No Honor in Death (31 page)

"So, Mister Tiner," the Captain stared down at the shorter woman with a smile she hoped looked reassuring.

"Ah yes, sir.  The controllers."  Tiner touched the console beneath the large work screen.  Two identical circuits materialized on the viewing surface.  "These are micro-resolution scanner shots we took of the command circuits on both units.  As you can see,"  she pointed at each circuit in turn, "the burn-out patterns are nearly identical."

"How nearly?"

"Ninety percent, sir."

Pushkin let out a low whistle.  His primary training at the Academy had been in engineering and he was a competent and knowledgeable generalist.  Siobhan, who'd taken only the required basics in ship's systems glanced at her First Officer and Chief Engineer in turn.

"I assume by your reactions that this is not supposed to happen."

"Damn right it isn't, Captain."  Pushkin looked at Tiner.  "Sorry there, Anna.  Go ahead."

The short woman nodded and turned back to the screen.  "Two identical circuits burning out in nearly the same manner at the same time stretches the laws of probability by a quantum factor, Captain.  Unless they were manufactured with an identical flaw and have been subjected to exactly the same stresses.  Now this type of injector control isn't exactly the best piece of kit the New Aberdeen shipyards have come up with, but they're not supposed to be failure prone in a regular, identifiable manner.  Otherwise, someone would have found out a long time ago, and fixed the problem."

"Correct, Captain," Pushkin chimed in.  "This kind of controller has been used on Type 203 frigates since the start, thirty plus years ago, more than enough time to find regular manufacturing defects.  Though," he scratched the side of his head, "I don't suppose they make them anymore.  We're the last Type 203 ship left in service."  He shrugged, aware that his last comment was beside the point, although Tiner nodded vigorously.

"So you're convinced that this wasn't due to a built-in defect."

"No, sir."  Tiner sounded as positive as Siobhan had ever heard her.  "Can't be, even if there was a defect.  Like I said, if they were built with a flaw and subjected to the same stresses, and the gods of engineering felt puckish, it might be possible."   Siobhan raised her eyebrows at the unexpected stab of humour.  "But," the Chief Engineer continued, "as it happens, the two units weren't subjected to the same stresses.  I checked my personal logs and we replaced the starboard unit thirteen months ago.  The port unit dates back from before my time aboard."

"Thank God for your personal logs then, Mister Tiner," Siobhan smiled devilishly, "because they're probably the only recent maintenance records we have, thanks to whoever impounded all of the
Stingray
's official logs."

Tiner didn't quite know how to interpret Captain Dunmoore's comment, so she remained silent, waiting for Siobhan's next question, one she had already anticipated.

"How, if we're looking for unnatural causes, could this have been perpetrated?"

"I've figured out seven different ways this could be done, sir.  Do you want me to describe them?"

Siobhan shook her head.  "The technical subtleties would probably be lost on me.  Include your theories in your report.  I'm sure Mister Pushkin will be delighted to explore them," she added grinning at the serious-faced First Officer.  "That being said, how difficult are they to carry out without anyone noticing, and who has the necessary expertise to do so?"

"Not very hard to carry out, I'm afraid, sir.  That's one other reason why this design is obsolete.  Anyone with a basic engineering diagnostics unit, wired to put out an energy pulse at a specific frequency, could weaken the circuits enough for them to fail after a specific interval.  And most of my staff, at least the Group Five -qualified Petty Officers and above, would know how to rewire a diagnostics unit and how to damage sensitive circuits.  Though I doubt a non-engineer would," she added.

"One final question.  If I hadn't asked you to compare the damage on both units, would you have found out anyways?"

"Oh yes, Captain.  Definitely.  Every time a major module fails, I run a full diagnostics check to record the reason of failure.  It's one of the ways Starfleet Engineering keeps tabs on life-expectancy and quality-control problems.  I would have noticed and told you either way, because this is not normal."

"And everyone in your division knows this procedure?"

"Aye, sir."

