Wing Commander Pilgrim Stars Chapter 20
| Chapter 20 | |
|---|---|
| |
| Book | Wing Commander Pilgrim Stars |
| Parts | 2 |
| Previous | Chapter 19 |
| Next | Chapter 21 |
| Pages | 241-253 |
Dramatis Personae
| Part 1 | Part 2 | |
|---|---|---|
| POV | ||
| Speaking |
Amity Aristee |
|
| Non-Speaking |
Unnamed Elderly Man |
Amity Aristee |
| Mentioned |
Christopher Blair's Uncle |
Text
| VEGA SECTOR ROBERT'S QUADRANT |
| PERIMETER ALOYSIUS SYSTEM |
| CS OLYMPUS |
| 2654.114 |
| 0122 HOURS CONFEDERATION STANDARD TIME |
Part One
Blair carefully shifted the miniature joystick on the tractor retrieval system's panel, setting down Maniac's pod on one of the aft flight deck's circular orange pads designated for such emergency landings. With Maniac safely grounded, Blair cut the beam and glided forward, following the deck boss's cues until he slipped into a repair bay.
Under the shadows of two colossal durasteel braces, he kept his Rapier in a hover as a Pilgrim crew of three performed the hazardous operation of refueling and rearming a hot fighter. He exchanged a few words with the crew chief regarding the Rapier's status, then gave a final admonishment to Maniac before the pilot left his ejection pod. Aristee did not have a Pilgrim Marine waiting for Maniac; instead, the flight boss herself had elected to leave control and come down to personally welcome back the ship's now most infamous pilot. The woman's Pilgrim robe failed to disguise her considerable girth, and despite being a full head shorter than Maniac, she stared up at him, seeming to curl into the folds of her body like a rattlesnake before the strike. Blair grinned broadly as he watched Maniac flinch under the old lady's oration.
Behind them, a ragged line of people under the scrutiny of four Pilgrim Marines walked along the catwalk. The Pilgrims forged on toward the twenty-meter-high maintenance curtain, descended the staircase to the runway level, then paused at the red line marking the field's four-meter safety zone. A blur of white from the catwalk signaled the entrance of Amity Aristee. She beat a quick two-four rhythm down the stairs, paced as though inspecting the group, then spoke.
"What's up with them?" Blair asked his chief.
"Don't know."
One of the women in the group turned her head, and goose-flesh ran a marathon across Blair's shoulders and arms. Karista Mullens. His pair. But why was she here? Hadn't Aristee convinced her and the rest to bring down the two cruisers? Shouldn't they all be recovering? Blair swore over the fact that he couldn't get out and ask. Maybe they had already recovered and were getting ready for the next battle? That would be good news to the poor souls sitting in Rapiers who probably stared slack-jawed at the angry horde of Kilrathi fighters barreling toward them.
A wave of something passed through the group. Was is it shock? Fear? Some of the Pilgrims clutched each other. A chubby blond boy no more than ten or twelve gripped Karista's waist and began to cry.
The flight deck trembled a second as a Broadsword passed through the energy curtain like a finger through gelatin. Once the ship roared clear, a short, gray-haired man with slightly hunched shoulders detached himself from the group. Under the vigilance of the nearest Marine guard, the old man crossed the red line and shambled toward the fluctuating field. Blair's pulse raced as the man lifted his arms, giving himself to the unthinking, unfeeling wall of energy.
"What's he--" The crew chief broke off.
Blair engaged the external microphone, even as the old man shrieked and stepped into the curtain.
One voice in Blair's head implored him to turn away. But another, more powerful voice appealed to his dark fascination for things horrific. The old man's head melted into shoulders as they melted into his chest in a swirling, hissing mixture of pale white, blue, and wine-dark red. His arms flailed a moment before they peeled back like a pair of lit matches. He shrank into a lumpy puddle that swelled across the flight deck and into the vacuum on the other side of the curtain. Out there, steaming goo stretched and broke apart like taffy and began floating away.
The man's death, or, more precisely, his execution, made Blair realize what was happening. Some Pilgrims had obviously helped Aristee--but not these. Those who had helped were now recovering. Those who had refused would now be sent into the curtain.
One of the Marines near the rear came forward, seized the boy by the back of the neck, tugged him off of Karista, and drove him toward the red line.
Blair hit the canopy release.
