The Voyage of the Star Wolf

by David Gerrold

  Jonesy hit a button at random, not realizing—the shower came on with a hot steaming roar. They both yelped in surprise. Jonesy was flustered and apologetic, but Tor wasn’t angry. She started laughing.

  “Well, the shower works,” she said.

  She helped him down out of the antigrav bed. Both of them were dripping. Jonesy looked like a shrunken dog, but Tor didn’t seem to notice. She was still smiling. “Thank you, Lieutenant Jones.”

  “Um—I didn’t know they did that,” he offered, not knowing quite how to apologize.

  “The deluxe models do,” Tor said dryly.

  “Um. Well. Now, I know.”

  “Maybe they need safety panels,” laughed Tor.

  Embarrassed, Jonesy held his hands up as if looking for a towel, but he was too embarrassed to move. “Next time, I won’t do that. Um, I better go dry off.” He nodded and smiled and nodded and backed out of the room.

  Tor shook her head in quiet disbelief. Could anybody really be that innocent? Her smile broadened into one of easy delight. Jonesy was going to be fun. “Next time?”

  Abruptly, Jonesy stuck his head back into the room. “Uh—I almost forgot. Yes, I would like to work with you. On the Bridge, I mean. That would be great. Thanks.” And then he was gone again.

  Tor laughed.

  Yes. Jonesy was going to be a lot of fun. Already she liked him.

  Ship’s Mess

  The ship’s mess smelled of acrid coffee and stale doughnuts, burnt sweat and plastic grease.

  Reynolds, Cappy, Leen, and three men from the Black Hole Gang were sprawled around the end of one of the tables. Several of them had bruises. None of them looked happy. One of the blue-skinned Quillas was quietly refilling their coffee mugs. “Well?” said Cappy. “Are you going to tell him or not?”

  Leen was flipping through the screens on his clipboard, flashing from one schematic to the next. “Got that one, that one, that one—still have to check that—” He paused and looked up at Cappy. “One: You’re interrupting my work. Two: I’ve already gotten my butt chewed once today. Three: It won’t do any good. And four: No, I am not going to tell him how you feel. In case you’ve forgotten, a still is against regulations. Striking an officer is even more against regulations. By rights, they could court-martial you—but there’s a war on and manpower is short. And on the other matter—Brik outranks you. You want my advice? Don’t press your luck. Keep your nose clean and your head down and don’t go looking for any more trouble.”

  “We never hit him,” said Cappy. “We never even got close.”

  “I’d have been very surprised if you had. You guys don’t know much about Morthans, do you?”

  “What do we need to know? They’re big and they’re ugly,” said Beck, one of the Black Hole Gang.

  “So are you,” said Leen. “But that doesn’t make you a Morthan.” There was good-natured laughter around the room. “There have been Morthans for over fifteen hundred years. And for the last thousand, they’ve been directing their own evolution. They regard themselves as machines. You know how we like to supercharge our equipment—well, that’s what the Morthans are doing to their bodies. They do it with genetics, they do it with in-utero tailoring, they do it with implants and augments, they do it with drugs and brainwashing and indoctrination and psycho-training and God knows what else. They start planning a kid’s life even before he’s conceived—and if a kid fails anywhere along the line, they abort him. A Morthan child has to earn his citizenship. If you haven’t earned it by the time you’re twenty-one, they flush you down the tubes. They don’t believe in wasting resources on non-productive members of society.”

  “What are the women like?” asked Armstrong, half-jokingly. He had walked in just as Leen had begun describing the Morthans.

  Leen shook his head. “I don’t know. Nobody’s ever seen one. There’s a theory though—” He looked around almost conspiratorially, then lowered his voice. “—Rumor has it that there aren’t any Morthan women. They’re all warriors. They grow their babies in industrial wombs. Supposedly, they think that breeding a woman would be a waste of effort when for the same investment they could grow another warrior.”

  “Um—” Armstrong looked momentarily confused. “Wait a minute. If they don’t have any women, who do they—?”

  “Why do you think they’re all so cranky?” laughed Cappy, and almost everybody else joined in.

  “No—! Is that true?” Armstrong was genuinely confused. “That can’t really be so, can it?” He looked from one to the other. “Don’t they have sex drives or—?”

