by Glenn Smith
But despite their commendable efforts, and fortunately for Dylan, the joint-services team of senior S.I.A. and C.I.D. agents who had organized the effort and all those personnel who had been temporarily assigned to work for them had come up empty. Other than that handcomp with the unusual power cell, which strangely enough had turned out to appear by serial number on the yard’s own inventory list, all of those searches had proven fruitless. Now, a month after the incident aboard the Albion, the Intelligence and law enforcement communities were no closer to discovering the origin of that power cell than they had been when the unit was first turned over to them. At least, not as far as Dylan had heard. The inevitable rumors of some unknown alien infiltrator, discounted as both false and completely ridiculous by the highest authorities, of course, were running rampant throughout the facility nonetheless and had reportedly spread like wildfire throughout the rest of the fleet. Security within the shipyards remained tightened to a near strangle-hold, but other than that, daily operations had necessarily returned to near normal. A precarious ceasefire might have put a tentative pause on the war, but Solfleet could ill afford to let so many of its ships continue to stand idly by so far away from the Veshtonn border simply to await their turn for repair and resupply.
As for identifying and locating the intruder, none of the conventional investigative tools or techniques, such as fingerprint comparisons, DNA sampling, or the like, had brought them any closer to doing so. His whereabouts remained as big a mystery as the reason for his visit in the first place. There was still a system-wide arrest warrant out for Doctor David Baxter, whose true identity remained unknown, but for all intents and purposes the search was over and those senior agents were all preparing to return to their normal duties.
Everything on Dylan’s end, fortunately, was still proceeding more or less as planned. The financial account records that had been forged onto his original false identicard and thus copied onto his new one had stood up to the computer’s scrutiny and payroll feds continued to transfer from Solfleet’s finance center to his personal account every two weeks without a problem. The graveyard shift had continued to be a relatively uneventful one, so he’d been able to wander over to dry-dock twelve from time to time while on duty to verify the Albion’s continued presence. While it was true that the microlarm he’d planted and the heightened level of security made those visits completely unnecessary, seeing that the ship was still moored there with his own two eyes gave him a certain peace of mind.
“Hey, Graves,” someone hollered. Dylan knew without looking exactly who it had to be. Squad Sergeant Danny Orwell, his unofficial partner—he probably would be his partner, if they ever actually got to work with partners—and self-appointed best friend. Danny had turned out to be a likeable enough guy, and while it was true that the two of them had become pretty good friends over the last several weeks, Dylan thought that he was a little too tense a person to be working in law enforcement.
“Dylan,” the man called out from somewhere behind him.
Dylan turned his back on the viewport to find Danny standing at the end of the corridor, hands on his hips, staring questioningly at him. “Hey, Danny,” he answered.
“It’s zero-eight-ten already,” the squad sergeant told him as though the time were vitally important. “You coming to breakfast, or do you plan on working another double shift?”
“Oh no,” Dylan answered, shaking his head. “No more double shifts for me. I’ve already had enough of those for an entire lifetime.”
“So have we all, so let’s go before someone thinks we’re volunteering for more.”
Dylan stole one last glance back at the ship, then joined his friend in what had become their daily stroll to the dining facility.
* * *
Major Hansen was not an investigator. He never had been. He’d never considered himself incapable of doing that kind of work, certainly, but was a soldier, a leader of men and women, a commanding officer and administrator whose current assignment had him commanding Security Police Special Assignments like the one they were just wrapping up here in the Mars shipyards. Nevertheless, he’d had to step outside his official role and do a little more. He hadn’t been able to resist. He hadn’t participated directly in the searches or conducted any of the interviews, but never one to be satisfied by just sitting on the sidelines and watching, he had found a good way to participate in the investigative efforts without getting in anyone’s way, beyond just serving as the augmentation force’s commanding officer and liaison between that force and the shipyard’s permanently assigned staff. He’d made a few small adjustments to the computer terminal in his assigned quarters and then tapped into the shipyard’s security cameras so that he could monitor any public area of the shipyard at any time he chose, and it appeared as though his extra efforts had not been in vain.
He’d observed Security Police Sergeant Dylan Graves strolling by the docks where the Albion was berthed at least once nearly every morning since he’d started watching. More often than not the sergeant had stopped and stared at the ship for a while, which was exactly what he’d just done this morning. Granted, it was aboard that ship where two of the permanent party SPs’ colleagues had been killed in the line of duty, so he might have been doing it in their memory as a sort of way to honor their sacrifice. But if that was the case, then why just Graves? Why not his colleagues as well... at least, some of them?
He thought about how the investigation had gone and where the agents had concentrated most of their efforts. Operations Chief Lieutenant Commander Suarez had learned on the day of the murders that Doctor David Baxter didn’t actually exist, so they’d known all along that they were looking for someone else entirely. But now, nearly an entire month later, they still hadn’t made any progress toward identifying exactly who that someone else was, let alone where to find him. Instead, they were moving forward based on the assumption that he had somehow escaped from the shipyard facility quickly, before they locked it down.
