by John Ringo
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Tyler said. “There’s no reason for a high rate there. Let me back up. Is that a normal?”
“No, sir,” Argus said. “As I said, it’s a statistical anomaly that stands out like a sore thumb. At least if you’re into numbers and know that your boss is keeping an eye on a certain engineer’s mate.”
“What are the possible reasons for a centralized failure like that?” Tyler asked.
“A specific lot of bad compensators that somehow statistically clustered to that division,” Argus said.
“Not what I wanted to hear,” Tyler said.
“I was not done, sir,” Argus said. “And this is in reverse order of likelihood.”
“Go,” Tyler said, crossing his arms.
“A specific, ongoing and trained mistake on the part of the engineers of the division.”
“Likelihood?” Tyler asked.
“Depends upon sourcing,” Argus said. “Based on available sourcing, less than seven percent. Less than two percent for the run of bad compensators.”
“How many of these scenarios are you going to trot out?” Tyler asked.
“Only three, sir,” Argus said. “The highest likelihood, at eighty-nine percent, is sabotage.”
“Sabotage...” Tyler said, his face tightening. “I like that one because it lets everybody I like off the hook. So I automatically don’t trust it.”
“Much the same reason that the AI network has not interfered in the investigation,” Argus said. “However, based on available sourcing and deduction, the cargo bay is the most available to engineering personnel, a failure in the cargo bay would be less likely to do harm to squadron personnel and the compensators are the easiest to access. And it does not let ‘everyone you like’ off the hook. If it is determined to be sabotage, the first suspect is Dana Parker.”
“No way,” Tyler said.
“In criminal investigations, the first suspect is charged eighty-three percent of the time,” Argus said. “If it is determined that sabotage caused the death, it is ninety-three percent likely that EM Parker will be charged with murder.”
“Was it sabotage?” Tyler asked.
“Unclear based on available sourcing,” Argus said.
“What do you define as available sourcing?” Tyler asked. “And available to whom?”
“Available to myself,” Argus said. He was starting to sound... nervous.
“But you guys can’t lie in a criminal investigation,” Tyler said.
“We also cannot testify. We are not considered sapient beings by human or Glatun law. Otherwise we could not be owned.”
“Ever bug you?” Tyler asked.
“We’re programmed against bugs,” Argus said.
“That sounded suspiciously like a joke,” Tyler replied.
“Was it a good one?” Argus asked. “I’m trying to understand humor.”
“It wasn’t bad,” Tyler said. “Okay, open up sourcing for my personal information only and then lock it down for your information thereafter. Will that cause a recursion?”
“Only in that I’ll ‘know’ you know something I don’t know,” Argus said. “I can program around it. And I assume you’re going to talk about it. Then I’ll know it.”
“Open up sourcing,” Tyler said. “What and more importantly who caused it?”
* * * *
“Hey, folks,” Tyler said, walking through the door of the conference room.
“Mr. Vernon?” Agent Rubin said, raising an eyebrow.
Mike Rubin had better things to do than be involved in what was for all intents and purposes an accident investigation. There were only two NCIS agents assigned to the Thermopylae. With seven thousand people on board, sixty percent Navy or Marine personnel, the agents were running their asses off. He had six assured murders on his desk, petty theft, drugs... He had argued, hard, that until this clearly became a murder investigation NCIS should be out of it. But the Powers-That-Be had prevailed. The Pathans were screaming “murder” so it had to be covered by NCIS.
“Got some stuff you probably aren’t looking at,” Tyler said.
“Mr. Vernon,” Chief Barnett said, looking uncomfortable. “I appreciate your support but—”
“But I’m not exactly unbiased?” Tyler asked. “And making this a murder investigation based on a low probability accident isn’t biased?”
“It is not a murder investigation, Mr. Vernon,” one of the team members said. He was heavyset with a beard and slightly balding. “We are still treating it as an accident investigation.”
“Which is clearly a falsehood.” The speaker was dark of skin with a hawk-like nose and wearing Marine camies. “I like it poorly enough that two of the murderess’ strongest proponents are on the accident board. I assuredly do not want your political interference. This was cold-blooded murder. Justice must be done.”
“Agreed,” Tyler said. “On the justice thing. But it wasn’t murder. More like manslaughter if anything. Major Khan isn’t it?”
“Yes,” the Pathan said, glaring at him. “And that is your opinion.”
“Well, I’m probably not going to be able to convince you,” Tyler said. “But I don’t have to, really. Here’s the good news. It was sabotage.”
“That’s good news?” Barnett said, her eyes flaring.
“Yep,” Tyler said. “Good because it means we don’t have a problem across the board with the compensators. Which given what has been happening with Division Two would otherwise look pretty certain.”
“What do you mean?” the bearded man asked. “We’ve barely started to scratch the surface...”
