Bones of Empire (25 page)

“Bring him out,” Umji ordered gruffly, and the cell door made a gentle rattling noise as it slid out of the way.

Heyavu was dressed in the Vord equivalent of blue overalls and wore slippers on his feet. A guard pushed the IV stand along as the prisoner shuffled out to the point where a metal table was welded to the deck. “Sit down,” Umji ordered, and Heyavu obeyed. The mechanism that controlled the IV beeped every once in a while as if to prove it was still working.

Alamy looked at Cato and wondered what he was thinking as he took his place across from the accused murderer. Then, as she turned her head slightly, she saw that Keen was eyeballing her and
knew
what he was thinking. Maybe Madam Faustus was right. . . . Maybe all men
were
alike.

 

 

As Cato “looked” at Heyavu, he was immediately conscious of the fact that something was missing. It felt as if the Vord was a member of an entirely different race. Because while each individual member of a particular species was unique, there were often a lot of commonalities, which he thought of as “flavors.” And the Vords were no exception.

Yet the prisoner in front of him “felt” more like a human than a Vord. Why? The obvious explanation was the absence of his Ya. Now that he was face-to-face with a parasite-free Vord, Cato realized the extent to which each Vord and Ya harmonized to project a single emotional “voice.”

Still, with the second part of the emotional signature stripped away, Cato could “feel” the suspect's emotions even more clearly. He was frightened yet hopeful somehow. As if he believed that his current circumstances could eventually lead to something good. And that struck Cato as strange. Assuming the allegation regarding Dancha was true, and the parasite had attempted to kill his host, where was the anger one might expect Heyavu to feel?

Cato's thoughts were interrupted as Umji took the seat next to him. “Go ahead,” the Vord instructed artlessly as he placed a translator in the middle of the table. “Ask Heyavu if he's guilty.”

Cato made a face. “I'll tackle this my own way if you don't mind.”

Then, turning to Heyavu, Cato introduced himself. “My name is Jak Cato. My companions and I are working with Officer Umji on a special assignment. And, because we happen to be aboard, we were asked to speak with you regarding Dancha's death. Whatever you say could be used against you. Do you understand?”

Heyavu looked up. He had a high forehead, prominent brows, and wary eyes. As he spoke, his thin-lipped mouth opened and closed like a trap. “Yes.”

“As I understand it, you admit to killing Dancha with a knife. . . . Is that correct?”

Cato “felt” fear mixed with a sense of satisfaction as Heyavu answered. “Yes, I had no choice. He was going to kill me.”

“Why?” Cato wanted to know.

Heyavu looked at Umji. “Answer him,” the police officer ordered sternly.

At that point Heyavu felt something Cato wasn't entirely sure of. Embarrassment? Mixed with stress? And a vague yearning? Maybe or maybe not. “Dancha wanted me to mate with a female named Ryryl,” he responded. “He said it would be good for the bloodline. But I didn't want to. So he tried to kill me.”

Based on the suspect's emotions Cato knew that to be a lie. But, just to make sure, he directed a look to Shani and saw her nod. “You're lying,” Cato said flatly as he brought his eyes back into contact with Heyavu's. “You killed Dancha—but for a reason other than the one you gave.”

Heyavu was visibly angry. He turned toward Umji. “Why are you allowing a sub-Vord animal to question me? Aren't
you
supposed to conduct the investigation?”

“You will keep a civil tongue in your mouth,” the police officer answered harshly, but Cato could “feel” how worried Umji was. Introducing Uman police officers into a Vord investigation was a risky thing to do.

“Put the prisoner back in his cage,” Umji ordered. “And don't let him speak with anyone who hasn't been cleared by me.”

Two minutes later, the entire group was out in the hall, where Umji convened an impromptu meeting. “So he lied,” the Vord ventured.

“Yes,” Cato agreed. “He did.”

“You're sure?”

“Yes,” Shani put in. “We are.”

“But there's no physical evidence,” Umji objected. “I have nothing more than your word. We'll need more than that.”

“Yes, you will,” Cato said soberly. “Emotions are tricky things. . . . And trying to read them is a subjective process. Whenever we use empathy as an investigative tool, we are required to produce corroborating proof.”

