“We have twenty days power left in the cells! We’re only thirteen days of travel from base.”
“We can’t throw away our safety margin!”
Korie glances at the captain; abruptly, he crosses the pit to the warp control board. He leans across the technician there, Wolfe, and stabs angrily at it. Above, a screen flashes with a bright blue graph. Korie takes a step back and looks at it. “Now, look—we can do it—”
The captain raises his voice, “I’m not going to argue, Mr. Korie!”
“If you don’t believe me—ask your own engineers.” Korie grabs at Wolfe, standing by the console, pulls him toward the captain. “Tell him.”
Brandt looks at the man. “Well?”
Wolfe looks from Korie to Brandt and back to Korie again. The first officer’s upper lip glistens with tiny beads of sweat.
“Well?” asks Brandt. “Is there power or not—?”
“Uh—” Wolfe is fascinated by the intensity in Korie’s face—by the power he suddenly holds over the man. It is too much—abruptly, he looks at the captain. Brandt is every bit as intense, but there is something disturbing there—“Yes, sir. There’s power.”
Korie’s exhalation is a sharp, “I told you so.”
Wolfe adds. “There’s a five-day margin for error over and above the one that shows on the screens. We’re not supposed to count on it—”
“But it’s there, isn’t it?” demands Korie.
Wolfe nods. “Yes, sir, it is.”
“Thank you, Wolfe.” (Thank you for giving me back my bogie.) He turns to Brandt. “We can do it—we have to do it. If necessary, we can cut back to half power on the way home. We can spare five more days that way—six, even—”
“Korie, didn’t you hear him? We’re not supposed to count on it—” To Wolfe: “Why not?”
“Uh—because that’s the power that’s necessary to maintain threshold levels in the fields. If we had to unwarp for any reason, we wouldn’t be able to put them up again.” Wolfe mumbles the answer: he didn’t want to give it.
Brandt says to Korie, “You knew that, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“Never mind.” To Wolfe: “Go back to your board.”
Korie advances on Brandt. “Why don’t you want to make this kill, dammit?!! We can do it!”
“Only if you get him on the first shot—and I don’t care how well you’ve drilled this crew. They’re going to need more than one shot!”
“At least give me that one shot!”
“He’ll be shooting back at us, dammit! Evasive maneuvers cost power!! Your one shot could take us five or six days—once battle is joined, you have to make the kill or be killed yourself. One shot wouldn’t be enough for you, Mr. Korie. If you could have caught him before your ten days were up, you could have had your chance, but I can’t risk the safety of this ship—”
“This is a battle cruiser, Captain!! Certain risks are supposed to be taken—”
“I’ll decide when!”
A pause—one of those endless moments when two sets of eyes lock. And then—the moment is snatched away from them—
“Heavy distortions! The pattern is dopplering—he’s coming in!”
Korie whirls to stare at Jonesy; Brandt too. At the astrogation desk, Barak starts stabbing at buttons. “Dammit! He’s not coming in clearly; he must be using some kind of scrambler to disguise his warp—” To the intercom: “Radec, what are you doing?”
“I’m scanning, sir—full power! But he seems to be all over the stress field—”
Korie steps in close to listen, to watch.
“—and he’s coming in awfully fast.”
“How much time, Al?”
Barak looks at his board. “Six minutes. Maybe less.”
“Can you give me a target?”
“I’ll try—” To Jonesy: “Patch in EDNA to the gunnery crew.”
“Right.”
Korie steps back up onto the control dais; he pulls out his hand mike. “All hands, stand by for target information. Prepare for evasive maneuvers, patterns Three Beta, Six Gamma, Nine Delta. Stand by to—” The captain’s hand cuts him off.
“I didn’t give permission to order us into battle.”
“You didn’t tell me not to—we’ve got to be prepared—”
“We’re not going to meet that other ship in battle!”
“You gave me ten days—I still have five hours left—”
“I’ve change my mind. We’re heading for home.”
Korie is incredulous. “We’re going to run—??”
