Contact Imminent (17 page)

“That's the point of having pieds-à-terre at all our facilities.” John stepped inside the closet and jerked his chin toward the racks mounted on the right-hand wall. “Anyway, these aren't all mine—everything on that side is Val's.” He cast an assessing eye toward Jani. “You may have more luck with his suits—you're about the same height now. His back is broader than yours, of course, but droopy shoulders are easier to cover up than trousers and jackets that are too long.” He took a step back and waved her inside with a broad sweep of his arm. “Have at it.”

The suits were arranged by color. Jani bypassed the dark hues that filled the front racks and headed for the cooler pastels and ashy shades in the back. “I feel like I just dropped inside the ultimate lost lambs' bin.”

John folded his arms and leaned against a shoe rack. “I doubt you ever found anything like what's in here.”

“You'd be surprised at some of the things I managed to snag over the years.” Jani pushed past tans and greys to lighter greens and pale blues. “Coats. Boots. Empty diplomatic pouches, which I admit I found rather alarming. Different sorts of devices—those could be hocked or stripped for parts.” She took a jacket the color of a new leaf from its
hanger and slipped it on. “I always took a pass on the underwear.”

“Glad to hear it.” John covered his eyes with one hand and shook his head. Then he stilled, seemingly deep in thought. His hand moved lower, to the point of his chin, finally coming to rest on the neck of his pullover. “What would it take for you to get past that mind-set?” He tugged at the already bagged cloth. “The knowledge that it would never happen again? A few years of stability?”

Jani rejected the jacket for length, stripped it off and returned it to its rack. “I don't think I'll ever lose it completely. I'm too much of a fatalist.” She gave herself a mental kick as John's shoulders sagged. “It's not your fault. You're not responsible for each and every aspect of my character.”

“I know that. I just wonder sometimes whether—” John loosed his grip on his clothing, then filled the fidget void by plucking a shoe from the rack behind him. “Whether all the things you've experienced over the years, including those that I am responsible for”—he turned the polished slip-on over and over as though he'd never seen one before—“if they eliminated whatever chance you had to be happy.”

“I'm happy now.” Jani held up another jacket, this one a mossy jade piped with brown. “Free clothes.” She smiled, stopping just short of an idomeni tooth-baring, then sobered as John responded with a look just short of stricken. “This really isn't the time to worry about the personal.” She yanked open the jacket's fasteners, then dragged it on. “I don't know why you've decided that it is.”

“Don't you?” John shoved the shoe back in its niche. “Mines. Kidnappings. Cross-species political crises.” He stepped away from the rack and paced. “I just want to sweep you away—”

“That's where you get it wrong.”

“I know that.”
John stopped, then kicked at the thick carpet. “I've done a fair job of keeping my nose out of it, in case you haven't noticed. The offer of the lawyers was a lapse. It won't happen again.”

Jani checked the fit of the jacket in the mirror that hung on the end wall. “I think this one's an option.” She hunted down the trousers and pulled them off the hanger, then unfolded them and checked the waist against hers. “These are going to bag every which way, but the jacket's long enough to cover.” She tossed the trousers atop the rack, doffed the jacket, then started peeling back the coverall until she remembered where she was and with whom. “It's not that I don't need anyone's help.
Your
help. But the answer isn't to keep me from doing what needs to be done, it's to help me do it.” She ran a finger over the jacket's lasered seaming. “I need clothes more than lawyers. Access to secure communications. Someone to stop the bleeding, if it comes to that. But…” She touched the rich cloth once more, then pulled her hand away. “I've said it before. I'll say it again now. Someone is keeping track of every thing you do for me, and it will all come back to haunt you.”

John stood with hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on the floor at his feet. “A man doesn't always get to choose his ghosts. That makes me one of the lucky ones.” He walked to the rack and pulled out a tunic in an icy shade of melon. “I always thought this color would look good on you. If you need something else in addition to the green.” He laid the jacket across the top of the rack. “I'll be outside.”

Jani waited until the door closed. Then she hung up the green daysuit and hunted for the trousers that matched the melon tunic. The cut of the suit was severe enough to pass Feyó's conservative clothing muster, and the trousers fit better than she'd hoped. She considered the fact that as far as she could recall, this was the first time she had donned clothing for no other reason than because John liked it. Then she pushed the thought from her mind, slipped on her boots, raked a hand through her hair, and reentered the bedroom proper to find John sitting on the bed, sorting socks.

