Jethro 3: No Place Like Home (48 page)

“I can't believe he did it, to his baby brother,” a prisoner said softly.

Hart turned orienting on the sound. “What was that?” He demanded in surprise. “Brothers?” he asked.

“I have run facial recognition. The victim is the one I had identified as a potential source for this
El Dorado
the Veraxin said in a text link as other Marines filed in.

“Whatever the hell it is, it's got them up in a tizzy about it,” a Marine said. He looked away uncomfortably from the blood-soaked victim to the perp in cuffs. The guy had tear streaks staining his face and blood on his hands. He looked defiant but guilty. He kept muttering about how he had to do it, he just had to.

“Put him on suicide watch,” the Marine said, nodding his chin to the perp. The medic with them looked up and frowned.

The Veraxin poked the body. That got a reaction from the prisoner. “Don't touch him you filthy bug!” he snarled, struggling wildly.

When the human was hauled off the Veraxin chittered. “Yes, that is something odd. They obviously have something to hide and are going to great lengths to do so.” The Veraxin said. He clacked his mandibles as he viewed the crime scene, going over the details carefully. “Even kill for.”

“Apparently they thought he couldn't hold the secret. Whatever it was, sir,” the human private said.

“I hadn't gotten a chance to interview him in depth. That is disappointing. I had hoped to get to the root of their sociopathic xenophobia,” the Veraxin said. He'd gotten some interesting leads while discussing the history of Horath and comparing it to what was on file.

“I'm more interested in whatever this El Dorado is,” private Hart said, pitching his voice to carry while scanning the improvised brig. He made note of those who reacted to that statement. He sent a text message to the Veraxin with the recording identifying those who did react.

“You were wise to watch for a reaction but unwise in letting our interest in such information slip. Now they know what not to talk about,” the Veraxin replied. Hart sighed. He couldn't win it seemed. “And you should have warned me that what you were doing was to provoke a reaction,” the bug said.

“Sorry, sir,” Hart muttered.

“We're all learning. Some faster than others it seems. Don't make the mistake again,” the bug said as the PFC followed him out of the compartment.

The next morning a bed check discovered two other Horathian ratings had committed suicide by hanging themselves during the night. Ensign Esh'z was furious over the intelligence loss.

“I should have known! Seen something! We should have segregated them better!”

“Look, we can't be everywhere at once! There are only so many of us to go around and quite a few many more of them. Plus running the ship Ensign. What more do you want?” the Veraxin Captain Tr'j'ck asked.

“Answers!”

The Veraxin signaled first-level commitment to action but patience with his true hands and upper arms. “So do we. And we'll get them. What do you want to do? We can't separate them. I wish we could. The best we can do is get a handle on those with intel and put them in stasis, if we have enough pods.”

“I wish we could put them all in pods.”

“Well, we can't. We have a lot of wounded in pods already. If we fill the remaining pods up we won't have room in case we have another accident. And besides, there are only two left on the ship.”

“Great,” the Ensign chittered, signaling exasperation.

“Just do what you can. That is all any of us can do.”

“I agree, sir.”

“One thing that did occur to me. Each of the deceased knew something right?” The Captain asked.

The Ensign clacked his mandibles and then signaled second-level agreement. “Apparently. Or they were depressed.”

“Well, that's a given. I don't care about that. But I do wonder if we can draw from that. By identifying those who died, perhaps a computer records check and some careful digging will tell us more. If not the entire secret, then at least put us on the path to its answer.”

The Veraxin intelligence officer clicked his mandibles a few times and then signaled first level assent.

“Good. Get on it then.”

“Sir, I think we should interview the surviving former slaves as well. They may know something, even though they don't know they know it. Perhaps something the Horathian's let slip when they were in command.”

“Good idea. Log it for follow up in Pyrax.”

