by Natalie Grey
Barnabas whistled. “You think it goes that high?”
“I don’t know. Just be careful, and make sure the next one doesn’t get a chance to use a self-destruct before you question them.”
“Given that I’m on the ship in question,” Barnabas said drily, “I will certainly strive to make sure of that.”
Chapter Five
Captain Ferqar was, in Barnabas’ opinion, indistinguishable from any other Jotun except by the tenor of his thoughts. It was enough to make Barnabas wonder for a moment if there would be any way to prove, save by mind-reading, that Huword was the one who had died. Another Jotun would be able to see the deception, of course, but what if it only needed to be maintained for a brief time?
He chided himself for this ridiculous train of thought even as he probed the Jotun’s thoughts. After all, nothing about this case seemed straightforward. He might as well search for the answers anywhere he could. There were plenty of memories Barnabas could find in which Ferqar was referred to by name, however, so he abandoned that theory with some relief.
He did not see any of the images he had found in Captain Kelnamon’s memory, however, such as the smashed jar that he now realized was a Jotun biosuit tank. He hadn’t necessarily expected to. After all, Captain Kelnamon had said that Ferqar had a good alibi.
Still, when a Jotun naval captain was murdered in the middle of nowhere on a transport where no one else should know of him, his only acquaintance on board was the best suspect.
“Captain Ferqar.” Barnabas smiled as he came into the room. “Thank you for speaking with me. Captain Kelnamon has allowed me to take over this case, and as the person on board who knew Captain Huword best, your help will be invaluable.”
He held out a hand. The handshake was a common greeting among species, as it turned out, and with no worry of disease, Jotuns were always happy to shake their mechanical hands with anyone who wanted to do so. Ferqar shook Barnabas’ now, and Barnabas detected wariness.
“Who, exactly, are you?” the Jotun asked him. “You’re not Brakalon.”
A real genius, this guy is. Shinigami was still sulking about being confined to the ship and had taken to commenting acerbically on anything and everything.
You know what he means, Barnabas said reprovingly. To Ferqar, he said, “I served as law enforcement in the Etheric Empire.”
Ferqar experienced a spike of fear when Barnabas mentioned his past, but it came with no thoughts Barnabas could identify. He sometimes had trouble reading Jotuns’ thoughts, but in this case, he was fairly certain there was no malice toward the Etheric Empire.
Barnabas waited. He wanted to test a hunch, and a moment later, Ferqar had a sudden spike of thoughts: the human who helped Captain Jeltor.
“What is your name?” Ferqar asked. He sounded eager.
“Barnabas.” Barnabas settled back in his chair and tried not to smile. Even through the garble of Jotun thoughts—he privately described it to Gar as listening to music through a bowl of jello—he could tell that Ferqar was not displeased to see him.
“I want to thank you,” Ferqar said formally. “Unofficially, of course.” There was a pause. “Is this off the record?”
“As long as it doesn’t relate to the murder.” Barnabas didn’t let his expression change from a faint smile.
Another spike of fear, and then Ferqar’s emotions swirled into such chaos that Barnabas could make neither heads nor tails of them. “It doesn’t. I wanted to thank you for forcing the senators to stop treason proceedings against Captain Jeltor—and for defeating the Yennai Corporation.”
There were so many emotions chasing each other through his head that Barnabas honestly could not tell if Ferqar was telling the truth.
“You weren’t able to be at the battle, I’m guessing,” he said as neutrally as he could.
“No. My route didn’t allow it.” He sounded bitter. Barnabas made a mental note of that.
“So, explain to me.” Barnabas frowned. “Only a week or so ago, you were on a remote route that meant you could not join the battle against a massive fleet that had high odds of killing many of your colleagues. This week, however, you boarded a fairly slow civilian transport with another captain who ran mostly the same routes—or was going to. How did that happen?”
