Текст книги "Well of Souls"

Автор книги: Ilsa J. Bick

Соавторы: Ilsa J. Bick
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Chapter 16

“You understand now, right?” Bat-Levi’s voice was thick. Her streaming eyes focused on Tyvan. “You understand why I’m…why things are the way they are.”

Tyvan debated then said, “I understand that what happened to you was a horrible thing. And I understand how you feel that you’re to blame.”

“I should have double-checked that grid. But I wasn’t on task. I just wanted to get the hell out of there, get on with my,” she gave a bleak laugh, “my damned love life.”

“Right. But Joshua was in a hurry, too. But,” he said, cutting her off when he saw her open her mouth, “but you’ve already made up your mind about that. We could argue all day, and I’ll bet other doctors have done just that. So I don’t think it’s worth rehashing. I don’t see the point in trying to talk you out of guilt you so clearly want to hang onto. But I’ll tell you what I’m more interested in.”

Bat-Levi’s lips had thinned, and Tyvan knew this was not how she expected things to go. She’d told her story, and it was horrific, but he also knew that she’d told it before. The words had a rehearsed quality; the story was a neat, tidy package, and Joshua’s death would be the first thing that any psychiatrist, him included, would’ve latched onto—because it was so obvious.

“And what’s that?” she asked, her voice flat.

“Did you keep your date with Devlin Connolly?”

Bat-Levi blinked. “What? That’s what you want to know?” An undercurrent of fury churned in her voice. “That?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of question is that?”

“I thought it was a good one. After all, Devlin Connolly was your lover…”

“Was,” she said, “was.”

“So it stands to reason you’d have contacted him again.”

“Unbelievable.” Bat-Levi grasped the arms of her chair, and Tyvan saw the fabric pucker as her fingers dug in. “Un. Be. Lievable. Doctor, take a good, hard look. I wasn’t exactly in any shape to go to Pacifica.”

Tyvan’s eyes traveled over her body, her disfigured features as if seeing them for the first time. “Well, no, but we’ve already established that this is the body you wanted. I don’t see what one has to do with the other. So, did you send for him? I’m sure Devlin…”

“No,” she interrupted. All the color had bled from her face now– Borg,thought Tyvan, just like the Borg—and this made her scar stand out so pink and taut, it rippled like a worm. “I didn’t send for him.”

“Ever?”

“Ever.” Her jaw thrust out, as if daring him to take a swing. “Ever.”

“Did he call? Did he want to see you?”

For the first time, he saw uncertainty. Then her eyes grew hooded. “Yes, he called—about a week after. He wanted to know why I wouldn’t let them evacuate me to Starfleet Medical.”

“It’s a good question. Did you tell him why?”

She seemed to find something fascinating at the tips of her boots. “We didn’t speak. There was nothing to say.”

“Nothing to say? Darya, I thought you said that you and Devlin…”

Bat-Levi threw him a sharp, defiant look. “That was before.”

“But how did the accident change anything? I would’ve thought you’d need… wantDevlin more than ever. He called, so he was willing.”

Tyvan saw that Bat-Levi’s index finger had stolen to the cuticle of her right thumb. He watched as her nail tore at the skin. “I didn’t need his help.”

“Why not?”

She shook her head with a short, irritable gesture. A bubble of red blood welled up along her right thumbnail, but if it hurt, she gave no indication. “Because I didn’t want him to see me like this. Why would any man want,” she held up her artificial hand, “this?”

“You don’t seem to have had a lot of faith in Devlin.”

Bat-Levi exhaled something like a laugh. “It doesn’t take faith to know what’s repulsive.”

“Sure. Appearance is the first thing by which anyone is judged. But you’d think that a man who’d met all kinds of aliens—and some of them pretty ugly by human standards—would look a little deeper into the woman he loved.”

“Well, I didn’t bother to find out.”

“I guess I’m interested in that.”

“And I guess I’m not. Look at me, Doctor. What man would want this, what man could love someone who looks like this?”

