The Voyage of the Star Wolf (34 page)

“He was
faking
,” said Tor.

“He was waiting for the right moment,” corrected Brik.

Korie guessed it immediately. “He saw us taking the fluctuators off the
Burke
. He had to stop it.”

“Here—” HARLIE continued. “This is where he attacked the security squads. Notice that even while he is at the center of their fire, he does not seem to be affected. Here's the slow-motion. Notice how fast he's moving—”

“Optical nervous system, augmented musculature,” said Korie.

“He must have some kind of internal shielding,” said Tor. “He doesn't even flinch. They're not even burning him.”

Brik said, “I realize that this is upsetting to you—but it is important that you recognize the efficiency of the assassin's killing pattern. There is no wasted movement at all.”

Tor gasped involuntarily and turned away. The sound of the security man's back cracking was loud across the Bridge.

The screen showed the Morthan
flowing
like liquid fire—he grabbed and killed, cracked and threw, leapt and kicked and clawed. He was a blur that flashed from point to point and left a trail of broken, bleeding bodies. Even slowed down, the sense of incredible speed was overwhelming. The Morthan grabbed the captain like a sack of potatoes and—

“Hold it!” said Korie. “Run that again.”

HARLIE slowed the images down. Hardesty was bringing his weapon up, he was firing, the beam plunged through the Morthan's belly, the Morthan didn't feel it, he surged inexorably forward, grabbing the gun
and splintering it, the fuel cells flashed and exploded around him, the captain flung his arms up, the Morthan grabbed him—
and didn't kill him
. He caught the captain under one arm and scooped him off his feet—

Korie felt impaled by the dilemma. He still didn't have
proof
. The captain might still be alive.

The screen showed the Morthan sweeping the shuttle bay with ruthless efficiency, grabbing cameras off the wall and shattering them. The image switched from one point of view to the next, then it finally went blank.

Without being asked, HARLIE began the series again.

Korie looked around, noticed Williger had come in while they were staring horrified at the screen. He acknowledged her with a nod. “You saw?”

She grunted. Her expression was wrinkled and sour.

Korie turned to Brik. “Under Article Thirteen, I have to assume that the Captain is dead or beyond rescue. Do you concur?” Even before he finished the question, Tor and the others were looking up sharply.

Brik knew what he was being asked. He spoke with quiet candor. “I concur.”

“Thank you.” Korie turned to his astrogator. “Commander Tor?”

“Aren't you being a little hasty? You don't know for sure.”

Korie nodded toward the screen. The Morthan was slashing a crewman into a bloody pulp. “Look at the pictures.”

“No,” said Tor, pointing. “You look. I didn't see the captain's death in that—and neither did you. Why don't you put a couple of probes into the
Burke
and search by remote? Let's be sure—”

“I wish I could,” Korie replied. “But we don't have the time. And we'd never get better than fifty percent confidence. I need your statement now.”

Tor stepped in close to Korie and lowered her voice so that no one else could hear what she said. “I know you want your own ship, but aren't you being just a little too eager to write off Captain Hardesty?”

Korie ignored it. “I need a declarative sentence, Commander.”

She shook her head. “I can't support
this
.”

“That's your privilege. Thank you.” Korie turned away. “Dr. Williger—?”

Williger looked troubled and she sounded reluctant. “I don't like it either, but I have to vote with the evidence.”

Tor followed Korie toward the Bridge. “I still think you're being too hasty.”

“I appreciate your honesty,” Korie said. He paused at the steps. “But I have to do this by the book
because that's the way the captain wants it
.” He glanced around. “Is there anyone else who disagrees?”

Korie looked from face to face, searching for dissent, hoping someone would come up with a valid reason why he shouldn't take the next ineradicable step. Jonesy? Leen? Goldberg? Brik? Hodel? Williger?

No. None of them.

Korie took a breath. “HARLIE, log it. Under the provisions of Article Thirteen, I'm assuming command of the
LS-1187
on the presumption that Captain Richard Hardesty is dead . . . or beyond our ability to rescue.”

HARLIE's tone was as calm as ever. “Yes, Mr. Korie. It is so logged.”

Tor spoke first. Her tone was exquisitely formal. “Your orders,
sir
?”

Korie ignored the implied rebuke. “We're going to complete our mission. I want the fluctuators off the
Burke
and I don't want to play hide-and-eat with a Morthan assassin. HARLIE, open the
Burke
to space. Do it now.”

“Acknowledged. I am opening the
Burke
to space . . .”

Korie tried not to show his reaction, but the reality of it made him flinch anyway. He turned back to the holographic display and watched as the various hatches on the schematic
Burke
began to open. The forward viewer flashed to show what the external cameras were able to see.

HARLIE began shifting the view to show the interior of the
Burke
's corridors as well. A great wind was sweeping through her corridors. Debris hurtled and blew and ricocheted off the walls. Things crashed and tumbled. A contorted body flopped over—

The Bridge crew watched in silence. Korie spoke bitterly. “That should let the air out of our assassin.”

“Maybe not,” said Williger.

They all turned to look at her sharply.

