Protector (The Vigilante Chronicles Book 7)

by Natalie Grey

  Today had been a very unexpected day.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Barnabas was still smiling when he made his way into the conference room of the Shinigami a few minutes later. He was so pleased by the general state of life, in fact, that it took him a few moments to notice that no one else was talking.

  He looked up. Everyone was staring at him.

  “What?”

  Shinigami swiveled back and forth in her chair. She seemed secretly delighted by something, although Barnabas could not say what it might be.

  “How ya doin’?” she asked.

  “Is that the thing from that show? Friends?”

  “No, that’s ‘how you doin’?’ Totally different.”

  “Are you sure?” Barnabas asked dubiously. He waved a hand. “I’m doing fine, thank you. Very well, in fact.” Everyone seemed to find this hilarious. “What? What is so funny?”

  “Oh, nothing.” Shinigami smiled. “It’s just nice to see you so relaxed. In such a good mood.”

  “I…thank you.” Barnabas stared at her with the growing feeling that this might be a trap of some sort. He sat back in his chair, looking around the room.

  “We did some good work today,” Gar piped up after a moment. Everyone stifled another laugh.

  “What is with you?” Barnabas asked, exasperated. “Gar is right—we did do good work.”

  “You know who did good work…” Shinigami prompted.

  “Yes, yes.” Barnabas rolled his eyes. “I know. You had to deal with the douche. You did very good work.”

  “Oh, no, I wasn’t referring to myself, although you’re right, I did do fantastic work there. Well, kind of. He spooked and ran back to the ship. Apparently, I’m not a natural at making men think they’re interesting.”

  “Gabrielle is of the opinion that it’s quite easy,” Barnabas mentioned. “You might want to ask her for pointers. Actually, I regret suggesting that; you’re dangerous enough as it is.”

  “Anyway,” Shinigami said, “I was talking about Aliana. She did some good work today.”

  “Oh! Yes.” Barnabas sat forward, resting his forearms on the table. He nodded decisively. “I thought she showed great personal growth. You know, she ran away when she heard Carter speaking about her, and one could see how much she wanted to buckle and allow others to clean up the mess with Lawrence, but when the chips were down, she really— Why is everyone laughing?”

  Gar was doubled over, one hand on his stomach, while Tafa stifled her glee behind both hands. Gilwar’s tentacles were a swirl of dizzying motion, and Shinigami was shaking her head in mock protest as she giggled.

  “Someone,” Barnabas growled dangerously, “had better explain what’s going on.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” Shinigami gasped out. “Just that no one’s won the bet yet.”

  “Don’t tell him about the bet!” Tafa exclaimed. “That throws it.”

  “I have to agree,” Gilwar cut in.

  “What bet?” Barnabas demanded.

  “How long it would take in this meeting before you actually brought up the reason for it,” Shinigami explained. She gave him a look that said she was going to burst out laughing again at any second. “It’s been a long time for you, and you’re still… Oh, what should we call it?” She studied the ceiling in an elaborate act, tapping her mouth with one finger. Then she sat up and looked him dead in the eyes. “Smitten.”

  Barnabas blinked at her.

  Everyone held their breath.

  “I beg your pardon?” Barnabas asked finally.

  Gar got the look of someone fearing his imminent death, but Shinigami had no such qualms. She grinned impishly.

  “Oh, look, you’ve reverted to excessive politeness. I think we hit home.”

  “No, I—” Barnabas shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, my God,” Shinigami exclaimed. “He’s serious.”

  “It’s quite common for people to be blind to these things in their own case,” Gilwar weighed in. “Both parties, actually.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, man.” Shinigami rested her head on the table for a moment. “It’s like this, dude. You got it bad. Aliana’s got it bad. You two got it bad. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

  “No. I absolutely do not—oh.” Barnabas gave her a look. “No. No. No.” He considered. “No,” he added one more time for good measure.

  “A strong rebuttal.”

  “No. This is ridiculous.” Barnabas looked around the room. “You cannot possibly agree with her? Wait, do you?”

