Starhunt: A Star Wolf Novel

by David Gerrold

  “Mr. Barak,” Brandt cuts him off. “Why does he have to be in that hazy area. . . ?”

  “Uh—he won’t have time to go anywhere else.”

  “Mr. Barak, how long will it take us to get there?”

  Now the astrogator is confused. “To get where—you mean into his sphere of influence?”

  “I mean to get there from here.”

  “Thirty-four hours.”

  “Uh huh,” says Brandt. “Thirty-four hours. A lot can happen in thirty-four hours, Al. Probably, he’ll still be within that sixteen-and-a-half-hour radius you drew, but there’s also the chance he might not be. By then he might be somewhere else entirely.”

  “It’s not possible for him to be outside that radius, even allowing for error. We figured the speed of his drift and—”

  “I’m not talking about inherent velocity! I’m talking about the fact that he’ll probably try to sneak away—and if he does try that, I want to know how much longer it will take to find him.”

  “Oh,” says Barak. He looks down, pretends to fumble with his hand-terminal. “Well . . . we’ll be scanning for him all the way in, so we can distort the standard search pattern to allow for that . . .”

  Korie speaks up. “The primary search pattern will take forty-three minutes. The secondary search pattern will be one hundred eleven minutes, and the tertiary, six hours and twenty-seven minutes.”

  Both men turn to look at him, Brandt swiveling nearly 180 degrees in his chair. Barak scowls. Korie has been standing behind the Command and Control Seat, casually leaning against the high-banked autolog console. Now, in response to their questioning looks, he says, “I asked the computer. I wanted to know myself how long it would take to make the kill.”

  Brandt starts to relax—perhaps one of his officers is on the ball after all. He lets his big frame sink back into the padded chair. How big an area does that last pattern cover, Mr. Korie?”

  “Five light days, maximum. I doubt that he’ll be farther out than that.”

  “Why?”

  “Uh, well—if he tries to hide himself any farther out, he’ll have to go faster to get there—we’ll see his warp—”

  Brandt shakes his head, cuts him off with a sharp gesture. “You disappoint me, Mr. Korie. For a moment there, I thought you had it, but you’re only making the same mistake Mr. Barak made: you’re both assuming that he’s going to sit out there waiting for us to sneak up on him. Well, he’s not. He’s going to get the hell out of there as soon as he can.”

  The captain rises out of his chair, stabbing at the air with a thick hand. “As soon as he gets his blown system repaired, he’s going to move.”

  “If he does, we’ll see his warp—”

  “That’s only if his speed is high enough and we’re within range. Aren’t I getting through to either of you? That ship out there is trying to get away from us. That’s what he was doing when we dropped out of warp and that’s what he’s going to continue doing when he gets his engines fixed.”

  He pauses to swallow, continues in a slightly calmer tone, “Right now, we’re fifty light days away. We don’t know where he is—we don’t know that he’s still out there even now—maybe he isn’t. Maybe he’s already fixed his warp and moved off. If he kept his speed below eighty lights, we’d never know it. And remember, the distance is his advantage. The farther away he gets, the faster he can go without our seeing him.” He pauses, looks at the two of them, almost as if daring them to speak. “Maybe he hasn’t sneaked off yet, but he probably will do so in the next day and a half.”

  Korie says nothing, his pale blue eyes are expressionless. But Barak shakes his dark head thoughtfully. “I see your point, Captain, but it just wouldn’t make sense for him to sneak away. He’s got too good a lead on us already—why bother with subterfuge?”

  “Al, you’re a good astrogator, but you’ll never be much of a general. You’re still thinking in terms of right now—if he could affect immediate repairs, of course it wouldn’t make sense for him to sneak away. But if he’s stuck there for, say, ten or twelve hours, it’s his only alternative.”

  Brandt turns to his first officer. “And you, Mr. Korie, I’m surprised at you—the scent of blood seems to have shortened your logic circuits. If the captain of that bogie is any kind of a captain at all, he’s playing our side of the game too. While we’re sitting here arguing about how to catch him, he’s sitting there trying to outguess us. It won’t take him long to figure out that our only chance is to try to sneak up on him. That’ll leave him two choices. Either he can sneak off, or he can try to sneak up on us . . .”