The crew chief's voice buzzed loudly in his headset. "Hey! What are you doing? You have to stay in the pit and monitor the flow."
"What's it look like I'm doing?" Blair tore off his mask and helmet, unbuckled only one side of his harness, then wrenched himself free. The canopy chinked into place behind him, and the overpowering din of his thrusters pressed on him like thick pillows. He stood on his seat, levered himself out of the cockpit, then dropped two meters to the deck.
"Come back here, Brotur!"
But Blair had already bounded away from the fighter. It would take much more than a command from a Pilgrim crew chief to stop him. He sprinted onto the runway, inspiring a chorus of shouting from the rest of his crew and the techs working the area. A hollow drumming resonated from the energy curtain to his left, and he cocked his head as another Broadsword bomber injected itself into the bay, sweeping just a meter above the deck. The bomber's blunt, durasteel nose came headlong at him--
Even as the reflex to duck sent him belly-flopping to the deck.
The bomber rumbled over as he slapped palms over his ears and pressed his cheek to the cold metal. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the aft, portside landing skid cleaving toward him with just a quarter meter gap between it and the deck. With palms still glued to his ears, he rolled left, onto his elbow, as the skid scraped along his chest and finally moved clear.
The bellow of thrusters faded behind him, and he removed his hands from his ears--but another sound even more painful erupted ahead.
"No! I can't!" shrieked the boy. "I'm sorry! I don't want to die!"
Heavy boots thudded on the catwalk above. Blair didn't bother to look. That would be deck security, out to apprehend him. He sprang to his feet and charged toward the Marine strong-arming the boy. Others in the group shouted and bawled as the boy swung wildly at the Marine's chest plate.
"Let him go!" Blair ordered, reaching reflexively to his hip for his C-244 pistol. Of course, the Pilgrims had not issued him a sidearm or utility knife.
"Blair?" That shout from Karista.
As he came within a few meters of the Marine, the guy craned his head, swung up his rifle. "Right there, mister."
Blair whirled to face Aristee. "What is this?"
"None of your concern, Brotur. Get back to your fighter"-- she tipped her head toward the Marine--"or he'll shoot you where you stand."
"You're killing them because they won't help? That it? Pilgrim fascism at its finest, eh?"
"Get back to your fighter! Now!"
"No." He gave her a moment to let that sink in, then added, "I won't let you do it. You'll have to shoot."
Karista scuffled toward him, her eyes ringed in shadows and doused pink. "Don't get involved in this."
"You're going to let her kill all of you?"
"We won't help. We won't break the edict. And if this is our fate, then--"
"Break the goddamned edict!"
"We can't. Don't you understand? We just can't."
"I don't understand. How could you stand by and watch that old man die? How can you watch this kid die? How can you do that?"
"Because she's stubborn. And foolish," said Aristee. "And mostly because she's selfish. All of them are selfish. For centuries parents have let their sick children die because their religious convictions would not allow them to seek medical treatment. As Pilgrims, I thought we were beyond that kind of irrational devotion. I thought we were rewriting the laws here, establishing a stronger bond, a stronger community than we've ever had before. But some of us refuse to let go of the old ways. Some of us would rather die than do so." She gave an exaggerated nod as her gaze passed over the group and finally settled on Blair. "Last warning. Get back to your fighter."
A howl from above split the air. Blair jerked to spot Maniac launching himself from atop the catwalk railing to plunge four meters down, colliding with the Marine guard holding the boy. All three slammed to the deck.
Maniac got his hands on the Marine's rifle, tore it free, then rolled up, alternating his aim between the guard and Aristee.
The boy whimpered and crawled a few meters away, then rose and scampered to Karista.
With a groan, the Marine sat up and slowly raised his palms. A black grin curled his lips as a trio of beeps resounded from the rear.
The three other guards had armed their rifles and now trained them on Maniac, who eyed the jarheads and said, "Guess we're all pretty good shots here. I'll take out the captain, you take me. You get your kill. But so do I."
A chill in Blair's neck announced the approach of something else, something that panned out as the flight deck shook under the first strike of Kilrathi cannons belting out rounds from long range.
"We don't have time for this little standoff," Aristee said.
"Mister, what is it, Marshall? You have a habit of getting yourself into no-win situations. Bravo. You've done it again."
