Twilight of the clans III: the hunters

by Thomas S. Gressman

  Someone gasped in disbelief.

  Paul Masters bowed his head, his lips moving in a whispered prayer.

  "Chief Medical Officer Donati says that Morgan may have had a hidden defect that suddenly manifested itself, causing a fatal episode. That is all the information I have at this time."

  All the commanders sat in stunned silence, until Paul Masters broke in, saying what everyone was thinking. "What now, General?"

  Her head came up. She fixed the Knight with a burning stare. Her voice uncharacteristically sharp, she said, "What now, sir? We carry out our mission. That's what. This is a military operation, and we do not turn back because our leader has a heart attack."

  Winston glared at the unit commanders as though defying them to challenge her decision. Then, as quickly as it had come, the anger left her. She felt a sick weariness. She wanted nothing more than to return to the Gettysburg and lock herself in her quarters, but she knew she had to go on.

  "As second-in-command, I will assume the post of task force commander. Commodore Beresick, I will be moving over to the flagship as soon as quarters can be prepared for me. General Redburn, you will be my executive officer. You can either maintain command of the Kathil Uhlans or pass that post on to one of your subordinates, as you see fit. Just tell me which it is to be. I, likewise, will decide whether or not to relinquish command of the Eridani Light Horse. Everyone else will remain at their original posts.

  "I am going to postpone this session until thirteen hundred tomorrow. I'd like each of you to return to your respective commands, and inform your people of the Marshal's death. That is all. Dismissed."

  The commanders filed out of the briefing room, each of them expressing sorrow and condolences to Andrew Redburn, who had known Morgan longer than any of them. Ariana Winston tried not to stare at Redburn as he wrestled with his shock and grief. Grief was natural, Morgan had been one of his closest friends, but there was something else in Redburn's eyes, something fierce, almost predatory.

  As Samuel Kingston, the last to leave the room, closed the door behind him, Redburn glanced at Winston. His face still showed pain, but had taken on the hard, unyielding quality of flint.

  "General Winston, I've known Morgan for most of my life. I knew him better than anyone in this task force, maybe even better than Kym."

  "I know that, Andrew. I understa . .."

  "No, ma'am, you don't." He cut her off. "Right after the Whitting Conference, Victor Davion made him get a complete physical: blood work, stress test, the works. Victor said he wanted to be sure Morgan was in shape for this mission. I don't think Victor was actually worried about Morgan's health. He just wanted to be sure."

  "And?" Winston suddenly felt as though a frozen metal hand was squeezing her stomach.

  "The doctors passed him with flying colors—a clean bill of health."

  "Andrew, what are you driving at?"

  Redburn paused for a moment, his green eyes locking with hers. "I believe Morgan was murdered."

  Winston's felt all the blood drain from her face. For long moments, she stared at Redburn.

  "General, did you hear me? I said ..."

  She cut him off with an angry gesture. "Come with me," she said curtly.

  Redburn got quickly to his feet and followed her out of the briefing room. In a cold fury, Winston walked to the lift and punched the call button. She crossed her arms, tapping her foot angrily as they waited. When at last the doors slid open, she pointed for him to enter the car.

  Redburn nodded and complied. A few minutes later, she ushered him into the small office that had been reserved for her aboard the flagship. Ironically, the room was right across the passageway from Morgan's flag suite.

  As Redburn entered Winston's office, she barked out for him to have a seat. As he began to lower himself into the chair she'd indicated, she secured the old-fashioned mechanical lock on her door.

  "Now, General Redburn . .." Winston's obsidian gaze never wavered. "Would you care to repeat what you just told me?"

  "Yes, ma'am. I said that I'm afraid Morgan's been murdered. General, Morgan had a complete physical right after the Conference. The doctors said he passed it more easily than some men twenty years his junior. I checked. It's my job to check. The report gave absolutely no indication of heart trouble. So, if Donati thinks it was his heart, but he didn't have heart trouble, what does that make it?"