Head bent to his task, he looked as he had in the Rauta Shèràa basement. Focused. Serious.
Until…
Until the touch
of her hand or the brush of her lips over his gave rise to a different brand of concentration.

He looked up when he heard her—a stillness took hold of him when he realized what she wore. “That is your color.” He tried to smile, but the attempt died, leaving him wide-eyed and rapt. “It warms you.” He looked down at the jumble in his lap, and cleared his throat. “I'll—meet—”

“Outside.” Jani grabbed her duffel from the dresser and hurried out of the bedroom, fighting the all-too-familiar heat that set her heart pounding and rattled her nerves.

She entered the sitting room to find Niall perusing the contents of an inset display case, a mug of coffee in hand. He barely glanced at her. Instead, he opened the door of the case and removed a small book bound in burgundy leather leafed with gold.

“There's a certain type of collector who gets under my skin.” Niall lifted the cover with his thumb and examined the flyleaf. “Acquiring for the sake of acquiring. Locking beautiful things away, like a miser his money.” He closed the book and returned it to its shelf. “Shroud at least reads these, from what I can tell.”

“Answered all your test questions correctly, did he?” Jani fell into a chair, sagging more deeply into it as the last of her sexual shakes abated.

Niall walked to a set of glass doors that opened onto a balcony. Outside, the sky had lightened to dawn, streaks of pink and lilac backlit with gold. “So what's the new objective?” He paused to take a swig of coffee. “When we left Chicago, you were to deliver a gift and I was tagging along to fact-find. Shroud was the man with a fast ship, a generous heart, and nothing better to do with his valuable time than cart you all over hell and gone.” He rocked back on his heels, then forward, then back again. “Now that's changed. Shroud's partner in all things medical has gone into the hybridization business. Shroud denies all knowledge, but no one believes him. You're trying to figure out how to deal with a hybrid
Haárin who wants to bump the acknowledged dominant off her perch, and I'm dealing with security breaches at Elyas Station and Fort Karistos.” He finally looked at her, the cool appraisal in his eyes the only outward sign of his anger. “Is there anything you would like to add?”

Jani drummed her fingers against her chair arm. “Off the record?”

“Forget it.” Niall moved away from the window and sat in a lounge chair on the side of the room opposite her. “I will now sit back and finish my coffee while you sieve your response through whatever filter you think necessary at this particular moment.”

“I can't think of anything to add to your sterling assessment.” Jani unfastened the bottom closure of her tunic, then refastened it.

“Is Tsecha involved with the hybrids? Did he know about them?”

Jani started to answer, then stopped.
He would have told me if he knew
. She unhooked the closure again.
If he
did
know
…It took three tries before she refastened it.
Please Lord, let him stay out of trouble long enough so that I can throttle him
. “You may well speculate in that direction. I prefer not to.”

Niall set his mug atop his chairside table with a bang. “
Listen, damn it
—”

“No,
you
listen, damn it.” Jani pushed to her feet. “Even better, open your eyes and look at me. Look at me, and see me for what I am.”

“I have.” Niall's voice held a deadness that struck harder than any slap. “Thank you.”

“The lines of communication have opened, I see.” John swept in, looking vampirical in Neoclona purple. “Like floodgates.” He handed Jani a mug of coffee, then hied to the balcony doors. “Neither of you mean what you said, of course. Just injured feelings on the Service side and delayed reaction to the shock of discovery on the civilian. Well, we can't afford either right now. The complications are drop
ping litters all over the place and we three need to stick together, however little the prospect pleases.” He looked from Jani to Niall, new to the role of peacemaker and clearly uncomfortable with it. “In a few months' time we'll be talking of this over dinner, wondering what the fuss was about.”

Jani held the mug to her nose and breathed in the steam. “When the hurly-burly's done.”

“My gel.” Niall shook his head. “It hasn't even started.”

“'Morning, scholar.”

Micah looked up from his workstation to find Cashman's moonface looming above the cube divider, then closed his eyes as the rapid movement made his head pound. He'd just signed in—he needed time to get his bearings. He'd awakened with a headache, the trailing ends of a dream playing past his mind's eye.
No, not a dream
. More his other reality, a replay of his twenty minutes a day of Chrivet-driven hell.

We're walkin'in Jesus' footsteps, boys and girls!

