Justiciar (The Vigilante Chronicles Book 5)

by Natalie Grey

I must ask…does that ever work?

  You’re just grumpy because you fell. He could hear Gar laughing internally as well, probably at both, and for a moment, Barnabas felt happy. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt such a pleasant, uncomplicated emotion.

  He liked doing this job with a team, it turned out.

  He was still smiling as he rounded the corner into the darkened hallway and ran straight into a punch. The Jotun’s fist shot out with devastating speed. It should have broken Barnabas’ ribs, if not made a hole into his chest cavity, but he had armor his opponent wasn’t expecting. It had driven out all the breath from his lungs in a surprised whoosh, though. The Jotun staggered back, jerky movements betraying her shock.

  Gar’s footsteps were close behind, so the Jotun took off again, having failed to kill Barnabas for the second time.

  “Get down!” Gar yelled, and he hurtled over Barnabas and took off at high speed after the assassin.

  Get moving, Vigilante!

  Can’t—breathe—

  You should be saying fifty Hail Jeans as a thank you to the universe for letting you survive that punch.

  Barnabas tried to picture any of the monks he’d known praying to Jean Dukes and had to fight with everything he had not to lose his breath a second time in hysterical laughter. He took three loping steps, trying to spur his body back into breathing properly by forcing it to use breath and then pushed himself into a sprint once more.

  Barnabas, I think she’s going for the shuttles! Gar’s mental tone was panicked. I’ll do what I can to catch her, but—

  A shot rang out, and there was a yell of pain.

  Gar! Barnabas put on a burst of speed and swung around a corner as fast as he could. Gar was slumped against a railing, one hand clamped over the other arm. The assassin looked over her shoulder and kept running.

  “Stop!” Barnabas yelled. He took his chance to leap over Gar and ran for all he was worth.

  The Jotun’s biosuit, however, was fast. She disappeared into the shuttle bay and turned, holding one mechanical hand to an electronics panel.

  Shinigami!

  Fuck fuck fuck fuck!

  The door slammed down.

  Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck! Keep running. I’m trying to open it!

  Barnabas closed the distance at top speed. Shinigami!

  Making progress, keep going. Fuck fuck fuck, almost there, don’t stop. WAIT, ABSOLUTELY DO STOP!

  Barnabas ran into the door at top speed and bounced. From behind the closed door, he heard the alarms that accompanied the airlock.

  So I’m guessing that’s a no-go on overriding the programs.

  Not even the airlock. She shorted a bunch of it and left systems in place to make it look like things were functioning. By the way, even though we were basing it off bad information the first time, I think we were right—that’s a female.

  How can you tell? More importantly, get a trace on that damned ship!

  Already done. Come back to the ship, and we’ll get going. Err…when you can walk. Gar’s fine, but not fine enough to carry you.

  Barnabas groaned and rolled over. I think I broke my nose.

  Oooh, let it heal crooked. It’ll give your face some character.

  Barnabas rolled his eyes as he pushed himself up and hobbled back to where Gar, too, had managed to stand. Goddammit, I hate it when they run.

  Think of it this way—there are no civilians in the way anymore.

  I do like that. Barnabas looked at where the nanites had already healed the bullet wound. They hobbled back to the main living area. Shinigami?

  Yes?

  I don’t want to drop down three flights. For the love of God, find me a staircase.

  Chapter Eight

  Kantar settled into her seat as the shuttle powered away into the darkness. Normally, she wouldn’t trust her odds against a ship like the Shinigami, but she knew she could get a reasonable head start while their crew got back to the ship.

  Not only that, she’d paid an exorbitant amount to have crates loaded at the beginning of the Srisa’s run on a later stop. With those materials, she had managed to significantly upgrade the shuttle, as well as install several types of decoys that would allow her to lose any pursuers.

  Hopefully. The Shinigami had already launched tracing measures, and Kantar had to hope she could disable them soon.

