“Yes, sir.” Rogers picks up his towel, begins to dry his hair. The water drying on his body leaves him shivering.
“I am too,” says Korie unexpectedly.
“Huh?”
“I said, I am too. I’m under stress too.”
Rogers looks at the first officer curiously.
Korie says, “I don’t suppose it ever occurred to you that I’m supposed to know about it and see that it gets fixed—that goes for the men as well as the machines.”
Rogers doesn’t say anything.
“I’m a little disappointed in you, Rogers.”
“Sir?”
“I know you’re covering up for Wolfe. The whole ship knows it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.” Rogers starts rummaging through his clothes.
“I’m talking about the fact that you’re not increasing anybody’s respect for you this way—they still think you’re a damned fool. Why should you protect Wolfe?”
“I’m not protecting anyone, sir.”
“Not even yourself?”
Holding his tunic low in front of himself to cover his nakedness, Rogers looks at the other. “Sir, I’m in a low enough position as it is—why should I add ‘squealer’ to my list of offenses?”
“And why should you let a man who could be a danger to all of us remain on the ship?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t help you.”
Korie says slowly, “It could be done anonymously.”
“Anonymous? On the Burlingame? The only thing more anonymous would be a billboard. There’s only one person on this ship who can prove anything against Wolfe and that’s me—and I’m not going to make myself any more unpopular than I already am.”
“All right, Rogers. Is that your last word?”
“Yes, sir.”
Korie turns to go.
“Sir—”
Korie pauses. “Yes?”
“There is one way. . . .”
“What’s that?”
“Get me a transfer off this ship. Anywhere. Another ship. Another base. But off this ship.
Korie thinks about it. “No. Not a deal.”
“Why?”
“All right. I’ll tell you—you’ve made a mess of yourself on this ship, haven’t you? You’ve fucked it up. Now you want to let them drive you out of here. And after you’re gone, they’ll think of you as Rogers the quitter.”
“So what?”
“So, if you can screw yourself up on this ship, what’s to prevent you from getting screwed up anywhere else we send you?”
“I’ll know better. I’ve learned my lesson.”
“Sure you have—all you’ve learned is that pain hurts. Well, let me tell you something, little boy—that’s what they call you, isn’t it, ‘little boy’?—and they’re right, you know. They’re right. You’ll be a little boy until you realize one thing—you’ve got to be responsible for your own actions, just you and nobody else. If you make a mess, you’ve got to clean it up yourself. Now, this is your mess right here on the Burlingame. Nobody’s going to just give you any respect for free, you have to earn it. If you act like a little boy, they’ll treat you like one. But if you show them you’re not afraid to fight back—”
“Sir—”
“This is your chance, Rogers. You can’t have a transfer. Nobody gets off that easy. If you’re going to be ‘one of the men,’ Rogers, you’re going to have to do it here. You’re not going to get a second chance.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Rogers, I’ll tell you one more thing. You know I could bully the information out of you, don’t you?”
“Sir—”
“Don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Keep that in mind. If I have to, I will.” And with that, Korie is gone.
FIFTEEN
To err is human—to blame the other guy is even more human.
—SOLOMON SHORT
Feeling clean and crisp, still smelling of soap, the first officer enters the bridge. He stands at the back of it for a long moment, savoring the sensation of power—inherent and implied.
At the consoles, the men display a visible tenseness. Despite their easy familiarity with routine, their intent watch of the boards betrays their nervousness. The usual background murmur of conversation has disappeared.
Korie nods with satisfaction; he takes a step forward and down into the pit. The ensign at the helm starts to rise, but Korie waves him back down into the seat. “Don’t get up,” he says, “I’m only watching, for now.”
The man sits down again, somewhat nervously.
The screens circling the bridge flicker from one graph to the next, but always returning to the empty and blood-red grid of the stress-field scanners. Korie wanders a few steps to his right, pauses at the astrogation console. He taps Jonesy aside and snaps a button. “Radec? This is Korie.”
