“Uh—excuse me—” Korie says, stepping quickly past Wolfe and scooping up his clothes from the floor. He retreats back to the other end of the room, then turns away from Wolfe, deliberately concentrating on the floor as he continues to dry himself.
“You’re not so big any more, are you?” Wolfe sneers.
“Uh—” Korie looks up, startled. (I could kiss him for that. It isn’t often that someone walks right into it so perfectly.) “I beg your pardon, Wolfe?”
“Mr. Hot-Jets Korie—” Wolfe snorts derisively. “—now you know what it feels like to be shit, don’t you?” His expression is tight and ugly.
Korie allows himself to look upset. “I only—tried to do what I thought was right. So I made a mistake—everybody does.”
“Yah—you made a mistake all right, when you signed on. This used to be an easy ship. No sweat until you came along, you and your goddamn drills. Always driving, driving, driving at us—how the hell did you think we were going to react to that? With kisses? You’re such an asshole, you did it to yourself. We were just waiting for you to screw up—but you surpassed even our wildest dreams—”
“Look,” begs Korie. “Take it easy, will you? Don’t you think I have some feelings too? Don’t you think I’m feeling bad enough? Why do you have to rub it in?”
“Because that’s what you did to me! Wolfe snarls. “And how much pity did I get out of you? Nothing. Nada. Zero. Zilch. So why should I give you any courtesy now? I want to see you hurting, asshole. I’ve wanted to see it from the first day you came aboard this ship. I’ve waited a long time for this.” Wolfe even takes a bold step forward. He is standing very tall and very firm now.
Korie wonders, (Now? Or should I wait a moment longer? . . .) He decides to stretch the moment out. “I—am still an officer, Wolfe. I suggest that you . . . remember that.”
“Hah! You’re still an officer only by the courtesy of the old man!”
“—Uh, I don’t think—that you have all the facts, Wolfe—” Korie lifts his eyes slowly to meet the other man’s. His expression is deliberately calculating, and for an instant, Wolfe is panicked, wondering if he has said too much.
But the momentum of the moment carries him forward. “I know what I want to know. And I hope they sell tickets to your court martial, sir! Because I want a front row seat.”
(Good! That’s the cue!) Korie steps deliberately forward, grabbing Wolfe’s tunic at the throat and shoving the man back against the wall. Wolfe’s eyes go suddenly wide with terror. Korie steps in very close to him, pressing his wet and naked flesh firmly against Wolfe’s, even to the extent of spreading the man’s legs with his knee. It’s a neat trick to pretend to dry off while still leaving yourself wet enough to be uncomfortably clammy to the touch. Wolfe tries to shrink away from Korie’s grasp, but there is a wall behind him. Korie is saying, “You listen to me now—I may be going down the tubes, but I’m not going alone. I’m taking you with me. I told you I would nail you, Wolfe—you should have believed me. Whatever made you think Rogers—or anyone else—would stick up for you? You and your shipmates are the most disloyal, backbiting, scummiest collection of maggot-brained bimbos I’ve ever had the displeasure to serve with. And I’m going to make damned sure that each and every one of you suffers for it—starting with you, pea-brain! It’s going to be a very messy hearing, count on that! You better start worrying now, Wolfe—” Korie is breathing hard, right into Wolfe’s face. He has deliberately not brushed his teeth in three days. “—because you know as well as I do that they never nail an officer as hard as they do a crewman—especially not an officer who was only trying to do the job. At least I have a defense, asshole. But you’re going to be up on assault charges. What’re you going to use for an excuse when they ask why you broke Rogers’ collarbone?”
“You can’t prove that!”
Korie steps back, looking deliberately smug. “You think so? You just keep on thinking that.” He releases Wolfe then, and grins at him maliciously; his tone of voice is quiet, calm—the old Korie. “I’ve got all I need to nail you, Wolfe—” He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “—so now, you tell me. Who’s the asshole?”
