The Voyage of the Star Wolf

by David Gerrold

  “One on one in the bay.”

  “What did you find?”

  Korie passed him a plastic card. “It’s all in here. There’s overhead access panels to the Bridge. You can reach them from the utility tube without being observed. There’s also an under-floor access just ahead of the Ops bay. There’s a lot of dead space all around the Bridge module to make repairs easier.”

  Brik slid the card into his belt. “What about the Burke’s torpedoes?”

  “You were right. Nakahari went into Systems Analysis—through the back door. The fusion pumps are disconnected and cold. Those fish are dead. I don’t want to check our own yet. I don’t want to risk alerting him.”

  “Right.” Brik nodded. “How’s the captain?”

  Korie shrugged—then grabbed a handhold. The gesture would have scooted him downward, back into the inner hull of the Burke. “He’s alive, but I practically had to break Williger’s arm to get her to validate my assumption of responsibility.”

  “But she did?”

  “She did.”

  “Good. You may have saved both their lives. And put your own at considerably more risk.”

  “I knew the job was dangerous when I took it.”

  “Not this dangerous.”

  “Brik—” Korie let himself get very very serious. “Understand something. I don’t have anything left to live for—my family is gone. My home is a desert. The only thing that motivates me now is revenge. But that will be enough, if it’s a big enough revenge. So any danger that I might be in right now is irrelevant to me. Just tell me how I can hurt the enemy.”

  Brik studied Korie for a moment. “With all due respect, that is very possibly the stupidest thing you have ever said to me. You might not care about the danger you are in—but you now have the additional responsibility of the lives of those you command. We did not sign a suicide pact when we came aboard this ship.”

  “I know that.”

  “I have been around fanatics all my life,” continued Brik. “Let me tell you this. If a fanatic is willing to sacrifice his own life to a cause, he isn’t going to worry much about the lives of those around him.”

  “I understand what you’re saying,” said Korie. “I’m not a fanatic.”

  “That’s what they all say.”

  “Listen to me. I haven’t abandoned my responsibility to the ship or the crew or the fleet. I’m not a kamikaze. I want this revenge and then I want the next one and the one after that. I want to live long enough to see the Morthan Solidarity ground into dust. But—” Korie shrugged. “If someone has to take the point, let it be me.”

  Brik didn’t answer that. He searched Korie’s face for a moment longer, looking not only at Korie’s surface emotions, but also at the deeper drives within. “All right,” he said, finally. “I can honor that. Now I have work to do—wait a few minutes before you follow me.” He pushed himself out of the observatory.

  Korie stared after him. He didn’t know if Brik had believed him or not. He didn’t know if he believed himself or not. He stared out at the stars a moment longer.

  Why, God—?

  Then he stopped himself.

  No. Never again.

  Status Report

  Don’t worry, Korie told himself. Either everything’s going to work, or it won’t work. If it works, we’ll survive. If it doesn’t work, we won’t have anything to worry about either.

  He stopped where he was and deliberately forced himself to breathe slower. He closed his eyes and thought of the lagoon and the garden at home—trying to relax. That had always worked before. . .

  But it didn’t work this time.

  Because this time, whenever he thought of the lagoon and the garden and the canopy of arching blue ferns, he also thought of the Dragon Lord and what it had done to his home.

  Korie opened his eyes and stared out through the glass at the hardened stars. They were spread unmoving through the abyss, a wall of shattered light, distant and unreachable.

  Remember what they said at the Academy? To get to the stars, you have to be irrational.

  At the time, it had been a funny joke—a clever play on words. Hyperstate was an irrational place to be.

  Suddenly, it wasn’t so funny anymore.

  What did it take to survive among the stars? That was another question entirely.

  Korie put his thumb and forefinger to his neck, checking the beat of his pulse. It was still elevated, but not badly. He was at a normal level of tension again.

  Enough time had passed. Korie pushed himself out of the observatory, caught the railing, and pulled himself upright again.

