Law of Survival

by Kristine Smith

“If I recall correctly, you invited us.”

  “That was a mistake. I’m sorry.”

  Steve regarded Jani steadily, then beckoned to Angevin. She walked to him, her step steady, her wine euphoria vanished. He pulled her close; she nestled against him as he rested his chin atop her head. “Jani Kilian, I’ll say it once and then no more. You believed I were innocent when no one else did. However much trouble you got, it’ll never be enough to drive us away.”

  Jani fidgeted beneath two worried stares. They’re so young. And yet, older than she had been at Knevçet Shèràa. They can handle this. Indeed, they might not have a choice. Despite the cover of night and the care she took in bringing them in through a side entrance, odds were good that someone had seen them. “If nothing else, my bad reputation could rub off on your blossoming careers.”

  Steve blew smoke. “Well, that’s a load of tripe, innit?” He released Angevin, who began her own root through the paper on Jani’s desk.

  “Not to change the subject.” She waved one of Jani’s client logs in the air. “You have a report due tomorrow and all you’ve done is tabulated the data.”

  “I was going to finish it after you left.” Jani hurried desk-side before Angevin uncovered any more half-completed work. “I just need to write a conclusion.”

  “It’s an easy one.” Angevin hiked her skirt and boosted atop the desk chair. “Just your standard summation. ‘Here’s your list of numbers, fool—if you’d had half as much sense as money, you could have done it yourself in ten minutes.’”

  “Looks like you could use some help here, Jan, seein’ as you’ll be otherwise occupied salvaging yer tarnished reputation and all.” Steve removed his dinner jacket, then wandered the room looking for a place to hang it. “We’ve got a few days before we clap on the Interior irons again. We’d be glad to help you out—right, Ange?” He opened the closet door with a grunt of triumph and stashed the jacket within, then resumed his ramble.

  Angevin looked up from her summation. “We need to get typed into your workstation.”

  Jani stood back from the desk, hands on hips. “Do I have any say in this?”

  Angevin shook her head. “No. And I hope you have a credit line in place,” she added darkly, “because first thing in the morning, I’m leasing you some furniture.”

  “She’s got plenty of furniture in here! And a few other things, besides.” Steve stormed out of Jani’s bedroom carrying a pair of Lucien’s shoes. “So who do these belong to, then?” He waved one of the trainers in a threatening manner. “You think we’re going to let some cad swank in and outta here without a thorough vettin’, you got another thing comin’.”

  Oh, damn. Jani hadn’t personally witnessed any confrontation, but according to what she had heard from her Dr. Montoya, Steve and Lucien had despised one another on sight. “You’re not going to like it.”

  “I don’t like it already.” Steve continued to wave the shoe. “I’m standin’ in for your dad, I am, and if you think—” The sound of the door mech cut him off, and he smirked. “Now, we’ll get this business straightened out.”

  Lucien entered, attired in dress blue-greys, brimmed lid tucked under his arm. “Jan, we’ve got twenty minutes to get to the idomeni embassy. I’ve got a skim parked—” He slid to a stop and surveyed the scene. “Hello.” He smiled warmly at Angevin, who grinned back in silly rapture.

  Steve was much less impressed. “What the fook are you doing here?”

  “Those are Lucien’s shoes you’re holding, Steve.” Jani fielded his glare and threw it back. “He lives here when he visits the city.”

  “Twenty minutes.” Lucien eyed Jani’s dress. “I’ll brief you while you change.” He grabbed her elbow and steered her toward the bedroom. “What the hell are they doing here?”

  “They’re working for me for the next few days.”

  “What!” Lucien forced the door closed, then activated the lock. “Was it something I said?”

  “I could use the help.” Jani stopped in front of the dresser mirror to check her hair and makeup. “You said yourself that I’ve taken on too much.”

  “That’s what employment services are for.” Lucien moved in behind her and finger-combed his hair. “If you weren’t so damned picky, you could have had someone here months ago.”

  “Thanks for the personnel advice.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “They’re friends. I like them. They’re staying.” Jani walked to the closet to hunt for embassy-suitable clothes. She looked over a black trouser outfit from John, but vetoed it because of its plunging neckline and pushed it aside.