“You’re just trying to con me. Rogers didn’t say anything!”
Korie shrugs noncommittally, still grinning. “Why don’t you ask him and find out?”
“I don’t believe you—” Wolfe’s voice cracks.
“So, don’t—” Korie picks up his towel again. He is strangely calm now.
Wolfe is shaken. His face is white. “You are crazy, aren’t you? You know, that’s what they’re saying about you—”
“So? Who wouldn’t be a little crazy—trapped on the same ship with a bunch of dildos like you?” He looks Wolfe up and down with a deliberately disparaging expression. “Why don’t you put your cock back in your pants now and get out of here.” He is still grinning smugly.
He watches Wolfe like a parent as the man fumbles with himself, then scrambles for the door—
(Oh, Lord—I wonder if that last touch was too much. I don’t want to demoralize him—only trigger him.)
Korie stands where he is for a moment, reviewing the scene he just played. (No, it should work out all right. Wolfe has too limited a set of responses. Sooner or later—he’ll follow through. I only hope it’s sooner.)
He steps to the wall and reprograms the environment of the shower room. Then he pads back to the shower and a cold spray of water. Incongruously, Korie starts humming to himself as he lathers up.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Every artist should have a large burly assistant standing behind him with a mallet—to stop him with it when the job is finished.
—SOLOMON SHORT
Feeling clean and refreshed. Korie returns to his cabin. He does not switch on the intercom to listen to the chatter of the crew. One of the axioms of psychonometrics is that the early returns are always disappointing. And listening for results too soon often encourages the psychonomist to return to the scene of the crime and apply more stimuli to the system. No, the important thing is to trust your first instincts long enough to give the situation a chance to mature. Of course, there are exceptions to the rule—but the proper practice of psychonomy is an art in any case.
In fact, the first axiom of the craft is that psychonomy is a science of process. One can manipulate individual rounds, but the process was probably in progress before you started working, and will certainly continue after you stop. It is wise to take this into account before practicing any manipulation.
The most successful psychonomists view their craft as a series of applied nudges to keep a system moving in a desired direction, but the system provides its own energy for that motion.
Eventually the point is reached where it is necessary to just stop—and wait to see what will happen next. And Jon Korie is at that point.
He lies down on his bunk, puts his hands behind his head, and allows himself to relax, completely relax, for the first time since he came aboard this vessel. For the next few hours, he can let go of each and every one of the thousand little controls he has been maintaining as a constant operating system for Jon Korie, first officer of the U.S.S. Roger Burlingame.
He begins by telling the various parts of his body to let loose of their myriad little tightnesses. His legs, his arms, his neck, his back, his spine—especially his spine. He slows his heartbeat, he depresses the level of his metabolism, and even his breathing becomes shallower. He can hear the sound of the air circulating in his ears, a soft-roaring rustle. He can feel his pulse, sweeping in waves outward from his heart to his extremities and then rushing back again in almost the same instant. He feels like a single-celled throbbing organism.
His mind drifts, and uncoordinated visions suggest themselves to him.
The people of a world he has never seen live in four-meter deep trenches on a world covered with a jungle of hallucinogenic ivy. Their forebrain functions are permanently dulled and they wander in their ruts forever. Huge globul
ar fruits hang from the vines, the milk is sweet and the meat is savory. No one wants. They wander naked, some in clusters, some alone. There are not many children here. The urge to mate is almost nonexistent. There are no mates. There are no families—just . . . they would be called tribes, except they have not even that much structure. Occasionally the fruit ferments and triggers an orgy of clumsy couplings. Occasionally children are born. Often, by the time they are old enough to walk and pick their own fruits, they are forgotten by their mothers.
Here, on this world that Korie has never seen, the human race has reverted to a lesser breed. The climate is warm, the days are pleasant, and there are tuneless songs as the wanderers hum their way up and down the channels. Korie dreams of this place. How peaceful it would be to be just a member of the herd somewhere. How peaceful to not have any worries at all.