Chief Medical Officer Molly Williger stepped to the holographic display and slid a memory card into a reader. A bioschematic of the Morthan assassin flickered into being, replacing the schematic of the two linked starships. “He's all augments,” said Williger. “He's got a lightspeed nervous system, multiprocessing lobes in his brain, a hardened skeleton, enhanced musculature, extra hearts, internal shielding, you name it—even the ability to shut down the organic parts of his body for short periods of time.” She hesitated for a heartbeat. “And the bad news is that he might be able to function without air, food, and water for sustained periods.”

Korie looked to Brik. “Is all this normal for an assassin?”

Brik nodded. “For a beginner.”

“Stop trying to cheer me up,” Korie muttered. To Williger, he said,
“Okay. How long can that son of a bitch hold his breath?”

“Best guess? Fifteen minutes.”

Korie made a decision. “We'll wait an hour.”

“We don't have an hour,” said Tor. “Remember the
Dragon Lord
?”

“I remember the
Dragon Lord
,” Korie snapped back. “Better than you. I'll show you the scars.” He repeated his order. “We'll wait an hour.”

The
Burke
was cold and silent. Despite the cold glare of her lights, or maybe because of it, she looked desolate. Nothing moved aboard her. Her cameras showed nothing. HARLIE's scans continued to come up empty.

After a while, Korie grew bored with the endless cycling of empty images. He grabbed a cup of coffee and stalked off the Bridge. He thought about going to the captain's cabin, but couldn't bring himself to do that. Not yet. It didn't feel right. It wouldn't be his
until
—until the admiral gave it to him.

He stopped and leaned against the wall of the starboard corridor, slumping and staring at nothing in particular. The gray surface of the foamboard construction had a dull sheen.

The argument raged inside his head.
I didn't have any choice. The decision had to be made. I only did what Hardesty would have done if he had been here. I followed the book.
But all of that was meaningless against the accusing facts.
We didn't see him die. We didn't know for sure that he was dead. We could have killed him when we evacuated the air out of the
Burke
!

But that was only the surface of the turmoil, the immediate details. Floating below that was the more disturbing pain.
It's Captain Lowell all over again. A captain is supposed to depend on his executive officer—why can't I be that kind of exec? Why can't I protect my commander? Am I so stupid and clumsy that I can't safeguard my leader? But how do you keep a captain from getting killed if he insists on making the wrong decisions? What is it about leadership that others can see and I can't? Am I so wrapped up in my own ego that I can't tell what's right? What kind of an officer am I
?

Korie noticed that his shoes were bloody, probably from one of the puddles that he'd had to step through. He wondered whose blood it was. He wondered if he should try to clean these shoes or if he'd be better off tossing them into the singularity. That was how all the garbage was disposed of on a starship; it was fed to the pinpoint black hole in the engine room. It was fun to watch too—the way things just crumpled up and sucked away into nothingness, usually with a flash and a bang.

When he looked up again, Brik was standing before him, waiting patiently.

“What do you want?” he said. His tone was not friendly.

“I thought that you might want . . . some advice.” Brik hesitated, then added, “Captain Hardesty appreciated my thoughts, particularly in strategic situations. I thought you might wish the same access.”

“Mm,” said Korie. He stared into his half-empty coffee mug, swirling it around as he did so. He couldn't think of anything to ask. He couldn't think of anything at all right now. He'd boiled it down to the simplest of all tracks. It was very linear:
wait an hour, go back into the
Burke,
finish the job, get the fluctuators, bring both ships home
—and then he frowned. Who would crew the
Burke
now?

Tor. Yes. Tor could do it. That might work.

“No,” said Brik. “Don't even think it. Cinnabar has been six jumps ahead of us since the moment we sighted the
Burke
. Here are your options. One: back off, torpedo that ship, and head for home now. And hope that Cinnabar didn't find a way off the
Burke
and onto the
LS-1187
. That's the safest option, and nobody will fault you for taking it. We've already lost too many good crewmembers. Two: go back into the
Burke
, take the other two fluctuators, then scuttle her and head for home.
If
there's time. There probably isn't—which is why option one is still the safest. Three: Try to bring the
Burke
up and running and bring her home—except you won't get her two meters. She's booby-trapped. Count on it. Cinnabar has not been sitting on his thumbs. He's been thinking up scenarios and counter-responses since before we rendezvoused. We arrived in this game too late to have a chance—”

“Four,” said Korie, taking Brik's count away from him. “We stay linked with the
Burke
and bring her home inside our own envelope.”

“Tow her?” Brik shook his head. “Too risky. Chief Leen will have
shpilkies
.”

“Shpilkies?”
Korie asked.

“A litter of carnivorous Morthan kittens.”

“Oh,” Korie blinked.

“The point is, we can't tow the
Burke
. We'll be too unstable—Chief Leen will never be able to balance the bubble. The center of gravity won't be congruent with the center of the envelope. We'd shake and shudder like a drunken nightmare. We'll kill ourselves trying.”

“And—” said Korie, “—you forgot to mention that our top speed will be limited to one-quarter normal. About one hundred and fifty lights, if we're lucky.”

“I was just getting to that.”

Korie looked up sharply. “You think he might still be alive?”

“The captain? No. The assassin? Count on it.” Brik looked grim. “He had to know what your options were and how you'd react. He had to have planned for this. My best advice? Torpedo the
Burke
and let's get out of here.”