Brandt ignores him. To Barak: “Al, stand by to reverse polarities; set up an emergency course for home.”
“We’re being attacked, damn you—let me meet it!”
Brandt steps past him to the pilot console. “Reverse polarities; maintain full warp.”
“Aye, sir—”
Belay that order, mister—” Korie’s voice is knife-edge sharp. Into his hand mike: “Missile crews, stand by.” To Barak: “Al, go to those evasion patterns—”
Brandt turns to stare at him; Barak too. Other men on the bridge look up. Brandt says, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m going after that bogie—”
“Still closing,” calls Jonesy. “Four minutes to contact.”
“There’s no time to argue this, Korie—” To the pilot, Brandt says, “Reverse polarities.”
The man looks from Brandt to Korie to Brandt again. One is the captain—but the other gives the orders. “Sir—??” He looks to Korie helplessly.
“Do it!” Brandt growls at him. “I’m telling you to do it—I’m the captain.”
And still the man hesitates, waiting for Korie to confirm the order.
“Hold course!” snaps the first officer. “Al, go to those evasive patterns—”
Watching from his console, Barak remains motionless; but beside him, Jonesy punches at the board. It is a signal. Follow Korie. Around the bridge, the men snap to orders.
And Brandt realizes. He stares about in confusion. “I’m the captain—!” He takes a step toward Korie. “Don’t be a fool! You can’t risk the ship this way.”
“We’ve trained for this,” says Korie. He continues to watch the screens around the bridge. “Missile crews—stand by to lay down a spread of three.”
“Right, sir—”
“Listen to me, Korie! This ship isn’t in as good a condition as you think! Neither is the crew—I don’t care how well you’ve trained them. We’ll never survive a battle encounter!”
Korie ignores him. To Wolfe, he calls, “Stand by to charge the missiles.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Two minutes to contact—”
“Korie! Stop it!” The first officer ignores him. Wildly, Brandt crosses the bridge. “Al, stop him! Stop him for me—”
Barak grabs the captain by the shoulders. “Sir!” He looks from Brandt to Korie; the first officer is standing coolly by the seat, watching the forward screen.
Brandt babbles at the astrogator, “Al, that emergency course for home—have you got it?”
“Yes, sir—yes, I’ve got it.”
“Prepare to implement—” He lurches away from Barak, toward the pilot console. Except for the astrogator, every other man on the bridge is too busy to pay any attention to the captain.
“Missiles ready and charged. Standing by.”
“Ninety seconds to contact.”
Brandt grabs one of the officers at the pilot console. “Reverse polarities,” he says. “We’re going home—”
The man ignores him, raises one elbow to keep Brandt’s hands away from the board. And then Barak is tugging at the captain—“Sir—?”
“Jonesy, stand by,” says Korie. “We’ll unwarp thirty seconds before contact, drop our missiles, and run.”
“Right, sir.”
“Don’t do it!” cries Brandt. “Head for home!” Barak is holding him back. “That’s an order! I’m the captain!”
“Get him out of here!” It is Korie’s first notice of Brandt.
“Don’t unwarp—we’ll never survive it!”
“We’ve got a pattern!” says Jonesy. Both Brandt and Barak holding him turn to the screen—the whorl of white lines is sharp and familiar. “Coming in fast! EDNA’s targeting.”
“Sixty seconds to contact, thirty seconds to unwarp.”
“Missiles targeted and ready—”
“Al!” screams Brandt, struggling again. “We’ve got to stop them!”
Barak is still frozen to the screen; his face is ashen and gray. That pattern—
“Al! Stop them!”
—is too familiar. Barak releases the captain; he turns to Korie, to Jonesy. “Go ahead,” he says, quietly, “Unwarp.”
Behind him, Brandt is stricken. “Al—what are you doing—”
“Fifteen seconds to unwarp.”
Korie flashes a triumphant glance to Barak. “Thanks, Al—”
Brandt lunges at the astrogator, hands like claws; he bounces off, lurches toward Korie—Barak grabs him, knocks him to the floor. He sobs, “I’m sorry, sir—” Brandt continues to struggle. Barak hits him again.
