Burden of Proof

Chapter Eight

Paul hadn't been in Forward Engineering since the night of the fire. It had changed a great deal since then. Once the investigators had gone over it carefully in search of evidence, the repair work had begun. Equipment damaged by the explosion, the fire, or the water used to put out the fire, had all been evaluated for repair or replacement. Wiring, cabling, control panels, ventilation, all the systems that made up the nerves and lungs of that compartment, were pulled or blocked off for replacement. The bulkheads, the deck and every other surface had been scrubbed clean of debris and tested for damage. During most hours of the day, the compartment resounded with a bedlam of work designed to get the USS Michaelson operational again as soon as possible. Right now, late at night, Forward Engineering was temporarily quiet and empty, except for Paul and his companion.

Paul glanced around. Even though the compartment had been cleaned and most of the damaged equipment removed, he still found himself uneasy. Something clattered off to one side where shipyard workers had been replacing damaged equipment, causing Paul to jerk around nervously. He reached the spot where he'd found Chief Asher's remains and stopped, staring downward.

"What's this about?" Colleen Kilgary asked. "Why'd you want me to meet you down here?"

Paul tore his eyes away from the spot and looked at her. "You were the main propulsion assistant on the ship until Scott Silver took over the job. I was wondering if you could help me with something."

Lieutenant Kilgary shrugged. "I couldn't help the investigation much, not that they asked me."

"Chief Asher's body was here, meaning he probably was working on something not too far away. The investigators reported the explosion occurred in the power transfer junction."

Kilgary pointed to an empty area nearby. "Yeah. That'd be here."

"Could Chief Asher have been working on that?"

"Alone? That wouldn't be like Chief Asher."

"Why not?"

"Because of the interlocks. The only way to work on stuff like the power transfer junction is to use two people, one to monitor the safeties and the other to do the job."

"So it's impossible with one person?"

"It's not impossible. You just have to shut-off the interlocks, which shuts down the safety monitors, which shuts down the fire — " Kilgary scowled. "The fire suppression systems."

"Asher could've done that?"

"No! He wasn't like that. But, yes, in theory somebody could've shut off all that stuff in order to work on something like the power transfer junction single-handed." She walked over to the spot the piece of equipment had occupied. "But it didn't need work, Paul. It wasn't on the casualty reporting system."

"You checked?"

"Of course I checked." Kilgary folded her arms, staring around with a stubborn expression. "I leave and within a month the leading chief dies and a major fire occurs. Of course I checked."

"I'm really sorry, Colleen."

"Why should you be sorry? You didn't do it, despite what that damned investigation says."

Paul nodded gratefully. "What would've happened if somebody did shut down all those interlocks? Wouldn't you get an alarm?"

"No." Kilgary gestured toward the general direction of Damage Control Central. "Not if whoever shut it down used the right authorization codes. But it would show up in the engineering logs." She bit her lower lip. "If they weren't damaged."

"I know the bridge logs don't get reviewed very often. Too much data and detail. They just get filed. Is that what happens to the engineering logs?"

"Yeah. Unless something happens." She looked at Paul. "This all adds up in a very strange way. But I don't see why Chief Asher would've done such a thing."

"I don't know why he would've either."

"Do you think he damaged the engineering logs somehow?"

"No. No, that's one thing I'm certain of. He had nothing to do with that." Paul followed as Lieutenant Kilgary led the way out of Forward Engineering. Something pinged behind him, and Paul whirled around quickly to stare into the empty compartment.

Kilgary followed Paul's gaze. "Probably just a loose screw dislodged by the vibration of us walking past. Contractors tend to leave screws lying around."

"Yeah. Probably." But he was grateful when they'd left the compartment behind. There are too many ghosts on this ship for my comfort.

And there it sat. A week later, Paul was still trying to put the pieces together. Who can I talk to about this? Sharpe and I have gone over it time and again and can't find anything else. Jen'd be great, but she won't be back for another two months. And I can't just blab about this to any of the other junior officers. Who's that leave?

Put that way, the answer was easy.

"Commander Sykes, sir? Can I talk to you in confidence?"

Sykes raised his eyebrows in apparent surprise. "Not just 'Suppo,' eh? I'm 'Commander Sykes.' This must be quite serious."

"I can't talk to you unless you promise to keep it confidential, sir."

"My dear boy, I'd be happy to so promise, but you understand if the talk involves issues of criminal acts I won't necessarily feel bound by such a promise."

"I understand." Paul sat close to Sykes. "Sir, here's the problem." He outlined events as concisely as he could. "And that's where it sits. Somebody wiped the logs on purpose. Chief Asher could've been working on the power transfer junction, but only if he'd gone against grain and shut off the interlocks, and there's no indication anything was wrong with the power transfer junction to begin with."

"Hmmm." Sykes sat silent for a few minutes. "This is an ill matter, Mr. Sinclair. Are you thinking someone may have killed Chief Asher deliberately?"

