“I can have the body prepped for transport,” Rogers said. “You’ll just have to sign for it.”
William looked at Garial. “Your superiors don’t want it?”
“My superiors would probably be happy to merely hand it over to you,” Garial said. She looked coldly furious. “Captain, the blunt truth is that we have no real leads. We’ll be checking everything we can, but unless we get a lucky break the case may never be solved.”
Lupine frowned. “Is this the first mugging and murder you’ve had?”
“We get a handful of muggings and quite a few more pickpockets, but murders are very rare,” Garial confessed. “They don’t always get solved.”
“I see,” William said. He would have liked to have the murderer’s head on a platter, after interrogating him to find out if it was a mugging gone wrong or something far more sinister—but it looked as though he was going to be disappointed. “If we turn up any traces of DNA on the corpse, we’ll let you know.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Garial said.
She didn’t look pleased, William noted. Her superiors were probably torn between urging her to solve the murder and hoping the whole affair would just go away. There was no way to avoid a minor diplomatic spat, even if the murderer was caught within a day; the planetary government would want to prove it could catch the killer, but at the same time it would want to prove it wasn’t the Commonwealth’s lapdog. It was one hell of a mess.
At least it won’t cause a major crisis, he thought. And maybe they will be encouraged to tighten up their security.
He turned back to look at the corpse, watching as the two doctors turned Henderson over so they could slide his body into a stasis tube. Henderson didn’t look surprised, William noted; he didn’t look as if he’d known he was in trouble. Had he been too drunk to realize the looming danger? Or had he known his killer? It was a worrying thought, but there was no proof of anything beyond a simple mugging. He had a nasty feeling that the case would never be solved.
“My superiors wish me to convey their profound regrets, Captain,” Garial said, once the body was secured within the stasis field. “I have been ordered”—her mouth twisted—“to keep you apprised of our progress.”
“We will be departing shortly,” William said. He doubted Kat would agree to stay longer, not when there were now seventy freighters to escort. “I thank you for your assistance.”
“Thank you, sir,” Garial said. “Please accept my regrets too.”
William nodded, then watched as the stasis tube was carried out the door to the waiting shuttlecraft. He and his accompanying shipmates would be back in orbit soon. William would have to read Henderson’s will to determine what he wanted done with his body . . . after the doctor had carried out a full autopsy to see if there were any traces of the killer left. Henderson had been a crewman, sleeping in a compartment that held five other crewmen. There would be too many false trails for William to be sure of a quick solution to the mystery.
William scowled as he followed Lupine through the door, silently bidding farewell to Garial and Rogers. They’d been helpful, but their superiors definitely wanted them to bury the whole affair as quickly as possible.
“The security situation seems unchanged,” Lupine said once they were on the shuttle and heading back to orbit. “But this is quite a rough area.”
William blinked at him, then remembered that the planetary militia wasn’t charged with policing Tyre’s spaceports. The shore patrol handled that, with backup from the marines if necessary. To Lupine, the local spaceport had to look like a wretched hive of scum and villainy. And it was, to some extent, but it was also supposed to be reasonably safe. A spacer might lose his money to rigged gambling games or overpriced prostitutes, but he wasn’t supposed to lose his life!
“I’ll discuss the matter with Captain Falcone,” William said. He had no doubt that the planetary government would prefer to have the whole matter settled as quickly as possible—the incident was going to cost them dearly, even if the Commonwealth didn’t start demanding compensation—but he was reluctant to risk any more of his crew. “She can make the final call.”
He glanced at Sarah as the shuttle docked. “Do the autopsy now,” he ordered. “And then let me know what you find.”
“Of course, sir,” Sarah said.
William nodded. “And keep checking with the others who went on shore leave,” he said, addressing Lupine. “If they know where Henderson went, we might be able to solve the mystery.”
“Yes, sir,” Lupine said.
“I thank you for your consideration,” Kat said. “And three destroyers will be very helpful.”
