The Voyage of the Star Wolf (25 page)

Cappy made a gesture with his hands like a spider doing pushups on a mirror. He touched the fingertips of one hand to the fingertips of the other and flexed both simultaneously.

“No,” admitted Armstrong. “Actually, I don't know—”

Reynolds motioned him closer. He pulled Armstrong down and whispered into his ear. Armstrong's eyes went wide in disbelief. He looked back and forth between Reynolds and Cappy. “That's not true!” And then, in a hesitant voice, he asked, “Is it? Do they really?”

Cappy's reply was deadpan. “Yes. They do.”

“But never on the first date,” said Reynolds.

“Wow . . .” said Armstrong, appreciatively.

Abruptly Cappy noticed something behind Armstrong. “Say—you wanted to meet the doctor, didn't you?” He said it so quietly, he was almost mouthing the words.
“Turn around.”

Armstrong turned.

And stared.

Chief Medical Officer Molly Williger was the
ugliest
human being in the universe. It was said of Molly Williger that the stardrive engines refused to function while she was in the same room. Chief Engineer Leen had no desire to test the truth of this canard, but had so far refused Dr. Williger access to his engine room. She was a squat little potato of a woman with a face that looked like the underside of a golf shoe. She was shaped like a cow-pat. Her face looked too tiny for her head; her eyes were either mean and piggish or narrow and piercing, depending on how you looked at her. Her hair was pulled back and tied in a tight little bun that looked like a clump of baling wire.

It was said of Molly Williger that she was as good a doctor as she was ugly. Armstrong didn't know that. He just stared.

Dr. Williger stared back. She glanced at Cappy. “Does it talk?” she said. Her voice was a raspy growl.

Armstrong gulped—and held out his hand. “Uh—Brian Armstrong. Most people call me Blackie.”

Williger nodded, shifting her gum—or her cud, or whatever it was—to her opposite cheek. She held out her hand. “Everybody calls me ‘Foxy.'”

Brian Armstrong was mesmerized. Molly Williger was so ugly he couldn't take his eyes off her. Her ugliness went beyond mere awfulness. It was transcendent. “Uh—you don't have any kids, do you?”

“No. Should I?”

“Whew,”
Armstrong said. “Good.”

Williger looked puzzled. “You know, everybody asks me that.” She turned to the serving counter to pour herself a cup of coffee, leaving Armstrong rubbing his eyes in disbelief.

Reynolds pulled at his sleeve and whispered, “Around here, you only go to sick bay if you're
really
sick.”

Armstrong gulped quietly. “I can understand it.”

“It's a test. When Molly Williger starts looking good, you've been in space too long.”

“Oh.”

“She's coming back,” said Cappy. “Ask her for a date.”

“Huh?” Armstrong was horrified by the thought, then Cappy turned him around and Armstrong realized he was talking about the Quilla. She had returned with another tray of doughnuts. Cappy gave him a meaningful nudge. “Go on! Go for it—”

Armstrong let himself be pushed forward. “Excuse me . . .?” he said to the blue woman.

The Quilla looked at Brian “Blackie” Armstrong curiously. “Yes?”

“I, uh—I've never—I mean, I don't want to be rude—but I thought—could we—that is—uh—”

Cappy stepped up beside Armstrong and interrupted candidly. “Quilla—he wants to know if you'll help him join the Faster-Than-Light club.”

The Quilla smiled at Armstrong. Her smile was bright enough to melt fire. “You are off shift soon?”

“Uh, yeah. 0600. Um—Which one are you?”

“Delta—” she said, touching herself, and added, “—will be ready when you are.” She smiled at Armstrong again, turning part of him to stone, and resumed her duties. Armstrong nearly fainted from lack of blood to the brain. Cappy had to help hold him up.

“Y'see. It's that easy. Thanks, Quilla.” He clapped Armstrong on the shoulder, grinning wickedly toward Reynolds. His grin faded almost immediately though. The Quilla stopped at the door to allow Security Officer Brik to come through first. He had to bend low to get through. He was almost too big for the mess room.

All conversation stopped while he wrapped one gigantic hand around a coffee mug, filled it, and poured his bulk into a chair at the far end of the table. Reynolds, Cappy, and the others looked angrily down the length of it toward him. Molly Williger studied the tableau and seated herself precisely between the two glaring groups. All by himself, Brik was a group.

Reynolds spoke first. The distaste was evident in his voice. “Well . . . I got work to do.” He levered himself out of his chair.

Cappy and Leen exchanged a glance. Leen made a reluctant decision and rose also. “Yeah, me too. I gotta run a recharge drill on the mag-loaders again.” He added sourly, “For Korie.”

Cappy nodded and rose to follow. “I'll give you a hand—” He glanced over at Armstrong. “You coming?”

Armstrong hesitated. Around him, the other members of the Black Hole Gang were standing up, putting their coffee mugs down, and following Reynolds. None of them were looking directly at Brik. He knew it was wrong, but . . . he also knew he had to work with these men. “Uh—” And then, reluctantly, he allowed himself to vote with his feet. “Yeah,” he said, already ashamed of himself.

And then the room was empty.

Only Brik and Williger were left in the ship's mess.

They glanced across the table at each other.

Williger looked around meaningfully. “Was it something I said?”

Brik grinned. The lady had class. “Do you have this effect everywhere you go?”

