Rules of Conflict

by Kristine Smith

  Lucien pulled his sodden jersey over his head and snapped it like a wet towel. “I knew I should have fitted you with a pickup.” He walked toward the field house. “Shower,” he called out in English as he vanished through the door. “Out in ten.”

  Jani passed the time tossing ice chips into the trashzap and watching them crack and steam. “‘Hurled headlong flaming.’” Though in this case, sputtering described it better.

  She pondered Pierce’s odd explanation. “He’s been following me because he wanted to talk to me. He wanted to make me understand.” Understand what? That Sam Duong’s reputation was a fair price to pay to cover up his and Mako’s character assassinations? “That’s what you think, Niall.”

  “You’re talking to yourself again.”

  Jani turned to find Lucien grinning at her. He’d changed into clean casuals—his hair was towel-damp, his cheeks shiny from lazoring. He looked so fresh and normal—a balm to the senses after the bizarre Pierce. She found herself grinning back. “And you’re eavesdropping again.”

  “It’s the only way I can find out what you’re thinking.” His gaze drifted down, settling on her legs. “Maybe during our next match, you could stroll around the end zone and distract the opposing goalie. I’ll run it by the guys, take a vote.”

  “Stop it.”

  “But it’s for the team.” He yawned loudly. “So, back to the Club for dinner? It’s a cookout tonight.”

  On cue, the odor of grilling meat drifted across the Yard, borne by the breeze. Jani’s roiling stomach tightened in rebellion. “I’m not hungry.”

  “You have to eat.”

  “I need to do some things first.” See if her parents called. Check on Sam Duong. Figure out what Niall wanted her to understand. “Let’s go back to my room.”

  Lucien pursed his lips and shouldered his duffel. “Whatever you say.”

  The TOQ lobby was empty. The sounds of the ’Vee filtered in from the game room. Jani took the stairs slowly, keyed into her suite, checked the comport message light. Nothing. She patted the top of the display and wondered if Mako had ordered her room bugged. “I wonder if Pierce is covering up more than chicanery at J-Loop Regional?”

  “I guess I can’t leave your side now that he knows you suspect him.” Lucien slipped his duffel off his shoulder and let it drop to the floor. Jani tried to back away as he closed in, but the divider that separated the bathroom from the sitting area stopped her. He leaned into her and let his lips brush hers. So light. The barest touch. His breath smelled of mint, like her favorite lunchtime leaves.

  Jani tried to turn her head away. “There’s a time and a place.”

  “Right here.” Another kiss. “Right now.”

  “You call this protection?”

  “Of course.” He placed his hands on the wall on either side of her head. “After Nema gets his—” He kissed her cheeks, her eyes, along the lines of her jaw, her neck. “—and Justice gets theirs—” He lingered over her pulse points, raking them lightly with his teeth. “—this is what’s left for you.”

  Jani leaned harder against the wall as her knees threatened to buckle. I can’t do this now. Her heart pounded. Her clothes grew tight. Maybe I can. She wrapped her arms around him, pulled him close, felt his hard muscles beneath her hands. He buried his head in her neck and murmured things in French that made her gasp.

  As they pulled at one another’s clothes, Jani heard a cough. She looked over Lucien’s shoulder.

  Rikart Neumann sat in an armchair at the far end of the room, near the window. He wore desertweights—the tan shirt and trousers faded as she watched. “Tsk, tsk.” He shook his finger at her—Jani could see the curtain through the translucent skin and bone. “You always were one for the boys, weren’t you, Kilian?” he said as he vanished.

  Jani pulled her hands from Lucien’s back, bunched them into fists, brought them down past his arms and up through, breaking his hold and pushing him backward.

  “What the hell!” He stumbled and sprawled across a low table. “What’s the matter with you!”

  “Get out.”

  “What!” His unfocused gaze sharpened. “Why?”

  “Because I said so.”

  Lucien stared at her. His breathing slowed. “You know, I see the way you look at me.” He’d reverted to English. Crisp. Sharp. Cold. “The feeling’s mutual.” He pushed himself into a sitting position. “Look, you’re sideline—I’m mainline. We don’t work together. No lines crossed. Is that what you’re worried about?”

