Pilgrim stars (wing commander)

by Peter Telep

  Mounted on a two-meter-high, rectangular durasteel base, the drive extended about fifteen meters, bearing the exotic curves of some black, incandescent melon. It tapered at the tail end to form a curving hose with the girth of two men. The hose arced back to the center of the drive, where it grew wider by a third and attached to a dome on the system's back. A conduit at least five meters across jutted from the forward end and curved up ninety degrees to reach the overhead. Blair assumed that the four robed men who had risen from their control stations along the perimeter were drive officers; they bowed as Aristee entered the room.

  "As you were," she said.

  "Jesus," Paladin mumbled, gaping at the drive. "Must've taken months to install this system."

  "Nine-point-three," Aristee qualified. "The Confederation could never maintain security as tight as mine or create a better campaign of misinformation. Your friends at Intell thought they had us figured out. I wonder what they think now. Even my own command staff didn't know what was going on down here. Some said it would be impossible." She sniggered. "Gentlemen, I present to you the impossible."

  Paladin pointed at the tube extending to the ceiling. "Well field integrator?"

  "Very good. The matter-antimatter reactor is housed in the dome. The reaction containment field is located below. Problems with the old hopper drive occurred there. We used a Kilrathi alloy inside the drive to foster containment, control the reaction, and account for gravitic distortions from nearby objects. At least the cats are good for something else besides killing."

  "What's the range? If I recall, the old sloships were limited to twenty or thirty percent of a light year."

  "We're still experimenting with that, but our last jump took us nearly halfway across Vega sector. You do the math."

  "But isn't the field localized?"

  "There's a relationship between the number of anti-gravitons created by the field and the range. I don't pretend to understand it, but the more we generate, the farther we go."

  "Yeah, but as you generate more anti-gravitons, the well becomes more unstable."

  The commodore's fact left Aristee unmoved. "We're working on that, too. But no matter how unstable the well becomes, we can still navigate it, either through conventional NAVCOM AI or a Pilgrim navigator. Frotur McDaniel is responsible for our success in that area."

  "I'm just an old man," McDaniel said with a smile.

  Paladin shook his head. "I wish you were."

  "Ma'am, what you've done here is nothing short of remarkable," Blair said. "But for what? Why show us this? And how do you justify killing millions on Mylon? What do you want? Most terrorists have some sort of demands."

  She stepped toward him, her fruity perfume beginning to sap away his anger. "I'm not a terrorist, Brotur Christopher. I'm a victim, same as you. We were chosen for the stars. The Confederation took them from us." She grinned wistfully. "I don't expect to get them back. But I will start a revolution the likes of which the Confederation has never seen. Even the Kilrathi will cower in our presence. I'm not some insane fanatic who's hijacked her own ship with the intention to kill as many humans as I can before I die a fiery death. You think I'm that reckless? I know what's right for my people. And I'm going to give it to them with the help of this drive. I show it to you because it's yours."

  "No." Paladin's eyes narrowed in disgust.

  "You can't strike and run forever," Blair said, his tone complementing the commodore's expression. "This is just one ship, and the fleet will eventually catch up with you."

  "Of course it will, but not before I create a symbol of our renewed strength. Gentlemen, in approximately sixty days further modifications to this drive will be completed. They will allow us to generate a space-time well large enough to be placed near planetary bodies. At such time we will proceed to Earth and complete Brotur Wilson's mission. If we're not destroyed there, our next targets will include Sol system military installations." She focused her attention on Paladin. "You'll be supplying us with more specific data on bringing down their defense nets."

  "Interesting the way you stand there and tell us you're not insane," Blair began. "Then you tell us your plans to take out Earth and the Confederation. Am I the only one who recognizes the irony? And if this is what being a Pilgrim is all about, then-"

  "You're still naive, Brotur. You'll come to understand," she assured him with a nod. "I don't like killing, but I will no longer tolerate the persecution of my people."

  "I suppose you went to McDaniel for the protur's blessing," Paladin interjected. "You don't have it, and without it you can't succeed."

