Little Enigmatic Monster

by Wayne Carey

LYDIS BOWMAN STUDIED the body lying on the morgue’s steel slab. She breathed in the cold sterile air and the chemical stench that would take weeks to remove from her uniform. The corpse was of a male Human in the latter part of his fifth standard decade, once tall, slender, and distinguished, now a hollow shell. Covered in a thin sheet from the neck down, he bore no status that the clothes, folded on a shelf, would have provided. The suit he had worn at his death was expensive, the product of one of the most exclusive shops on Plexis. It had marked him not only as a wealthy person, but also one of importance. Bowman barely recognized the sunken face as belonging to Jak Chesterton, Trade Commissioner for Imesh, but his position in the hierarchy of the Trade Pact and signatory species made this dead Human very much her business.

“Okay,” she said to Inspector Gregor Wallace, head of Plexis Security, “you have a dead body with no signs of violence, no trace of foreign substances to indicate poisoning, no previous health issues such as heart disease. Nothing to actually indicate a cause of death.” She wished she could see into the dead being’s inert brain, to sift through any possible damage, search for evidence of someone or something that had ripped his mind away.

“Cardiac failure,” Wallace announced in a bored tone. “I’ve told you—”

“Which merely means his heart stopped beating. Your scans have indicated no previous heart condition, weakened cardiac muscles, or anything else that would support such failure. So what caused his heart to stop?”

Wallace took a deep breath, his mouth forming a thin line. “You’re suggesting an assassin. A mindcrawler assassin. It didn’t happen. Chesterton had a meal at the Claws & Jaws and collapsed in the service corridor at the rear of the establishment. He dined with his aide, Rykard Kessler, who left the restaurant first to deal with reports or some other business. Chesterton was alone while he finished his meal and when he left.”

“And how did he end up in the service corridor?” Bowman asked.

Wallace shrugged. “Visual recordings show that he exited through the rear of the restaurant rather than through the front. He was important. Might have worried about being left alone, without his typical escort, and wanted to avoid any media reporters. He was a Trade Pact Commissioner, as you keep reminding me. The vismedia are always hounding them in public for statements. It isn’t unusual to use a rear entrance and take the service corridor to a less crowded section of the station, it’s just rarely done.”

“So he dies in the service corridor, apparently of natural causes,” Bowman said, skeptical. “Who found the body?”

“A member of the restaurant staff, Hom Ansel.”

“I’ll want to speak with him,” Bowman said.

Wallace tightened his jaw. “That will not be necessary.”

Bowman glared at him. “Why?”

“We have his statement. The case is closed, Commander Bowman.”

“Not until I have reviewed all of the facts, Inspector. In case you’ve forgotten, as a commissioner, qualified to sign interspecies trade agreements, Chesterton—and his death, natural or not—falls under Trade Pact jurisdiction, not Plexis. I will need complete access to all your files concerning this case.”

“You’re wasting your time, Commander.”

“It’s mine to waste, Inspector.”

Wallace exhaled another heavy breath. “Very well. I’ll provide the usual office space—”

“No need. I’ve taken quarters here on Plexis. Have everything transferred to the terminal there. I’ve made certain it is secure. Access to myself and to my staff, Constable P’tr wit ’Whix. And I assume you have holo reproductions of the scene of the death.”

A glare. “I’ll have copies transferred to your terminal, Commander. Anything else?”

“That’s all for now. But I’d also want other scans made on the body.”


Trade Pact Enforcers had no permanent presence on Plexis. This trip, Bowman did not want to remain shipbound and ordered rooms for her and one staff, ’Whix. The Tolian’s Human partner, Russell Terk, was off chasing the Silver Fox—again. The Tolian was quartered next to her, and she set up her living space as an office, linked to the Conciliator.

Her room’s terminal was fine for receiving data from station security, but she knew better than to depend upon it for investigative work. Wallace and his minions would be monitoring every keystroke. They’d try, anyway. True to his word, though, he had uploaded all their files to her terminal. She transferred the data to her secure devices, then pocketed a holo projector and headed toward the restaurant district with the Tolian constable hurrying at her heels.

As the sign outside proclaimed, the Claws & Jaws was a restaurant of complete interspecies cuisine. The owner, the Carasian named Huido Maarmatoo’kk, was known to Bowman even beyond his capacity as restaurateur. He had many colorful associates, including Terk’s nemesis Jason Morgan, some of which could be suspected of assassination. Could one of them kill without leaving any determining trace? Perhaps. There were many exotic poisons from a thousand planets.

If Wallace’s scans revealed no damage from foreign substances, and Bowman felt natural causes unlikely, what she was left with was the nagging suspicion of mental invasion. She expected more elaborate scans of the body, particularly the brain, would provide the evidence she needed. In the meantime, she wished to examine every aspect of the last moments of Chesterton’s life.

The Queeb hostess of the Claws & Jaws noticed the enforcer uniforms and gave a hint of anxiety in a telltale twitch from two of her left eyes and the curl of one tentacle. Otherwise, she was remarkably calm.

“Table for two?” she asked.

“Is Hom Maarmatoo’kk available?” Bowman said. “I’d like to speak with him.”

The hostess’ six eyes were blinking randomly. “I regret that will not be possible. Hom Maarmatoo’kk is presently offstation. Is there any other way I can be of help?”