Fear again, but there was the ring of truth in it when Ferqar said, bitterly amused, “I was giving him details of the routes someplace we could be away from listening ears.” As the device in Barnabas’ head translated, he noticed that the Jotun word for ears translated to tentacles. They must be all-sensory devices, but he could not tell how that would work. “Other Jotun ears, I mean,” Ferqar continued. “Huword wanted to know what he’d gotten into.”
“Oh?” In his years of playing “neutral” on Earth, Barnabas had learned to keep a conversation going without stating his position or impeding the flow of thoughts from the other person.
“If you know who we both are already, and it seems you do—” again, there was fear “—you should also know of Huword’s…promotion.” There was distaste in Ferqar’s voice as well as a challenge.
“You mean, I’m guessing, the promotion that might or might not have been a promotion?” Barnabas lifted an eyebrow.
“Quite so.” Ferqar sounded bitterly amused now. “Something I happen to know about.”
There was genuine pain there, and Barnabas felt an unexpected stab of sympathy.
“Not a promotion for you, then, I’m guessing.” He wished he could read the minutiae of Jotun posture and expressions.
“You guess correctly.” Ferqar considered, and then said, “The details aren’t really important. If you’re curious, I’m sure you can find the whole story.”
He didn’t seem to be hiding anything on that score, and Barnabas felt no urge to make him relive it. He knew what it felt like, after all, to want to avoid certain memories.
“You said Huword wanted to know what he was getting into, and you explained it all away from Jotun ears. Did he come to you, or did you go to him?”
Again, a swirl of emotion. “A little bit of both,” Ferqar said neutrally. His mind was determinedly blank. Barnabas guessed it was likely a way to keep himself from saying something he didn’t want to let slip.
But what was that? Barnabas sifted through recent memories and found nothing overtly incriminating, but everything seemed tinged with guilt and anger.
“Walk me through it,” Barnabas requested now. The devil was in the details, as people said. Who knew what Ferqar might let slip?
Ferqar made a mechanical sound that Barnabas supposed was a sigh, but he didn’t delay. “Several ships were called back to port after the…incident. The Yennai incident,” he clarified when Barnabas frowned. Though Barnabas had trouble reading Jotun expressions, apparently they could read his just fine. “The Senate wanted to know everyone involved, how word had spread, if anyone had been pressured into joining you, or misled about the Senate being on board—that sort of thing. I think they assumed that because I wasn’t involved, I was loyal to them.”
“Which you’re not,” Barnabas said neutrally.
Ferqar froze. “This is a dangerous discussion.”
“I can see how you’d think so, but do bear in mind that I was a part of that mission. As you mentioned, I helped Captain Jeltor.” Barnabas settled back in his chair. “And I have no stake in Jotun politics. Well, not much of a one.”
Ferqar paused. “I am loyal to the Jotun people and take my naval oaths very seriously.” His voice was flat. “I was not contacted about the battle. When I was brought back, it was with a ship that could custom-Gate. They weren’t…pleased. The Senate, I mean.”
Barnabas sifted through this. He was guessing, at this point, that Ferqar’s demotion and distance had precluded him from being a part of the battle, and the Jotun was not pleased about it.
But he couldn’t be sure, not yet.
“In any case, I testified and then bumped into Huword. He knew the routes I ran, and we agre
ed to take a detour before our ships officially left port.” Ferqar lifted a shoulder. “This was a round trip.”
There was a flare of emotion and Barnabas frowned. They could verify the fact easily enough, which made Ferqar’s evasiveness even more interesting.
“I see. So you two talked, and...”
“And?” Ferqar prompted, admirably playing Barnabas’ own game.
Barnabas was better at it than Ferqar was, however. “I’m asking you,” he replied equably.
“What do you want me to say?” Ferqar asked finally. “We weren’t friends. We barely knew each other. This was the only connection we had—the breakdown of our careers.” Again, a spike of emotion: grief and rage this time. “It was hardly something that inspired us to—”
Someone is coming your way, Shinigami broke in. Her voice was urgent.
Dangerous?
