Starhunt: A Star Wolf Novel (3 page)

“Good.” The captain’s granite features relax a bit. “What about the bogie? Can you catch him?”

Barak grins—a broad, good-natured grin. “I may be good, Captain, but not that good.”

“I take it, then, you can’t.”

Barak shrugs his heavy shoulders. “That’s essentially it. In just about nineteen days he’ll be home free. Oh, we might be able to catch him if we could take after him right now at top speed—he hasn’t gained that much distance yet—but we’d still have to pace him and that’d take us into enemy territory.”

“No good,” says Brandt. “On his home ground, he won’t come out of warp anywhere but near a war base, and I can’t fight him there. All right,” he exhales loudly. “Start plotting a course for home.” Behind him, Korie scowls in frustration. Barak nods and turns back to this console. Jonesy moves up beside him and the two confer softly.

Brandt taps the button again, swivels farther to the right. He makes a complete circuit of the bridge, glancing at each screen and console in turn, quickly scanning them for the information he wants.

The ship is becalmed one-half light year out from the nearest star. Actually, becalmed isn’t the right word—the ship still has an inherent velocity of .07 4C; C representing the speed of light. But when one is used to figuring in multiples of C . . . well, for astrogational purposes, the ship is becalmed.

The chair slides to a halt, once more facing forward. Korie stands dourly waiting.

Ignoring him, Brandt leans back in the seat, pulling speculatively at his thick lower lip. His gray eyes focus on the empty screen ahead. Apparently, radec still hasn’t resighted the bogie.

After a moment, he turns away; he glances around the dimly lit bridge. “Why is it so dark in here?” he mutters, then checks himself; he calls out, “Go to Condition Yellow—standby alert.”

Slowly the lights come up, revealing the green-blue control room, revealing the age-stained walls and the use-worn equipment. Men are standing sullenly by their consoles, tunic flaps unbuttoned in the cramped heat. The air circulators whisper incessantly; the sound is an ever-present subliminal pressure, a steady hum just below the threshold of consciousness; but they cannot clear away the heavy smell of defeat that has added itself to the other stale odors of the ship.

The captain shifts his big frame into a more comfortable position. “Hmph, that’s better.”

Up on the horseshoe, a yellow light begins beeping on the gravity control board. Rogers answers it.

“How’s your gravity now?” asks an acid voice. “Have you got enough power?”

The crewman mumbles a hesitant reply.

“What was that?” the intercom demands. “What did you say?”

Rogers repeats it. “Gravity is holding steady at one zero zero.”

“Yeah!” growls the other. “We noticed it when it snapped back up.”

“Sorry,” Rogers apologizes.

The other replies with a loud contemptuous sound.

At this, both Korie and Brandt look up to the horseshoe. They exchange a glance.

“There,” whispers Brandt. “That’s what we’re going to have to watch out for. Everybody’s a bit touchy now—especially since we’ve lost the kill.”

“You want me to pull Rogers off the bridge? He’s only a kid.”

“Uh-uh. Give him a chance to work his problems out for himself. I don’t want to start interfering in the crew’s affairs unless I have to.”

Korie nods in grudging agreement; for once the captain is correct in his assessment of a situation. He straightens, running a hand through his light-colored hair, then moves back to the center of the pit, eyeing the men on the horseshoe.

Brandt shifts his attention left to the warp control board. There, one of the engineers is hunched over it, arguing into a microphone, continuing a previous discussion with a counterpart in the engine room.

“Did you check the secondaries again?”

“Again and again and again,” answers the intercom. “I tell you the secondaries are all right.”

“Well, everything checks out on this end. That means it’s got to be something down there—something with your machines.”

“Listen, wobblehead, if it were the goddamn machines, don’t you think we’d tell you?!!”

The engineer exhales slowly, “All right, if the trouble isn’t down there,
then just where in the hell is it?!!”

The voice from the communicator is filtered, but its tone is recognizable. “I’ll come up there and show you if—
hey!
I just thought of something. . . !” He bleeps out, leaving the other in open-mouthed frustration.

Watching, Brandt rubs the thick bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes narrow thoughtfully. Something will have to be done about morale.

