The Voyage of the Star Wolf

by David Gerrold

  Korie said a word.

  “Say again, please?” HARLIE asked.

  “Never mind.”

  “If you said what I thought you said, it is anatomically impossible for most human beings—”

  Korie stepped through the access, Brik backed through after him. “Never mind, HARLIE. Seal it off.”

  The doors whooshed shut.

  Korie looked around. The rest of the impromptu rescue team were standing and waiting for his next orders. He shook his head and pushed through them. Brik followed.

  They headed down the keel and climbed up onto the Operations deck where Tor and Hodel were just putting a schematic display up on the holotable. Leen was there too.

  “Casualties?” Korie asked.

  HARLIE responded instantly. “Security squads A and B. Stardrive engineers Haddad, Jorgensen, and Blake. Also Wesley.”

  “Damn. Have you located the captain?

  “Sorry, sir.”

  Korie stepped forward and leaned on the holotable. He took a moment to catch his breath, then looked up. Every officer on the Ops deck and Bridge was looking at him, waiting for his orders. “Show me your scan of the Burke. Where’s the captain?” He peered at the glowing display, frowning. Two transparent starships floated in the air over the table, their walls and decks were clearly outlined, but that was all.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Korie—I show no life readings at all.”

  “Not even the assassin?” asked Brik.

  “It appears that the assassin has somehow altered his metabolism beyond the ability of our sensors.”

  “And the captain?” asked Korie.

  “The captain’s metabolism could not be safely altered.”

  Korie nodded to himself. He looked up and said, “Doctor to the Bridge, please.” To HARLIE, “Okay. Show me what the monitors recorded. What happened?” He turned forward to look at the main viewer.

  “Here—” said HARLIE, narrating, explaining. “You can see that the Morthan assassin was never seriously restrained by the energy cage. He steps through it as easily as a biofilter. I’ll show you all the angles. Here’s the slow motion—”

  “He was faking,” said Tor.

  “He was waiting for the right moment,” corrected Brik.

  Korie guessed it immediately. “He saw us taking the fluctuators off the Burke. He had to stop it.”

  “Here—” HARLIE continued. “This is where he attacked the security squads. Notice that even while he is at the center of their fire, he does not seem to be affected. Here’s the slow-motion. Notice how fast he’s moving—”

  “Optical nervous system, augmented musculature,” said Korie.

  “He must have some kind of internal shielding,” said Tor. “He doesn’t even flinch. They’re not even burning him.”

  Brik said, “I realize that this is upsetting to you—but it is important that you recognize the efficiency of the assassin’s killing pattern. There is no wasted movement at all.”

  Tor gasped involuntarily and turned away. The sound of the security man’s back cracking was loud across the Bridge.

  The screen showed the Morthan flowing like liquid fire—he grabbed and killed, cracked and threw, leapt and kicked and clawed. He was a blur that flashed from point to point and left a trail of broken, bleeding bodies. Even slowed down, the sense of incredible speed was overwhelming. The Morthan grabbed the captain like a sack of potatoes and—

  “Hold it!” said Korie. “Run that again.”

  HARLIE slowed the images down. Hardesty was bringing his weapon up, he was firing, the beam plunged through the Morthan’s belly, the Morthan didn’t feel it, he surged inexorably forward, grabbing the gun and splintering it, the fuel cells flashed and exploded around him, the captain flung his arms up, the Morthan grabbed him—and didn’t kill him. He caught the captain under one arm and scooped him off his feet—

  Korie felt impaled by the dilemma. He still didn’t have proof. The captain might still be alive.

  The screen showed the Morthan sweeping the shuttle bay with ruthless efficiency, grabbing cameras off the wall and shattering them. The image switched from one point of view to the next, then it finally went blank.

  Without being asked, HARLIE began the series again.

  Korie looked around, noticed Williger had come in while they were staring horrified at the screen. He acknowledged her with a nod. “You saw?”

  She grunted. Her expression was wrinkled and sour.

  Korie turned to Brik. “Under Article Thirteen, I have to assume that the Captain is dead or beyond rescue. Do you concur?” Even before he finished the question, Tor and the others were looking up sharply.

