Brik grinned. His incisors were even longer than Korie had thought. Brik spoke. His voice rumbled like a warship. “I am not your fight,” he said to Korie. “Your fight is . . . out there.”
Korie glared up at the Morthan warrior. “I know that,” he said testily. “Where’s your fight?”
Brik moved slowly, so as not to alarm anyone. He touched his own heart gently. “My fight is in here. . .”
Korie didn’t expect that, and he didn’t know how to react to it. It wasn’t an answer he could respond to. Finally, he just snorted and turned away in disgust, a deliberately calculated performance of rudeness. He stared at the screens on the console in front of him, not seeing them at all, and forced himself to breathe evenly. He could feel his heart racing, his rage building.
Somebody tapped his arm gently. He turned around and looked. He blinked. He didn’t recognize her. She was a handsome woman in her late thirties or early forties, very crisp and very military.
“Commander Korie? Lieutenant Commander Cygnus Tor. Astrogator.”
“Uh—” Korie was off-balance. “Tor. Good to meet you. Are you familiar with the, uh—” He was still rattled. “—The, uh—”
“The Model 16 low-cycle fluctuators?” Tor guessed correctly. “Yes, I am. I—”
“Good,” said Korie, distractedly. Abruptly, he made a decision. “I’m sorry. Excuse me a moment.” He turned away from Tor, turned back to Brik, and extended a hand. “I’m sorry. I was rude. Let’s work together.” It was a visible effort for him.
Brik nodded slowly and held out his hand. It was immense. He shook Korie’s hand gently. Gently, that is, for a Morthan. Despite himself, Korie counted his fingers as he massaged the blood back into his hand.
The sudden grating sound of the alarm klaxon bleated across the Bridge. The Bridge lights went red, the consoles began flashing, and above it all, HARLIE was speaking in a preternaturally calm voice: “Engine room malfunction. Magnetic instability in the number three singularity control. Fluctuator overload. Assembly valve failure. Stand by to disconnect. Singularity escape will occur”—HARLIE paused for half a clock-tick—“in three minutes.”
Korie looked up startled. All the work stations around him lit up red. The ops crew leapt for their consoles. Leen dived into the operations bay. Tor slid into her seat at the helm console. Hodel dropped into the chair next to her and punched his station to life. The console flickered brightly, then went dark. Hodel slapped the panel—hard—and it lit up again. Hardesty stood on the Bridge and watched it all.
Everywhere there was panic, confusion, and dismay. The readouts were normal—and they weren’t. The magnetic cage containing the pinpoint black hole that powered the ship was about to fail. If that happened, the singularity would drift inexorably out of the cage and begin devouring the starship and everything connected to it.
It seemed as though everybody on the Ops deck was talking into their headsets at once or punching madly at their keyboards. Korie moved quickly from station to station—Brik stepped quickly out of his way; he stepped up onto the Bridge and stood next to the captain.
In the Ops bay, Chief Leen was watchdogging three consoles at once. “Magnetic clamps, now! Full field! Downcycle—program beta.”
Lightning was flashing in the keel again. It looked like a replay of the disastrous disruptor overload.
It was even worse in the engine room. The lightning was brighter and fiercer and strong enough to knock a man unconscious. The engine room crew couldn’t get near their controls. Crewmembers in bulky protective suits were rushing to their posts.
The static discharges rolled down the corridors of the ship, clustered around the singularity cage, and then bled out through the hyperstate fluctuators. More lightning crackled across the outer hull. The entire ship was enveloped.
“The singularity is wobbling.” HARLIE reported. “Loss of focus is imminent. Singularity escape will endanger Stardock. Singularity escape will occur”—half a clock-tick—“in two minutes.”
Korie made a decision. “Prepare for emergency breakaway.”
Hodel was already talking to his headset. “Secure all bulkheads! Seal the main airlock. Go to standby power. Disengage all power bays—” It was happening even as Hodel spoke. They could feel the hatches slamming down throughout the ship. The main airlock clanged shut with a terrible bang, cutting off the panic-stricken escape of two crewmen running madly for the docking tube. They pounded on it desperately.
