Rules of Conflict (9 page)

Evan charged Markhart with seeing Shroud to the door. He refilled
his glass, this time without soda, and wandered out into the backyard.

He tried to consider his options, but thoughts skittered away like
beads from a broken string. He studied his fingers, which had stiffened, the
nail beds tinged with blue. He shivered.
I’m in shock.
He remembered the
sensations from that day on the lakeshore, just as he remembered the other
things. Lyssa’s screams. The chill smoothness of Serena’s small hand as he
touched it for the last time.

“He doesn’t like you.”

Evan wheeled to find Markhart standing behind him. She stood only
a stride away, so near that she had to tilt her head back to look at him.
She’s
so short.
He’d known it, of course. He just hadn’t realized it. “I don’t
like him, either. You don’t have to like the people you work with.”

The woman pondered, her worn face grave. “My sister scolds me for
working for you. She says you’re a killer. But she works at Sheridan, and her
husband’s retired Service, so her viewpoint is skewed.” Her voice, made ragged
by nicsticks, was shaded by a muted accent Evan couldn’t place. “Others don’t
think that way.”

Down the street, a dog barked. Evan stiffened. “And what way do
those others think?”

“They think that whatever you did, or didn’t do, you paid.”
Markhart’s normally aloof demeanor softened. “Because of the children.”

The barking increased. Another dog joined in, followed by the
whining hum of older-model skimmers. Evan’s heart thudded. “Is that what you
think?”

Markhart sighed. “I think you’re a very sad man.” She frowned at
the glass in his hand. “I think you drink too much.” She smiled sadly, lined
face crinkling. “Maybe you don’t want me to think anymore.” She squared her
hunched shoulders. “Now I have a dinner to prepare. Another one that you won’t
eat.”

“What are we having?”

“Tomato-dill soup from one of the boxes Dr. Shroud gave you. And
kettle beef.” She raised her chin in response to Evan’s scowl. “They only allow
me so much to run this house, sir, and I can’t afford real animal on what they
give.” She nodded. “But there’s fresh peas I need to shell, so if you’ll excuse
me.”

“Wait a minute,” Evan said, “I’ll help.” He started out walking
alongside her, but as shouts and laughter sounded from the surrounding homes,
he quickened his pace until his knee crunched with every stride. Shroud’s visit
had rattled him—he normally sequestered himself indoors long before this. He
always avoided the outside in the afternoon, when school had let out for the
day, and the children returned home.

The skimchair stalled as it floated down the gangway
leading from the shuttle gate into the O’Hare Service Terminal concourse. Jani
gripped the sides of her floating seat as two members of her escort tried to
wrestle it through the narrow arch. After one particularly hard push, the chair
shuddered, bucked, then bounced to the floor and back up into the air. Her
stomach turned. The acid rose in her throat.

“How many mainliners does it take to push a skimchair?” Jani
thought
she muttered under her breath. Every other person and device in the concourse
chose that moment to fall silent, however—her commentary cut the air like
inappropriate sounds usually did.

The mainline lieutenant who steered glanced over her head at the
mainline lieutenant who ruddered, then at her. “Do you have any suggestions,
Captain?”

“The signals from the doorscan and the skimchair lift array are
confounding one another. Ask someone from Port Security to shut down the
doorscan until you can push me through.”

The looie grimaced. He was a man of action, who preferred pulling
and grappling and nauseating his passenger to asking for help. He released the
chair grudgingly and strode off in search of a Security guard, the red stripe
on the side of his trousers flicking like an ambulatory exclamation point.

Jani crossed her arms over her queasy stomach. Then she looked
through the arch at the third member of her escort, who had entered the
concourse ahead of them and now sat perched on the arm of a nearby bench,
regarding her with mock solemnity. He had worn the same sideline summerweights
since they’d departed MarsPort; days of wear had left the light grey
short-sleeve and steel blue trousers rumpled, the sideline white trouser stripe
puckered. His pale skin, black, curly hair, and stocky build would have marked
him as Josephani Dutch even without his accent, which sounded like Hortensian
German with the edges ground down.