  Brik knew what he was being asked. He spoke with quiet candor. “I concur.”

  “Thank you.” Korie turned to his astrogator. “Commander Tor?”

  “Aren’t you being a little hasty? You don’t know for sure.”

  Korie nodded toward the screen. The Morthan was slashing a crewman into a bloody pulp. “Look at the pictures.”

  “No,” said Tor, pointing. “You look. I didn’t see the captain’s death in that—and neither did you. Why don’t you put a couple of probes into the Burke and search by remote? Let’s be sure—”

  “I wish I could,” Korie replied. “But we don’t have the time. And we’d never get better than fifty percent confidence. I need your statement now.”

  Tor stepped in close to Korie and lowered her voice so that no one else could hear what she said. “I know you want your own ship, but aren’t you being just a little too eager to write off Captain Hardesty?”

  Korie ignored it. “I need a declarative sentence, Commander.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t support this.”

  “That’s your privilege. Thank you.” Korie turned away. “Dr. Williger—?”

  Williger looked troubled and she sounded reluctant. “I don’t like it either, but I have to vote with the evidence.”

  Tor followed Korie toward the Bridge. “I still think you’re being too hasty.”

  “I appreciate your honesty,” Korie said. He paused at the steps. “But I have to do this by the book because that’s the way the captain wants it.” He glanced around. “Is there anyone else who disagrees?”

  Korie looked from face to face, searching for dissent, hoping someone would come up with a valid reason why he shouldn’t take the next ineradicable step. Jonesy? Leen? Goldberg? Brik? Hodel? Williger?

  No. None of them.

  Korie took a breath. “HARLIE, log it. Under the provisions of Article Thirteen, I’m assuming command of the LS-1187 on the presumption that Captain Richard Hardesty is dead . . . or beyond our ability to rescue.”

  HARLIE’s tone was as calm as ever. “Yes, Mr. Korie. It is so logged.”

  Tor spoke first. Her tone was exquisitely formal. “Your orders, sir?”

  Korie ignored the implied rebuke. “We’re going to complete our mission. I want the fluctuators off the Burke and I don’t want to play hide-and-eat with a Morthan assassin. HARLIE, open the Burke to space. Do it now.”

  “Acknowledged. I am opening the Burke to space . . .”

  Korie tried not to show his reaction, but the reality of it made him flinch anyway. He turned back to the holographic display and watched as the various hatches on the schematic Burke began to open. The forward viewer flashed to show what the external cameras were able to see.

  HARLIE began shifting the view to show the interior of the Burke’s corridors as well. A great wind was sweeping through her corridors. Debris hurtled and blew and ricocheted off the walls. Things crashed and tumbled. A contorted body flopped over—

  The Bridge crew watched in silence. Korie spoke bitterly. “That should let the air out of our assassin.”

  “Maybe not,” said Williger.

  They all turned to look at her sharply.

  Chief Medical Officer Molly Williger stepped to the holographic display and slid a memory card into a reader. A bioschematic of the Morthan as
sassin flickered into being, replacing the schematic of the two linked starships. “He’s all augments,” said Williger. “He’s got a lightspeed nervous system, multiprocessing lobes in his brain, a hardened skeleton, enhanced musculature, extra hearts, internal shielding, you name it—even the ability to shut down the organic parts of his body for short periods of time.” She hesitated for a heartbeat. “And the bad news is that he might be able to function without air, food, and water for sustained periods.”

  Korie looked to Brik. “Is all this normal for an assassin?”

  Brik nodded. “For a beginner.”

  “Stop trying to cheer me up,” Korie muttered. To Williger, he said, “Okay. How long can that son of a bitch hold his breath?”

  “Best guess? Fifteen minutes.”

  Korie made a decision. “We’ll wait an hour.”

  “We don’t have an hour,” said Tor. “Remember the Dragon Lord?”

  “I remember the Dragon Lord,” Korie snapped back. “Better than you. I’ll show you the scars.” He repeated his order. “We’ll wait an hour.”

  Coffee

  The Burke was cold and silent. Despite the cold glare of her lights, or maybe because of it, she looked desolate. Nothing moved aboard her. Her cameras showed nothing. HARLIE’s scans continued to come up empty.

