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CHAPTER THREE

Ontario Base hovered over Antares Prime like a dangling spider. A spider with far too many legs and brightly gleaming eyes, granted, but still, from this distance the comparison was apt. The body of the station was circular and ships nuzzled the docking tubes only on the port and starboard sides of the station. The fore and aft compartments had been closed due to reduced traffic, because of the fuel shortage. Most of the ships in dock were military: warships, fast transports, or fleet replenishment vessels. Probably most of the remainder were under Space Command requisition for the convoys that kept essential materials flowing. They came in an assortment of shapes; the double hammerhead most common for warships intended for vacuum work, a weird assortment of globes, boxes and jointed arrangements for the merchantmen, and a few sleek knife blade types meant to land on planetary surfaces.

What was really alarming were the number of mothballed freighters drifting in parking orbits around Antares Prime, from ones close enough to the base to see—down to more distant ones that were merely drifting points of light. The fuel situation was getting bad, even as the Commonwealth's military remained successful. It was essentially a race now, to subdue the Mollies before the storage tanks ran dry, or they might win every battle and still lose the war. Despite that, the naval dockyard had several skeletal shapes in it—warships under construction.

Dear God, I'll be glad to get off of this ship, Peter thought as he watched Ontario Base grow larger on the screen in the crew's mess. Not that Africa wasn't a nice enough ship, for a merchantman—and the crew were friendly enough now. It still wasn't Space Command. He wanted to be back on a warship so bad he could taste it. A worn pack of cards riffled through his hands as he shuffled and dealt endless games of solitaire. It was good occupational therapy for his prosthetic hand, at least. He'd gained a good deal more dexterity with it. It seems I've been crawling to nowhere for three years instead of three weeks. 

The news that he'd lost every one of the money chits had made him popular for a few hours. Or at any rate, a popular target for what passed for wit among Africa's crew.

"Aw, I bet those raiders are buying beers with your money right now, man."

"Nah. It's still out there. We'll pick it up on the way back and you can buy us a beer."

"Beer, hell! Champagne and a good steak." And they began adding things to the wishlist—foot powder, kimchi, oysters, on and on—until you could have filled the freighter twice over.

Then word began going round that the captain suspected sabotage and was having the grapple mechanism checked. After that he got a lot of sly smiles, slaps on the back, and winks. One or two still glared, possibly because he'd risked their butts without consulting them, more probably because of the possibility their ship might be fined for breaking orders. Unfortunately one of the still-hostile ones was the crewwoman with the Indian temple figure and the bandanna; he'd had hopes . . . Then again, eager as I am to get to the Invincible, some dockside liberty might be a good idea, too. 

Peter gazed unblinking at the screen. He yearned toward the station and his new assignment with an ardor he'd never expected to feel. Frowning, Raeder forced himself to look down at his coffee cup. He swirled the coffee and then took a gulp. Be good just to be doing something, he thought glumly.

Peter had two Irish grandparents and one Scot. So he tended to blame an occasional urge to brood on his Celtic heritage, even while allowing that the Germans were certainly no slouches in the gloom department.

The only sure cure he'd ever found for brooding was hard work. Which I'm sure to find on the Invincible, he thought with satisfaction. Brand-new ship, brand-new crew, brand-new responsibilities. That ought to keep me from thinking dark and dolorous thoughts. 

As flight engineer he'd be responsible for keeping the thirty-six Speeds and seven stealths on the Invincible operating. He'd be in overall command of forty-three flight crews, as well as the fuel, repair, and armament sections, five hundred people in all.

Peter allowed himself an imaginary whistle. Hell, even I'm impressed. Frankly, he was also surprised. He'd commanded a squadron before, and he'd done a creditable job if he did say so himself. But this . . . to be frank, the gold plate on his flight engineer's tabs was still wet.

He'd been well trained and had put in a lot of virtual overtime learning his new trade. His teachers had been impressed by his dedication and sent him off with a sheaf of highly enthusiastic endorsements. Even so he'd expected more of an apprentice's berth.

Maybe Captain Knott likes to break in his officers himself, Peter speculated. Or maybe knott. . . . In that case, he may have bitten off more than he can chew. An inexperienced crew led by inexperienced officers on an experimental ship. "Brrrrgghh!" he said aloud, with an accompanying shudder.

Best not to dwell on that. He looked up and saw that Africa was already positioning herself for her approach to the station. Ontario Base had gone from a toy turning in blackness to an immense acreage of modules and enclosures, like an enormous metallic plant sprawling across the stars. The organic metaphor was appropriate, he knew; it had grown by accretion ever since the Space Command put in a forward base here two generations ago.

He thought he could even see the beckoning lights of Africa's docking position. Wishful thinking, probably. Still, he might as well get his gear together and hie himself down to his disembarkation station. Peter had a new ambition: to be the first man out of Africa.

