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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"You what?" Raeder demanded.

"I have arrested Second Lieutenant Cynthia Robbins," Booth said smugly.

Peter stared at the Security chief in complete befuddlement. It took a wrenching effort to refocus his mind, which was slightly overfull with the manifold tasks of trying to get the Invincible's Speeds back up to scratch. Granted, they weren't going anywhere but straight back to Antares Base, but it still needed doing. His eyes were gritty and red with lack of sleep and too many stims; there was a limit to how long you could go on doing that.

"What did she do," he asked, "attack one of the prisoners?"

"You might say that," Booth drawled.

In his mind's eye, Raeder visualized Robbins leaping over a table with a soprano bellow and doing the Valkyrie thing all over the cowering Mollie engineers. Yo ho toh ho, Cindy. Getting medieval on them. 

"She murdered Mike Fleet."

"She what?" Peter couldn't believe his ears. He looked around the clutter of the cubby, trying to relate what he was hearing to reality.

Talking to Booth is always so surreal. I mean, Cindy murdered the crime lord? That's insane! Then he remembered who he was talking to.

"There were witnesses, of course," he said matter-of-factly.

"Darn right," Booth said with a firm nod. "The MP we had watching her had to leave her twice and that gave her ample time to act."

Raeder pursed his lips. "Let me get this straight. The lieutenant and this MP were the only ones there?"

Booth narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Well, yes. For a while, anyway. Then there was another MP who brought the prisoners to the interrogation room and stood watch outside until she was finished."

"Uh-huh. How long were the lieutenant and this MP separated?" Peter asked.

"Eight minutes the first time, about twelve the second," Booth answered. "Like I said, plenty of time to act. If you're ruthless enough."

"But doesn't the fact that the MP was absent, and therefore couldn't tell you what the lieutenant was doing, mean that he isn't a witness at all?"

Booth's face stiffened and he took a deep, audible breath. "He's a witness that she had the opportunity to act," he said through his teeth.

"What I'm wondering, Mr. Booth, is why you don't also suspect the MP."

"I don't suspect him, because my gut says she's guilty," Booth snapped.

Oh, yeah? Well, my gut says your gut is full of it. "Who discovered the body?" Raeder asked. That seems like the kind of question I ought to ask, he thought.

"She did, actually. She and the MP were finished with the interrogation and were leaving the cell area when they looked through an open door and spotted Fleet. Your lieutenant rushed right in and contaminated the crime scene. Do you wonder that I was suspicious of her?" Booth favored the commander with a condescending leer.

"Uh, had the MP noticed this open door on his way to rejoin the lieutenant?" Raeder asked.

The smile had vanished, but the Security chief didn't look surprised. He looked like he hadn't heard the question.

"Mr. Booth?" Raeder leaned forward. "Did he notice?" No answer. "If there was—"

"He didn't say," Booth said quickly and somewhat defensively.

"Ah. Well, I ask because if the door wasn't open when he passed it to rejoin the lieutenant and they were together from then until the time they left the interrogation room and noticed the open door, well," Peter shrugged ingenuously, "I'd say that indicated a third person at work."

"An accomplice," Booth mused. He nodded. "You might have something there, Commander."

Raeder looked at him in disbelief. Wow, he thought. In Booth's script it says Cindy is guilty, therefore nothing can indicate her innocence. I think we'd better get the ship's script doctor involved before this goes too far. 

"What did the captain say about all this?" Raeder asked.

"I wanted to bring the Old Man some results," Booth sneered. "Not bad news and a lot of questions."

"You haven't told him?" Raeder asked in disbelief. "You told me before you informed the captain?" Are you crazy? he wondered.

"I said, I want to bring him results." Booth looked the commander dead in the eye.

Oh, Lord, Raeder thought. Now he thinks I'm a Mollie infiltrator. He was hoping that I'd give myself away when he revealed that my "tool" had been captured—practically in the act of assassination. Or at least in the neighborhood of an assassination. Which, to him, is exactly the same thing. 