  She bobbed in the warm water of her tank and tried to release her anxiety, but she could not. She had become one of the best assassins in this sector, stronger than any organic life form, and so at home in her biosuit that she never took it off.

  Kantar resented the biosuits. The Jotuns’ unique physiology allowed them certain opportunities in the form of controlling a great deal of machinery with their minds. Other species, it seemed, could not do so on the same scale.

  But other species could walk on their own. They could use hands and arms to manipulate tools, while Jotuns were forced to use suits to do the same. If enough other species had developed in water perhaps the Jotuns would not be the odd ones out, but as it was...

  Speculation was pointless. Kantar had spent most of her life fine-tuning and learning to use her suit until she could engage in hand-to-hand combat the way any other species could. It wasn’t the typically clunky gadget-dependent Jotun fighting with flamethrowers or built-in knives and guns. No. Kantar could strike with her hands and feet, use an opponent’s physiology to throw or pin them, and manipulate machinery so that no one noticed she was Jotun unless they saw the metal of the suit.

  Sometimes it occurred to her that, through her struggle, she had become better at combat than most people could ever hope to be. She wanted to take joy in that, but she was still angry. If she had been born anything other than Jotun, her life would have been very different.

  She looked up sharply when one of her sensors beeped. The Shinigami was powering up and getting ready to pursue her.

  She switched on the cloaking algorithms. The upgrade she had installed on the shuttle used three different generators, all of which cycled through different cloaking mechanisms at unpredictable intervals. Kantar used it on her ship, and she had thought it was unbreakable.

  That was before she knew she was being pursued by the Shinigami, however.

  She felt a stab of fear. Had the Jotun Senate sent Barnabas after her? He wouldn’t be helping them, surely. Of course, he wouldn’t be the first one they had turned.

  She had to find safety, and she had to find it now. She accelerated the shuttle to top speed, settled back in her seat, and tried to remain calm.

  “She’s engaged—oh, that’s interesting.” Shinigami sat down in the seat next to Barnabas. Only the final movement was somewhat graceless.

  “What’s interesting?” Barnabas looked over.

  “She’s using a very intriguing method of cloaking. Expensive to produce, most likely.”

  “She’s a Jotun with an extremely good custom-made suit who can fight like an organic life form. I don’t see why we’d be surprised to run across an expensive cloaking system.”

  “I’m not surprised; it’s just interesting.” Shinigami crossed one leg over the other. “And to answer the question I know you’re going to ask—yes, I can crack it. Between our peek into the Jotun fleet and our run-in with the Yennai Corporation, I’m up to date on every form of cloaking this sector has to offer.”

  Barnabas gave a small smile. “I was going to ask that, you’re right. As a follow-up—”

  “You want me to cloak us so she can’t see us, send a decoy so that she thinks we’ve gone in another direction, and follow her on the sly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Already done.”

  “Remind me to give you a raise. How does one pay an AI?”

  “When that AI just got a body? In shoes.”

  “I should have seen that coming.” Barnabas heaved a sigh and stood, walking toward the door. “I’ll ask Bethany Anne for recommendations.”

  “Ask her about bags, too.”

>   “Bags? Like…purses?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you going to keep in a purse?”

  Shinigami looked at him like he was absolutely insane. “Guns.”

  Barnabas shook his head and left.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To talk to Jeltor. You seem to have everything under control, after all.”

  “So I’m in command?” Shinigami called over her shoulder as the doors closed. “Barnabas? Am I in command?” Barnabas?

  Barnabas sighed. No, you are not in command.

  Then I’m going to the armory. And before you argue, remember that I can watch the bridge just fine from anywhere.

  Why are you going to the armory? Why are we talking this way?

  Force of habit, as you said. And I’m going to train. Shinigami’s usual careless tone slipped away for a moment. What she could do with her biosuit was impressive.

  It was, wasn’t it? Barnabas smiled. He approved of taking inspiration from opponents. Enjoy.

  I think that’s overly optimistic, but I’ll practice.

