Rules of Conflict (29 page)

“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 turtle 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!

He left the room only once, to confirm with a befuddled Markhart
what he’d had for lunch the previous day. Vegetable soup. Cheddar bread. Pear
tart.
Got it.
Combed the newssheets to assure himself he had indeed
watched the holoVee drama he remembered from the night before.

He slumped in his chair, the desktop and the surrounding floor
scattered with confirmatory remnants.
There’s nothing wrong with my memory
.

And if he didn’t act quickly, that fact could keep him marooned on
Elba for the rest of his life.

He adjourned to bed, exhausted. Slept. Dreamed. Of Jani.

She looked as she had before the crash. Rounder, cuter face. More
compact, curvier body.

She wore the nightgown he’d bought her for their first
anniversary. A gift both for her and his twenty-four-year-old hormones, a
murderously expensive confection imported from Phillipa. Transparent film from
neckline to floor, cut with an opaque swirl that covered just enough and no
more.

She straddled him, the gown’s skirt hiked up to reveal her satiny
thighs. She said something that made them both laugh. Then she leaned forward,
shoulder-length black hair veiling her face, and kissed him.

The scene shifted. No more nightgown. Just her flawless skin, lit
by unseen illumination to the shade of the Crème Caramel. Perfect breasts.
Narrow waist. Swell of hip. Head thrown back as she moved above him, called his
name, cried out—

He snapped awake, mouth dry, heart pounding.
Damn it—anybody
but her—!
He groaned as the ache of an erection overtook him; he dispatched
it in the usual manner.

He got out of bed, showered, switched into fresh pajamas. Then he
collected a bottle and padded downstairs and outside to his sheltered patio.

The night air was weighty with heat and the unfulfilled longing
for storm. Evan sat, propped his bare feet on a table, and drank. Then he laid
back his head and counted the stars.

I visited some of you.
Committed crimes. Then returned home
to the life that had been made for him, a glossy thing with a hollow center
built on a foundation of sand.

“Didn’t turn out the way you planned, did it, Dad?” He kept his
eyes focused on the night sky as he spoke to his dead father. Then he decided
that was being optimistic, and looked down at the flagstone instead. “I started
out so full of promise.” But the posting to the Rauta Shèràa Consulate, meant
to be the first step in a great career, devolved into disaster, followed by
full-blown, tail-between-the-legs retreat.

The journey from hell.
A detour to Phillipa to take on
supplies added two weeks to an already-interminable journey. By the time Evan
touched down at O’Hare, he had lost fifteen kilos and, despite the efforts of
the
Hilfington
medical officer, much of his hair. Stress, he’d told his
mother, who had broken down at the sight of him. To Dad, he’d said nothing.
You
did the right thing,
his father told him as they walked down the VIP
Concourse.
You did it for Rik.

He’d come home to the hard looks the bereaved sometimes bestowed
on the survivors.
And to the funerals
. Rikart Neumann’s memorial
service, sans body, followed by Ebben’s, Unser’s, and Fitzhugh’s, that might as
well have been. Closed caskets all, because of the condition of the bodies.
Severe decomposition caused by improper storage, his father had said. Criminal
negligence, the mourning Families maintained.

Sloppy of Mako.
The forceful performance he’d given before
the Board of Inquiry assured that the furor didn’t damage his career, but still . . . .
All he had to do was put the bodies
in the damned freezer.
What the hell had he done, stuffed them in body bags
and shoved them in the hold?