Piers Friesian. Major. Defense command, out of Fort Constanza.
Appointed by the staff Judge Advocate to see to her defense. A nice enough man.
She wondered what he had done to deserve her.

He rocked back on his tenuous seat and locked his hands around his
knee. “I heard the news walking by one of the kiosks. Acadia Central United won
its final qualifying match. They defeated Jersey Conglomerate four to one.”

Jani managed a smile. “That means they’ve drawn a first-round
bye.”

“The merry dance starts in two weeks. Guess who I’m rooting for?”

“Josephan Arsenal.”

“You got it.”

“Won’t make it out of the quals.” Behind her, the rearguard looie
swallowed a chuckle.

“Says you.” The light in Friesian’s eyes dimmed. He glanced over
the top of Jani’s head at Rearguard, who stepped around the skimchair into the
concourse and took a seat beyond hearing range. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine, sir.”

Friesian ran a hand over his face. “Fine, sir. You said that at
Fort Constanza, just before that stomachache dropped you like a rock. You also
said it just as we broke through Felix GateWay. Right after that, you passed
out, then awoke two days later speaking street Acadian and insisting you were
fifteen years old. I don’t think the medical officers will ever be the same.
Neuro was
not
his specialty.”

“I was fine by the time we reached MarsPort.”

“Yes, you were. You did tell me that. I thought we might actually
get some work done. Then you ate lunch and became royally sick.” His impatience
broke through his even speech like flecks of foam on smooth water. “Your ‘fine,
sirs’ aren’t worth much, are they?”

Jani tugged at her own baggy short-sleeve. From what little she
could remember of the last three weeks, it had once fit her
perfectly—otherwise, she wouldn’t have been issued it. How much of a weight
loss did that imply? Five kilos? Ten? “What do you want me to say, sir?”

“I want you to call me Piers, and I want you to level with me.”

Jani examined her right arm, halfway between elbow and wrist,
where a tiny, round wound had healed to form a darkened scar. Her new Service
ID chip lay implanted beneath. They had her now. If Security activated the
proper codes, they could pinpoint her exact location in a room and tell whether
she sat, stood, or did push-ups.

She looked through the arch into the heart of the concourse.
Functional furnishings, well maintained and spotless. Lots of steel blue and
silver on the walls and floor, accented by splashes of mainline red in the
chair cushions and fixtures. Through the wide windows opposite her, trim
shuttles and sleek aircraft glinted in the summer sun.

Every object she looked at, every surface, every blue-and-grey
uniform, told her where she was, and what waited for her.
My name is Jani
Moragh Kilian, Captain, United Services. Eighteen years ago, at a place called
Knevçet Shèràa, I killed Colonel Rikart Neumann, my commanding officer. Now
I’ve been brought here to pay.
He had deserved to die, but that wasn’t the
point. The Service frowned on the individual Spacer making that judgment, and
they had a time-honored method for showing their displeasure. The firing squad.
“I’m scared, Piers.”

Friesian eyed her in puzzlement. “I’m not saying you have nothing
to worry about. But considering the state of your health, you’re doing yourself
no favors holding back from me.” He stood as Lieutenant Forceful came into
view, a Security guard in tow. “We’ll talk after we get checked in at Sheridan.
After you check in at the hospital.”

Shutting down the doorscan worked as Jani said it would, much to
Forceful’s disappointment. Their journey to the lower-level parking garage was
punctuated by his comments as to how he could have jazzed the mech if only he’d
had the time.

He made up for the loss, however, by brute-forcing the side
conversion panels of their skimmer so the passenger opening could accommodate
the skimchair. His joy multiplied manyfold when Friesian asked him to expand
the interior space by pulling out one of the seats. Rearguard and the driver, a
corporal with a squint, struggled to keep from laughing as they fielded the
components that came flying out the door.

Jani eyed the pearl grey, triple-length that had been provided for
their transport. The enamel coating shone wetly, even in the dull light of the
garage. “What’s with the chariot?” she asked Friesian.

He pointed to her seat. “It was the only vehicle available that
could hold a skimchair.”

“What about a brig van?”

Another look of puzzled appraisal. “Jani, why would you expect a
brig van?”