  “I think,” said Leen, “that a Morthan only gets off by winning a fight.”

  Reynolds gave Cappy a meaningful poke. “You should ask Brik, ‘Was it good for you too?’” Cappy did not look amused.

  The duty-Quilla came up to Armstrong then, carrying a tray with a mug on it. “Coffee?” she said. Armstrong turned and noticed her for the first time and his eyes widened with unabashed interest. He’d never seen a Quilla this close before. She was vividly blue; she was patterned with shiny scales that shifted in color from turquoise to mazarine and she was as delicately patterned as a butterfly. Her skin looked as shiny and smooth as pale silk veil. Her sensory quills were a bright magenta; they quivered intensely. Armstrong was fascinated. The Quilla looked back at him with amusement. Her eyes were wide and bright and shadowed by dark, almost purple lids.

  “Coffee?” she repeated.

  “Huh—?” Armstrong finally realized what she was asking. “Oh, yes. Thanks.” He took the coffee and sipped it too quickly, simultaneously burning his mouth and trying to hide his embarrassment. He flushed, hoping that nobody had noticed, but of course, they all had—and were grinning at his discomfort.

  “Here,” said Leen abruptly to Reynolds. He slid his clipboard across and poked at the screen. “Here it is. Look. Am I right or am I right?”

  “You’re the chief.”

  “I told him and I told him—and what does he say? He says nine-fifty. Like all he has to do is say it and it’s real. You know what it is—he’s locked up in theory. He’s so sure he can push the envelope, he’s going to kill us. Look, those fluctuators are beta-grade; they’ll never hit better than seven-fifty—maybe eight . . . downhill with a tailwind.”

  Reynolds looked up at Armstrong, noticed his frank curiosity. “Chief Leen is a man of few words,” he explained. “All of them nasty.”

  “Uh, whatever you say.” Armstrong turned to watch the Quilla as she exited the room. A goofy look spread across his face. “They sure are pretty, aren’t they?”

  “Careful,” said Reynolds. “You know what they say about Quillas.” He exchanged a knowing grin with Cappy.

  Cappy made a gesture with his hands like a spider doing pushups on a mirror. He touched the fingertips of one hand to the fingertips of the other and flexed both simultaneously.

  “No,” admitted Armstrong. “Actually, I don’t know—”

  Reynolds motioned him closer. He pulled Armstrong down and whispered into his ear. Armstrong’s eyes went wide in disbelief. He looked back and forth between Reynolds and Cappy. “That’s not true!” And then, in a hesitant voice, he asked, “Is it? Do they really?”

  Cappy’s reply was deadpan. “Yes. They do.”

  “But never on the first date,” said Reynolds.

  “Wow . . .” said Armstrong, appreciatively.

  Abruptly Cappy noticed something behind Armstrong. “Say—you wanted to meet the doctor, didn’t you?” He said it so quietly, he was almost mouthing the words. “Turn around.”

  Armstrong turned.

  And stared.

  Chief Medical Officer Molly Williger was the ugliest human being in the universe. It was said of Molly Williger that the stardrive engines refused to function while she was in the same room. Chief Engineer Leen had no desire to test the truth of this canard, but had so far refused Dr. Williger access to his engine room. She was a squat little potato of a woman with a face that looked like
the underside of a golf shoe. She was shaped like a cow-pat. Her face looked too tiny for her head; her eyes were either mean and piggish or narrow and piercing, depending on how you looked at her. Her hair was pulled back and tied in a tight little bun that looked like a clump of baling wire.

  It was said of Molly Williger that she was as good a doctor as she was ugly. Armstrong didn’t know that. He just stared.

  Dr. Williger stared back. She glanced at Cappy. “Does it talk?” she said. Her voice was a raspy growl.

  Armstrong gulped—and held out his hand. “Uh—Brian Armstrong. Most people call me Blackie.”

  Williger nodded, shifting her gum—or her cud, or whatever it was—to her opposite cheek. She held out her hand. “Everybody calls me ‘Foxy.’”

