Korie allowed himself a soft smile. “Well, when you put it that way—” He began fumbling with his collar.
Parsons stopped him. “Wait a minute, let’s get some witnesses in here. There are a couple of people who will kill us both, if we do this ceremony without their participation.” She spoke into her headset, “Tor, Brik, Williger, Leen, Goldberg and Shibano to the wardroom, on the double!” Turning back to Korie, she slid her clipboard across the table toward him. “Let’s take care of the paper work. I have to sign your promotion, hand over command, and then you have to accept my resignation. Here, sign here, here and here.” As Korie signed, the others began filing into the wardroom with curious expressions on their faces. Parsons held up a hand for silence and motioned them to line up against the wall.
“What’s going on?” Leen asked, coming in last.
“Shh,” said Williger. “Be a witness.”
“Oh,” mouthed Leen and took his place silently beside her.
Korie signed the last page and started to straighten up, but Parsons shoved one more at him. “This one too—this one absolves me of all responsibility.” She smiled broadly.
Korie scanned the form, recognizing the oath it represented. It wasn’t an official oath per se, but it was the oath of commitment that captains had been voluntarily taking almost since the first liberty ship was launched. “As captain of the starship, I recognize that I am the sole authority for her actions in war and in peace. I am charged with the well-being of her crew and the maintenance of her readiness. In every regard, I am the ship. I acknowledge and accept the responsibility.”
Korie laid the stars down on the wardroom table and picked up the stylus. His hands felt clammy and the pen felt like an unfamiliar and alien thing. This is really happening! Somehow, he signed his name. And when he finished, and put the stylus down, and straightened up again, he could almost feel the difference in himself—as if a charge of energy, a new way of being, was suddenly coursing through his veins. He swallowed hard with the realization.
“Well, go ahead,” said Parsons. “Put the stars on.”
Still fumbling, Korie picked them up off the table. For some reason, his fingers weren’t working quite right. He blinked. He was having a little trouble focusing. He wished Carol could have been here. And Mark and Robby—
“Here, let me,” said Parsons, stepping close, ignoring the wetness at the corners of his eyes. She took the stars from his hand and clipped them easily to his collar. Finished, she stepped back again and offered him a crisp salute. And so did all the others. Tor. Leen. Williger. Goldberg. Shibano. Even Brik!
“Don’t do that—” Korie started to say, then realized how stupid that would sound. He shut up and returned the salute proudly. The others in the wardroom burst into spontaneous applause.
Parsons stepped forward and shook his hand. “Congratulations, Captain Korie.” She added, “Now, it’s done. If the admiral makes you take these stars off, it’ll be her embarrassment, not yours.” And then they were surrounded by the others, lining up to shake his hand and congratulate him. Korie blinked away the tears quickly, so they wouldn’t see how moved he was by their expressions of affection. He looked up—and up—at Brik. Even Brik was grinning; at least, Korie thought it was a grin—it was the most ghastly and uncomfortable expression he’d ever seen on a Morthan.
And then Parsons was at his side again. “I’d like to make the announcement to the crew—it’s traditional in cases like this. Is that all right with you, Captain Korie?”
“Yes, please do.” And then something else occurred to him. “Do you want to remain in the captain’s cabin or would you prefer to move to a guest cabin?”
“It’s your call, Captain—”
“Why don’t you stay in the captain’s cabin. As our ... uh, Captain Emeritus.”
“As your guest,” Parsons corrected. “I promise I’ll keep my mouth shut and only give you advice if you ask for it—or out of sight, if you’re too stupid to ask. May I retain the privilege of standing watch on your Bridge?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’d be honored if you would.” He looked proudly around the room. “Commander Tor, you’ll take over as executive officer.” He stopped and realized something else. “Oh, and schedule a memorial service immediately after dinner.” He looked to Parsons. “Would you like to—?”
“I think that one is yours, Captain. You knew Hodel and Berryman better.”
