Starhunt: A Star Wolf Novel by David Gerrold

in his throat. He clutches his stomach in agony; his face is spattered with blood, and he curls into a writhing fetal position.
    Wolfe stands over him, breathing heavily. Two or three other men in the bunkroom move up to stop him, but he’s already through. The fight is over.
    “Looks like you did a job on him, all right,” mutters once, a husky engineer. Rogers is groaning on the floor, rocking back and forth in pain. He coughs once or twice.
    “You really had to do that, didn’t you, Wolfe?” asks another.
    “Aaah!” Wolfe waves them off.
    “How’re you going to explain this? You know Rogers—he’s going to go straight to that asshole Korie.”
    “No he won’t.” Wolfe steps over the fallen crewman, puts his hands on the other’s shoulders. “You’re not going to say anything—are you, Rogers?”
    Dazed, Rogers shakes his head.
    “There, you see. The dumb shit is learning already.” Wolfe goes back to his bunk, throws himself into it.
    “Hey, Wolfe,” says the big engineer. “You forgot this.”
    “Huh?”
    The other throws something small and glittery at him. Wolfe snatches it out of the air. It is his stylus. He starts to scowl in annoyance, lets it become a grin instead. “Yeah,” he says. He drops the pen onto a shelf next to his bunk.
    Meanwhile, the engineer, Erlich, is leaning over Wolfe’s victim “Hey, Rogers you all right?”
    The youngster is still too dazed to be coherent. He groans.
    The man watches him for a moment, becoming more and more concerned. He kneels by the other. “Come on, can you get up? You can’t stay here.”
    In reply, Rogers starts coughing. He is bleeding profusely from his nose. Erlich exchanges a glance with the other crewmen “Hey, Mackie, give me a hand—let’s take him down to sick bay.”
    “Sick bay! Are you crazy?” cries Wolfe, sitting up. “You can’t do that!”
    “Shut up, Wolfe! Haven’t you done enough?”
    “Just take him to his bunk—he’ll be all right.”
    “You hope!” says Erlich. “And what if he isn’t—what’re you going to say then? What’re you going to say to the doc when he asks how Rogers got creamed?”
    “Nothing—and he won’t ask. He’s on our side.”
    “Shit if he is,” Wolfe snaps.
    The others ignore him. Erlich starts maneuvering Rogers to his feet. “Attaboy, champ. Just hang onto me now. Mackie, get his other arm.” Struggling awkwardly in the cramped bunkroom, the two men heft the bleeding Rogers between them. “Come on. Mackie—”
    “Yeah, yeah—the kid’s not gonna die.” To Rogers: “Pick up your feet, dummy. You’re not completely helpless.”
    “Lay off him.”
    “Yeah, yeah.”
    They move down the narrow corridor toward the sick bay, leaving a white-faced Wolfe staring after them. The other men in the bunkroom turn back to their own business, pointedly ignoring him.
    Holding the still-dazed Rogers between them, Erlich and Mackie continue forward. They pause once to let another crewman—Jonesy—pass them. He has to turn sideways to do so. As he comes abreast of Rogers, he says, “Jeez!” What happened to him?”
    “He ran into a bulkhead,” answers Mackie.
    “He must have had help.”
    “He had a running head start.”
    “ Suure , he did. . . .”
    “Move on, will you,” Erlich growls.
    Jonesy shrugs and disappears down the corridor.
    They move on. “Well, now it’s going to be all over the ship. Jonesy couldn’t keep his mouth shut if he was hoarding diamonds in it.”
    “It’s not going to be much of a secret anyway,” Erlich snorts. “If Wolfe doesn’t start talking about it, this idiot will.” He indicates Rogers.
    “Yeah, well—one look at his face and it won’t be hard to tell. Wait till Korie finds out—”
    “I can’t wait,” says the other. “Here’s the sick bay.”

SEVEN
    Even Murphy’s Law doesn’t work all the time.
    —SOLOMON SHORT
    At precisely six hundred hours, First Officer Jonathan Korie steps into the engine room. “Mr. Leen?”