“How decidedly inconvenient of him,” Bowman said, wondering when the Carasian had planned this latest trip off Plexis. “Then I’ll speak with Hom Ansel.”

“Of course, Commander,” the hostess said. She was uncharacteristically polite for a Queeb. “He is in his office. I will inform him you are here.”

“Just take me to his office,” she said.

The hostess waved a tentacle beyond the dining area. “This way, Commander.”

They passed from the elegance and subdued murmurs of the dining room to the rattle and organized confusion of the kitchen. The variety of odors assaulted Bowman, causing her stomach to growl, which was thankfully overridden by the ambient noise. She recognized some appetizing smells, but there were some exotic aromas that defied identification, even after she passed the sizzling or boiling pans and pots. There were some, too, that brought a more negative reaction, such as something with still-writhing appendages that made several attempts at escape before a lid was slammed over the squirming mess. That particular entrée’s aroma reminded her of fish that had been dead for weeks.

As various as the dinners being prepared, so were the species of the cooks and chefs making the preparations. It could easily be a gathering of Trade Pact Board Members, were it not for the frenzied activities. And the lack of arguing.

The hostess hurried them to the rear of the kitchen toward a door that stood ajar. She pushed it open and motioned Bowman and ’Whix inside without so much as an announcement of their presence. Then she quickly vanished to return to her job.

Ansel’s small figure hunched over a data pad, poking an index finger at the screen, sliding the digit to move icons and files. The ancient Human’s wrinkled face pursed with frustration, and his tapping became more agitated.

“Our fruit vendor is charging way too much,” he said without looking up, making Bowman wonder if he was speaking to her or just complaining to himself. “Outrageous fees for transporting fruit that is probably grown in the hydroponics right here on station. I shall have to investigate further and deal with the vendor accordingly.”

He slid the pad aside and looked at her. “But that isn’t why you came here, is it . . . Commander?”

“No,” she said, “it isn’t. Commander Bowman and Constable P’tr wit ’Whix. We’re investigating the death of Jak Chesterton. I understand that you discovered the body.”

Ansel’s eyes twitched. “Yes. I did. Dreadful business, that. I was under the impression that there was no foul play, that he died of heart trouble or some such thing.”

“Plexis Security hasn’t made an official ruling,” Bowman said, omitting the fact that any such ruling would be hers. “What makes you believe that?”

His lips made a quick smile. “One hears things. One cannot help it here, at the Claws & Jaws. Rumors and gossip travel faster than light speed on Plexis. So, Commander, why are the enforcers investigating?”

“Hom Chesterton was a commissioner.” She gave him a disarming smile. “Purely standard procedure on someone of such high profile. You understand.”

The corner of his mouth quivered. “Of course. But how can I help you? I did nothing more than stumble over his body. Plexis Security has my statement. I doubt I could add anything more to it.”

“Show us where you found the body.”

He pushed himself up from his chair, moving his thin body in a slow and deliberate manner. “If that will help, of course. This way.”

He led them out of the small office, squeezing between her and ’Whix to reach the door. Then down the hall, past other doors on either side until reaching the heavy metal door leading to the maintenance corridor. He undid the lock, pushed down the latch, and shoved, causing the door to slide into the wall. Outside, the buzz of machinery echoed along the long course of the service corridor. In either direction, the curve of the station caused the disconcerting upsweep of the corridor, less noticeable in more populated areas. Even on the concourses of each level, objects interrupted the view of the distant curve so that visitors had more of an illusion of being somewhere other than inside a metal can spinning through space.

Servos whizzed by. Maintenance robots rolled from one job to another, checking wiring and plumbing, monitoring for problems that might seem insignificant but could prove disastrous or deadly. Some servos cleaned, keeping away dust or corrosion. They maintained the delicate balance that kept life on Plexis continuing to exist. Servofreighters made deliveries to the various businesses along the corridor, while others digested trash, burping methane to be collected.

“Where did you discover the remains?” Bowman asked.

Ansel flared out his hands. “Right here.”

Bowman handed ’Whix the small holo projector. He set it on the deck where Ansel had indicated and activated it.

The aged Human turned his head away as the body of Chesterton flashed into existence at his feet.

“Did you know Commissioner Chesterton?” she asked.

“No.”

“Surely you recognized him.”

“No. I don’t usually pay much attention to our customers. I haven’t the time or the luxury. If I watched the news media for every important person who happened to visit Plexis, I’d never get anything done.”

Bowman paced around the image of the body, which lay upon its back. Certainly a different appearance than the corpse that lay in the morgue. There was a trace of agony on the frozen features, which had vanished with the relaxation of death. He had felt pain in this death. It could have been slight, as an upset stomach, or intense, as if his mind was being ripped away. She couldn’t tell. Not yet.

“What brought you out here?” she asked.

Ansel stood against the bulkhead near the door, as far from the image as possible. He looked at it with something other than a passing curiosity. More like dread.

He looked up, suddenly realizing she had asked him a question. “Pardon?”

“Why did you come into the access corridor? It doesn’t seem to be something you would normally do.”

Ansel pointed to a device to his right. “Our trash digester had been acting up. I came out to check if it had been repaired or not. It hadn’t been, as you can see. It leaked. Completely intolerable. The fees we pay, and this is the service we get.”

Below the access panel to the digester, a puddle had formed. It was a dark mess of indescribable composition that congealed on the deck.

“’Whix,” she said to the constable, “turn off the holo emitter for a moment.”

