Endgame (18 page)

Scriabin smiled weakly. “I am used to dealing with the directness of idomeni, not the duplicity.”

“We are most as straightforward, compared to you humanish. What is not as straightforward, when compared to humanish?” Meva laughed, the idomeni's monotonal
heh heh heh
sounding like someone trying to cough quietly. “But now you wish to feel more sure, because you have erred, and are uncertain of your standing. In such a case, our intrigue is enough to upset you.”

The silence that fell now was the sort that got under the skin and nettled. Jani tried to force thoughts of her imminent return to Shèrá from her mind, concentrating instead on the work being done on the other side of the barrier, the fact that each analysis, each message sent and message received, brought them one step closer to finding Tsecha's killer. After a time, she glanced at Niall, who had taken his nicstick case from his pocket and now massaged it as though trying to absorb the nicotine through the engraved metal.

“If you would smoke, Colonel, please do so.” Meva bared her teeth at the surprised looks that greeted her dispensation.
“I have entered this place so many times. Any godly bornsect would consider me as damned. I only consider myself as ná Meva Tan. What difference?”

Niall didn't have to be told twice. “Thank you, ná Meva.” He pulled his case from his pocket and flipped it open. Removed a gold-striped cylinder, crunched the tip—

—and stalled in mid-inhalation as on the other side of the sound barrier cases emerged from bags and pockets, and tips crunched in filtered silence. About a quarter of the hybrids lit up, by Jani's quick count, along with a lone Haárin who ignored the alarmed postures of her fellows and took a pull with the skill of one who'd had a lot of practice.

Niall shifted in his seat. “Well. Nice to have the company.” He expelled smoke in a series of distracted puffs. “So, when would this journey be expected to get under way? The transporting of Cabinet ministers over long distances is not a trivial undertaking.”

“Does ‘as soon as possible' make your blood run cold, Colonel?” Scriabin's voice emerged strong, his Family-caliber composure returned. “I think ná Meva has made it clear that any delay will only make us look worse.”

“Can anyone attend this?” Val raised a hand. “If I'm not part of an official delegation, am I out of luck?”

John leaned forward to get a better look at his embattled partner. “What are you asking?”

“I'm asking if we…or if I…” Val tapped the floor with his fist. “Well, dammit, John, we fought him for years. Then you wind up here, a hybrid, one of the blended race he started talking about during the war. It's all so damned…ironic.” He stilled, then scooted forward and gestured to Niall, who tossed him his nicstick case. “And I liked the son of a bitch—pardon the language, but what else would you call him?—and I think that we should attend this ceremony.” He shook out a 'stick, then tossed the case back to Niall. “Assuming we can.” He crunched the tip, then took a long, shaky drag.

Niall examined the case absently, then shoved it back in his pocket. “What usually happens at these things?”

Meva leaned forward and prodded Jani's knee. “Priest-in-training?”

Jani gritted her teeth. Counted to three. “The most sacred place in Rauta Shèràa is the site of the Temple. The dome rotates, and there's an observation port that allows a view of the region of sky where the First Star is located. I would release Tsecha's soul there so it could see the star, and follow it.” She recalled a forbidden daytime visit to the dome, the view through the port of the milk-blue skies of Rauta Shèràa. The uproar at the Consulate when her intrusion was discovered. “I think there is some question as to whether they would let me in, despite what you say.”

Meva clapped her hands. “It will be a great confusion. Caith will laugh.”

Niall looked to Jani and sighed. “Now which one is Caith?”

“The goddess of chaos. She fights a never-ending battle with Shiou, the goddess of order.” In her mind's eye Jani saw the page from Tsecha's scroll. The clenched fist.
Second round soon to come, bitch.

“I wouldn't mind seeing the old bird wing it to home.” Niall's voice sounded deceptively light. “Besides, with all these ministers dancing attendance, I don't have much choice, do I?”

Jani studied him for some sign he joked, even as she knew that this was the last thing he would ever joke about. “You'd go? To Rauta Shèràa?”

“Wouldn't miss it, gel.” Niall forced a grin, then sealed the deal by blowing a smoke ring. “God knows why. The variety of ways in which this can go south boggles the mind.”

“Then you had better enjoy those while you can.” Scriabin shot him a grin laced with cool commiseration, their earlier blow-up, if not forgotten, at least set aside for the time being. “They don't allow you the good ones in the brig.”

