Rules of Conflict (27 page)

“So?”

“So maybe something in the Rauta Shèràa documents would sully that
victory.”

Lucien sighed in annoyance. “I suppose anything’s possible.”

“Think you could find out more about ex-weapons runner Pierce?”

“That’s what I like about you—you never ask for much.”

“You owe me.” Jani stared at Lucien—he dropped his gaze
eventually. “You had no right to pick through my stuff, no right to take that
scalpel, and no right to read my ServRec.”

“It made for an enlightening afternoon.” He looked up at her,
cheeks flushed from exercise, stony eyes alight with cool appraisal. “You
really could have gone places if you’d behaved, you know that?”

“If I’d shut up and played along, you mean?”

The light dimmed. “There are plenty of ways to make your point
without impaling yourself in the process.” Lucien snapped a salute and clipped
down the walkway to wherever he went, sweat-darkened hair gleaming in the sun
like a tarnished halo.

“Your mail, ma’am.”

Jani looked up from her equipment transfer report. Ischi stood in
her doorway, holding a thin packet of paper mail. If past behavior held, he was
using mail delivery as an excuse to talk to her. That was fine—she had a few
questions for him, too. “Come on in, Lieutenant. Have a seat.”

He slipped inside and settled into the visitor’s chair. “I hope
you’re well after last night, ma’am.” Residual excitement animated his haggard
features. “I taught the idomeni ambassador how to play soccer!”

Jani smiled. “Yes, you did.”

“He sure got upset when Burkett tried to get you bounced.” Ischi
placed her mail on the desk, one piece at a time. “Think he could put in a word
for the colonel?”

“Where is she?” Jani had gone directly to Hals’s office as soon as
she’d arrived, only to find it dark. She had reconnoitered intermittently ever
since, but it was after lunch and there was still no sign.

“Emergency meeting scheduled with Major General Eiswein, head of
First D-Doc.”

“In this building?”

“No, ma’am. Eiswein sits up at Base Command. North Lakeside
sector.”

“I should go.” Jani closed her report folder and stood up, but the
look of alarm that flared across Ischi’s face compelled her to sink back down
in her chair.

“We’ve been told to stafo, ma’am.”

Sit tight and await further orders
. “By whom?”

“Eiswein, ma’am. Her exec transmitted the order when he came to
escort Hals to North Lakeside.”

Shit.
Jani sat back down and thumped her fist on the arm of
her chair. “She did the right thing. The Vynshàrau would not have understood
her absence, and that would have crippled negotiations.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Ischi poked moodily at her mail, then slipped an
ivory envelope out from the pile. “Your raffle number came.”

“My what?”

“Your raffle number.” He slid it across the desk to her. “Every
month, the A-G hosts a garden party at his house at Far North Lakeside.
Invitation’s by raffle—everybody gets a number issued them once they get
entered into Base systems.” He offered a perfunctory grin. “Hottest ticket in
town.”

“Is it that great?”

“My number came up last spring.” He wrinkled his nose. “It was
still cold, and it rained. The tent was heated, though, and the food was
great.” His smile brightened. “Mrs. Mako’s beautiful. She took folks on a tour
of her greenhouse. Lot of the guys went just to check her out.”

Jani opened her desk drawer and swept the envelope inside. “Well,
neither flowers nor beautiful women interest me, Lieutenant, but thanks for the
heads-up.”

Ischi’s face darkened. “Sorry, ma’am.” He stood. “Do you think the
ambassador could do anything to help, ma’am?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Jani punched out the one base code she
knew. “What’s Major Vespucci’s take on this?”

“Um.” Ischi rose and backed his way to the door. “No one’s talked
to him, ma’am. At least I haven’t.” He departed, leaving Jani alone with the
blooming face on her comport display.

“Hello.” Even a transmission of Lucien’s smile lit up the room.
“Called to ask me out to dinner? The answer’s yes.”

“Actually, I called to ask you for Nema’s private code.”

