Kilian sat back slowly. She looked older now, years of age added in minutes. “You don’t want the surgery?”
“No. No cutting in my head. I know I’ll die if they cut into my head.” He reached across the table and touched her hand. Still so cold, as though no amount of heat could warm her. “And I knew, I knew when you said you believed me that . . . ” He pulled back. “That if Pimentel tried to force me, you’d stop him.”
Kilian tucked her hands beneath her arms. “How do you know?”
“Because I just know. Like I’ve been telling you.” Sam stood, picked up his smashed cup, and tossed it in the sink so it could dissolve. Water-soluble cellulosic. No trashzaps in the SIB archives. Too great a risk of fire, and fire here would destroy so much. “Do you know what it’s like, to know something in your bones?”
Kilian hesitated. Her eyes looked strange, glistening, as though she suffered from fever. “Yes.”
Sam bent close. “Well, that is how I know I can trust you.” He stood back, and pointed to the wall clock. “Five minutes to fifteen up. You’d better go.”
Kilian followed him down the hall, into the stairwell, up the stairs, not drawing even with him until they had crossed the lobby. “You can trust me this time. I won’t let you down.” She left without smiling, or nodding, or offering him her hand to shake.
Sam stepped up to the lobby window. He watched Kilian leave the building, set her garrison cap on her head, and walk out into the brutal sun, and wondered why she said, “this time.” He watched her cross the lawn to a stone bench set beneath a stand of oaks, and wondered why she took the time to stop and sit if she needed to make her fifteen up meeting. He watched her set her bag on the ground, then lean forward and cover her face with her hands. He thought back to her tired eyes and drawn face, and wondered if she suffered a headache and whether he should run out to her and offer her some painkiller.
Then he watched her shoulders shake, and wondered why she wept.
Chapter 17
“Sir!”
Evan cringed as Halvor’s voice cut through the humid afternoon air. His hand jerked. The motion activated the trimmer he held; the edge brushed across a branch of the rose he’d been pruning. He swore as a fist-sized Crème Caramel lolled on the end of its damaged stem like a broken-necked doll’s head. Reactivating the trimmer, he made one more slash and put the fragrant bloom out of his misery.
“Sir!”
“What is it!” Evan wheeled to face his bleating aide.
Halvor stopped short. He looked from Evan’s face to the flower in his hands. “S-sorry, sir, but Mr. Loiaza’s here.”
Evan entered the sitting room to find Joaquin sitting on the sofa leafing through the contents of his documents case.
“Sorry for the surprise visit, Evan.” He removed a recording board and several folders, placed them at his side, then dropped the case to the floor. “I received some rather alarming news this morning, however, that necessitates a reevaluation of our strategy.”
“Let me guess.” Evan lowered into a lounge chair opposite the sofa. It wasn’t until he tried to grip the armrests that he realized he still held the trimmer and the rose. He tossed them one after the other atop a chairside table as though he had meant to carry them inside, as though this unexpected visit from his attorney hadn’t rattled him in the least. “Something to do with Jani.”
Joaquin nodded. “I received a call from your dusky Colonel Veda this morning. She informed me that the SIB can find no evidence linking Jani Kilian to the mutinous murder of Rikart Neumann.”
Evan picked up the slaughtered rose and examined it. The petals looked edible—warm butterscotch tipped with peach, like blush on smooth skin. He gripped one velvet edge and yanked. “Did she tell you what they did plan to do with her?”
“You aren’t going to like it.”
Evan laid the petal on his knee, then tugged at another. “I don’t like it already.” He’d expected news like this since his visit to Neoclona, but he’d hoped he was wrong. He should have known better. Politics, not to mention life, had taught him that what you dreaded most usually came to pass.
Joaquin tapped the writing plane of his recording board with his stylus. “She’s to be tried by an adjudicating committee. All indications at this time point to a medical discharge.”
“Prison time, at least?”
“No.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Her health, by all accounts, is not good. Add that to the lack of evidence against her.”
Evan tore the petal he held in half. “Oh for chrissake, everyone at the Consulate knew how much she hated Neumann!”
Joaquin smiled grimly. “A funny thing happens to people after they swear an oath. Suddenly, their words become gold and they become misers.”
“I’m a free-spender. Why doesn’t Veda ask me?”
“Again, it’s a question of corroboration.” Joaquin unclasped the fasteners of his jacket and sat back more easily. “Everyone knows what you have to say. But without anyone to back up your story, and without the paper to back them up, it’s your word against Jani’s, and, like it or not, she does have her sympathizers. Some of them are very vocal, and one in particular is riveting.”
Evan added the bisected petal to the row forming on his knee. “Nema?”
“He does cut an intimidating figure when he isn’t invading playgrounds and wowing them at Chicago Combined.” Joaquin frowned in disapproval—in his dignified universe, responsible diplomats did not engage in invasions and wowings. “And as much as Cèel despises him, he’ll support him when it comes to harassing us.”
“Imposing trade sanctions.” Another petal. “Looking the other way when colonial smugglers take refuge in their ports.”
“Exactly.”
