Rules of Conflict (34 page)

“He thinks we have a lot in common.” Jani filled a dispo with ice
chips and popped one into her mouth. “He thinks I should read more.”

“Strange—I knew it. Anything about Duong?”

“He admitted he framed him.” He seemed to have admitted other
things, too—Jani just couldn’t figure out what they were.

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.

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.