The planet’s name is Eden.
Korie falls asleep dreaming about it.
Asleep, he looks just like a little boy. He rolls over onto his side and pulls his arms close to his chest and his knees upward. Occasionally, he shivers, but not because his cabin is cold.
Very long ago and very far away, a little boy once asked “Paw-paw, will you hold me?”
And his paw-paw held him warm and close all night. That secret core that lies at the center of Jon Korie is hiding in that memory again.
He smiles once, faintly, and is still.
THIRTY-EIGHT
I’d feel a lot better about doctors if it weren’t called practice.
—SOLOMON SHORT
Three hours later, looking deliberately haggard, Korie steps into the sick bay of the cruiser.
Panyovsky’s aide is just cleaning off the operating table. He drops the last piece of soiled gauze into a bucket on the floor, then turns to wipe the blood off the operating table. There are drops of blood on the floor too. His gown is splotched.
Korie raises one eyebrow. “What happened?”
Mike looks up at him, concerned, but before he can open his mouth to answer, Panyovsky enters the room, still wiping his hands with a small towel. “I should be asking you that, Korie. What did you do?”
“Huh—?”
The doctor studies him curiously. “You don’t know?”
“I’ve been trying to get some sleep for the past four hours.”
“Something wrong with your buzz-box?”
“No, I just need something a little stronger, I guess.”
“You really are out of tune, aren’t you?” Panyovsky looks at him thoughtfully. “Mike—leave that for now. It’ll wait. Go get yourself some coffee. And don’t talk to anyone. Let me make my report to the captain first.”
Mike nods professionally and shrugs out of his gown. He is quickly out the door.
Korie looks to Panyovsky, “What happened?”
“You really haven’t heard? Wolfe took another shot at Rogers. This time, he cracked three ribs and ruptured his spleen. Also broke his nose. He’s in pretty bad shape. Looks like hell.”
Korie doesn’t respond immediately. He doesn’t look at Panyovsky. He says, as much to himself as anyone, “That poor kid—he sure takes a lot of abuse—”
“You certainly haven’t helped him any, Jon.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Oh—nothing. I guess I’m just feeling a little touchy. The worst part of medicine is repairing acts of cruel violence. And it hurts even more if you like your patients.”
“Yah, I guess so.”
“You want a drink?”
“No. You go ahead without me.”
“I don’t like to drink alone.”
“All right, I’ll keep you company, but make it a small one for me.”
As Panyovsky fusses with the glasses, he says, “I guess I should have expected you’d be having trouble sleeping—it’s a hard thing for a man to confront himself, isn’t it?”
Korie doesn’t answer that.
The doctor slides a glass over to Korie. Korie doesn’t pick it up. Panyovsky studies the first officer shrewdly, “Tell me something, Jon. Are you running some kind of scam?”
“Huh—?”
“Jon. This is Pan you’re talking to. Pan, who has access to medical files that even you and the captain can’t see unless I decide to show them to you. Not only medical files, but psychiatric files too. I know you’re an alpha-matrix, Jon. I’ve known it since the day you came aboard. I guess Brandt knows it too. But even if it weren’t in your file, I’d have figured it out by now. You’re up to something. I can’t tell you how I know, but I know—I sense it. Something feels askew—pressured. And then Rogers comes in here, looking like something Cookie couldn’t hide under gravy, and insisting the whole time that he didn’t tell you anything. He was very insistent about that. It was very important to that kid that somebody believe him that he didn’t tell you anything about Wolfe kicking the shit out of him—not that it matters any more. This time there are lots of witnesses. Barak and the captain, to name two. But, for what it’s worth, Jon, I believe him. He didn’t tell you anything, did he?”
“Nope. And I stopped asking at least a week ago.”
