How many Grandies had seen where the water went? Aryl gazed at the towers that grew like a forest high above, thinking of the maze of giant pipes far below. Of the Commons who’d been stealing fuel and died for it. If not for the artifacts, which would the M’hiray be?
She came to attention as a shadow stopped overhead, taking away the rain, then waited as the black aircar moved ahead, then slowly descended to almost touch the path. A door in its side opened, but no light welcomed her.
Aryl drew the force blade and switched it on. The line of energy turned the rain to steam.
The aircar jigged up and down, as if impatient.
The constable.
Embarrassed, she put away the weapon and climbed in, feeling her way to a bench. Once the door closed, the lights came on.
Maynard set the machine in motion, then came back to sit across from her. “We can’t be overheard in here.”
Haxel and others who routinely left the Tower used scramblers and other tricks they’d learned from the Clan’s Humans, careful to leave normal traces but not reveal too much. Anyone who could afford it did the same. She should have. Aryl winced at the lecture she’d doubtless receive—and deserve—on her return. She gestured gratitude, then thought “Human” and added “Thank you.”
“Wait till we see if I actually can help,” he advised. “The names?”
“Karina Bowman is the daughter. The mother’s name is Kelly Bowman. The father’s—he was—” For some reason, Aryl found herself unable to say it. She pulled out the image disk and handed it to Maynard, folding her hands on her lap. “It’s in there.”
He touched the insignia on his jacket. “Look up ‘Karina and Kelly Bowman.’ Norval city limits to start. All occurrences.” He lifted his fingers away. “That’ll start the data flow. Now.” Like Yao, the constable had no problem operating the disk.
She watched him, not the images; saw how he gazed without expression at the image of the four, how, when Marcus’ face appeared, muscles along his jaw clenched. Maynard played the message through once, then again. Again.
Aryl closed her eyes.
“He was tortured.”
She opened them, saw his anger and didn’t understand. “Injured—”
“You call that ‘injured’? Ossirus save me from fools!” His anger was at her now. “I know torture when I see it. That was deliberate harm, Aryl di Sarc, by someone who wanted answers, information, something from this Bowman. Who? Where did this happen? When?”
Tears filled her eyes. Marcus had been tortured? “I don’t know,” she fumbled. “Offworld. I—I found the disk in my things when we unpacked. I don’t know how it got there, only that I—I must have promised him. To give it to Karina. Why else would I have it?”
His eyes were cold. “Why, indeed?”
Aryl stiffened. “Will you help me or not?”
Without answering, Maynard took the disk and went to his seat at the front of the aircar.
Aryl stayed where she was, looking down at her hands, and did her best to keep her thoughts—and her feelings about them—from Enris.
Torture.
Did that terrible word describe what Naryn had done to KaeCee? What M’hiray scouts did to any Human vulnerable to Power?
If so, they were no better than those who’d tormented Marcus Bowman. He hadn’t deserved to be treated like that.
He’d only tried to help them. To help their . . . it faded . . .
No, she wouldn’t lose the memory. She wouldn’t!
... help their world. Marcus Bowman had been a friend, not only to her, but to the M’hiray. A Human friend, of his own will.
Had he died for it?
Aryl waited, lost in her own concerns. She didn’t know how long it was before the constable swiveled his seat to look at her again. “You say he was your friend.”
“Yes. Have you found something?”
“A puzzle. I hate puzzles,” Maynard added almost lightly. “In my line of work, they mean elements who prefer to hide certain truths. Elements who will be distinctly unhappy if I happen to find them.”
Aryl didn’t bother working this out. “Did you find Karina?”
“I found Marcus Bowman.”
She blinked.
“In the records. What’s left of them. He’s listed as having died offworld—but not where or how. His work appears in the indices of various academic publications, where he’s described as a prominent xenoarchaeologist and Triad Analyst—but the First won’t comment on whether or not a Marcus Bowman did research for them. According to a source, any and all original materials attributed to a Marcus Bowman have been sealed and removed from public access.
“The one item that does keep surfacing? Marcus Bowman was an expert on the Hoveny Concentrix. Does that mean anything to you?”
KaeCee said the artifacts were Hoveny. Marcus Bowman had put his name on them as proof. “A past civilization,” Aryl said. “One that ruled this section of space a long time ago.”
“Hoveny relics are rare. Incredibly valuable,” the constable informed her, leaning his arm on the back of his chair. His eye glinted. “Our mutual friend KaeCee would be interested, but the oddest thing? There hasn’t been so much as a whiff of anything untoward about his activities in weeks. Since you’ve arrived, in fact. Have you been a good influence?”
She tried not to flinch. Maynard was on the hunt; she knew the signs. She’d been wrong to come, Aryl realized, her mouth dry. Wrong not to see the dangers in names and data. Haxel would want this Human “handled.”
Not going to happen, Aryl told herself fiercely. “Did you find Karina Bowman?”
“She’s dropped off.”
She’d never understand the Human fondness for meaningless expressions. “Off what?”
Maynard regarded her. “The First may not acknowledge Marcus Bowman, but they legally claimed everything he owned. Home. Credit deposits. Savings. We’ve no current location or work address for anyone in his family. My guess is those who got wind of the claim took what they could and ran offworld. It happens.” With a shrug. “Puts them out of my jurisdiction.”
Offworld. It meant away from here. But where?
Like most M’hiray, Aryl wasn’t quite convinced the locates for the seven Houses were on other planets entirely and struggled with the scope of the newly formed and growing Trade Pact. Worlds. Solar Systems. Quadrants. Galaxy. Words. That’s all they were. Offworld said it all.
“They’re gone?”
He brandished the disk in one hand. “Which leaves this. Whatever Bowman put in here, it’s encrypted. Secret,” at her questioning look. “You’d need his code to access it. Might be for privacy. But secrets raise another possibility. Not a pleasant one.”
“Nothing about this is,” she retorted. “What possibility?”
“That Bowman never intended this for his daughter. The First’s claim went through about the time you arrived. Maybe he knew she’d be gone. Maybe he expected someone else to obtain it from you, someone with the code.”
Aryl relaxed and smiled. “If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that this is for the baby.”
“Baby?” His gaze sharpened. “What baby?”
“Karina.”
Maynard activated the image disk again. “The little girl here?”
“Of course.”
“You don’t know—I see.” He turned off the image. “This vid was made fourteen standard years ago.”
No. That was Marcus’ family. He’d shown her. Talked of them. They’d been alone together, both lonely . . . Family was everything. To him as well.
Aryl surged to her feet. “I don’t believe it!”
The constable didn’t move. “City records state Kelly Bowman dissolved their partnership shortly after this was taken, keeping the son, Howard. The daughter became the sister’s ward, Cindy Bowman, and both were last known to reside in the Bowman home in Norval. Karina Bowman isn’t a baby anymore.”