Wing Commander: Pilgrim Stars

by Peter Telep

  "You Santyana?"

  "That's right."

  "Heard a lot about you. Test-piloted the first B model Rapiers. You were the leading war ace for, what was it? Two consecutive years?"

  "Three. But that was a while ago."

  "I read they gave you quite a send-off."

  "Yeah, they did. And I'm still retired."

  "So you think. And what the hell were you doing on a farm anyway? Good thing we saved you from playing with dirt. Now you can put your skills to work for the elect."

  "I don't plan on flying for anyone right now, whether they be divinely or militarily inspired."

  "And why is that?" Aristee asked, pulling her plum-black hair into a ponytail and fastening it with a small band. Like the deck boss, she wore a Pilgrim cross that hung between the gold buttons of her dark-blue uniform, and the juxtaposition—the contradiction—awed Santyana.

  "You invaded my home. Scared the hell out of my wife and daughter. We agreed to come with you. But that's it. If you think I'm going to fly for you people…"

  She furrowed her brow. "You people? You're one of us, William. Your parents were both compasses, your father a visionary with the ability to find systems suitable for Pilgrim expansion, your mother an explorer with the gift to navigate through unknown environments. You, I suspect, are an explorer— just like your mother. Your record shows an unexplained jump in Douglas Quadrant about seven years ago. You found your way through a previously undiscovered gravity well. Care to comment on that?"

  "No, I don't."

  "I also know you've done some research on theories of parallel tonality and other scientific explanations on Pilgrim abilities. That a hobby of yours?"

  "What do you care?"

  "Actually, I do care. A lot. You can't deny your blood." She took a step closer, eyes widening. "I chose Mylon Three for our first attack because there's only one jump point in the system, making for a slow Confed counterassault. And I chose it because it had once been a Pilgrim settlement before MyGov sold out to the Confederation. Pilgrim descendants lived there. But what first turned my attention to Mylon was you. Captains don't leave their ships during assaults. But I went down there especially for you. You're the best Pilgrim pilot I have."

  "I don't believe this. You kidnap me and my family, keep us locked up in officers quarters for days, then you drag me down here and expect me to just say, yeah, I'll fly for you? Lady, I think you've spent a little too much time communicating with the divine."

  "I've just made you squadron commander, One Hundred and Twenty-first Fighter Wing, Eighth Squadron," she said, unfazed by his jibe. "And FYI: we'll preserve the Confederation chain of command and wear Confederation uniforms to avoid confusion here and create some with our enemies. But that'll change after this assault. I suggest you suit up, review your mission log, and begin your preflight checklist." She winked at the deck boss. "Mr. Towers, will you escort Brotur William to his Rapier?"

  "Yes, ma'am." The boss seized Santyana's elbow.

  "You can't force me to fly," he said, grinning over the absurdity. "I'll just sit there. I won't touch the controls."

  "I want you to do this because your heart tells you it's right," she said. "The stars were meant for Pilgrims—not humans. They invaded our space, stole from us, murdered us. We're taking back what was once ours, and ours is a just cause."

  "Conscription has nothing to do with justice."

  "This isn't conscription. It's all part of the settling-in process. I don't expect you to suddenly swear your allegiance to us. That will take time and a deeper understanding of who you are."

  "So what makes you think I'll fly?"

  She reached up, about to stroke his cheek. He snatched her wrist. "Easy, William. You'll fly because the first time you refuse me, I'll kill your wife. And the second time, I'll torture your daughter. I won't kill the little one; she is, after all, part Pilgrim."

  He cursed her through gritted teeth.

  "There, now." She looked on him with transparent sympathy and spoke like a mother consoling a son with a scuffed knee. "I know it hurts. I know you hate me. That's okay. But don't doubt me. Six million souls will testify that I keep my word. And historians will record the same."

  "There's already a place for you in history. See: mass murderers."

  She smirked, then spun and headed for the staircase. "Good luck, William. I'm counting on you, as are Pris and Lacey. Don't let them down."

  He glowered. The names of his wife and daughter had no place on her lips.

