Rules of Conflict Page 3

  Behind her, the pounding grew louder.

  Then, like a bracing wave breaking over her, an old friend dropped by to pay Jani his respects. Her feet numbed. Her lungs cleared. Muzzy perception crystallized. The ovenlike night air parted before her, then closed behind, buoying her along. She pelted down a side street and through an alley, aware as a cat of the fading noises behind her. The thought that she’d been sick a few hours before and should slow down flitted through the cold white that had become her mind, but she shook it off. Fatigue was for other people. She could surf this way for hours. And maybe she would, just for the sheer animal joy of it.

  Hello augie—about damn time.

  Through every cell in her body, Jani’s augmentation whispered his regards.

  But her Service-implanted bootstraps could only take her so far. As she slowed to a trot, Jani felt the first tendrils of panic push through her calm. The neurochemical rush that had eased her pain and opened her lungs slowed to a sputter. Augie worked best and longest for intact soldiers at the top of their game, not for half-animandroid never-weres just released from the hospital.

  Jani eased to a walk, in part to conserve her flagging strength, but mainly because she’d entered a section of Felix Majora where a running woman would attract attention. Office towers and manufacturing facilities loomed on either side as she headed down a wide, well-kept alley. When she reached an entry next to a small loading dock, she knocked twice, then sagged against the doorframe and pressed her hot, wet face against cool, dry metal.

  The door opened.

  “I saw you coming on the scan.” The woman looked Jani up and down and grimaced. Her name was Ileana, and she was Jani’s boss. “What the hell happened?”

  Jani ducked past her. Inside, the air felt cool and held a soft floral fragrance. “Almost got mugged.”

  “Where?”

  “The Cuarto Montaña.”

  “What the hell were you doing there!” Ileana flipped her long black braid over her shoulder. “At night? Alone?”

  “Fell asleep on the hojea.” The Felician Spanish slang for the automated public-transport system slipped off Jani’s tongue as though she’d used it all her life. “Didn’t hear the end-of-the-line alarm until it was too late. They just spooked me. I’m fine.”

  “Hmph.” Ileana eyed Jani’s rumpled white trouser suit. Then she looked down at Val’s heavy brown boots and wrinkled her nose. “Tell me you didn’t do that on purpose.” She had matched her own flame orange wrapshirt and trousers with high-heeled sandals of the same color, and had wound a desert-print scarf around her neck. Her thick braid reached to her waist and gleamed with gold oil. Tall and lithe, with a long, angular face, she appeared the well-to-do Feliciana, a mature lady of business. Perfume dealer, in this case.

  Appearances could be deceiving.

  “It’s a long story.” Jani entered the main work area, where a man and woman watched over the array that packed the rolls of perfumed adhesive patchlets into cartons. “Maybe I’ll tell you about him sometime.”

  “Ah, man trouble!” Ileana clapped her hands in glee. “Finally, my paper robot shows humanity!” She followed Jani into the tiny employee locker room. “Bring him to lunch tomorrow, Tasia. I must meet him.”

  Tasia. Jani sat down on the narrow bench in front of her locker. Oh yes, a “T” name; lately, she found it hard to keep track. “Sure. When and where?”

  Ileana debated times and places out loud; Jani stifled a yawn as she willed her voice into the background. Post-augie fatigue had overtaken post-augie jitters more quickly than she remembered. But then, lately, lots of things were happening differently than she remembered.

  The entry comport buzzed; Ileana, still nattering about restaurants, left to answer it. As soon as she was alone, Jani keyed into her locker and removed a small duffel. The Service surplus bag was made of stiff, dark blue polycanvas, and contained everything she owned. She had taken a risk leaving it there, but she hadn’t dared take it into Neoclona, and she didn’t trust the security of her flat.

  Jani did a quick inventory of her duffel’s contents. My preflight check. Two pairs of dark grey coveralls, rolled into tight tubes. A pair of battered black boots. Assorted underwear. Her keepsakes: a toy soldier, a holocard depiction of two sailracers, and a gold ring with a red stone.