“Five seconds—”
“All lights green—”
“Stand by—”
“Unwarp!” calls Jonesy, then confirms, “We have unwarp.”
“Drop missiles—”
“Hold it! I have a red light—”
“Fire, dammit! Fire!” shouts Korie.
There is a pause, then—“At what, sir? The target’s gone—” The screen is empty.
“Huh?”
Snap. “Radec! Where’s that bogie?”
“I don’t know, sir! We unwarped and it disappeared—I’ve cleared the board three times already—”
Jonesy breathes, “Do you think they could have unwarped at the same time?”
“No—they couldn’t have—” Korie whirls, “Al—?”
Barak rises; he has been holding the captain down at the center of the pit. He ignores Korie and concentrates on helping Brandt up; he guides him to the seat. “Take it easy, sir. You’ll be all right.”
Korie stares at them amazed; he grabs his hand mike. “Missile crews, stand by. Radec, get me that last know position—maybe he’s playing dead duck again—”
“You want to just drop the missiles and let them hunt?”
“We might do that too. Radec, have you anything yet?”
“No, sir—I’ve got the scanners full open—”
“Keep trying—”
“Mr. Korie!” It is Barak, standing on the control dais at the center of the pit. “You’re wasting your time. There is no bogie.”
Korie whirls to look at him. So does Jonesy. So do most of the other men on the bridge.
“There’s no bogie,” he repeats. “It never existed.”
Korie takes a half-step. “What’re you talking about? I know it’s there. I saw it—you did too!”
“You saw a stress-field shimmer, Korie, not a ship—and that shimmer was only our own reflection. The Hilsen units have been focusing a projection of our own vibrations against the warp—we’ve been chasing our own shadow! There’s nothing there!”
“You’re lying, Barak—that bogie moved! We gained on it!”
“The vibration was progressive; as it got larger, so did the projection we were chasing; the computer said we were getting closer.”
“No—I won’t believe it—”
“You have to believe it, Korie—it’s true! And it’s your fault. It’s your phase adapters—those damned jury-rigged adapters! They keep throwing off vibrations because they’re not right for this ship. Ask Leen about it; he’ll show you—”
“—No—!!” Korie shakes his head, wildly, frantically. “No—no—it’s not true, it’s not! That bogie is there, we can get it—” He turns to Jonesy, “Aim those missiles—for its last known—last known—position—”
“Forget it, Jonesy,” Barak countermands the order.
“No—” shouts Korie.
Jonesy looks from one to the other. The astrogator says, “Check your console.”
The assistant astrogator casts a despairing glance at Korie, “I’m sorry, sir—” then turns to his board.
Korie stares at Barak. “Al—what are you doing to me? My bogie is there—”
Barak looks down at him from the command dais. He shakes his head sadly. A moan from the captain distracts him.
“Radec!” says Korie. He leaps for the door, stumbles through it. Only Jonesy looks after him.
In the seat, Brandt shakes his head confusedly. His eyes wander from side to side. “Al—Al—”
“It’s all right, sir; everything’s all right.” Into the intercom, Barak says, “Medical Officer Panyovsky, come to the bridge please.”
“Al—I—I—”
Barak turns to the older man, the gray-haired man, the slack-jawed man—the man with the shattered expression. “Sir, just relax. The doc will be up to see you in a minute. He’ll give you something to make you feel better. The ship is all right.”
“I—I—” The eyes are unable to focus.
“Just relax, sir, just relax.” Barak straightens; abruptly, he looks around. “Where’s Korie?”
Jonesy says, “He—he left. I think he said something about radec—”
Barak gestures impatiently. “Goldberg, watch the helm—” He darts out the door.
In the radec room, Rogers is lying on the floor, blood flowing from on corner of his mouth. Bridger is tending to him worriedly; the plastic brace across Rogers’ back has been shattered into fragments, and the youth is moaning on the edge of unconsciousness.