  And behind all of her Pilgrim posing lay nothing but blackmail.

  "Come on," the deck boss said. "Let's get you suited up."

  Commodore Richard Bellegarde stared through the porthole as the troopship made its final approach toward the Concordia's aft flight deck. He would never tire of staring at the majestic super-cruiser and often found it difficult to believe that he had been assigned to her as naval operations adjunct. The largest battleship in the Confed's fleet, the Concordia was named the Confed flagship in 2654 and presently served as mobile command center for naval operations. If you closed your eyes and swept yourself back to Earth, circa World War II, you could easily place the Concordia among the old seagoing battleships of that day, her pointed bow suggesting that she could cut through salt water as easily as vacuum. And like her ancient predecessors, she had been fitted with a magnificent, cone-shaped superstructure that rose in three tiers to a bridge crowned by a complex sensor array. A quartet of immense antimatter guns sat at equidistant positions along her upper deck and attested to her staggering firepower. Presently, she traveled in the company of four supply ships, two Exeter-class destroyers, and a Bengal-class cruiser. Bellegarde noted how the destroyer Talmud had been replaced by the CS Carraway during his brief visit to Scotland.

  Yes, he had gone back to Glasgow, had visited the stomping ground of his forefathers, and had thought he could rekindle his connection to the place. He had argued with Admiral Tolwyn that he was a native of the Eddings system, that Earth was not his homeworld. He did not place as much emphasis on its survival as those who had been born there, those who still had families there, those who deemed the planet the sacred birthplace of humanity. Bellegarde had wanted to forget the place and consequently forget his past. Earth's destruction would hardly strike a blow. And he had finally confessed to Tolwyn why he wanted to forget. His forefathers had systematically wiped out an entire family and had assumed their identities. Brilliant criminals one and all, they had forged a future for themselves among the stars, a future founded on bloodshed. Bellegarde was not Richard's true surname. When, at sixteen, he had learned of his family's murderous rise to prestige from an uncle whose lips had loosened from alcohol, Richard had confronted his father, but the man would neither confirm nor deny the story. And he had never revealed the family's true name. Since then, Richard had searched the databases on over a dozen worlds but had come up empty. And back at Glasgow, he had done the same and once more had found nothing.

  But there had been something in the air of the old city, something that made him feel like he belonged as he stared across the tranquil waters of the Clyde River and imagined the ancient shipbuilding yards that had once thrived along its banks. He had felt a sense of why people fought so desperately to preserve the planet, that something natural, something innate, something one could never deny dwelled in both the land and the people. The link could never be broken. Tolwyn had said that he would discover a lot more in Glasgow that he had expected. While Bellegarde had not found complete reconciliation with his past, he had reached a plateau of understanding that might now put the war into perspective. It was no longer "Us versus Them" but a war to preserve the blooming of a flower, the flight of a dove, the smile of a small boy reeling in his first fish. It had nothing to do with politics and everything to do with a small place in the universe from which we could share our lives with others and never forget who we were, who we are.

  Bellegarde turned away from the porthole and leaned back in his
seat. He closed his eyes as the troopship fired maneuvering jets and swept into the flight deck. He thought of the vidcall to Trish, how he had broken off their three-year affair. Her tears had awakened a tearing sensation in his chest. She had to have known that having an affair with a married man, a Confederation officer no less, would be complicated and lead to either heartbreak or scandal. He had known the same, but Trish had given him all of those things that Melissa had either refused to give or had been incapable of giving. Trish had made him feel whole after twenty-one years of living with a woman who despised his career, who despised everything he believed in. Melissa had talked him out of wanting children, and now, at forty-six, it seemed too late. Though he often found himself feeling uncomfortable around children, he figured that she had taught him that feeling, and he would never forgive her for that. But he stayed married to her, more out of pity than anything else, and had numbed his sorrow with alcohol.

