Code of Conduct

by Kristine Smith

It’s an ancient code—no one’s used it since the war. Nope, too limp. I’m cross-checking some old Service disability claims. Now that sounded asinine enough to be true.

  She stopped in front of a plain metal slider guarded only by a simple palm reader. Bet it lets everyone in. Getting out, however, could prove tricky if your scan didn’t clear. A ready-made cell—no choice but to sit tight and wait for the cavalry to come. She wiped her right palm on her trouser leg and prepared to press it against the reader surface, but before she could, the door slid open of its own accord.

  Whoops—la cavalerie c’est ici.

  At the far end of the room, Ginny Doyle rose from behind the supervisor’s desk. The supervisor, a slender, dark-haired young man wearing sweat-blotched grey civvies, stood nearer the door, in front of a tilt-top worktable. He glowered at Jani, then resumed inserting small data discs into a storage booklet. The iridescent circles glittered in their slots like an overgrown coin collection.

  The cipher glossary. But why was Doyle interested in it?

  “Ms. Tyi.” The colonel’s mouth turned up at the ends. Calling the expression a smile would have been charitable. “I was just going to call you.” She turned to the supervisor. “I’ll send someone for those discs in fifteen minutes. They’d better be ready.”

  “Bring me Ridgeway’s sign-off, and they will be.” The supervisor inserted the last disc in its slot, then closed the booklet with as much emphasis as he could without risking damage to the contents. “No sign-off, no discs.”

  “We’ve been over this, mister.”

  “And I’ve got a lien hanging over my head, Colonel. Nothing leaves this office without the ranking’s ok.”

  Jani cleared her throat and waited for the supervisor to direct his stiff-necked scowl at her. No, I don’t think the disability-claims approach would have worked with this one. She pulled her scanpack from her duffel, making sure he saw it. “Rauta Shèràa Consulate, civil war stratum? The cipher glossary for comlogs?”

  “You need it, too?” The supervisor looked down at Jani’s scanpack. “You’re His Excellency’s hired shooter, here to clean up after the troubles. Why do you need to see it?”

  “My thought exactly,” said Doyle, who had perched on the desk’s edge. One leather-booted leg swung freely, a glistening play of polished black and silvery reflection. Jani forced herself to look away as the light patterning set off a series of buzzes and cracklings in her head.

  “It’s for Betha,” she said, loudly enough to block out the noise. “It’ll help us find out who killed Betha.”

  The supervisor’s dark eyes misted. He jerked a thumb at Doyle. “You’re working with her?”

  Jani looked at the colonel, who stared back blandly. “If necessary.” After a long silence, Doyle responded with a slow nod. Light danced across her dark brown scalp.

  The supervisor sighed. “This glossary’s directly related to van Reuter family records, so it’s covered by the lien. I can only release it on the ranking’s signature, and Ridgeway’s not available.”

  “If I supply you with a valid reason and promise not to leave the compound, you can sign it out to me. If Ridgeway told you otherwise, he’s wrong.”

  “Look.” The supervisor tugged at his damp shirt. “I can’t give you the whole damn glossary.”

  “How about a single disc?”

  “To do that, I need a page code. Do you have a page code?”

  Jani removed the sheet of Consulate paper from her inside shirt pocket and handed it to the supervisor.

  “You folded it,” he said, in a tone one might reserve for a slaughterer of baby animals. “Don’t you know better than that?” He held the sheet between thumbs and forefingers and unfolded it slowly, as though a quick movement might injure it further. Then he set it down on the worktable and slid restraint bars along the top and bottom to fix it in place.

  “Where did you get that, Ms. Tyi?” Doyle stood up and ambled toward the table, her hands locked behind her back. “It matches the description of the paper the PM’s been looking for.”

  “Later, Colonel.”

  “Ms. Tyi—”

  “Later, Colonel.”

  “I hope you didn’t catch the code inset chip in the fold,” the supervisor interrupted. “That would necessitate surgical repair before I could attempt a full scan. Something this old could take days to heal.”

  “Codes for that series of sheets were set in the lower left quadrant” Jani said, “just right of quadrant center. I took great care to leave that area smooth.”

