'Sir?' Sheriff Sharpe had one hand on Paul's arm. 'You're better off occupying your mind with something else, sir.'
'Meaning exploring for records.'
'That'd do, sir.'
'Remind me to listen to you next time.'
'Hey, sir, with that kind of learning curve you may make lieutenant junior grade, yet.'
Even though he was grateful for the distraction posed by Sharpe's banter, Paul still glowered at him. 'Let's head on down this way. The diagrams from our merchant shipping data base say the captain's quarters and the bridge should be over there.' Finding a hatch with a name embossed on it just off the bridge, Paul looked inside. The stateroom was empty, making it all the more likely this space belonged to the ship's captain, who must have been on the bridge while the SASAL ship was making its run on the Michaelson. 'I'll check the desk area.'
Paul had to pound on the desk and use one of his suit tools before he could yank open drawers that had already been frozen into place, hastily pocketing the data discs he found inside. Much of their content might have been damaged by vacuum and cold, but something might be recoverable. A picture fastened to the desk showed several people, doubtless the dead captain's relatives or family. Paul tried not to look at the picture as he rummaged for anything else that might constitute evidence. He added a few pages of printout in a foreign language, then turned to see Sharpe going through an open safe on another bulkhead. 'That was lucky.'
'What was lucky, sir?'
'That they left the safe open.'
'They didn't leave the safe open, sir.' Sharpe grinned conspiratorially. 'Certain talents come in handy in my line of work.'
'Good thing you're on our side, Sheriff. Anything good?'
'Your guess is as good as mine. Data discs, some foreign currency, and maybe a diary or personal log.'
'Take it all.' Paul swung slowly around, his light illuminating the bulkheads around him. 'What's that?'
Sharpe moved close to the locked panel, examined the lock for a moment, then Paul could see his head nod. 'Retinal-scan lock. Too hard to crack this one, sir. Request permission to pop it.'
The Captain told us to check everything. 'Permission granted.'
Sharpe yanked a round spool of material out of his suit's belt. He carefully unwound the cord making up the spool, revealing it to be about the thickness of a little finger, and pressed the cord against the outline of the door. When his work was complete, Sharpe brought out an object the size of his thumb, inserted it in one end of the cord, then twisted the end of the object. 'I'd look away if I was you, sir.'
Paul hastily averted his gaze. The bulkhead where he was looking danced with jagged reflections as the cord flared to life at the point where the fuse had been inserted. When the reflections stopped, Paul looked back, seeing a gap edged by white-hot metal where the outline of the door had been. Sharpe waited while the metal rapidly cooled, then pulled the door free.
Inside, a small compartment about a meter on each side and less than a half meter deep held a half-dozen hand weapons. Boxes of ammunition were fastened near each weapon. Sharpe moved one suited hand carefully around inside the compartment, checking for other objects, then moved back. 'Just the guns, sir.'
'Why would a scientific research ship have pistols on board?'
'Oh, lots of reasons, sir. But I'd bet the main reason was discipline. I don't know enough about crews on civilian ships to be sure, but it's not a wonderful life out here, sir. If somebody in the crew went off the deep end, you might need one of these to take him down. Or maybe suppress a mutiny.'
'Yeah. That makes sense. There's also those recurring rumors of pirates. I guess this would a cheap form of insurance against that, too.'
'That it would, sir, though I think space pirates are a threat confined to the average bad movie.'
'I agree. Do we need to take these?'
Sharpe moved his hand as if trying to scratch his head through the suit. 'Well, sir, they are weapons. But the only way you could use one of these against us would be by suiting up and firing out an opened airlock. Even then, I can't see them penetrating our hull.'
'Okay. Leave them for now. I'll ask the Chief Engineer later if we need to pick one up.' Paul hesitated, steeling himself. 'Let's get to the bridge.'
He managed to handle it by pretending he was moving through a particularly detailed horror scene manufactured for Halloween. Close to a dozen bodies in various states of damage were either strapped into chairs or hooked onto nearby tie-downs. Despite himself, Paul's gaze swept across one face, which despite the stresses of decompression still bore a visible expression of shock literally frozen into place. I guess we surprised them. 'I'm not finding anything, Sheriff.' Not surprising, really, that there was nothing loose to be found, since no one in their right mind wanted data discs or papers flying around a bridge when a ship maneuvered.
'Me neither, sir. Should I try tapping the central data system?'
'No. The chief engineer has some people with him who are responsible for that. Can you tell which one's the captain?'
Sharpe spread his hands. 'I'm sure he or she's in here. But these guys aren't wearing any rank that I can see.'
Paul tried to focus closely on the collars and sleeves of the corpses and avoid noticing any other details. 'No. I don't see any, either. There's four chairs here, but they've got identical control consoles in front of them.' He moved past the still-occupied chairs, nerving himself for brushing against the bodies, and peered closely at the consoles.
'Looking for something in particular, sir?'
'Yeah. Firing controls.'
'See any?'
'No. Not any dedicated ones. But that doesn't mean anything. These displays could have held virtual weapons control panels. There's no way to tell that, now, though.' Paul triggered a different communications circuit to talk to the chief engineer. 'Sir, this is Ensign Sinclair. We've finished going over the Captain's quarters and the bridge.'
'Did you find any weapons?'
'Yes, si-'
' You did?'
'Uh, yes, sir. A half-dozen hand weapons.'
'Hand weapons?' The chief engineer's elation of a moment before vanished. 'You mean pistols?'
'Yes, sir. In the captain's quarters.'
'That's all?'
'Yes, sir.'
'What about the bridge? Any sign of weapons controls?'
'No, sir. No dedicated ones.' The Chief Engineer's insistence had driven Paul's dread of his surroundings away, replacing it with a growing sense of another kind of unease.
'Damn.'
'Sir?'
'We haven't found any, either.'
'But…' The information couldn't seem to settle in, as if it were too unreal to be true. 'You didn't find any weapons, sir?'
'That's right. No weapons. No extra energy capability to power weapons. No combat systems of any kind. No wiring for combat systems. Nothing. Just a lot of dead civilians on a ship that is apparently only outfitted to conduct scientific research.'
'But… that means…'
'That means you'd better break out your legal books, Mr. Sinclair. We've got one hell of a problem to deal with.'
Paul looked over at Petty Officer Sharpe, who was shaking his head. We blew away a bunch of helpless civilians? Oh my God. Paul was abruptly aware again of the dead bodies around him, but now their faces seemed to reflect not shock, but accusation.
