The Middle of Nowhere

by David Gerrold

  Brik was halfway to the stern now. He paused momentarily at a starboard access panel. He could open it. He could drop down into the airlock and go in. He’d proved his point. But . . . he had to be sure. He checked his watch, then he checked the dial on the oxygen transfusor. He pulled himself past the access panel and kept heading sternward.

  The pain in his hands was getting worse. Brik snarled, but he didn’t mind. The time to worry was when his hands stopped hurting. He was sure of one thing though. Cinnabar had to have had some kind of internal heating augment in his extremities. This pain was distracting.

  On the other hand, Cinnabar’s augments had not been designed to make the assassin comfortable, only to make him powerful. Brik considered that thought as he pulled. What was the Morthan relationship with pain? He knew how he tolerated it. He accepted it. He recreated it: he let himself experience it fully, until he was inside of it, until he was no longer resisting something that was outside of him but analyzing something that was part of him. And by the time he’d completed that process, the pain had disappeared as pain and became only information.

  Was that how the warriors of the Solidarity handled discomfort? Brik didn’t think so. Cinnabar’s reactions had become almost joyous toward the end. He’d looked as if he were in ecstasy.

  Brik had heard rumors that the Solidarity routinely rewired the neural circuitry of their warriors, so that all pain sensations were translated into pleasure. Could Cinnabar have enjoyed the entire experience? Could his death have been an orgasmic adventure? Certainly, the evidence seemed to suggest it.

  Brik was having trouble moving his fingers now. Several times his hands had slipped off the rungs of the space-ladder. It was starting to be a problem. He pulled himself out of his reveries and tried to focus on the remaining distance.

  He couldn’t see. His vision was blurry. Despite the facepack his eyes were drying out. He felt them bulging out of his head. His ears as well. He’d miscalculated only a bit—but it didn’t matter whether he missed it by a centimeter or a light year. The situation was binary. The result would be either yes or no.

  But . . . if he died out here, that still wouldn’t prove that Cinnabar couldn’t have done it. Only if he survived would he have incontrovertible proof of Cinnabar’s deed.

  Death didn’t scare him. There was no adrenaline there. He’d long ago learned to appreciate the irony of life. But failure angered him. Failure was intolerable. Especially this failure, because no one would understand unless he made it back safely. The surge of anger filled him with a brief flash of warmth. He remembered what Korie had said. One of his fathers used to say the same thing. “Anger is useful. Use it.” Even in his pain, Brik smiled. More and more, Korie was thinking like a Morthan.

  He was pulling himself more slowly now. But now he was chanting a different song. This one was a song of anger. A rhythm of rage. War parties used to pump themselves up with songs like this—you focused on the face of your enemy and sang your rage into him. Brik visualized Cinnabar and already he could feel the first burning embers of hatred growing in his chest.

  He had been raised never to succumb to hatred—except in special circumstances. He had been in a killing rage only three times in his life, and all three times had been under tightly controlled circumstances. He knew how to rage when he needed to. But he knew the physical price he would have to pay—

  He chanted. Internally. The rhythm of the gods.

  Vacuum burned.

  His ears pounded.

  His eyes ached redly. He held them tightly shut.

  His blood roared.

  He sang. Inside. He thought of Cinnabar. Cinnabar’s hands.

  And finally—he raged. Not quite a killing rage, but close enough. He held himself just at the threshold of that overwhelming fury.

  It didn’t keep him warm. But it kept him going.

  He pulled himself along—rung after rung after rung—until suddenly, there were no more rungs. He realized he’d been fumbling for several seconds, reaching for something that wasn’t there. He was at the aft airlocks. He’d made it. He pulled opened the access panel and pulled himself down into the reception bay. He fumbled for the control and slammed his hand against it.

  Something flashed red. He opened his eyes, he could barely move them. The panel was throbbing like his heart. Dimly he could make out the single word of doom. LOCKED.

  And then . . . he slipped over the edge and plunged into a killing rage.

  He wasn’t angry at the door, but at himself.

