“Not long.” Jani poked her left thigh with her invisible hand, felt the tiny impacts against her phantom fingertips. “Doyle’s set the wheels in motion. She always suspected your complicity in Lyssa’s death. She’s working for someone else, by the way. Your Virginia. Service plant, maybe. Or else she’s thrown in with one of the other Houses.”
The comment fired some life back into Evan’s face. His jaw firmed; his eyes sharpened. “Which one?”
“Your guess is worth more than mine. I’m surprised your janitor hadn’t already flushed that out.”
“Where is Durian, by the way? We were supposed to meet fifteen minutes ago.” Evan waited for Jani to answer, fidgeted with his glass when she didn’t. “I didn’t kill Lyssa, Jan. She had evidence of my sins hidden all over the city. She told me if anything happened to her, she had someone in place to insure the evidence would be sent to the right people.”
“That person was Betha Concannon.” Jani etched figures in the air with her invisible fingers. “Bad choice on her part—Betha worked for Durian. Now Betha’s dead.” Her hand started to ache from the exercise. She stopped flexing.
“And Durian? He always notifies me when he’ll be late. This isn’t like him.”
“I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”
“If there is, I’d like to hear it, please.”
Jani held both her hands out in front of her. The one she could see felt the same as the one she couldn’t. “The alliance with Ulanova changed things with regard to Lyssa. With her aunt’s backing, she became dangerous, instead of merely embarrassing.” She straightened her left leg, shook the pins-and-needles feeling from her left foot. Funny that life should return to it now, when the rest of her felt so dead. “Do you remember that play they ran at the Consulate the night we met?”
“Jani.” Evan watched her flex, then reached for the decanter. “Becket,” he said as he poured. Liquor splashed against the ice and onto the table. “It was Becket.”
“Becket.” Sharp sounds. Jani had to concentrate in order to repeat them without softening them into Vynshàrau. Mbe-heth. “I remember you liked it. I found it stupid. Man hires his friend to do a job, then gets pissed when said friend actually does it. And now look at us.” Her chest felt tight. “Life imitates art.” She touched her right arm. Even through the medcoat sleeve, it felt hot, swollen.
Evan leaned toward her. “Are you all right, Jan? Your lips are turning blue.”
“I’m fine.”
“Your eyes don’t look right. There’s a shooter graze on your cheek.”
“I’m fine.”
“Where’s Durian?”
“I think I know what happened.” Jani stared at Evan until he eased back. “You and Durian were talking. You’d just found out Lyssa had made the connection between your comlog entry and my transport crash. With Ulanova’s help, she’d bring you down. After all, it was your big sin. No Acton to blame for this one—it was your call. You could have stopped it and you didn’t.”
“My father—”
“—was three weeks from Shèrá on the fastest ship he had. You could have handled it. Missed messages. Lost records. Lied. But no. You wanted to be the hero. The one who pulled the van Reuter nuts out of the fire.” Jani hesitated as her heart skipped a beat. In that instant, her breathing eased.
Hey, augie.
Hey, Cap.
“I didn’t know you were on that transport.” Evan reached out to her. “Riky told me he’d keep you out of it. He promised me—I made him promise when you left the city with him. Then I didn’t hear from him anymore. No answer to the messages I sent him, and the ones from my father started coming in one an hour. Always the same. ‘Do something, boy—we’re depending on you. Act like a van Reuter for once.’” Evan’s own breathing grew ragged. “Jani, I was alone. Scared. I’d acted as go-between for Rik and Dad—that made me culpable. Violating the Bilateral Accord was a treasonous offense. I faced prison. Maybe worse. I didn’t know what else to do!”
Jani heard a familiar sound filter in from the anteroom. The sizzling crack of a shooter. “I didn’t know what else to do, either.” One report. Another. Another. Twenty-six times. Before the dawn I will have fired twenty-six times.
“They’re all dead, Jan. We’re still alive.” Evan knelt before her, his hands closing over her visible one. “You said you wanted to remember what happened. You can do that here just as well as in prison. If you feel you have to suffer to make it count, trust me, you will. You’ll have to bury yourself somewhere in Chicago. I’ll have to resign. But I’ll know you’re here, and we’ll be able to get together eventually. After the dust settles.”