“Yes,” Korie agreed. “I think I should. All right, what else is there we need to attend to?”
“You’re the captain,” said Tor, laughing. “You tell us.”
Epilogue
Upon dropping out of hyperstate, the Star Wolf had transmitted only the tersest of arrival messages: “Norway destroyed, fourteen survivors aboard. Two dead aboard Star Wolf. Log sealed. Eyes-only report. Will need substantial maintenance on intelligence engine.” The admiral would understand what wasn’t being said.
Now, as the Star Wolf locked her transfer tube into place against the reception bay of the stardock, the admiral’s own terse reply was received on the Bridge. “Would the captain of the Star Wolf please report to the admiral’s office immediately?”
Korie and Parsons were both on the Command Deck when the admiral’s signal came in. Both were wearing their dress uniforms. They read the signal and exchanged conspiratorial glances. “I think she wants your report,” Korie said.
“Uh-uh,” said Parsons. “You’re the captain of the Star Wolf. It’s your report she wants.”
“But she’s expecting you.”
“Oh, I’m sure she’s going to want to see me—but she should see you first. Protocol, you know.”
Korie nodded. He turned forward. “Lieutenant Green, send a signal to Admiral O’Hara. Eyes-only. ‘With the Star Wolf’s respects, would the admiral please clarify which captain of the Star Wolf she wishes to report—Captain Korie or former Captain Parsons?’” He turned back to Parsons. “Her reply will tell us whether or not she’s going to confirm my promotion.”
“Are you making any bets?”
“Four times I’ve been in that woman’s office, and four times I haven’t gotten my stars. Based on her track record, I’m betting against myself.”
“I’ll bet for,” said Parsons. “Loser pays for dinner at the most expensive club in town.”
“Deal.” Korie agreed.
“You’d better apply for a loan, Captain. I’m in the mood for lobster.”
Korie grinned. “And I’m in the mood for—I don’t know what I’m in the mood for, but I promise it’ll be expensive.” Then he added, “It’s been fun wearing these insignia, Captain Parsons. And it’s been a privilege to serve with you. Thank you.” He reached for his collar. “Perhaps you should take these back now—”
Parsons stopped him from removing the insignia. “Keep them, Captain. Whether the old bitch confirms you or not, you’ve earned those.”
“Transfer tube is pressurized,” reported Goldberg. “We are officially home.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. Now hear this. Executive Officer Tor will be posting shore leave schedules as soon as the ship is secured and locked down. Enjoy yourselves, but please remember, we want to be invited back. That is all.” Korie picked up his cap and tucked it under his arm. “I’m not going to keep her waiting. Commander Tor, you have the conn. I’m going over.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Korie traced the familiar path to the forward airlock. So many memories already. So many deaths. How many more? He shook the thoughts away and punched open the inner hatch of the airlock. The door popped shut behind him and the outer door opened into the transfer tube. It looked so innocent now. The last time he’d been through here—he thought it really would be the last time ...
He crossed over to the stardock hatch and repeated the process of stepping through airlocks. There was a young boy waiting on the opposite side of the door; somebody’s son, no doubt. He looked a lot like—no, don’t think that way. But the boy was looking a
t him with curiosity too.
An out-of-breath voice behind him called, “Captain?” Reflexively, Korie turned backward to see. It was Brian Armstrong; he’d run the length of the ship and plunged through the airlocks. “We just heard from the admiral—your promotion has been confirmed! She wants to speak to you, immediately.”
And then another voice yanked his attention forward again. “Daddy—!”
Korie spun, caught between two moments—
“Captain Korie? What should I tell her?”
But Korie didn’t hear. He was wrapping his son into his arms and crying with joy.
Author’s Afterword
In 1988, I was hired to create a science fiction TV series for Universal Studios. The working title was Millennium. The mandate there was to create a show that could reuse the library of special-effects shots that had been created for Battlestar Galactica. (There were contractual reasons why they couldn’t do another version of B.G.)