"No, sir. Petty Officer Sharpe says the investigators would've been certain to have found any trace of a bomb. They didn't find pieces of anything that didn't belong in Forward Engineering."

"Then apparently he was working on that power whatsit."

"It wasn't broken, Suppo."

Sykes smiled sadly. "Ah, youth. It wasn't officially broken. But was it actually broken? There's a difference."

Paul let that thought sink in. "Maybe the power transfer junction had gone on the blink and nobody'd been told?"

"It happens, lad. Equipment casualty reports are regarded by some officers as signs of shame, or more often they hope to get the equipment repaired so quickly they feel no need to file the necessary reports. The result is the same. Officially, it's fine. In practice, it's not."

"But if there had been a problem with that piece of equipment, surely Chief Asher wouldn't be the only one who'd have known."

Sykes gave another sad smile. "That is certainly correct."

"Meaning some of the other engineers aren't talking. But why wouldn't they?"

"Group silence is usually a form of protection."

"Who'd they be protecting, Suppo?"

"Perhaps themselves. Perhaps the dead."

Paul stared at Sykes, mentally upbraiding himself. Of course. If Chief Asher had done all that stuff, he'd be guilty of criminal misconduct. I don't know if or how that'd affect Navy death benefits for him and his family, and I bet the rest of the engineers don't know either. "Thanks."

"One more thing, Paul." Sykes rubbed his chin, his brow furrowed in thought. "Something is missing."

"What's that?"

"If our Chief was repairing that equipment, where is the replacement part? And where did he get it? And, for that matter, how? My own departmental records would've shown if it'd been drawn from our stocks."

"And they don't?"

"Not to my imperfect knowledge." Sykes sat quiet for a while. "I would recommend, Mr. Sinclair, that you enlist the aid of Mike Bristol in this."

"Sir, Mike's a friend of mine, but he's not nearly as experienced as you are."

"That's precisely the point, Paul. I want Mike to gain such experience, and the only way to do so is to give him opportunities like this one. You can count on him to keep your investigation secret."

"Yes, sir. I'll do that. Thanks for the advice, sir."

"Not at all. Visit my figurative mountaintop whenever you are in need of wisdom."

Paul smiled and left. I'll find Mike Bristol and — Commander Garcia came down the passageway, his eyes on Paul, his ill-humor readily apparent. Oh, gawd. What'd I do or not do?

"Sinclair." Commander Garcia used one finger to almost pin Paul to the bulkhead. "What's this I hear about you asking questions about the fire, Sinclair?"

"Sir, I — "

"Drop it, Sinclair. It's over."

"Sir — "

"Look, I understand you feel like you've been screwed. We've all been there, Sinclair. I've been screwed by the Navy so many times I feel like a cheap hooker in a port town. Trying to stir up things isn't going to make it better. It's just going to keep attracting attention to you. Bad attention. That's no good for you and it sure as hell isn't good for me. Drop it."

Paul nodded to buy himself time to get a word in. "I understand, sir. Sir, I have orders."

"Yeah, and I gave 'em to you."

"No, sir. The captain."

Garcia's eyes narrowed. " He told you to keep looking into this."

"Yes, sir. He said you should talk to him, sir."

"What's up, Sinclair? What the hell are you doing?"

How do I answer that in a way that won't tell Garcia more than Hayes might want and also keep Garcia from ripping my throat out? "Following orders, sir."

Garcia's face reddened. Paul could almost see the internal struggle going on. On the one hand, Garcia didn't like having secrets kept from him by his subordinates, especially secrets that might cause him trouble. On the other, if Paul had been told by the captain not to discuss his orders, then any attempt by Garcia to browbeat Paul into talking anyway could get Garcia into big trouble with the captain.

Commander Garcia took a half-step back, his finger still pointed at Paul. "You'd better be telling the truth, Sinclair. Because I'm going to see the captain."

"Yes, sir." Another searching gaze, then Garcia shook his head with a grimace and stalked off in the direction of the captain's cabin. Paul watched him leave. I'll give Garcia credit. He really tried to give me the best advice he could. Paul started to move on, then stopped and frowned. Who told Garcia I was asking questions? It was probably Sam Yarrow up to his usual tricks, but what if it was somebody else?

Mike Bristol reacted to Paul's story with a dropped jaw. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah. How can you help me run down this question of whether or not that power transfer junction was busted?"

"Paul, if Commander Sykes finds out — "

"He's the one who sent me to you."

"Really?" Bristol chuckled. "That old schemer. I guess he wants me to learn the tools of the trade. As he practices it, anyway. Okay, the simplest thing to do is check our own supply records. We'll see if any parts for that equipment got pulled just before the accident." He faced his terminal and typed rapidly. "I can do all that from here." More typing, Paul catching sideways glimpses of data screens flashing by. "Oh. That's interesting."

