"What are they trying to do? Save all of the Pilgrims before they annihilate the Confederation? And if they plan on doing that, why only one ship?"
Makorshk lifted his chin in the gesture of uncertainty. "Those questions won't be answered until we're aboard that ship. But their course does provide one clue. If they're focusing their attention on systems with high concentrations of Pilgrims, then look at this." The second fang's long, thick fingers worked furiously on a touchpad. His screen glowed with images of insignificant planets clustered around a feeble-looking sun. "McDaniel's World, the so-called homeworld of Pilgrims." The picture zoomed out to reveal McDaniel's position relative to their present one. "You see, my Kalrahalr? We can jump here, at Blytheheart." Makorshk tapped his screen, and another system stitched across the display.
"But we won't reach McDaniel for another five standard days," Vukar said, reading the computer's arrival projection. "We need a plan to narrow that ship's lead."
A screen to Makorshk's left unexpectedly flashed a message. Makorshk excitedly regarded the screen as Vukar leaned over the second fang. "Kalralahr. Ion emissions and gravitic residuum detected. Ion emissions suggest that four, possibly five Confeder-ation cap ships operated within these coordinates."
"Yes, the apes hunt each other," Vukar said restlessly. "That tells us nothing about how we can intercept that ship."
"If we can't catch up with them at McDaniel, we need to discover their next stop."
"If your theory holds true, then they would pick another world with a high population of Pilgrims."
"Yes, perhaps for the specific purpose of recruiting some Pilgrims. A mutiny certainly occurred, and there may not be enough Pilgrim apes aboard to run her efficiently. So they're taking on officers and taking out planets as they go."
"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?"