilot on a capital ship

in a war zone, ma'am.

DEVERAUX

Right. Which means you're nothing.

You're a pawn in somebody else's game.

We get ten, twelve replacements a month

-- as fast as the Academy can spit out

spare parts.

BLAIR

(pissy)

Well that really installs confidence

Commander

Deveraux gets right in Blair's face.

DEVERAUX

(too harsh)

Let me give you a Reality check -- in

all likelihood, you're going to die out

here -- we all are -- What none of us

needs to be is reminded of that fact --

so, you die, you never existed.

Understood?

BLAIR

Yes ma'am.

DEVERAUX

Good. Cause that's the only sensitivity

training speech I can remember. Now

move on.

SHE walks away. MERLIN appears by Blair's shoulder:

MERLIN

She's kind of attractive when she's

mad.

BLAIR looks at the hologram.

MERLIN (Cont'd)

Hey, I'm a hologram, I'm not blind.

46C INT. CHART ROOM - TIGER CLAW

SANSKY looks at a holographic projection of the Charybdis

Quasar sector. On it, we see forty red dots heading for

the Quasar. Behind the quasar, a single yellow line

leads to a floating Earth. GERALD stands behind him,

looks at Paladin.

SANSKY

I know of you Taggart, but I'm afraid I

don't know you. Yet you come to me

with classified orders from Admiral

Tolwyn.

PALADIN

And you don't trust me, Blair, or the

disc.

SANSKY turns to face Paladin.

SANSKY

Would you?

PALADIN

...No.

SANSKY nods to the hologram.

SANSKY

This tactical schematic outlines a

nightmare, Mr. Taggart. It tells me

that the Kilrathi may have a NAVCOM,

and with it, the capacity to jump into

Earth space. Based on that nightmare,

it orders me to take radical action

that, if it and you are a lie, could

compromise this ship and its crew.

Both of which are unacceptable. Before

I put my command in harms way, I must

be certain that you and the orders you

bear are legitimate. So I ask you, Mr.

Taggart, what proof do you have that

this is authentic?

PALADIN reaches into his vest, slowly pulls a ring from

his pocket. tosses it to Sansky. SANSKY catches it,

reacts.

CLOSE ON: Tolwyn's ring held in Sansky's cupped hand.

Inscription on it reads: "Annapolis Naval Academy,

1941." Slowly, Sansky's hand closes around the ring.

SANSKY

How did you get this?

PALADIN

Tolwyn gave it to me eight months ago.

He thought it might be useful if I ever

had to convince a Captain to follow his

orders.

SANSKY

(ponders, a difficult

decision)

...Con, plot a course for the Charybdis

Quasar, full speed.

OBUTU

Sir, nearest jump point to Charybdis is

four days hard travel from our current

location.

PALADIN

There's a class two pulsar eleven hours

from here. We can jump there.

OBUTU

Not on the charts, sir. NAVCOM does

not have those coordinates.

PALADIN looks at Sansky.

PALADIN

I have them.

GERALD

No one's jumped a pulsar for forty

years. And even then, they were

Pilgrims.

SANSKY

...I don't believe we have a great deal

of choice, MR. Gerald. If the battle

is to be decided in Charybdis, then we

have to be there.

(To Paladin:)

Plot your course.

PALADIN nods, heads for the navigation station.

GERALD

Sir, that ring means nothing--

SANSKY

That ring has been in Tolwyn's family

for sixteen generations. Any man who

carries it has the Admiral's full

confidence. And we have our orders.

Prepare for the jump.

Novelization

CHAPTER 8

UNITED CONFEDERATION CARRIER TIGER CLAW

MARCH 16, 2654 0330 HOURS ZULU TIME

VEGA SECTOR ENYO SYSTEM

Riding a warm wave of Scotch toward an imaginary shoreline, Blair

settled down into a chair and watched Forbes and Polanski play another

chess game. Marshall, the bottle still clutched in his hand, wandered over

to observe the competition. The youngest of four sons, Marshall had grown

up in a competitive household where his older siblings had constantly

challenged him to meet their unrealistic standards—not that Marshall had

ever volunteered this information. Blair had deduced this after meeting

and spending time with Marshall's brothers. Never had he encountered a

more demanding, ill-tempered, hard-core bunch of military brats. Two of

them still flew for their father, Boomer Marshall, a retired Marine pilot

who owned a charter service on Leto. Thanks to his father, Marshall had

entered the academy with more logged flight hours than any other cadet,

and he had made sure that no one ever forgot that fact. Despite his

constant boasting, Marshall's experience had actually come to great use

during a training exercise in which he and Blair had discovered a Kilrathi

destroyer hidden in the Hilthros system's nebula. With Marshall's fearless

flying to counterbalance Blair's by-the-book combat tactics, the two

managed to destroy the ship, which had already penetrated Confederation

counterintelligence measures and had nearly gained access to highly

classified data regarding fleet positions and strength.

But to look at Marshall now, you'd never think he was capable of such a

feat. He could barely stand as he drew closer to the chess game. "Take his

pony with your castle," he told Forbes, then took a swig from the bottle.

