Peter Telep - Pilgrim stars

Vukar felt a blade of ice impale his gut as the six other bridge officers seated at their stations murmured over Makorshk's alarm. "That is an interesting assessment, admittedly speculative, but I am impressed with it nonetheless."

Makorshk's upper lip quivered in self-satisfaction.

Communications officer Ta'kar'ki spun in his chair. "Kalralahr? Incoming transmission from the emperor."

"The emperor?"

"Yes. Direct transmission. The signal originates from K'n'Rek."

"Route it to my ready room." Vukar turned to Norj'ach, who absently stroked his whiskers. "You may now join your clansmen in seeking Sivar's forgiveness."

"Thank you, my Kalralahr." Norj'ach withdrew his zu'kara knife from the sheath buckled to his thigh. The blade's ornate handle, made of the rare wood from the sacred forest of Kovokum, had been carved to fit Norj'ach's paw. The flight leader bared his fangs, dragged the blade across his neck, and his life's liquid jetted down his dull armor. He dropped to his knees as the bridge officers rose, faced him, and bowed respectfully. Vukar offered Norj'ach a terse nod, then hurried to his ready room.

Inside the cramped quarters, Vukar sat in his meditation chair and pivoted to face his private comm display. He tapped the control panel with a thick knuckle, and the emperor abruptly stared at him, framed by the dozens of banners that hung from the bulkhead of his suite aboard the imperial shuttle. The old Kil-rathi looked tired, his robes ruffled. "Vukar, we received your drone. Have you learned more about this Terran supercruiser?"

"No more, yet. But with your permission, I will see to this personally. You need not have traveled here, my emperor."

"Yes, the clan leaders feel as you do. But I want to be close, to direct actions myself if necessary. Something is happening in this quadrant, something very unusual. According to our spy satellites, the planet Mylon Three has been rendered lifeless by the same supercruiser that your destroyers encountered."

"Mylon Three is a Confederation world. Why would they annihilate their own people, unless-"

"I've ordered battle groups to the Ymir and Nephele systems. The Terrans will believe we are attacking in retaliation for the death of Kalralahr Bokoth, the loss of his battle group, and the loss of your two destroyers. The attack will satisfy the pressure I have been receiving from the clan leaders, though I'm unsure we can afford the expense. In truth, we will also gather as much intelligence as we can about this supercruiser and the destruction of My Ion."

"One of my flight leaders escaped. Did you-"

"Yes, I reviewed his report. And it troubles me. If the Confederation has learned to create gravity wells, then the time has come to launch a massive assault. But I suspect the Confederation is not responsible."

Vukar stiffened. "Pilgrims?"

"Perhaps. That would explain a lot."

"Then we can sit back and watch them destroy each other."

The emperor extended a finger. "If the Pilgrims are building a force, then we have a new and more powerful enemy. And if they succeed in destroying the Confederation, they will move on to our empire. They are descendants of Terrans, but Terrans nonetheless. Bokoth attempted to bargain with them. He died. There will be no more bargains." The emperor lowered his hand, narrowed his gaze. "Vukar, I charge you with the task of finding that supercruiser and, if possible, recovering its drive system. Analysis of your pilot's data indicates that the gravitic field has a unique and frequently traceable signature. We have already made a course projection." He leaned forward and touched a button on the panel before him. "I'm uploading the data now. Our best estimates put that ship somewhere in the Tartarus system."

Vukar raised a fist. "By the blood of Sivar, that ship will be ours."

A sullen atmosphere pervaded the Tiger Claw's bridge and would not lift any time soon, or at least Gerald thought so. Shuttles continued to ferry survivors out to the CS Scrimshaw, a Drayman-class transport that had made orbit thirty minutes ago. The survivor count stood firmly at two hundred and twenty-seven. Another one hundred and twenty-two bodies had been recovered semi-intact from the debris, while remaining recovery teams estimated that at least two or three hundred others had been killed, but their remains were too fragmentary to provide an accurate number yet. Thirteen injured had died in sick bay, but Gerald had been assured that all other civilians would live to sue the Confederation-if Iridessa Long had her way. No, Gerald was in no way saddened by her departure. In the meantime, the Marines had reported of massive devastation across the northern continent. No sign of survivors. They would move on to the remote regions of the southern continent, where Gerald expected they would encounter six or seven thousand settlers dying of radiation poisoning. Durasteel bomb shelters were a luxury on agricultural worlds, and even if any had been built, Gerald doubted the farmers had reached them in time.

"Sir?" hailed Lieutenant Falk.

Gerald faced the young officer, who stood behind the radar station's Plexi tactical screen, one hand pressing his headset's speaker deeper into his ear. "What do you have, Mr. Falk?"

"Another ship just came through the jump point. Merchantman-class errant. ID coming in now." He regarded a thin monitor to his right. "It's the Diligent, sir."

Doing a poor job of repressing his disgust, Gerald bolted from his command chair and looked to Lieutenant Commander Obutu, whose dark face registered an equal measure of loathing. "Mr. Obutu? You have the con."

"Aye-aye, sir. And sir? If it is him, well-"

"Of course it's him, Commander. And he's just the person we need to inspire morale."

Obutu grinned crookedly, then rose as Gerald swore under his breath and trudged toward the lift.

Commodore James "Paladin" Taggart entered the Flight Control Room, wearing the brown slacks and casual tunic of a colonist on holiday. His coal-black hair had been gelled neatly back, but his face bore the mottled shadow of a drunk. Thick hair on his chest wandered past his V-neck, and Gerald spotted a silver chain that he knew held a Pilgrim cross hidden beneath Paladin's shirt. It seemed an effort for the commodore to nod his acknowledgment, which Gerald declined to return. He simply stood there, staring at the man who worked for Confederation Naval Intelligence, the man whose ancestors had been Pilgrims, the man who was supposed to be on a covert mission to uncover and eliminate Kilrathi espionage activities in Vega.

Paladin removed a minidisk from his pocket. "Hello, Mr. Gerald. Message from the admiral."

"Thought you were a commodore-not a courier."

Paladin handed him the disk. "Good to see you, too. We'll need a secure terminal to play that. We don't have much time."

Gerald turned back toward the exit and cursed inwardly. "Yes, Commodore. We'll go to my quarters."

They rode the lift in silence, and despite the fact that he stood beside Admiral Tolwyn's right-hand man, Gerald had no intention of trying to win points with the commodore. He respected Paladin's ability to command under fire, otherwise he felt zero affection for the man whose presence meant that the admiral did not trust Gerald to handle the Mylon situation on his own. Gerald did not need Paladin's help, and his feelings on the matter would inevitably surface.

Once inside the modest captain's quarters, Gerald made a point of not offering the commodore a drink. Trouble was, Paladin crossed directly into the small kitchen, opened the cooling unit, and fetched a glass of orange juice for himself. He took a long swig as Gerald scowled and moved to a terminal set into the bulkhead. He inserted the minidisk, and a moment later the admiral appeared on the screen; his shock of gray hair and somber countenance loaned him the semblance of a troubled king from a Shakespearean play. "Hello, Mr. Gerald. I wish I could've provided you with more details before sending you out there blind and without an XO, but now we've managed to piece together some of this puzzle, and I've sent Paladin to assist. Four days ago we lost contact with the Olympus. She's been positively identified as the supercruiser that launched the attack on Mylon."