“Yes, my lady,” he said, glowing.
“Give me your captain’s key,” she said. He took his key from the elastic around his neck and handed it to her, and she slipped it into the slot on her desk and tapped codes into the desk.
“Your thumbprint, please?”
Martinez provided it. Michi returned the key to him, and he reattached it to the elastic and tucked it again into his uniform tunic.
“Congratulations, my lord,” said Fulvia Kazakov. She sat next to Martinez, across the desk from the squadcom. Her dark hair was knotted as usual behind her head, but she’d changed hurriedly afterIllustrious secured from quarters, and hadn’t had time to stick the usual pair of inlaid chopsticks through the knot.
“Thank you,” Martinez said, then realized he should try not to beam quite so much. “A shame it had to happen after such a tragedy,” he added.
“Quite,” Michi said. She touched her comm panel. “Is Garcia there yet?”
“Yes, my lady.” The voice of her orderly Vandervalk.
“Send him in.”
Rigger First Class Garcia entered and braced. Under the loose supervision of the military constable officer, Garcia was the head of the ship’s Constabulary, all three of them, and was a youngish man, a little plump, wearing a mustache. He had never been in the flag officer’s office before, at least to judge by the way his eyes kept turning to the ornamental fluted bronzed pillars, the bronze statues of naked Terran women holding baskets of fruit, and the murals filled with poised human figures sharing a landscape with fantastic beasts.
“You’ve finished your investigation?” Michi said.
“I’ve interviewed Captain Fletcher’s staff,” Garcia said. “I wasn’t able to see them all personally, but I was able to speak to them through comm when we were at quarters.”
“Report then.”
Garcia looked at his sleeve display, where he’d obviously stored the particulars. “The captain worked with Warrant Officer Marsden on ship’s business till about 2501 yesterday,” he said. “His orderly, Narbonne, was the last person to see him. He helped the captain undress, took his uniform to be brushed and his shoes to be polished. That was about 2526.”
Garcia gave a polite cough that indicated his willingness to be interrupted by a question, and when there was none, continued.
“Narbonne returned at 0526 this morning to wake the captain, bring him his uniform, and help him dress, but when he entered the captain’s room he saw that the captain wasn’t in his bed. He assumed Captain Fletcher was working in his office, so he hung the uniform by the bed and returned to the orderly room and waited to be called.
“A few minutes later the captain’s cook, Baca, brought Captain Fletcher’s breakfast into the dining room. The captain wasn’t there, but that wasn’t unusual, and Baca also withdrew.”
“Neither of them looked in the office?” Michi asked.
“No. The captain doesn’t—didn’t—like to be disturbed when working.”
“Continue.”
“About 0601 Baca returned and saw the captain’s breakfast hadn’t been touched. He knew we’d be going to quarters shortly, so he paged Captain Fletcher to see if he’d be wanting anything at all to eat, and when there was no answer, he went into the office and found the captain dead.”
Again Garcia coughed politely to provide a convenient break in his narrative, and this time Michi obliged him.
“What did Baca do then?”
“He paged Narbonne. Then he and Narbonne put their heads together and paged me.”
“You?” Martinez was startled. “Why did they page the Constabulary? Did they suspect foul play?”
Garcia seemed embarrassed. “I think they were afraid they might be blamed for the captain’s death. They wanted me there so I could…assure them they wouldn’t be held responsible.”
Martinez supposed that was plausible.
“I arrived on the scene at 0614,” Garcia continued. “The captain was cold and had clearly been dead for some time. I paged the doctor and a stretcher party, and then called Lady Michi.” His eyes turned to the squadcom. “You ordered me to conduct an investigation. I told Narbonne and Baca to return to the orderly room, and then waited for the doctor. Once the doctor and stretcher party arrived, Dr. Xi pronounced the captain dead and took the body to sick bay. I looked over the office and…well, it was obvious what happened.”
“And what happened was?” Michi prompted.
“Captain Fletcher got out of bed sometime during the night, went into his office, fell and hit his head. There was an obvious wound on his right temple, and the corner of his desk had some blood, hair, and a bit of skin adhering.” For some reason, Garcia had trouble pronouncing the word “adhering,” but he managed it on the third try.
“My suspicion is that the captain got caught off-balance during the course change early this morning. There was one at 0346. There was a moment of weightlessness, and then when acceleration resumed he was caught wrong-footed. Or maybe he was floating weightless in the room and resumption of gravity caught him by surprise. Dr. Xi might be able to confirm the timing.”
Michi saw his surprised look out of the corner of her eye. “Captain Martinez?” she said. “Did you have a question?”
Martinez was startled. “No, my lady,” he said quickly. “I just remembered that I woke during that course change. I wonder…if I heard something.”
He groped through his memory, but failed to grasp whatever it was that had brought him awake.
“It was most likely the zero-gravity alarm that woke you up,” Kazakov said.
“Very possible, my lady.”
Michi returned her attention to Garcia. “Was the captain dressed?” she asked.
“No, my lady. He wore pajamas, a dressing gown, and slippers.”
“I have no more questions,” Michi said. She glanced at Martinez and Kazakov. “Is there anything else?”
“I have a question,” Martinez said. “Did you take any notice of what the captain was working on?”
“Working?”
“If he was in his office, I’d suppose he’d be working.”
“He wasn’t working at anything. The display wasn’t turned on, and there were no papers on the desk.”
“Where was his captain’s key?”
Garcia opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “I don’t know, my lord.”
“Was it slotted into the desk?”
“I don’t think so.”
Martinez looked at Michi. “That’s all,” he said. “I think.”
Michi turned to the petty officer. “Thank you, Garcia,” she said.
He braced and made his way out. Michi gave Martinez a look. “That was good thinking, about the captain’s key. It’s got access to practically everything.” She turned to her desk and began entering codes. “I’ll cancel the key’s privileges.”
This proved to be unnecessary, as the next to report was Dr. Xi, who put Captain Fletcher’s key on the desk in front of the squadron commander. The strip of plastic was on an elastic band.
“I found this around his wrist,” Xi said.
Lord Yuntai Xi was a small man with a well-tended white beard, salt-and-pepper hair that hung over his collar, and a little potbelly. The Xi clan were clients of the Gombergs, and he had known the captain from boyhood. He spoke in a steady tenor voice, but there was sadness in his brown eyes.
“Because we’ve spent most of the last several hours at general quarters, I’ve been able to conduct only a superficial investigation. There is a substantial depression on the right side of the skull, and the skin is torn, and skull fracture is the obvious cause of death. There are no other wounds. I made a small incision under the ribs on the right side and inserted a thermometer into the liver, and from that I calculate that the time of death was 0401, plus or minus half an hour.”
Martinez noted that 0401 was only seven minutes after the change of course that might have caused the captain’s stumble and death.
