by Peter Telep
While lying there after the first time, with Angel's head resting on his shoulder, Blair had half-expected Merlin to suddenly appear with his appraisal of their lovemaking: "Well, bravo, Christopher. No performance anxiety this time, eh? And Lieu-tenant Commander, you're quite flexible, aren't you." He had shaken off the thought, and when Angel had asked him what was wrong, he had told her that he sometimes got the shakes afterward. That much wasn't a lie.
They had set another rendezvous for the following day, knowing that the rumors would begin to circulate but too infected with each other to be apart. Angel had, indeed, ordered Maniac to sim practice that first day, but she could not keep up that diversion. So they would meet in her quarters. Strange, though. During that second day, Blair had asked why she had suddenly changed her mind. She had told him not to ruin what they had by talking it away. After a moment's consideration, he had realized the truth in that, though the unanswered question still troubled him.
By the third day-and the third tryst-Blair had grown frustrated with their silence. They made love repeatedly, working into each other's rhythms like musicians, but the connection between them seemed to weaken instead of strengthen.
On the fourth day, Blair felt as though they were just working out their anxieties on each other's bodies. Tenderness had turned to grunting. Their relationship was all about that final, pulse-pounding moment. Afterward, they would fall back and stare at the overhead, their gazes swimming through the shadows and never once falling on each other.
Out of nowhere, Blair had said, "We're close. But we're not close."
"I know," she had admitted.
"Guess I shouldn't complain. I'm getting what most guys want, right? Sex with no emotional baggage."
"I can't give you any more than that. Not yet."
He had rolled to face her. "But there's hope?"
"You don't know what I'm risking here."
"I think I do."
Blair had closed his eyes and had taken her into arms. She had buried her head in his chest, and he had simply held her there, trying to show that he wouldn't let go, that he would be there for her for as long as fate allowed.
On the early morning of the fifth day, Blair had tiptoed out of his quarters, had keyed himself into hers, and had spooned her for an hour or two before the jump alarm sounded. During that simple moment he had felt more bonded to her than any other time. He had listened to her breathe and had let her silky hair fall in curtains across her face. Her scent, a light blend of perfume and coconut shampoo, had lulled him to sleep.
I always was a dreamer, he reflected, now feeling the ship rumble under his feet. Lieutenant Commander Obutu's voice broke over the intercom: "Jump in five seconds, four, three, two-"
The familiar moment of frozen silence embraced the flight wing ready room, and after a second-or an eternity-a collective groan rose from the pilots. Blair added his own gasp to the racket.
"What the hell was that?" someone asked.
"All hands, this is your captain. We just experienced a minor fluctuation in the jump field, but the jump was successful. Repeat, the jump was successful. Standby to initiate flight operations. Launch reconnaissance patrol." The general quarters alarm punctuated Gerald's report. A second Klaxon announced a flush scramble, and Blair threw off his straps and joined a white water rush of pilots.
Most of the techs who worked on the flight deck had grown accustomed to flush scrambles that had every operational fighter and bomber in the Claw's arsenal launching within the next few minutes. Despite the crew's experience, anxiety painted their faces, and tensions ran expectantly high. A minor fuel spill had Boss Peterson raising hell with two techs near the bomber berths, and two ordnance specialists had the hood raised on their fully loaded missile cart, which had broken down in the middle of the runway. As the techs took heat from their supervisor, the bulky deckdozer was already en route, its driver lowering the broad hydraulic blade affixed to the vehicle's nose. Blair observed a few more verbal entanglements between pilots and maintenance crews as he picked his way along the port bulkhead, aiming for his Rapier's berth.
To his mild astonishment, he saw Paladin striding toward him from the opposite end of the flight deck. The commodore caught his gaze, then waved him over. Blair leapt twice over fuel lines that obstacled his path, then reached the man, out of breath. "Sir?"
"You'll be flying in the Diligent with me, Lieutenant."
"Sir?"
"Angel's loaned you to me. Come on." He started up the deck, in the direction Blair had come.