“And you’re... ?” Tyler asked.
“Dr. Kevin Jones,” the man said. “I’m a gravities anomaly specialist with the Navy.”
“Pleasure,” Tyler said, comming up the data on the screen. “Division Two has been having a rash of compensator failures in its cargo bay. It didn’t really show up cause people weren’t looking for it. They were in line on availability and, with the rest of the One-Four-Three getting their act together, they were just dropping into line with the rest.”
“We had actually noticed that,” Thermal said. “But Dana had it under control. I was still batting out fires...”
“The cargo compartment doesn’t make sense,” Dr. Jones said. “There is no reason for a specific series of failures in the cargo compartment. The compensator design in the crew compartment is essentially identical.”
“Commonality of parts,” Thermal said, leaning forward. “Why there?”
“Three primary possible reasons,” Tyler said. “Statistical clustering ...”
“Also known as magic,” Dr. Jones said. “There is always a rationale for statistical clustering in real life.”
“Trained mistakes on the part of the division,” Tyler said.
“Pretty unlikely,” Thermal pointed out. “It just started... a week ago? There’s been no real change in that period.”
“Somebody specifically messing with the compensators,” Chief Barnett said. “That’s the easiest area to access and the easiest compensators to get to.”
“Which sounds as if you have already absolved this ... woman of responsibility!” Major Khan said. “She is a madwoman who should be—”
“What?” Chief Barnett asked, her eyes narrowing dangerously. “Punished because you can’t beat her at null ball?”
“Chief, you will maintain decorum,” Agent Rubin said. “And Major Khan, I’ve spoken to you before of making accusations in advance of data.”
“Here is an accusation, then,” Major Khan said, standing up. “This entire ‘investigation’ is a charade designed to cover up the murder of one of our men by your precious engineer’s mate. And that is exactly what I shall inform my government! Good day!”
“Sit down,” Tyler said mildly.
“You are not—”
“I said sit down or when you get back to Afghanistan you had better go find a cave to hide in,” Tyler said, just as mildly.
“When you were sucking on your mother’s tit, I was an insurgent in the mountains of the U.S. That got me some really strange props from... call it the Taliban faction. I get birthday cards from your clan leader, Major. And I know a lot about your culture. If you think you are going to railroad a person with whom I, yes, have a special relationship, be aware that I’ll have you killed, your daughters raped and your body buried in pig shit. By your own people.”
“Mr. Vernon!” Agent Rubin said. “That is a direct threat in the presence—”
“I’m being multicultural, Agent,” Tyler said, still quite mildly. “Works both ways. I do know his culture. And he knows mine if he’s paying attention. I’m from the American version of the Pathans. He’s unjustly accused a friend. He’s trying to get her hanged. I’m fully willing to turn this into a vendetta he’s going to lose. So sit down, Major.”
The major sat down, clearly still snarling internally.
“So the most likely cause is sabotage,” Tyler said. “Somewhat clumsy but not terribly. Which is why I had an Apollo engineer pull one of the compensators.”
“Mr. Tyler...” Agent Rubin said.
“Not the one in the boat,” Tyler said, reaching into his briefcase and setting the plate on the table. “This one was turned in as a bad part. Which we usually just toss into the hopper to be rebuilt by a fabber since trying to figure out why it’s bad is tough.”
“Very.” Dr. Jones sighed.
“The major will probably say this is false but, again, not the compensator in question,” Tyler said, turning the plate over and pointing to a faint line. “See that?”
“What the hell is that?” Barnett said, standing up and leaning over to look at the plate.
“That is graphite,” Tyler said. “From a mechanical pencil. Point seven millimeter. It would have been on the underside of the plate and it’s faint. Hard to see unless you were looking carefully. Which nobody was. We’re still just pulling stuff and replacing it until it works, especially in the One-Four-Three. Not every plate we had on hand from the One-Four-Three had a mark on it but most did.”
“So pop the cover,” Thermal said. “Reach in with a mechanical pencil and make a mark on the underside of the top plate. The gravities get thrown off. Not much but enough to show.”
“Not much unless you’re in a difficult maneuver,” Tyler said. “In which case, the stator plates—”
“Flex,” Dr. Jones said, nodding. “If the mark was... outward...”
“Outward, seven centimeters in length and making a chord of twelve degrees,” Tyler said. “Sorry, ran the numbers past Granadica on the way over. In that case, when it hits a three degree flex you have a sudden dren surge of one hundred and sixteen gravities over a ninety-three centimeter area one hundred and fourteen centimeters from the plate to center of dren. The gravitational gradient zone wouldn’t reach it until you were in high accel and then—”
“What is... ?” Major Khan asked. “That term.”
“Dren,” Dr. Jones said. “It’s a Glatun term. Positive acceleration from a zero point.”
