by Peter Telep
Slowly, she turned back, faced him, but remained rigid, part of her still traveling toward the hatch.
"I've never enforced the standing reg against fraternization. It goes on. It's a necessary evil. I'm okay with it. But if it compromises my ship or her crew, then I will brig the participants. Now then, Admiral Tolwyn has ordered us to break off from our pursuit of the Olympus, which, I might add, works in your favor. I wouldn't feel comfortable sending you out against her with Blair and Paladin still aboard."
The news came as a cold wind that chilled Angel to the marrow. "Sir, has Paladin already convinced Aristee to stand down?"
"I don't think so."
"Then why are we breaking off?"
"The admiral has given us new orders. We're going to Hell's Kitchen. We're to assume a high orbit of the third planet, Nether — anya, and await instructions."
"There's a Pilgrim enclave there. I think it's called Triune."
Gerald nodded. "I'm sure the admiral is positioning the rest of the fleet near the other Pilgrim enclaves. He's taking the Concordia battle group to McDaniel, and sending two others to Faith and Promise."
"Why would Aristee go back to McDaniel or the other systems?"
"I'm no mind reader, and even if I were, I doubt that I could make sense of a mind as complex as the admiral's," Gerald confessed. "I wish we were better informed, but that's the admiral's style. When we need to know, we'll know."
"Is that also the commodore's style?"
"He never told me why he took Lieutenant Blair along. And to be frank, I never questioned him. He said you had already approved, and it seemed like an excellent idea to me."
"Sir?"
"Let's just say that Lieutenant Blair will provide a counterweight to the commodore's mission."
"Which is…"
"I'm not sure if even the admiral knows."
"Well, I owe that man my life," Angel said, remembering how Paladin had saved her when she had ejected in her life pod. "Still, I understand your feelings, and I did find it rather odd that Aris-tee gave him clearance to land so quickly."
"It didn't surprise me at all." He read the question on her face, but instead of answering, he pushed himself off the console and checked his watchphone. "We'll be jumping in about five hours. I've scheduled another briefing for the department heads at sixteen-thirty. Is there anything else I can do for you, Commander?"
"No, sir."
Fifteen minutes later, Angel sat at her desk and rested her head on an arm. She couldn't believe that Christopher Blair had so quickly vanished from her life. She could easily cling to the pathetic hope that he would return, keep those candles lit for him, but she knew better. Those candles would do no more than burn.
Over the years, she had grown accustomed to being abandoned by those she loved. Her parents had been killed in the Pilgrim War, and the sisters who had raised her were little more than disciplinarians employed at an orphanage. Then, at sixteen, Mikhail had kissed her good-bye and had joined the Confederation Marines. Six months later she had learned of his death. The Kilrathi had torn him apart so thoroughly that only through dental work and dog tags could he be identified. Angel had fallen to her knees and had vowed never to love again.
But that vow had been too difficult to keep. True, she had successfully avoided romantic relationships until Christopher Blair had come along, but the love she harbored for friends had already taken its toll: Zigmaster, Throne, Rosie, and Bossman had all left behind their indelible marks. The shrinks had recently told her that her inability to become intimate was a natural defense mechanism against all of the loss she had suffered. She had become a textbook study in denial and insecurity, a psychiatrist's cliche, a self-destructive fighter pilot who allowed herself to experience only the most basic and necessary emotions, knowing too well that an entire universe of sensations continually passed her by.
"You don't know what I'm risking here."
"I think I do."
Maybe Blair did understand her. She had never met a young man more sensitive and as attuned to his surroundings.
But like the others, he had left.
Seething over the fact, she bolted from the desk, ripped the pillows off her rack, yanked the mattress from its frame, and threw it across the room. Panting through gritted teeth, she grabbed the small statue of the Brussels griffon sitting atop her desk and smashed it against her hatch. The little porcelain dog fell in a score of pieces that clattered across the deck. She lowered her head, eyes stinging with tears, then, on her periphery, she noticed her small computer terminal. Its thin screen showed the words ONE unread text message in a beckoning flash. She went to the terminal, and with trembling fingers pulled up the mail:
IP PORT STATUS: UNDOCKED
OP PORT STATUS: UNDOCKED
CLEARANCE KEY STATUS: insertcard.veri-fying_denied_accepted
DATA SECURITY LEVEL: unclassified_confidential_secret_topsecret
ORIGINATION: Confederation Merchantman Diligent
RECEIVED: 2654.DBS O44B Hours CST
Dear Angel,
Paladin and I are on our way to the planet.