  Right now, the thing to do is look normal, he reminded himself. Not just for the Morthan, but for the crew. The orders had been given. Either they were going to get the job done, or they weren’t. In the latter case . . . well, if they didn’t survive, neither would the ship. At least, he had guaranteed that much.

  Unless the assassin had figured out that trap too.

  The hard part was that he couldn’t check it—not without giving it away.

  It was all a game of phantoms—feint and parry against possibilities.

  Korie realized that he was alone in the Burke’s inner hull and shivered as if cold. He hurried back to the closest access and climbed back up into the forward keel of the starship. Two crewmembers were working there, stringing optical cables for a new sensory network. Nakahari’s modifications were going to need eyes and ears.

  Two others had resumed the work on the high-cycle fluctuators. Two security guards stood grimly by with rifles ready. It was insufficient and they all knew it, but what else could they do? Korie had ordered autodestruct charges packed into each of the fluctuators too—and that was further evidence of his lack of faith in the ability of the security squads.

  Korie nodded to them curtly and climbed a ladder, then headed aft toward the shuttle bay.

  Half of it was dumb show, half of it was real—but which half was precaution and which half was pretend? If nothing else, maybe we can confuse the assassin as badly as we’ve confused ourselves.

  He crossed the shuttle bay, stopping only long enough to call down to Nakahari, “How long?”

  Nakahari knew better than to stop work. His voice floated out of the hole in the floor. “Working on the third cycle now. I can give you a confidence of twenty. Maybe. Give me another half hour and I’ll multiply that by a factor of ten.”

  Korie stepped through the access to the airlock, through the Burke’s airlock, through the airlock of the LS-1187, through the access, and into the forward keel of his own ship.

  He couldn’t help himself. He had to stop at the sick bay.

  Williger looked up darkly.

  “Deathwatch?” she growled.

  Korie met her stare. “Do you always assume the worst of people?”

  “It’s a great timesaver,” she said. “And that way, when I’m proven wrong, my life is full of pleasant surprises, not unpleasant ones.”

  Korie rubbed the Bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head. He hadn’t realized how tired he was.

  “You want something for that?”

  “No. I’ll be fine.” He took a breath. “You’ve had time. What’s the prognosis?”

  She shrugged. “We wait. We watch. We hope. Some of us pray.” She added in a growly rasp, “Sometimes the answer is no.”

  “So you figured it out too.”

  “I’m only ugly. I’m not stupid.”

  “You’re not ugly,” Korie said.

  “Yeah, yeah—you’re outvoted by the evidence. When I was born, the doctor slapped my mother. They had to tie a pork chop around my neck just to get the dog to play with me. I had to sneak up on a glass of water if I wanted a drink.” Her voice was more gravelly than usual as she recited the tired old jokes. She looked suddenly tired. “My best guess is that the son of a bitch will live. I’m too ugly to live and he’s too mean to die.”

  Something about the way sh
e said it made Korie stop and look at her again. “All right—” he said. “What’s really bothering you?”

  “Old age,” she said. “You think I like this? I know about the jokes. The ones to my face. The ones behind my back. Do you think I chose this? It’s starting to get to me. Guess what? My rhinoceros-like hide isn’t as thick as I thought it was.”

  “It’s what the Morthan said, isn’t it?”

  “Aah, he didn’t bother me. That’s what he’s supposed to do. It’s just—nothing.” She waved him off.

  “Dr. Williger, if it means anything—you’re the most honest person on this ship. And as far as I’m concerned, that makes you the most beautiful.”

  “Spare me the bullshit. Right now, I’d trade all my inner beauty for a pair of limpid blue eyes with fluttery long lashes.”

  Who on this ship has blue eyes—? Korie wondered. And then realized. The new kids come aboard, we play musical chairs for a couple of weeks, and it only settles down when all the dance cards get filled. Only sometimes they don’t. After all the chatter about Armstrong and Quilla Delta had cooled down, after the harmless speculation about Brik and Bach, the juiciest topic for discussion had become Tor and Jonesy. Tor had become one of Williger’s best friends; how could she not be envious of her joy? Tor caught herself a nice little snuggle-boy and what did Williger get? Nothing. And how many times in the past had this happened to Dr. Williger? How had she put up with it for so long? Sometimes, I can be so stupid. What else have I missed?

