Conventions of War def-3

by Walter Jon Williams

  Dominating the far wall was the life-sized figure of a man, cast apparently in porcelain. The man had been savagely tortured and then hung on a tree to die. Cuts and blood and the marks of burning tongs were vivid in the translucent porcelain flesh and rendered in immaculate detail by the artist. Despite the many wounds and the agonized posture, the clean-shaven face of the man was serene and unearthly, with unnaturally large dark eyes that wrapped partly around the sides of the head. His hair had been braided in long ringlets that hung to his shoulders. As Martinez took a step closer, he saw that the figure had been lashed by metal bands to what appeared to be a chunk of a perfectly genuine tree.

  He looked in amazement from the object on the wall to the two servants who stood braced by open trunks half filled with the captain’s belongings.

  “What isthat?” he couldn’t stop himself from asking.

  “Part of Captain Fletcher’s collection, my lord.”

  The answer came from the older of the two, a gray-haired man with a long nose and a moist, mobile mouth.

  “You’re Narbonne?” Martinez asked.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Stand by a moment.”

  Martinez paged Marsden, the captain’s secretary. When he arrived, Martinez turned to him.

  “I want a complete inventory taken of all Captain Fletcher’s belongings,” he said. “I want that signed by you and witnessed by everyone here, including-” He nodded toward the guard. “Your name?”

  “Huang, my lord.”

  “Including Huang.”

  Marsden nodded his bald head. “Yes, my lord.”

  “I’ll try to access the captain’s safe so we can inventory the contents as well.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Getting into the captain’s safe proved more difficult than Martinez expected. A combination in records was available to the captain, but Fletcher had changed the numbers at least once since he’d taken command, and the old combination was no longer valid. Martinez got Fletcher’s captain’s key from Michi, but that didn’t serve either. In the end he had to call Master Machinist Gawbyan. The machinist, who had a truly spectacular pair of mustachios that curled so broad and high they nearly met his eyebrows, arrived with an assistant and a bag of tools. When the safe was finally open, the contents were uninteresting: some money, a beautifully made custom pistol with a box of ammunition, some bank records, notes on investments, and a pair of small boxes. One box contained a small, frail old book written in some incomprehensibly ancient alphabet. The other box held a carved white jade statue of a nearly naked six-armed woman dancing atop a skull, a sight that wasn’t very shocking after the sight of the tortured man lashed to the tree.

  Martinez supposed the book and the statue were valuable, so he decided to keep them in his own safe once Gawbyan finished repairing the damage he’d just inflicted. “Make a note,” Martinez told Marsden, “that I’ve kept in my own possession a small book and a small statue of a woman.”

  “Very good, my lord,” Marsden said, and wrote on his datapad.

  He took the objects to the safe in his own office, and on his return encountered Dr. Xi coming up the companion, climbing amid the faint scent of disinfectant. Xi braced apologetically, then said, “I was on my way to report to Lady Michi.”

  “Yes?”

  His sad eyes contemplated Martinez for a moment, then grew hard. “Join me if you like.”

  They were shown into Michi’s office, and Xi offered another unpracticed salute.

  “I’ve performed the autopsy,” he said, “but it was hardly necessary, since it was obviously murder nearly from the start.”

  Michi pressed her lips together in a thin line, then said, “Obvious? How?”

  “I put a sensor net around the lord captain’s head and got a three-dimensional image of the skull. Captain Fletcher’s right temple was struck by three separate blows, grouped closely together-the multiple blows weren’t obvious from the superficial examination I was able to conduct this morning, but on the three-dimensional image they were very clear.”

  “His head was driven into the desk three times?” Michi asked.

  “Or hit with a blunt object twice, then slammed into the desk to make it look like an accident.”

  Michi spoke to her desk. “Page Rigger First Class Garcia to the squadcom’s office.” She looked at Martinez. “Who’s military constabulary officer?”

  “Corbigny, my lady.”

  Michi turned to her desk again. “Page Lieutenant Corbigny as well.”

  Martinez turned to Xi. “I don’t suppose Lieutenant Kosinic’s body is still on the ship.”

  Xi looked at him. “As a matter of fact, the body’s in a freezer compartment. We didn’t cremate.”

  “Perhaps you ought to take a look at it.”

