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CHAPTER TWELVE

The cheering started on the bridge. It spread throughout Invincible as the image of a miniature sun blossoming in orbit around the gas giant flashed from screen to screen. The sound ran down the corridors, a wolfish howl of triumph and relief.

Peter Raeder joined in for an instant, his exultation seasoned with a pardonable pride. It was my idea, after all, he thought, slightly smug.

Then he realized what that blossoming sun must mean for the Speeds who'd pushed the plasma around the Fibian battlecruiser past critical. "Like being next door to a Solar Phoenix bomb!" he said.

His feet hit the deck seconds before the alarm klaxons began to howl. He reached the flight deck and latched the helmet of his vacuum-and-decontamination suit; once through the airlock the giant chamber already had the bright, hard-edged look that meant the atmosphere had been pumped out. When the great doors swung open to space, only enough remained to feebly twitch at a few stray scraps of paper or foil, starting them on a very slow journey to nowhere among the stars. The nameless gas giant swung by outside, beautiful and terrible in swirling reds and blues and greens, its ring an arch across heaven. The expanding ball of superheated gas that was the Fibian ship—had been the Fibian ship—was just barely visible to the naked eye.

Raeder and all of his people waited in their decontamination suits. He licked lips salty with sweat; a lot of energetic particles were fogging around out there, from weapons, drives, and what was left of warships after they went to Einstein's Heaven. As the last of the Speeds limped home and the great outer doors closed, he overrode the safety lock that would have kept them waiting outside Main Deck until the air pressure equalized. A crackle ran through his suit systems as the grapple fields shut down. More energetic particles.

But we're all in suits, so it doesn't apply, Raeder thought grimly.

What applied was getting those pilots out of their craft and down to sick bay ASAP. The Speeds could wait, though their tattered look wrenched at his heart. Paths were melted through their ablative coating, showing shiny and slick where metal and ceramic had fused under the pulsing impact of plasma bursts or the sharper laser swords. Frames were distorted, sometimes visibly bent where near-misses had tumbled them. The mathematically neat puncture wounds of high-velocity kinetic rounds disguised the melted chaos beneath. And overriding everything was the droning warning of radiation detectors. That enormous, dirty fusion explosion had pumped out a lot of energetic quanta. They'd sleeted through the Speeds, unstoppable by shield fields at that point-blank range, ripping through tissue and producing a storm of secondary radiation whenever they struck metal.

Anyone with even minimal first-aid training, Raeder included, had been drafted to help. This was a medical emergency greater than even the most pessimistic had planned for and there was some doubt that there would be enough regeneration tanks.

Well, it won't be hard to identify the ones that need them most, Peter told himself. Severe radiation burns sort of spoke up for themselves. He drew his lips back from his teeth in a parody of a grin when he saw Givens' Speed. Half the right lobe was missing, and components showed naked through sheered plating; the port thruster cone looked like something had taken a bite out of it. How the hell did he even get it to fly? he wondered. That man is an amazing pilot, Peter thought with deep respect, and started his team forward.

Givens hadn't lowered his ramp, so Raeder tapped in the override code on his remote, then leapt aboard as soon as there was room for him to enter.

Givens lolled in his chair, his helmeted head dropped forward onto his breast. Peter gently raised the pilot's head until he could see through the faceplate. And wished he hadn't. Givens opened his eyes slowly and after a second registered who stood above him.

The lieutenant gasped. "Are you trying to kill me?" he demanded suspiciously.

"No." Raeder said. "I'm going to take you to sick bay. Hang on. Moving you is going to hurt, but we'll do this as quickly as we can." Thank God for regeneration tanks, he thought fervently. Less than thirty years ago a man in Givens' condition would have been dead in two harrowing days.

Givens fainted before they got him down the ramp. Which is just as well, Peter thought. It was necessary to strip him of his suit and helmet before he was sealed into the special gurney they would be using to transport him. And I'd hate to think of what he'd be going through if he was awake. Screaming, for starters. Patches of skin were coming away with the suit, and there was no time to be gentle.

