It’s dark... so cold... what have you done to me? Where have you taken me? Why is it so cold?

Christopher... Chris... can you hear me?

Yes. Who are you?

Your guardian angel, Christopher.

Angel? Angel... my Angel...

So prevalent in your thoughts is she. Do you remember her?

You didn’t answer my ques—

Do you remember her?

Yes... yes, I remember... how can I forget?

You remember her. She was your lover.

Yes... no... more than that. 

She was your lover.

You don’t understand... 

Then tell me.

She was born in Brussels, Belgium, on May 31st, 2626... the daughter of Pierre Christian Devereaux and Marie Sousex Devereaux. Her family moved to Dewey Station 5 near Pluto, then—

No, Christopher... you misunderstand. Tell me of you and her.

Planet Hilthros; TCNSA Academy
The Sirius System, Terra Quadrant, Sol Sector
2653.319; 1225 Hours (CST)

“Damn..."

Cadet Christopher "Maverick" Blair hopped out of the sim pod, his shoulders heaving in disgust. A minute ago he’d been flying an Arrow Mk1 on Archer and Maniac’s wing against two waves of Dralthi Is and Salthi fighters. He bit it—he’d let his feelings get in the way again... his feelings for Gwen. 

His wingman and friend since he’d joined the Academy in ’50, Cadet Gwen "Archer" Bowman hurried over to him. By the look on the brunette’s face, Blair realized she knew. "What’s wrong, Maverick?" she inquired.

All of his reflexes, his quick handling, combat instinct—none of it made any difference in the cockpit when he was torn up inside by conflicting emotions. Commodore Tolwyn would give him a verbal lashing or two if he found out.

He’d came to realize his feelings a week ago, after returning from flying a training mission off the Bengal-class TCS Tiger’s Claw during the Dolos Sivar-Eshrad incident. Every day since had been a struggle—wanting to do something about it, not wanting to ruin their friendship. Oh, he’d had his share of girlfriends in the past—one of Maniac’s many reasons for starting an eternal rivalry with him—but that wasn’t the issue. "Nothing," was his eventual response. 

"Don’t lie to me."

"Okay. I’m tired."

"Well, maybe it’s time y—"

"Aw, there you go, Gwen," piped Cadet Todd "Maniac" Marshall, Blair’s friend and rival. He’d popped out of his own sim pod and walked over to give him a hard time, as usual. "... Stressing over Maverick. C’mon, you two, it’s lunchtime." 

Gwen gave Blair a long, deep look before turning away to follow Maniac. Maniac would probably end up with her, unless his pigheadedness and self-righteousness ended up turning her away.

In the next month he was scheduled to fly training missions off the TCS Formidable, an Exeter-class destroyer in the Goddard Sixth Fleet. Maniac, Archer, and himself had already officially graduated the Academy with the rest in the Class of ’53 on May 11th. Once Flight School came up in the first quarter of the year to come, Blair would be up for a permanent posting.

Blair promised himself he would never let himself develop feelings for another friend for as long as he remained in the Space Force.

Your promise... keep it you did not.

No.

Tell me... when did you first acknowledge your feelings for this... "Angel"?

TCS Tiger’s Claw; Flight Deck
The Enyo System, Day Quadrant, Vega Sector
2654.075; 0140 Hours (CST)

Lieutenant JG Blair was in the bigtime now—permanent posting to the TCS Tiger’s Claw, CV-7, in its 88th Fighter Wing as a replacement pilot. He had yet to speak to either Captain Sansky or Commander Gerald, but the 88th FW’s Wing Commander, one Colonel Peter Halcyon, had assigned him to Black Lion Squadron and sent him on his way.