Polanski belched in Marshall's direction, then said, "We call them a

knight and a rook."

"You're kidding me. That's what you call them?"

As she studied the board, a grin seized Forbes's face. She regarded

Marshall, her eyes saying thanks.

Marshall winked.

She moved her "castle" and captured Polanski's "pony." Then she folded

her arms over her chest. "Check."

Drawing back his head, Polanski stared incredulously at the board.

"Where?"

"Mate," Marshall said.

"Damn," Polanski said in realization. "That's cheatin'."

Forbes gave Marshall a penetrating stare. "So there's a brain behind

that mouth?"

Marshall flashed one of his trademark smiles, the kind that sometimes

made women swoon and always made men, especially pilots, ball their

hands into fists. He poured her another drink, and she stood. For a

second, her gaze met Blair's, and he turned away, unconsciously jamming

his hands in his pockets.

"Your friend always this talkative?" she asked Marshall.

"He just made the fatal error of mistaking Commander Deveraux for

your average grease monkey."

She circled to face Blair and bent down to his level. Then her hand shot

out, and she grabbed his crotch. He went to push her away, but found his

hands trapped in his pockets.

"Feels like they're still here," she said.

St. John, who had been sitting quietly beside Blair, chuckled with the

other pilots.

Forbes squeezed a little harder. Blair squirmed and finally wrestled her

off.

"If Commander Deveraux was really pissed," Forbes said with a

knowing grin, "well, you'd be testicularly challenged, Lieutenant."

Bringing his legs together and silently swearing over the pain, Blair

forced himself deeper into the seat as he realized that every gaze in the

room had found him. "All I did was sit in Lieutenant Commander Chen's

fighter."

Smiles faded. Polanski shifted away.

Captain St. John looked up from his Scotch. "Who?"

"Lieutenant Commander Chen. Bossman."

The cigar came out. "Bossman? Anybody here know a Bossman?"

"No," someone said.

"Never heard of him," someone else added.

Shooting to his feet so quickly that he knocked over his chair, Blair

said, "What's with you people?" The indifference in their faces infuriated

him. Was this how they regarded their fallen comrades?

A burly black man with a widow's peak and a nametag that read

Khumalo moved to Blair, his expression calm, his voice nearly a whisper.

"Leave it alone, Blair."

"Leave what alone?"

St. John sniggered. "You're asking after a man who never existed,

nugget."

"I'm pretty sure he did."

It all happened in a moment as blurry as Scylla. One nanosecond St.

John sat before his drink, the next he stood and pushed Blair hard in the

chest. "He never existed," St. John corrected. "Now, I suggest you change

the subject. Or I'll change it for you."

Marshall threaded his way through the other pilots and came up

behind St. John. "You have a problem with my friend, Hunter?"

"That's right. I do."

"Then you have a problem with me."

St. John whirled around. "Oh, yeah? You're going to love this—"

Expecting St. John to rush Marshall, Blair tensed, preparing to leap on

the man's back.

But the pilot whirled back to him, grabbed his shirt, and drove him

into the bulkhead.

Marshall employed Blair's original strategy and leapt on St. John's

back, slinging an arm under the man's chin.

Likewise, Polanski slipped his arm around Marshall's neck and began

prying Marshall away.

As St. John's hands got yanked back, Blair's shirt tore open to expose

his cross.

"He's a Pilgrim!" St. John cried, then released Blair, who had suddenly

become a live wire.

Everyone in the mess stared at the cross. Marshall cursed and pounded

the bulkhead. The pilots closest to the hatch shifted back, blocking the

exit.

Forbes elbowed her way through the others to get a closer look at the

pariah named Christopher Blair. "Excuse me?"

"If you ladies don't stand down, you're going to have a problem with

me." Blair knew who had said that, but he couldn't see her past the others.

Good. She also couldn't see him. Exploiting his temporary cover, he slid

his cross beneath his shirt as the pilots snapped to attention.

"I want an explanation. Hunter?"

But before the man could answer, Blair hurried forward to address

Lieutenant Commander Deveraux. "Hunter and the others were just

making Lieutenant Marshall and me feel at home, ma'am."

She stared dubiously at him, then at St. John. "Lieutenant?"

The captain gave Blair a slight glance and said, "Uh, that's right,

Lieutenant, ma'am."

Blair couldn't hide his contempt for her, for all of them. "There, you see,

ma'am? I guess this conversation never existed." He bolted through the

open hatch.

Out in the corridor, Blair charged toward a pair of green-suited

munitions techs, who immediately shifted to the bulkhead, allowing him

to pass. I hate this place.

"Lieutenant?" Deveraux called sternly.

He stopped but wouldn't turn around, listening to her approach.

"I need to know that you have your priorities straight. Who the hell do

you think you are?"

"I'm a fighter pilot on a capital ship in a war zone, ma'am. Which part

confuses you?"

"Oh, I'm clear on you now, Lieutenant. You're a pawn in somebody

else's game. We get ten, twelve replacements a month—as fast as the

academy can spit out spare parts."

"Well, that really instills confidence, Commander."

She crossed in front of him, her runaway temper darkening her cheeks.

