She glanced at Simmons, who nodded as if to resign the ball to her, then continued.

“In fact, he hadn’t shut them down for over three local months prior to Weiller’s death. So unless we’re going to stipulate that he knew ahead of time that he was going to kill her—that it was a carefully planned murder, not unpremeditated or an accident—and wanted an alibi, why should he have disabled them on arrival this time? And why should he worry about establishing an alibi when Citizen Commander Tresca had made it abundantly clear that no one would be prosecuted for something as ‘inconsequential’ as the murder of helpless prisoners?”

The loathing contempt in the Citizen Admiral’s overcontrolled voice underlined her disgust at having to make any sort of argument in Mangrum’s defense, but ultimately, that only gave it more power.

“She’s got a point there, Cynthia,” Hurston said, manifestly against his will, and Gonsalves nodded unhappily.

“I know,” she confessed. “That’s what I meant when I said there were too many holes in the documentation. I just hate the very thought of letting him walk away from the hangman. Whether he actually killed Weiller or not, he’s the sick animal who dragged her back here, raped her, made her his toy, and put her in a position for someone to murder.”

“I don’t like it either,” Longmont said. “And just among the five of us, I wish to hell the UCC made any case of rape a capital offense. But it doesn’t. And if these trials are going to be justifiable under the Deneb Accords—”

She shrugged, and McKeon nodded with an unhappy sigh.

“I think I’m hearing a consensus here,” he said. “Does anyone want to call for secret ballots, or is a voice vote acceptable?”

He looked around the table, then directly at Longmont as the senior officer present.

“A voice vote is acceptable to me,” the citizen admiral replied, and he glanced at the others.

“Voice,” Simmons said, speaking aloud for the recorders faithfully taking down everything that happened in the conference room.

“Agreed,” Gonsalves sighed.

“Agreed,” Hurston said more grudgingly.

“Very well. How vote you on the charge of second-degree rape, Commander Hurston?” McKeon asked formally, beginning—in age-old military tradition—with the junior member of the court.

“Guilty,” Hurston said flatly.

“On the charge of kidnapping?”

“Guilty.”

“On the charge of abuse of official authority for personal advantage?”

“Guilty.”

“On the charge of murder?”

“Guilty.”

“On the charge of second-degree rape, Captain Gonsalves?” McKeon went on, turning to the next most junior member of the court.

“Guilty,” Gonsalves replied in a voice of cold certainty.

“On the charge of kidnapping?”

“Guilty.”

“On the charge of abuse of official authority for personal advantage?”

“Guilty.”

“On the charge of murder?”

“Abstained,” Gonsalves said with a grimace, and McKeon turned to Simmons.

“On the charge of second-degree rape, Commodore Simmons?”

“Guilty.”

“On the charge of kidnapping?”

“Guilty.”

“On the charge of abuse of official authority for personal advantage?”

“Guilty.”

“On the charge of murder?”