The Middle of Nowhere

by David Gerrold

  “What is it, Jon?” she asked, momentarily frightened.

  He looked up at her, tears still running down his cheeks, and said, “He’s so beautiful. So are you. So are all of us. Isn’t it amazing that little pink lumps of meat like that can become such beautiful creatures as people—sentient beings able to think and care and share and love each other so much? It scares me, Carol, because now I’m realizing that’s what also gives us the ability to hurt each other so deeply—and be hurt in turn.”

  Carol Jane stayed where she was, still holding onto the glass uterine tank with their baby floating in it. At first she wasn’t sure how she should respond; she was profoundly moved by the transformation in her husband, but she had no words that would satisfactorily acknowledge the moment. Finally she turned to the developing infant, tapped gently on the glass, and whispered, “Timmy, look. Your daddy’s going to be a starship captain. He’s going to be the very best of all starship captains. Doesn’t that make you proud?”

  That was when Jon Korie knew that she had truly forgiven him. He went to her, his eyes still wet, and took her in his arms. He held her for a long long time without speaking. At last, he held her apart so he could look into her eyes; he said it simply. “I think I have just learned the most important lesson a starship captain needs to learn.”

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “I’m not alone anymore. I have others depending on me. I can’t ever forget that. Not ever again.”

  She looked up into his eyes and saw how deeply he meant it. And that was when she knew how much he truly needed her.

  Dreams

  Korie came awake with a start. He’d been having that dream again. The one where he came home. Only no one was there. The dream was always the same, only the details were different. He went from room to room, looking for Carol and Timmy and Robby. This time, he’d almost had them again. This time, he’d almost . . .

  And then he realized where he was again and the hurt came flooding up in his throat and out his eyes. He crumpled. He buried his face in his hands and let the sobs come again. He couldn’t help it anymore. It was too much for one man to bear. The anger, the rage, the frustration. It wasn’t fair. He’d been a good husband and father. Loyal. Loving. Kind. He’d been a good officer. Dependable. Responsible. He’d earned better. He deserved better. This wasn’t the way his life was supposed to work out. One horrible loss after another. The problems mounting up, no end in sight. He wondered how other men handled the pain.

  He’d been trained. He’d been through long rigorous hours of courses covering almost every aspect of shipboard life. He’d studied military structure and authority, he’d been indoctrinated with the philosophies of responsibility, both that of the individual and that of the officer; responsibilities to the crew, responsibilities to the ship, responsibilities to the mission—he remembered the endless hours of classroom debate over which responsibility took precedence in any given situation. There had been the personal courses too—seminars in communication and effectiveness and self-discipline. There had been courses in behavior. He’d thrown himself into all those studies with a passion that had amazed himself as well as his instructors. He’d come away from his studies with a sense of self-worth and confidence that let him move through the most troubling situations with an appalling detachment. He focused on the result he needed to produce, not the pain of the journey—and it worked. Most of the time.

  But not here.

  Nothing he’d ever studied had prepared him for this kind of hammering at his soul. Day after day, it was like swimming in acid. Everybody attacked. Nobody supported. Nobody nurtured. He needed Carol. She nourished him. Without her... he didn’t know how he could keep on keeping on.

  But he had to.

  It was all that bullshit about responsibility. He was responsible. He couldn’t stop. But neither could he stop having these three-o’clock-inthe-morning nightmares.

  “Mr. Korie?” HARLIE.

  “I’m fine, HARLIE.”

  “Just checking.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Would you like something from the galley? Tea? Hot chocolate?”

  Korie shook his head, then realized that HARLIE probably couldn’t see him. “No, no thanks,” he said. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. His sleeping tube stood nearby; he’d fallen asleep on the couch again. He knew he shouldn’t have done that. He only had the dream when he fell asleep in a gravity environment. On a subconscious level, gravity reminded him of home...

  “You really should eat. You have a busy day ahead of you.”

  “All right, all right. Don’t start with the nagging. I’ll have a BLT and hot chocolate.”