“It’s the least we can do,” President Thorne said. His holographic image was seated, facing Kat. “You are escorting seventy-two freighters to Jorlem.”
Kat smiled rather wanly. She rather doubted that all of those freighters would be going to Jorlem, but she couldn’t blame their commanders for wanting an escort for some of the trip, even if they were going farther into the sector. They’d have a chance to continue in convoy as well, if there wasn’t a more pressing concern at Jorlem. Kat hadn’t made any promises, but escorting freighters was a good use of her time.
“I don’t think we can escort any more ships,” she said warningly. “We simply don’t have the numbers.”
“I understand,” President Thorne said. “But I can’t spare more ships.”
He leaned forward. “And I am truly sorry about the recent . . . incident.”
“Me too,” Kat said. So far, no one had found a shred of evidence that pointed to the murderer. The local authorities seemed to believe that it was an opportunistic mugging . . . and there was nothing to suggest otherwise. But Kat’s instincts told her it was something more. “If you discover any further leads . . .”
“I’ll be sure to have you informed,” President Thorne said.
Kat kept her true feelings from showing. Henderson’s murder could have been a deadly mugging, but it could also have been a kidnapping gone wrong. God knew there were parties on Vangelis with good reason to hate the Commonwealth. Or the Theocracy could have attempted to kidnap Henderson with dire intent. If they’d held him long enough, they could have reconditioned him into a spy—or an assassin—and then sent him back. Henderson would have been unaware of what had been done to him until he heard the command words. After all, there wasn’t a strong Theocratic presence on Vangelis, was there?
Moreover, I should know better than to see them lurking behind every bush, she told herself sharply.
“I have discussed the issue with my cabinet and a number of other leading politicians,” President Thorne said. “We will probably not be joining the Commonwealth until we see clear proof of your bona fides. But we are open to discussing an alliance and closer relationships as well as limited military cooperation. I believe, if an official representative were to be dispatched, he would find us most welcoming.”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Kat said.
“We would want concessions, of course,” President Thorne added.
“Such matters can be settled by an accredited envoy,” Kat said firmly. There were clear limits on her powers to negotiate, and he knew it. She wasn’t sure if Thorne was teasing her or attempting to secure concessions she had no right to offer, but she’d be damned if she was going to fall into a trap. “My government will be happy to dispatch someone, or open discussions via StarCom.”
“Of course,” President Thorne said. “I wouldn’t want to suggest otherwise.”
He smiled at her. “If nothing else, please know that you have my thanks for escorting the freighters,” he added. “And I hope to see you again soon.”
His image vanished. Kat stared at where it had been for a long moment, then glanced at the files she’d been sent. Three destroyers—Hawthorne, Rosebud, and Lily—had been attached to her command, although they had strict orders to return to Vangelis a week after they arrived at Jorlem, with or without additional freighters
. The solution wasn’t ideal, but three additional destroyers would make it easier to protect the convoy.
As long as the merchant skippers obey orders, she thought darkly. Admittedly, they’re not very good at obeying orders.
She scowled at the thought. Her inbox had already started to fill with complaints, ranging from protests about flying in formation to sharply worded demands to leave immediately without waiting for anyone else. She didn’t blame the freighter crews for worrying—they were losing money every day they waited around at Vangelis—but there was no way she could leave at once. If nothing else, she needed to take the time to make sure that everyone, military or civilian, knew what to do in an emergency.
Her hatch buzzed. “Come!”
Crenshaw stepped into the Ready Room, looking surprisingly relaxed for someone who’d had his shore leave cut short by a murderer. Kat rather suspected he hadn’t enjoyed his leave very much—his file stated that he’d never been outside the Commonwealth—even though Davidson had told her there weren’t many differences between the spaceports on Tyre and Vangelis. Nonetheless, to Crenshaw, being on a foreign world had probably been enough to give him hives.
Or perhaps I’m just being mean, she thought, as she nodded to him. Perhaps he’s just trying to look after the Commonwealth’s interests.
