"You probably wouldn't have noticed it. My team was going over the place a centimeter at a time. It was under a counter. And you know how pilots arethey don't always toss their stuff into the recycler. There was other trash on the floor."
She remembered slowly that it was true, the newspapers thrown here and there when people were done with them, wrappers on the floor.
Garibaldi rubbed his forehead, right where the hair was receding. "Tell me, Commander, were you on time for that meeting with Ortega? Or maybe five, ten minutes late?"
She closed her eyes to recall it. "All right, I got there, the room was empty, Ortega wasn't there. No, there was this guy"
"What guy?" Garibaldi demanded eagerly.
"I don't know. No one I knew. Just this guy. Just when I came in the door, he was coming out of the rest room. He looked like he was in a hurry, he left."
"Do you think you could identify him?"
"I don't know. I didn't really look at him, once I was sure it wasn't Ortega."
"All right, we'll check on that later. What about the time?"
"I checked the time. I remember. Right after I came in and saw the room was empty. It was ... I can't remember exactly. I was maybe four or five minutes late, I think. No more than that. I queried the computer, it'd be in the log, wouldn't it?"
"You first queried the time from that location at 20:04 hours," Garibaldi confirmed.
"Then that was right after I came in. I remember, when he didn't show up, I kept checking the time."
Sheridan interjected, "Commander, that notedo you know what it means?"
She read it again: S I hardw r. Shook her head. "No, I don't."
"No idea at all?" Garibaldi asked.
"Well, I assume it means 'hardware.' Maybe, military hardware, weapons? That kind of thing?"
Garibaldi took it, peered at the handwriting. "Or 'hardwar' maybe? Whatever that would mean?"
He passed it on to Sheridan, who had held out his hand to see it. "Looks more like an 'i' there. Like it was supposed to be 'hardwire'?"
Garibaldi took the paper, examined it again. "Yeah, it does, now that you mention it. Hardwire. So what does that mean? Computer?"
The voice responded: "Hardwired: Primary reference: obsolete, primitive electronic computing machines: instructions permanently embedded in physical structure of computing device.
"Secondary references: instinctive behaviors, genetically encoded behaviors.
"Tertiary references: late-twentieth-century futuristic fiction. Derivative references: wetware, cyberware.
"Do you wish expanded information on any of these references?"
The others looked at her. Ivanova shrugged. "Sorry."
"Maybe he didn't have time to finish what he was going to write. He heard someone coming," Garibaldi suggested. "But if he wrote it to you, it ought to mean something to you."
"I'm sorry, it doesn't," Ivanova said again with a touch of irritation in her voice. Hadn't she already said so? "Is that it? Is there anything else?"
"Not yet," Garibaldi answered her. "Nothing definite. We're still trying to find just where Ortega was killed. Checking out the ready room first, though it isn't very likely, not if you were there at 20:04 hours. Of course, I'll let you know if anything else turns up."
"Thanks."
Sheridan stood. "Well, I tell you what, Commander, now that you're up, how about I treat you to breakfast before you have to go on duty? I think I have some news you'll be a little happier to hear."
"That's a very good idea, sir. I accept."
Breakfast turned out to include a rare and much-appreciated treat: real coffee, imported from Earth. Eyes closed, Ivanova held the cup to her face and inhaled the fragrance, deeply, then rolled a single sip around in her mouth before swallowing it. "Oh, that's good! The real thing. I don't know if I'd have decided to go into space if they'd told me how hard it was to find real coffee. I don't know how Earthforce expects people to wake up in the morning and function on that synthetic stuff."
"It was a gift from my father. Shipped out here for my last birthday. Two pounds of it, direct from Earth. I thought I remembered how much you liked it. It was even harder to get back when we were stationed off Io, right after the war."
"I remember."
"Anyway," said Sheridan, putting down his empty cup, "I've got the information you asked about, on the Cassini."
"Ah! The cargo!" She'd simply been too tired to check the records after debriefingand the trip to Medlab to view J. D.'s body.
