Rules of Conflict (13 page)

Jani’s grin froze. “The flagship of the group that evac’d Rauta
Shèràa Base—yes, ma’am, I had heard of it.” After she escaped John’s stifling
care, she had spent several nerve-wracking days evading the crews that took
over the human sector of the Rauta Shèràa shuttleport as she tried to wangle a
billet on a civilian ship. Everywhere she had turned, she had seen someone
sporting the names
Kensington
,
Hilfington
, or
Warburg
on a
jacket or lid. “I’m sure the evacuees recall you fondly.”

“
Perhaps
,” Carvalla replied dryly. “Quarters were close,
and supplies were scarce. I think the fondest memory the evacuees have of us
was saying good-bye.” She glanced at her timepiece. “Well, it’s time for
rounds. Take care of yourself, Captain. I’m sure I’ll see you again.” She
nodded to Jani and Pimentel in turn, then walked to the rear of the lobby to
join a doctor cluster waiting near the lift bank.

“She’s wonderful. The best thing that ever happened to Service
Medical. Fair. Forward-thinking.” Pimentel’s bounciness lasted until he walked
out of the hospital and into the full blaze of summer. “God, it’s hot! Are you
sure you don’t want someone to drive you to the TOQ?”

“No. I looked it up on the base map Morley gave me—it’s not that
far.” Jani took a deep breath of hot, dry air, felt the chill leave her for the
first time since her arrival, and waved good-bye to Pimentel.

She walked down the long drive leading from the Main Hospital,
then turned down a series of shorter, tree-lined streets named after famous
generals. Hillman Avenue. Dragan Row. Starcross Way. Earthbound generals. She
could imagine Borgie’s peeved Man French mutterings as to the inequity of the
situation. She could sense him walk beside her, as he had a hundred times at
Rauta Shèràa Base.

They’d both acquired reputations by then, Jani as the stiff-necked
anti-Family doc jock who reacted to threats by making her own, Borgie as a
quick mind ruined by a quicker temper and the penchant for the freelance deal.
Jani had uncovered evidence of one such operation, an attempt to divert
scanpack supplies to a Pearl Way broker. She had quietly shut it down, then had
taken Borgie aside and explained why it was in his best interest to keep his
damned hands out of her patch. Struck by the fact that she had figured out his
plan so easily,
and
that she declined to turn him in to Base Security,
he had decided to adopt her. Hers was a worthy mind, he had told her, for an
officer. From then on, he took her on rounds of his own, and explained to her
the things he felt a deskbound paper-pusher needed to know to survive in the
Old Service. Much of the information had come in handy during her years
underground. To say she owed Borgie her life didn’t say enough. To say she’d
let him down . . . well, that didn’t say enough, either.

Jani took her time examining the Sheridan grounds. The rolling
lawns. The locations of intersections and main drives. She walked easily, her
discharge summerweights and relaxed manner marking her as a new release on her
way home.

She and Borgie had talked about many things over the months. The
fine art of breaking and entering. How to plan an escape. Primary routes.
Back-up plans. Acquiring and secreting provisions and weapons. And other
preparations.

They get us with that damned chip, Captain. They can track us
anywhere with that thing. All they have to do is enter your code into systems
and activate. How you deal with that depends on how desperate you are.

Jani checked her trouser pocket, the one that contained the
scalpel she had swiped from a supply cart. In another, she’d stashed the
half-used tube of incision sealant she’d found sitting atop the nurses’ station
counter, along with the topical anesthetic and a bandage pad. She’d operated on
her scanpack often enough. She wasn’t squeamish, and thanks to augie she had a
high tolerance for pain.

The most important thing, Captain, is to choose your moment
well. They won’t give you a second chance.

“Frankly, Sergeant, I’m surprised they’re giving me a first one.”
Jani slowed to a stop in the middle of the road and considered the strangeness
of it all.
Piers thinks I’m lying about Neumann.
Because Veda needed
paper to back up charges, and Jani’s records were missing.
Where are they?
Who was responsible for their disappearance? Why were they involved? What did
they expect to gain? Did they think to lull her into a false sense of ease,
only to spring charges on her later? The unexpected attack was the hardest to
fend off—she didn’t want to be caught unawares.
I need to know who’s been
fiddling with my records.
And her records were stored at the SIB.