  “Mind if I ask a question?”

  Jani sensed Lucien standing behind her. She riffled through the hangers once, then again. “If you must.”

  “Why don’t you ever look at yourself in the mirror?”

  Jani forced herself to turn to him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You’ll check your face for two seconds. Three, tops. Just to make sure you haven’t smeared colorstick on your chin or something. Most women catch themselves in any reflective surface they can, but never you.” Lucien leaned against the entry. “Don’t you like what you see?”

  You bastard. He could spot a weakness the way a carnivore scented prey. “I try not to get too wrapped up in what I look like.” Jani studied a dark blue trouser suit, and voted it suitably somber. “That way, when I change, I won’t know what I missed.” She yanked at the gown’s shoulder fasteners, but they remained stubbornly fixed in place.

  “Is this one of John’s gifts?” Lucien stepped closer. “I think I know how it operates.” He tugged lightly at the places Jani had pulled without success. The seaming released with a sigh—the silk slid down Jani’s body and puddled to the floor. His fingers followed close behind, down her arms, cupping her breasts, roaming over her stomach.

  “What’s happening at the embassy?” Jani could hear the hoarseness in her voice, and damned her weakness.

  “SOS.” Lucien nuzzled her neck, then gripped her shoulders and turned her around to face him. “Same old same old….” He pulled her close and kissed her.

  Jani savored his taste, pressed her naked skin against rough polywool. Shocks spread across her body as though the cloth held static. Her weak knee sagged as Lucien backed her against the closet wall—the sight of the blue trouser suit shook the sense back into her. “Twenty minutes,” she gasped in his ear.

  Lucien released her abruptly. He walked out of the closet and straight to the dresser. He braced his hands on the edge, his breathing irregular.

  Jani resumed dressing eventually. When she walked to the mirror to check her face for smeared makeup, she ignored Lucien’s pointed stare. “So what’s the story?”

  Lucien paced by the bed, lid in hand. “There are issues with Ani’s tile. Believe it or not, some of the materials used in the manufacture could be classified as edible, and Shai’s trying to use that as an excuse to can the project. Colonel Derringer ordered you called in.”

  “Derringer’s going to be there?” Jani hefted her duffel. “That will be the highlight of my evening.”

  Steve and Angevin sat side-by-side at the desk, their heads bent together over an open file. They looked up as one when Jani and Lucien entered. Angevin smiled. Steve didn’t.

  “The idomeni embassy.” He slipped off the chair. “That’s the only place you’re goin’?”

  “Yes,” Jani answered, because she knew Lucien wouldn’t.

  “Take some time, ya think? Couple hours?”

  “Probably.”

  “He’s drivin’?” Steve followed them into the hall.

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “We’ll be waiting here for ya, Jan.” Steve trailed them down the hallway and watched them until the lift doors closed.

  Lucien watched him in return. “ne-recolteur—”

  Ass-picker. “Be quiet.” Jani watched the floor indicator move. “Stop speaking French as though I don’t understand.”

>   “I hate that little bastard.”

  “Well, he hates you, too, so wallow in it.”

  Except for the assistant desk, the lobby proved empty at that late hour, the street devoid of traffic.

  “I’m parked in the garage.”

  “I have trouble walking up and down that ramp.”

  “The battery was low—I needed to charge it.”

  “You just did this afternoon.”

  “I drove a lot today, ran it down.” Lucien strode ahead of her at first. Then his step slowed until she caught him up. He slipped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.

  What the—? Jani tried to shake off the unfamiliar embrace, without success. “What’s with the bear hug?”

  “Just trying something different,” Lucien said sourly as he pulled his arm away. “No one else seems to mind.” He stepped aside and let her precede him into the garage. “You know, the last time you received a summons like this, we were at the embassy for two days.”

  “Don’t remind me.” Jani edged down the steep ramp, her knee sagging with every stride. She felt Lucien’s hand on her shoulder again, then her knee buckle. “Will you—!”

  “I’m just trying to help—!”

  A flash seared from the bottom of the ramp. A crack like a whip. Jani hit the ground and rolled behind a pillar. Tossed the bag aside. Reached for the shooter she hadn’t carried for months, and cursed her empty hand.