  Every one of them nodded.

  “No!” Barnabas said. “That is entirely—no. We stopped to help her because Carter asked us to look out for her.”

  “Mmhmm,” Tafa murmured.

  “Of course,” Gilwar chimed in. Both of them sounded completely unconvinced.

  “So, whenever you want to be just, you know, polite to someone, you help them steal a ship, hack databases to change registration, give them money for new parts for their ship, and then smile like an absolute loon for about half an hour because they hugged you?” Shinigami asked. “That’s all because you’re so happy that you were able to do a favor for…Carter?”

  Barnabas looked at her serenely. “Yes. I’m happy that we righted a wrong and that we helped Carter. He’ll be very happy to know she’s okay. He’s been worried sick.”

  “Right—which is why I’m sure you informed him at once that we’d run into her.” When Barnabas got a panicked look on his face, Shinigami gave a grin. “Gotcha.”

  “Look, just because I… It isn’t as if…” Barnabas tried again. “She’s my friend’s niece,” he explained. “It would be entirely inappropriate to, you know, court her.”

  “The stodgier he gets, the more you know you hit a nerve,” Shinigami stage-whispered. “Also, I never thought I’d say this, but you’re blushing.”

  “I am not blushing.”

  “You definitely are.”

  “She’s right,” Gilwar added.

  Barnabas looked at him. “I see you’ve been taking lessons from the others on how to be a pain in the ass.”

  “I was already pretty good at it.”

  Barnabas groaned. “Let’s not talk about this right now, shall we? We have business to attend to.” It took him a good few seconds to remember what that business was, of course… “Shinigami, did you get the message from Kordinev?”

  “Yes.” Shinigami relented on the subject of torturing him. She brought up the message on the screen. “As you can see, Jotun bots are landing on the surface, and it’s unclear if they’ve infiltrated the government or networks yet. He suspects that they have gotten into those.”

  “That would make sense,” Gilwar said easily. “You keep any messages about what’s going on from reaching their intended recipients. Word doesn’t spread quickly enough, so people don’t mobilize fast enough.”

  “We need to get in there,” Barnabas said grimly, “and disrupt everything they’re doing. I’ll see if I can get any details out of Grisor on the way there, although I don’t intend to tell him where we’re going.”

  “Good plan,” Shinigami replied. “Do you think we should send a message back?”

  “No,” Barnabas returned at once. “We have to trust that he knows what’s going on. Gilwar, do you see any parts of the message that Ferqar might have embedded?”

  Gilwar shook his head. “I doubt he would. He wouldn’t want to put anything in Jotun in there. They would understand that immediately.”

  “That makes sense,” Barnabas agreed. “Very well. Shinigami, get us to Kordinev. Gilwar, draw up a report on anything we might need to be careful of, as far as you know. And I’m going to—” He decided at the last second not to admit that he was going to send a message to Carter. He searched for something else. “Come up with an interrogation plan for Grisor,” he finished.

  He left before they could needle him any further about Aliana.
<
br />   He was not smitten.

  That would be ridiculous.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Grisor was pacing around the tiny panic pod when Barnabas arrived in the brig. He did not become aware of Barnabas’ presence until he turned to pace back toward him, at which point he stopped comically and went completely still.

  “Good morning,” Barnabas greeted him courteously.

  Grisor said nothing.

  “I came to check on you,” Barnabas continued, “to see what you need. We’re not familiar with the requirements for Jotuns. Do you need food?”

  Grisor looked at him warily. “Will I be staying long enough for that?”

  “I have no idea,” Barnabas replied. He wandered over to one of the benches and sat down. “For two reasons. First, I have no idea how often you need to eat, or what you need to eat—”

  “I am sure you could find out that information,” Grisor suggested icily.

  “I’m sure I could,” Barnabas agreed. “But it’s really not so much to ask, is it? After all…” He glanced at the panic pod. “It’s not as if you have much to do.”

  There was a long pause.

