“Oh please!” Jani sagged against the wall. She looked at the name tag on his left breast pocket. “Mister Ostern. Can’t this wait until morning?”
Ostern thrust a small touchbox toward her. “Oh, everything’s under control for now, ma’am. I’ve jury-rigged a bypass.” His face glowed with pride. Look what I made, Mommy!
Jani accepted the small device with the hesitation of someone who’d learned long ago there was no such thing as “free.” She looked again at Ostern, shifting from his blinding smile to his eyes. Dark brown, like chocolate. A warm color, normally. When brown eyes chilled, the cold came from within.
Her steward had cold brown eyes.
“I can show you how it works, if you like?” Ostern’s voice, a pleasant tenor, still sounded boyish, but the examining look he gave the documents case aged him several stony decades.
“No, Mister Ostern, it’s all right.” Jani hoisted the case and, smiling sweetly, pushed past him and palmed her way into her cabin.
“Are you sure, ma’am? I—”
“It’s all right,” she said as the door slid closed. “I think I can figure things out.” She paused in the entryway and sniffed the air. It did smell vaguely metallic and dusty, as though various things had gone plonk in the depths of the ventilation system.
She removed her shoes. Blessedly barefoot, she knelt in the middle of the sitting room and positioned Ostern’s little box on the carpet in front of her. Using one of the spindly heels like a hammer, she smashed the device to bits.
After she tossed the fragments down the trash chute, Jani rooted through her duffel. She pushed aside her magnispecs, assorted scanpack parts twined through a holder of braided red cloth, broken UV styluses, and cracked touchpads, until she reached the scanproof false bottom, beneath which lay her shooter and her devices.
Her sensor looked like a UV stylus, except that the light at its pointed end blinked yellow instead of blue, and it had cost more than such things did when purchased through the usual channels. One does what one has to. As long as she’d never hurt anyone but herself, what difference did it make?
She flicked the device on. Holding it before her like a glow stick, she took a turn about the sitting room. If I were an insect, where would I hide?
It took the better part of an hour to locate the bug, lodged in the bedroom temperature control panel. Bold of Ostern to set it up so she would activate it herself with his cunning control box. She wrapped the tiny plastic cylinder in a strip of antistatic cloth and buried it in the depths of her duffel. A simple listening device, rather than a full sight-and-sound recorder. In that respect, Ostern had disappointed her. She would have expected more from someone with such cold eyes.
Jani ferreted through her cabin a second time. Reasonably certain she had done all she could to ensure her privacy for the ship-night, she undressed. Her stomach ached in earnest now. Her skin felt clammy. She opted for a hot shower in an effort to warm up, and to wash the food odors from her hair. She stood under the water stream until the utilities monitor squealed an imminent cutoff. Then she toweled slowly, all the while thinking about the garage guy. He’d had stomach problems, too. Nausea. Sweats.
Last thing I need is personal experience with the latest colonial epidemic. They’d become more and more common in the last few years—planet-specific infections which, in all the cases Jani heard about, led to long hospital stays and vague medical mumblings about mutating viruses. Well, she’d had enough doctoring to last a lifetime. Anything she had, she’d fight off herself.
She trudged into her bedroom and dug one of her Service tee shirts out of the warren of drawers. The white polycotton still looked new, even after twenty years. I remember when I got you. She pulled the use-softened shirt over her head. I’d just graduated OCS, surprising one and all. She smiled. Some memories, at least, were pleasant.
One of Six for tongue of gold, Two for eyes and ears.
“It had nothing to do with brains or rank, Ridgeway—we were all on the ball back then,” Jani explained to her furniture. “And we needed our little games, to keep us sane.”
Three and Four for hands of light, Five and Six for Earthly might. They each had their own special method for keeping the Laumrau Academy administrators off-balance. Senna and Tsai possessed their “hands of light,” their talents as musicians, which ranked them quite highly as far as the born-sect idomeni were concerned. Aryton’s and Nawar’s “Earthly might” derived from their Family connections.
