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CHAPTER NINE

Raeder entered Patton's Bar and Grill with his head slightly bowed. He took no notice of the brass planters filled with softly glowing flowers that tumbled down their sides like living fire, or of the faux wood and plaster that gave the place its Olde Pub look. He merely slouched up to the maïtre d'. The dining room was full, so he left his name and went into the less crowded, and poshly archaic bar. It was full of uniforms, and the people in them were mostly talking in cheerful, brightly optimistic tones. The Commonwealth would win the war—few doubted that—and in the meantime promotions were coming thick and fast, between casualties and the buildup.

Peter settled into his seat with a long sigh. I hate funerals, he thought, signaling the bartender. Even when they're for people I know. But when they're not . . . The grief of other people was sharper when you had none of your own to distract you. He always felt so helpless and ashamed before the pain of bereaved strangers.

And there's not a single platitude you can murmur comfortingly about the death of a perfectly healthy young woman with everything to live for who has died for no reason. 

"Ich hatt ein kamerad," he murmured to himself. A service saying older than spaceflight: I had a comrade.

You felt bad when one of your buddies bought it, but that went with the territory. There was a rationale to it, a structure.

He could hardly say, "Well, she didn't suffer," or worse yet, "Don't worry, she never knew what hit her." It wasn't even loss in combat, just a stupid accident—or a sneaking murder.

Longo's daughter had placed her small hand in his and said, "I'm going to be a pilot. Like my mother," somewhat defiantly.

"Allie!" her father said warningly. He looked at Raeder with eyes dead from exhaustion and loss. "We're not encouraging her in that," he said firmly.

Well, okay, Peter thought. I can understand that. He glanced back and found himself looking into Allie's solemn, determined eyes. But I think you may have better luck keeping sunshine in a can. Because if ever there was a girl destined to achieve her childhood ambition, that child was Allie Longo.

Then the widower seemed to realize just who stood before him and, deliberately ignoring Raeder's outstretched hand, took the hand of the person behind the commander instead.

Raeder lingered just long enough to be thoroughly frozen out by the entire squadron. Then he left. Okay, he thought, I can see that, too. But he wasn't happy about it. In fact, he was beginning to become just a little angry.

Hell, he thought, I know I'm not guilty. I'm pretty sure Robbins isn't and I'm positive arap Moi is clean. Which leaves me with a nice wide field to choose from. So, was it, as Cynthia had suggested, a ménage à trois, or some simpler form of rivalry between Givens and Sutton?

He wrinkled his nose in disgust. Suddenly, the inside of my head feels dirty. He didn't like Givens, but the guy just didn't seem like a casual murderer. And he was certain that Sutton wouldn't be. I'm also pretty unhappy about sliming up Longo's reputation. Even if it's only taking place inside my mind. So clear away those three and that left . . . Larkin. Larkin?

Raeder sat up straighter. That's right. His name does keep cropping up. He's always on the fringe of things, never doing anything overt, but still, he's always there. Like on the flight deck at midnight. . . . Peter ran the idea around a few times, finding it had definite possibilities. I'm going to have to do a little research on the quartermaster, he thought. He liked John, but . . . Well, frankly he's the only one left to investigate. Which makes him as good a place to start as any. 

"God!" a woman said to the bartender as she took a seat. "It's crowded tonight."

"Yep, it's a busy one," the man said as he set a coaster before her and waited for her order. "Just got two assault transports in." There were a lot of people in Marine green around.

"Gin and tonic with a lemon twist," she said. "I'm starving. I hope I don't have to wait long," she grumbled.

Raeder glanced at her. She was tall, and slim, with a lean intelligent face and curling, auburn hair, cut short. I've seen her someplace, he thought. It must have been on the Invincible, since, though he couldn't place her, Ontario Base didn't feel like her element. On the other hand, there were over six thousand people on the carrier.

