Heris didn’t bother to ask; she simply followed him back to the reception area. He almost scurried. Waiting for them were two uniformed Station Security Police, faces grim. Heris felt her heart begin to pound, a great hammer. If they had come, instead of asking her to visit one of the waitstations, whatever had happened was serious—even fatal.
“Captain Serrano?” asked the shorter one. “I’m Detective Morin Cannibar. We have a problem concerning your crew.”
“Who is it?” asked Heris. Oblo came automatically to mind, but he ought to be busy installing that semipirated bit of navigational electronics he had come back with the day before. He had wanted to do it himself, when Sirkin and Yrilan were not aboard. That thought struck a chill in her—those two?
“We aren’t sure, Captain Serrano. The—uh—body carried identification as a member of your crew, but—uh—”
Heris felt herself going cold, the protective freeze of emotion that would carry her through any necessary action. “Do you need me to identify the body?”
“It’s—it’s not going to be easy, ma’am. She’s a young woman, that’s all we can tell. Hit with a sonic pulser, then . . . pretty well beaten to a pulp.”
Let it not be Sirkin, Heris thought, then hated herself for thinking that. Yrilan might be a bit lazy and not overbright, but she had not deserved anything that would put that expression on the faces of police officers.
She nodded shortly. “I’ll come now. I have two young female crew members, and they are both off duty at present. Can you tell me something about it?”
The taller one shrugged. “Someone wanted her dead. Messily. Either of them have enemies you know about?”
Heris looked at him sharply. “You know I filed a report when we arrived that my crew might be the target of retaliation from some criminal organization. And that I had been contacted, subsequently, by someone whose credentials worried me.”
“Yes, but you didn’t know many details. Made it hard for us to help you.”
“True—nonetheless, my guess is this young woman ran afoul of that group, not an enemy of her own. Neither of them had been on this station very long. One arrived with my ship, and the other met her here after finishing her technical training. I don’t suppose you know where the other is—”
“No, ma’am. If it’s some group like you’re thinking of, and they were together, then I’d expect both . . .”
“So would I.” She walked along between them, trying not to feel trapped. “Where are we going? The morgue?”
“No, ma’am. We’d like you to see the . . . body . . . in place. In case you can help figure out what happened.”
In place meant in a corner of Rockhouse she’d never known about. “It’s a park, actually,” one of the men said. “Reasonably safe during shiftchanges, because it’s a shortcut from a concentration of civilian housing units to two big employers. There’s a primary school that uses it during mainshift for recreation and exercise. But it’s a bit out of the way—especially midshift on Second. And the usual patrol had a domestic disturbance call and missed two rounds through here.”
“Planned?” Heris asked. She could see the cluster of people working ahead, under brilliant lighting.
“Maybe. Can’t tell—it’s a family with a history. This time they’ll be split up for a while, see if that settles them.”
Then they were close enough for Heris to see the bodies under the lights.
Chapter Five
She recognized Yrilan by the hair and clothes. The young woman’s face was disfigured by parallel knife slashes, the skin reddened by the sonic pulser wound. “That’s mine,” she said, pointing. The man beside her nodded.
“Right—do you know which?”
“Amalie Yrilan, on temporary contract. She left the ship today about when I did, and that’s what she was wearing. Also the hair—” That ginger-colored hair, once fluffy and now matted with blood.
“You don’t seem—that upset by . . . the other . . .” the man said. She could hear the suspicion in his voice.
“My background’s Fleet,” she said. “Regular Space Service.” Let them think she was a coldhearted military bitch . . . easier than explaining that her feelings would come later, when she felt safe. That she would have the right number of nightmares about the ruin of Amalie Yrilan’s face, enough to prove her own humanity. She braced herself for criticism, but the man merely nodded.
“Right. You’ve seen combat trauma, then.” It wasn’t a question. “This was sonic pulser plus, I suspect, being on the ground in the midst of a major brawl. We think the knife wounds were after death, maybe accidental; the autopsy will check for that.”
Heris stared at the parallel wounds across Yrilan’s face, and the deep gash between thumb and first finger on both hands. Did the militia not recognize those wounds? Or did they wonder if she did? Better to be honest.
“Those marks—the last time I saw something like that, it was a Compassionate Hand action.”
“Ah. I wondered if you’d know.”
“We were called to Chisholm once.” They could look that up in her service record, the public part. “They had trouble with their ore haulers being hijacked between the insystem Stations and the jump-point insertion.” They had had more trouble than that, but the rest was classified.
“Two of the dead bodies had C.H. marks on the thumb web,” the man said. “Did Yrilan?”
“Certainly not. Not overt, anyway. But you’re right, that hand cut’s usually given to traitor members, not stray associates.” And where was Sirkin, her mind insisted? Was she, too, a Compassionate Hand victim?
“You recognize any of the others?”
None of the others had mutilated faces, beyond a bruise or two. She knew none of them. But something about the pattern of injuries on two—she frowned. “No. But—” Suddenly it came clear. The time she had had to get Oblo out of trouble . . . the miners he’d felled had exactly the same marks. “But none of them are my crew,” she said, finishing smoothly. “We’ve been staying close to the ship, most of the time, getting it ready to leave the Royal Docks—”
“I know.” He had checked, then. “I didn’t really think you would recognize them, but it was a chance.” He paused, then asked, “And you say this—Yrilan, was it?—usually had a companion?”
“Yes—she did tonight. Brigdis Sirkin, my Navigator First. They’d known each other at school, and Yrilan had hoped I’d hire her. Unfortunately, she wasn’t nearly as qualified.”
“Was Sirkin going to leave your crew?”
“I’m not sure. I had hoped not, but they were close. She had a tough decision coming up. I hope—” It was stronger than that, a plea to whatever powers ran the universe. “I hope Sirkin’s not a prisoner or anything.”
“We can’t tell.” The man frowned. “Five dead, including your crew member. This Sirkin must be some kind of fighter if she didn’t have help. Someone badly wounded got away that direction—” He pointed to smears of blood heading to the far end of the little park. “There’s all too many ways out down there, though we’re looking. But two bounce tubes, and a slideway.”
Heris looked again at the dead she already thought of as “enemy.” She couldn’t see the thumb-web marks from here—probably they were flesh-colored tattoos, designed to fluoresce under UV light. But the pattern—again she thought of Oblo. One of the dead had been hit by someone shorter, she thought, but this wasn’t her field of expertise. Shorter than Oblo would be most of her crew, but her mind drifted to her weapons specialists. Arkady Ginese? No; Arkady, even onstation, would have carried something that left distinctive marks. No one had ever broken him of the habit. Besides, he had the standing watch; he wouldn’t have been here. Methlin Meharry, perhaps? Those sleepy green eyes had fooled more than one, but her unarmed combat skills topped even Arkady’s. And the two of them could have got Sirkin away—somewhere. Where?