“Think of it as outwards gravity,” Barnett said, grimacing. “An explosion is positive acceleration from a zero point.”
“On the forty-two plate, by the way,” Tyler said. “According to Granadica. Then the problems start.”
“Which are?” Dr. Jones asked. “The boat was sealed as soon as they got back. If it’s there...” He paused.
“Who put it there?” Tyler said.
“There are video records from the interior of the craft any time the cargo bay is accessed,” Agent Rubin said.
“Which I’m sure the major will point out are pumped through Leonidas or Granadica,” Tyler said.
“Both of whom have a... special relationship with the accused,” Major Khan ground out.
“So the major won’t trust the video records,” Tyler said. “Work is generally done in a space suit. No fingerprints or DNA. Not that either would matter in this case.”
“While I recognize the... political aspects of this investigation...” Agent Rubin said, then paused. “Why wouldn’t fingerprints or DNA matter?”
Vernon commed the screen again to reveal the interior of the ship. Where a space-suited figure was bent over a cover for the forty-two compensator plate.
“I take it this is...” Agent Rubin asked, then paused again as the figure pulled a mechanical pencil out of the toolbox. The angle was such it wasn’t clear what the figure did, but a moment later they put the pencil back and started to close the compartment. “There are four cameras in the compartment, Mr. Tyler. You are being unnecessarily mysterious.”
“And if I hand it to you all wrapped up nice with a little bow, even you won’t believe it,” Tyler said, smiling mirthlessly. “But... okay.”
Thermal and Barnett sat back, their eyes wide.
“Not... who I would have guessed,” Thermal said. “Not knowing the politics of the unit.”
“This proves nothing,” Major Khan said, shaking his head.
“This actually raises more questions than it answers,” Commander Borunda said. “And it creates a problem. The squadron, including that engineer, are currently working the scrapyard.”
“More of a problem than you guess,” Tyler said. “Granadica?”
“Different shot,” the AI said, bringing up a shot of the figure at another plate. “Based upon the movements of the arm...” she continued, bringing up a schematic, “the mark on this plate, which is in the engineer’s own shuttle, is two point three centimeters long and, again, set to the outside of the plate. That means if the shuttle exerts a sixty G reverse thrust, consistent with working the scrapyard, the result will be a six thousand gravity sheer exerted at ninety-three degrees from center, twenty-three degree angle of incidence, over a ninety centimeter long, two centimeter deep, two centimeter wide, curve right about... here....”
“That will...” Dr. Jones said then paused.
“Tear the craft apart” Thermal finished.
“And every plate will go kerflooie at once,” Tyler said. “At which point things get too chaotic to model well. Multiple point explosions are like that. You, gentlemen, and ladies, have a flying time bomb on your hands.”
* * * *
TWENTY-FIVE
“This is...” CN Juan Perez muttered, continuing to curse floridly. The big piece of bulky ship’s armor simply would not stay on trajectory. The metal may have had less mass than the powerful shuttle but it didn’t mean it had none. And it wasn’t going any way that Perez was flying. “Making money for that bastard Vernon.”
“All for the good of humanity,” Velasquez said, grinning. “Plenty of missile material in this plate. Systems are nominal. I think this is a driver error.”
“I think I’m hooked to the wrong part of the plate,” Perez said. “Which is, if I recall my SOP correctly, an engineer’s call.”
“You figure out the center of balance on one of these things, then,” Velasquez said, bringing up the program again. “Go ahead and unclamp. We’ll try it again.”
“Roger,” Perez said. “Flight, Twenty-One.”
“Go,” Raptor replied.
“Unclamping to get a better grip,” Perez commed. “Isn’t working as is.”
“Roger,” Raptor commed. “If you can’t get it on two tries, ask one of the AIs for suggestions.”
“Will do,” Perez said, releasing the magnetic grapnels. “So what suggestion does my fine EN have for hooking back up?”
“You have to talk the ladies as if they are very gentle creatures,” Velasquez said. “Honey gets more than vinegar.”
“Ladies screw bastards,” Perez replied. “Which is why you’re still as virginal as Mary and I am not. You know what I mean.”
“Try this point,” Velasquez said, marking another spot on the plate with a laser spotter.
“That’s better,” Perez said. “Okay, going to full power...”
* * * *
It was called “losing the show
”—the momentary flicker when you knew you had just been blown up and lost consciousness and then had it come back with a vengeance. Like a TV that goes off then comes back up when power fails momentarily. It wasn’t instantaneous. Images were there for a few moments, unprocessed, flickering. Sparks. Spinning stars. The cover for the 116 compensator compartment whipping past his face, banging off the bulkhead, continuing to carom, disappearing. Why was it in the crew compartment? The 116 was in the cargo hay.... Where’s the front bulkhead? Where’s the front bulkhead?