Peter Telep - Pilgrim stars

"What?"

"Oh, yes, she's much more to him than an old flame. In the physical sense, paired Pilgrims are perfectly compatible with each other and experience greater sexual gratification than with any other partners. But I'm not here to seduce, Brotur. I just want you to learn the truth. And that's what you want. You can't deny that-at least not to me."

Blair realized that he still clutched his robe. He released his grip, and a pang of guilt hit him as his glance traced her curves. Her promise of unsurpassed sex sent a tremor through him.

Cunning. That was Karista Mullens. She knew exactly how to ruffle him. And her robe left little to the imagination. Their teacher-student relationship would break down within a week.

Then again, no one other than Paladin had volunteered to teach him about who he was. She did wield some power. She got into his head-or more precisely got in touch with his script-anytime she chose. Blair had done the same, but the act always felt clumsy. He wondered if his mother and Frotur McDaniel contacted him instead of vice versa. And the power to touch without touching, to manipulate a force like gravity, make it bow to your will without technology… yes, he would like to have that power. He would like to know why it existed and if it had a greater purpose than just surprising or taking advantage of individuals. What did it feel like to touch someone like that?

She patted the mattress once more. "I won't hurt you."

With a brief sigh of resignation, Blair padded over to the cot and sat at a distance that made her frown.

"I said I won't hurt you."

"I'm not worried about that. I just don't want this to-"

"You can't hurt me, Blair. I already know you too well. I know about Angel. But for now it's just us. And I want you to know everything."

"Not everything. Just teach me to touch the way you do."

"All right. Close your eyes…"

William Santyana double-timed down the corridor until he reached the intersecting passage. He raised his hand to halt the other three pilots who skulked along behind him. The intersection looked clear, and he signaled the rest to follow. They passed the environmental control bays, the engine room, then finally reached the main hatch leading to the brig. Two Pilgrim Marines stood guard outside, their rifles held tightly to their chests. One stepped forward. "State your business, brotur."

"We have orders to interrogate the prisoners," Santyana said, matching the Marine's forceful tone. He thrust forward his forged order card.

The Marine accepted the card, unclipped the rectangular datalink from his belt, then inserted the card. He paused a moment as the device's screen lit, turning his face a shimmering olive. Santyana glanced sidelong at Douglas Henrick, one of the three Pilgrim pilots who wanted off the Olympus as badly as he did. Henrick had spent the better part of his youth in a South Philly metroplex, where he had learned to forge datacards and create falsified confirmations on datanets that would immediately erase themselves after being accessed. In centuries past he would have been called a hacker or a chiphead or a zapper. Santyana just thought of him as an old-fashioned lifesaver. Of course, that label would change radically should the card fail to work…

"I don't know what the captain's thinking, but if you want to get something out of these guys, you'll have to beat it out of them," the Marine said, returning the card. "Especially Maniac. Give me five minutes with him. He'll be neutered. And cooperative."

"They won't respond to torture," Henrick jumped in. "The captain knows that. They might talk to other pilots. And they've been in there a while and had time to think. They might have grown a little soft."

The Marine turned back to the hatch and keyed in the appropriate code. "You're wasting your time."

Santyana crossed into the long corridor that divided the brig, his gaze sweeping both sides of the prison until it locked on a lanky, blond man dressed in a Pilgrim robe and curled into a fetal position on his cot. The guy communicated with his dreamworld through an atonal refrain of grunts and snorts. That would be Maniac. Santyana checked his watch, having forgotten how late it was: day 112, 2232 hours CST. He glanced to the cell next to Maniac's and found a dark-haired pilot lying on his belly, one hand draped over the side of his rack, the other placed firmly on his cheek. That would be Christopher Blair. "Gentlemen," Santyana stage-whispered.

No reaction.

"Gentlemen!"

Blair stirred a bit. Maniac pulled his knees deeper into his chest and buried his face in his pillow.

"Full flush scramble!" Henrick cried. "Out of your racks! Go! Go! Go!"

Per training and instincts, both young pilots practically exploded from their bunks and snapped to attention before the bars. They stood as sleeping statues, their eyes still tightened to slits.

"Good evening," Santyana said. "Sorry 'bout the wake-up, but we don't have much time."

"Well, you can have some of ours," Maniac said, licking his lips and grimacing over a bad taste in his mouth. "We got a lot."

"Who are you guys?" Blair asked.

"I'm Bill Santyana. This is Doug Henrick, Jadyk Charm, and

Joe Pazansky." Santyana gestured to the tall black man, the short, broad-shouldered Enyoian woman, and the curly-haired athlete respectively.

"Santyana. That name's familiar," Blair said. "You weren't a test pilot, were you?"

"For a little while."

"We read about you at the academy. Holy shit, man, it's a pleasure to meet you." Blair thrust his hand between the bars.

As Santyana went to take it, Blair suddenly withdrew.

Santyana proffered his own hand. "Hey, it's all right."

"I didn't know you were a Pilgrim," Blair said, then faced the bulkhead. "Seems like all of my role models are going to hell."

"That's not on my itinerary," Santyana said with a slight smile. "Getting off this ship is."

"You guys ain't Pilgrims?" Maniac asked, his eyes finally open.

"We are," Henrick said. "We were loyal to Aristee until the massacre at Mylon Three. She never told us we would torpedo the planet. I speak for us all when I say we don't mind taking on the Confed military-but leave the civvies out of it. She wanted to make a statement. We heard her, all right."

"Then skids up," Maniac said. "Key open the door. You guys armed?"

"Can't do that now," Santyana said. "We'll try to recruit a few more, then we'll make our break before we leave Aloysius. We'll be back for you."

"Yeah, I believe that," Maniac sniped. "When opportunity knocks, your asses will be airborne without a second thought. Why did you guys even waste your time coming down here? You don't give a shit about us."

Santyana nodded his understanding. "Truth is, Mr. Marshall, we need you. Sure, the more the merrier for our escape, but you've been in contact with Commodore Taggart. We could use his help to get off this ship, but we can't get close to him."

"So your whole plan is resting on us getting Taggart's help?" Maniac asked. "Guys, we've only seen him once since we've been down here. I'm sure that Aristee's already leading him around by the-"

"If we can get him down here, talk to him," Blair interrupted, "I'm sure he'd help. He probably can't get away. And I'm sure that he's been busy trying to get Aristee to stand down."

Maniac cursed under his breath. "Blair, you're so naive."

"Taggart may still be with us," Santyana said. "But rumors have it that he and Aristee have become quite close. He's been seen on the bridge with her and seen leaving her quarters. But that's scuttlebutt. We need to know if we can count on him."

"Forget him," Maniac argued. "You guys want to get out of here? You get to a small arms locker, load up, and come back. We'll shoot our goddamned way out."