I think so. Someone came to the airlock door looking for you, then accessed the security feeds—I don’t know who this is—then they set off for exactly where you are.
Barnabas made a split-second decision. “I’ll be back.” He stood, buttoning his suit jacket. “There’s an urgent matter.”
Ferqar settled into silence, and Barnabas sensed genuine annoyance. Ferqar’s anger over his ruined career, at least, was genuine.
Barnabas paused. “I don’t mean to dredge up uncomfortable memories,” he said finally. “What happened to you—to you both—is something that happens across species, and it costs everyone when good people are not able to do their jobs.”
After the sudden burst of emotion, Ferqar seemed to be keeping a tight rein on his feelings. His mechanical head nodded once. After a pause, Barnabas shook his head slightly and went into the corridor. He would have to untangle Ferqar’s strange words later—
Something hit him hard on the back of the head.
Whether it was meant to be a killing blow, Barnabas couldn’t say, but it was certainly meant to incapacitate him. He stumbled sideways into a wall and whirled to face his attacker.
Baggy clothing, half-structured with armor, covered a lanky frame that Barnabas could not quite identify, while a mask and hood obscured the shape of the face. There must be some technology he didn't see in it because there were no eye or mouth holes. It was like fighting a comic book character, which did not make him particularly happy.
Tabitha had spent weeks at one point trying to get him into comics. Barnabas had never confessed to her that the real reason he hated them wasn’t the cartoonish violence or overblown characterization. It was the fact that he got far too drawn into the stories and was never going to know how many of them ended.
He still sometimes had dreams about the characters fighting alien species with him, a fact he hoped she would never find out.
His attacker, meanwhile, seemed deeply surprised that Barnabas was not in a heap on the floor. They recovered quickly, however. One foot punched up and out to drive Barnabas back, and again, the assassin struck with what should have been bone-crunching force. Barnabas felt his skin break, and blood burst from capillaries in the start of a brilliant bruise. Then the nanites went to work, healing the damage within seconds.
“And I thought I’d have to work to find you,” he told the assassin with savage satisfaction. “But here you are.”
The assassin waited warily, head cocked to the side, and Barnabas struggled to recognize any familiar line to the bone structure.
Shinigami, is there anything you can tell about the physiology here? What am I dealing with?
Possibly Torcellan—or possibly human, I guess. But very slim. Whatever species, probably a female since they’re so small.
The assassin feinted, then danced away again when Barnabas reacted more quickly than she expected.
And she’s good, Shinigami commented. Very good. I haven’t seen most of you lot hit that hard.
Someone else must have come up with that technology. Barnabas thought he heard a faint mechanical hum. I think there’s an exosuit involved somehow. I’ll try to get it off her. I need to take the mask off to know who she is, anyway—and this technology will let us know what we should be on the lookout for in the future.
Without warning, the assassin launched herself straight up, dislodging a ceiling plate and disappearing into the duct system.
Shinigami! Barnabas took two steps and leaped as well. He grabbed the edge of one panel and had just enough time to see the assassin looking straight down at him before the panel was slammed back into place on his fingertips.
Normally, he would have been able to hold on, but the sheer force of it caused the nerves and joints to fail, and Barnabas fell back into the hallway, shocked. The assassin had gotten away.
Can you—do you have any eyes—
No. Shinigami sounded sober suddenly. Are you all right?
Just get it out of the way. Barnabas stood up and flexed his fingers. He watched them heal.
…What?
Whatever your joke is about me losing my grip and falling. He seemed to have absorbed Ferqar’s bad mood. Just say it and get it out of the way.
There was silence as he walked.
Well?
I’ve seen you fight, you know. She still sounded sober. I know how hard you must have gotten hit. You don’t just give up. If you ask me, they ran because they knew that fight wasn’t a sure thing.
She vanished from his mind and Barnabas stopped, frowning. Once, Shinigami would just have teased him. As they got closer, she might have been offended that he hadn’t believed in her.
