by Peter Telep
Tearing himself free of Makorshk's bold stare, Vukar regarded the forward viewport, where the spectacle would play out before his eyes.
Missiles took form in the distance, etching their familiar and foreboding tracks across the void. Two of his Fralthi-class cruisers soared overhead and descended to provide a moderate shield for the superdreadnought's bow, while a third cruiser hugged the ship's belly and would interdict any missile fire to that region. His single Ralari-class destroyer would shift well ahead of the battle group and unleash torpedoes in salvos of eight. Turreted lasers would attempt to pick off the incoming cap ship missiles, as would the destroyer's pair of antimatter guns. The battle group's two Sivar-class dreadnoughts now lumbered into flanking positions. At over eight hundred meters and equipped with twelve torpedo tubes each, the dreadnoughts alone could take on the apes and emerge victorious. Never mind the dreadnoughts' fighter complements of over one hundred and fifty, and the tremendous meson shields that protected their streamlined, rectangular hulls. The torpedoes would be enough to gnaw away the strike carrier's shields and reduce her to a tumbling collection of gas-and-spark-laden rubbish. But as Vukar had reminded Makorshk, they should not waste time engaging. They would move as quickly as they could to the jump point.
As the dreadnoughts added their own antimatter fire to the growing defense wall, eight cone-shaped drones transmitting false electromagnetic signatures spiraled away from the Shak'Ar'Roc in an attempt to bait any missiles that might penetrate the escort defense. Vukar tracked the path of one such drone until it vanished behind a scintillating bulwark of laser fire that originated from one of his cruisers.
At the moment, the battle resembled a strange race, rounds competing with each other as they blasted away from his ships and arrowed into the distance. With all of his senses, Vukar reached out into that distance, trying as his forefathers had to get a sense, a feel, for his enemy, but the vacuum barred him from satisfying that impulse.
"Kalralahr, two squadrons of fighters inbound," said Radar Officer Syl'rkai.
Vukar lowered his snout in expectation of the attack. "We'll let the dreadnoughts handle them."
"Shall I relay the order to launch fighters?" Comm Officer Ta'kar'ki asked.
"No."
"Kalralahr, some of those fighters will penetrate point-defense systems," Makorshk said, leaving his station and pounding his way toward Vukar. "We must launch a counter-assault."
"Return to your station," Vukar growled. "Ask Sivar for forgiveness and for a swift death."
Makorshk held his unflinching gaze for a moment, then spun and trudged back. Vukar could have easily summoned a replacement tactical officer, but despite everything Makorshk had done, the second fang had more experience than any of his other tactical officers. Now, in time of combat, he wanted Makorshk at his station. After the jump, dueling blades would settle their differences.
Like szcaltal flies that swarmed the skies during summer nights on Kilrah, the Confederation fighters skimmed and flitted and spun through the glistening tangles of fire, emerging unscathed and bound for the cruisers and dreadnoughts.
"Detecting Confederation Broadsword bombers now, my Kalralahr," came the still-ominous voice of Radar Officer Syl'rkai. "Two pairs with fighter escorts. They'll reach the dreadnoughts in three-point-two-zero minutes."
"Jump calculations nearly finished," Makorshk said, reading his screen.
"Drive crews report systems nominal," the comm officer relayed. "Escorts have established jump line and order."
"Can we jump before those bombers reach the dreadnoughts?" Vukar asked Makorshk.
"We can increase thrust, overshoot them, and alter the jump line. The bombers will engage them as they attempt to jump. Or we can launch fighters to engage those bombers. Kalralahr, we may lose some of those fighters, but if we do not engage, we could lose the dreadnoughts. I believe we should have those dreadnoughts launch fighters and continue to maintain our position in the rear."
Vukar spared himself further consideration. He would cut his loses at the fighters and not sacrifice even one of his capital ships. He regarded Comm Officer Ta'kar'ki and said, "Contact our dreadnoughts. Give the order to launch counter-assault squadrons. Force should be equal in number."
Though he could easily fight off the pain of ordering loyal warriors to their certain deaths, Vukar welcomed the dark feeling as an immediate tribute to those brave souls who would die or be left behind. While in recent times the Kilrathi rarely took prisoners, the Terrans would attempt to bring in some of his pilots. Vukar trusted that they would not allow themselves to be shamed in that way.
