Starhunt: A Star Wolf Novel

by David Gerrold

  “Eighty-seven lights—sir!”

  “I heard you.”

  “Sir! The engines are overheating—”

  “I know it!”

  Suddenly, Barak is standing beside him. “Damn it, Korie! Admit it! We’ve lost him! Now let go! Shut down those engines before they burn out—”

  Korie looks at him, his pale eyes suddenly hard. “We’ll shut down when I say we’ll shut down!”

  “Yes, sir!” Barak spits out the words. “But you’d better do it while you still have engines to shut down.”

  Korie stares at the other. They lock eyes for a clanging moment—

  —And then the moment is over. Korie reaches for the button.

  “Engine room.”

  The answer is immediate; the crewman has been waiting at the mike. “Sir.”

  “Stand by to shut down.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Korie disconnects. There is nothing more to say. He looks at Barak, but the astrogator is silent.

  Korie turns away then, calls to the warp control console, “Prepare to collapse warp. Neutralize the secondaries.”

  The routine takes hold. Crewmen move to obey and orders rattle down through the ranks.

  “Remove the interlocks. Stand by to neutralize.”

  “Interlocks removed. Standing by.”

  “Cycle set at zero. Begin phasing.”

  “Cycle set at zero. Beginning phasing.”

  Around the horseshoe, crewmen exchange wary glances. The smell of defeat hangs heavy across the bridge. The chase has been abandoned.

  Korie sinks lower in his seat; he stares grimly ahead.

  (So near . . . so near and yet so goddamned far!)

  Confirming lights begin to appear on the boards. Red warning lights blink out, are replaced by yellow standbys. The strident clanging of the alarm dies away, leaving only a slow fading echo and a hollow ringing in the ears.

  (So this is how it ends . . . with a whimper. With just a futile petering out of momentum . . .)

  The ringing fades into a persistent beeping, a sound that has been continuous for some time. Korie looks at the chair arm. A yellow communicator light flashes insistently.

  He flicks it. “Bridge. Korie here.”

  “This is Brandt.” The captain’s thick voice comes filtered through the speaker.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s the trouble? What was the alarm?”

  “We’ve lost it, sir. We’ve lost the bogie.”

  There is a muffled curse, then a pause. “I’ll be right up.” The lighted panel winks out.

  Korie stares at it. (Damn it all anyway!) He bites angrily at his lip, a nervous habit. (Damn! It all happened too fast!)

  “Sir.” It’s one of the warp engineers. “The secondary fields are neutralized.”

  “Good,” Korie says dourly. It is not good. “Go ahead. Collapse the warp.”

  The man turns back to his console. On the screen over his head the third red bar drops to zero. Numbers one and five follow suit; a second later, the rest.

  Imperceptibly—on a submolecular level—the ship shudders throughout it length. Its protective cocoon of warped space unfolds, dissolves; the ship mutters back into normal unstressed space. The bright flickering screens that circle the upper walls of the bridge go dark. They become sudden windows of hollow blackness. Space, deep and vast, repeated a dozen empty times, stares hungrily into the bridge.

  Simultaneously, the crew reels under the sudden surge of added weight as the excess power flows back into the gravitors. One of the men stumbles in front of Korie while crossing the pit.

  “Watch your step,” Korie mutters automatically, hardly noticing.

  The man catches himself, cursing softly. He looks up to the horseshoe. “Damn it, Rogers! Pay attention to what you’re supposed to be doing.”

  The object of his wrath turns to apologize, embarrassed. He stammers something to the bridge in general.

  “Forget it,” the man growls in annoyance, swinging himself up onto the horseshoe. “Answer your board.”

  Rogers turns back to his console, flicks glumly at a blinking light. “Gravity control here. Go ahead.”

  “This is the galley. . . .” says a gruff, sarcastic voice. “I don’t suppose you would be so kind as to warn me the next time you’re planning to up the G’s like that, would you?”

  “I’m sorry, Cookie,” he says. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Well, ‘sorry’ isn’t going to bring back a dozen cakes that you ruined. Just watch it, dammit!”