He thinks Aristee's down there. I smooth-talked him into letting me send you this. We didn't get a chance to say good-bye, and I don't know how long this is going to take. To be honest with you, I don't even know why I'm here except maybe as a witness for him. He knows that most people don't trust him now. I do. But I'm worried. Anyway, take care, and if Maniac gives you any trouble while I'm gone, tell him he'll pay hell to me with interest.
I want to sign off with love because that's how I feel, but I won't. I'll wait for you, Angel. I'll wait for as long as it takes…
Christopher
END TEXT TRANSMISSION # B9274UH9Y299
DUPLICATE COPY ROUTED OFFLINE MAILBOX «9BO2»
She ran a finger over his name on the screen and whispered, "Don't wait. I'm not worth it."
12
VEGA SECTOR.DRY-DOUGLAS BORDER.CS OLYMPUS.EN ROUTE TO ALLOYSIS SYSTEM.ROBERT'S QUADRANT.
2654.088.2200 HOURS CONFEDERATION STANDARD TIME
After they had set down on the Olympus's flight deck, Blair and Paladin had remained in their seats while the supercruiser made another jump. During that moment, Blair had once more experienced the indistinct figure that rose from the darkness, calling his name in a feminine voice, stroking his cheek, and reaching for him. However, the image had seemed brighter, the voice clearer-as though with each contact he drew closer to the person.
With the jump completed, Deck Boss Towers had given them permission to egress. When they had popped the hatch, they had been met by a pair of heavily-armed Pilgrim Marines. The Marines' dress had immediately struck Blair as odd: long, white robes tied at the waist by olive drab sashes and covered by breastplates of armor and conventional ammo belts. Combat boots had been replaced by loose-fitting sandals. Confederation Marines typically wore standard issue C-524 space armor, single piece units donned via an opening on the left side. Equipped with C-532 life support systems, the suits afforded them the ability to operate in a multitude of environments and struck a familiar image with all military personnel. These Pilgrim Marines looked like a pair of monks wielding C-47 ballistic assault rifles instead of the holy books of Ivar Chu. Despite their dress, they did brandish the same badass attitudes as non-Pilgrim Marines, and that characteristic even Ivar Chu McDaniel could not educate or "enlighten" away.
Hands raised, he and Paladin had shifted down the loading ramp and into supercruiser's aft flight deck, once a meager housing for twenty or thirty fighters and bombers, now a spectacle of recently added runways, aprons, and berths that extended nearly two hundred meters longer than the Tiger Claw's. Rapiers and Broadswords stood in rows that stretched so far into the distance that Blair had blinked to make sure he had not witnessed an illusion. Still, the rows were spread wide apart, and there probably weren't more than sixty or seventy fighters. Even as Paladin continued to scrutinize their enemy's strike potential, Blair had taken note of the do
zens of techs who also wore robes and sandals similar to the Marines, though their jobs were identified by different colored sashes rather than by the color-specific coveralls worn by Confed personnel.
"What's with the costumes?" Blair had asked Paladin. "Looks like a martial arts academy in here."
"Pilgrims are all about tradition, and this one was obviously adopted from other cultures and religions. The robes are ceremonial reminders of oneness, of purity, of simplicity, and they're made of ko'a'ka. Produces a calming effect similar to tobacco."
"They don't look calm. Just ridiculous."
That remark had caused one of the Marines to jam his muzzle between Blair's shoulders. Wincing from the pain, Blair had wisely decided to remain silent for the rest of the trip to the brig. Along the way, they had been met by the scowls and cutting remarks of dozens of robed crew members, and though Blair shared their ancestry, he felt alienated by these people; however, they couldn't know his mother had been a Pilgrim.