To his surprise, Captain Behtab was waiting for him at the docking tube.

"I suspected that you would bolt at the first opportunity," she said, one eyebrow raised in mild reproof.

"I'm, uh, eager to begin my duties," he confessed, slightly wistful. I think she likes me. And, of course, a captain was always lonely. . . .

"And eager to cease being the most popular man aboard," Behtab said blandly. "Or the most unpopular, with the holdouts."

Peter just grinned, one of those cheese-eating get-me-out-of-this grins he hoped she wouldn't notice was false.

Captain Behtab laughed out loud and extended her small hand.

"Thank you, Commander, for what you did." She gave his hand a single firm shake and released it. "In a week all my people will be feeling the same way that I do and regretting the way they have treated you. They are very good people, Commander, just terribly tired and worried about the possibility of a fine. The examples that have been set for us are terrifying."

"I know," Raeder agreed with a grimace. He shook his head. "Punishing people for not being inhumanly callous just doesn't seem right."

"No," Behtab agreed. "You are welcome aboard my ship anytime." She pursed her lips and gave him an arch look. "Provided you can keep yourself from doctoring my equipment."

It was a genuine grin this time.

"Yes, ma'am. Next time I'll just let you carry me where I'm bound. That is, if you can manage to keep me inside."

"Short of chaining you to your bunk," she said dryly, "I do not see how I can guarantee that, Commander."

He laughed, then stuck his tongue into his cheek. "Um," he began, his eyes narrowed, "after all that's happened this cruise, don't you think the crew deserves a small bonus?"

The captain blinked. "Ye-es," she said cautiously. "But it will depend on what is in the budget."

Raeder dug into his back pocket and handed her the stack of money chits that he withdrew. "This is actually theirs," he said. "Tell 'em to blow it in port, or to have a party or something. But don't tell them where it came from."

Behtab gave him a wondering smile. "These are your winnings from Dynamics!"

"Yeah, but I wouldn't feel right about taking it—or not all of it, at least. I am keeping half. Specially since I gave them so much to worry about."

"You are sure that you do not want me to tell them?"

Peter shook his head. "I'm just sorry I lost half of it."

"Well," the captain said with a lift of her eyebrows, "your loss may have been what made everything turn out so well."

God, Raeder thought in mild surprise, it's amazing how superstitious we spacers are. "Who can say?" he asked politely.

Raeder gave her a nod and made to leave, but she said quickly, "You won't forget that report you were going to make?"

"No, Captain." He turned a little awkwardly in the narrow hatchway, burdened as he was with his personal gear. "It's the first thing I intend to do." He looked her directly in the eyes. "No promises, though."

Behtab nodded thoughtfully, unconsciously shuffling the money chits in her hands. "Understood," she said calmly. But she was counting on him, he could tell.

"Perhaps," she went on, "we will run into each other stationside someday. The war will last a long time, I think."

Peter nodded gravely. "That would be pleasant." His smile turned slightly smug as he walked away down the access bay. Glad to see the old Raeder charm is still working, he thought.

Even though the damned war was making it impossible to stay in one place long enough to get any practical results out of it.

Ontario Base wasn't quite up to Lunabase standards, but then, you wouldn't expect it to be, out here on the frontier as it was. Everything looked functional enough, and everything that could be done by the crews of downlined ships put to busywork to keep them from going slack had been done, too. There were even murals, and pretty good ones for amateurs killing time. Blank spaces along the walls and corridors had been turned into scenes of forest, rock, lake, pine, and muskeg; someone was taking the base's name quite seriously. Occasionally there were subliminal odors of pine needles in the recirculated air, or the very faint twittering cry of a loon on a distant lake.

Pass me my mackinaw and my toque, Peter thought. I need to get into the spirit of things. 

Once again, and somewhat to his surprise, there was a cart waiting for him. Raeder stowed his gear and hopped aboard, entered his orders, confirmed his identity with a capillary scan, and leaned back to relax as the cart started off. He gazed around curiously, noticing that in this sector, at least, merchant mariners predominated. Ontario Base had never been a luxurious station, but now it had a stripped-down look. Fewer kiosks than he was used to seeing and more people than it was designed to serve, all of them looking hurried and overworked.

The war, he thought with an underlying bitterness. It's set us back. Then he shook his head. Temporary setback, my man. Nothing will keep the Commonwealth penned for long. 

The cart brought him to a checkpoint at the center of the station. Warning bars of glowing light extended from the roof of the corridor to the floor, like the bars of a castle's portcullis, visible light marking the perimeter of the shockback field. The lasers that would slice any unauthorized entry who made it past into thin charred slices were invisible within the glowing pillars, but anyone would be extremely conscious of them even without the DANGER LETHAL BARRIER AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT which blinked in the air in front of them. He presented his documents for inspection and pressed his left index finger on a handheld identification module.