“But how will we obtain it?” Umji demanded. “Heyavu will continue to lie.”

“Find out who his friends are,” Cato suggested. “Then we'll ask them what, if anything, they know. And if it looks like one of them is lying,
you
can drill down on that individual. Our job will be to narrow the field.”

Umji was silent for a moment, as if to give the matter some thought, then he nodded. “It will be as you say.”

 

 

Rather than interrogate the suspect's associates in front of him, Umji decided to take them to the compartment where the Umans were berthed. They arrived one at a time—and in no particular order insofar as Cato could tell. It was an unpleasant process because all of the interviewees were unfailingly hostile—and uniformly ignorant where the killing was concerned. Until a Vord named Nolex Dibir Tegat was shown into the compartment, that is, which was when everything changed.

The first thing Cato noticed about the lanky crewman was that he had dark eyes, broad cheekbones, and a pointy chin. He winced as he sat down, and the empath could “feel” the Vord's distress, and said as much. “I sense you aren't feeling well. . . . What's wrong?”

“I feel fine,” Tegat lied, as both doubt and fear leaked into the ethers around him.

“Really?” Cato inquired cynically. “How about your Ya? How does
he
feel?”

“Layo feels fine, too,” Tegat insisted. But as the Vord spoke, Cato “felt” something akin to emotional background noise. Was that the Ya? Expressing his own emotions? If so, the feeling of disgust that Layo felt regarding his life partner was both unexpected and unlike anything Cato had experienced during the previous interviews.

So as Cato asked the pair about Heyavu, and whether he had a reason to murder Dancha, the empath did the best he could to “hear” whatever feelings Layo might have. And when Tegat said, “No,” an answer that he clearly believed to be true, Cato was surprised to discover that the Vord's Ya was experiencing the kind of stress normally associated with a lie!

Rather than confront the pair with his finding, and trigger some sort of cover-up, Cato let them go. Then, once they were out in the corridor, Cato turned to the others. “That was strange,” Cato said. “Tegat is ill—but denies it. In spite of that, he seems to be telling the truth when he denies knowing anything about the killing. Yet, if I'm reading the feedback correctly, his Ya might be involved. It doesn't make sense.”

There was a momentary silence, and much to Cato's surprise, it was Alamy who spoke first. Her question was addressed to Umji. “I've been reading about your civilization. . . . And it's my understanding that the pairing between a Vord and a Ya usually results in what we Umans would refer to as a love match—meaning the formation of a deep emotional bond between two individuals. Is that correct?”

Umji's expression was wooden, but Cato could “feel” agreement. “Yes,” the Vord replied cautiously, “I think that's a fair description.”

Alamy nodded. “And would you agree that while the typical relationship between a male and a female Vord may involve a significant friendship, it is primarily for the purpose of procreation?”

Umji nodded.

“In sharp contrast to that,” Alamy said, as she seemed to gain confidence, “the Ya are self-replicating. That means a new Ya is something of a known quantity at the time of his birth. A fact that helps the clan elders pair him with a Vord when both are only a few months old. So is it possible that Heyavu fell in love with Tegat's Ya, and vice versa? Because if it is, that could explain both the killing and Tegat's illness since it's possible that Layo is trying to kill him.”

“But how would Heyavu and Layo communicate?” Shani wanted to know.

“Chemically,” Alamy answered. “Kind of like Uman males and females do when they meet for the first time.”

It took a moment for the others to assimilate the theory Alamy had put forward. But once Umji processed it, he brought a bony fist down onto the tabletop. “Yes, damn it, yes! All of it is there. Quati and I should have seen it from the beginning. Late-life rejections are rare, quite rare, but not unknown. And in the close quarters of a ship, unfortunate things can happen. We will administer medical tests to Tegat in order to determine whether he's being poisoned—and reinterview Layo with one of you present. Thank you, my friends—you have been extremely helpful.” And with that, Umji was gone.

Cato looked from Alamy to Shani. “Did he say, ‘my friends'?”

“Yes,” Shani replied gravely. “That's what I heard.”

