Peter Telep - Pilgrim stars

"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."

"You'll understand if I don't do that just now."

Paladin did not respond.

And Gerald simply ended the link. "Mr. Obutu? Do you have a visual of the Olympus}"

"I believe so, sir. Waiting to positively identify and triangulate position. And… got her, sir. Looks like seven troopships breaking through the upper atmosphere, headed toward her. Squadron of Broadswords a quarter klick behind. Two squadrons of Rapiers running defense. Her ion engines coming on line. They know we've tagged her, sir."

Gerald stood and squinted through the viewport. In the distance, Lethe's medium star burned brilliantly, and to starboard, the planet hung like an ornament whose radiance wavered as the supercruiser shifted position. He whirled to his newly assigned helmsman, a hard-faced blonde named Veronica Schultz, a loner more interested in a promotion than in socializing. Gerald had approved of her the moment they had met. "Ms. Schultz? Maneuvering burst. Adjust course to intercept."

Schultz repeated the order and added a cool, "Aye-aye, sir." She tapped her touchpad, and the Claw suddenly leapt forward, maneuvering jets adding their thrust to the main engines. Though unconventional, the trick pried a little more velocity out of the old carrier, and Gerald felt a pang as he remembered the day the Claw's former captain, the late Jay Sansky, had taught him the technique. Sansky had been part brother, part father, and an excellent mentor-until he had decided to expose his Pilgrim ancestry and help Bill Wilson. The two had conspired with the Kilrathi to launch a devastating assault on Earth. While Sansky's participation had been ancillary, the Confederation did not recognize degrees of treachery. Any help to a traitor condemned one's career, reputation, and life. Sansky knew that, and he had chosen suicide to spare himself further disgrace. Less than a week had passed since the man's death, and Gerald still felt the brutal stab of his mentor's betrayal.

"Mr. Obutu? Shields up. Sound general quarters. Launch fighters."

"Aye-aye, sir. Shields up. Sound the general alarm. Launch fighters."

As klaxons reverberated, Gerald regarded Communications Officer James Zabrowsky, a slightly built redhead who sat at his starboard station before a bank of monitors. "Mr. Z? Open a channel to our destroyers."

Zabrowsky touched a key and squinted as he listened to the series of encryption beeps sounding in his headset. "Channel open."

"Fitzmorris? Shanney? Break from cover and attack!"

The two destroyer captains responded tersely.

"The Olympus is pulling out of orbit, sir," Obutu reported. "But she's crawling. Troopships have safely docked. Broadswords returning to base. Rapiers turning to engage."

"Sir?" Falk cried. "The Olympus's tube doors are opening. First salvo will be out in twenty seconds."

"Mr. Z? Get me Commander Deveraux."

"Aye, sir."

Gerald hustled to the starboard side observation station, and, taking the cue, Comm Officer Zabrowsky transferred Angel's signal there. The screen erupted in static, then she nodded. "Captain?"

"The Olympus has opened her tubes. I want you to get in tight and intercept that ordnance."

Blair tensed in his cockpit and focused on the glistening dot breaking away from Lethe, then his gaze lifted to the squadron. Angel and Hunter flew point a hundred meters ahead, with Gangsta and Cheddarboy positioned a hundred meters back at three o'clock and Bishop and Zarya holding steady at nine. Maniac and Blair formed the bottom of the iron-cross formation, and, once again, Maniac had complained over being held back. At least he was flying. Sinatra had come down with a case of post-jump vomiting that had left him too weak to fly, but rumor had it that he had spent too much time with his lips wrapped around a bottle of vodka.

"Standby, ladies. Let's light 'em and fight 'em!" Angel hollered.

Three pairs of afterburners lit in synch, and Blair watched the forward fighters rocket toward the supercruiser. He punched his burners, as did Maniac, and they thundered to join the others. His radar scope beeped as twenty or thirty crimson blips suddenly freckled the display. It seemed odd that the unit would identify Rapiers as hostiles, but the system had now been programmed to alert him of all vehicles not registered to the Claw.

"Tallyho," Maniac said. "Multiple bandits inbound."

"Ignore them," Angel snapped. "Second and Third Squadrons will engage enemy fighters."

"Enemy fighters?" Maniac asked. "They're Rapiers. You'd better tell me they're being flown by Kilrathi, Commander."

The briefing Angel had given them had been, in a word, clandestine. She would neither confirm nor deny the pilots' speculation that the Kilrathi or the Pilgrims had seized control of the supercruiser. And when Blair had pulled her aside to ask for her own opinion, she had cut him off.

"They're enemy fighters," she told Maniac. "Period. Got visual confirmation of starboard side tubes. Hunter? You got the first one. I'll take the second. Zarya and Bishop? You got third and fourth. The rest of you will remain defensive and keep those fighters off our backs."

Like any decent and correct furball, it all happened in a gasp and surge of adrenaline:

Ten enemy Rapiers flew head on, their neutron cannons spewing a fusillade that tore through Black Lion Squadron.

Two planetary torpedoes burst from the Olympus's forward tubes and dragged their vaporous tails toward Lethe.

Angel and Hunter dropped into eighty-five degree dives, barreled through the onslaught, then swept up on the supercruiser's stern. Even as- they came abreast of the ship, they fired guided missiles toward the pair of torpedoes.

Gangsta and Cheddarboy flew high above the supercruiser, then pulled maximum yaws to starboard and targeted a second pair of torpedoes that streaked away. As they fired their guided missiles, one of the Olympus's antimatter guns pivoted toward them, cannon lifting. White-hot rods began punching holes in their vapor trails.

Bishop and Zarya chose an attack vector that placed them one hundred meters out, at the cruiser's six o'clock low. They climbed toward the ship, slaloming through antimatter fire to dump off their contribution to the counterassault.

"My missile's locked on," Angel announced.

"Ditto here," Hunter said.

Twin flashes turned a region of Lethe's blue aura into a sheet of blinding light as the first two torpedoes detonated harmlessly in the planet's exosphere.

Before the light cleared, two more bursts lifted their shoulders, and Gangsta and Cheddarboy shouted their victory cries.

Alternating his gaze between the radar scope and the planet,

Blair noted that "The Mongrels" of Second Squadron, led by a highly decorated pilot named Achilles, had engaged a squadron of enemy Rapiers. Third Squadron's "Screamin' Shepherds" had launched to take on the other group. In the meantime, he and Maniac would continue wheeling over the cap ship, dodging antimatter fire, keeping eyes bugged for Rapiers that escaped the net.

Another magnesium-bright burst from the planet stole Blair's attention.