  Red fury suffused his entire being. He was no longer rational. He pulled himself out of the access and around the curve of the hull to the next airlock over. There were three airlocks at the stern of the vessel. One of them had to be accessible—

  Yes!

  The panel flashed green and the cylinder slid around and he pulled himself into it and pushed it around and around and tumbled out, falling upside down onto the floor backwards, his legs flailing and suddenly there was sound roaring around him, painfully loud, impossibly loud, he hadn’t realized how loud sound could be, he couldn’t hear his heart anymore. He pounded on the deck and raged and raged, and even though he’d won, he was overwhelmed with Morthan fury. He focused on the face of the dead assassin and cursed it with a fiery vengeance; he pushed his anger out through his mouth in a ferocious roar and outshouted the noises of the starship that filled his ears and the stinking smells that suddenly filled his nostrils.

  Tears flooded his eyes, blood poured from his nose. He bellowed and shrieked and somehow, even in the blackest reddest deepest moments of his ecstasies, he knew that he had won, he’d proven his point; he knew what Cinnabar had done and how he’d done it. Had the assassin raged like this? He couldn’t have—the whole ship would have heard—he must have somehow gone unconscious, somehow triggered his own recuperation once he was safely inside again. Fury ebbed, leaving enlightenment and understanding and a curious emotion that Brik could not name, but it had elements of triumph and joy; he knew it was only the endorphins flooding into his brain, but he was swept up with the feeling, too. This was not like any rage he’d ever felt before, and it was evil and delicious. He laughed out loud, a great booming sound—

  The safety hatch of the airlock popped open and a six-member tactical squad was standing there with rifles pointed at him.

  Brik looked at them and laughed even harder.

  Confused, the members of the squad looked from one to the other.

  They didn’t get the joke, but that was all right. Brik got it. And at the moment, that was all that mattered.

  Williger

  Doctor Molly Williger did not have many friends. She didn’t need many, and if truth be told, she was not the easiest person to be friendly with. She was taciturn, dour, blunt, and not given to easy camaraderie. It wasn’t that she was deliberately unfriendly; but that was how she was often perceived.

  Mostly, she held herself in reserve, refusing to make some inner part of herself accessible. Her bedside manner had once been compared to General Patton’s, with Patton coming off as the nice guy. Although Molly Williger had never slapped a patient, she had once angrily booted one out of a recovery bed with a well-placed kick to the gluteus maximus.

  And then, of course, there was the not-so-small matter of her appearance.

  Even among those who felt kindly toward her, when preparing to introduce people to her, they quietly noted ahead of time that Dr. Williger was the ugliest doctor in the Fleet. It was undeniably true, it gave the person being introduced some warning, and was rather more polite than saying that she was the ugliest person in the Fleet, though that was probably true also.

  She was a short woman from a high-grav world, very nearly as round as she was high. She had a potato of a nose and squinty eyes that made her look almost as mean as she was ugly. Her ears were crumpled and protruding; they looked like something a dog had buried and then dug up a year later. Her home world had a thicker atmosphere than was common aboard Alliance ships, s
o at the best of times her breathing was heavy and labored as she fought to get enough of the thin air into her lungs. Her voice was raspy; she sounded like she gargled with gravel. Her hair, pulled into a tight bun, looked like stiff and rusty wire. But even to describe the individual features of this woman was insufficient, because her appearance was the clearest possible demonstration that the whole was more than just the sum of the parts.

  A famous poet had once been introduced to Molly Williger and had spent the next year of his life trying to find the proper words to describe her ugliness, before giving up and saying simply, “Transcendental ugliness. The language needs another thousand years of evolution before it’s up to the task of describing this. The woman is a living masterpiece. God must have intended this. There is no flaw in this work. She is completely and totally ugly, without the slightest blemish or flaw of beauty in the effect. She is a holy presence. I would announce my retirement before I would assume the task of evoking her appearance.”