  She examined her boots wistfully. Val’s hikers chafed her ankles despite the padding, but felt tight around her feet. That meant her feet had swelled. If I take his boots off, I won’t be able to get mine on. She pushed her old faithfuls aside and dug farther into the bag.

  The scanproof material that lined the false bottom of her duffel had cost Jani most of her cash reserve, but would have been worth it at twice the price. Within the slippery blue envelope rested her shooter, a bulky Service-issue over twenty years old, and assorted gadgetry hooked together by a braided length of red cloth. The devices allowed her to reset a touchlock or interfere with an eavesdropping device. Nothing to strike fear in the hearts of an antiterrorist squad, but they would draw the notice of Treasury Customs and Transport Ministry Security.

  Jani stuffed the gadgets back in the envelope, then removed a cracked plastic case from a well-padded pocket. “Hello, you,” she said as she unzipped the case and removed her scanpack.

  The palm-sized oval’s scratched black cover shimmered dully in the glare of the overhead lighting. Driven by Jani’s farmed brain tissue, the device functioned as the repository of a quarter century’s worth of documents knowledge. It would have won her envious stares from the other doc techs Jani had met at Felix Majora’s Government Hall, and pointed questions from Ileana. Only Registry-listed documents examiners carried scanpacks, and only four others in the forty-nine-planet Commonwealth carried ones that looked like Jani’s. And they all worked on Earth.

  Pointed questions, followed by pointed sticks. Jani stuffed the device back in her duffel and sniffed the air again. Isabellita. The light floral scent had become popular in some rather far-flung regions of the Commonwealth, a reason sufficient to explain the small perfume house’s ’round-the-clock operation. Every morning, boxload after boxload departed the small loading dock, bound for the rich colonies of the J-Loop as well as their not-so-rich brethren in the Channel and the Outer Circle.

  Wonder if External Revenue’s caught onto the fact there’s a lot of sweet-smelling sewage out there lately. Jani grinned. The perfume was a water-soluble concoction that could be flushed out of the patch polymer; the polymer could then be reworked into some of the best scanshielding Jani had ever seen. Not on par with the military-grade material lining the bottom of her duffel, but good enough to allow the occasional cruiser filled with unregistered, untaxed cargo to flit through the GateWay chain under the noses of sundry Cabinet branches.

  Jani unrolled one of the pairs of coveralls, then began the tricky task of pulling off her pants without removing Val’s hikers. Ripping proved necessary, but that didn’t bother her. The suit, fashionable and delicate, belonged to someone named Tasia, and Tasia had only minutes to live.

  Laughter trickled in from the packing room. This was, without a doubt, the happiest smuggling ring she ever worked with. Wonder how long it will last? No operation like it ever floated for long without springing a few leaks. The fact that most of the revenue earned by the small network went to finance colonial secessionist groups didn’t bode well for its life span, either.

  That was the main reason for her delay, when every nerve in her body sang for her to get out now. She had to finish out the night, leave things tight. If it ever went to hell for these people, it wouldn’t be because of anything she had done. Or failed to do. She might have worked at many jobs, under many names, on a score of worlds, but Jani Kilian had done them all very well. The habit had sunk its roots during her short but eventful Service career. Whatever job you undertake, perform it to the best of your ability, and see it through to the end. And so she had, now as then.

  Well, no. There had been one particular then when she ha
d not done her best. Oh, she had survived. No one else had, though, except in her memory.

  Knevçet Shèràa, the one bad job that outweighed all the good.

  “Tasia! What’s taking you so long!”

  Jani bundled the ruined trouser suit into her locker and limped out to the packing room to find Ileana waiting for her, holding a documents pouch.

  “Guv Hall. Hurry. You have sixteen minutes to file these quarterlies or those bastards will come after me!” She thrust the pouch into Jani’s hands, then grabbed her elbow and steered her toward the door.

  “It’s only half a block.” Jani tried to ease out of the woman’s grip. “I could stop for dinner and get there in time.”

  “Maybe, the way you eat.” Ileana eyed Jani’s coverall with distaste. “You eat like you dress. No thought. No one would ever mistake you for a true Feliciana.” She pushed Jani out the door. “Now move!”

