Pilgrim stars (wing commander)

by Peter Telep

  "Maybe I do," Maniac answered. "Maybe when Aristee knows the cats are going to take possession, she'll blow it up. We die, yeah. But the Confederation wins."

  Blair stifled a laugh. "You're so full of shit, Maniac. You love yourself too much. You want to win and live."

  "I'm not going back to that cell. I'm not going to sit around while this ass-kisser undermines the Confederation and everything we believe in. Mr. Taggart? You have five seconds to break off."

  "You do this, and maybe I'll come in behind you and wax your ass," Blair said.

  Maniac gritted his teeth and snorted. "You've got the aim but not the balls. Hey, Taggart? You're out of time."

  As Maniac throttled up and brought the burners on line, his skin crawled as he thought about being burned alive.

  "Todd! Don't do it!" Blair unbuckled his oxygen mask and vigorously shook his head.

  Disregarding the display, Maniac forged on, two guided missiles ready to drop away from his wings and alter the Olympus's destiny. He eyed the supercruiser's aftmost antimatter cannon. The second he saw it flash, he would thumb off the missiles.

  "Listen to me, Todd. We might just die anyway. All we can do is try to outrun the Kilrathi and tie up as many of their fighters as we can. Didn't you say that you'd rather be killed by the Kilrathi?"

  Clever trick, Blair. Twisting my words. I said I'd rather get killed by the cats than by our own people, but when I said our own people, I wasn't talking about Pilgrims. They might as well be the Kilrathi.

  "Lieutenant Marshall, I'm locked on to your fighter, as is the cannon above me," the commodore said. "Even if you get off your missiles before we smoke you, we'll still have time to take them out. Young man, I want you to take a deep breath and think."

  "That's all I've been doing. Now I'm going to take a deep breath and act."

  Like a pair of yellow eyes fringed in blue, the Olympus's massive ion engines swelled into view, with the shimmering dot of the commodore's Rapier swerving like a pendulum between them.

  "I am right on your six," Blair suddenly said. "Locked on to your stubborn butt. Let's call this and fight the real enemy."

  "Like I thought," Maniac muttered. "I'm alone."

  The antimatter cannon flashed.

  Maniac flicked his thumb twice on the secondary weapons trigger while using his free hand to flick aside the safety and punch the ejection button. Half-muffled explosions ringed the cockpit, and Maniac felt his shoulders slam toward his chest as the pod's thrusters swept him up and away from the Rapier-

  Just a few breaths before a gleaming net of antimatter fire devoured the stubby-winged fighter.

  To the stern, a phosphorescent thorn of debris nearly caught Blair's Rapier before he banked to dodge it.

  Maniac fixed his gaze on the antimatter cannon as it swiveled to track him. A pair of flashes to his four o'clock revealed that the commodore had, in fact, intercepted the guided missiles.

  "I'm wheeling around to get you," Blair said. "I'll tow you back in."

  But the commodore apparently had something else in mind. "Stay where you are, Mr. Blair."

  As Maniac stared down the barrels of the antimatter cannon and pried as much thrust as he could out of the pod's meager engines, putting more distance between himself and that cannon, he decided what he would do if another flash came. He armed the self-destruct system, routing control to his stick. One tap on the primary weapons trigger would end his life-and at least he would be the one to do that, a pilot to the end, not wasted by traitors, his death the ultimate act of defiance. He jerked away the HUD viewer, unbuckled his mask. The VDU remained dark. Instruments ticked, beeped, and hummed, and the pod's thrusters issued their rhythmic bursts. It took but another second for the moment to unravel the remnants of his nerves. "C'mon? What are you waiting for? Fire!"

  "Brotur Syllian?" Paladin called, using the general frequency for Maniac's benefit. "Is your cannon locked on to the pod?"

  "It is, Brotur. Awaiting your order."

  "Release lock. New target: incoming cruiser. Compute firing solution now," Paladin said tersely. "Mr. Blair? Take Lieutenant Marshall to the Olympus. Reload and refuel, then get back in the fight."

  "Aye-aye, sir."

  "Hey, Blair," Maniac called, having switched to the private channel. "Now that they've let down their guard, you can make your own run."

  "Are you drunk, dense, or deaf? The plan won't work."

  "I've revised the plan. It's now about getting Aristee to destroy the ship."

  "I know the commodore's working on a better way out of this. I just know it."

  Maniac fell back hard against his seat as Blair's retrieval beam clutched the pod, shifted it behind Blair's fighter, then began towing it toward the aft flight deck's launch and landing tunnel. "Blair, when are you going to realize that we can't trust Taggart anymore?"

  "Don't write him off yet. Just give him more time."

  "We've been there. How much more? A year? Two? A lifetime? This 'more time' bullshit is just that."

  "Well, this is interesting. The commodore just told me that they have another Rapier for you. It's an old F44-A but still functional. He wants you in it and out here ASAP."

  "Proves my point what an idiot he is. Now he's going to put me back in another Rapier? Hell, I'll just make another run at the engines."

  "You're going to be a little too busy for that. Check your scope. Here they come now."

  A dense band of blips crept up from the bottom of Maniac's radar display. The commodore had said that nearly two hundred Kilrathi fighters were inbound, but the words hadn't seemed real.

  Now the radar image provided one hell of a reality check.

  "I'm sorry, Sostur, but there is no way you can make us do this. We've already seen what it's done to Brotur Zimbaka and the rest. We won't help under any circumstances."

  Aristee stepped farther into Karista Mullens's meager quarters. Dozens of oil paintings of scantily-clad Pilgrim dancers leaned against the bulkheads, along with a sundry of homemade musical instruments, including the Pilgrim soultom and soultar, variations on the ancient drum and guitar. Aristee nearly tripped over a stack of smaller, unframed artwork piled beside a standard issue desk chair. "I won't explain it again. I won't ask you again. You say you and the others won't help under any circumstances? Then I'll gather you up, take you to an airlock, and jettison you one by one. No, strike that. That's too clumsy and slow. I'll take you down to the flight deck and have you stroll through an energy curtain. That's quicker, and we'll have a little audience."

  Mullens, her back pressed against a hatch leading into the latrine, seemed to expect such a threat and gave a microscopic nod. "We're prepared to die."

  "Maybe you are because you've met your pair and he's not, well, he's not all that you've dreamed of. But the others? I don't think they're ready to die-especially the younger ones-and none of you are ready to watch your broturs and sosturs lose their lives."

  "You won't kill us. You need us."

  "But if you won't help me, then you're worthless. Most of you lack military training. Not one of you is a pilot-except Blair- and he's out there. You consume resources and return nothing save for your artistic diversions. We can live without them."

  "But you won't live. None of us will. Maybe that is Ivar Chu's will. Maybe we shouldn't fight it."

  "It's not his will that we die," Aristee said, nearly tasting the bitterness and futility of the notion. "If you want to know his will, then speak with the protur."

  "We don't recognize that man as the protur." Aristee held back her snicker; no sense in wasting any more emotion on the woman. "We're finished here. You and the others will be taken to the flight deck." She went for the exit, then halted under a thought. "You've assumed a position of leadership among them. It's not easy to watch your people die. I'll be sure to kill you last, so you'll understand exactly what I mean."

  20

  VEGA SECTOR,ROBERT'S QUADRANT,PERIMETER ALOYSIUS SYSTEM,CS OLYMPUS.

  2
654.114,0122 HOURS CONFEDERATION STANDARD TIME

  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 f
ew 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.