The Tolian bent down and thumbed the control, causing the corpse to vanish.

Ansel gave a small sigh of relief.

Bowman looked for the puddle from the leaking digester. It was no longer there, but had been part of the projection.

“So your digester is fixed?” she asked.

“Apparently so,” Ansel said.

She waved to the constable. “Please activate it again, ’Whix.”

“Really, Commander,” Ansel protested, “do I need to be here for your investigation? This is quite . . . disturbing. Bad enough the first time, but to endure it again and again . . . I do have work to do.”

“Indulge me a little while longer, Hom,” she said, bending down to examine the image of the stain. “Curious.”

“Commander?” Ansel said.

She pointed to a mark on the deck as long as her thumb. “Don’t you see it, Hom Ansel? Something had inadvertently stepped in that puddle of muck from the digester and left a print. It appears to be a paw mark.”

Ansel squinted at where she pointed.

“Really? I can’t see anything.”

Bowman straightened and placed her fists on her hips. “Definitely a paw mark. There was another being here, a small being with bare paws or feet. Almost looks like a hand.”

Ansel made a dismissive gesture. “There are vermin in these service corridors, especially around food storage bins and digesters. The servos do what they can to get rid of them, but no system is perfect. Vermin. Annoying creatures, but harmless. That’s what it was. Is that everything, Commander?”

He slid open the door. “When you are done, you may come through this way. I’ll leave it unlocked for now.”

When Bowman did not object, Ansel quickly disappeared inside and slid the door shut, leaving her and ’Whix with the holographic corpse. Bowman ignored the image of the body but concentrated on the print on the metal deck plating. She had seen more than her share of Plexis’ version of “vermin.” Some could reach a formidable size, but most were no larger than the length of her hand. Their paws were narrow with claws. And they did not have opposable digits.

“The Human . . . Hom Ansel,”’Whix said through the tinny voice of his translator, his crest feathers ruffling, “was very nervous.”

“Yes, he was.”

“Perhaps he does not deal well with death.”

“Perhaps,” Bowman echoed. “But there’s another reason for his anxiety. He just lied to us.”

“Really? How were you able to determine that, Commander?”

“He’d know what vermin tracks look like. That print isn’t from anything local. Furthermore, Chesterton did not simply walk through the kitchen and out the back door. You saw Ansel unlock the door. Someone had to escort Chesterton out.”

“You suspect Hom Ansel?”

“I suspect he knows more than he has said. He lied to us. How much, we will find out. Of course he knew Chesterton, or at least recognized him. But only an idiot would kill someone and then claim to discover the body. Scan the print and transfer it to station security.”

Bowman activated her com link and contacted Wallace.

“Constable ’Whix is sending you an image of an animal print,” she said. “I want to know what species left it?”

“Got it, Commander.” She didn’t like Wallace’s condescending laugh. “So now the enforcers are chasing LEMS?”

“‘Lems?’”

“Little Enigmatic Monsters. We’ve been trying to get rid of them for years. Personally, I think they came off of Retian ships, but we don’t really know. They’re quick, can squeeze into tight places, and like to hide. They pop out, scare customers, then disappear. They steal things, even electronics, which we’ll later find dismantled, as though they were examining them. Mostly, they steal shiny things and food. There’s probably only a half dozen on the entire station, but they’re annoying. The good thing about them is that they eat vermin, and don’t ask how we found that out. It’s gratifying to witness enforcers at work.”

She disconnected the link in the middle of his laughter.

That was disappointing. She had hoped for some exotic species—at least one that she had never encountered, to be a clue—which now was unlikely. This so-called LEM would have nothing to do with this case.

Still, Ansel would know it wasn’t vermin that left that print. Why had he been so insistent to suggest it was?


Bowman headed spinward to the more exclusive levels of Plexis. Here, in the famous Hidleberg Hotel, beings of a certain class resided when onstation. The rich and powerful. The owners of corporations and systems. The movers of systems. The hotel’s lobby was large enough to dock a spaceship. The two enforcers were ignored by the clientele. At the concierge desk, Bowman had Rykard Kessler paged. An escort was arranged to take her and ’Whix to Kessler’s suite.

At the apartment door, Kessler smiled and motioned her and the constable inside.

“Forgive the intrusion, Hom Kessler,” Bowman said without so much as a glance at the plush surroundings of the suite. “We are investigating the death of Commissioner Chesterton.”

Kessler pursed his lips. “But I thought the investigation was complete. Poor Chesterton died of cardiac failure. What more is there?”

“Routine questions,” she said with a small smile. “Just some loose odds and ends. You were his assistant, correct?”

“Associate. Chesterton was the trade commissioner but also head of the Imesh Conglomerate. I am the associate administrator.”

“Then you take control now that he is deceased.”

“It’s a little more complicated than that, Commander. The board of directors controls the conglomerate. Chesterton was appointed administrator because he was a major shareholder.”

“And who gains those shares now that he is dead?”

Kessler’s eyebrows rose. “I’m sure that is all in his will. As he no longer has any living family, I am certain it will be dispersed appropriately. I certainly do not stand to inherit anything, if that’s what you’re implying, nor do I gain any advantage over his death. If you need such information, I’ll pass on your request to his law firm.”

No need. She’d put ’Whix on it. “How was he when you last saw him?” Bowman asked.

