by Peter Telep
Angel rammed her throttle forward and streaked away, gone through the energy curtain in a pair of blinks.
"Reserve patrol? You're up," Flight Boss Raznick said from Blair's VDU. The boss's shaven head glimmered like an egg under a spotlight. "Zarya, Maniac, and-you figure out a call sign yet, Blair?"
"Pilgrim."
"You're kidding."
"No, sir."
Raznick snorted. "Can't say I like it better than Maverick, but it's your choice, young man."
For the past couple of days, Blair had been contemplating a new call sign. "Maverick" had suited him well during academy training, an ironic moniker since Blair had established a reputation of flying by the book. But he felt he had outgrown the name, and since he had lost his Pilgrim cross-an obvious means of identifying himself as a Pilgrim-he figured the call sign would serve as the next best thing. He didn't want to ram his heritage down his comrades' throats, but he felt strongly about people knowing who he was. And if they had a problem with that, so be it.
Zarya took her cue from the deck boss and launched. Maniac's Rapier glided in ahead of Blair's, pivoted ninety degrees, and aimed for the energy field. Surprisingly, he took off sans his usual over-thrusting flourish and verbal high jinks.
Blair slid over the Heads Up Display viewer attached to his helmet. The viewer covered his right eye and supplied a series of data bar readouts of each of the Rapier's major systems. During combat, the targeting system would seize control of the viewer, and smart targeting reticles would replace the clutter of data. At the moment, all systems were nominal. Pressure gauges stood in the green. The nav system had already been preprogrammed with coordinates uploaded directly from flight control.
Wearing his patented sinister stare, Deck Boss Peterson flashed Blair the signal for launch. Blair hesitated just enough to widen the boss's eyes, then slapped the throttle and burst forward.
Acceleration struck like a wrestler's beefy forearm. The tall columns on either side of the deck flashed by, along with the dozens of Rapiers and Broadswords moored beneath a latticework of connecting beams. The energy draped over his canopy and suddenly sloughed off to expose the exterior runway walled in by the two great halves of the cylinder that made up the Claw's fuselage. Blair waited a few seconds more for his velocity to increase before pulling up toward a sheet of darkness. Chatter clogged the squadron's general frequency as the point and second patrols gave assessments of the planet.
Mylon Three finally scrolled into view, its sun partially eclipsed and burning with a significant glare in the distance. The polarization unit kicked in, tinting the canopy so that Blair now had a clear view of the bluish green world and the black clouds blanketing nearly all of its northern hemisphere. Specks of reflected light flashed like unwelcome fireworks, some in the upper atmosphere, some in low and high orbit.
"This place is dead," Maniac said, not bothering to temper his astonishment.
"It's like a holo," Zarya added. "And hey, there go the Marines. They won't find much. Looks like MyGov has been leveled."
"Advance to escort coordinates," Blair ordered, taking his Rapier between their fighters. Nearly in unison, they banked right and followed a vector that took them lateral of the Claw. The nav computer beeped, and the circular radar screen showed a flashing white cross, indicating they had reached their assigned position: waiting on the bench, as Maniac understood it. They lined up and throttled down. Blair had trouble removing his gaze from the planet, had trouble removing his thoughts from the millions who had died under an onslaught of planetary torpedoes. No doubt about it. The Kilrathi had to be responsible. They had somehow captured a supercruiser and intended to incite a civil war with it.
"I'm running a short-range scan, and I'm already picking up a lot of debris. I'm talking a lot of debris," Zarya said.
Blair switched to Angel. "Reserve leader to second patrol, copy?"
Her face lit his display. "Copy, Lieutenant."
"We're at station. No sign of hostile contacts, roger."
"None on this end either. Picking up wreckage from, I don't know, could be hundreds of ships, mostly private and commercial transports. No military craft IDed yet."
"They were probably trying to get offworld." Blair snorted in disbelief. "Bastards just shot them down."
"I've seen holos of the Peron Massacre, but that pales in comparison to this," Angel remarked. "We're looking at the total annihilation of a Confederation world. This place won't be habitable for a century, and that's with terraformers rebuilding around the clock."