Well, obviously, he thought mildly disgusted with himself looking at her insignia for the first time. She was a lieutenant commander, a pilot, and she wore a reconnaissance badge. Very likely she's in command of our WACCIs. Warning, Assessment, Control, Command, Information, Raeder recited to himself. As clumsy an acronym as you can find. But everybody liked saying it. Maybe because WACCI pilots are anything but. In fact, usually they were excruciatingly stable people, which drove Speed pilots wild. And there hadn't been nearly as many problems with their spacecraft. For one thing, they generally pulled a lot more of their own maintenance.

"I put my name in with the maïtre d' awhile ago," he said to her. "So I should be getting a table pretty soon. You're welcome to join me, if you like."

The lieutenant commander looked him over with no-nonsense hazel eyes, one eyebrow lifted. "My parents always warned me against accepting invitations from strangers," she said dryly.

Peter laughed. "I'm not offering to pay," he said, "I'm just offering to share the table. I'd hate to think of you starving in here while I stuff my face. Especially when the solution . . ." he gestured vaguely.

"Sharing a table," she suggested.

"Sharing a table," he agreed, "is so simple." He turned his deep blue eyes on her and smiled.

The lieutenant commander just looked at him for a moment, then suddenly grinned.

She has a killer smile, Raeder thought, enchanted.

"Does that little boy lost look usually work?" she asked.

Raeder blinked and imagined he could feel a blush stealing into his cheeks. Ouch! he thought. She's one sharp lady. And her tongue not the least sharp part of her. He placed his artificial hand over his heart.

"But I am a little lost choirboy," Peter said plaintively. "All alone out here among the stars. I've grown taller, but, y'know, I've never really lost my innocence." Then he gave her a look that his mother had called "puppy eyes."

She chuckled and then waved a hand in his face. "Don't! Don't look at me like that! I can't stand it." And, laughing, she turned her face away.

"Will you share my table if I don't look at you like this?" he asked wearing an almost idiot look of appeal.

Closing her eyes, she cried, "Sure, yes, all right! Just stop it. Okay?"

"Absolutely," he said, sitting up straight and grinning at her.

She opened one eye and, reassured, opened the other, relaxing with a sigh. The lieutenant commander took a sip of her drink, and when she turned back to him, Raeder was wearing the expression of a lost and heartsick hound. In the rain. At midnight. On its birthday.

"Nnnnnnnoooo!" she wailed, turning away again, laughing helplessly.

"Okay," he said, laughing too. "I'll stop. Promise."

"Commander Raeder," a haughty voice announced. "Your table is ready." The tuxedoed maïtre d' waited by the door that led to the dining room.

"Shall we?" Raeder said, slipping off his stool.

 

 

But she was looking at him differently now, suddenly wary and almost a little shocked.

"C'mon," he said quietly. "I won't bite, and I promise, no more puppy eyes."

She smiled slightly at that. "Is that what it's called? If the Mollies knew about it they could roll right over us in a week."

"True, but it would require them to have a sense of humor, and that they'll never have." He held out his hand to her.

The lieutenant commander pursed her lips, unsuccessfully trying to hide a smile, and hopped off the stool to join him in following the visibly impatient maître d' into the restaurant.

When they'd been left alone, the lieutenant commander leaned across the table and said softly, "Uh, Commander, there's something you ought to know."

"That you're serving on the Invincible?" Raeder asked. Then he nodded. "I thought I recognized you. But I don't know your name, I'm afraid."

She raised her brows and cocked her head. "I'm Sarah James," she said. "I command the seven WACCIs we've got on board."

"I'm embarrassed," he said. "I should have known that." Raeder sighed and shook his head. "You weren't at the captain's party."

"No," Sarah said, shaking her head. "I wasn't aboard that evening. I was finishing up a crash course on a new imaging infrared." She leaned forward excitedly, "You'd have to see this thing to believe it. The range! And it's so sensitive." Sarah shook her head in wonder. "It's infinitely better than anything I've ever worked with before." Then she sighed. "But I've no idea when we'll be installing them in my little wing."

Raeder grinned at her enthusiasm. "You look hungry," he said. "And I don't mean for dinner."

