Starhunt: A Star Wolf Novel (29 page)

Korie starts setting up problems on the console in front of him. After a while, he slips casually into a self-monitoring analysis program, which—in the course of running itself—notes by the phrasing of a certain key sentence that there is no tap on this console. At least, not yet. Korie nods to himself, satisfied. (Thank heaven for small favors.) But just to be on the safe side, he sets up a dummy set of simulations anyway, and lets them run continuously. Just in case. Then he punches up Beethoven’s
Pathetique
Piano Concerto and leans back contentedly in his chair, eyes fixed firmly on the screen. (This is going to be the best performance of my life. And all I have to do is sit here and look serious. And I do admit, it’s going to be hard to keep from showing a big satisfied smile—)

High above him, on the monkey cage, two crewmen look at each other.

“How long do you think he’s going to stay there?” one asks the other.

“The way I hear it, he’s going to stay as long as there’s a wobbly on the screens—and that means all the way home.”

“Twelve days!”

“As long as it takes.”

“Ugh. What’s he got against us anyway?”

“Nothing. He’s never had anything against us. It’s all been completely impersonal. Korie’s like all officers—asshole for the pure fun of it. Ignore him—he won’t go away, but what else can you do?”

“As long as he leaves us alone . . . I guess it’s all right—I just don’t like having him near me.”

“Who does?”

The cage turns beneath them then, and they scramble to their new positions, swearing softly.

On the opposite side of the engine room, Leen watches them worriedly. Twelve days of this? He shudders.

Remember, today could just as easily be the last day of the rest of your life.

—SOLOMON SHORT

On the second day, someone reprograms the music channel to play at odd intervals, and with full chorus and orchestration: “On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me—two phase adapters . . . and a partridge in a pear tree.”

The thought pleases Korie. He had expected tension. But he doesn’t need them tense, not yet—and he’s pleased that individual members of the crew are already finding ways to ease the pressure. Not discard it, just lower its importance. So Korie is satisfied.

It’s a start.

His problem is that it’s difficult for him to monitor the state of the crew objectively. Their mere knowledge of his presence indisputably alters their behavior. Korie thinks of something he read once in a quote book. “Heisenberg was not only right, he was
absolutely
right.” That is nowhere so true as in psychonometrics.

Korie is in the engine room again. Today, he is listening to Brell’s
Fantasy on a Theme of Mozart.
Perhaps that’s dangerous—to listen to something that cheerful—but what the hell, there are times when one must stop analyzing and start experiencing. Otherwise one has nothing to analyze except one’s own analyses. And that way lies madness. Besides, he rationalizes to himself, once in a while it’s necessary to detach yourself completely from the problem.

—Except that he knows that try as he might, he cannot and will not detach himself from this problem. Thoughts keep percolating upward from his subconscious mind.

For instance, the possibility that the bogie will
not
track them all the way back to base keeps returning to gnaw at the base of his brain.

(After all, he has twelve days in which to act. He doesn’t dare give us time to game out
all
the possibilities. He has to catch us by surprise. So he’ll have to wait a few days, at least—to give us time to stop thinking of him as a bogie and get used to him as an ever-present
and harmless
wobbly. But he can’t give us too long or we’ll start to wonder too much about that wobbly.

(I guess the key variable in the equation is our distance from base. If we’re too far from base, then he has no choice but to force the issue. But how far is too far? Twelve days? Fourteen? Twenty? He can force the issue any time he wants, merely by closing with us.

Idly, Korie clears his console and accesses the ship’s library. There is a file on paradoxes, and there’s one in particular that he wants to consider. The paradox of the unexpected event.

The screen displays rule one: “An unexpected event will occur during a given time frame.”

The lines scroll up, and rule two appears: “The event will be unexpected in that those affected by it will not be able to predict from previous information at what moment it will occur.”

Korie notes to himself, (And that rules out the day we return to base. Because on that day, we know when and where we are going to unwarp, and therefore, the event of his attack will not be unexpected—at least not to me. Therefore, rules one and two eliminate the last day of
running—but all of the days before then are still prime candidates for the unexpected event. Therefore, there is no paradox involved. At least not until we add self-awareness.)

