Starhunt: A Star Wolf Novel (8 page)

“Seven minutes. First optimum peak in seven minutes and fifteen seconds.”

“Can I have a mark at seven?”

“Stand by.”

“Standing.”

“All right . . . three, two, one—
mark
.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

“Setting warp factor; 82.5.”

“Eighty-two point five? Is that correct?”

“Eighty-two point five is correct.”

“Are you sure? That’ll take us sixteen hours to intercept.”

“Thirty-three point seven. We’re dropping speed as we go in.”

“What the hell—?”

“Get back to procedure, please. Power consumption inputs?”

“Stand by.”

“Standing. Ready for data.”

Brandt drops the headphone on which he has been listening. The procedure may sound sloppy, but it is sure. The ship will warp when it is supposed to and the warp will move in the direction it is supposed to.

“Ready to warp, sir?”

Brandt nods. “Warp at will.”

The pilot speaks to a mike. “Engine room, please confirm, frequency modules two, four, and six on phase reflex nine zero. Angle of adjustment—0.00012. . . .”

“Confirming.”

“Thank you,” says the officer and adds cheerfully, “and by the way, don’t forget to compensate.”

“Right,” comes the laconic reply. “And up yours.”

A warning bell chimes. Around the horseshoe, all secondary functions begin to shut down. Every bit of power available must be shunted into the generators for the initial strain of expanding the warp fields. The lights fade to a dark gloom; a speaker crackles, “Prepare to warp. Mark sixty seconds.”

Brandt decides not to wait. He levers himself out of his chair. “Mr. Korie.”

The first officer looks back. “Sir?”

“Take the helm.”

“Yes, sir.” Korie steps easily, familiarly, into the seat.

“I’ll be in my cabin.”

“Right, sir.”

Brandt steps to the rear of the bridge and out. The door slides shut behind him. The corridor is narrow and cramped. It has a stale smell and the plastic panels of the walls are strained with the passage of years.

As he moves along it there is a warning bell, followed by an almost unfelt flicker of free fall. Brandt steadies himself between the walls, a hand on each one, then moves on as the lights come back to normal. The ship has enfolded itself into warp, a procedure that would be routine if it were not so complex.

Brandt pauses only once, to turn sideways and allow another man to move down the narrow passage. The crewman mumbles a quick but startled acknowledgment of the captain’s presence, then hurries on.

The corridor runs the length of the ship; the captain’s cabin is one-third of the way back. Brushing at the door, Brandt steps into it.

Traditionally, the captain’s cabin is the largest on the ship, but even that is none too large on a destroyer-class star-cruiser. The ship is built for only fifty-three men and space is at a premium. Even so the cabin is roomy—twelve feet by sixteen—and it reflects the captain’s taste for luxury.

For instance, there is a real bed instead of a sleeping web; of course, it is set into the wall where a cabinet should have been, but it is still a real bed with mattress and linen. The floor is covered with crisp red and gold foam—its incongruity betrays the recentness of its addition—and set against one wall is the captain’s proudest possession: a table and two chairs.

Admittedly, the furniture is a shameful waste of space, but the pieces are of true Terran mahogany and were a gift from the Brazilian ambassador. After keeping them for a suitable length of time, Brandt found that he no longer wished to be rid of them. The cramped feeling that
they had generated in his cabin at first has since worn off, and now he rather fancies the touch of elegance that they give his otherwise meager quarters.

Opposite the table, on the other wall, is a large painting—a silvery battle cruiser orbits below a swollen and red globe. At other times, it is a viewscreen; but for now it remains an image of his first command.

On the shelf below is a typer. A single sheet of stiff gray paper sits in the machine. Abruptly Brandt remembers what it is. He steps over the typer and pulls the letter from it:

Admiral Harshlie,

Again, I would like to repeat my request for a transfer to a less active command. As I have stated previously, I feel that my services could be more valuable in a position closer to home.

