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. Xi. When Xi turned up with a squeeze bottle of his homemade fingerprint powder, they blanketed every solid surface and produced a few dozen prints, most of them of sufficient quality to be read by an ordinary fingerprint reader they procured from Marsden’s desk.
While they worked, Michi Chen made an announcement to the ship’s company, confirming that Captain Fletcher had died and that Martinez had been appointed to fill his place. Martinez, on his knees peering at an eyelash he’d just picked up with tweezers, failed somehow to be overcome by the sudden majesty of command that had just officially dropped onto his shoulders.
“I regret to informIllustrious, ” Michi continued, “that Captain Fletcher’s death was the result of foul play. I ask any crew with knowledge of this event to report to the Constabulary or to an officer. As the lord captain was murdered between 0301 and 0501, the testimony of anyone with knowledge of unusual movement or activity around that time would be very useful.”
A new firmness, almost a ferocity, entered Michi’s voice. “The squadron is alone, moving deep in enemy territory. We are too vulnerable to the enemy to permit any kind of disorder and lawlessness in our own ranks. Any weakness on our part only makes the enemy stronger. I amdetermined ”—the word was almost a shout—“determinedthat the killer or killers of Captain Fletcher will be found and punished.
“Once again,” more subdued now, “I ask anyone with information to come forward before any more crimes are committed. This is Squadron Commander Chen, in the name of the Praxis.”
Martinez was impressed. The drinks had done her good, he decided.
Before long he began to envy Michi her cocktails. If anything were going to be solved this way, with fingerprint comparison and hair and fiber analysis, it would be through long and tedious work, and he had no time for that.