  Jani hurried down the street in a lurching double time, her eyes focused on the brilliantly lit triple towers of Government Hall. Then she glanced back to see if Ileana watched her, and slowed down when she saw she didn’t. Her chest ached again. Her thigh muscles trembled. She wondered what Val was doing. Worming secrets from his sometime love? Or tearing the city apart looking for her?

  Good old Val. Her steps slowed as she recalled his embrace. It worried her that it took only a single kind gesture to knock her off-balance at a time when she couldn’t afford the least wobble. Now more than ever, she could not drop her guard.

  But I’m tired. Tired of feeling sick, of running, of trying to remember what her damned name was. Fed up with being alone.

  Jani flashed her Tasia ID for the last time at the Guv Hall security desk—one of the few benefits of being non-Reg was that she didn’t have to worry about hand or eye scanning. After she stuffed the pouch in a lobby drop box, she keyed in a request that the receipt be fiched to Ileana instead of to her.

  That final loose end tied off, Jani crossed the wide avenue and headed for the hojea platform, dodging skimmers and jostling through groups of the well-dressed leaving their businesses for a night on the town. One, a day-suited man whose night out must have started that morning, bumped her roughly, then staggered on, muttering curses at the world in general. Not a Felician accent, Jani noted. Earthbound. No surprise there. Lots of Earthbounders worked on Felix.

  She stepped onto the platform and surveyed the scene around her as she waited for the train. Across the street, she saw the man who had bumped her standing in the Guv Hall entryway, watching her. Then the street wove and roiled like a banner in the wind. Just as she sagged to her knees, Jani heard footsteps close in from behind. Then it all went black—

  Chapter 3

  “So what do we do now, Quino?” Evan van Reuter flipped his stylus from one hand to another. “We’ve been waiting for one goddamn piece of paper for two hours.”

  Joaquin Loiaza shot a look uptable at the SIB chief investigator. But Colonel Veda was engaged in anxious discussion with the Judge Advocate’s representative, and didn’t appear aware of the mutterings at the far end of the conference table. “In truth, Evan, we’ve been waiting for two goddamn pieces of paper. The Hilfington roster would be nice, but we’ll take the Kensington master if we have to.”

  “By my count, this makes the fourth time in a month they’ve misplaced documents.”

  “Yes, their track record does fail to impress. I must consider how to turn that to our advantage.” Joaquin rubbed his chin thoughtfully. As always, the old-coin aspect of his close-cropped brown hair and regal nose was offset by the pinched look around his turtlelike eyes.

  Caesar with a migraine. Evan tapped the stylus on the table and stole another glance at Colonel Veda. Since she sat, he could only see her from the waist up. Closely trimmed black hair. Creamy brown skin. A noble face, handsome rather than pretty. He’d yet to see her smile, but he guessed those dark brown eyes could sparkle given the right encouragement. He knew from other stolen glances that her Service summerweights hugged lovely curves.

  Her first name’s Chandra. A soft, lovely name. Yes, in another lifetime, he would have asked Durian Ridgeway to don his go-between hat and invite her to an assignation in one of the rented flats the Interior Ministry had scattered throughout Chicago. In that other lifetime, she would have accepted.

  But in this lifetime, Durian is dead and Veda thinks I’m a worm. Evan struck the stylus against the table—tiny shards of poly sprayed across the surface as the writing tip shattered. “What difference do the ship records from the evac make?” He swept the plastic bits over the tableside and onto the carpeted floor. “They know I was there—that’s why I’m in trouble now.”

  Joaquin sighed. “Pretend you’re still a cabinet minister and use your brain. We want to build sympathy. Highlight the hardships you endured during the idomeni civil war and the evacuation, the hardships that still haunt your memory eighteen years later. The terror as the Haárin stalked Rauta Shèràa, slaughtering the fallen Laum, while their Vynshàrau puppetmasters watched from the surrounding hills.”

  “You make it sound like a ’Vee melodrama. All that’s missing is the closing clinch with the girlfriend to the strains of the Commonwealth anthem.” Evan smiled to mask his unease. He had many reasons to dread his memories—he didn’t relish the thought of his own attorney dredging them up again.