"What?" Paul craned his head to see, but couldn't interpret the columns of codes.

"This here. That's labeled as a critical part for the power transfer junctions. But we don't carry it onboard usually because the failure rate's so low."

"That's crazy, Mike. What happens if it fails anyway while we're out in the middle of nowhere?"

"Ask the snipes. Is that the only power transfer gizmo on the ship?"

Paul thought for a moment. "No. There's one in After Engineering, too."

"That's probably it, then. The ship can probably operate on one of those things. If something's extra expensive or in extra-short supply we often don't carry it onboard as long as the safety margin's okay. That kind of decision is way above my paygrade, of course. Anyway, here's the interesting bit." Mike Bristol's finger pointed to one code element. "This says that Friday, the day before the accident, was the last time someone queried the system about the availability of that part."

"That is interesting."

"But, like I said, we don't carry it, so the system told them they'd have to requisition it from the station spare part stocks."

"Did they?"

"No."

Paul peered at the lines of supply system codes as if that would help him understand them. "Why not?"

"Let's see. Ah, estimated delivery date from the station would've been sometime the next week."

"We were due to get underway for drills on that Monday."

"We were, weren't we?"

"Yeah. Having Forward Engineering gutted by the fire made sure that didn't happen. But that means they wouldn't have gotten that part before we got underway, and I'm willing to bet that even though the Merry Mike can run on one power transfer junction that there's limits on what we can do. That means they would've had to have told someone the thing was broken. And until we had the part, we probably couldn't have gotten underway."

Mike Bristol looked alarmed. "That's very bad. People get really upset when that happens."

"That's putting it mildly. Could Chief Asher have been trying to repair the busted part?"

"Not according to these records. They say the part is a sealed black box. Fixing something broken inside is beyond anything this ship can do."

Paul leaned back and pressed his hands against his temples. "Then what was Chief Asher doing?"

"Well…"

"Tell me, Mike."

"Uh, well, you see, there's official requisitions, and then there's, uh, unofficial requisitions."

"What's that mean?"

"It means somebody might've gotten that part from station stocks. On Friday. They're not open Saturday or Sunday, unless the station authorities authorize an emergency parts draw. And believe me, we'd know if that'd happened."

Paul nodded, trying not to get his hopes too high. "Can we find out? About Friday?"

"We can try." Mike Bristol stood. "Want to take a walk?"

Reaching the station supply office was inconvenient, naturally, and there was a long line of personnel waiting for parts, also naturally. Paul and Mike Bristol waited as the line inched forward and each successive petitioner begged and pleaded with various degrees of success for the part they absolutely, positively had to have at that very moment.

The office was about to close when Mike and Paul finally reached the front of the line. "Hi. Lieutenant Mike Bristol, from the Michaelson."

The supply corps lieutenant and petty officer crewing the desk eyed him warily, their gazes finally resting on Bristol's own supply corps insignia before the lieutenant nodded. "Office hours are about over."

"Yeah, I know. I really appreciate you looking into this." Bristol leaned close, speaking in a low voice. "We had a line officer mess up. I'm trying to clean up the mess. You know?" Both Supply types nodded sympathetically and gave Paul looks which meant they thought he was the line officer in question. "I just need to know if a part was drawn from here for the ship. Otherwise my CCAB and HGF will be rejected by the CFSS, and you know what kind of a pain that is." Another pair of nods. Mike proffered the part number. "Just a quick check?"

"Okay. We can do that." The lieutenant ran the number quickly, then nodded. "Yeah. That part got drawn by an officer from the USS Michaelson on, uh, 18 September."

Paul felt like his heart had stopped. "Do you have the officer's name?"

The supply lieutenant gave Paul an annoyed look. "As if I could forget the guy. Showed up just before closing with a real sob story. I still don't know how he talked me into providing that part." She pointed to her terminal. "The guy's name was Silver. Lieutenant."

Mike Bristol walked silently alongside Paul most of the way back to the Michaelson, finally blurting out a question when they were not far from the ship. "What're you going to do?"

"See what I've got."

"It looks like you've got plenty."

"No. It's all circumstantial evidence."

"I've heard that term. What exactly does it mean?"

Paul shrugged, feeling irritated, but knowing he felt that way not because of Mike's questions but because of the obstacles he still faced. "Basically, it means somebody could have done something, but doesn't prove they did do it. Like if a house gets robbed, and I prove you were seen standing outside the house, and that you were wearing shoes that would've left the same footprints in the mud outside the window where the break-in occurred. But I don't have any fingerprints of yours from inside the house and I haven't found any of the stolen stuff on you."

"Oh." Bristol thought for a moment. "Then everything you have so far just says Silver might have been responsible for what happened, but none of it proves he was responsible?"

"Bingo."

"Which makes it what?"

"A judgment call."