  “I hadn’t realized,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  Williger’s eyes were moist. She shrugged. “It’s not your fault.”

  Korie sat down opposite the doctor. “Listen to me. If it means anything, you’re not alone in your hurt. Hurt is universal. We all hurt. The only thing that any of us can do is try to make it hurt a little bit less for the people around us.”

  She didn’t answer immediately. Korie studied her face. It was as if she was trying to formulate the words to embody the pain. Finally she rasped, “You, of all people, are the wrong one to try to offer me comfort.”

  Korie held her gaze. “It’s all I have left to give anyone anymore. Can you accept it?”

  “I thought the captain told you to quit trying to be a nice guy.”

  Korie shrugged. “Pretend I’m not being nice. Pretend I’m being ruthless. I’m trying to keep a valuable piece of equipment running properly—”

  “You’re not fooling anyone—” And then she hung her head and admitted, “I’m tired, Mr. Korie. I’m tired of empty beds and even emptier reassurance. I’m tired of the jokes. Especially the ones I don’t hear. I do my job. I’m one of the best damned doctors in the fleet. I’m entitled to—better than this. This isn’t the kind of hand-holding that I want. I want what I want—not second best. And nothing anyone can say or do can change that.”

  “Dr. Williger—”

  “No. Shut up. Let me say this. It’s not the pressure. It’s not even the fear. It’s the loneliness. I just—I don’t want to die alone.”

  “I don’t know what to say to you. If I had the power to change any of it—”

  “Stop,” she said, letting go and holding up a hand. “You don’t have to say anything. You listened. That was enough. And I’ll keep it a secret that you’re still a nice guy.”

  Korie smiled gently. He understood. “I’ll tell you what. When we get back to Stardock, I’ll have Hodel whip up a love philter for you.”

  Molly Williger looked horrified. “Don’t you dare. I saw how his exorcism turned out.” And then, she added, “Don’t worry, I’ll be all right.” She allowed herself a crooked smile. “I always am.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Okay,” said Korie. He stood up and left.

  Back in the keel, he paused to tap his headset control. “Brik? Status report.”

  “Green. Green. Yellow. Yellow. Green.”

  “Time?”

  “Fifteen to thirty.”

  “Make it closer to—”

  HARLIE beeped then, interrupting them both. “Mr. Korie! Long-range scanning is picking up a hyperstate ripple.”

  “Bridge. Now,” shouted Korie. He broke and ran, knowing that Brik was on his way already.

  Signals

  “It’s heading straight for us,” said Tor. “ETA: fifteen minutes. Jeezis—I’ve never seen anything move like that.”

  The holotable display showed the locus of the LS-1187 and the Burke as a tiny bright speck. On the opposite side of the display, a larger, brighter pinpoint was arrowing directly toward it.

  Hodel enlarged that section of the display. “Oh, God—I know that signature. It’s the Dragon Lord.”

  “The Burke is an important prize,” Korie noted as he stepped up onto the Ops deck from the forward keel access. He crossed to Tor and looked over her shoulder at her board. “Any signals?”

  “Not yet.”

  “They won’t,” said Brik, coming up after him. “It’d be a waste of time. They’ll ask for surrender. You’ll refuse. So, why bother? No, they’ll go immediately to the next step. Attack.”

  Hodel shook his head sadly and murmured to himself, “Oh, Mama . . .”

  “We can’t fight them,” said Korie. “We can’t win.” He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking. When he opened them again, his expression was dark. “Tor, send this signal.” He turned resolutely toward the main viewer. “Morthan battle-cruiser. If you approach this vessel, we will self-destruct. You will not have our stardrive! Repeat: We will self-destruct!”

  Tor was looking at him oddly.

  “Send that,” he repeated.

  “They won’t believe it,” said Brik.

  “And they’ll home in on the signal,” said Tor.

  “Or they won’t,” said Korie. “Send it.”

  Tor shook her head. “There are orders that only a captain can give—specifically self-destruct!”