Jani eased out of Evan’s grip. “You knew. All of it. About the patients. About Lyssa. Betha. When you left me that message ordering me to stop my investigation—Durian had just told you he’d killed her, hadn’t he?”
“Jan, I didn’t mean for any of it to happen.”
She caressed the side of his face, ran her thumb over his unshaven cheek. He closed his eyes, rested his head on her knee, didn’t even flinch as her hand slipped down around his neck. “I watched a man destroy his face with his bare hands. I helped pull what was left of my corporal from beneath tons of rubble. Evan,” she said as he looked up, “there are some things you can’t negotiate away.”
“Jan—”
She pushed him away. “What was the name of Becket’s friend? The king?”
Evan glanced toward the door. “Henry.”
“Henry.” Jani could feel the heat generated by too many people pressed into the Consulate auditorium, hear the rustle of evening gowns. “The one scene I remember. Henry’s with his friends, his knights. His janitors, like Ridgeway was your janitor—”
“What do you mean, ‘was’?”
“—and I’m sure you were drunk, like he was. Henry the king, losing his grip—”
“Jani?”
“—looking for someone to blame—”
“No.”
“—knowing if she were dead, your problems would be over.”
“Please!”
“Will no one rid me of this dam-ned priest.” Jani’s soft voice rang like a shout in her ears. “Lyssa and Betha. Make that dam-ned priests.” Or maybe the reverberation was only in her head. “So Ridgeway maneuvered his mops and buckets and rid you of your priests. Ulanova didn’t know about the comlog. You were home free.” She coughed. Her arm ached again, but it no longer felt hot. Quite the opposite. She shivered.
“Jani?” Evan had slunk back to his chair. “Where is Durian now?”
“I left him in his office.”
“Oh. Are you going to leave me in my office, too?”
“No.” Jani watched Evan’s gaze flick toward the door again. “They want me to kill you, I think. Whoever Ginny works for. Whichever of your colleagues is most fed up with you. But God, I really hate being maneuvered, and I’ll be damned if I’ll be the tool for another Family bastard.” She smiled. “Besides, you knew. And you’ll remember, too. That’s the one thing we’ll always have in common.”
Evan swallowed. “We could have more,” he said carefully. “We could have everything again—” He shot out of his chair, trying to dart past her to the door. But he moved too slowly, like Ridgeway had. Jani rose, kicked out, caught the side of his knee. The joint cracked with the wet snap of damp wood. He fell to the carpet and lay gasping, thumping the floor with his fist.
She waited until he looked at her with pain-glazed eyes. “I don’t want to kill you. I want us both alive when they come. I want you around for a long time. Now I’ll have someone to share my ghosts with.”
Evan’s shallow breathing gradually slowed, deepened. Jani couldn’t say the same for her own. Her chest felt heavy. Her left leg cramped. Her right leg was the numb one now. She sat back down, and waited.
“Captain Kilian?”
The voice came from the other side of the door. A man’s voice. She didn’t recognize it.
“Captain Kili
an, I’m going to open the door. I want you to come out here. Please advance slowly and keep your hands where I can see them. That’s for your own good as well as mine.”
Mine? Did that mean her visitor was alone? Augie tried to rattle Jani’s bones in anticipation of a struggle, but she couldn’t oblige with the customary battle chill. The only chill she felt left her clammy and numb. Dark patches flecked before her eyes.
“Captain?” The office door hushed open. “Please come out.”
She struggled to her feet. With every incremental rise, the dark patches waxed, then waned. As she took her first steps, the room seemed to tilt. She grabbed the chair for support.
“Captain?”
A different voice now. Its source filled the doorway. Tall. Blond. Steel blue uniform wrapped around a steel blue spine. Red tabs on either side of his collar. Matching red wounds on his cheek.
“Lieutenant Pascal,” she said.
Lucien fingered his shooter, still encased in the holster at his side. Then he drew to attention and snapped a salute, the sort that made stiff Service polywool crack like a wind-whipped flag on a pole.
