Starhunt: A Star Wolf Novel (12 page)

“There you see! You’ve got a ship of your own already. This one.”

Korie’s voice is like ice. “It’s. Not. The. Same.”

“Relax. I was only kidding.”

They are interrupted by a bellow from Cookie. “Hey, Panyovsky! Come and get it—or I’ll feed it to the hogs!”

The medical officer grins. “‘Scuse me a sec.” He crosses to the other side of the galley, where a plastipak of scrambled eggs waits for him, steaming on the counter. Korie forces himself to relax is even grinning when the big medical officer returns and slides into his seat. There is an antiseptic cleanliness about him that Korie finds refreshing.

“Y’know,” Panyovsky says. “Sometimes I think the real captain of this ship is Cookie. Other times, I know it.” He cracks open the pack, begins pouring ketchup over the eggs.

“The whole galley is an anachronism,” says Korie. “I’d give a nickel for an honest ‘mat unit.”

“Well, this is a second-generation cruiser,” explains the other. “And they weren’t building them that way then. They thought that with artificial gravity, they could get away from the free-fall packs and return to a more traditional kind of food preparation—allowing, of course, for all the modern technical advances that have since come to the art and science of cooking.” He cocks an eye at Korie. “So you see, my friend, what we have is something that is neither this nor that—but a little bit of each. We have a cook—whose main duty is to flash plastipaks. However,” he adds thoughtfully, “I will admit his shish kebab isn’t bad.” He shovels a forkful of ketchup-covered eggs into his mouth.

“Besides,” Panyovsky adds, “there are certain advantages to having a cook instead of a ‘mat unit. For one thing you have more flexibility in your choice of meals. Look, no matter what kind of a galley you’ve got, the food is kept in stasis boxes and flashed by microwave. All you’ve got with a ‘mat unit is portion control; big deal, nobody complains about getting more or less than anybody else—but on the other hand, there’s no second helpings. At least not without heating up a whole new pack. Now, with a cook, you know there’s always something cooking, and you have the backstop of the plastipaks anyway.”

Korie is grinning. “Don’t you ever think about anything but your stomach?”

“Huh?” Panyovsky looks at his belly, the slight bulge of a beginning paunch. “What else have I got to think about?”

“Doesn’t anything ever happen in sick bay?”

The medical officer makes a face, a quizzical expression. “About as often as it does on the bridge. Today, I had to set a broken collarbone; it’s the first real doctoring I’ve done in a month. I was getting so I’d almost forgotten how. Fortunately, there was a book in the ship’s library—”

Korie ignores the other’s glib manner. “Broken collarbone? Who?”

“Earlier today. A radec technician, kid named Rogers.”

“Rogers—?” Korie is suddenly alert. “How did it happen?”

Panyovsky’s manner is casual, but he glances both ways and waits until a passing crewman is out of earshot. “They said he fell against a bulkhead. I don’t believe it.”

“Why not?”

Panyovsky narrows his eyes meaningfully. “Do you know the kid?”

Korie is noncommittal. “I’ve had him on the bridge.”

Panyovsky nods. “Then you know how the crew treats him.”

“Yeah—like the neo he is.”

“Then you know how he got a broken collarbone. Somebody roughed him up.”

“A broken collarbone is quite a ‘roughing up.’ Where’d it happen?”

“K Quarters on the afterdeck.”

“That’s a bunkroom,” says Korie. He frowns. “Now, wait a minute—Rogers has no business there. He’s assigned forward.”

“Be that as it may, that’s the story. Erlich and MacHeath brought him in and that’s what they said. He fell against a bulkhead in K Quarters.” He pauses to gulp at his coffee. “But it doesn’t take a doctor to see that the boy’s been beaten pretty badly.”

Korie looks troubled. “I don’t like that.”

Panyovsky shrugs. “What can you do? These things happen. The crew has to settle their differences among themselves.”

“Not like this, they don’t—not if they’re going to incapacitate each other.”

“Oh, now I don’t think it’s that bad. He’ll be wearing a brace for a while, but he’ll be able to work.”

“That’s not what I mean. What if he weren’t a radec tech., but were on the ‘monkey crew’ instead—or something else where he needed to be suited up—could he do that in a brace?”