The burns were extensive. Raeder glanced around quickly. It looked like every Speed had borne a casualty home, though most were at least able to walk with aid. They'd finished with Givens and closed up the life-support bubble that would maintain him until he could be slipped into the regeneration tank.

"Good luck, Lieutenant," Raeder murmured as one of the techs guided the floater off to sick bay. Then he turned to the next Speed and the next casualty.

 

"All in all," Lieutenant Commander (Medical Corps) Goldberg concluded, "things weren't as bad as they seemed at first. We've been able to utilize two of our units to aid the less wounded without having to stint those in need of more intensive care. Everyone is progressing normally. And despite the understandable grief over lost colleagues, morale is better than anticipated. I expect to be able to discharge the first two by week's end." The doctor folded his hands before him and beamed at the captain like a bright schoolboy who knows he deserves a pat on the back.

"Excellent, Dr. Goldberg. Thank you—and your staff—for doing an amazing job," Knott said with a warm smile, offering the man the support he deserved. He didn't know exactly what logistic and technical miracles the doctor had pulled off to be able to make that bland, positive report, but the captain was aware that they'd happened. The specs allowed for almost the number of the serious casualties they'd actually had to treat. A less capable physician would have been overwhelmed.

Certainly Goldberg had lifted the spirits of Knott's other heads of staff. They looked far less tired already. Even Raeder, whom the captain expected to make a most unwelcome report.

It was extremely regrettable that Goldberg had been unable to save the last surviving Fibian. "Have you anything to report on the alien?" Knott asked.

Dr. Goldberg was shaking his head. "I'm sorry, sir," he said, and meant it. "But there's been no time to perform an autopsy. The most obvious cause of death was the wound in its thorax." The doctor gestured to a corresponding part of his chest. "We were unable to seal it, and as yet we don't know what internal damage had been done."

"And it never said anything except for . . ." Knott consulted his noteboard, "`You have killed me, there will be vengeance, you will pay'?" he asked.

"Not that we could understand," Goldberg said. "It seemed to be speaking in its own language for a time. Whatever it was saying seemed too organized to be sounds of pain. We have a recording of all the sounds it made. Shall I forward a copy to you, sir?"

"Yes, please," the captain said.

"They were genuinely expecting to be rescued," Major Hadji said slowly.

Knott glanced over at him. The man should still be in the hospital, but he'd insisted that he be allowed to attend the debriefing.

"What made you think so, Major?" Raeder asked.

"When the Mollies blew the door, the prisoners struggled to get away. Finally they overwhelmed their guards and rushed for their allies. But the Mollies just cut them down. In fact, I would go so far as to say that was the reason they stood for so long. They wanted to be sure they'd killed the Fibians." Hadji shook his head. "They concentrated their fire on them. It's the only reason I'm alive, in my opinion."

The captain nodded thoughtfully. "And the Fibians were aware of this?"

"The one we tried to save was," the major said positively. He shifted in his chair, but allowed himself no other sign of discomfort.

"I sort of thought that those reports of the Interpreters giving `traitors to the Ecclesia' to the Fibians to consume as food were just propaganda," Raeder said. "But if it is true, it certainly fits the Mollie profile to have them turn on the Fibians instead of their leaders."

It was obvious that everyone around the table agreed, and from the thoughtful expressions they wore, they wondered how this incident would affect Mollie-Fibian relations.

Knott turned the corners of his mouth down.

"If the Fibians did have some way of knowing what happened to their people," he observed, "it's very likely they'd approve. I doubt they'd want us to get ahold of any prisoners."

"Though it would, indeed, fit the—Mollie profile—as Commander Raeder terms it, to fear and despise these aliens," the doctor said. "I've always been astonished that they were able to bring themselves to form an alliance with the Fibians in the first place."

"I didn't much warm to them myself," Major Hadji murmured.

"Commander Raeder," the captain said, "your report, please."

