Examine Bodies

The suspects are still alive. That’s a relief. The Caretakers have immobilized them with some sort of sticky webbing. “Thanks for that,” you say, glancing at the ceiling. If the station mind hears, it gives no indication.

You go to the man with the crushed hand and crouch next to him. “Well? Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” The man just glares at you and refuses to answer. “Uh-huh. That’s what I thought.” From your breast pocket, you remove an implant tap and press it against the man’s temple. He twists and struggles in an attempt to break contact with the probe, but you keep it firm against his head.

A list of info pops up on your overlays: the details on the man’s neural net and the system he’s running on it. The implant tap isn’t as invasive as a full wire scan, but it’s close.

“Goddammit,” you say. The man’s implants are damn near empty. They’ve been purged of everything but the last ten seconds of data, and every ten seconds, the system performs another auto purge.

This is pro-level stuff. The only people you know of who went to such lengths were government operators and the occasional corporate hack. Even smart criminals couldn’t usually bring themselves to wipe their personal systems. It took someone very dedicated, and very well financed, to go to such lengths.

“What have you been up to?” you mutter. You check the other assholes. As expected, the result is the same. They’re ghosts.

“What is wrong, human?” Kvarau asks.

You explain. “We have to figure out who’s behind this. Who wanted Umesh dead.”

Kvarau ponders this, its face an unreadable mask. Then, it points toward the storage crate. “You should look in that shell, human.”

“. . . You’re right, I should.” You head over to the crate. The Caretakers are still watching, but you do your best to ignore them as you lift off the rifles and start to dig through the contents beneath.

Couple of space blankets. More rations. Battery packs for the exo. A container of ammunition. Skinsuits. Clothes. And a . . . a . . . what the hell is that? Near the bottom of the container is a fist-sized orb, green with a cracked pattern and what feels like a layer of slime around it. “Gah!” You scrub your hand against your leg. “Kvarau, any idea what this is?”

The Jelly walks over with its careful, herky-jerky steps. It looks into the crate. The alien’s expression doesn’t change, but its body tenses, and you feel a sudden urge to step backward.

You hold your ground.

“Kvarau here: This is for lowsound farscent. It should not be here.”

“So it’s Jelly tech? How do you think they got ahold of it?”

“It was given to them, human.” Kvarau picks up the orb. “One or more Wranaui are working with them, human. That is the only explanation.”

“Can you find out who?”

“Yes, but it will take time.”

Gah. So this whole thing is some sort of back-room conspiracy between the assholes and some Jellies? The thought makes your skin crawl almost as bad as when you felt orb. But you still don’t know who hired the assholes. They couldn’t have gotten up to this on their own.

The exo. You hurry over and give it a quick once-over. As you suspected, all the serial numbers have been filed off. But it sure as hell looks like UMC materiel. In fact, all of the equipment does, and that’s giving you a nasty suspicion.

You check the box the exo was stored in. Along with a set of standard maintenance tools, there’s a large metal tube strapped to the inside. Cautious, you unlatch the top. A red timer appears. The numbers show 00:00. Taped to the inside of the lid is a diagram of Unity, with a dotted line showing a path from your current location to the core of the station.

You don’t need to disassemble the canister to know what it is. A bomb. And this particular model is one you’re familiar with: the ISR-Archangel. A high-incendiary pulse bomb. Good for destroying any sort of biological material. Like a station mind.

A chill creeps up your back. This is bad. Real bad. Was the bomb their main plan? . . . You reach into the canister and yank out the control module. There. Even an explosion won’t set off the incendiaries now.

The outside of the box is equally informative. There’s the logo of the DNA and the fist you spotted in the cargo hold. But . . . there’s also an ITC stamp on the back of the box. The exo had passed through customs. Which meant . . . there was a record of it arriving on Unity.

At least, there should be. You already have the cargo hold manifest on your system. Checking it, you find no record of the exo. The entry has been removed or deleted. Someone’s tampered with the file.

“Human?” Kvarau asks.

“Just need a minute here.”

The alien seems content to wait.

A frown forms between your eyebrows. Who would have the authority to wipe the customs records? The ambassador, of course, but that didn’t make sense. She never would have put you on the case if she were trying to cover for a team of operatives. But it would have to be someone close to her, someone with rank and access to the embassy computers. . . .

“I have a suspicion,” you say to Kvarau, “but I need to get a connection to the main computer before I’ll know for sure.”

“This form also needs to return. I have much scenting to do in order to find out where this comes from.” The alien taps the orb it’s holding.

“And what about them?” You gesture at the assholes on the floor. “I don’t think reinforcements are coming any time soon.”

Kvarau cocks its head. “It would be not be wise to leave them to the Caretakers, I think.”

“No. . . .”

“But part of this form thinks it would be good to watch.” And the alien’s mouth stretches in what you think is an approximation of a smile. It’s hideous to see but you find yourself grinning back. You’re actually starting to like the Jelly.

“Alright. If we can’t leave ‘em, then we’ll need to take them back.”

“Agreed, human.”