Maybe they simply hadn’t looked closely enough in the right place.
Hansen thought it over for another few moments and then decided that it couldn’t hurt to look a little closer or maybe dig a little deeper. Then he stood up from the computer and shut it down, pulled on some nondescript civilian clothes, and headed out.
* * *
“So what is it with you and that ship anyway?” Orwell asked Dylan as they walked down the main corridor. “You spend more time hanging around that thing than you do with the ladies. Come to think of it,” he went on before Dylan to start to answer him, “I haven’t known you to go out with a woman even once since you got here. What, do you prefer men?”
“No, I like women as much as any other straight guy,” Dylan answered him, “but when have any of us had time to go out with anyone? We’ve been on double shifts almost since I got here, remember?”
“Good point,” Danny conceded, “but it still doesn’t explain why you spend so much time down there with that ship. What, were you its captain in a former life or something? Or are you just thinking about buying it and cruising out among the stars on your own?”
Dylan snickered. “Nothing so extraordinary, I promise.”
“Then what?”
Dylan sighed quietly. Good ol’ Danny. The man of a thousand questions. Perhaps a little performance might be in order. A dramatic display of sadness or regret—of deeply rooted pain over some past tragic event. Maybe something like that might get Danny to back off for a while, at least a little bit. After all, most guys didn’t like to talk about people’s feelings and emotions much. Especially with other guys. It was certainly worth a shot. “Esprit-de-corps,” he finally answered when he realized that Danny was looking at him.
“What?”
“Esprit-de-corps,” Dylan repeated. “It refers to a sense of...”
“I know what esprit-de-corps refers to, Dylan. I just don’t understand what you’re...”
“The esprit-de-corps in the Marines is the strongest I’
ve ever experienced,” Dylan further explained. “The marines you work with, those you fight alongside of... They’re much more than just members of your unit. They’re family, loyal to one another unto death. Too often that loyalty is tested. I lost a lot of my family in combat when I was a marine. Now I’m back here, back in the security police, but the losses never get any easier.”
“You’re talking about Layton and Delgado,” Danny concluded. “Are they the reason you keep coming down here?”
“They didn’t deserve to die like that, Danny,” Dylan told him. And he meant every word of it. Jerry Layton and Zack Delgado had only been doing their job—a job most people would never consider doing. They were heroes, and the fact that he was responsible for their deaths was tearing Dylan up inside and likely would, at least on some level, for the rest of his life.
“None of us deserve to die like that, Dylan,” Danny pointed out. “Or in any other manner for that matter. But why go down there and hang around the ship day after day? I mean... I don’t mean to sound cold-hearted and sarcastic, but you didn’t go back to the battlefield over and over again to mourn the friends you lost when you were a marine, did you?”
Dylan shook his head. So much for getting him to back off. “That was different,” he said.
“Why was that different?”
Because I didn’t kill them, he answered in his own thoughts. Aloud he said, “Because we always knew that whatever our mission, it would involve killing the enemy, and that the enemy would also be trying to kill us. The possibility of not surviving, of not coming home, was always very real and we were always aware of that, every minute of every day. And when one of us was killed, well... at least the rest of us knew why, and we knew that our brother or sister went into it with his or her eyes wide open. And, on occasion, we got the opportunity to avenge that death. But with Layton and Delgado...”
“With Layton and Delgado it’s all a big mystery,” Danny concluded for him, interrupting. “There are still only questions.”
“Exactly,” Dylan wholeheartedly agreed. “I mean, how many Solfleet security policemen or women go to work knowing that someone is going to try to kill them today—that they might not be alive to go home at the end of their shift? Sure, we’re all aware of the possibility, but it very rarely ever happens, so it’s not that real to us. We expect to go to work, do our job, maybe get banged up a little once in a while, and then go home. Hell, even in our Air Base Defense role, getting killed in the line of duty is little more than an illusory possibility to most of us, because even our forward-most in-theater aerospace bases sit well away from the combat zones. I’m sure Layton and Delgado didn’t walk into that ship thinking there was a very real chance they might not walk out again.”
“Layton and Delgado were sent into that ship to find and apprehend a suspect, which was their duty. That suspect resisted arrest and fled. They pursued, which also was their duty. They either fell or were thrown into an elevator shaft, and neither one of them survived. Maybe, as you say, they didn’t board that ship consciously aware of the fact that they might not walk out again, but they were both aware of their duty, and of the risks that come with that duty. It is a terrible tragedy that Layton and Delgado died in the performance of their duties, but those things happen sometimes. Having been in the Marines, you know that better than any of us.”
“That still doesn’t make it any easier,” Dylan pointed out.
“Nor should it,” Danny reminded him. Then he added, “If it ever does, then it’s time for you to find another line of work.”
“Then what exactly is your point?”
“My point is that it’s okay to grieve, but it’s been almost a whole month now. As hard as it might be, you’ve got to let it go and move on.”