“But they are required to provide you any brand you want
as part of your last meal.” Niall's grin proved a little wider, a little colder. “And the one they give you after they tie on the blindfold tastes best of all.”

Val rolled his half-spent 'stick between his fingers. “Now isn't that a cheery thought? I wonder if we get our pick, like with our last me—” Before he could finish, Dieter swept through the barrier.

“We've just intercepted a communication from Elyas Station.” His eyes met Jani's. “There's been a murder.”

Dieter brought up a face on his display. A younger man. Bandan or Phillipan or Earthbound Asian.

“His name was Neason Ch'un.” The image flickered, and Dieter eyed the fragrant cloud of board-corroding nicstick smoke that hung just overhead. “His body was found in the interface, the utilities chase-slash-walkway that divides the humanish and Haárin wings of the station. Cause of death was determined to be asphyxiation, resulting from severe trauma to the area between the third and fifth cervical vertebrae.” He paused, giving the words one last chew before spitting them out. “Station security believes a drifter responsible.”

Lucien leaned against a nearby desk. “That's not the sort of blow you'd expect from a drifter.”

“Depends where they drifted in from.” Dieter stared at the display. He seemed to have backslid into his former role as station liaison, taken on the look of a mason faced with a crumbling wall and unsure which hole to patch first. “He died yesterday, around station noon. Since the blow was such that death occurred within minutes—”

“Add in the time it takes a shuttle to reach Elyas Station,” Jani said, edging closer to the display, “and you have the time Tsecha collapsed.”

“At this time, there's no evidence that links this death with Tsecha's assassination.” Dieter drummed his fingers against his thigh, then segued into picking his nails. “Ch'un worked for the station as a mid-level vendor liaison. He'd visit shops, talk to the managers, make sure they were satisfied with systems hookups and whatnot.” He shuffled his feet. “But the timing bothers me. And as Captain Pascal said, this type of injury is usually indicative of a certain type of killer. A certain type of training.” He seemed determined to look everywhere but at the faces surrounding him. “We are still gathering information, of course. We could find out that he argued with a coworker earlier in the day and the matter escalated. We could…” He let the sentence fade. Then in the next breath, he straightened, pulled himself together, the professional once more. “Until the matter is resolved, I've requested that the Haárin station dominant keep us informed of developments in this investigation.” He turned to Scriabin. “We could use some grease from a ministry, sir, either verbal or written communication to the station chief.”

“I'll have my office draw up something within the hour.” Scriabin pulled a handheld from his pocket and made a note. “In the meantime, we have ships to outfit, stories to get straight, and a funeral delegation to prepare.”

Meva, who stood off to one side, seemed in no hurry to depart. “Feyó will provide all necessary technical and dock support.”

“I shall stay here with ná Meva,” said Dathim. “I can prepare to depart within minutes. I have no stories to straighten.” He glanced at a nearby table, and with the deliberation of a gourmet, plucked a single grape from the bunch some daring soul had sneaked into the area and popped it into his mouth.

Scriabin tore his attention from the placidly chewing Dathim. “My guess is that we'll leave within twelve to eighteen hours. Details tend to sort themselves out rather quickly when Tyotya Ani gets involved.” He started toward the shield, then stopped and looked back at Dieter. “Mister
Brondt.” He stared at the male for a long moment. “You have the look of someone with more to say.”

Dieter pretended puzzlement at first. Then he started to drum his fingers against his thigh again. “The late Mr. Ch'un apparently found it difficult to keep his mind on his job. He had a…
thing
for Haárin females. He'd spot one he liked on the security monitors, arrange to accidentally run into them, try to chat them up. A few complained to their dominants, who in turn complained to the Station Liaison office. He'd been disciplined a couple of times. Threatened with suspension. Nothing seemed to stop him. So, today they fired him.” He resumed his nail picking. “Idomeni are very strong. Ch'un wasn't particularly fit, and testing indicates that he was drunk at time of death. If he tried to force himself on any Haárin female, he'd be bound to get into troub—” He flinched, then pulled a dispo from a nearby dispenser and wrapped it around his finger. “My apologies for suggesting such without proof, ná Meva.” He lifted the dispo, glanced at his wounded finger, and swore.