“But Hansen was the Ambassador,” Jani said, stressing the point for the benefit of her bedclothes. True red hair was extremely rare among the idomeni’s major sects. Red in all its variations being a holy color to them, they were inclined to believe any human gifted with such to be possessed of talents in many areas. When trouble brewed in Rauta Shèràa’s human enclave, Hansen was always called in to help lift the pot off the boil.
“And I always went with him.” Kilian, with her knack for understanding idomeni languages and mannerisms, and her ability to fade into the background. I’ll talk, Hansen had always told her, you just watch.
“You get used to watching.” She crawled into bed, duffel and documents case in hand. She unlocked the case and pulled out black-jacketed, confidential Interior files, arranging them in a semicircle on the blanket.
Then she activated her scanpack, her original, unadorned, idomeni-made unit, awarded to her personally upon her graduation by the being who now called himself Tsecha. Then, as now, he served as chief propitiator, the religious leader of his sect. Thus empowered, he had compelled his order-loving, xenophobic people to accept his dictum that humanish be allowed to school with them. Work with them. Even live with them, if isolation in an enclave two kilometers from the farthest outskirts of Rauta Shèràa could be called “living with.”
Scores of humans had studied various subjects at the rigorous Academy. But the Six had been favored, and Jani Kilian and Hansen Wyle had been the most favored of all.
Not that she recalled any envy. If anything, her fellow documents trainees had been happy to allow her and Hansen the bulk of Nema’s attention. And of his plotting. Grim Death with a Deal for You, Jani had dubbed him, much to Hansen’s delight. But he had been theirs to laugh at. After all he’d put them through, they’d felt entitled.
And now he’s back. And still causing trouble, according to Evan. If all you think he’s interested in is the occasional joyride, have I got news for you.
She cracked a file seal and glanced down the table of contents of an Interior budget report, then scanned the file. Her ’pack worked without a hitch, as it had since the day she’d received it. “Anytime you want to compare equipment, Mr. Ridgeway, you just say the word.” With that, Two of Six, the Eyes and Ears, set to work.
By the time the patient arrived on Earth, she had already entered the acute phase of the condition. This phase, which is characterized by physical malaise and extreme neurochemical imbalances, played itself out over the seventy-two-hour period predicted during lab trials.
—Internal Communication, Neoclona/Seattle, Shroud J., Parini, V., concerning Patient S-1
THE FIRST DAY
CHAPTER 5
“Do you have anything to declare, madam?”
Jani edged away from the half-opened door, which led to the Customs check-in booths reserved for “personal interviews,” and left the young Commerce staffer and her husband, both sweaty and shaken, to their fates. They know you’re smuggling something, dears—may as well give it up. Once a Customs inspector began addressing you formally, all bets were off.
My guess is collectibles or jewelry. Jani had followed the couple since they’d docked at Luna. Well dressed and parcelladen, they had shunned the bullet cars that would have taken them to the shuttle docks’ VIP section in minutes, preferring instead the hike through two kilometers of walkways.
Jani had followed them, curiosity egging her on even as fatigue set in, aggravating her limp. She watched them shift packages and whisper frantical
ly, and waited out their frequent restroom stops, stifling the urge to sneak up behind them and shout, “Boo!” Instead, she’d trailed them into the deceptively comforting confines of the lounge, and waited.
Within minutes, a Treasury Customs official, dark gold uniform making him look like a tarnished elf, interrupted the pair’s exploration of the buffet and led them away.
The restroom stops tipped Customs off. Scancams lined the public walkways of shuttle stations, but they were unobtrusive and easily ignored by fatigued travelers now a mere five-hour hop from home. Amateurs. Like any game, smuggling had its rules. You followed them, or you paid the penalty.
She cut down the short hallway and entered the spacious lounge. Collecting a cup of tea and a sandwich from the extravagant buffet, she searched for a seat near the wall-spanning window. In the distance, the Lunar shipyards gleamed in the unfiltered sunlight with molten force, drawing the attention of most of the waiting passengers as construction sites always did.