It took no more than a few seconds for the first wave of Dralthi fighters to streak away from the dreadnoughts and festoon the heavens with the blue gleam of afterburners. Vukar suddenly held himself erect and mentally offered his pilots Sivar's blessing.
He could do no more.
"That battle group will reach the jump point in less than a minute," Angel cried, her cockpit instruments blinking and beeping in a rhythm as rapid as her pulse. "Bishop? Hunter? Maintain course. Draw that antimatter fire away from your bombers. Gangsta? Cheddarboy? Break off and target those guns on the portside dreadnought."
The terse replies came and went. Angel held fast to her own course, running escort for the pair of Broadswords targeting the dreadnought at her nine o'clock.
Sinatra flew at her wing, limiting his conversation to cool, curt reporting. "Bombers will be in range in nineteen seconds," he said, his chestnut brown eyes unblinking on Angel's display.
She looked away and confirmed his report on her own tactical screen. Incoming antimatter fire already wreaked havoc with her sensors, and the occasional glancing round struck the canopy shield and neutron gun with appreciable thunder. A ring of blips abruptly crawled onto her radar scope, and while she had seen the fighters launch, she had hoped they would get the Broadswords within bombing range before the Dralthis could engage. "Tick off the bombing range," she told Sinatra. "We break on one, they bomb on one. Are we ready?"
The bomber pilots, who had been monitoring the channel, uttered their assurances. Sinatra added his response then droned off the seconds with a remarkable stoicism as they plunged toward the expanse of Kilrathi plastisteel gathered into the toothy form of a dreadnought.
A vortex of fire erupted around Angel's canopy, and shield warnings darted and winked across her VDU. The Rapier could sustain three, possibly four more seconds of this intense bombardment before the shields surrendered and the incoming struck her fore armor. She would last another few seconds, perhaps even long enough for her to shift beam and run headlong into the cap ship's bridge.
Sinatra mumbled the last three seconds of the countdown and-
At once the bombers fell away and Angel lit burners. She jerked the stick sharply to starboard in a turn that made her stomach question her sanity but took her out of the incoming fire. Two Dralthis descended across her cone, and she slapped the HUD viewer over her eye.
"Torpedoes away!" announced one of the bomber pilots. "They've got a lock. Arming now."
"Got off the quad myself," the other bomber pilot said. "But I'm down to forty-five percent thrust. Port engine is offlining now. If I don't get some support in-"
A dim explosion met the corner of Angel's eye. She checked her radar scope. The Broadsword had vanished. Her heart sank, but as she always did during combat, she told herself that she had to stay with it, stay in it. She had already sighted one of the Dralthi, and the smart targeting reticle winked green and waved her on. White-knuckling her stick, she tracked the Dralthi and cut free her first salvo of neutron fire. Rounds struck sledge-hammering blows to the cat's shields as he rolled and broke.
Groaning against the Gs, Angel stayed with the Dralthi, deciding to take out her rage for the Broadsword's loss on this individual. He dove. She dove. He banked hard to port. She banked hard to port and fastened herself even tighter to the cat's shadow. He leveled off. She got missile lock. Took the shot. Tore off th
e bastard's port wing. Flew through the phantom of his ship. Looked back at the yawning mouth of debris. The cat's cockpit remained intact. Her VDU crackled with an image of the Kilrathi pilot, all coppery helmet and feline eyes. "This for the braiV With that rushed preamble, the Kilrathi got down to the business of killing itself. The cockpit burst into a thousand tiny fragments spanned by writhing but quickly-extinguished flames.
After wheeling around to face the incoming capital ships, Angel noted with grim fascination that the Broadswords' torpedoes had already impaled the dreadnought, detonated, and had quartered her unevenly, with the largest section belonging to the bow. As she had witnessed many times before, nutrient gas vented into space, along with thousands of other objects not pinned down when the bombs had struck. Kilrathi themselves spun head over heels through the devastation, serving as obscene flotsam and visceral reminders that this wasn't just about destroying ships and gaining tactical advantages on star maps; it was about killing. Killing. And killing some more.
