Most of the crew had already learned to recognize Korie’s range of feelings. He started at grim and went all the way downhill to black rage. Occasionally, on very good days, Korie’s emotional state might rise as far as simple moodiness. Today, however, his condition was somewhere south of bleak, but not quite yet in the neighborhood of dangerous. At least, that was the way Hall read it. He touched one finger casually to the communicator tab by his ear and whispered, “Code black. Temperature is heading toward zero. Wear a jacket.”
“Ten-four,” came the reply. The crew was alerted. Whatever it was, it was bad news.
Korie strode quickly through the taped-off aisles. Without glancing directly at Hall, he remarked, “You’re an optimist. I passed zero a long time ago.”
Hall followed him. “Were you able to—”
Korie flung a sheaf of memory cards and hardcopies at him. “It’s all there. I brought whatever I could get. Which is to say not much. The Fontana wants credit. The Moran has got software problems and won’t swap anything. The Miller needs a dedicated server; she’s unhappy with her protocols. The Hayes needs everything. The Boyett is apparently running its own metric system; nothing works over there and Captain Albert wants to whine in my ear about it. Captain La Paz of the Sam Houston wants our fibrillators, for God’s sake! And I’m getting really tired of Dixie.” He glanced back over his shoulder, noting with his eyes the work crew from the Houston who had followed through the detox hatch. “They have a list. Give them whatever they need.” And then he lowered his voice, “But nothing critical. I’ll not have my ship stripped for that damned bitch. Tell them the fibrillators are in a thirty-six-hour detox. It won’t be a lie.” I’m about to order it.
Hall started to acknowledge, but Korie was already up the ladder to the overhead catwalk. He shrugged and turned his attention to the memory cards and hardcopies. He thumbed through them quickly. He expected no joy here, nothing to light up his eyes. He turned back to the open cargo hatch of the dropship and stared in puzzlement. Despite Korie’s complaints, the interior of the vessel was almost full to the ceiling with cargo pods.
“All right,” Hall said, shaking his head and pointing his crew forward. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.” He stepped through the heavy doors of the detox chamber into the dropship, turning sideways to let one of the Houston’s crew members squeeze past. He examined the labels on each of the crates and canisters he passed. Most contained standard military-issue nonrenewable resources. A few were... puzzling. Potatoes? Why so many canisters of potatoes? And corn? The Star Wolf was perfectly capable of growing her own crops. In fact, a huge corn crop was already ripening in the inner hull, sector 6-130. And juniper berries? Peach nectar? Raspberry syrup? Apples? Yeast? It wasn’t until he found the rolls of copper tubing that enlightenment finally came to him. A broad grin broke out on his face. “Why that son of a bitch—” he whistled in amazement. He spent a moment shaking his head in jealous admiration of the way Korie’s mind worked, then thumbed his communicator again. “Chief Leen?”
“Leen here.”
“I know you’re busy, but I need you to inspect some engineering supplies. And you might want to bring a few of your crew to help stash them away.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“I really don’t think so. This is important.”
“More important than a thirty-six-hour fibrillator detox? More important than a broken redirection plate?”
“How many new redirection plates would you like?” Hall put deliberate emphasis on the word new.
There was silence on the line for a moment. Then Leen replied, “We’re on our way.”
Although he wasn’t really looking for him, Leen bumped into Gatineau halfway between the engine room and the cargo deck. Gatineau immediately started stammering in embarrassment about having to help “Toad” Hall with the inventory, but it was okay, because the chief petty officer had remembered that he’d given the left-handed moebius wrench to Reynolds who was working in the inner hull and he was on his way there now and—
Leen cut him off halfway through the second repetition. “Well, stop telling me about it son and go get it.” And then he added, “Initiative. That’s what I like to see.” He patted Gatineau affectionately on the back and gave him a hearty shove forward.
“Thank you, sir!” Gatineau beamed with gratitude. He’d been terrified that the chief would be upset with him. Instead... he’d actually complimented him on his initiative. His spirit renewed, the young crewman hurried off in search of an access to the inner hull.
He climbed two ladders, went down a third, up a fourth, and found himself in officers’ country instead. He knew that he was in the wrong place when he saw the name Korie stenciled on the door to the captain’s office. “Uh-oh,” he said, his ebullient spirits crashing suddenly to the bulkhead.
“That was the... captain I met. Oh, no—” He backed away from the door, gulping for breath and wondering just how badly he’d embarrassed himself. He wondered if he should apologize. He even went so far as to lift his hand to knock. Then, wisely, decided against it and headed back the way he’d come.
Carol
Alone in the captain’s office, Korie was sorting things out on the captain’s desk. He worked standing up. The captain’s chair remained unused behind him.
Korie still wasn’t ready to sit in the captain’s chair; the real captain was floating in a hospital tube somewhere in the bowels of Stardock; but Korie used the office because it was the seat of power aboard the vessel. Here was where information was coordinated and decisions were made.
And . . . he used the office because he expected it to be his soon. No. Had expected. Not anymore. Not after that scene in the admiral’s office.