But Barak’s attention is not on Rogers, but on Korie—the first officer is sitting before the console, a strange look on his face; his eyes are intense. His hands move trance-like across the board, clearing it and setting up programs, clearing it and setting up programs, over and over and over again . . .
TWENTY-NINE
The only thing worse than learning the truth is not learning the truth.
—SOLOMON SHORT
For seventeen hours, the Burlingame drifts.
Her inherent velocity is negligible. She exists without motion, without direction.
Her decks are dark, her corridors are dim. Mr. Korie has ordered the ship on power-down standby; but he has not let the crew stand down from the alert. The ship is silent and moody. The men stand at their stations like sullen zombies. Time is frozen here.
The men wait.
All but one. Chief Engineer Leen.
He is agitated, and he comes searching for Barak, the astrogator. Leen finds him coming out the door of the medical section. The two men look at each other, wordlessly studying.
“Was it there or not?” asks Barak.
“I don’t know,” says Leen. “It could have been. It could have been a wobbly. I’m a one-eyed man trying for depth perception. Nobody’s yet figured out how to make a single set of grids act like two stress-field eyes. Theoretically, it’s not impossible—but—” He spreads his hands helplessly, then drops them again. “Can we go home now?”
“If it were up to me, Chief, we’d have been on our way home two weeks ago, but the only way we’re going to get that order is if you can prove that bogie was never there, was only a wobbly the whole time.”
“You know as well as I, there’s no way to trace that.”
“Then make me another one, this time deliberately.”
Leen looks glum. “Sorry, Al. I can’t even give you that kind of certainty. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“Then that’s it, then—”
“What—? We’re going to stay out here forever?”
“Find me that wobbly and we’ll go home! What do you want from me, Chief? I’m only the astrogator. I don’t have the authority to order this ship about. Not while there are still two officers above me.” He turns away from Leen and starts heading forward.
“Wa
it a minute—”
Barak shakes his head and keeps on going.
“We can’t just stay here—”
Barak stops, turns, looks. “Don’t ask me, Chief! I don’t know what else to tell you.”
“But the crew—they’re starting to talk—”
“Screw the crew!” The bellow echoes down the corridor.
Leen steps rapidly after the big man, catching him by one shoulder and spinning him back against the bulkhead. “Damn you—” he starts, then catches himself and forces his voice down to an intense whisper. “You’re the one officer left that this crew trusts. You’re the only one who can hold this ship together.”
Barak’s eyes are shaded. “Then that shows how poorly put together it is. Listen to me, Leen—and listen up good. Don’t come looking to unload your worries on me. I don’t want them, they’re not my responsibility. All I have to do is plot points in space and draw lines between them. That’s all I want to do. And to be very honest, that’s all I really know how to do. You—and every other man on this ship, it seems—have demanded that I be a strong man, a hero. Well, I’m no hero. I don’t know how to be. And in my one attempt to be heroic, I destroyed a thirteen-year good conduct record. I was insubordinate. I refused to follow an order from my captain—and equally, I refused to follow the orders of my first officer. One way or the other, I’m through. I don’t know if there was a real bogie out there or not, but in the heat of the moment, I undercut the authority on this ship, because you—and a lot of other men—encouraged me to do just that. But I’m the guy who has to pay the price—where are the rest of you? And now you’re complaining that there’s no authority left. Brandt’s locked himself in his cabin again, God only knows what he’s doing in there, and Korie refuses to give the order to go home, too. He’s still convinced that there’s something out there.
“If you want to go home, ask them to give the order. I can’t, I won’t, I don’t have the authority, and I’m probably facing a court-martial.” He steps forward, looming over Leen like a bear. “I’ll tell you this, Chief. When Korie was running this ship, it ran. And it ran well. Complaints or no. You wanted to be free of Korie? Well, now you are. Now you have the chaos you deserve, and you’re complaining again. All of you. And I’m tired of listening to it. I’m tired of being asked to do something about it.”
Starhunt: A Star Wolf Novel Page 19