Jani settled into a recently vacated chair, the documents case between her feet, duffel in her lap. Residual stranger-warmth soaked into her lower back. She took a bite of her sandwich, some sort of smoked fish with herbed mayonnaise. Good, but Lucien could have done better.
Lucien. Pascal. Her excellent steward’s real name. After several more failed attempts to bug Jani’s cabin, followed by futile efforts to gain access to her duffel and documents case, he had proposed a truce, which she had accepted. Life aboard the Arapaho became more conventional after that, though no less interesting. Watching Lucien operate within the strict hierarchy of the Cabinet ship’s Service crew had proven educational. He never broke rules. He never bucked authority. But things got done his way, usually by people who should have known better.
He had even finagled her some Interiorwear that actually fit, like the grey-and-white wrapshirt and trousers she wore. A courtesy, he had told her, from one professional to another.
I almost preferred it when he was trying to gig me—it took my mind off my work. Evan’s files. She understood why he had been so reluctant to let her see them. There had been some dealings with a junior member of the Justice Ministry that wouldn’t have borne the weight of a public inquiry, as well as personal financial hopscotch of the sort that implied tax evasion. It had taken her almost two weeks just to sort out the intricacies of the accounting involved. The NorthPort Haárin could have learned something from Evan’s financial advisor.
But even so, she’d seen worse. Certainly nothing to merit a death. There had already been too many. First, Evan’s and Lyssa’s children, drowned during their efforts to sail an antique boat during a summer holiday. Two boys and a girl—ages fourteen, twelve, and ten. Martin, Jerrold, and Serena.
Then came Lyssa. Official record confirmed the gossip. The woman’s behavior had become increasingly erratic over the past two years. Unexplained disappearances. Rumors of drug abuse. Hushed-up accidents.
But all the documents scanned within normal variation. Nothing to suggest tampering. Nothing to merit a murder. Have I proved your fears unfounded already, Evan? As things now stood, Lyssa died a broken woman’s death, driven by past tragedy.
Jani watched construction workers flit along a future commercial transport’s spindly framework, one beat ahead of the immense robot ganglion that did the actual hoisting, joining, and fastening. No matter how well-programmed the ’bot, however fuzzified the thinking, human supervision was still required. No robot was capable of seeing the overall picture. Ultimately, it only knew what it was told.
Jani watched a moon-suited human dodge and weave about one of the arms like an armored gnat…
I sense an effort to lead me by the nose.
…ensuring that the arm moved in the correct direction and hit the chosen target.
His initials are Durian Ridgeway.
Jani finished her sandwich. She hoped she hadn’t wasted almost five weeks working with half the data, but she knew that hope was misplaced. She had slipped an urgent meeting request, coded to Evan’s attention, into the queue of scrambled messages transmitted to Chicago every half hour. But she doubted she would receive a reply before her shuttle left in—she checked her timepiece—forty-five minutes.
“Do you have anything to declare?”
Jani turned toward the voice. On the far side of the lounge, Customs clerks moved among the waiting passengers, logging colonial purchases, calculating tariffs, handing out receipts. She exhaled with a shudder. Augie notwithstanding, she hadn’t been breathing very easily the past few minutes. But she could relax now. The sending-out-of-the-clerks meant all those who merited more personal attention from Customs had already been winnowed.
I wonder how my young couple is doing? Had the body cavity scans begun? Attorneys been contacted?
“Do you have anything to declare?” Chipper voices grew closer. Paper rustled. Recording boards chirped. “Anything at all?”
If you only knew.
“Nothing?”
Not an issue, now. You had your shot and missed. Go away.
“Are you quite sure?”
Yes. My secrets remain mine. I am Jani Moragh Kilian. Captain. United Services. C-number S-one-two-dash-four-seven-dash-one-seven-nine-D. Sideline Service, assigned to Rauta Shèràa Base, First Documents and Documentation Division. Not a real soldier.
“Anything else?”
