Code of Conduct

by Kristine Smith

  Personnel refused to give Jani Betha’s homecode. When she dropped Evan’s name, they told her she needed Ridgeway’s sign-off to get the number.

  She left the cafeteria and roamed the Doc Control halls, checking every vacant office and conference room. The rest rooms, men’s and women’s. The alternate breakroom. Janitor’s closets, storage rooms, stairwells. She stopped short of pushing up ceiling tiles and checking crawl spaces. Harder to cram a body in a space like that. Messier. She didn’t want to risk destroying evidence.

  You’ve got death on the brain. Betha’s home in bed. Take the hint. Jani trudged to the elevators and rode down to the restricted-access charge lots. On her way to the Main-Private tunnel, a Security guard tried to stop her, but when he looked her in the face he hesitated. Then he stepped aside and let her pass.

  CHAPTER 23

  The skimmer shuddered as it skirted the border between Exterior and Shèrá property and ran afoul of both sets of tracking arrays. Tsecha countered by applying the barest twitch to the vehicle’s controls, redirecting it back within the Exterior domain. The skimmer’s agitation, brought on by the confounding signals of two different systems, ceased immediately.

  Tsecha’s trembling, however, continued for some time. This godless cold. Rolling whiteness stretched about him in every direction save the east, where the lake-defining blackness stopped it short.

  He searched the approaching darkness for the flicker of Security vehicle illumins. Ulanova’s. His own. It made no difference—both would be as enemy to him. He felt for the Haárin-made shooter, a souvenir of his war, nestled in the chest pocket of his coat. However, I cannot shoot at them. Such would constitute an incident.

  “So long, since I have taken part in an incident.” Tsecha bared his teeth fully in the dimness of the skimmer cabin, then almost lost control of his vehicle as the expression degenerated into a jaw-flexing yawn. He had done much since his return from the play, little of which would have received sanction from either his Temple or his Oligarch.

  He slowed as he approached the Exterior outpost, activating his black box at the same time. The device, also of Haárin origin, blocked the automated concrete booth’s scanning equipment and prevented its outside alarms from activating. It also took the extra step of misleading the scanners, assuring them they were not being interfered with at all.

  The only drawback to the ingenious device lay in the fact the designers believed they understood humanish systems much better than they actually did. The resulting errors in the interference program meant Tsecha had only a very short time to do that which he came to do.

  Three humanish minutes, in fact, beginning from the time he first activated the unit.

  On average.

  So cold! He half jumped, half slid from the skimmer cockpit to the thermacrete slab on which the outpost rested, grunting in relief as his boots struck dry deck. The thermacrete had apparently done its job in preventing any snow from building up around the outpost, but Tsecha still stepped carefully in the pitch-darkness. Heat cells did occasionally fail. Failure here meant ice patches. Padding and shock absorption worked well for youngish, perhaps, but he did not trust them to protect his old bones.

  Besides, if he did fall, who would rescue him? Cats and police, his Hansen had said, only come when you don’t want them. Tsecha tapped the toe of his boot against the thermacrete, planting his foot only when he felt certain he would not slip. Tap, step, tap, step—like the odd, rapid gait of a shorebird, and truly. But he could not fall. He had come too far to risk any mistake.

  The door slid partially open. Illumins activated to the dimmest setting. Once inside the windowless concrete booth, Tsecha hurried to the small, plastic-covered bench that served as the supplies bin, cracking the lock with a soundkey that also had been made by Haárin. What would Vynshàrau have done without our most excellent Haárin? He pulled the large tool pouch containing his humanish clothes from the recesses of his oversize coat, but before he laid his bundled disguise to rest, he rummaged through the cluttered bin.

  Ah! It lay beneath the first layer of half-empty parts kits and battered all-weather gear. Most easy to find if you knew to look for it, knew from repeated visits the position of every object in the bin. A crumpled note. Tattered stone-colored parchment trimmed in dark Exterior red. My Lieutenant. My new friend. Tsecha stuffed the note inside his coat, worked his tool pouch to the bottom of the bin, relocked the lid, and hurried outside.