  Especially the memories he’d deny to the grave.

  Joaquin’s stylus scraped across the surface of his recording board. “Only you would see it that way. A more sober-minded individual would have lived in constant fear.”

  Evan’s smile died. Fear? Of what? The bombs? The panic? The rumors of a massacre by a human of twenty-six Laumrau in a place called Knevçet Shèràa? That the Haárin might ignore their cultural conditioning and avenge the disorderly deaths of their enemies by slaughtering the remaining inhabitants of Rauta Shèràa’s human enclave?

  That his government would find out the things he’d done? That escaping execution in Rauta Shèràa only increased his chances of meeting that fate back on Earth?

  “Fear?” Evan felt the sweat trickle under his shirt. His hands shook. His left knee ached. He needed a drink. “What do you know about fear?”

  Joaquin ignored the question. “Most especially, we need to emphasize that there were times during the voyage home that you didn’t think you’d make it back to Earth alive.”

  His stylus broken, Evan dissipated the urge to twitch by tugging on his security cuff. My electronic leash. Nice of his jailers to make the black-banded monitor look like a timepiece. He wondered if it fooled anyone. “Living through two months of crappy food and cramped quarters isn’t going to win me any sympathy from this crowd. It’s their way of life.”

  “Keep your voice down!” Joaquin glanced anxiously at Veda. “Remember your place. No one has to tolerate your pithy commentary anymore.” He clucked his tongue, then returned to his note taking.

  Evan felt the lump in his gut grow and twist. Not long ago, people stood in line to tolerate his pithy commentary and whatever else he cared to dish out. It had been six months since the life he’d always known had ended. Six months since the roof had caved in.

  And we know who snapped the support beam, don’t we? Evan could see her face as clearly as if she sat across the table from him. Hair as short and black as Veda’s. Eyes as dark. Skin as smooth. Look, as cold.

  Jani, who killed the Laumrau and, before that, his Uncle Rik. Whom he tracked down and pulled from the gutter eighteen years later, because he had needed her a lot and still loved her a little. Who repaid him first by killing his friend Durian, then by destroying his life.

  Jani.

  “Excuse me.”

  Evan looked up to find Veda standing before him. Up close, he could see the fine etching of lines that decorated the corners of her eyes. So, there were smiles bottled up in that well-conditioned body. He wondered for whom she saved them. He tried to inject some softness into his expression—imagining what lay h
idden under that trimly tailored summerweight shirt made it easy. Grey isn’t her color; he forced himself to focus on her face. No, it would have to be soft yellow or cream, something that would complement the undertones of her skin . . . .

  Joaquin’s puckered asshole of a voice shook Evan out of his sexual reverie. “Have the vanished rosters reappeared yet, Colonel?”

  A muscle throbbed in Veda’s cheek. “No, Mr. Loiaza, they have not. The ranking documents examiner has been contacted, however, and we hope to have them first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Do you?” Joaquin managed to inject more cynical skepticism in those two words than less-skilled attorneys could in an entire summation. “I find it very distressing that documents that could play an important role in my client’s defense have gone missing as easily as last week’s newssheets.”

  Veda’s chest rose and fell. Evan found the movement hypnotic.

  “Not a very skillful diversion, Counselor.” The Judge Advocate’s representative, a geeky youngster whose name Evan kept forgetting, drew up to his full-yet-unprepossessing height. “Let’s not lose sight of the essential facts. Your client is responsible for ordering the deaths of sixteen members of this Service. Add to that his collusion in the deaths of the Bandan research team at Knevçet Shèràa and his role in the illegal importation of idomeni augmentation technologies—”

  “All alleged, Counselor. My client has not been charged.” Joaquin’s voice grew dangerously soft. “He’s here to assist you in your investigation of Jani Kilian’s murder of her commanding officer. Unless you’re having difficulty uncovering documents pertinent to that case, as well.”

  The meeting ended with a terse assurance from Colonel Veda that the documents would be available by morning. Evan watched her stalk out of the conference room, his eyes greedily recording the sway of her walk in the long-deprived recesses of his memory. “Was that necessary?”