Endgame

by Kristine Smith

  Jani dragged a chair to the side of the bed and sat. “What place for the student but with her teacher?” She looked up at the male, who like Feyó appeared drained, expression blank and shoulders bowing. “Why do you remain?”

  “To see what you will do.” Dathim finally looked at her. “You will pray?”

  Jani hesitated, then shook her head. “I’ll sit here, and wish that the last few hours hadn’t happened. I’ll wish that I could turn back time.”

  “You will wish in vain,” Meva said.

  Jani nodded. “But I’ll wish anyway.” She tugged at another crease in the bed cover. Reached out a finger and grazed Tsecha’s arm, felt the cooling even though only a short time had passed.

  “Humanish are strange.” Some animation returned to Meva’s face, a flare of impatience in her downward curve of lip. “And you are still most humanish.”

  Jani raised a hand in surrender, let it fall. Sat quietly as the minutes passed and Meva and Dathim continued to watch her before giving up and leaving the room.

  “With idomeni, the soul is the important thing. The body is as nothing. They’ll burn it down to a scraping of ash, and won’t even collect it. Lave the crematory with blessed cloths, and rinse it all away.” Jani tried to think of something else to say, to find the words that defined what she knew in her heart to be indefinable.

  Finally, she gave up, and did the humanish thing, and wept.

  CHAPTER 12

  Rilas replayed the memory of the cart bearing Tsecha surging up the hill and vanishing around a curve of stone. She had seen him gesture, watched as Shroud bent over him, as the hated Kilian held his hand. He had spoken, yes, but what had he said? Had his words been lucid, or, as she most hoped, only the last ramblings of a dissolving mind?

  Not that it mattered. She had performed the act she had come to this damned place to execute. It troubled her that Tsecha had not died within moments after the vector found him and transferred its cargo to his brain, but did the timing matter? Dead was dead.

  She should not have stayed in the house for as long as she had, watching Tsecha’s transport up the hill. She had worked quickly, breaking down the rifle and packing it away. As she left the house, she set off a protein bomb, obliterating all traces of her presence.

  I have succeeded.

  As soon as she entered the Karistos shuttleport, Rilas stopped before a news display and read the scrolling headlines.

  He must be dead. She waited for the words to appear on the screen, for the bustle around her to cease. For the silence.

  Stock market values…weather…a new holoVee detective series…

  He must be— Someone jostled her and she stumbled forward, grabbed the back of a bench to keep from falling. She straightened slowly, imagined burying a blade in the heart of that clumsy fool. Then she continued down the concourse toward the Haárin wing, and the locker area where her new documents had been hidden. No more Nahin Sela. No more damned tiles. She muttered thanks to her blessed Caith.

  She hoisted her slingbag, which was nearly empty now. The rifle, the cartridges, the beautiful sight mech, she had coated with protein digester and buried in a remote place off the shuttleport road. Even if discovered, they would prove useless, the biobased mechanics obliterated, only their metal shells remaining. The secondary—

  Rilas stopped in mid-stride. The secondary. It still hovered above the Thalassan enclave—she imagined its path growing more and more erratic as the signals it sent to the destroyed primary went unanswered. It does not matter. Soon its power supply would deplete and it would tumble into the bay. It signaled as biological—no scanning device would track it.

  She started to walk again, one step following the next, her feet tingling as though she walked across a high ledge, a sheer drop on either side. A mistake. She did not make mistakes—such was why nìRau Cèel had chosen her for this greatest of tasks. I can make no more mistakes. Such were an insult to Caith, a temptation to godly wrath.

  Rilas hurried down the concourse, then turned down the corridor that led to the locker area. She passed first one Haárin worker, then another. Saw gaps in the ceiling, holes in the walls on either side.

  Stopped in front of the entry to the locker area, and found only the hacked-out remains of a doorway, and barrier tape, and an empty expanse where the lockers had stood.

  “What is this?” Rilas looked to the workers’ dominant, who stood off to one side performing calculations on a handheld.

