Endgame

by Kristine Smith

  Galas pondered, then motioned to Defa, who in turn gestured to a female suborn. She joined them at their table, flipping open a portable workstation and starting to key.

  “Transferring now,” she said, her voice a brittle rasp that did little to lessen the tension. “We will first examine all images recorded after the time of the humanish male’s death, in the section where he was killed.” She made one last series of entries, then twisted the workstation display so it faced the middle of the table. A diffuse beam flashed from the panel, then refocused to form a cylinder of white light. The cylinder in turn unrolled like an ancient scroll, the resulting pane of light thickening until it formed a milky cube.

  The milkiness soon cleared, replaced by the image of a crowded concourse. Miniature Haárin, their every expression and movement detectable, their voices a background rise and fall.

  Jani rose and circled the table until she faced the concourse image head-on.

  “Why isn’t anyone moving?” Val sat back, double shot of whiskey in hand. “They’re all crowded around the—” His face flushed. “They’re all watching the holoVee displays.”

  “Ní Tsecha’s death had just been announced.” Ní Galas sat up straight and raised his glass above his head, a combination of a humanish toast and an idomeni gesture of respect.

  “This one,” Defa said, leaning forward and pointing first to one Haárin who moved too quickly from one display to the next, then another who gestured in anger while talking to a security suborn. Another. Another. As he took note of a figure, the female suborn would stop the image action and home in on it, touchboarding entries as a series of flickers played across the subject’s face and frame.

  Jani watched, trying to pick up the cadence of the search, to see the crowds through Defa’s eyes. I’m looking for waves. He’s looking for eddies. Bare ripples. She took one step back from the cube, then another, struggling to see the single star in the nebula.

  Then she saw. And it turned out to be a wave, after all.

  Defa spotted it as well. “This one.” He pointed to a conservatively dressed female who appeared as if from nowhere and walked along one side of the concourse for a time before veering toward the middle. “She does not stop at any of the displays.”

  “She is not humanish. She is idomeni. She is Vynshàrau.” The suborn paused, waiting for another request.

  Jani watched the female move along the concourse, passing the clustered Haárin like an iceskimmer moving past floes and bergs. Never once pausing to talk to anyone. Never once glancing at any of the displays. She wore a wrapshirt and trousers in sand and pale grey, topped by a darker grey overrobe. Her brown hair had been gathered into a messy horsetail that on closer inspection seemed at odds with her neat clothing. “Show her again.”

  Defa looked up at her. “She is not humanish, ná Kièrshia.” He gestured toward the workstation. “Proportional evaluation and chroma show her as Vynshàrau.” He shrugged. “Darker-skinned Sìah is also possible. Or a blended sect. But idomeni, yes, and truly.” He squinted as he leaned closer to the cube and watched their latest subject continue down the concourse until she turned down a gangway. “Vynshàrau, most likely.”

  Jani fought the urge to wrest the touchboard from Defa’s suborn and mash pads until she found the reverse feature. “Why doesn’t she stop at any of the displays? She doesn’t even slow down to glance at them.”

  Defa twisted around to look her in the face. “She does not stop—” He turned back around to stare at the image. “She does not…”

  “Maybe none of them transmitted in her language.” Niall now sported a glass of whiskey to go with his ’stick. “Maybe she couldn’t understand any of the broadcasts.”

  “Vynshàrau Haárin is the dominant language, Colonel Pierce.” Ní Galas had started in on the second half of the lemon. “All Haárin understand it.”

  Defa folded his arms and cocked his head to the side, the cross-species attitude for show me. “Why does she behave as this? She should know and truly that she is being imaged at all times.”

  Jani walked to the window. The sun had risen to mid-morning, a molten gold ball that bleached the sky. “Could we talk to her?”

  Defa’s suborn tapped her workstation touchboard, shutting down the concourse image. She flipped the display back around, her hands moving over the board with a musician’s dexterity. “She is ná Nahin Sela.” A few more taps. “A trader in decorative tile. She travels within the fifth cruiser built by Pathen during their last fallow season, and blessed by Shiou. She travels to the worldskein by the usual route, then on to Shèrá.”