  The outpost’s proximity alarm illumins fluttered to half-life just as Tsecha threw himself into his skimmer, dying to dark as soon as he jerked the vehicle back within its boundary. He flitted along the border, hopped a pile of construction debris, then banked around a broad stand of winter-bare trees. The embassy appeared, its lakeside face, sheltered from the sight of godless humanish habits, enhanced by large windows, balconies, and enclosed patios.

  Tsecha could see no idomeni in any of the windows, but that, of course, did not mean they could not see his skimmer. Not that they would take special notice if they did. The vehicle, after all, belonged to Exterior, and traveled along Ulanova’s side of the border.

  Tsecha eased back on the accelerator as he approached the Exterior maintenance shed located so conveniently close to his embassy. He coaxed the skimmer into its charge slot with finesse acquired through repetition, then fled across the border at the place his black box told him he could pass unnoticed.

  Tsecha returned to his rooms by way of back stairways and little-used passages, Lucien’s note resting like something burning against his chest. Not since the war had he felt so. Then, every communication held life and death between its lines. For himself. For his valued friends. And even for a few esteemed enemies, without whose presence everyday life would have become a desolation indeed.

  My Lucien thinks I play at a game, I think. Tsecha sneaked into his front room and immediately began peeling away his protective clothing. Then he hurried to his favored chair, the crumpled paper clasped in his hand. On the way, he hesitated, detoured to his worktable, and recovered his handheld from its recess. What if, as Hansen before him, Lucien took it as his godly duty to instruct an idomeni in the nuances of English?

  I will need to study this note as I do my files. Tsecha unfolded the Exterior parchment, and stared. What had he expected? An offer of an excursion? A suggestion of how to better pass himself off as humanish? A simple greeting?

  He saw nothing like that.

  Instead, Tsecha read his language. His language, in all its complexity, High Vynshàrau as his Sànalàn might compose if she were male and member of a military skein.

  And the words. The phrases. The fear in the lines. Only during the war had he read such, when his sect-sharers had watched Rauta Shèràa from the hills above and Hansen pleaded with him that their time to act had grown most short.

  …get her out…am meeting with her “captors” tomorrow evening…I can only get her so far…am depending on you…

  Tsecha’s grip on the note weakened and it fluttered to the bare floor. Such familiar words. So did Hansen plan his meeting with John Shroud. But my Hansen died, on the morning of his meeting day. Most sorry were the Haárin, to have bombed a building containing humanish. But then, the humanish had left their untouchable enclave of their own free will, choosing to interfere in idomeni affairs. Thus they were no longer blameless in any of this, were they? The chief propitiator’s Eyes and Ears had herself set the precedent. That being the case, where lay the disorder, or the blame?

  But the Haárin, with their love of disorder, would feel that way, would they not? The members of the Vynshà Temple, positioning themselves for their ascension to rau, felt quite differently. They had seen how the godless events of Knevçet Shèràa had demoralized the Laumrau. While they had most willingly taken advantage of their foes’ disorientation, such did not mean they wished to chance the same happening to them.

  Tsecha felt a tightening in his soul. They told me Hansen’s death rediscovered order, Kilian’s death r
esuscitated order, while my death—he bent to pick up the fallen note—my death would confirm order had truly returned. But he had talked them out of killing him, just as he had earlier talked them into allowing humanish into their cities and schools. The gods had gifted him with the power to persuade. They had allowed him the wit to know when to take action and how.

  And they had provided him patience, so he could wait so long for his Captain to return to him and not go mad.

  Tsecha glanced at the timepiece on his worktable. What do you do now, John? The city where the man worked—Seattle—was located far west. That meant it was darker there, the middle of night. Do you sleep, John, or do you work? He walked across the room to his comport and keyed in a code any humanish with a Chicago city directory could find.