“Yes, sir?” The voice is Rogers’.
“Do you have any sign of my bogie yet?”
“No, sir. Not yet. But we’re scanning.”
“All right.” He snaps off, impatiently.
The rear door slides open with a whoosh. Korie glances back, sees Barak.
The big black man nods, steps down into the pit and over to his console. “Nothing?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“Oh well, it’s early.” He glances around the casually tense bridge. “Captain isn’t here yet?”
“Captain isn’t up yet.” Korie corrects.
“But he’ll be here?”
Korie is noncommittal. “I wouldn’t know.”
“If he doesn’t show—”
“I know, then it’s my baby.”
“How’s it feel?”
Korie half-grins, “A little scary.”
“Good,” grins Barak. “If you weren’t nervous, then I’d have to be.” He drops into his chair, clears his board, and begins to bring himself up to date on the ship’s position.
Korie steps up onto the horseshoe, moves slowly around it, pausing only briefly at each board, reassuring himself as to the battle-readiness of the ship. Occasionally, he suggests a correction, but for the most part he keeps his thoughts to himself. The men tense as he approaches, each on stiffening under the first officer’s impartial scrutiny, then relaxing again imperceptibly as he moves on.
“Approach minus sixty minutes,” calls Barak.
At last, Korie steps down into the pit and allows himself the luxury of taking over the helm. The ensign there is glad to vacate.
The seat is firm and comfortable under him. Lovingly, Korie runs his hands across the smooth control surfaces on its arms. In a little while, all the action, all the meaning, all the importance of the Burlingame will be centered—here.
He punches for a control check; all his lights flash green—the seat is in proper working order. Good.
He swivels once around, quickly, to orient himself again and to see who is on station. He frowns as his glance strays across the rear of the horseshoe; three off-duty crewmen are standing behind the autolog console. He pauses. “You men. Clear the bridge, please.” He swivels forward again. (This is a warship, not a pleasure cruiser; we don’t need an audience—)
The sound of the door tells him that the men have exited. Korie relaxes in the seat. Idly, he begins running a series of systems-reliability checks. One by one, the panels flash to green. Diagrams appear in the monitors. What he sees pleases him, and yet—
He touches the intercom button: “All hands. Please see that your posts are in a state of readiness. We are not yet at battle stations, but I would appreciate another set of last-minute checks while we still have the time.”
Another thought occurs to him, and he switches to a private channel. “Engine room, is Leen there?”
“Just a moment, sir.” A pause, then the chief engineer is on the line. “Sir?”
“The gym,” says Korie. “Have you collapsed it yet?”
“Uh—” Leen’s hesitation is dam
ning. “No, sir. I haven’t”
“Why not?” Korie’s voice is noncommittal.
“I haven’t had the chance, sir. I’ve been readjusting the Hilsen units. I wanted to give the subwarp some extra stability. I’ll take care of it right now, sir.”
“That’ll be fine,” says Korie. “You were right to work on the Hilsen units: they’re more important than the gym. Just be sure that the gym is down within the next fifty-five minutes.”
“Yes, sir. It’ll be down.”
“Good,” says Korie, and he means it. He switches off.
(Leen is a good engineer; he’ll get the job done. The only time to ride a man is when it’s necessary. All other times, show him that you have faith in his ability; treat him as if you know you can depend on him and he’ll react to prove you can. If he doesn’t, that’s the time to ride him.
(Let’s see now, I’ve got Rogers on the radec boards—well, he says he’s a technician, let’s find out. We’ve got Barak and Jonesy on astrogation, no trouble there. Goldberg is on shift now, that’s good. Hm, who’s on autolog? Oh, Willis—Christ, that man is a slob. Let’s see, there’s Harris and Reynolds—Reynolds, he knows his board, that’s for sure—and that new man on warp control, I wonder what his name is. Two months he’s been on the ship and I still don’t remember him. Oh, well, I know I must be doing his job—I’d have noticed if he weren’t.