Williger shook her head. “No question about it. I just gotta get a new hat.”

Brik wasn't quite sure of the reference, but . . . his laughter rumbled loudly—almost frighteningly—through the mess room.

The
LS-1187
was complete, as ready for the stars as she would ever be.

Her bright hull gleamed under the worklights as proudly as the day she first rose from her docks. Her fluctuator struts were proud stanchions, glittering with power and possibility.

Every deck, every tube, every module, every conduit, every stanchion—
everything
—had been repaired or rebuilt, recalibrated, tested, burned in, retested, triple-checked, cleaned, polished, and detailed.

Even Chief Leen had taken a bath—or so the crew believed.

Indeed, the expression on his face was as bright as his engine room. He signed the last authorization on Nakahari's clipboard and handed it back to the young crewman. “All right,” he grumbled. “That's the last one. This ship is ready to go.”

“Yes, sir!” Nakahari said crisply. He left the now-sparkling engine room and headed up through the now-glistening forward keel, up through the now-spotless Ops bay, onto the now-gleaming Ops deck and up onto the now-pristine Bridge where Hardesty, Korie, and Brik were waiting. He handed the clipboard to Korie.

Korie took it, read it, and passed it to the captain without comment.

Hardesty barely glanced at the final status report. Instead, he checked the time. Then he said, “If you're waiting for a compliment, Mr. Korie, you're waiting in the wrong place.” He gestured with the clipboard. “This is the job you're
supposed
to do. Producing a result shouldn't be such a unique event that it requires a pat on the head.” He started to turn away, then added, “And, for the record, you're an hour and twenty minutes overdue.”

Korie said quietly, “We had a small problem in the engine room.”

“The Morthan Solidarity is a
bigger
problem. That's the only problem I'm interested in.” Hardesty turned forward to Tor. “Signal Stardock that we're
finally
ready. Cast off as soon as we're cleared.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Tor spoke quietly to her headset.

A moment later, the reply came back. “
LS-1187
, you are cleared.”

“Thank you, Stardock.”

The airlocks sealed and closed. The docking tubes retracted. The holding bolts released . . .

And the starship floated up and out and clear of her moorings.

A soft voice whispered across the widening gap, “Good luck, starship . . .”

“Thank you, Stardock,” Tor replied. “That means a lot. Keep the lights burning.” She smiled as she turned from her console to the holographic display table. She hadn't expected a farewell. It was a nice gesture—especially toward
this
ship.

“Stardock breakaway complete,” HARLIE reported.

Hardesty nodded, satisfied. “Heading 23 mark 141.”

Flight Engineer Hodel echoed the order. “23 mark 141.” He watched his screens as the ship swung around. “Confirmed.”

“Mr. Hodel,” the captain ordered. “Ten milligees acceleration, please.”

“Ten milligees, confirmed.”

Hardesty watched the forward viewer. It showed the view aft as the Stardock began imperceptibly sliding away. The haphazard collection of girders and globes shrank in the distance. After a moment, he ordered, “Boost to fifty milligees.”

Again, Hodel echoed the order. “Confirmed.”

Hardesty glanced at the smaller console in front of him.

Korie glanced over. “Right down the center of the channel,” he said.

“Are you surprised?” Hardesty's voice was emotionless.

“No, sir. Just . . . gratified.”

Hardesty didn't say anything to that. “Boost to five hundred milligees.” They had to move the starship well clear of the Stardock before going to full power—and then they'd have to spend several hours at full acceleration before initiating hyperstate. The ripple effects of a hyperstate bubble could be uncomfortable to anyone or anything nearby. This vessel had experienced firsthand the havoc that occurred when a hyperstate fringe brushed a normal-space installation. It would not do to pass that experience on to their hosting Stardock.

Hardesty stepped down from the Bridge and circled the Ops deck once, peering carefully at every console. Every station was operating well within expected parameters. Satisfied, he returned to the Bridge without comment. “Mr. Hodel, boost to three gees and hold it there.”

“Aye, Captain.”

There was no sensation of movement. Korie checked his console. The gravitational compensators were maintaining to six decimal places. Totally undetectable. A starliner couldn't have been smoother.

Hardesty made another round of the Ops deck then, peering narrowly at each console. What was he judging, Korie wondered. The crew? The ship? Or was this part of his performance?

He stopped behind the flight engineer's console and watched the numbers climb. After a long moment, he said, “Go to ten.”

Hodel nodded and typed in the command.

Hardesty turned and looked up at Korie on the Bridge. “Status?”

“As expected, sir.”

Hardesty turned back to Hodel. “Twenty-five.”

A moment later, Hodel reported, “Holding at twenty-five.”

Hardesty returned to the Bridge. “Chief Leen. We are holding at twenty-five gees. We will maintain this speed for thirty minutes. I want you to run concurrent stability checks for that entire time. If there's any deviation from the projected channels, I want to know immediately.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Korie?” Hardesty turned to his executive officer. “What's the recommended interval before initiating stardrive?”

“A hundred million kilometers—at least.”

“And during wartime?”

“Sir, during wartime operating conditions, it is recommended that a starship put as much distance as possible between itself and any other starship or deep-space Stardock it may have rendezvoused with before initiating its hyperspace envelope; this is to avoid betraying the exact location of the other vessel, or of the Stardock, to any other vessel in the hyperstate vicinity.”