Starhunt: A Star Wolf Novel by David Gerrold Read Free Book Online

their gravitors and drop to the hull, the screen blinking to follow them.
    The Burlingame hangs unmoving in the night. Or rather, it appears to hang unmoving. What motion there is is too slight to be perceptible.
    Within—her crew also appears to be unmoving. They watch their screens in silence.
    On the horseshoe, Rogers is staring morosely at this gravity meters—looking at, but not seeing. To his right, a blue-clad crewman is murmuring into a hand mike, “Maintenance? Oxy consumption is up 0.03.”
    Farther to the right, another crewman is adjusting the power levels of the ship’s radiation shields. This far out from any star, there is no need for the power drain. To his right, a bored ensign is watching the progress of the repairs on a tiny glowing monitor.
    Below them, Barak is sitting before his console, punching out possible interception courses. He looks at his glowing screen, frowns, touches a button, looks again, and sighs with satisfaction. The lines shift and change. Jonesy stands beside him, the ever-present headset pressed against one ear.
    To the rear of the bridge, Willis is listening to an ear-piece of his own. He drops his feet off the edge of his console, glances at his screens. “Uh-uh, that’s no good. Try camera hull-six.”
    Again on the horseshoe, the left rear, Korie is going over a shimmering graph with a reluctant crewman. Wolfe stands by, glowering. Below them, at the warp control console, an engineer is once more arguing with his counterpart in the engine room. “See,” the speaker cries, tinily triumphant, “I told you it wasn’t our machines.”
    “Well, maybe that’s why it burned out. You clowns don’t consider the grids as part of your machines.” He doesn’t wait for the other to answer, disconnects instead.
    And at the front, two officers slouch in their seats before the pilot console.
    Not so long ago, all was dominated by an angry red glow from the forward wall with a single shimmer of white in it. Now, four bright colored harlequins squat across that same screen, securing a replacement adapter into its moorings. The glittering lattice of the number two grid looms above them.
    One of the space-suited figures touches a panel on his chest; his voice comes filtered through the speakers. “This is Crewman Fowles. We’re going to have to degauss the grid.”
    The officer at the forward console bends to his mike. “Right.” He turns to face Brandt. “Sir, they say they’ll have to degauss.”
    “I know, I heard. Go ahead.”
    The officer turns back to his board, glances up to the horseshoe. “Rogers.”
    “Yes, sir?”
    “Fade to free fall.”
    “ F-fade to free fall?” he stammers. “But—”
    “But what ?” the officer demands.
    “Uh—nothing, sir.” Rogers swallows nervously. “Fade to free fall.” He turns back to his console. Seconds later the raucous sound of a klaxon vibrates through the ship.
    “Secure for free fall. Secure for free fall.” Rogers’ high-pitched voice squeaks loudly from the speakers. Two crewmen exchange a smirk at its adolescent sound.
    Brandt shifts in his seat, fastening a safety belt across his wide stomach. Korie, still on the horseshoe, takes hold of a convenient stanchion. Others on the bridge do the same: grab at railings or fasten safety harnesses in anticipation of the gentle falling away of weight.
    “Ten seconds. Ten seconds.” The voice quavers with inexperience.
    The crew moves hastily to secure a few last styli and terminals. There is a pause, a single bell-like tone—a sudden painful wrenching at the gut—and then the floor drops out. Korie grabs at his stanchion with a sharp, stabbing vertigo.
    Brandt gasps at the suddenness of it, finds himself unable to breathe. Half out of his couch, his safety harness binds tightly across his chest. Loosening it with one hand, he pulls himself back into the chair.
    On the horseshoe, some of the men are sitting in mid-air and cursing softly. Others are pulling themselves down