  Winston stared past him at nothing. She felt cold and dead. Then, she reached across her desk and keyed in the ship's intercom system. She had the tech route her call to docking bay three, where Captain Roger Montjar was preparing to board a shuttle back to the Fire Fang. Without preamble, she asked Montjar if the Rabid Foxes had brought any counter-surveillance equipment with them. After being assured that they had, she ordered Montjar to get that equipment and bring it straight to her office.

  "General, what is this all about?" Montjar's confusion was evident despite the metallic distortion of the intercom.

  "Not now, Captain. You'll find out when you get here."

  Severing the connection, Winston tapped in another command.

  "Sickbay."

  "Doctor Donati? This is General Winston. Report to my day cabin immediately."

  Without waiting for a reply, Winston switched off the communicator and sat back.

  Sitting there, waiting for the officers to arrive was one of the longest, loneliest times of Ariana Winston's life. Hard as it was to believe, to accept, Morgan was dead. Silent tears welled up inside her, but she could not give in to any of that right now. First, she had to find out what had really happened.

  Looking across the desk at Redburn, she saw that he, too, was fighting for composure.

  The office door chime sounded. Winston and Redburn both jumped, startled. She got up and unbolted the door.

  She had been expecting Doctor Donati to arrive first, assuming that Montjar would have had to send to either the Fire Fang or the Antrim for his electronic surveillance equipment. But she was wrong. Seeing her surprise, Montjar explained that he had developed the habit of carrying a portable scanner/jammer to every staff meeting.

  "It may be a bit paranoid, but you never know who might be out to get you."

  "Captain, I want you to sweep this office for bugs," Winston said.

  "Sweep for bugs? Why?" Stopped short by a look from Winston, Montjar shrugged, and dug a thick, six-by-ten-centimeter black plastic box out of his nylon briefcase. After fiddling with a few tiny controls, he paced around the office, waving the device at the bulkheads, ventilation ducts, furniture, even the coffee pot.

  In the middle of his performance, the door chime bleeped again. As the door opened, Doctor Donati entered. Winston saw him suddenly clamp his lips shut as though seeing Montjar in the cabin made him decide not to say whatever he'd been about to. Instead, he took a seat on the edge of Winston's sideboard until Montjar finished his scan.

  Giving the instrument a last critical gaze, he switched the device off. Pulling a small, gray plastic mushroom out of his kit, he set it in the center of Winston's desk. At the touch of a stud, a low, whistling hum filled the air.

  "There. That'll cover our voices, as long as we're quiet," he said. "If we talk louder, the jammer will distort anything we say. It'll also scramble any bugs I may have missed." Montjar picked up his case and turned to go.

  "Wait a minute, Captain," Winston said. "This concerns you, too."

  Montjar shrugged and set the case down again.

  Donati pushed himself upright, placed his hands behind his back and said, "So, General, what's this all about?"

  Winston looked pointedly at Redburn. "Andrew?"

  Getting to his feet so he could face the newcomers, Redburn carefully repeated everything he'd said earlier to Winston. When he finished, Montjar nodded thoughtfully. Donati, though clearly shocked by the allegations, recovered quickly and promised to begin an autopsy immediately.

  "That's good, Doctor," Winston said. "Can you cover it under some kind of bureaucra
tic red-tape, like 'standard practice in case of an unusual death'?"

  "Of course. I'm the chief medical officer of this task force. If I say a post-mortem has to be done, who's going to question me?"

  "It's not questioning you she's worried about," Montjar put in. "It's security, right, General? If it was murder, there's a more-than-even chance the assassin will pick up on what we're doing. He can't run far. Where's he going to run to? The problem is, we want good, clean evidence for when we hang the son-of-a-buck."

  "That's right, Captain," Winston said grimly. "The killer may not be able to escape, but we still have to catch him and prove he did it. So I don't want this to leave this room."

  "What about the other commanders?" Redburn asked. "Shouldn't they be told?"

  Again, Montjar answered for Winston. "What if one of the other commanders was behind the murder?"