“I don’t know, Darya,” said Tyvan gently. “I don’t know why you never bothered to find out. Then again, I don’t know why you wanted to hurt Devlin Connolly either.”

“Hurthim…”

“But that happens. We all lash out at the people we care about, and you’re furious with yourself, sure. And you’re furious with Joshua for going ahead with something you knew he shouldn’t have. Except you can’t get at him. You can’t tell Joshua how angry you are, how much he’s made everyone suffer. So you turn that anger on yourself, and you throw love back into the faces of people who care about you.”

“Care about me,” Bat-Levi bristled. There was blood all over her thumbnail now. “Careabout me? There’s no one who cares about me.I’m a cog in a machine. No, no, I’m a machinewithin a machine. I do my job; I’m alive because everyone says I ought to be grateful tobe. But they don’t know what it’s like.”

“Yes, you’ve made sure of that. I’ll bet it takes a lot of energy, keeping that armor in place.”

Then, just as Bat-Levi opened her mouth to reply, Tyvan’s office door chimed. Tyvan felt a quick flash of irritation. Whywas someone bothering him? He was with a patient;he shouldn’t be interrupted. Then he glanced at his chronometer and knew exactly why. Halak’s inquiry had convened twenty minutes ago.

Bat-Levi was already pushing her way to her feet, the servos in her knees squealing a protest. “I don’t know why I keep doing this to myself. I’m gone. I came a day early, we talked about some things, and now I’m gone. There’s no regulation that says I have to sit here and let you goad me.”

The chime sounded again. “Doctor?” A man’s voice, followed by a knock. “Dr. Tyvan?”

“Just a moment,” Tyvan called, exasperated. Never rains but it pours.“Darya, I think that it’s valuable for us to look at the wayyou’re thinking and…”

“No.” Bat-Levi cut him off. “No. I don’tthink it’s valuable. I stayed here way too long. I don’t know why I listen to you, but I’m not interested in finding out why. I don’t have a choice about seeing you. My orders are to report. Well, I reported—a day early, but I did it, and that’s session number four, Doc. One more, and then you get to write your precious report. But for now,” she made an offhand gesture to the door, “it sounds like you don’t have a choice either.”

Before he could say anything more, she wheeled about, with an alacrity that surprised him. The door hissed to one side and Bat-Levi barreled through.

“Whoa!” said Ensign Richard Castillo, jumping to one side. He put his hands up, palms out “Sorry, Ma’am. I…”

“It’s fine, Ensign,” said Bat-Levi. She pushed past, heading down the corridor. “I was just leaving.”

“Sure,” said Castillo, to her rapidly retreating back. “Ma’am.”

Bat-Levi didn’t reply. Tyvan heard the thud of her prosthetic legs fade as she rounded the bend of the corridor, and disappeared.

Castillo turned his puzzled gaze to Tyvan. “Sorry, sir. Honestly, I didn’t know. But you didn’t answer your hails, and Captain Garrett called the bridge and she’s pretty steamed…”

“It’s fine, Ensign,” said Tyvan, echoing Bat-Levi, but more kindly. “Please let the captain know I’m on my way.”

“Well,” said Castillo, looking apologetic, “that’s just it. My orders are to escort you down, sir. Ah, see, the captain…”

“I understand,” said Tyvan. “So, the captain’s hot?”

“Uh.” Castillo looked startled, and, too late, Tyvan considered that “hot” might have different connotations to a young man. “Well, yessir, you could say that.” A quick smile that flitted on and off, like a light. Castillo had unusually blue eyes set off beneath a full head of light brown curls. If not for an angular jaw, he would have looked almost cherubic.

“Scorching?” asked Tyvan, annoyed that Garrett thought he needed a babysitter. On the other hand, he hadn’t given her much choice. She’d probably give him a good dressing-down in private. “Or just steamed?”

“Think supernova,” said Castillo. He hesitated, and Tyvan saw a twinkle of mischief in the ensign’s face. “I think Lieutenant Bulast said the channel melted. Sir.”

“Well, that sounds unpleasant.”