"What'll it take to make up your mind on it? To make you sure enough to tell the captain one way or the other?"

Paul stopped walking just short of the Michaelson 's brow. "Maybe just one more thing."

Bristol hastened off to check on his own duties, while Paul went up to Combat to make sure no crisis had suddenly erupted there, then headed back to his stateroom. Partway there, he encountered Commander Garcia again.

Garcia stared at Paul, then shook his head. "You're an idiot. You know that, Sinclair? You should've let it rest."

Not knowing how to reply, Paul stood silently.

Garcia turned away. "Just don't make me look bad. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

Paul got back to his stateroom, paged Sharpe, and filled him in on the part. "I need you to get to those snipes who worked for Chief Asher. They must have known something about the problem with the power transfer junction. Now that we have something specific to ask about, maybe one of them will spill their guts. And make sure you tell anyone you talk to about something that I checked on. There are no determinations of misconduct made when a servicemember dies in the line of duty."

Sharpe looked happier than Paul had seen him in weeks. "Will do, sir."

"One other thing. Have you found anybody yet who saw Lieutenant Silver around the time the engineering logs were hacked?"

"No, sir. Not any enlisted, anyway. Maybe an officer…"

"Do you think anything known to the officers onboard remains unknown in chief's quarters? Get on those snipes, Sheriff. I want to know what answers they'll give this time."

Paul dodged out of dinner as quickly as he could, wondering if he was just imagining the funny looks he was getting from the other junior officers. Garcia knew I was doing something. How many other people heard? I know why Mike Bristol's acting a little weird, but the others…

Sheriff Ivan Sharpe awaited him outside of his stateroom, a nasty smile on his face. "I just had a long talk with Petty Officer Third Class Valyati."

"I take it he's a snipe in Lieutenant Silver's division?"

"Yep. And guess what?"

"At this point I don't dare guess."

"It seems the day after the accident, Lieutenant Silver had a talk with the sailors in his division. Mr. Silver told them he was really worried about what might happen to Chief Asher's family if anybody thought the Chief'd done anything wrong that might've caused the explosion."

Paul held his breath. "That's interesting."

"Isn't it? As best Valyati remembers, Mr. Silver never told them not to speak freely to the investigators, but he really laid it on about how that could hurt Chief Asher's family. Would you care to guess what the sailors concluded?"

"Not to talk about what really happened. Did they know there was something wrong with the power transfer junction in Forward Engineering?"

Sharpe's smile widened, not in humor but like a wolf baring its teeth. "Yes, sir. Valyati said he'd heard Chief Asher had wanted to report it with a casualty equipment report, but Mr. Silver wouldn't let him."

"That's hearsay, Sheriff. Somebody saying they heard someone said something isn't admissible as evidence."

"I know that, sir. But Valyati knows from first-hand knowledge that the junction had been going bad for a while. They were expecting it to fail."

"So it should've already been replaced. But the casualty reporting system never got notified that a spare was needed. Instead, Lieutenant Silver pays a frantic visit to the station supply depot late Friday afternoon and begs a replacement from them. Saturday, Chief Asher's really unhappy. A few hours later, the power transfer junction blows up, killing Chief Asher. Soon after that, engineering's logs are messed up, during a time period when nobody can locate Lieutenant Silver's whereabouts. The next day, Silver convinces his troops not to talk to the investigators."

"That sums it up, sir."

Paul slammed his fist onto his desktop. "Damn! It's all circumstantial, Sheriff. We don't have one piece of evidence that directly ties Lieutenant Silver to what happened."

"Sir, will all due respect, this is plenty to go on. We can nail this guy."

"No, Sheriff. Look, I know, you're a cop. To you this is open and shut. But we don't need to convince a bunch of cops this is good enough."

"Sir, guilty is guilty. When you know a dirtball's done something, you hammer him. Or her. You don't let them get away because you're worried the evidence might not be good enough."

Paul gazed back at Sharpe. Now, this is hard. I respect Sharpe as a petty officer and I respect his knowledge as a master-at-arms. And he's been working in law enforcement since I was in high school. But I have to tell him he's wrong. "Look, Sheriff, you're a damn good master-at-arms, but I've already figured out the attitude that comes with that. If the guy wasn't guilty in the first place, why is he a suspect? Cops tend to identify someone as a suspect and then go after that guy hard. Right? Don't look all offended. You and I both know you're a great cop. But this isn't about what you believe, or what I believe. We need to convince the captain, and then a military judge and maybe a panel of officer members of a court-martial, that the son of Admiral Silver is such a rotten officer he caused the death of one his sailors, then covered it up. I know you know that. Getting Lieutenant Silver charged might sound real great, but it won't mean a thing if the charges get tossed out. We have to be sure we're doing this right. So we can get a conviction."

