The Middle of Nowhere

by David Gerrold

  “They’ll be angry. I’m angry.”

  “Your feelings are the least important part of the equation.”

  “I know that. What would you have me do?” Korie felt even more frustrated than he had with the admiral. He had expected his captain to understand.

  The voice was silent for a long moment, so long that Korie thought that Hardesty had indeed died. Only the monitors above the bed indicated that the augment was still operative. Finally, the whisper came again. “That you have to ask only proves my point.”

  Korie opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again. This conversation was going nowhere fast. He stepped past his anger to the truth of the moment. He said, “I came in here to pay my respects, sir. The crew wants to know how you’re doing. Now I’ve seen you, I can tell them. I’m going to go now.” He even started for the door.

  The rasping voice stopped him. “You don’t fool me, Korie. You came here for my blessing. And now you’re pissed because I won’t give it to you.”

  Korie took a step forward and allowed himself a last good look at the gray-looking body on the bed. “You’re dead, Captain. It doesn’t matter what you think anymore. Your opinion has suddenly become irrelevant.” Korie amazed himself. A week ago he wouldn’t have imagined talking to his captain this way. But after facing down the admiral . . . it didn’t seem so hard after all. “It doesn’t matter if you think I’m fit for command or not. The responsibility is in my hands anyway. I’m going to get the job done, and the hell with your approval.”

  “Again you prove my point. Your anger consumes you.”

  “You’re wrong. Twice over. My anger isn’t a weakness. It’s my biggest asset. It’s a weathervane. It gives me direction. And no, I didn’t come here for your blessing. I came here for your advice. I would have been satisfied with a little acknowledgment. I’m the one who brought the ship home safely.”

  “Yes. The ship. If I were still alive, I might be slightly flattered that you chose to name the ship after me. But it would make no difference in my recommendation.”

  Korie stood stock-still at the edge of the sick bay. “I can’t find it in me to be entirely sorry you’re dead, Captain.”

  “Commander, I told you once that I didn’t care if you liked me so long as you did your job. I may be dead, but that hasn’t changed.”

  Korie’s eyes narrowed. “It was instructional serving under you, Captain,” he said coldly. “I’ll send flowers to your grave.”

  “You’re not going to come piss on it?”

  Korie snorted. “I hate standing in line.” He turned and left.

  La Paz

  Two hours later, Korie was still angry.

  He could feel it churning away inside of him, like a mechanical engine, one of those clanking beasts that lived in museums, fuming and puffing and smoldering, occasionally belching out great odiferous clouds of smoke and fire. He knew what he was angry about. He was too much in tune with his own emotions not to. It wasn’t Hardesty and it wasn’t the Admiral and it wasn’t even the war. They were just the immediate obstacles. It was everything underneath that. The important stuff.

  Carol and Tim and Robby.

  And revenge.

  In that order.

  Frustrated and feeling impotent, he made his way to a mess hall, where he sat motionless, staring into space with a mug of bitter coffee and a plate of sausage and cheese and bread before him. The food sat untouched. He was too angry to eat. He’d expected better. He’d developed a whole plan for rebuilding his ship. His ship. The words were hollow. His plan languished unpresented in his clipboard. Shot down before it was launched. He’d never even had the chance to present it to the vice admiral. The effort was wasted.

  It would be ten hours before the next boat from the Star Wolf checked in at the Stardock. He’d planned to use the time filing the reconstruction orders he needed, requisitioning parts and supplies. Now... he had nothing to do. Except perhaps plan what would he say to his crew when he got back. All that stuff he’d said to the vice admiral—what had he been thinking? It had felt good to be bold, yes, but so what? Could he really rebuild a ship without a stardock underneath his feet?

  And Hardesty. The words of a dead man.

  Frustrated thoughts churned around inside him, forming fragments of all the speeches he wanted to give. Even though he’d already said it, he felt as if he had to say it again. “This crew deserves a chance. They’ve earned it.” But what he really meant was, “I’ve earned it.”