"Our decontamination procedures are now completed," Peter announced. "And I'm pleased to report that everything went very smoothly. None of my people suffered any accidents, all of the contaminated materials were safely sealed up and await disposal. Lieutenant Robbins and I have worked out a plan whereby we can salvage seven of our most severely damaged Speeds by cannibalizing four that were too damaged to repair, leaving us with a total of twenty-six more or less operable, although our supply of spares is dangerously low." Raeder pursed his lips. "It was an expensive victory, sir."

"Still, I am certain," Knott said, looking around the table, "that our superiors will be pleased by this action." He smiled at the major. "Especially Lieutenant Slater's little coup. Mike Fleet is of even more immediate value to us than the Fibians would have been."

Yeah, Raeder thought, because he's a "businessman." And you can always bargain with "businessmen." 

"Sir," Peter said, "the Mollie Speeds that the Marines brought to us have several unfamiliar components. I'd like your permission for either myself or Lieutenant Robbins to interview the engineers that we took prisoner."

"Permission granted," the Captain said. "Mr. Booth, you will allow the commander and the lieutenant reasonable access to the prisoners."

"Yes, sir," Booth said. His eyes glittered as he looked Raeder over.

"If there's no other business?" Knott said. Heads were shaken all around the table. "Then this meeting is adjourned."

* * *

Wayfarer of the Spirit Compton's knees were trembling, and he thanked the Spirit of Destiny that his rich gray robes hid their humiliating betrayal. Though for all he knew the wretched Fibian abomination could see right through the fabric to his naked body. He shuddered. The last execution he'd attended was all too vivid in his mind, and there was something always in the Fibians' digestive sacs. He carefully refrained from looking too closely.

But to the Mollie guards posted at the Fibian ambassador's doorway, the Interpreter's face wore an expression of lofty calm, and his demeanor was one of utter confidence. They swept the doors open for him, not bothering to knock. All doors must open to the Interpreters of the Perfect Way.

"Ah," Zoo'dec said to his aide in Fibian, "I wondered when they would send someone."

The two Fibians watched the Interpreter's approach, observing with their ultraviolet-capable eyes the effect his fear was having on his body temperature.

"It does not appear that he is bringing us good news, Ambassador," Leksk, his aide observed.

"No, indeed. I imagine he expects us to tear him to pieces and eat him," Zoo'dec said in tones of amusement. "You know, Leksk, some of our clan brothers actually dislike humans. But I do not! I quite love them. They are absolutely delicious."

Leksk snapped his stinger whip with delight at the ambassador's witticism, and the human stopped dead, several meters from them, his weirdly colored flesh turning still more pale.

Wayfarer barely controlled his bladder as the alien threatened him with its cruel lash. Yet, he told himself, if it is the will of the Spirit of Destiny that I should suffer . . . the Interpreter swallowed with difficulty, then I must endure. He bowed to the monsters, a gesture of terror rather than respect.

"Welcome Interpreter," Zoo'dec said to the Mollie. He had no idea which of them the messenger was. Doubtless someone of low importance, or perhaps someone deserving of punishment. These Mollies seemed to enjoy nothing so much as abusing one another. He could not imagine how a species so obsessed with contrasurvival trivia had survived, never mind prospered sufficiently to make it into space. Fibians fought each other, of course. For territory, power, booty, and the opportunity of their clans to grow. Not for . . . nonsense, he decided. It was as close as his language could come to the concept he was groping for.

He decided to wait until the messenger spoke.

"I . . . bear grave news, Ambassador," Wayfarer managed to choke out.

"How unfortunate for you," Zoo'dec observed.

Wayfarer closed his eyes and ran a quick prayer through his mind.

"Ambassador, the four representatives that you sent to our advanced listening post . . ." The Interpreter stopped, quite unable to go on.

"Yes, Interpreter," Zoo'dec said encouragingly.

"They have been killed, and the base overrun by our enemies," Wayfarer finished. He swayed on his feet, feeling a desperate lack of oxygen.

"Yes, I know," the Ambassador said. "Come closer," he said. "I would show you something."

Somehow Wayfarer managed to force himself to approach the two . . . beasts that watched him so avidly. Spare me, he prayed desperately, O Spirit of Destiny. That I may serve you and atone for my miserable sins. 

The ambassador turned a reader toward the trembling human and started it running.

