Richard had been hired on to do the menial work that had nothing to with flying the ship—keeping the passengers happy, making sure that the lower decks were spotless, maintaining the robotic cleaners and cooks. The food on the ship wasn’t spectacular, but it hadn’t been advertised that way. There were ships that made this run that were all about food, food every few hours, food from every culture in the sector, food as rich and varied as the passengers themselves.
But this ship hadn’t been a cruise so much as a passenger vehicle. It took people from here to there in a modicum of comfort, with as little fuss as necessary.
Until the first death, Richard had mostly dealt with trivial complaints—broken entertainment sectors, malfunctioning avatars in the gaming area, the occasional sudden (and he thought humorous) switch to zero-g in a toilet. Agatha Kantswinkle had tried his patience—her bed was too soft, the equipment near her room too loud, the cooking smell from the galley too strong—but he’d had the leeway to move her twice, and her final cabin seemed to suit her more than the others, which had cut the complaints to about half of what they had been.
He’d settled in for a flight filled with irritations and hard work, but he knew once he got to Ansary, he’d be done with real work and he’d have money for the first time in months.
He had vowed not to get that low on funds ever again.
Now, here he was, unpaid and trapped on a space station that had at least one killer on board.
He peered at the captain. The man was staring blearily into his glass, as if he could read information written on the bottom of it. The captain was the one man Richard knew wasn’t behind any of this, for two reasons.
The first was circumstantial—the captain had been with Richard during the first two killings. If the captain had been involved he would have had to had a collaborator, and the captain never consulted with anyone.
The second reason was more practical—the captain owned his ship. It was part of a franchise operation, and he got paid per passenger for the entire trip. If the ship was full, he made a hefty profit. Half full, he made some money. Empty, and he’d go bankrupt or have to get out of the business.
Richard could understand someone who wanted out so badly that he would destroy his own ship. But he couldn’t understand doing it while paying customers were on board, nor could he imagine doing it with fire. There were so many other, much simpler ways.
Richard sat down across from the captain, jiggling the tabletop. The glasses clanked together, but it still took a moment for the captain to notice him.
Or at least to acknowledge him.
“Care to toast the end of my career?” the captain asked, lifting a glass.
“It’s not as bad as all that,” Richard lied.
“Ship’s not reparable,” the captain said.
“Yes, it is,” Richard said. “I talked to them.”
The captain shook his head. “Not flying that thing anywhere. Half the lower deck’d be unusable, it’d smell, and the environmental systems are whacked. Not safe. Least not by our standards.”
By that, he meant the standards of the company he worked for.
“So are they sending a replacement ship?”
“Two weeks,” the captain said. “Maybe. Or we can hire onto someone else’s ship. Have to ask the passengers. What’s left of them.”
“Two weeks?” Richard asked.
“Coming from Ansary We’d go back to the Dyo System. We’d be back where we started. Not that it matters. I get to have a hearing. Like it’s my fault they let some murderous nutcase onto my ship.”
“You didn’t check the manifest?” Richard asked.
The captain glared at him. Or tried to. It wasn’t that effective a look, considering how wobbly his head was and how bloodshot his eyes were.
“What’m I supposed to? Turn away paying customers with spotless records? Of course, I checked. Not an idiot. Or didn’t think I was.”
The captain sighed.
“Someone’s trying to destroy me,” he muttered.
Which was a distinct possibility, one Richard hadn’t thought of.
“Does someone hate you that much?” Richard asked.
“You mean besides me?” the captain asked. “Oh, hell, I don’t know.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Richard said.
“Sent that first body into space,” the captain said. “Didn’t turn around then and there. Shoulda brought everyone back.”
“We thought it was a suicide,” Richard said. “And when the other two deaths happened, we were closer to Commons Space Station than to the Dyo System. It would’ve taken a week to go back to Ynchyn.”
This nightmare trip started in Ynchyn.
“Seems logical, doesn’t it? They don’t train you for this kinda thing, you know. Maybe I shoulda confined everyone to quarters.”
Richard nodded. After all, that had been his initial suggestion—or at least, his suggestion after the second murder. Ignatius Grove, a professor, heading to a new job at some prestigious university in the largest city on Ansary. The man taught mathematics of all things, and he had died when the skin in his throat had a growth spurt, shutting off both sides.
Everyone would’ve thought that a freak death as well, particularly since Ignatius Grove and Agatha Kantswinkle spent each meal complaining about their various food allergies, if Richard hadn’t seen that particular form of murder before. He knew that there were little nanosomethings that could activate the growth mechanism in the skin. If swallowed, the nanosomethings invaded the throat. No one had ever done studies to see if any of them made it to the stomach or if that would’ve made a difference if the throat hadn’t closed first.
Ignatius Grove had died a particularly hideous death. So had Remy Demaupin, the first victim. In fact, all three victims had died terribly. The third, Trista Jordan, had died when someone had sealed her mouth and nose with some kind of bonding adhesive. Richard wasn’t sure what was used—some kind of liquid glue. She should’ve been able to use her call button to ask for help—and she probably would have, if she hadn’t also been glued to the chair in her room.
The killer hadn’t tried to hide that death, not that it would’ve mattered. There was no time to investigate it, because shortly after they found Trista, the fire had started.
Or at least had been discovered.
“Confining people to quarters,” Richard said, “probably wouldn’t have helped. We had a pretty determined killer on board. Still do, actually. Have any ideas who it is?”
“I’d’ve shot the bastard if I knew.” The captain picked up one of the other glasses and downed its contents. “Hell, maybe I should shoot everyone now. That’d take care of the problem. What do you think?”
“It’s one solution,” Richard said.
“It’s as good as any,” the captain said, and picked up the remaining full glass. “If I could just get my butt outta this chair. Which I’m not going to do. If someone wants to kill me, so be it. They might be doing me a favor. You want to kill me, Richard?”
The captain’s gaze met Richard’s. For the first time, the captain seemed sober. His expression was very serious. Richard had the sense that the captain knew more about him than Richard thought.
Richard had waited too long to pretend shock at the question.