Endgame (16 page)

“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.”

Dieter grabbed the back of the cart and helped her steer it toward the door. “I left Captain Pascal in the comroom. Betty is watching him to make sure he doesn't get into anything he shouldn't.” He cleared his throat. “What happened to his lip?”

“I belted him.”

“He said he fell.”

“Captain Diplomacy.” Jani stopped in front the door and keyed it open—

—just as John did the same from the other side. His face lightened until he spotted the laden cart. Then the brightness died. “What are you doing?”

Jani dragged the cart past him into the corridor. There, she found her way blocked by Val, who tried to take hold of her arm. “Get out of my way,” she said as she shook him off.

“Jan, please let us—”

“Get out of my way, you self-serving son of a bitch.”

Val's face flushed. “You don't—understand.”

“I understand all I have to.” She veered close as she pushed past him, forcing him against the wall. “You, me, and John in the basement of the Rauta Shèràa clinic. And the goal for the day is keep Jani in the dark and pile on that manure. Mushroom, mushroom. The more things change.” She waited for Dieter to catch her up, and together they pushed the cart down the corridor toward the lift.

 

Dieter helped Jani organize her suits and coveralls in her new room's narrow closet, but fled when they reached what he referred to as her “small clothes.”

“Coward.” She rolled and folded as best she could, but found that for the first time in her memory, she had more clothes than places in which to store them. She concentrated on sorting out anything faded or frayed, letting her hands work while her mind raced.
Ná Feyó, forgive us—I need your help to catch a killer.

“Well, this is cozy.”

Jani turned to find Lucien standing in the doorway. “I obviously need to get that lock recoded.”

“It's still set to the factory default. Which means no one has used this room yet.” Lucien looked around the small, sparsely furnished bed-sit and sniffed his disapproval. “Can't imagine why.” He wandered by the bed and gave the
mattress an exploratory prod. “You'd find out more if you stayed with him. Have you thought of that?”

“He's a past master at keeping things from me.” Jani closed the door of her tiny clothes cupboard before Lucien could make any comments about her underwear.

“Yet you always manage to find those things out.” He dragged a frame chair away from the wall and sat, dropping his slingbag to the floor beside him. “He loves you. He thinks he's doing what's best for you, but he's insecure enough to want to explain his reasons to you in great detail. That gives you leverage.” He stretched his legs until the soles of his boots grazed the cuff of her trousers. “If you played it right, you could have him financing your investigation by tomorrow morning.” He glanced at his timepiece. “Make that this morning.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair and yawned.

Jani walked to the room's slit-like window and listened to the patter of the rain. “I'll play him, you play Val, and we'll take it as far as it goes?”

Lucien rolled his eyes. “In case you hadn't noticed, Val's not talking to me.”

“When did you ever let moral revulsion and self-disgust stop you?” Jani tried to gauge her view, but could discern only a few dim lights through the dark and the rain. “Did you find out anything at Base Communications besides how quickly Tsecha died?”

“You mean like names of possible agents of change? Sorry, no.” Lucien folded his arms and hunched. He had circles under his eyes and yawned with increasing frequency.

“Who did you contact downstairs? Mako?”

“I needed to send him an update.” Lucien rubbed a hand across his cheek, which was starred with blond stubble. “The first messages should hit Chicago in the next day or two, after which the shit will hit the fan and proceed in our direction at speed.” Before he could say more, the door buzzer interrupted.

“Jani.” Dieter slid the door open halfway and poked his
head through the gap. “Ná Feyó and ná Meva have been delayed.” His face colored when he spotted Lucien. “I suspect an attempted intervention.”

“I wonder if John bothered to contact Yevgeny first, or went over his head and blocked Feyó himself?” Jani picked up a sock that had gone astray and stuffed it into a drawer. “They're going to have fun roping him in. That gang is all generals and no Spacers.”

“I'll let you know as soon as anything changes.” Dieter shot a last hard look at Lucien, then let the panel slide closed.