At the sound of her imagined voice, he felt his limbs lift, as though he had donned his exo and even now ran through the Sheridan training field, the Wabash tunnels, across Lake Michigan to the enclave, then back again to the embassy, his mechanical stride chewing the kilometers like candy.
I need to stop this now
. With resolution born of a month's practice, he willed his arms and legs heavy, willed them seated, dragged himself back to the present. “What's your problem now, Cash?”

“I've got no problem. It's you with the problem. They want you on Five. The latest in the series of never-ending mine meetings—they need you to run the recorders.” Cashman draped himself over the curve of the divider and batted
his eyelashes. “You jumped over a few looies to get that gig. What's your secret? Your winning smile? You supplying fun holos for them, too? What?”

Micah locked down his workstation and gathered his gearbag. “If you ever stopped talking, would you turn blue and fall over?”

Cashman puffed out his cheeks. “Regular cupbearer to the gods, this makes you. You know what the gods did to their cupbearers, don't you?”

“Kiss my ass.”

“Close, scholar. Very close. You must have moved on to the history section. I'm looking forward to watching that one when you're finished with it.” Cashman gestured appropriate accompaniment. “One word of advice before you go.”

“Only one?”

Cashman pointed to the mirror by the door. “You better brighten up. You look like hell.”

Micah turned and studied his reflection. He'd shaved close. His hair was freshly trimmed. Springweights brand new from the package.

Then he looked at his eyes and saw what Cashman saw. Too much white. Stare too fixed. “I had a rough night.”

“What was her name?”

“Shut up.”

 

“Come in, Lance Corporal.”

Micah stood in the conference room doorway, a chill cramp working through his gut. “I was told I needed to run the recorders for a meeting.”

Pascal sat at the head of the table, hands clasped before him, and smiled. “I must not have made myself clear to Lance Corporal Cashman. My apologies.” He gestured toward the man sitting next to him. “Come in. Captain Veles and I just want to ask you a few questions.”

Micah stepped into the room. His legs felt as they did after a session with the sims. Weightless, yet stiff. Toned and fit, yet aching. “About what, sir?”

“Just have a seat. We need to clarify a few things related to your initial debriefing.” Pascal smiled again. As before, the expression began and ended at his mouth. “You recall, surely. The one that took place after the mine explosion.”

“Yes, sir.” Micah took a seat several places removed from Pascal. Even if the man stood and threw himself across the table, he wouldn't be able to reach him. “That was over a month ago.” He glanced at Veles. A stringy man, dark with hooded eyes—he also bore the gold capital
I
on his dress blue-grey tunic collar that marked him as Intelligence.
Intelligence isn't investigating the mine. The SIB is
. For all the good it did them. Meetings from mornings to late at night, work schedules turned on their ears, and damn-all to show for it. It had become comical, really. Unfortunately, he couldn't openly express his appreciation of the joke.

“How well did you know Lance Corporal Rikki Wode?” Pascal asked.

Micah snapped back to the present, raking his memory for any recall of that long-ago interrogation.
But it wasn't an interrogation, just questions
. Informal. Easygoing. No one had suspected him of anything, and had treated him accordingly. “He was the tech who died.”

“Did you know him
personally
, Lance Corporal?” This from Veles, in a voice like fine abrasive.

“No, sir.” His first lie. He knew that because no one had asked him before if he knew Wode.
I have to remember the lies
. Otherwise, he'd risk giving the wrong answer if they asked him the same question again.
I wish I could take notes
. Maybe he should ask if he could.
Maybe I should just cut my throat now
. That settled it. No notes.

Pascal sat forward and placed several objects on the table. A headset. Earbugs. Gloves and socks. “We found these among Wode's personal effects. Do you know what they are?”

Micah nodded, stopping as his head rocked. “It's a virtual training rig, sir. Pilots use them. Surgeons.”

“Other people use them, too.” Veles again. “Infantry. Mechanics. Anyone who likes interactives.”

Micah tried not to wince at the grate of the man's voice. Why didn't he do something about it, training or something? Better yet, why didn't he keep his mouth shut? “Yes, sir.”

“You're called the ‘scholar' by several of the other techs.” Pascal's voice, on the other hand, sounded too cultured by half. “Why is that?”