"Thank you, Commander," the MP said. She turned off the barrier and the solid-seeming white bars disappeared.

Raeder disliked this kind of fence and never passed though one without at least a touch of suspicion. Once, when he was about fifteen, from sheer, idle curiosity, he'd touched one of those beams—just a shockback barrier there, without the lethal laser reinforcement. When he woke up he was lying on his back, staring at feet. As the ringing in his ears faded, he could hear the owner of those feet demanding to know what had possessed him to do something so infernally stupid. Twelve years later, he still didn't have an answer, and he still shuddered as he passed through.

The cart trundled off again. Instead of heading for the docking tubes, it wended its way toward the office complex. Industrial metal gave way to soft synthetic floors, and the amateur murals run up by spacers with too much time on their hands yielded to professional holographs. He found those rather less interesting.

"Where are we going?" Peter demanded.

"Space Command Sector Intelligence HQ," the cart answered.

Ah, yes. Where mountains of supposition are constructed from molehills of information and presented as incontrovertible fact. He sighed. They were probably going to debrief him about the raider attack. Peter wondered how long they'd keep him. Futile to speculate, since it depends on their workload. About which I know nothing. He shook his head; this was like one of those dreams where you tried desperately to get somewhere, and the harder you struggled, the further the goal receded.

Oh well, he thought, looking at the bright side, at least I'll be able to make my report to a human face. It might not mean any more than just writing it out and submitting it, but he would feel better about it. And hey, that counts. At least to me. The cart dropped him at the entrance to a corridor that looked more like a hallway in a building than a street.

He reported to the receptionist, who confirmed his ID and asked him to wait until someone could escort him. Peter sat on the stiff, ultramodern couch and slowly scrolled through a magazine until he finally came to an interesting article. At which point a young MP showed up.

"Commander Raeder? Follow me, please."

He left Peter, sans reading matter, in a white cube of a room with two chairs, cousins to the B&D couch in the lobby and an immovable coffee table that bumped against his shins.

He waited for half an hour, until a pleasant-faced young woman opened the door and gravely asked him to follow. She led him to an empty conference room with what appeared to be a football play drawn on the wall-screen. Other than that there was no reading matter here, either, although there was a portrait of the prime minister on the wall. Peter looked at the jowly face and stern blue eyes for a while, then away. They seemed to be accusing him of voting for someone else in the last election.

He had; he'd voted for the Rhinoceros Party, one of whose pledges was to make all roads run downhill.

Peter sat with a sigh in the nearest chair and looked around the room idly. There was a carafe and six glasses on a tray at the head of the table. He reached out hopefully and hefted the carafe. Empty. He sighed again.

There's something about being left by yourself in a conference room that makes you feel truly alone, Raeder thought. Probably the sound-proofing, he reasoned. For all you can hear, the whole human race may have snuck off somewhere fun and left you behind. Time passed and he began to tap his fingers impatiently. If it was this low priority, why didn't they let me go directly to my assignment and call me later? 

Finally a lieutenant came bustling in, a nondescript youngster with hard eyes and a take-charge manner.

Perfect for Intelligence, Raeder thought.

"I'm sorry to have kept you, sir," the lieutenant said in a clipped voice. "Something came up."

Yeah, sure. Why not just admit that you were going over Hall's report and my testimony? Does Intelligence have actual rules against being straightforward? Peter wondered sourly.

"Shall we get to it, then?" Raeder said, stealing the lieutenant's next line.

"If you would please face the recording module in the center of the table, sir," the lieutenant requested, still clipped. "This is Lieutenant A.T.C. Clark," he announced, and gave the time and date.

Both of which would automatically be imprinted on the recording and were therefore unnecessary to mention. Heaven spare me from the detail-obsessed, Peter groaned inwardly. There was something about the service's desk jobs that seemed to attract those with a permanent metaphorical pickle up the butt. And I find it's good policy to beware of people who identify themselves with no less than three initials instead of a name. Of course, the poor guy's initials could stand for Aloycius Thaddeus Cuthbert. Which wouldn't leave him much room to maneuver, now would it? Academy ring, too.

"Now, Commander, you were aboard the Africa when she was attacked by raiders, were you not?"

No, I was square-dancing on a Martian beach with Letta D'Amour. 

"Yes," he said aloud. Pity. D'Amour was his favorite holovid actress. He'd always wanted to meet her, although there was a rumor she was a virtual-reality AI in real life . . . if you could call that real. Or life for that matter.

"How many of them were there?"

"I saw five," Peter said.

"Um-hm. Now, this is very important, sir. We intercepted a remark made by one of the raiders to the effect that a new weapon was being used. Do you have any knowledge of such?"

Peter grinned; he couldn't help it.

"A new weapon?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. He said it was, I quote, `wrecking his sensors.' "

Peter started to chuckle. I suppose it was a new weapon in this context. About thirty thousand years old in another.