"Their cargo. What was so valuable it cost all those lives. It was morbidium ingots. Shipped from Mars-port."
"Morbidium. That's a strategic metal. Trade restricted."
Sheridan nodded. Morbidium was vital in the production of phased plasma weapons, an essential element in the alloy that made up their central coils. Difficult and expensive to manufacture. Earth Alliance restricted trade in all the strategic metals, setting prices and prohibiting sale to all unapproved buyers. The predictable result was a strong interest on the black market, where weapons and components were among the most heavily traded commodities. The temptation for pirates was obvious. The profits would be enormous.
"You think there was a leak," Sheridan said. "Somebody slipped them the routing information."
"You remember, Captain, it's what the Cassini's pilot said: 'It's a setup.' They were waiting for that transport, they knew where and when and what it was carrying. They even brought their own transport along to haul off the cargo. Now, that takes advance planning."
Sheridan agreed. "I know. No matter what you do to tighten security, as long as raiders are willing to pay for the data, it gets out. Tell a routing clerk she can earn five thousand credits for just one bit of information. You'll get it. And the more they steal, the more they can afford to pay to bribe someone else."
"Raider activity seems to go in cycles. We hurt them last year, cut off their source of heavy weapons. Now it's starting to look like they're back again. Too many incidents the last few months. There's got to be something behind it. A new bunch of raiders on the scene. A new supplier of information. Something. If we can just find out what it is . . ."
"You want to look into it?"
"Just to see if there's something I can pick up. With the jump gate in 13 down for repairs, there'll have to be some wholesale rerouting. Maybe a pattern will show up. Of course, what we should have are regular Earthforce patrols of all the jump points and shipping routes."
"With the current political climate on Earth, we'll be lucky if they don't cut back funding. Space isn't exactly the most popular budget item on the new administration's agenda. I wouldn't hold my breath and count on the ships for more patrols."
"I know," Ivanova said glumly. "Even though you'd think they'd want to protect strategic metals shipments, at least. Maybe if there are more losses, or the shipping companies start to complain, something will be done."
"Well, good luck with it, Commander. I'll look forward to seeing your report if you find anything significant."
"Thank you, sir. And thanks for the coffee." Ivanova started to stand up. It was just about time to go back on duty, already.
"Ah, Commander? This other business? This murdered terrorist suspect. I know it's rough, when it's someone you haven't seen in a long time. The way people can change."
She sighed, sat back down. "I still have a hard time believing it. That J. D. Ortega could be mixed up in something like that. You know, I kept thinking, before they found his body: when we find him, when we investigate, we'll find out it was all a mistake. Mistaken identity, or ... something. But nowI just don't know. He was murdered ..."
"Well, I hope it's all cleared up as soon as possible. When Garibaldi finds who killed him."
"So do I."
Things were already busy in the Observation Dome when Ivanova arrived. A lot of outgoing traffic had to be rerouted away from the Red 13 transfer point until the damaged gate could be repaired, and that meant schedule changes all the wa
y down the lineabsolutely necessary if you didn't want to have two ships occupying the same space at the same time in some sector three jumps away.
Ivanova noticed several curious looks aimed in her direction as she came into the dome. It made her wonder, what were they thinking about? Her engagement with the raiders or Ortega's murder? Of course, no one was supposed to know about the murder, and she didn't really want to talk about it. She was glad the technicians were professional military personnel, who knew better than to ask personal questions while on duty.
Lieutenant Nomura did offer a brief "Glad to see you back in one piece, Commander," as she relieved him at the control console, but no more than that. No congratulations on her victory over the raiders. They were both professional enough to realize that Ivanova hadn't won a real victory, and no congratulations were in order when even now arrangements were being made for the disposal of the bodies of the Cassini's crew.
"I'm glad we all made it back," was her response.