My gut-level reaction was to tell these folks that this was a particularly stupid idea; the science fiction audience is smart, they would immediately recognize the recycling as a cheap trick, and they would dismiss the show as cheap and not worth a second look. But I had a hunch that this challenge might also be used as a lever upward into something much more effective and profitable.
You see, the requirements of film production, whether television or theatrical, often determine their own solutions, and I had a strong feeling that if we got this show into production, we would have to design at least one new starship—the star of the series—build the miniature and shoot a new library of effects. In such a case, the Battlestar Galactica shots could be demoted, or even discarded. There was little question in my mind that the studio executives would eventually realize that the use of the older material would seriously weaken the look and feel of the new show.
From a production point of view, this was not an ideal prospect, but from a creative position, there was an enormous possibility here. If we could make it work, we would be creating an opportunity to tell some of the stories that a certain other science fiction show had shied away from. So I said, “Let’s talk.” I suggested several different formats for the show. One was “Space Traders.” We would follow the adventures of a family of space gypsies, interstellar traders, as they traveled from planet to planet, buying and selling, wheeling and dealing, occasionally carrying passengers, sometimes being chased by the law, sometimes smuggling, and so on. It was not my favorite idea, but I wanted to offer the studio the appearance of options.
The second idea I suggested was the one I really wanted to do: “World War II in space.” (I’m a history fanatic, and World War II is a particular obsession.) The folks at Universal got it immediately. I didn’t even have to explain how it would work. (“See, it would be just like Das Boot or The Enemy Below or Mr. Roberts, only with spaceships.”) It suited their needs, and it was a format that allowed for open-ended storytelling. We could expand the show in any direction we wanted.
The next step was to develop an outline.
In 1972, I had written a novel called Yesterday’s Children. In that story, Executive Officer Korie is a martinet whose obsession with pursuing an unseen enemy destroys him. But that ending had always annoyed me. I liked Korie too much. And I really wanted to see him solve his problem. So, in 1977 I added twelve more chapters to the book, giving Korie the opportunity to produce a brilliant military victory. It was a much more satisfying conclusion. The book was retitled Starhunt. (Not necessarily a better title, but it distinguished the new version from the earlier one.)
Now, as I started to block out a pilot episode for Millennium, I realized that I could reuse some of the characters from Starhunt, in particular Commander Jon Thomas Korie. (Two things about Korie’s name: Commander Buzz Correy was the hero of Space Patrol, my favorite TV series when I was growing up, so I thought it would be a nice touch to have a new Commander Korie flying the star lanes. Korie also shares the same initials with a certain other starship captain; one who is also legendary for the exploits of his John Thomas ...)
The outline for the pilot episode had Executive Officer Korie assigned to a new ship, dealing with an aging captain no longer able to handle the rigors of starship life and totally unprepared for the coming war. As a personal in-joke, I had this captain bring along his legal advisor as an aide, a relationship which I characterized as “King Lear v. Iago.” And it also gave me the opportunity to give Korie a line of dialog especially close to my heart: “Why does a starship need a lawyer?” (Korie probably wasn’t the only one asking that question.) Universal enthusiastically approved the outline, they loved the humor, and I went right to work on a two-hour pilot script.
In that first script, a Morthan assassin gets loose on the starship and not only kills a few crewmembers, he also eats them. This created the opportunity for two more deliciously nasty lines of dialog: “Ohmygod, the Morthan just ate the captain’s lawyer.” “Voluntarily ...?”
Despite their love of the outline, the folks at Universal felt the script had turned out too dark, too grim to be a good series opener. They wanted a new pilot episode. They weren’t quite sure what changes they wanted, but they wanted changes. I was a little annoyed at the vagueness of these notes, but I recognized their concerns and agreed to a second draft.
Then the Writers’ Guild went out on strike for six months. And that meant that I could not turn in the second draft script, could not get paid, could not move the show forward. It was a very frustrating period, because on the one hand, I recognized the validity of the Guild’s negotiating points—on the other hand, the delay was going to kill production deals all over town.
