But that vow had been too difficult to keep. True, she had successfully avoided romantic relationships until Christopher Blair had come along, but the love she harbored for friends had already taken its tolclass="underline" Zigmaster, Throne, Rosie, and Bossman had all left behind their indelible marks. The shrinks had recently told her that her inability to become intimate was a natural defense mechanism against all of the loss she had suffered. She had become a textbook study in denial and insecurity, a psychiatrist's cliche, a self-destructive fighter pilot who allowed herself to experience only the most basic and necessary emotions, knowing too well that an entire universe of sensations continually passed her by.
"You don't know what I'm risking here."
"I think I do."
Maybe Blair did understand her. She had never met a young man more sensitive and as attuned to his surroundings.
But like the others, he had left.
Seething over the fact, she bolted from the desk, ripped the pillows off her rack, yanked the mattress from its frame, and threw it across the room. Panting through gritted teeth, she grabbed the small statue of the Brussels griffon sitting atop her desk and smashed it against her hatch. The little porcelain dog fell in a score of pieces that clattered across the deck. She lowered her head, eyes stinging with tears, then, on her periphery, she noticed her small computer terminal. Its thin screen showed the words ONE unread text message in a beckoning flash. She went to the terminal, and with trembling fingers pulled up the maiclass="underline"
IP PORT STATUS: UNDOCKED
OP PORT STATUS: UNDOCKED
CLEARANCE KEY STATUS: insertcard.veri-fying_denied_accepted
DATA SECURITY LEVEL: unclassified_confidential_secret_topsecret
ORIGINATION: Confederation Merchantman Diligent
RECEIVED: 2654.DBS O44B Hours CST
Dear Angel,
Paladin and I are on our way to the planet.
He thinks Aristee's down there. I smooth-talked him into letting me send you this. We didn't get a chance to say good-bye, and I don't know how long this is going to take. To be honest with you, I don't even know why I'm here except maybe as a witness for him. He knows that most people don't trust him now. I do. But I'm worried. Anyway, take care, and if Maniac gives you any trouble while I'm gone, tell him he'll pay hell to me with interest.
I want to sign off with love because that's how I feel, but I won't. I'll wait for you, Angel. I'll wait for as long as it takes…
Christopher
END TEXT TRANSMISSION # B9274UH9Y299
DUPLICATE COPY ROUTED OFFLINE MAILBOX «9BO2»
She ran a finger over his name on the screen and whispered, "Don't wait. I'm not worth it."
12
VEGA SECTOR.DRY-DOUGLAS BORDER.CS OLYMPUS.EN ROUTE TO ALLOYSIS SYSTEM.ROBERT'S QUADRANT.
2654.088.2200 HOURS CONFEDERATION STANDARD TIME
After they had set down on the Olympus's flight deck, Blair and Paladin had remained in their seats while the supercruiser made another jump. During that moment, Blair had once more experienced the indistinct figure that rose from the darkness, calling his name in a feminine voice, stroking his cheek, and reaching for him. However, the image had seemed brighter, the voice clearer-as though with each contact he drew closer to the person.
With the jump completed, Deck Boss Towers had given them permission to egress. When they had popped the hatch, they had been met by a pair of heavily-armed Pilgrim Marines. The Marines' dress had immediately struck Blair as odd: long, white robes tied at the waist by olive drab sashes and covered by breastplates of armor and conventional ammo belts. Combat boots had been replaced by loose-fitting sandals. Confederation Marines typically wore standard issue C-524 space armor, single piece units donned via an opening on the left side. Equipped with C-532 life support systems, the suits afforded them the ability to operate in a multitude of environments and struck a familiar image with all military personnel. These Pilgrim Marines looked like a pair of monks wielding C-47 ballistic assault rifles instead of the holy books of Ivar Chu. Despite their dress, they did brandish the same badass attitudes as non-Pilgrim Marines, and that characteristic even Ivar Chu McDaniel could not educate or "enlighten" away.
Hands raised, he and Paladin had shifted down the loading ramp and into supercruiser's aft flight deck, once a meager housing for twenty or thirty fighters and bombers, now a spectacle of recently added runways, aprons, and berths that extended nearly two hundred meters longer than the Tiger Claw's. Rapiers and Broadswords stood in rows that stretched so far into the distance that Blair had blinked to make sure he had not witnessed an illusion. Still, the rows were spread wide apart, and there probably weren't more than sixty or seventy fighters. Even as Paladin continued to scrutinize their enemy's strike potential, Blair had taken note of the dozens of techs who also wore robes and sandals similar to the Marines, though their jobs were identified by different colored sashes rather than by the color-specific coveralls worn by Confed personnel.
"What's with the costumes?" Blair had asked Paladin. "Looks like a martial arts academy in here."
"Pilgrims are all about tradition, and this one was obviously adopted from other cultures and religions. The robes are ceremonial reminders of oneness, of purity, of simplicity, and they're made of ko'a'ka. Produces a calming effect similar to tobacco."
"They don't look calm. Just ridiculous."
That remark had caused one of the Marines to jam his muzzle between Blair's shoulders. Wincing from the pain, Blair had wisely decided to remain silent for the rest of the trip to the brig. Along the way, they had been met by the scowls and cutting remarks of dozens of robed crew members, and though Blair shared their ancestry, he felt alienated by these people; however, they couldn't know his mother had been a Pilgrim.
The group had finally reached the brig, a narrow, utilitarian chamber with six cells on each side of the passage. There, Blair and Paladin had sat for hours, highly entertained by the dura-steel walls and the buzz of sparse lighting. Blair's only visit to a cap ship brig had been during the standard walking tour. Naval brigs hadn't changed much over the centuries. You had your walls, your bars, your sweet-smelling sink and toilet. You wouldn't find sophisticated energy barriers or hyperlined plumbing in Confederation brigs, just the cheap, effective, old-fashioned discomforts of imprisonment.
Surprisingly enough, Blair had discovered that the mattress on the cot was actually thicker and more comfortable than the one in his quarters back on the Claw — an illustration of military prioritizing at its finest, with thugs sleeping more comfortably than officers.
Paladin hadn't paid much attention to Blair's comments regarding the bunk. In fact, he had grown more restless, and the color had all but faded from his cheeks.
Noting that, Blair now mustered the courage to confront his mentor. "Are you all right, sir?"
"What?"
"Are you all right?"
Paladin blinked off the cobwebs of his introspection and faced Blair. "Yeah. It's just this wait."
"How long has it been since you've seen her?"
"I'm not sure. We bumped into each other a few times since she left. It's probably been five years. I guess I can wait another hour."
"With all due respect, sir, you look pretty nervous."