  After a while, Korie grew bored with the endless cycling of empty images. He grabbed a cup of coffee and stalked off the Bridge. He thought about going to the captain’s cabin, but couldn’t bring himself to do that. Not yet. It didn’t feel right. It wouldn’t be his until—until the admiral gave it to him.

  He stopped and leaned against the wall of the starboard corridor, slumping and staring at nothing in particular. The gray surface of the foamboard construction had a dull sheen.

  The argument raged inside his head. I didn’t have any choice. The decision had to be made. I only did what Hardesty would have done if he had been here. I followed the book. But all of that was meaningless against the accusing facts. We didn’t see him die. We didn’t know for sure that he was dead. We could have killed him when we evacuated the air out of the Burke!

  But that was only the surface of the turmoil, the immediate details. Floating below that was the more disturbing pain. It’s Captain Lowell all over again. A captain is supposed to depend on his executive officer—why can’t I be that kind of exec? Why can’t I protect my commander? Am I so stupid and clumsy that I can’t safeguard my leader? But how do you keep a captain from getting killed if he insists on making the wrong decisions? What is it about leadership that others can see and I can’t? Am I so wrapped up in my own ego that I can’t tell what’s right? What kind of an officer am I?

  Korie noticed that his shoes were bloody, probably from one of the puddles that he’d had to step through. He wondered whose blood it was. He wondered if he should try to clean these shoes or if he’d be better off tossing them into the singularity. That was how all the garbage was disposed of on a starship; it was fed to the pinpoint black hole in the engine room. It was fun to watch too—the way things just crumpled up and sucked away into nothingness, usually with a flash and a bang.

  When he looked up again, Brik was standing before him, waiting patiently.

  “What do you want?” he said. His tone was not friendly.

  “I thought that you might want . . . some advice.” Brik hesitated, then added, “Captain Hardesty appreciated my thoughts, particularly in strategic situations. I thought you might wish the same access.”

  “Mm,” said Korie. He stared into his half-empty coffee mug, swirling it around as he did so. He couldn’t think of anything to ask. He couldn’t think of anything at all right now. He’d boiled it down to the simplest of all tracks. It was very linear: wait an hour, go back into the Burke, finish the job, get the fluctuators, bring both ships home—and then he frowned. Who would crew the Burke now?

  Tor. Yes. Tor could do it. That might work.

  “No,” said Brik. “Don’t even think it. Cinnabar has been six jumps ahead of us since the moment we sighted the Burke. Here are your options. One: back off, torpedo that ship, and head for home now. And hope that Cinnabar didn’t find a way off the Burke and onto the LS-1187. That’s the safest option, and nobody will fault you for taking it. We’ve already lost too many good crewmembers. Two: go back into the Burke, take the other two fluctuators, then scuttle her and head for home. If there’s time. There probably isn’t—which is why option one is still the safest. Three: Try to bring the Burke up and running and bring her home—except you won’t get her two meters. She’s booby-trapped. Count on it. Cinnabar has not been sitting on his thumbs. He’s been thinking up scenarios and counter-responses since before we rendezvoused. We arrived in this game too late to have a chance—”

  “Four,” said Korie, taking Brik’s count away from him. “We stay linked with the Burke and bring her home inside our own envelope.”

  “Tow her?” Brik shook his head. “Too risky. Chief Leen will have shpilkies.”

  “Shpilkies?” Korie asked.

  “A litter of carnivorous Morthan kittens.”

  “Oh,” Korie blinked.

  “The point is, we can’t tow the Burke. We’ll be too unstable—Chief Leen will never be able to balance the bubble. The center of gravity won’t be congruent with the center of the envelope. We’d shake and shudder like a drunken nightmare. We’ll kill ourselves trying.”

  “And—” said Korie, “—you forgot to mention that our top speed will be limited to one-quarter normal. About one hundred and fifty lights, if we’re lucky.”

  “I was just getting to that.”

  Korie looked up sharply. “You think he might still be alive?”

