“I’m watching.”
Ben followed Shevu’s field of view as the captain walked up to the technicians and asked them when Colonel Solo’s StealthX was starting its maintenance cycle. They assumed they were being nagged to make the vessel a priority.
“Okay, we’ll do it before the next batch of X-wings, “one technician said in an exasperated tone. “Look, we can only process them so fast, you know.”
“It’s okay.” Shevu sounded as if he was relenting. “I’ll hang around, if you don’t mind. You know what a pain in the neck he is about efficiency.”
The technicians lapsed into stunned silence, mouths slightly slack with horror. It was just a figure of speech, but with the gossip about poor Tebut doing the rounds of the fleet, it sounded like a very sick joke. They didn’t seem sure whether it was safer to laugh at it or not. Armed forces humor was very tasteless sometimes, right on the borderline between laughter and tears. Shevu shrugged and walked away.
It was a perfect excuse for him to mooch around the hangar, looking as if he were killing time by sticking his nose in everywhere. He was a secret policeman. It was what they expected him to do. He clambered up the ladders on a couple of X-wings, prodded cables, and generally made all the movements of a man wanting to get on with something because he had a very unreasonable boss.
Did the rest of the fleet still like Jacen? A few days ago, he’d been their hero, one of the team. He sent procurement managers to the front line for providing poor-quality kit to the troops, or not providing it at all. He led from the front; he never asked his personnel to do anything he wouldn’t do himself. This, Ben knew, was what created the loyalty that made beings put their lives on the line for an officer. It wasn’t political fervor or a desire for glory. It was devotion based on shared risk, on knowing that comrades-whatever the rank-looked out for each other.
But Jacen hadn’t looked out for him. He’d tortured him. Ben couldn’t imagine doing that to someone he was supposed to care about, especially for their own good.
Do you really know how much he’s changed, Jaina?
“Ben, stand by.”
Shevu’s helmet link showed he was at the StealthX now. It was one of three left. The Jedi had taken the others with them, and a StealthX wasn’t much use to non-Force-users, seeing as they had to use comlinks. Ben watched Shevu’s field of view shake with the one, two, three of climbing the small ladder up to the cockpit, and the flash of a transparent canopy lifting followed by the dark interior and matte instrument panel as Shevu looked inside.
“In the hole…., “Shevu muttered into his helmet link. Then he climbed back down and wandered apparently aimlessly around the hangar. “Droid on the case.”
Most of Ben’s attention shifted to the monitor showing the droid’s-eye view of the cockpit; a fraction of it remained on Shevu’s monitor, watching for complications that might require a little Force ingenuity from Ben. He could see the smooth matte-black curves of the instrument panel, and the small brush-like projections from the droid skimming over plastoid and durasteel, picking up traces and analyzing them before storing the swabbed samples in-side the case. An icon on the monitor showed the results as the droid worked; there were traces of skin cells, machine lubricant, microscopic shavings of metals, and sweat from hands. There was even dust with the mineral profile of Kavan, but then Jacen had landed to find Ben. It wasn’t evidence.
The droid worked methodically, covering the cockpit deck and bulkheads. It was picking up the odd hair, too, five-centimeter lengths-short, and male. Ben’s heart sank; the cockpit must have been cleaned several times in the last few weeks.
Then the droid worked over the apparently clean seat. Again, the icons showed skin cells, dust, oils. The probes worked down into seams, and then between the sections that formed the angle of the seat, deep folds of fabric.
The icons changed.
PARTICLES: BRICK, ORIGIN UNKNOWN. CLAY. SILICATES.
ORGANIC MATERIAL: HAIR, FEMALE, 2.9 CMS. FOLLICULAR TAG PRESENT. TRACES OF BLOOD ON HAIR SHAFT. DNA MATCHES HAIR.
“Oh, oh, oh, “Ben whispered.
“Got it?” Shevu’s view showed he was near the doors, head moving slowly as if watching nothing in particular.
“What is it, Ben?”
“Hair with blood, and a follicular tag. Female hair.”
“If it’s got a tag, Ben, it’s probably been pulled out.” Ben saw his mother in his memory, tugging her hair and dropping strands into his palm as he stared dumbfounded at her ghost on Kavan.
You did it, Mom.
“Let’s get out, “Ben said. “We’ve got it.”