Peter Telep - Pilgrim stars

"Very well, then, Makorshk. I charge you with plotting their next course. We will attempt to second guess them based on your estimates."

Makorshk drew back his head and lifted his shoulders. "Thank you for the honor," he said in a gasp of delight. "We will find that ship. And you, the clan, even the emperor will come to learn that the deadliest warrior hunts with his mind, not with his nose. The old ways will not work here."

"Be wary of such remarks," Vukar said, lifting a finger. "Even highborns cannot change their blood. The ancient stirrings in our hearts that turn rational thought to jabber are what make us who we are and what will bring the Terrans to their knees. Never forget that, lest you become more like a hairless ape than a Kilrathi warrior of the Caxki clan."

"Yes, my Kalralahr," the second fang replied distractedly, his gaze already wandering through star charts flashing on his tactical screen.

Should the young warrior's next set of coordinates fail to place them within striking range of the supercruiser, Vukar decided that he would challenge his tactical officer to a blood duel. That would be the only way to save face after placing so much trust in a subordinate officer.

Breathing a heavy sigh that sent nutrient gas jetting from his nostrils, Vukar turned over command to the ship's pensive first fang, Jatark nar Caxki, then took himself to the lift, guided by pangs of hunger that demanded his immediate attention. He decided that he would never again go so long without food.

Now, if he could only hunt his meal rather than have it handed to him like a weak lowborn or like one of the intellects in Mako-rshk's favor.

A warrior does not hunt with head or his nose, Vukar thought.

He hunts with his heart.

Stretched out on his sofa, wearing only a wrinkled pair of boxer shorts, Commodore Richard Bellegarde took several long pulls on the bottle of Scotch whiskey he had picked up while in Glasgow. He eyed his Spartan quarters aboard the Concordia and came to realize that the empty box aptly represented the empty man. He had left his mistress to satisfy the admiral, but that loss leached away his spirit. While on watch, he pretended to be involved, pretended that he really cared about his career, about his life. But all he really wanted was to take back everything he had said to Trish, to resume their relationship the way it had been, to damn to hell Tolwyn's concern for his career. He took another swig of Scotch, then balanced the bottle on his bare chest and stared at a world blurred by the glass.

His door hatch chimed. Too numb and too lazy to stand, he simply shouted, "Yeah?"

"Richard? It's Geoff. May I come in?"

He bolted up, spilling the whiskey down his legs. "Uh, sir, I'm not feeling so, uh… can you give me a little time, say thirty minutes, and I'll meet you in the wardroom?"

"This can't wait."

Bellegarde threw his head back and chuckled. Screw getting a fleet. Screw it all. He would open the door and let the truth pour out. He got to his feet, but the deck rose and fell as though he stood on a seafaring vessel. He reached out to brace himself with the hand that gripped the whiskey bottle. He struck air once, twice, a third time before he lost his grip on the bottle and sent it crashing to the floor. At least it hadn't broken.

"Richard, are you all right?"

"I'm perfect," he said, then stumbled to the hatch and beat a fist on the control panel.

Admiral Tolwyn marched in, looking neither surprised nor disgusted by Bellegarde's swagger and stench. His inspection took all of two seconds, then he crossed to Bellegarde's desk, slid out the chair, and took a seat. As usual, the admiral carried himself with an unyielding enthusiasm that seemed hot-wired to a reactor. In fact, Bellegarde had never seen the man in off-duty utilities. Even now, on his own time, Tolwyn wore his operations uniform, the large buttons running down his breasts reminding Bellegarde of what Confederation Naval officers were supposed to look like. He glanced down at his own bare, Scotch-covered form, then mustered a wan smile. "You caught me."

The admiral shook his head. "These are your quarters, and you're free to do as you please while off duty, providing that it doesn't affect your performance. To this day, your drinking has had no bearing on your work. But take it from a man who's been there-you can't go on like this for much longer."

"I know that. I keep telling myself that. And I keep discovering that nothing's real anymore."

"The Navy's real. And she'll rarely let you down."

"Why don't I believe that?"

"Because you're still in the throes of your pity party. Forget your personal tragedy. We're all bitched from the start. So said Hemingway. I'd add that we all have our moments, and we all must make our sacrifices. But right now I need your strategist's mind."

"You don't want to talk to me," Bellegarde said, then failed to suppress a belch. "Unless you feel comfortable taking advice from a drunk." He returned to the sofa and sat just a little too hard. The room rose brutally, then settled down.

"We don't have time for you to sober up," Tolwyn explained. "I trust that you're in control enough to be useful."

Bellegarde shrugged. "Very well."

"We just received word that the Tiger Claw and the two destroyers I assigned to her engaged the Olympus at McDaniel's World four standard days ago. We're en route there now. Aristee got out pretty quickly while still inflicting significant losses on the Claw's bombers and fighters. She's obviously assembled an outstanding fighter wing."

Tolwyn's admiration sounded a bit too healthy for Belle-garde's liking. "Where's she headed now?" he asked.

"The Claw analyzed the hopper drive's gravitic residuum. Best estimates put her somewhere between Enyo and Vega."

"Jesus, she crossed half the sector in a single jump?"

"That hasn't been confirmed, but yes, I think she did. That hopper drive is a remarkable innovation."

"Yeah, a little too remarkable." Bellegarde rubbed his eyes, imagining the carnage Aristee had already wreaked. Then he thought about ways to capture a ship with such capability when a puzzling fact hit him. "How the hell did the Claw catch up with her in the first place?"

"I suspect that was Paladin's doing. He somehow guessed or knew she would go to McDaniel."

"Well, can he guess her next destination?"

Tolwyn cocked a brow. "Maybe. He's aboard the Olympus right now."

"He's where?" Bellegarde sat up and shifted to the edge of the sofa.

"According to Gerald, Commodore Taggart headed down to McDaniel to find Aristee. While en route, he communicated with some Pilgrims on planet, maybe even Aristee herself, and was instructed to return to the Olympus and given clearance to land. The cruiser jumped with him and Lieutenant Blair on board."

"Blair? If Paladin went there to negotiate, why'd he take the kid?"

"I'm not sure. I assume there's another reason besides Mr. Blair being half Pilgrim." Tolwyn stared into a thought, then abruptly said, "I have a feeling that something's gone terribly wrong."

"Well, then, it's all about our swift reaction."

"Which is why I'm here, seeking the advice of a drunk." Tolwyn's grin defused the blow to Bellegarde's ego.

"Sir, given Aristee's jump capability, pursuing her now without Paladin's help is a waste of time and resources. We have to do something to bring her to us."

Tolwyn's eyes lit, the glimmer lasting but a second. "I just spoke with the space marshal this morning. She said the press is having its proverbial field day with this, and that senators from nearly all Confed worlds are advising their constituents of Pilgrim ancestry to seek shelter at designated sites. This, I'm told, is being done for their safety."

"Those reporters and politicians are adding kindling to a fire that doesn't need it. And I'd like to see one of those 'designated sites.' Why don't they call them what they are-interment camps?"