“Judging by Lieutenant Bulast’s face, I think so.” Castillo seemed to want to say something more.

“Yes, Ensign? Something else on your mind?”

“Yes, sir.” Castillo squared his shoulders. “Two things, actually.”

Tyvan folded his arms. “Fire away. We psychiatrists don’t bite, and if Captain Garrett’s thatangry, a minute more won’t make any difference.”

“Well, uh, I don’t know you very well, sir, you just having come aboard and all and…”

“You have a point, Ensign?”

Castillo straightened a bit, as if Tyvan had chastised him for slouching. “Yessir. Look, you’re not an Academy grad. I understand that, and I’ve heard that, uh, having people…doctors who are civilians come in, well, I know that civilians do things differently. I know that, you know, medicine isn’t the military.”

“It’s clear you haven’t spent much time with surgeons,” said Tyvan, with a wry smile. “Or some hardcore nurses. You object to my being late, Ensign?”

“No, sir. That’s for you and the captain to square. It’s just that, you know, the captain, she’s steamed. But, becauseof you, Lieutenant Bulast’s gotten an earful, and that’s not right.”

Now thiswas a surprise. Not as eager to please as he looks, taking on a superior officer like that.“You’ve got a good point. Tell you what: I’ll talk to Captain Garrett, let her know it was my fault, all right?” Just as soon as she’s done chewing me out.

Castillo’s head moved in a short nod. “Thank you, sir. I was kind of hoping you might do that. Lieutenant Bulast…well, he’s feeling kind of low anyway.”

“Why is that?”

The young ensign moved his shoulders in a negligent shrug. “Could be because of Lieutenant Batra.”

Tyvan’s eyebrows arched. “They were that close?”

“They spent time together and…” Castillo fidgeted, looked away.

“I see,” said Tyvan, though he really didn’t. His thoughts were already wandering ahead to the inquiry, and Garrett. Garrett would really let him have it afterward, and an angry Garrett was trouble he didn’t need. He didn’t have to be a psychiatrist or a Listener to know that she wasn’t exactly thrilled with his being posted aboard the Enterprise.

Tyvan made a move to gather his materials when he saw that Castillo was still fidgeting. “Something else, Ensign?”

“Uh,” Castillo took a deep breath, “yes. I was wondering. Could I…could we…”

Tyvan decided that letting Castillo stew wouldn’t help. “You want to schedule some time, Ensign?”

“Yes, sir.” Castillo looked relieved, though his neck was mottled with red blotches.

More surprises. “Certainly. Now’s not a good time, though. How about we schedule something as soon as I’m done? All right?”

“Yeah, of course, you’re right. Sorry,” said Castillo, and Tyvan was relieved that Castillo had dropped the “sir.” Rank always made him uncomfortable. “We should go.”

“Right.” Medical boards and inquiries—Tyvan felt a quick spark of disgust—he understood why the military had them, but boarding people out of the military because they might have certain physical or mental problems smacked too much of the twenty-first century, as if medicine hadn’t progressed in three centuries and most illnesses weren’t remediable by accommodation, medication, or intervention.

“Well, let’s get going, Ensign,” said Tyvan, with more enthusiasm than he felt. “That way, you won’t get blistered by the captain, either.”

Castillo bobbed his head then stepped out of the way, allowing Tyvan to go first. In the turbolift, Castillo stood behind and slightly off to the left, his hands clasped behind his back. Neither spoke. Instead they stood, staring at a strip of metal above the turbolift doors.

In the silence, broken only by the whirr of the turbolift, Tyvan’s thoughts drifted to Bat-Levi. He’d taken a risk, again. But it was either break through her armor, or sit back and take the path of least resistance and do nothing.

The turbolift dinged, and the computer announced their deck. The doors parted.

But Bat-Levi was right about one thing, thought Tyvan as he walked the corridor to the conference room. She didn’t need to do anything but report. Well, he understood her reactions. Patients were so resistant to change. But change was necessary for a patient to break out of old self-destructive patterns, and that was his mission: to break down resistance.