(Who’s on duty in the engine room? Leen, of course, Stokely, yes; O’Mara, Fowles, Beagle—yes, the “monkey crew” will be adequate. MacHeath riding the secondaries? No, we decided to put Eisely there and MacHeath on a console. Who does that leave in the power bay? Erlich, Petersen, Campbell, and Dover—yes, they’re good; they can handle the stasis cells as well as anyone—not that there’s that much to handle. Any good stasis technician could handle it. Hm. Erlich fixed Cookie’s stasis boxes once, didn’t he? And I thought I saw him working with Leen once too. I’d better check that; the man could be due for a bonus.
(I don’t like the idea of Rogers on radec, though—who else is there with him? Keene? No, he’s going to be riding auxiliary control to monitor the missiles. Bridger, yes, Bridger’s on radec. That should be okay; he can handle his end of it. All I need is two good men on the radec—
(Rogers—?
(Well, I’ll just have to wait and see—but dammit, radec is going to be the important part of this maneuver! That’ll be what makes us or breaks us. That bogie’ll see our shimmer the minute we start coming in—we won’t see him till we get close enough to pick up his stationary mass. He’ll see us first, he’ll have more warning than we’ll have, we’ll be going in blind—we’ll need the sharpest eyes possible. Who have I got I could replace Rogers with?
(Nobody, dammit—no, what am I thinking of? I can’t replace Rogers now. If I pull him off his board, it’ll look funny—it’ll ruin him with the crew; they’ll know I have no faith in him. Of course, he’s already ruined as far as the crew is concerned, it wouldn’t make that much difference—no, I’ve got to leave him on the board; I’ve got to let him have his chance to prove himself.
(Or do I? Dammit, I can’t afford to lose that bogie again due to some chuckleheaded error—
(Oh hell, I don’t have anyone to put in there, anyway. I have to leave him there whether I like it or not.
(—and I don’t like it.
(Damn.)
“Thirty-five minutes,” notes Barak.
Korie is slouched in the seat, chewing on a fingernail. His expression is dark and brooding. His face seems flushed, but it is only the reflection of the crimson glare of the forward screen.
Brandt enters then. Korie looks up at the sound of the door, so does Barak. The captain catches both their glances, indicates with a nod that they should join him on the wide shelf at the rear of the bridge.
“Well, this is it,” he says. “Ready for blood, Mr. Korie?”
Korie nods grimly.
“Scramble pattern worked out, Al?”
“It’s in the computer. All we have to do is ride her in. As soon as we spot the bogie, EDNA will note its position and compensate the scramble for it.”
“Fine.” He turns back to Korie. “Your missile crews ready?”
“As ready as they’ll ever be. The missiles are present anyway. All they need is the target; we’ve got them locked in to EDNA now; she’s keeping a running update on their programs and she’ll also charge and activate them.”
“You almost don’t need the missile crew,” notes Brandt. “The rest of the ship is ready?”
Korie nods.
“Fine.” Brandt eyes his first officer thoughtfully. “Well, in a little while, we’ll find out for sure.” He steps past Korie and Barak and down the pit, into the empty Command and Control Seat. Korie looks after him with distaste.
“Relax,” Barak whispers. “We’ll make the kill in spite of ourselves. It’s a good battle plan.”
“I’m glad somebody thinks so,” Korie whispers back.
“Thirty minutes to approach,” calls Jonesy.
“All hands. Attention, all hands.” The captain’s voice booms through the Burlingame. “I don’t think it’s necessary to tell you to go to battle stations. I’ve just walked through the ship and I’ve seen that most of you are already there. But for the log, we are now going directly to Condition Red.”
The ship’s lights flicker and dim. The bridge lights go out, flash to red overheads, then go out again, leaving only the flickering screens and glowing consoles. The red overhead lights seep in at a lower level.
Brandt smiles in the darkness. “Well, I’ll say one thing, Mr. Korie—you’ve certainly gotten them to be prompt.” To the intercom again, “In a little less than thirty minutes, we will begin our final approach into the area where our bogie disappeared. We will be going in at top speed and we’ll be watching for him all the way. The minute we spot him, we’re going to drop four missiles on him—nuclear-tipped in case he’s not in warp.