  “We will bid security at Guernsey Station to hold her until we arrive.” Ní Galas gestured to another suborn, who opened yet another portable workstation.

  “What reason will you give for holding her?” Jani held up a hand in apology as the Haárin stared. “She might refuse to remain behind. She may request her dominant’s aide in obtaining her release.”

  “Order is our reason, ná Kièrshia. A reason acceptable to all godly idomeni, Haárin or bornsect, suborn or dominant.” Galas bared his teeth. He radiated contentment now, like a cat that had locked up his quarry and could now torture it at his leisure. “Ná Nahin will remain in place until we arrive at Guernsey Station to question her. Such is her obligation—she will not refuse such.” He rubbed his hands together, a profoundly humanish gesture. “She is as ours.”

  The library huddle broke up an hour later. Galas and his crew fingered four other Haárin for questioning, but none of them interested Jani as much as Nahin Sela and her single-minded walk through the concourse.

  Then the scatter began. Meva and Dathim returned to the enclave to inform Feyó. Val and John hied off to prepare the clinic staff.

  “And the panic is on.” Niall tossed a few under-his-breath orders to Lucien, who shot Jani a last loaded look before departing. “I should have a minimum two weeks to prep for this voyage. Instead I have a grand total of—” He checked his timepiece and winced. “—nine and one-half hours.”

  Scriabin gave a silent chuckle. “Sit back, Colonel.” He clapped Niall on the shoulder. “Witness the effect that Family finger-snapping can have.”

  “I’m off the hook, then?” Niall offered a crocodile grin. “You won’t want an escort to the shuttleport or coverage on your way to the station? No escort to Guernsey, either. And oh, when you reach the worldskein and realize that the news has gotten there ahead of you that it was assassination instead of a brain tumor and a substantial proportion of the idomeni population wants to nail your hide to the nearest surface? I’m guessing your ministry security can handle it.”

  Scriabin rolled his eyes. “Niall, I was just—”

  Niall held up a hand. “Another thing we should get straight right now, Your Excellency, is that this is not a game. You want to play ‘my daddy’s bigger,’ feel free, but you’ll be playing with yourself.” The chill cast in his eye indicated that he knew exactly what he’d said, that he meant every nasty little double entendre, and would be happy to clarify matters if pushed. “Now, I have a long haul to plan coverage for. By your leave.” He turned to Jani, and light in his eyes softened. “I’ll check in later.” He yanked his garrison cap out of his belt and set it in place as he strode to the door.

  Scriabin muttered under his breath as he watched Niall leave. “Arrogant bastard…”

  “Pot, kettle, black.” Jani stood her ground when Scriabin turned on her, eyes wide and face reddening. “He’s the AG’s colonel for a reason, and he’s worried. So am I. We’ve both lived through idomeni political strife and the Commonwealth’s bungling attempts to turn it to their advantage.” She waited until the man backed off, until his breathing slowed. “I think he trusts you. In any event, he’s thrown in with you for good or ill because he believes it’s better for his Commonwealth. It’s your job to show that you merit his confidence. Announcing every five minutes that you’re the S in NUVA-SCAN isn’t quite good enough.”

  Scriabin stud
ied her through narrowed eyes. On close inspection, the sense of the brawler held true, from his wide, broad-nosed face to his blocky build and dockworker’s hands. “Anais has filled my ears about you ever since we learned you were involved in this. You helped drive the wedge between her and Li Cao. She’s been scrambling to keep a claw in ever since, and not having much luck.” He jerked his head toward the door. “Then to add insult to injury, you went and stole her bauble. I should thank you for that. Expensive bastard, our blond captain, and from what I’ve observed, not worth the cost.” His voice held the same quality of question as did every heterosexual male’s when they pondered the survival skills of Lucien Pascal. “I would have figured you for smarter.”

  Jani shrugged. This wasn’t the time to discuss the matter of Lucien, and even if it were, Scriabin would never be the man she’d choose to discuss it with. “For all his complicating ways, he possesses a uniquely uncomplicated view of life. Sometimes, that can be a refuge.”