"It's not funny, sir." The youngster's face was stern. "If the Merchant Marine companies have some unknown weapon at their disposal, and they aren't willing to contribute it to the war effort, it's a serious matter."

"Are you suggesting they'd use it against Space Command?" Raeder asked incredulously.

"No, sir, of course not. But they may be withholding it from us, and it certainly sounds like something Space Command could use. There's a lot of bitterness against us from that quarter," Clark said confidentially. "And if they're withholding vital information like this . . ." he leaned forward, "at the very least it's inappropriate. At worst . . . treason."

Oh, come on! I know paranoia is an occupational requirement for spooks, Peter thought, but this is ridiculous. 

"It was me," Raeder said. "And I used a hammer. Not the most high-tech equipment you'll run across, I grant you, but effective nonetheless."

"You?" Clark said. He looked at Raeder as though he'd suddenly started speaking in tongues.

Peter nodded.

"Would you mind telling me how you accomplished that, sir?"

So Raeder did.

"I see," Clark said when Peter finished. He gave the commander a measuring look. "You drove around on the surface of the raider's ship beating on its sensor pickups with a hammer." The Intelligence Officer's lips pursed.

"Yes."

Peter could imagine Clark wondering what he was hiding, why he was sympathetic to the Merchant Marine. What vile plots were being hatched, what faithless alliances made. Because it was as plain as the snub nose on his bland face that the lieutenant hadn't believed a word of Peter's story.

"Thank you, sir," Clark said suddenly. Standing, he gathered the notebook he'd brought with him. "Someone will be along shortly to show you back to the lobby."

"We're not quite finished, Lieutenant," Raeder said in a soft, even tone that implied sit down quite loudly. "I have something to say, for the record." Though you can bet I'll back it up with a written report. "The Merchant Marines have good reason to be bitter toward Space Command. They're virtually unarmed out there. To the raiders it's like some kind of game where there's no penalty, just prizes. How many ships have we lost in the last month to these pirates?" he demanded.

"That's classified." Clark snapped, his expression puzzled. It was plain he couldn't understand why Peter was stating the obvious.

"Without commerce the Commonwealth will evaporate," Raeder said. "If we're not going to defend what we're fighting for, why bother to have the war?" A stupid question, of course, but he also had a point. And if you're talking to the dense or distracted, sometimes a stupid question will get their attention. 

"We don't have enough ships, or fuel," Clark said slowly and carefully, "to provide heavier escort for the convoys. We are literally doing all we can."

"I disagree," Peter said. "We can't send more ships, there you're right. But we have unused weapons in storage, we have trained gun crews waiting for assignment. How much antihydrogen would it expend to put those resources together with the freighters themselves?" he asked. "If you send them out heavily armed and in convoy you may not even need the escorts."

Clark looked like he'd been hit by a two-by-four. He nodded slowly.

"You may have a point," he conceded.

Of course I have a point, you donkey. 

"Do you really think so?" Raeder asked, as though genuinely surprised.

"Yes. It could work."

"I'll leave it in your hands, then." Like hell. Peter rose and offered his hand. The more directions the idea is heard from, the more likely it is to be heard at all. Glory won behind the controls of a Speed was one thing, a victory a man could be proud of. Victory in some bureaucratic bun-fight, however, had no glory in it at all. Of course, the bureaucrats might get together once a year and hand out the golden spleen award. But not to me, thanks. 

"Yes, sir," Clark said, steely-eyed, jaw set. "I'll do my best."

Peter nodded, smiling. I have a feeling, he thought, that your best might well turn out to be quite a bit. He allowed himself a satisfied little smirk behind the lieutenant's back and sat down to wait for his escort.

* * *

As he approached the Invincible's docking tube, Peter's heart began to beat faster. He smoothed back the stubborn wing of hair that insisted on dropping over his forehead and took a quick check of his uniform to assure himself that it had maintained its pristine condition.

He was frustrated that he hadn't gotten a good look at his new ship as Africa approached the station. But getting packed and ready to go seemed more important at the time. 

Now he longed to know what she looked like. He pictured her sleek and rakish, as though designed for atmospheric work. Raeder was already half in love with her and meeting her this way, at what was essentially a hole in the station's wall with her name spelled out in digital letters above it, was anticlimatic and deeply unsatisfying. And yet . . . his heart beat faster. Just at the sight of her name.

Peter fairly sprang from the cart when it stopped, grabbed his gear, and approached the petty officer on duty at the security desk beside the docking tube.

The young petty officer noted the commander's tabs on Raeder's shoulders and gave him a brisk salute, which Peter returned with pleasure, taking it as a sign of a well-run, mannerly ship. He offered his orders and the lieutenant fed the chit into a reader.

"Welcome aboard, sir. The captain is expecting you." He tapped a series of symbols on his console and in a moment a rating first class arrived who automatically hoisted Raeder's duffel.