  He suppressed a sudden chill as he considered whether he had made a terrible mistake in saying good-bye to Trish. But the admiral had advised him to end the affair, and Bellegarde had complied, both because he had great respect for Tolwyn and because Tolwyn controlled his destiny. Bellegarde wanted a promotion to rear admiral and a fleet to command. Adulterers and sloppy drunks rarely ascended to that particular throne. Keep your nose clean and do what they tell you had been Bellegarde's motto for his entire Confederation career, though he only partially lived up to the ideal. Tolwyn had somehow learned of his failings and had at least given him the chance to redeem himself. Bellegarde had not passed up that opportunity, painful though it was. He opened his eyes as landing skids thudded to the deck.

  After the usual check-in and greetings from a few of the pilots who continually invited him to their nightly poker game, Bellegarde accessed the shipboard data net and learned that the admiral was in his quarters. He caught a lift and rode impatiently with two ordnance specialists who stood at attention and would not speak in his presence.

  In the corridor outside Tolwyn's hatch, Bellegarde touched the intercom and identified himself. The admiral's distracted greeting piped through the speaker. Bellegarde moved inside and found Tolwyn seated at his comm terminal in the narrow living room, staring at a large flat screen mounted on the bulkhead.

  The words accessing inter-ship communications channel glowed on the screen. Tolwyn whirled in his chair. "Good to have you back, Richard. Welcome to the Lafayette system. Have a seat."

  Bellegarde crossed to a leather sofa. "Good to be back, sir. I came as soon as I heard."

  "Yes, I hated cutting short your leave, but the situation has grown markedly worse."

  "I read the briefing you sent along. Where is she now?"

  "At Tartarus, launching an attack on Lethe. 1 sent the Tiger Claw , the Mitchell Hammock , and the Oregon to intercept. Paladin's already on board the Claw ."

  "Excellent. But couldn't we spare more ships?"

  "No. In fact we still haven't received word from the Chippewa and the Olympus's escorts. We're down seven capital ships in just three days. Recent intell indicates that the cats are mobilizing in the K'n'Rek system. Seems two of their destroyers and a ConCom were taken out by a Confederation supercruiser. The details are still sketchy, but it seems Aristee left Mylon and traveled through Kilrathi space."

  "That seems foolish."

  "Yes, it does." Tolwyn paused, and Bellegarde sensed he was holding something back.

  "Communications established," came a cool computer voice from the admiral's terminal.

  Tolwyn swung back to face the screen. "Excuse me for a moment."

  Space Marshal Sandra Gregarov appeared and gave a quick nod of acknowledgment. Her double-breasted uniform with ornate lapels, her curly blonde hair brushed with gray and deftly styled, and her probing hazel eyes afforded her a presence that radiated grace and command. And for as long as Bellegarde had known her, he had never witnessed a single word escape her lips that had not been carefully measured. A supreme diplomat, politician, and an enormously successful line captain during the Pilgrim war, Gregarov had been the joint chiefs' first pick for the

  Confederation Navy's highest ranking post. She had served in that position for two years now and had earned a large measure of respect for the freedom she gave and the trust she placed in her subordinates. She had even won the hearts of the Senate, a feat Admiral Tolwyn himself had yet to accomplish. Then again, Tolwyn wasn't in the business of making friends, and his impatience and short temper underscored that. Just as well. Bellegarde would hate to serve a man whose agenda leaned more heavily on pleasing senators than winning wars.

  "Ma'am, I assume you've read my latest report," Tolwyn began steadily.

  "I have. And frankly, Geoff, I'm worried. My staff has been swamped by Terran News people. Seems a shuttle of survivors from Mylon Three escaped the attack and jumped to Ymir before the Tiger Claw arrived on scene. They sought out the press and gave some unfavorable interviews. I've had to evade the accusations that Confederation forces wiped out Mylon."

  "But you didn't—"

  "Of course not. We can't afford a public witch hunt for Pilgrims. Not yet, anyway. The press believes we're still investigating the incident. But I can't feed that cock-and-bull story to the Senate. They demand and deserve answers. Bill Wilson's betrayal has already made their faith in us wane. I'll be jumping back to Earth within the hour."

  "Then you know what you have to do."

  She learned toward the camera, her gaze growing more intent. "Yes, I need to assure them that this mess will be cleaned up swiftly and decisively and that, as previously ordered, any technology valuable to the Confederation will be recovered. Can I do that?"

