Rules of Conflict

by Kristine Smith

  “I didn’t—” Evan’s fingers curved around a nonexistent glass. “Despite assurances to the contrary, I’m fairly certain the walls have ears.” He pulled up his sleeve to expose his security cuff. “And I’m not altogether confident about the jewelry, either.”

  Shroud pressed a hand over his heart as though taking a pledge. “Jo’burg also allows us our privacy. And in case anyone’s forgotten that, I’m well fitted out in the counter-monitoring department. Now, back to Anais—”

  “I didn’t realize you and she were so close.”

  “We’re not.” Shroud draped an arm along the sofa back. “But she does bend every ear she can these days.” The smile again. “And you do have a history of engaging in that sort of thing.”

  Silence stretched. Just before it snapped, a muted tapping sounded. Evan offered up a silent thank-you. “Come in.”

  Markhart, his housekeeper, entered pushing a beverage trolley. She was elderly, short and compact—a white raisin of a woman in a shapeless tunic and trousers—but she possessed enough wit to compensate for Halvor’s lack of same. Despite the smiling greetings, she detected the tension between the two men. She maneuvered the low-slung trolley between them like a barrier and, after waiting for a small nod from Evan, left them to serve themselves.

  “As I was saying.” Shroud leaned forward and poured himself coffee from the carafe. “An old habit is an easy fallback, and you’ve one that’s hard to break. Killing people when they become dangerous, or inconvenient—”

  “I’ve never killed anyone.” Evan cracked the seal on a bottle of bourbon. “My attorney would be very interested to hear you’ve been telling people otherwise.” He filled his tumbler, then added a splash of soda. His hands shook. His voice didn’t.

  Shroud’s shoulder twitched. “You’ve never done the dirty yourself, no. Someone else interfered with Lyssa’s augmentation so that she hallucinated herself into a fatal crash. Durian Ridgeway strangled that poor dexxie last winter.” He stared into his cup, grimacing as though some ugly scene played itself out on the coffee’s reflective surface. “Someone else placed the bomb on Jani’s transport.”

  Evan took a large gulp of his drink. Liquid heat warmed him like an internal sun. “Someone else. Those are the two words that will have me sleeping in my ancestral bed by Christmas.”

  “You think so?” Shroud set his cup down on the sofaside table. He stood, reached inside his jacket, and removed a folded documents slipcase from his inner pocket. “I received this by special messenger two months ago, about the time the first of those pro-Evan stories appeared in the news.” He unfolded the slipcase and removed a single sheet of parchment. “That is, I received the original, which is safely locked away. This is a copy.”

  Evan’s heart skipped as his stomach went into free fall. It took all the willpower he could muster to keep from pulling away as Shroud held out the blue-trimmed white page for his perusal.

  “It’s an old Consulate comlog, a list of all the outgoing communications made by executive staff on the day Jani’s transport exploded in midair.” When Evan made no move to take the document, Shroud placed it across his knees. “You gave the order to have the bomb placed on board. The time, location, and comport code all identify you as the person who called the Service fuel depot outside Rauta Shèràa just before the transport that was assigned to pick up Jani and the other members of the Twelfth Rover Corps departed for Knevçet Shèràa.”

  Evan took a sip of his drink, more to moisten his dry mouth than for the alcohol. “That isn’t enough evidence to convict.”

  “It’s a start.” Shroud returned to his seat. “It may even be enough to persuade Li Cao to turn you over to Commonwealth Intelligence for a dose of Sera.”

  “Truth drug?” Evan managed a harsh laugh. “Even if her Prime Ministry was at stake, Li would never set that precedent. Not if she thought there was the slightest chance it could come back to haunt the Families.”

  “If the colonies keep threatening to cancel Service base leases and limit port privileges for Commonwealth shipping, she’ll set it.” Shroud tasted his coffee and sighed contentedly. “If Nema keeps dangling access rights to idomeni GateWays in front of her nose like the weighty carrot it is, she’ll inject you herself.”

  “Nema’s a figurehead. The Oligarch will never allow him the authority to make deals like those.”