"Mr. Booth," he said firmly, "we must inform the captain. That is procedure." Before the Security chief could say or do anything, Peter had hit a red key that put him in instantaneous communication with the captain.

"Yes, Commander?" Knott said from the screen.

"Sir, Mr. Booth has something of great importance to tell you."

Raeder stood and motioned Booth over to his vacated seat. The Security chief rose slowly, moved around the desk, and carefully seated himself. His mouth had formed a tiny "o" and his sallow face looked almost green.

And so would mine if I had to tell the Old Man something like this, Raeder thought. But he found it hard to sympathize with the bloated bully. Poor Cynthia. This is all her reputation needed. 

 

The captain glared at the screen and the image of Booth within it, alternately wishing Booth were within arm's length and grateful that he wasn't. Knott wondered how he could have been so unlucky as to have had William Booth thrust upon him. There wasn't all that much mystery about it. For years, Counterintelligence had been the place where barely functional Academy graduates with influential connections got parked. It was where they could do the least harm and save the Space Command General Staff the political heat of dumping them out of the service. Now . . .

"Who was the MP?" the captain asked, rubbing a hand over his face. He was exhausted, like every other officer on the carrier with a real job to do. Booth . . . now, Booth looked very spruce.

"Kansy, sir," Booth answered. "A very honest man."

"Kansy? Ah, yes."

Someone from Booth's former command. Knott had always suspected that the reason Booth insisted on bringing this particular MP along was that he made the Security chief look brilliant by comparison. But he was honest. The man was too damned stupid to be anything else.

"I think, Mr. Booth, that you are certainly justified in questioning the lieutenant. However, given the total lack of evidence you have to connect her with this murder, you are unjustified in arresting her. I want her released immediately."

"Sir!" Booth protested. "I am convinced that this woman is dangerous."

"You and the quartermaster," Knott said darkly.

You would have thought that after the last fiasco Booth would have been a lot more careful about casting aspersions on the lieutenant's character. She probably had enough cause for a whopping false-arrest-and-defamation suit, and Knott might be tempted to be a witness on her behalf. Not in wartime, of course.

"I suspect that she's been more sinned against than sinning," the captain told him.

An emergency light flickered on Knott's comm.

"Send her back to work," he told Booth. "And don't arrest the lieutenant again without my express permission."

Knott broke the connection and another face immediately replaced Booth's. This face was about fifty standard years old, black hair and eyes, copper-colored skin.

"Sir, this is Chief Petty Officer Mankiller."

"From Toxic Materials Containment. Yes, I know you, Chief. What's up?"

If Mankiller was surprised that the captain knew his name, he didn't show it; he merely launched into his report.

"We've had a containment breach in storage room eight," the chief said. "No harm done, we caught it before it got too bad and cleaned it up right away. The detection system on this ship is amazing," he said enthusiastically. "But the regs say that I have to inform you on an emergency basis."

"Emergency basis means immediately," Knott said with a scowl.

"And so I am, sir. The leaks were small and precisely located by our warning system. So while I've been talking to you, my people were able to repair the seals and are checking around for more. As I said, sir, I've never worked with any system so perfectly calibrated." The chief's face showed his keen admiration.

"Very good, Chief," the captain said. "Which containers leaked?"

"The ones from Main Deck, Captain. Which is odd, because my people double-checked them before they put them into storage, and there wasn't a sign of a leak then."

Why am I not surprised? Knott thought with resignation. "Thank you for informing me, Chief. I commend you and your people for your quick action. I'm also going to order both you and your people not to discuss this with anyone. Nor are they to discuss it with each other outside of the confines of your department. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Mankiller said, though he didn't really. But, then all he really needed to understand was that this was a gag order and it was his duty to enforce it.

The captain nodded and said, "Carry on." As soon as he disconnected he called Raeder. "Are you alone, Commander?" he asked when the commander's face appeared.