In the engine room, power shunts cut in and the lightning became focused. They were bleeding it deliberately into the hyperstate fluctuators now—but the workmen were terrified; they knew how bad it really was. In the Ops bay, Leen was shouting at the machinery. “Respond, damn you!”
Korie couldn’t wait any longer. “Disengage from Stardock immediately.”
The starship gave a tiny lurch as the mooring bolts unclamped. And then the ship was moving, drifting outward and away from the workbay, the lightning still flickering wildly across her hull.
“Emergency breakaway complete,” HARLIE reported. “Escape velocity thirty kilometers per hour. The Stardock is no longer in danger.” A heartbeat later, HARLIE added, “Singularity escape will occur in—one minute.”
Hodel was pounding on his console and shouting into his headset. “Goddammit! It’s all coming up garbage. Where’s the baseline?” He listened for a moment. “No time! Disengage the fluctuators!” He was angered by the response. “Do it, dammit!” He watched his screen, waiting anxiously.
Behind him, Korie was shouting into his own headset. “—Emergency life support! Clear the engine room! Prepare for emergency deplosion. Hull diffusion—” He looked over Hodel’s shoulder, then spoke again. “Dammit! Clear the engine room! I’m going to snuff that sucker!”
But even as he was saying his last words, the alarm klaxon faded away and the Bridge lighting returned to normal. The lightning flickering throughout the ship began to subside and fade away.
Korie’s last words were still ringing in the air as the various crewpeople on the Ops deck shut up and looked around at each other in confusion. Korie was suddenly embarrassed.
In the Ops bay, Leen was shattered. He’d failed. He knew it. He put his head into his hands.
But—they were still alive.
And then, HARLIE said, “Singularity escape has occurred. The starship has been destroyed.” And then, to add insult to injury, he quietly added, “End of simulation. Efficiency rating . . .” HARLIE hesitated while he computed. “Unsatisfactory.”
Korie was stiff and expressionless. He’d been had and he knew it.
“A drill!” Hodel flung himself back in his chair, frustrated, annoyed, and disgusted. “A fucking drill!”
Korie turned around slowly to look at Hardesty. Hardesty returned the stare calmly. He looked down coldly; but before he could speak, Leen climbed back up onto the Ops deck. He was furious. “That was a dirty damned trick!” he shouted at Hardesty.
“Thank you,” the captain acknowledged. He looked past Leen to Korie. “Now you know why this ship never earned a name.” He let his gaze travel around the room, piercing the souls of each of the men and women at their stations. “The LS-1187 came into Stardock needing three weeks of interior work, four weeks of equipment refits, and six weeks of hull regrowth, all of which could have been done concurrently. That was a month ago. Systems Analysis reports that this vessel is still eight weeks away from being space-ready. This is not a good record.
“The reason that your efficiency is so low is that you think you have a choice. You do not. I have just eliminated the alternative.
“New work schedules will be posted at 0600 hours. Commander Tor, bring us back to Stardock. Brik, get a security team together and break up the still in the inner hull. Mr. Korie, my cabin, ten minutes.”
Hardesty turned and exited crisply.
Brik looked around the room and grinned. It was not a pleasant sight.
Hodel was stunned. He glanced across at Kori
e. Korie wouldn’t meet his eyes. He looked to Tor, but she was already at work, targeting the ship back toward Stardock. “How’d he know about the still?” Hodel asked.
Tor didn’t even glance up. “There’s always a still,” she said. When she did look up from her console, she noticed that Korie was still standing in the same place. He was rigid with fury. “You don’t look very happy, Mr. Korie.”
“Happy—?” Korie’s reply was as cold as the captain’s. “The Dragon Lord kicks the crap out of us. The fleet gets mauled. Captain Lowell gets killed. The ship is labeled a jinx. I get my career dead-ended. And now . . . I’ve been publicly humiliated. Happy? I’m just thrilled.”