“He complained of chest pains, but disregarded it as indigestion. He assured me he was fine, or I would not have left him alone.”

“Why would he have used the rear exit to the restaurant?”

Kessler looked up at the Tolian. “I’m sure I don’t know.”

“Know of anyone who might want to see him dead? Were there any threats?” Bowman asked.

Kessler shifted uneasily. “No. We haven’t had any incident like that since his cousin, Denyl Constantine, died several years ago. He was the previous administrator. Anarchists, from a revolution on one of the colony worlds. There had been all kinds of threats back then. Constantine and his family were murdered.”

“How curious,” Bowman murmured. Two deaths of corporate administrators? It added a more planetary flavor to the case, not that she’d give it to Imesh Port Authority. “Then would these same individuals be a danger to Commissioner Chesterton?”

“I don’t see how. We haven’t had any problem since then.”

Bowman turned toward the door. “I won’t keep you, Hom. I’m sure you want to return to your homeworld as soon as possible. Tell me,” she said, pausing, “what brought you to Plexis in the first place?”

“Meetings,” he said with a tired sigh. “The Conglomerate is seeking to expand. That means investing time at the Imesh Trade Mission on Plexis. We must meet with other businesses and planetary leaders to arrange or modify agreements. We need something, they need something. It’s all a matter of ironing out the details. Chesterton hosted.”

“And you’re certain no one that either of you have met with would want to see the commissioner dead.”

Kessler shook his head. “There would be no advantage in that, I assure you.”


Bowman stood in the service corridor outside the Claws & Jaws, pondering the upsweeping horizon. Farther down, someone was working on a servo, clattering tools. Jak Chesterton came out here for a reason. It wasn’t to escape media reporters or prying eyes. Something drew him here, and he died. Could he have been lured from the restaurant?

The door to the restaurant clanked open and out came the elderly Human, Ansel, escorted by ’Whix.

“Thank you for joining me, Hom Ansel,” she said.

“I wasn’t aware I had much choice, Commander Bowman,” Ansel replied. “Although I want to cooperate as much as I can, I do hope this won’t take long.”

She clasped her hands behind her back and stepped closer to him. “The sooner we come to the truth, the sooner you may return to your duties.”

Ansel eased back, colliding with the Tolian. The constable’s feathered crest rose slowly as he stared down at the Human.

“What—what do you mean?” Ansel asked.

“Commissioner Chesterton did not simply wander through the kitchen and exit through this door. He was escorted. You brought him out here.”

“How—” Ansel’s eyes widened in surprise, then he composed himself. “What could possibly make you believe I would have taken him through?”

“Your reaction just now,” Bowman said, inching closer, glaring at him. “You have not been entirely honest with us, Hom Ansel. I hope that is about to change. Now, you escorted Chesterton through that door.”

Ansel gave a small nod.

“Good,” Bowman said with a nod of her own. She turned away and looked around the corridor. A servofreighter whizzed by to deliver merchandise to another establishment. “Now, why would Chesterton be interested in seeing your service corridor. If you were going to talk to him in private, you would have used your office. So, it was to meet someone else.”

She gave him a casual glance and studied the flash of panic in his eyes, indicating that her guess had been correct.

“Who are you protecting?” she demanded.

“No one!”

“A Trade Pact Commissioner was murdered,” she said, although she had no proof to indicate that. Ansel needn’t know about her lack of evidence. “There are two options. Either you killed him yourself, which I doubt, or you brought him to his murderer.”

“No, she wouldn’t—”

Ansel clamped his mouth shut. His eyes darted to the corridor behind her.

“You know the killer,” Bowman said. “Things will go easier on you if you tell me. Plexis Security won’t be as understanding.”

He shook his head and lowered his eyes. “It was me. I did it. I killed Chesterton.”

Behind him, ’Whix ruffled the feathers crowning his head. His mouth turned up at the confession.

Bowman sighed. “Very well. I don’t believe you, but if you insist on protecting an assassin and confessing to the murder yourself, I have to accept it. ’Whix, take Hom Ansel into custody and escort him to the Conciliator’s brig.”

She heard the footsteps from behind before she saw Ansel wince and squeeze his eyes tight.

“He didn’t do it,” a voice said from behind her.

Bowman turned to see a young female Human. Tall and thin, just past her second decade. She wore a pair of stained and wrinkled service coveralls with the station logo on the breast, a thick belt around her thin waist carrying pouches of tools. Her narrow face was smudged and her short yellow hair tousled. Her eyes glared with determination at Bowman as she pushed back the sleeves of her coveralls, revealing slender, tightly muscled forearms.

“I know,” Bowman said. “Who are you?”

“I’m Ylsa, and this is Gemma.” She motioned down, without taking her intense blue eyes from the enforcer. Bowman looked down to see the animal for the first time. It slipped from behind the young Human in sleek, stealthy movements. A long shadowy shape with short black fur that glistened. Its tail lashed back and forth, twitching. The tufted, triangular ears on top of its head rotated, as though searching for sounds. It had been on all fours, but stood now on hind legs, coming as high as Ylsa’s knees. Its handlike forepaws, tipped with claws, gripped the fabric of the coveralls. Suddenly, it squirmed up Ylsa’s back to perch on her shoulder, tail curled around her neck, large eyes made for nocturnal hunting fixed on Bowman.

The LEM—for it could be nothing else—made an odd throaty sound that resembled a small motor.