“You wanted to see me, Captain?”
“I did,” Kat confirmed. “Have a seat, Commander.”
She allowed her voice to harden as Crenshaw sat down. “It has been brought to my attention,” she said, “that you have been questioning members of the crew about their loyalties.”
Crenshaw looked surprised, but he didn’t look guilty. Kat wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. He clearly didn’t think he’d been doing anything wrong. Indeed, there were people who would argue, she was sure, that it wasn’t a bad thing.
But it is, she thought. It’s bad for crew morale.
“I have been doing my duty to the Navy,” Crenshaw said finally. “It is important to know where their loyalties lie.”
“It is also important not to damage crew morale,” Kat snapped. “Or to introduce divisions where there were none.”
She scowled at him. Maybe there were good reasons to question Sir William’s position, certainly for anyone who hadn’t met him, but Tasha had been through Piker’s Peak. And she was hardly the first foreign officer to go through the academy. To suggest that she had divided loyalties would undermine the Navy—an utter disaster during wartime.
“It is my duty,” Crenshaw said stubbornly.
“Only if you have a reason to be concerned,” Kat said. “Do you have a reason to be concerned?”
“A person raised on Tyre is heir to our traditions,” Crenshaw said. “They understand, at an instinctive level, how our society works. Outsiders . . . do not. How can they? They look at how you were raised to command and see nepotism. They don’t see the underlying reality of building a patronage network.”
“Of course they see nepotism,” Kat said. Tyre had often claimed to be a meritocracy, but outsiders had good reason to argue that the planetary system was nothing of the sort. “What do you think they see when they hear that you were promoted?”
“Nor do they see how talented outsiders are absorbed into the aristocracy,” Crenshaw added, seriously. It wasn’t a real answer. “Or how untalented aristocrats are quietly shuffled aside.”
He had a point, Kat silently conceded. She knew that her father would want his children to succeed him . . . but a continuing dynasty wasn’t guaranteed. There would be a major struggle over the dukedom when her father died, even though Peter Falcone had largely taken over his father’s duties when Duke Falcone had become the Minister for War Production. And while Kat’s brother would have an advantage, it would hardly be decisive. The rest of the family would want a say too.
Meanwhile true incompetents are shifted elsewhere, she thought, because if they were promoted into high places, such moves would reflect badly on their patrons.
“You may be right,” she said. “But I cannot allow you to continue to disrupt the crew.”
Crenshaw leaned forward. “Captain?”
“You are to confine yourself to the regular duties of an XO,” Kat added. “That is an order, Commander, which you can have in writing if you wish.”
“That won’t be necessary, Captain,” Crenshaw said.
“Glad to hear it,” Kat said. She glanced at her terminal, then back at him. “We’ve finalized the departure date. Make sure that all the freighters are ready to leave without delay.”
“Aye, Captain,” Crenshaw said.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Joel stood in the observation blister, staring out into the eerie lights of hyperspace.
No one had realized that Henderson’s murderer was on Uncanny. Julia had hacked sickbay’s computer files, allowing Joel to read the autopsy report. There had been nothing to suggest that Henderson had been the victim of anything but a random mugging gone wrong. Doctor Prosser certainly hadn’t found any traces that might lead her to Joel.
Unless they’re concealing something, Joel reminded himself. He knew that wasn’t particularly likely. They were on a warship, in a time of war. Sir William had more than enough authority to order an interrogation if he had any reason to suspect Joel of anything remotely criminal. No, they don’t know anything.
He clasped his hands behind his back, contemplating the affair. Joel had felt no remorse for Captain Abraham’s death. The man had been an unimaginative criminal, too stupid or too arrogant to realize that, eventually, someone would put the pieces together. Captain Abraham believed that his aristocratic connections were enough to save him from the hangman. And he might have been right. Joel suspected he had been right. But he’d been too stupid to consider the possibilities . . .