"This was taken by one of our representatives," Zoo'dec said.

Wayfarer stared at the screen. It was difficult to make anything of it at first. The colors were all wrong and the camera was moving rapidly. He saw what looked like human limbs flashing and Fibian arms and legs. Then the view turned suddenly and rushed with amazing speed toward a doorway. Through the smoke he discerned Mollie soldiers. No! he shouted in his mind, too paralyzed to speak it. The soldiers fired and the recording ended.

Zoo'dec watched the petrified human, enjoying his terror. Then he decided to break its tension before the creature stained itself. That was the one thing he did dislike about them. They stank. Once he had known a female who would have enjoyed that. But then, she was as debauched as she was beautiful.

"They were pouchlings, nothing more," the ambassador said dismissively. "Your people did right to kill them. We would not want our people to be taken prisoner." Though Zoo'dec doubted that the Mollies on site had notions of Fibian expediency in mind when they opened fire.

"Everyone was supposed to die," Wayfarer stammered. "But somehow, the explosives were never set off. Those of our people who were taken will be damned, their names stricken from the roles of the blessed."

Zoo'dec found this offering pathetic. He could not help but think that these creatures were meant to be prey. And soon would be.

"They are insanely superstitious," Leksk said in Fibian.

"But very tasty," Zoo'dec answered him.

Leksk's stinger whip quivered, but he kept it from snapping.

"We are gratified," Zoo'dec said politely to the Interpreter. "Nothing more need be said of this incident. Though, of course," he continued smoothly, "it can never be forgotten."

"No," Wayfarer husked, his terror not lessened one whit.

"We have kept you from your duties too long, Interpreter. Please do not allow us to detain you any longer." Doubtless there were subordinates somewhere waiting to be beaten and humiliated. Which seemed the primary pastime of this very odd people.

"Thank you, Ambassador," Wayfarer said, bowing and backing hastily away. "And . . . thank you."

"You are most welcome, Interpreter," Zoo'dec said to the closing door and the white, terrified face disappearing behind it.

"Perhaps," Leksk said, "we should have offered it some refreshment."

"Perhaps," Zoo'dec responded, "we should have made it our refreshment."

They snapped their stingers in mirth. Leksk opened a cupboard. Yowls and squeals sounded from within. The humans and their kindred life-forms had a biochemistry full of pleasant surprises. These minor predators were almost as tasty as the dominant species, and much more agile.

"Dessert!" Leksk said, opening the cage door. "Let's catch it!"

* * *

It's a small thing, the Mollie infiltrator thought. No one's going to get seriously hurt. Which was some cause for regret. But even the smallest step on the path of service to the Ecclesia was another step toward transcendence. And so, even this little thing brought a warm glow of accomplishment. But there is greater work to come. It was to be a busy day. And this makes a fine beginning. 

The Mollie was wearing a decontamination suit, and a better disguise could not be had. Not only did it protect the agent from the toxic materials stored here, but the suits were everywhere in this area, making everyone equally anonymous. The bulky folds and opaque faceplate hid the gender, build, and features of the wearer; all that was revealed was one's height. And even that was deceptive.

The infiltrator held a small heat-gun, hidden by the suit's bulky glove. The heat-gun would be used to loosen the seals put on the contaminated waste brought in from Main Deck and held here awaiting disposal. There were an amazing number of dangerous substances stored here. Ideas and daydreams floated through the agent's mind, bursting like soap bubbles as the Mollie weighed risk against gain.

This will have to do, the agent thought with a sigh. Small things are often best. Ah, here they are. The barrels were well sealed, neatly stacked. A very creditable job. Pity. 

Working quickly, the infiltrator reached through the stacked barrels as far as possible and ran the heat gun around the small part of the seal that could be reached. Then the agent moved on, using the gun on two others.

No more, the Mollie thought reluctantly. I mustn't be self-indulgent. That would lead to suspicion. Which was to be expected, of course, at least in some quarters. But the goal here was to make the common spacer doubt him or herself and their colleagues. If they will not turn their thoughts to paradise, let the unbelievers think on their sorrows. 