  "On the contrary, James, I not only have the protur's blessing, but he's aboard this ship."

  Paladin shifted his gaze to Johan McDaniel. "So you figured out where his retreat is. Did he come willingly?"

  "Later on, I'll take you to see him," Aristee offered. "You can ask him yourself."

  "I don't believe you've met the protur," McDaniel said, gripping Paladin's shoulder. "You must talk to him."

  The commodore twisted out of McDaniel's hold, then scanned the drive room for effect. "All of this… what a waste."

  "Oh, come down off your pulpit," Aristee shot back. "You wouldn't have said that ten years ago. We joined the Navy for the same reasons. You've just forgotten them."

  As the commodore stood in silent consideration, McDaniel slid up behind Blair and whispered, "Haven't seen her yet, have you? Oh, you've heard her, but you haven't really seen her."

  A bolt of chills impaled Blair's spine as he turned back to the old man. "No, I haven't. She knows my name."

  "She knows more than that."

  "Who is she?"

  "It's not who but what she is," he said with a wink. "And that's not for me to answer, but for you to discover."

  13

  VEGA SECTOR.DRY QUADRANT.CS TIGER CLAW.HIGH ORBIT NETHER-ANYA.

  2654.095.0900 HOURS CONFEDERATION STANDARD TIME

  "Relayed drone message from the Concordia coming through now, sir," Comm Officer Zabrowsky reported.

  Gerald nodded sharply. "Decrypt and route to OS station two."

  "Aye, sir. Decryption in progress." The freckle-faced boy swiveled back to his instruments. "Routing to OS two."

  As Gerald pulled his tired frame to the port-side observation station, he muttered, "It's about time."

  The Tiger Claw had reached Netheranya three standard days ago and had assumed a high orbit of the mottled brown world whose oceans comprised only ten percent of her total area. Gerald had sent off a drone to Naval Station Gemini near the Enyo system to inform the admiral that they were at station. Gemini would in turn send off a jump-capable drone to the Concordia, now orbiting McDaniel's World.

  Inter-ship, long-distance drone communications did little more than snail along, but the Hell's Kitchen system stood in an area of space known as the Vega cluster, with Enyo, McAuliffe, Dieno, Pephedro, Blackmane, and Cambria all within the grid and just a single jump away. With so many systems in the area,

  Gerald had assumed there would be other fleet operations within direct communications range. They had detected and contacted several Confed merchant and cargo vessels as well as several civilian and commercial transports, but they had failed to find any capital ships from the 14th Fleet. Gerald had grown a bit unnerved by the prospect of the Claw, the Mitchell Hammock, and the Oregon being the only capital ships within half of Day Quadrant. He wondered why the admiral had spread the fleet so thinly, and he hoped the communique would explain that.

  Appearing to be his usual impeccable self, Tolwyn gave his customary nod of acknowledgment and said, "Sorry for the delay, Mr. Gerald. We'll get right to it. Interstellar probes detected a Kilrathi battle group between Lafayette and Tamayo systems. The cats are obviously after the Olympus. I've dispatched six strike carriers with orders to find and destroy that battle group. In the meantime, we're going to call Captain Aristee's bluff. At this moment, nearly one hundred CF-2 °ConCom ships are deploying drones throughout Vega sector.
Each drone will broadcast a long-range transmission for Captain Aristee. I've attached a copy of the transmission for your review. In sum, she is ordered to surrender her vessel-otherwise every Pilgrim system and enclave within Confederation territory will be destroyed and all surviving Pilgrims within our borders will be arrested and imprisoned until she stands down. That last part won't be too difficult since many of those Pilgrims have already sought shelter in designated camps."

  Gerald paused the message. Had the admiral lost his mind? Yes, he might be calling Aristee's bluff, but if he actually ordered the destruction, he would be personally responsible for the deaths of billions. The senate would hang him. It took a moment more for Gerald to realize what Tolwyn had done, and he smiled inwardly. The senate probably had no idea of the admiral's plan. However, if one of the drones were intercepted by the wrong ship, and word leaked back to the senate-but by then it would be too late to stop Tolwyn. On the other hand, the plan might work. How could Aristee ever hope to build a force if the

  Confederation wiped out the systems and enclaves? She might finally recognize the foolishness of her pursuits.