A panel at his elbow blinks. He answers it with a quick jab. “Brandt here. What is it?”

“Captain, this is Leen. We just had a thought down here. Suppose the trouble is in one of the grids. . . ?”

“Go on. . . .”

“Systems analysis shows a dead area in the second phase circuitry—that could be it. I’d like to send two men outside to check it.”

Brandt lifts a meaty hand as if to ward off a fly. It is a tradition that only the captain may order a man into his suit. “Permission granted.”

“Thank you,” Leen bleeps out.

The captain glances at the screens—nothing but dark, shining starfields. He slaps the chair arm and swivels 180 degrees. “You, what’s your name?” The question is directed up to the man on the autolog, a thick fellow with sharp uneven features and small darting eyes.

The man drops his feet off the edge of his console, straightens in his seat. “Willis, sir. Ike Willis; crewman second class.”

“Right. You’re on the log?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want a visual on the main screens. Can you handle it?”

“Yes, sir.” A puzzled expression crosses his face. “A visual of what, sir?”

Brandt says slowly, “Of the external maintenance operation.”

“Oh.”

“Can you handle that?”

“Huh? Oh, sure, I can handle it.”

“Good. I want it complete.” He taps the swivel button.

“Yes, sir.” But he’s talking to the captain’s broad back. Willis shrugs, then turns back to his console and bends to a mike. “Air lock. This is the bridge. Give me some camera, please.” He waits for a confirming light, then touches appropriate buttons on his board.

On the big screen forward, two men—clad only in T-shirts and tights—are shown in the cramped air lock, struggling with their bright-colored leotard-like space suits, one red and one yellow.

The material of the suits is lightweight, strong, flexible—but not very elastic. Of necessity, it must be tight fitting; it is a second skin. Two sour-looking crewmen are helping them with the sleeves and leggings.

A fifth man is cramped against one wall, adjusting the helmets. He snaps a camera onto the left side of one—whatever the man is looking at will be relayed back to the bridge.

When the men are at last secure in their suits, their helmets are lowered over their heads. The “valets” complete the connections to the mobility and life-support backpack units and check them out. That done, and the units activated, the men snap their face-plates shut,
check the helmet seals for security, and lower the appropriate filters into place. They are now bright-colored golems, each with a great dark eye for a face.

“Radio working?” asks one.

The other touches his device-studded “chastity belt,” a plastic frame around his waist and genitals. “Right.”

A wall panel flashes red—the other crewmen disappear through a hatch which slides impatiently shut after them. A hiss signals that the air is rapidly being drained from the chamber.

The suits do not puff out; only an occasional bubble of air, trapped under their second skins, reveals that the pressure is quickly decreasing. And then even these too evaporate away. “Bridge, we’re ready to go.”

“Hold on,” answers a technician. “I still have some red lights.” He watches as one by one they wink out. “All right, I’m green now.” He thumbs a switch and the outer hatch of the air lock slides away. On the big screen, a shaft of black widens above the two men.

“Gravity. . . ?” prompts one of them.

Watching from the pit, Korie calls, “Rogers, cut the gravity in the air lock.”

“Right, answers Rogers. He peers curiously at his board, “Now where in the. . . ?” He pauses, momentarily puzzled.

Quickly, Korie steps up onto the horseshoe. He reaches past the younger man and flicks a button. “There, that’s it.”

“Oh,” Rogers puts his finger on the control.

“It’s not necessary to hold it. It’s an automatic fade.”

“Oh.” He takes his hand away.

Korie looks at him curiously, then drops the thought. Rogers is young, yes—but he must know the board or he wouldn’t be on it. He drops down into the pit, again turns his attention to the main screen.

The screen flickers and picks up the view from an externally mounted hull camera: a foreshortened square of yellow light against a dark bulge—the open hatch of the air lock. Two dark shapes move up and out of it.

At the rear of the bridge, Willis stabs a button on his console, bends his acne-scarred face to a mike. “Can I have some light for those hull cameras?”

“Right,” answers his communicator.

