He turned back to Ky. “ID?”

“Kylara Vatta, of Gary Tobai, “Ky said. “This is my crewman Gordon Martin.”

After a moment, the guard said, “You’ve had contact with the law twice already today: an altercation at your dockside, and possession of an unlicensed animal.”

“We found that unlicensed animal,” Ky said.

“And I suppose you just found some dead bodies?”

“No. We were coming along this passage when someone started shooting at us. We hit the deck; I got that one—” Ky nodded to the body in the street some thirty meters away. “—and this one, who was assigned to me by Baritom Security, supposedly a fully licensed escort guard. He turned on me, close range.”

“Excuse me?”

The back of Ky’s neck prickled, a signal she was in no mood to ignore. “Could we go to the station, please? Two people tried to kill me today. I’d like to get off the street and into cover.”

“You’re scared with all of us here?” The sneer was palpable.

“Yes,” Ky said. “And with some reason, I believe. I am willing—no, eager—to give a full report, but I’d rather not be shot in the head while standing out here in easy range of anyone in any of these shops.”

The man made no response at first. Ky assumed he was getting instructions through an implant or his helmet com. In a few moments, he said, “All right. We’re taking you in. Hands on your head.”

The Garda station was around the curve from where they’d been, in the direction they’d been walking. No one else appeared until they were out of sight of the carnage behind. There, a curious crowd had gathered behind a taped perimeter. The guards answered no questions, but hurried Ky and Martin on until they were inside the station. There, since nothing had shown on the autoscanner as they came in, they were allowed to lower their hands.

“You’re getting quite a reputation, Captain Vatta,” said the person behind the desk. “Illegal biologicals, assaults, murder—”

“Self-defense,” Ky said. “Attempted murder, on their part. And what I hope is impersonation, for which Baritom is legally responsible.”

“So you say,” the man said. “An investigating officer will be here shortly to take your statements. You can wait in there—” He jerked his head toward a doorway.

“I need to inform my ship,” Ky said. “They’re expecting us to return.”

He scowled at her. “You’re under suspicion—”

“Of course,” Ky said. “But there’s no reason to panic my crew, is there? After all, I’m still responsible for them; I’m sure you’d rather not have them involved in any other incidents.”

“You can use the public com outlet, there,” he said.

“Go on, Martin; I’ll be with you shortly,” Ky said. Martin nodded and preceded one of the Garda down a hall. Ky gave the ship’s code.

“Gary Tobai, Cargo Specialist Barikal speaking.” Cele looked calm, so Ky hoped that meant nothing had happened while she was gone. “Oh—Captain! Sorry—the screen didn’t show your ID at first.”

“That’s all right. Is Quincy there? Has Beeah come back?”

“No, Captain. Quincy’s gone out to one of the chandlers to select rations. She took Jim with her; she’s not alone. Beeah called in to say he was having lunch on Hub Three. Do you want Mehar? She’s in Engineering—”

“No. That’s all right. But I’ve run into some problems. We were attacked on the way back from out here; I want all ship personnel to return to the ship at once and stay there. Who else is out?”

“Besides you and Martin, just Jim, Beeah, and Quincy, Captain. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. But I’d like you to contact Quincy and Beeah—get Mehar to do it by implant—and have them return immediately. I’ll be tied up here in the Hub Four Garda station awhile—probably some hours—but she can try to contact me here. I don’t know if they’ll put calls through. Just sit tight.”

“Yes, Captain. I do have some good news on the cargo side. Alene got quite a profit on one part of the Leonora cargo.”

“That’s fine,” Ky said. “But I’d rather not discuss that on this line. I’m using the public com at the guard station. I’ll call again when I can.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Ky signed off, smiled at the still-scowling man behind the desk, and went into the waiting room, furnished with a bench, narrow table, and two chairs. Martin sat on the bench with his usual composure, radiating calm patience despite the smears of blood and dirt on his clothes. He gave her a pleasant smile. Ky was sure she looked worse than he did; the stench of blood and brains on her face was nauseating. One of the armed guards followed them and stood by the door.

“Is there a toilet?” Ky asked.

“You’ll have to wait until forensics has tested your clothes,” the guard said.

They didn’t have long to wait. The man who came through the door introduced himself as Inspector Grant. “We’ll need to do some forensic tests on your clothes,” he said. “If you’ll follow my assistant here into the changing area, this won’t take long, and then I can take your statements.”

He had two assistants, one male and one female, both humods with low-pressure adaptations. Ky disrobed under the eye of the female and handed her suit over, changing into the simple gray coverall provided. “Now we’ll need to test your hands,” the woman said. She took the sack with Ky’s clothes and led her to another room, where a technician sat behind a machine with a slot in the front. Ky put her hands in the slot as directed, and, after a minute or two, the technician nodded. The technician wiped her face with a cloth and took a blood sample. Then the woman led her back to the waiting room, having handed over the sack to the technician.

“If you need the toilet, you can use it now,” the woman said.

“I’d like to wash my face,” Ky said. “Is that all right?”

“Yes,” the woman said.

In the washroom, Ky scrubbed all the visible bits off her face and wished she could wash her hair. Even as she brushed it with the packet of drywash, it didn’t feel clean. What she really needed was a long, hot shower. She used the facilities, then scrubbed her hands again. When she emerged, she went back to the waiting room and sat down across from Inspector Grant.

“You’ve had a bad day, I gather,” he said, pleasantly enough. “So, Captain Vatta—suppose you tell me what happened. Starting with… let’s start with when you left the Garda station on Hub Three after arranging for that animal to go into quarantine.”

Ky related her travels as best she could. Grant asked for descriptions of the people on the various trams.

“Why did you elect to walk back that way?” he asked, when she told about turning down the passage where they were attacked. “Didn’t it occur to you that staying in the main thoroughfare might be safer?”

“My escort, Willem Turnish. I had asked if he knew of a place that carried pet supplies. If we were going to be stuck with that puppy, we’d need some. He said there was a shop called BioExotics on Willow Lane. In fact,” Ky continued, “he recommended the café—Murphy’s—where we ate lunch.”

“Murphy’s has a good reputation,” Grant said. “Do you think they’ll remember you?”

“I’d think so. It wasn’t very busy when we were there. I remember which table. Anyway, we started down Willow Lane, and the passage cleared out after a while; we were walking along fairly quickly and I was looking at storefronts, reading the names and numbers. Then Turnish said look out, and I was diving for cover when the first two shots came. We were all on the ground when the next shot came, then I had my weapon out. I got the one up ahead, and told Turnish to take cover in the nearest doorway while I covered him.”

“And?”

“He rolled over and had a weapon aimed at my head. I was so stunned I couldn’t move—he was too close, and I was stretched out, my weapon pointing away from him…”

“You’re sure it was Turnish?”

“Absolutely,” Ky said. “He’d been with me the whole time, never more than an arm’s length away.”