  “Ná.” The male nodded to her, a meaningless gesture. “These rooms are being repaired. The plumbing was not as adequate.”

  “Repaired?” Rilas tried to step past the barrier tape, but stopped as the polymer sensed her presence and beeped a warning. “There is something I must recover.”

  “All contents have been taken from the lockers and moved to Lost and Found.” The male turned his back to her, gaze still fixed on the handheld display. “You go there and present your identification, and you may recover that which is yours.”

  “Lost and Found?”

  “At the end of this concourse, next to the security offices.”

  Rilas remained in place. Her heart beat harder now. Identification. She would display her documents naming her as ná Nahin Sela and recover a bag containing documents for another, for a name she did not even know. If they searched the bag—scanned it— They would ask her why she recovered documents belonging to another. They would demand explanations.

  I cannot attempt to claim this bag. Nor could she remain on Elyas long enough to purchase new documents, assuming there were Haárin here who produced such. I have to remain as ná Nahin Sela. For the first time, she would depart a place with the same name she bore when she arrived. Such is not seemly. Even more important, such was dangerous. Too many here knew her as ná Nahin. Those who worked or lived at the enclave in which she stayed. Those she had spoken with at the Trade Board.

  But still…

  Rilas turned and walked back up the hall toward the concourse. Sensed Caith’s laughter as she approached the outgoing passenger gates and scanned the displays for the first Haárin shuttle to Elyas Station. As she walked up to the billet counter and presented her identification.

  “Ná Nahin Sela.” The female clerk looked her in the eye, baring her teeth as she scanned the identification wafer and processed the billet request. “Glories of the day to you.”

  “Glories,” Rilas replied, even as Caith’s glee settled as an ache in her soul.

  It started on the shuttle. One Haárin with a handheld, and soon the entire craft knew.

  Then the news spread, like the voices of the gods.

  As a humanish cathedral. If the designer of Elyas Station had ever wished to observe godly quiet in the place she caused to have made, such desire would have been fulfilled this day. Rilas could track the movement of silence through the Haárin concourse as the news of the death of ní Tsecha Egri revealed itself on wall-mounted displays and announced itself from handhelds. Haárin did not yell or cry out as they comprehended the news. Such was not their way, and even years of godless exposure to humanish had not degraded their response.

  Silence.

  Rilas pondered the quiet along the Haárin concourse of Elyas Station. Relished it. Tsecha’s hold over the colonial Haárin is as an iron band, nìRau Cèel had told her. When it first shatters, they will be as lost. He had bared his teeth at that moment. Then they will conclude that the humanish in whom they have trusted have betrayed them. At that moment, they will look back toward the worldskein.

  At that moment… Rilas stopped before one of the displays, a humanish broadcast that offered a Sìah translation.

  “…cerebral hemorrhage…tumor…undiagnosed…unusual…”

  “Hemorrhage?” Rilas stepped closer to the display. “They think it a hem—” She fell silent as the other Haárin gestured her to be quiet, their hands slicing the air, the harsh movements of emotion, distress.

  Rilas’s heart pounded. It is not illness—I killed h
im! I, Imea nìaRauta Rilas, as my Oligarch bade me! She wondered for a moment at the reaction if she announced such. They would strike me down, as years ago we struck down the Laum. They did not yet understand the goodness that had been done for them.

  Let them think it illness for now. Rilas stepped away from the group and resumed her walk toward her departure dock, slowing to ponder the displays in shop windows, and to think of the future. Soon, they will learn it was not a hemorrhage. Then, the accusations would begin. Against Chicago. Against humanish separatists. The same groups that had been accused of bombing Haárin docks would stand accused once more, would argue for and against the blame, embracing or denying it in proportion to how weak they were, how eager they were to appear strong.

  And as humanish argue, idomeni will listen, and realize their errors, and return—

  “Hello, again.”

  Rilas stopped. Turned first toward the concourse, then toward the entry of the shop near which she stood. Saw no one.

  “I’m back here.”