  Brian Armstrong was mesmerized. Molly Williger was so ugly he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her ugliness went beyond mere awfulness. It was transcendent. “Uh—you don’t have any kids, do you?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “Whew,” Armstrong said. “Good.”

  Williger looked puzzled. “You know, everybody asks me that.” She turned to the serving counter to pour herself a cup of coffee, leaving Armstrong rubbing his eyes in disbelief.

  Reynolds pulled at his sleeve and whispered, “Around here, you only go to sick bay if you’re really sick.”

  Armstrong gulped quietly. “I can understand it.”

  “It’s a test. When Molly Williger starts looking good, you’ve been in space too long.”

  “Oh.”

  “She’s coming back,” said Cappy. “Ask her for a date.”

  “Huh?” Armstrong was horrified by the thought, then Cappy turned him around and Armstrong realized he was talking about the Quilla. She had returned with another tray of doughnuts. Cappy gave him a meaningful nudge. “Go on! Go for it—”

  Armstrong let himself be pushed forward. “Excuse me . . .?” he said to the blue woman.

  The Quilla looked at Brian “Blackie” Armstrong curiously. “Yes?”

  “I, uh—I’ve never—I mean, I don’t want to be rude—but I thought—could we—that is—uh—”

  Cappy stepped up beside Armstrong and interrupted candidly. “Quilla—he wants to know if you’ll help him join the Faster-Than-Light club.”

  The Quilla smiled at Armstrong. Her smile was bright enough to melt fire. “You are off shift soon?”

  “Uh, yeah. 0600. Um—Which one are you?”

  “Delta—” she said, touching herself, and added, “—will be ready when you are.” She smiled at Armstrong again, turning part of him to stone, and resumed her duties. Armstrong nearly fainted from lack of blood to the brain. Cappy had to help hold him up.

  “Y’see. It’s that easy. Thanks, Quilla.” He clapped Armstrong on the shoulder, grinning wickedly toward Reynolds. His grin faded almost immediately though. The Quilla stopped at the door to allow Security Officer Brik to come through first. He had to bend low to get through. He was almost too big for the mess room.

  All conversation stopped while he wrapped one gigantic hand around a coffee mug, filled it, and poured his bulk into a chair at the far end of the table. Reynolds, Cappy, and the others looked angrily down the length of it toward him. Molly Williger studied the tableau and seated herself precisely between the two glaring groups. All by himself, Brik was a group.

  Reynolds spoke first. The distaste was evident in his voice. “Well . . . I got work to do.” He levered himself out of his chair.

  Cappy and Leen exchanged a glance. Leen made a reluctant decision and rose also. “Yeah, me too. I gotta run a recharge drill on the mag-loaders again.” He added sourly, “For Korie.”

  Cappy nodded and rose to follow. “I’ll give you a hand—” He glanced over at Armstrong. “You coming?”

  Armstrong hesitated. Around him, the other members of the Black Hole Gang were standing up, putting their coffee mugs down, and following Reynolds. None of them were looking directly at Brik. He knew it was wrong, but . . . he also knew he had to work with these men. “Uh—” And then, reluctantly, he allowed himself to vote with his feet. “Yeah,” he said, already ashamed of himself.

  And then the room was empty.

  Only Brik and Williger were left in the ship’s mess.

  They glanced across the table at each other.

  Williger looked around meaningfully. “Was it something I said?”

  Brik grinned. The lady had class. “Do you have this effect everywhere you go?”

  Williger shook her head. “No question about it. I just gotta get a new hat.”

  Brik wasn’t quite sure of the reference, but . . . his laughter rumbled loudly—almost frighteningly—through the mess room.

  Subluminal

  The LS-1187 was complete, as ready for the stars as she would ever be.

  Her bright hull gleamed under the worklights as proudly as the day she first rose from her docks. Her fluctuator struts were proud stanchions, glittering with power and possibility.

  Every deck, every tube, every module, every conduit, every stanchion—everything—had been repaired or rebuilt, recalibrated, tested, burned in, retested, triple-checked, cleaned, polished, and detailed.

  Even Chief Leen had taken a bath—or so the crew believed.

  Indeed, the expression on his face was as bright as his engine room. He signed the last authorization on Nakahari’s clipboard and handed it back to the young crewman. “All right,” he grumbled. “That’s the last one. This ship is ready to go.”