Jani touched her forehead in return. “Save it for the A-G, Lieutenant. Allow me what’s left of my sideline pride.” The floor seemed to shift as though she walked across a deflating pontoon. She turned, found herself within striking distance of another man. Shorter. Stockier. Black hair. Beard trimmed to a sharp point. He offered a courtly bow.
“Dr. Calvin Montoya, Captain.” He wore medwhites, carried a large pouch slung over one shoulder, held a large, featureless black cube in his hand. His dark eyes narrowed as he studied her face, then her mangled arm. “I’ve been charged with seeing you safe.”
“Oh.” Jani looked from Montoya to the cube, then back. “How is John?”
The point of Montoya’s beard twitched. “He’s as ever. I’ll tell him you inquired. I’m sure he’ll be—”
“Surprised?” She looked down at the cube again. “Time for the take-down? Well, Doctor, let’s get it over with.”
“Yes.” Montoya’s expression turned relieved. “I think we need to hurry.” He held up the cube and fingered one side. Red lights glittered across the face Jani could see. “Watch the lights, Captain. Don’t turn away. Concentrate on the sound of my voice and watch the lights.” As Montoya continued to murmur directions, a tracery of red, like shooting stars, played across the cube face. Jani found herself tracking the flickering as a flower follows its sun. Her knees weakened.
“Watch the lights, Captain. Don’t turn away. Watch—”
Patterns played, each more rapidly. Songs to her brain. Phantom pains shot through limbs destroyed long ago. Around her, flames flashed. Sounds. Yolan’s scream as the wall collapsed. Smells. The nose-searing acridity of hyperacid. The stench of burning flesh.
“Come to the light, Captain,” said the voice from the other side of the flashing red. “Don’t fight it, or you’ll feel—”
“Sicker. Yes, I know, Doctor.” Jani took a slow step forward. The odor of berries enveloped her, overwhelming her taste and smell, overpowering the stinging smoke. Her vision tunneled, blocking out the flames, the tumble of falling debris.
Only her hearing remained true. The hardiest sense, John had told her. The last sense to die.
See you soon, Captain, Yolan said.
“Yes, Corporal,” the Captain replied, as the last flicker of red winked out.
Patient S-1 remained hospitalized and under close observation for a period of four days. Because of extenuating circumstances and the fact the patient displayed her usual remarkable recuperative abilities, she was then released with the understanding that follow-up visits would take place regularly at a facility to be determined.
It is believed the patient can be expected to recover fully and to resume her normal range of activities, such as they are. However, it cannot be stated too strongly that the long-range effects of her condition are not known at this time.
—Internal Communication, Neoclona/Seattle, Shroud, J., Parini, V., concerning Patient S-1
AFTERMATH
CHAPTER 33
Jani opened her eyes. The view was white and brightly lit. The air felt cool and carried the characteristic odor she had long ago dubbed hospital-metallic. She took a deep breath and stretched her arms. Both of them. One was phantom. The real one was encased from wrist to shoulder in a membrane bandage filled with clear allerjel. Jani shook it. The jelly sloshed.
When she tired of that, she sat up, wedged her pillow behind the small of her back for balance, and studied the watercolors hung on the wall opposite her bed. One was a seascape in greys and greens, the other, a gold-and-brown still life. Jani had spent most of the past few days picking out details in the paintings, little nuances she’d missed during previous examinations. If she concentrated hard enough on the exercise, she could almost forget certain things. Why she was in hospital, for example, and what had happened to put her there.
And more immediately, what lay beneath her covers. Or rather, what didn’t.
Jani carefully ignored the telltale flatness of her bedspread. As long as she didn’t look, she could pretend her left leg was still there. She could feel it, after all, like the missing arm. Funny how its absence bothered her more. It’s the vulnerability, she thought, in a rare attempt at self-analysis. You can still run with one arm.
But run from whom? Calvin Montoya had been her only visitor thus far. He checked in on her five or six times a day, examining her with sure, gentle hands, a joke or a piece of gossip always at the ready.