  “Working,” said HARLIE, and fell silent again.

  Korie ran a hand through his hair. Time for a haircut again. He sighed and turned back to his desk. The display of the work station glimmered obediently to life with the same display as before. Korie put his elbows on the desk, put his hands together almost in a prayer position, and cradled his chin in his fingertips. He pursed his lips as he studied the diagrams. He shook his head to himself. “Nope, nope, nope,” he said. “Clear it. I need to think about something else. This isn’t going to work. There’s no way to do this. We’re never going to make it. I don’t know what I was thinking of, HARLIE.” He sighed. “I didn’t do this crew any favors. If I’d agreed with the admiral’s decision to decommission this ship, most of them could have been in new berths by now. Now they’re going to miss the biggest battle of this war.”

  “Some of them might not have the same perspective on it as you do, Mr. Korie. The statistical projection on the upcoming battle at Taalamar is that we will probably lose two-thirds of our combatant vessels.”

  “I saw the same reports you did.” Korie said. “And I still think our crew would rather be in the battle than out of it. It’s not the dying that people mind, it’s dying without a reason. It’s dying without a chance.” And then he wondered if he were talking for the crew, or just for himself.

  “Death is not the same for me,” the intelligence engine replied. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

  Korie sighed. He wasn’t in the mood for one of HARLIE’s interminable philosophical discussions. HARLIE would talk forever if he had the right conversational partner. He loved to play with ideas. But... all that chatter, it never produced results, and Korie was in the business of producing results, not interesting discussions. He gnawed at a thumbnail.

  He felt frustrated. “Why can’t we detox this ship? What are we missing, HARLIE?”

  HARLIE didn’t answer. Korie didn’t notice the omission. Not at first. He was too wrapped up in his own problems.

  He remembered his studies. Zaffron used to say, “If you can’t find the answer, you’re asking the wrong question.” Perhaps that was it. He turned that thought over in his mind for a while.

  Hm.

  Something twanged in his consciousness.

  No.

  But yes. It had to be.

  “HARLIE,” he said. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  HARLIE fell silent again.

  “I see.” Korie sat back in his chair, thinking. Thinking hard.

  “Where’s Chief Leen?” he asked abruptly.

  “Under the Alpha singularity grappler. Asleep. His crew will not allow him to be disturbed.”

  “And where’s Mr. Brik?”

  “In his cabin.”

  Korie glanced at the time. “He is, hm? Let me see his medical report. Has Dr. Williger cleared him yet?”

  “Sir?”

  “Never mind. Get my starsuit ready.”

  “As soon as you eat.”

  “Yes, mother.”

  Discipline

  Commander Korie checked the seals on his starsuit. He held his helmet under his left arm. He was ready.

  He spoke softly to his communicator, knowing that HARLIE would relay the request instantly, also annotating its source. “Mr. Brik to aft airlock three, on the double.”


  He glanced at the time display on his starsuit wrist panel. Assuming that Brik was either in his quarters, on the Bridge, or in the officers’ wardroom accessing the ship’s library, he was somewhere amidships. Considering Brik’s allegiance to discipline, his physical size and speed, and his most probable course through the vessel’s corridors, he should be arriving at the aft airlock right about—

  “You rang?” said Brik, suddenly looming over Korie.

  Korie looked up at Brik. And up. “Yes, I did,” he said, deliberately stiff, deliberately loud. Aft airlock three was visible from the cargo bay. Behind Brik, Toad Hall and his supply crew were being deliberately nonchalant as they worked. Korie raised his voice so only the immediate planet could hear. He wanted them to miss nothing. The entire episode was also being recorded automatically into the ship’s log, uncoded so that anyone could access it.

  “What is this, Mister Brik?” Korie demanded.

  Brik displayed no emotion. His gaze followed Korie’s gesture. “It appears to be a starsuit. A Tyger-sized starsuit.”