While they had managed to take out one of the dreadnoughts, the cruisers, destroyer, and other dreadnought reached the jump point. Scoured by unremitting cap ship fire, they crunched out of existence amid ringlets of blue-white photons and neutrinos. The superdreadnought followed tightly on her escort's heels, her can-nons recoiling and belting out fire to the last second. She dropped into gravity well, blurred and shrank for a moment, then threw up the blinding sheet of her exit.
Without ceremony or accompanying flourish, the battle simply ended with the jump and the successive self-destruction of the twenty or so Dralthi fighters left behind. Angel squinted as a Kil-rathi at her two o'clock shook paws with Sivar.
"One cap ship for seven," Bishop grunted. "We suck."
"No, we're alive," Angel corrected. "Sucks for you, maybe." She checked her scope. With a sigh she noted that every member of the squadron had survived. "Regroup, ladies. Bishop's buying."
Angel switched off the comm and flipped back her HUD viewer. She figured that Gerald was already relaying their encounter with the Kilrathi battle group. Problem was, the task force Tolwyn had assigned to find the Kilrathi could not cut them off in time. That gravity well could take the Kilrathi to Enyo, to McAuliffe, or even out as far as Vega. Unless Tolwyn already had ships waiting in those systems, the cats would move through them, facing, perhaps, minimal resistance since the admiral had significantly tied up the fleet by establishing no-fly zones around the Pilgrim systems and enclaves.
Her VDU switched from a damage report to display an image of Gerald seated at an ob station. "Exceptional work, Commander. And now for the bad news. Two unarmed commercial transports from Nabco-Mills violated the zone during the attack. They made it past the Mitchell Hammock and into Netheryana's atmosphere."
"They made it past the Hammock?"
"I should have held back more patrols. In any event, the transport skippers refuse to turn back, and the strike base commanders on planet won't order their pilots to fire unless I take full responsibility."
"So take it."
"I have. Those transports are loaded with nothing more than foodstuffs, and each carry a crew of ten."
"Sir, why are you talking to me? You know the course."
"Yes, I do. And I shouldn't need reassurance, but I do. Thank you, Commander. And God forgive me. Captain out."
Unwelcome chills bridged Angel's shoulders as she imagined the two transports exploding into fiery bands across Neter-yana's sky. The destruction would linger for hours and serve as a grim testimony to the inhabitants of Triune.
This can't go on. Even if Aristee doesn't stand down by Tol-wyn's deadline, he can't possibly order the deaths of so many Pilgrims. Doing that will earn him a place in history next to Khan, Hitler, and Tralchar. It's enviable that he doesn't bargain with terrorists, but several billion innocent Pilgrims probably wish he would. If there's a way out of this, it lies with Paladin and Blair.
Damn it. Another day would pass and mark another failure. She played a game with herself now. She tried to go an entire day without thinking once of Christopher Blair. Ten days had passed since she had read his message. Ten failures. You're weak. You're nothing. You're open, vulnerable, and you'll get hurt more than you ever have before. Besides, he's probably dead already.
No, he's not. Paladin would not let that happen. The commodore needs him for something.
Okay, so maybe he is alive. Maybe he'll come back. Why does he care about you? The only thing not falling apart is your career.
He doesn't care about you. And you're burning those candles for nothing. There's no light.
Oh, God. She unbuckled her oxygen mask and touched her cheek, just to feel him again …
Just to feel…
15
VEGA SECTOR.ROBERT'S QUADRANT.15 HOURS FROM ALOYSIUS SYSTEM.KILRATHI BORDER.CS OLYMPUS.2654.112 (2 MINUS 46 DAYS TOLUYM CLOCK)
0730 HOURS CONFEDERATION STANDARD TIME
Sprawled out on his cot, head pillowed in his hands, Christopher Blair closed his eyes and transported himself back to Angel's quarters. His pulse quickened as he relived that precious time he had spent with her before coming aboard the Olympus. He could see her clearly, remember the fragrance of her hair and the way she breathed his name, but every time he reached out to touch her, he couldn't remember the texture of her skin, as though someone had stolen that sense. Why can't I remember!
I'm sorry, Brotur, came a voice in his head. It's my fault. I'm just jealous, I guess.
An unseen hand stroked Blair's cheek. He sat up, shivering, fingers pressed to his cheek as though he could touch the someone who had touched him. "You said you would come," he whispered aloud. "It's been over two weeks." His shoulders slumped. He stared at the gray wool blanket covering his mattress.