"Kamel will escort you, sir," the petty officer said, with one more salute in farewell.

Raeder returned it, then followed the rating into the tube and onto the Invincible. A sort of energy blazed through his blood as his foot fell on her deck, a crackling aliveness. He was back. Back where things were happening, if not in the cockpit of a Speed. He paused and took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of her newness, a raw, clean smell that pleased him and somehow hinted at her power.

The walls gleamed, the corridors were bright and surprisingly spacious, the color-coded sheathing of pipes and cables and conduits crisp with newness. Each of the compartments he glanced into as they passed was neat and well planned. Members of the crew they encountered were busy and had an air of competence, appearing as pleased as Raeder felt about being aboard the Invincible. After the raw metal and cramped spaces of the Africa it was an inexpressible relief.

This was put together with love and a lot of work, Peter thought. Everything and everybody, handpicked by someone who knew just what they wanted and exactly what they were doing. Possibly too good to be true. He pushed the thought aside, refusing to spoil his pleasure in his good fortune until he had to. If there was a catch it'd reveal itself soon enough. Besides, maybe my luck is due to change. 

They took an elevator up several levels and walked; it seemed like a couple of klicks before the young rating stopped before a door that bore a modest brass plate bearing a name: Captain Roger Knott. 

"Not quite as big as a fleet carrier," Peter said, "but she's spacious enough inside. Isn't there a connecting elevator?"

Carriers had to have big hulls, to handle the smaller craft that nestled inside them like a swarm of lethal wasps. That usually meant bigger crew quarters, as well; in a destroyer, say, the captain would be lucky to have enough room to turn around between his bunk and the far wall. Hence they usually had interior people-movers, tubes running lengthwise down the hull and carrying pods for crewfolk in a hurry.

"There are a number of them, Commander," Kamel confided. "But Captain Knott insists that same-deck people-movers only be used if time is a vital factor. He says it reduces congestion and helps keep people in shape."

Raeder nodded amiably at the information and the young rating knocked.

The captain sounds like a disciplinarian, Peter thought, and mentally girded himself for battle. He tended to have problems with disciplinarians.

"Enter," a muffled voice commanded.

Kamel opened the door and stood aside for Raeder to enter.

"Take the Commander's gear to his quarters," the captain said to him.

Kamel murmured, "Yes, sir," and withdrew.

Raeder saluted, standing stiffly at attention as he studied his new commander, liking what he saw. So far. Knott was close to his own height, about six feet tall, had bold aquiline features and a cap of close-cut white hair. He had a spaceman's tan, the sort you got from a lot of EVA or hot-sun planets and that could stay with you for life. The sleeve of his uniform carried the small gray-blue pip of a former Survey Service officer.

He examined Peter with the directness of the bird of prey he resembled, the gray eyes disconcertingly keen.

"At ease, Commander," he said in a gravelly voice that held a twang Raeder placed as North American, somewhere western. "Please be seated."

As Raeder complied he realized that this was the captain's private office, attached to his personal suite. There were ship holos on the walls: a destroyer of obsolete type, a Survey Service deep-space explorer, chunky and functional, a heavy cruiser. Models of his previous commands, he thought; not an uncommon affectation for a commander. Then he froze and half rose in his chair as he noticed the holo hanging behind Knott's head. He stopped himself and sank down again.

"Is, is that the Invincible, sir?" he asked, unable to take his eyes off the holo. She was everything he'd wanted her to be, only more beautiful than she'd been in his imagination.

Roger Knott smiled, a subtle, almost hidden expression that appeared as a slight lightening of his stern features. You'll do, boy, he thought. He'd been worried; fighter pilots were clannish and tended to be loyal to their squadrons first, everything else second. But Raeder had obviously made the transition; the love in the young engineer's eyes was unmistakable. He belonged to the Invincible. You'll do very well. 

"Security held onto you for quite a while," the captain observed.

"Yes, sir," Raeder agreed.

"Their interest was, no doubt, sparked by the incident with the raiders."

Knott watched with interest as the commander's face became as mild and innocent as a choirboy's.

"Yes, sir." Raeder agreed again. "They were under the impression that the Merchant Marines had a new weapon they weren't sharing with Space Command."

"Really? Tell me more."

Suddenly Peter felt as though he'd stepped into a minefield. His instincts told him that Knott knew everything; he'd better tell him everything. Everything? Hmmm. Now there was a knotty problem. "Well, sir, as I reported to the debriefer . . ."

He began to sweat slightly halfway through the interview. It was frustrating talking to an unvarying expression of polite interest.

Knott gave him no clues and speculated with amusement how frustrated the commander must be growing. Not that it showed; he still looked like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

"What about the grapple?" Knott asked after a moment's silence.

"The grapple on the cart, sir?"