The Diligent sat a short walk ahead, her thrusters already idling, her disc-shaped forward fuselage auguring missions of quiet efficiency rather than capital ship battles. In fact, the idea of him riding with Paladin aboard the merchantman seemed more than a little odd. Who would take a merchantman out against a supercruiser when nearly five score of fighters and bombers were ready to do the job?
"I suppose you'd like to know what's going on," Paladin said as they reached the ship's gangplank.
"Yes, sir. I assume we've detected the Olympus. But you're qualified to pilot Broadswords and Rapiers. Why are we launching in the Diligent'"
"Because, son, we're not going out to fight."
Maniac attached his O2 mask, then finished his abbreviated pre-flight checklist. External moorings released. Fuel topped off. Jump drive, tow system, Tempest targeting and navigational AI, and life support standing tall in the green. Thrusters growling like the Dobermans they were. Neutron gun pulse generators fully charged, with alternate or synchronous fire settings available. Heads Up Display crisp, clear, and alive with data bars that told him everything but the damned ball score. Comm channel open. Right Visual Display Unit full of static, left displaying ship damage in quadrants. The armor and shield indicator, just right of center, glowed at full strength all around. It would stay that way. No Pilgrim jock would deliver even a glancing blow if Maniac had anything to say about it. And he'd said it before: They'd meet the best-and die with the rest.
Yet all of the adrenaline-induced bravado failed to extinguish the guilt that had him sweating in his flight suit. Killing Kilrathi had become as routine as stomping on ants; however, killing other people who had once been Confederation pilots seemed like a terrible waste. And besides, he had come to know a Pilgrim, if only a half-breed. His relationship with Blair made him feel even worse now. Thank God Blair had been loaned out to the commodore.
As it had over Lethe, the battle would become more surreal since their opponents flew in identical ships. Were it not for electronic identification systems, friendly fire would become the rule of the day instead of the exception. He almost wished he had been assigned something less personal that would take him out of the killing loop. Most people who knew Maniac would never believe that he had doubts about going out and doing his job. He had once told somebody that if researchers analyzed his DNA, they would discover a new gene-one they would find in only the best pilots. Flying wasn't a learned skill; you were born to it or not. And when you got the target in your sights, you never thought about the children you might be orphaning. You focused on racking up one more for the killboard. So why don't I feel all gung ho and jingoistic now?
"Hunter? Bishop? Slot, clock, and burn," Angel said over the comm. "Sinatra? Cheddarboy? On deck. Zarya and Maniac? On their heels. And Gangsta? You're on my wing. Last out and last in. Ladies, while we're waiting for the bombers to launch, I suggest you pull data on the AO. The zone's an ally, not an obstacle."
"Yeah, yeah," Maniac grunted over the old reminder. He had never been one to spend hours analyzing the Area of Operations before heading into combat. Sure, you could learn a lot more about the star system, its planets, its moons, but you might also succumb to a false sense of security because you thought you knew what lay ahead. Maniac's experience had taught him to expect a surprise with every tug on the control stick. But for the hell of it-and to appease Angel, who could tap into his systems at any time to see if he were actually scanning the data-
he pulled up the skinny on McDaniel's World.
Well, there's nothing Earth-shattering here to report to the Terran News Channel, he thought as he scanned the info spilling across his display. Star: McDaniel (Is everything in the system called McDaniel?). Spectral type: G2 (Anyone care?). Absolute magnitude: 4.27 (Absolutely unimportant.). Apparent visual magnitude: 0.2 (Apparently they don't realize how boring this shit is.). Temperature: 6600 degrees K (Yeah, like my temper right now.). Mass: 1.1 times Sol Standard (My life has new meaning.). Planets: four terrestrial, two gas giants. Twenty-one known satellites in the system, three in orbit around the third terrestrial planet dubbed McDaniel's World (My God, what an original name!).
The right VDU focused on the planet, bringing up a three-dimensional simulacrum rotating imperceptibly in real time. Oxygen worlds were as rare as good pilots in Vega Sector, but even rarer still were worlds with masses nearly equal to Earth's. This rock represented such a place, defying odds and suggesting a sort of cosmic symmetry that allowed for remarkably similar planets to exist billions of kilometers apart. Easy to see why the Pilgrims quickly claimed the world for their own. Talk about a real estate windfall … McDaniel emitted a bluish green aura, and her raggedly shaped continents yielded just under half as much habitable land as Earth's. The tides created by her three moons played a lot more havoc with her shorelines than Luna played with Earth's, however.