  "With certainty."

  "Thank you, Geoff. I'll keep you informed." She broke the link.

  "Well, there it is, Richard." As Tolwyn swiveled back, he drew in a deep breath and suddenly appeared much older than his sixty-two years. His watchphone beeped. "Yes?"

  "Admiral? Intelligence drone from K'n'Rek just came in," Radar Officer Abrams said. "Data is being uploaded to your terminal, sir."

  "Very well. Come have a look, Richard."

  Bellegarde rose and stood over Tolwyn's shoulder as the admiral accessed the report. Long-range reconnaissance video showed a thin, tube-shaped haze slowly dissipating in space. Data columns identified the object as the remains of a ship or ships. The officer who had made the report noted in his comments that the haze's composition included elements found in Kilrathi plastisteel and that he suspected that a gravity well had been responsible for the devastation, though no known well existed in the region. The report also indicated that two Kilrathi battle groups had jumped out of the system, their suspected destinations Ymir and Nephele. A third battle group had jumped, its course still unknown.

  Tolwyn bolted from his chair. "Mr. Bellegarde. Let's get to the bridge. We need to get the hell out of here ASAP. And we need ships in Ymir and Nephele even sooner."

  "Yes, sir." Bellegarde rose and followed Tolwyn to the hatch. "And sir? Regarding that report. How could a gravity well be responsible for destroying those Kilrathi ships? My physics tells me that wells don't suddenly appear and vanish."

  "You heard the space marshal, Richard. 'Recover any technology valuable to the Confederation.' Gravity wells do suddenly appear if they're being generated by a Pilgrim hopper drive, one that can be operated within planetary systems, one with an amazingly powerful range."

  "There's no such technology."

  Tolwyn reached for the hatch control panel, then froze. He stared gravely at Bellegarde. "Welcome to the new war, Richard."

  Chapter 5

  Vega Sector, Downing Quadrant Border

  CS Tiger Claw

  Enering Tartarus System

  2654.080

  0600 Hours Confederation Standard Time

  "Mr. Obutu? Stealth mode," Gerald ordered.

  "Stealth mode, aye-aye, sir." From his forward station, Obutu tapped a series of commands on his touchpad, and standar
d lighting dimmed to stain the bridge crimson.

  "Sir?" Radar Officer Falk called. "The Mitchell Hammock and Oregon arrived at oh-four-thirty and are in position behind Lethe's moon. They report no signs of planetary torpedoes."

  Gerald nodded. "Our ETA to Lethe?"

  "Seven point three-one minutes, full impulse."

  "Very well." He looked to Mr. Obutu. "Engage telescopic imaging."

  "Telescopic imaging, aye-aye, sir."

  Leaning over Obutu's shoulder, Gerald studied the image piping in from the Claw's laser-guided reflecting telescope. The scope might be able to detect coruscation generated by the super-cruiser, but as it was, only the spectacularly blue orb of Lethe dominated the readout. Eighty-five percent of the world lay beneath oceans, with just a cluster of three continents rising a few thousand meters above sea level. The planet's available land remained slightly larger than the continent of Australia, at about eight million square kilometers distributed mainly between the two larger land masses. Some nineteen million people jammed those continents, nineteen million souls who now weighed heavily on Gerald's shoulders. "Keep scanning, Mr. Obutu."

  "Aye-aye, sir."

  Gerald crossed back to his command chair, noting with curiosity that Paladin had left the bridge. Strange. Gerald accessed the comm terminal on his armrest and keyed in the code for the commodore's quarters.

  "Yes, Mr. Gerald?"

  "Thought you'd want to be up here for the attack."

  "I'll monitor from my quarters, thank you."

  "I see."

  "Don't worry, Captain. I haven't stopped loving you."

  Gerald jerked in his seat, eyeing the bridge to see if any of the fourteen officers in command and control had heard; if they had, they weren't letting on. "Well, uh, thanks for your assistance in the jump. Seven hours. That's outstanding."

  "Thank the Pilgrims. They charted that well in the first place."