"Yes, sir. Mr. Booth left as soon as you disconnected."

"Come to my ready-room, Commander. We need to talk."

 

Raeder felt so tired he could almost cry. "Sir," he said slowly, "those containers were fine when they left Main Deck. I checked each one myself. Personally. If they leaked it had nothing to do with my people."

"I never thought it did," Knott said.

I've seen eyes that reddish boiled egg color lately, in the mirror. But then it's been an up and down week, Raeder thought. We beat the Mollies, but lost the Fibians. We captured a major player in the crime world, but he was murdered in our brig. And now this. Kinda makes me glad I'm only a commander. 

"When you first came aboard, Commander," Knott said, his face unreadable, "I assigned you a task. I'm asking you for a report."

"Sir, what I've done, mostly, is to eliminate suspects. At least to my own satisfaction."

The captain made a face. "Well, that's progress at least. Of a sort." His gray eyes bored into Raeder's. "Do you have a suspect?"

Raeder considered for a moment. Well, do I? "Ye-ss, sir, I do. But it is merely suspicion. I have absolutely nothing to hang that suspicion on. Therefore, I'd rather not say anything further at this time."

Knott raised his eyebrows. "Not even to me?"

"Sir, I wouldn't want to prejudice you against someone who may be totally innocent. I don't think I could bring myself to say that name in a completely empty room. It's that tenuous."

The captain leaned back in his chair with a sigh. "All right, Commander. I'll respect your integrity. For now." He leaned forward again, crossing his arms on his desk. "Can you at least tell me who you've eliminated as suspects?"

"Sir, I don't believe our problem is on Main Deck."

Knott raised his brows. "Well, since that eliminates about five hundred suspects, I guess I'll have to compliment you on your fast work," he said. "How did you come to this conclusion?"

"I've changed the way parts are distributed. Whoever requests a part, signs for it, and it's inspected when it's handed over. If the part fails after that we know who to talk to. Also, I've mixed the crews around. I haven't kept the same crews together for more than a week, so that if someone wasn't doing their job right it would be more likely to attract attention. But my people do their jobs right, sir. They watch each other and double-check things. They're aware of the importance of what they do and they're proud of their work." Raeder shrugged. "I just can't imagine a spy surviving in a climate like that."

The captain was nodding. "No, I can see your point. All right. I'll let you have your head . . . for awhile. See what you can do to hurry things along, though, would you? Thank you for coming, Commander."

Raeder stood and saluted. The captain returned it and Peter turned to leave.

"Oh, Raeder," Knott called as the commander was about to close the door.

"Yes, sir?"

"Try not to drop the ball."

"Yes, sir."

 

The Mollie knelt upon the rod, arms outstretched and weeping piteously. Though the pain was great, the agent couldn't help but feel it was insufficient.

O Spirit of Destiny, Mighty One, please hear my prayer. I beg your forgiveness for the foolish risk I took that had so little result. For all that could be told, no one had even noticed the broken seals on the barrels of contaminated waste. Or else they'd been found so soon that no harm had been done. In fact, this whole mission seemed to be doing very little harm, considering the effort that was going into it. The Mollie gulped. That was a very unpleasant thought.

O Spirit guide my stumbling steps. Aid me that I may serve you better. Do not let me waver in my resolve, do not let me fail in my task. It was impossible to use the whip, though the agent longed to do so. It was, unfortunately, all too likely to leave damning traces.

Still, in the Ecclesia, the agent had been renowned for stringent discipline. Many acolytes wore their whip marks as badges of honor. But none could compare to the agent, neither for depth of cut nor number. Those had been good days.

But the agent's task seemed so overwhelming, to destroy the Commonwealth's light carrier program single-handedly. The Interpreters, in their wisdom, feared these craft, sensing that they would tip the balance in the loathsome Commonwealth's favor.

