Endgame

by Kristine Smith

  Lucien stilled. Looked at her and said nothing.

  Jani let go of the chair, brushed the ground stone from her hands. “Well, then…” She paused as the screech of branch against rock filled the room, a signal of the storm’s growing intensity. “Are you going to help me?” She awaited the answer she knew would never come. “This takes me back. Yes, to my Rauta Shèràa days. I’ve been stonewalled by experts, Lucien.”

  “And you remember how that ended.” His voice came soft, barely audible above the wind. “A bomb on a transport. All aboard killed.”

  Storm sounds receded. Now Jani heard nothing but the beat of her heart. “You’re saying that was my fault?” She tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone dry. “No one was meant to survive Knevçet Shèràa. We were dead no matter what.”

  “Not as long as Rikart Neumann remained alive. He was one of the masterminds—if you’d played him right, you could have gotten your people out.” Lucien looked in her direction. He even met her eye. “Instead, you shot him.”

  “That was self-defense.”

  “Only after you confronted him. Stared him in the face. Challenged him.” Lucien pressed the back of his hand to his lip, examined it, then shook his head. “When your parents lived in Chicago, I used to visit them.”

  Jani nodded. “Mama told me that you liked her cooking. You liked being able to converse in French. Papa knew better. He said that you were too nosy, wanted to know too much about me.”

  “Yes, you inherited your trusting nature from him, I think.” Lucien started for the door, then stopped and looked her full in the face. “You were never any different, even as a kid. Always a punch in the mouth when a touch would do just as well.” His lower lip had swelled in earnest now, the gash red and glistening. “And now here you are. Decades have past, the scenery’s different, but you haven’t changed a bit.” He watched her, dead brown eyes unreadable, then walked to the door. On the way, he grabbed the lightstick from the place where he’d set it, shook it to extinguish it, then stuffed it in his bag.

  Jani let her eyes adjust to the dark. Then she stepped out from between the chair and the rubble and walked to the window. Examined the rock-strewn sill, then the view through the window, imagining as she did a tiny object descending through the air toward its target. How did Tsecha’s assassin feel when they saw him touch his left ear, saw the first hint of confusion cross his face? Satisfied? Ecstatic? Righteous?

  “Hold that feeling tight,” Jani whispered. “You won’t enjoy it for long.” With that, she turned, looked over the room one last time, and headed for the door.

  The force of the wind hit her as soon as she stepped outside, forcing her to turn her back on it so she could breathe. She climbed into the skimmer to find Lucien checking weather reports on the vehicle’s display. He ignored her, putting the vehicle in motion before she had fully closed her door.

  They rode back to the Thalassan side of the bay in silence. The rain had eased to the odd spatter by the time the shore came into view.

  Lucien steered the skimmer up onto the beach and up the cliff road to the Main House. Stopped on the edge of the drive circle near the entry and powered down. “I’ll say it one last time. Stay out of it.”

  Jani didn’t reply. She disembarked and walked across the pavered circle to the house, gusts of wind whipping the hem of her weatherall as though hurrying her along. Felt Lucien’s stare drill the place between her shoulders, but didn’t turn around.

  CHAPTER 15

  Jani entered the Main House to find a confab going on in the middle of the courtyard. Dieter, Val, and John, standing amid the empty tables and sundered buffets of late evening sacrament, voices rising.

  Then John spotted her. “Where the hell have you been?” He started toward her, more relieved than angry, the first hints of a smile lightening his face.

  Then something he saw behind her caused him to slow. Stop. Clench his fists.

  Jani heard the entry door close. Footsteps.

  “Stormy.” Lucien removed his weatherall and shook it, sending water spraying. “I’m guessing it’ll last the night.” He hung the garment on one of the wall hooks near the door, but kept his slingbag with him. “Good evening, Mr. Brondt.” He nodded to Dieter, while pointedly ignoring Val. “Could I trouble you to let me use your comroom?”

