The Voyage of the Star Wolf (21 page)

Finally Hardesty realized Korie wasn't going to answer. He retook control of the interview. “All right—let's make a deal. You train this crew to live up to fleet standards, and I'll train
you
to live up to
mine
. And maybe then you'll be ready to be a captain—agreed?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Actually? No, you don't.”

“Then it's not much of a
deal
, is it?” Korie smiled. “At best, it's an order. At worst, it's a contract made under duress.”

“I see—yes. You have a point. But, it's irrelevant to me. All I want to know is one thing. Will I be able to depend on you?”

“That has never been the issue . . .
Captain
.”

“We'll see,” said Hardesty. “We'll see.”

Korie stepped up from the keel into the operations bay under the Bridge. The operations bay was a tiny chamber, all consoles, keyboards, and screens. Only two of the work stations were manned, but both were all green.

He climbed up three more steps and onto the Operations deck. As he came up the steps, he could see the holotable was showing an internal schematic of the ship. Ahead, the forward viewer focused on the distant unmoving stars; it was a cold and dispassionate window.

He knew there was something wrong even before he finished climbing up onto the Ops deck. The silence warned him. The looks on the faces of the other crew members told him—

Korie turned around and
froze
.

The entire Ops deck crew was staring at Lieutenant Commander Brik. He was nine feet tall. He was four feet wide at the shoulder. His muzzle was striped with red and orange fur. His fangs looked as long as Korie's hand.

He was a Morthan Tyger.

Morthan.
A genetically augmented, bioengineered, tailored in the womb, product of directed evolution. That part of the species that had taken control of its biological destiny and created itself as something fearsome.

Tyger.
A subspecies of Morthan warrior. The meaner side of the family.

What do you get when you cross a nine-foot zen-linebacker with a saber-tooth tiger? You get Brik: a Buddhist Gorilla.

He was awesome. He was all meat and bone and muscle. He smelled of hot desert sands tinged with blood. He was Korie's worst nightmare. And he was grinning.

He was wearing a fleet uniform. Korie was horrified.

The other officers and crew on duty were frozen at their posts. Chief Leen, waist-deep into a dismantled console, was visibly smoldering.

Abruptly, Captain Hardesty appeared on the Bridge, ducking through one of the rear doors and stepping forward to lean across the Bridge railing. “Ah, I see you've all met the new chief of security . . . Lt. Commander Brik. You have a problem, Mr. Korie?”

Korie whirled around to face the captain. “Yes, sir. I do. There's a Morthan on the Bridge.”

Hardesty ignored Korie's anger. He said quietly, “There are humans fighting for the Morthan Solidarity. There are Morthans fighting on the side of the Allies. It's a big war. There's room enough for everybody.” He added, “Commander Brik is here because I asked for him—because he's the best damned security officer this side of Hell.”

Korie turned resentfully and looked at Brik. Actually, he looked at Brik's chest. He took a step back and looked up—and up—and up again.

Brik grinned. His incisors were even longer than Korie had thought. Brik spoke. His voice rumbled like a warship. “
I
am not your fight,” he said to Korie. “Your fight is . . . out there.”

Korie glared up at the Morthan warrior. “I know that,” he said testily. “Where's
your
fight?”

Brik moved slowly, so as not to alarm anyone. He touched his own heart gently. “My fight is in here. . .”

Korie didn't expect that, and he didn't know how to react to it. It wasn't an answer he could respond to. Finally, he just snorted and turned away in disgust, a deliberately calculated performance of rudeness. He stared at the screens on the console in front of him, not seeing them at all, and forced himself to breathe evenly. He could feel his heart racing, his rage building.

Somebody tapped his arm gently. He turned around and looked. He blinked. He didn't recognize her. She was a handsome woman in her late thirties or early forties, very crisp and very military.

“Commander Korie? Lieutenant Commander Cygnus Tor. Astrogator.”

“Uh—” Korie was off-balance. “Tor. Good to meet you. Are you familiar with the, uh—” He was still rattled. “—The, uh—”

“The Model 16 low-cycle fluctuators?” Tor guessed correctly. “Yes, I am. I—”

“Good,” said Korie, distractedly. Abruptly, he made a decision. “I'm sorry. Excuse me a moment.” He turned away from Tor, turned back to Brik, and extended a hand. “I'm sorry. I was rude. Let's work together.” It was a visible effort for him.

Brik nodded slowly and held out his hand. It was immense. He shook Korie's hand gently. Gently, that is, for a Morthan. Despite himself, Korie counted his fingers as he massaged the blood back into his hand.

The sudden grating sound of the alarm klaxon bleated across the Bridge. The Bridge lights went red, the consoles began flashing, and above it all, HARLIE was speaking in a preternaturally calm voice: “
Engine room malfunction
. Magnetic instability in the number three singularity
control. Fluctuator overload. Assembly valve failure. Stand by to disconnect. Singularity escape
will
occur”—HARLIE paused for half a clock-tick—“in three minutes.”

Korie looked up startled. All the work stations around him lit up red. The ops crew leapt for their consoles. Leen dived into the operations bay. Tor slid into her seat at the helm console. Hodel dropped into the chair next to her and punched his station to life. The console flickered brightly, then went dark. Hodel slapped the panel—
hard
—and it lit up again. Hardesty stood on the Bridge and watched it all.