From above, Brik said quietly. “Don’t mince words, Mr. Korie. What are you really angry about?”
Korie whirled to stare up at him. “I don’t even want to talk to you.” And then, in explanation, he said, “My wife—and my two sons—were killed in a Morthan attack. So you’ll forgive me if I’m not overjoyed to be working with you.”
Abruptly embarrassed, Korie exited through the Ops bay, leaving Tor and Hodel and the others staring curiously after him.
Tor turned back to her console and resumed locking in a course. Very softly, to no one in particular, she said, “For some reason, I have the feeling that this is not going to be a happy enterprise.”
Decisions
Korie stepped into Hardesty’s cabin and stood rigidly before the captain’s desk. Hardesty didn’t even glance up; he was studying something on his desk screen.
“First of all,” he began without preamble, “I know what you’ve been through. I read your file. I know the craziness that drives you. It’s ripping you apart. You haven’t healed yet. Maybe you never will. It’s left you confused. You don’t know if you should be a ruthless bastard or a compassionate healer—well, neither one of those roles is right for a starship officer; although, I will tell you, ruthless bastard does have some advantages.” Hardesty gestured. “Sit down.”
Korie sat.
“Lesson One: You’re going to have to learn to control your temper. Hide your feelings from the crew. The crew is a sponge. Whatever you put out, they will soak up—and they will give it back to you amplified a thousand times over. That’s what’s wrong with this ship right now. Your crew doesn’t know who you are, so they don’t know who they’re supposed to be. That’s the first thing we have to fix.
“Lesson Two: This is not a democracy. No warship ever is. But you’ve been running this ship as if your crew gets to vote on every decision. Your chief engineer, for example, argues every order, so every damn crewmember on this ship thinks his opinion means something too. Bullshit. Opinions are like assholes. Everybody has one and they’re all full of shit. You—Mr. Korie—stop worrying about being popular. If a crew likes an officer, he isn’t doing his job. Your only job is to produce results, nothing else. If the crew isn’t doing their job, you’re not doing yours. Am I getting through to you?”
Korie swallowed. His throat hurt with the pressure of all he was holding back. “Yes, sir.”
“But you don’t like it.”
“I don’t have to like it, sir. As you say, my feelings on the matter are irrelevant.”
Hardesty grunted. “Good answer. You’re learning. I don’t think you believe it yet, but I don’t care. You can start by learning the language. The understanding will come later.” He reached for a folder and opened it. “All right,” he said, turning to the first sheet of paper inside. “We’re not playing Good Cop/Bad Cop here. Do you know that game?”
“Yes, sir. Some captains delegate all the unpopular orders to their exec so he can take the heat.”
“Right. Well, I don’t believe in that. If an unpopular order has to be given, the captain should take responsibility for it himself. Also”—he tapped the right side of his head, the metal-plated prosthesis—“this particular handicap makes me a lot less likable, so if we were to play that game, you’d have to be the good cop, I’d have to be the bad cop. I can’t run a ship that way either. For obvious reasons.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s the other reason why you have to stop being popular. You understand? Because like it or not, we’re already halfway into a game of Good Cop/Bad Cop and I won’t have it. It weakens my authority.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So what we’re going to do instead is Bad Cop/Bad Cop. Do you know how to play that game?”
“No, I don’t.”
“It’s very easy. I’m the meanest son of a bitch in the galaxy. You’re the second-meanest son of a bitch. The crew will hate me. They’ll hate you. And this ship will get a reputation as being a very unpleasant duty. But we’ll get results. And after we start getting results, the crew will start bragging about being on this ship and they’ll consider it a privilege to wear her colors. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking about this ship’s reputation now. Forget it. Forget the past. The past is dead. Because you and I say so.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You disagree with that?”
“No, sir. You’re the captain.”
“What does one have to do with the other?”
“You give the orders. We’ll do whatever you say.”
