“Yes, Admiral.”
“Where do we stand on the investigation into Commander Miller’s death?”
Fisher raised a hand to Rana, signaling her to stall. “I’m still waiting for Doctor Fisher to make his report, sir,” she answered truthfully.
“Keep me informed. Nogura out.”
Desai closed the link. “Don’t say it,” she warned Fisher.
“I wouldn’t know what to tell you,” Fisher laughed as she settled into the helmsman’s chair. “I’m starting to think no matter what I say, you’ll just end up doing the opposite.”
Desai sighed. “I really don’t want to ask you about the autopsy.”
Fisher held up the tricorder slung across his chest. “It’s right here. You can read it in the morning, if you like.”
“I’ll do that, but bottom-line it for me now.”
“COD: inconclusive.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish,” Fisher said. “The condition of Miller’s body is consistent with drowning, but he was thoroughly cleaned after the first autopsy. That’s standard procedure, but it conveniently removed any trace evidence that would have confirmed his whereabouts at the time of death, or if he was really alone. There was nonfatal blunt-force trauma to the head, but if he fell and lost consciousness, then accidental drowning sounds more and more plausible.”
“Unless someone knocked him out deliberately,” Desai countered.
“I can’t rule it out, but there’s no definitive way to know, either way.”
“What’ve you got there?” she asked, nodding toward Fisher’s parcel.
“Aole’s uniform . . . also conspicuously lacking in trace evidence.”
“His uniform,” Desai repeated. “His uniform . . .” She abruptly left her chair and raced into the aft compartment.
“What’s the matter?”
Desai came out with Miller’s duffel bag and spilled its contents onto the deck. There was a personal hygiene kit, several sets of undergarments and socks, a hard-copy book, a deck of cards, and his communicator. “I inventoried Aole’s personal effects after I got back to the shuttle. What’s missing from this picture?”
“His uniform?”
“His spareuniform,” Desai corrected. “Aole expected to spend at least a week at New Anglesey, without access to a Starfleet quartermaster. Any officer would have brought extras on an assignment like this. I brought three. What about you?”
“Two,” Fisher said.
“He didn’t bring any civvies, either. But let’s assume he expected to have access to the local laundry facilities. A reasonable minimum is one spare uniform for a weeklong assignment, wouldn’t you agree?”
Fisher nodded. “Makes sense.”
“Something’s not right here,” Desai said. walking back to the navigation console and deftly reopening a channel to Vanguard.
“You’re contacting Nogura about this?” Fisher asked with concern.
Desai shook her head. “Quartermaster’s office.” It took a few minutes to reestablish the connection with the station’s comm center, and only seconds for the call to be relayed to the QM. Under the authority of the JAG office, Desai requested an immediate audit of Aole Miller’s uniform consumption, checked against the contents of his quarters. As requisitions and recycles were closely monitored, it wouldn’t take long to confirm how many of Miller’s uniforms were missing from the station. Desai kept the channel open while the officer on duty went to work.
“I know I don’t need to tell you that even if they turn up a discrepancy, it doesn’t mean Aole was murdered,” Fisher said.
“Granted,” said Desai. “But at a minimum, it would suggest one or more people on this colony are conspiring to cover up something. I hate to admit it, but I’m starting to think Nogura’s suspicions about these people may not be unwarranted.”
“Rana, are you listening to yourself? Is this a search for the truth, or a witch hunt?”
The comm system chimed. Vanguard’s quartermaster confirmed that two of Miller’s uniforms were unaccounted for.
Desai thanked the officer and signed off. “Tell me you don’t think these people are hiding something,” she said to Fisher.
“I never doubted they were,” Fisher said. “I’m just not ready to believe it’s a crime.”
“I don’t have that luxury, Fish. And since I’m ranking officer . . .”
Fisher sighed. “Fine. What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing until morning. But then I want you to talk to the locals. Nose around. Do that ‘kindly old grandfather’ thing you’re so good at. Somebody who knows what really happened to Aole must be willing to talk about it. Find them.”
Fisher nodded. “I can do that. What about you?”
Desai looked around at the cramped shuttlecraft cabin. “I’m going to finally figure out how anyone manages to get any sleep in one of these things, and then tomorrow I’m going to find Doctor Ying and try to persuade her we’re the good guys.”
“Are we?” Fisher asked.
Desai didn’t answer.
The sun rose over New Anglesey as a hazy patch of light behind the planet’s gray veil of clouds. Fisher found Tavia alone, shooting hoops at a crude basketball court. He spent a good half hour watching her play from a bench across the street. Her form was good, her balance and agility excellent, but her short stature would, in Fisher’s judgment, severely limit her ability to dominate the court against a taller opponent, unless she could improve her jump shot.
“You’re waiting too long to shoot,” Fisher called out as he crossed the street.
She stopped mid-dribble, looking irritated as she met him at the edge of the court. “Were you talking to me?”
He nodded at the hoop. “Your jump shot. You’ve been making it on your way down. You’ve got strong legs, but you need to shoot a little earlier, right when you’re reaching the apex of your jump. Give it a try.”
Despite her obvious annoyance at the intrusion, she started dribbling again, then broke into a run toward the hoop, leaped, and launched the ball with both hands.
It rebounded off the backboard and went into a spin on the rim of the hoop before falling through.
Fisher applauded. Tavia walked back to him wearing a grin. “You play?” she asked.
“Me? Oh, no. I’m a professional spectator.” He held out his hand. “I’m Ezekiel.”
“Doctor Fisher, yeah, I remember.” She took his hand and shook it. “Octavia Dawes. But you can call me Tavia.”
And just like that, the ice is broken.
“Zeke,” Fisher said. “But if you’d rather keep calling me Herbert . . .”
Tavia gritted her teeth in embarrassment. “Oh, hey, I’m sorry about that. I can be a little rough around the edges sometimes.”
Fisher smiled. “Hadn’t noticed. What do you do here, Tavia?”
“Xenobiologist. And please, no cracks about my age.”
Fisher gestured toward his silver hair. “I won’t if you won’t.”
Tavia laughed. “All right. We reach.”
“Good! Any friend of Aole’s . . .”
Her grin didn’t disappear, but it lost much of its mirth. “He’s the reason you came to see me, isn’t he?”
Fisher nodded.
“I heard your friend used a real hard lip on Doctor Ying.”
“I heard the same thing,” Fisher said. “But if it makes you feel any better, she’s going to apologize. She was a friend of Aole’s, too. She’s just having a hard time understanding why you all would want to stay out here after Starfleet leaves.”
“What about you?” Tavia asked. “You having a hard time with it, too?”
“I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t have my concerns. I had a friend, you see—Terry Sadler. Sometime back he joined the colony on Ingraham B. Then a couple of years ago, Terry and everyone else there died because the settlement was too far from help when they needed it. Part of me still wonders if we sometimes push into the galaxy too far, too quickly.”
“So because your friend died on the frontier, now you’re bleeding for us?” Tavia asked.