  Barnabas whistled as he made his way down the hallway to his rooms. When he slid into his chair and began the call to Jeltor, however, his face fell. He didn’t have good news to report.

  When the image came up on the screen this time, Barnabas’ eyes strayed to the left side of the suit, where he’d noticed a telltale scratch when speaking to Jeltor previously. It was there, and he felt a small wave of satisfaction. He didn’t know why this hadn’t occurred to him before.

  “Hello, Jeltor.”

  “You didn’t find anything,” Jeltor guessed. He bobbed in the water listlessly.

  “Not exactly.” Barnabas cleared his throat and considered what to say. He’d spent so many decades choosing his words carefully that it was second nature at this point to pause before he spoke. “We found the assassin and are pursuing her.”

  “What?” Jeltor became much more animated.

  Barnabas realized he could tell the strength of Jeltor’s emotions, if not the exact nature thereof.

  “You’re pursuing her?” Jeltor continued. “How did she get away from you? I’ve seen you fight—”

  “Oh, trust me, I’ll be hearing about this from Shinigami for quite a long time.” Barnabas was trying to cheer Jeltor up, and he was happy to hear what sounded like a chuckle. “The thing is—and this is a bit awkward—the assassin was Jotun.”

  “I should have known.” Jeltor sounded angry. “I should have known when you told me how the murder was done. I think I did know, and I just...” His voice trailed away, and there was real grief there. “Can you imagine how horrifying it must have been?” he asked finally, and Barnabas saw that Jeltor was trying to explain. “To die slowly, to know that you couldn’t stop it. He was completely helpless.”

  Barnabas could find no words for this.

  The truth was, he did know, although it was not on his account. It was Catherine who had taught him the agony of helplessness as she had wasted away while he had prayed with all his heart for her to survive, no matter what the cost.

  Of course, he had believed he would be the one to bear the cost.

  “Yes,” was all he said now, very quietly. “I can imagine.”

  Whatever Jeltor heard in his voice, he was surprised into silence for a moment.

  Finally, Jeltor said, “It would have had to be a Jotun. I should have warned you. Only a Jotun would know to do the things they did. But I hoped—I thought that no Jotun would do something like that. It was so cruel.”

  Barnabas shook his head slightly. He’d learned over the years that any sentient species had a boundless capacity for cruelty. He had once wondered if humanity alone could be so brutal, but his time away from Earth had shown him emphatically that this was not so.

  If that cruelty were not matched by kindness, it would be a bleak universe, indeed.

  Jeltor, thankfully, had moved on to more productive things. “We have to find her,” he told Barnabas. “And determine why she did this.”

  “I hope to have an answer to that question soon,” Barnabas told him. “It looks like she might be heading to Gerris Station. It’s pretty much the only thing we can think of that’s within the range of that shuttle.

  Jeltor bobbed in a way that seemed to indicate a nod.

  Barnabas hesitated. “There’s a possibility I want to prepare you for,” he said as gently as he could.

  Jeltor was silent.

  “We’ve been looking at this as political murder,” Barnabas said, “but it’s possible that it’s personal.” He thought he sensed surprise and tried to explain. “Murders sometimes seem senseless, but the murderer always has a reason. This assassin didn’t move like a Jotun—if I hadn’t grabbed her and felt the metal, I would never have known what she was. Either she’s someone with a grudge, or someone hired her, but either way, this was planned.”

  “I know.” Jeltor sounded determined.

  “You say that,” Barnabas said, struggling to find the words, “but I want to prepare you for the fact that you might find out things you didn’t want to know. Things that make you think of him in a different light.”

  He hadn’t thought of that until the moment he said it, but he knew it was true. An assassin of this caliber betrayed a longstanding grudge of some sort, and there were far too many unanswered questions in Barnabas’ opinion.

  For one thing, if this were a political assassination, why was it Huword the Senate was going after? By all reports, he hadn’t been the one who had led the mutiny. Had he provided some support or information that even most of the other naval captains didn’t know about?

