Steward quickly became a great friend. True to his word, he spent almost three hours a day with me, in addition to handling my water and food requirements. Honestly, I think the time I spent with Steward kept me sane more than anything else.
We fell into a routine, Steward and I. We played a game or two of Bridges daily. I was getting pretty good—at least that’s what I liked to tell myself. Steward kept reminding me that I was still only playing the basics. As it turns out, the game could be extremely complex—by magnitudes.
After playing our matches, we would have an open discussion. I had questions of course about things around the ship, or history of his race. Steward always came prepared to ask about historical Terran figures or cultural practices.
If Steward had time following our discussion, he would try to teach me the touch language. Very basic stuff, according to him, very difficult by my account. I actually started to catch on. The words and phrases grew significantly easier after mastering the first handful.
The days started to blur into one another for me after a while. The last time I asked Steward about it, it looked like I’d be riding the hull of this bull for another thirty to eighty days. Just getting back into Terran trafficked area would not guarantee contact right away.
CHAPTER NINE
The next day I spent some time watching Miss Clean Freak in the morning after my laps but before visiting with Steward. While I watched her go about her work, a warning popped up on my visor.
The carbon dioxide scrubbers in my suit were getting full. I had been so concerned about my need for water and food, that I hadn’t even given the scrubbers any thought. The carbon dioxide filters typically lasted about a year. Obviously I had been running them a bit more than normal.
When Steward called me to the rec-room, I asked if he could meet me at the airlock instead. He agreed and before long I was explaining my need for new scrubber filters. The suit contained two filters, and could run fine on only one, which freed one up to give to Steward.
My comms went silent as he called engineering.
“They have assured me that replacements could be manufactured in a few days, “ Steward said. “Will that be sufficient?”
“Great. With just the one here—” I said as I tapped the remaining filter plugged into my chest plate, “—I should be fine for another four days, so as long as they could get it back prior to that, I’m good.”
We regrouped back at the rec-room for a match and a discussion. Steward was called away half way through our second game. It was a pity too—I think I was winning.
With free time on my hands (not that free time was something I was in short supply), I headed over to check on the Ambassador.
He was entertaining a female guest. It was one of the secretaries, a Manti I had dubbed Wilma. She had several round marks circling her neck, dipping down into her back and chest. They resembled a strand of big stone beads, like Wilma Flintstone flaunted.
I started thinking strongly of slinking away. I didn’t want to duplicate my experience with the mistaken dancers.
She walked towards him, and they gripped each other. No wiggling yet, but I figured this was my queue to exit stage right. And as I was doing so, he struck her.
I froze.
They froze as well.
She slowly moved back to her previous posture, gripping him again. They moved slowly, and I started to think maybe I hadn’t seen what I thought I had seen. She certainly didn’t act like she had just been struck. He didn’t look any more aggressive than before.
He led her into the back room out of sight. I could barely make out shadows back there. With them taking their business out of sight, I relaxed. Instead of taking off, I turned on some music and pulled out the dice.
I tossed the dice for maybe fifteen minutes when the Ambassador came out of the back room. He had a white towel, covered in black oil. He wrapped the towel up and set it on the table. He grabbed a second towel from a drawer and started wiping the oil from his face, arms and upper torso.
I laughed out loud, surprising myself.
Well go on with your bad self.
I didn’t know what kind of freaky stuff these two were up to, but I figured I’d seen enough. I decided to go see if Bubbles was playing. She was not. So I wandered around peeking here and there, until it was time to strap down for the night.
CHAPTER TEN
My sleep was restless that night. When I awoke, I had a vague recollection of a dream that quickly faded, leaving behind nothing more than a blurry uneasiness. I didn’t feel like doing laps that morning, so I stayed in my alcove until Steward called.
After our first game ended with Steward controlling all three bridges—a bit like rubbing salt into the wounds—I surprised myself and asked a question.
“Steward, what color is Manti blood?”
“Black,” he said with the familiar tilt of his head.
I was afraid of that.
“Why?” he asked.
I shook my head slightly, “Just… Just curious I suppose.”
Steward set the game back up, and as we played our second game, I really didn’t feel like being there any longer. So, I tanked the game. I moved soldiers into vulnerable positions, and I ignored several opportunistic moves. My efforts were rewarded with a quick victory for Steward.
While he put the pieces away, I excused myself, and told him I hadn’t slept well. He nodded, and I left him there boxing up the game.
I didn’t head for my alcove. Instead, I headed over to the secretaries’ window.
Wilma wasn’t there.
I stayed for several hours, just in case she wandered in. But she didn’t.
I pulled myself along the ship, until I was just outside the Ambassador’s window. The lights were out, and he wasn’t home. I tethered myself for the night.