  The supervisor’s head shot up. “How do you know that?” He focused his attention on the document, smoothing his scanpack over the surface in the area she had described. “Well, well,” was all he said as he took note of the page number on his display and checked it against the index inside the glossary binder. He removed the appropriate disc from its slot and slipped it into an antistatic pouch, then freed the Consulate document from its weighting and rolled it into a loose scroll. “Three hours,” he said as he handed them to Jani. “Any longer, and I’ll have no choice but to notify Ridgeway.”

  Jani slipped the items into her duffel. “Shall we go, Colonel?”

  When they reached Security, Doyle turned down the executive wing, then stopped. “Wrong way,” she muttered under her breath as she spun on her heel and led Jani in the opposite direction. Still grumbling, she palmed them into a small conference room that had been fitted out as a temporary office.

  Doyle closed the door just as two ComPol officers bustled past. “They’ve taken over my office until further notice,” she said. “They’ve seconded members of my staff until further notice. It wouldn’t be so bad if they treated my people like fellow professionals, but it seems to be ComPol opinion that this murder is an indication of their incompetence.”

  Jani lowered herself into the first chair she came to. Her right hand felt weak, her fingers, stiff. Muscles twitched throughout her arm and up to her shoulder. “I bet the first thing they asked was why you didn’t have visiscan set up in the parts bins.”

  Doyle sat down behind an old metal desk. The sides of the desk were dented, the dull brown electrostat paint worn away in patches. “Please! The first thing I asked them was how closely they monitored their dexxies. They changed the subject so fast I almost got whiplash.” She leaned back, chair creaking in protest. “No offense meant, but everyone knows dexxies are crazy. You try to keep them from getting over-excited and pray they stay away from sharp objects and the personnel files.”

  “Unfair, Colonel.” Jani forced a smile. “Payroll is where you have the most fun.”

  Doyle’s eyes glittered. “When I see Lieutenant Pascal this evening, I’ll have to let him know you referred to him as a ‘goon.’ Lucien’s many things to many people, but that, I believe, may take him by surprise. I doubt he’d enjoy being thought of as quite so common.” She swung her feet up on her desk. “After we left the parts bins, Durian took great pains to fill me in on what he believes happened between you and Lucien yesterday. Such nice sceneshots.” She smiled. “Do you work for Exterior, Ms. Tyi?”

  “Funny, Colonel, I’ve been meaning to ask you the same question.”

  Doyle’s smile froze, but she recovered quickly. “Please, call me Ginny.” She stifled a yawn. “You certainly worked dexxie magic with that code-room supervisor. He’s never given me the time of day. I love it when a bright boy gets set back on his heels by one of us old girls.” The glint in her eyes softened, as though she recalled a bright boy of her own. “Why do you believe Angevin Wyle took the trouble to pay a visit to your Private suite at two o’clock in the morning?” She was good—the tone of her voice never changed. Neither did her expression of goodwill.

  Jani flexed her hands again. The right one began to twitch. “I thought we’d decided she had nothing to do with Betha’s death.”

  “But why seek you out at such an odd hour? To discuss her concern for Mr. Forell, perhaps? Her worry over what she’d suspected he’d done?
Something she witnessed?” As the colonel’s eyes followed the movements of Jani’s hands, she frowned. “Then an odd thought occurred to me. Just let me say the term ‘hired shooter’ could prove more appropriate in the end than our supervisor friend could ever have imagined.”

  What! Jani hoped the surprise she felt didn’t show. She didn’t want Doyle to know she’d managed to rattle her. “You believe I murdered Betha? At my minister’s request?”

  “Lyssa, too. It explains the special trip to Whalen just to retrieve you. Taxi service from His Excellency himself as reward for a job well-done. I understand you and he had dinner for two at Private House last night.”

  Thank you, Durian. “And why would His Excellency have ordered it done?”

  “To make sure the dead remained buried.” Doyle’s expression grew grim. “You have no idea what it’s been like in this House the past few years. Believe me, Risa, as soon as we heard Lyssa had died, a half dozen scenarios passed through this floor like a bout of food poisoning, and every one of them began with the assumption Evan van Reuter wanted his wife dead.”