  There were those who assumed on Molly’s behalf that these words were hurtful to her, and they rebuked the poet publicly for his tastelessness. But the poet replied that he meant no harm. Indeed, he intended his awestruck reaction only as the highest form of compliment. “Beauty is easy,” he said. “It takes no particular ability. Any halfwit can speak in pastel. And many have. But true ghastliness is always an art form, it’s raw and brutal and carved from the screams and passion of flesh-and-blood turned self-aware. Molly Williger leaves me speechless. I would worship at her feet if she would allow me.”

  Whatever Molly herself believed, she kept it to herself. She knew she was ugly. She used her ugliness as she used every other tool at her disposal. Indeed, she was the only doctor in the Fleet who could stare into the maw of a snarling Morthan and not be intimidated. Cinnabar had been the first. Brik was the second.

  After examining Cinnabar, Brik was easy.

  She hmmed and grunted to herself for a bit, studying the various displays in front of her, then without looking up, rasped at Korie. “He’ll live. He’s a damn fool, but he’ll live. Did you need any more damn fools on this ship?”

  Korie ignored the remark. “What were you trying to do?” he demanded of Brik.

  “I didn’t try,” Brik replied. “I did it.” His voice was rougher than usual and his breathing was still very uneven.

  “Did what?” Korie frowned.

  “I proved that Cinnabar lied.” Brik took three deep breaths before continuing. He was wearing an oxygen mask. “He didn’t come in through the forward missile tubes, as he claimed. He had time to go the entire distance of the ship. And back. He could have entered anywhere.”

  Korie considered that thought. At first, it seemed an unimportant point to risk one’s life over. Then as he began to realize the implications, his expression froze. “Shit,” he said. “That just made my day. I’ve got to talk to HARLIE.” He started to shake his head in frustration, then looked up abruptly. “You know, I should bust you for this little stunt. I still might.”

  “It was a matter of starship security,” Brik rumbled and wheezed. “It was entirely within the purview of my authority. External inspection for damage.”

  “Without a starsuit? If nothing else, I should charge you with reckless endangerment.”

  “Hard to prove. You don’t know what the Morthan physiology is capable of under stress. No human does. So stop trying to threaten me. It was necessary.”

  Surprisingly, Korie nodded. He recognized two things. First, this was an argument he couldn’t win. And second, if he were to argue with Brik about this, he’d be using the same authority and arguments that the admiral had used—tried to use—on him. Brik’s wildness was his own. He didn’t dare punish it. He exhaled sharply with frustration. He was beginning to understand now how the admiral felt about him.

  “Listen to me,” said Korie. “The next time you have an idea like this—for anything like this—clear it with me first?”

  “Why?” Brik regarded Korie dispassionately. “If I gave you that authority, you would use it. Would you have allowed this test?”

  “Of course not.”

  “That’s why I had to do it without your permission.”

  “Well, ask me in the future anyway, so I can have a safety crew accompanying you.”

  “That would be an insult, Commander.”

  “I’d rather insult you than bury you. Do you know how much paperwork is involved when a crewmember dies?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  That stopped Korie. “You really don’t?”

  “I just said so.”

  “All right,” Korie made a decision. “From now on, you’re in charge of all death details—especially the paperwork.”

  “I am not a gravedigger. That is the work of . . . slaves.”

  “Are you a member of this ship’s company? Do you follow orders?”

  “Yes, Commander, I follow orders.” Brik’s voice was very formal and rigid.

  “I’m going to put this in writing,” Korie said. “For what it’s worth, the purpose is not to humiliate you. I want you to start feeling responsible for the lives—and deaths—of the people around you.”

  Brik did not reply to that.

  “Good. Now we understand each other.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Brik, “but I’m not prepared to argue that right now.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Korie with finality. “Enough dancing. Now I want to hear the other reason.”

  “What other reason?” Brik replied blandly.

  “You know what I mean. What were you trying to prove to yourself ?”

  “I didn’t try,” Brik said. “I did prove it.”

  “And that was . . .?”

  “Failure is not an option.”

  Korie met Brik’s eyes. For a moment the two of them regarded each other mercilessly. And Brik saw that yes, maybe Korie was finally beginning to understand...