"The grapple used to tow the Province of Quebec. Tell me about that. Usual merchanter practice in a situation like that would be to cut the grapple loose and run like hell. No sense in risking another ship for one that can't be saved . . . can't be saved those times there's no maniac with a hammer around."

Suddenly the archaic word rogering, to roger, to be rogered, popped into Peter's head. As in, he was screwed. Clearly, Captain Behtab and Captain Roger Knott were on fairly good terms. If he gave Peter a direct order . . . then he'd have to own up. Even if it meant the stockade. But until he did, they'd have to dance.

"Uh, the housing on the mechanism was apparently not fully closed and some micrometeor damage was incurred. Or, at any rate, that was Africa's engineer's estimation of the damage. So I was told." Raeder struggled to look uninvolved, professional, and innocent, all at the same time.

He's good, Knott thought. The captain considered ordering the young commander to tell him the truth. But I'm pretty sure I already know what it is. And then I'd have to deal with it and I don't see the advantage to the Invincible in that. And the Invincible came first. After all, he'd asked for someone smart, independent, courageous, and principled. How can I complain if that's what I've got? Even if those principles were a little elastic when it came to achieving what Raeder saw as the greater good. Maybe he should have left out "independent."

The captain studied his new flight engineer, resting his chin on his fist, thumb and forefinger pulling at his upper lip. No, it was the right thing. This isn't a battlewagon. The Invincible wouldn't be operating as part of a fleet, or even an attack flotilla. They'd be out on their own.

"Would you care for some refreshment, Commander?" he asked at last.

"Yes, sir," Peter said, somewhat surprised. Obviously the captain had come to a decision about him. In spite of what he knows about my little adventure with the raiders. Interesting. Why would Knott ignore Raeder's sabotage?

The captain pressed a button on his desk and his aide entered from an inner door.

"What will you have, Commander?" Knott asked. "Coffee? Tea?"

"Coffee would be great, sir. Thank you."

The captain nodded dismissal and then began going over Raeder's record with him. Asking questions, commenting, inquiring about officers he and Peter knew in common.

The coffee came and when the aide had left, Knott leaned back in his chair, quietly sipping the rich brew, studying Raeder over his cup.

Finally he asked, "Have you been wondering why you were selected for this particular assignment, Commander?"

Roger that! Peter thought. Stop it! he warned himself. If he kept thinking funny stuff like—"Roger" that and "Knotty" problem—it was only a matter of time before it slipped out. Which I don't think the good captain would appreciate. 

"Yes, sir," he said, after he'd swallowed. "I'm sure there must have been other candidates."

"Oh, there were," Knott agreed. "People with more seniority and much more experience." And major problems in their folders that would keep them off of any deck the captain happened to be on. He was convinced in his soul that it wasn't just short notice that had caused him to be offered such a list of losers. But then there was little old, inexperienced Raeder. With his sterling character references and excellent performance record. A calculated risk that was, quite frankly, looking good at this point. "But you see," he said as he leaned forward, "this is a very special situation. And required a very special candidate."

Why do I suddenly wish I'd flunked? Raeder asked himself.

"Your predecessor," God, what a miserably appropriate term, the captain thought, "had ten years of experience as a flight engineer. He came to us from the Merlin."

"A tight ship, sir," Raeder said wisely, since something seemed to be expected of him.

"A very tight ship. Commander Okakura was a first rate officer. Knowledgeable, cautious where appropriate, and truly gifted at his profession. Which is why I find his death so inexplicable. He wasn't the sort of man who makes elementary mistakes."

Raeder felt the back of his neck clench, and for a moment his throat refused to swallow the last mouthful of coffee. He died? The guy died? How did you manage to die on a ship just out of the dockyard, with the contractor's technicians barely a day or two off the deck?

"How exactly did he die, sir?"

"From the appearance of things, he'd apparently crawled into the exhaust cone of a Speed." The captain paused to take a deep breath. "And, I'm told, a glitch in the AI caused it to start the engines."

Peter felt himself blanch. "With the commander . . . ?" he began.

"With the commander in the exhaust cone. Yes." Knott tightened his lips at the memory. So did Peter. They would have had to scrape him off the metal with sonic cleansers, the carbon atoms of his body bonded to the material.

"Okakura was a good man," Knott said grimly.

Raeder didn't say anything for a moment. His mind raced. Okay, so the captain's about to tell me that he wants me to get to the bottom of this thing. It was the only place this buildup could be leading. He thinks the commander was murdered. Peter's insides curdled at the thought. If so, whoever did it should get to share the experience. 

"Captain," he said cautiously, "I'm getting the impression that you think there's something more to this than just an accident." At Knott's sharp glance, he leaned back and said, "Or perhaps the commander's death was so horrible, it seems to me that there should be something more behind it than just . . . happenstance."