But this—the quiet concern and support—was new.
“Every time I think I have her figured out…” he muttered as he started back down the corridor. He shook his head slightly, and a smile played on his lips.
Back in the interrogation room, Ferqar was waiting quietly. His mechanical head looked around as Barnabas entered, and Barnabas could see the jellyfish-like body in the tank swivel as well. He wondered how much Ferqar saw with his real body versus with the biosuit, and made a mental note to ask Shinigami about it when she was in a better mood.
“I’m sorry for the interruption,” he said smoothly, sitting down once more. His fingers still ached, and he held them out of sight to keep Ferqar from noticing the still-healing injury. The nanites were quick, but with the bones completely crushed, they had a lot to do.
Ferqar said nothing. He had sunk into silence.
“Who do you think killed Huword?” Barnabas asked bluntly.
He was trying to provoke a reaction, and he got one. Fear spiked through Ferqar. Inside its tank, the body pulsed.
When Ferqar spoke, however, his voice was flat. “Someone he wronged.”
Barnabas raised his eyebrows. “An interesting response.” He had been attacked by the female he assumed was the assassin—someone who wanted him dead, in any case—but he couldn’t rule out Ferqar’s being involved just yet.
“Is it?” Ferqar sounded a bit angrier now. “Is it ‘interesting’ to you? I’ve had a lot of time to think about it, in case you don’t remember—about the fact that someone on board can get through biosuits. It isn’t possible for that to happen by accident. A human can get killed in a bar fight, just like a Torcellan or a Shrillexian. Even a Brakalon can get hit hard enough or stabbed or shot. But Jotun biosuits are made to withstand all of that. A punch, a kick—even normal ammunition isn’t going to breach a suit. Someone wanted to kill him. And they planned it.”
Barnabas blinked. Ferqar’s reasoning was good, he had to admit, and when he mentioned someone on board who could get through biosuits, his fear had been genuine. There were still no images in his head of whatever had happened to Huword, but the speculation and terror of death rang true.
There was guilt there too, but Barnabas knew from experience that many survivors carried guilt with them. In this case, Ferqar hadn’t been there when the assassin struck. He would feel guilty that he hadn’t helped his acquaintance, relieved that he hadn’t also been killed…and even more guilty that
he was relieved.
As much as Barnabas didn’t want this case to become more complicated, he had to admit that it didn’t look like Ferqar had been involved. He nodded slightly.
“That perspective is useful,” he said as gently as he could. “For another species, we would think it might be a crime of passion, something done impulsively. It wouldn’t have occurred to me that it couldn’t be just an argument that got out of hand. You’ve helped me get closer to the truth, Ferqar, and I will keep you safe. You have nothing to fear.”
“I know I have nothing to fear,” Ferqar said sharply. “If they wanted me dead, I’d be dead. That much is obvious, isn’t it?”
Again, there was a true fear. He’d had a great deal of time to ponder this, Barnabas thought, while he was shut up here on a stopped transport with his traveling companion dead.
Barnabas nodded slightly.
“I know he was only an acquaintance,” he said quietly, “but I am sorry for your loss.”
There was no response from Ferqar, only bitterness, and after a moment, Barnabas left.
Chapter Six
Barnabas rubbed the back of his head as he made his way to the airlock where the Shinigami was latched onto the Srisa.
Shinigami.
Yes?
What do we think the odds are that Kelnamon was involved?
What? Are you serious?
It’s the only thing that makes sense. In the area outside the airlock, Barnabas looked around. Whoever had tried to get in here before, they didn’t seem to be around now. The whole ship was very, very quiet.
He didn’t like it.
Shinigami, having seen him, opened the door and he went inside, still turning the incident over and over in his head. If the ship was so quiet...
He’s the only one aside from Ferqar who even knows I’m on board for this purpose.
“You’re on board, remember?” The voice emerged from Shinigami’s body as she maneuvered it painstakingly around a corner. “You can speak aloud.”