  Jani shivered and hugged herself as a fat chuckle sounded from the far corner of the room. “No.”

  “Then what?” He boosted to his feet. “Pierce thinks you and he have things in common. Well, you and I have things in common, too. We know how to work people. We keep it simple and travel light, take what we want and leave the rest. We’re a matched set—why waste it?”

  Just as Jani opened her mouth to speak, Neumann reappeared at the bedroom entry. He held a finger to his lips. Then he formed an O with his index finger and thumb and poked his other index finger through the circle. In. Out. In. Out. “You do it because you like to,” she said hurriedly. “I do it because I have to.”

  “Oh, really?” Lucien picked up his duffel. “I don’t understand you completely, and, frankly, I think you’re wrongheaded about a lot of things. But I never figured you for a tease, and I sure as hell never figured you for a hypocrite!” He hit the doorpad and left without looking back.

  A greasy snicker sounded. “Looks like your little rent boy took off, Kilian.” Neumann’s form had disappeared, but his voice remained. “I don’t think you can support him on a captain’s pay. He’s Cabinet class all the way. You don’t earn enough to cover his mint-flavored oral rinse.”

  Jani pressed her hands to her ears and stumbled to her bed.

  “Think you’re off the hook because Mako says he’ll cut you loose?” Neumann’s voice sounded from one dark corner, then another. “Well, think again.”

  “You’re dead!” Jani fell back against her pillows, pulled her damp shirt from her sweaty skin, and breathed deeply and slowly.

  When the fluttering in her chest subsided, she eased to her side and struggled to her feet. Bedrooms felt too much like hospital rooms—she stumbled into the sitting area and lay on the sofa. It was too short to sleep on—one bolster caught her in the back of her neck, the other, just below the backs of her knees—so she curled her legs and hunched her shoulders and resigned herself to discomfort.

  The inactive comport display reflected the dim light that seeped around the window seals. Jani watched it until Neumann’s mumbles lowered to nothing and the sweating stopped and she was able to fall into something resembling sleep.

  Chapter 21

  Sam disembarked the tramline that shuttled from the civilian apartment blocks to the base. Even at that early-morning hour, the heat enveloped; by the time he descended the stairs from the elevated passenger drop-off to ground level, he could feel sweat trickle beneath his shirt.

  He stopped to study the building signs, and earned a muttered “Watch where you’re going” from the civvie who banged into his shoulder. I hate this place in the morning! Uniforms and civvies bustled in his path. Delivery skimvans laden with supplies blocked entries and walkways. Muffled rumbles emanated from the weapons ranges, echoing off buildings like thunder.

  Sam cringed as a sharp report sounded—he stepped off the walkway and ducked beneath the sheltering shade of a black maple until his pounding heart slowed. Of all the things he hated, the booming roll and reverb that issued from the ranges topped the list.

  But it was louder this morning—like bombs. They’ve broken out the Y-40s today. The latest-model long-range shooters made a great deal more noise than had their predecessors, the V-and T-series, but design improvements had supposedly made them safer and easier to control.

  “Yes, this one will only blow your target to bits if you want it to.” He tucked his briefbag under his arm and dashed out
into the open. The faster he found a quiet indoor haven, the better he would feel.

  He hustled into the safety of the South Central Facilities lobby and removed his handheld from the outer pocket of his bag. Where am I going? Who could find their way when surrounded by all these bloody identical buildings!

  He flipped through his list of “Reminders.” Odergaard is my Tech One . . . my name is Sam Duong . . . I live in Flat 4A-Forrestal Block. He paged to the next screen. South Library! That’s where he wanted to go. A good place to do Gate research, or rent a few hours on a workstation, or catch a nap before the start of a second-shift day.

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  Sam looked across the lobby at the desk corporal, who eyed him with concern. He forced a smile. “Just taking a break from the heat.” He waited a few more minutes, then rose and walked back outside. I am going to the South Library. He followed the signs and markers until he reached the five-story white scancrete box.