 

Second Lieutenant Cynthia Robbins strode down the corridor toward the room where she would be interviewing the Mollie engineer prisoners. The fixed scowl on her face matched the acid churning in her stomach, where today's lunch—ham, scrambled eggs, hash-browns and what Hydroponics laughingly claimed were green beans—sat like a lump of reactor-core titanium wave guide.

She was very unhappy about being required to do these interviews. Commander Raeder knew very well that she could barely get the people under her command to speak to her. How in the scattered worlds of the Commonwealth was she supposed to get the enemy—Mollies, at that—to open up? Supposedly only an engineer could interrogate engineers.

They should get that idiot Security chief to do this. Let him be useful for once. At least it would distract him while people with real jobs got on with them.

But most of all, Cynthia was unhappy about the hulking guard who shadowed her footsteps. He was there for "her protection," she'd been told by the officious Security officer she'd signed in with. And maybe he was. But his presence felt like an insult. Though under Booth's tutelage half the security force could make "Good morning," sound like something you ought to fight a duel over.

They reached the interrogation room and she stood before it waiting. Nothing happened. The corridor remained neutral gray in either direction, broken only by the black outlines of doors and the slight convex shape of the control pad set into each. She turned to look at Kansy, her guard. He looked at her. They were almost eye to eye. Probably because he has no neck, she thought.

"Would you open this, please?" she said quietly.

"I don't have a key, sir."

And no forehead, either. But it wasn't his fault; it was hers for not requesting a key, and it was the desk sergeant's for not issuing one. Just a little oversight, I'm sure. 

"Then you had better go get one from the sergeant," she said evenly.

"I'm supposed to watch you, sir. Those are my orders."

"If you're implying that I should walk back to the front desk with you, MP, you're wasting your time. You will go and get the key, and I will wait here for you." She paused. He didn't move. "I will give you five minutes." His face was as expressionless as stone. And probably about as thoughtful. 

"I have orders, sir," Kansy explained, a hint of desperation creeping into his bright blue eyes.

And I thought Givens was a Neanderthal. "I am a lieutenant, MP. I outrank the sergeant. Therefore my orders take prec-" she'd been about to say precedence "—priority," she finished, going for a smaller word. "So you have to do what I say." She thought he looked like he might cry. "The clock is ticking, MP."

"But . . . I . . ."

"I'm locked out," she said as gently as she could. "There's nothing I can do but wait for you." He opened his mouth as if to speak and then shut it again. "So get moving, Kansy, or I'll have you on report!" she shouted.

A look almost of relief passed over his thick features and he snapped off a "Yes, sir!" saluted, and marched off.

Where did they get him? she wondered. Obviously he passed the breathe in, breathe out, congratulations you're an MP test. She was glad she'd stumbled onto the right method of motivating him. With some people gentleness just confused the issue.

He came back over eight minutes later. Which, since it's a two-minute walk, means there was probably a lot of fuss and bother going on. Certainly Kansy's honest face was quite flushed.

He opened the door without speaking and stood aside to let her enter.

"You're coming in?" she asked.

"No, sir. I'm to watch the door."

"Watch it from the inside," she snarled, her brown eyes daring him to argue.

She sat in the chair provided and he took up a parade rest stance in front of the door.

The room was gray, small, which was to be expected, and divided in half by a thick plastic wall. It smelled very faintly of ozone, like any spacecraft, and even more faintly of fresh sealant and coating; this was a new ship, although it was rapidly getting a disproportionate share of experience. There was a table with three chairs on the far side of it and a table and one chair on her side. No one was seated in the other side of the room.

Cynthia waited. After five minutes she said, "Where are the prisoners?"

"I don't know, sir." But from the tone of his voice, Kansy had been wondering, too.

"Go and tell them to bring in the prisoners," Cynthia said firmly. She looked over her shoulder at him. He blinked. "There's no point in your watching me sit here staring into an empty room, you know." He blinked again. "The captain ordered Mr. Booth to allow us to speak to the prisoners."

That did it: mention of the captain juxtaposed with the word "orders" was irresistible.