The details of what had occurred at Interior Main, however, she’d had to pull from him with pliers.
The doctor and nurse from the Interior infirmary were still alive. Their encounter with Jani and the IV rack had netted them two concussions and one skull fracture. And three-month suspensions without pay for not notifying Montoya immediately of their singular patient. They were arguing about me and looking things up in textbooks. Her right film must have broken while she was unconscious; they’d probably seen her eye. One glimpse of that pale green orb would certainly be enough to drive any medico to the reference materials.
Her left calf itched. She tried to ignore it.
I did lots of damage that night. Evan’s knee would never be the same. After suffering torn ligaments and a dislocated kneecap, his evening went rapidly downhill. The Justice Minister himself placed him under arrest. The warrant was served upon Evan in his well-guarded hospital suite, with Cao and Ulanova serving as the Greek chorus. All the major networks had been invited to record the unprecedented event.
Calvin had brought Jani a copy of the local CapNet broadcast. The wafer still lay atop her holoVee console, its seal unbroken.
She stared at the seascape. Contained by a pewter frame as shiny as summer, sunlight played on gentle waves. How often on Shèrá had Evan told her about his sailing adventures on the Earthbound lakes? His expression had always grown melancholy as he spoke; those were the only times she could recall him appearing at all homesick. Are they letting you have a drink, Ev? Are they letting you have anything else? Montoya had seemed worried. He had heard rumors of a suicide watch.
Jani twirled a corner of her blanket and switched her attention to the still life. A tasteful piece, nothing exceptional. Something Ulanova would hang in her dining room.
I can imagine the conversations ringing around that table. The gloating comments, the laughter. Revenge is a dish best savored cold, to be served with the appetizers and the iced cocktails. To those with the stomach for it.
Leaves me out—I don’t have the stomach for much, anymore. Lucien had tried to visit her several times, but she refused to see him and rejected his bouquets of flowers. Ate without appetite when she ate at all. Ignored the holoVee and stacks of magazines and newssheets.
Montoya managed to hide his frustration beneath a cloak of humor and delicate prodding. He threatened to toss me out into a snowdrift last night. During this morning’s examination, he
assured her he’d push the skimchair himself if she’d just agree to a jaunt up and down the hall.
Jani’s refusal had plunged him into watchful silence. His examination took a good deal longer than usual. He withheld his usual inquiries, but he also drew more blood and took more swab samples. The only time he spoke was when he announced what he was going to do, inviting her questions. Her response that he should just take it all and get it over with jolted him. As he left, Jani had heard the doorbolt slide into place.
So she’d slept for a few hours, studied the ceiling, slept some more, studied her paintings.
The door eased open, and a cautious Montoya poked his head into the room. “Ah, Jani. You’re awake.” He entered, pulling a wheeled trolley. A large black plastic bag rested on the trolley’s top shelf. “If this doesn’t get you out of that bed, I’m going to fill your membrane bandage with detonator gel and whack it with a hammer.” He patted the plastic bag like a proud father. “Your new limbs are here.”
Jani sat up straighter. “Already?”
“At Neoclona, we aim to please,” Montoya said breezily, emboldened by her interest. “Get ready, milady,” he said as he opened the door of an inset wall cabinet. “I intend to have you walking within the hour.”
Jani kept her attention focused on the plastic bag. “I’ve only been here four days.”
“Yes?”
“A standard arm takes a week to assemble. A leg takes at least two.”
“Under normal conditions, that’s certainly true.” Montoya approached her bedside carrying a small metal tray on which instruments rattled. “But in your case, some preparations had already been made.”
“How?” Jani swallowed as the doctor placed the tray on her end table. Several long, pointed probes glistened in the light. “Why?”
Montoya activated one of the probes, pulled down the left shoulder of Jani’s medgown, and began prodding the smooth, shooter-burned membrane that served as the interface between her animandroid arm and the rest of her. “Once one reaches a certain level in Neoclona, your file becomes required reading.” He worked around the outer rim of the junction, searching for dead spots. “The wise facility chief knows to be prepared.”
Code of Conduct Page 33