While I can understand the position you are in politically, I would like to point out that

Brandt lays the unfinished letter aside. Next to the typer are two other letters; the paragraphs are only blocks of familiar phrases:

Captain Brandt,

Much as I would like to honor your latest request for transfer, I regret to inform you that it is still impossible at this time. The situation as I outlined it to you in my last communication still has not changed appreciably, nor do I foresee any change in it for some time to come.

When a request such as yours again becomes practical, I will immediately let you know. Thank you for your continued interest and for communicating with us on this matter.

Cordially,

JOSEPH HARSHLIE,

Vice Admiral

And then the other letter:

Dear Georj,

You know there isn’t a thing in the world I wouldn’t do for you if I could. You know that. Certainly there is nothing more I would like than to be able to grant your request.

But, Georj, take my word for it—it is impossible. There are just too many starship commanders who have grown weary of the war, men who are every bit as qualified as yourself.

Many of them—too many—are long overdue even for Rest and Recovery. You at least are lucky enough to have both a ship and a crew in reasonably good condition. (I know of men who would gladly trade places with you.)

You are not the only one who has grown weary of this war. We have all grown tired of it. God, how I wish I could tell you what it is like to have a casualty report waiting on your desk for you every morning. (And the war doesn’t stop on weekends either. Monday’s list is always the worst.)

Other men get tired too, Georj, but if I were to give a transfer to every man who got a little tired, I would have a hundred empty ships on the docks tomorrow. I don’t have to tell you we can’t afford that.

I can’t order you to stop making these requests, but as a personal friend I can advise you that you are only wasting your time. While the
Burlingame
’s record has never been substandard, neither has it ever been outstanding. There is nothing in your record to warrant a transfer.

In your present assignment, at least, we can depend on you to keep your ship aloft—and in that capacity, you cannot easily be replaced. (You yourself have said that your first officer is still not ready for a command of his own. Personally, I don’t agree; but if you say he still needs more experience, I’ll have to take your word for it.)

Once more, I ask you to please stop sending in these requests. You know as well as I that in your case a transfer would necessitate a promotion. While I (personally) would like to approve such a request, this office is not in a position to be able to do so. Your requests are creating no goodwill for you among the admiralty; they are most painful for me to read and even more painful to have to submit to a sure and certain negative answer. Georj, the board is hostile to these requests; please let this be the last.

I know it is hard for you, but think how hard it is for me. My burden is already heavy. Please don’t make it any heavier.

With regrets

Joe

Abruptly, Brandt crumples the letters and shoves them into the disposal incinerator reserved for the burning of confidential documents.

Morality and practicality should be congruent. If they’re not, then there’s something wrong with either one or the other.

—SOLOMON SHORT

Korie knocks gently on the captain’s door. After a minute, he knocks again. A pause, then a muffled voice asks, “Who is it?”

“Korie, sir.”

“Just a minute.” Another pause, then the door slides open.

Inside, Brandt is just buttoning the top button of his tunic. His iron-gray hair is mussed; he brushes a hand stiffly through it. “Yes, what is it?” He sits down on one of his precious wooden chairs. He does not offer his first officer a seat.

The captain’s cabin has a stale smell. Somewhat uneasily, Korie begins, “Sir, I was wondering what we were going to do about Wolfe.”

“Wolfe?” A slight frown accompanies this echo.

“The crewman who was negligent on the bridge.”

“Oh, yes. Him. Mmm. . . .” Brandt’s voice trails off; he focuses thoughtfully on the dark mahogany surface of the table. Idly, he brushes at a speck of dirt. “What would you suggest, Mr. Korie?”

Korie hesitates. (All right, if you won’t say it, I will.) “Bust him.” After an almost imperceptible beat, he adds, “Sir.”

Still not looking at him, Brandt shakes his head, “Uh-uh. I don’t see it.”

“Sir—?”

