Peter Telep - Pilgrim stars

"I don't think she has any particular love for Confederation military brass, and I don't think she'd be surprised by the cover-up."

"Probably not."

All of this talk about Angel's past suddenly made Blair wonder how and why she had become a Confederation pilot. "You know, there are a billion other possibilities for her, but she suffers with us on this aging bucket. She's certainly not in it for the glory."

"Orphan? No real family? C'mon, Christopher."

"If she's looking for a family, she's found one. But she's still a loner. And a mystery."

"She does like Italian food," Merlin said, flapping his brow. "And according to her medical profile, she has no known allergies."

"You know what? Thank you for reminding me where this comes from. I'm not listening to you. In fact, I'm not going to tell her anything. It's not our business."

"But you can pretend you don't know. Just give her the access codes so she can discover it on her own."

"And rip the scabs from her wounds? I don't think so."

"Then just kiss her, you idiot. You'll either get smacked or laid, though both would be-"

"Switch off," Blair ordered with a huff. He stomped into the corridor, chiding himself for entertaining Merlin's suggestion.

By the time Blair reached Angel's hatch, the notion of barging in and taking her into his arms felt so powerful that he lingered out-side her door, trembling and listening for sounds from inside. Then he remembered her saying she had reports to make; she was probably in her squadron commander's office. He rolled his eyes and hauled himself toward his quarters.

When the hatch opened, he found Angel stripped down to bra and panties and standing near his bunk. She wrapped an arm around his neck, dragged him inside, then kissed him hard and twirled her tongue around his. The hatch cycled shut, and her fingers fumbled for the buttons of his utilities. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Maniac's empty bunk and figured that Angel had somehow taken care of that technicality.

"Lieutenant," she moaned after breaking their embrace. "What we're about to do is classified, compartmentalized, and highly erotic."

"Ma'am, are you sure that-"

She put a finger to his lips. "Just get naked."

VEGA SECTOR,DRY QUADRANT,CS TIGER CLAW.BLYTHEHEART JUMP POINT.

2654.088.0400 HOURS CONFEDERATION STANDARD TIME

For once Blair sat through a jump with no intention of reaching out to find his mother. The secrets of being a Pilgrim no longer seemed important compared to the events of the past five days. He shifted in his jump seat and fought off the shit-eating grin that threatened to burst across his face.

Making love to Lieutenant Commander Jeanette Deveraux would stand as one of the most memorable experiences of his life. They had spent that entire day together, beginning in his quarters, then moving stealthily back to hers. He had explored every curve of her lithe, well-toned frame, and their bodies felt smooth and right together. In candlelight, they had swayed as one silhouette on the bulkhead, growing more hungry for each other as the hours wore on. They had kept silent, speaking with their hands, their eyes. The fire grew, and they had quivered, grimaced in ecstasy, and had fallen back, exhausted and gratified for their efforts.

While lying there after the first time, with Angel's head resting on his shoulder, Blair had half-expected Merlin to suddenly appear with his appraisal of their lovemaking: "Well, bravo, Christopher. No performance anxiety this time, eh? And Lieu-tenant Commander, you're quite flexible, aren't you." He had shaken off the thought, and when Angel had asked him what was wrong, he had told her that he sometimes got the shakes afterward. That much wasn't a lie.

They had set another rendezvous for the following day, knowing that the rumors would begin to circulate but too infected with each other to be apart. Angel had, indeed, ordered Maniac to sim practice that first day, but she could not keep up that diversion. So they would meet in her quarters. Strange, though. During that second day, Blair had asked why she had suddenly changed her mind. She had told him not to ruin what they had by talking it away. After a moment's consideration, he had realized the truth in that, though the unanswered question still troubled him.

By the third day-and the third tryst-Blair had grown frustrated with their silence. They made love repeatedly, working into each other's rhythms like musicians, but the connection between them seemed to weaken instead of strengthen.

On the fourth day, Blair felt as though they were just working out their anxieties on each other's bodies. Tenderness had turned to grunting. Their relationship was all about that final, pulse-pounding moment. Afterward, they would fall back and stare at the overhead, their gazes swimming through the shadows and never once falling on each other.

Out of nowhere, Blair had said, "We're close. But we're not close."

"I know," she had admitted.

"Guess I shouldn't complain. I'm getting what most guys want, right? Sex with no emotional baggage."

"I can't give you any more than that. Not yet."

He had rolled to face her. "But there's hope?"

"You don't know what I'm risking here."

"I think I do."

Blair had closed his eyes and had taken her into arms. She had buried her head in his chest, and he had simply held her there, trying to show that he wouldn't let go, that he would be there for her for as long as fate allowed.

On the early morning of the fifth day, Blair had tiptoed out of his quarters, had keyed himself into hers, and had spooned her for an hour or two before the jump alarm sounded. During that simple moment he had felt more bonded to her than any other time. He had listened to her breathe and had let her silky hair fall in curtains across her face. Her scent, a light blend of perfume and coconut shampoo, had lulled him to sleep.

I always was a dreamer, he reflected, now feeling the ship rumble under his feet. Lieutenant Commander Obutu's voice broke over the intercom: "Jump in five seconds, four, three, two-"

The familiar moment of frozen silence embraced the flight wing ready room, and after a second-or an eternity-a collective groan rose from the pilots. Blair added his own gasp to the racket.

"What the hell was that?" someone asked.

"All hands, this is your captain. We just experienced a minor fluctuation in the jump field, but the jump was successful. Repeat, the jump was successful. Standby to initiate flight operations. Launch reconnaissance patrol." The general quarters alarm punctuated Gerald's report. A second Klaxon announced a flush scramble, and Blair threw off his straps and joined a white water rush of pilots.

Most of the techs who worked on the flight deck had grown accustomed to flush scrambles that had every operational fighter and bomber in the Claw's arsenal launching within the next few minutes. Despite the crew's experience, anxiety painted their faces, and tensions ran expectantly high. A minor fuel spill had Boss Peterson raising hell with two techs near the bomber berths, and two ordnance specialists had the hood raised on their fully loaded missile cart, which had broken down in the middle of the runway. As the techs took heat from their supervisor, the bulky deckdozer was already en route, its driver lowering the broad hydraulic blade affixed to the vehicle's nose. Blair observed a few more verbal entanglements between pilots and maintenance crews as he picked his way along the port bulkhead, aiming for his Rapier's berth.

To his mild astonishment, he saw Paladin striding toward him from the opposite end of the flight deck. The commodore caught his gaze, then waved him over. Blair leapt twice over fuel lines that obstacled his path, then reached the man, out of breath. "Sir?"