  Dieter’s brow arched as he took in the state of Lucien’s lip. He glanced at Jani, on the alert for any hint of an objection. “…Of course, Captain,” he said eventually. “Follow me, please.” He cast a last, questioning look in her direction, then headed for the lift, Lucien at his heels.

  John waited until the lift doors closed. “Where were you?” He ignored Val’s muttered caution. “We were ready to send out Security.”

  Jani remained still and silent as John drew closer, watching his expression grow more and more grim as he took in her rough clothes, the wet sand that coated her boots. “Why?”

  “What do you mean, why?” Val pressed a hand to his forehead. “We were worried sick. We didn’t know if you—”

  “That’s not the question she’s asking, Val.” John stood hands on hips, and studied the floor. “Not here.” He turned and headed across the courtyard toward the enclave offices.

  Jani followed, brushing past Val, ignoring his whispered “Please, Jan—” She felt focused, alive, as though she could run for kilometers, go for days without sleep or food. Idomeni rage, a pure distillation of emotion, a force that had built cities and transformed governments and destroyed them just as surely.

  She waited in the doorway of an unoccupied office while John checked for squatters, not entering until he gave the all-clear. Waited longer to speak, because so much of what she had to say had already been said, in a clinic basement twenty years before. Some essentials never change. Only the circumstances surrounding them.

  She walked to a desk on the far side of the room and leaned against it. “When did you know?”

  John turned to her. He hadn’t looked her in the eye since Lucien’s appearance, and he avoided doing so now. “You don’t understand—”

  “Answer the goddamned question.”

  John walked over to a chair set against the wall opposite Jani and sat. “The sudden appearance of the mass in his auditory canal. We scanned the area within minutes of his collapse and we saw nothing. We wouldn’t have missed it—it was the sort of thing we were looking for.” His gaze shifted to some middle distance, memories of the morning playing across his face, mirrored in his clouded stare. “We initially felt it was a neuroma, but those grow very slowly, and this thing grew while Aris watched.”

  Jani revisited her own memories, carved in her heart and soul with the force of a knife through flesh. John’s angry question. Aris’s frantic reply. Why the hell didn’t you spot it before? Because it wasn’t there before. She tried to erase the images, the voices, even as she knew that any respite would prove only temporary. “What was it?”

  “Preliminary indications are that it was a weaponized prionic. It entered Tsecha through his left tympanum. After it warmed to body temperature, it began to grow.” John fell back on his lecture voice, a measured narration devoid of emotion. “It rapidly extruded into his brain cavity and continued to increase in size until it pressed against his brain stem. This led to seizure, followed by unconsciousness, respiratory collapse, and death.”

  Death. Jani saw the still figure in the bed. Ná Via circling, shutting down the life support systems one by one. “Did he feel any pain?”

  “He—” John hesitated, then shook his head. “Once growth began, it was over within seconds. I don’t believe he did, no.”

  “But you don’t know?”

  “It’s unknowable.”

  Jani brushed away a tear. There were times when she wished John would lie, but those were the times when he never did. “Who else knows the truth?”

  “Val. Yevgeny.”

  “Markos?” Jani’s throat tightened. “Ulanova?”

  John nodded, after a tim
e. “Yes.”

  “Niall?” Jani waited as John didn’t respond at first, then shook his head. Because you knew he’d tell me. “Via?” She waited again, as John stilled and remained silent and slowly averted his gaze. “She’s going to figure out that she didn’t miss anything, that if it had been a neuroma, she would have seen it long before Tsecha became ill.” She recalled the female, normally as aggressive as ná Meva, following John from display to display. Stricken. Confused. “You lied to her. You let her think she screwed up, that she killed him.” Then another figure replaced the physician-priest’s in her mind’s eye. “What about Feyó?”

  “What do you think her reaction will be if she learns that Tsecha was assassinated? That one of his beloved humanish brought him down? Do you think she’ll listen to anything that any of us have to say?” John looked Jani in the eye now, leaned forward with hands on knees as he let fly the facts. “She’ll look at us and see humanish and the dialogue will stop there.” He sat back, the lecture winding down. “The truth will come out. When we’re ready. When we’ve prepared.”