Sharpe made an unhappy face as he thought about Paul's words. "Yes, sir," he finally admitted. "I guess you're right about that. But just because this is all we've found doesn't mean that's all there is. We haven't exactly been able to go whole hog on our little investigation. If it turns formal, a lot more ugly stuff might crawl out of the woodwork. Probably will, if my experience counts for anything."

"I'm sure it does." Paul slumped in his chair, staring at his display. It's all there. Oh, nothing that says beyond a shadow of a doubt that Chief Asher received orders to do what he did, and nothing that absolutely proves who it was that messed up the engineering records, but it all points in one direction.

So what do I do? Everything I've got is circumstantial evidence, but I've got a lot of it. The captain's supposed to make this decision, but Captain Hayes will make up his mind based on what I tell him. I think. In any case, it'll look like sour grapes to some people, especially since Scott Silver's one real talent appears to be trying to make people like him. A lot of those people will just see this as an attempt by me to blame someone else. And the someone else everything seems to point toward isn't just any screw-up. He's a son-of-an-admiral screw-up, which has apparently gotten him out of every jam up until now. But as far as I know, he's never been implicated in causing the death of a service member before.

Vice Admiral Silver has a good reputation for doing his job. Does that mean he'll look at all kindly on having his son implicated in Asher's death?

The best I can hope for is for my own conclusions to be proven right. Which means Lieutenant Silver gets a court-martial and gets proven guilty. When did I turn into somebody'd who send another officer to a court-martial based upon evidence even I admit is circumstantial?

Petty Officer Sharpe stayed silent, waiting. Paul screwed his eyes shut. Now all he could see was the random patterns of light and dark which didn't hold any more answers than the sight of his display had. Why does this have to be my decision? It's not just because I was in the duty section. It's because I got stuck with this legal officer job when I reported aboard. As if I know what the hell I'm doing. Thank you, Commander Herdez. The thought of his former XO brought up more memories. His first days and weeks onboard the Michaelson, his first Captain's Masts, mistakes he still shied away from remembering, the death of Petty Officer Davidas.

Davidas' death had definitely been an accident. No question. Paul had been vastly relieved, knowing the officer who'd be held to account if it hadn't been an accident would've been Carl Meadows. Herdez had seen that relief, just like she seemed to see everything onboard. What was it she told me then? Our duty requires us to follow our investigations to their conclusions, regardless of how much we dislike those conclusions, because a sailor had died and we couldn't betray that sailor's sacrifice by shirking our duty, no matter how much it hurt us personally. Something like that. I never forgot that, because I knew deep down it was true. Herdez isn't easy to love. She's an ironclad bitch, I guess, but she's sure easy to admire as a professional. So I know what she'd do.

His eyes opened and strayed to a small portrait fastened on one side of his desk. Jen, caught in a candid photo, laughing during some forgotten celebration in the wardroom. What would Jen think about me putting my career on the line this way? Dumb question. Jen's a professional, too. If she thought another officer had caused the death of one of his sailors, and then tried to cover it up, she'd go after him with a vengeance. For good reason, too, because the next person that officer caused the death of might be Jen or a whole ship worth of Jens.

And as for me, I know what I should do. I know what the heroes I admired growing up would do. Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead. He who will not risk cannot win. Can I do no less? I'm not even risking my life, like they did. Hell, not acting risks other peoples' lives.

That's three in favor of sticking my neck out.

Paul looked directly at Sharpe.

Sheriff Sharpe looked back. "Sir?" The question Sharpe really wanted to ask was clear enough.

"Don't worry, Sheriff." Paul copied his findings to a data coin. "I took a poll and got three votes for doing the tough thing, and none against."

"Three votes, sir?"

"Yeah. One was mine. The others were two people whose opinions I respect." Paul grinned. "Don't worry, Sheriff, I respect your opinion, too. But I already know how you'd vote."

"You're going to see the captain now, sir? May I come along?"

Paul hesitated, then shook his head. "This is about an officer, Sheriff. It's better if the captain and I discuss it without an enlisted sailor present. You understand."

"Yes, sir, I do. And, to be perfectly frank, sir, there's some officers I'd worry about making decisions like that without an enlisted around watching them. But I think you and Captain Hayes will do the right thing."

Assuming Captain Hayes agrees with me on what the right thing happens to be. "I'll let you know, Sheriff."

As usual, a line of personnel trailed away from the hatch of the captain's cabin. Paul waited patiently as the line inched forward, each officer or sailor getting the signature they needed to get personally or personally delivering the report they needed to personally deliver to the captain. Even with so much of the ship automated and so many reports sent around via the ship's intranet, Navy traditions and rules kept much of the work on a face-to-face basis. Despite his resolution, Paul felt his stomach knotting up as he neared the hatch. He didn't look forward to delivering his report, and wasn't sure how it'd be received.

Captain Hayes took one look at Paul's face when he entered, then directed him to close the hatch. "What's up, Mr. Sinclair?"