  Humanish male. Rilas clenched a fist. “I do not—”

  “You remember me. The other day. The Rose Window.” A face emerged from the shadowed recess beside the shop. The dark skin and darker hair, clipped short. Another too bright shirt, this in a yellow that pained the eyes. “I remember you. I never forget a face.”

  I do not, either. Rilas felt the heat of her soul rise up her throat. The male who explained gargoyles.

  “I was just hanging around, watching the passing parade.” The male looked out toward the concourse crowds, his eyes bleared as though with sleep. “Well, not doing much passing today. Mostly standing around, because of what happened and all. Tragic, just tragic.” He shook his head, then leaned against the wall, one hand gripping the brickwork as though he struggled for balance. “Then who do I see window shopping?” He bared his teeth. “‘Oh, look,’ I thought, ‘a familiar face.’”

  Ethanol poisoning. Rilas had been trained to deal with humanish who degraded themselves in that way, but dreaded such. The chemical slowed their reflexes, yes, but the pits of their souls were as tainted as their brains, and such led to messy outcomes. If I strike him in the abdomen, he may vomit. I would then need to lave. To change my clothes. Rilas glanced at a timeform. Her flight departed soon. She would not have the time.

  “A little friendly advice? You’d look better with your hair unbraided, loose—but then, most females would.” The male leaned closer. His breath stank of harsh sweetness. “My name’s Neason, by the way.” He held out his hand.

  Rilas took a step back. “I will inform your dominant that you are drunk.”

  The male drew back his hand and stood away from the wall. “You do that.” His voice altered, from high and light to low, a voice of threat. “Go right ahead and inform that bitch about anything you want. Add your name to the goddamn list.” His head moved back and forth as though palsied. Then it stilled. “Did you report me? Were you the one who—”

  Rilas raised her right hand and curved it upward in question. “Report?” She tilted her head to accentuate her false dismay. “I said nothing. To anyone.”

  “Improving relations between the races. That’s all I was doing.” The male’s voice rose. “I told her that, the bitch, but did she listen? Did any of them listen?” He shouted now, spittle arcing from his mouth. “I am a diplomat. Do you hear me—a diplomat!”

  Rilas turned toward the concourse. A few Haárin had turned from the displays and now looked in her direction.

  “A fuckin’ diplomat!”

  “Silence.” Rilas pushed the male back into the darkness. “You attract attention.”

  “Oh yeah?” He grabbed at her hands, missing his grip as the poisoning slowed his reactions. “Think you know how to keep me quiet, do you?” He laughed, filling the dark recess with the stench of his breath. “You come back here and keep me quiet, then.”

  Rilas had stepped into the recess. As her eyes accommodated to the darkness, she saw the drink receptacles piled in one corner, the door that she knew led to the station interiors and from there to the humanish section.

  “If you come back here, you can keep me real quiet.” The male opened the interior door. “Come back here with me and I won’t make a sound.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he sought to maintain his balance. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? To keep me quiet.” He curved his lips without baring his teeth, that strange humanish expression. “I can tell. You don’t want me to say a thing.”

  Rilas felt her heartbeat slow and strengthen. Her hands clenched. “I do not know what you speak of.”

  “I’ll bet you don’t.” The male backed through the door opening, beckoning to her with a crooked finger. “Liar. I know all your secrets.”

  “What secrets?” Rilas studied him now. His build. His weight. The way he moved. A soft thing. Unfit. Untrained. “I do not know what you are telling me.”

  “All you idomeni are so mysterious, but you’re no mystery to me.” The male looked her up and down. “All I have to do is look at you, and I know all about you. What you want. What you need.” He made a sweeping motion with his hand. “Come in here, and I’ll tell you everything.”

  “I must go to my dock.”

  “I know a shortcut.” He tried to grip her arm, and swore as she dodged his hand. “Come on now—be nice.”

  Rilas watched him, even as the strength of her goddess coursed through her. He knows secrets. Had he matched the identity she had used to enter the station with that of Nahin Sela? Had he somehow followed her to Karistos without her seeing him? “I will come with you.”

