Continue Talking

You gotta admit, things aren’t looking too good for the ambassador’s peace. “Ma’am, Kvarau . . . so am I supposed to believe that no one came in or out of this place up until an hour ago?”

Tschetter shrugs. “Believe what you want, Specialist. It was night. I was sleeping and then working in my office. As for the Wranaui—”

“Kvarau here: We too rest during the dark times, two-form.”

“Uh-huh. And somehow not one person—or Jelly—came through here?”

A ripple of pinks and reds run along the alien’s tentacles, and you smell a pungent scent off it. Nearscent, and you have a feeling the creature is offended. Or angry. “Kvarau here: There are many ways through the bones of this making, two-form. There are many hidden caves and secret tunnels.”

Tschetter says, “By making, it means—”

“This station, yeah, yeah. I got it.” You’re not impressed. You scratch your chin, thinking. “If you’re so sure none of your Jellies are responsible, then give me a complete report of where they were at the time of the murder. Positioning, biometrics, everything you’ve got.”

Tschetter turns to the Jelly and murmurs something, too quiet for you to hear. Then: “Kvarau here: That can be arranged, two-form.”

You blink, surprised. Data can be doctored, but if the alien’s offer is genuine . . . You’re not sure what to make of it. Still, even if the files are faked, it could still give you useful intel. Once you can start coordinating who went where . . . Of course, there was an added difficulty: most of the Jellies use artificial bodies. It was pretty much impossible to identify individuals off their biomarkers. Only sure way was to get a brain biopsy, and that wasn’t going to fly in most cases.

“I’d appreciate that,” you say. “The sooner you can get me the information, the better.” You suppose it doesn’t hurt to be polite, even if it was with an alien.

Kvarau gives a flick of a tentacle that you interpret as agreement, and then the alien begins moving away, deeper into the complex of Jelly rooms. As you watch it go, you say to Tschetter, “Say, why is it they always use their names before they say anything? They afraid people are going to forget who they are?”

Tschetter shakes her head. Her hair is pulled into a tight bun. “It’s a quirk of how their biology works. If you’re in the water, and you have scents floating everywhere, it’s difficult to tell who is saying what. So whenever they start talking, they put their name at the front. It’s basically a chemical marker to let others know who is talking.”

“Huh. Sounds like it would slow things down.”

“Maybe. But their language has other advantages. It’s easier to convey large amounts of information in a single . . . scent, sniff, whatever you want to call it.” Tschetter gives you a stern look. “Unless you have more questions about this poor man, I’ll be going now, Specalist.”

“No, not at the moment.”

A curt nod from her, and she leaves along with Kvarau.

You take a moment to gather your thoughts. Is there anything else in the room you need to look at? . . . Doesn’t seem like it. But you do need to question the only potential eyewitness: the station mind.