  “Yes, sir!” Nakahari said crisply. He left the now-sparkling engine room and headed up through the now-glistening forward keel, up through the now-spotless Ops bay, onto the now-gleaming Ops deck and up onto the now-pristine Bridge where Hardesty, Korie, and Brik were waiting. He handed the clipboard to Korie.

  Korie took it, read it, and passed it to the captain without comment.

  Hardesty barely glanced at the final status report. Instead, he checked the time. Then he said, “If you’re waiting for a compliment, Mr. Korie, you’re waiting in the wrong place.” He gestured with the clipboard. “This is the job you’re supposed to do. Producing a result shouldn’t be such a unique event that it requires a pat on the head.” He started to turn away, then added, “And, for the record, you’re an hour and twenty minutes overdue.”

  Korie said quietly, “We had a small problem in the engine room.”

  “The Morthan Solidarity is a bigger problem. That’s the only problem I’m interested in.” Hardesty turned forward to Tor. “Signal Stardock that we’re finally ready. Cast off as soon as we’re cleared.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Tor spoke quietly to her headset.

  A moment later, the reply came back. “LS-1187, you are cleared.”

  “Thank you, Stardock.”

  The airlocks sealed and closed. The docking tubes retracted. The holding bolts released . . .

  And the starship floated up and out and clear of her moorings.

  A soft voice whispered across the widening gap, “Good luck, starship . . .”

  “Thank you, Stardock,” Tor replied. “That means a lot. Keep the lights burning.” She smiled as she turned from her console to the holographic display table. She hadn’t expected a farewell. It was a nice gesture—especially toward this ship.

  “Stardock breakaway complete,” HARLIE reported.

  Hardesty nodded, satisfied. “Heading 23 mark 141.”

  Flight Engineer Hodel echoed the order. “23 mark 141.” He watched his screens as the ship swung around. “Confirmed.”

  “Mr. Hodel,” the captain ordered. “Ten milligees acceleration, please.”

  “Ten milligees, confirmed.”

  Hardesty watched the forward viewer. It showed the view aft as the Stardock began imperceptibly sliding away. The haphazard collection of girders and globes shrank in the distance. After a moment, he ordered, “Boost to fifty milligees.”

  Again, Hodel echoed the order. “Confirmed.”

  Hardesty glanced at
the smaller console in front of him.

  Korie glanced over. “Right down the center of the channel,” he said.

  “Are you surprised?” Hardesty’s voice was emotionless.

  “No, sir. Just . . . gratified.”

  Hardesty didn’t say anything to that. “Boost to five hundred milligees.” They had to move the starship well clear of the Stardock before going to full power—and then they’d have to spend several hours at full acceleration before initiating hyperstate. The ripple effects of a hyperstate bubble could be uncomfortable to anyone or anything nearby. This vessel had experienced firsthand the havoc that occurred when a hyperstate fringe brushed a normal-space installation. It would not do to pass that experience on to their hosting Stardock.

  Hardesty stepped down from the Bridge and circled the Ops deck once, peering carefully at every console. Every station was operating well within expected parameters. Satisfied, he returned to the Bridge without comment. “Mr. Hodel, boost to three gees and hold it there.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  There was no sensation of movement. Korie checked his console. The gravitational compensators were maintaining to six decimal places. Totally undetectable. A starliner couldn’t have been smoother.

  Hardesty made another round of the Ops deck then, peering narrowly at each console. What was he judging, Korie wondered. The crew? The ship? Or was this part of his performance?

  He stopped behind the flight engineer’s console and watched the numbers climb. After a long moment, he said, “Go to ten.”

  Hodel nodded and typed in the command.

  Hardesty turned and looked up at Korie on the Bridge. “Status?”

  “As expected, sir.”

  Hardesty turned back to Hodel. “Twenty-five.”

  A moment later, Hodel reported, “Holding at twenty-five.”

  Hardesty returned to the Bridge. “Chief Leen. We are holding at twenty-five gees. We will maintain this speed for thirty minutes. I want you to run concurrent stability checks for that entire time. If there’s any deviation from the projected channels, I want to know immediately.”