Walter Williams - Logs

After dinner Martinez reported to Michi for a report on the status of the investigation. Kazakov was there already, still in full dress, sitting next to Xi, who looked even more rumpled and abstracted by comparison. Garcia arrived a few minutes later with a datapad and his notes.

Xi began with a report on the fingerprints found in Fletcher's office. "Most belonged to the captain," he said. "The rest were those of Marsden, the secretary, and the captain's servants Narbonne and Buckle, who had cleaned and tidied the room the previous day. Three prints belonged to Constable Garcia and were presumably left in the course of his investigation."

Xi's face screwed into an expression that probably intended to express wry amusement.

"Five stray prints belonged to me. And four prints, the fingers of the left hand, were found pressed under the rim of the desk top at the front of the desk." He made a movement with his hand, palm up, in the direction of Michi's desk to show how this could happen.

"The prints belonged to Lieutenant Prasad. Of course they could have been left at any time, since the servants wouldn't necessarily polish daily under the rim of the desk."

Or, Martinez couldn't help thinking, the prints could have been made when Chandra held onto the desk with her left hand while slamming Captain Fletcher's head into it with her right.

Michi betrayed no evidence that this idea might have occurred to her. "Make anything of the hair or fiber evidence?"

"I haven't had time, but it's not going to prove anything unless we already have a suspect."

Michi turned to Garcia.

"Any information on the movements of the crew?"

Garcia consulted his datapad, an unnecessary gesture considering the contents of his report.

"My lady, aside from the few on watch, most of the crew were asleep. Those on watch in Command vouch for each other. Of those in bed, the only people who admit moving at all say they were visiting the toilet."

"No reports of anyone moving outside the crew compartments? None at all?"

"No, my lady." Garcia's tongue flicked anxiously over his lips. "Of course, we only have their word for it, and that's all we're going to get…" He cleared his throat. "Unless we find an informant."

Michi's eyes hardened. She turned to Kazakov.

"Lieutenant?" she said.

Kazakov's tone was faintly apologetic. "It's the same situation with the lieutenants and warrant officers, my lady. Those on duty vouch for one another, and those asleep were-" Martinez saw the motion of Kazakov's shoulders that began a shrug, then saw her consciously suppress it. "-were asleep. I have no information that contradicts their stories."

"Damn!" Michi's right hand made a petulant clawing motion in the air. She glared at each of them in turn. "We can't leave it at this," she said. "There's got to be something else we can do." She gave a snarl. "What would Doctor An-ku do?" She didn't mean it as a joke.

"We can search the ship," Martinez said. "And search the crew."

Michi frowned at him.

"There was a little blood," Martinez continued. "Not much, but some. It just occurred to me that the killer might have got some on a shirt cuff or a trouser leg. Or he might have wiped blood off his hands with a handkerchief. He might have used a weapon on the captain and only slammed the captain's head into the desk afterward, and the weapon might be found. Or the killer might have taken a souvenir from the captain's room and hidden it."

"The captain might have fought," Garcia said, "at least a little. He might have marked someone."

"Alert the people in the laundry," Kazakov said. "They need to check every item."

Michi stood very suddenly. She looked at the others as if surprised to find them still in their seats.

"What are we waiting for?" she said. "We should have done this yesterday."

Searching Illustrious and its crew took the rest of the day, and uncovered nothing. Alikhan was waiting in his cabin to take his trousers, shoes, and uniform tunic for their nightly rehabilitation. "What are they saying in the petty officers' lounge?" Martinez asked.

"Well, my lord," Alikhan said, with a kind of finality, "they're saying you'll do."

Martinez suppressed a grin. "What are they saying about Fletcher?"

"They aren't saying anything at all about the late captain."

Martinez felt irritation. "I wish they were." He handed Alikhan his tunic. "You don't think they know more than they're saying?"

Alikhan spoke with the utmost complacency. "They're long-serving petty officers, my lord. They always know more than they tell."

Martinez sourly parted the seals on his shoes, removed them, and handed them to Alikhan.

"You'll tell me if they say anything vital? Such as who killed the captain?"

Alikhan dropped the shoes into their little carrying bag. "I'll do my best to keep you informed, my lord," he said. Deftly, with the hand that wasn't holding Martinez' clothing, Alikhan opened a silver vacuum flask of hot cocoa and poured.

"Thank you, Alikhan. Sleep well."

"And yourself, my lord."

Alikhan left through the door that led to the dining room. Martinez changed into pajamas and sat on his bed while he drank the cocoa and looked at the old dark painting. The young mother held her infant and the little fire glowed and the cat crouched with his ears pinned back, and it all took place inside a painted frame or maybe a stage.

He kept seeing the painting for a long time after he turned out the light.

In the morning Martinez printed a series of supper invitations on Fletcher's special bond paper, and sent them via Alikhan to all the senior petty officers. He didn't know whether Fletcher would have invited the enlisted to supper-he suspected not-and he was certain Fletcher wouldn't have used the fancy bond invitations.

He didn't care. It wasn't his bond paper anyway.

The maneuver began shortly afterward. The ships of Chenforce were linked by communications laser into a virtual environment, and while the ships themselves continued on their way a virtual Chenforce maneuvered against a virtual enemy squadron of superior force, a squadron that was meeting them head-on in at Osser, the system into which Chenforce would pass after Termaine. The system was largely uninhabited, with a pair of wormhole relay stations and some small mining colonies on some mineral-rich moons, but nothing else, nothing that would complicate an engagement between two forces.

For the first time Martinez commanded a heavy cruiser in combat, even though it was a combat that took place only in simulation. The crew in Command were disciplined and well trained, long practiced at their jobs and at working with one another, and they obeyed Martinez' orders with perfect understanding and efficiency.

Chenforce didn't come through the battle unscathed: out of seven ships, three were destroyed and one severely damaged. Of the Naxid force, all ten were wiped out.

Martinez ended the maneuver pleased with himself and with his ship. The pleased feeling lasted until he returned to his office, where Marsden presented him with a vast number of documents, all requiring his attention, or his judgment, or at the very least his signature.

He ate his dinner at his desk while he worked his way through the documents, and sent Marsden to his own meal.

Chandra Prasad arrived half a minute after his dinner, as if she were waiting for him to be alone. He looked up at her knock, lowered his stylus to the desk, and told her to come in. As she approached the desk he wondered in a curiously offhand way whether she'd come to murder him, but decided against it. The sunny smile on her face would have been too incongruous.

"Lieutenant?" he said, raising his eyebrows.

"The lady squadcom just told me that I was the new tactical officer," Chandra said. "I guessed you had something to do with that, so I thought I'd come by and thank you."