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see past the man's mysteries. Sansky kept his own secrets carefully stowed,
but he guessed that Taggart's cache far exceeded his. So be it. Life had
become far more interesting. And dangerous.
9
UNITED
CONFEDERATION
CARRIER TIGER CLAW
MARCH 16, 2654
0930 HOURS
ZULU TIME
VEGA SECTOR
ETA TO CLASS 2
PULSAR FIVE HOURS
With the lights off and his eyes closed, Blair lay on his cot in the
quarters he now shared with Marshall. He needed to sleep. Needed to
dream. Dream about anyplace but the carrier. He thought of dreams he
would like to have, dreams of home, of Nephele, of his aunt and uncle who
had worked so hard to raise him after his parents had died. He thought of
old girlfriends, of old summer jobs, of a particular July 17 birthday party
that had marked the end of his teenage years. He considered his time at
the academy on Hilthros, days that felt like several millennia ago. His life
had become a streak of indistinct memories. Nothing stood out anymore.
All of it seemed blighted by his depression. The only thing tangible was the
Pilgrim cross around his neck. A blessing. A curse.
How did I get here? I was just a kid who liked to wrestle and was
raised on a farm. I joined up to get flying experience, not to become
another Confederation statistic. I remember my uncle telling me never to
join the service. What has it done for me? What has it really done for
me?
The lights snapped on. Covering his eyes, Blair sat up. He heard a
shuffling of boots, a zipper being pulled up, and the rat-tie of metal on
metal. He squinted and saw Marshall standing in a crimson flight suit, his
battered helmet tucked in the crook of his arm.
"We going out?" Blair asked.
"No. Just me. I pulled security with Lieutenant Forbes."
"So why did you wake me up?"
Marshall shook his index finger at Blair's cross and opened his mouth.
But Blair beat him to the punch. "So I changed my mind. But I can't
change who I am."
"No, you can't. But you made a promise back at the academy that you
wouldn't wear that anymore. I'm not saying to throw it away. I think you
know what I'm saying."
"It brings me luck, Todd."
"It's going to get you killed Chris."
Blair took the cross in hand, as though to protect it. "I was wearing this
when I made the jump. You heard Taggart. A NAV-COM can't do what I
did."
"That had nothing to do with luck. It was about training and desire."
Marshall reached toward Blair. "Take it off."
Drawing back, Blair held the cross tightly against his chest. "It's who I
am. Or who I should be."
Marshall snorted loudly. "You don't even know what it means. They lost
the war. Winners write the history books and make the rules. You want to
play on a team that doesn't exist anymore? Think about it."
He recognized the truth in Marshall's words. But he still felt powerfully
intrigued by his heritage, by the feeling, and by what the cross truly
represented. He couldn't abandon the past just to make things right with
the other pilots.
"This is the big show," Marshall went on. "It's either kill or be killed."
"Man, that's profound. Did it come to you in a vision?"
"Shuddup. You know what I mean. And you really messed up this
time."
"I didn't do anything."
"Yeah, you did. And now you need someone watching your back. Let me
tell you something, buddy. I can't always be there."
"I don't expect that from anyone especially you."
"Oh man," Marshall said, turning away. "You're going to get whacked.
If not by the Kilrathi, then "
"This is getting old."
Marshall collapsed on his cot, smoothed back his hair, then kneaded his
bloodshot eyes. "I'm trying to have a sensitive moment. I don't know why I
bother." He sprang from the cot. "Wish me luck."
"Luck? What about desire?"
With a wink, Marshall said, "You've seen Lieutenant Forbes. You know
I got the desire." He headed for the hatch.
"Hey, Marshall luck."
The trademark grin came and went, along with its owner.
Blair fell back on his cot, pillowing his head in his hands. He gazed up
at the lovely overhead, bedecked by flexible tubes and ductwork. He
shouldn't complain. Having to share a cabin with just one other pilot
might be the last luxury available to first lieutenants aboard the Tiger
Claw. During training on the TCS Formidable, he had been assigned to a
berth with seventeen other pilots and had slept on a lower bunk above a
two-hundred-and-ten-pound Neanderthal with a hearty appetite for fried
onions, cabbage, and broccoli.
What was it that Marshall had said that now troubled him so much?
Something about the cross. That he didn't even know what it meant. That
he didn't really know who he was and where he had come from. Without
that knowledge, how could he forge a clear path for himself? How could he
could keep the memory of his parents vivid? How could he stop
wondering?
"Merlin. Activate."
The little man walked along the edge of a storage locker on the opposite
side of the room. "My God. What time is it?"
"The Pilgrims. What can you tell me about them?" Blair sat up and
crawled to the edge of the cot.
"Pilgrims. Yes. Earth history. They were English Separatists who
founded the colony of Plymouth in New England, circa 1620."
"Wrong ones."
The hologram shrugged, his tone soft and sympathetic. "I'm afraid I
have very little on the Pilgrims of this millennium. Your father wiped my
flash memory."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
"Don't you have anything? A temp file you forgot to erase?"
"I'm sorry, Christopher."
"That's all right."
Brightening, Merlin added, "I do know that since the Pilgrims were
defeated, not a single new quasar has been charted."
"You heard that from Taggart." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]