Jani fell silent.
They stuck me with an idiot,
she thought
as Forceful and Rearguard loaded her into the skimmer. The Judge Advocate was
required by charter to provide for her defense, but the charter said nothing
about the quality of defense they had to provide her with. Friesian obviously
had no idea what crime she’d committed or what the Service planned to do to her
after they convicted her. He’d sit at the Officers’ Club bar after her execution
and wonder where the hell it all went wrong.

As they departed the garage, the sudden change from half-light to
full glare of summer caught them all by surprise. Jani shut her eyes to stop
them tearing, while Rearguard exploded with a sharp burst of sneezing. The Boul
artery on which they rode seemed to glimmer in the heat. Chicago had been
buried beneath mountains of snow the last time Jani had visited. Now, she could
see the verdant patches of parkland and clusters of low houses, backed by the
distant skyline.

Their driver took them on a route that skirted the city—within
minutes, they left the crowding traffic behind. The four-lane skimway they rode
cut along a line of homes obscured from view by large stands of trees.

“The South Bluffs.” Forceful gazed out the window and sighed.
“This is the low-rent section, and still all I can afford to do is look.”

“Why would you want to live here, Don?” Rearguard sniffed as he
took in the view.

“Because it’s the
Bluffs
, Lou. Once a man can call this
place home, he knows he’s arrived.”

Jani caught the look that passed between Friesian and Rearguard
Lou, the chins-up camaraderie of those who had scaled the barriers of opinion
since they decided to make the Service their career. That opinion originated in
the homes they passed now.
All you with the wrong parents, wrong names,
wrong accents, raise your hands.
Friesian looked down at his lap, while Lou
concentrated on the view out his window.

The skimmer exited down a corkscrew ramp, then turned onto a
two-lane road that ran along a massive fence built of arched whitestone and
metal bridging. The five-meter-high barrier stretched ahead as far as Jani
could see.

“Have you ever seen the Shenandoah Gate, Captain?” Rearguard Lou
asked her. “It was erected to honor the tens of thousands who died at the
Appalachian Front during the Greatest War.” That those thus honored had died
for the Earthbound side could be discerned from the gleam of resentment that
lit his eyes.

“This year’s the seventy-fifth anniversary of its completion.” Don
seemed oblivious to the other man’s displeasure. “The archivists are working
night and day researching names for addition to the Placement Rolls.” He shook
his head in wonder. “It took the artisans eleven years to encode the grid-work
and apply the coatings. Isn’t it gorgeous?”

Jani caught the iridescent flickers of the names of the fallen as
the sunlight played over the holoetching in the stone. “Lieutenant, in case you
haven’t noticed, you’re talking to three colonials.”

“It’s a
Service
monument, ma’am.” Don smoothed the front of
his short-sleeve. “Besides, well, I hate to state the obvious, but the reason
you’re touchy is because your ancestors were asked to leave after the dust
settled. Because they lost.”

“‘Asked to leave’?” Jani smiled. “I like your choice of words,
Lieutenant. Just for clarification, what words does your side use to refer to
the internment camps and prison ships?”

Friesian tugged at his collar. “I read an editorial in
Blue and
Grey
requesting a reevaluation of the Gate,” he said hurriedly. “Over
two-thirds of Service recruits come from the colonies. It does seem
counterproductive to risk alienating them before they set foot on the base.”

Don’s eyes widened in surprise. “But sir—!”

“It’s a matter of perspective, Lieutenant,” Jani interrupted.
“You’re honoring yourselves because you won. You had the biggest governments
and the richest companies behind you. You won control of the technologies and
the freedoms and the privilege to dole them out. You won the right to send my
ancestors to the colonies to work in your friends’ factories and fields. You
were quite happy with the outcome—you didn’t need to examine it further. It was
left to us as the losers to figure out the hows and whys, and after we did, we
felt a little irked.” She ignored Piers’s warning look. “What do you know about
the Battle of Waynesboro?”

Don frowned, as though she’d insulted his intelligence. “It was
the turning point in the battle for eastern North America, ma’am. Major Alvin
Cao came to his senses and brought his fifty thousand over to hook up with van
Reuter’s Fourteenth Armored out of Philly.”