  I’m here for you, augie told her. He spoke to her with the slowing of her pounding heart, the quenching of the sour taste of fear. You’ll never die as long as I’m around.

  Jani heard the clatter of running, into the depths of the garage.

  There they go, augie cried. Get them!

  She rose to give chase—

  “Jani!”

  —but the outer voice stopped her. She turned, and saw Lucien struggle to sit upright, his tunic smoking.

  He reached out to her. “It’s not a graze—it’s a full-front hit.” He tried to bend his legs so he could rise, but they shot from beneath him as though he sat on wet ice.

  Jani scooted to his side, her attention torn between assessing his wound and the dark interior of the garage. She reached inside of his tunic, and felt the tingle of residual charge as she dug out his handcom and flicked the emergency call. “I can’t tell if it’s dead or not—the display is fried.” She tossed it to one side and pushed down on Lucien’s shoulders as he tried to rise. “Lay back! Stop fighting!”

  “Why don’t my legs work!”

  “Nerve disruption. You just got hit by a bolt of lightning.” She had to push with all her strength to keep him down—augie had him by the throat and the pain had yet to break through.

  She pulled away his belt, the metal buckle still hot enough to sting. The shooter holster cracked in her hands, the weapon within burned like a live coal. She tossed the belt and holster aside and tucked the shooter in her pocket. She could feel its heat through her clothes as she continued to work.

  The smoking polywool came next. Jani searched Lucien’s disintegrating trousers, removing a charred wallet, vend tokens, and a mini-stylus and pocketing them as well. The stink of burnt fabric burned her throat and made her eyes tear. She pulled away fragments of shirt. Underwear. “Oh—”

  “What!” Lucien tried to raise himself on his elbows to look.

  “Get down.” Jani pushed him back. “You’re burned. It’s bad. Stop moving around.” She swallowed hard as the odor of charred flesh filled her nose. The burn covered the lower quarter of Lucien’s abdomen—his right, her left—a sprawling oval of red-white blistering centered with charred, leathery black. Second-and third-degree burns, compounded by whatever internal damage the impact of the pulse packet caused and aggravated by Lucien’s moving around.

  “Jan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Am I still there?”

  Jani glanced beneath the remains of Lucien’s underwear. “Yup. The burn didn’t spread that far.”

  Lucien laughed. “Probably not a jealous spouse then.” The happy expression froze as sweat bloomed on his face. “It’s starting to hurt.”

  “Stop moving around.”

  “Is that me that I smell? Medium or well-done?”

  Jani rolled her duffel into a pillow and tucked it beneath Lucien’s head. “Quiet.”

  Lucien stilled. Then the pain broke through in earnest. He gasped and stiffened. “Ça ne fait mal!”

  “I know it hurts. I know. Je le sais.”

  “Ça ne—!”

  “Paix, paix.” Hush, hush. Jani pushed his damp hair off his forehead, whispering thanks when she heard the wail of an ambulance siren. She checked her timepiece. Only a few minutes had passed. Seemed like hours. Then she heard running. Instinct compelled her to reach for the shooter.

  “Where are you!” A woman’s voice.

  “Down here!” Jani waited until she saw the skimgurney and Medibox before slipping the shooter back in her pocket.

  The woman knelt beside Lucien as two other techs readied the gurney. She took in his uniform, then looked at Jani. “Augment?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ab-scan,” the woman said to one of the other techs. She probed Lucien’s abdomen—he moaned and tried to push her away. “He’s not rigid, but we could have shooter belly.” A male tech knelt at Lucien’s other side—together, the two of them adjusted a portable scanner over Lucien’s stomach while the second man applied restraints to his hands.

  Jani walked down to the end of the ramp, to the spot where she’d seen the flash. In the background, the techs talked in their own language. Cardio-scan. Fluid replacement. Percent BSA. Debride.

  She found the shooter in the shadow of a pillar. A late-model Grenoble, dull blue and ugly, but powerful from midrange on in. The ID tags will be etched away. The markers embedded in the metal will point to a middleman-broker who went out of business five years ago. And the professional who had pressed the charge-through would be halfway to O’Hare by now.