The strike ended in August and a few days later, I turned in the second draft script. In this version, a new captain comes aboard, makes a bad decision and inadvertently triggers the interstellar equivalent of Pearl Harbor. I also added the Quillas and Brian Armstrong’s sexual adventures. The studio loved the second draft script and for a while, there was even some discussion of shooting the series in HDTV so that Sony could use it as a showcase for their new video technology.
And then, nothing else happened. It was set aside as the studio’s priorities changed. It was now officially one of those things “that seemed a good idea at the time.” So I went back to work on my novels and finished A Rage For Revenge, the third novel in my alien invasion series, The War Against The Chtorr.
Before tackling the fourth book in the Chtorr series, A Season For Slaughter, I decided to adapt the Millennium pilot into a novel called The Star Wolf. At the last moment, to avoid confusion with Edmond Hamilton’s classic novel of the same name, the publisher retitled my book The Voyage of the Star Wolf.
One afternoon in 1990, I received a phone call from a producer named Ed Elbert. A long time ago, he’d read a book of mine called Yesterday’s Children and had always thought it might make a good TV series. Would I be interested in optioning the rights to him?
I sent him my pilot script, now retitled The Star Wolf. He recognized immediately that this was exactly what he was looking for; we could take all of that early development work and expand it. I brought in Dorothy Fontana as a partner in this exercise and we expanded the original concepts of the two scripts already finished. Another good friend, who also recognized the potential of the series, came aboard as well; he opened his checkbook and invested in some artwork, costume designs and the construction of a starship model.
Somewhere in there, we realized that there was more story to tell than we could fit into two hours and I expanded the second draft pilot script to four one-hour episodes structured so they could be shown either as four one-hour episodes or a four-hour miniseries. We began showing it around town.
We presented it as “World War II in space” and almost everybody understood the concept immediately, but nobody wanted to pay for the privilege of putting us into production. (One studio loved it so much they made an offer, withdrew the offer the next day, then took our tag line “World War
II in space” and used it to produce a forgettable series that failed quickly.)
During all of this, Dorothy Fontana and I continued to develop the series’ “bible”—the Writers/Directors’ Guide. And we made a promise to ourselves. We were not going to do a pale imitation of Star Trek. We would do all the things that Star Trek couldn’t do or wouldn’t do—the stories that were too dangerous or too subversive or too disturbing. We said our goal would be to go where no TV series had gone before.
We developed backstories for all of the major characters, we created a military arena for the war, we designed and staffed an entire starship and we invested a great deal of time working out story arcs for all of the characters, even some of our favorite background people. Most important, we even blocked out complete outlines for a number of episodes.
Here are a few of the ideas we generated:
Our crew is not the best and the brightest and our ship is not the biggest and the fastest. She is a liberty ship, fresh off the assembly line, untested and inexperienced. As the series proceeds, we start to see this nice clean vessel age. She gets dirty, she gets posters glued to her bulkheads, graffiti shows up everywhere, things break down and get hammered back together with whatever materials are available. Many of her internal walls are a kind of Styrofoam (you don’t need more than that and this is a hastily-assembled liberty ship), so they get easily dented and punched.
The first twenty minutes of the first episode are about some other ship—this one is the best and the brightest. She is the Endeavor and she is commanded by Captain Richard Long. (Or Richard Head, I forget which.) Everything on this ship is just a little too special, a little too wonderful, a little too well color-coordinated. Then, just before the first commercial, she gets ambushed by Morthan marauders. She blows up and everybody dies. When we come back from the break, the Star Wolf shows up for a planned rendezvous, a much less impressive vessel, dirty, gritty and crewed by folks whose uniforms aren’t quite as well-tailored ... Hello, this is the real starship in this series. We expected this would be one of the most outrageous gags in television history. We knew the audience would understand exactly what point we were making.
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