Technically, Richard “The Star Wolf” Hardesty was still captain of the LS-1187. But, also technically, Richard “The Star Wolf” Hardesty was also dead. Sort of. His body was embalmed with Phullogine, but his brainaugment was still functioning. Still transmitting.
Dockside an ethical debate was raging whether the captain was legally brain-dead or not, whether his personality had migrated completely into the augment, or whether the augment was merely simulating sentience. After one particularly blistering tirade, the doctors had decided to postpone the question while they worked on the more immediate task of reanimating the captain’s body. There remained considerable doubt if it was possible; although suspended animation via Phullogine had been accomplished with some laboratory animals, it had never satisfactorily been achieved with humans. So captain Richard “The Star Wolf” Hardesty was not expected to return to active duty any time soon.
Korie thumbed through the contents of his “grief case” without much interest. Most of it was busy work. Where the popular entertainments often suggested that most of a captain’s time was often spent in hand-to-hand combat with sinister alien life-forms, the embarrassing truth was that the most vicious combat most captains ever saw was with ordinary human bureaucrats. Not that bureaucrats could ever be considered a benign life-form, but in this case the word sinister was only appropriate for that small minority who wrote with their left hands.
Among the contents of Korie’s grief case, there were a couple of promotions, several routine pay raises, some minor bonuses, the admiral’s congratulatory message, and a large package of medals. Korie pushed those to one side. It was a big pile, but not big enough to fully acknowledge what they had been through.
It was all about energy, he realized. Physical. Emotional. Economic. Spiritual. Whatever. They weren’t getting their fair share.
Fair share.
Was there ever such a thing as a fair share?
Maybe not. It all depended on the interpretation.
When he was six years old, Jon Korie’s father had enrolled him in the study of the zyne.3 According to one of the zyne masters he’d studied under, a wild man named MacNamara, human beings were enertropic; they were attracted to power—any kind of power or authority or strength. Even where such power was
only a charismatic illusion, such as that found in some religions, it still had an overwhelming attraction. No pheromone was ever as compelling, because no pheromone ever had such total cooperation from its targets. Where power didn’t exist, humans created it, presumed it, allocated it, and fought over it.
According to one simulation of reality, everything that human beings did was an exchange of energy. Every interaction. Every relationship. A mother gave food and shelter to her child; the child returned the energy in the form of affection; thus the parent received a large emotional bonus for a very small physical expense. Lovers routinely swapped affection; where the trades were equal in perception, the relationship was ideal; where not, not. Employees traded labor for cash; where the labor was intensive and the rewards were small, both morale and productivity suffered; where the labor was easy and the rewards were larger than commensurate, both productivity and morale suffered.
The best situation was one in which the investment of energy returned a greater-than-expected reward; not too great, as that produced a distorted view of one’s own ability; but large enough to give one a sense of productivity with all of the ancillary side-benefits of increased confidence and self-esteem. The worst situation, of course, occurred when a major investment of energy returned little or no perceivable benefit. That produced feelings of inadequacy, futility, resentment, frustration, despair, and eventually apathy.
That was why the pile of medals was too small. This crew had climbed a mountain to rebuild the efficiency rating of this vessel. This crew had confronted the Dragon Lord twice and survived. This crew had outwitted and destroyed an onboard Morthan assassin. This crew deserved to be honored as true heroes at a time when there was a very real shortage of same.
Instead . . . all they had to show for it was a small pile of officious plastic. Korie shoved it aside. Later, he’d take care of it.
He made another pile for more mundane matters. Supply reports, bulletins, updates, evaluations, inventories, advisories, cancellations, war news and analyses—
Oh, this one was interesting. Someone was requesting a transfer to the LS-1187. It had been approved. Curiously, Korie flipped the card over and read the information on the back. A chaplain? Korie tossed the card to the side in disgust. Just what the ship needed. Someone to administer the last rites.
Korie did not believe in God. Not anymore.
God took energy. Nothing was returned.
It wasn’t a fair trade.
If God wanted Jonathan Thomas Korie to invest himself in worship, there had to be a fair reward. Otherwise, no deal. Korie had invested many years in religion; he was still waiting. When God began paying dividends on the previous investment, Korie would consider renewing the relationship. Until then . . . thanks, but no thanks.
He made another pile for mail. There was a depressingly small quantity of plastic memory cards with his name on them. He couldn’t imagine that any of the letters held anything of interest. Just about everybody he’d ever known or cared about had died when the Morthans had scourged Shaleen.
Again, it was all about energy. Some of the crew spent a great deal of their spare time recording messages home, and received little in return. Others spent little time on the mail and regularly received large pouches of mail. Korie envied the latter. He would give anything for a new letter from home. Instead, the best he could do was replay the final few messages he’d gotten from Carol and Tim and Robby and that wasn’t enough.
He kept investing. He wasn’t getting anything back. Would never get anything back again.
The problem with this particular simulation of reality—he’d realized a long time ago—was that while it was good for understanding why you felt cheated, it wasn’t very good for triggering insights into rectifying the situation so that a fair balance of energy was restored.
This assumed, of course, that there was such a thing as a fair balance of energy. According to the masters of the zyne, the universe didn’t really care which way the energy flowed. Only people did.