"Let me give you a reality check. In all likelihood you're going to die out

there—we all are. We don't need that reminder. So. You die, you never

existed. Understood?"

Resigned to her illogic, Blair dropped his gaze. "Yes, ma'am.

Understood."

"Good. 'Cause that's the only sensitivity training speech I can

remember. Now. Carry on." She strode away.

Merlin abruptly activated to walk on air near Blair's shoulder. "She's

kind of attractive when she's mad."

Blair made a face.

"Hey, I'm a hologram. I'm not blind."

* * *

In the dimly lit and silent chart room, Captain Sansky looked up to

consider the group of red dots on the ghostly tactical schematic that

Lieutenant Commander Obutu had pulled up for him. Those holographic

dots moved toward the broad limbs of the Charybdis Quasar. Behind the

quasar, a single yellow line unfurled toward a floating Earth.

Sansky knew his orders, knew very well the role he would play, but a

deep-rooted feeling of hesitancy returned. Commander Gerald doubted

the authenticity of the message. And now he had little faith in Sansky's

decision to feel out Taggart before committing to the mission. Gerald's

second-guessing could become unmanageable if the crew got word of it.

Though Gerald kept a tight rein on his people, they deeply respected his

authority, evident in the many official and unofficial service awards they

had given him. Sansky would simply have to wait and see. But the game

turned his stomach sour.

The hatch opened, and Gerald stepped inside. Captain James Taggart

followed, lifting a hand to cover a yawn. "Captain Sansky. From one

captain to another—never wake up a tired sailor unless we're talking

life-or-death situation."

"Then let's talk, Mr. Taggart."

Moving beneath the holograph, Taggart stared at the Kilrathi battle

group arrowing toward the quasar. "They're in a hurry," he muttered.

"I know of you, Taggart, but I'm afraid I don't know you. You're a

civilian captain flying a requisitioned transport, yet you come to me with

classified orders from Admiral Tolwyn."

Taggart smirked. "And you don't trust me, Blair, or the disc."

"Would you?"

"No."

Sansky nodded to the holograph. "This tactical schematic outlines a

nightmare, Mr. Taggart. It tells me that the Kilrathi have a NAVCOM, and

with it, the capacity to jump into Earth space. Based on that nightmare, I

must take radical action that, if it and you are a lie, could compromise

this ship, her crew, and Earth—all of which are unacceptable. Before I put

my command in harm's way, I must be certain that you and the orders

you bear are legitimate." Sansky reached into his breast pocket and

produced the decoded disc. "So, I ask you, Mr. Taggart, what proof do you

have that this is authentic?"

Taggart reached into his inner vest pocket and withdrew a small, shiny

object. He tossed it to Sansky, who caught and quickly examined it.

Between his fingers rested a gold class ring, its surfaces worn, its emerald

dull. Sansky held it to the holograph's light and read the inscription:

Annapolis Naval Academy, 1941. He closed his now-trembling hand over

the ring and stared incredulously at Taggart. "How did you get this?"

"Tolwyn gave it to me eight months ago. He thought it might be useful

in situations like getting a captain to follow his orders."

Gerald crossed to Sansky and gestured to see the ring. Sansky handed it

to him, then turned to the intercom. "Con. Plot a course for the Charybdis

Quasar, full speed."

Lieutenant Commander Obutu shifted from the tactical schematic

console to read the navigator's coordinates on another screen. Obutu, an

earnest black man, tough as titanium, with a thick brow and a face that

seemed regularly haunted by a past of which he would not speak,

remained a comfort and a mystery to Sansky. As the lieutenant

commander further surveyed the screen, a query creased his face. "Sir, the

nearest jump point to Charybdis is four days hard travel from our present

position. How are we supposed to get there in time?"

"There's a Class Two pulsar eleven hours from here," Taggart said. "We

can jump there."

Obutu began a rapid-fire sequence of key commands, then looked to

Sansky. "Not on the charts, sir. NAVCOM does not have those

coordinates."

"I have them," Taggart said, stepping between Sansky and Obutu.

"No one's jumped a pulsar for forty years," Gerald pointed out, eyeing

Taggart with disdain. "And even then, they were Pilgrims."

"I don't believe we have a great deal of choice, Mr. Gerald," Sansky fired

back. "If the battle is to be decided at Charybdis, then we have to be

there." He regarded Taggart. "Plot your course."

With a nod, Taggart headed for a navigation subterminal.

Swearing under his breath, Gerald watched Taggart plug numbers into

the computer for a moment, then moved close to Sansky, out of Taggart's

earshot. "Sir. This ring means nothing." He returned the antique to

Sansky. "You shouldn't—"

"This ring has been in Tolwyn's family for sixteen generations. Any man

who carries it has the admiral's full confidence."

"If it's real—which it may not be—then I can't believe Tolwyn gave it to

a civilian."

"Believe it. He's done it before. This is the ring. And you have your

orders. Prepare for jump."

As Gerald saluted and left, Sansky watched Taggart, wishing he could

see past the man's mysteries. Sansky kept his own secrets carefully stowed,

but he guessed that Taggart's cache far exceeded his. So be it. Life had

become far more interesting. And dangerous.