  “The captain? No. The assassin? Count on it.” Brik looked grim. “He had to know what your options were and how you’d react. He had to have planned for this. My best advice? Torpedo the Burke and let’s get out of here.”

  Korie raised an eyebrow at Brik and allowed a cynical grin to spread across his face. “Without a fight? Are you sure you’re really a Morthan?”

  “Understand something, Mr. Korie,” Brik said coldly. “Morthans consider fighting only one step above dishonor. The real victory is outwitting your opponent without having to bloody your sword. Only the stupid and clumsy carry battle scars. The skill is in victory without battle.”

  “But you’re advising retreat.”

  “Humans call it a strategic withdrawal,” Brik said. “It is not dishonorable to conserve your energies for situations where you have a better chance of winning.”

  “Frankly,” said Korie, ruefully, “I’d much prefer rearranging the situation to our advantage.”

  “That sounds like a Morthan talking. Are you sure you’re really human?”

  “I have the battle scars to prove it,” Korie said. He looked up at Brik. He looked up and up at Brik. Their eyes linked—and for a moment, Korie felt an eerie surge of emotion. Partnership with a Morthan? And then the moment flickered away. God really is a practical joker! Korie looked back into his coffee and said, “The thing that really annoys me about this whole situation is being played for a fool. I stepped right into it. I know it. He knows it. He knows I know it. I can’t get it out of my head. The timing of the attack, everything—it wasn’t random. He did it to delay us, to prevent us from removing the fluctuators from the Burke—to prevent us from escaping before the arrival of the Dragon Lord.” Abruptly, he handed Brik his coffee cup. “Hold this.”

  Brik took it and stepped back as Korie suddenly screamed as loudly as he could—“I HATE THE DRAGON LORD!”—and whirled, curling his fist, swinging his whole arm around and punching it hard into the foamboard wall with a sound like a bowling ball hitting a slab of beef. The wall crunched. His fist sank wrist-deep into it.

  Then, very calmly, Jonathan Thomas Korie pulled his fist out of the wall, turned back to Brik and retrieved his cup of coffee.

  “I like these walls,” he said. “There’s something satisfying about punching
them.”

  “It’s the nice way they crunch,” agreed Brik. “Feel better?”

  Korie wiggled his hand in an “iffy” gesture. “It was nice to know what I was doing for a change. It was nice to have a focus.” Abruptly, something crystallized for him. “Y’know what it is, Brik? I want revenge. What I really want, more than anything else in the galaxy is just one real chance to get even with that ship and the bastards who scourged Shaleen.” And then he sighed and said, “I know, it’s impossible. But I can dream, can’t I?”

  Brik didn’t say anything.

  Korie continued. “Actually, right now, I’d be satisfied if I could just take one good bite out of Esker Cinnabar. If I could just get one jump ahead of him instead of the other way around. Tell me there’s a way.”

  “Only if you can learn to think like a Morthan.” Brik’s tone was cool. There was enough skepticism in the naked words. He continued, “Assume that they’ve gamed it out and always know what your next move is. Then you extrapolate their next move from that and allow for it. And the next three moves after that too. Then you go back to the beginning and try to figure out what you can do that they won’t expect—and assume that they’ll have figured that out too. And so on. That’s what he’s doing right now. What can you do that he can’t know?”

  “You’re assuming he’s alive,” said Korie.

  “Not only alive—but very possibly somewhere aboard this vessel,” said Brik.

  That thought stopped Korie cold. It was like an ice pick in his heart. He looked up at Brik, searching the other’s face for some sign that he might have been joking. He wasn’t.

  “You think he could do it?”

  “I can think of seven ways to get from the Burke into the LS-1187 without HARLIE knowing. Cinnabar can probably think of seven more.”

  Korie sighed. “This is crazy. It’s like some mad game—it’s like playing chess with a dragon, isn’t it?”

  “An apt enough analogy,” Brik agreed.

  “All right. Let me walk this through from the beginning. Everything he did—letting us capture him, escaping, all the killing—he did all that on purpose. Why? Obviously, to delay us, to keep us from completing our task of stripping the fluctuators. But now that he’s done it, he’s played his trump card—or has he? Is there something else?”