Resistance—Tyvan heard the mechanical voices of thousands of drones in his head, a single voice that was many, and one he would never forget– is futile.

The realization hit him like a thunderbolt. But then he was at the conference room doors and Garrett was waiting, and Tyvan would have to think about what this meant about himlater. But, he thought, as the doors hissed apart, how odd that he hadn’t seen the irony.

Chapter 17

As it happened, Garrett let Tyvan have it in public.

“My apologies, Captain,” he said, walking rapidly to a vacant chair at Stern’s left elbow. He registered that, besides Garrett, Stern, and a lieutenant recording the proceedings, there were two strangers: a blonde-haired, brown-eyed female lieutenant sitting directly across from Garrett, and to the blonde’s left, a moderately tall though somewhat stocky Vulcan male dressed in the gray and black uniform of the V’Shar, the Vulcan security agency. The blonde would be the Starfleet Intelligence agent, Laura Burke, and the Vulcan’s name was Sivek, if Tyvan remembered correctly.

Stern murmured something he didn’t catch. Sliding into his chair, Tyvan bobbed his head at Garrett, who was to Stern’s right. It hit him at the last second that he probably shouldn’t have sat down until Garrett gave him some indication. Bravo, Tyvan.“I was detained by a patient.”

“I see.” Garrett’s dark brown eyes were hard. “And do you always refuse to answer hails when you’re with a patient, Doctor?”

“Well,” said Tyvan, trying to defuse the situation with a small smile, “I don’t like to interrupt the flow of a patient’s session.” He almost winced.

“I see,” said Garrett again, her tone indicating that she didn’tsee at all. “Well, let me put it to you this way, Commander.You’re a Starfleet officer who just happensto be a doctor, not the other way around. You wear a uniform. You are given orders, and unless there’s a pretty damn good reason for you to disobey—and offhand, I can’t think of very many—then you obey them. I can appreciate that you felt you had important work to do. Someone’s bleeding to death, you might be late. But you’re a psychiatrist, and none of your patients are likely to bleed to death.”

Tyvan could have mentioned suicidal or homicidal patients, but thought he ought to just sit and listen. It was, he reflected, what shrinks supposedly did best.

“So,” said Garrett, “until you can prove to me that a psychiatric session is equivalent to a life-or-death situation, then there is nothingmore important than your duties to this ship—not a patient, not this,” Garrett churned the air with her hand, “flowof a session, nothing. When I have you hailed, I expect you to answer. You don’t ignore a hail because then you’re ignoring me, and I get, well, a little unreasonablewhen a member of my crew doesn’t follow an order. So this is your first and onlywarning. You read me, mister?”

Tyvan was numb with embarrassment and shock. Only aboard a couple of weeks, and already he’d managed to alienate the captain. But she was right. This is a mistake. I have no business being here, I can’t function here.For not the first time, he wondered how Stern did it. Doctors needed autonomy; he required a system to be flexible to the needs of his patients. But that’s not what the military was about. So it was either play by the rules, or think up creative ways around them.

All he said was, “Absolutely, Captain.” The temperature in the conference room was cool, but Tyvan felt an uncharacteristic heat traveling up his face and realized that he was blushing to the roots of his hair, like an errant schoolboy who’d been caught blowing spitballs. “It won’t happen again.”

“No, it won’t because the next time will be your last,” said Garrett. She turned away, swiveling her chair toward a blank-faced lieutenant who sat across and to her right, making recordings of the proceedings. “Strike all that from the record, please.”

Stern took advantage of the momentary lull to lean toward him and murmur, “Nice move. See me after.”

Tyvan didn’t reply. Instead, he played with his padd, scrolled to his reports, and thought, right. Nice move.

“All right.” Garrett leaned her forearms on the conference table and laced her fingers together. “Where were we?”

Stern spoke up. “Commander Halak’s toxicological analysis, Captain.”

Garrett made a go-onmotion with her hand. Stern consulted her padd. “As I said, there was nothing, Captain. Commander Halak was clean across the board. No drugs, nothing illegal. Clean as a whistle.” Stern threw a pointed glance at Lieutenant Burke. “If Commander Halak was involved with red ice, or this Asfar whatchamacallit, it wasn’t as a user.”