"Captain," Blair called, stepping in front of Maniac. "I'll help you. I'm not that good at manipulating the fields yet, but I'll help."
"You bastard," Maniac shouted. "You Pilgrim bastard. I knew you'd sell out--just like your goddamned buddy. Now that I think about it, you've had the power to kill her all along."
"I'm not selling out," Blair snapped. "And killing her isn't going to stop this. The XO, the protur, McDaniel, or someone else would carry on."
"Then kill them all."
"Right. And have no one left to monitor the ship's systems or direct this battle. Forget it. The priority right now is staying alive." He softened his expression as he addressed the group. "Listen to me. All of you. What good are your laws if all they get you is dead? Aren't they supposed to enhance and give order to your lives? Your laws obviously don't apply here. Anybody who wants to live can join me. Pretty simple."
Wiping away his tears, the boy stepped cautiously toward Blair, then took up a position beside him. A middle-aged woman found a place beside the boy. Then a young man with shoulder-length black hair circled around and set a palm on the boy's shoulder.
"Blair, you can't do this," Karista said.
It hurt to face her. "I'm sorry."
Two more of the sixteen Pilgrims defected to his side.
"Hey, Karista? Maybe we should start our own team," Maniac said. "Looks like you, me, and the captain are the only ones loyal to our beliefs"--he turned a malicious gaze on Blair-- "which are worth dying for."
Blair mirrored the look but clung to his silence.
Aristee brightened and turned to the group assembling behind Blair. "I'll have you escorted to the aft observation bubble. And if you want to believe in something right now, believe in your right to live."
"I'm going with them," Blair told Maniac. "My fighter's almost ready. Take it."
"No, I think Mr. Marshall will be heading to the brig," Aristee corrected.
"You think wrong." Maniac adjusted his grip on the rifle. "You need pilots."
She nodded. "Pilots who don't point weapons at their superiors. Pilots without plans for sabotage."
"Tried that. Failed. But I'll eventually bring you down. In the meantime, I need to be out there. I can't stay in that cell and wait to die. Can't do it. Won't." Maniac could not wait for her reply, either. He threw the rifle back to the Marine, then pounded off toward the runway.
The Marines trained their weapons on him and waited for Aristee's signal.
She stared at Maniac for a few seconds, wearing the inkling of a smile. "Let him go."
Blair crossed to Karista and grabbed her wrist. "Come with us," he whispered. "You don't have to help. Just come."
"I can't."
"Forget about her. Do this for me."
"I just
" She lowered her chin.
"Please."
Part Two
As Blair stepped into the aft observation bubble, he felt a strong sense of déjà vu. He knew he had never been to this part of the ship, and he slowly realized that the brilliant night sky seen through the Plexi reminded him of the sky over his uncle's farm on Nephele. The farm stood four hundred kilometers away from the nearest metroplex, thus the light pollution that too often robbed the stars of their luster had never been a problem there. He could easily pick our stars like Mylon, Tyr, Kurasawa, Gimle, and even K'n'Rek, part of the Kilrathi empire. Though the stars were somewhat different here, their clarity and brilliance suggested something innocent and untainted by humans. Sadly, they had come to shed blood across the heavens, and Karista's face registered that grim fact.
She had lied to the captain, had saved her life, but she wouldn't help. Of course Aristee could never be certain whether or not Karista actually engaged in the killing unless one of the others revealed that fact. Blair figured that if they survived the Kilrathi attack, Aristee would have Karista killed anyway. Every other Pilgrim in the group had agreed to help, and if they, too, decided to back out at the last minute, then the Kilrathi would surely take the ship. Blair considered reminding them of the consequences, but they knew the facts and had watched the old man die. He had to believe that they wouldn't change their minds.
They joined hands to form a circle that wasn't necessary or traditional but seemed to ease everyone's nerves. Karista's hand felt cold and clammy. He glanced at her a second, then at the middle-aged woman to his right who squeezed his hand tightly as their eyes met. "Thank you," she said softly. "I feel terrible about this, but you're right. We deserve to live."