  “On the contrary, his influence grows every day. Cèel may despise him, but he knows the old bastard understands us better than any other Vynshàrau in his government. He needs him.”

  Evan took another swallow of bourbon. The colonies could be slapped down with a few good embargoes, but the unpredictable Nema added a new dimension to the term wild card. “I can’t speak for the idomeni,” he said in an effort to rally, “but I know for a fact the colonies have no authority to cancel those leases.”

  “Well, they’re using the argument that if their signatures were necessary to validate the agreements, there must be some power behind them. Would you want to be the Prime Minister who tells them, no, we just let you sign off so you’d think you mattered?” Shroud plucked a cookie from the sweets tray. “You’re in a nasty position, Evan. Li needs a head to stick on a pike to show the colonies she’s acting in good faith, and yours is the most expendable. You’re the last van Reuter. No desperate relatives to scurry about assembling a defense, no wide-eyed offspring to parade before the holocams—” He stalled in mid-chew, his face reddening.

  Evan watched the man’s growing embarrassment with grim satisfaction. “You were saying, John?”

  “My apologies. Some things are off-limits, even during the final rounds.”

  “Go to hell, you bleached bastard.”

  Shroud dropped the remains of the cookie on his saucer. “You’re alone. I’m offering you a chance to keep your head.”

  “At the risk of losing yours? Withholding evidence in a murder investigation is a capital crime.”

  “You’re the murderer being investigated. I doubt you’ll be filing a complaint.” Shroud shook his snowy head. “No, what is in your best interest is to develop amnesia when Service Investigative asks you questions about Jani.”

  “I couldn’t do that. They’ve already received preliminary reports from my attorney as to what I’ll be saying. If I back down, they’ll know something’s wrong. And if they don’t, Joaquin sure as hell will.”

  “You’re a maintenance alcoholic who’s gone without proper medical care for months.” Shroud’s look turned professional—it was obvious from his stern expression that he didn’t like what he saw. “You’ve lost weight. You look like hell. I’m sure your nutritional indices would indicate several key deficiencies, some of which can lead to memory disturbance.” He spread his long-fingered hands in an offering gesture, as though what he promised was worth a damn. “It’s the cleanest way, and with me signing off on any diagnosis, there will be no questions.”

  “Selective amnesia?” Evan picked up the comlog with his thumb and index finger and tossed it atop the beverage trolley.

  Shroud folded the document back in its slipcase and tucked it away. As was his habit, he’d filmed his eyes to complement his clothing—the pale gold-brown irises formed the only spots of warmth in his cold face. “I’ll schedule you for a complete work-up at the downtown facility. We can discuss matters further then.” He set his cup aside, then reached alongside the sofa and hefted a large carryall onto his lap. “Now, in case one of us ever has to testify as to what occurred here, if you wouldn’t mind undressing . . . ”

  Shroud’s preliminary examination proved mercifully quick. He drew blood deftly and completed swab samplings well before muscles tightened and gag reflexes kicked in.

  “Do you just dislike eating,” he asked as he watched Evan dress, “or are you consciously trying to starve yourself?”

  Evan yanked on his shirt. So what if his ribs showed? They had for as long as he remembered. “I like good food.”

  “As a modest complement to plen
ty of good wine, I’m sure.” Shroud rummaged through the carryall, removing a variety of bottles and cartons. “Get started on these. The bottles contain supplements. The cartons contain food additives and mixes. Drinks. Soups.” He concentrated on arranging the containers atop the trolley. “I only ask because I’m required by law, not because I personally give a damn, but are you sure you want to continue with things as they are? A brain insert and a gene retrofit, and it could all be a distant memory.”

  Evan tucked in his shirt. “I’m a content drunk, John. Leave me be.” He tightened his belt, using the last of the holes he’d punched only last month.

  “As you wish. Your left knee requires a rebuild. The stabilizers you had inserted last winter were only temporary.” Shroud hesitated. “I heard Jani had something to do with that.”

