Pilgrim stars (wing commander)

by Peter Telep

  Blair found his black look.

  Maniac draped an arm over Zarya's shoulders. "He talks about me getting into trouble. Well, what if I told you that he and our dear squadron commander-"

  "Ten-hut!" Blair shouted as acting Captain Paul Gerald arrived, offered a curt nod, then headed for the dais.

  Though Gerald's promotion remained unofficial until the paperwork came in, most officers had already taken to calling him by his new rank. Blair wouldn't go that far. Not yet. He called Gerald "sir." After all, the guy still hated Pilgrims, half-breeds, and Pilgrim sympathizers since fighting in the war against them. Blair's mother Devi Soulsong had been a Pilgrim. Blair couldn't change that. He didn't want to. Pilgrims might have originated as religious fanatics who saw themselves as the "elect," as the only humans destined for the stars, but the war had ended over twenty years ago, and most Pilgrims had peacefully rejoined Confederation society. Gerald simply had to get over the past. Admittedly, the man had confessed that he needed Blair, that he did respect Blair's skill as a pilot and had made him a command-approved wing commander, but that was as far as it went. There would never be any love lost between them. That was a shame. Blair could learn a lot from the man, but if Gerald continued to treat him indifferently, he would return the same.

  "Have a seat," the captain said, wearing a new haircut to complement his new command. Gone were the dark curls in favor of a low maintenance flat top. He self-consciously patted his hair, then pursed his lips as the squadron settled in. "Our scheduled space dock has been delayed again." This to a chorus of moans as an opportunity for shore leave-once so close they could taste it-withered before the pilots' eyes. Even Blair, usually silent during such collective complaints, added his voice to the discord.

  "All right," Angel snapped.

  "Our own Damage Control Crews will continue as scheduled," Gerald went on. "Yes, we're still licking our wounds from our last engagement with the Kilrathi, but this war won't wait for us, and I wanted to brief you myself because matters have grown, in a word, delicate. Admiral Tolwyn has ordered us to Mylon Three." He tapped a control on the podium, and a holograph of the Mylon system shimmered into view. Four planets orbited a medium-sized star that a data strip indicated was slightly more massive than Sol. The aforementioned third planet tossed up a verdant glow with jagged continents splayed like leather patches over its watery backdrop. "You can consult your data readers for more detailed information on Confed settlements there. According to a drone intercepted by the CS Rigaria, on zero-seven-seven at nineteen hundred hours local time an unmarked Confederation supercruiser launched a planet-wide attack."

  Murmurs erupted.

  Lieutenant Adam "Bishop" Polanski, who sat to Blair's left, leaned forward, his expression of incredulity buckling the ragged scar on his cheek. "Sir, was the ship captured by the Kilrathi?"

  "Maybe there was a mutiny," Zarya chipped in.

  "Mutiny?" Polanski snickered. "No way."

  "Intelligence is still gathering data," Gerald said. "As it stands, we're the principal element of a Space Warning and Control Mission. Our Marine detachment will deploy to MyGov, the primary settlement's capital, while Black Lion Squadron will recon the area of operations, eliminating any unfriendliness or mines and searching for survivors."

  "Sir. Just one squadron to recon the entire zone?" Blair asked. "With short-range sensors that could take hours, maybe days."

  "I'm aware of that, Lieutenant. We'll be entering the system in stealth mode. Those people were just attacked by-for the sake of argument-a Confederation ship. The arrival of another Confed ship will alarm them. And there's a strike base on planet. If it hasn't been taken out, we could encounter SAM fire and elements of the nineteenth fighter wing."

  "We'll run three patrols on this one, Ladies," Angel said. "Bishop, Hunter, and Cheddarboy got point. Sinatra and Gangsta? You're with me. Maniac, Blair, and Zarya? You got reserve."

  Maniac snorted.

  Angel's gaze locked on. "Problem, Lieutenant Marshall?"

  "No, ma'am."

  "I take it you'd rather fly point."

  "Absolutely, ma'am."

  "Which is exactly why you will remain close to the ship, in ready status. Showboaters call too much attention to themselves."

  "Yes, ma'am." Maniac bit his lower lip, and Blair read the curse balanced there.

  "If we do encounter resistance, you will not engage," Gerald said. "We're going there to bandage the wound-not rub salt in it."