Siobhan raised her head to stare at the circuits displayed on the screen, forehead creased and lips pursed in thought.  The two other officers knew what the Captain was thinking, and they couldn't make head or tails of it either.  Finally, Siobhan shrugged and turned to face them.

"How long before failure do you think someone tampered with the controllers?"

"Hard to say, sir.  Anywhere from fifteen minutes to four hours, depending on how much damage was initially caused."

"Okay.  Mister Tiner, find out if any of your people have been near the controllers at any time within say, five hours before the things went pffut.  Not as suspects, mind you, but to ask them if they noticed anything unusual.  We'll consider suspects later."

"I understand, sir,"  she replied, nodding, though it was obvious she didn't put much faith into finding anything useful.  She stuck her head out of the office door and yelled "Chief Weekes," at the top of her voice, punching through the loud drone of the power tools.  Moments later, the Chief Petty Officer Third Class who reigned over engineering appeared and Tiner passed on Siobhan's orders.  He trotted off, shaking his heavy jowls in wonder.

"Now for the real question," Siobhan eyes locked with Tiner's.  "How long before we can jump again?"

"The replacement unit is already in place portside and tests just fine.  I've got my best techs working on fixing one of the broken controllers, but I can't give you a definite time.  It's a risky piece of kit to be tampering with, sir.  Rebuilding a circuit from scratch is tough without the proper tools."

Pushkin snapped his fingers and then tapped the side of his nose, a slow grin spreading over his face.  "We'll lose the convoy if you try to do a full rebuild.  How about by-passing the burnt-out parts directly.  It'll still control the anti-matter injectors well enough to get the starboard hyper-drive working before the Shreharis sail out of sensor range."

Tiner looked horrified at the suggestion.  "That's bloody suicide, Mister Pushkin,"  she replied hotly, a professional engineer defending her turf from an amateur.  "Without the circuit's hardwired protection, a bad hit by a Shrehari could cause catastrophic damage on the unit, and it'll be an even bet if the overload blows us first or if the static discharge from the controller makes us go up in flames of glory."

"Yes, but while we're running after the bastards, an operation that'll take several hours at this point, you can work on fixing the other broken unit properly, and we'll have it in place before the plasma starts flying in earnest."

"Mister Tiner,"  Siobhan's voice cut through what was about to shape up as a heated technical argument between the two officers.  Their next words died unspoken.  "Is Mister Pushkin right?  Can you by-pass the burnt-out circuits and get this ship back into FTL flight?"

Grudgingly, she nodded.  "Yes, but I strongly advise against it."

"Your advice is noted and understood, Mister Tiner.  But we're not losing that convoy on account of some saboteur who doesn't look like he's got all his marbles.  Carry out the First Officer's suggestion.  The moment you've rebuilt the second unit, I promise we'll drop out of FTL and you'll be able to install it properly.  We can't afford to sit here, vulnerable as we are, for the hours it'll take you to rebuild us a safe unit.  A Shrehari patrol ship could find us at any time, and I'd rather have a dangerous controller which can do the job, than attempt an unbalanced emergency jump or even worse, see myself outmanoeuvred in an uneven fight."

"Excuse me, sir," a gruff voice interrupted from the office door.

"Yes, Chief,"  Tiner turned, unsuccessfully trying to mask her resentment at being overruled.

"Able Spacer Bertram here saw someone at the controllers in the hours before the failure."

"Send him in."

The weasel-faced rating stepped around the massive Chief without waiting for further orders, and reported to the Captain with all due naval protocol, even though he was in rumpled coveralls and had grease stains all the way up his bare arms.

"Able Spacer Bertram reportin' to the Cap'n, sir."

"You saw someone at the controllers, Bertram?"

"Aye, Cap'n.  I did.  'Twas something like three hours before we dropped outta FTL.  Petty Officer Hartalas ran a diagnostic check on the portside hyper-drive control systems.  He had a hand-held unit with him.  Didn't think nothing of it at the time.  Normal like."