"I don't get it. Why Mylon Three? It's along the Kilrathi border, but there aren't any jump points from here into their space. And from what I've read, it is-or was-your basic agricultural world. I don't understand what they're gaining from this, besides sending a message."
"Maybe that's all they wanted to do. And Mylon was simply a target of opportunity since at the time of the attack, no Confed cap ships were in the immediate vicinity."
"Angel?" Gangsta called. "Found a small shuttle, civilian registry. Or at least what's left of it. Life support still functioning. Got two live ones inside."
2
VEGA SECTOR.DOWNING QUADRANT.CS TIGER CLAW.HIGH ORBIT NYLON THREE.
2654.079.1500 HOURS CONFEDERATION STANDARD TIME
Second patrol moved in on the civilian shuttle, and Angel and Gangsta activated retrieval tractors to tow the ship back to the Tiger Claw. They tried to contact the survivors inside, but shipboard communications had been destroyed. One survivor, a frazzled teenage girl, waved to them from a porthole. First patrol continued probing the wreckage, and Blair listened in as they encountered another tattered vessel with more survivors on board.
About an hour into the operation, Angel declared the area secured, and for the next four hours Blair sat in his cockpit and watched as more patrols launched, scoured the wreckage, and discovered still more survivors. Deveraux continued to hold Blair's patrol on reserve, despite his best arguments. True, a hostile vessel could return to thwart their rescue efforts, but Blair considered that more unlikely as the hours passed.
"Man, how much longer are we going to sit on our asses?" Maniac had unclipped his mask, and his expression hung so low that it promised to fall off.
Blair shook his head at the VDU. "We're sitting tight until we're ordered or forced back."
"Well, we ain't draining systems in this hover. Oxygen's rated for seven hours, but I'm good for another five, dammit. If the order doesn't come in, I say we lie about our status. I didn't get to finish my lunch, and we're already heading into supper."
"You hearing this, Zarya?" Blair asked. "Pay attention to the way Lieutenant Marshall operates."
"Hey, I just ain't for wasting us out here. The whole wing is involved in this effort, and there's only one other reserve patrol. They haven't been out here as long as us."
"Sometimes it ain't all guts and glory," Blair said. "And sometimes it ain't fair. You know that."
"Lumberjack to, uh, Pilgrim, copy? That you, Blair?"
"Copy, Lumberjack. New call sign. What's up?"
"We're your relief. Be there in a ninety seconds."
"You don't know what a pleasure it is," Maniac said. "Hey, L.J.? When we get back, I owe you a tongue kiss."
Lumberjack, a burly twenty-six-year old man fond of wearing flannel during off-duty hours, grunted and said, "That tongue comes within a meter of me, and I'll tear it off and bloodpin it to your chest."
"You'll never see it coming. They never do." The big Lumberjack sniggered. "Get out of here, you idiot."
"Reserve patrol? Throttle up," Blair ordered, then engaged his own thrusters and wheeled back for the carrier, gratified to escape Mylon Three's oppressive gloom.
The second Blair penetrated the flight deck's energy curtain, a Dantean scene of chaos assaulted his gaze. Fighters and bombers had been shifted back, some doubled up in repair bays to accommodate the fifty or more scorched and shattered fuselages of commercial and civilian shuttles that lay in
ragged rows parallel to the runway. Civilians were being helped or carried out of the wrecks, with, it appeared, all twenty-five medics assigned to the Claw addressing wounds or rushing the incapacitated to sick bay. Two dazed civvies wandered dangerously close to the runway as Blair took his main thrusters offline and braked frantically with maneuvering jets. "Boss! Get 'em out of the way!"
Peterson sprinted across the runway, extended both arms, wrapped them around the civvies' necks, then dragged them back toward the shoulder. Blair cocked his head as his starboard wingtip drew within a meter of Peterson's back. A flash of light ahead made him realize that he came up too hard on Zarya's tail, her jets emitting bursts of thrust as she only now turned off the runway, aiming for her starboard berth. Blair leaned on the throttle, increasing reverse thrust.
"Give me another second, Pilgrim. I have like a meter clearance on each side."