  "Sir? How many people are we talking about?" Zarya asked.

  "Five major settlements. As Confed colonies go, it's a small one. Five, maybe six million. Most of them reside on the northern continent."

  "And supercruisers routinely carry strategic munitions," she said gravely.

  "Yes, they do. We'll hope for the best." He regarded the group. "Other questions? No? Dismissed."

  Blair stood and headed for the door.

  "Lieutenant Blair? Can I see you for a moment?"

  As he moved back toward Angel, Maniac passed him and whispered, "Can I spank you for a moment?"

  Hiding his reaction, Blair forged on. "Yes, ma'am?"

  "You're in command of your patrol. Keep a close eye on your people. I don't want the past to repeat itself. Understood?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  The past to which she referred involved Maniac and Lieutenant Rosie Forbes, best pilot in the squadron and Angel's best friend. Horseplay and reckless courage had resulted in Forbes's death. Before Maniac had come aboard the Tiger Claw, Forbes had been a textbook flyer, much like Blair. But Maniac had lured her into his bed and into his flying style. He would do the same with Zarya. At least Blair wasn't the only one who saw that coming.

  Angel eyed him suspiciously. "What's wrong, Lieutenant? I've never seen that look before."

  Blair surveyed the room to be sure everyone had left. "Permission to speak freely?"

  "Granted."

  "How are you?"

  She averted her gaze. "Better."

  "Why no visitors?"

  She hesitated. "I don't know."

  "You almost died out there. You come back and lie in sickbay for two days and won't let anyone see you. Did they tell you I came by five or six times?"

  "I just needed to be alone."

  "I thought-"

  "Don't think too much."

  "Okay. Sorry." He groped for something more, saw that she still wouldn't face him, then elected to leave. He prayed she would call after him.

  She didn't.

  Twenty minutes later, the ship reached the Ymir system and the jump point to Mylon. Blair and the others would ride out the jump in their Rapiers and launch within the first minute of their arrival. Having already completed his pre-flight checklist, Blair waited for a fuel Bowser to pass, then crossed the busy flight deck to where Maniac stood beside his Rapier, being chewed out by Deck Boss Peterson. The boss's furor probably had something to do with the sandwich in Maniac's hand.

  "What's it gonna take?" Peterson asked, his face flushed. "A suspension? I blink. It's done. You want that?"

  Maniac's face paled. "No, sir."

  "Then get that food off my flight deck. Now!"

  '"kay." Maniac took a huge bite and jogged away toward the hatch leading to the galley.

  "I'm running a flight deck-not a day care," Peterson shouted. "Come back when you can read the rules." He faced Blair. "You illiterate, too, Lieutenant?"

  Blair jolted.

  "No loitering on the deck. If you're not working, get out!" He spun on a heel, ripped off his headset, and stormed toward Weapons System Chief Mackey, who had launched into a tirade of his own while shaking a finger at two frightened ordnance specialists standing before the nose of a Broadsword bomber.

  "This is the most uptight ship I've ever seen."

  Zarya had drawn up to Blair's side. He glanced at her and sighed. "It'll get tighter because we keep turning over so many pilots. We lost Knight and Forbes, then Spirit got transferred and Sinatra got trans
ferred in, along with Cheddarboy and Gangsta. And now you've joined the party. We haven't flown enough with each other. That's dangerous. And we're still the smallest squadron in the wing. They're calling us 'The Chihuahuas.'"

  "Hey, kids." Maniac rushed over to stand between them. "You believe that guy? I think that bastard is gunning for me."

  "Maybe he's still mad about you nearly killing him," Zarya said. "Yeah, maybe that's it."

  A series of beeps filtered through the ship-wide intercom, then Gerald's voice boomed: "Attention all personnel. On jump point vector. Sixty seconds. Assume jump stations."

  "Whoopeedo," Maniac groaned. "We'll be sitting on our hands for this one anyway."

  "Just do your job," Blair said, then jogged back toward his Rapier.

  "Hey, Blair? What's your problem now?"

  He ignored Maniac, gave a passing nod to his flight crew, then mounted his cockpit ladder.