As Evan annihilated his flower, Markhart entered bearing a tray. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye—whatever she saw made her quicken her pace. She set the tray down on a side table and, since Joaquin preferred to be waited on, did the honors as server. She poured his tea and Evan’s bourbon in efficient silence.
“She’s a prize, Evan,” Joaquin said after she had departed, sipping his tea appreciatively as he paged through a file. “Now, where were we?”
“Discussing our contingency plan.” Evan swept up the petals and tossed them, along with the rose remains, back on the table. Then he dug into his trouser pocket and removed the recording-board wafer that contained his work-up of Niall Pierce. He carried it on his person as a precaution. He hadn’t wanted to risk Halvor or Markhart accidentally erasing it or throwing it away. Or reading it. “Here. Have a look at this.”
Joaquin accepted the wafer hesitantly. “What is it?”
“You said we should use more of my Rauta Shèràa experience. Now’s our opportunity.”
Joaquin pursed his lips. Aggravated turtle. Then he slipped the wafer into his board’s reader slot, sat back with cup in hand, and did as Evan asked.
His brow furrowed every so often. He laughed once. That angered Evan, since he hadn’t written anything funny.
When he finished, he set the board beside him on the sofa and contemplated his tea.
Evan ignored his bourbon, picking up the mangled rose instead. “Well?” He stripped another petal.
Joaquin didn’t look at him. “Have you ever considered writing thrillers?”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean that this tale of yours is the most convoluted, seat-of-the-pants thing I’ve read since Vladislav’s The Hijack of the Sainte Marie.”
Evan sent rose parts scattering as he bounded to his feet. “Oh come on, Quino!” He paced the room. “Name the Family that doesn’t have something like that in their history!”
“Evan, there’s a difference between the information bandied at parties and that used to defend oneself in court. What you have here”—Joaquin pointed to his recording board—“is speculation, and defamatory speculation at that.”
Evan
parked himself in the window seat behind Joaquin. “I thought if you wrote it down, it’s libel.”
“It needs to be published in a public venue to qualify as libel, and no one will publish this if I have to smash the wafer to bits myself.” Joaquin twisted around so he could look him in the face. “You honestly believe it?”
“Yes.”
“That Niall Pierce was involved in felonious activities at Rauta Shèràa Base and that Roshi Mako has squelched the Kilian investigation to prevent those goings-on from being discovered?”
“Goings-on? Christ, Quino, you make it sound so polite.” Evan swung the rose by the stem, whacking the remains of the bloom against his thigh like a riding crop. “Yes.”
“You give me nothing to work with. You say ships from the Fourth Expeditionary often docked at the Rauta Shèràa transfer point, but you offer no proof that Pierce crewed on any of them. You don’t even give me the names of the ships so I can check.”
“He must have been on one of them. It’s the right time frame.” Evan pointed the vanquished rose at Joaquin. “All you have to do is get hold of the Fourth Expeditionary vessel records and comb the docking data and the crew lists.”
“Track every move made by a half dozen GateWay-class vessels over a period of at least three years. Is that all?” Joaquin pinched the bridge of his nose. “And if we found Pierce had indeed visited Rauta Shèràa, even that he had visited the city multiple times, what good would that do? The same people who can’t remember Jani Kilian’s actions aren’t going to recall the occasional pass-throughs of a non-resident enlisted man.”
“You left out the clincher.” Evan stood and paced some more. It made sense, damn it—why couldn’t Joaquin open his mind! “Pierce’s emotional health went into a tailspin after it became known that Jani was alive. Jani knew everything about what went on there—she’d know what Pierce did and when he did it. He sees his career diving into the ’zap—he’s scared to death she’ll rat him out.”
“Evan.” Joaquin pressed his fingertips to his forehead. “That’s too much coincidence, even for Vladislav.”
“You said yourself that Pierce had a criminal past, and that he didn’t change his ways after he joined the Service.”
“He did change his ways in the Fourth.”
“Are you sure! How do you know he just hadn’t learned to hide his crimes better?”
Joaquin blinked. He had the dazed look of a man who’d taken one too many punches. “Evan, my sources are very sound, and they tell me—”
“Just get off your bony ass and check, you son of a bitch—that’s what I’m paying you for!”
Silence fingered through the room like ice crystals spreading through freezing liquid. Joaquin blinked with reptile slowness, as though unable to believe that he’d heard what he’d heard.
Then the comprehension dawned, and his face reddened. “We’ll blame that outburst on the tension you’re under and move on.” He fingered the lapel of his staid dark blue jacket. “So, you claim Pierce was involved with the criminal networks working out of Rauta Shèràa Base, that an investigation of Jani’s relationship with Rik Neumann would have revealed his guilt, and that Roshi arranged to scuttle said investigation, not to mention jeopardize a thirty-plus-year career, in order to protect him.” He picked up his recording board and readied his stylus. “Explain the field commission.”
“I touched on that at the end.” Evan stalked the room, picking up petals as he went. “I think Roshi threw the lieutenancy at Pierce as a bribe, to make him behave.” He shrugged. “The other possibility is that Pierce really earned the promotion. Being a criminal wouldn’t necessarily prevent him from acting bravely.”