He taps a button, and the lines scroll up to reveal rule three: “The event will occur in such a way that it will not be possible to deduce from rules one and two when it will occur.”

(And that changes the problem entirely. We still know that the unexpected event will not occur on the last day. But now we know that it will not occur on the next to the last day—but then it wouldn’t be “unexpected” any more. So the unexpected event cannot occur on the next to last day either. So . . . the unexpected event—
if it is actually to occur
—must occur on or before day ten.

(But—the paradox of the situation is that it is infinitely self-regressing. Now that we know that the unexpected event cannot occur on day eleven or day twelve and still be unexpected, then it follows that it cannot occur on day ten either and be unexpected. Because if it has not happened by day nine, then it must happen on day ten, because it can’t happen on day eleven or day twelve and still be unexpected. And can’t happen on day eleven or twelve and be unexpected. And if I know that it must happen on day ten, then it isn’t unexpected on day ten either. And the same argument can be applied to day nine and day eight and day seven, all the way back to today. Lovely.

(And yet, knowing that the event cannot occur on any single one of those days and still be unexpected—when it does occur it will be breaking the rules of its own paradox, and therefore it
will
be unexpected. I cannot predict when it will occur. At least, not without considering all of the other factors involved. But that won’t give me an answer either. The whole point of
the unexpected event is that it
is
unexpected and you cannot predict it. The paradox is that you expect an unexpected event to occur.)

Korie is frowning now, hardly listening to the music in his earphones. (So far that bastard has been one move ahead of me all the way down the line. No matter how hard I try, I can’t find the edge I need, that little advantage that will allow me to—to predict what he’d going to do next. That’s the key to his plan—to do the opposite of the obvious. Every time we reach a point where I think I should be able to predict his behavior, I find another reason to be uncertain.) Korie considers that thought for a while. (You can drive a person mad this way. When you can no longer predict the consequences of an action, you can’t interact with your environment safely any more. The only thing to do is retreat into catatonia. Except—that couldn’t possibly be his goal.

(Or could it?

(Could they be so unwilling to join in combat that they’ve reduced their battle entirely to feinting maneuvering for psychonomic effects?

(I should consider that, shouldn’t I? It’s a possibility. Except—that bastard is going to do the opposite of what I expect him to—

(So, therefore, I don’t dare
expect
him to do anything—because the mere act of expecting—and preparing for that possibility—is almost a guarantee that he’ll do the opposite.

(The question is—how accurate are his predictions of my behavior? But then—I can’t know what he’s predicting any more than he can know what I’m preparing—

(And the event will be unexpected because I
cannot
predict it.)

Abruptly Korie reaches forward and switches off the music. It has become distracting. Thoughtfully, but resolutely, he takes the earphones off and lays them down on the console. He pushes himself to his feet. (I think, perhaps, it’s time I armed my weapon—)

Learn to be sincere. Even if you have to fake it.

—SOLOMON SHORT

The shower room smells of disinfectant. It’s a little too crisp to be natural. Korie pauses just inside the doorway and thinks for a moment as he surveys the room. Then he steps to a wall panel and quickly reprograms the environment. He raises the temperature to ninety-two degrees. (Or is that a little too obvious?) He backs it off to eighty-eight. He switches off the air circulation, and the air cleaners too. He punches for a flowery smell that is also reminiscent of stale urine. He increases the light level almost to the threshold of pain. (I want the room bright, I want him squinting, so he won’t see me clearly, and so his face will automatically be pinched into an expression of hate.) He reverses the polarity of the ion generator. The positive ions will make the room feel stuffy, cramped. (What else?) He increases the sound-pressure level of the music channel—particularly certain key frequencies—and then orders up the most annoying and discordant piece of music he can think of, Lennon’s
Ode to Chaos
. The room fills with jangly noise. Korie listens a moment, evaluating. (Maybe a little old-fashioned country-western instead? No, this will do. This sounds more like it’s trying to be
real
music. Besides, I
like
this. The composer was demonstrating that true art dances on the borderline of discordancy—disturbing the listener with its hints of new truth—it must continually test and stretch those borders. Yes, this piece will disconcert anyone who needs rigorous structure to feel secure—)

