Attempt to Arrest Suspects

“We can’t afford to wait,” you whisper to Kvarau. “Can you help me catch them?”

The Jelly’s mouth makes a chewing motion, and then it says, “Yes.”

“We have to keep them from getting to their weapons. Or the exo. The one with the blaster is the main threat.”

Kvarau pokes its head around the doorframe for a second. “I can stop that one.”

“Okay. But don’t kill anyone if you can help it. We need them alive or we’ll never find out why they murdered Umesh.”

“I understand, human.”

You nod. “Alright. I’ll go around to the right.” You gesture, to make sure the alien knows which direction you mean. “You go to the left. Ready?”

A horrible approximation of a smile splits Kvarau’s face. His teeth remind you of shark teeth. “I am ready.”

“Please don’t do that. Okay. We attack on three. One . . . Two . . . Three!”

Together, you burst through doorway and race toward the three humans in the stand of Midnight Constellations. Kvarau moves with terrifying speed: even on two legs, the Jelly is a blur.

Just before the group spots either of you, you shout, “GET ON THE GROUND! ON THE GROUND! THIS IS AN ARREST! GET THE FUCK DOWN!”

You don’t expect them to obey, but the sound and the shock is enough to incapacitate them for a second. That’s all you need.

The first person—a short, heavy-set man—is already backpedaling. You shoulder-check him hard enough to break his ribs, knock him to the floor. The second person—a woman wearing a black Army vest—turns toward the blasters on the storage crate. You catch her by the arm, hook a foot around her ankle, and slam her onto her back, stunning her.

Kvarau has the guy with the blaster. He’s struggling against the Jelly, and then Kvarau squeezes his hand. Bones crunch, and he goes limp, screaming.

The man you knocked to the ground starts to get up. You point at him. “Get him!” you shout at Kvarau. Underneath you, the woman tries to roll away, but you flip her onto her stomach, twist her arm behind her, and plant a knee in the small of her back. She’s not going anywhere.

Kvarau catches the man you’d knocked over, and you manage to get another breath. Situation is almost under control. Could have gone worse. Could have . . .

Motion in the doorway catches your attention. A man and a woman enter. They’re both wearing skinsuits, and they’re both holding blasters.

Shit! You throw yourself to the side just as the stem of the Midnight Constellation next to you explodes in a shower of pulped vegetation. The flower overhead starts to topple. The scent is unpleasantly thick.

More shots puncture the deck around you. You don’t look back; you’re too busy scrambling for the storage crate with the rifles. If you don’t get a weapon, you’re dead. You just hope the weapons aren’t ID locked.

A clank, and one of the newcomers screams with pain. Kvarau. Good on the Jelly.

Your hand closes around the grip of a rifle. Twisting in midair, you see targeting reticules zeroed on the hostiles pop up on your overlays. You fire, and two of the figures go down.

Then a blaster pulse hits you in the leg. No protection there. You crumple to the floor, nearly incapacitated by pain.

You try to fire again, but you can’t get a clear line of sight; the flowers are in the way. Another second, and the assholes are going to put a hole through your brain—

Then . . . more motion. From the walls, Caretakers. A dozen or more of them, running on their double-jointed legs. The assholes never see them coming. A few screams, and then the Caretakers have swarmed the five humans, and they fall to the floor, dead or immobilized.

A pair of Caretakers skitters up in front of you. Electrical sparks flash between the tips of their tiny hands, and you see what looks to be a laser’s lens in the center of their chests.

You drop the rifle and raise your hands.

After a second, the two Caretakers back off.

Across the thicket, you see Kvarau standing by one of the prone and motionless humans. It appears unharmed. “You okay?” you call out, just to be sure.

“They did not hurt me, human.”

“Uh-huh. Well, that’s good.” You carefully get to your feet. Everything seems to tilt around you. Too much pain and adrenaline. Blood is pouring from a finger-sized hole in your thigh. You tab a double dose of Norodon and then rip a strip of cloth off the hem of your jacket and tie it around the wound, nice and tight.

There. At least you’ve stopped the bleeding. Should keep you on your feet until you can get back to the embassy sickbay.

The Caretakers haven’t left, but they no longer seem to be hostile. They withdraw to the edge of the thicket and stand there, clicking and whistling to each other—thin, high sounds that remind you of birds communicating.

Could have been worse. A lot worse.

You eye the bodies of the assholes. Time to answer some questions.