---( | ) --- ( | )---

Jethro trotted down the companionway and then ducked around the corner. He judged he had about thirty seconds before the suit found him, if that. It wasn't fair, Bast was linked to him so she could track him. Besides, she had access to the ship's security net. His only recourse was to hide in a group of people or near them. She would then hold off, stalk him or meow piteously in his ears until he gave it up.

He'd tried tag with her, but when she got excited she tended to get a little rough. Catch was fun, but hide and seek was a natural thing for both of them. And since both he and the suit could cloak... well, it made it interesting.

“Gunny?” A familiar voice asked.

Jethro stiffened, coming to attention as the familiar clack of legs came closer. “Sir.”

“Aren't you out of uniform, Gunnery Sergeant?” The Veraxin Captain asked.

“Sir, off duty. And well, I am working out.”

“Out of the suit I see,” the Veraxin said. “Wait, I just saw it a moment ago,” he turned in place in confusion. “Yes, isn't it over there?” he asked, pointing his right upper arm.

“Yes, sir, I suppose it is.”

“Well, if you are here...Who...” The Veraxin asked, now sounding both put out and confused.

“Bast sir. You wanted me out of the suit. She's...using it. To track me down.”

“I see,” the Veraxin said. Jethro's eyes narrowed. He could tell the AI was up to something just from the mischievous look in her eyes. He turned, sniffing the air but he couldn't see or smell anything.

“Problem?”

“She's stalking me, sir. We're practicing, developing her skills and giving me a physical work out. She's well, hunting me. I think she's cloaked,” Jethro said.

“Yes well, I'll just...carry on then I suppose,” the Veraxin said. “You should have that suit on a leash or something,” he muttered, walking away.

Jethro shook his head just as he heard a familiar playful gotcha growl behind him. He had just enough time to tense and leap straight up as a ton of suit came flying at where he had been in a tackle. The panther rebounded off the ceiling tile, denting a couple panels and knocking one loose before he recovered.

Bast growled, still cloaked.

“You are so cheating you little witch,” Jethro chuffed, looking around. He knew she was going to win; it was just a matter of when. He closed his eyes, dropped into cloak himself, and then deliberately cut off his senses.

Bast yowled, a mix of fear, anger, and annoyance. Jethro didn't react, he just shifted, moving slowly by memory alone. He felt the AI attempt to force his implants back online, but he firmly kept them off. He moved slowly, using his recon ghosting techniques to carefully step. He heard a clatter further down the companionway but didn't react.

Bast did though, catching on to his realization that she was getting colder. The growl rebounded. Jethro snorted softy. She should be able to do something about his cloak; after all she was a part of it. He wasn't sure why she didn't, but he wasn't going to turn down the chance, if it was a chance. He made the corner then picked up his pace. He slitted his eyes to make sure he wasn't going to run into anyone, then flattened himself against a wall as the suit went barreling past. He made it to the lift before she did and then opened his eyes.

She immediately knew where he was, she yowled. “Peek a boo,” he chuffed, watching the doors close just as she rounded the corner. She ran full out and leaped but missed. He winced as she clanged off the door. She meowed piteously on his HUD.

“Spoil sport,” he growled, hitting the override and then opening the lift doors. But she was gone. “Oh really, turning the tables you little minx?” He asked with a laugh. He flicked his ears when she didn't say anything. He wasn't sure if she was pouting or what but he knew he'd have a hell of a time finding her. Fine then he thought moving out slowly.

---( | ) --- ( | )---

Two days after the death and a day after the strip search Ensign Esh'z heard a blood curdling scream in E block. He rushed to the hatch and without thinking opened it and ran in.

He expected to find another murder, but instead was immediately set upon by a group of desperate or angry Horathian prisoners.

Jethro arrived on the scene a moment after Hart hit the alarm. The Marines squashed the riot or mutiny and break out attempt from the brig before it had a chance to get started. The Intel Veraxin survived, but he had been injured in the fighting. He had been stabbed in the joints of his arms and had lost an eye stalk before the mechs and drones had waded into the fray.