  The face of a young, dark-haired male filled the display. “Neoclona Chicago. May I help—” His eyes widened as he realized whose face filled his display. Tsecha bared his teeth to alleviate his alarm, but the action only seemed to heighten his agitation. “May—m-may—oh shit!” The stricken face dissolved from the screen, leaving Tsecha to stare at nothing.

  Humanish see bared teeth as reassurance. Hansen said so. Tsecha tried to key in the code of another Neoclona department, but the idiot youngish had activated some sort of lock which made such impossible. Too much time passed as Tsecha tried every code combination of which he could think to break the connection. I cannot ask the communications skein for help—then all will know to whom I spoke. He made ready to remove the unit’s cover and disconnect its power source in an effort to reset the system. It could damage his unit beyond repair; if his Security had their way, he would not soon receive another. The risk was considerable, but he didn’t know what else to do.

  Just as he prepared to unclip the display screen from its support, it returned to life with a flash. This male as well, he had never seen. Pleasantly dark, with the facial hair many humanish males grew so easily, clipped to a sharp point at the end of the chin. “NìRau,” the man said in a pleasant voice, “John warned me you might call.”

  “I must speak with him,” Tsecha said. “Whoever you are, tell him he is to talk with me!”

  “My name is Calvin Montoya, nìRau, and I’m a physician, like John. He has given me some instructions, which he recently gave the heads of all the major Neoclona facilities on Earth.” He fingered the hair on his chin. “If you try to contact him through us, we are to tell you to go to hell. If you have any doubts as to what we are saying, John has told us to tell you to, and this is a direct quote, ‘Use your goddamn handheld.’ That is the message I am supposed to give you, nìRau. I am then supposed to end the call and report the attempted contact to John immediately.”

  Tsecha sat back in his chair, nodding as the man spoke. Quite a clear communication. Most as idomeni, and most unlike Physician Shroud. “Albino John may have given you meaning,” he said to the face on the screen, “but Val Parini, I believe and truly, has given you the words. Physician Parini always enjoyed speaking as idomeni. He thought himself most shocking to other humanish as he did so. I am to guess from this he has been called back from vacation? Please greet him for me when next you report to him.” Then, to ensure all would be taken well, Tsecha ended by baring his teeth.

  Unlike the youngish, Physician Montoya maintained his composure, and even bared his teeth in return. “Alb—John warned me about you, nìRau. Something along the lines of, ‘Don’t let him get a goddamn foot in the door, or he’ll walk out with half the goddamn facility.’ I believe I understand his concern.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “Now I am supposed to end this call, or John will be angry.”

  “John is a stern dominant, Calvin?” Tsecha always sought to call humanish by their primary names as soon as he learned them. Such a simple act, but it seemed to make them so happy. And cooperative.

  “Yes, nìRau, and I do like my job.”

  Yes, but you do not wish to end this call, because you are curious. “And what did Physician DeVries suggest you should do if I contacted you, Calvin?”

  The physician’s brows arched. He laughed. “Ooh boy—John warned us about the charm, too.” He jerked his shoulders, a gesture that could have meant anything, and thus helped Tsecha not at all. “Actually, nìRau, what Eamon suggested involved tracking your comport signal to its source, then dropping shatterboxes until only a rubble-filled crater remained.” Calvin’s smile disappeared. “I believe he was joking.”

  Left hand clenched, Tsecha gestured in the extreme negative. “And I know he was not. Your John and your Val, I believe, accepted Eamon into their skein for his technical expertise, not his social.”

  Calvin coughed. “I really have to disconnect now, nìRau.”

  “You must tell John—you must tell him I am most concerned!”

  Calvin grew very still. At first, Tsecha thought the display had malfunctioned. “Your concerns are noted, nìRau. And they are being explored. Now, I must go.” He disconnected before Tsecha could again speak. Most wise, actually. Given more time, bearded Calvin would surely have told him everything he wanted to know.