“It’s not necessary, Mr. Korie.” He glances up. “Just confine him to quarters for a week and dock his pay for the time off duty.”

“Sir!” Korie is outraged. “Negligence is an offense requiring court-martial. And—it would demonstrate to the crew that we mean business.”

“I’m familiar with the regulations,” Brandt sighs. He wipes at his nose. “But in this case, we might find it very difficult to prove.”

Korie allows himself the luxury of an oath—a single sharp syllable.

The captain raises a shaggy eyebrow. “Mr. Korie!” he says in mock horror. “Such language from an officer and gentleman?”

Korie ignores the jibe. “It’s pretty obvious, sir, that Wolfe was negligent in not showing Rogers the complete setup on the G-control board.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Of course—”

“If I were Wolfe’s counsel,” the captain puts in, “I’d plead that it was Wolfe’s every intention to complete Rogers’ training at a more opportune time in the immediate future.”

“That’s an awfully thin thread to hang a case on.”

“Strong enough,” Brandt counters. “After all, he doesn’t have to prove it. But we—as prosecutors—would have to disprove it.

“Besides, Mr. Korie—and you’d better learn this now if you ever hope to have a ship of your own—convening a court is a headache. And the resultant upheaval in morale is an even bigger one.” He cuts off the other’s objection with a brief gesture and adds thoughtfully, once more staring into the table top, “So, rather than reach for a possibly untenable position, this gives us instead an opportunity to show that we are both just and merciful. The man saves face and we save ourselves one competent crewman.”

“Competent?” Korie snorts.

“Relatively speaking,” Brandt concedes. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how bad the replacement situation is. We’re at war. Everything has to be stretched a little, even regulations.”

“Yes, but—”

“Ah, there’s always the ‘yes, but—’ isn’t there, Mr. Korie?” A hint of a smile starts to flicker across the captain’s face, but it dies before it has a chance to be realized. “Give him a chance, give him a chance. If he’s smart enough to take it, we all benefit. And if not—if he turns out to be as big a wobblehead as you seem to feel . . . well, then we’ll only be giving him enough rope to hang himself.”

“Then, if we do have to court-martial him,” says Korie, “we’ll have two incidents instead of one. . . .”

“I hope not,” says Brandt. “Let’s wait and see. . . .” Abruptly he looks up, seems to notice Korie again. “You’d do better to concentrate on your—uh,
master plan
—to have the ship ready for battle. After all, that bogie is our main concern.”

Korie straightens. “Yes, sir, but this would be a useful part of the psychonomic gestalt.”

Brandt waves away the objection. He changes the subject. Psychonomy discomfits him. He is a captain of the old school. “Those battle drills you were running—how long has it been since you’ve held one?”

“Too long.”

“Hmmm,” Brandt says. “All right, I suppose you might begin a new series of them.” He sighs. “I suppose this is as good a time as any—in fact, I can’t think of a more appropriate one. Go ahead, Mr. Korie. Amuse yourself.”

“Yes, sir. Any suggestions on what kind or how many?”

Brandt shakes his head. “No. Use your own discretion. I trust you.”

“Yes, sir.” He turns to go.

“Oh, and Korie—”

“Sir?”

“Remember what I told you before about overdoing it. Don’t push them too hard.”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, you can go.”

For a long time, Korie stands in the corridor outside the captain’s cabin, exploring a crevice in his mouth with his tongue, and the possible course of action as well.

There is nothing he can do about Wolfe at the moment. However, there will undoubtedly be opportunities in the future to take care of the matter. (Wolfe is too big a fool to disappoint me. All I have to do is wait.) It’s only a matter of time—

Abruptly, he makes a decision. He turns on his heel and heads aft. Through the galley, bright, deserted, smelling of cleanser and coffee. Through the lounge, not as bright, its plastic furniture folded into the walls, leaving only an empty, carpeted room. Through the auxiliary control decks, dark and silent.