He smiled tightly, then stared beyond the faces of those in front of him to the commencing battle. Laser bolts from the far-off destroyer and cruiser collected into twin conduits that riddled the supercruiser's aft shields. Like low lying nimbus clouds auguring a storm, the Kilrathi fighters sprang ahead of the cap ships, following the bolts' fiery lanes. The eight squadrons of Rapiers that vectored toward them looked like a diminutive force of foolhardy or suicidal pilots. And only now did the first squadron of Broadsword bombers launch from the aft flight deck, their torpedoes hastily loaded, their damage inspections even more hastily completed. Blair tried to comfort himself with the reminder that although the Pilgrims were outnumbered, they were superior navigators. During the battle over McDaniel, Blair had witnessed some of the sharpest, most reactionary piloting he had ever seen. Maybe sheer numbers would actually work against the cats. Maybe.
Blair looked again to Karista. She stood there, biting her lower lip, eyes brimming with tears. He urged her on with his gaze, figuring she would at least tell the others what to do. She opened her mouth, and the words finally came out with sober resignation.
"People. This may hurt some of you as much as it hurts them. All I can say is try to remember that you're not alone. And you won't die. We'll come together as one and move swiftly, a thief in the night robbing of them their lives. It'll hurt a little more with each one. You'll feel the need to let go and wander off. Don't. Stay with your broturs and sosturs. Try to keep them warm. You'll know when it's over. Trust me. You'll know. Close your eyes."
Night turned into the familiar, mottled darkness within himself. The woman beside Blair released an involuntary whimper that sent a shudder through him. Others gasped or murmured their trepidation.
Yes, they were afraid--despite their experience with delving into the quantum level, with manipulating the fields, with thrusting themselves into the continuum, the universe. Blair's experience had been limited. Any more consideration of that would buckle his knees. No, he wasn't completely green. The others had never killed like this, either.
He imagined himself standing with the group, holding hands, then soaring up and leading them through the Plexi bubble and out into space. They glided with ease and grace, a flock of angels casting not a single shadow over the Rapiers and Broadswords below them. Their scripts were now joined in a quilt of thought through which any one of them could converse, learn, enlighten, even love. He felt everything they felt, thought everything they did, and doubted that he was capable of so much sensation. He found himself suddenly preoccupied with the link itself. He wound his way through the dark, braided corridors of the quilt, asking others if they had seen Karista Mullens.
The boy Maniac had saved rounded a black column that Blair sensed had been woven of pure fear. The boy picked his nose a second, gazed sheepishly as he spotted Blair, then touched the material as though it were hot. "They said you're looking for Karista. She won't come here."
"How can we convince her?"
"She loves you. She's your pair. That's your job." He winked and got stitched back into the fabric.
"My job?"
Suddenly, a terrific wind knocked over the black column and pierced Blair with a trillion icy blades. He spun away from the wind to lock gazes with a Kilrathi pilot who banged his melon-like head repeatedly on his cockpit seat. The cat's eyes bulged a moment before he reached up, extended his claws, and tore out those eyes amid torrents of blood.
Blair turned his head a fraction to the left, where the captain of the Kilrathi cruiser sat in a command chair. Five bridge officers behind him lay on the deck, writhing spasmodically in pools of blood ornamented by massive eyeballs. Blair felt himself linked to the others as they coiled through the gravitic fields surrounding the captain's arms and drove them against the man's flesh. Unable to resist, the captain brought thick paws to his face, and the serrated claws went to work.
Though Blair had focused on those two particular deaths, he knew that he and the others had already caused many more, but something prevented him from experiencing all of them simultaneously. He could select each moment, one at time, sift through them as though they resided in memory files, but he felt denied of the true experience. He needed to know just how cold it would get.
He turned again, saw the captain of the destroyer bring himself up to a full three meters, raise his long arms toward the overhead, then shriek as blood gushed through the seams in his armor. Blair and the others had shifted the gravitic field within his body and were squeezing his internal organs as though they were citrus. Blair craned his head a few inches more and now watched from about a half kilometer out as the destroyer tacked to starboard, putting it on an intercept course with the cruiser.
I can see this. But let me see it all. Feel it all. I want to know who I am ...
Breaking into a sprint, he threaded his way farther through the quilt, stumbling over Kilrathi corpses and ducking as rubble fell like flaming hail. A tingling sensation rose up through his legs as he neared what he thought was the center of the quilt. Maybe there he could experience all of it at once and shake off this force on his back.
Out of breath, he staggered into a zone that resembled billions of illuminated fibers, a bizarre kind of interchange that spun into and formed a glistening white cone stretching up to touch the stars. He crossed to the base of the cone, which now throbbed and seemed to enlarge by the second.