Blair ambled toward a row of F44-A and CF-117b Rapier medium attack fighters, admiring their silver, battle-scored fuselages and barrel-shaped rotating laser cannons/dual-pulse barrel neutron guns that formed their brassy noses that gave them a fearsome if not sleek appearance. Shorter than the CF-105 Scimitars and Arrow Mk1s he’d flown at the Academy, Flight School, and on his cadet squadron’s first few visits to the Claw at only 9 meters, there was a retro quality about them he had to admire. He was still searching the room for his and Maniac’s welcoming party. He came to the first fighter, number thirty-five. Her heavily patched armor and carbon scorching bespoke numerous round trips to Hell. He felt like a kid as he pictured himself in the cockpit, diving onto a Dralthi’s tail, locking target and—

He repressed a chill and lifted a computer slate from a rolling tool cart. The slate showed the fighter’s mission status. She had come in less than eight hours earlier from a sortie on the fringe of the Enyo System. Her next pilot had yet to be assigned. Not bothering to read more, Blair replaced the slate and hurried up the cockpit ladder. He peered furtively around the deck for a second and, seeing that no one watched, climbed into the pit.

Although the instrument panels remained dark, he could easily imagine the left Visual Display Unit reporting battle damage, the right VDU showing options for the vidcomm system and the targeting screen. The circular radar display, just left of center, depicted a wave of red blips above him. "Break and attack," he told his ghostly wingman.

"Two Dralthis on your tail—one above, one below."

Blair felt a jolt in his gut, then looked down toward his inquisition. In her late twenties, she stood nearly as tall as him, her shoulder-length hair a deep brown laced with gold curls. The shadows beneath her eyes and streak of lubricant on her cheek did little to mar her beauty. However, the oil-stained disposable plasticine coveralls she wore weren’t exactly flattering on anyone. With a socket wrench in one hand, an x-ray scanner in the other, she raised a thin brow and continued: "You’ve got five, maybe ten second—the clock is ticking. What do you do?"

"Simple. I go vertical and inverted, do a one-eighty at full throttle, apply the brakes, and drop in behind them."

"Bang. You’re dead. Not fast enough. Dralthis are too quick—particularly in a climb. You’ve just taken a missile up your tailpipe."

No lower-ranked tech had ever spoken to Blair this way. What did she hope to prove? Was she bitter over not being a pilot? Why the callous shield?

"Okay. Reverse the situation," she said. "You’re locked on a Dralthi. It goes evasive, enters an asteroid belt. Clock is ticking."

With a loud snort, Blair pointed ahead. "I’m locked on. There’s no such thing as evasive because—"

"Bang. Dead again. It’s an ambush. Five or six fighters hide behind rocks the size of your swollen head and pounce—a Kilrathi gang-bang."

An intense heat washed into Blair’s face, and he balled his hands into fists.

She set down her tools and begun untying her coveralls. "What’s the matter? Did I bruise your ego?"

"No. I’m just not used to getting combat tips from a grease monkey."

As the words left Blair’s mouth, he saw her step out of the coveralls to reveal her blood-red flightsuit. The insignia on that suit indicated the extent of Blair’s foolishness.

"I’m Lieutenant Commander Jeannette Devereaux—your squadron commander. You have a name, nugget?"

Blair straightened and saluted her, not that his after-the-fact respect would mean anything. "First Lieutenant Christopher Blair, ma’am."

That was your first meeting with her, Christopher. 

Yes...

I asked when you first acknowledged your feelings for her.

F44-A Rapier 102 
The Sol System, Terra Quadrant, Sol Sector
2654.076; 1315 HOURS (CST)

Blair switched off the comm in his borrowed Rapier, silencing Deck Boss Raznick’s tirade. The boss would have to forgive Blair’s reckless approach. He plowed through the energy curtain and blew the canopy as the Rapier came to a wailing hover and abruptly descended. Landing skids slapped hard on the deck.

Standing in his cockpit, Blair spotted the Merchantman-class Errant Diligent across the hangar.  A crowd had gathered near her loading ramp. He jumped from the fighter, then sprinted toward the commotion.

Commodore James "Paladin" Taggart, Commander Gerald, and Maniac stared over the shoulders of two medics as they struggled to revive Lt. Commander Devereaux. She lay on a lowered gurney, and her back arched as one medic waved a pen-shaped defibrillator over her heart.

Maniac broke away from the group. "Son of a bitch, you made it."

Blair’s gaze returned to Devereaux. "What about her?"

