"Damn!" Michi's right hand made a petulant clawing motion in the air. She glared at each of them in turn. "We can't leave it at this," she said. "There's got to be something else we can do." She gave a snarl. "What would Doctor An-ku do?" She didn't mean it as a joke.
"We can search the ship," Martinez said. "And search the crew."
Michi frowned at him.
"There was a little blood," Martinez continued. "Not much, but some. It just occurred to me that the killer might have got some on a shirt cuff or a trouser leg. Or he might have wiped blood off his hands with a handkerchief. He might have used a weapon on the captain and only slammed the captain's head into the desk afterward, and the weapon might be found. Or the killer might have taken a souvenir from the captain's room and hidden it."
"The captain might have fought," Garcia said, "at least a little. He might have marked someone."
"Alert the people in the laundry," Kazakov said. "They need to check every item."
Michi stood very suddenly. She looked at the others as if surprised to find them still in their seats.
"What are we waiting for?" she said. "We should have done this yesterday."
Searching Illustrious and its crew took the rest of the day, and uncovered nothing. Alikhan was waiting in his cabin to take his trousers, shoes, and uniform tunic for their nightly rehabilitation. "What are they saying in the petty officers' lounge?" Martinez asked.
"Well, my lord," Alikhan said, with a kind of finality, "they're saying you'll do."
Martinez suppressed a grin. "What are they saying about Fletcher?"
"They aren't saying anything at all about the late captain."
Martinez felt irritation. "I wish they were." He handed Alikhan his tunic. "You don't think they know more than they're saying?"
Alikhan spoke with the utmost complacency. "They're long-serving petty officers, my lord. They always know more than they tell."
Martinez sourly parted the seals on his shoes, removed them, and handed them to Alikhan.
"You'll tell me if they say anything vital? Such as who killed the captain?"
Alikhan dropped the shoes into their little carrying bag. "I'll do my best to keep you informed, my lord," he said. Deftly, with the hand that wasn't holding Martinez' clothing, Alikhan opened a silver vacuum flask of hot cocoa and poured.
"Thank you, Alikhan. Sleep well."
"And yourself, my lord."
Alikhan left through the door that led to the dining room. Martinez changed into pajamas and sat on his bed while he drank the cocoa and looked at the old dark painting. The young mother held her infant and the little fire glowed and the cat crouched with his ears pinned back, and it all took place inside a painted frame or maybe a stage.
He kept seeing the painting for a long time after he turned out the light.
In the morning Martinez printed a series of supper invitations on Fletcher's special bond paper, and sent them via Alikhan to all the senior petty officers. He didn't know whether Fletcher would have invited the enlisted to supper-he suspected not-and he was certain Fletcher wouldn't have used the fancy bond invitations.
He didn't care. It wasn't his bond paper anyway.
The maneuver began shortly afterward. The ships of Chenforce were linked by communications laser into a virtual environment, and while the ships themselves continued on their way a virtual Chenforce maneuvered against a virtual enemy squadron of superior force, a squadron that was meeting them head-on in at Osser, the system into which Chenforce would pass after Termaine. The system was largely uninhabited, with a pair of wormhole relay stations and some small mining colonies on some mineral-rich moons, but nothing else, nothing that would complicate an engagement between two forces.
For the first time Martinez commanded a heavy cruiser in combat, even though it was a combat that took place only in simulation. The crew in Command were disciplined and well trained, long practiced at their jobs and at working with one another, and they obeyed Martinez' orders with perfect understanding and efficiency.
Chenforce didn't come through the battle unscathed: out of seven ships, three were destroyed and one severely damaged. Of the Naxid force, all ten were wiped out.
Martinez ended the maneuver pleased with himself and with his ship. The pleased feeling lasted until he returned to his office, where Marsden presented him with a vast number of documents, all requiring his attention, or his judgment, or at the very least his signature.
He ate his dinner at his desk while he worked his way through the documents, and sent Marsden to his own meal.
Chandra Prasad arrived half a minute after his dinner, as if she were waiting for him to be alone. He looked up at her knock, lowered his stylus to the desk, and told her to come in. As she approached the desk he wondered in a curiously offhand way whether she'd come to murder him, but decided against it. The sunny smile on her face would have been too incongruous.
"Lieutenant?" he said, raising his eyebrows.
"The lady squadcom just told me that I was the new tactical officer," Chandra said. "I guessed you had something to do with that, so I thought I'd come by and thank you."
"I mentioned your name," Martinez said. "But last I heard it was a temporary appointment. I think she's going to try a series of people."
"But I'll be first," Chandra said. "If I impress her, she won't need the others."
Martinez smiled encouragingly. "Good luck."
"I'll need more than luck." Chandra bit her lower lip. "Can you give me a hint about how best to impress the squadcom?"
"I wouldn't know," Martinez said. "I don't think I've managed it lately."
She looked at him with narrowed eyes, as if trying to decide whether or not to get angry. He picked up his stylus and said, "Come to dinner tomorrow. We'll discuss your ambitions then."
Her long eyes turned calculating. "Very good, captain."
She braced and he sent her away and went back to reviewing his office work, and nibbling on his dinner between paragraphs. He had no sooner finished both papers and the meal when Kazakov arrived with a new series of documents that, as executive officer, she was passing to him for review.
It was midafternoon before he finished all that, and went into the personnel files to acquaint himself with the petty officers he would be having to supper. They were as Kazakov had said: long-serving professionals, with high scores on their masters' exams and good efficiency reports from past superiors. All received high marks from Fletcher-including Thuc, the man he'd executed.
Martinez then checked the documentary evidence that should have corroborated Fletcher's good opinions, and almost immediately found something that appalled him.
His supper, he thought darkly, would be more than social.
He opened the supper with the traditional toast to the Praxis, and then gave a preamble to the effect that he was counting on the petty officers to maintain continuity in a ship that had just suffered a series of shocks, and he knew from their records and their efficiency reports that they were all more than capable of giving all that was required.
He looked from one of the eight department heads to the next-from round-faced Gawbyan to rat-faced Gulic, from Master Rigger Francis with her brawny arms and formidable jowls to Cho, Thuc's gangly replacement-and Martinez saw pleased satisfaction in their faces.
The satisfaction stayed there for the entire supper, as Perry brought in each course and as Martinez questioned each of his guests about the state of their department. From Master Data Specialist Amelia Zhang he learned the condition and the capacities of the ship's computers. From Master Rigger Francis he received a myriad of details from the stowage of the holds to the state of the air scrubbers. From Master Signaller Nyamugali he had an informative discussion on the new military ciphers introduced since the beginning of the war, a critical task since both sides had started with the same ciphers and the same coding machines.