  Rogers stammered, “I’ll try—” But the light winks out abruptly, cutting him off. The other crewmen on the horseshoe snort contemptuously at his discomfort.

  “Hey, Rogers,” growls one of them, “don’t give Cookie any complaints, huh? You got it rough as it is.”

  Rogers ignores him, stares glumly at his control board. Thin and round-shouldered, he toys with one of his safety switches, pretends to adjust it.

  The man steps in closer and lowers his voice. “For your own good, huh? Nobody likes having his meals ruined just because some wobblehead isn’t watching his board, so pay attention, huh?” He scowls heavily. “Otherwise, you’re going to be eating your meals alone, boy—”

  A sudden motion at the back of the bridge—a panel in the rear wall slides open. The men on the horseshoe turn quickly back to their boards.

  Haloed by the orange light of the corridor behind, Captain Georj Brandt of the United Systems Command strides heavily into the room.

  TWO

  A starship is concerned with two kinds of velocity. There is the realized velocity of the ship in warp, and there is the inherent velocity of that same ship in normal space.

  A ship’s inherent velocity remains the same, no matter what it does while in warp. If a ship is traveling at 5,000 kilometers per second when it goes into warp, no matter how fast or how far it goes, when it comes out of warp, it will still be traveling at that same 5,000 kilometers per second (plus or minus a fractional gain, but that’s another story).

  Even if the warp is motionless, the ship may still be moving within it; or vice versa, if the warp is moving, it is possible for the ship to be at rest within.

  —From DR. HANS UNDERMEYER’s

  address to the Bridgeport

  Opportunities League,

  “Understanding Our Cosmos”

  Brandt is a big man, heavy-boned and husky. He glances quickly around the bridge, then steps down off the rear ledge to the Command and Control Seat.

  Korie glances up, slips out of the chair at his approach. Almost distastefully, the captain drops his wide frame into it and rasps, “All right, what seems to be the problem?”

  “We’ve had to shut down the warp. Number three generator is acting up again.”

  “Why? What is it this time?”

  “Engine room doesn’t know yet—probably this damned ship is getting old.” Brandt doesn’t react; Korie continues, “We’re stuck here until they find the trouble.” He glances forward, but the screen is empty. “And all we can do is watch our bogie escape. Every minute we sit here, he puts another three light hours between us.”

  Brandt grunts darkly, but he hasn’t time to sympathize with Korie’s problem. With a thick finger he taps the chair arm. “Engine room, this is Brandt.”

  The speaker crackles, “Leen here, sir.”

  “Chief, how soon can you have us going again?”

  “. . . Mmm, I wish I could tell you, but I don’t know—I don’t even know what’s wrong yet. I’ve got six men up in the webs—and they can’t find anything. Systems analysis doesn’t show anything wrong with the generator. I just climbed out of the well myself. I don’t know what it is, and it’s driving me out of my mind.”

  “All right, keep on it. I want to know what it is and how long it’ll take to fix.”

  “As soon as I know myself, Captain.”

  Brandt switches him off. His iron-gray eyes are troubled. He s
wivels right to face the astrogation console. “Mr. Barak.”

  Barak spins to face the captain. “Yes, sir?” With his dark skin he is almost invisible in the dim light of the bridge.

  “How near are we to the enemy sphere of influence?”

  Barak thinks a moment. “About nine light years.”

  “Any of the ships around?”

  “Not this far out, there shouldn’t be—but we’re running a probability check through EDNA to make sure.”

  “Good.” The captain’s granite features relax a bit. “What about the bogie? Can you catch him?”

  Barak grins—a broad, good-natured grin. “I may be good, Captain, but not that good.”

  “I take it, then, you can’t.”

  Barak shrugs his heavy shoulders. “That’s essentially it. In just about nineteen days he’ll be home free. Oh, we might be able to catch him if we could take after him right now at top speed—he hasn’t gained that much distance yet—but we’d still have to pace him and that’d take us into enemy territory.”