Korie peels off his uniform and deliberately drops it on the floor in the middle of the room, taking care to make certain that his briefs are casually obvious. The effect of that particular reminder of the
physicality
of his presence is most important. He will be dealing with the animal levels here, and he needs to stimulate the animal level of response to an operative level. (But this should do it—)

He programs the shower to cycle slowly between lukewarm and steaming. Before stepping into it, he dampens several towels and throws them casually around the room. Then he steps into the jets of water and begins silently scrubbing.

He bathes slowly, allowing himself to enjoy the luxuriousness of the sensation. He allows himself to relax—that is, as much as it is possible to relax in an environment tuned specifically to jangle. But Korie’s awareness of the deliberateness of the stimuli grants him a certain immunity from their effects. He retains his control.

“Shit!” cries a distant voice. “What a mess!”

Without breaking from his reverie, Korie leans around the edge of the partition, “Yah? Who’s there?”

A startled Rogers. “Uh—oh, sorry, sir. I didn’t know you were in here—I’ll uh—” But Korie has disappeared back into the steaming shower. Rogers leaves quickly—without using the urinal at all. He’ll go to the aft head rather than risk being alone with Korie again.

Korie resists the urge to whistle. He forces himself into an exercise mantra, a combination of mental and physical routines that are designed to tune the body into a more harmonious gestalt. He begins to feel almost—cheerful.

Each time a new person enters the room. Korie peers around the edge of the partition. Nope. Still not the one he’s waiting for.

He holds his face under the water, rubbing at his eyes to make them swollen and red. (I hope I don’t have to wait too much longer. If I’m in here too long, the whole ship will know and then he’ll never come in.)

But even as he thinks that, the door whooshes open and Korie peers around the wall to see Wolfe coming in. Korie pulls back quickly, rubbing his eyes hard. He takes a deep breath, then as he lets it out, he seems to sag. He lets himself slump like a tired bag of bones. He pulls his shoulders in, as if he’s become a coward, flinching against even the slightest threat. He turns off the shower and moves toward the door with timid steps. (Oh, God, I hope I’m not overdoing this. If this doesn’t ring true—)

He steps cautiously out to where he can see Wolfe, and immediately, as he does so, cups one hand protectively over his groin. (Ah, nice touch that.) He turns quickly and grabs his towel, holding it lengthwise in front of himself as he blots at himself. He never takes his eyes off Wolfe, and he keeps a slightly worried expression on his face. Wolfe is standing at the urinal with his back to Korie—but he is aware of his presence. His quick sideways glance and unnatural stiffness are the cues Korie needs.

“Uh—excuse me—” Korie says, stepping quickly past Wolfe and scooping up his clothes from the floor. He retreats back to the other end of the room, then turns away from Wolfe, deliberately concentrating on the floor as he continues to dry himself.

“You’re not so big any more, are you?” Wolfe sneers.

“Uh—” Korie looks up, startled. (I could kiss him for that. It isn’t often that someone walks right into it so perfectly.) “I beg your pardon, Wolfe?”

“Mr. Hot-Jets Korie—” Wolfe snorts derisively. “—now you know what it feels like to be shit, don’t you?” His expression is tight and ugly.

Korie allows himself to look upset. “I only—tried to do what I thought was right. So I made a mistake—everybody does.”

“Yah—you made a mistake all right, when you signed on. This used to be an easy ship. No sweat until you came along, you and your goddamn drills. Always driving, driving, driving at us—how the hell did you think we were going to react to that? With kisses? You’re such an asshole, you did it to yourself. We were just waiting for you to screw up—but you surpassed even our wildest dreams—”

“Look,” begs Korie. “Take it easy, will you? Don’t you think I have some feelings too? Don’t you think I’m feeling bad enough? Why do you have to rub it in?”