Lucien blinked. “What makes you think—?”
“Save the coy-boy routine for someone who buys it and—spit it out!”
Coy Boy eyed her in disapproval. “If you got out of bed at a reasonable hour, you wouldn’t have to push yourself.”
“Lucien.”
“I found the anesthetic, glue, and bandage in your bathroom. I trashed them and hid the scalpel.”
“I’ll get more.”
“You don’t want to escape now. You’re having too much fun sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“Answer the damned question!”
“Mako saved the Service.”
“That’s old news.” Jani kept an eye out for Hals as they pulled up in front of the Documents Center. “Tell me something I don’t know.” She walked a figure eight. Her pounding heart slowed.
Lucien strolled to the walkway’s edge and kicked at the stone border. “At first, it didn’t want to be saved. The Old Guard needed to retire. Some of them didn’t want to go.”
“But Mako, with the help of loyal underlings like Pierce, helped them make up their minds.”
“He was promoted to J-Loop Regional Command after Rauta Shèràa. The promotion was designed to reward him officially and at the same time get him out of the way. It didn’t work.” Lucien stepped over to Jani and leaned close to her ear. “That’s where he started cleaning house. Not everything he did was by the book. That’s not common knowledge.”
“It was well before your time, too. How did you find out?”
“I am in Intelligence.”
“And you’ve sneaked peeks at files. And Anais probably told you things.” Jani sniffed. Lucien had used scented soap that morning. A light, musky odor, barely detectable. “And you have this way about you that makes people spill their guts.”
“You think so?” He moved closer and brushed against her arm. “Care to tell me what way that is?”
“Oh, I think you know.” She stepped away and started up the Doc Control steps, then turned back. “I wonder if Pierce had anything to do with what happened to Sam Duong?”
Lucien shook his head. “Why would he want to bury Rauta Shèràa documents? If anything, he’d want to get those out in the open.”
“You’d think that, except Mako was called before a Board of Inquiry after the evac team returned to Earth. He bulled his way through it, and emerged victorious.”
“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 imme
diately?”
“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.
Chapter 16
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?”
“Kensington records from the Kensington.” Sam grinned at his bad joke. That made one of them. “Rosters. Shipping records.”
“And the death certificates?”
“Four certificates. Ebben, Unser, Fitzhugh, and Caldor.”
“Major General Talitha Ebben. Base commander, Rauta Shèràa Base.” Kilian grimaced, as though it hurt to say the name. “Colonel Phil Unser was her exec. Colonel Matilda Fitzhugh ran the Special Services branch, and reported directly to Ebben.”
“Wasn’t that unusual?”
“
No. Spec Service always reports to the base commander.” Kilian struggled to her feet and walked unsteadily to the beverage dispenser. “When did those particular documents go missing?” She chose black coffee, and held the dispo with both hands as she trod back to her chair.
“I don’t—” Sam paused to drink, and wished he could enjoy the tea without the questions. “I don’t remember.”
“Do you recall the causes of death?”
He shrugged. “There were rumors the Haárin killed them.”
Kilian’s eyes clouded. Cold tea. She looked down at the steaming dispo, which she still held in both hands. She didn’t seem interested in drinking the coffee, only in absorbing its heat. “That would mean they died from stab wounds, since they died during the Night of the Blade.”
Sam nodded. “The Haárin only used swords and knives that night, to kill the Laum. To cleanse the city.”
Kilian set down the cup then pressed her palms to her cheeks. “You mentioned a Caldor, too. I don’t remember a Caldor in the command staff.”
“Spacer First Class. Died during the final round of bombing. A barracks wall collapsed on her.” Kilian’s look grew pained—Sam wondered why.
“I heard Mako mishandled the remains.” She drew her hands away from her face; their coffee-warmth left redness behind. “He had to answer questions when he returned to Earth, but those records are sealed.”
Sam shrugged. “So we’ll never know. They all died during panic, so there was no follow-up investigation. No images of the scenes of death appended to their certs.”
“No proof,” Kilian said.
“Proof.” Sam drank down the balance of his tea, before it looked like Kilian’s eyes. “I think of so many deaths. They left behind no images, either. No proof.” He crumpled the dispo between his hands. “All I have are flashes of thought, things I know.”
Kilian leaned forward, eyes downcast. She looked like someone trying to see over the edge of a cliff without drawing too close. “Like what?”
“Like . . . ” Sam ground the crumpled cup against the tabletop, and blurted out all the things he knew. “Like I never walk on the beaches here because of the sand. I hate sand. And heat. And hospitals and doctors and the way Pimentel looks at me when he tells me he wants to cut into my head for my own good.” He worked his hand back and forth, grinding the cup into the marble-patterned poly. “There is no good in that, not for me. And he promises I’ll be fine and he says they’ll take care of me but even though he speaks I hear the words come from somewhere else and I don’t remember where. I just know it isn’t here.” He picked up the flattened cup. “And I can’t remember why I hate any of it. I just know I do.”
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