The doctor fixes the first officer with a careful glance. “My job, Mr. Korie, is only to patch them up, not to run their lives. You should remember that yourself. What they do outside of sick bay is their own business. I try not to get involved because I’m caught in the middle already before I start.”

“You know who did it?”

“I’ve heard the rumors—”

“Who?”

“Let me tell you something. You may not have realized this, but it’s not easy to be a doctor—at least, not on an F-class starcruiser. I probably know more about
what’s happening on this ship than any other two men aboard her, including you and the captain—or even you and the union representative. The crew tells me things; you tell me things—and everybody thinks I’m on his side. I’m not allowed to have a side of my own; so it’s safest for me to just stick to business—keeping the rest of you fixed up so you can have your various sides.”

“Uh huh,” says Korie. “Now that you’ve issued the standard I-must-remain-aloof medical disclaimer,
who did it
?”

“My spies say that it was a fellow named Wolfe. You know him?”

“Yes. I know him.” Korie starts to rise. Panyovsky pushes him back down.

“Wait a minute, my friend. That wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“
What
wouldn’t be a good idea? You don’t know what I was going to do.”

“Whatever you were going to do,” smiles Panyovsky, “it wouldn’t have been a good idea.”

Korie sits. “Why not?”

“Because,” the doctor says slowly, “
even Rogers
says he fell against a bulkhead.”

“Even though it was Wolfe that made him fall—?”

“Probably; but you won’t get him to admit it. He’s scared of retaliation. In any case, you have no way to prove there’s been a fight. Nobody will admit to being a witness.”

“What about the men who brought him in?”

“Erlich and MacHeath? Are you kidding? They’re strictly crew, all the way.”

“And you’re sure Rogers won’t talk?”

“Not to me, he wouldn’t.”

“I’ll go see him myself.” He starts to rise.

“No, you won’t. He’s asleep.” Panyovsky looks casually at his watch. “Besides, you’ve scheduled another drill for the engine room, remember?—and you’re already ten minutes late.”

War is hell!

—GENERAL WILLIAM TECUMSEH SHERMAN

Channel B, the all-talk channel on the intercom:

“He’s late.”

“So? Who’s complaining?”

“Maybe we’re lucky and he’s dead.”

“You dreamer—”

“Korie’s the dreamer. He thinks this tub is a battleship.”

“Maybe he knows something we don’t.”

“Maybe he’s
on
something we’re not.”

“I wish he were on another ship.”

“You know, if we ever get close to that bogie, we won’t need any missiles. Korie’ll put on a space suit and go after it with his bare hands.”

“If he does, let’s not wait for him to come back—let’s just leave.”

“Hear, hear! The man has finally come up with a worthwhile suggestion.”

“Let’s not even leave him the space suit.”

“Aw, now—do I detect a note of hostility in these speculations?”

“Damn right you do!”

“Okay. I just wanted to make sure your hearts were in the right place.”

“Hey, listen—you want to know what that asshole has done now?”

“Which asshole?”

“There’s only one asshole on this ship.”

“Oh—
that
asshole. What’s he done now?”

“You know why we keep ‘missing’ on those drills?”

“Sure—because we’re more than 15 per cent off optimum.”

“Yeah, but do you know what Korie used as optimum when he wrote those programs?”

“Five million units of Hallucin-N?”

“Not quite, but you’re close. The ‘optimum’ we’re trying to hit is the battle efficiency of a K-class cruiser.”

“Huh—?”

“You heard me. He’s got us competing against K-class specifications.”

“He’s out of his tree—”

“He should have stuck with the Hallucin-N.”

“Maybe he did and this is the result.”

“You think we should tell him this is an F-class ship?”

“Naw, let him find out for himself.”

“Yeah, but we’re on it with him—”

“Unfortunately.”

“Congratulations. You’ve just realized Korie’s secret.”

“What is?”

“That we weren’t signing up for the space force, we were joining a suicide pact.”

“
Now
, he tells us—”

“You should have read the fine print on your papers.”

“Who can read? When I joined, all they wanted was someone who could stand up for five minutes without falling over!”

“Well, that explains the efficiency of
this
ship.”

“Yeah, but what explains its
in
efficiency?”

“Hey, when we get back to base, what’re we going to say when they ask up why we couldn’t catch the bogie?”

“Our butterfly net had a hole in it?”