Lucien stood. “Come sunrise, I'll be AWOL. I need to get back.” He stretched, twisting at the waist, then stilling like an artist's model in mid-pose, allowing a view of flat stomach and line of shoulder that even his bulky clothing couldn't obscure. “What are you going to do?”

Jani waited until he finished his display and turned to face her. “I don't know. I could go into Karistos myself and poke around, but I have a feeling I won't be allowed to leave the enclave.” She yawned, felt fatigue press down, draining whatever shock and grief had left behind. “Feyó is my best bet. I need to wait and see whether she can get past John.”

“Waiting was never a talent, as I recall.” Lucien took one step closer, then another. He'd applied something to his lip that reduced the swelling but not the redness, making it look wine-stained and wet. “Many were the times I wanted to grab a rope and tie you to the bedpost.”

“That's garden variety, as your kinks go.” Jani stood her ground as he closed in. “I'm surprised you never tried.” She felt the hard edge of his hip as he pressed against her, the warmth of his skin through his clothes and the growing firmness between his legs.

“I wanted to. So many times, I wanted—” Lucien pressed close as flesh would allow, eyes closed, lips a breath away. Then he stilled, eyes snapping open. “Are you playing
me
now?” He backed away. “I can't—” He raised a pleading
hand. “When Pierce isn't locking me out of meetings, he's watching me like a hawk. I don't have the latitude here that I did at Sheridan.”

“You'll think of something.” Jani ignored his grumbling reply. “Who manufactures weaponized prionics?”

“Government labs. Service labs. A few commercial.”

“Could Neoclona pull it off?”

Lucien's brow arched. “You are angry with John, aren't you?” He hoisted his slingbag to his shoulder. “Can I sleep first?”

“If you must.” Jani stepped out of his way as he headed for the door. “Think you can free up information on any persons of interest who've passed through Elyas Station today? Dieter's been declared
hybrid non grata
. His old connections won't connect.”

“You don't ask for much, do you?” Lucien paced like a trapped beast. “No one knows me here—I'm still feeling my way. I can't promise
anything
.” He stopped and leaned close, but this time kissing was the furthest thing from his mind. “Are you listening? I'll do—”

“Just do what you can.” She leaned against the wall, just beyond reach.

“Whatever I can. Yeah. Move the fucking world while I'm at it, and after I do that—” Lucien struck the doorpad hard enough to make it squeal, and blew out of the room.

Jani remained against the wall, listening to the receding
clip
of Lucien's boots. Then she crossed to the bed, prodding the mattress as he had before sitting on the edge. Her eyes burned as tears sprang unbidden.

“I don't want to sleep. I don't want to sleep.” She lay across the bare pad. Begged Tsecha to forgive her for every question incorrectly answered, every task left uncompleted, each lesson gone unlearned. Prayed to Ganesh for mercy. Closed her eyes.

 

Heat. The sharp spice of
vrel
blossom.

Vrel
can't grow here—it's desert.
She wore drop-deads
again. Stood atop a hill some distance from the tents. Made ready to walk down when she saw the curtain of sand close in and felt the lash of the wind.

Before she could take another step, the storm struck. Sand sprayed over her, coating her hands, her face. Filling her mouth, her nose. She fell to the ground and spread herself flat, buried her face in rubble, felt the knife edges of rocks cut through her clothes into her skin. The warmth of her blood as it flowed.

The wind buffeted, hard enough to rock her as the sand swept over her like a blanket—

Jani?

—blowing—

Jani? Wake up.

—burying—

“Jani!”

She struck out, connecting with soft hands that enveloped her fist, absorbing the blow. Opened her eyes.

“Jani? Are you all right?” Dieter's moon face filled her view, brow knit, eyes dark with concern. “Ná Feyó and ná Meva have arrived.”

Jani changed clothes. Used what makeup she had to erase the effects of the day from her face. Then she followed Dieter out to the courtyard, and felt the pounding in her head start as soon as she heard the voice bounce off the stone and glass.