Everywhere there was panic, confusion, and dismay. The readouts were normal—and they weren't. The magnetic cage containing the pinpoint black hole that powered the ship was about to fail. If that happened, the singularity would drift inexorably out of the cage and begin devouring the starship and everything connected to it.

It seemed as though everybody on the Ops deck was talking into their headsets at once or punching madly at their keyboards. Korie moved quickly from station to station—Brik stepped quickly out of his way; he stepped up onto the Bridge and stood next to the captain.

In the Ops bay, Chief Leen was watchdogging three consoles at once. “Magnetic clamps, now! Full field! Downcycle—program beta.”

Lightning was flashing in the keel again. It looked like a replay of the disastrous disruptor overload.

It was even worse in the engine room. The lightning was brighter and fiercer and strong enough to knock a man unconscious. The engine room crew couldn't get near their controls. Crewmembers in bulky protective suits were rushing to their posts.

The static discharges rolled down the corridors of the ship, clustered around the singularity cage, and then bled out through the hyperstate fluctuators. More lightning crackled across the outer hull. The entire ship was enveloped.

“The singularity
is
wobbling.” HARLIE reported. “Loss of focus is imminent. Singularity escape will endanger Stardock. Singularity escape
will
occur”—half a clock-tick—“in two minutes.”

Korie made a decision. “Prepare for emergency breakaway.”

Hodel was already talking to his headset. “Secure all bulkheads! Seal the main airlock. Go to standby power. Disengage all power bays—” It was happening even as Hodel spoke. They could feel the hatches slamming down throughout the ship. The main airlock clanged shut with a terrible bang, cutting off the panic-stricken escape of two crewmen running madly for the docking tube. They pounded on it desperately.

In the engine room, power shunts cut in and the lightning became focused. They were bleeding it deliberately into the hyperstate fluctuators now—but the workmen were terrified; they knew how bad it really was. In the Ops bay, Leen was shouting at the machinery. “Respond, damn you!”

Korie couldn't wait any longer. “Disengage from Stardock immediately.”

The starship gave a tiny lurch as the mooring bolts unclamped. And then the ship was moving, drifting outward and away from the workbay, the lightning still flickering wildly across her hull.

“Emergency breakaway complete,” HARLIE reported. “Escape velocity thirty kilometers per hour. The Stardock is no longer in danger.” A heartbeat later, HARLIE added, “Singularity escape
will
occur in—one minute.”

Hodel was pounding on his console and shouting into his headset. “Goddammit! It's all coming up garbage. Where's the baseline?” He listened for a moment. “No time! Disengage the fluctuators!” He was angered by the response. “Do it, dammit!” He watched his screen, waiting anxiously.

Behind him, Korie was shouting into his own headset. “—Emergency life support! Clear the engine room! Prepare for emergency deplosion. Hull diffusion—” He looked over Hodel's shoulder, then spoke again. “Dammit! Clear the engine room! I'm going to snuff that sucker!”

But even as he was saying his last words, the alarm klaxon faded away and the Bridge lighting returned to normal. The lightning flickering throughout the ship began to subside and fade away.

Korie's last words were still ringing in the air as the various crewpeople on the Ops deck shut up and looked around at each other in confusion. Korie was suddenly embarrassed.

In the Ops bay, Leen was shattered. He'd failed. He knew it. He put his head into his hands.

But—they were still alive.

And then, HARLIE said, “Singularity escape
has
occurred. The starship has been destroyed.” And then, to add insult to injury, he quietly added, “End of simulation. Efficiency rating . . .” HARLIE hesitated while he computed.
“Unsatisfactory
.”

Korie was stiff and expressionless. He'd been had and he knew it.

“A drill!” Hodel flung himself back in his chair, frustrated, annoyed, and disgusted. “A fucking drill!”

Korie turned around slowly to look at Hardesty. Hardesty returned the stare calmly. He looked down coldly; but before he could speak,
Leen climbed back up onto the Ops deck. He was furious. “That was a dirty damned trick!” he shouted at Hardesty.

“Thank you,” the captain acknowledged. He looked past Leen to Korie. “Now you know why this ship never earned a name.” He let his gaze travel around the room, piercing the souls of each of the men and women at their stations. “The
LS-1187
came into Stardock needing three weeks of interior work, four weeks of equipment refits, and six weeks of hull regrowth, all of which could have been done concurrently. That was a month ago. Systems Analysis reports that this vessel is still
eight weeks
away from being space-ready. This is not a good record.

“The reason that your efficiency is so low is that you think you have a choice.
You do not
. I have just eliminated the alternative.

“New work schedules will be posted at 0600 hours. Commander Tor, bring us back to Stardock. Brik, get a security team together and break up the still in the inner hull. Mr. Korie, my cabin, ten minutes.”

Hardesty turned and exited crisply.

Brik looked around the room and grinned. It was not a pleasant sight.

Hodel was stunned. He glanced across at Korie. Korie wouldn't meet his eyes. He looked to Tor, but she was already at work, targeting the ship back toward Stardock. “How'd he know about the still?” Hodel asked.

Tor didn't even glance up. “There's
always
a still,” she said. When she did look up from her console, she noticed that Korie was still standing in the same place. He was rigid with fury. “You don't look very happy, Mr. Korie.”

“Happy—?” Korie's reply was as cold as the captain's. “The
Dragon Lord
kicks the crap out of us. The fleet gets mauled. Captain Lowell gets killed. The ship is labeled a jinx. I get my career dead-ended. And now . . . I've been publicly humiliated. Happy? I'm just thrilled.”