"Pure luck that I found her at all," Taggart said. "She must’ve turned off her beacon so as not to tip off the Kilrathi. She had eight seconds left on her self-destruct when I nudged the pod, woke her up, and got her to deactivate. She passed out before I got her moored. Brave girl."

He slipped past Taggart and dropped to his knees beside Devereaux. Her ashen face made him tremble. "Come on, Angel. Come back. Don’t you die on me." He took her cold, limp hand in his own. "Come on, Angel."

Maniac hunkered down and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

The grim-faced medics continued waving their instruments over Devereaux. One placed a small disc on the base of her neck and studied readings on a palmtop scanner. "Hold on now. Wait. Yeah, there it is. I got a pulse."

"That’s right, Angel," Blair said, squeezing her hand. "Don’t you die on me."

Her eyelids fluttered and finally opened. She coughed a little, then turned her head and smiled through her grogginess. "What did you say?"

"I said don’t die on me."

She licked her parched lips. "Is that a suggestion or an order?"

"That’s a definite order," he said with a stifled laugh.

Their gazes locked, and she did not look away. Her lips welcomed him. He leaned toward her, going in for the kiss.

You kissed her... but that was all it was at that point, was it not?

Yes... but not for long.

No?

No.

TCS Tiger’s Claw; Conference Room
En route to Blytheheart System
The Tamayo System, Day Quadrant, Vega Sector
2654.083; 1320 Hours (CST)

After the Combat Assessment Meeting, Blair remained in his seat while the others filed out. Angel gathered up her files and data disks, then noticed him. "You have a question, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, ma’am. How are you?"

"Haven’t we been here before?"

He got to his feet and homed in on her. "You seem tired. Angry, even. Anything I can do?"

She gazed longingly at the exit hatch. "Unless you have something regarding the assessment, Lieutenant, you’ll have to cut me loose."

"I’m afraid I can’t do that, ma’am. I think something’s bothering you, and you’re taking it out on me and Maniac." Blair didn’t believe that, but he suspected he would get a rise out of her.

And the deep lines of incredulity that mapped out her face confirmed his suspicions. "The only thing bothering me right now is Maniac’s attitude. And yours. You seem to think that only end results count, that the chain of command doesn’t matter, that protocol doesn’t matter. You should’ve become mercenaries instead of military pilots. I finally got around to reading your Flight School evals. They’re pretty good, which surprises me given your recent behavior. You might’ve had them fooled, but you can’t fool me. You told me that you had a reputation for being a by-the-book flyer. What happened out there?"

"Maniac’s a major pain in the ass, but I still kind of like him. If I had a sister, I wouldn’t let him near her, but when it comes to the Kilrathi, he’s a pit bull on my wing. Yeah, he’s unpredictable and unreliable. But he racks up the kills. And maybe when it comes down to it, surviving is the only thing that counts."

"If he doesn’t square himself away, he won’t survive. Start preparing for that now."

He narrowed his gaze. "Is that what you’re doing with me?"

"Are we finished, Lieutenant?" Angel checked her watch-phone. "I have a stack of fire-to-kill ratio reports waiting for me."

"Why do you keep shutting me out?"

"Good day, Lieutenant."

Blair noticed a definite slump to her shoulders as she took off. He thought back to the time he had gone to her quarters and she had told him how she had gotten close to Lieutenant Commander Chen "Bossman" Kien. They hadn’t been lovers but the best of friends. Then Bossman had died, and she had lost faith in relationships and distrusted getting close to anyone. She had instituted an unwritten policy that said those who died in combat never existed. If you asked after a fallen comrade, the response would be "Who?" Blair had taken exception to the policy, and when Lieutenant Rosie "Sassy" Forbes had died, he believed that he had penetrated Angel’s shield and had made her feel the pain of Forbes’s loss. You couldn’t just bury your grief. You had to deal with it and use it to make you stronger. No complex psychiatry involved there.

But maybe he hadn’t changed Angel at all. Maybe she wouldn’t get close because she still feared having to deal with that loss. He understood her response, but he couldn’t let her push him away when he believed that behind her mental bulwark lay untapped feelings for him. He wasn’t being immodest. He had seen the look in her eyes when they had revived her after she had ejected in her pod. He had moved in for the kiss, and she had been willing to accept it. Then a medic had come between them. Now her own fear created an equally powerful barrier.

