“Corbigny, my lady.”
Michi turned to her desk again. “Page Lieutenant Corbigny as well.”
Martinez turned to Xi. “I don’t suppose Lieutenant Kosinic’s body is still on the ship.”
Xi looked at him. “As a matter of fact, the body’s in a freezer compartment. We didn’t cremate.”
“Perhaps you ought to take a look at it.”
Xi turned away, his gaze directed at the wall over Michi’s head. His lips pursed out, then in. “I should,” he said. “I wish I had when he died.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Michi answered for him. “Because the cause of death seemed so obvious. In the fighting at Harzapid, Kosinic suffered broken bones and head injuries. When he came on board, he insisted he was fit, but his report from the hospital stated he was subject to blinding headaches, vertigo, and fainting spells. When he was found dead, it seemed obvious that he’d fainted and hit his head.”
“Where was he found?”
“In the Flag Officer Station.”
Martinez was surprised. “What was he doing there alone?”
Michi hesitated. “Li and Coen told me he sometimes worked there by himself. It was less distracting than the wardroom.”
“Was he working on anything in particular?”
“He was tactical officer. I’d had him plan a full schedule of squadron maneuvers, concentrating on the defense of Zanshaa.”
Martinez turned at the sound of someone entering. Rigger Garcia came into the room and braced.
“Rigger/First Garcia reporting, my lady.”
“Thank you. Stand at ease, and take notes if you need to.”
Corbigny arrived a few seconds later, and seemed intimidated by the presence of the squadron commander. The slim, dark-haired young woman was the most junior lieutenant on the ship, and therefore got the jobs none of the other officers wanted. One of these was Military Constabulary Officer, which put her in theoretical charge of the ship’s police. If nothing else, supervising the Constabulary would give Corbigny a rapid education in the varieties of vice, depravity, and violence available to the average Fleet crouchback, an education desirable and probably necessary for her further development as an officer.
Garcia adjusted his sleeve display. “I’m recording, my lady.”
Michi spoke in quick, clipped phrases, as if she wanted to get it over quickly. “The lord doctor’s autopsy showed that Captain Fletcher was murdered. You’ll be taking charge of the investigation.”
Garcia’s eyes went wide at this, and Corbigny turned pale. When Garcia began to speak, Michi’s words continued without hesitation.
“Captain Fletcher’s office should be sealed off and subject to a minute examination. Look for fingerprints, traces of fabric or hair, anything that may have been carelessly dropped. Take particular care—”
“My lady!” Garcia said almost desperately.
Michi paused. “Garcia?”
“Fingerprints—hair analysis—I don’t know how to do any of that!” he said. “The Investigative Service is trained for that sort of thing, not the Constabulary!”
Martinez looked at the man in sudden sympathy. The Military Constabulary investigated cases of vandalism or petty theft, broke up brawls, or arrested crouchbacks drunk on wine brewed up in plastic bags they’d hidden in their lockers. Any technical investigation was well outside their strengths.
Michi’s lips thinned to a line. Her fingers drummed on her desktop a few times, and then she relaxed. “Perhaps I’ve been watching too manyDoctor An-ku dramas,” she said. “I thought there were professionals who handled this kind of thing.”
“There are, my lady,” Garcia said. “But none on this ship, I guess.”
Michi rubbed her forehead under her straight bangs. “I still want the office examined very carefully,” she said.
Dr. Xi had a smile behind his little white beard. He turned to Garcia. “I might be able to create some fingerprint powder out of materials I have in the pharmacy,” he said. “I’ll do the research and see what I can manage.”
“Good,” Michi said. “Why don’t you do that now, my lord?”
“Certainly.” Xi straightened his slouch slightly in salute and turned to leave. He hesitated, seeming to remember something, then reached into his pocket and took out a clear plastic box, the sort in which he probably kept samples.
“I took the captain’s jewelry from his body,” he said. “To whom should I give it?”
“I’m having an inventory made of the captain’s belongings,” Martinez said. “I’ll take the box, if you like.”
Martinez took it and looked through the plastic lid. Inside were a pair of rings, a heavy signet of enameled gold with the Fletcher and Gomberg crests interlinked, a smaller ring made of a kind of silver mesh, wonderfully intricate, and a pendant on a chain. He held the box to the light and saw that the pendant formed the figure of an ayaca tree in full flower and shimmered with fine diamonds, rubies, and emeralds.
“We should try to make a list of where everyone was during the critical hour,” Michi continued. “And if anyone was seen moving about.”
Again Garcia looked as if despair had him by the throat. “There are over three hundred people aboardIllustrious, my lady,” he said. “And I only have two staff.”
“Most of the crew would be asleep,” Michi said. “We’ll have the department heads make the reports, so you don’t have to interview everyone personally.”
“I’ll send the department heads instructions later today,” Martinez added.
Michi gave Garcia a level look. “Start now with a careful examination of the scene,” she said.
“Very good, my lady.”
He braced in salute and left, clearly relieved to have made his escape. Michi watched him go, then turned to Martinez. There was irony in the set of her smile.
“Any thoughts, Captain?”
“Three deaths,” Martinez said, “and I don’t see the connection. It would be better if there were only two.”
Her eyebrows rose. “How do you mean?”
“If it were only Kosinic and Fletcher killed,” Martinez said, “then I’d say the killer was someone with a grudge against officers. If it were only Thuc and Fletcher, I’d say that Fletcher had been killed by someone wanting revenge for Thuc. But with all three I don’t see anything to link them.”
“Perhaps thereis no connection.”
Martinez considered this notion. “I’d rather not believe that,” he decided.
Michi slumped in her chair and looked sidelong at the serene bronze seminude woman that Fletcher had installed in the corner, the one offering a bowl of fruit. Apparently she found no answers there, so she turned back to Martinez.
“I don’t know what else to do, so I’m going to have a cocktail,” she said. “Would you care to join me?”
Martinez began to accept, then hesitated. “Perhaps I’d better supervise Garcia in his efforts.”
“Perhaps.” Michi shrugged. “Let me know if you find anything.”
Martinez braced in salute, turned to leave, and then saw Sub-Lieutenant Corbigny, who had stood without speaking for the entire interview.
“Any questions, Lieutenant?” he asked.
Her eyes widened. “No, my lord.”
“You may leave,” Michi said. Corbigny braced and fled.
Martinez turned to leave again, then turned back. “Are we still doing an experiment tomorrow?” he asked.
“Postpone.”
“Very good, my lady.”
Very little was found in Fletcher’s office: Narbonne and the other servants simply kept it too clean. Crawling on hands and knees, Garcia and Martinez found several hairs that were placed in specimen flasks sent them by Dr.
