Peter Telep - Pilgrim stars

"You're really going to do it, old man," Gerald whispered to the blank screen. He glanced up at Netheryana, looming in the viewport. His mind traveled to the cities, the suburbs, the little farms, the wine fields, the hills that rolled on to the horizon. He thought of the children lining up behind their teachers, the old men and women gaming in the parks, the cool, dark waters of the many streams that ran through the simple land. He had had too much time to study the enclave, to drift through the holos that showed images as strikingly beautiful as they now were painful. He should feel glad that Tolwyn was taking extreme measures to bring in Aristee, but killing civilians just to make a point smacked of terrorism. They're not civilians — they're Pilgrims. Hell, they don't even think of themselves as human. The reminder hardly made him feel better. He craned his head to the comm station. "Mr. Z? Get me the COs at Tung and Sylee."

"Aye, sir. Establishing communications."

"Mr. Obutu? Recall security patrol and scramble First and Third squadrons."

Obutu repeated the command, then contacted the Rapier pilots presently flying patrol.

Gerald switched on the ship-wide intercom and hemmed. "All personnel, this is the captain. We have just received orders to establish a no-fly zone over Triune. I suspect we'll encounter a lot of resistance from commercial and civilian vessels. We'll remain secured from general quarters, but I'd like to maintain a heightened sense of readiness. Any one of those ships could take a potshot at us, and those skippers know we won't return fire and create an incident. I'd like to avoid becoming famous, but we will respond appropriately to significant threats. If you have any questions, consult with your department heads. That is all."

"Sir?" Comm Officer Zabrowsky called. "No response from the strike bases yet, but I have Lieutenant Commander Deveraux on a secure channel."

"I'll take it here."

Angel's bewildered expression lit the screen, with officers scrambling from the flight control room behind her. "Sir. We expecting Aristee?"

"I doubt it. The admiral's calling her bluff with this blockade, but my gut's telling me this isn't right. Exercise extreme caution out there. Divert civilian and commercial pilots to Enyo where possible. Notify any ships in need of refueling that we will accommodate that need as necessary."

"How long will this last?"

"Vega's a big place. And Aristee is a stubborn woman. I think we'll be anchoring here for a very long time."

"Have you received any word from Commodore Taggart?"

"I'm betting that when we hear from Aristee, we'll hear from him. Probably not before."

"Yes, sir." She ended the transmission.

"Sir? Contact bearing three-two-four by five-one-nine," Radar Officer Falk said. "Designate Bravo two-five, Wren-class commercial transport. Range: two-one-five Ks. Velocity: one-two-five KPS and slowing."

"And the party begins," Gerald said, then rose and skirted his way back to his command chair. "Hail them, Mr. Falk. Report perimeter violation of standard no-fly zone. If that captain gives you an argument, patch him through to me."

Blair shook his head as Maniac released an especially loud yawn. "I ever tell you about the time I took Casey up in my Rapier trainer? That was a date that blondie will never forget. Shit, even I remember it."

Maniac's words echoed hollowly through the brig, and for once in his life Blair truly wished he were alone. He had been sitting in his cell for seven days since first coming aboard. Paladin had been in his company for the first two days, then the Marine guards had fetched him, and Blair had not seen or heard from the commodore since.

He and Maniac spent most of their time talking. Blair told Maniac stories about his boyhood, stories of farming, of his first experience with his holographic assistant, Merlin, and of his first kiss in preschool. But this heart-warming, general audience stuff only inspired fits of yawning from his wingman. Living up to his reputation, Maniac related tales of his numerous and varied sexual encounters, he the virile hero whose presence struck down women with an overpowering desire to tear the clothes from their bodies and throw themselves at him. The stories grew more graphic, the women more beautiful, the truth lost in all of that heavy breathing. Marshall's call sign should have been NymphoManiac.

By the third day, Blair's request for a shower and clean clothes had finally been honored. The guards had kept their weapons trained on them even while in the latrine and afterward had forced them to wear Pilgrim robes. Maniac had swapped a few insults with the guards, but for the most part they ignored his crude comments.

With the passage of each day, marked by a report from Merlin and the switching on or off of the lights, Blair grew more anxious and began to doubt that they would ever be released. Surely he had better things to do with his time than die in a miserable cell in the company of Todd Marshall. Even now, as Maniac launched into another of his tales, which somehow involved two people in the cramped confines of a Rapier cockpit, Blair rocked slowly on his cot and thought of his youth, of how much he had not seen, and of how his last image might be a sheet of scored gray steel.

And the questions, so many questions, continued to elude him. Where was Paladin? Why hadn't he come to visit? Why hadn't anyone come to see them? Why did Paladin bring him here in the first place? Where was the ship now? What was happening back on the Claw? What about Angel?

And the note. Had she received the note? The Diligent's comm computer had reported a successful transmission. He wondered what she thought of it. He shouldn't have written the "L" word. He had probably frightened her. What a spectacularly foolish thing he had done. Well, it could have been worse. He could have listened to Merlin; then again, he would have someone else to blame if he lost her.

Why was he so afraid of losing her? What about her intrigued him so much? Her raw beauty and strong will had initially attracted him, but what now kept him rapt? Was it her pain? The emptiness he had already tried to fill? Did he want to save her from self-destruction? Or did he want to show her that chivalry still existed despite the years and distances? He should be with her for the right reasons, but what were they? He couldn't just be her savior. She would close up, resent him, because needing him would make her confront her own weaknesses, and while she could do that, the reminder would only bring her more pain.

"… and you should have seen the look on my crew chief's face when the canopy opens and up pops Casey's head. I tell him that I caught her trespassing in my cockpit and that I'm turning her over to security immediately." Maniac chuckled over the memory, then his voice died off into the silence. "C'mon, Blair. You gotta admit that's funny."

"Uh-huh."

"What's the matter? Ain't you ever been locked up for a week aboard a supercruiser taken over by Pilgrims?" He snorted. "I

know this sucks. It really sucks. I bet Taggart's up in the wardroom right now, eating like a king. Aristee's probably won him over already."

"No way. He's up there convincing her to stand down," Blair countered, wishing his words were fact.

"I ain't saying he's a traitor. She could've easily drugged him. He's Intell and privy to a lot of data that she'd love to have. Know what? I'm convinced she's done that. Otherwise, he would have already come down to see us. He's either drugged or suddenly doesn't care. Or maybe / am saying he's a traitor."

"Paladin's no turncoat. He's more loyal to the Confederation than you."

"Then I hope his loyalty buys us a ticket out of this hole." A solid and familiar thump sounded from the wall that adjoined their cells. As he did at least once every day, Maniac had beat his fist on the steel. "Hey, guards?"