"Well," the captain said, and paused. Then he caught Raeder's eye again. "We've had an unusually high rate of parts failures and AI glitches since we came online here. People have been hurt, even killed." He watched the commander take that in without flinching. "I think we've got a saboteur—a murderer aboard this ship. Aboard my ship," he snarled. "It was suggested that you might be the man to help me find out who."

Suggested by whom? Raeder wondered.

"Sir, I have no training in Intelligence or police work—" he began.

"I'm aware of that. I don't want to call them in until I have some evidence to show them. Right now I've got some parts failures and a few accidents, one of them fatal. But we're a new ship, new crew, we haven't even gone on our first operational cruise yet. They'll tell me it's to be expected."

Peter nodded. They would.

"But I've been in Space Command a long, long time, and I know something's rotten on my ship." His eyes bored into Raeder's. "You're new, you have no ties or loyalties or conflicts to trip you up. And I've been told that you've got guts and good instincts. I don't think I'm wrong about this, Commander, though I wish I were. But if I am, I think you can find that out for me. And if I'm not, I think you can help me deal with it."

Raeder squared his shoulders. With a vote of confidence like that, how could he possibly say no? But I'd sure love to know who else is in my fan club. 

"I'll do my best, sir," he said.

"I know you will, Commander," the captain agreed. He signaled for his aide again. "We'll be having a `dining in' this evening to welcome you aboard. I'll send a petty officer to escort you to the officers' mess at nineteen thirty." The captain stood just as his aide entered.

Peter rose with him and saluted. The captain returned it, a look of approval warming his gray eyes.

"Escort the commander to his quarters," he instructed his aide. "I'll see you this evening," Knott said to Raeder, and then he took his seat behind his desk, eyes on some report, the commander apparently forgotten.

Gee, Raeder thought as he followed the captain's aide, remember when you wondered if this terrific assignment had a catch? Wasn't that a great time? A time of innocence, full of bright hopes for the future. When was that golden age? Forty minutes ago? Yes, yes. Of course that was before I knew my predecessor had been murdered—God! What an eerily appropriate term that was. And that I'm supposed to be the one to bring his killer to justice. 

He was both honored and exasperated. I thought being a flight engineer was going to be tough. Now I'm a private eye. Had I but known, I would have spent my time studying detective stories instead of engine specs. 

Which was unfair, and he knew he was overreacting, but he'd always felt that, if there was time, getting the grousing over with and out of his head tended to clear his mind for more constructive thoughts. Like who recommended me? 

Someday, maybe he'd ask.

The aide stopped in front of a door and keyed in a master code. The hatch slid aside.

"It's a standard lock, sir," the man said.

Which meant that it would take voice code, capillary scan, or a code tapped out on the keypad. Or all three if you were paranoid and security obsessed.

Peter stepped into his new quarters and the aide followed.

"This is great," Peter told him as he paused just inside the hatchway.

"Yes, sir. I'll return for you at nineteen thirty hours."

Raeder nodded his thanks and keyed the hatch shut. Then he turned to take in his surroundings.

This was the first time in his military career that he hadn't had to share his quarters, and he couldn't help but gloat. The truth was that, thanks to humane societies across the Commonwealth, prison cells afforded more space, but still . . . Utter privacy, Peter thought greedily, looking at the single bunk.

The cabin was laid out for maximum efficiency in use of space. The desk folded flat against the wall; let down it revealed a keypad built into its inner surface and a flat multipurpose wall-screen. He reached down under the bunk, folded down a flap, and withdrew the desk chair from where it lay collapsed in its compartment, tapped it once on the floor, and it blossomed into the latest ergonomic unit.

Wow, he thought in awe, untouched by human tush. Then he remembered Okakura, his predecessor, and grimaced. Virtually untouched, he amended.

Raeder slid a plastic strip on the desktop toward himself and behind it a row of datachips flipped up. No doubt the personnel records on his staff, as well as reports on the functioning of his department. He started to draw the chair up, then stopped and looked at his duffle.

I ought to at least unpack my dress uniform so that the wrinkles will smooth out. What the heck. He'd unpack the whole thing. It would only take a few minutes, then he could dive into the chips guilt free.

After an apparently short stint of working on those files, Peter checked the time and was surprised to see that it was seventeen hundred. He'd been hard at work for three hours. Raeder stretched and rotated his shoulders, deciding to take a quick jog before showering and changing for dinner.

It would take him hours yet to even give a brief scan to the five hundred people who would be under his command, but the few he had studied in depth had certainly given him food for thought.

Particularly his second-in-command, Second Lieutenant Cynthia Robbins. She was a first-rate technician; in fact, some of her ratings were off the scale. But, reading between the carefully written lines her other commanders had laid down, she lacked people skills. Big time.