Eighteen years ago, in a place called Knevçet Shèràa, during the height of the idomeni civil war, I killed my commanding officer in self-defense. His name was Rikart Neumann—Colonel—Gisela Detmers-Neumann’s uncle. She and others would perhaps take exception to the self-defense argument, but since they’re aware of the events that precipitated the shoot-out, they may not dare voice such.
“Do you have anything to declare?”
The Laumrau panicked when they learned of Neumann’s death. First they lobbed “pink”; the microbe infested and disabled all the weapons, environmental, and communication arrays. Then came the shatterboxes. The Laumrau had secrets to bury, which are none of your concern. All you need know is that, in the process, they buried my corporal. She died when a wall collapsed on her. Corporal Yolan Cray, Mainline Service, Twelfth Rover Corps, C-number M-four-seven-dash-five-six-dash-two-eight-six-R.
“I’m ready, miss—please continue.”
One idomeni day later, I killed twenty-six Laumrau in an effort to save my remaining troops. The deaths were not “clean” as far as the Laumrau were concerned. No human had ever become involved in one of their skirmishes before—the resulting disorder upset them. Since I had violated the Bilateral Accord, the Service would have turned me over to the idomeni for trial followed by inevitable execution, but—
“I’m sorry, miss, could you speak up, please?”
—but the transport carrying me and my troops from Knevçet Shèràa to Rauta Shèràa exploded on takeoff. Lift-array failure. Everyone gone. All her real soldiers. I know their C-numbers, too. All fourteen of them. Do you want to hear them, too?
“That’s not necessary, ma’am. Please continue.”
I, however, did not die. Not medically, anyway. Three doctors salvaged me from the wreckage, for reasons that would shock you to your core. They pieced me together and hid me in a hospital basement in Rauta Shèràa’s human enclave. As I healed, the tide of civil war turned, and the Laumrau lost to the Vynshà. Laumrau descended to Laum, and Vynshà ascended to Vynshàrau. No one fights to avenge the deaths of the losers, not even the well-ordered idomeni.
But they remembered. They called her kièrshia, she’d learned later. Toxin. You don’t want to allow me within your perimeter—everything I touch dies.
“Do you have anything to declare?”
The pennies on my eyes.
“Do you have anything to declare?” The smiling Customs clerk stationed himself beside Jani’s chair, recording board in hand, beaming in a way that reminded her of Lucien.
“Just these.” Jani removed some pieces of truesilver jewelry, purchased in a hur
ried swoop through a pricey Felix Station shop, from the side pocket of her duffel. With cheerful efficiency, the clerk scanned the information from the still-attached price tags into his board’s data bank and totaled the tariff. Jani just as cheerfully rattled off the Interior account to which the tariff could be billed.
Rule One: Always have something hefty to declare to throw them off. Transaction completed, receipt tucked away, Jani settled back and watched the construction workers hover and dart like metallic bees around a skeletal hive. Take it from an old smuggler. She sipped the tea, winced at its bitterness, and waited for her boarding call.
“Admit it, Jani. You’d never seen anything like it in your life. All those old skyscrapers! All that history!” Evan bustled her out onto the glass-walled balcony that adjoined his office and pointed out his view, which included both the Chicago skyline and the nearby lake. “I hope you got a chance to see the memorial to the Greatest War on the way in.”
Jani took in the curious array of oddly shaped buildings, all obscured by wind-whipped snow. “You mean ‘The War of Family Aggression,’ don’t you?”
“There were no Families back then, Jani,” Evan said patiently.
“No. They came later.”
“I seem to recall us having this discussion before.” Evan sighed. “Politics aside, it’s worth a visit. It’s a liquiprism obelisk that changes color on the hour. Really quite striking.”
“Evan, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s not sight-seeing weather.” Jani looked out at the lake, which had taken on a churning, milky grey life of its own. “If this balcony wasn’t enclosed and well heated, we’d be icicles within seconds.”
“Yes, but it’s home.”
“Not for me.” She turned her back on his fallen face. “Sorry—didn’t mean to rain on your birthday.” She hesitated at the office entry. Why do I feel like I just kicked a puppy? “I’m sure it must be very nice. In the spring.”
Code of Conduct Page 6