  It felt comforting to be back in his fighter after a three day absence, the pit like a nest of power and technology with the magic to make him forget about rejection, about the troubles his half-breed heritage brought on, about the war, about everything. He slid on his headset and helmet, buckled on the O2 mask, then attached the power and oxygen lines to his flight suit. Routine preparations performed thousands of times now took on a peculiar reverence. He sensed a certain nobility about being a pilot, and delusion or not, he enjoyed the moment. But it was time to get down to business. He switched a toggle, and the canopy lowered into place.

  Now in the muffled quiet, he surveyed his instruments, noting a few differences between his present fighter, the CF-117b Rapier, and the old F44-A he had flown only three days prior. The new model had increased missile capacity to ten guided or dumbfire missiles and packed a second generation nose-mounted rotary-barrel neutron gun that allowed for longer continuous neutron fire than the old F44's first generation cannon. A switch on his stick allowed for alternate or synchronous fire, and standard laser cannons mounted to the 117's short, upturned wings provided longer-range support. The standard Tempest targeting and navigational AI remained the same, as did the jump-capable drive array and twin thruster/afterburner package. Monitors and control panels seemed slightly smaller, but that could be an illusion. The seat felt a hell of a lot better though, with the welcome addition of lumbar support. Even as Blair brought up main power and engaged the pre-flight sequence, the Rapiers on either side of him did likewise. He glanced left to Hunter. The Aussie had not attached his mask yet; he would, of course, wait until the last minute so that he could chomp on his unlit cigar, the stogie as much a permanent fixture as his shaggy hair. Though Blair and Hunter had gotten off to an exceedingly shaky start, with Hunter threatening Blair's life because he did not trust Pilgrim half-breeds, Blair's actions during their last mission had apparently won Hunter's trust. During the past three days, Hunter had treated Blair as an equal, had invited him to the rec several times, and had even asked if he could buy Blair a drink. Despite all of that, Blair still sensed that the man was watching him, probing for the first sign of waning loyalty.

  The pilot to his right, one Sachin "Cheddarboy" Rapalski hailed from an amazingly long line of Wisconsin dairy farmers who had weathered the twenty-third century's ecocatastrophe with the zeal and perseverance of ancient American pioneers. Cheddarboy's call sign had been chosen for him by his flight school instructor, who had used it as chide so often that it stuck. Of course the pale, baby-faced jock with the body of a fence picket hated cheddar cheese; in fact, he hated all cheese except the mozzarella on a well-done pepperoni pizza and had, in fact, split one with Blair only the night before. Now strapped into his cockpit, Cheddarboy gave Blair a terse nod, his face shielded by his mask, large blue eyes radiating with the nervous electricity of a new pilot flying his first real mission off his first real strike carrier.

  Angel's voice abruptly sounded through his headset. "All right, Ladies. I take it we're all in tight. Pre-flight checklists have been logged and looking good-except for yours, Maniac."

  "Excuse me, ma'am?" Maniac responded quickly.

  "That's right. You've overlooked targeting and navigation systems."

  "My chief did 'em for me. Guess he forgot to log 'em in."

  "You're responsible for your own checklist. You don't subcontract it to your chief. Understood?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Blair's left Visual Display Unit flashed the words incoming communication on secure channel. Blair dialed up the channel, already knowing who had called. "No, she's not just being a bitch, Maniac. She's right. And you know that."

  "No, I was being a bitch," Angel said, then her face showed on the display, or at least what wasn't rudely hidden by her helmet and mask.

  "I'm sorry, I-"

  "Save it. I just recommended you for some chicken guts, the Bronze Star to be exact, for exceptional bravery under fire. I'm sure it'll get approved."

  "Thank you, ma'am. But I'm not sure if bravery had anything to do with it."

  "I don't know any other pilot who would navigate his way through a quasar without NAVCOM coordinates. If it wasn't bravery, than it was insanity. But we don't have a medal for that."

  He smiled behind his mask. "We should."

  "Jump in ten seconds. Launch in thirty. Stand by." The VDU went blank.

  However, a fountain of light appeared before it and gathered into the shape of Merlin, the holographic interface generated by Blair's Portable Personal Computer. As was the bantam's wont, Merlin brushed off his tan tunic and breeches, slid up the rubber band that bound his long, gray hair into a ponytail, then fixed Blair with a severe frown. "It may seem ridiculous to you, but forcing me into standby mode for long periods is like stuffing me into a little box. Never mind what it does to my appearance, it's my attitude that's really suffering. I'm depressed again, Christopher. I'm feeling unneeded. I thought you should know that. I think you should do something about it."