Peter had checked the map of the ship on his data terminal and then directed his jog to the Speed hangar. He hadn't even been near one of the sleek, deadly birds in weeks and had felt a sudden impatience to wallow in the sight, sound, smell of them. The fact that it came out to a run of almost four klicks was a bonus.

Just enough to get the blood flowing, Raeder thought. Not enough to wear me out. He felt he ought to be on his toes for the captain's dinner. Especially if he was supposed to find a saboteur. The problem was that it had been a long time since the Commonwealth fought a human opponent with any sort of real espionage capability. Things with tentacles and scales had trouble infiltrating; Space Command had plenty of firepower, but counterespionage capacity had gone to hell. Plus the Mollies were extremely good at infiltration. Their faith allowed any amount of duplicity in a good cause.

He could smell the Speeds now, and it drove mysteries and frustrations from his mind. Water and lubricant and burned metal, the scents came from the hangar door up ahead. Peter speeded up a bit and then stopped in the doorway, a slow, delighted smile spreading over his face like the breaking dawn. There were so many of them crammed into the colossal hangar, lined up nose to tail. They nuzzled together like battle-horses drowsing in a pasture, peacefully waiting for the trumpets to summon them awake.

Peter stepped into the giant room and gloried in the sight. The sleek black shapes towered over him, their heads tilted upwards haughtily. He could feel their weight, their leashed power. Something in these magnificent machines called to him, as though they were organic or he were part machine. There was an undeniable connection, a sense that each was a missing part of the other, each incomplete by themselves.

Raeder reached up to wipe the sweat from his brow and struck himself harder than intended with his numb machine-hand. It brought him back to reality, literally with a thump. Peter grimaced and pushed the feelings away, continuing his run, continuing his covert inspection.

He began to hear a woman's voice, sharp with irritation, but as yet the words were inaudible. Ahead a group of people in stained coveralls stood grouped around the exhaust tube of a Speed. He quietly moved closer in order to hear what was being snarled.

"If you're that worried about the AI, take the damn thing offline. This isn't science fiction, y'know, where the things turn themselves on and run amok. And we sure as hell can't just ignore this part of the machine."

Raeder stood with his arms folded over his chest and watched the small crowd of techs shift uncomfortably. He agreed that they couldn't just pretend that Speeds didn't have a backend, but he sure couldn't blame them for feeling that way after what happened to poor Okakura.

"Look at this!" the unseen woman shouted, and a blackened bit of metal came flying out of the exhaust cone. Peter placed it automatically: part of the wave-guide apparatus, the field extension that vectored the exhaust.

The startled young tech who'd almost dropped the thing glared at it sullenly.

"You were actually going to send this bird out with that crack in it? What's the matter with you?"

Peter shifted closer, until he could look over the tech's shoulder to see what she was holding. It was one of the mechanical parts of the exhaust system. He watched the tech turn it in her hands, and at first glance he couldn't see anything wrong with it, either. Then the light caught it at just the right angle and he saw it. A hairline fracture right across the disk. The tech saw it, too, and turned it over; it was invisible from that side, but when she flexed it in her hands it snapped like a saltine being crumbled into soup.

There was a profound silence for a moment, then the whole crowd of techs shifted and murmured uncomfortably.

"You have to get beyond your emotions, here," the woman in the exhaust cone continued. "You can't just let your feelings interfere with your duties. If this Speed had gone out, someone would have died. And it would have been your fault. Because you were so wrapped up in how you felt about the commander's death, how afraid you were . . ." The bitter voice trailed off.

"Maybe I'm giving you too much credit, Elisa," she said acidly. "I've never actually noticed that you were intelligent enough to have such sensitive feelings."

"Hey," Peter said mildly. That was going a little far, particularly under the circumstances. Yes, the tech who'd screwed up should have gotten reamed, but not in public, especially not with such nasty, irrelevant remarks.

"Who said that?" The woman in the exhaust cone came forward and Peter recognized Second Lieutenant Cynthia Robbins. She cast a contemptuous glare over his sweaty jogging clothes. "Whoever you are, you don't belong on my deck in that outfit, mister. Get yourself gone, before I put you on report."

Your deck? Peter thought, blinking. Everything but operational deployment was his command, here on the hangar deck of Invincible. On the other hand, he'd be a bit ticked if someone broke in on him in a similar situation. It wasn't surprising that she didn't know him, of course—there must be a lot of unfamiliar faces on a new ship with a crew of thousands.

And wasn't she going to be surprised when he told her who he was and who this deck really belonged to. . . .

Well, I guess it might be hers until I take command officially. Still she was coming at it a bit strong. Tomorrow's time enough, he warned himself. It would hardly be fair to embarrass her in front of the techs. But lady, you and I are going to talk, he promised himself. He gave her a significant look, then turned and after a few steps began jogging again.

Saying that woman is somewhat lacking in people skills, Raeder reflected, is as great an understatement as saying that eating nuclear waste might give you indigestion. 

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Framed