  “When will that be?” Jani felt the subtle shift in the air around her. “Tomorrow? Next month? Five years? Ten?” She could have been in any of a score of offices in the old Rauta Shèràa consulate, arguing the same points, fighting the same old battles, and losing every one. “Or maybe you and your new friend Yevgeny went behind everyone’s back and worked your own deal. You cover up the assassination, and he guarantees you keep your share of Neoclona.”

  John’s face darkened. “You believe me capable of that level of deceit?”

  “In your sleep. You’ll have all your reasons lined up, and they’ll all be very sound. To preserve the Outer Circle alliance with the Haárin. To preserve Neoclona, and the stability it provides. To help ensure that Yevgeny wins the election.” Jani stood and paced, anger driving her to move. “And on the other hand, we have what? You lied to Feyó, who is the foundation of the alliance. If she ever discovers that you misled her, you’ll lose her. Maybe you’re assuming that you’ll be well enough established by that point that you won’t need her. That’s one hell of an assumption, but you’re in a risk-taking mood.” Her step slowed. “Then you lied to me. But, you’ve done that before.”

  John stood and started toward her. “Jani—”

  “I could have struck you. When I realized that you knew Tsecha had been murdered and you didn’t tell me.” Jani saw the look in John’s eye as he drew closer, as he gauged her expression. Read the tension as he stopped in his tracks, as reluctant to approach her as she was to have him within arm’s reach. “Who did it? Do you know? Is anyone looking for them?”

  “You know better than that. Exterior is turning over every rock—”

  “Including the ones they put in place themselves?”

  John begged the ceiling for respite. “We know of several separatist organizations whose goal is to drive a wedge between Chicago and Rauta Shèràa. Yevgeny is maneuvering Anais into pushing all the right buttons.” His eyes chilled. Frost on silver. “We aren’t letting it slide, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  You keep saying “we,” John. It’s like you’re already back in the game. Jani felt her fingers curl, the sense memory of a hand squeezing hers. “He knew. That he wasn’t right. That he’d been injured, infected. And in his last few lucid moments, he begged you to take care of him.” She laughed. “You’re taking care of him, all right.”

  “It needs to be done quietly. Carefully, so that—”

  “So that Yevgeny can dig for any connections to Li Cao, and use them to drive her from office. So that everything can be positioned to derive the greatest political benefit possible.”

  “I know it’s not your way of doing things.” John put his hands in his pockets, shuffled his feet. The frost melting, a little. “Yevgeny told me about the meeting this morning. He told me how concerned you were about Thalassa, about what would happen to everyone here if relations between Chicago and Rauta Shèràa fell apart. If we’re careful, you won’t have to worry about that. You can just—”

  “Go back to being your pet lab experiment?” Jani touched her hand, outlining where Tsecha’s fingers had locked with hers. “Don’t worry about anything—John took care of it. He also won back all his marbles in the process—wasn’t that bright of him?” She let her hands fall. “Except that you lied to Feyó. That wasn’t so bright.”

  “Any step you take to inform her will destroy everything we’ve put in place so far.” John maneuvered until he stood in front of her. “It’s a cracked egg, Jan. A touch could smash it. Think past Feyó to Morden nìRau Cèel. How do you think he’d play Tsecha’s assassination? He’d sever diplomatic relations with Chicago and call all Haárin back into the worldskein. Given the circumstances, Feyó would obey. Then Cèel would have what he needs to hold off his enemies and hang onto power, an external enemy at which he can point his warriors.” His eyes dulled. “Do you remember the Vynshàrau warriors? I do. Never a shooter when a blade will do the job. Most of what I know about idomeni anatomy and physiology I learned from helping clean up after them.”