An old man whispered in his ear, "You'll get your answer at the top."
He gripped the first fibrous tube, no wider than a meter, and began his ascent. The air grew colder as he climbed, and the images of Kilrathi steering their fighters into each other or exploding or imploding at their stations aboard the cap ships grew more frequent, more vivid, the stench of them voiding themselves now even tighter in his nostrils. The higher he got, the more exaggerated his progress became. He would reach up to the next tube, and suddenly find himself a thousand meters higher, find himself staring into the pale, wrinkled, bewhiskered face of another dying abomination. He shivered uncontrollably and held his jaw tight to prevent his teeth from chattering. He forged on, driven by much more than curiosity. The answer to who he really was lay just ahead. One hundred meters. Fifty. Twenty. His hand struck a smooth, frigid surface. He pulled himself a little higher and tried to remove the hand. His flesh remained locked. He yanked again, and the pain snaked up his arm. He swore aloud, having come so far only to be stopped by something so ridiculous as--
"Don't go any farther, Blair." Karista stood beside him, shifting in and out of the illuminated mountain as though it were her dress, a dress made of rushing water. She held his hand in her own, their fingers interlaced.
"You've decided to help us," he said excitedly.
"No. I've been here. Hiding. Waiting. Knowing you would do something like this. You can't experience it all."
"I can! It's my choice!"
"Then you'll fall. Like the others."
He ripped his hand away. "Sorry. I have to know."
She cried out for him to stop, but he thought her away. She darkened into dust quickly dispersed by the gale. He hauled himself to the top and stood on a plain of black that reflected the stars.
Images of the battle struck successive blows, knocking him back like a boxer whose glory days had slipped by. Kilrathi wailed. Kilrathi died. The destroyer's bow caught the cruiser amidships in a glittering string of detonations that abruptly congealed into a single, debris-strewn globe. The explosion struck Blair's ankles, surged up his legs, then swallowed him in light for a blink before vanishing. Transparent thunderheads grumbled above, and he lifted his gaze to the traceries of lightning that joined the stars and discharged around him. He lifted his arms and surrendered to the knowledge--the history--delivered on bolts from the vacuum.
He saw Pilgrims living aboard ring stations, felt their fear and anxiety, lived their lives with and for them: he saw embryos with horrible mutations and sensed the warmth of their mothers' wombs; he saw Ivar Chu speaking in thunderous words to a crowd of millions, then spoke the words for Chu himself and heard cries of ecstatic joy in return; he gasped for acrid-smelling air as he died with hundreds of thousands aboard sloships attacked by Confederation destroyers. He saw it all at once, and it kept coming, faster and colder--
"I can change your path!" a woman cried. "I can." His body shook, and the collar of his flight suit dug into his neck. A single countenance seeped through the trillions of images and sensations: the face of his mother, her cheeks red and tear-stained, her eyes brightening into twin novae. She took form, gripped his flight suit, tried to shake him to attention.
He looked at her uncomprehendingly for a second, then uttered, "Don't."
"Christopher. I can't let you do this." His hands found her wrists, pulled them off-- And the effort forced him back. He lost his footing, felt the summit's edge drag across his boots.
Then he fell, the wind fluttering through his flight suit, the mountain of radiant thought wiping by below, the tangled surface of the quilt hurtling mercilessly toward him. He remembered his mother's warning when he had first encountered her in the continuum. He thought of how Karista had spoken the same words: Then you'll fall. Like the others. He thrust out his palms and tried to scream, but nothing would come. Now a feeling from the core of his being told him he could not save himself. He had tapped too deeply into the continuum, into the scripts, into a quantum level that was the blood of the universe.
He struck the quilt, felt his body spread across its surface and slough off a cloak of darkness. Then he froze into a solid, flat mass cupped by something warm. The quilt felt different, harder, smoother, with the trace of a vibration moving steadily over its surface. Seconds ticked by, with only a dark drape of nothingness before him. Then a light appeared, enlarged, focused into a glassy sheen of stars half-eclipsed by a familiar face. "Blair?"
His lips and tongue felt numb. But his eyes, yes, his eyes took Karista in with gratitude, with a softness that said he was sorry, but one she did not recognize.
"I'm getting you to sick bay. But don't worry. It's over. It's over now."