“You have a device,” Ylsa said with a frown. “In your head. It makes it like you aren’t there. The same with the bird person.”

“Tolian,” Bowman said. “I’m Commander Lydis Bowman and this is Constable P’tr wit ’Whix. We’re Trade Pact Enforcers.”

She nodded. “Yeah, got that.”

“You’re a telepath,” Bowman said.

“No. Doesn’t take a telepath to tell what you are. The uniforms are a dead giveaway.”

“But you can tell we have dampeners, which means you’re trying to read our thoughts. You can’t, you know. We’re protected.”

“I don’t know about protection,” Ylsa said, “but it makes you unreal. Like a hologram. Or a ghost.”

She had to be a telepath. Was she also an assassin? Bowman wasn’t convinced. Something in those eyes, so deep and intelligent, yet hurt and lonely.

“Are you Clan, then?” she asked. The Clan lived separate from each other, spread over countless worlds, hidden among Humans, appearing like Humans, but being far more.

Confusion lined Ylsa’s brow. “‘Clan?’” She glanced at Ansel, as though searching his face for an answer. “I don’t know what that is.” She looked at the LEM on her shoulder. “Do you, Gemma?”

The animal gave a throaty warble.

“No, Gemma doesn’t either.”

“Okay, but you are a telepath,” Bowman said, ignoring her talking to the animal.

The Human sighed and rolled her eyes. “I already told you I’m not. Gemma is, though.”

Game, belief, or trick? Regardless, Bowman chose to dismiss the assertion. There were empathic plants and more than a few predators who could lure their prey close. None were sentient or true telepaths. What she needed was information. If this Ylsa was not the killer, she was still tied to the death in some way.

“What do you do, Ylsa?” she asked. “Are you Plexis maintenance?”

The corner of the her mouth twisted into a smirk. “What gave it away?”

“Does the LEM always accompany you?”

Ylsa scowled. “That’s a derogatory term. I don’t like it, calling them monsters. They’re not, you know.”

Bowman nodded toward the animal. “What is it, then?”

“She’s Gemma. I don’t know what you’d call her kind. I work ship maintenance sometimes. Whatever breaks down, I can fix it. Engines, air conditioners, garbage digesters. I met Gemma a long time ago, in one of the landing bays. She’s my guardian. She lets me know who to stay away from and who is safe. With you, she can’t tell, but she’s very curious.”

“Please, Commander Bowman,” Ansel said. “Ylsa has nothing to do with Commissioner Chesterton’s death. I’ll confess. Take me into custody, just leave Ylsa alone.”

Bowman looked at Ylsa. “Should I do that, Ylsa? Should I arrest Hom Ansel?”

“For murder?” Ylsa gave a short laugh. “He’s innocent. That’s obvious to anyone, and I’m pretty sure you’re intelligent enough to know that. About the only thing he’s guilty of is taking in strays.”

“What about you? Did you kill Chesterton?”

“No. He fell over before I even met him.”

“So you were here,” Bowman said.

“You already know I was. Gemma can tell that from Ansel, even if she can’t see into your mind. You saw her footprint on the deck from the time Chesteron died, before I repaired the digester and cleaned up the mess.”

“Do you know who killed him?” Bowman asked.

“No one. He just fell over.”

She raised an eyebrow. “He came out of the Claws & Jaws and fell over dead.”

“No. Gemma and I came, and he was waiting. He turned to greet us, then made a face and fell over.”

“As if having heart failure?”

“I’m no med-tech.” Ylsa paused, then said, “He reached both hands to his throat, like he couldn’t breathe, looked like he was in pain, and collapsed. He was dead before we got to him. Ansel told me to leave, then he called the meds.”

“Commissioner Chesterton was an important figure in the Trade Pact. A busy one. No offense, Fem Ylsa, but why were you going to meet him?”

“Ansel wanted him to meet me,” Ylsa said.

Bowman turned to the Human, who seemed to shrink under her gaze. “Well?”

Ansel looked around anxiously. “Do you mind returning to my office, Commander? This is rather . . . sensitive.”


Once everyone squeezed into the small office, Ansel paced the few feet behind his desk.

Bowman waited patiently while ’Whix moved nervously from one foot to another. The LEM sat on its haunches on the desk, its tail lashing back and forth, its eyes studying the Tolian.

“I knew Commissioner Chesterton,” Ansel finally said, stopping to rest his hands on the back of his chair and looking sheepishly at Bowman. “I’m from Imesh 27. We had never met before, but our families knew each other. He was aware I was on Plexis. You see, his cousin Denyl Constantine died on Plexis.”

“The previous administrator,” Bowman prompted.

“Yes. He and his wife were visiting Plexis and were killed by thieves. Their ten-year-old daughter was never found, but presumed dead or sold to Recruiters. Jak Chesterton was convinced she was still alive. He reached out to me, but I already had my suspicions.” He glanced at the figure in the grimy coveralls, arms folded, leaning against the wall.

“Ylsa?”

Ansel nodded.

Blue eyes narrowed in annoyance. “I’ve told Ansel I don’t remember my parents. All I remember is growing up on the station. Plexis fed me, raised me, taught me. I’m pretty good at taking things apart and putting them back together, so they trained me for maintenance. If they didn’t have a use for me, they would have had me shipped to some dirt world. After I met Gemma, she urged me to find Ansel because we talk the same. He thinks I’m this Ylsa Constantine.” A shrug. “We have the same first name. So what?”