"And it probably is, Bertram," Siobhan replied, unwilling to pin blame on PO Hartalas before she had solid proof.  "But maybe he noticed something that didn't strike him as abnormal at the time.  Something which could help us further."  Nosey Bertram looked dubious, but knew better than to reply.  "Thank you, Bertram."

"Sir."  He did a precise about turn and marched out of the office.

"Chief," Siobhan turned her deep-set eyes on the big man, "ask Petty Officer Hartalas to report to me."

He frowned.  "Hartalas is off watch right now, sir."

Siobhan repressed a surge of irritation.  "Then track him down."

A few minutes later, the Chief returned, an unhappy look on his face.  "He ain't in his quarters, he ain't in engineering, no one's seen him for the last hour or so, and he ain't responding to ship-wide."

Siobhan nodded.  "Thank you, Chief."  She walked over to the intercom on Tiner's desk.

"Dunmoore to the Second Officer."

"Drex here," he promptly replied.

"Mister Drex, I need to speak with Petty Officer Hartalas but he can't be found in his quarters, at his duty station or anywhere else, and he's not responding to calls.  I want you to find him for me and bring him to my ready room."

"Shall I place him under arrest?"  Drex's more than obvious lack of curiosity annoyed Siobhan briefly.  She expected her security officer to take a more personal interest in events aboard the ship.

"Only if necessary.  I simply want to speak with him."

"Aye, aye, sir.  I'm putting out a general search now."

"Dunmoore, out."

She turned and her eyes met Pushkin's.  In them, she read a reflection of her own mounting suspicions and that did not reassure her at all.  Siobhan broke the contact first.

"Let's leave Mister Tiner and her people to their work, Mister Pushkin."

The stem to stern search did not take very long.  Siobhan and Pushkin barely had five minutes to discuss events in the ready room, before Drex's flat voice issued from the intercom with the news Siobhan had been dreading.

"I'm on my way, Mister Drex.  Don't touch anything until I get there."

"As you wish, Captain."

Siobhan cut the connection and glanced at Pushkin, his face a mirror of her own grim expression.  "You coming?"

Lieutenant Drex and a squad of armed bosun's mates waited for them on deck fifteen, the lowest of the main hull decks.  It was a stark, bare environment of cold metal and humming machinery, far from the warmth of the crew decks.  A lonely place too, especially with the broken body sprawled at the foot of an access ladder, its head at an odd angle from the body.  The smell of voided bowel and bladder assailed Siobhan's nose, and brought back the painful memories of other deaths she'd witnessed not too long ago, on another ship.  Petty Officer Hartalas had been in his mid-thirties, young for a race whose life-span now routinely exceeded a full century.  There was a stunned, almost outraged look on his face, as if he'd seen Death in the moments before it struck.  His open eyes seemed to stare accusingly at the bare ceiling.

Emotionlessly, Drex pointed up at the emergency access tube running between decks.  "Petty Officer Hartalas must have slipped and fallen.  His neck is broken.  Died not too long ago.  His body is still warm."

Siobhan saw the evidence, heard the words, but couldn't believe the Second Officer's cold-blooded conclusion.  Her own words about coincidences rang through her mind.

"Or," she replied in a low, soft voice, "someone could have broken his neck for him and tossed him down the tube.  It's just a bit too strange that the last man seen near the anti-matter injectors ends up at the bottom of a ladder with his neck broken before we can speak to him."

Drex shrugged.  "Maybe you are reading too much into both events, sir.  This looks like an accident to me.  Murder on a starship?"  His tone shifted subtly, hinting that Siobhan was speaking crazy talk.  Or it could simply have been the Captain's imagination.  Ever since the Zavaleta incident, her opinion of the Second Officer had taken a turn for the worse, and the older man knew it.  Sometimes, his cold, emotionless look made Siobhan feel guilty.  It was irrational, but then, nobody had ever accused her of being sane.

"Maybe, Mister Drex.  Still, I want the Doctor to conduct an autopsy.  Do a full investigation and scan of the area, including the access tube.  Treat this as a suspicious death until you have evidence of the contrary."