The Middle of Nowhere Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Introduction

  Gatineau

  First Blood

  O’Hara

  Leen

  Hardesty

  La Paz

  Brik

  Hall

  Carol

  Reynolds

  The Crew

  Zaffron

  Stolchak

  The Black Hole Gang

  Cookie

  Outside

  Williger

  Armstrong

  Meerson-Krikes

  Showers

  Timmy

  Dreams

  Discipline

  The Crew

  Fennelly

  The Boat

  Revelations

  Faslim-Arub

  The Conversation

  God

  Chess

  Ship’s Mess

  HARLIE

  Foreplay

  Gamma

  The Bridge Crew

  Sex

  Houston

  Orgasm

  Chess II

  Dwarf Point

  Docking

  Disaster

  A Hole in the World

  The Ops Deck

  Lowell

  Incoming

  Watching

  Good-bye Dolly

  Waiting

  The Imp

  The Stars

  Good Friends

  Vice Admiral O’Hara

  Captain Hardesty

  Commander Korie

  Fanfare

  David Gerrold’s Legendary Novel Is Back!

  Coming in January 2004 from BenBella Books

  Also from BenBella Books

  A New David Gerrold Novel

  Copyright Page

  For Steve Boyett and Daniel Keys Moran, who are both very much a part of this book

  Introduction

  Back in the late sixties, guitarist Amos Garrett played a solo on Maria Muldaur’s hit single, “Midnight at the Oasis.” It was so demonically brilliant that no less an authority than Stevie Wonder was moved to call it “the second greatest instrumental break in the history of rock and roll.” Years later, Amos ran into Stevie, and of course he had to ask: what was the greatest? Stevie flashed that famous grin and said, “Well you know, Amos, I didn’t really have anything specific in mind when I said that . . . except a lot of my friends are guitar players.”

  In just that spirit, under similar constraints of diplomacy, I would like to nominate David Gerrold as the second most perfect science fiction writer alive.

  For as long as anyone can remember, SF writers have tended to come in one of two flavors: science majors and liberal arts majors. (Digression: why aren’t the sciences known as the “conservative arts”?) Sometimes they get along with each other, sometimes they hate each other; usually it’s an uneasy mix of the two. But there’s no avoiding the problem—because science fiction exists specifically for the express purpose of getting the science majors and the liberal arts majors talking to one another. The poets and the engineers have to be able to have intelligent and rewarding conversation together, the rational and the irrational must be brought to respect and tolerate one another’s viewpoint, or both sides are missing the point, both are less than they could be.

  The very act of telling stories about technology impacting people is a good place to start. And one hell of a demanding task. Almost every SF writer leans in one direction or the other, at least to some extent. And I don’t mean to suggest there’s anything wrong with that. There’d better not be, because I’m definitely an old English major myself: most of the science I know I learned from reading science fiction.

  But every so often, a few times each generation, a writer comes along with a foot planted solidly in each camp, equally versed in the science and the fiction, as fluent in C++ as in iambic pentameter, as comfortable with people as with positrons, on good terms with both his brain and his heart, functioning in that glorious world-changing border zone between what is and what might be. Such a writer is able to communicate with anyone literate, regardless of their major—and thus is better positioned than anyone else to address the really tough questions. Ones like What does it mean to be human? and What does it mean to be sentient? and What does it mean to be sane? and What makes a thing matter? and Should I be good?

  If he happens to be a master stylist, incapable of an infelicitous sentence, so much the better.

  David Gerrold’s first published work was a memorable script for Star Trek. For a time—way too short a time—he was the story editor for one of its many franchise spin-offs. For me, the saga I think of as the Suffering of the Star Wolf (this book and its companion volumes, Voyage of the Star Wolf and Starhunt) represents what the entire Star Trek universe should have been, could have been and so seldom actually was. Namely, science fiction without dumbed-down, hoked-up science and, equally crucial, without skin-deep characters who never learn or grow or change from what they experience. Science fiction that dares to put its people through the wringer, to take them to their breaking point and beyond, to force them to deal with the same unfair, remorseless universe we live in. Science fiction in which intractable problems must be solved by brains and hearts, both under great stress. The Star Wolf series keeps reminding me of Alistair Maclean’s finest book, H.M.S. Ulysses, in which a proud but tired ship is slowly, relentlessly battered into scrap—with the happy difference that, so far, David’s boat simply refuses to sink, and his crew declines to die. Happy for you and me, anyway.

  Follow young Mr. Gatineau on his odyssey through the first half of this book. It’s impossible to say whether we learn more about him or about the ship. That is part of the point. David Gerrold is equally aware of what Gatineau sees and of who it is that is looking—and he conveys both. Halfway into the story, we’ll already know more about poor Commander Korie and his whole accursed crew and every compartment in their jinxed ship than we ever learned about Kirk and the Enterprise in three seasons and several feature films. Equally important, that ship and those people will go somewhere and be changed profoundly by what happens to them along the way.