She hadn't exaggerated. The fighters in their section of berths appeared freshly squeezed from concentrate. Her Rapier's port-side wing glanced off Maniac's neutron gun as she lowered the fighter onto its skids. Techs from both crews began hollering their protests as Maniac's canopy lifted back and the man himself stood, ripped off his helmet, and shouted, "People! Chill! Just a love tap. Check it out. No harm done."
Blair's crew chief, Rina Temples, guided him to his berth, a slot no bigger than Zarya's. Three Rapiers would now be moored where only one had stood.
"Don't worry, Lieutenant," Rina said over the channel, headgear and goggles protecting her from the wash, "we'll have this mess cleaned up soon. Once we get the civvies out, we'll plow away this junkyard."
"I hope so. Can you imagine if the entire wing had to scramble now?"
"Can't think about that," she groaned. "Okay. Five meters. Little more… little more… that's it."
He thumbed down on his high-hat control, and the Rapier descended. A trio of thuds from the landing skids triggered a mild sigh. Blair engaged the automatic powerdown system, then sent off the data from his flight recorder to the Shipboard Information Datanet so that it could be automatically assessed and delivered to Angel, who would debrief them in the pilots' ready room.
By the time he had his gear off and the canopy open, Rina had already rolled up a ladder and had vanished beneath the Rapier, probably inspecting a coolant conduit that had been giving her people some trouble. Maniac and Zarya waited for him, and Blair heard Maniac muttering something about a steel-beach picnic and a bottle of champagne he had been saving for a special occasion. Blair hit the flight deck, legs stiff and sore. Yes, Maniac and Zarya had waited, but now they failed to acknowledge him. Maniac was too busy looking surprised, while she eyed him with utter incredulity.
"How can you talk about our fun after what we've just seen?"
"What? Am I supposed to feel guilty or responsible for this? Hey, I'm real sorry about what happened to these people. But my life's too short to be depressed for them. This is a war. Remember?"
Zarya started to say something, puffed air, then strode away. Her helmet slipped from the crook of her arm and rolled across the deck. Maniac darted to retrieve it. She beat him to it with a snarl.
"C'mon. You know I didn't mean that. I'm just tired."
"And just an asshole." She shot him a potent scowl, a remarkable expression for a woman so attractive.
Maniac watched her go, then resignedly faced Blair. "Goddamned bitches, man."
"That's your problem right there. They're all objects to you, objects to be conquered. It's never about them. It's always about you."
"This from a guy who can't even get a woman who already likes him into bed."
"Who said I wanted to bed her?"
"Last time I looked you were a man."
"I want to say grow up. But then you'd be boring."
A grin slowly flickered across Maniac's lips. "I would."
They started for the hatch to flight control as more civvies continued to emerge from the shuttles. At the hatch, Blair paused a second to gaze across the hangar. "How many you think we saved?"
Maniac shrugged. "Couple hundred, maybe."
"Couple hundred from five or six mill. And you want to have a picnic?"
Captain Paul Gerald leaned on a gurney in sick bay, staring at the mother and daughter who had been aboard the shuttle brought in by Angel's patrol. The survivors had been floating for nearly three days, and once aboard they had showered, changed, devoured the sandwiches the medics had brought them, and had each downed nearly a half gallon of water. Gerald had been at their bedsides for nearly fifteen minutes now, attempting to subtly interrogate them. But a puzzling fact regarding the attack wore down his diplomacy, and he repeatedly directed them back to it.
"Are we done yet, Captain?" the mother asked. She had introduced herself as Iridessa Long, president of Mylon's largest hydroponics co-op, president of nothing now. Her combative demeanor reminded Gerald of his estranged ex-wife. The fact that she resembled Brenna made it all the more difficult for Gerald to control his temper.
"No, we are not done yet," he told her. "I need you to think hard about them. Are you absolutely certain they were Confederation Naval officers?"
She rolled her eyes. "Let's see now. I've told you that, what? Four times? I've heard that military minds are dense, but I assumed that was just a stereotype. I guess you'll be wanting me to draw you a picture now, eh? I can't believe that my hard-earned tax money pays for people like you."
"Ma'am, we're just trying to learn what happened."
"What happened is that some of your people launched an unprovoked attack and massacred civilians."