“Qatala.” Burke favored Stern with a frosty brown stare. “The Asfar Qatala.”

“Right.” Stern grunted, returned her gaze to Garrett. “Like I said, not involved.”

“With red ice,” Burke added.

“That’s enough.” Garrett rapped her knuckles on the table. God, she didn’t like this woman. “You’ve made your point, Burke.”

Burke sat back without a word of protest. Garrett suppressed a sigh. Not fair to be angry: Garrett might hate what Burke did for a living, but Burke was doing her job, and Halak had plenty to explain. Garrett stilldidn’t understand what had happened, but then again, she hadn’t confronted Halak herself either.

Stern had argued. “You’re the captain, for crying out loud. More importantly, you’re hiscaptain. Talk to him, Rachel. He’s a decent man, and I’ll bet there’s some explanation for this. I have to admit I don’t have a clue what that might be.”

“That’s because there isn’t,” Garrett had said. “Jo, you’re the one with the evidence. He’s lying, and he thinks he can get away with it.”

“And you’re not interested why? You’venever lied when you’ve been in a jam?”

Garrett knew what her friend was referring to, and she inwardly cursed that she’d ever told Jo Stern about what had happened on that night long ago, when she was eighteen and scared to death.

Instead, she’d said, “Don’t start. The situations aren’t the least bit similar.”

Stern had thrown up her hands in disgust. “Jeez, there it is again. The truth is you don’t wantto hear Halak’s story. You’ve already made up your mind about him.”

And was that true? If Garrett had gone to Halak as his captain—no, his friend,as she would have done for Nigel—would they even be sitting here now? Probably not, and the realization made her feel petty and small. Maybe Stern was right.

No.Garrett felt her heart harden. Halak was Halak, a man with a history and his own baggage and questions dogging his heels, and he’d taken what trust she’d had—precious little—and betrayed it by getting one of her officers killed and then concocting an outlandish story that leaked worse than a sieve.

And Starfleet Intelligence? Garrett’s eyes went to Burke and then Sivek. Wild cards. Still, Garrett felt a premonitory thrill up and down her spine: They had something.

Garrett said, “Burke, is there anything you’d like to ask before we move on?”

As Garrett expected, Burke moved her sleek, groomed head from side to side. Garrett doubted that one blonde curl was ever out of place. The woman was more placid than a Vulcan—or a viper waiting for a chance to pounce.

“No, thank you, Captain, not at this time,” she said, her voice as polished as very smooth glass, “though I am curious. Dr. Stern, so far your report focuses on the nothings: no drugs, etc. But Commander Halak was severely wounded. That’s a something.”

Clever girl, Garrett thought. A statement begging a response.

“Thanks, I was getting there,” said Stern, her tone dry. Whatever she felt about Starfleet Intelligence, being intimidated didn’t seem to be one of Stern’s problems. She plucked up her padd. “But, in my line of work, it’s customary to list the things that are normal, too. Just so everyone knows you checked.”

Reading from her padd, Stern began with Halak’s knife wounds. She described the pattern of the wounds and the type of blade that was likely responsible. “The wound to the arm was likely defensive,” said Stern, illustrating by bringing her own left arm up at an angle and across her face. “First of all, it’s a slash, not a stab. Still, it’s a gaping wound because of the direction the blade was moving at the time of contact, moving across Langer’s lines. These are elastic fibers in the dermis. Slash along the lines, and the wound is narrow and slitlike. Slash across, as in Halak’s case, and you’ve got a large gaping wound. The second point is that the slash has a beveled margin. It’s easier if I show you.”

Pushing back from her seat, Stern crossed to the viewscreen mounted in the left wall of the conference room and had the computer bring up images scanned during her examination of Halak. A color image that was clearly the wound to Halak’s left bicep wavered into focus. The image must have been scanned almost immediately after Halak was beamed aboard; Garrett saw how the skin was so pale the hair along Halak’s forearm looked like corkscrews against white paper. The wound itself was fleshy and filled with blackish-purple blood clots.