  David also happens to be, in no particular order, my friend of thirty years, the kindest and most generous person I know (now that both Heinleins are gone—sigh), one of the few writing teachers who should not be thrashed, a serious computer guy, the only punster I’m willing to admit is sometimes better than I am, a great dad, one of the world’s two leading lovers of Disneyland, a fully realized bodhisattva, a world-class raconteur, way too handsome to be walking around, one of the sanest people in my world and in no particular order.

  And here he is now, right where I’d expect to find him: at the center of everything... also known as The Middle of Nowhere.

  Since he began writing professionally in 1972, Spider Robinson has won three Hugo Awards, a Nebula Award, the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer, the E.E. (“Doc”) Smith Memorial Award (Skylark), the Pat Terry Memorial Award for Humorous Science Fiction, and Locus Awards for Best Novella and Best Critic. He is the author of the immensely popular Callahan series and co-author (with his wife, Jeanne Robinson) of the award-winning Star Dance trilogy.

  Gatineau

  The rookie had arrived at Stardock so recently, his eyebrows still hadn’t had time to come back down to their normal position.

  He moved through the corridors of the station with a tentative step and an expression of permanent astonishment on his face. He carried his few personal belongings slung over his back in a limp black duffel. He had a yellow transfer order and a baby-blue security pass in one hand, and a half-unfolded map in the other.

  He was clearly lost. He checked the number
on every wall panel against the unwieldy map—perversely, it kept trying to complete the process of unfolding; periodically huge sections of it would make a desperate leap for freedom. Finally, in frustration, the rookie stopped where he was, and dropped to one knee to refold the map on the floor.

  “That’s not a good place for that, son—”

  “I know, but the damn thing won’t—” And then he looked up, saw who he was speaking to, and shut up immediately. He scrambled to his feet, stiffened to attention, and nearly knocked his eye out with his transfer card as he tried to salute. His duffel swung wildly behind him, banging him uncomfortably on the butt.

  The officer was a grim-looking man, thin, with gray eyes and sandy hair. He had a hardness of expression that was terrifying. But the hardness in his eyes was directed somewhere else, not at the rookie. It was almost as if the much younger man didn’t exist for the officer, except as a tool to be used . . . if he was good enough. The officer’s nametag identified him only as Korie. The diamond-shaped insignias on his collar gave his rank as—the rookie frowned as he tried to remember—commander!

  “As you were,” the officer said, returning the salute with a perfunctory nod. He reached over and plucked the transfer card and security pass out of the rookie’s hands. “Crewman Third Class Robert Gatineau, engineering apprentice,” he read. He made a single soft clucking noise in reaction. “Rule number one,” he said, handing the cards back. “Always wear your nametags.”

  “Yes, sir.” Gatineau began fumbling in his pocket for the nametag he had been given only moments before. As he struggled to pin it on, he asked, “Anything else, sir?”

  “Keep out of the way. Don’t call attention to yourself.” As an afterthought, he added, “And get your job done as if your life depended on it. Because it does.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  The tall man nodded and started to head up the passage.

  “Uh, sir—”

  “Yes?”

  “Could you tell me how to get to berth T-119?” Gatineau stammered, “That’s the Star Wolf.”

  “I know the ship,” the man said noncommittally.

  “Is she a good ship? I’ve heard stories—”

  “She earned her name fairly.” He turned and pointed. “Down to the end, turn left, go up the stairs, take the slidewalk all the way around to the T-module. From there, just follow the numbers down the tube; it’ll be the nineteenth berth. But the Star Wolf isn’t there. That’s only where her boats are docking. The ship is still sitting out at decontam point one.” The officer glanced at his watch. “If you hurry, you can catch a ride back. If you miss this shuttle, there’ll be another one in ninety minutes. Pee before you go. It’s a long ride. When you get there, report to Commander Tor, she’s acting command. Then get your gear stowed and get into your works. You’ll be on Chief Leen’s crew. I’m sure they can use your help. There’s a lot to do.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Gatineau saluted again enthusiastically.

  The officer returned the salute with barely concealed annoyance. “Oh, one more thing. Ease up on the salutes. That’s for groundsiders. In space, you want to keep one hand on the wall.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir!”

  The tall man nodded and headed up the passage. Gatineau stared after him with an expression of unalloyed awe. The diamonds on the commander’s uniform had been luminous silver, striated with bands of flickering color—that meant he was certified for an FTL command! He wished he could follow him—

  Abruptly Crewman Robert Gatineau, third class, unassigned, remembered what the commander had said about the shuttle, and he hurried to gather up his belongings. He reshouldered his duffel, stuffed the recalcitrant map into the pocket of his shirt, and scrambled quickly down the passage.

  “Down to the end,” he repeated as he ran. “Turn left, go up the stairs, take the slidewalk—”

  The slidewalk circled the Stardock. Gatineau rode it all the way from the administrative domain, through the supply modules, to the docking spurs. He scrutinized each passing sign as if it held a secret message just for him, ticking off each docking spur as it slid past. At last, he saw the sign he was waiting for; he leapt off impatiently at the entrance to the T-module, almost stumbling as he did. Swearing in annoyance and frustration, he half-walked, half-ran down the broad passage. Beneath his feet, the carpeting gave way to industrial decking; his footsteps clanged and echoed.