"Mom, please…" the daughter said from the next bed. Only fourteen, Janey Long seemed more upset with her mother's embarrassing behavior than with what had just happened to her homeworld. Gerald understood her reaction, at least a little. When he saw his daughter Sandy during R amp;Rs, the thirteen-year-old continually warned him not to humiliate her in front of her peers, which meant that Gerald could only smile when greeting them and dare not mouth a word of criticism. Yes, he knew that drill all too well.
"My daughter seems to think I'm being too harsh with you, Captain Gerald. She fails to remember how harsh the Confederation military has been with us!"
"Mom!"
Gerald raised a palm in truce. "I know this is rough, and I know that I've been asking the same questions, but we have to know every detail. Is there anything else you can remember? Anything?"
Iridessa bit her lower lip and whispered a curse. "You got our story. All of it. Now why don't you go figure out why these people attacked, why they took some of us prisoner while murdering others, and where the hell they are?"
"I assure you, ma'am. We're already on that. Now the CS Scrimshaw will arrive shortly to ferry you and the other survivors to Ymir. I hate to say this, but you'll probably have to repeat your story to authorities there."
"And the news just keeps getting better." Iridessa exhaled loudly in disgust. "Tell you what. When we survivors get done suing you, the Confederation will be bankrupt. Count on that."
We have insurance, Gerald thought, though he wouldn't dare stoke her fire by uttering that. He nodded, spun, and hightailed out of there.
Angel waited for him by the hatch. "Captain. Just launched three patrols to continue the search, and I've finished debriefing my squadron. I know you've been busy here, so I thought I'd come and tell you myself."
"That report hardly warrants your presence." Gerald stepped past her and into the passageway."
"Permission to speak candidly, sir?"
"Go ahead."
"What's going on? Are we on a need-to-know here?"
"Yes, we are."
"Raznick's people just broke up a riot on the flight deck. Some of those survivors attacked our medics. Why don't you put an end to the rumors before they get out of hand."
"I'm not at liberty to do that."
"The survivors are saying Confed troops attacked. They took prisoners. I don't understand."
"To
be frank, neither do I. But I'm sure we will." He nodded. "Commander." Quickening his pace, he hoped to evade any more of her questions.
"Captain?"
He gritted his teeth, paused, faced her. "Yes, Commander?"
"How many Pilgrims do you think are aboard that super-cruiser?"
"Pilgrims?" He shook his head and abandoned her scrutiny.
3
VEGA SECTOR.DOWNING QUADRANT.SNAKEIR CLASS SUPERDREADNOUGHT KIS SHAK AR'ROC.KMREK SYSTEM.
2654.079.1930 HOURS IMPERIAL STANDARD TIME
Admiral Vukar nar Caxki rose from his command chair as Flight Leader Norj'ach of Black Claw Squadron limped his way from the lift, his bad leg the result of an old challenge. His narrow escape from the supercruiser had actually taken little toll. His color held a perfect sallow, and his eyes radiated with the fire of Sivar. "Kalralahr. I submit myself for punishment."
Vukar gave a solemn nod as nutrient gas jetted from his flaring nostrils. "I have reviewed your flight record. But before I permit you the honor of zu'kara, tell me in your own words what you saw."
"I saw our ConCom explode, then two of our battle group's destroyers were pulled into a gravity well, along with Torshk and Gold Claw Squadron. I barely escaped the well. The rest of my squadron met their fates. They fought bravely. Every name must be added to the temples of our ancestors. Every name but mine."
"And from what I have gathered from your flight record, this well was created by an unmarked Confederation supercruiser. Is that correct?"
"It is, my Kalralahr."
"Impossible. The Terrans' jump-drive requires the presence of natural rifts in the space-time continuum."
Norj'ach's gaze lowered to the deck. "I tell you only what I saw."
Tactical officer Makorshk nar Caxki crossed the Shak'Ar'Roc's bridge to arrive at Vukar's side. "Kalralahr, if I may speak?"
Vukar regarded the subordinate with mild disdain. Makorshk had a reputation for voicing his opinion despite his meager rank of second fang. But on more than one occasion, Vukar had found useful truth in the young warrior's thoughts. If only Makorshk would come to him in private instead of forcing Vukar to favor him before the others. "Speak."