  “No good,” says Brandt. “On his home ground, he won’t come out of warp anywhere but near a war base, and I can’t fight him there. All right,” he exhales loudly. “Start plotting a course for home.” Behind him, Korie scowls in frustration. Barak nods and turns back to this console. Jonesy moves up beside him and the two confer softly.

  Brandt taps the button again, swivels farther to the right. He makes a complete circuit of the bridge, glancing at each screen and console in turn, quickly scanning them for the information he wants.

  The ship is becalmed one-half light year out from the nearest star. Actually, becalmed isn’t the right word—the ship still has an inherent velocity of .07 4C; C representing the speed of light. But when one is used to figuring in multiples of C . . . well, for astrogational purposes, the ship is becalmed.

  The chair slides to a halt, once more facing forward. Korie stands dourly waiting.

  Ignoring him, Brandt leans back in the seat, pulling speculatively at his thick lower lip. His gray eyes focus on the empty screen ahead. Apparently, radec still hasn’t resighted the bogie.

  After a moment, he turns away; he glances around the dimly lit bridge. “Why is it so dark in here?” he mutters, then checks himself; he calls out, “Go to Condition Yellow—standby alert.”

  Slowly the lights come up, revealing the green-blue control room, revealing the age-stained walls and the use-worn equipment. Men are standing sullenly by their consoles, tunic flaps unbuttoned in the cramped heat. The air circulators whisper incessantly; the sound is an ever-present subliminal pressure, a steady hum just below the threshold of consciousness; but they cannot clear away the heavy smell of defeat that has added itself to the other stale odors of the ship.

  The captain shifts his big frame into a more comfortable position. “Hmph, that’s better.”

  Up on the horseshoe, a yellow light begins beeping on the gravity control board. Rogers answers it.

  “How’s your gravity now?” asks an acid voice. “Have you got enough power?”

  The crewman mumbles a hesitant reply.

  “What was that?” the intercom demands. “What did you say?”

  Rogers repeats it. “Gravity is holding steady at one zero zero.”

  “Yeah!” growls the other. “We noticed it when it snapped back up.”

  “Sorry,” Rogers apologizes.

  The other replies with a loud contemptuous sound.

  At this, both Korie and Brandt look up to the horseshoe. They exchange a glance.

  “There,” whispers Brandt. “That’s what we’re going to have to watch out for. Everybody’s a bit touchy now—especially since we’ve lost the kill.”

  “You want me to pull Rogers off the bridge? He’s only a kid.”

  “Uh-uh. Give him a chance to work his problems out for himself. I don’t want to start interfering in the crew’s affairs unless I have to.”

  Korie nods in grudging agreement; for once the captain is correct in his assessment of a situation. He straightens, running a hand through his light-colored hair, then moves back to the center of the pit, eyeing the men on the horseshoe.

  Brandt shifts his attention left to the warp control board. There, one of the engineers is hunched over it, arguing into a microphone, continuing a previous discussion with a counterpart in the engine room.

  “Did you check the secondaries again?”

  “Again and again and again,” answers the intercom. “I tell you the secondaries are all right.”

  “Well, everything checks out on this end. That means it’s got to be something down there—something with your machines.”

  “Listen, wobblehead, if it were the goddamn machines, don’t you think we’d tell you?!!”

  The engineer exhales slowly, “All right, if the trouble isn’t down there, then just where in the hell is it?!!”

  The voice from the communicator is filtered, but its tone is recognizable. “I’ll come up there and show you if—hey! I just thought of something. . . !” He bleeps out, leaving the other in open-mouthed frustration.

  Watching, Brandt rubs the thick bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes narrow thoughtfully. Something will have to be done about morale.

  A panel at his elbow blinks. He answers it with a quick jab. “Brandt here. What is it?”

  “Captain, this is Leen. We just had a thought down here. Suppose the trouble is in one of the grids. . . ?”

  “Go on. . . .”

  “Systems analysis shows a dead area in the second phase circuitry—that could be it. I’d like to send two men outside to check it.”

  Brandt lifts a meaty hand as if to ward off a fly. It is a tradition that only the captain may order a man into his suit. “Permission granted.”

