“You go relax,” Huber said in a tight voice. “This is Log Section business, not yours.”
“Fuck that,” said Deseau. “You said we’re at liberty. Fine, we’re at liberty to come with you.”
“Right,” said Huber. He was still holding his big shoulder weapon; he hadn’t had time to put it down since he entered the office. “You—Farinelli? You’re in charge till I get back.” He thought for a moment and added, “Or you hear that I’ve been replaced.”
“But Director Huber!” the clerk said. “What if Deputy Graciano comes back?”
“She won’t,” Huber snarled. Then to his men he added, “Come on, troopers. Let’s roll!”
* * *
“She was up about a thousand meters,” said the cop. He was a young fellow in a blue jacket and red trousers with a blue stripe down the seam. For all that he was determined not to be cowed by the heavily armed mercenaries, he behaved politely instead of blustering to show his authority. “She had the top down and wasn’t belted in, so she came out the first time the car tumbled.”
It was probably chance then that the body and the vehicle had hit the ground within fifty meters of one another, Huber realized. Hera had gone through tree-branches face-first, hit the ground, and then bounced over to lie on her back. Her features were distorted, but he could’ve identified her easily if the UC policeman had been concerned about that; he wasn’t.
There was almost no blood. The dent in the center of her forehead had spilled considerable gore over Hera’s face, but that had been dry when the branches slashed her and wiped much of it off. Huber was no pathologist, but he’d seen death often and in a variety of forms. Hera Graciano had been dead for some length of time before her body hit the ground.
“Why did the car tumble?” Tranter said, kneeling to check the underside of the crumpled vehicle. It’d nosed in, then fallen back on its underside with its broken frame cocked up like an inverted V. “There’s an air turbine that deploys when you run outa fuel. It generates enough juice to keep your control gyro spinning.”
“You’re friends of the lady?” the cop asked. He was expecting backup, but the Slammers had arrived almost as soon as he did himself. He seemed puzzled, which Huber was willing to grant him the right to be.
But it was a really good thing for the cop that he hadn’t decided to throw his weight around. Huber wasn’t in a mood for it; and while he wasn’t sure how Sergeant Tranter would react, he knew that the two troopers from Fencing Master would obey without question if their lieutenant told them to blow the local’s brains out.
“She was my deputy,” Huber said. “She worked for the Regiment in a civilian capacity.”
“Somebody whacked the turbine with a heavy hammer,” Tranter said, rising from where he knelt. “That’s why it’s still stuck in the cradle.”
He pulled at an access plate on the wreck’s quarter panel. It didn’t come till he took a multitool from his belt and gave the warped plastic a calculated blow.
The local policeman looked at the sky again and fingered his lapel communicator. He didn’t try to prod the dispatcher, though. “There was an anonymous call that the car had been circling up here and just dropped outa the sky,” he explained. “D’ye suppose it was maybe, well . . . suicide?”
“No,” said Huber. “I don’t think that.”
“That’s good,” said the cop, misunderstanding completely. “Because you guys might not know it, but this lady was from a bloody important family here in the UC. I don’t want to get caught in some kinda scandal, if you see what I mean.”
“I see what you mean,” Huber said. His eyes drifted across Tranter for a moment, then resumed scanning their surroundings. They were within ten klicks of the center of Benjamin, but the forest was unbroken. Trees on Plattner’s World had enough chlorophyll in their bark to look deep green from a distance. Their branches twisted like snakes, but the leaves were individually tiny and stuck on the twigs like a child’s drawing.