  In the distance, she heard the nasal sing-song of a ComPol siren.

  CHAPTER 13

  “NìRau? NìRau?”

  Tsecha’s eyes snapped open. He blinked into the dark. At first, he thought the Laumrau had begun bombing again, that Aeri had awakened him so they could flee to the shelter of the Temple cellars. His heart skipped. He gripped the sides of his bed and braced for the blast.

  But the face that bent over him was not Aeri’s. Similar in shape but finer-boned, and much, much younger. Tsecha tried to look into its eyes, but it turned away.

  What are you? Where is Aeri?

  Then he remembered. That Aeri was dead. That the Laumrau were no more. That the war had ended long ago, and that he had not slept in his Temple rooms in Rauta Shèràa for a long time.

  “NìRau, you must come to the meeting room.” Sànalàn, Aeri’s body-daughter, addressed Tsecha’s footboard to prevent any more unseemly eye contact. “Suborn Oligarch Shai bids you attend.”

  “Nìa—?”

  “There has been a shooting. Any more, nìaRauta Shai has forbidden me to say.”

  Tsecha rose too quickly for his old bones, and dressed as though he indeed heard the shatterboxes singing outside his window. Fear drove him. That, and the triumph he heard in Sànalàn’s voice.

  Tsecha edged about in his low seat and leafed through the scant few pages that lay in front of him. When he leaned forward to study the words more closely, the table’s pointed edge caught him in his stomach, forcing him to sit back.

  He looked one by one at the others who sat on either side of him, along the table’s two arms. Suborn Oligarch Shai sat in the slightly higher seat to his left, as she had the previous day; Sànalàn’s seat placed opposite hers on the right arm. The two lowest ranks in the room, Diplomatic Suborn Inèa and Communications Suborn Lonen, occupied the tallest seats at the ends of the arms.

  Tsecha found the upward slant of the table disquieting. He felt dazed, as he had the night when the bombs fell
and Aeri had not come for him. The night when he learned that Aeri would never come again.

  He pushed thoughts of his dead suborn from his mind, and studied the others again. They had dressed hurriedly, as he had, their hair disarrayed, their overrobes bunched and creased. As though they, too, flee the bombs. He looked down at the paper once more. His soul ached from tension, but he dared not let it show. “This is all we know?”

  “The Service has thwarted our attempts at message interception, nìRau.” Lonen held on to the arms of her elevated chair as Tsecha had the sides of his bed. “They use cryptowave, and change the cipher with each word.”

  “Cryptowave for standard communication is most unseemly.” Shai’s roughened voice and harsh gestures defined her impatience. “This Pascal is known to us—we are entitled to be told of his condition, not to have to grab it from the air.”

  Tsecha reread the few words Lonen had been able to decrypt. Jani Kilian…Lieutenant Pascal…shot upon entering…burned…other injuries. “Has any formal explanation yet arrived?”

  “No, nìRau.” Diplomatic Suborn Inèa sat easily on her high seat. A perfect posture, of the sort Hansen had always called angel on a pin. “We have contacted Prime Minister Cao’s offices for information. All they say is that”—she slipped into English—“the situation is beneath control.”

  “Under control, nìa.” Tsecha suppressed a gesture of berating. He reread Lonen’s report once more, in the hope that what he did not see was there to be found, and that he could avoid the question that he knew the others waited for him to ask. But such, he decided as he turned the final page, was not to be. “Nìa Kilian was not hurt?” He heard Shai grumble in Low Vynshàrau and shift in her seat.

  “We could not learn if she was, nìRau,” Lonen replied with a hand curve of bewilderment. “We could not learn if she was not.”

  “This secrecy for no reason is repellant. This repellency defines the difference between humanish and idomeni more than any other thing.” Shai elevated the language from formal Middle to formal High Vynshàrau, so that her every feeling would be clearly revealed. “Our forthrightness in the midst of this secrecy leaves us at a disadvantage. If we request openly, we will only be told what Li Cao wishes us to know. Our interest will be taken as further reason to withhold—this I know from studying humanish, and truly.”