Having enough time to think, he decided to do something about it. He was going to try and kiss her again.

By the time Blair reached Angel’s hatch, the notion of barging in and taking her into his arms felt so powerful that he lingered outside her door, trembling and listening from inside. Then he remembered her saying she had reports to make; she was probably in her squadron commander’s office. He rolled his eyes and hauled himself toward his quarters.

When the hatch opened, he found Angel stripped down to bra and panties and standing near his bunk. She wrapped an arm around his neck, dragged him inside, then kissed him hard and twirled her tongue around his. The hatch cycled shut, and her fingers fumbled for the buttons of his utilities. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Maniac’s empty bunk and figured that Angel had somehow taken care of that technicality.

"Lieutenant," she moaned after breaking their embrace. "What we’re about to do is classified, compartmentalized, and highly erotic."

"Ma’am, are you sure that—"

She put a finger to his lips. "Just get naked." 

And that was your first union?

If that’s what you want to call it.

You didn’t have her yet, though, did you? Distant she still became... detached...

How do you know these things about her? About me?

She became distant, didn’t she? 

Yes...

TCS Tiger’s Claw; Flight Wing Rec Room
The Enyo System, Day Quadrant, Vega Sector
2654.287; 1640 Hours (CST)

The bartender set the glass he’d been cleaning with a rag on the counter, perking up as he noticed Blair. "Heya, Pilgrim. Belly on up and take a load off. What can I get you?" Shotlgass asked.

"Hell’s Kitchen," Blair spoke, nodding. "And the callsign’s ‘Maverick’ again, Shotglass."

The old war vet went to work on Blair’s drink. "Sure thing, kid."

The Pilgrim resurgence barely behind them all, the Claw found itself recalled to the Enyo System. The Kilrathi High Command had consolidated their military HQ in the Venice System and secured a hold on nearly the entire sector, encompassing nearly every Border Worlds system and encroaching over the Free Republic of Landreich territories. In what ConFleet was already calling the "Vega Campaign," the Claw was ordered in to break the Cats’ hold.

Outside of personnel changes, much was the same. By order of ConFleet HQ, Captain Gerald had been promoted to commodore, transferred off to Alexandria II Naval Base in the McAuliffe System, and made the executive officer of the Seventh Fleet. They had a new CO now, a stoic individual by the fitting name of Captain Thorn. The now-Commander Obutu was his XO.

Commodore James "Paladin" Taggart, the old "Mother Hen" himself, transferred his commission to the Space Force, took a grade reduction to Major when he realized he could still put a few more years in the cockpit. Blair could see him trying to hide it, but Taggart was still suffering after what he had gone through in the past months with Amity Aristee.

Lieutenant Joseph "Knight" Khumalo, MIA since his CF-131 Broadsword was shot out from under him on 2654.076, was back on the Claw with a promotion to Captain. An incursion by Rear Admiral Tolwyn’s Fourteenth Fleet into the Trk’Pahn Sector seized the Trk’K T’Lon System and the Kilrathi starpost it held. Marines swept the starpost, finding a small number of POWs. Knight was among them. He did not seem very keen on talking about his experience, so everyone seemed to respect that and give him his space.

Tolwyn... Blair was glad to get the Admiral out of his hair. He’d once had overwhelming respect for the man as a fawning cadet—he’d heard and read all the lore about the Great Geoff Tolwyn’s participation with his late father, Arnold Blair, in the Grand Fleet’s movements against the Pilgrims in the ’30s, the First and Second McAuliffe Engagements in ’34 and ’39, and his role in Custer’s Carnival. He was still Confed’s Chief of Fleet Operations, commanding the Fourteenth Fleet off his flagship, the supercruiser Concordia. When Blair looked into the Admiral’s eyes after the Dolos Sivar-Eshrad, when he and his wingmen’s lives had been thrown up like statistics to pull a meager victory out of things, he saw a man consumed by a life of war; a man that had lost his regard for the value of human life. Blair prayed he would never become like that.