  “And other times, it can be a trap.”

  “I could say the same about Family loyalty. Capital F.”

  Scriabin’s head snapped back, in the manner of those who commonly questioned others’ choices but never their own. “Tyotya Ani has her uses. She quiets the fears of the hardliners who worry that the Commonwealth is disintegrating. Before they realize what’s happening, we’ll be in.” His voice quieted. “Only an idiot would allow her any real power.”

  Jani considered the Anais Ulanova she had dealt with in Chicago and couldn’t help but smile. “Does she know that?”

  “By the time it dawns on her, she will be too committed to back out. She will have nowhere else to go.” Scriabin leaned close. His breath held the bare hint of whiskey. “Stakes, yes, I understand the meaning of the word. Risk.”

  “You won’t face a firing squad if it goes to hell.”

  “Are you sure?” Scriabin glanced up at the sun, which had just become visible through the glass roof of the courtyard. “We must continue this discussion at another time. Perhaps your captain can keep score.” He snorted. “Assuming he can count that high.” He offered a curt nod in farewell and headed for the foyer, only to be intercepted by Dieter bearing a clothes bag containing his outfit from the previous day. He grabbed the bag without a word and left.

  Dieter stood still for a moment, then turned to Jani. “You’re welcome, Your Excellency. Wear it in good health.” He tried to grin and failed, his face showing all the fatigue and sadness and worry that marked the mood of the Main House, which was quiet as a church even as noon sacrament approached. “You’ll need help preparing. I can have Gena help you pack, and—”

  “I think we have more pressing matters to settle.” Jani beckoned him to follow her into the maze of demirooms.

  CHAPTER 19

  Just track the voices. Especially a certain weighty bass, dark as clouded midnight.

  John rose when he spotted her, then sank back into the couch when she ignored him. “We’re discussing how to handle matters in my absence.” He nodded toward Sikara and Cossa, both dressed in staid black.

  “Ms. Kilian.” Sikara rose and bowed low. “Our deepest sympathies for the loss of your friend.”

  “Indeed.” Cossa matched his partner’s bow even as he eyed Dieter, who stood just outside the bounds of the room.

  “Thank you.” Jani sat on the end of the couch as far as possible from John, a move that drew a raised eyebrow from Sikara. “I don’t mean to sound unappreciative, but as John no doubt told you, we will be departing for Shèrá later this evening.” She motioned for Dieter to join them. “This is Dieter Brondt, my suborn. He will act for me in my absence, and I would like him to take part in this conversation.” She sensed John’s glare, his desire to interrupt trumped by his reluctance to anger her more than he had already. Yes, I’ve just hijacked your legal team. Try and stop me. “I assume John told you that ní Tsecha was assassinated?”

  Sikara nodded. “He informed us yesterday afternoon, yes.”

  Jani looked at John, only to find him intent on his hands. You told your lawyers before you told me. She tried to speak, but a rise of anger choked her. You told your goddamn lawyers!

  “We actually did want to consult with you concerning your assessment of the current situation.” Cossa removed a recording board from the briefbag at his feet and activated it.

  You mean you want to know whether John’s back-door arrangement with Yevgeny Scriabin is still viable? Jani took one deep breath, then another. “If things remain unsettled—” She stopped, then tried again. “That may work in John’s favor. A solid source of money in a troubled region does wonders to calm shaky nerves.” She watched Cossa transcribe her every word, and wondered if he really hadn’t already considered the point. “If there’s war, all bets are off. Feyó may take her Haárin and go home, or she may stay, and Cèel would send warriors to collect her. Or Li Cao could send Service troops to drive her out.” She shot a look at Dieter, who had dragged a chair into their circle and now sat and watched her expectantly. “I’m glad you brought up the subject, Mister Cossa. Are you still taking clients?”

  The two lawyers looked at one another. Then Sikara took over. “We represent cases involving matters of business. Bankruptcies. Dissolutions. Mergers.”