"I'll go see what the problem is, sir," Kansy said, and saluted.

She briskly returned it. He left and she turned around to stare sourly into the empty half of the room.

 

The flesh-foam and wig felt odd to the Mollie, a bit smothering, and a little hot as well. The agent worried about sweating; there was a limit to what the foam could absorb. It might be noticed, and this would only work if no one took notice. The infiltrator was disguised as a singularly stupid MP named Kansy.

I must remember to lumber as I walk, the Mollie thought sarcastically. A vision of the neckless MP answering questions about what was going to happen amused the agent almost to the point of laughter. Lapse not into frivolity, the ancient quoted severely.

Getting into the brig area had been surprisingly easy once the front desk area was passed. The sergeant on duty actually ignored "Kansy" when he walked by. And the thumb scanner had been compromised weeks ago with the agent's own capillary pattern included under the name Kansy. Later, when this was over, it would be a simple matter to remove the extra name and pattern.

These Welters are weak, undisciplined, and foolish. We shall drive them out; we shall break them and fling them mewling back to their own planets. Perhaps in isolation they would find their way to the true path. The agent doubted it, but certainly as things were the Welters had no hope whatsoever of salvation.

Ah. Here we are. The door was numbered thirteen. According to superstition, a most unlucky number, the agent thought, running key cards through the door's key slot. The final one worked and the door clicked open. And I see that it is true. The false Kansy stepped into the room, almost closing the door behind.

"Who the hell are you?" Mike Fleet demanded. He'd been lying on his bunk, but he sat up and swung his feet to the floor at the intrusion.

"I'm your contact, Mr. Fleet. Do you mind if I sit down?" The agent pulled a chair out from under the small table that extruded from the wall and sat, not waiting for permission.

"This is bullshit. I don't know who you are," Fleet said in contempt. "You send some no-neck in here to mouth some mumbo jumbo and I'm supposed to spill my guts. Whaddayou people think I am, some fool?"

The agent had drawn out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He put them down on the small table and made a complicated gesture.

Fleet's eyebrows went up. He responded, with a more subtle movement, and received the correct countersign.

"I'll be damned," Fleet said.

Without the slightest doubt, the agent thought.

"How did you get in here?" the criminal asked in wonder. "And what the hell do you want?" he demanded in a flatter tone.

"I want you to know that we are still watching over your welfare," the agent said. "Obviously there's nothing we can do to help you now, but rest assured we won't let you languish in Welter hands for long. We find your services much too valuable to jeopardize our relationship."

Fleet leaned back against the wall, looking very gratified.

"So, you're gonna bust me out?" he asked.

"We would hardly let one of our allies rot in a Welter jail," the agent assured him. The Mollie glanced at the time. "I must go. You may not see me again. But remember, I'm watching over you."

"Don't watch me," Fleet said in exasperation. "Get me outta here." His small eyes narrowed. "Or my people will make your Interpreters sorry they was ever born."

"We are all sorry that we are born," the Mollie said gently. "To descend from spirit to the flesh is a great punishment." One never knows, perhaps in extremity he will hear and understand. 

"Can the bullshit," Fleet said contemptuously. "Just get my ass outta here!"

I tried. "Your people will have no cause for complaint. I must go." The agent suited actions to words, pulling the door closed behind him gently.

Fleet fairly leapt on the highly illegal cigarettes the Mollie had left on the table. He hadn't had one in days and his craving was almost uncontrollable. He lit one and took a deep drag, feeling the heated smoke fill his lungs. Ahhh, that's gooood, he thought rapturously. The goddamn Welters took my last pack and those rotten Mollies wouldn't let me smoke on their precious base. Not even in my own goddamn room. He froze and looked at the cigarette pack in his hand. They don't smoke, he thought.

Fleet tried to let out his pent breath and couldn't. He clawed at his throat and beat on his chest to no avail. Numbness began to spread in a tingling wave throughout his body and he dropped to his knees. He couldn't raise his hands anymore. He was smothering and his face felt tight and his eyes wanted to bulge out.

Help me! he thought, but couldn't say. Help . . . me . . . 