Paul offered the data coin. "Sir, I've completed my investigation into the accident."

"I see." Hayes took the coin, turning it slowly in his hand, then looked sharply at Paul. "What's the bottom-line?"

Paul swallowed, partly out of nervousness and partly to clear a throat which felt too tight. "Captain, I believe a preponderance of circumstantial evidence points to the conclusion that Lieutenant Silver ordered Chief Asher to undertake emergency repairs on the power transfer junction in Forward Engineering, and to do so single-handedly in violation of safety procedures. That required Chief Asher to disable the safety interlocks. This is what prevented the fire-suppression systems from functioning. The engineering logs would have clearly shown that this activity had taken place, as well as an authorization clearance from Chief Asher and an officer. Therefore I also believe Lieutenant Silver is responsible for damaging the engineering records to prevent his role in the matter from being discovered. Further, I have a statement from a member of Lieutenant Silver's division that he discouraged them from cooperating with the initial investigation by frightening them with the claim that anything they said would harm Chief Asher's family."

Hayes stared silently at Paul for a long moment. "Are you recommending I court-martial Lieutenant Silver?"

"Sir, I… the decision of what action to take is yours, sir."

"I didn't ask you to make the decision, Mr. Sinclair. I asked if that was what you were recommending."

It actually hurt to answer the captain's blunt question. "Yes, sir, I am so recommending."

Hayes' gaze shifted to the data coin still resting in his hand. "Have a seat."

"Yes, sir." Paul sat, his back stiffly erect, trying not to look anywhere in particular, while Captain Hayes loaded the coin into his data unit and with painstaking care reviewed the material Paul had gathered. Paul occasionally stole glances at the clock on one bulkhead, seeing the minutes drag by, wondering what those still in line outside thought about the closed hatch and Paul's long meeting with the captain.

Hayes finally made a angry snort, then turned back to Paul. "I could wipe this, Mr. Sinclair. Tell you I'd looked into it and disagreed. But I won't. You did a good job."

"Th-thank you, sir."

"I'm not sure I should thank you. Have you ever met Admiral Silver?"

"No, sir."

"He's tough. He's professional. He's not going to be happy." Hayes made a fist, as if he were going to slam it into his display. "But I'm not in this job to keep people happy. Not when I see this kind of evidence. Are you sure there's nothing aside from that supply part thing that actually names Lieutenant Silver?"

"There might be, sir, but I couldn't find anything."

"So I'll have to assume there isn't, until or unless I find out otherwise. Which leaves what to do up to my discretion." Hayes rubbed his lower face for a few moments. "Okay. You write me up a charge sheet, Mr. Sinclair. Whatever charges against Lieutenant Silver you feel would be appropriate and provable. No more, no less. Don't talk to anyone about this. Bring the charge sheet to me when you're done."

"Yes, sir."

"I want a clean document, Mr. Sinclair. If I approve of the charges, that charge sheet will serve as justification for convening a court-martial."

"Y-yes, sir."

Hayes rubbed his entire face this time, looking weary. "Some people think being the captain of a ship is a great deal. All this authority. You get to do just about anything you want to do. But you also have to do a lot of things you'd rather not do. I hate the idea of court-martialing an officer. But I hate the idea of someone doing this and getting off free even worse."

Paul waited a moment, but after Hayes stayed silent Paul stood up. "I'll get right on it, sir."

"One more thing, Mr. Sinclair. This is my decision. Understand? You didn't make it, you don't get blamed for it. It's my job to make decisions and live with the consequences."

"Yes, sir." Paul paused, then blurted out, "Thank you, sir."

Hayes looked cross for a moment. "For what? Get to work on those charges, Paul."

"Yes, sir." Paul exited the hatch, oblivious to the curious stares of those in line, and was halfway back to his stateroom before he realized that the captain's last word to him had been his first name. At the least, that seemed to signify approval.

Paul delivered the charge sheet to Captain Hayes the next morning. He notified Ivan Sharpe soon afterwards, swearing him to secrecy until the captain took action.

Sharpe bent a concerned look at Paul. "You don't look so good, sir."

Paul snorted and massaged the joints of his jaw to relieve the stress there. "I'm a little strung out, Sheriff. I spent a good part of the night writing up those charges and trying to make sure they're as well chosen and well drafted as I could make them. And every minute I was doing it I couldn't help thinking that the object of my work was to send a fellow officer to a court-martial."

"Sir, that guy's not worth your stress. Not after what he did."

Paul glared at Sharpe. "Lieutenant Silver hasn't been formally charged and he sure as hell hasn't been convicted."

"Are you telling me you don't think he's guilty, sir?"

Paul looked away, glaring now at a blank spot on the bulkhead. "No. I wouldn't have gone this far if I'd believed that. But, dammit, he's innocent until proven guilty."