“Then why would Rogers be so insistent? And why would Wolfe attack him if he didn’t believe that Rogers had said something? Somehow Wolfe was given that idea—and I know enough about psychonomy, Jon, to know that nothing happens in a monitored system without there being a cause for it. This cause looks a little too suspicious. Your name was mentioned too many times.”
Jon looks directly into the doctor’s eyes, and speaks in a voice that no one on this ship has ever heard before—complete adult candor—“Even if I were working something, Pan, I couldn’t discuss it. Heisenberg, you know.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that.” Pan looks at him professionally. “Are you absolutely sure you know what you’re doing, Jon?”
“I really—don’t think—we should discuss this, Doctor.”
“Jon, you’re the only man on this ship who has no one to confide in. I had been hoping to function as a—a confessor for you, if you needed one. I tried to be always available for you. I figured you were probably the loneliest person on this ship—after all, there’s no one else aboard who even comes close to being your intellectual equal—I kind of thought, and maybe it was a foolish conceit, that maybe you needed me.”
“I—do appreciate what you’re saying, Pan—”
“But—”
“But, I really can’t—discuss some things—”
“You told something to Chief Leen.” Pan says it without emotion.
Korie looks up sharply.
“Uh huh. That’s one of the rumors. You told something to Leen and he figured out that you weren’t all you were supposed to be. Except that Leen can’t figure out anything without help.” Panyovsky stops himself and looks mock-shocked. “Oh, did that come out of my mouth? How hostile.”
“But true,” Korie notes.
Pan shrugs. “The point is, Jon—an alpha doesn’t reveal himself unless there’s a need for it. And now this business with Rogers. So you can’t blame me for wondering what’s going on.”
“I guess not.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
“No.”
“I have to ask you this, Jon. Do you still believe there’s a real bogie out there tracking us?”
Jon returns the doctor’s gaze impassively. He doesn’t speak.
“I assume that means yes.”
“I’m not going to cooperate with a guessing game, Doctor. I only came down here for a sleeping pill.”
“If you’re really an alpha, Jon, you not only don’t need a pill; you wouldn’t take one if you did. Alphas don’t like surrendering controls to drugs. For what it’s worth, I’m a zeta-class empath—”
“I know that.”
“—and I’m trying to be helpful.”
“I know that too.”
“Jon—” Pan leans toward him and lays a kindly hand on Korie’s arm. “Jon—have you considere
d the possibility that—how can I phrase this so it’s nonjudgmental?—have you considered that maybe, just maybe, you could be wrong about that bogie? Is it possible that you’ve tight-focused on it to the point that it’s an obsession?”
Korie phrases his reply carefully. “Yes. I’ve considered the possibility.”
“And—?”
“And, I’ve considered the possibility.”
“That doesn’t completely answer the question.”
“It answers the question you asked.”
Pan looks frustrated.
Korie says quietly, “It doesn’t matter what I think any more. I no longer have the authority to give any orders. Oh, that’s not an official position, but you know as well as I that everything I say and do is being double-checked with the captain. So I’m not saying anything that would contradict our present course of action. So it doesn’t matter what I feel, does it?”
“It matters to you. It’s important to your own mental well-being.”
Korie nods, then he allows himself a gently chiding smile. “But if I really am an alpha, then I shouldn’t have any trouble dealing with my internal psychonomy, should I?”
Pan looks dour. “You always have an answer for everything, don’t you?”
“Not always,” Korie admits. “But I try.”
“—but it’s not always the answer we want to hear. Jon, if there’s something going on, let me help you.” Panyovsky is suddenly intense.
“I’m sorry, Pan, I really am; I wish I could tell you something that would put you at ease; but there is nothing—absolutely nothing—that either you or I can do now that would make one bit of difference.”
Pan’s eyes are shaded. He is trying to decipher the subtext of that statement. “I don’t know what you’re doing, Korie—but it’s finished, isn’t it? In fact, you want me to stay clear, totally clear of it, don’t you?”
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