  He crossed the lobby, then wandered aimlessly through the stacks. Departed through one of the side doors. Hurried down the connecting walkway to one of the many satellite office buildings that dotted the base, which was where he meant to go all along. Darted down the hallway and disappeared into the first vacant office he found. It made sense for an archivist to go to a library. Therefore, a library was the last place he wished to be. He suffered from a brain tumor, not stupidity.

  Sam didn’t know for sure whether someone followed him. The movements he’d glimpsed in entryways and beneath trees the previous night as he walked across the Yard to the tramline platform could have been tricks of moonlight and shadow. The display flutter when he tried to use the comport in his flat could have been random interference from base systems. The trip of his heart each time he locked eyes with a stranger or heard an unfamiliar sound could be due to his medical condition, not the ancient portions of his brain telling him to beware.

  No one knows what I found. He and Tory had journeyed to Chicago, to the Active Vessel Archives building. He’d been helping her search for an old equipment record when he’d uncovered the Station Ville Louis-Philippe cargo transfer. Technically, it did belong in the unsecured bin in which he’d found it, since it contained no obvious Service markers. Only the date, time, and dock entries linked it to the CSS Kensington, and that would only set off alarms if you knew what date, time, and dock entries to look for. Which Sam did. Some details managed to stick in his mind, despite Dr. Pimentel’s fears and his own disintegrating self-confidence.

  He reached into his briefbag’s inner compartment and once again reassured himself of the transfer’s presence. Encased within its flexible plastic slipcase, the document crackled, the aged parchment dried, almost brittle to the touch. Cheap colony paper, a simple record of what was loaded onto a certain ship at a certain time. Not meant to be saved.

  Food. Nothing unusual there—it made sense that the Kensington would load more supplies to feed its extra passengers. But synthetics and high-density nutritionals would be the consumables of choice. Not real meat. And certainly not real meat packed in agers. Sam had archived active vessel records for many years, and the only ships he recalled taking on agers were command vessels with high-level guests to impress, not combat vessels in emergency status. The containers took up too much room; they required specially trained technicians to maintain calibration or the contents would spoil. If Mako had wanted to feed his evacuees high-quality protein so badly, that’s what the kettles were for.

  Sam nestled into a chair, maneuvering it so it faced the door. Captain Kilian would approve of his actions, of that he felt sure. She seemed a cautious soul. He hugged that thought close as he did his briefbag, and waited for the hours to pass before their meeting.

  He arrived at the SIB a few minutes before twelve up and sat on one of the tree-shaded benches in the building’s front yard. He wiped his sweaty face with a pre-dampened dispo, and checked the transfer record again. Then he looked up—his heart lifted as he watched Kilian cross the lawn from the direction of the South Central Base complex.

  She wore summerweight trousers, but with the dressier white shirt Sam had seen Yance wear when he had to give a presentation. Unlike most Service clothing, it flattered a woman’s figure. The wrap styling accentuated Kilian’s waist and bust while the crossover collar framed her dark face.

  She terrified him physically—so tall and straight, a woman of line, not of curve. Still, he found himself appreciating her with a bolder eye than he normally would have dared; he felt a surge of pride as he watched other men’s gazes follow her. My Captain of Dark Ice. He stood as she approached the bench.

  “Mr. Duong. I hope you’re well.” She smiled. “We don’t have a lot of time. I’m scheduled for an important meeting at thirteen up. I didn’t arrange it, so I couldn’t move it. Sorry.”

  “You have so many meetings.” Sam remained standing, finally gesturing for her to sit down first. “This one must be very important. You look very nice.”

  “Thank you.” Kilian dropped her briefbag to the ground. She lowered to the edge of the bench, then moved down with a start as though something surprised her. “It’s Office Hours. With a mainline general. I might live.” She tensed, hunching her shoulders like Sam did when people pressed around him in the lift.

  He leaned toward her. “Are you feeling all right, Captain? You don’t look well.”

  “I’m fine.” She had lost her smile. “Would you mind if we went somewhere else?”

  “Where?”

  “Not indoors.” A loud blast sounded from the ranges, and she flinched. “The covered walkways, maybe? I know you don’t like the beach.”