“That’s very funny—hey, aren’t you the guy who, when they start insulting your ship in the bars, you start nodding your head and agreeing?”

“Yeah, well—I don’t like to argue with my own shipmates.”

“Has anyone ever noticed there’s something
weird
about Korie?—Like he’s always
calculating
?”

“There’s something weird about everybody on this ship. That’s why we’re here.”

“Hey, does anybody know what the penalty for mutiny is?”

“Last I heard, it was death by spacing.”

“Hmm—that’s getting more attractive every day.”

“Forget it. The last one to try taking over the ship was Captain Brandt.”

“And what happened to him?”

“Korie sent him to his room.”

“That
bastard
—that’s pretty harsh treatment for an old man.”

“Yeah? Well, that’ nothing compared to what he’s got in store for us.”

“Oh? What’s he going to do to us?”

“He’s going to make us stay at our posts.”

“Aw, shit!”

I have little hope that if the human race were more intelligent that it would be an improvement. It would only enable us to make a higher class of mistake.

—SOLOMON SHORT

A low whistle of surprise is the only signal—an officer has entered the crew’s quarters. Someone turns the lights up, revealing the sagging griminess of the bunks, the chipped plastic panels of the walls. In the center of the room, First Officer Korie stands with a face like grim death. “Wolfe, stand up.”

“Huh?”

“I said, stand up.”

Surprised, startled, the shorter man levers himself upright—realizes abruptly that it is Korie and jerks to his feet. “Yes, sir.”

“Wolfe, I’m only going to say this once, so you’d better listen—and if you miss any of it, I’m sure your big-eared bunkmates will clue you in.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wolfe; I know what you did to Rogers. I know it as surely as if I’d been here watching.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”

“Of course, you don’t—but just in case you do, you’d better listen.”

“I repeat, I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”

“Wolfe, you’re interrupting me—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir. Rogers hit his head against a bulkhead.”

“Wolfe—”

“I don’t know anything about it—”

“Wolfe! Shut up!”

“Yes, sir.”

Korie is breathing heavily. His usually pale face is flushed with anger. Wolfe stands stiffly at his bunk—at attention, but somehow still defiant.

“All right,” Korie says, a little too quickly. “You don’t know anything about it—but let me give you a warning—”

“Sir—”

“
—a warning
that you can give to the bulkhead that Rogers walked into.” Korie is seething. “If I have any more trouble out of that particular bulkhead, I am going to personally rip it out. I am going to take it apart piece by piece and shove it out an air lock. And I am going to fully enjoy myself doing it—do I make myself clear?”

“I guess so, sir.”

“There’d better not be a next time.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll tell the bulkhead that.”

“You do that.” Korie stares at the man for a moment, wondering if he should say any more. Wolfe is a pasty-faced slug; a sallow-colored muscle, layered with fat. His eyes are watery blue and hint of veiled meanness.

Korie decides he has said enough. Wolfe obviously isn’t listening anyway. He turns on his heel and strides quickly out.

Wolfe waits until he is out of earshot, then exhales loudly and sinks to his bunk. “Wow! He is sure after my ass!”

“Yeah, well, that’s a hard target to miss,” calls MacHeath.

“Screw you.”

“Face it, man,” says Erlich. “You keep getting in his way. Pretty soon, the man’s bound to trip over you. And then he’s going to get mad. Just don’t give him any reason to. That’s all.”

“You make it sound so simple,” snaps Wolfe. He throws himself back into his bunk.

“Well, he sure didn’t waste any time getting down here.”

“Hey!” says MacHeath suddenly. “You think Rogers squealed?”

“No. I think that bastard’s guessing—else he would have killed me for sure.”

“You hope that’s the case.”

“It is. It is.”

Half the men don’t know why we’re fighting, the other half doesn’t care—they just like to fight.

—MAJOR GENERAL JACOB ENDERLY,

Second American Civil War

“All right, let’s go.” Korie strides into the engine room and directly to his monitor console. “Leen, get your men in the webs.” He drops into the chair and clears the board. “Bridge, we’ll skip the first two problems and start with number three. Auxiliary control, you’ve got the red button. If you have any trouble compensating for any of these maneuvers, push it—I’d rather stop the drill than lose that bogie again.” He swivels back then and looks at Leen. “All set?”