“Thanks.” He checks his monitors, then glances forward again, where two space-suited men float dark against the night, blotting out the stars. A bright blaze of light suddenly washes across them, turning them back into gay-colored figures. They shine with harsh fluorescence, one a garish red, the other intense yellow. Caught in the beam of the single remote spotlight, they glare flat and shadowless. Their shadows are hidden by their own bright bodies and they appear as two hard cutouts hung against the void.

One of them drops an auxiliary filter across his faceplate. It glints brightly in the harsh glare of the spotlight. In the background, the dim latticework of the warp grids can be seen. Light reflecting off the hull gives them a soft, ghostly glow, turning them into great cobwebs in the night.

“More light, please,” asks Willis. “Farther down—toward the stern.”

“I’m working on it, I’m working on it,” growls the communicator.

“Well, hurry it.”

“I will, I will. When was the last time the damn things were checked anyway? They seem to be frozen.”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask Beagle to check them while he’s out there?”

“I’ll do that.” The communicator bleeps out.

The screen shows two graceful one-eyed gods floating curiously above a metallic landscape, their movements taken from a
ballet mysterieux
. The surface beneath them is curved and the single harsh light gives the whole a surrealistic appearance of blazing whites and intense darks. Here and there the hull is studded with round-edged metal and plastic devices: cameras and spotlights, glistening sensor domes, disc-shaped scanners, innocent-looking laser and phaser mountings, and stress-field antennae looking like miniature warp grids. Many of the devices have plastic covers across their muzzles, shielding them until they are needed.

Willis glances away from the screen, stabs a button on his board. Another hull camera slides out of its protective blister and an auxiliary screen blinks to pick up its image. Because of the camera angle, the two cyclopean figures are now in stark relief; this camera sees them lit from one side. A second spotlight swings around toward them and lights, throwing another bright cone of white against the hull.

Other cameras and spotlights swing into place. Other screens light to follow the space-suited men. Now they no longer look as flat; they are illuminated from several sides. Slowly they drift down the curvature of the hull toward the stern.

One of the men pauses, as if listening to his suit radio. He swims over to a nearby spotlight; the plastic cover of it is still across the lens.

The man braces his feet against the hull and tries to move it with his hands. It’s no good; the cover is stuck. He lets go, drifting backward as he does. Unclipping a small cylinder from his belt, he moves toward the spotlight again.

Holding the cylinder at arm’s length, he aims its stubby nozzle at the recalcitrant cover and sprays a pale mist across it. Almost immediately it slides open and the light within glares suddenly into his face.

A short, sharp expletive is heard over the all-talk channel. “Goddamn it! What are you trying to do—blind me?” He lowers another filter across his eyes.

There is amusement on the bridge. Here and there a contemptuous snort is heard. Korie, fidgeting impatiently in the pit, mutters softly, “Come on, you two . . .”

Brandt, talking with Barak, glances up, notices the screen, hesitates, then touches his chair arm. “This is the captain. Why aren’t you men using gravitors? You know my orders about outside duty.”

The speaker crackles. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

Reflected on many of the screens lining the bridge, each from a different angle, a faint, almost unnoticeable aura envelops each space-suited figure. They drop to the hull of the ship; first one, then the other.

Satisfied that his orders are being obeyed, Brandt turns back to Barak.

The speaker crackles again. “Hey, Beagle,” calls one of the two space-suited men.

“Yeah?” answers the other.

“Sounds like the old man is in a bitch of a mood today.”

Across the bridge, startled faces turn to look at the screen. One some there are surprised grins. Brandt glances up again.

Beagle answers, “Maybe he didn’t get any last night.”

This time there are one or two quickly stifled chuckles—and a snort of obvious annoyance from Korie. But most of the men remain uncomfortably silent, surreptitiously watching the captain. Brandt touches the chair arm again. “Yes,” he whispers into the mike, “I
am
in a bitch of a mood today. However,
that
is not the reason for it . . . and I will thank you to leave such speculation for your off-duty hours.” He cuts off.

The two bright figures on the screen stiffen in surprise; they cut off their suit radios hurriedly. A ripple of laughter around the horseshoe underscores their embarrassment. Brandt turns again to his astrogator. “Now, what about those fuel consumption factors?”