  And if they were making a point, why not publicize it?

  Assassinations left a bad taste in Barnabas’ mouth. He hated those who killed to sow fear. In this case, those who had killed did not seem to be making a point of it—and that meant they were altogether subtler.

  And Barnabas did not like that.

  Chapter Nine

  Jeltor sat alone in the darkness of his rooms and fought a feeling of deep worry.

  When Barnabas had first called, Jeltor had not questioned the cause of Huword’s murder. The Yennai Corporation had been run by some of the most unscrupulous individuals he had ever heard of, and their infiltration of the Jotun Senate had been all but complete. Jeltor knew that there were senators who would not hesitate to order naval officers assassinated.

  Frankly, he was surprised they’d gotten through the past two weeks without a rash of mysterious deaths. The Senate had been eerily silent, although their rage was palpable.

  But what if Barnabas was right? What if this was something else? After all, there hadn’t been other deaths. No one had come for Jeltor, even though he might be considered the one who started all of this.

  Which meant that Huword’s death was likely something different in a way no one yet understood.

  The thing was, Jeltor had no idea where to start looking. Had someone murdered Barnabas, for instance, Jeltor would have looked at a list of people Barnabas had judged over the years. If someone had murdered Gar, Jeltor would look at the people Gar had wronged in his climb to the near-top of the community on Devon—or associates of Lan, whom Gar had betrayed. It wasn’t difficult to follow the threads, usually. Everyone had enemies, didn’t they?

  When it came to Huword, however, Jeltor honestly could not think of anyone.

  He thought back to their time at the naval academy. Huword had been like any other person in many respects, falling in and out of love, hanging out with friends, and cultivating a reputation for good work. He was funnier than most people Jeltor knew, but that was hardly anything Jeltor could imagine might result in his death. Not everyone liked a comedian, but those people just hung out with more serious people, didn’t they?

  Briefly, he considered that Huword had done this to himself, somehow. Perhaps he’d been distraught over his demotion to the Gar’aemon? If he thought his career was over and he’d been ruined, would
he do something like that? Hire someone to disconnect his suit?

  No. It made no sense. Why not leave a note? Why any of the little details that abounded in this case?

  But that led Jeltor to an interesting theory: Huword’s demotion. Perhaps it was something to do with that.

  That thought gave him a burst of energy and he went into motion, pulling up every communication he’d ever had from Huword and poring back over the records of their academy days. He saw videos of their training and mentions of tests and debates; anyone who hoped to be an admiral was required to show top marks in military strategy. Like all of them, Huword had hoped to be an admiral.

  And, like most of them, he hadn’t made it. Jeltor sat still for a long time, trying to remember if Huword had seemed uncommonly upset about that.

  He couldn’t remember. Huword had always been very good-natured.

  None of this made sense. Jeltor groaned aloud. He wished he could think of a single fact that made any of this make sense, but the more he thought, the more muddled he became. Huword had gotten along with everyone. He was clever, he was funny, he could listen to anyone kindly. After all, who had Jeltor gone to after all of his breakups or bad tests? Huword. He always had a bottle of something and a sympathetic ear.

  Something occurred to Jeltor then. It was something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, more like an itch in his mind than actual thought, and he found himself flipping feverishly through pictures on the screen, little video clips, messages—anything he could find.

  He’d know it when he saw it, wouldn’t he? He’d be able to recognize it when he saw whatever it was his mind was trying to tell him…wouldn’t he?

  As it happened, he did.

  “You are cleared to dock.” The Brakalon voice sounded strange through the translation filter, and Norwun could hear the actual growl and hiss of the Brakalon language in the background.

  Brakalons. He grimaced. They were everything he hated: big and brawny, preferring to solve their problems with muscle rather than thought.

  It wasn’t just a cultural distaste, though. When a Brakalon went off the rails, there was a good chance of someone getting hurt—and what chance did a Jotun have of surviving if their tank was breached?