“And your last name?”’Whix asked.

“I couldn’t remember. Someone called me Peregrine and I liked it.”

Bowman nodded to herself. “You can’t remember where you came from? Was there trauma? An injury?”

Ylsa shrugged. “That was a long time ago. I don’t remember and no one ever explained it to me. Look, I just do my job and don’t get involved. No family ever came looking for me, so I figured they abandoned me. No big deal.”

“When did you suspect she could be Denyl Constantine’s daughter?” Bowman asked Ansel.

“Not at first. I had no idea. She just sounded like someone from my homeworld when she came to me with that animal.”

“Gemma isn’t an animal,” Ylsa insisted in a weary tone as if this was an old argument. “Commander Bowman, Ansel and Hom Huido are nice enough to give me food now and then. I could never afford a meal at the Claws & Jaws on my salary. He’s been nice and just wanted to help. We’ve been sort of friends.” A frown. “Until he wanted me to meet this Chesterton.”

“Who had access to the planetary database. Jak would have been able to prove if she actually was his cousin’s daughter,” Ansel said, then sighed. “But he died before he could.”

“I can,” Bowman said. A simple test, using Chesterton’s genetic makeup as a baseline for family relationship if Constantine’s wasn’t on record on Plexis. As for Imesh records? She’d get access.

“If this relationship is the case,”’Whix said, “Fem Peregrine stands to inherit a sizable estate.”


Motive was one thing. It left the question of how Chesterton died. Perhaps he had suffered heart failure after all, brought on by the stress of meeting his only living relative, one presumed dead. Ylsa might be a liar, shifting her telepathic talents conveniently to her pet, but Bowman did not see her as a murderer.

Leaving ’Whix to escort Ylsa to her home quarters to freshen and change, Bowman headed to the security office for a quick chat with Wallace concerning tests for Ylsa’s heritage. When she entered the office, Inspector Wallace gave her a suspicious look.

“How did you hear so quickly?” he demanded. “I just got the results myself. Did your people plug into our com system?”

“What are you talking about?”

He handed her a reader with the results of the second set of scans on Chesterton’s corpse. The cranial scans showed nothing unusual. No damage, so he had not been killed by a telepath.

“Go to the bottom,” Wallace snapped, twirling his finger to urge her to scroll faster.

She refrained from comment, methodically reading chemical analyses and toxicology screens to the concluding paragraph, then looked up at Wallace. “Poison?”

He nodded grudgingly. “You were . . . right. It was murder.”

If not the type of murder she’d originally thought. “How did your people miss this the first time?” Bowman demanded.

“They didn’t,” he said. He was irritated, but not with her. Well, at least not entirely with her. “The results had been deleted.”

“Who had access—”

The room’s doors slid open and in staggered a ruffled Tolian cradling a limp bundle of black fur. ’Whix caught himself with one hand on the desk before he toppled over, making Wallace leap back.

His eyes tried to focus. Gingerly, he laid the inert form of the LEM on the desk, then sank into a chair in front of it. He made a series of chirps that weren’t translated, then, “Two Humans,” he began. “A Plexis Security team, claimed they were sent to take Ylsa into custody. Of course, I refused. The animal immediately had a fit and tried to attack them. They stunned it, then stunned me. When I became coherent, Ylsa was gone.”

Bowman glared at Wallace, but before she could make demands or accusations, he shook his head.

“I didn’t send anyone, Commander. I know we don’t see eye to eye on most issues, but this was not my doing. The same with the deleted data. Constable ’Whix, did they identify themselves?”

’Whix began preening his feathers back into shape. “I caught a name. Reyes.”

Wallace nodded grimly. He tapped some keys on his terminal and watched the results appear on the monitor. “Reyes and Foard. Either of them had access to the autopsy results and could have deleted or doctored them. They’re both logged off duty.”

“And who are they working for,” Bowman asked coldly, “if not for you?”

“It’s hard to keep track anymore,” Wallace said with a shrug.

“Commissioner Chesterton was poisoned,” she said, looking quickly at the report again. “He had to ingest the toxin within a half hour of dying.”

“That is when he was dining with his associate, Hom Kessler,”’Whix supplied.

“I think we need to talk again to the Hom, and quickly.”

Wallace tapped on his keypad again. “You’re too late. Kessler has already checked out of his hotel room and boarded his yacht. It’s left—”

’Whix had already been using the com. “Commander, the Conciliator is prepping the pursuit craft.”

Because moving the great cruiser would take time they didn’t have. Bowman snatched up the sleeping animal—evidence—and headed for the door. “Tell them we’re on the way. ’Whix!”


Despite their differences, Inspector Wallace had Plexis Control clear the lanes in time for Bowman’s launch.

Rykard Kessler had filed a flight plan upon leaving. The Conciliator’s pursuit craft was smaller, with a more powerful drive. They should have no difficulty overtaking the yacht.

In the cramped control room, Bowman strapped into the copilot seat, cradling the groggy LEM on her lap. She found herself idly stroking the sleek black fur while it made that throaty motor sound. ’Whix, an able pilot, ran through the preflight checklist, then sent the craft streaking from Plexis. “I’ve input Kessler’s course, Commander.”

Gemma was immediately awake and a ball of angry, hissing fur.

Bowman grabbed for the LEM, too late. The creature launched herself at the controls ’Whix was attempting to set. The Tolian’s hands flew back to avoid being raked by claws.

