Peter Telep - Pilgrim stars

"You'll be flying in the Diligent with me, Lieutenant."

"Sir?"

"Angel's loaned you to me. Come on." He started up the deck, in the direction Blair had come.

The Diligent sat a short walk ahead, her thrusters already idling, her disc-shaped forward fuselage auguring missions of quiet efficiency rather than capital ship battles. In fact, the idea of him riding with Paladin aboard the merchantman seemed more than a little odd. Who would take a merchantman out against a supercruiser when nearly five score of fighters and bombers were ready to do the job?

"I suppose you'd like to know what's going on," Paladin said as they reached the ship's gangplank.

"Yes, sir. I assume we've detected the Olympus. But you're qualified to pilot Broadswords and Rapiers. Why are we launching in the Diligent'"

"Because, son, we're not going out to fight."

Maniac attached his O2 mask, then finished his abbreviated pre-flight checklist. External moorings released. Fuel topped off. Jump drive, tow system, Tempest targeting and navigational AI, and life support standing tall in the green. Thrusters growling like the Dobermans they were. Neutron gun pulse generators fully charged, with alternate or synchronous fire settings available. Heads Up Display crisp, clear, and alive with data bars that told him everything but the damned ball score. Comm channel open. Right Visual Display Unit full of static, left displaying ship damage in quadrants. The armor and shield indicator, just right of center, glowed at full strength all around. It would stay that way. No Pilgrim jock would deliver even a glancing blow if Maniac had anything to say about it. And he'd said it before: They'd meet the best-and die with the rest.

Yet all of the adrenaline-induced bravado failed to extinguish the guilt that had him sweating in his flight suit. Killing Kilrathi had become as routine as stomping on ants; however, killing other people who had once been Confederation pilots seemed like a terrible waste. And besides, he had come to know a Pilgrim, if only a half-breed. His relationship with Blair made him feel even worse now. Thank God Blair had been loaned out to the commodore.

As it had over Lethe, the battle would become more surreal since their opponents flew in identical ships. Were it not for electronic identification systems, friendly fire would become the rule of the day instead of the exception. He almost wished he had been assigned something less personal that would take him out of the killing loop. Most people who knew Maniac would never believe that he had doubts about going out and doing his job. He had once told somebody that if researchers analyzed his DNA, they would discover a new gene-one they would find in only the best pilots. Flying wasn't a learned skill; you were born to it or not. And when you got the target in your sights, you never thought about the children you might be orphaning. You focused on racking up one more for the killboard. So why don't I feel all gung ho and jingoistic now?

"Hunter? Bishop? Slot, clock, and burn," Angel said over the comm. "Sinatra? Cheddarboy? On deck. Zarya and Maniac? On their heels. And Gangsta? You're on my wing. Last out and last in. Ladies, while we're waiting for the bombers to launch, I suggest you pull data on the AO. The zone's an ally, not an obstacle."

"Yeah, yeah," Maniac grunted over the old reminder. He had never been one to spend hours analyzing the Area of Operations before heading into combat. Sure, you could learn a lot more about the star system, its planets, its moons, but you might also succumb to a false sense of security because you thought you knew what lay ahead. Maniac's experience had taught him to expect a surprise with every tug on the control stick. But for the hell of it-and to appease Angel, who could tap into his systems at any time to see if he were actually scanning the data-he pulled up the skinny on McDaniel's World.

Well, there's nothing Earth-shattering here to report to the Terran News Channel, he thought as he scanned the info spilling across his display. Star: McDaniel (Is everything in the system called McDaniel?). Spectral type: G2 (Anyone care?). Absolute magnitude: 4.27 (Absolutely unimportant.). Apparent visual magnitude: 0.2 (Apparently they don't realize how boring this shit is.). Temperature: 6600 degrees K (Yeah, like my temper right now.). Mass: 1.1 times Sol Standard (My life has new meaning.). Planets: four terrestrial, two gas giants. Twenty-one known satellites in the system, three in orbit around the third terrestrial planet dubbed McDaniel's World (My God, what an original name!).

The right VDU focused on the planet, bringing up a three-dimensional simulacrum rotating imperceptibly in real time. Oxygen worlds were as rare as good pilots in Vega Sector, but even rarer still were worlds with masses nearly equal to Earth's. This rock represented such a place, defying odds and suggesting a sort of cosmic symmetry that allowed for remarkably similar planets to exist billions of kilometers apart. Easy to see why the Pilgrims quickly claimed the world for their own. Talk about a real estate windfall … McDaniel emitted a bluish green aura, and her raggedly shaped continents yielded just under half as much habitable land as Earth's. The tides created by her three moons played a lot more havoc with her shorelines than Luna played with Earth's, however.

And there, behind McDaniel's largest moon, a gray, potato-shaped eyesore named Lyatta, hovered the Olympus. Maniac tapped in a command, bringing up a nav schematic. A trio of bundled yellow lines that represented the swiftest course to the moon extended from a blue blip marked Tiger Claw. He noted that on full afterburners they would be in strike range in one-point-three minutes. Good. Waiting too long to engage would make his itchy trigger finger even itchier.

Hallelujah; Boss Raznick finally sounded over their channel. "Angel, flight control. First pair is clear for launch. ICQ and AO recon reports uploaded. We have confirmation of multiple bandits headed our way. No response to hails."

"Thanks, boss. Okay, ladies. I want a tight box at one K out. You know your positions. Make no mistake, they've been trained the same as us and know all the tricks. Exploit their errors. We'll let them beat themselves. They'll probably jam the Claw's long-range scans, so if anyone catches sight of or reads a tube door opening, inform me ASAP."

"Thought she wouldn't target this planet?" Bishop asked.

"We don't think she will. But if Aristee knows she's going to die, she might want to save her homeworld by destroying it," Angel said, emphasizing the irony.

"So let her," Hunter argued. "My universe could use a few less fanatics."

"The Confed recognizes McDaniel as neutral territory and has agreed to come to the aid of her citizens should the Kilrathi or any other hostile force attack," Angel reminded him. "So everybody stow your bigotry and do your jobs. Hunter? Bishop? Line 'em up."

Maniac let his head fall back on the seat. No, he wouldn't wait long for the battle, but he still had to wait to launch with Zarya. He pulled up her private frequency, flashed her a wink with the eye that wasn't covered by his HUD viewer. "Hey, I just wanted to say that you're the best looking wingman I've ever had."

"What about Rosie Forbes?" she challenged, cocking a brow.

He faltered. "She was beautiful. But in a different way."

"What way?"

"Bad timing for this chat, eh?"

"Not at all," she insisted.

"Look, Rosie got smoked, and I really don't want to talk about it-especially now."

"I'm not Rosie."

"Jeez, you had me fooled."

"Do you know what a soft monkey is?"

"Yeah, it's no fun at all."

"Listen, wiseass, when a mother chimp loses one of her babies, sometimes zookeepers give her a chimp doll to help her deal with the grief. It's a very old remedy, but usually very effective. I think you're still grieving. And I'm your soft monkey."