Character Study: Thorn, Halston, Fleepo

There was a body in the corridor. Thorn gaped at it; Halston did. 'What's that doing here?' Thorn asked Fleepo, who stood guard, waiting for their arrival – well, Thorn's arrival, in any case. Fleepo had called him, not Halston, but Thorn had brought the other man along, thinking he might be able to help with whatever Fleepo was on about.

'I didn't do it,' she said quickly. Halston had dropped to a crouch, was examining the body: a large human male Thorn didn't recognise, with a knife sticking out of his back. There was blood everywhere.

'Why didn't you tell the captain?' Halston asked. Which was a stupid question, considering Fleepo's reaction when they showed up.

'Because,' Fleepo said, 'that's my knife.'

A nod. 'He's not one of our passengers.'

'I haven't the faintest idea who he is. I haven't a clue how he got on board. I just want him gone.'

'Have you checked his pockets?' Thorn asked.

'No. – Look, we don't have time for this – !'

But Thorn and Halston were already making a team effort of it, flipping the big man over and searching his person whilst trying not to get covered in his blood, which was still slippy. Between the condition of the blood and the warmth of the body, Thorn judged the man hadn't been dead long. Thorn found a small wad of cash in a front pocket, qoce currency, and stashed it in his own pocket – for which Halston handed him a look, like a teacher confronting a naughty student. That look was one of the primary reasons Thorn disliked Halston.

'What? He doesn't need it anymore.' He went back to rifling through the victim's possessions, discovered a card smeared with gore; he wiped it on the man's jacket, squinted at it in the murky half-light. 'Uh-oh.'

Halston faced him in evident alarm. 'What, uh-oh?'

'Name's Murray Clavers. He's a diplomat.'

'A diplomat?' Halston echoed, and snatched the card. 'What's he doing stowing away? And on our ship?'

'Never mind that,' Fleepo said. 'Now that he's on, how do we get him off?'

'Halston and I'll take care of that. You go get some bleach and as many towels as you can make off with and not be noticed. And hurry.'

'Can I have my knife back?'

Thorn pulled it free, sent it skittering in her direction. 'Make sure there's no blood on it before you put it back where it belongs. I mean it – none. If you can't get it absolutely spotless, get rid of it. No matter how attached to it you are.'

Fleepo nodded once, briskly, then picked up her knife and ran to retrieve the cleaning supplies. Halston rubbed his palms over his trousers, a worried look on his face. 'Just how are we going to do this?'

'I'll take this end. You take his feet.' Together they hefted the man, who was even heavier than he looked, and made their sweaty and rather breathless way to the nearest airlock – which was a good deal farther away than Thorn would have liked; the body dripped the whole way, more mess they would have to clean up before anyone else came down this passage.

Thorn dropped his end as quietly as possible, hit the button next to the airlock with his elbow, which was just about the only part of him that didn't have blood on it. They were going to have to eject their clothes, too. Thorn brushed perspiration off his brow and studied the figure on the floor while he and Halston took a breaher. Something about the diplomat's wound bothered Thorn. The knife had jutted out at an angle that would have been impossible for Fleepo to achieve, given her lack of height, but it wasn't that . . . It was the wound itself – or, rather, where the wound was. Which was between the third and fourth ribs, exactly where it needed to be for the victim to die quickly and without screaming.

This diplomat – whoever he was, however he'd got aboard – had been killed by a professional assassin.