Henderson had been different. He’d been an ally right from the start. Joel had thought he could be trusted, that all the little resentments souring the crew would be more than enough to keep him onside. Furthermore, Joel had had plans for him, once upon a time. Yet Henderson had been too easily led to be left alive. The man had genuinely admired Sir William. He hadn’t truly comprehended that he was already too deeply implicated to back out.
He had to die, Joel told himself.
Nevertheless, he still felt regret. Henderson’s death looked like an accident—as far as he knew, none of the other plotters believed it to have been anything else—but it was still dangerous. There was no honor among thieves, no shared loyalty to a greater cause . . . if his other allies came to believe that Joel considered them expendable, they would try to kill him or betray him. They wouldn’t have any other choice.
In addition, we now need a replacement for Henderson, he thought. Finding one won’t be easy.
Joel was frustrated. He was a senior chief. He had years of experience in reading people, from greenie lieutenants issuing hundreds of orders to cover up their inexperience to surly crewmen bitter and resentful because they were constantly passed over for promotion. He was a past master at sounding out potential allies without revealing too much, at least until they were committed. And he had to admit, despite himself, that Sir William had done an excellent job of draining the lake dry. Too many of the newcomers were true believers in the Navy, convinced of its essential benevolence. Approaching even one of them might be far too revealing if the person he chose took his concerns to his superiors.
He gritted his teeth in annoyance as his wristcom bleeped. The original plan would need to be modified before Sir William managed to turn too many members of the crew into loyalists. And he would. Joel had met dozens of commanding officers in his career, but none of them had shown the same willingness to get his hands dirty as Sir William. He’d worked as hard on Uncanny as the remainder of the crew. He’d won respect and admiration from his subordinates . . . hell, Joel would have admired him if he hadn’t known it was a trap.
Shaking his head, Joel turned and strode towards the hatch. The remembrance ceremo
ny was due to take place in ten minutes. Even that was frustrating. Captain Abraham wouldn’t have bothered with a ceremony for a murdered crewman, not when he could be scheming to find a way to take advantage of the man’s death. But Sir William had decided to hold one as soon as the massive convoy slipped back into hyperspace. And nearly two-thirds of the crew would attend, even if they hadn’t known Henderson personally. He’d still been one of them, after all.
On top of that, we’ll soon be at Jorlem, Joel thought, where Lightning and Uncanny will go their separate ways.
Joel scowled as he walked through the hatch. The original plan was still workable, with a few covert modifications. But it would be chancy. He considered, briefly, deserting at Jorlem. Fleeing wouldn’t be hard. Jorlem had a fair claim to being the most corrupt planet outside Theocratic space. He had enough money, in three different currencies, stashed away to purchase everything he’d need to remain unnoticed, even after Sir William sounded the alert. A few weeks in an underground hospital would be long enough to warp his DNA out of all recognition, then he could obtain papers that would get him a berth on a freighter heading farther from the Commonwealth. Still, deserting would mean giving up.
All my dreams would be torn asunder, he told himself. Better to dare greatness than live a life in the shadows . . . never knowing when I might have to start running again.
Julia nodded to Joel as he entered the shuttlebay. A quarter of the mourners were already there, standing in front of the coffin and remembering Henderson. If they could remember Henderson, Joel thought, cynically. He doubted that many outside Henderson’s compartment really knew him. But that wasn’t the point. Henderson had been a member of the crew. He had to be given a proper good-bye.
He took his place next to Julia and waited.
William felt tired and frustrated as he stood in front of the sealed casket—no one had been allowed to see the body after the doctor had finished her autopsy—and worked his way through the remembrance service. Henderson had expressed a wish to be buried in hyperspace, like so many other spacers; he hadn’t requested a particular service or even to have his body shipped home. It was all too clear, in so many ways, that Henderson hadn’t had any other home. His will stipulated that his possessions were to be divided among his bunkmates while his salary was to be added to the shore leave fund. It was the mark of a man who had no life outside Uncanny.
Cursed Command (Angel in the Whirlwind Book 3) Page 16