She bared her teeth and growled, then laughed. "I'd sell my firstborn to get those systems."

"Y'never know," Raeder said. "Though I don't think they'll take firstborns until they're at least out of diapers, say around nineteen or so." She chuckled and the sound pleased Peter. "Anyway, we're out here on the frontier; the top brass might actually have designed this thing just for us."

"Aw, c'mon," Sarah countered. "When the brass get a toy this special, they like to play with it themselves for awhile." She shrugged good-naturedly. "I just hope I haven't forgotten everything I've learned by the time I get my hands on one again."

Peter's engineering education and Sarah's machine-dependant branch of the service gave them a common ground and they enjoyed talking shop throughout dinner. By tacit agreement they avoided discussing the unpleasant current events that had brought them back early to Ontario Base.

When dinner was over and the bill paid, Raeder asked, "May I see you back to the Invincible, ma'am?"

Sarah blinked. "Well, it's been a long time since anyone offered to take me home," she said with a grin.

"Well, as a little lost choirboy, I'm actually clinging to you for protection. So I hope you won't let me down," he said, and offered his arm.

"Um," she said, looking a little worried, "I don't know how the captain would feel about us walking arm in arm."

Oops, Raeder thought. "Sorry," he said aloud. "For a moment there I thought I was a civilian. Happens every time I eat chocolate mousse. I oughta stay away from that stuff."

"At least until you retire," she agreed. Then she jerked her head in a come-along gesture and led him out to the "street."

Patton's was in the civilian section of the station, in a corridor that had seen better times and hadn't yet been recolonized by the wartime boom. Its exceptional food and service still attracted clientele, mostly military, but Patton's bright lights stood as a lonely beacon in the station's night. Most of the formerly chic and prosperous shops were closed, or converted to storage spaces. Even when the station was in its day phase the area was mostly deserted.

Raeder suppressed a belch. Every individual part of the meal had been justified, from soup to dessert, but taken together . . . perhaps he should have gone for the seven-ounce prime rib instead of the twelve. On the other hand, he'd be back to shipside meals tomorrow.

"Let's walk it off," he said.

"Amen," Sarah agreed.

This late in the station's "night" even their whispers echoed as they walked along, and their footfalls sounded like the advance of a small army. Once in a while a maglev floater went by, some piloted, most on automatic. The little craft swerved around them noiselessly and vanished into the echoing distance. The further they went toward the military side, the darker the corridors became.

"There sure are a lot of lights out around here," Sarah commented, gazing at the ceiling. "We probably should have called for a floater cab."

"Yeah," Raeder agreed, feeling very uneasy. "I don't remember it being this dark earlier."

"Mmm," she murmured, a slight frown marking her high forehead. Her foot crunched in shattered glas-plas. From the spacing it was clear that this was from a now nonfunctioning overhead lamp. "Mmm?" emerged on a distinctly different note, almost a growl.

There was a scuff in one of the side corridors, sounding like a stealthy footstep.

"How are your self-defense skills?" Raeder asked as they instinctively stood back to back. They kept moving toward the check-point, eyes straining into the darkness that seemed deeper the closer they came to their goal.

"Pretty good," Sarah said off-handedly.

Meaning, I suspect, very good, Raeder thought. As for myself, I don't know. He had been very good at one time; balance and reflexes were the core of it, and he'd enjoyed the training. But that was before he'd lost his hand. He honestly didn't know whether it would be a help or a hindrance in a fight. Somehow it was something I forgot to ask about. They'd just said the hand was "robust enough for normal usage." Peter imagined himself hitting a guy and having his hand explode in sparks and flame. Sometimes I really hate my imagination, he thought mournfully.

There was a low chuckle off to the left that seemed to come from a height of two meters and the sound of a pipe being slapped into a horny fist, while off to the right came a flurry of soft scufflings.

"You aren't armed, are you?" he asked.

"That's right," she agreed. "How about you?"