“—and I will speak with her.”
Meva loomed over Scriabin like a specter in a horror 'Vee, waving John silent every time he tried to get a word in edgewise. “She was his chosen religious suborn, most against the wishes of many, but such was as he was. And now she has duties to perform, and she must see to them or his soul will be in peril.” She paused to draw breath and spotted Jani. “Ah, there you are.” She swept toward her, the hem of her overrobe flapping around her knees. “Damned business. They sought to stop us at the border, your damned security, but I drove past. Let them shoot at us—hah! Let them worry over their souls if they do so.”

Jani looked past Meva to the nearby demiroom, where Feyó sat on a couch while Dathim stood sentinel over her. From the corner of her eye she could see John raise a hand in an effort to draw her attention, and ignored him. “Ná Meva, I need to explain something to ná Feyó.”

“Then explain it.”

“It's difficult.”

“Ah. Something she will not wish to hear.” Meva looked back at her dominant, voice ripe with sadistic gloat.

Jani stepped closer, lowering her voice as Scriabin tried to stare her silent. “Ní Tsecha was assassinated.”

Meva turned and looked her in the face. Her amber eyes were a darker version of Tsecha's, and bright as shattered glass. “No. This she will not wish to hear now, or at any time.” She pondered for a moment, then headed for the demiroom, beckoning Jani to follow.

“Jani.” Scriabin bowed as she approached, his ministerial air at odds with his stance, feet wide apart, shoulders rounded like a brawler's. “Please reconsider your decision—”

“Save it, Zhenya.” John glared at her, looking away just as their eyes met. “She's not buying.”

Jani walked past Scriabin and lowered into the empty chair across from Feyó.
“May you take what glory you can from this godless day,”
she said in her most formal Sìah Haárin. She looked to the skylight above. The night's storm had passed, leaving behind scattered cloud shimmering in coral and indigo, reflections of the rising sun.
His first missed sunrise.

“Did we set the ground rules regarding language?” John hovered behind her seat. “I don't believe it's fair to use one that half the room can't understand.”

“Deal with it.” Jani sat up straight, so the top of her head was higher than Feyó's, as idomeni protocols demanded and Thalassan habit seldom allowed. “Ná Feyó.” She took a deep breath, felt Meva's stare like a stick prodding her forward. “John Shroud determined that ní Tsecha did not die as the result of a tumor. He was—”

Scriabin moved in behind Feyó and glared, fists clenched.

“—assassinated.” Jani stared back, until he closed his eyes and dropped his hands.

Feyó raised a hand and curved it in question. “Killed?”

“Secret killing, ná Feyó. From a distance, by one unknown.” Dathim's voice emerged surprisingly soft. “The humanish scroll I gave you to read, many days ago.
Ministerial Histories
. The last Scriabin Prime Minister was assassinated, as was an Exterior minister over fifty humanish years ago.”

“Secret killing.” Feyó repeated the words in English as she turned to look up at Scriabin. “Is this true, Minister?”

“Yes, ná Feyó.” Scriabin shot Jani a look that should have killed her where she sat. “I am saddened to admit—”

“A humanish killed him?” Feyó's hand fell to her lap. “He esteemed humanish most completely.”

“Unfortunately, not all humanish felt the same about him.” Scriabin moved to the end of the couch so Feyó could see him more easily. “They misunderstood his desire for closer relations with humanish. They—”

“I understand the beliefs of your separatists, Minister.” Feyó's voice emerged stronger and lower pitched, the first hints of anger revealed. “I spoke with ná Via for much of the past day. She showed me ná Tsecha's medical scrolls, the results of all his scans and examinations.” The female looked up at John, her grey Sìah eyes chill as old ice. “There was no tumor, Doctor Shroud. Not a cell of one existed. Ná Via is most thorough. Such a mistake she would not have made, and it most pains me that you would lie of such.”

Jani waited for John to speak, but he only looked down at the floor, his face darkening in humiliation. “They feared your reaction if you learned the truth.”

“Yet I learned the truth anyway, but only because I hunted for such.”