  He knew what his Zyne-masters would say. “Ninety percent of all problems in the universe are failures in communication. And the other ten percent are failures to understand the failure in communication.” And following that thought, the inevitable therefore: “An upset is an incomplete communication.”

  To say that his most recent communications were incomplete was an insufficient analysis. He’d said everything he’d had to say. And the others had listened. The problem was, they hadn’t done what he’d wanted them to do. What kind of a commander was he if he couldn’t get others to do what he wanted?

  Maybe the admiral was right. Maybe Hardesty was right. Maybe he was a hothead. A loose cannon. A shit-for-brains, seat-of-the-pants, shootfrom-the-lip, hyphenated-asshole.

  “Jon? Jon Korie? Is that you?”

  Korie looked up. The speaker was a woman. Tall. Strikingly handsome. Dark complexion. Smiling. He was already rising, offering his hand to hers. Recognition came slowly. He knew her from—his eyes flicked briefly (resentfully) to the stars on her collar—and then, the rest of his memory clicked awake just in time. “Captain . . . La Paz!”

  “Juanita,” she corrected. “Come on, Jon. Don’t get stuffy with me. I danced at your wedding. How’s Carol? How’re those gorgeous boys of yours?”

  “Uh—” Korie hesitated. “You didn’t hear?”

  “Hear what? We were out at the southern reach.” Her expression went uncertain. “Oh, no—not Carol.”

  “And the boys,” Korie confirmed. “They were on Shaleen . . .” He couldn’t complete the sentence.

  Juanita put her hands on his shoulders. She lowered her voice and spoke with genuine concern. “Oh, Jon. I’m so sorry. You must be hurting bad, compadre. Is there anything I can do?” She stared anxiously into his eyes.

  “Get me a ship and a dozen torpedoes and a map to the Morthan heart.”

  “If I had it, I’d give you a fleet. Two.”

  Korie allowed himself a smile, his first real smile of the day. “Thanks. That’s the best thing I’ve heard on Stardock today. I wish you were the admiral.” Korie suddenly remembered his manners. “Sit down?” He pulled a chair out for her.

  Juanita sat down opposite him, looking very serious. “I can only spare a moment, Jon. I’ve got to get my ship fitted. We’re looking for fibrillators. Nobody has spares. Never mind that.” She reached across the table and took his hands in hers. “Tell me about you. Are you all right? I mean... are you taking care of yourself?”

  Korie thought about lying, but didn’t have the strength for it. He shook his head. He dropped his eyes and just looked at the space between them.

  Juanita squeezed his hands. “That bad?”

  Korie admitted it. “Yeah.”

  “Want to talk?”

  Korie shook his head. “It’s everything, Juanita. I can’t do anything. It’s the Star Wolf. I’ve got a crew depending on me and all I’ve got is bad news. I can’t keep asking them to give me their best if I can’t give them anything tangible in return. I feel so frustrated. After everything we’ve been through, we’ve got nothing, and just when I should be feeling like we’ve accomplished something, I feel like a failure. And I can’t even go home because there’s no home to go to.” He met her eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

  “Who else are you going to tell? Who else can you tell?”

  Korie sighed. “It’s my stars, Juanita. I see your stars on your collar and I can’t help but think, where’s mine? I’ve earned t
hem. I’ve earned them three times over.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard. We’ve all heard.”

  “Then why won’t they give them to me? What’s wrong with me?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with you, Jon. Nothing.”

  “Then where are my stars?”

  “I don’t know. But if it’s any consolation, there are people who know what you’ve done. You have much more respect than you know.”

  “Sorry,” Korie grinned wryly. “It’s not much consolation. I want my ship.”

  “I remember that feeling,” Juanita said. “It’s like wanting a baby. Only worse. And then when you do get your ship, running it is a whole other experience . . .”

  “Juanita, stop. Please. I’ve been running the Star Wolf since a Morthan assassin gave Captain Hardesty an overdose of Phullogine. I know what it’s like to run a starship. I want to know what it’s like to not feel like an interloper. I want to feel like it’s mine.”