"Only in the sense that I probably have a bigger vocabulary than these guys."

Their attackers had advanced out of darkness into dim light of the main corridor. There were four of them, of average height, all males, all bulging with the kind of muscle that makes even a tall man look squat. They didn't seem to have any energy weapons either. Or necks, Peter thought. They did have half-meter long sections of pipe, and one man was lazily twirling a hefty length of chain as if he knew how to use it.

Jeez, Raeder thought, where do thugs find that stuff? Is there a shop or what? I can never lay my hands on a nice piece of pipe when I want to. Like now. 

"Not good," Sarah murmured.

"Not as bad as I thought, though," Raeder said. "Two for you and two for me."

"You really are into sharing, aren't you, Commander?" she snarled.

"It's something my mom always insisted on," he said.

The group was moving in on them quietly. No threats, no taunts, no requests for money. They came on cautiously, but with none of the gloating criminal foreplay the vids led you to expect.

For a single second the unworthy thought that Givens or Sutton might have hired these men crossed Raeder's mind. But he immediately knew better. Both men were too direct, too honest to hire muscle like this. If they wanted Raeder beaten up, they'd give themselves the privilege.

So maybe this isn't directed at me, he thought. Maybe it's just . . . random. 

The advancing men had made their decision. Two circled over to Raeder, the chain and one of the clubs; the other two stalked Sarah, though one of them hung slightly back, keeping an eye on Raeder.

That was his mistake. Sarah feinted toward the man facing her, and then took a skipping step to the side. One long leg snapped out and caught the thug hovering in reserve in the throat. Not full force, because the neck didn't snap or the larynx shatter, but he went down gagging and spluttering.

"Bitch!" the other club man snarled, and swung the pipe above his head.

"Bad tactics," Sarah said mildly, and lashed out with her leg. The heel of her boot met the soft flesh of his groin with a meaty thud! The man crashed to his knees, too stunned with pain to scream.

Raeder watched his pair as they advanced. The man with the chain spun it in lazy loops, passing it from hand to hand expertly. Damn, Peter thought. Chain can make even a geek with no forehead dangerous. It also makes a nasty wound. I need a weapon. 

"Hello, weapon," he said, spinning toward the man with the club. A clumsy overarm slash with the pipe gave him a wrist, and the artificial hand gripped it just fine. Better than fine, in fact; the same surge of strength that shattered glasses crushed the small bones into pulp. The thug's face went purple, contorting with a pain too great for a scream. In the same motion Raeder leaned over, got the sole of his boot in the armpit of the wounded attacker, and heaved—releasing the wrist at the same time.

The ex-club wielder catapulted through the air. The man with the chain saw him coming, tried to dodge . . . and they crashed together, ending up in a writhing heap around which the chain clattered and whipped, driven by its own momentum.

Raeder stepped up to the chain-wrapped bundle, grabbed both by the hair, and bashed their heads together as hard as he could.

It always works on vid, he thought, curious to see what effect it would have in real life. Just as advertised, he thought happily as the two men hit the floor and stayed down.

He turned to see how Sarah was doing just in time to watch her toe daintily connect with a kneeling man's chin. The man's eyes glazed and he fell over backward in impressively slow motion.

"Well done, ma'am," Raeder said, meaning it.

"Thank you, kind sir," she replied.

Sarah glanced at the man before her, then moved to the other one she'd taken out. She leaned over him, then snapped upright with a gasp. "My God! He's dead!" she said in horror.

Raeder kneeled down and checked the man's pulse at his throat. "Yes," he said, standing. "And we will be, too, if we don't get out of here." Their attackers were beginning to stir.

She took a deep breath and tore her eyes away from the man she'd killed.

"Yeah," she said grimly.

He took her arm and urged her to come with him. Frowning, Sarah took one last look around, shook her head, and allowed him to lead her away.

She was quiet for a time, then she said, "I've been mugged a couple of times."

"Sorry to hear it," Raeder said, looking at her thoughtful face.