The real shocker was with Lieutenant Commander Chen "Bossman" Kien. He’d been thought dead on 2654.070, his body recovered but fatally dosed with radiation after he had taken on a patrol of four Dralthi. Upon medical examination after a stasis trip to a Sol facility, he was found to merely be comatose in a state of deep coma. After his condition was treated over an extended period his rehabilitation began, only recently completed. After he’d taken shore leave to see his family, Blair couldn’t understand why the man had turned down retirement to return to the Claw. He now held the rank of Major in the Space Force.

Gone were the Broadswords and Rapiers of old. Filling the Claw’s hangar were Hornet light fighters, Scimitar medium fighters, and Raptor heavy fighters—all of them upgraded versions of the fighters he’d flown at the Academy.

With the official decommissioning of the last line of Rapiers in the past month, Colonel Halcyon temporarily closed the Black Lion Squadron until the new line of Rapier IIs arrive—expected to be only a matter of days. That put Angel out of her squadron commander position, forcing her to take a reduction in rank to Captain and a place in the Blue Devil Squadron flying a Scimitar. Blair wasn’t so lucky—he’d gotten stuck in the Killer Bees Squadron flying the Hornets. Weak shields and 3cm of armor was all that stood between a Cat’s fire and a breached hull.

There were new faces. Major Michael "Iceman" Casey—a Clint Eastwood look-alike that acted the part who had lost his family to the Cats on Vega IX—and 2nd Lt. Peter "Puma" Youngblood—a plebe fresh out of Flight School that reminded Blair of himself—were at the top of the list. Additionally, he’d also gotten to know 1st Lt. Mariko "Spirit" Tanaka, one of the more reclusive pilots of the 88th FW.

Lately Angel had been intentionally ignoring Blair, seemingly avoiding him when they’d run into each other between missions. She was shutting him out again and there was nothing he could do about it.

"Och, laddy, take a seat an’ tilt a glass with ol’ Paladin." 

Blair turned from the bar to see Paladin and Angel seated at the table beside the killboard. Reluctantly upon seeing Angel, Blair pulled up a chair beside the Scotsman.

"I recall once when I was just a lieutenant like yourself there. We were flyin’ patrol o’er Accord, the fourth planet in the Alliance System. These four Kilrathi Salthi came zoomin’ in with the sun at their backs—"

"What is the point, monsieur?" Angel interjected, grimacing. There was clearly something bothering her. "There is one, oui?"

Paladin gave her a mock-scowl. He hid his grief well behind the thick mustache he had grown and the thick, Scottish brogue he’d been putting on since returning to life as a pilot. "I was leadin’ up ta it, lass. That day, we learned that a Salthi will always turn ta the left. It’s got something ta do with the way ’er engines an’ ducts are arranged. So when you tail a Salthi, watch ta the left. That’s where ’e’ll go when ’e makes ’is break!"

"Thanks, Paladin. I’ll remember that." Polishing off his glass, Blair turned to Angel. "How’re you doing, Jeannette?"

"Ah, bonjour, Lieutenant," Angel spoke, looking up from her PPC. Had she just called him by his rank? Off-duty? "I am just reviewing some figures on our recent encounters with the Kilrathi. You would like to know what I have learned, perhaps?"

"Sure."

"The Dralthi is the Kilrathi fighter seen most in this sector. These figures show that 1.4 missiles are required to destroy the Dralthi, while over seven direct laser hits are necessary to destroy the same vessel. I hope this information is useful to you, Lieutenant."

"I'm, ah, sure I’ll find some use for it." Blair nodded, forcing his emotions down as he stood. 

He had been right—Angel was ignoring him.

It was like that for awhile, wasn’t it? Her ignoring you?

Yes... or at least pretending like the last couple of months hadn’t happened...

But you would win her heart eventually, yes?

Yes... but that wasn’t for a long time.

A long time?

Yes. Twelve years.

That’s a long time.

A very long time...

FORWARD TO NEXT CHAPTER
RETURN TO MAIN MENU
RETURN TO WC FICTION SECTION