The group had finally reached the brig, a narrow, utilitarian chamber with six cells on each side of the passage. There, Blair and Paladin had sat for hours, highly entertained by the dura-steel walls and the buzz of sparse lighting. Blair's only visit to a cap ship brig had been during the standard walking tour. Naval brigs hadn't changed much over the centuries. You had your walls, your bars, your sweet-smelling sink and toilet. You wouldn't find sophisticated energy barriers or hyperlined plumbing in Confederation brigs, just the cheap, effective, old-fashioned discomforts of imprisonment.
Surprisingly enough, Blair had discovered that the mattress on the cot was actually thicker and more comfortable than the one in his quarters back on the Claw — an illustration of military prioritizing at its finest, with thugs sleeping more comfortably than officers.
Paladin hadn't paid much attention to Blair's comments regarding the bunk. In fact, he had grown more restless, and the color had all but faded from his cheeks.
Noting that, Blair now mustered the courage to confront his mentor. "Are you all right, sir?"
"What?"
"Are you all right?"
Paladin blinked off the cobwebs of his introspection and faced Blair. "Yeah. It's just this wait."
"How long has it been since you've seen her?"
"I'm not sure. We bumped into each other a few times since she left. It's probably been five years. I guess I can wait another hour."
"With all due respect, sir, you look pretty nervous."
The commodore chuckled under his breath. "It shows that much?"
A sudden commotion at the far end of the brig drew Blair's attention.
"Watch it!" came a familiar voice. "You do that again, you'll be deep-throating that muzzle. Do we understand each other?"
"Shut up!" another man cried.
"Maniac?" Blair called, rushing to the bars. He glimpsed down the corridor and spotted his bunkmate being ushered toward them by their friendly neighborhood Pilgrim Marines.
"Hey, that you, Blair?" Maniac squinted to spot him.
"Yeah. I'm with the commodore. What are you doing here?"
"I'm on the free tour."
The Marines keyed open the cell beside Blair's and thrust Maniac inside. A solid wall stood between their cells, so Blair could only hear his wingman. "Thanks, guys," he told his escorts. "I'm looking at your hairy legs, and I gotta tell you, I'm feeling somewhat aroused."
"Close that hole, human" one of the guards retorted before he and his comrade beat a quick exit.
"You say it like a curse," Maniac cried after them. "At least I ain't a fanatic and a freak!" Suddenly aware of his company, he added, "No offense, guys."
Paladin arrived beside Blair, his once sallow face now aglow. "Lieutenant?" he called out to Maniac. "Explain your presence."
"You know it's actually good to see you two locked up. At least I know what side you're on."
"Lieutenant, answer my-"
"Sir, I took a hit, lost control, and came in close to the carrier as she was about to jump," Maniac began, sounding bored with having to relate the tale. "I drifted into some kind of neutral field that surrounded the ship. I fired a tow beam, just hung on, and figured I'd be wasted by the jump. On the other side, they sent out a couple Rapiers and tractored me back to the flight deck. Got interrogated by a few people. Don't know if they were officers, they wore those nutty robes with the symbols along the cuffs. One of them gave the order to have me executed."
Paladin snorted. "So why am I still talking to you?"
"Well, sir, I kind of dropped your name." Maniac's voice grew more tentative. "Told 'em I was a friend and that they should check with you first before they did anything. And son of a bitch, it worked. At least for now."
"That's pretty clever, Lieutenant."
"Why, thank you, sir."
"You idiot!" Paladin suddenly roared. "Aristee will bait me with your life."
"What was I supposed to do? Let 'em kill me? I don't think so. And why can't she do the same thing with Blair?"
"She won't kill him-he's half Pilgrim. Your presence may have already compromised this mission."
"And what mission is that, sir?"
Paladin sighed disgustedly and shambled back toward the cot. He flipped back a stray lock of hair and sat, his expression returning to a tight mask of thought.
"Hey, I didn't ask to be here," Maniac added. "You guys did. Mind telling me why?"
Blair looked to Paladin, who shook his head.
"Hey, you guys eat yet?" Maniac continued. "The food any good? Or do these Pilgrims eat only holy rice or some other bullshit?"
"Think you'd better sit down and find your own religion," Blair retorted. "You'll need it now."