  “This is what I mean about damn fools,” Williger said, deliberately interrupting. “Too much testosterone.”

  Korie used her remark as an excuse to turn away. He nodded in agreement. “You’re right, Doctor. But I wish I had another dozen damn fools on this ship. We do need all the damn fools we can get. How long till he’s up again?”

  “He can go now, if he insists. I don’t want him here. But I’m not sure yet how much damage he’s done to his lungs; he’s supposed to be capable of routine regeneration; I’m going to watch him closely for a few days. If he needs it, I’ll run a transform series.”

  “Can you wait until we’re online again?”

  She shrugged. “I can wait till hell freezes over. I don’t like working on Morthans. Don’t take it personally, Commander,” she said to Brik, “but it makes me feel like a veterinarian.”

  “The feeling is mutual,” Brik replied, deadpan.

  “He won’t eat the kibble,” Korie remarked on his way out. “You’ll have to feed him the canned stuff.”

  Armstrong

  After Gatineau finished cleaning the galley, Cookie sent him forward to the Operations bay, a four-man cubbyhole tucked directly underneath the Bridge. “Ask for Brian Armstrong, lad. He has the moebius wrench now. He came and got it while you were cleaning the tables.”

  So Gatineau slid down to the keel and headed forward. He felt oddly renewed and recharged. It wasn’t just a full belly that did it, it was also the sense of accomplishment he felt at having scrubbed the galley till it sparkled. He enjoyed cleaning things. He liked seeing the starship at its best, its interior workings glimmering like new. It gave him a sense of pride.

  He realized with a wry smile that he’d been cleaning all day. He’d helped with the electrical harness, the farm, and the supplies in the cargo deck. He’d been all over the Star Wolf. But it also annoyed him to realize how much ground he’d covered without yet locating the elusive moebius wrench.

  He reached the Ops bay and climbed the five steps into it. There were two men inside, a small dark one and a large
blond one. Both were hip-deep in electronic gear. “Who’s Armstrong?” Gatineau asked.

  “I am,” said the blond. He was a side of beef with a grin. “Who’re you?”

  “Gatineau. I need the moebius wrench,” he said, holding out a hand. “Chief Engineer Leen wants it now.”

  “Oh, the wrench. Right. Green—?” Armstrong turned to the smaller man. “Where’d you put it?”

  “I gave it to Hodel. He’s microtickling the klystron coils. I’ll go get it. He started climbing down into a large square hole in the deck. He paused to explain. “Tell the chief we’re awfully sorry for the delay, but we’ve got the whole communications yoke torn down. We have to logic-test each and every module. We don’t think any of the units were contaminated; but a C-5 detox requires the checks anyway. Oh, no—” Green’s face fell. “Listen, I just realized, you’re going to have to wait until we finish reassembling the optical bleeds. We can’t get to the wrench until that’s back online and out of the way.”

  “Why am I not surprised,” said Gatineau. “And I suppose you’re going to need my help.”

  “Not really. It’s a two-man job. You’d just be in the way.” Green pulled himself back out of the hole. Gatineau started to relax—

  “On the other hand,” Green continued. “If you take over here, Armstrong can go start the teardown of the network assemblers; then we can integrate the envelope riders and restore our hyperstate scanners to full operation ahead of schedule. Here, why don’t you take this probe—if we had a class-5 Systems Analysis network, we wouldn’t have to do this by hand, but this ship was launched before the required parts came in, and we’ve never caught up with our own supplies; other ships keep requisitioning them first. You can’t imagine the shortages we’ve had. It’s a bitch.

  “Let me tell you something,” Green added. “It’s all about resources. Y’know, that’s rule number one: make sure of your supplies. I remember one boat, we ran out of toilet paper three weeks from home. By the time we hit port, we were using the chief petty officer’s clothes. We were a very unhappy crew. But that was very bad management of resources on his part. He never made that mistake again. That’s my point. Now, here, we have to do all this extra work, because we don’t have a proper Systems Analysis net. Here, let me show you how to do that—”