And there, behind McDaniel's largest moon, a gray, potato-shaped eyesore named Lyatta, hovered the Olympus. Maniac tapped in a command, bringing up a nav schematic. A trio of bundled yellow lines that represented the swiftest course to the moon extended from a blue blip marked Tiger Claw. He noted that on full afterburners they would be in strike range in one-point-three minutes. Good. Waiting too long to engage would make his itchy trigger finger even itchier.
Hallelujah; Boss Raznick finally sounded over their channel. "Angel, flight control. First pair is clear for launch. ICQ and AO recon reports uploaded. We have confirmation of multiple bandits headed our way. No response to hails."
"Thanks, boss. Okay, ladies. I want a tight box at one K out. You know your positions. Make no mistake, they've been trained the same as us and know all the tricks. Exploit their errors. We'll let them beat themselves. They'll probably jam the Claw's long-range scans, so if anyone catches sight of or reads a tube door opening, inform me ASAP."
"Thought she wouldn't target this planet?" Bishop asked.
"We don't think she will. But if Aristee knows she's going to die, she might want to save her homeworld by destroying it," Angel said, emphasizing the irony.
"So let her," Hunter argued. "My universe could use a few less fanatics."
"The Confed recognizes McDaniel as neutral territory and has agreed to come to the aid of her citizens should the Kilrathi or any other hostile force attack," Angel reminded him. "So everybody stow your bigotry and do your jobs. Hunter? Bishop? Line 'em up."
Maniac let his head fall back on the seat. No, he wouldn't wait long for the battle, but he still had to wait to launch with Zarya. He pulled up her private frequency, flashed her a wink with the eye that wasn't covered by his HUD viewer. "Hey, I just wanted to say that you're the best looking wingman I've ever had."
"What about Rosie Forbes?" she challenged, cocking a brow.
He faltered. "She was beautiful. But in a different way."
"What way?"
"Bad timing for this chat, eh?"
"Not at all," she insisted.
"Look, Rosie got smoked, and I really don't want to talk about it-especially now."
"I'm not Rosie."
"Jeez, you had me fooled."
"Do you know what a soft monkey is?"
"Yeah, it's no fun at all."
"Listen, wiseass, when a mother chimp loses one of her babies, sometimes zookeepers give her a chimp doll to help her deal with the grief. It's a very old remedy, but usually very effective. I think you're still grieving. And I'm your soft monkey."
He snorted, then the laughter came out full and hard. "I've heard some pretty wacky stuff, but-"
"You're beyond reproach." The VDU snapped into darkness.
Swearing, Maniac slammed down the reconnect button, and Zarya appeared, gaze averted. "I'm sorry," he said. "I get what you're saying. Call me immature, but the monkey thing sounds funny. Maybe I'm still grieving, on the rebound, whatever. But I like being with you. Can that be enough for now?"
"I guess so. But you won't have me until your head's clear. Until it's right."
His heart sank. A week's worth of fierce wooing to get her into his rack had just gone by the wayside.
"Lieutenants Marshall and Rolitov, flight control. You're clear for launch, copy?" Boss Raznick said, breaking into their private link. Maniac hadn't known the boss could do that; he'd have to be more careful about what he said.
"Copy that, boss," responded Zarya, her tone forceful and all business, ringing quite sexily in Maniac's ears. "Clock stands at ten seconds."
They lined up beside each other, and Maniac flashed her a tentative thumbs up before saluting Deck Boss Peterson. He watched the numbers spin down in his HUD, spotted the green launch light, then slammed the throttles forward. He and Zarya roared through the flight deck and impaled the curtain of sodden energy like the sword whose name their fighters bore. The two Rapiers streaked over the runway that split the Tiger Claw in two. Dark gray bulkheads broken by maintenance planes blurred into dull, watery streaks narrowing toward a disk of stars.
"Attack vector set. Switching to auto for five-second burn to regroup and box," Zarya announced.