  “What was the second reason?” Grisor asked finally.

  “Ah, yes. The second reason is that I’m not sure how long you’ll be here.”

  Grisor went entirely still once more. “Is that a threat?”

  “I have you locked in a cell aboard my ship,” Barnabas pointed out. “I don’t need to make threats, Grisor. You’re already captured.”

  “Then why are you here?” Grisor spat at him.

  “I told you,” Barnabas said patiently. “To check on you and see what you needed.”

  “After leaving me here for days?”

  “You seemed well enough on the monitors. Always pacing.” Barnabas dug deep for his memories of various bored aristocrats over the eons and waved one hand to indicate the pacing. “What do you do all day?”

  He didn’t need to read Grisor’s mind. He was fairly sure he could feel the absolute hatred radiating out of the tank.

  All he needed now was to make Grisor think of the things Barnabas wanted to know. He had notorious trouble sifting through the memories of Jotuns. If they were thinking of the thing in question, however, he had fairly good luck interpreting their thoughts.

  The process was somewhat like wading through grape jelly.

  “Well, if you don’t want to talk or tell me what I need to know, I can leave.” Barnabas stood and adjusted his cuffs. “Just don’t think you can waste away and die tragically to fuel your little…what was it? What was the plan? Oh, yes. Take over the whole sector.” He allowed himself a chuckle as he turned to leave.

  “You have no idea,” Grisor snapped hatefully, “who you’re playing with, do you?”

  Barnabas turned back. He could see visions in Grisor’s head, but so far they were only visions of what Grisor wanted: armies trampling over fields, fleets darkening the skies, slaves bowed by their labor, and riches flowing to the Committee.

  Amazing how little war changed over the years. Barnabas shook his head wearily.

  Then, curiously, he decided to be honest.

  “Do you have any idea how predictable you are?” he asked the Jotun. He strolled forward. “How long do Jotuns live?”

  “Fifty cycles,” Grisor said. “Give or take.”

  Same lifespan as a standard human at the turn of the twentieth century, Shinigami translated promptly.

  Thank you, Shinigami. To Grisor, Barnabas said, “Do you know how long I’ve been alive? Over ten times that long, Excellency.” He let the title slide off his tongue like an insult. “Do you know how many of you I’ve seen over the years?”

  Grisor said nothing, but he radiated wary surprise.

  “So many.” Barnabas sighed wearily. “And you’re all the same. You dress it up in all different ways. Some of you are priests. Some of you are noble-born. Some of you are warriors. Some of them are even honest about what they want. That’s refreshing in a depressing sort of way. It just gets so tiresome, how you keep cropping up.” He paced around the pod, narrowing his eyes into it.

  Grisor turned warily to watch him.

  “I should have known when I came here that I’d only find more of the same,” Barnabas continued. “I suppose I had some grand vision that we’d stamp it all out; that one day we’d be done with this boring, inane, ridiculous bullshit. And that’s never going to happen, is it, Grisor? Because ten, twenty, thirty cycles on—maybe fifty, maybe a hundred—there will be another one like you. Just one more in a long line who will kill a bunch of people because they can, and eventually die in misery like all the rest of them.”

  He had shocked the Jotun, he could tell. There was a certain satisfaction in that.

  “You have never,” Grisor said finally, “seen anyone like me. I alone can bring the Jotuns to ascendancy.”

  “Oh, please. I’ve heard this speech a dozen times, and that’s just in person. You’re the only one who can achieve whatever goal, which is why you have to enslave a bunch of people—or torture them or kill them—for the glory of that wonderful thing you’re trying to achieve.”

  “You think to judge me by the speeches of lesser species?” Grisor spat at him. “You have never met anyone like the Jotuns. You cannot comprehend the feats we are capable of.”

  Barnabas began to laugh. It was ridiculous. He had seen things Grisor could not understand. He had seen the effects of the Kurtherian war that had spanned sectors and millennia.

  None of that mattered, however. It wasn’t the point. None of what Grisor said was the point.