  She stopped. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I guess I’m not the best listener.”

  “I want a ship of my own and a load of torpedoes and the map to the heart of the Morthan Solidarity.”

  “We all do.”

  “Not like me.”

  Juanita accepted that without comment. After a moment she let go of his hands. “Let’s change the subject. Do you know where I can find some fibrillators? Actually, I need complete fluctuator assemblies, but if I can get the fibrillators, we can jerry-rig around them.” She met his eyes directly.

  “Fibrillators,” said Korie impassively. “Without fibrillators, you’ve got a tin can.”

  She nodded. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence between them. After a moment, Juanita cleared her throat with obvious embarrassment. “Um, Jon? Can I ask you something?”

  “What?”

  “Well . . . the scuttlebutt is that the Star Wolf’s going down. Is that what the admiral said?”

  “So that’s what this is about,” Korie said, realization dawning slowly. “You want my engines.” His eyes narrowed angrily. “This was no accidental meeting, was it? You came looking for me. You manipulative bitch. You sat here and held my hands and pretended to be concerned and let me spill out my innermost thoughts—and the whole time, all you were thinking about was my fibrillators.”

  “That’s not true,” Captain La Paz said, standing up abruptly. “And I’m sorry you think that. I honestly care about you and Carol and the boys—”

  “Please, stop. I don’t want to hear their names in your mouth.”

  “Jon—”

  “No, forget it.” Korie stood quickly, holding his hands up as if to ward her off. “Just leave me alone.” He started to turn away—

  “Stand to, Mister!” she barked.

  Korie froze at attention.

  “Have it your way,” Captain La Paz said, bracing him firmly and meeting him eye to eye. Her expression was as hard as his. “I was trying to make it easy on you. My boat is on the T-spar. I was going to offer you a ride back to your ship.”

  “I’d rather walk, thank you.”

  La Paz ignored it. “I have a list. I was hoping we could trade. If you won’t trade, I’ll simply requisition. I want your engines. This isn’t a request anymore. It’s an order.”

  For a moment, Korie wondered just how much insubordination he could get away with in a single day. Probably not too much more. He decided not to push his luck.

  “What are your orders, Captain?” he asked.

  “That’s better, Commander,” she replied.

  Brik

  Gatineau stopped just outside the hatch. He hadn’t wanted to admit he didn’t know what a moebius wrench was, but now that he had accepted the responsibility, he had to produce a result, and he had to do it immediately . The chief was depending on him.

  He stood in the passageway and looked around in confusion. He wasn’t even sure where he was right now. The bulkheads were a confusing welter of detachable panels, each one with its own mysterious code number. “Let’s see,” he said, turning around slowly. “The keel is 180, the upper starboard passage is 60, and the port passage is 240 degrees. So—ah, I’m in the port passage. And that means that this ladder goes down to the keel, 180, and that hatch leads forward . . .” He made a decision and headed forward, looking for the mess room. There he could ask if anyone knew where the moebius wrench was.

  The ship’s mess was not quite deserted. He didn’t really recognize the red-haired man or the two women he was talking to; but he nodded anyway. He was just about to approach them when Commander Brik entered from the other side. He knew Commander Brik—at least, he knew him well enough to talk to. “Sir?” he asked.

  Brik stopped. He was obviously on his way somewhere and he looked annoyed at the interruption.

  Gatineau looked up . . . and up. And up. He stammered out his request quickly. “Commander Leen wants me to find a—a moebius wrench. The left-handed one. Do you know where it is?”

  “Mm,” said Brik, with exaggerated thought. He scratched his cheek. “I can’t recall seeing it recently. You might try ... yes, try the cargo bay. They’d be most likely to have it. Go down to the keel. That’s the fastest way.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Gatineau suppressed the urge to salute and hurried back the way he’d come. Brik shook his head in bemusement and continued forward to his quarters.

  Installing a three-meter-high, two-hundred-kilogram Morthan Tyger aboard even a large starship had originally presented certain problems of ancillary logistics. For instance, where does a two-hundred-kilogram Morthan sleep? “Anywhere he wants to” is not a sufficient answer if there is no place big enough.