“Ná Feyó.” Jani fought the urge to lean forward, knew that any humanish posture or gesture now would give offense. “We must find who did this. I debase myself in the service of those who lied, and beg your assistance.”

“We have been searching since yesterday, when we first learned…” Scriabin's voice trailed.

That's right, idiot. Let Feyó know exactly how long you kept her in the dark.
Jani slashed the air with the edge of her
hand, the idomeni gesture of denial. “Not even Exterior has the reach in the Outer Circle that the Haárin do. We need their help.”

“I do not wish to help you.” Feyó's shoulders and back curved until her chin grazed her thigh and she had to contort herself to look in Jani's direction. “My security suborns will act for themselves, and search on their own.”

“Ná Feyó.” Jani felt her own shoulders start to buckle, and forced them back. “He was my teacher—”

“You are of them.”

“He was my teacher, and my friend. I esteemed and feared him. He charged me with much, and if you prevent me from acting as he deemed me to act, you will be as damned as the one who killed him.”

Feyó straightened a little. Her belief in Tsecha and his teachings had lost her a position at Rauta Shèràa Academy and resulted in her being made Haárin. As much as she hated humanish at the moment, she still felt the pull of her late religious dominant's authority.

“And you wish what, Jani Kilian?” Her voice emerged a tone lighter.

“To find who killed him.” Jani held out both hands to Feyó, palms facing up, a gesture of supplication. “And show them the meaning of that which they did.”

Feyó uncurved her back and shoulders until she sat upright. “My security knows much of the separatists. Where they find funding, and the devices they use to destroy our docks.”

“Your security cannot go into the humanish places to find them, Feyó.” Meva lowered beside her dominant. As she did, one sleeve of her overrobe rode up, revealing a web of ragged scarring, souvenirs of multiple challenges. “You need humanish to do such. And such will they do, out of guilt for killing Tsecha, and for holding back from you.”

“Such is true.” Dathim gazed toward the courtyard, where preparations for early morning sacrament were well along. “Humanish often ponder that which they do. They worry it,
like a pack animal the mouthbar, even though that which is done is done and to ponder it does no good.” He glanced down at Jani, then back toward the courtyard. “Will you stay here, ná Feyó? They prepare sacrament.”

“We could go to the library.” Jani teetered on the brink, sensed the possibility of winning and wondered how much harder she dare push. “It was ní Tsecha's favored room, because of the view of the cliffs, and the bay.” She glanced at Meva to find her staring back, nodding slightly as though encouraging her to continue.
Desperation makes for the strangest allies.
“It would be a good place for your investigators to work with Minister Scriabin's. It is clean and—”

“I met with ní Tsecha in the library, many times.” Feyó grew quiet once more, repose revealing the fatigue that grooved the skin under her eyes and alongside her mouth, the dullness that had replaced the dynamism, which not even rage could completely restore.

The idomeni in grief.
Jani looked again at Meva, who stood and gestured to Dathim. “You will return to the enclave with ná Feyó, then bring ní Galas back here with you.” She stepped aside so Dathim could help Feyó rise and lead her out of the Main House before the food odors could drift over from the courtyard. “I will stay to ensure that all is prepared properly.”

Great.
Jani swallowed a groan as Dieter appeared with two comtechs in tow.

“If you wish to come with us, ná Meva, you can aid us in the preparations.” He nodded in acknowledgment of Jani's eye roll of gratitude, and hustled the female away before she could argue.

John lowered to the arm of the couch and started massaging the back of his neck. “Well,” he said after Meva had moved out of earshot, “that went better than any of us had a right to expect.”

“Get this through your damned head.” Jani stood and planted herself in front of him. “You may have hitched your wagon to Scriabin's rising star, but as far as the Elyan Haárin
are concerned, you are part of Thalassa. As you go, so it goes, and you almost dragged it right into the toilet!”

John's gaze flicked over her face before settling on some point north of her left ear. “I am more sorry than I can say that I caused ná Via to question her judgment, but don't go and—”

“No. Hybrid or not, you act as humanish, you fall into the humanish camp, and given Feyó's sensitivity right now, that's not where you want to be.”