"This was different. Usually there's a lot of `Hey, girlie,' and stuff like that. Like they're trying to buck each other up. You hurt them a little, and they go away." She shook her head. "But they didn't do that. It was like a job! Just like they'd been assigned a task and were out to perform it." Sarah looked up at Raeder to see what he thought.

"That was my impression, too," he agreed. "Except I can't think of anybody who would do such a thing."

"Well, they were after you," she said, giving him a poke. "You're the bad boy of the hour."

"My call sign," Raeder said, sounding pleased. "How did you know?"

"You're a pilot?" She looked surprised.

Obviously the lieutenant commander was as aware of me as I was of her until tonight. He'd have to see what could be done to rectify that. "Yeah," he said. "I flew a Speed till about a year ago. Then I got injured." He held up his artificial hand. "And had to re-educate myself."

Her face took on the expression of a polite person who's just been introduced to someone's pet slug.

"What?" Raeder asked, feeling defensive.

"Oh, nothing," Sarah said quickly. "I just . . . usually don't get along with Speed pilots."

"Oh, really?" he said quickly.

"Well," she said, still struggling to be polite, "they're different from us WACCIs. A breed apart," she offered.

The whole time she'd been speaking, Peter had felt her withdrawing and he was embarrassed and annoyed. "But Lieutenant Commander," he said carefully, "I've been thoroughly humbled. I'm physically incapable of flying a Speed. What more could you possibly want?"

"Hey!" she snapped. "Don't put words in my mouth or attribute thoughts to me that I'm not having. If you want to feel sorry for yourself, you're on your own."

Congratulations, Raeder, he thought, watching her departing back. That boyish charm works another miracle.

He started after her and in a few moments caught up. But Sarah was looking straight ahead, anger sparking in her eyes and he was suddenly too tired to speak. It's been a long, emotional day, he warned himself. You'd probably only say the wrong thing. 

Although, a deep instinct informed him, silence can be misinterpreted, too. 

Oh, God, Raeder thought, this is too complicated. I just want to go to bed. And let the world and all its troubles roll on without him.

 

Raeder dropped his other boot and sat on the edge of his bunk for a moment, too weary to even pull off his socks. They'd reported the attack to the civilian side of the checkpoint, and had, most sympathetically, been sucked into one of those form-filling nightmares that are so often included in art films about the dehumanization of the common man.

Civil Security had seemed genuinely distressed about the incident and kept apologizing and exclaiming until Raeder actually believed them when they said, "This sort of thing doesn't happen here. I mean, where would they escape to?"

Which is a very good point, Peter thought wearily.

They accepted the offer of an escort back to the ship and parted company with an exhausted "Good night," accompanied by wry smiles and shrugs. There wasn't much time for sleep before they were both back on duty.

Hey, she's a big girl, he thought. She certainly doesn't need my help to find her bunk. But he had enjoyed her company. And he minded very much that she'd just shut down on him like that. Oh, well. It's not like I don't have other things to think about. He rubbed his head. If only I could think. 

His comm chimed and he let down his desk and pressed receive. The thin screen on the wall lit up to show one of the station's security people, and Peter suppressed a groan.

"I'm sorry to call so late," the sergeant said. "But I thought you'd like to know. The man killed was a freelancer working here as a cargo handler. His documents were very good forgeries, or I assure you he never would have made it onto the station. I wish I could tell you more." The woman shrugged her brawny shoulders. "But he doesn't seem to be affiliated with anyone. He was even scheduled to be laid off by the company he works for. Which would have meant that he would automatically be sent home. Home in this case being Wildcat." A frigid little outpost known primarily for being left behind.

"When was he scheduled to leave?" Raeder asked.

"Tomorrow," she told him, looking grim.

"You might—"

"Want to check to see if any of his companions are aboard? Yes, sir, we'd thought of that," she said primly.

"Sorry," he said. "I'm too tired to be giving anybody advice."

"Good night, sir. I hope we'll have something more to tell you tomorrow."