"A cop can have trouble thinking that way, Mr. Sinclair."

"I know, Sheriff. That's why cops don't run the courts. Don't get me wrong. I respect the need for a 'find the guilty bastard' attitude. But we can't afford to fall into a mindset of 'he's accused so he must be guilty.'" The silence made Paul glance up again, to see Sharpe frowning in turn. "Hey, a big part of my job is making sure the captain doesn't hit any legal rocks and shoals. If I don't do that right because I'm convinced of someone's guilt or for any other reason, I'd be doing what Silver's accused of. Not doing my job right and letting someone else get hurt as a result."

Sharpe nodded. "Fair enough, sir."

"And I need a good cop like you to handle the cop side of things."

"Ah, shucks, sir, you say the nicest things. Did the captain give you any idea when he'd do something?"

Paul shook his head, looking away again. "No. It might be a few days, at least. He's got to read those charges, decide which he supports, decide if he still wants to go ahead with a court-martial. I'm not sure if there'll be anything public before the court-martial order is issued."

"Maybe not, sir. I don't envy you, sir. I don't have to be around Lieutenant Silver. You're going to have to work with him."

"Thanks for reminding me. Hopefully, it'll only be a couple of days."

One week went by. Whenever Paul encountered Captain Hayes, he ached to ask about the charges, but knew he shouldn't, and Hayes didn't volunteer any information. Paul's growing irritability at first worried his fellow junior officers, until Kris Denaldo suggested it was being caused by the extended absence of his girlfriend Jen Shen. The resulting teasing caused Paul a bit more stress, but at least of a different kind.

The second week had almost crawled to a close when Commander Kwan summoned Paul to his stateroom. Paul stood in Kwan's stateroom, wondering as to the reason, while Kwan scanned his terminal with an unreadable expression before looking up at Paul. "Mr. Sinclair. Lieutenant Silver has been referred to a general court-martial by the fleet commander." Kwan stopped speaking for a moment, his face hard. "By order of the captain, Lieutenant Silver is to be immediately relieved of all his duties. His stateroom is to be sealed off until it can be searched for evidence. Commander Destin is taking care of escorting Lieutenant Silver off of the ship. You are to take care of sealing his stateroom."

Paul nodded, trying not to let his reaction to the news show. "Aye, aye, sir. Lieutenant Silver shares a stateroom with Lieutenant Bristol."

"Then Commander Sykes will just have to find a new home for Lieutenant Bristol for a few days!"

"Yes, sir."

"Dismissed. No, wait." Kwan pointed to his screen. "Did you know about this?"

"Yes, sir."

"So did I, Mr. Sinclair. There'll be no celebrating this event on this ship. Is that understood?"

Paul stared at the executive officer. "Yes. Sir." He knew his voice had come out hard and angry at the implications behind Kwan's order, but at the moment didn't care. "There's nothing to celebrate."

"That's right, Mr. Sinclair. I'm heartened to hear that you realize that. Dismissed."

Paul headed for Silver's stateroom, paging Petty Officer Sharpe as he went. He'd need the ship's master-at-arms to formally seal off the stateroom. Reaching the stateroom, he paused, wondering if Silver might still be inside, or if he'd already been escorted off the ship by Commander Destin. As he stood there, Mike Bristol came up and reached for the hatch. Paul held out a hand. "Sorry, Mike. You can't go in there."

Mike gave him a puzzled look. "Okay. And the joke is?"

"No joke. Captain's orders." Sharpe came quickly down the passageway. "Petty Officer Sharpe will be sealing this stateroom pending a search for evidence."

Bristol's jaw dropped as he looked from Paul to Sharpe. "Oh. Where's Silver?"

"Off the ship, I think, and not coming back."

"Geez. It happened? You found what you needed?"

"Yeah."

"Geez." Bristol stepped back automatically as Sharpe went to work, then finally snapped out of his shock. "Hey, all my stuff's in there!"

"Sorry, Mike." Paul let his helplessness show. "I'll loan you stuff. It's only for a few days."

"Thanks. I guess." Bristol stared wide-eyed at the Do Not Enter notification Sharpe was posting. "What's happening to Scott?"

"Court-martial."

"Oh, man." Bristol looked at Paul. "How am I supposed to be feeling?"

"I don't know, Mike."

Sharpe finished his work, then turned to Paul. "Sir, with your permission, I'll contact the Naval Criminal Investigative Service agents attached to fleet staff and see how soon I can get them over here to search this stateroom."

"Permission granted. Let me know when they'll be coming."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Paul watched Sharpe leave and Mike Bristol head in search of Commander Sykes so he could get new temporary living quarters. After a few minutes, Paul realized he was still looking at the seal on the stateroom hatch. He went back to his own stateroom, which happened to be blessedly empty, and sat down, staring at nothing in particular while emotions and thoughts swirled inside him without coalescing into any clear images.