The happy expression snapped off. “I can’t give you that.”

“Can you tell me if FT’s comports are being monitored for
outgoing.”

“No.”

“No as in ‘no, they’re not,’ or no as in ‘go to hell’?”

“
Will you
—” Lucien’s face blanked as his eyes followed
something over top his display. A walk-through, most likely, which meant he
resided in a desk pool.

“Don’t you have an office?” Jani asked, just to rub it in.

“In a sane world, the lieutenants would have the offices and the
captains would be out on the street, but that day is not yet come.”

“You’ve become a philosopher.”

“And you’re still a pain in the ass.”

“Hals has been at North Lakeside all day.”

“And they told you to stafo?”

“Yes.”

“Then do it!” The display sharded as Lucien signed off.

Jani rested her head on her desk, every once in a while pressing
her fingertips to her tightening scalp. By the time she lifted her head, her
incoming call alarm rang.

“Jani.” Friesian’s expression would have darkened the bottom of a
mineshaft. “Why didn’t you call me immediately?”

“I—”

“Things like this aren’t just supposed to drop down on me from the
sky. Things like this are supposed to be told me by my cooperative client.”

“But—”

“Are you busy at fifteen up? Good. See you here. Defense Command
Three South, Room Three-oh-four.”

“I don’t need legal counsel for Office Hours.”

“You need legal counsel to get up in the morning.” The display
fractured once more.

Jani stared at the message light, which still blinked. Someone had
called her while she talked, or rather, listened to Friesian. All of a sudden,
she had become very popular.

“Good afternoon, Captain Kilian, this is Captain Brighton from
Diplomatic,” said the professionally dour woman. “I am calling to inform you of
your Office Hours appointment with Brigadier General Callum Burkett for the day
after tomorrow. The exact time and date have been applied to your calendar.
Details have also been provided to your attorney, Major Piers Friesian, Defense
Command. Good day.”

Jani fled her office just as the incoming message alarm rang yet
again. She hurried into the desk pool and over to one of the techs, who was
busy stuffing paper mail into mailboxes. “Do you have anything that needs to be
walked anywhere?”

“Ma’am?” The young woman dug into one of the OUT bins. “This needs
to go to the SIB, but I can—”

“Perfect.” Jani grabbed the envelope and darted out the door.
Always
have a reason to go where you’re going.
Especially if it gave you a reason
to get the hell out of where you were.

The afternoon proved a copy of every one previous—deliciously hot
and dry. On her way to the SIB, Jani stopped off at a ship’s stores kiosk and
shopped. She bought a creamy white coffee mug decorated with a brushlike
crimson flower.
La fleur feu
—the fireflower, the emblem of Acadian
Central United. Just enough of the old red to make a statement, but not enough
to drive her augie up the wall.
Take that, Corporal Coffee Cup
. She’d
savor the look on Ischi’s face the next time she visited the brewer.

If we’re all still working together, that is.

She also bought a canister of Bandan loose tea. Halmahera Black,
an expensive blend of hothouse hybrids. She asked the items be packed in
separate carriers, and headed to the SIB.

She dropped the envelope in the appropriate mail slot, then
descended the stairs to the basement.
He may not be in yet.
Second shift
didn’t start until fifteen up. But Jani knew Sam Duong would be at his desk.
She doubted he had anywhere else to go.

Sam leafed through one of the few files that remained on
his desk. Names to check for inclusion in the Gate—at least they still allowed
him that much. It meant more trips into Chicago, since Yance had revoked his
SIB archive access. But, truth be told, he needed the time away from the
basement. Not that people said anything to his face, but he knew they talked.
He could tell by the way that they looked at him. Pity could come in many
flavors—angry, disgusted, disappointed. But it was still
pity
. He’d have
preferred it if they’d hated him. At least hatred stood on its own two feet.