He just waved and hit the cutoff. Then he flopped sideways onto his bed, asleep before his head hit the pillow.

 

"Imbeciles!" the masked one shouted. "Fools, Morons! Apostates! What was in your feeble brains?"

"We meant well, Acolyte," Fly-from-Sin Stoops said placatingly. He was angry with himself for groveling, but he was more afraid than angry. The Acolyte could order him to kill himself and he would have to do it or suffer the torments of hell forever. "It seemed that the death of this officer would be devastatingly demoralizing."

"Yes, it would," the masked Acolyte agreed. "But it would also be devastatingly suspicious!" The last words were bellowed. "Our enemies are not brainless!" Implying that Fly-from-Sin was. "When they see that two different officers from the same ship, employed in the same position have met their death in a very short time, they're going to wonder about it. Aren't they, Stoops?"

The masked and hooded figure on the screen paused and Fly-from-Sin murmured a resentful "Yes, Acolyte."

"Oh, thank you for agreeing," the Acolyte sneered. "I feel sooo much better now." The dark figure paused, then hissed, "He is my prey, just as the Invincible is my task, not yours, to execute as I see fit. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Acolyte."

"Gooood. This incident will, of course, have to be reported to the Interpreters."

"Oh . . ." Fly-from-Sin said, one hand raised in supplication.

"It is results, and not intentions, that bring us to paradise," the Acolyte said silkily. "You must pray, Fly-from-Sin. And if your supplications are heard, your penance will no doubt be light. But for now, and forever, Stoops, stay out of my way."

The screen went dark and Fly-from-Sin stood shaking, his lower lip trembling uncontrollably. Finally he broke and, dropping to his knees, wept bitterly for the punishment he would receive. Whatever it was, it would be horrible. And no more than he deserved.

"Scourge me, Mighty One," he muttered, licking his lips with a complexity of emotions that his mind refused to analyze. "Make me worthy. Scourge me!"

 

Raeder felt as though he were trembling, yet there was no sign of it when he glanced surreptitiously at his left hand. Still, there was an unpleasant quavering feeling beneath the skin. He glanced around the hearing room. Everything was so exactly the same that last night might have been a dream.

Except that he now recognized Lieutenant Commander Sarah James, who met his gaze with cool professionalism, broken only by a fleeting smile before she looked away. He turned back to the front of the room with an inward sigh. Well, there was a brief idyll. 

"Ten hup!" the sergeant-at-arms barked. His order was instantly followed by the sound of human bodies springing to their feet and to attention, nervous systems responding even before their minds interpreted the command.

The committee filed in and solemnly took their seats. There was a brief pause after they were seated, almost as though no one wanted to speak. Then the vice admiral turned her cold eyes upon them.

"Due to the lack of hard evidence of any malfeasance," she said carefully, "this board is forced to submit a finding of causes unknown in relation to the incident under examination. The prisoner, Second Lieutenant Cynthia Robbins, is ordered released from custody. She may return to her duties. Thank you all for your testimony." She banged the gavel on its board. "This committee is adjourned." The board rose as one, looking as though they had just ordered an execution, and filed out silently.

Raeder had risen with the board, as had everyone else, but he was light years distant from his surroundings. He'd had an almost perfect record until this moment. A finding of "causes unknown" was tantamount to saying, "We know you're guilty, but we can't prove it." It was the black mark that essentially ended his career.

Unless I can find out who, if anyone, sabotaged Givens' Speed, this is it. Game over. He could feel Robbins' eyes on him, but at the moment he hadn't a thought to spare for her. From behind him he could feel the weight of the squadron's hostile stare. Not guilty, your honors, his mind shouted. And I'll prove it to you or die trying. 

The Invincible had completed her shakedown cruise under circumstances that would have sent her back to the dockyard in peacetime. This wasn't peacetime, and nobody was going to let a worked-up capital ship sit idle. He might very well die trying, and was even more likely to die if he didn't succeed in finding the person or persons who had constituted themselves the Invincible's own private hoodoo.

 

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