  When Captain Hardesty had come aboard, bringing Lieutenant-Commander Brik as chief of strategic operations and security, he had also ordered the reconstruction of three officer’s cabins into one much larger suite for the Morthan. It was not merely a matter of courtesy or consideration; it was also an issue of mental health. Fleet regulations stated that an officer was entitled to a cubic volume of contiguous personal space not less than 50 times his or her own volume. This included bathing and personal facilities as well.

  There were complex formulae for determining the needs of smaller or larger crew members, but in general, the usual officer’s cabin was approximately 4 meters by 8, with a 2.3 meter ceiling. In Brik’s case, however, because of his immense size, he was given a cabin that measured 12 meters by 8, with a 3.5 meter ceiling. This required some minor reconstruction of the facilities on the opposite side of the bulkhead, but under Brik’s direct supervision the engineering crew had accomplished the job with amazing rapidity.

  The same remodeling would not have been as easy on a hardened battle-cruiser; but many of the interior bulkheads of liberty ships were simply rigid panels of hardened foam. Not much more was needed to partition off spaces, and the result was a flexibility of interior design which gave individual commanders a high degree of freedom in laying out personal areas for officers and crew.

  Brik had not given the process much thought. From the moment he had entered the Special Academy, his entire adult life had been spent in rooms that were too small for him. While he was able to appreciate the courtesy of the extra personal space, his cabin still felt like one more place too small for a proper fury. The ceilings were too low and he had to duck to get through the doorway.

  He made do. Over the course of years, he had become very good at making do. Originally the idea of spending so much time among humans had been distasteful to him; with time, he began to realize that there were lessons he could learn from these squeaky little creatures. Indeed, he was beginning to regard them almost with... respect.

  There was only minimal furniture in his quarters—a few chairs for those occasions when he had guests, and a fold-down table for when he wanted to work; the bed was a retractable nest of memory foam. Everything was collapsible; it was ugly, but it wasn’t uncomfortable; and almost everything disappeared into the walls when not in use, and that gave him more space for
his centering exercises. Perhaps if he had guests more often, he might have made more of an effort toward making his quarters more attractive; but he had no friends and guests were rare. Hospitality wasn’t exactly a Morthan tradition. Neither was vanity.

  Brik had been designed and tailored, born and raised to be a professional warrior. That he had become an officer of the Allied Fleet was his own choice, and one that had brought considerable embarrassment to his birth-sponsors. Consequently, he felt little loyalty to them, and his cabin reflected that. It contained almost no trophies or mementos of his past; instead it was a neutral facility, part workout room, part office. The only noticeable personal items were two banners, one blue-gray, the other scarlet, hung on the wall above his work station. Aside from that single expression of self, his cabin might have been an eccentrically designed gymnasium. The other three walls of Brik’s quarters were paneled with large holographic displays.

  A pair of workout robots waited in their maintenance closets in the corners. One robot appeared human, and the other was supposed to be a Morthan Tyger. Brik was not pleased with either of them; the human robot was too fast and too hard to kill, and the Morthan robot was too slow and too easy. Worse yet, the human robot was not anatomically accurate; Brik could hit it so hard that a true human would have died instantly of systolic shock, but all that this robot did was pretend that its bones were broken and it was bleeding to death.

  Arrayed next to the robots were devices to tell him how quickly he moved, how accurately he struck his targets, and with what force. Unlike every other automated system aboard ship, Brik’s equipment was not run by HARLIE, the ship’s lethetic intelligence engine. It was run by what was, to his knowledge, the only martial arts expert system, outside of the Morthan Solidarity, designed by Morthans.

  Brik would have enjoyed studying under an expert system from the Solidarity; some day he hoped to have the opportunity. Morthans knew significantly less about computer science than the Alliance, and significantly more about every other aspect of the warrior disciplines. Nevertheless, Brik did not feel deprived. The expert system he used had been written by his fathers.