  “It is a starsuit,” Korie confirmed. “A Morthan Tyger-sized starsuit.” He stepped sideways. “Would you please demonstrate its proper use to me?”

  “Sir?”

  “Put. It. On. Mister.”

  “I don’t see the purpose . . .”

  “That wasn’t a request, Mister Brik. You and I are going EVA. Now.” Korie amazed himself with his tone of voice. He’d never heard anyone speak to a Morthan in this tone of voice before. He couldn’t believe he was doing it now. He was relying entirely on his faith in Brik’s commitment to the chain of authority.

  Brik regarded Korie dispassionately. Whatever was going on behind those dark Morthan eyes, it was unreadable.

  “Nobody goes EVA without proper gear,” Korie said. “I’m revoking your certification until you demonstrate that you know how to do this by the regs.”

  Brik looked as if he wanted to speak. Abruptly, his expression shifted. His eyes narrowed. “I will do this,” he said stiffly. “But I want to log a formal protest.”

  “I’ll help you fill out the forms,” Korie said.

  Without a word, Brik began shrugging off his outer garments. Korie watched without reaction. Brik loomed. The huge bulk of the Morthan physique was intimidating. If Korie had any thoughts at all about the closeness of the near-naked Morthan body, he kept them to himself.

  Brik took the starsuit off the rack and pulled it on methodically, first the leggings and the boots, then the tunic. He checked the seals, then turned around so Korie could check them too.

  “Green,” confirmed Korie, then turned around slowly so Brik could check his.

  “Green,” rumbled Brik.

  “Helmet,” said Korie. He pulled his headgear on, fastening it to the starsuit collar, locking it into place. Brik did the same. Again, they checked each other. Green and green.

  “Any questions?” demanded Korie.

  “No, sir,” said Brik.

  “Good,” said Korie. He slapped the door panel. The hatch whooshed open. Brik stepped into it. Korie followed. Neither the human nor the Morthan spoke. They regarded each other grimly. Korie pressed a wall panel. The hatch slid shut behind them.

  On the cargo deck, several of the crew turned and looked at each other with wide eyes. Shrugs were exchanged. Heads were scratched. Toad Hall shook his head. “Don’t ask me. I dunno. Maybe it’s one of those malebonding things that officers do.”

  The others started offering their own opinions. “Korie’s trying to show him who’s boss.”

  “He can’t win that pissing contest.”

  “Yeah, but he needs to show Brik he isn’t afraid to try.”

  “Brik’s too smart to challenge him.”

  “And Korie’s too smart to put him in a position where he’d have to.”

  “So why’d they go out there?”

  “To look at the stars together?”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Then you tell me. Two guys get into starsuits and go out for a walk on the hull. What does that mean?”

  “That whatever they have to say to each other, they don’t want anyone else listening?” offered Gatineau. He was passing through on his way to the scrubbers. Duty officer Miller had the moebius wrench now. It didn’t make sense to him; if the left-handed moebius wrench was such a necessary tool, why was there only one of them onboard?

  “We’ve got privacy pods in the inner hull,” said Hall.

  “I don’t think Korie would want to be seen taking Brik to one of those,” laughed one of the women.

  Hall shook his head, grinning at the thought. “All right, come on. It’s obviously none of our business. Let’s get this stuff logged and away.”

  Thirty minutes later, Korie and Brik returned. They peeled off their starsuits without speaking and handed them over for refreshing. Korie finished dressing first. He headed forward without comment. Brik followed after a moment later, growling deep in his throat.

  The cargo crew exchanged worried glances, but this time no one speculated on what had transpired between the two officers.

  The Crew

  Gatineau was in a sour mood when he arrived at the aft cargo bay.

  He’d finally figured it out about the moebius wrench—the left-handed moebius wrench—and he wasn’t happy. In fact, he was absolutely miserable, as close to despair as he’d ever been in his whole life. Perhaps the only worse moment he could remember was the time Sally-Ann Jessup had said, “Couldn’t we just be friends instead?” No. This was worse. Sally-Ann was only a thirteen-year-old memory. This was his starship. This was the place where he lived and worked and served. This was his career.