  "Mr. Gerald, I want you to establish a no-fly zone around the Pilgrim enclave Triune on Netheranya. The strike bases at Tung and Sylee will provide atmospheric air support while your fighter wing will interdict all ships attempting to make orbit or planet-fall. I've already contacted the Pilgrim ambassador of Triune and declared a state of martial law. Now, Mr. Gerald, if we receive a refusal from Captain Aristee, know that I will give the order to destroy Triune and its four million inhabitants. In all, over two billion Pilgrims across three systems and five colonial enclaves will die. That's our worst case scenario, and I'm praying it doesn't come to that. But Aristee has been sending messages long enough. It's high time we replied. I'll keep you informed. Tolwyn out."

  "You're really going to do it, old man," Gerald whispered to the blank screen. He glanced up at Netheryana, looming in the viewport. His mind traveled to the cities, the suburbs, the little farms, the wine fields, the hills that rolled on to the horizon. He thought of the children lining up behind their teachers, the old men and women gaming in the parks, the cool, dark waters of the many streams that ran through the simple land. He had had too much time to study the enclave, to drift through the holos that showed images as strikingly beautiful as they now were painful. He should feel glad that Tolwyn was taking extreme measures to bring in Aristee, but killing civilians just to make a point smacked of terrorism. They're not civilians — they're Pilgrims. Hell, they don't even think of themselves as human. The reminder hardly made him feel better. He craned his head to the comm station. "Mr. Z? Get me the COs at Tung and Sylee."

  "Aye, sir. Establishing communications."

  "Mr. Obutu? Recall security patrol and scramble First and Third squadrons."

  Obutu repeated the command, then contacted the Rapier pilots presently flying patrol.

  Gerald switched on the ship-wide intercom and hemmed. "All personnel, this is the captain. We have just received orders to establish a no-fly zone over Triune. I suspect we'll encounter a lot of resistance from commercial and civilian vessels. We'll remain secured from general quarters, but I'd like to maintain a heightened sense of readiness. Any one of those ships could take a potshot at us, and those skippers know we won't return fire and create an incident. I'd like to avoid becoming famous, but we will respond appropriately to significant threats. If you have any questions, consult with your department heads. That is all."

  "Sir?" Comm Officer Zabrowsky called. "No response from the strike bases yet, but I have Lieutenant Commander Deveraux on a secure channel."

  "I'll take it here."

  Angel's bewildered expression lit the screen, with officers scrambling from the flight control room behind her. "Sir. We expecting Aristee?"

  "I doubt it. The admiral's calling her bluff with this blockade, but my gut's telling me this isn't right. Exercise extreme caution out there. Divert civilian and commercial pilots to Enyo where possible. Notify any ships in need of refueling that we will accommodate that need as necessary."

  "How long will this last?"

  "Vega's a big place. And Aristee is a stubborn woman. I think we'll be anchoring here for a very long time."

  "Have you received any word from Commodore Taggart?"

  "I'm betting that when we hear from Aristee, we'll hear from him. Probably not before."

  "Yes, sir." She ended the transmission.

  "Sir? Contact bearing three-two-four by five-one-nine," Radar Officer Falk said. "Designate Bravo two-five, Wren-class commercial transport. Range: two-one-five Ks. Velocity: one-two-five KPS and slowing."

  "And the party begins," Gerald said, then rose and skirted his way back to his command chair. "Hail them, Mr. Falk. Report perimeter violation of standard no-fly zone. If that captain gives you an argument, patch him through to me."

  Blair shook his head as Maniac released an especially loud yawn. "I ever tell you about the time I took Casey up in my Rapier trainer? That was a date that blondie will never forget. Shit, even I remember it."

  Maniac's words echoed hollowly through the brig, and for once in his life Blair truly wished he were alone. He had been sitting in his cell for seven days since first coming aboard. Paladin had been in his company for the first two days, then the Marine guards had fetched him, and Blair had not seen or heard from the commodore since.