“First of all, the weapon was single-edged. You can tell because one end of the stab wound, here,” said Stern, using her finger to illustrate, “where the stab wound starts, is pointed. The other end is blunt, and there’s a divot that got taken out of his arm when the knife was withdrawn. So his assailant comes at him; Halak throws up his arm to take the hit, and the assailant stabs him with a downward slashing motion, like this.” Stern illustrated.

“That squares with what Halak said,” Garrett offered.

Stern was nodding. “Yeah, so far so good. They’re jumped. This other guy—and he’s right-handed, by the way—rushes Halak, and Halak deflects the first blow. But here’s what doesn’t jibe. The first wound is a clean slash. Down, in, out. The second, the one on Halak’s right flank, isn’t so clean.”

Stern called up another image and this time Garrett saw from the knobs of Halak’s spine and the curve of his right hip that the image had been scanned as the commander lay on his stomach. She also saw, immediately, how different this wound was from the first. The stab wound was larger and very long, easily ten to twelve centimeters. The wound wasn’t gaping, but it wasn’t a line either. It was very deep, and the wound almost looked like a V,with the point jutting toward Halak’s spine.

“Now, that’s not a straight slash because the knife changed direction,” said Stern. “Part of it you can explain because of where he’s been stabbed, right? Unless you’re unconscious, lying down, not resisting, or being held very tightly, a slash that long and in that particular place isn’t going to be straight. That V,though, that’s caused by movement, probably by Halak twisting to get away. See? You can tell where the cut changes direction and the skin is torn. Now what’s wrong with this scenario?”

Garrett’s forehead furrowed. “I’m not sure I see anything wrong. That’s what Halak said happened.” She saw Tyvan and Stern exchange glances, and Stern give the other doctor a slight nod. “Dr. Tyvan?” asked Garrett.

“I think Dr. Stern is suggesting he left out a few things, Captain. If I’m hearing this correctly, there are several problems with Halak’s account. First of all, unless he’s behind you, a right-handed assailant can’t stab you on your right side. If he’s coming at you from the front, or slashes around at your back, then the wound will be on the left, just like the wound on Halak’s left forearm.”

“So he got behind Halak,” said Garrett.

“Yes, but the question is: how?”

“Distracted? He managed to get away, but the guy jumped him? You know,” said Garrett, stroking her chin between thumb and index finger, “it could work just the way Halak said if the Bolian puts a pulse gun to Batra’s head. That would make Halak stop whatever he was doing and leave plenty of time for his assailant to get around behind him. Then, for whatever reason, Halak is stabbed; in the confusion, Batra elbows the Bolian, gets away, makes a grab for the knife…” She trailed to a halt, shook her head. “That doesn’t feel right.”

“Because it probably isn’t.” Tyvan looked over at Stern. “No wounds on Batra’s hands, are there?” When Stern shook her head, he turned back to Garrett. “So it’s unlikely she made a grab for a weapon that way. She’d have gotten cut. But this begs the question. Where are the defensive wounds on Commander Halak? If I were being stabbed from behind, I’d do something about it. But the wound is far too deep and far too regular, even with that divot, unless Halak was standing still. And the only way for that to happen would be if he were held from behind, with his arms pulled back and out of the way.”

“You see what I’m driving at, Captain,” said Stern. “There had to be more than just the Bolian and this other guy. Or he was knifed at a different time. I say the knifing happened first.”

Quickly, Stern went through what Garrett already knew: Halak’s blood loss, the fact that the wounds were a good six hours older than the time frame Halak had given, the traces of antimicrobial packs on Halak’s skin, traces of Bolian blood and brain matter under Halak’s nails, and the absence of ionized residue from the pulse gun or a phaser on Halak’s hands or clothing.

“But Batra fired a phaser, not a pulse gun,” said Stern. “There was evidence of mitochondrial disruption in the cells of her right hand consonant with phased energy exposure.”