  It is how primary names affect these walls. So desperate are they for order, they interpret such as understanding. Tsecha slumped back in his chair. But I understand so little. Throughout his wing of the embassy, the tonal series that signaled time for early-morning sacrament sounded. He rose and listened for the preparatory scrapes and clattering which indicated the presence of his cook-priest and her suborn in his altar room. Tsecha waited until the blessed red illumin flickered above the altar-room door, meaning the room was fit for him to enter.

  The meal did not go well. Tsecha ate his grains and fruits in the wrong order, forgot to spice his meats, lost track of his prayers. Your concerns are being explored. Hansen had often told him how humanish explored one another’s concerns. The more they claim they do, the less they truly do. It is a well-established fact with our species.

  But he tells me my concerns are being explored, Hansen. Tsecha withdrew from his altar room and headed to his favored enclosed patio. It viewed the lake, as did they all, but if one squinted, one could also catch a glimpse of the Interior compound far down the shore. He had often done so, in days past, when he considered the soul of Acton van Reuter and where it might currently reside.

  But now Tsecha stood in his enclosure, watched the illumins far down the beach, and considered Acton’s son. He and my Captain—a most seemly pairing. Or so it had appeared at the time. But the father forbade it, and now the father is dead. His Lucien’s words returned to him. She hides in plain sight, nìRau. And his Calvin’s words. Your concerns are being explored.

  “Plain sight!” Tsecha hurried from the patio to the comport booths located within the documents repository. No reason to obscure the fact of this call. This call was indeed most seemly.

  Tsecha entered the code for Interior House. The young female whose face appeared on the display also maintained her composure—she had spoken with him before.

  “Angevin Wyle, please, Sandra.”

  The female bared her teeth, as Tsecha knew she would, and directed her attention to her House console. Her expression waned. “Ms. Wyle is unavailable, nìRau.”

  “Do not summon her in her office—she is not there yet.”

  “No, nìRau, I buzzed her residence. She’s not home.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She’s left no forwarding code, nìRau.” Sandra shrugged. Humanish, in Tsecha’s opinion, shrugged too much. “I can leave her a message, if you wish?”

  “No. No.” He could not wait for messages. Another humanish came to mind. Male, this one. Slumped as the Oligarch. Red hair, though not as godly as Hansen’s daughter’s. “Steve!” he shouted.

  “Mr. Forell in Xeno?” Sandra applied herself to her console. “I know he won’t be in at this hour.” The female’s eyebrows rose. “His private code is blocked, nìRau.”

  “Blocked?”

  “Blocked, nìRau.” Yet another strange expression cro
ssed the female’s face. Something as a smile, and yet…“It means he’s home, but doesn’t wish to be disturbed.”

  “Ah.”

  “I can message them both, nìRau.” Sandra’s brow now lowered. That meant confusion. Sometimes. “Are you sure you don’t want to speak to the head of Xeno? Perhaps His Excellency himself?”

  “No, Sandra. Message Angevin Wyle please.” He ended the call and returned to his rooms to dress for his appointments. Today I see the Prime Minister, who will complain of my treatment of Detmers-Neumann, and a delegation from the Xhà Pathen, who will complain of my favoritism toward their brethren the laes.

  Both complaints held truth, of course. I treat Detmers-Neumann as she deserves and the Xhà as they deserve, and for much the same reason. Tsecha secured the privacy locks to his sanitary room. I do not trust them. He removed the overrobe and trousers he had donned for his excursion to the maintenance shed and prepared to lave. His scars glistened pale in the overhead illumination—he stared at them in his reflection and felt every blade slice him anew. His meal rested as a weight in his stomach, his knees ached from the leap he had made onto the thermacrete, and if John Shroud had, by some godish whimsy, appeared before him at that moment, he would with great joy have snapped the man’s neck.

  My Lucien knew where she was and did not tell me. His odd Lucien, who enjoyed disorder. Tsecha plunged his arms to his elbows in hot water, felt its steam condense upon and trickle down his face. I must save her. His Captain. With his odd Lucien’s aid. And he would bury all who tried to stop him, as the Haárin had buried his Hansen.