by Natalie Grey
“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 agreed 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 react
ed 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.”
“Force of habit.” Barnabas managed a small smile as she walked jerkily towards him.
“Seriously, how do you do this?” Shinigami asked, sounding annoyed. “Only one set of eyes? Can’t see behind you? Navigating is insane. And you’re supposed to watch where you’re walking and watch where you’re putting your feet? How do you do it?”
“Proprioception, mainly.” Barnabas pretended to study the wall so that she wouldn’t feel self-conscious. “We don’t need to look at our bodies as they move because we develop an idea of where they are in space. It’s why toddlers look at their hands and feet while they move and adults don’t. As you get better at this, you’ll acquire the same sense.”
“Hmph.”
“Part of why you’re struggling is that we haven’t done this before, you know.” Barnabas looked at her now. She had almost reached him. “You could write some of the programming so that when other AIs receive bodies, they’ll know how to use them better.”
“Nuh-uh. If I must suffer, so must they.”
“That is not the spirit in which this ship and crew operate.”
She stuck her tongue out at him in response. “So, Captain Kelnamon. Tell me your theory. Distract me.”
“Well, he’s incredibly well-placed to have done it,” Barnabas began. “He has the codes for each room, could override security footage, and could get an assassin on-board—and then off.”
Shinigami stopped suddenly. “You think the ship we encountered when we first got here...”
“Was the assassin?” Barnabas shrugged. “You tell me. It makes sense, though, doesn’t it?”
Shinigami whistled—or, more accurately, tried to whistle. She pursed her lips…and very cl
early whistled from one of the speakers on the wall. Barnabas gave a laugh he hastily turned into a cough.
“Just use your internal speaker.”
“I couldn’t find the— Not important.” She folded her arms. “Keep walking, funny man. Explain the distress signal to me. Because it seems to me that someone who was careful enough to sneak on board and plan an assassination was probably observant enough to see you arrive, speak with Kelnamon, and then go speak with Ferqar. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out why you were there.”
“That’s a weak part of the theory,” Barnabas admitted. “Both of those things. In terms of the distress signal, I don’t see why he had to observe protocol on that. I don’t know how commonly known it is that Brakalon law requires him to stop. Even if it is common knowledge, would any of his Brakalon passengers mind if, instead of trapping them in the middle of nowhere with a murderer, he kept going to port and just pretended he would speak to authorities there? Would the authorities care?”
Shinigami considered this. “You’re growing as a person, you know. There was a time when it wouldn’t even have occurred to you to ask whether the law was commonly followed.”
Barnabas gave a small smile, but he couldn’t really enjoy the humor of the moment. None of the pieces of this fit together in his head. He was used to knowing who his enemy was. In this case, he knew almost nothing. The people best placed to pull this off, it seemed, had not been involved.
“Anyway,” Shinigami continued, “if we’re going down the rabbit hole, the law might not even be what he said it is.”
Barnabas stopped dead. “Then why stop and broadcast a signal?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged, although she didn’t expend the energy to turn around and shrug at him. Instead, she continued walking grimly, determined to make it to the end of the hallway.
He could understand her determination. Practicing a new skill wasn’t always pleasant. “You’re right; we are going down the rabbit hole.” He considered. “If you can get us video from the bridge and confirm that Kelnamon was the one who turned the distress signal on and that he did it without prompting from the rest of the crew or passengers, we can eliminate that as a… Wait, why aren’t you just looking up Brakalon legal codes?”