Cato nodded and turned to look at Alamy. “And did Alamy make both of us look like rookies?”

Alamy felt a sense of satisfaction as the other woman offered a reluctant smile. “Yes,” Shani admitted ruefully, “she sure as hell did.”

THE NARROW STREETS OF KYBOR WERE CROWDED
with Umanity and badly in need of maintenance. Horns beeped as brightly painted scooters bumped through pot-holes, heavily laden angens brayed loudly, and discordant music emanated from dozens of competing players. Shops crowded the street from both sides, jostled each other for space, and often spilled out over the sidewalks. That was the no-man's-land where raggedy children battled each other for customers. “Hey, mister,” a grubby little girl said, as she ran out to tug at Fiss Verafti's waist-length jacket. “You wanna new pair of shoes? Come in! My uncle will make them for you.”

On that particular day, Verafti was the spitting image of a reporter from Kybor's highest-rated news net. He paused to look down at her. “I've got an idea . . . Why don't you come home with me? Then I could eat you for dinner.”

The little girl's eyes grew huge. She turned and ran for the safety of the shop. Verafti laughed and continued on his way. The street led to a dilapidated park. And there, right in the square, was a bronze likeness of Demius the Kind. The Emperor who was generally credited with giving Therat's population full citizenship. A bird was perched on his head.

Beyond the park, on the other side of the street, a blocky four-story building stood. It was at least a hundred years old and harkened back to the once-popular colonial style of architecture. The sign out front read, MUNICIPAL BUILDING, and Verafti noticed that a squad of Vord troopers were loitering outside. To “protect” it no doubt.

Verafti paused to examine his latest image in a convenient store window, was satisfied with what he saw, and made his way across the park. During the day, it was the province of shop workers, government bureaucrats, and nannies. But once darkness fell, a much rougher crowd would take over.

Having rounded the fountain in which half a dozen mostly naked children were playing, Verafti left the park and crossed the street. The Vord soldiers watched him warily but made no attempt to intercept the shape shifter as he climbed a short flight of stairs and entered a spacious lobby. Fluted columns supported the roof, the marble floor was spotless, and glassed-in cubicles lined three of the four walls. A sign hung over each booth so citizens would know where to go. Verafti saw stations labeled WATER, POWER, SEWER, GARBAGE, LICENSES, and half a dozen more. Each with its own line, some of which were twenty or thirty people long.

But the office Verafti wanted was labeled DEATHS, which logically enough was located right next to BIRTHS. And judging from the extremely short line that led up to the booth, death wasn't all that popular. Verafti took his place behind an elderly woman, waited until she had successfully paid her husband's death tax, and stepped up to the counter. The man beyond the glass had thinning black hair, large liquid eyes, and the look of a career bureaucrat. “Yes, sir . . .” he said politely. “How can I be of assistance?”

“My name is Vejee Saro,” Verafti lied. “I'm a reporter with news eight. I have an appointment to see the coroner.”

Verafti saw recognition in the bureaucrat's eyes and “felt” him perk up. Here was something to make this particular day different from all the rest. “Of course! My wife and I watch your show every evening. . . . Just a moment while I call down and have the coroner send someone up to get you.”

That left Verafti to stand around and watch people come and go for a good five minutes before a tiny woman in a pristine lab coat appeared. The name tag over her left breast pocket read L. NAMJI, and there wasn't enough meat on her body to constitute anything more than a snack. “Hello,” the woman said pleasantly, “I'm Lin Namji, the coroner's assistant.”

As Verafti shook Namji's hand, he could feel her bones and knew he could easily crush them. “And I'm Vejee Saro,” he replied. “Thank you for coming up to get me.”

“It's a pleasure,” Namji replied. What she actually felt was a mild sense of annoyance. Probably because she was busy, but there was no sign of her true emotions on her face. “How can I help you?”

“We're doing a story on the night stalker,” Verafti answered. “And I would like to visit the morgue.” The so-called night stalker was a serial killer who had been preying on young women. They were prostitutes for the most part, which meant they had to venture out at night. A situation which was bad for them but good for the news nets, who had been running the story around the clock. It was one of the few subjects they could report on without being censored by the Vords.