  “Thank you,” Leen bleeps out.

  The captain glances at the screens—nothing but dark, shining starfields. He slaps the chair arm and swivels 180 degrees. “You, what’s your name?” The question is directed up to the man on the autolog, a thick fellow with sharp uneven features and small darting eyes.

  The man drops his feet off the edge of his console, straightens in his seat. “Willis, sir. Ike Willis; crewman second class.”

  “Right. You’re on the log?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want a visual on the main screens. Can you handle it?”

  “Yes, sir.” A puzzled expression crosses his face. “A visual of what, sir?”

  Brandt says slowly, “Of the external maintenance operation.”

  “Oh.”

  “Can you handle that?”

  “Huh? Oh, sure, I can handle it.”

  “Good. I want it complete.” He taps the swivel button.

  “Yes, sir.” But he’s talking to the captain’s broad back. Willis shrugs, then turns back to his console and bends to a mike. “Air lock. This is the bridge. Give me some camera, please.” He waits for a confirming light, then touches appropriate buttons on his board.

  On the big screen forward, two men—clad only in T-shirts and tights—are shown in the cramped air lock, struggling with their bright-colored leotard-like space suits, one red and one yellow.

  The material of the suits is lightweight, strong, flexible—but not very elastic. Of necessity, it must be tight fitting; it is a second skin. Two sour-looking crewmen are helping them with the sleeves and leggings.

  A fifth man is cramped against one wall, adjusting the helmets. He snaps a camera onto the left side of one—whatever the man is looking at will be relayed back to the bridge.

  When the men are at last secure in their suits, their helmets are lowered over their heads. The “valets” complete the connections to the mobility and life-support backpack units and check them out. That done, and the units activated, the men snap their face-plates shut, check the helmet seals for security, and lower the appropriate filters into place. They are now bright-colored golems, each with a great dark eye for a face.

  “Radio
working?” asks one.

  The other touches his device-studded “chastity belt,” a plastic frame around his waist and genitals. “Right.”

  A wall panel flashes red—the other crewmen disappear through a hatch which slides impatiently shut after them. A hiss signals that the air is rapidly being drained from the chamber.

  The suits do not puff out; only an occasional bubble of air, trapped under their second skins, reveals that the pressure is quickly decreasing. And then even these too evaporate away. “Bridge, we’re ready to go.”

  “Hold on,” answers a technician. “I still have some red lights.” He watches as one by one they wink out. “All right, I’m green now.” He thumbs a switch and the outer hatch of the air lock slides away. On the big screen, a shaft of black widens above the two men.

  “Gravity. . . ?” prompts one of them.

  Watching from the pit, Korie calls, “Rogers, cut the gravity in the air lock.”

  “Right, answers Rogers. He peers curiously at his board, “Now where in the. . . ?” He pauses, momentarily puzzled.

  Quickly, Korie steps up onto the horseshoe. He reaches past the younger man and flicks a button. “There, that’s it.”

  “Oh,” Rogers puts his finger on the control.

  “It’s not necessary to hold it. It’s an automatic fade.”

  “Oh.” He takes his hand away.

  Korie looks at him curiously, then drops the thought. Rogers is young, yes—but he must know the board or he wouldn’t be on it. He drops down into the pit, again turns his attention to the main screen.

  The screen flickers and picks up the view from an externally mounted hull camera: a foreshortened square of yellow light against a dark bulge—the open hatch of the air lock. Two dark shapes move up and out of it.

  At the rear of the bridge, Willis stabs a button on his console, bends his acne-scarred face to a mike. “Can I have some light for those hull cameras?”

  “Right,” answers his communicator.

  “Thanks.” He checks his monitors, then glances forward again, where two space-suited men float dark against the night, blotting out the stars. A bright blaze of light suddenly washes across them, turning them back into gay-colored figures. They shine with harsh fluorescence, one a garish red, the other intense yellow. Caught in the beam of the single remote spotlight, they glare flat and shadowless. Their shadows are hidden by their own bright bodies and they appear as two hard cutouts hung against the void.