“Mr. Korie—” Hardesty put his papers down. “I don’t want an executive officer who’s a flunky or a yes-man or an echo. I want an executive officer who is capable of taking responsibility and using it appropriately. That means that in the privacy of this cabin, I expect you to argue with me if you think that I am making a bad decision.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, I know damned well—just from reading the expressions on your face—that you hate what you’re hearing. If you think I’m wrong, I expect you to tell me so.”
“Sir—may I speak?”
Hardesty waved a hand.
“You want me to disagree with you? Fine, I will. But you have already stated in no uncertain terms how you want this ship run. You made it quite clear that there is no room for negotiation in that position. Fine. I’ll do what you say. But to argue with it now seems to me to be a waste of time. I will only voice my disagreements when I think that doing so will make a difference. Given what you’ve just said, I don’t see that anything I might say right now would make much of a difference, so the best I can say is ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’ and carry out your orders as best as I can.”
“Good.” Hardesty nodded, satisfied. “That’s fair. It’s also intelligent.” He leaned back in his chair, studying Korie. “Part of a captain’s job is to train his executive officer to become a captain too. I can’t train a man with no initiative. Don’t be a wallflower.”
“Yes, sir.” Korie sat quietly, waiting for the captain to continue.
Hardesty steepled his fingers in front of him and studied Korie for a long moment. The lens that replaced his right eye was cold and unreadable. His left eye showed even less emotion. “Is there anything else you want to say to me?”
Korie started to shake his head no, then changed his mind and nodded. This was the hardest thing of all to say, and he didn’t know where it came from or even if he really believed it yet, but—“Maybe your way is right,” he began. “I don’t know. But it’s not the way I was trained. I learned management technology and team dynamics as the best way to produce results. We built spaceships and we built good ones. We might even have built this one. I always thought that having your team feel good about their work also means they’ll feel good about themselves. Let them have pride in their work; that’s the best quality control of all. Your way has an awful lot of hate and fear and stress in it. I don’t like it. It feels wrong to me. It feels bad. But”—Korie met Hardesty’s curious gaze—“I also know how desperate the situation is. And I know that these choices are not mine to make anymore. And you know more about war than I do. So, I figure the best thing for me to do is shut up and do what I’m told.
“And one more thing. That drill—that hurt. I don’t like having my nose rubbed in it.
But it’s also undeniable proof that something is very wrong here and I want it fixed just as much as you do. Maybe even more so, because it’s my career that’s in the dumper, not yours. So . . . all right, I’m willing to do whatever is necessary to make this ship work.”
Hardesty studied Korie for a moment longer, considering his words. Then he nodded and picked up his folder again. He turned to the second page.
“You had half of it right, Mr. Korie. You understood what was wrong—it is the crew that has to be fixed. Fix the crew and they’ll fix everything else. But you thought you could do it with parties. What’s wrong with this crew can’t be fixed with a party. You want your crew to feel good? Give them results. Let them take their pride in a job well done.” Hardesty put the folder down. “We’re going to start by tearing this ship down to the framework and putting it back together. Every structural member, every rivet, every conduit, every system-analysis node, every sensor, every damn thing that can be checked is going to be checked. Then it’s going to be rechecked. Then we’ll do it again to make sure we did it right the first two times.
“This will accomplish four things. First, it’ll give us a new ship, one that we know works. Second, we’ll be establishing a new confidence baseline against which to measure system performance. This is what you should have been doing for the past eight weeks. Third, it’ll train the crew. A crewmember who’s taken a piece of machinery apart and rebuilt it by hand will know more about it than the one who wrote the documentation. And finally—fourth—it’ll give this crew a pride in their ship that can’t be gained any other way. A crew that’s had to repaint and repair every square inch of their starship doesn’t put rude graffiti on its bulkheads. They start taking pride in keeping her shining. Question?”
“No, sir. I see you’re right.”
“You have a look on your face.”
“Yes, sir. I see that my mistake lay in the assumption that it was essential to get this ship back into duty immediately.”
The Voyage of the Star Wolf Page 14