Randy Diego came in, tossed some work on his desk, and glanced curiously at Paul. "Aren't you coming to lunch?"

Paul, startled, checked the time. "Yeah. Let's go."

They passed the sealed stateroom, causing Ensign Diego to do a double-take. "What happened here?"

Good old Randy. Always the last to know. "It's a long story."

When Paul entered the wardroom, it was immediately obvious at least part of the story was known to everyone else. They all watched as Paul took his seat, no one saying anything. Finally, Paul looked around irritably. "All right, already. Doesn't anyone feel like talking?"

Mike Bristol forced a smile. "Well, under the circumstances… is Scott Silver really being charged with murder?"

Paul shook his head. "No. Manslaughter."

"What's the difference?"

"Well…" Paul thought for a moment. "I'm sure a lawyer would have all sorts of problems with this definition, but basically it's murder when you set out to kill or injure someone and they die. It's manslaughter if you're not setting out to hurt anyone but someone dies because your actions were so careless and reckless you should've known they'd result in someone's death."

"You mean like if I was, uh, firing a gun randomly and hit somebody it'd be manslaughter?"

"Right. It's the difference between aiming at someone, and pointing a gun in their direction without looking and firing. Except if you deliberately kill someone but do it in the heat of passion. That's manslaughter, too."

Lieutenant Kilgary mimicked surprise. "You can kill somebody when you're having sex and it's not murder?"

Paul laughed with everyone else, grateful for the diversion. "That's not exactly what the heat of passion is supposed to mean."

Kris Denaldo grinned. "Have you ever killed anyone while you were having sex, Colleen?"

Kilgary smiled. "Wouldn't you like to know."

As the next round of laughter died out, Kris aimed her next question at Paul. "Then Silver's not being accused of trying to kill Chief Asher?"

Paul nodded. "Right. He's being accused of doing something so reckless he should've known it could cause Chief Asher's death."

Lieutenant Sindh smiled wryly. "I suppose that means a total idiot couldn't be charged with manslaughter."

"Yeah. That gets into stuff like mental competence. Did the accused have the ability to understand they were doing? Did they know it was wrong? I wouldn't want to get into that."

"Am I correct in assuming such a defense on Lieutenant Silver's part would be counterproductive? Arguing that he was incapable of understanding the recklessness of the acts he's charged with committing?"

Paul snorted a brief laugh. "They could try saying that, yeah, but like you said, arguing that an officer couldn't understand the danger would be a career-killer even if it worked as a defense. I don't expect that, though. I'm not a lawyer, needless to say, but I'd guess the defense will try to say Silver never did any of the things he's charged with."

Sindh smiled again. "That's better, isn't it? I imagine issues of mental competency are raised when guilt is otherwise certain based on evidence."

"Probably."

"Are all of the charges against Silver of that nature?"

"No." Paul looked down, uncomfortable with the questions but understanding why his fellow officers wanted to ask them. "Most of them do require an intent, a decision to do something wrong. Like making a knowingly false official statement. You can't be charged with that if whatever you say is correct to the best of your knowledge, even if what you say isn't actually right. It comes down to intent, like a lot of other crimes. Often, you need to prove an intent to carry out a certain crime. But not in manslaughter. That just needs the fact it occurred."

"Or like being absent without leave," Colleen Kilgary suggested. "You don't have to intend to be AWOL to miss the deadline for getting back to the ship. You're not back, and that's that."

Commander Sykes finally chimed in. "Not entirely, dear Lieutenant Kilgary. Since most AWOL incidents are handled via non-judicial punishment, anyone who committed the offense is allowed to offer an explanation or excuse. A plausible argument that AWOL was not intended can suffice to limit or prevent any punishment. Call it a case where a lack of intent to commit the offense is important as a mitigating factor."

Everyone looked at Paul. "Suppo's right," Paul agreed.

"Of course Suppo's right," Sykes stated. "You should all practice saying that several times a day. 'Suppo's right.' It's an excellent guiding philosophy."

Mike Bristol nodded with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Suppo's right."

Paul looked down at the table while Bristol tried to fend off various objects hurled at him. I didn't expect to see horseplay in the wardroom again this quickly. Call it whistling past the graveyard, or just coping with another bad thing. We're getting good at it, I guess.

"Paul?" Randy Diego leaned closer. "When's the court-martial going to happen?"

"I don't know. There'll be a convening order issued, then time for the lawyers to put together their cases. They can't even issue to convening order until they locate enough officers to serve as members of the court."

"Oh. I thought maybe it'd happen real quick."

"No. I can guarantee it won't be quick. It could easily be months." Weird. Chief Asher dies in a heartbeat, but everything else takes a long time. Why is a death so fast, and figuring out who caused it so slow? That old poem talked about the wheels of the gods turning slowly. Who's going to get ground up by those wheels when the finally get moving? Silver? Or maybe me.