  “You don’t actually care, Grisor—admit it.” He was grinning now. “You just want to rule the universe, don’t you? You had a nice, convenient excuse with all of that business about the Jotuns being superior to everyone else—your words, not mine. You’re jellyfish in metal suits. It’s impressive, but not planet-shattering. But if you hadn’t had that to believe, you’d just have come up with some other reason.” Barnabas shrugged. “Maybe it wouldn’t have been you, in that case. Maybe you’d have lived out your life in obscurity on some little backwater Jotun planet while another Jotun or a Torcellan or a Brakalon played all of this out. Who can say? There’s always one of you, though.”

  “The Brakalons.” Grisor seized on that as Barnabas had hoped he would. “Stupid, lumbering oafs. So concerned with their rules and their procedures. They could never take over the sector.”

  “You’d be surprised. It’s the ones you don’t expect who get the farthest.” Barnabas inspected his nails. “Funny business, demagogues. Of course, they’re not always demagogues. Sometimes they’re just dictators. You seem to be going for both.”

  Being made to feel insignificant and uncreative, it seemed, was the key to getting under Grisor’s skin, and he was going to milk that for all it was worth.

  “For all you know,” Barnabas went on carelessly, “the Brakalons will be your downfall. It could happen. You’ll try to extend too far, and the next thing you know, it’s Hitler and Poland all over again.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” Barnabas reveled in the stream of images he was receiving out of Grisor’s mind: the names of Brakalon generals, parts of the defense network, ways to herd the soldiers onto ships for deployment—

  He turned and made for the door, whistling.

  “Wait!” Grisor slammed his mechanical hands against the wall of the pod. “Where are you going?”

  Barnabas turned to look at him. “I told you, you bore me. I’ve heard all this before, Grisor, and I’ll hear it a bunch more times after you’re dead and gone, I’m sure. You’re all the same.”

  He left with Grisor’s shouts ringing in his ears.

  Shinigami.

  Yello.

  That is a ridiculous colloquialism.

  Man, you’re still stodgy. She’s got you good, that one.

  We are not talking about this right now. For one thing, I have the names of several general
s the Committee intends to target. They’ve started receiving data from Kordinev, and they are in the message networks. He turned a corner and took the stairs two at a time. They’ve intercepted several attempts to get word off-planet. We’re lucky that Kelnamon was clever enough to reach us, and God only knows how many tries it took.

  He considered as he walked.

  I think they’re speeding the timeline up, he said finally. Their plan relied on the fact that no one knew what they were doing, and that no one would even think to look for it. Now they don’t have the setup they want, but even if they go with ninety percent, they could still be dangerous.

  Agreed.

  The best thing we can do, I think, is keep knocking the legs out from under them as they get things set up. We need to figure out what their plan is on Kordinev and head it off at the pass so that even if they have a fleet to use, God forbid, they aren’t able to make use of anything on the ground.

  I’ll start assessing known data, Shinigami told him gravely. The teasing was gone from her voice. Barnabas—you meant what you said, right?

  About what? Barnabas paused, looking up curiously at the cameras.

  Shinigami projected herself in front of him, though she kept her discussion silent as she looked at him gravely. She was wearing her armor in the projection, perhaps to feel safer. You said you’d still be hearing this speech from other people long after Grisor was gone. You think we’re going to win, right?

  Of course, I think we’re going to win. Barnabas smiled. They always lose in the end, Shinigami. Sometimes it takes a lot longer than we want it to, but they always lose in the end. I promise, Grisor isn’t going to win this one.

  Good, she said with feeling. Her humor returned as she added, By the way, he’s still yelling for you to come back. You got under his skin.

  Barnabas snickered. Let’s let him stew for a while, then.

  Agreed. Shinigami nodded and disappeared.

  Barnabas whistled as he made his way back to his rooms. He definitely did not spend any time looking in the mirror once there, trying to imagine how someone new might see him after all these years. He was used to checking for dirt or stray threads on his clothing, not examining his features, but if someone were to meet him for the first time—