She started walking again, reaching a nameless cul-de-sac and
trudging up a path leading to a five-story whitestone box set well back from
the road, surrounded by low hedges. South Central Transient Officers’ Quarters.
Her home for the duration, however long that turned out to be.

The TOQ lobby proved just as plain as the exterior. The cheers and
excited commentary that sounded from a side room indicated a well-attended Cup
broadcast in progress.

Jani found her room on the mezzanine floor, a quick ten-step
flight up from the lobby. Three small partitioned spaces: a sitting room cum
office equipped with a desk and comport, a bedroom, and a bath. Spare
furnishings of honey-colored polywood. Cream walls. A single narrow window in
the sitting room, looking out over the cul-de-sac.

Her enthusiasm ramped when she laid eyes on her old duffel,
resting small and lonely on the frame couch. “They really worked you over,” she
said as she dug through the depleted contents, removed her scanpack from its
half-fastened pouch, then fingered the ragged edge of what had once been the
scanproof compartment. They’d confiscated her shooter and gadgets. Someone,
however, had taken the time to wrap her keepsakes in a tissue envelope.

She stashed her stolen medical supplies, the scalpel in the
catch-all tray on her desk, the anesthetic, glue, and bandage, in her bathroom
cabinet.
Hide in plain sight.
A nosy visitor would think she had a
strange taste in letter openers and the tendency to cut herself with same, not
that she planned to make a run for it as soon as circumstance allowed.

She opened her small closet to find the Clothing Elf had seen to
her gear. She perused the six different styles of uniforms hanging within, then
removed her unmarked hospital summerweights and donned a fresh set of her very
own.

Jani found her ribbons and badges in a small box atop her dresser.
She attached her bronze sideline captain’s tabs to her collar, then clipped the
silver scroll and quill of Documents Services to her shoulder tabs. They’d
awarded one-year colonial service ribbons back in her day; she pinned the two
green-and-gold-striped rectangles over her left pocket, where they glistened
like pieces of spun-sugar candy.

They’d even allowed her the gold marksman badge she’d worked so
hard to win when her mainline cohorts had told her she had no chance. Expert.
Short shooter.
You’d think they’d have held that one back.
Might as well
shout it to the worlds.
Hi, I’m Jani
.
Shot twenty-seven—killed them
all
.
And you are
 . . . ?

She applied makeup. Spritzed her hair with water and trimmed her
more straggly curls with the nail cutters that came in her toiletry kit.
Captain
Paragon girding for the File Wars
. She smiled despite her disquiet.

Her feelings toward the Service made about as much sense as her
feelings for John Shroud. Pride in her Commonwealth had nothing to do with
it—she’d been too much a colonial to feel patriotic and too much of a skeptic
to see Acadia’s rebel factions as any more than self-serving delusionaries.
I
joined up for the same reasons that receptionist joined Neoclona.
To get
away from a deadend homeworld. To meet different people. To learn. She’d never
resented the routine, since working with the idomeni guaranteed things never
remained routine for long. She’d even liked the uniforms; she’d never been an
avid follower of fashion, and had been quite happy to turn the clothes part of
her life over to someone else.

Give me a scanpack and a stack of paper, and I’m happy.
If
they’d assigned her anyplace but Rauta Shèràa Base, she might have even made
the Service a career.
I like to fade into the background, and there’s no
place you can fade better than the Service.

The one time she had broached that opinion to Borgie, however, he
had laughed till he cried.
You’re an action person, Captain
, he told her
after he recovered sufficiently to speak.
You like digging into things you
shouldn’t. Turning over rocks. You don’t toe the line—hell, you’re a peacetime
nightmare. You’re one of those poor souls who needs a war.

As it turned out, she was a nightmare even then.

She was in the middle of brushing her teeth when the doorscanner
buzzed.

“Hello!” Lucien pushed past her into the sitting area, laden with
packages. “I unpacked your gear this morning,” he said as he tossed his brimmed
lid on the couch and set a basket of cut flowers atop the end table. “I hope
you appreciate it.”