  The male bared his teeth. “That’s more like it.” He stepped aside so she could enter the interior walkway, then turned his back so he could close the door.

  As he did that, Rilas let her slingbag slide off her shoulder to the floor. She moved in behind him, her gaze fixed on his rumpled shirt collar, the place where neck and shoulder joined.

  Raised her hand edge on.

  “Now this is how—”

  Brought it down.

  The male made no sound. He dropped to his knees, pitched forward so that he struck the wall. Slid to the floor, twitched, then lay still.

  Rilas watched him, even as panic touched her and every instinct bade her to flee. Waited, until she saw the liquid puddle around his hip, smelled the stench of urine, and knew him to be dead. What he knew of her, he could never tell.

  She picked up her slingbag and shouldered it. Turned the door mechanism and felt the finger of Caith touch her soul as the panel failed to open. She studied the mechanism for a moment, determined the two-handed grip and pull necessary to release the catch, and did so.

  Rilas entered the concourse, walking past the groups that still gathered around the displays. The boarding alarm for her ship sounded, and she quickened her pace, thanking her goddess that she would soon leave this most damned of places behind.

  CHAPTER 13

  “Jan?”

  Jani looked up to find Niall standing in the entry. “Via and her suborns…” She waved toward the bed, which now lay empty, the covers stripped. “About—I don’t know—a half hour ago.”

  “I saw them leave.” Niall’s voice emerged scratchy, as though his throat ached. “Yevgeny wondered how you were holding up?”

  Yevgeny? Jani struggled to place the name. Then the token dropped. “Scriabin’s still here?”

  “They all are.” Niall managed a weak smile. “It’s only just afternoon.” The expression faded. “All lifetime in a day.” He fell silent. Coughed. “Anyway, he asked how you were doing, and if you could see your way clear to stopping by the library when you’re up to it.”

  “Which in minister-speak means now.” Jani tried to rise, and found her limbs had gone to lead. “Give me a minute.”

  “Of course.” Niall stepped inside and let the door close, then dragged a chair next to hers. “Take all the time you need.”

  There isn’t that much time. She pluck
ed a dispo cloth from the dispenser on a nearby cart and wiped her eyes. “What’s it like upstairs?”

  “Quiet.” Niall brushed some nonexistent lint from his trousers. “Everyone had gathered in the courtyard. John talked to them a little while ago. He did well, I think.”

  Jani imagined John’s solemn mien, his voice. Not a combination one would choose to lighten the mood, but in this case they probably struck the right note. “What did he say?”

  “That Tsecha died as the result of a brain hemorrhage.” Niall exhaled with a whoosh. “He didn’t mention the undiagnosed tumor—let Via field that one.”

  Jani thought back to the scene in the room a few short hours before, John showing Via analyzer readouts and instrument displays while she dogged his shoulder, like a stranger at a party sticking to the only person she knew. Did she feel lost amid the brightly lit bustle of a humanish-style hospital room? Did John even try to bring her up to speed, or did he barrel along as he always did, and assume she’d keep pace? “Idomeni often don’t treat diseases until they fall visibly ill. But I thought Tsecha had gotten past that.”

  “Maybe Via didn’t.” Niall shrugged. “And it backfired.”

  You will not allow the worldskein control of me?

  Jani pondered Tsecha’s words. He had included Via in his plea—he hadn’t wanted her to take charge of him, either. She shivered, and blamed her chill on the temperature of the room. “Willful negligence?”

  “I never thought I’d get to be the one to say this, but now you’re thinking like a human.” Niall pointed an accusing finger. “I will never claim to understand the idomeni mind-set, but I’m not an idiot. Tsecha was Tsecha. A former Chief Propitiator, and, for want of a better term, a defining personality. He grew, but not all of his followers kept up. Not all of them thought as he did. If some of them felt that they still needed to treat him as an old-line idomeni because of what he’d been…? They’d ignore a developing problem until it became a problem, then get caught flat-footed when it blew up in their faces.”