Garrett gave Stern a weary look. “And I take it that Halak didn’t check a phaser out of the weapons locker.”

“Nope, and nothing in the shuttle. Had to be his personal carry and then either he ditched it, or it got left behind. There’s no regulation against that, though.”

“Anything else?” When Stern shook her head, Garrett looked at Burke. “Questions?”

Burke made a pass motion with her hand. Garrett directed her attention back to Stern. “What else about Batra, other than evidence of there being a phaser involved?”

Stern summarized what she’d already told Garrett. “Then there’s the dirt.”

“Dirt?” Tyvan echoed.

“Dirt,” Stern repeated. “Look, I don’t have any doubt that most of what Halak said is true. Really,” she added in response to a skeptical snort from Burke. “I believe that he was attacked; I believe that he defended himself. I believe that a Bolian killed Batra. All that squares with the evidence. But the time course is off. The sequence is wrong. I didn’t start to put it all together until I began comparing what I found on Halak with what I found on Batra. Just like Halak, Batra had Bolian blood on her hands, under her nails, on her clothes, in her hair, and the blood spatter’s consistent with her stabbing the Bolian. Then the Bolian shoots her at point blank range. The impact knocks Batra off her feet onto her back, but she’s dead before she hits the ground. Death was virtually instantaneous. The lieutenant’s heart stopped pumping. No blood flow, no bleeding.

“But here’s the kicker: the dirt. The dirt on her clothes, especially on her back, doesn’t look much like what you’d find in a city. And there’s dirt on her jaw—actually, minute fragments embedded in tissue. But it’s not the samedirt.”

“I’m not following,” said Tyvan.

“Look, we know she was hit because of that bruise on her jaw and those bite marks on her tongue. But I assumed someonehit her, because Halak said they were jumped. Made sense. But that’s wrong. She had abrasions on her jaw, and there was dirt in the wound. Only it wasn’t dirt. It was brick.”

Burke stirred. “But why couldn’t she have been hit by a fist?”

“Because the lieutenant’s skin was torn. Her skin had come into contact with something sharp, jagged, and hard. Someone hits you across the face with his fist your skin’s not going to tear, not unless what he’s wearing, like a ring, catches on skin. And there should be marks that look like fingers, or a fist. There should be prints. Now, I found nothing that smacks of fingers or an imprint from a ring, and there were no prints. There were, however, latent prints on her clothing. The Bolian’s easy to spot; their ridge patterns are species-specific, can’t confuse them. And Halak’s. Hers. But that’s it.”

Tyvan sat up. “No fourth person. Halak said there was another man.”

Stern’s eyebrows arched. “See the problem? Halak says there was another guy when Batra was killed, and I just showed you that in order for Halak to get cut the way he did, there had to be at least two more: one to hold him, the other to take care of Batra. Only where are they? And somehow Batra got the knife only no one noticed? No one tried to grab her? Unless something happened much earlier than he says and then the brick…”

Tyvan finished for her. “Comes from the city. Meaning they were attacked, first, in the city.”

Stern took aim with a forefinger. “Bingo. There’s no mistake. Brick’s very porous. It crumbles. This stuff is cheap, so I’m guessing some slum on Farius Prime. But there’s no brick anywhere on her clothing, just her skin. So Batra got herself cleaned up. Probably changed her clothes. That’s why the dirt on her clothes is different from what’s embedded in her jaw. She didn’t get hit. She slammedinto a brick wall. But the dirt on her clothes was a mixture of quartz and mica, some decomposed organic matter…”

“That would still be consistent with a city,” said Tyvan.

“There was also a fair amount of bentonite. That’s volcanic ash. And there were high levels of triuridium.”

“Farius Prime’s got triuridium mines.”

“That’s right, except those mines have been closed a good long time. It’s why that Asfar-whatsa got so powerful to begin with, because the mines dried up. So if the mines aren’t active, that means there are no workers bringing the stuff back into the city. There’s nothing being released in the air; there’s been no volcanic activity on that planet for centuries. So the only place you’re going to find volcanic ash and triuridium…”