  "Merlin, don't lay this crap on me now. How would you feel if you thought your holographic assistant needed a shrink? The guy's supposed to be helping you, and you wind up counseling him. Sometimes I feel like ripping your processor out of my wrist. My Dad programmed you because he thought he was doing me a favor. If only he could see you now."

  "That's not fair. I shouldn't be feeling guilty about how I feel." His gaze turned up to probe the overhead. "Oh, dear. We're jumping again." He vanished.

  "Fusion engines engaged," Gerald said over the intercom.

  Despite his own idling thrusters, Blair felt the characteristic rumble pulse through the entire carrier as the ship's powerful ion engines came online. Then a jolt tore through his Rapier as the Tiger Claw paused to get a precise bearing on the jump point that accounted for the gravity well's drift rate.

  "This is the part my stomach hates," Bishop said.

  "Don't think about it, Mate," Hunter instructed. "Put it all in your breath and let it out."

  Another jolt told Blair that the jump-drive had been engaged. Now the Tiger Claw's high thrust propelled it toward the exact coordinates along the rift in space. An antigraviton field surrounded the ship, and Blair felt his senses shut down.

  He knew she would come. He had tried to bury the thought of her, to bury his fear of jumping, but at the very last second, he panicked, and during the perfect moment that joined him to the space-time continuum, he saw her once more, haloed by the void-

  His mother. Dark hair spilling like wine over her shoulders, eyes sometimes soft with understanding, sometimes narrowed in disappointment. "Christopher. I wish I could help you. At least you don't bear the pain of knowing."

  "Knowing what?"

  "Your path."

  "Another warning? You said I shouldn't come here, that this isn't my continuum. Why? Tell me."

  "You believe you have power over this, but you have nothing. You can't do what you feel."

  "What am I? A Pilgrim? What does that really mean? Am I just a freak? A human with a sixth sense for direction? Or is there more? I wa
nt there to be more. I want to know who I am."

  "If you learn who you are, you will fall. Like the others. You're too young, and the pain of knowing is too great."

  "I can take the pain!"

  "Who is that? That you, Blair?"

  A blurry view of the flight deck snapped out of the darkness, along with the steady hiss of his oxygen flow, the reverberation of his thrusters, and the nagging ache of his shoulder harness that he had fastened too tightly.

  "Hey, Blair? You with the living?" Maniac asked.

  "Yeah, yeah. I'm just… that one hit hard."

  "Attention all personnel. Battle Stations! Battle Stations! This is not an exercise," Gerald said. "Standard orbit of Mylon Three in ninety seconds. Deploy ground force."

  Blair watched as Deck Boss Peterson waved on the wedge-shaped CF-337d Marine Corps troopship, armed to the teeth with ten missile hardpoints each packing a trio of rockets. Two turreted rotary-barrel neutron guns, not unlike his Rapier's primary weapon, jutted out on port and starboard sides. The troopship's nose bore the vivid likeness of a snarling Doberman pinscher, drool dripping from gleaming incisors. Once lined up on the runway, the vessel ignited thrusters and swept toward the environmental maintenance field's fluctuating curtain of energy. It shot through the barrier and climbed away, out of sight.

  "Show time, ladies," Angel said.

  Hunter floated into position first, followed by Bishop and Cheddarboy. One by one, first patrol received launch confirmation from the flight boss, got the green light, then thundered across the runway. Second patrol hovered into position. Gangsta took off first, her launch a perfect demonstration of textbook maneuvering. Sinatra followed, jumped the throttle before the deck boss gave him the final signal, then got out there, the deck boss's scolding ringing in his ears. Sinatra was a damned good pilot with more experience than even Angel. His problems with authority had gotten him busted down from captain to lieutenant. Based on his years in and his age (twenty-nine), he should be a major or colonel. From what Blair could gather from his limited experience with the man, he didn't hotdog like Maniac; he simply told people exactly what he thought of them and their skills. Many of the younger pilots marveled over his political incorrectness, but Blair chose to avoid the guy, taking the same advice he had offered Zarya about Maniac.