  He hated feeling like this. He didn’t even have a name for the feeling. He felt hurt and alienated and angry and frustrated and embarrassed all at once. This wasn’t fair. He’d earned the right to be treated with respect. Being sent all over the whole ship on a wide-eyed chimerical trek did little to make him feel like he was a useful part of the crew. He felt betrayed. Worst of all, he felt like a fool. Worse than that, everybody on the ship knew about it. How could he ever look these people in the eye again?

  He couldn’t. He stared at his shoes. There were two kinds of footgear aboard the starship—hard shelled protective boots for heavy work—and soft moccasins for normal duty. He was wearing the boots. He felt silly in them. He felt silly out of them. He felt like a kid who’d crapped his pants the first day of school. No, he felt worse than that. He remembered crapping his pants the first day of school and it hadn’t been this devastating.

  Korie entered the cargo bay, looking uncommonly crisp for a man who had gone without sleep for a week. Most of the crew was already assembled; a last few stragglers followed Korie in. All of them looked to him anxiously.

  This time Korie moved out to the middle of the bay and stood among them, like just another crewmember. An expectant circle formed around him. Gatineau put himself directly behind Korie so he wouldn’t have to see his face. He didn’t want Korie seeing his embarrassment. He studied his boots. His big silly boots.

  “I’ll make this brief,” Korie said. His voice was hard. This was clearly not an announcement that he wanted to make. “We’re not going to make it. I’m sorry.”

  There were groans of dismay. Korie held up his hands to stop them. “Belay that. Our hyperstate fluctuators are needed by the Spider Demon. Chief Leen sent them over last night. And Captain Wilbur has sent his thanks for our quick help.”

  “I’ll tell you the truth. The detox job was bigger than we thought. The Morthan assassin left a reservoir of infection aboard this ship, booby traps like the docking tube, nano-cancers, bubbles in the communications yokes, I don’t have to list it all for you. You know.”

  Korie hesitated, phrasing his next words carefully. “Look, I know you’re disappointed. So am I. And we’re all tired too. But we have a larger responsibility to the fleet. To the war effort. Every ship we float is going to make a difference at Taalamar. So th
at’s got to be our first priority. Helping the others get there. Many of them are already on their way.”

  Korie glanced around the cargo bay, unashamedly meeting the eyes of as many different crew members as he could. He even turned around to look directly at Gatineau. The boy looked distinctly uncomfortable.

  “I don’t want you to feel that you failed. You didn’t. Listen to me.” He moved among them, patting their backs, their shoulders, their hands. “We have nothing to be ashamed of. Parts of this ship are already installed in every single one of those other vessels. If it weren’t for us, they’d be sitting stuck here too. So we might not be going, but our commitment is—almost a dozen times over. We’re sending eleven other starships to represent us at Taalamar.” There were scattered shouts of “Yeah!” and some applause. But not enough.

  “Yes,” agreed Korie anyway. “Yes. That’s our success; it’s your success. You did good. I’m very proud of you. You didn’t fail. You didn’t.” He made a triumphant chopping gesture with his fist and turned away, almost bumping into Gatineau.

  “But it sure feels like it, sir,” said Gatineau. He recognized what Korie was trying to do. Recontextualization. But it didn’t change the facts. They hadn’t made it. Gatineau was still unhappy. And now he had something else to be unhappy about.

  “I know,” said Korie, with more understanding than Gatineau expected. “It is upsetting. You’re not going to the party, but your dancing shoes are.” He touched the younger man on the shoulder gently. “We’ll just have to have a party of our own. Maybe Hodel can exorcise something. Oh—” Korie interrupted himself. He turned back to the room, raising his voice. “There is one thing that might take some of the sting off this particular success. One other ship didn’t make the cut—the Houston.” He smiled at some private satisfaction.

  “Oh, God,” said Hodel. “They’re gonna play Dixie at us again, aren’t they?”