Let it not be so, Spirit. They have so much on their side. The ship-building facilities, the munitions plants, the manufacturing. Almost all that we have is truth. 

Truth and all the fuel. The agent was startled. This was such an uncharacteristic thought that the Mollie recognized it as direct contact with the Spirit itself.

"Oh, I am unworthy," the enraptured agent whispered. The Mollie fell facedown and groveled, weeping in joy this time. "We shall succeed. O Mighty One, with your aid we shall overcome!"

 

Two days later as Raeder and Lieutenant Robbins were finishing up one of their "leadership" sessions, Cynthia broke her usual pattern of taking whatever reading material he'd assigned her, thanking him shyly, and bolting like a deer in a forest fire. She simply sat there.

Her face and body language were so blank that Raeder knew that she must be extremely nervous or upset.

"How's everything going?" he asked. "Is Mr. Booth leaving you alone?"

His question seemed to surprise her, because her eyebrows went up a fraction.

"Yes, sir. He's left me completely alone."

Then she fell silent again, looking, more or less, expectantly at Peter.

Speak! he thought. "Lieutenant," he said aloud, "it is perfectly permissible for you to ask a question or make a statement without forcing me to drag it out of you." He thought for a moment. "Unless, of course, you plan to ask something really personal or to say something extremely cruel. You don't, do you?"

"Oh, no, sir," she said. Then she leaned forward confidentially. "I, ah, think I may have found a way to solve your problem, sir."

"My problem?" he asked. What problem? BO, bad breath, bad hair? Whatever it is, I'm in deep trouble if I need Cindy's help. 

"I was referring to your piloting problem, sir." The lieutenant seemed much more at ease.

Raeder, on the other hand, felt a sharp twist in his gut. Remember what I said about saying something extremely cruel? he thought. No, I guess not, he thought as she continued, oblivious to Peter's discomfort.

"I don't fly anymore, Lieutenant," he said curtly.

"Only because the current equipment doesn't match your needs," she said eagerly. "But it could, and it wouldn't be all that difficult."

"Lieutenant," he said, through his teeth, "I was told that there was no way—"

"That's because, frankly, sir, you're probably a minority of one, at the moment. So they don't want to spend R and D time or money on the problem. But sir, this war is just really warming up, and there'll be plenty of people suffering from wounds like yours." She looked positively animated by this time. "And this is such an easy fix!"

Jeez, he thought. Don't you know what a sensitive subject this is? Sand would know that I don't want to talk about this. Rocks would. Booth would! He threw up his hands. "What do you want from me?" he asked, a little too loudly.

"It's a feedback problem," Cynthia continued as though she hadn't heard him.

I'll say it is, Raeder thought sourly.

"The prosthesis can't interact with the Speed's computer," she was saying. "But it's not that far to your wrist! The tendons in your wrist are almost as sensitive to the motions you need to make as your fingers would be, and the chemical component is obviously right there." She looked at the commander hopefully, her eyes shining with enthusiasm. "All that's really needed is an extension," she said.

Raeder could feel his jaw dropping and he just let it go. She's right, by God. It could be an easy fix. 

"So," he said again, "what do you want from me?"

She wrung her hands together in her lap. "I need four hundred dollars," she confessed. "For development costs."

Raeder ran his finger below his lower lip. "If I authorize the expense," he said, "then the Commonwealth will own your invention."

"Actually, I would be entitled to one-third of the gross profits, if any. Which is fine by me," she said dismissively. "I'm an engineer, not a businesswoman."

Raeder could hardly believe his ears. His unworldly little Cindy sounded a lot like a businesswoman to him. And as for me, I'm an engineer, not a sugar-daddy. I want this so bad I can taste it. But can I justify this? 

Unconsciously, he tapped the fingers of his right hand in a rhythm his physical therapist had taught him. After a moment he became aware of what he was doing and he stopped it.

"All right," he said. "I'll authorize the expense."

