Free Battle Cruiser by B. V. Larson Page A

returned my gaze to the streaked tubing that flowed by like a waterfall just a few meters away from my face. Above us, the space station was now visible. Closer and closer it loomed, brightening every minute. The station transformed into a glaring white disk as it shifted out of Earth’s shadow and into sunlight. In response, the sky-lift’s outer casing darkened around us automatically, protecting us from radiation and the blinding glare.
    Rumbold’s ideas had disturbed me, even though I took pains not to show it. Could my family truly be hated by the rank and file of the Guard? Certainly, my father was well-known as the head of a party of domestic spenders. His policies demanded that tax money be spent on public works first, with the military getting the scraps after. But could that simple truth have driven someone to murder? Worse, could one of my fellow guardsmen be behind the plot?
    I felt and heard the sky lift shudder, interrupting my thoughts. We were slowing down as we finally came to a rest at the station. The crowd in our car—there had to be at least a hundred aboard, many with carts of luggage in tow—moved quickly for the exits. The gravity was light, but provided enough weight on our boots to allow us to walk normally.
    Instructions in Standard were blared from every speaker, ordering us off the elevator and into the station proper. The car was on a tight schedule, so we were urged to depart without fanfare.
    A two hundred meter escalator took me to customs. As a guardsman, the process was blissfully brief. Emigrants and tourists were given a much more thorough examination.
    Joining the general river of people moving to and fro on the station, Rumbold and I were soon ferried by escalators and tubes to our assigned berths. Captain Singh was waiting for us there, and he dismissed Rumbold with a stern glance.
    “I’ll be off if you don’t mind, sirs,” Rumbold said. He vanished, doubtlessly planning on raiding a bar somewhere.
    My own stomach churned, but I could tell by the look on Singh’s face that he had no interest in my personal comfort.
    “You requested my immediate presence, sir?” I asked.
    “You took your time getting up here, Sparhawk.”
    “Sorry sir—there were difficulties last night.”
    “Yes, I heard about that. Who gave you permission to take over the local investigation? We have teams for things like that, you know?”
    “I took a personal interest,” I answered carefully, “as I was personally involved.”
    “That’s another mystery,” Singh said, crossing his arms. “How did you know the assassination was going to play out right then?”
    My face froze. I hadn’t expected recriminations upon my return.
    “Sir, I had no idea the attack was coming.”
    Singh pulled a computer scroll out of his pocket and thrust it under my nose. I stretched it out and eyed the video it was playing on its thin, glossy surface. I watched myself stand at the bottom of the marble steps. My attention was distracted, that was plain to see. I was watching the android raptly.
    I cleared my throat in embarrassment. “I can understand how this might be misinterpreted. But I wasn’t expecting the android to do anything rash.”
    “You’re asking me to believe you moved to the base of those steps at the exact moment the assassin attacked by chance? That you were staring at this— thing because it was clothed in plastic flesh pressed into a female shape? I don’t know which story is worse, Sparhawk.”
    “May I ask, sir, how you came into possession of this video? Who shot it, who gave it to you?”
    “Does that matter?”
    “Yes, it might.”
    “It was shot by a camera drone. The Grantholm people sent it to me, saying it might be useful. I think they’re right.”
    I handed the scroll back to him. “Grantholm. I might have known.”
    “Isn’t your mother a Grantholm?”
    “That doesn’t mean they consider us to be family.”
    He eyed me intently for a few moments. “You know what I