“I believe the animal wants to eat me.” He drew away from the console as Gemma squatted on the slope of the controls and hissed at him.

“Nonsense,” Bowman said. “She’s startled. Probably frightened Ylsa isn’t here. I’ll put her in a locker.” When she reached for the animal, Gemma turned and glared at her, baring her sharp teeth.

“Perhaps,”’Whix said, “we should explain to the beast that we are attempting a rescue of her Human.”

Bowman rolled her eyes. “It’s nonsentient. It can’t understand—”

At which the creature sat and tilted her head at Bowman, one side of her muzzle curling up, whiskers tilted.

“Perhaps it does,”’Whix suggested.

“Ridiculous.”

Gemma scooted back and lay down on the console. Between her paws were the very controls ’Whix had been attempting to set. One digit tapped a claw on the display. She looked from Bowman to ’Whix.

“Gemma does not want us to set that particular course, Commander,”’Whix said.

“Don’t you start, Constable. Bad enough Ylsa has delusions about this animal, I don’t need you doing it, too.”

The animal stopped tapping the display and sat up, looking at ’Whix.

“Commander?”

“We’re following Ylsa. She’s on that yacht,” Bowman told the LEM, then shook her head and scowled at ’Whix. “If the animal’s intelligent enough to understand that, and I don’t for an instant believe it is, why doesn’t she want us to set the course?”

“Because . . . that isn’t the course Kessler took?”

Gemma looked up at ’Whix and gave a short warble.

Bowman pinched the top of her nose, regarding the Tolian ominously over her fingers. It was that, or draw a weapon. “We’re wasting time, Constable.”

’Whix waved his hands in excitement. “Ylsa said the creature was telepathic. If the two are linked mentally, perhaps the animal can sense which direction she was taken.”

“And I suppose it can read nav settings and tell what our destination is?”

Gemma turned on Bowman and gave a sharp “Arrh!”

“Fine!” Bowman snapped at the animal. “You set the course!”

“With all due respect, Commander,”’Whix said, “I don’t believe she can. However, she might be of assistance. If I may, Gemma?” he said to the animal.

The LEM eased to the side, allowing the Tolian to access the controls. “How about . . .”

A growl.

“Okay, then . . .”

“They’re getting away,” Bowman pointed out.

“Ah!”’Whix said. “The nearest system. A collection of uninhabited planetoids and asteroids. Perhaps . . . ?”

The LEM jumped off the console and onto the deck while ’Whix reset their course.

Gambling on a LEM. Bowman allowed it, having no better option. And there was the nagging sensation she had when looking into the animal’s large green eyes.

Soon, the animal stretched up with its forepaws gripping the edge of the console between the two seats, her head tilting to one side, as though waiting for something to happen.

“There’s a ship ahead,”’Whix announced, giving the animal a curious glance.

Even if they were following the correct course, they couldn’t possibly have overtaken the yacht so soon.

“Ident?” Bowman asked.

“Not receiving, but the configuration matches Kessler’s yacht.” Without waiting for orders, ’Whix dropped their craft out of subspace. “Scanning.”

“Well?”

’Whix brought up a magnified image. “It’s drifting. The engines appear to be offline.”

“Life support?” Bowman asked, her heart pounding. There were no external lights, nothing to indicate that the ship had any power at all. From what little she could make out, there appeared to be no damage or sign of attack.

“Still functioning,”’Whix said. “Emergency power.”

The pursuit craft had certain design features of use now, including a clamping mechanism with one purpose. Bowman smiled grimly. “Dock against her air lock.”

“Should we radio our intention?”

Protocol was for fools. “Let’s not.”


Gemma followed Bowman and ’Whix to the air lock and stood on hind legs in front of the hatch while the pursuit craft’s capture ring pressurized, the tip of her tail twitching back and forth. Bowman considered leaving the creature behind, but the LEM was small enough that she should not get in the way, and she might even prove useful in their search for Ylsa, provided she didn’t get trampled in the chaos about to take place.

They crossed the short ring and overrode the controls to the yacht’s air lock. When they cycled open the inner door, both enforcers had their weapons out and ready. Gemma dashed through as soon as the opening was wide enough. Good, Bowman thought. The animal could act as a distraction for anyone waiting on the other side.

Bowman did not expect to hear screaming.

They burst into the yacht’s prep room to find a Human male in a shredded Plexis Security uniform cowering against the bulkhead and bleeding from dozens of long, deep scratches over his face and hands. A blaster lay a few feet away from him, but he made no attempt to grab it. Gemma sat next to the weapon.

The LEM looked up at Bowman, tilting her head to one side, tufted ears bent forward. Her tail lashed back and forth.

Bowman frowned and motioned to ’Whix. “Cuff him.”

The Tolian holstered his weapon and pulled out a pair of restraining cuffs. The Human was so terrified he pushed himself up the wall and gratefully held out his hands, his huge eyes never leaving the LEM.

“Where’s Ylsa?” Bowman demanded.

“Don’t know who you’re talking about,” he said. He straightened his back and lifted his chin, trying to put on an indignant attitude. It came across as pathetic, with the swelling scratches bleeding down his face.

Gemma sauntered toward him on hind legs and he lost all pretext, fear returning to his eyes. “Keep that thing away from me!” He tried to back up, but pushed into ’Whix instead.

