Paralytic nanites were still the favorite of kidnappers and assassins, people who didn’t overly care if their victim lived or died - mostly because the nanites could be ordered
out
of the victim when you were done, leaving no traces.
“Is she okay?” Stanford demanded.
“She’s fine,” Roberts told him. “But she was being kidnapped by Chief Liago. He drew on the Station MPs and killed one. They fried him. He’s dead.”
Stanford was silent for a long moment, considering and watching the station grow in his screens.
“If Liago was involved, Larson was in this up to his neck,” he said quietly.
“We already knew that,” his boss told him. “But with this, Blair is entirely on-side. You and Lieutenant-Major Khadem are to proceed
immediately
to Vice Commodore Larson’s office and place him under arrest.”
Stanford glanced back at
Avalon
‘s top MP, who had dropped himself into the spare seat at the back of the cockpit. The MP flashed him a thumbs up, confirming that he was on the call as well.
“Understood, sir.”
Stanford quickly checked in with his co-pilot to confirm they were clear to dock, and took the shuttle slowly, carefully, into the Station Flight Deck Alpha. As the gravity trap caught them, Stanford looked down the neat rows of
Badger
s lining the Deck - another six squadrons to go with the six they’d brought from
Avalon
and stored in Deck C.
“CAG,” he said distractedly, checking that the line was still open to Roberts, “quick question for you.”
“What is it, Commander?” Roberts asked in a sharp voice.
“How many
Badgers
are supposed to be on the Station?” the Flight Commander asked, eyeing the nearly fifty obsolete starfighters.
“SFG-279 had six squadrons assigned to them,” Roberts replied immediately. “I assumed those were the ones that ended up on
Avalon
.”
“Between yesterday and today, sir, I’ve seen twelve squadrons worth,” Stanford said quietly. “Shouldn’t there be at least some
Typhoons
aboard?”
Silence answered him for a long moment, and the pilot unstrapped himself from his seat and turned back to face Khadem before Roberts finally answered.
“Pin Larson down, Commander, Major,” he said quietly. “I think we have more questions for him than we thought.”
New Amazon System, Castle Federation
12:30 July 6, 2735 Earth Standard Meridian Date/Time
New Amazon Reserve Flotilla Station, Station Commander’s Office
Stanford really had no business accompanying Marshal Khadem’s MPs to Larson’s office, and both he and the Marshal knew it. Khadem had still said nothing as the pilot joined the six MPs they’d brought to the station in drawing a stunner from the shuttle racks, and allowed Stanford to lead his team through the Station.
“Where are the station MPs?” he asked Khadem after a few minutes. He’d half-expected them to be joined by some of Neilson’s men.
“Neilson doesn’t have enough of them he trusts,” the dusky Marine replied grimly. “He’s keeping them busy and out of our way. Once we’ve seized Larson, we’ll probably have to take him back to
Avalon
.”
Further discussion ended as they reached the Station Commander’s office, where Larson exercised his command of the New Amazon Reserve Flotilla’s defenders. It was a relatively plain door, tucked away less than a minute’s walk from the Station Combat Information Center, where the Vice Commodore would exercise command of his squadrons in an emergency.
“Open it,” Khadem instructed one of his men. He drew his own stunner up to the ready position and hit the ‘charge’ button on its grip.
Stanford imitated the Marshal and felt a reassuring hum from the weapon as it cycled up its charge chamber.
The selected MP stepped up next to the door and hit the panel that should have opened it. The security door failed to respond. The MP turned his gaze towards it, focusing on it for a moment, and then turned back to Khadem.
“Standard overrides aren’t working, sir,” he told his boss. “It’s locked down under the Commodore’s personal code.”
The Lieutenant-Major nodded grimly, stepping up to the panel and tapping the golden badge of his office, a layered block of molecular circuitry that could override almost any lock in the Navy, against it.
The panel flashed bright red, and then slowly conceded to the police override. The door slid silently open, revealing the last sight that Stanford had been expecting to see.
The office was the same as it had been when Larson had threatened him. The viewscreen behind the desk still showed
Avalon
-
only now it was spattered with blood.
Larson was sitting in the chair at his desk, the retractable monitors extended around him for what looked like daily paperwork. A service automatic, the standard seven millimeter caseless high-velocity sidearm issued to every officer, was in his right hand, and his brains had been blasted all over the wall-screen behind him.
“Stop,” Khadem ordered as Stanford started forward. “No offense, Flight Commander, but you have no idea what to do at a crime scene. My men have forensics training.”
The Marshal waved his MPs forward around Stanford, each carefully stowing their stunners and pulling out white gloves to cover their hands.
Stanford, standing back out of the way, contacted Roberts over the com. He made sure Khadem was copied in, in case the MP had something to add.
“Larson’s dead,” he said flatly. “Looks like he committed suicide.”
“What the fuck,” Roberts replied, his voice just as flat. “He shouldn’t even have known you were coming - and he sure as hell didn’t strike me as the type.”
“He wasn’t,” Khadem interjected grimly. “Looks like we showed up faster than someone was expecting - this was a botched job.”
“Botched job?” Roberts asked over the channel.
“I’ll flip you both visual,” the MP replied. “I don’t want Stanford getting his boots in this mess.”
The image that flipped up on Stanford’s optic nerves almost made him throw up. Khadem was looking very closely at the shattered back of Larson’s head.
“Looks like he blew his brains out to me,” the pilot muttered.
“It’s meant to, but the man pulling the trigger was in a hurry and botched his angles,” the MP explained. “See these wounds up here?” Khadem, apparently oblivious to the gore and mess, pointed to a set of smaller holes, just above the gaping wound where the hollowpoint had exited. “Those are
entrance
wounds, gentlemen - someone shot him in the back of the head with a needler. Once he was dead, they started positioning him to make it look like a suicide - only they realized we were on our way and rushed it.”
“If they’d got the angle right, the first wounds would have been obliterated, and we would probably have written it off as a suicide,” the Marine finished. “But someone botched it - I’d say an amateur with a professional’s tool and game plan.”
“Liago’s tool, Liago’s plan?” Roberts asked quietly. “That would explain the amateur.”
“Possible,” Khadem replied. “I’ll need more time to examine the scene, see if the station’s internal sensors picked up anything that wasn’t wiped.”
“I think we’re missing a question here,” Stanford said slowly, wiping the horrifying image of his old boss, the man who’d made his life living hell for two years, from his implants. “I thought whatever the hell was going on here had Larson in charge. But if Larson was running things, who shot him?
“And why?”