The Veraxin was taken to the infirmary. He had lost an eye stalk in the fight, but he had used his lobster claws to cut off one attacker's head, another pirate's hand and a third's genitals in the attack. The scissor-like appendages were quite powerful when they were used against flesh. They used reflex muscles like those in a Terran bumble bee's wings to snap closed with incredible force, crushing and slicing in one action.

The Ensign seemed a bit put out over the confrontation, because he had misread the human's body language, underestimated them, had been injured, and had been forced to kill two of his attackers in the confrontation. The destruction of a possible intelligence asset bothered the bug the most it seemed.

Jethro confronted the hard ass who had created a shiv. The Horathian stopped struggling briefly when he was picked up by Jethro by the back of the neck. The human was easily a hundred kilos of solid muscle, but in the suit he might as well have been a feather. “Stop struggling or I'll snap your neck,” Jethro growled as PFC Hart snapped cuffs on the guy.

Jethro dug his toe claws into the deck; it was slick with blood from the two guys who had bled out. One had apparently been decapitated, the other had screamed himself senseless as he bled out from his missing hand. He slammed the guy in his hands against a bulkhead to subdue him, then held him there.

The man tried to twist in his grip. Jethro felt anger bubbling but fought it down; he had to stay professional. He was tempted to just snap the bastard’s neck. It would be so easy, just a slight twist... but no, he had to stay true to form. Besides, he thought, looking at the golden eyes on his HUD, think of the paperwork involved.

He felt his AI partner snort at that and then close her eyes briefly. He looked around the compartment. With him there in his armor all the fight and life had drained out of the Horathians in an instant. They didn't stand a chance, and they knew it. A few were fearful, a few insolent. One or two still kept an edge of sullen defiance. But they were cowed.

Jethro slammed the ring leader up against the wall and then cuffed him with his free hand, rumbling a growl to keep the human fearful and obedient. The guy was still gasping, and only put up a feeble resistance as the panther locked his hands behind him. “Think you're the big man,” the guy gasped.

Jethro set him down and then spun him. “What was that?”

“Oh, so big in that fancy smancy armor,” the guy said and spat in Jethro's face. Jethro's eyes flared briefly. He snarled, deep in his throat. He put a hand on the guy's chest sinking the claws in just enough to rip the orange jumper he was wearing.

“Oh, so tough,” the guy mocked. “Why don't you come out of that armor and try that?” he snarled.

“I could, but why bother? If I tore you apart I'd just have a shit load of paperwork to deal with,” Jethro replied.

He looked around and then nodded to Staff Sergeant Tony. The big yellow tiger nodded back and then flicked his ears. “I think it's funny,” Jethro said, returning his attention to his prisoner. Bast marked the man's tattoos with karats on his HUD; her scanners pierced the cloth like it was transparent. One showed an image of a woman being raped with lines under it. From the count he'd had over thirty-five women. There was another tattoo; this one of a skull. There were quite a few slashes under it, over sixty-nine. The guy was hard core.

“What's that?” The tough asked.

“This,” Jethro said. “How many people have you taken prisoner? Hmmm? Made to feel helpless. How many have you beaten? Raped? By that tat on your right peck I'd say thirty-five. Murdered? Sixty-nine? Wow. Thanks for that, now we can tell the prosecution that.”

The guy sputtered, sinking into a defiant rage. His blue eyes glared at Jethro. Jethro snorted. “The tables have turned,” he said. “You're about to become some homie's round bottom boy. They'll love your potty mouth and tough guy attitude in prison. I'll bet that'll go over well. I wonder, will you squeal when they bend you over and shove their dicks in your ass and down your throat? Just like one of the girls you used to rape?”

“You...you...”

“I bet you'll like it after a while. A cherry like you, oh, they say once you take it that way you can never go back,” Jethro said. “And you're just trembling with eagerness aren't you?” he murmured wickedly.