Her VDU switched from a damage report to display an image of Gerald seated at an ob station. "Exceptional work, Commander. And now for the bad news. Two unarmed commercial transports from Nabco-Mills violated the zone during the attack. They made it past the Mitchell Hammock and into Netheryana's atmosphere."
"They made it past the Hammock?"
"I should have held back more patrols. In any event, the transport skippers refuse to turn back, and the strike base commanders on planet won't order their pilots to fire unless I take full responsibility."
"So take it."
"I have. Those transports are loaded with nothing more than foodstuffs, and each carry a crew of ten."
"Sir, why are you talking to me? You know the course."
"Yes, I do. And I shouldn't need reassurance, but I do. Thank you, Commander. And God forgive me. Captain out."
Unwelcome chills bridged Angel's shoulders as she imagined the two transports exploding into fiery bands across Neter-yana's sky. The destruction would linger for hours and serve as a grim testimony to the inhabitants of Triune.
This can't go on. Even if Aristee doesn't stand down by Tol-wyn's deadline, he can't possibly order the deaths of so many Pilgrims. Doing that will earn him a place in history next to Khan, Hitler, and Tralchar. It's enviable that he doesn't bargain with terrorists, but several billion innocent Pilgrims probably wish he would. If there's a way out of this, it lies with Paladin and Blair.
Damn it. Another day would pass and mark another failure. She played a game with herself now. She tried to go an entire day without thinking once of Christopher Blair. Ten days had passed since she had read his message. Ten failures. You're weak. You're nothing. You're open, vulnerable, and you'll get hurt more than you ever have before. Besides, he's probably dead already.
No, he's not. Paladin would not let that happen. The commodore needs him for something.
Okay, so maybe he is alive. Maybe he'll come back. Why does he care about you? The only thing not falling apart is your career.
He doesn't care about you. And you're burning those candles for nothing. There's no light.
Oh, God. She unbuckled her oxygen mask and touched her cheek, just to feel him again …
Just to feel…
15
VEGA SECTOR.ROBERT'S QUADRANT.15 HOURS FROM ALOYSIUS SYSTEM.KILRATHI BORDER.CS OLYMPUS.2654.112 (2 MINUS 46 DAYS TOLUYM CLOCK)
0730 HOURS CONFEDERATION STANDARD TIME
Sprawled out on his cot, head pillowed in his hands, Christopher Blair closed his eyes and transported himself back to Angel's quarters. His pulse quickened as he relived that precious time he had spent with her before coming aboard the Olympus. He could see her clearly, remember the fragrance of her hair and the way she breathed his name, but every time he reached out to touch her, he couldn't remember the texture of her skin, as though someone had stolen that sense. Why can't I remember!
I'm sorry, Brotur, came a voice in his head. It's my fault. I'm just jealous, I guess.
An unseen hand stroked Blair's cheek. He sat up, shivering, fingers pressed to his cheek as though he could touch the someone who had touched him. "You said you would come," he whispered aloud. "It's been over two weeks." His shoulders slumped. He stared at the gray wool blanket covering his mattress.
I've been busy. Besides, you haven't been ready to receive me.
What does that mean?
It means what it means.
He ignored the impulse to roll his eyes. Do you know any-
thing about Commodore Taggart? Do you know what's going on up there?
Her reply did not come, and it dawned on Blair that maybe her voice, her touch, the glimpses he had caught of her were all products of stress or some virus he had contracted. His illness targeted his senses, caused him to hallucinate. She existed only in his head, and somehow Johan McDaniel had wormed his way into Blair's thoughts and learned of Blair's contact with her. Or maybe she had been created by McDaniel for some reason.
"I'll tell you who I am. I'll tell you all about me-if you'll let me."
The voice sounded different now, much more distinct, like the soft notes of a piano. He looked up from the blanket-
And locked gazes with a woman about his age whose large, azure eyes seemed, for a moment, to be the only source of light. A dozen shades of gold laced through long hair that spilled over her shoulders and partially veiled her small but firm breasts. Her Pilgrim robe fit her very well, or did she just seem more comfortable wearing it? She smiled tightly, her face bearing angles so delicate and precise that were it not for the blemish near her nose, Blair would have sworn she was an automaton. Unlike Amity Aristee, whose beauty seemed derived from the shadows and unseen energies of the night, this woman maintained an aura by remaining close to suns, to people who offered their own light. She would be perfectly at home on a sailboat, the wind fluttering through her hair, the sun baking her a deep, reflective brown. The mere act of recognizing her stunning beauty struck guilt in Blair. His heart belonged to Angel, but this woman's presence left him warm and trembling.
"I'm Karista Mullens," she said.
Though Blair now saw the woman and had heard her voice, he still had difficulty believing that she actually existed, even as she keyed open the cell door and moved slowly inside. The door thumped shut, giving way to Maniac's incessant snoring. Blair's wingman was probably dreaming up more ridiculous plans of escape. His feigned illness had inspired the guards to new heights of harassment.
Blair rubbed the sleep grit from his eyes, then climbed off the cot. He pulled his robe closer to his neck and held his grip as Karista took a seat on his bed. She surveyed the utilitarian splendor of his cell, and Blair thought he detected a trace of melancholy in her expression. He didn't know what to say, where to begin. "Why do you keep contacting me? Why are you here?"
She patted the mattress, gesturing that he take a seat beside her.
He shook his head. "Were you a Confederation officer?"
"No. I was a chanter and dancer in the protur's personal troupe. Now I perform for liberty, for a chance to regain what was ours."
Blair returned a weak sneer. "To be honest, ma'am, that speech is getting old."
"Have you forgotten Peron?"
"No, but I don't obsess on it, either. I'm not going to blame the Confederation or the Pilgrims for the death of my parents. It just happened. And I've had to deal with it all of my life."
"Have you ever seen holos of the atrocities committed by the Confederation?" She withdrew a small holoplayer from one of her robe's two deep pockets.
He waved her off. "You can save the show. And forget about any of your other techniques, like your, what do you call them, con-crit sessions? And your songs? Forget about them, too. I understand that Pilgrims were killed. I understand that during wartime atrocities are committed-by both sides. What I don't understand is what Aristee and the rest of you hope to gain. You're on a suicide mission, and the only message you'll send to your people is that if you defy the Confederation, you will be pounced and forgotten. She has one ship, and maybe the hopper drive is a powerful device, but she'll never get near Earth with it-not if the Confederation Navy still exists." He softened his expression. "You seem like an intelligent woman. What are you doing here?"
"Sometimes I ask myself that. Sometimes I have an answer. When I hear you talk, I remember my doubts." Her gaze lowered to her lap, and she returned the holoplayer to her pocket.
"What do want?"
She took in a deep breath and faced him, her expression growing more earnest. "The scripts of our lives are often naturally paired in the continuum. Some of us are lucky enough to recognize the pairing or have it pointed out to us by others. When you and I were just children, Frotur McDaniel discovered that your script and mine were a dyad. When I was old enough, he told me about it, but I didn't know what to do with that information. To be honest, I didn't really care. It's not an arranged marriage or anything."