  The passage was punctuated with airtight doors. Each section was sealed by triple locks that popped quickly open at his approach and slapped softly shut after him; by the time Gatineau reached the nineteenth berth he had passed through seventy-two separate hatchways. He had run nearly the entire length, counting off the numbers all the way to the next-to-last berth, T-119.

  The berth itself was only a naked service bay; a wide featureless alcove, it lacked even the barest amenities. It was nothing like the commercial berths Gatineau had experienced, with their multiple displays and couches and various service booths and comfort areas. The difference both shocked and pleased him. It proved to him that he was finally here, serving at a real stardock.

  The business end of the bay was a broad elliptical hatch. It stood open. Gatineau approached hesitantly.

  “Hello?” he called down the long boarding tube. “Ahoy? Anybody aboard?”

  There was no answer.

  “Is this the boat for the Star Wolf?” Gatineau edged tentatively into the tube. “Is anyone here?”

  At the far end there was another hatch, this one closed. The access panel was green, indicating that the atmosphere on the opposite side of the door was breathable and pressure-balanced.

  Gatineau took a breath and pressed his hand against the panel. Several hatches slid back simultaneously, startling him. He stepped through into a tiny airlock. The hatches behind him closed, turning the chamber into a claustrophobic closet. More nervous than ever, but too uncomfortable to hesitate, Gatineau popped open the next hatch—and found himself staring into the aft cabin of the number three boat of the Star Wolf.

  The boat was half-crammed with supply modules of all shapes and sizes. He edged sideways into the cabin and the last hatch slapped shut behind him. “Ahoy?” he called softly. “Crewman Robert Gatineau, third class, unassigned engineering apprentice, reporting for duty?”

  Still no one answered. Gatineau stepped through the next hatch into the main cabin of the boat. “Hello? Anyone?” No one.

  The rear half of this cabin was filled with various life-support and supply modules; all were labeled. He recognized the codes for starsuits and EVA equipment, as well as emergency medical gear. The forward half was all industry-standard seating, gray and impersonal. Gatineau had seen buses with more personality.

  Shrugging to himself, he hung his duffel on the wall over one of the seats, then he climbed forward and knocked on the flight deck hatch. It slid open almost immediately and the pilot swiveled around in his chair to look at him. Gatineau looked up . . . and up. And up. The pilot was a three-meter Morthan Tyger with a grin so wide he could have bitten off Gatineau’s head in a single bite. “You the new meat?” he asked.

  Gatineau nearly crapped his pants. For a moment he was paralyzed, his heart thundering in his chest in a cascade of uncontrollable explosions. Adrenaline flooded through his body in an atavistic frisson of fear and horror and wonder, all stumbling over each other at once. The sensation was like a sudden cold immersion into stark screaming terror. He gulped and stammered and tried to back away. “Excuse me—” he tried to say, even while his mind yammered with the terrifying realization, Oh, my God, a Morthan. I’m going to die!

  And even as he wondered what he could do to defend himself against the monster, the rational part of his being was already noting the dark gray uniform on the beast, the nametag—Lt. Commander Brik—and the amused expression on the face of the human copilot.

  “I, uh—uh, I’m looking for uh—the boat to the Star Wolf—” And then he remembered his tra
ining and snapped to attention. “Sorry, sir. Crewman Robert Gatineau, third class, unassigned engineering apprentice, reporting for duty, sir!” He’d heard there were Morthan officers in the fleet. He hadn’t realized he’d be serving under one—he started to salute, then remembered the other officer’s advice and stopped himself, then wondered if he’d committed an even bigger mistake by not saluting the Morthan officer. He gulped, decided against trying to make it up, and simply held out his transfer card and security pass for inspection.

  Commander Brik took the cards with exaggerated gentleness. The huge dark Morthan hand dwarfed Gatineau’s much smaller one. It was all that he could do to keep from flinching. He hadn’t felt so small since he’d been four years old and had seen his father naked in the shower.

  Brik laid the cards on the flat reader panel between himself and the copilot and studied the display without reaction. As he did so, Gatineau tried to calm himself by studying the layout of the flight deck. An actual starboat! He took a deep breath and peered out the forward window, pretending to be nonchalant as he took in the view.

  Beyond the forward glass, the bright spurs of Stardock gleamed with thousands of work lights, so bright they almost banished the hard emptiness beyond. Looking out the side window, Gatineau could see nearly a dozen liberty ships strung along the length of the docking spur. His intake of breath was clearly audible. Starships! They were magnificent. They were wonderful. And they were nearly close enough to touch—

  Brik grunted impatiently. The sound broke Gatineau’s reverie. He realized that the Morthan was holding out his identity cards and waiting for him to take them back.

  “Oh, thanks. Um . . .” Gatineau decided to risk it. “I’m sorry, sir, if I, uh—behaved badly just now. I—”

  “Don’t sweat it, fella,” the copilot said. His nametag identified him as Lt. Mikhail Hodel. “Commander Brik has that effect on everybody. It’s part of his charm. What do we call you?”

  “Um, my dad used to call me Robby, but uh—”