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Merrow says, “That is nearly forty people.”
“Then we will speak to forty people.”
“You do not have authorization to interrogate civilian personnel indiscriminately.”
“I have authorization to secure this site.”
“This is a scientific excavation, not a military outpost.”
I face him fully. Merrow is not a coward, not exactly. He is worse in some ways. He believes procedure is courage because he has never watched procedure bleed. His throat moves when he swallows, but he does not step back.
“Liaison Merrow,” I say, “someone has already breached your scientific excavation. If they intended theft, they know your routes. If they intended sabotage, they know your infrastructure. If they intended murder, they know where your people sleep.”
His color fades.
“Now you may either help me find the breach,” I continue, “or you may file a complaint after I save your life.”
Pell lowers his eyes to the console, wisely pretending to see nothing.
Merrow’s voice becomes smaller. “I will make the personnel available.”
“Good.”
The first three workers lie badly because they are frightened of being blamed for ordinary sins. One has been selling surplus heat cells to a League prospecting crew in orbit. One used a restricted tunnel to meet a lover from the drilling team. One stole stimulant cartridges from medical storage and cries when I ask about missing scan equipment, though he confesses to nothing relevant.
The fourth worker is useful.
Her name is Jessa Mal, a human rig technician with oil-black hair shaved close to her skull and burn scars along both hands. We question her in a storage alcove outside the generator stack. She tries to look bored. She overdoes it.
“You accessed lower winch bay two nights before academic arrival,” I say.
She crosses her arms. “Yeah. Winch made a grinding noise. I fixed it.”
“The maintenance order was logged the next morning.”
“So I’m proactive.”
“You used another worker’s credential.”
“Mine wasn’t clearing.”
“You did not report the credential malfunction.”
“I was busy being proactive.”
I let silence work. Vakutan silence often does. My size helps. My scars help more. People imagine what made them, and most imagine something worse than the truth, though not by much.
“Look, I fixed the winch. Ask Brakk. He checked the line.”
“I will.”
“Great.”
“Who asked you to check the winch before the order came through?”
Her eyes shift.
There.