  This time, Korie shakes his head. “Uh-uh. His warp is no bigger than ours—that means destroyer-class ship, like us. Our destroyers are better armed and he knows it.”

  Brandt smiles. “Right. So, he’s left with only the first alternative. At least, that’s my guess. The captain of the ship has to be a fairly intelligent man. He’ll assess the situation, size up the chances, and decide that his best course of action is to move off without being seen. It seems very likely to me that he’ll be successful.”

  “Sir?”

  Brandt looks at Korie. “Well, look at it—he’s got a fifty-six light day lead on us. Whether we come in at top speed or whether we sneak in, he’s going to have plenty of time to outmaneuver us. It all hinges on how soon he gets his engines fixed.” He gestures at the diagram on the screen. “Like it or not, this thing is only a long shot. I doubt very much that it can be pulled off. It could turn out to be a very expensive waste of time and fuel.”

  “But that’s a chance we have to take,” insists Korie.

  “Is it?” Brandt looks at him.

  “We’ve come too far with this thing to go home empty-handed.”

  Brandt says nothing. Korie’s narrow features are grim. Barak speaks, gently reminding the captain, “You did suggest this course of action, sir. . . .”

  Brandt nods slowly, silently. His brooding gray eyes seem to focus on a point beyond the walls of the bridge. His wide mouth works with unspoken thoughts. Finally, he rasps, “All right. We’ll go after him. Let’s see if he’s there or not.”

  Korie and Barak exchange a quick triumphant glance. Barak starts to step down to his console—

  “Wait a minute, Al. One more thing. If he is there, he’ll have to fight. That’s still too much warning. He could have cross hairs on us all the way in.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t worry about that too much, sir. We’ll be scanning for him at the same time. As soon as I get a good fix, I’ll set up a ten-second scramble pattern for when we unwarp.”

  “Good.”

  The big screen clears to show the four space-suited men just dropping down into the bright open hatch of the airlock. The repair operation has been completed. “All right,” says Brandt. “Let’s go. Set it up on the boards.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Barak turns to his console, clears the monitor, and begins snapping out orders. The crew of the bridge slips easily into the familiar security of the pre-warp routine. Voices crackle across the intercom:

  “Request inherent velocity vector.”

  “Victor zero mark zero. Standard heading.”

  “Right, thank you. Warp control, polarity of secondaries, zero degrees—ninety degrees—one hundred eight degrees.”

  “Setting polarity; zero degrees—ninety degrees—one hundred eight degrees.”

  “Initial warp factor, 82.5.”

  “Initial warp factor, 82.5.”

  “Warp control, reset polarities.”

  “Stand by.”

  “Standing.”

  “Right. Ready to reset.”

  “On these coordinates: thirty-six degrees—one hundred forty-four degrees—ninety degrees.”

  “Christ! We’re going in sideways.”

  “Confirm, please.”

  “May I have a repeat?”

  “Thirty-six degrees—one hundred forty-four degrees—ninety degrees.”

  “Thank you. Confirmatio
n; thirty-six degrees—one hundred forty-four degrees—ninety degrees.”

  “Right.”

  “Hey, what’s Black Al up to?”

  “Setting up a scramble. He wants to bounce off at an angle at unwarp.”

  “Gravity control, watch your power.”

  “Uh, yes, sir. Right.”

  “Prepare to warp in . . . what was that again?”

  “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:

  FROM:

  Georj Brandt

  Captain, U.S.S. Roger Burlingame

  TO:

  Vice Admiral Joseph Harshlie

  United Systems Command

  SUBJECT:

  Request for transfer

  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:

  FROM:

  Joseph Harshlie

  Vice Admiral, United Systems Command

  TO:

  Captain Georj Brandt

  U.S.S. Roger Burlingame

  SUBJECT:

  Request for transfer

  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 thes
e 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.

  FIVE

  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.”