He heard the voices in the cubicles around him waver, and assumed
yet another visit from Odergaard. He braced for the sight of that red face
rising over his cubicle partition like a florid sunrise.

“Mr. Duong?”

Sam stilled at the sound of the voice. He looked up slowly.

“Hello.” Jani Kilian smiled down at him. “I wanted to talk to you
about . . . well, I think you know what I want to talk to you
about.” She held out one of the two silvery plastic bags she carried. “I’ve even
brought a facilitator.”

Sam smiled weakly. “In Chicago, we just call them bribes.”

“How indelicate.” She beckoned for him to follow with the hurried
backward hand wave of a child. “Let’s go.”

Sam stood, paused, then stepped out of his cubicle. All eyes fixed
on him, from the split-shifters readying to leave for the day to the
second-shifters straggling in like the first wet splotches of a rainstorm. He
followed Kilian into the hall—the pressure of stares lifted like the removal of
a weight.

“Is there a breakroom around here?” She looked one way, then the
other. “I have a meeting at fifteen up. That doesn’t leave us much time.”

“This way.” Sam led her down the hall to the vend alcove. Three
split-shifters sat at one of the tables by the entry, reading newssheets and
smoking nicsticks. He led Kilian to his favored table in the back of the room.
She fell into one of the chairs and handed him the bag.

He opened it. “Shrimp tea! I used to drink it all the time.” He
removed the dark green canister and turned it over and over in his hands. “I
can’t afford it anymore since the tariff increase.” He hurried across the
alcove to the beverage dispenser and drew a dispo of hot water. “I should have
properly boiled water in a pot,” he said as he slid back into his seat, “but I
will make do.” He cracked the canister seal, removed the slotted scoop from the
inside of the top lid, filled it with the loose leaves, and snapped the lid
closed. “I need orange rind for proper brewing, but oh well.” He dipped the
scoop into the hot water and watched the ebon essence leach from the black
leaves. It dawned on him that Kilian hadn’t spoken for a while. He glanced over
at her to find her staring at him.

“You know it’s called shrimp tea?” Her voice sounded weak. “It
says Halmahera Black on the label.”

Sam shrugged. “It’s shrimp tea. Some people think if you filter it
through boiled shrimp shells, it’s supposed to unlock hidden flavors.”

“Does it?”

“No. Makes it taste like crap.” He removed the scoop, tapped it
gently against the rim of the dispo to remove the excess liquid, then set it
aside. “Some people can convince themselves to like anything, I suppose, if
it’s outrageous enough. Big fight about it at the university, sometime back.”

“The Great Boiled Shrimp Debate.” Kilian sat back and folded her
arms across her chest. She looked as though she shivered, but how could anyone
feel cold in this heat? “Mr. Duong, when did you work at the university?”

Sam thought. Thought some more. He knew the wheres, most times. As
always, the whens gave him problems. “Twenty years ago, I think. Could be more.
Could be less.” He tapped his temple. “It’s my head. I have a problem with my
memory that bothers Dr. Pimentel.”

“He told me about your condition. I had the right to know, since
you’d knocked me.”

“Knocked . . . ?”

Kilian cocked her head to one side, then the other. “N.O.K. Nok.
It’s dexxie slang for naming someone your next of kin.” She exhaled sharply,
like a breathy laugh. “Like I said, Pimentel told me about your condition. I’m
going to test your allegedly poor memory by asking you some questions, OK?”

Sam set his cup down. Oh well, it was fun while it lasted. “I
didn’t hide your papers in my desk.”

Kilian waved her hand dismissively, her face grave. “I’m not
asking you about that. I want to know about the other papers.”

Grave is the right word for her.
Like the grave light that
shone in her too-dark eyes, black as the tea in his cup. “
Kensington
records.” He took a sip of the grave. “The death certificates showed up this
morning.”

“In your desk?”

“In my locker.”

“Really?”

“I did not put them there.”

“I believe you.” Her voice held a quiet strength. “What kinds of
Kensington
records?”