Voices echoed faintly in the distance, then wore off into the sound of approaching footsteps.
"What now?" Paladin muttered.
Captain Amity Aristee emerged from the shadows like a dark-skinned archangel, cast out from the Confederation and ruling now in her own private hell. She did, indeed, possess that torturous beauty of which Paladin had so often spoke, and Blair found himself drawn to the forest in her eyes and the mysteries coiled through her black, shoulder-length hair. Aristee carried herself with a rhythm that seemed at once primordial and musical, though in no way did it appear forced. Full, round breasts tented up her robe, with more than a hint of cleavage forming a warm home at her V-neck. She stood tall on firm legs, the calves smooth and well-defined, and her small feet with toenails painted white fit perfectly in her leather sandals. Blair amused himself by speculating on her undergarments-or lack thereof-before he noticed another man coming forward, a man he immediately recognized, though he had first seen as part of the continuum, part of something universal, elemental, and baffling.
Frotur Johan McDaniel regarded Blair with warm recognition. "Brotur Christopher." Then he eyed Paladin with a slight though detectable sneer. "And Brotur James. I never thought we'd meet again."
"For a Pilgrim with a perfect sense of direction, you seem to keep crossing my path," the commodore said coldly.
"Oh, but that's not my will. It's destiny tugging on your elbow. You've lived in denial long enough, haven't you?"
"All right, gentlemen," Aristee interjected. "We'll finish the debate later." With several rapid keystrokes on the cell's control panel, she opened the door. "Let's go."
Blair noticed how Aristee and Paladin would not look at each other. He had expected an awkward moment between them, a moment in which they painfully uttered each other's names followed by mawkish cliches like "It's been a long time."
"Whoa. Where are you going?" Maniac asked as they stepped into the corridor. "Hey, you leave me here, you're gonna have a major problem on your hands."
"Lieutenant," Paladin snapped, then added a glare to silence Maniac. The reprimand worked.
"I understand he's a friend," Aristee said, though she barely met Paladin's gaze.
"No, he's not."
"Sir?" Maniac cried.
"He's a good friend and one
of most aggressive junior pilots in the fleet," the commodore added. "But he's still a human. I suggest you jettison him ASAP."
Blair turned to Paladin, mouth agape both eyes bulging.
"James, you know why I let him live," Aristee began. "Don't insult my intelligence again. You're not here to defect, and you don't want me to kill him. You're here to talk me into surrendering, but Ivar Chu himself couldn't do that now."
"At least hear me out," Paladin said.
"Oh, I will. We'll have plenty of time to talk. But first I want to show you something." She suddenly turned to Blair, scrutinized him for a second, then blurted out, "You look like your mother."
"Did you know her, ma'am?"
"I knew of her. I was pretty young back then and was only visiting Peron. I remember everyone being jealous of her good looks. Then when she married your father, that jealousy turned to hate." She moved away. "So it goes."
They followed her toward the hatch at the far end of the corridor, with Johan McDaniel bringing up the rear. "Broturs James and Christopher, many people scarified their lives for what you're about to witness. We shall honor them by remaining silent until we arrive," the frotur instructed.
Paladin looked askance at Blair and made a face. Blair nodded as the two Marines joined them at the hatch.
"Bring back some food," Maniac shouted.
Amity led them down several decks, toward the supercruiser's stern. They passed several torpedo launch bays, pilots' quarters, environmental controls, and a long storage area fenced off by polymeric bars. Crew members snapped to as they neared them, bowing instead of saluting.
It took all of fifteen minutes for them to reach the engineering deck. Two more Pilgrim Marines stood guard outside the oval-shaped hatch. As they drew near, one of the guards briskly keyed open the door. The drone of cooling units and air recyclers grew louder as they stepped onto a catwalk that encompassed a circular room. The catwalk permitted full view of the ship's drive system, a great metallic organ centered below. From a distance, the place resembled an amphitheater, with the drive at center stage and emitting a solid bass note so deep that Blair felt it pass through him as they crossed toward a staircase that dropped fifteen meters to the drive deck. He gripped the rail and descended, his gaze riveted to the hopper drive itself.