After that, it was all business as Nomura briefed her on the ongoing operations. It wasn't a pretty picture. "Every pilot or shipowner who's been delayed by even five minutes is demanding to talk to 'someone in higher authority.' To Captain Sheridan, to Earth Central ..."
"I'll try to handle them," Ivanova said dryly.
"Good luck." Nomura turned over the console and left the problems in her lap. He'd coped with them long enough. Ivanova very quickly realized there was going to be no spare time today to check out her speculations about the recent raider activity. Not with all the questions, complaints, and demands the rerouting was generating. Nomura hadn't exaggerated. Schedules, deadlines, perishable goods, guaranteed-on-time clauses in delivery contracts: everyone was convinced the rerouting was a conspiracy designed to affect their business alone, and that their own case deserved priority over all others.
Ivanova was soon heartily weary of the words: "Don't you understand? I have a schedule to meet!"
It wasn't long before she had to restrain herself from shouting back: "Don't you understand? Someone may have already sold your schedule to the raiders! This delay may just save your precious cargo." But of course her actual reply was more on the order of: "I appreciate your scheduling difficulties, pilot, and I personally promise to make sure your departure is given the highest possible priority, consistent with station regulations."
Which was simply another way of saying that they could take the schedule she gave them.
But worse by far than the commercial interests were the diplomats and their staffs. Like the pilot of the Minbari courier shiparrogant, warrior class down to the bonewho all but suggested the war would break out again if Babylon 5 delayed the delivery of his dispatches by as much as an hour. If he weren't given clearance immediately, he might even call in a war cruiser more than capable of opening a jump point on its own power. Ivanova crisply suggested that he go ahead and do just that, since it would solve quite a few of her scheduling problems.
Or the Narn captain who expressed doubt that there even was a breakdown of the jump gate. "This could be some kind of trick, a plot on the part of our enemies to delay us at this station! I demand clearance! Now!"
At which Ivanova took a deep breath. "Captain Ka'Hosh, I was there when the damage was done. I can personally attest to the fact. Now, if you don't want your flight to be rerouted around that point, then you're going to have to wait until the repairs are completed. We estimate the jump gate will be back on-line within thirty-eight Earth hours. At that time, you'll be given all the proper priority, I guarantee it. And in the meantime, if your enemies are here on this station, they're not going anywhere through that gate, either."
Which seemed to satisfy the Narn, for the moment.
Ivanova checked the time, suppressed an urge to groan. It'd only been two and a half hours since she came on duty.
It looked like it was going to be a very long day.
CHAPTER 6
Latermuch, much laterIvanova sat at the computer screen in her own quarters. "Computer, I want the records of all raider attacks on cargo vessels in Earth Alliance space within the last year. Graphic display mode."
"Accessing."
"Display by type of cargo. How many attacks on ships carrying strategic metals?"
The information appeared on her data screen. Strategic metalsyes, there they were." Ivanova closed her eyes for a moment. They were tired. She was tired. It had been a perfectly harrowing day, coping with the mess caused by the damaged jump gate. At least, after tomorrow, it ought to be fixed. But then who knew what new crisis would erupt?
Now that she was finally off duty, she ought to be able to relax, but the matter of the raiders had been nagging at the back of her mind all day. She knew it would chase her through her dreams if she didn't get some kind of answer first.
She opened her eyes again. "Compare hijacking of strategic metals with previous years, back, oh, ten years. By total tonnage stolen and by number of attacks." When the display changed, she nodded. Yes. Both figures were up, starting a little over a year ago. But was the increase in all strategic metals, or just certain ones? The Cassini, she recalled, had been carrying morbidium.
"Break the figures on strategic metals down by type of commodity."
And there on her data screen, the answer leaped out at her. Total tonnage of morbidium hijacked had gone up dramatically beginning about sixteen months ago. An increase of 184 percent during one year alone. That was hard to believe.
Maybe there was simply more of the metal being shipped. But when the computer displayed the figures, it was clear that although there was an increase of tonnage shipped, this by no means could account for the amount being hijacked. And no one at Earth Central had noticed? With a strategic commodity?