I've been busy. Besides, you haven't been ready to receive me.
What does that mean?
It means what it means.
He ignored the impulse to roll his eyes. Do you know any-
thing about Commodore Taggart? Do you know what's going on up there?
Her reply did not come, and it dawned on Blair that maybe her voice, her touch, the glimpses he had caught of her were all products of stress or some virus he had contracted. His illness targeted his senses, caused him to hallucinate. She existed only in his head, and somehow Johan McDaniel had wormed his way into Blair's thoughts and learned of Blair's contact with her. Or maybe she had been created by McDaniel for some reason.
"I'll tell you who I am. I'll tell you all about me-if you'll let me."
The voice sounded different now, much more distinct, like the soft notes of a piano. He looked up from the blanket-
And locked gazes with a woman about his age whose large, azure eyes seemed, for a moment, to be the only source of light. A dozen shades of gold laced through long hair that spilled over her shoulders and partially veiled her small but firm breasts. Her Pilgrim robe fit her very well, or did she just seem more comfortable wearing it? She smiled tightly, her face bearing angles so delicate and precise that were it not for the blemish near her nose, Blair would have sworn she was an automaton. Unlike Amity Aristee, whose beauty seemed derived from the shadows and unseen energies of the night, this woman maintained an aura by remaining close to suns, to people who offered their own light. She would be perfectly at home on a sailboat, the wind fluttering through her hair, the sun baking her a deep, reflective brown. The mere act of recognizing her stunning beauty struck guilt in Blair. His heart belonged to Angel, but this woman's presence left him warm and trembling.
"I'm Karista Mullens," she said.
Though Blair now saw the woman and had heard her voice, he still had difficulty believing that she actually existed, even as she keyed open the cell door and moved slowly inside. The door thumped shut, giving way to Maniac's incessant snoring. Blair's wingman was probably dreaming up more ridiculous plans of escape. His feigned illness had inspired the guards to new heights of harassment.
Blair rubbed the sleep grit from h
is eyes, then climbed off the cot. He pulled his robe closer to his neck and held his grip as Karista took a seat on his bed. She surveyed the utilitarian splendor of his cell, and Blair thought he detected a trace of melancholy in her expression. He didn't know what to say, where to begin. "Why do you keep contacting me? Why are you here?"
She patted the mattress, gesturing that he take a seat beside her.
He shook his head. "Were you a Confederation officer?"
"No. I was a chanter and dancer in the protur's personal troupe. Now I perform for liberty, for a chance to regain what was ours."
Blair returned a weak sneer. "To be honest, ma'am, that speech is getting old."
"Have you forgotten Peron?"
"No, but I don't obsess on it, either. I'm not going to blame the Confederation or the Pilgrims for the death of my parents. It just happened. And I've had to deal with it all of my life."
"Have you ever seen holos of the atrocities committed by the Confederation?" She withdrew a small holoplayer from one of her robe's two deep pockets.
He waved her off. "You can save the show. And forget about any of your other techniques, like your, what do you call them, con-crit sessions? And your songs? Forget about them, too. I understand that Pilgrims were killed. I understand that during wartime atrocities are committed-by both sides. What I don't understand is what Aristee and the rest of you hope to gain. You're on a suicide mission, and the only message you'll send to your people is that if you defy the Confederation, you will be pounced and forgotten. She has one ship, and maybe the hopper drive is a powerful device, but she'll never get near Earth with it-not if the Confederation Navy still exists." He softened his expression. "You seem like an intelligent woman. What are you doing here?"
"Sometimes I ask myself that. Sometimes I have an answer. When I hear you talk, I remember my doubts." Her gaze lowered to her lap, and she returned the holoplayer to her pocket.
"What do want?"
She took in a deep breath and faced him, her expression growing more earnest. "The scripts of our lives are often naturally paired in the continuum. Some of us are lucky enough to recognize the pairing or have it pointed out to us by others. When you and I were just children, Frotur McDaniel discovered that your script and mine were a dyad. When I was old enough, he told me about it, but I didn't know what to do with that information. To be honest, I didn't really care. It's not an arranged marriage or anything."