  "That's right." Winston looked sharply at Donati. "Doctor, do you have enough people you trust to help with the autopsy?"

  "Yes, ma'am," he said with a nod. "My people are almost all old-time ComStar. They've been trained to keep their mouths shut."

  "All right," Winston said. "You'd better go ahead and get started. Captain Montjar, I don't suppose you've been carrying around any forensics gear?"

  "Some. Not much."

  "Well, go fetch what you have, and send for what you need." Winston rose from her chair as she spoke. "General Redburn and I are going to have a look at Marshal Hasek-Davion's quarters. We'll meet you there."

  "Okay." Montjar was already on his way out the door. "Just be careful. Don't touch anything. I don't want you to destroy evidence."

  In the short time that had passed, Morgan's stateroom had somehow become like a room in a museum, which, although it recreated his home, captured none of his personality. An unpleasant burnt odor stung their nostrils, evading identification until Winston remembered the pot of soycaff she'd noticed earlier. The warming plate hadn't been switched off, and the brown liquid had begun boiling down to sludge. With a grunt of disgust, Winston slid the switch into the Off position.

  Redburn and Winston crept around the flag office, using writing styluses to open drawers and cabinets to keep from damaging any possible fingerprints. Not knowing what else to do, they left the data-reader for Montjar.

  Moving into Morgan's bedroom, Redburn used his pen to tug open the nightstand.

  "General, you'd better come in here."

  Winston closed the cabinet she'd been inspecting, and walked through the adjoining door.

  "Did you find something?" she asked.

  "It's what I didn't find," Redburn said bitterly. "Morgan had a newly acquired vice he refused to give up, even though Kym hated it. Every night, he has a small glass of scotch just before going to sleep." Redburn didn't notice that he'd spoken as though his friend was still alive.

  "He keeps a bottle of Glengarry Black Label in the nightstand next to his bunk. The other night, he offered me a drink. He had to open a new bottle. But when I looked in the stand, there was only one unopened bottle— no sign of the open one. Morgan didn't drink enough to empty a whole bottle of whiskey in two days.

  "There's something else. He had this contraption rigged up so he could have his nightcap even in zero-G. It uses a high-low pressure system to fill a plastic squeeze bulb. Well, the system's still there, but the bulb's gone."

  "What bulb?"

  So unexpected was this third voice that Redburn started violently, and Winston dropped to one knee, spinning to face the door over the sights of the laser pistol she snatched from a concealed holster. She snapped the weapon up as soon as she saw it was Roger Montjar.

  "Captain, if I didn't need you . .."

  "Sorry, General." Montjar said. "Now, what bulb?" Redburn repeated his tale of Morgan's single foible. Montjar thought for a moment. "Did either of you touch the bottle or the transfer system?"

  "Uh-uh," Redburn answered.

  "Good," Montjar barked, his voice becoming professionally detached. "If you didn't touch them, I may be able to lift some prints."

  The special forces officer went to work, dusting, probing, sampling, and examining everything in sight. For over an hour, he searched the stateroom and the office. The data unit he set aside, explaining that he wasn't very good with computers. Montjar promised to allow a Com-Star technician to access its memory at a later date, with Winston, Redburn, and himself in attendance.

  Other than discovering that the bottle and squeeze bulb were missing, the search of Morgan's quarters proved fruitless.

  As they turned to leave, Winston noticed Redburn lagging behind. She stopped too and watched him. For a long moment, he stood in the doorway, staring at the empty, unmade bunk. Turning away, he shook his head, blinking to clear his eyes. Unashamed of the tears that threatened to stream down his face, he turned to his new commander.

  Winston nodded sadly.

  "He was the last of the old order of things," she said. "We'll never see his like again."

  About the Author

  Thomas S. Gressman lives with his wife, Brenda, and four-and-a-half cats in the foothills of western Pennsylvania.

  When not chained to his computer, he divides his time between leather crafting, living history reenactment, and a worship music ministry.

  The Hunters is his first novel, and he is currently writing the sequel, Sword and Fire.