“Ylsa?” Bowman asked again, fighting the small smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Or I put you in a room with that thing.”

“Kessler has her. She did something to the engines. Kessler and Foard are trying to figure out what happened. They’re in the engine room. Aft. Look, I was just paid for kidnapping. Okay, first deleting some of the autopsy reports. But anything else, that’s on Kessler. He didn’t want to kill her on Plexis. Planned to dump her out the air lock where she’d never be found. Said something about not wanting any DNA tests run on her.”

“Constable,” Bowman said, “lock him up.”

’Whix shoved Reyes toward the air lock, taking him back into their ship to secure him.

Without waiting for the Tolian to return, Bowman opened the door to the yacht’s single corridor. Gemma dashed out, running on all fours toward the aft of the ship. With her blaster held in both hands, Bowman followed.

The hatch to engineering was open at the end of the short corridor. Bowman had a clear view of another Human male, in a Plexis uniform, crouched behind a console. As soon as Foard saw that it wasn’t his partner coming to join them, he began shooting. Bowman pushed herself against the bulkhead, only narrowly escaping the bolts of energy that sizzled past.

The shots ended with a terrified scream.

Foard leaped up from behind the console, his hands going to a raging ball of fur that clung to his head, a tail wrapped around his throat. One hand grabbed the animal raking claws over his face. The other fired his blaster into the ceiling, shattering tiles and lighting tubes. Claws sank deeper.

Bowman hurried to the doorway and fired once.

A neat hole burned through Foard’s chest. He dropped backward, his frantic screams ending.

Kessler stood with his back to the reactor, Ylsa held in front of him, a small but deadly needler pressed to her temple.

Ylsa Peregrine stood perfectly still, but there was no sign of fear in her eyes. She was relaxed, a small smile curving her lips as she saw the animal with its ruffled fur.

“Keep that thing back!” Kessler shouted at Bowman.

“As if I control it,” Bowman said, aiming her weapon. “Surrender, Kessler. All you’ll be charged with now is kidnapping.”

“What about Chesterton?” he demanded.

Too easy. She frowned. “Is that a confession?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’d sooner see us all dead than go back now. If you leave now, Bowman, and forget all about this little incident, I’ll see that you are well compensated. You’d be set for the rest of your life. Otherwise, all of us will have to die.”

“Then you don’t gain anything,” Bowman said.

“You see,” Kessler said, waving the weapon slightly, but never taking it from his hostage’s head, “there are powerful people who did not want her found. People who control most of Imesh. Chesterton kept them satisfied, but if he located the Constantine heir, then they could lose their controlling power. Chesterton had grown tired of their manipulations. I was told to make certain he never found her. And if he happened to meet his own end, so much the better. If I allow Ylsa to return, then my life will be over. Better to end it here and now, on my own terms.”

“Okay, then,” Bowman agreed. “Go ahead, because I am not leaving without Ylsa.”

“He can’t do anything,” Ylsa said. “I locked him out of his own ship. Told you I was good at fixing things.”

Gemma lowered herself, tail bristling, and growled.

“I said, keep that thing away!” Kessler said.

“Gemma is not a thing!” Ylsa snapped.

She swung her elbow back, smacking it into Kessler’s face, crushing his nose. He cried out in pain, staggering back against the reactor casing, his needler firing blindly.

Bowman shot him through the forehead.


They left a beacon on Kessler’s yacht so Plexis Security could send a tug and bring it and the two bodies back. Security also took custody of Reyes, after Bowman had recorded his confession. Plexis, in the form of Inspector Wallace, would deal with him.

It wasn’t a clean solution. Bowman regretted losing the opportunity to interrogate Kessler and learn the identities of those who paid him. She’d have to go about it another way.

As she packed her belongings in her quarters on Plexis, the com chimed. Fingers near a now-concealed weapon, Bowman ordered the door open.

Ansel and Ylsa stood in the hall, with Gemma at Ylsa’s feet. She’d abandoned her grimy coveralls for a more fashionable dress and looked more than a little self-conscious.

“So the results are in?” Bowman asked, waving them in. “Do I call you Ylsa Peregrine or Constantine?”

“Constantine,” Ylsa said. “Ansel has made arrangements. I’m on my way back home, even though I don’t remember it. Although, I think I am beginning to remember some things about my parents, as though in a dream. Suppressed all these years.”

“I’ve already sent a report to the Trade Pact,” Bowman said. “A full investigation is underway. We will get to the bottom of this and find out who was behind Kessler.”

“I’ve been going over some corporate records my uncle had,” Ylsa said. “I have some of my own suspicions. They aren’t very good at hiding their activities. Besides, Gemma will help ferret them out.”

The LEM looked up and tilted her head, tufted ears turning outward.

“I really don’t think—” Bowman started to say. She watched those green eyes. Was it actually sentient and telepathic? She knew some strange species in her capacity as an enforcer and in her previous career as a Port Jelly.

In the end, did it matter? “Okay,” she said, not wanting to get into that argument. Let the sociologists and anthropologists worry about it.

“Even with that thing in your head that makes you like a ghost,” Ylsa said, “Gemma was still able to tell that you weren’t as mean as you pretend. She told me that when you threatened to arrest Ansel. She was right.”

“Don’t be so sure of that,” Bowman said, scowling.

Gemma looked up at her and closed one eye, quickly opening it in an unmistakable wink.