  He and Maniac spent most of their time talking. Blair told Maniac stories about his boyhood, stories of farming, of his first experience with his holographic assistant, Merlin, and of his first kiss in preschool. But this heart-warming, general audience stuff only inspired fits of yawning from his wingman. Living up to his reputation, Maniac related tales of his numerous and varied sexual encounters, he the virile hero whose presence struck down women with an overpowering desire to tear the clothes from their bodies and throw themselves at him. The stories grew more graphic, the women more beautiful, the truth lost in all of that heavy breathing. Marshall's call sign should have been NymphoManiac.

  By the third day, Blair's request for a shower and clean clothes had finally been honored. The guards had kept their weapons trained on them even while in the latrine and afterward had forced them to wear Pilgrim robes. Maniac had swapped a few insults with the guards, but for the most part they ignored his crude comments.

  With the passage of each day, marked by a report from Merlin and the switching on or off of the lights, Blair grew more anxious and began to doubt that they would ever be released. Surely he had better things to do with his time than die in a miserable cell in the company of Todd Marshall. Even now, as Maniac launched into another of his tales, which somehow involved two people in the cramped confines of a Rapier cockpit, Blair rocked slowly on his cot and thought of his youth, of how much he had not seen, and of how his last image might be a sheet of scored gray steel.

  And the questions, so many questions, continued to elude him. Where was Paladin? Why hadn't he come to visit? Why hadn't anyone come to see them? Why did Paladin bring him here in the first place? Where was the ship now? What was happening back on the Claw? What about Angel?

  And the note. Had she received the note? The Diligent's comm computer had reported a successful transmission. He wondered what she thought of it. He shouldn't have written the "L" word. He had probably frightened her. What a spectacularly foolish thing he had done. Well, it could have been worse. He could have listened to Merlin; then again, he would have someone else to blame if he lost her.

  Why was he so afraid of losing her? What about her intrigued him so much? Her raw beauty and strong will had initially attracted him, but what now kept him rapt? Was it her pain? The emptiness he had already tried to fill? Did he want to save her from self-destruction? Or did he want to show her that chivalry still existed despite the years and distances? He should be with her for the right reasons, but what were they? He couldn't just be her savior. She would close up, resent him, because needing him would make her c
onfront her own weaknesses, and while she could do that, the reminder would only bring her more pain.

  "… and you should have seen the look on my crew chief's face when the canopy opens and up pops Casey's head. I tell him that I caught her trespassing in my cockpit and that I'm turning her over to security immediately." Maniac chuckled over the memory, then his voice died off into the silence. "C'mon, Blair. You gotta admit that's funny."

  "Uh-huh."

  "What's the matter? Ain't you ever been locked up for a week aboard a supercruiser taken over by Pilgrims?" He snorted. "I

  know this sucks. It really sucks. I bet Taggart's up in the wardroom right now, eating like a king. Aristee's probably won him over already."

  "No way. He's up there convincing her to stand down," Blair countered, wishing his words were fact.

  "I ain't saying he's a traitor. She could've easily drugged him. He's Intell and privy to a lot of data that she'd love to have. Know what? I'm convinced she's done that. Otherwise, he would have already come down to see us. He's either drugged or suddenly doesn't care. Or maybe / am saying he's a traitor."

  "Paladin's no turncoat. He's more loyal to the Confederation than you."

  "Then I hope his loyalty buys us a ticket out of this hole." A solid and familiar thump sounded from the wall that adjoined their cells. As he did at least once every day, Maniac had beat his fist on the steel. "Hey, guards?"

  Someone approached, but the footsteps sounded a bit lighter than those of the guards, whose passage Blair had come to know well. He sprang from the bunk and gripped the bars of his cell, imagining for the nth time that he had the strength to bend durasteel. He jammed his head against the bars and squinted through the shadows vesturing the passage.

  A figure came forward, his white robe extending to his shins and fluttering behind him with an almost underwater slowness. His face grew distinct, and Blair gasped. "Sir."