* * *

Raeder sat at the bar in Patton's feeling very surly and just a little sorry for himself. He ignored the cheerful holos that covered most of the walls of beaches and palm trees and laughing people with tans and implausibly little on. He even ignored the sound of combers hissing on the beach, and the expensively realistic smell of ocean and seaweed. It had been a hard day. He ground his teeth, remembering the first part of it . . .

"Seven Speeds?" the man asked.

He had a sing-song accent much like Captain Bethari's, but that and his complexion were about all he had in common with the captain of the Africa. This man was short, very plump, and looked like exactly what he was: a military bureaucrat. His office looked like the sort of thing you'd expect the overlord of a supply dump to have, too. Subtly luxurious, and with plenty of souvenirs. The rug on the carpet looked like a genuine Kashmir, worth three years of Raeder's pay.

"Yes," Raeder said, grinding patience out of his soul by a boulderlike effort of will. "There's this thing called combat, lieutenant, and in it things get used up. We just fought a major battle against enemy capital ships. In case you hadn't heard."

"Seven Speeds," the man went on. "Oh, I am thinking that that is most excessive."

Raeder sighed and settled down to dicker.

Forward Supply behaved as though no one had ever used anything they'd seen fit to issue. And as for losing Speeds! It seemed the Invincible held the all-time record for Speed squandering. And munitions, parts, and fuel, thrown about with a prodigal hand all regardless of the cost, or the fact that others were waiting for the very same things.

He knew that the Invincible's requisitions had priority, and they knew he knew it. Even so the game required him to approach them, hat in hand, metaphorically speaking, and humbly beg for what they had no choice but to give him. And they had to act as if every wave guide and field generator came out of their own personal retirement funds.

"Well, I got what we needed," he mumbled into his drink, trying to banish the session with the logistics officer like the nightmare it was.

Raeder allowed himself a brief daydream in which he once again led a squadron and dealing with the gringing misers in Forward Supply wasn't even a cloud on his horizon. He smiled fondly.

Maybe it will be possible, he thought. Maybe Cindy will pull it off. He believed that it was possible, at least. Her idea had merit, and the schematics she'd sketched out for him looked promising. Oh, but that would be a wonderful thing, he thought wistfully.

He glanced up at the mirror over the bar and peeked at the other reason this had been a bad day. He'd asked Lieutenant Commander Sarah James to dinner and she'd turned him down. "Other plans," she'd said. She was seated at a table behind him with several other officers from the Invincible. 

She might have invited me to go along, he thought. But he'd noticed that there weren't any Speed pilots among her group. He frowned slightly. I wonder just how widespread this anti-Speed pilot prejudice is. 

He'd also noticed that their eyes met in the mirror rather frequently. He took a sip of his drink. So at least she's aware that I exist. He really couldn't quite figure this out. He'd never been rejected before solely on the basis that he'd once flown Speeds. Back when he had flown Speeds, he'd found it a social asset, if anything. Glamour, glory, wild black yonder, rah rah.

While being an outcast is an interesting experience, he thought, I can't say that I recommend it. He caught Sarah's eye in the mirror and winked. She ducked her head and pretended she hadn't noticed. Hmm, he thought.

But she didn't look back and his attention began to wander. The other reason it had been a bad day was that John Larkin had told him that the joke going around the station was that the Invincible had been renamed the CSS Butterfingers, call sign "Oops!" Raeder had given the quartermaster a severe tongue-lashing and now he was regretting it.

Still, Peter thought, an officer should know better than to spread a joke about his own ship like that. It was like insulting your own mother. Raeder wasn't looking forward to seeing Larkin at breakfast tomorrow morning. But I'm damned if I know which of us should apologize. Ah, well. He sighed. Sufficient unto the day are the evils thereof, as my father used to say. 

He got up from his stool, nodded to Sarah, and made his way to the dining room. Till then, at least I can eat. 

They actually had crottled greeps on the menu here. Fresh.

 

 

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