  “I will walk on the beach.” Sam injected his voice with a confidence he didn’t feel and hoisted his briefbag to his shoulder. “If you’re with me.” He looked down at her—was it his imagination, or did she shiver? “It’s the noise from the weapons ranges, isn’t it?”

  She stiffened, then nodded. “That’s not helping.”

  “We could go in—”

  “Not inside.” She offered a sheepish curve of lip that was more grimace than grin. “I’m feeling a little crowded today.”

  They walked silently across the East Yard, then down the flights of steps that descended to the beach. Sam held his breath as he stepped onto the sand and sank in up to his shoe tops. He stopped. Took another step. Stopped again.

  Kilian reached out to him. “Give me your hand, Sam.”

  Sam held out his hand, sighing as Kilian closed her fingers around his. They felt cool. Dry. She had a strong grip for a woman. He felt her strength course up his arm, through his body.

  He looked up the shore and saw the red, blue, and green splashes of sun umbrellas, running children, a group in base casuals struggling to right a volleyball net. There’s nothing to be afraid of here. Not on this sand. Not now.

  Kilian led him to a round wireframe table that was sheltered from the relentless sun by a red-and-white-striped awning. “You said you had some news that would interest me?” She released him, dragged a chair into the center of a wide strip of ruby light, and sat heavily.

  Sam looked at the place where she’d touched him—he imagined the imprint of her fingers, like a signet. He slid into the chair opposite her and reached into his bag. “I found this in the city.” He tucked the transfer into the fold of that morning’s issue of Blue and Grey, and pushed it across the table toward her. “Early morning is the best time to search through Active Vessel Archives. The security is not all it should be.”

  Kilian opened the newssheet—her eyes widened as she studied the document nestled within. “Cargo transfer.”

  Sam nodded. “Check the date/time stamp.”

  Kilian did. “Well, well.” Her voice emerged stronger, surer. She didn’t look cold anymore. “You wanted to see how my idomeni-made scanpack worked—that’s the story if anyone asks, OK? I scanned the newssheet.” She waited for Sam to nod before she reached to her belt and removed the device from its pouch.
“Where did you find this?”

  “In an unsecured bin, while I searched for something else.” Sam glanced up and down the beach, on the lookout for spectators. “There’s nothing on the document that identifies it as Service paper. That’s why they let it go.”

  “All they had to do was check the date.” Kilian activated her scanpack; the palm-sized unit’s display shimmered bright green. “That tells me that whoever took the other records had little or no experience with documents. Covering the main doc trail is a snap, it’s the peripherals that’ll trip you up every time.” She brushed the ’pack’s bottom surface over the document in a regular left-to-right, top-to-bottom pattern. When her scanpack display flashed green, she deactivated it and returned it to its pouch. “It’s the real thing,” she said as she fingered a browned corner. “Not high-quality paper. I’m amazed it held up for eighteen years.”

  Sam nodded. “I don’t think that bin was opened much. We got lucky.”

  Kilian studied the transfer. “Agers. Two of them.” She looked across the table. “Feeding those evacuees well, weren’t they?” The act of examining the paper had energized her—her dark eyes glittered.

  Sam swallowed. When Yance looked at him the way Kilian did now, it never boded well for some poor would-be paper fiddler. “The evacuees were Family. I suppose they were entitled.” He scraped the soles of his shoes against the scancrete. “I think I wasted your time—that document means nothing.”

  Kilian stared out toward the lake, where a couple of wave-gliders banked and wove across the still surface. One glider cut a turn too sharply—his iridescent board shot out from under him and tumbled through the air. “Mako faced a court of inquiry when he returned to Earth.” She waited for the board to strike the lake surface before turning away. “He mishandled remains. Ebben’s, Unser’s, and Fitzhugh’s.”

  “Caldor’s.” Sam squirmed under Kilian’s startled stare. “Her death cert had gone missing, too.”

  “So it did.” Kilian crossed her legs and locked her hands around her knee. The red light that filtered through the awning rouged her complexion, making her look sunburnt. “How many died during the evac, total?”