“You’re leveling serious charges against a man who is widely acknowledged as the savior of the Service.”
“His decision to save the Service could have started with Pierce. He salvaged one lost boy, decided he’d found his calling, and went on to rescue the whole damned system.”
“You honestly believe this?”
“Yes. How many times are you going to ask me that?”
Joaquin deactivated his stylus and powered down his recording board. “John Shroud called me yesterday. He needed to speak to me about your medical condition.”
Oh shit. “I can imagine what he said.”
“No, I don’t think you can.” Joaquin stashed the equipment in his documents case, then gathered the files. “I was going to delay telling you. I thought the news about Kilian enough of a blow for one day.” He motioned for Evan to sit.
Evan returned to his chair. The glass of bourbon at his elbow whispered remember me. “Shroud would say anything to save Jani’s skin, Quino. Keep that in mind.” He took a golden swallow and waited for the next volley.
Joaquin leafed through a folder, then closed it and stuffed it in his bag. “You’ve been classified as a maintenance alcoholic since your mid-teens. During most of that time, you received the quality of medical care necessary to guarantee your good health while allowing you to indulge your dependency.” He shot Evan an irritated look. “But there were times, John said, when you didn’t care for yourself as you should have. Your tour of duty on Shèrá was one of those times.”
“He’s a liar! I—”
“According to medical-annex records, you failed to follow your mandated treatment regimen. You worked too hard. Played too hard as well. With that Kilian woman, and other wild companions.”
Evan drained his glass and reached for the bottle. “You make it sound like the second rise of Sodom and Gomorrah. We threw a few parties.”
“Quite.” Another moue of distaste. “The point is that John’s opinion of your past health casts doubt on whatever testimony you have to offer, while his diagnosis of your present condition has effectively scuttled your ability to act in your own defense.”
Shroud, you bastard. “I’ll have a talk with him.”
“I would advise against your contacting him personally, Evan. Going through proper channels at a time like this can only work in your favor.”
Evan knew how to decode that remark. “You’ve already discussed his findings with Veda.”
“I was compelled to by law. To allow things to continue with your competency in doubt would have constituted the worst sort of malpractice.”
“My. Competency?” Evan sagged into the seat. “Any test that old Snowy wants to throw at me, I’ll take. Just set the date.”
Joaquin avoided his eye. “I don’t want it to come to that, Evan. Really I don’t.”
“He’s got you believing it, hasn’t he? That my mind is gone.”
Joaquin clasped the fasteners of his documents bag. “I need to reopen some doors I felt we could close, start exploring the Haárin connection to the goings-on at Rauta Shèràa Base.”
Evan felt his reflexes slow, his mind numb, as though he’d already downed the second liter of the day. “I don’t recall that ever being more than rumor.”
“It is now. Do admit, it’s not completely outside the realm of probability. Hansen Wyle did die in one of their bombing raids, and the images of the slaughter of the Laum during the Night of the Blade are very potent. You feared for your life, Evan. You were ill. You became involved in things you shouldn’t have, something we will admit. You thought it possible the Haárin could come after you the same way they went after Kilian after Knevçet Shèràa.”
“You’re going to blame the transport bombing on the Haárin?”
“Based on the tone of the time, it’s possible.” Joaquin stood and refastened his jacket. “Reasonable doubt, Evan. Let that be your mantra for the next few months.” He picked up a rose petal that had drifted onto the sofa cushion and flicked it absently onto the serving tray.
Evan watched him. Funny, the Joaquin Loiaza he had known for years had never ignored an injury to a rose—odd that he hadn’t yet commented on Evan’s prolonged torture of the Crème Caramel. Very odd. “Quino, give me the wafer back.”
Joaquin gave him a blank look. The tu
rtle befuddled.
“The wafer. You accidentally left it in your recording board. I’d like it back, please.”
“All right.” Joaquin unfastened his bag, removed the board, and popped out the wafer, all with the thin-lipped haste that implied he had more important things to do. “Here.”
Evan took the disc and slipped it in his pocket. “What are you up to?”
Quino released a rattling sigh. “I’m up to getting you out of this house. What else would I be up to?”
Following his solitary dinner, Evan sat at his workstation and perused the public data banks open to someone with his restricted access. He looked up Korsakoff’s syndrome, and studied the descriptions of the associated memory defects. They were rare thanks to the advances in addiction maintenance, but they did occasionally occur in alcoholics who received inadequate medical care.
“Bullshit.” Evan activated his recording board and spent some time writing descriptions and events from his past, beginning with his mid-teens. Then he checked the facts against the holos and sceneshots archived in desk drawers and cabinets.
The neckpiece his father wore to his graduation from Sarstedt. Black-and-gold diagonal striping. Check.
The color of the bunk blankets on the Excelsior, the cruiser that transported him to Shèrá and his first diplomatic posting. Maroon. Check.
The flowers Lyssa wore in her hair on their wedding day. White Mauna Kea orchids. Check.
The weather on the day he was sworn in as Interior Minister of the Commonwealth of Planets. Blue sky sunny and cold as a witch’s tit. Check!
Rules of Conflict Page 20