  Jani nodded. “I admit that Thalassa isn’t a business. More a medical condition wrapped around a state of mind. It consists of this house, some surrounding homes and outbuildings, a few crisscrossing roads. A lot of land—the original surveys are stored here in our offices. Governor Markos allows us some autonomy. I think the operative word is ‘allows.’” She paused, and heard only the intermittent click of Cossa’s stylus. “I will be gone for several months. I need to leave some bastards in place to make sure that my home is still here when I get back.”

  Cossa stopped writing and slumped back. “Thanks. A lot.”

  “Settle down, James.” Sikara sat back more easily and folded his hands, the pose of a man prepared to listen. “I think we’ve just been paid quite the compliment.”

  Jani nodded. “When we numbered only fifty or so, I once spent a few days making up sets of fake documents for everyone. A safety net, in case of disaster. Birth certs. ID cards. I even reconfigured inset chips, though I don’t think they would stand up to full-bore ministry-level analysis. Now the place has grown too large, and I no longer believe that scattering the inhabitants to the four winds is a viable strategy.” Her jaw cracked as she swallowed a yawn. “Thalassa is in a grey zone. In case of war, I want it to be protected. I don’t want Thalassans to wind up in prison, or be forced to revert to their original humanish or Haárin state if they don’t want to.”

  Sikara’s eyes half closed, as though he listened to music. “The issue I see is one of jurisdiction. Mister Cossa is human, and a Commonwealth citizen, as am I.”

  “Isn’t it our decision?” Jani looked from the senior partner to the junior, searched for any hint of encouragement, and saw only professional blandness. “Can’t Thalassa grant you the right to represent us?”

  “Perhaps.” Cossa studied the tip of his stylus. “How have legal matters been handled in the past?”

  Jani looked at Dieter, who shrugged. “We haven’t really had any legal matters that required special handling. Internal disputes are handled…well, internally. Discussion between the parties, sometimes heated.” She leaned against the arm of the couch and propped up her head with her hand. Ached for sleep, even as she dreaded the prospect. “Externally—”

  “Externally, all major dealings, including purchases of land, goods, and services, have been handled by Neoclona attorneys working on my behalf.” John’s voice emerged warm, patient. He didn’t look at Jani. He didn’t have to. Go ahead and kick me out of bed, his tone implied, in a wavelength she had come to know all too well. I still own you.

  Cossa once more took notes. “So your primary source of wherewithal is Neoclona?”

  “Over the last several months we’ve actually started to develop into
something more than an extension of John Shroud’s ego.” Jani paused until Cossa cleared the large smudge he’d scratched across his board and Dieter stopped coughing. “We’re leasing a couple of docks from the Elyan Haárin, and one from a Karistos holding company. We’ve leased ships, and have begun exporting our food culturing technologies to other colonies. Ná Gisa Pilon, our dominant emeritus, is heading that project.” She hesitated, pondered wording, ignored John’s mouthing of dominant emeritus. “And we’ve entertained the odd inquiry regarding our willingness to house large amounts of cash.”

  Sikara’s eyes opened wide. “Funds laundering?”

  “That, too.” Jani rocked her hand in a so-so gesture. “Numbered accounts, mostly. Since we’re outside Commonwealth jurisdiction here, I can understand the appeal.”

  “We are considering the numbered accounts,” Dieter added, eyes still watering.

  “Conservative projections are that these nonmedical ventures will earn sufficient to support this enclave, even allowing for an explosion in population, within four to five years—” Jani stopped when Sikara held up a hand.

  “In event of war…”

  “In event of war, there are no guarantees about anything.” Jani sniffed the air as the aromas of noon sacrament wafted. “But people will still need to eat, and some will still want places to park their funds that the Commonwealth can’t touch.”

  John started to laugh. “This is ridiculous, pie-in-the-sky—”

  “If Misters Sikara and Cossa can tie up matters in the Commonwealth courts long enough, we’ll have enough money to buy you out.” Jani avoided looking John in the eye. “Hell, Elyas already considers us an autonomous entity. We could just declare that the Commonwealth has no jurisdiction and nationalize you now.”

  Cossa’s stylus stopped in mid-word. “That’s actually…” His brow arched. “It’s a ballsy move—”