  “I never got that impression from him when we spoke of the matter.”

  “With all due respect, I only have your word for that and I’m not sure what that’s worth.” Doyle’s voice grew eager. The hound on the scent. If she’d howled, Jani wouldn’t have been too surprised. “If I could dig up any evidence whatsoever that you buggered Private security and made your way back here around the time Betha Concannon was killed, I’d walk you down to the ComPol command center myself. You had motive and means, Risa. Anyone who saw you in the cafeteria this morning knows you could make the opportunity.”

  “And you have a remarkably vivid imagination. Ginny.” Jani’s stomach grumbled in agreement. “I’m guessing I murdered Betha because she uncovered proof I murdered Lyssa. Very neat. I understand the appeal. I’m a stranger. No one likes me or trusts me. I can see where pinning it all on me would make everyone else feel much better. Pardon me if I decline to cooperate. I’ve killed no one.” At least, not lately. “Your problems began here, you’ll find your answers here, and I doubt they’ll be as neat as you hope.”

  Doyle chewed on her lower lip. “You’ve bothered me since you arrived,” she said. “Durian told me our dear lieutenant served as your steward during your journey here. Disgracefully bold of my favorite blond, but knowing Lucien as I do, not a surprise. The fact he’s taken to you concerns me. He has a long history, Risa. Being his friend is no recommendation.”

  Jani remained silent. They think I killed Lyssa. Evan says he brought me here to take care of me, but did he really plan to turn me over for his wife’s murder? Evan’s career teetered on the brink—what steps would he take to save it?

  Apprehending his wife’s murderer, to start?

  I’m the outsider here.

  “Is everything all right, Risa?”

  “Everything’s fine.”

  “Hmm. I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me where you got that piece of Consulate paper?”

  “No, not at this time.”

  “You said in the code room that it was some sort of communications log?”

  “Yeah. Ingoing and outgoing Consulate calls covering a three-day period. Idomeni days. They’re a little longer than ours.”

  Doyle frowned. “I know that, Risa. Funny that so many calls could fit on a single page.”

  “Well, every department had its own log. I’m hoping this page came from the one used by executive staff.” Jani removed the document from her bag. “Besides, the assault on Rauta Shèràa had reached its climax during the period this record was made. The Consulate had switched to emergency transmission only, to avoid sniffer bombs.”

  “How do you know? Don’t tell me you were there?”

  Big mouth. “Common sense.” In truth, she’d found it out from John. He’d shown great interest in the circumstances surrounding the transport crash and had managed to uncover all sorts of details during her convalescence. “Why take chances?”

  “Indeed?” Doyle watched Jani activate her scanpack. “What can I do to help?”

  “I’ll need a workstation. I assume yours is typed to you?”

  Doyle pulled over the wheeled cart on which her sleek unit sat. “As you said, we’re now working together on this, whether we like it or not.”

  Jani removed the code disc from its pouch and ran her ’pack over it to break the seal. She then handed the disc to Doyle. “Here. I’m sure you know what to do.”

  Doyle inserted the disc in one of the reader slots; Jani scanned the Consulate document to unlock the internal latches that would have prevented instrument reading. Her new chip functioned smoothly. She handed the unlocked document to Doyle, who set it facedown on a plate reader.

  “I hope my station can handle an old code like this without locking down.” Doyle’s fingers moved over her touchboard. “I can’t unlock my own damned machine—I’d have to call in someone from Justice. They’d use Betha’s murder and the examiner’s lien as excuses to shut me down, too.” She tapped in a final series, then glanced at Jani. “Here goes.” She muttered an initiation code, then held her breath as she watched her display.

  Jani moved as close as she dared to the workstation and snatched peeks at the display’s edge from the corner of her eye.

  After a minute or so, Doyle’s display flickered. “Here it comes,” she whispered.

  Jani watched the edge of the screen. “What does it say?”