  Korie looked at her. “What’s your point?”

  “The captain isn’t dead.”

  “The captain is pickled!” Korie shouted at her in frustration. “How brain-dead do you want him to be?”

  “That’s exactly my point! His brain is still active! He has to give the order.”

  “You might be right,” Korie said with visible annoyance. “But now is not the time to have this argument. Mr. Jones, send that signal.”

  Jonesy gulped. He looked to Tor apologetically, then back to Korie. “Yes, sir.”

  Tor muttered something under her breath. She stepped back to her console and hit the button, sending the signal. The panel beeped its confirmation. Signal sent. “Anything else, sir?”

  Korie shook his head.

  Tor stepped back to him and lowered her voice. Very quietly and very angrily, she said, “Don’t you ever go under my head again!”

  Korie stared her down. He was just as angry, maybe angrier. “The argument about who is in command does not belong on this Bridge.”

  “You’re right—” said a deep voice, a sound that rasped and rumbled like the roar of a panther.

  They turned to look, all horrified—as the Morthan assassin stepped calmly onto the Bridge of the starship. He was grinning like a gargoyle and he was dragging Dr. Williger by her hair.

  “The argument is irrelevant,” said Cinnabar, “—because I am in command now.” He hurled the doctor into the middle of the floor. She was still alive, but just barely. “I can’t stand rudeness,” he explained.

  Korie was horrified. He took a step forward, but Tor grabbed his arm and held him back. Beside them, Brik was standing perfectly still. Jonesy was white. Hodel had fainted.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Korie—” HARLIE said abruptly. “I’m picking up some anomalies on the Bridge. I believe, yes—” And then the klaxon went off. “Intruder alert! Intruder alert!”

  Cinnabar laughed. It was a chuckling rumble that bubbled up from the depths of Hell. It was deep and vicious and terrifying. “Thank you, HARLIE . . .”he sa
id.

  A security man fell into the Bridge from the opposite door, drawing his gun. Cinnabar moved like fire, grabbing him, cracking his back, and hurling him back out into the corridor. Something unseen crashed horribly. Someone else was screaming. “Thank you,” said Cinnabar, “but we won’t be needing your services anymore.” He turned back to Korie and the others. He stepped to the center of the Bridge. He laid one huge hand on the back of the captain’s chair, but he did not sit down.

  “In answer to your first question, it was easy. I came in through the missile tubes. You never scanned your own ship. Very arrogant. In answer to your second question, the reason you can’t self-destruct is that I’ve disabled that part of the network. Now then . . . send this signal to the Dragon Lord.” Cinnabar faced the main viewer. “This is Esker Cinnabar. I have taken control of both vessels. The Burke is ready for pickup. The stardrive is undamaged. All is well. Send that.” He smiled wickedly. “Mr. Jones? I gave you an order.”

  Jonesy looked uncertain. He looked to Korie for guidance. Reluctantly, Korie nodded. Jonesy turned to his board and sent the signal. Then he looked back to the Bridge again.

  Cinnabar was pleased. He smiled. He stepped to the other side of the captain’s chair, leaning on it possessively. Korie glared. That chair is mine. I’ve earned it! How dare he—? But the Morthan only draped one arm across the back of the empty chair. He wasn’t going to sit down.

  Korie glanced to Brik. Brik remained impassive.

  “You should have destroyed the fluctuators—” Cinnabar explained, “—and the Burke when you had the chance. Too bad. This is going to be very embarrassing for you. One more humiliation in a long string of humiliations.” His smile widened horribly. “Now, a Morthan would commit honorable suicide rather than be humiliated—but you humans seem to thrive on humiliation. So I promise to humiliate you exquisitely.” His chuckle was the sound of a dinosaur dying. “The ultimate humiliation . . . I may not even kill you. You’re not worthy of a Morthan death. I wonder what your admiral will think when we send you home again! This time, the defeat will be even more profound.” Cinnabar sighed dramatically. Then, abruptly, he was crisp and military again. “Evacuate the Burke,” he ordered. “Disengage and move off. Do it now.”