Dylan manufactured a sigh. “You’re right,” he said, hoping that his little performance wasn’t as transparent to Danny as it had seemed to him, and then realizing that it hadn’t all been just a performance. What he’d said was actually true. Every word of it.
“You know what I think?” Danny asked him.
“What?”
“I think maybe the lack of off-duty time hasn’t kept you away from the ladies after all.” Dylan gazed at him, wondering what he might be hinting at. “I think you’re hiding a woman or two on that ship and fooling around with them on duty.”
Danny started to grin and Dylan snickered. “I assure you, Danny, I’m not hiding anyone on that ship. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. Dock Control’s security scans would pick them up.”
“Oh yeah. You’re right. I hadn’t thought of that.”
They arrived at the dining facility, went through the longer than usual line and picked out their breakfasts—Danny took a stack of pancakes with bacon and scrambled eggs and a glass of orange juice, while Dylan went with French toast, link sausages, and a cup of coffee—and then found a table in the corner nearest the main exit, where they could both sit with their backs to a wall and observe the rest of the large dining area while they ate. Orwell spooned a mountain of eggs into his mouth and stared at Dylan as he chewed, then asked, his mouth still half full, “You sure you’re not up to something a little shady, Dylan?”
Dylan met Danny’s gaze as he lifted his coffee cup to his mouth and took a careful sip. “Up to something?” he asked, a little surprised by the directness of his question. Where had that come from? Did Danny suspect him? “What do you mean?”
“Why do you really hang around that ship so much?”
Uh oh. Had Danny seen right through his act after all, despite the fact that his words had been largely true? Dylan took another careful sip of his coffee, then answered with a shrug of his shoulders, “No reason in particular, other than the one I already gave you. It’s just something that feels right—something I feel like I need to do.” Build him up. Stroke his ego. “But you were right about what you said—about it being time for me to let it go and move on.”
Orwell swallowed another mouthful of food, then leaned forward and lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “Dylan, I like you. You’re a good man and I enjoy working with you. But, I am a security policeman at this facility. If you’re involved in something illegal...”
“You’re serious about this?” Dylan asked him, genuinely starting to worry.
“Damn right I am. Your play of grief over Layton and Delgado... using that as the reason for your hanging around the Albion... wasn’t very convincing. I know you’re hiding something.”
“You’re imagining things, Danny,” Dylan told him right before he shoved a forkful of French toast into his mouth. Then, as he chewed, he added, “Maybe you should cut down on the caffeine and sugar.”
Orwell sighed. “Dylan, if you are into something illegal and can’t get out, tell me. Let me help you. And if you think you’re in too deep, come forward on your own, before you get caught. I’m sure the JAG will...”
“Wait a minute,” Dylan interrupted, leaning back slightly and raising his hands in front of him to stop Danny in mid-sentence. He swallowed, and then explained, “I’m not hiding a woman on the Albion, Danny, or anything else for that matter, and I’m not into anything illegal. I’ve got nothing ‘going on’ except for the job we both do and the pain of losing two comrades. I promise. Now please, Danny, back off. Your suspicions are beginning to get annoying.” He crammed half a sausage link into his mouth and bit into it angrily... and found it spicier than he’d expected.
Orwell set his fork down and stared deeply into Dylan’s eyes in silence, and then sighed once more. Then he shook his head slowly and replied, “I’m sorry, Dylan. I can’t just back off. I just don’t buy what you’re trying to sell me.”
Dylan made a show of drawing a deep breath and then exhaling very slowly as he, too, put down his fork. The tension hanging in the air between them was so thick that he could have cut it with a knife, and he knew he needed to do just that before Danny’s suspicions got out of hand and things went too far. He swallowed the sausage and then leaned back i
n his chair and dropped his hands into his lap. “I’m sorry to hear that, Danny,” he said, almost in a whisper, “because I have very strict orders not to leave any witnesses behind.”
Orwell’s jaw slackened as his expression quickly changed from one of suspicion to one of quiet shock. “What?”
Dylan had him on the ropes. What he’d just said had probably been the last thing Danny had expected to hear and had thrown him completely off balance—off his game. He’d stolen the advantage, and now he could have some fun with it. “And I know,” he continued, “that if I allow you to stand up and walk away from this table like nothing’s amiss, you’ll shadow me until you finally do figure out what’s going on.”
“Dylan, if you’d let me...”
“Then you’ll try to stop me,” Dylan went on, interrupting.
“What do you mean...”
“And I can’t let you do that,” Dylan concluded, interrupting once more.
“What do you mean, if you allow me to stand up and walk away from this table?” Danny asked him. Then he dropped his gaze to the tabletop, clearly noticing now, if he hadn’t already, that Dylan had dropped his hands into his lap where he couldn’t see them, and he suddenly and very visibly grew much more concerned. “Are you telling me that you’re going to...” He looked up at him again and lowered his voice until Dylan could barely hear him. “...that you’re going to kill me? Now?” He glanced quickly around the dining area, which had filled nearly to capacity, and then met Dylan’s gaze once more. “Right here in front of hundreds of witnesses?”