  Xi turned away, his gaze directed at the wall over Michi’s head. His lips pursed out, then in. “I should,” he said. “I wish I had when he died.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Michi answered for him. “Because the cause of death seemed so obvious. In the fighting at Harzapid, Kosinic suffered broken bones and head injuries. When he came on board, he insisted he was fit, but his report from the hospital stated he was subject to blinding headaches, vertigo, and fainting spells. When he was found dead, it seemed obvious that he’d fainted and hit his head.”

  “Where was he found?”

  “In the Flag Officer Station.”

  Martinez was surprised. “What was he doing there alone?”

  Michi hesitated. “Li and Coen told me he sometimes worked there by himself. It was less distracting than the wardroom.”

  “Was he working on anything in particular?”

  “He was tactical officer. I’d had him plan a full schedule of squadron maneuvers, concentrating on the defense of Zanshaa.”

  Martinez turned at the sound of someone entering. Rigger Garcia came into the room and braced.

  “Rigger/First Garcia reporting, my lady.”

  “Thank you. Stand at ease, and take notes if you need to.”

  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 profession
als 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.

  He had a warship to command.

  When the job was finished, Martinez rose to his feet and looked at the office, the fine tile and elegant paneling, the martial statues of men in plate armor, and the glass cabinets holding objects of beauty, all of it smudged with fingerprints and covered with powder. If he’d set out deliberately to disfigure all the grace and perfection with which Fletcher had filled his life, he could scarcely have done a better job.

  “Lord Captain,” Xi said. “May I have the codes to the ship’s fingerprint file?”

  “Yes. As soon as I can find them.”

  “I’ll return to my office,” Xi said, “and proceed as best as I can.”

  Martinez thought again about Michi’s cocktails. “May I offer you a drink first?”

  Xi accepted. Martinez paged Alikhan and told him to serve Xi in his old office. “I have a brief errand,” he told the doctor. “I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

  Martinez got a signed copy of the inventory from Marsden, then had the captain’s possessions transferred to a locker under his own key and password. He dismissed Fletcher’s servants to clean the captain’s office, a task he did not envy them, and went to his own cabin to find Xi sitting comfortably amid theputti, his forensic samples on the desk, and a glass of whisky in his hand.

  Alikhan had thoughtfully left a tray on the desk with another glass, a beaker of whisky, and another beaker of chilled water, its flanks covered with glittering gems of condensation. Martinez poured his own drink and settled into his chair.

  “Interesting whisky, my lord,” Xi said. “Very smoky.”

  “From Laredo,” Martinez said, “my birthplace.” His father sent him cases of Laredo’s best, in hopes exposure would boost the export market.

  “What it lacks in subtlety,” Xi said, “is more than regained in vigor.”

  Martinez inhaled the fumes lovingly, then raised his glass. “Here’s to vigor,” he said, and drank.

  The whisky blazed a trail of fire down his throat. He looked at the smoky fluid through the prisms of
the crystal glass and contemplated his long, singular day.

  “My lord,” he said, “do you have any idea? Any idea at all?”

  Xi seemed to understand the point of this vague question. “Who’s responsible, you mean? No. Not the slightest.”

  “Or why?”

  “Nor that either.”

  Martinez swirled whisky in his glass. “You’ve known Captain Fletcher for a long time.”

  “Since he was a boy, yes.”

  Martinez put the glass down and looked at the whitebearded man across his desk. “Tell me about him,” he said.

  Xi didn’t answer right away. His thumbs pressed hard against his whisky glass, pressed until they turned white. Then the thumbs relaxed.

  “Lord Gomberg Fletcher,” he said, “was exceptionally well-born, and exceptionally wealthy. Most people born to wealth and high status assume that their condition isn’t simply luck, but a result of some kind of perfect cosmic justice-that is, that any person as fine and virtuous as themselves should naturally take an exalted place in society.” His brows knit. “I would guess that Captain Fletcher found his position more of a burden than a source of pleasure.”

  Martinez was surprised. “That-That was hardly my impression,” he said.

  “Living up to the worlds’ expectations is a difficult job,” Xi said, “and I think he worked very hard at it. He made a very good job of it. But I don’t think it made him happy.”

  Martinez looked at the pink-cheeked winged children who fluttered around his office wall. “The art collection?” he asked. “All this?” He waved a hand vaguely at the flying children. “That didn’t make him happy?”

  “There are a limited number of roles suitable for someone of his status,” Xi said. “That of aesthete was perhaps the most interesting available.” He frowned, a narrow X forming between his brows. “Aestheticism took up the part of his life that wasn’t taken up by the military. Between the two of them, he didn’t have time to think about being happy or unhappy, or to think about much at all.” He looked up at Martinez.