“Now, I know Mr. Korie’s been drilling you hard, and I know you’re as battle-ready as you can be. I just want to say that I have the utmost confidence in all of you—if I didn’t, we wouldn’t be here now—I know you’ll all do your jobs well and we’ll be able to go home with a kill to our credit. There’s not a man on this ship who doesn’t want that, so—let’s go in there and give them hell.” He switches off, looks at Korie. “How’s that?”
Korie shrugs. “Sounded fine to me.”
Brandt lowers his voice to a whisper, Korie steps in closer. “You know, Mr. Korie, I have my doubts.”
“Yes, sir. I know. So do I.”
Brandt grunts. “Yes, you should—you should know better than anyone on this ship how well prepared—or unprepared—we are.”
“Yes, sir. That’s why I have my doubts. But if they perform as well as they did during the drills—”
“This isn’t a drill, though. This is for real.”
“That’s why I drilled them so hard—I’d rather that the actual battle be less than they can handle, instead of more.”
“This crew has never been in battle—”
“Neither have I,” says Korie. “Neither have you, sir.”
Brandt looks at him sharply, decides to let it pass.
“What I’m getting at is that they’re untested in a crisis situation—any one of them could fly apart at a crucial moment.”
“I’ve got my eye on a couple that might not be able to cope with their boards. Aside from them, I’m not worried.”
“Hmph. Well, we’ll see. You drilled the bridge as well as the engine room?”
“Yes, sir. The first set of drills was only engine room and missile firing. The second set were full simulations. We took it down to 19 per cent of optimum.”
“That’s not too good—”
“Optimum was a K-class cruiser.”
Brandt raises an eyebrow. “Then the rumor was true—”
“Oh, yes.”
“Then the 19 per cent isn’t really as bad as it
sounds.”
“On the contrary, it’s quite good. For this ship, anyway.”
“Well,” says Brandt. “I’m reassured. Perhaps we have a chance after all.”
“I’ve never doubted it,” says Korie.
“Minus twenty minutes,” notes a voice on their right.
For a while, silence reigns on the bridge. Brandt, a shaggy gray chunk of granite, is immobile in the seat. He seems like a statue, perpetually frozen into on characteristic position—a position of casual rigidity. Beside him, Korie resists the temptation to fidget, but his nervousness seeps out around his edges, displays itself in the insistent tapping on his foot, the recurrent pursing of his lips, the sucking in of his cheeks.
Elsewhere, things tick, things hum, things click and clatter; a monotonous symphony of checks and rechecks, of ask-me-again and tell-me-three-times. The tempo is four-four time, punctuated by bursts of staccato sixteenth and thirty-second notes; the key is the key of fear, and the conductor is destiny—
“Fifteen minutes.”
Korie forces himself to sit. There is an auxiliary seat just to the rear and to the right of the captain’s. He perches stiffly on the edge of it. “Radec?”
“Sir?”
“Anything?”
“No, sir.”
“Keep watching.”
“Yes, sir.”
(All right, relax, he tells himself. You don’t gain anything by being nervous. When it happens, it’ll happen. Rogers will tell me as soon as he’s got something—) He takes deep breaths, long deep breaths, slow deep breaths. (Relax, just relax—)
“Minus twelve minutes.”
Abruptly:
“Sir, I’ve still got a red light on my board—”
“What is it?” Korie is on the horseshoe immediately.
“It’s the gym. It hasn’t been secured—”
Korie reaches past the man, flicks at the console. “Give me a visual on that,” he mutters. He snaps a few more buttons. “There.”
On the screen, the hull of the ship is shown, a single splash of light illuminating it. A narrow line of black indicates a hatch not completely closed and a gentle bulge of yellow-shining mylar shows that the gym is escaping from its storage bin. As they watch, the bulge forces itself out even farther.
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