“Thanks.” Scriabin thrust a thick finger at her. “We are busting our asses—”

“To clean up after something one of yours did. To the idomeni, the act of one is the act of all, and everyone pays. You don't believe me, ask a Laum, assuming you can find one. Any left alive after the Night of the Blade decamped to the far edges of the worldskein, and those colonies are a little hard to get to—” Jani stopped when the entry door swept open and two all too familiar figures strode in.

“Mornin'.” Niall dragged off his garrison cap and tucked it into his belt. He wore desertweights, as did Lucien, who followed close behind, slingbag in hand. They both looked dusty and tired, but to that Niall added an almost palpable anger that revealed itself in his coiled-spring walk and the bite in his voice.

Scriabin read the signs as well. He held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Niall, I—”

“Save it, Your Excellency.” Niall set himself in front of the man, hands on hips. “I've had an educational morning. I
hate
educational mornings. Being awakened at oh-hell-thirty by a concerned party bent on educating me just fucks up my entire day.” He lowered his voice as a few Thalassans in the courtyard paused to observe, but what he lost in volume he made up for in snarl. “So Tsecha was assassinated. Did it occur to anyone that it might have been a good idea to inform the individual responsible for hauling their asses off a rooftop when—not
if
, but
when
—the news gets out and the Haárin decide to retaliate?”

Scriabin's face reddened. “We always have contingency plans in place, Ni—”

“Not here, you don't.
This is Elyas, where if you don't dot the i's and cross the t's just right, you get shit. Elyas, where they've decided they don't want to play with Chicago anymore, and where the same Haárin that you are about to piss off royally control eighty-three point four percent of the dock traffic. It's taken me over six months to work out the systems around here, and you think you're going to snap your Family fingers and make shuttles fly while all hell is breaking loose? Well, allow me to be the one to inform you that if the Haárin do go ballistic, the first ones the locals are going to go after are Family with a big F, and that F stands for ‘fucked,' so go right ahead and tell me how much you don't need any help getting off-world in case of a political meltdown.” He backed off a stride and stood, eyes fixed on nothing, struggling for control and only winning by a hair. “Does Roshi know?” He turned and looked from Scriabin to John and back again, and offered the barest of nods. “We're going to straighten out something right now. Everything that gets sent to Sheridan comes to me first. Everything you tell Roshi, you tell me first. Is that clear?”

Scriabin took a deep, shaky breath before answering. “Perfectly, Colonel.”

“Good.” Niall brushed past the man and pulled up in front of Jani. “And how was your morning?”

Jani looked past him toward Lucien, who had finished watching the show and now sat in one of the demirooms and hunted for something in his slingbag. “Lucien filled you in?”

“Yeah. You can imagine my joy when I opened the door to find him standing there.” Niall took her elbow and steered her toward the courtyard, from whence the aromas of a board-busting Thalassan breakfast emanated. “He figures they didn't tell me because they knew I'd tell you.”

“That's what I thought.” Jani headed for the beverage table, grabbing a mug from the stack and filling it from the
brewer. “He took me to the place he thinks—”

“Yeah, I know. We just came from there.” Niall filled two mugs to the brim with coffee and set them on a tray. Then he moved down the line and filled a plate with eggs, bacon, and a tea party's worth of toast and pastry. “We scanned the place fore and aft, incorporated the analyses he ran yesterday. The fact that the place was protein-wiped is about the only red flag we have, but depending on the weapon the killer used, it could've served as the nest. One has to take into account his experience in these matters, I suppose.” He led Jani to an empty table well away from the other diners.
“Jesus Christ.”
He set down the tray hard, sending coffee splashing. “If I'd known it was assassination yesterday, I could have kicked Station Liaison into overdrive. We could have shut down the private fields and seized passenger manifests for the last fortnight
and
sifted out the probables by now.” He sank into his chair. “Now I'm stuck playing catch-up, and I really hate that.” He shoved a slice of bacon in his mouth and chewed with intent.