One of the most dangerous crime lords in the Commonwealth crashed onto his face, twitched helplessly for several minutes, and then lay still, his eyes wide open, lips purple, and just a tiny amount of blood flowing from his open mouth.

The door clicked open and the Mollie agent entered, tested for a pulse. Finding none, the infiltrator picked up the cigarettes and lighter and left. Leaving the door wide open.

 

"You are a harlot."

Hardly, Cynthia thought. I couldn't get laid on this tub if I were paying. This was useless. She'd been here for nearly an hour, not including the waiting time, and all they wanted to do was criticize her sex life. As if I had one. 

"This is a complete waste of time," she said at last. "I have no idea why they wanted me to talk to you people. We might have known you wouldn't have anything useful to say."

"We have much that is useful to say, whore," the biggest of the Mollie engineers said. "But you have not the ears to hear it."

"That's right," she said crisply. "I'm not obsessed with sex."

Their jaws dropped open simultaneously and their eyes bugged out. They looked like a cluster of baby owls. It was all she could do to keep from laughing.

"Good day, gentlemen," Cynthia said. Without another word, she rose and left the room with Kansy in tow.

There was an open door along the corridor and she glanced in as she passed. She'd always found it impossible to resist looking through an open door. There was a body.

Cynthia acted without thought, rushing to the fallen man's side, even though she could tell to look at the horrible expression on his face that there was nothing to be done.

"He's dead," she announced, looking up at her guard.

Kansy was already talking to someone on his wrist comm. She heard someone say, "Stay there, don't touch anything." 

Oh great, she thought. I am never going to get back to Main Deck. 

Booth came charging through the door, thrusting the hapless Kansy aside ruthlessly.

"No!" he said in horror as he looked down at Fleet. "Get Goldberg down here!" Booth barked.

"There's no pulse," Robbins said.

"You!" Booth roared. "You did this!"

Cynthia's jaw dropped. "I did not! Why would I kill this man? I don't even know who he is."

"Oh, you know all right," he sneered, narrowing his eyes. "You're a Mollie spy, lady. I knew it the moment I saw you."

She spluttered for a moment at the sheer idiocy of it, particularly after this morning. "But there was someone with me almost the whole time," Cynthia protested, pointing at Kansy.

"Almost the whole time," Booth said significantly. "What does she mean by that?" he asked.

"Well, sir, I had to go get the key to the interrogation room and I was gone for about eight minutes. And then the prisoners didn't show up, so the lieutenant sent me to find out why. That took about maybe ten, twelve minutes." Poor Kansy looked miserable.

The strain of remembering something that took place over an hour ago must be awful for him, Cynthia thought, not without a trace of sympathy.

"So!" Booth said dramatically. "You had motive and opportunity."

"I had no motive whatsoever." You blockhead, she thought. "And I'm only in this area because I was ordered to be here. You might as well accuse Kansy."

The MP looked heart-struck. "No, sir," he protested. "I didn't do it."

"Of course you didn't, son," Booth reassured him. "It was Mata Hari, here. Rushing in to contaminate the crime scene like that. That was a dead giveaway."

"Are you out of your mind?" Robbins asked, honestly wondering if he was. "I saw a man on the floor and the natural impulse is to rush in and help."

"You could see that he's dead a mile off," Booth snarled.

"Well . . . yeah. When you get a good look at him, but I acted on impulse. You don't see that many dead bodies in my line of work."

"Oh, yeah?" Booth said quietly, moving in to loom over the slender flight engineer. "Well, we seem to

 

 

 

 

 

 

be accumulating a lot of bodies, Lieutenant. And they all have strings that tie them to you."

"He doesn't," Cynthia insisted, pointing down at Fleet. "I never saw him before in my life."

"And still you killed him. That's pretty cold-blooded," Booth said. "The lieutenant is under arrest," he said to Kansy. "Process her and put her in the cell next door. We don't want her anywhere near the other Mollie prisoners."

"I demand that you inform Commander Raeder," Cynthia said.

"Oh, I will," Booth said. "Personally."

 

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