  “Ah, don’t mince words, John. She cornered me in my office and cracked my knee to keep me from running off.” Evan flexed the joint, which emitted its inevitable click. “Just before she crippled me, she killed Durian Ridgeway. The sheets called it suicide, but she broke his neck.” He remembered it well, since he had been ordered to identify the body. In the interest of efficiency, he’d been told, but he had known better. He had stood in Durian’s office, supported by Justice officials on either side, injured leg numbed to the hip. The crime-scene tech lifted the corner of the tarp and someone bit out, Take a good, hard look.

  The images sneaked up on Evan now, sceneshots etched into his brain. Durian’s goggled eyes. The unnatural twist of his neck.

  He walked over to a wall-mounted mirror and concentrated on hand-combing his hair. “Durian. Rik Neumann. The Laum encampment at Knevçet Shèràa. Our Jani has a pretty lengthy history herself, and those are only the deaths we know about.” He watched Shroud shift containers back and forth. “She’s lived on the thin edge for almost twenty years—God only knows what else she’s guilty of.”

  Shroud’s head shot up. “I don’t care.” His eyes glittered, their fervor promising stakes and bonfires to anyone who crossed him. The monk gone mad. “I’ll do whatever it takes to save her. If that means jumping down the hellhole and dragging the entire Commonwealth in after me, I’ll do it.”

  Evan watched the color rise in Shroud’s cheeks like fever. You lovesick fool. What did he expect in return for his risk-taking, gratitude? You’ve picked the wrong girl, Johnny boy—trust me, I speak from experience. He walked to the trolley, picked the largest cakelet he could find, and popped it into his mouth. “Jani had managed to get her hands on that log just prior to my arrest. After that, it disappeared. Any idea who sent it to you?”

  Shroud eyed him warily, then shook his head. “None. All my efforts to retrace the delivery route petered out.” His manner grew more distant as he calmed. “Whoever it was, they knew how to cover their trail. And they knew I had the background to understand what the information in that log implied. And the willingness to use it.” He closed the carryall and hoisted it to his shoulder. “Good-bye, Evan. See you in a few days.”

  Evan charged Markhart with seeing Shroud to the door. He refilled his glass, this time without soda, and wandered out into the backyard.

  He tried to consider his options, but thoughts skittered away like beads from a broken string. He studied his fingers, which had stiffened, the nail beds tinged with blue. He shivered. I’m in shock. He remembered the sensations from that day on the lakeshore, just as he remembered the other things. Lyssa’s screams. The chill smoothness of Serena’s small hand as he touched it for the last time.

  “He doesn’t like you.”

  Evan wheeled to find Markhart standing behind him. She stood only a stride away, so near that she had to tilt her head back to look at him. She’s so short. He’d known it, of course. He just hadn’t realized it. “I don’t like him, either. You don’t have to like the people you work with.”

  The woman pondered, her worn face grave. “My sister scolds me for working for you. She says you’re a killer. But she works at Sheridan, and her husband’s retired Service, so her viewpoint is skewed.” Her voice, made ragged by nicsticks, was shaded by a muted accent Evan couldn’t place. “Others don’t think that way.”

  Down the street, a dog barked. Evan stiffened. “And what way do those others think?”

  “They think that whatever you did, or didn’t do, you paid.” Markhart’s normally aloof demeanor softened. “Because of the children.”

  The barking increased. Another dog joined in, followed by the whining hum of older-model skimmers. Evan’s heart thudded. “Is that what you think?”

  Markhart sighed. “I think you’re a very sad man.” She frowned at the glass in his hand. “I think you drink too much.” She smiled sadly, lined face crinkling. “Maybe you don’t want me to think anymore.” She squared her hunched shoulders. “Now I have a dinner to prepare. Another one that you won’t eat.”

  “What are we having?”

  “Tomato-dill soup from one of the boxes Dr. Shroud gave you. And kettle beef.” She raised her chin in response to Evan’s scowl. “They only allow me so much to run this house, sir, and I can’t afford real animal on what they give.” She nodded. “But there’s fresh peas I need to shell, so if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Wait a minute,” Evan said, “I’ll help.” He started out walking alongside her, but as shouts and laughter sounded from the surrounding homes, he quickened his pace until his knee crunched with every stride. Shroud’s visit had rattled him—he normally sequestered himself indoors long before this. He always avoided the outside in the afternoon, when school had let out for the day, and the children returned home.

