20
VEGA SECTOR,ROBERT'S QUADRANT,PERIMETER ALOYSIUS SYSTEM,CS OLYMPUS.
2654.114,0122 HOURS CONFEDERATION STANDARD TIME
Blair carefully shifted the miniature joystick on the tractor retrieval system's panel, setting down Maniac's pod on one of the aft flight deck's circular orange pads designated for such emergency landings. With Maniac safely grounded, Blair cut the beam and glided forward, following the deck boss's cues until he slipped into a repair bay.
Under the shadows of two colossal durasteel braces, he kept his Rapier in a hover as a Pilgrim crew of three performed the hazardous operation of refueling and rearming a hot fighter. He exchanged a few words with the crew chief regarding the Rapier's status, then gave a final admonishment to Maniac before the pilot left his ejection pod. Aristee did not have a Pilgrim Marine waiting for Maniac; instead, the flight boss herself had elected to leave control and come down to personally welcome back the ship's now most infamous pilot. The woman's Pilgrim robe failed to disguise her considerable girth, and despite being a full head shorter than Maniac, she stared up at him, seeming to curl into the folds of her body like a rattlesnake before the strike. Blair grinned broadly as he watched Maniac flinch under the old lady's oration.
Behind them, a ragged line of people under the scrutiny of four Pilgrim Marines walked along the catwalk. The Pilgrims forged on toward the twenty-meter-high maintenance curtain, descended the staircase to the runway level, then paused at the red line marking the field's four-meter safety zone. A blur of white from the catwalk signaled the entrance of Amity Aristee. She beat a quick two-four rhythm down the stairs, paced as though inspecting the group, then spoke.
"What's up with them?" Blair asked his chief.
"Don't know."
One of the women in the group turned her head, and goose-flesh ran a marathon across Blair's shoulders and arms. Karista Mullens. His pair. But why was she here? Hadn't Aristee convinced her and the rest to bring down the two cruisers? Shouldn't they all be recovering? Blair swore over the fact that he couldn't get out and ask. Maybe they had already recovered and were getting ready for the next battle? That would be good news to the poor souls sitting in Rapiers who probably stared slack-jawed at the angry horde of Kilrathi fighters barreling toward them.
A wave of something passed through the group. Was is it shock? Fear? Some of the Pilgrims clutched each other. A chubby blond boy no more than ten or twelve gripped Karista's waist and began to cry.
The flight deck trembled a second as a Broadsword passed through the energy curtain like a finger through gelatin. Once the ship roared clear, a short, gray-haired man with slightly hunched shoulders detached himself from the group. Under the vigilance of the nearest Marine guard, the old man crossed the red line and shambled toward the fluctuating field. Blair's pulse raced as the man lifted his arms, giving himself to the unthinking, unfeeling wall of energy.
"What's he-" The crew chief broke off.
Blair engaged the external microphone, even as the old man shrieked and stepped into the curtain.
One voice in Blair's head implored him to turn away. But another, more powerful voice appealed to his dark fascination for things horrific. The old man's head melted into shoulders as they melted into his chest in a swirling, hissing mixture of pale white, blue, and wine-dark red. His arms flailed a moment before they peeled back like a pair of lit matches. He shrank into a lumpy puddle that swelled across the flight deck and into the vacuum on the other side of the curtain. Out there, steaming goo stretched and broke apart like taffy and began floating away.
The man's death, or, more precisely, his execution, made Blair realize what was happening. Some Pilgrims had obviously helped Aristee-but not these. Those who had helped were now recovering. Those who had refused would now be sent into the curtain.
One of the Marines near the rear came forward, seized the boy by the back of the neck, tugged him off of Karista, and drove him toward the red line.
Blair hit the canopy release.
The crew chief's voice buzzed loudly in his headset. "Hey! What are you doing? You have to stay in the pit and monitor the flow."
"What's it look like I'm doing?" Blair tore off his mask and helmet, unbuckled only one side of his harness, then wrenched himself free. The canopy chinked into place behind him, and the overpowering din of his thrusters pressed on him like thick pillows. He stood on his seat, levered himself out of the cockpit, then dropped two meters to the deck.
"Come back here, Brotur!"
But Blair had already bounded away from the fighter. It would take much more than a command from a Pilgrim crew chief to stop him. He sprinted onto the runway, inspiring a chorus of shouting from the rest of his crew and the techs working the area. A hollow drumming resonated from the energy curtain to his left, and he cocked his head as another Broadsword bomber injected itself into the bay, sweeping just a meter above the deck. The bomber's blunt, durasteel nose came headlong at him-
Even as the reflex to duck sent him belly-flopping to the deck.
The bomber rumbled over as he slapped palms over his ears and pressed his cheek to the cold metal. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the aft, portside landing skid cleaving toward him with just a quarter meter gap between it and the deck. With palms still glued to his ears, he rolled left, onto his elbow, as the skid scraped along his chest and finally moved clear.
The bellow of thrusters faded behind him, and he removed his hands from his ears-but another sound even more painful erupted ahead.
"No! I can't!" shrieked the boy. "I'm sorry! I don't want to die!"
Heavy boots thudded on the catwalk above. Blair didn't bother to look. That would be deck security, out to apprehend him. He sprang to his feet and charged toward the Marine strong-arming the boy. Others in the group shouted and bawled as the boy swung wildly at the Marine's chest plate.
"Let him go!" Blair ordered, reaching reflexively to his hip for his C-244 pistol. Of course, the Pilgrims had not issued him a sidearm or utility knife.
"Blair?" That shout from Karista.
As he came within a few meters of the Marine, the guy craned his head, swung up his rifle. "Right there, mister."
Blair whirled to face Aristee. "What is this?"
"None of your concern, Brotur. Get back to your fighter"- she tipped her head toward the Marine-"or he'll shoot you where you stand."
"You're killing them because they won't help? That it? Pilgrim fascism at its finest, eh?"
"Get back to your fighter! Now!"
"No." He gave her a moment to let that sink in, then added, "I won't let you do it. You'll have to shoot."
Karista scuffled toward him, her eyes ringed in shadows and doused pink. "Don't get involved in this."
"You're going to let her kill all of you?"
"We won't help. We won't break the edict. And if this is our fate, then-"
"Break the goddamned edict!"
"We can't. Don't you understand? We just can't."
"I don't understand. How could you stand by and watch that old man die? How can you watch this kid die? How can you do that?"
"Because she's stubborn. And foolish," said Aristee. "And mostly because she's selfish. All of them are selfish. For centuries parents have let their sick children die because their religious convictions would not allow them to seek medical treatment. As Pilgrims, I thought we were beyond that kind of irrational devotion. I thought we were rewriting the laws here, establishing a stronger bond, a stronger community than we've ever had before. But some of us refuse to let go of the old ways. Some of us would rather die than do so." She gave an exaggerated nod as her gaze passed over the group and finally settled on Blair. "Last warning. Get back to your fighter."