  “Just a list of names and dates so far.” Doyle’s eyes widened. “Wow, she was there then,” she said, partly to herself. “Old school friend. Had a rep as a patho. Always told me she was on staff on Shèrá. Thought she was lying.” She looked at Jani, then touched another area of the board. “Let me print you something solid. You look ready to jump out of your chair.” Several sheets of paper emerged from a slot in the workstation’s side, and Doyle handed them to Jani.

  Jani took the papers in her left hand. The one that wasn’t shaking. Two women died because of what’s on this paper. She studied the column of names. Acton van Reuter’s name was entered several times, as was Evan’s.

  Makes sense. Daddy messaging Sonny several times a day, demanding he get the hell out of the line of fire and come home like a good little van Reuter. Jani checked the date-time column. Most of the messages had been sent before the crash, while she had still been trapped at Knevçet Shèràa.

  John said the transport had been sent from a Service fuel depot just outside the city. According to Lucien, that’s where the bomb had been planted. The site had an odd code, an alphanumeric that corresponded to its location on a Service grid map of the area. N-2-D—

  —1-4-3-7-L. Jani read the rest of the code, next to Evan’s name. An outgoing call, made soon after the last in a series of communications with his father.

  The buzzing in her head resumed. Intensified.

  But he could have been talking to anyone there. The Service personnel stationed at the depot were the primary sources of information regarding Laumrau and Vynshà troop movements. Someone from the Consulate would have had to keep in touch with them regularly.

  Don’t make excuses for him anymore. Jani reread the entry. The right day. The right time. A short call. Only a few seconds. A call someone expected. A simple order. Do it.

  “Is something wrong, Risa? You don’t look well.” Doyle leaned across her desk. “Is it important? What the hell do you see!”

  More than two women died because of what’s on this paper. Eight patients. Twenty-six Laumrau. Fifteen members of the Twelfth Rover Corps. Rikart Neumann.

  And, in ways large and small, though not as important, Jani Kilian.

  “Risa! Talk to me!”

  You always took orders, didn’t you, Evan? Jani heard a rustling to her left. Caught a whiff of burnt leather. She looked up to find Borgie standing beside her chair.

  “Got your motive for Lady Lyssa’s death now, don’t you, Captain? She found out her husband gave the orde
r to bomb your transport. Your old boyfriend. Saving his ass as usual. Keeping his eye on the ball. Not caring who got hurt.” His fatigues stank of smoke and sweat. Dirt smeared his face. “I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know, Captain. Don’t give me the wide-eyed look.”

  “I never would have guessed.”

  “Ah, bullshit, Captain. You remember what he was. You’ve been jumpy as a cat since you’ve been here. Glass in his hand all the time, just like back then. Making excuses, just like back then. Always somebody else’s fault, just like back then.” He looked at his T-40 and grimaced. “I think it crossed his mind more than once you might be on that transport. But his overbred ass was on the line. First things first—save the tears for later.”

  “I think you’re right, Sergeant,” Jani said. From far away, she heard Doyle calling her. No, not her. Someone else.

  “Risa, who the hell are you talking to! Answer me, damn it!”

  Jani stood up, almost stumbling as her back cramped. She shoved the papers and scanpack into her duffel and headed for the door.

  “Tyi! Stop! Drop the bag! Put your hands where I can see them! Turn around slowly!”

  Something in Doyle’s tone made Jani stop. More than mere loudness. Panic. The kind that had drawn its weapon. The kind with blood in it.

  Blood sings to me. I know the words. Jani let her bag slide to the floor, put her hands up, and turned. Doyle had indeed drawn her shooter—the bright red sight fix skittered across Jani’s shirtfront like an insect. Better to stand still. Nervous hands made for messy shooting.

  “Roche!” Doyle shouted. “Get the meds up here now!” She edged around her desk. “Don’t move, Risa—I will shoot.”

  Blood sings. Strange songs. Jani heard the pound of footsteps in the hallway. Muffled shouts. Blood talks, too. It asks, “Evan, how could you?” Amid the voices, Jani heard Doyle call out, “She’s in here.” Then she felt a cool prickle between her shoulder blades. Then she heard nothing at all.

  CHAPTER 30

  “Of course you understand, nìRau, that much depends on your people’s willingness to let bygones be bygones.”