Five hours passed with no movement. Then the entrance to his quarters slid open and he walked in. The next hour or so revealed nothing. He eventually laid himself prostrate across the beanbag, and the lights went out.
What had I expected to see? I didn’t know.
I fell asleep where I sat, and awoke the next morning sore. The Ambassador was not there. The lights were out and the occupant was gone. I stayed there, not wanting to move, until Steward called.
On my way to the rec-room I took the long way around the ship so as to pass by the Secretaries. Wilma was still not present.
When I got to the rec-room Steward was setting out the bridges.
“Steward,” I said, “I’m not up to playing today, if that’s ok.”
He tilted his head.
“Do you know the female with the big round dots encircling her neck?” I asked. “About this size,” holding up a hand with my fingers and thumb making an ‘O’.
His head tilted a tiny bit further and he paused before responding. “Yes.”
“I figured you would, being stuck on the ship and all.” I said.
He straitened his head.
“Could you take a few minutes and check on her?” I asked. “Please. And don’t ask why, ‘kay?” I added.
And on queue, he tilted his head.
“Now?” he asked.
“Well, yeah, if you could.”
He’s taking this well. I don’t know a human who wouldn’t have asked a dozen questions after that request.
Without another word he packed the game up and left.
I hunched there, not knowing how long he might be gone. Should I stay or should I go? I decided to go. I went back to the Ambassador’s. He was still out.
Ten minutes passed.
“Tech Four?”
“Yes,” I responded.
“Her quarters are empty,” Steward said. “I will proceed to her designated work station.”
“Ok,” I said.
I guess I was getting up to the minute reports. Sweet.
He called back shortly. “Tech Four?”
“Here,” I said.
“She is not at her work station.” St
eward started. “Her supervisor informed me that she was transferred yesterday.”
“Ok. Where to?” I asked.
No translation.
“Uh, that didn’t translate.”
More clicks and that humming noise. No translation.
“Nope, still not translating.” I said. “Whatever you do there, I guess we have no equal where I’m from. “
Maybe it’s top secret Manti stuff.
“Regardless, can you check there for her then?”
“Yes,” he said.
A bit longer this time before he checked back in. When he did, he informed me that her new supervisor was not aware of her transfer and she had not reported for duty.
“Can you check the security logs to see where she last checked in or something?” I asked.
“I do not have the permissions required to check her terminal access,” he said.
“Not her terminal access,” I corrected. “Her movement around the ship. Door scans when she enters or leaves an area. That kinda thing.”
And that got me the head tilt.
“We do not record individual movements about the ship.” He said. “Do the Terran’s do such things?”
“Never mind,” I said. “Can you think of any other method to track her down?”
“No.”
The comms went silent as we both thought.
“Can you track down who made the transfer, or why her new supervisor wasn’t aware of it?” I asked.
“Yes.” He said. “It must wait until next cycle.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes, The officer over personnel assignments will be in his sleep cycle currently,” he said. Even through the translation I felt the sense that he would go no further tonight.
“Ok. Let me know when you find out anything.”
“Yes Tech Four, I will contact you after I have more information.”
“Good night then Steward.” I said. “Thanks for the effort.”
The comm went silent again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I repositioned myself. The spot I typically watched the Ambassador from was not a comfortable position to sleep in. But I found another spot easy enough that allowed for a reclined vantage. It wasn’t as comfortable as my alcove, but it would do.
I listened to music and tossed the dice. Eventually I drifted off.
When I awoke, the lights were on, but the room was empty. I saw movement in the shadows of the back room, but nothing clear. Twenty minutes, thirty, the Ambassador finally emerged. He pulled something behind him. As it cleared the back room, he turned and aimed it at the entry to the quarters. It resembled a small luggage cart. It had four wheels, and an accordion style door on its side that was down, covering its contents.
He pulled the cart across the floor, out the door, and into the hallway. The door to the quarters closed behind him.
It occurred to me that Wilma’s body could have easily fit in that cart.
I checked the time. Steward’s sleep cycle window still had another hour to go.
I took a deep breath, let it out, and opened a channel to Steward. He didn’t respond. I suppose it’s entirely possible that he wouldn’t monitor my channel during his sleep cycle. I guess he’d get his precious hour. After all, Wilma couldn’t get more dead. Her murderer could get away with it, but she’d still be dead either way.
I decided I needed a breather, so I went to see if Bubbles was playing. Thank the stars, she was. I needed it. I settled down, and watched her play.
Steward’s call pulled me from my daze. I shook it off and answered. Five minutes later we were face to face via the airlock window. He didn’t say as much, but I figured he didn’t want to have this conversation out in the open rec-room.
“So what do we know?” I asked.
“You have requested that I not ask questions,” he started. “But I am finding it very difficult at this point. Please, may I ask how you came to query about this particular Manti?”
“Does that mean you found something?”