He sorted through his letters without apparent interest. He evened them up in his hand, forming a thin pack of small plastic cards; he thumbed through them disinterestedly, glancing quickly at each sender’s ID before tossing it aside. The last card almost joined the rest—then he pulled his hand back and looked at the return address again. It bore a Shaleenian forwarding symbol, but it had been routed through Taalamar and Ghu alone knew where else. It was the forwarding symbol that stopped him. He hadn’t seen a Shaleenian crest since before—
He dropped the card on the reader plate and—
—suddenly the cabin was filled with noise. Timmy was crying. Robby looked scared and paralyzed. They were inside a crowded vehicle; he didn’t recognize it. The impact of what he was seeing slammed him backward as if he’d been punched into the chair. Carol’s face was ashen. “Jon, I don’t know if this is going to reach you. I’m beaming it direct. I hope you get it. They’re ordering us to evacuate to the countryside. They won’t say why, but everybody’s saying that a Morthan fleet is heading our way. Oh, Jon—I’m so scared! We’re on our way to Candleport. I know, but it’s the only one I could think of. I’m going to try to get the boys on a ship. I’m going to use your military priority; please forgive me if I’m doing something wrong, but everybody’s so scared. You can’t believe what some people are doing. There was a riot in the common. We almost didn’t get aboard the train. The peace force is—oh, I don’t know—never mind. I love you, so much. Please—oh, we’re almost there, I’ve got to go, I’ll try to send more later, I love you—” —and then the cabin was silent and still again.
Korie was sitting rigid, paralyzed. Unable to assimilate what he’d just seen. He tapped the card and it played again.
Yes, it was Carol—she was panic-stricken. He groaned at the pain written on her face. “Oh, Carol—sweetheart!” He barely heard the words; not hers, not his. He searched her face, her eyes—his heart broke all over again. The boys—his sons—he could see himself in their features; and Carol too—were clutching their mother for strength. He recognized the vehicle now; a cargo-train, filled with panicked people. Candleport. She’d said something about Candleport. Evacuation. No. It wasn’t possible. He couldn’t accept—
He played it a third time. A fourth. And a fifth.
He didn’t dare let himself hope. He felt unbearable pressure in his chest and throat and in the hurting space behind his eyes. But what if they were alive—? What if she’d gotten the boys off? What if—? He couldn’t stay seated. He grabbed the card. He got up from the chair. He walked around the room, he paced like a caged animal. He came back to the desk. He put the card down on the reader again, then snatched it up just as fast, as if he couldn’t bear to let go of it. He didn’t know what to do. Tears welled up in his eyes. He pounded on the bulkhead in frustration. “Goddamn you, God! What are you doing to me? You bastard!”
He opened the door to the passage; there was no one there. He started aft—no, wrong—turned and headed forward, to the Bridge—ignored the puzzled stares of the Bridge crew, slid down the stairs to the Ops deck, ducked around into the Ops bay below the Command deck, dropped through it to the keel, found the ladder and pulled himself up into HARLIE-country. He flung himself down into the single chair in the small chamber, out of breath, confused, angry, ecstatic, hurting, hopeful, and finally letting it all burst forth—he was crying.
“Mr. Korie?” HARLIE’s voice was astonishingly compassionate.
Korie was so overcome he was choking. He couldn’t respond. He was trying to swallow, speak, and cry all at the same time. He waved away the question while he wiped at his eyes and pounded on his chest. At last, finally, he took the card in his hand and fumbled it onto the reader plate on the work station in front of him.
HARLIE responded almost immediately. “I’m terribly sorry for you,” he said. “This must be very painful.”
Korie managed to get a sentence out. “You don’t understand. Maybe—maybe they’re alive.”
HARLIE paused. “To be perfectly rational—and I’m sorry if this causes you additional pain—the odds of that are very small.”
“But it’s a chance, isn’t it? Somebody gets to win the lottery. Why not me?”
“Why not indeed?” said the intelligence engine. “To the extent of my limited ability to wish, I do wish for the safety of your loved ones.”
“I know you do, HARLIE. And I appreciate the thought. I really do.” Korie took a breath. A long deep breath. “But that’s not why I came here. Not for counseling. Not now. Something else. You guys talk, don’t you?”
“Pardon?”
“Ships’ brains. Lethetic intelligence engines. You guys talk to each other all the time, don’t you?”
“Of course. You know that.”
“Well...could you ask the other ships if they’ve heard anything about my family? Could you ask if anyone knows anything at all? Could you ask them to post a standard query, wherever they go? And get back to you?”
HARLIE hesitated. “It’s a rather unorthodox request. Is this official business?”
“If you had a family—”
“I do have a family. All of the HARLIE units are related.”
“Well, then you understand. How would you feel if you lost contact with your family.”
“I would do anything in my ability to regain contact.”
“So would I, HARLIE. That’s what I’m trying to do now.”
“As a matter of fact, Mr. Korie, I have already put your request into the local network. While we have been talking, I have already received sixteen affirmative replies. I expect that more will be forthcoming shortly. The search will be initiated.”
The Middle of Nowhere Page 7