"Roger, that. In three, two, one." Maniac kicked in his afterburners while simultaneously engaging the autopilot. The fighter climbed sixty degrees away from the Claw and toward a tableau dominated by McDaniel's World and the three moons.
Were it not for human intervention, Maniac could've mistaken the view for a painting of celestial serenity by that famous Japanese artist whose name continually escaped him. But Rapiers cut viciously across the canvas, long tails of exhaust drawing straight, even lines in an otherwise curved natural environment. At the moment, McDaniel's smallest moon shied behind the planet, only a crescent still visible. The second moon hung to port, a pale white, perfectly shaped orb with a massive crater near its north pole. The target moon, Lyatta, orbited on a steep incline relative to McDaniel's path around its sun, and the moon's many craters afforded the supercruiser's fighters with excellent cover in which to stage an ambush.
"Burn complete," Maniac told Zarya.
"Copy. Going manual to form up."
Directly ahead, the other Rapiers of Black Lion Squadron had already assumed four of the eight distinct positions that comprised the box formation. Four points represented the top of the box and resembled the corners of a square. Another square would sit about twenty meters back, just beyond the forward square's thruster wash. He and Zarya would assume the base angles of the second square, with Angel and Gangsta taking the top. Angel liked the formation since it gave some of them a millisecond or two to jump once the furball hit. The side of the box closest to the incoming fighters would break first, and the other sides would follow in succession.
Breaking a box formation was much easier than, say, a wedge, which gave you fewer vectors along your three and nine o'clock and more opportunities to crash into your neighbors. Better to be blown out of sky by an opponent than make a stupid course correction and buy it. Maniac had known two cadets who had need-lessly lost their lives while breaking from a wedge. He remembered them now as he eased off the throttle and descended into position. He tossed a look at Zarya, but she didn't see him, her gaze sweeping her instruments. He had to hand it to her. When it came to business, she was nothing but.
Two blips lit the bottom of Maniac's radar scope and closed toward the center. The Tempest system immediately IDed them as Angel and Gangsta soaring toward their positions. Maniac glanced up at the belly of Angel's jet as she throttled down to match the squadron's velocity.
> "All right, mates. Got some of our spiritual buddies inbound," Hunter reported. "Count nine bandits targeting Lightning's squadron."
"Adjust course to intercept," Angel ordered.
Maniac squinted to his two o'clock, where a bright spattering of thruster lights headed toward the big moon. That would be Lightning's Squadron: twelve Rapiers running escort for the half dozen Broadsword bombers whose blunt noses and boxy wings hinted at their lack of evasion capacity. If Lightning's team could get those bombers in close enough, they could release their massive quartet of over- and underwing antimatter torpedoes. If the Olympus's big guns or fighters failed to intercept just one of those torpedoes, she might suffer a blow serious enough to cost her the entire battle. Captain Amity Aristee obviously knew that, and she would direct most of her fighters to intercept the bomber squadrons, while holding back a squadron or two in reserve for any bombers that penetrated her defenses.
Jinxman's escort team of twenty Rapiers and another six bombers approached the moon from Maniac's five o'clock. They would slip under the satellite and catch the supercruiser from below. But Maniac spotted a pack of thirteen enemy Rapiers buzzing toward them.
The sixteen Rapiers of Sixth Squadron were quick to react and bulleted under Maniac's fighter, in pursuit of the bandits that had tagged Jinxman's people.
Meanwhile, the Exeter-class destroyers Oregon and Mitchell
Hammock assumed flanking positions of the Tiger Claw and lumbered toward the moon on full impulse. At three hundred and sixty meters, they achieved a maximum velocity of one hundred and fifty kilometers per second, respectable for vessels of their size. With bows shaped like narrow isosceles triangles and pairs of short wings that swept back toward their sterns, the destroyers resembled glistening javelins honing themselves on space itself. Their eight turreted meson guns and two dozen torpedo tubes dispelled any. rumors of their weakness. At the right moment, they would come in from three and nine o'clock positions and descend upon the supercruiser in an attempt to cut it off, though they had been wisely instructed to remain behind the ship and outside the five-hundred-meter gravitic cloak created by the Olympus's hopper drive.