  Jani turned her back and took a slow walk around the room. She had to be careful now, because John had a knack for sounding sensible, for deflecting her every argument and turning her emotion against her. The trick was to avoid looking at his eyes, his hands, his smile. To concentrate on another time, twenty years before, when he’d talked sense and told her not to worry. “If Feyó considered humanish a monolithic entity with a single fixed mind-set, she would never have become a follower of Tsecha. She never would have worked to establish her enclave here. She’s capable of discerning shades of grey.” She heard her voice, so quiet. So sensible. “Every hour you delay informing her adds months, years, to the time it will take to win back her trust, assuming it’s even possible to do so.” She checked the wall clock, and the investigator she’d once been sent up a howl. “She has networks of informants in place at Elyas Station. Throughout the Outer Circle. They could provide us information about suspects. Names.”

  John sighed. “Jan, I really don’t think—”

  “No, of course you don’t. You assume, because it’s easier and it’s faster and it gets you what you want.” She looked at the wall clock again. So many hours lost. So many chances. “We’ve had this argument more times than I can remember. And every time, I’ve knuckled under. Not always immediately, but eventually. Not because I came to agree with you, but because I loved you and because in the end that always outweighed everything else.” She looked at John only long enough to see the first glimmer of realization cross his face. “Not this time.”

  “Jani?” John stared, brow furrowed, as though she’d said something in a language he didn’t understand. “What are you saying? What—”

  Before he could finish, she walked out the door. Thought she heard his words follow her as the panel slid closed—

  I love you.

  —and kept walking. Grabbed an empty dish cart that one of the kitchen crew had left in the corridor and dragged it over to the lift. Boarded, pulling the cart after her, turning in time to spot John stride across the courtyard into the nearest demiroom, where Val waited.

  The lift door opened on the fourth floor. She disembarked, cart in tow. Keyed into her suite. Hers and John’s suite.

  John’s suite.

  She dragged the cart through the sitting room into the bedroom, through the bedroom into the closet, and started pulling clothes off hangers. Trousersuits, coveralls. Left the gowns behind because she wore them for John. Grabbed boots and trainers from the shoe rack and tossed them atop the clothes. Rummaged along a top shelf until she found her old Service duffel, and added that to the mix, then turned and ran headlong into a flustered Dieter.

  “Jani, is something wr—” He looked down at the cart, then at the empty hangers, then at her, eyes widening. “I’m sorry.”

  “Is there a spare bedroom?” Jani exited the closet. “Preferably on another floor?” />
  “There are a few guest rooms on the second.” Dieter hurried after her. “But they’re very small.”

  “I’m nothing if not adaptable.” Jani pushed the cart in front of her armoire and dumped in armfuls of T-shirts, underwear, and socks. “You know?”

  “Yes.” Dieter’s eyes glistened. “First I saw—” He looked down at the mess of clothing. “I overheard Doctor Shroud and Minister Scriabin. Then I overheard some of the discussion in the library.”

  “That’s my Dieter. Eavesdropper extraordinaire.” Jani uncovered an old Neoclona pullover in a pile of shirts and tossed it aside. “Would your old connections at Elyas Station be amenable to providing passenger manifests and information on persons of interest?” She waited. “I don’t like the sound of that silence.”

  “They’ve been ordered not to talk to me.” Dieter freed a coverall sleeve that had gotten twisted in one of the cart’s wheels. “All that Fred in Docks Management would tell me was that the word came from the main office. He wouldn’t tell me which ministry.”

  Jani nodded. And so it begins. The stonewalling, leavened with outright lies. “I need to talk to Feyó.”

  “Actually, she’s on her way.” Dieter picked up a bandbra that had missed the cart and landed on the floor. “Ná Meva is bringing her.” He set it atop the pile, his face reddening. “They apparently have something to ask you.”

  Knowing Meva, it’s more telling than asking. Jani headed for her desk. “Great.” She freed her scanpack, a parts bag. “Scriabin needs to be here as well.”

  Dieter caught a stack of T-shirts just before they tumbled to the floor. “I will contact his offices, but—”

  Jani added a favorite stylus to the pile. “What?”

  “I have spoken with Doctor Shroud. Many things have already been decided.” Dieter took a deep breath. “Minister Scriabin may not come.”

  “Tell him I’m meeting with ná Feyó.” Jani pulled out a drawer and emptied the assorted tools atop the clothes. “He’ll come.”