“Yes,” he said. “She is dead.”
“I knew it,” I sighed.
“Why did you query about her?” Steward restated with what little force the translator allowed.
“I saw her murdered,” I said. “Or at least I saw the moments leading up to her murder.”
Tilt. “That is not possible. She was found close to the core of the ship, at her new station. You could not have witnessed it.”
“Where?” I said. “Where did they find her?”
No Translation again. Then Steward paused, obviously thinking, then said slowly, “Caustic, harsh, chemical processing.”
I shook my head slightly. “They moved her to work with processing chemicals?”
“Yes, but…”
“Let me guess,” I cut in, “she conveniently died from some chemical that could hide forensic data?”
The head tilt again, “Yes.”
“And no one saw the ‘Accident’?” I did the air quotes thing, only realizing mid gesture that Steward wouldn’t get it.
“Yes again Tech Four. How do you know these facts?”
“It just makes sense. If he wanted to cover his tracks.” I said. “He killed her in his room. Then he had to cover it up. He couldn’t just get rid of the body, although I could think of a dozen methods to do just that. People just don’t disappear on a ship. It would arouse an investigation. So logically he’d have to fake an accident, with no witnesses of course. The lack of forensics, was a guess based on you mentioning the chemicals, but that strengthens the case.”
We both glanced down in silence.
“That is not all,” Steward said. “There are inconsistencies in her transfer.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Before her body was discovered I contacted the assignment officer. He was unaware of the transfer as well, and was insistent that it should not be possible without his consent.”
“Interesting,” I said under my breath.
“I also contacted her new supervisor after they discovered her body.”
“Yeah.”
“He informed me that the container she died in required disabling three separate safety protocols to open.”
He paused, and I realized he assumed I knew what that meant. So, I took a guess.
“But she hadn’t been trained, right?”
“Yes,” he said.
“So, how did she know how to open it?”
“Yes. But in addition, one of the protocols that was disabled required access rights above her grade,” he finished.
I laughed a little nervous laugh.
Steward believed me. I wasn’t crazy.
“Tell me what you saw,” Steward said.
I told him. I recounted the strike that I wasn’t sure was a strike, the black bloody towel, and the cart that I believed now contained her body.
It occurred to me that Steward had not once shown an interest in the identity of the Manti who had done this. Maybe his mind hadn’t caught up to the situation yet.
So I asked, “Aren’t you curious who did it?”
“No Tech Four. I am not.”
What? Confusion stretched across my face.
It must have shown even to Steward. He continued on, “You did not see the murder. You did not see the body. But even if you had witnessed it, our laws forbid alien testimony against our own kind in internal issues.”
“So, even if I did see it, they wouldn’t listen?”
“No they would not,” he said.
“So, how does that translate into you having no interest in who he is?” I asked.
“It would not be fair or appropriate for me to hold a bias against him, since the evidence does not support the claim.”
“But you believe me?” I blurted. “Didn’t you?”
“Yes Tech Four, I believe you. But that does not change the fact that it cannot be proven. So why burden myself with the knowledge of his identity. It would not be appropriate.”
; “You’ve got to be kidding me!” I exclaimed.
“No. I assure you I am not,” he responded.
I was speechless.
A quiet moment passed between us, then Steward had to go back to his duty station.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I spent the rest of my day huddled outside the Ambassador’s window. He didn’t show up for several hours. But once he did, things didn’t get any more exciting.
He basically went about the minutia of life, doing nothing out of the ordinary.
My stomach growled and I realized that I hadn’t eaten in a couple of days. I was about to go back to my alcove to eat when the Ambassador pulled the blackened bloody cloth from inside one of the hanging buckets.
I just assumed he had disposed of the blood evidence by now.
That was her blood; Wilma’s blood. Her DNA, right there.
He placed the cloth on the table and unrolled it. In the middle of the cloth bundle laid the dagger; dried blood intact.
I opened a channel to Steward. He did not respond.
The Ambassador began cleaning the dagger, the evidence chipping and falling away as he brushed it with a cloth. When he had done all he could with the dry cloth, he reached for a small brush. The brush was delicate enough to penetrate the small crevices and nooks.
A few short minutes later he had finished with the dry brush and started preparing a wet cloth.
I tried Steward again.
I was literally watching this creature get away with murder.
Dammit Steward, answer already!
Then, “Yes, Tech Four?” came over the comms.
“Steward,“ I started with a huff, “I’m watching him. He’s cleaning the evidence from the knife right now.”
Pause.
“Steward?” I hissed.
“Yes,” he responded. “Describe his markings.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “He’s sort of patternless. I mean, he’s got markings, but they’re not in any pattern I can easily describe. I could pick him out of a crowd, but I don’t know what to tell you.”
A Walk Between Stars Page 4