“Haárin have murdered. For some, it is the reason they are Haárin.” Meva never averted her gaze from the image of the late Neason Ch'un. “Your comment would not upset anyone who is sensible.”

Jani fixed on Ch'un's image as well, desperate for distraction.
People are murdered at stations every day.
Stations were small cities populated by transients, not all of whom were upstanding citizens.
On the other hand, the postmortem could be wrong. Maybe he just passed out and hit his head.
Maybe. “Did anyone notice anything strange around the time of Ch'un's death? Anyone running out of the chase, acting strangely?”

Dieter had liberated a piece of adhesive from one of the desk drawers and seemed intent on securing the dispo around his finger. “No one reported anything.”

“On either the humanish side or the Haárin?”

Dieter glanced up from his self-ministrations. “The Haárin were never particularly forthcoming concerning mat
ters in their side of the chase. Since the dock attacks started, they've become even more reluctant to share.”

“With reason, ní Dieter.” The speaker was the elder male who had requested the bornsect chair. Along with his penchant for pain-inducing furniture, ní Galas Linai shared Jani's affection for bitter lemon over ice. He sat back, drink in hand, while the others sorted seating arrangements out as best they could. Under John's abrupt direction, techs were routed and relocated and the two desks thus liberated shoved together to form one long table. Dathim found chairs while Val and Scriabin sniffed out a bottle of single malt and assorted finger foods from yet another hidden stash.

Only Lucien and Niall remained off to one side, talking in low and surprisingly civil tones. Niall's responses sounded as abrupt as one would have expected, but those grew fewer the longer Lucien talked.

Meanwhile, ní Galas sliced an Elyan lemon in half, then squeezed the juice into a fresh glass of iced water and slid the drink across the desk to Jani. “It is not unheard of for an Haárin to murder another Haárin. But a humanish? Even with the feeling between us as it is, such would be extreme.” He shook his head, then bit into the drained remains of the lemon half, chewing the fruit with evident relish. “Ní Defa Roen is my investigative suborn.” He gestured toward a male seated at the next desk. “He has been in communication with the Trade Board offices on Elyas Station.”

“The lockdown of Elyas Station has affected only the humanish sections, ná Kièrshia, as would be expected.” Ní Defa consulted a recording board. “Trade Board Security monitors all entries and exits of the Haárin transept.” He was older, lantern-jawed and conservative of dress, with the pale coloring of an Oà. “Station Liaison has uncovered little information,” he added, in a voice that proved a surprisingly pleasant rumble. “They provided us names of the Haárin females who complained against Neason Ch'un, but none of these are of the type who would commit this sort of act.”

“We're looking for someone unexceptional—an average passenger with average luggage traveling to an average destination.” Jani met Defa's eye. Like his dominant, he didn't flinch—both had lived on Elyas for a long time. “It is possible that the assassin impersonated an Haárin to avoid humanish security and escaped Elyas Station using Haárin transport.”

Ní Galas bared his teeth. “An impersonation as one you describe would not last for long.”

Jani's eyes stung as memories surfaced. “Ní Tsecha impersonated humanish in Rauta Shèràa twenty years ago.” She reached up to wipe away a brimming tear, only to have Niall's silent appraisal stop her. She scratched her ear instead.

“He pulled that in Chicago, too.” Lucien had scavenged a handful of nuts from the liberated trove, then returned to his place beside his commanding officer and new best friend. “Two years ago.”

“An idomeni would pass more easily as humanish than the reverse. You tolerate strangeness more readily.” Ní Galas stirred his drink, dredging up lemon pulp from the bottom. “I maintain that no humanish could remain undetected for long, no matter how well they trained.”

Jani counted to three again. For all his openness, Galas exuded an air of patronizing superiority that begged argument. “If Ch'un's murder had happened last week, or even today, I doubt we'd be talking about it. But it happened at about the time Tsecha's killer would have arrived at Elyas Station.”

“That's assuming they had departed Karistos within an hour or so of Tsecha's death.” Niall activated another 'stick, which led to a second general round of lighting up. “Even with prep in place, that's cutting it a little close.”

“If you had just killed ní Tsecha Egri, would you hang around?” Jani sensed the change in the air as soon as she spoke. The stilling of some Haárin, and the hard rap ní Defa gave his touchboard when a command went awry.
If ná Meva
weren't here now, what sort of reception would we have received?
She wasn't sure she wanted to know.

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.”