“So you’re the Clothing Elf.” Jani stood by the door, toothbrush
in hand, and watched him unpack and store disposable cups and wipes, sundries
and supplies for the desk. Instead of summerweights, he wore dress blue-greys.
A black-leather crossover belt cut a diagonal swath across his steel blue
tunic. His grey trousers were cut down the sides with the requisite mainline
red slash, and the holster on his belt was fully packed. “Was today ‘take your
idomeni ambassador to university’ day?”

“Yeah. His security picked the time at the last minute. Most
propitious, they said, but I think they just wanted to shake the reporters.
Nema was as excited as hell. He got into everything.” Lucien reached into one
of the bags and removed a small glass-and-gold clock. “This has a
good
alarm,” he said as he set in on the desk. “The one on the comport isn’t loud
enough, and you can’t set it to repeat.”

Jani ducked into the bathroom to finish her teeth. “I found soap,
hairwash, and toothpaste in here. I’m surprised they couldn’t stick a clock
somewhere.”

“They used to. Stopped last year. They said it was the officers’
responsibility to keep their own time.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t because the clocks were getting swiped by
the occupants?”

Lucien poked his head around the bathroom entry. “We are talking
about officers and gentlepeople, not
occupants.
And the word is
reappropriated
,
not
swiped.
”

“They must have been good clocks. How many got reappropriated in a
year, on average?”

“One hundred fifty-three. They could even survive direct shooter
fire. When magnebolting them to the tables didn’t work, Housekeeping called it
a wash. You really do have a suspicious mind, you know that?”

“Only because people keep living down to my expectations.” Jani
rinsed her mouth, then fixed the damage the toothpaste and water had inflicted
upon her makeup. “I doubt human nature gets checked at the Shenandoah Gate.”

“Don’t let a superior hear you say that, or you’ll get an earful.
The New Service is a proud organization. It does not embrace the malcontent.”

“Then why does it have its hand down my trousers?”

Lucien laughed. “You’ve got me there.” Shoulders still shaking, he
tossed a wrapper in the trashzap and disappeared around the divider.

Jani edged out of the bathroom, leaned against the divider, and
watched Lucien set out an assortment of newssheets. When he still worked as a
security officer on Anais Ulanova’s staff, he had been deftly inserted into the
crew list of the CSS
Arapaho
, the ship Jani had traveled on during her
first trip to Earth. His duty had been ostensibly to serve as her steward; his
true function had been to uncover her real identity. Even after the ruse had
fallen through, he had still insisted on performing his cabin-attending duties.
She’d had fresh flowers every ship day, liqueur waiting after dinner, laundry
done daily.

He even massaged my neck once
. She had just spent hours
combing over some of Evan van Reuter’s files, and the conclusion that her
ex-lover was guilty of bribery and conspiracy, among other nasty things, had
resulted in a tension headache that left her photophobic and unable to move her
neck.

But Lucien fixed
. Did he ever. In the five weeks they spent
together, that was the closest he came to getting her into bed. Letting him get
those hands on her was one mistake she had no intention of repeating. But, if
he wanted to spend part of his day replenishing her flowers and reading
materials, she wouldn’t turn him down. “Is that everything?” she asked as she
watched him stuff more wrappings into the trashzap.

“No.” He stepped into her bedroom, then turned to her and crooked
his finger for her to follow. “One final surprise.” He held up the last package,
removed the silver-and-black wrappings with a flourish, and held it out for her
inspection.

She found herself staring into two shining brown eyes framed by a
fringe of fur. “A teddy bear?”

It was an old-style toy, designed to do nothing but sit. Light brown
fur, the closest match Lucien could find to his own hair. A black-plastic nose
capped a snubby muzzle and a winsome, sewn-on smile. The uniform of the day
consisted of a dark blue field sweater and fatigue pants, complete with a
little blue garrison cap clutched in one fuzzy paw.

“What do you think?” Lucien propped it against the pillow, then
reached out to adjust its sweater.

“It’s too cute for words.” Jani eyed the creature in bemusement.
“I haven’t had a teddy bear since I was three.”