To Ivanova, morbidium meant armaments. Specifically, the power coils of phased plasma weapons. And unfortunately, these days, trade in armaments was at an all-time high since the Earth-Minbari war.
Ivanova rubbed the sides of her forehead with her fingertips. "Computer, can you give me a breakdown of the price of strategic metals on the black market over the past two years?"
But at this point, the computer was unhelpful. "Those data are not available," the voice said primly.
"Damn," Ivanova muttered. But she supposed the black market didn't issue regular financial reports. Not, at least, into the Earthforce databanks. She supposed Garibaldi might be able to find out something. He seemed to have contacts with certain underworld types. She made a note to herself to ask him, later, maybe tomorrow.
Maybe another approach. Like, where were the raiders getting their information? Was there some common factor? What kinds of persons had access to the data?
"Computer, display all raider attacks on strategic metals shipments during the last year. Break down the data by transport company."
She stared at the screen. No pattern seemed apparent. "Highlight shipments of morbidium." She shook her head. Still no pattern. Then she was frustrated by the fact that the station's databanks didn't contain the information on ownership or the insurance company covering the cargo on all transports, only those logged through Babylon 5. Finally, "Display the data by point of origin of cargo."
And there it was! A distinct, sharp increase in total hijacked cargoes originating from Marsport, beginning sixteen months ago, at just about the same time as the increase in hijacked morbidium shipments. The Cassini had shipped out of Marsport. Just to be sure, "Highlight attacks on cargoes of morbidium originating from Marsport."
Yes, that was it. She had the answer. Marsport shipped a load of the strategic metal every two to three days. In the last sixteen months, twenty percent of those cargoes had been the object of raider attacks, most of them successful.
There was her leak. No doubt about it. Someone in Marsport was leaking transport routing data to the raiders, and the commodity they were targeting was morbidium.
Incredible that no one had picked up on this so far. Or maybe "incredible" wasn't the right word. Maybe "s
uspicious" was.
She leaned back from the desk, stretched stiff muscles. Well, it was a beginning, at least. And it was good to remember there was more than one way to hit at the raiders besides plasma fire. Without information, they were blind. "Just plug that leak," she said aloud.
The computer, always literal-minded, replied, "No leak detected at this time."
Ivanova shut her eyes. "No more input," she told it. "I'm finished for tonight. I'm going to bed. Hold any calls."
The mess hall at breakfastdozens of uniformed figures hurrying with full trays to their tables, getting ready for the morning duty shift. Ivanova spotted Garibaldi heading for the empty seat next to her. He sat down with a heavily loaded tray.
"Planning to skip lunch?" she asked, raising her eyebrows at the sight of his meal. "And dinner?"
Swallowing a generous mouthful, he said, "You know, I've noticed that about women. You never like to see a man enjoy a good hearty meal."
Her eyebrows went up again. "You call that hearty? A few more meals like that, you won't have a functioning heart left."
He put down his fork. "See what I mean?"
"By the way," she asked him, "any more news on your investigation?"
He slapped his forehead. "Oh! I forgot I meant to tell you. You were off-line last night. Well, we found out where Ortega was killed. In the head."
She drew back in dismay. "You mean, the head right off the ready room? He was killed right there? Then he must have been in there all that time! Are you sure?"
He nodded. "We found traces of the poison on the floor. And slight traces of Ortega's blood."
Ivanova shivered. "Then . . . that man, the one who brushed past me. He must have been"
"The killer. Right."
"And he was probably just outside the room all that time, just waiting for me to leave."
"Or for someone else to show up," Garibaldi agreed. "That guy must have been sweating blood, wondering what else was going to go wrong. Here he'd planned a nice, peaceful private murder, and you walk in on it."
"I just wish I could have been a couple of minutes earlier," she said regretfully.
Babylon 5 02 - Accusations (Tilton, Lois) Page 4