  Chapter 6

  The skimchair stalled as it floated down the gangway leading from the shuttle gate into the O’Hare Service Terminal concourse. Jani gripped the sides of her floating seat as two members of her escort tried to wrestle it through the narrow arch. After one particularly hard push, the chair shuddered, bucked, then bounced to the floor and back up into the air. Her stomach turned. The acid rose in her throat.

  “How many mainliners does it take to push a skimchair?” Jani thought she muttered under her breath. Every other person and device in the concourse chose that moment to fall silent, however—her commentary cut the air like inappropriate sounds usually did.

  The mainline lieutenant who steered glanced over her head at the mainline lieutenant who ruddered, then at her. “Do you have any suggestions, Captain?”

  “The signals from the doorscan and the skimchair lift array are confounding one another. Ask someone from Port Security to shut down the doorscan until you can push me through.”

  The looie grimaced. He was a man of action, who preferred pulling and grappling and nauseating his passenger to asking for help. He released the chair grudgingly and strode off in search of a Security guard, the red stripe on the side of his trousers flicking like an ambulatory exclamation point.

  Jani crossed her arms over her queasy stomach. Then she looked through the arch at the third member of her escort, who had entered the concourse ahead of them and now sat perched on the arm of a nearby bench, regarding her with mock solemnity. He had worn the same sideline summerweights since they’d departed MarsPort; days of wear had left the light grey short-sleeve and steel blue trousers rumpled, the sideline white trouser stripe puckered. His pale skin, black, curly hair, and stocky build would have marked him as Josephani Dutch even without his accent, which sounded like Hortensian German with the edges ground down.

  Piers Friesian. Major. Defense command, out of Fort Constanza. Appointed by the staff Judge Advocate to see to her defense. A nice enough man. She wondered what he had done to deserve her.

  He rocked back on his tenuous seat and locked his hands around his knee. “I heard the news walking by one of the kiosks. Acadia Central United won its final qualifying match. They defeated Jersey Conglomerate four to one.”

  Jani managed a smile. “That means they’ve drawn a first-round bye.”

  “The merry dance starts in two weeks
. Guess who I’m rooting for?”

  “Josephan Arsenal.”

  “You got it.”

  “Won’t make it out of the quals.” Behind her, the rearguard looie swallowed a chuckle.

  “Says you.” The light in Friesian’s eyes dimmed. He glanced over the top of Jani’s head at Rearguard, who stepped around the skimchair into the concourse and took a seat beyond hearing range. “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine, sir.”

  Friesian ran a hand over his face. “Fine, sir. You said that at Fort Constanza, just before that stomachache dropped you like a rock. You also said it just as we broke through Felix GateWay. Right after that, you passed out, then awoke two days later speaking street Acadian and insisting you were fifteen years old. I don’t think the medical officers will ever be the same. Neuro was not his specialty.”

  “I was fine by the time we reached MarsPort.”

  “Yes, you were. You did tell me that. I thought we might actually get some work done. Then you ate lunch and became royally sick.” His impatience broke through his even speech like flecks of foam on smooth water. “Your ‘fine, sirs’ aren’t worth much, are they?”

  Jani tugged at her own baggy short-sleeve. From what little she could remember of the last three weeks, it had once fit her perfectly—otherwise, she wouldn’t have been issued it. How much of a weight loss did that imply? Five kilos? Ten? “What do you want me to say, sir?”

  “I want you to call me Piers, and I want you to level with me.”

  Jani examined her right arm, halfway between elbow and wrist, where a tiny, round wound had healed to form a darkened scar. Her new Service ID chip lay implanted beneath. They had her now. If Security activated the proper codes, they could pinpoint her exact location in a room and tell whether she sat, stood, or did push-ups.

  She looked through the arch into the heart of the concourse. Functional furnishings, well maintained and spotless. Lots of steel blue and silver on the walls and floor, accented by splashes of mainline red in the chair cushions and fixtures. Through the wide windows opposite her, trim shuttles and sleek aircraft glinted in the summer sun.