"All right. We'll hop to Bezaire, where the merchanter was headed, and report to Boros on what we found. I don't expect to find any trace there-we'd have noticed it when we were there before-so we'll have to let HQ decide if they want us to check each of the other known outlets or send someone else. Prepare a draft report for Sector HQ, and we'll pop that onto the Bezaire ansible when we get there. Include a recommendation to interdict this route, and a request for surveillance of all the outlets . . . not that it will do any good."

Shrike popped out in Bezaire's system, and Esmay oversaw the signal drop to Fleet Sector HQ. Scan reported no traces matching that of the Elias Madero . . . no other ship of that mass had been through in over a hundred days, according to the Stationmaster.

"I told you that before."

"Yes, but we have to check."

"The Boros Consortium local agent wants to talk to you."

"No doubt." Solis looked grim. "I want to talk to Boros, as well. We'll need a real-time link."

Bezaire Station, Boros Consortium Offices

"Not . . . all of them?" The Boros agent paled.

"I'm sorry," Solis said. "Apparently the ship was captured-there is evidence under imminent threat of heavy weapons-and although the crew had been promised safe exit in a lifeboat, they were instead killed."

"The . . . children?"

"We don't know. We found no children's bodies, and we know the crew had concealed them in one or more core compartments."

"But-but who-?"

"We don't know yet. We've sent the data we have back to headquarters; someone will figure it out,

I'm sure. Now, about the deceased-"

The agent drew herself up. "You will of course release the remains to Boros Consortium, for transmittal to the families-"

"I'm afraid we can't at this time. We have positively identified all adult crew personnel and one apprentice, but it's possible the bodies bear additional evidence of the perpetrators. We must continue to examine them."

"But-but that's outrageous."

"Ma'am, what was done to these people was outrageous. We must find out who did it, so that we don't have more of this-"

"What was done . . . what was done?"

"There was . . . mutilation, ma'am. And that's all I care to say until forensics is through with the remains. I can assure you that all due care will be taken to return remains to family members as soon as possible."

When the crew remains and the other debris had been transferred to the courier that would take it to sector HQ, Shrike went back out on patrol.

"We don't try to pursue?"

"No. Not our job. We can't tangle with three armed ships, and we have no idea where, besides Bezaire, that jump point leads. Someone's going to have to explore it blind. The trail's cold, and growing colder. We did what we could-we have hull signatures on the raiders, or close to, we know what happened to the crew-"

"But not if there were weapons aboard-"

"No. But I'd say it was a fair bet that there were. We'll just have to keep eyes and ears open."

He looked at her with what might almost be approval. "You're asking good questions, though, Lieutenant Suiza."

CHAPTER NINE.

Barin returned the sentry's salute as he came to the access area for the Gyrfalcon. At last, he was going aboard a real warship, to a proper assignment. Not that he would have missed the time on Koskuisko, and meeting Esmay. He quickly turned his mind from that painful thought-meeting her was one thing, but their relationship now was something he could have missed quite happily. But this-since he'd been out of the Academy, this was his first regular assignment, and he was more than happy to get it.

As he expected, when he reported aboard he was called to the captain's cabin. Captain Escovar . .

. he had looked Simon Escovar up in the Captains' Lists. Escovar was a commander, with combat experience at Patchcock, Dortmuth, and Alvara; he had, besides an impressive array of combat decorations, the discreet jewels that denoted top rank in academic courses ranging from his cadet days at the Academy to the Senior Command and Staff Course.

"Ensign Serrano," he said, in response to Barin's formal greeting. "Always glad to have a Serrano aboard." The twinkle in his gray eyes suggested that he meant it. "I served under your . . . uncle or great-uncle, I suppose. There are too many of you Serranos to keep straight." Barin had heard that before. And the Escovars, though an old Fleet family, had never had as many on active service at one time as the Serranos. "You've had an unusual set of assignments so far, I see. I hope you won't find us too mundane."

"By no means, sir," Barin said. "I'm delighted to be here."

"Good. We have only three other command-track ensigns at the moment, all with a half-standard year on this ship." Which meant they already knew things he would have to scramble to learn. "My exec is Lieutenant Commander Dockery. He has all your initial assignments."

Lieutenant Commander Dockery spent five minutes dissecting Barin's past career and preparation, pointed out that he was a half year behind his peers, and then sent him on to Master Chief Zuckerman to get his shiptags, data cubes, and other necessities. Barin came out of Dockery's office wondering if Zuckerman was another step on the "cut the ensigns down to size" production line.

Master Chief Zuckerman nodded when Barin introduced himself. "I served with Admiral Vida Serrano on the Delphine. And you're her grandson, I understand?" Zuckerman was a big man, heavily built, who looked about forty. Rejuv, of course; no one made master chief by forty.

"That's right, Chief."

"Well. How may I help you, sir?" A lifetime's experience with the breed told Barin that the twinkle in Zuckerman's eye was genuine . . . for whatever mysterious reasons senior enlisted sometimes decided to like young officers, Zuckerman had decided to like him.

"Commander Dockery told me to acquaint myself with the starboard watch orders-"

"Yes, sir. Right here." Zuckerman fumbled a cube out of a file. "This has your schematics, your billeting list, your duty stations. Now you can either view it here, or check it out; if you check it out, it's a level-two security incident, and I'll require your signature on the paperwork."

"I'd better check it out," Barin said. "I'm on duty four shifts from now, and I'm supposed to know it by then."

"You'll do fine, sir," Zuckerman said. He rummaged a bit in a drawer and came up with an array of papers. "Captain likes hardcopy on all checkouts of secured documents, so it really is paperwork."

Barin signed on the designated line, initialled in the spaces. "When do I have to have it back?"

"Fourteen hundred tomorrow, sir."

Barin smiled at him. "Thanks, Chief."

"Good to have you aboard, sir."

There were worse ways to start ship duty than by having a master chief for a friend; Barin went off to put his duffel in his quarters considerably cheered. He knew Zuckerman would be as critical-perhaps more critical-than another man; he knew he would have to live up to Zuckerman's standards. But if a master chief took a youngster under his wing, then only a fool would ignore the chance to learn and prosper. It was probably due to his Serrano inheritance-but that worked both ways, and it was pleasant to have it working his way for once.

Young officers in command track were expected to know everything moderately well; ensigns rotated through various systems and sections of the cruiser, learning by doing-or, as often, by making mistakes less critical at their level than later on. The other three ensigns aboard had all started at the bottom-environmental-and completed their two-month rotation there, so Barin expected his first assignment: unaffectionately known as the "shit scrubber special."

"Your nose is unreliable," he was told by the environmental tech officer he reported to. "You think it stinks-and it does stink-but your nose gets used to it. Use your badges and readouts, and any time you're actually opening units, suit up. This stuff is deadly."

Barin wanted to ask why they weren't all dead then, but he knew better than to joke with someone like Jig Arendy. It was clear from her expression that she took sewage treatment very seriously, and-he suspected-spent every spare moment reading up on new technology.

She led him through the system he would help maintain, explaining every color-coded pipe, every label, every gauge and dial. Then she turned him over to Scrubber Team 3, and told him to do a practice inspection of the system from intake 14 to outputs 12 to 15. "And you can't use that old saw about flagpoles," she warned him. "This is my test team, and they'll do exactly what-and only what-you tell them."