Micah gripped the edge of the table. “I'm studying for the Comtech One exam, sir. I've begged off a few parties over the last several weeks as a result.” He pulled his hands away, saw the damp prints left by his sweat, and sat forward, crossing his arms over the wet spots. “Just good-natured teasing, sir.”

“Is there any other kind?” Pascal smiled again, then looked down at the table in front of him as though consulting something, even though he lacked even a handheld for taking notes. “You weren't originally scheduled for duty the night the mine exploded. You switched on-calls with a Corporal Howard three days earlier.”

“Yes, sir.” Micah exhaled, heard the shake in his throat and caught his breath.

Pascal's brow arched as the silence lengthened. “Why did you switch?”

Micah swallowed, then coughed as saliva trickled down his airway. Damn it, the switch had nothing to do with anything, and it looked the worst of all the things he'd done. “I did it for a future consideration, sir. Nothing in particular. I work a weekend night for her, maybe sometime in the future, she'll do the same for me. The techs do it all the time.”

“They do.” Veles frowned. “Plays merry hell with the schedule after a while.”

Pascal nodded. “Well, that certainly clears up that issue. I will admit that we wondered about it, and it wasn't covered in your initial debriefing.” He appeared as relaxed as Micah
had ever seen him, as though he felt the questioning a waste of time but needed to see it through anyway.

Then he ran his index finger over the headset faceplate, and pushed it a little closer to Micah. “Just out of curiosity, do you have one of these?”

Shit
. Micah started to chew his lip, then stopped. He'd recorded enough interrogations to know that lip-chewing was bad. It meant you needed time to think about how to phrase your answer, that the simple truth wouldn't serve. That you had something to hide.
He knows why they really call me the “scholar.”
Hell with it. “Yes, sir. I do.”

Veles glanced at Pascal, but the Chief of Mattress Operations had eyes only for him. “What do you use it for?”

Micah counted to five. His face burned until he felt sure he'd combust. “Interactives, sir.”

“Oh.” Veles had the sort of thin-lipped smile that begged for a fist.

Pascal barely managed to conceal his own grin. “I imagine you have a…library of holos.”

Burn…burn…burn to ash. Even though it was better this way. Even though this was necessary camouflage. “Yes, sir.”

Pascal nodded. “See. This is where they've gotten it wrong.” He spoke to Veles as though Micah had already been dismissed. “Wode had nothing in his flat. No wafers, either legit, pirate, or homemade. Just the headset and the rest. No one I know just keeps the gear and nothing to play on it. That doesn't make sense.” He looked off in the middle distance for a few moments. Then he turned to Micah, blinking as though he'd forgotten he was there. “When is your exam?”

Micah bit back a curse. Every time he thought he knew which direction Pascal would take the questioning, the captain would jerk the steering mech. “Next week, sir.”

“Well, good luck to you.” Pascal leaned forward to say something to Veles, stopping when he realized Micah still sat there. “Thank you, Lance Corporal. You can go.”

“Yes, sir.” Micah stood. “Thank you, sir.” He brushed his hand as unobtrusively as possible over the sweat spots he had left on the table. Then he walked to the door, all the while expecting to hear that damned voice, that damned accent.
Just one more thing, Lance Corporal
…He palmed aside the panel and stepped into the hall, his expression as relaxed as he could manage, ready to turn as soon as Pascal called him back. He kept walking, and waited, kept walking, and waited, and had boarded the lift by the time he realized that the call wouldn't come.

They suspect Wode of something
. Micah slipped back into the bullpen, walking on tiptoe to avoid betraying his return to Cashman.
What the hell do they think?
What's more, did it matter? The investigation had yet to turn up anything other than the obvious—a misplaced mine, and an inexperienced tech.
That's all they have
. He sat at his desk and reactivated his workstation.
That's all they'll ever have as long as I keep my mouth shut
.

He sorted through messages for a time. Then the gnawing in his gut got the better of him, and he opened the latest revision of the Service Code. “Rights of the accused.” He mouthed his words, determined to avoid Cashman's irritating attention yet too aggravated by the bullpen silence to keep from trying to fill it. He needed to walk off his mood, but who knew who he'd encounter in the halls, or outside? He hadn't seen Pascal for weeks until today, not since the conference call array bung-up. But that didn't mean the man wouldn't turn up in a corridor, or a vend alcove. Appearing out of nowhere seemed a talent of his.

Micah focused on the code. “If they try to talk to me again, I'm going to ask for an advocate.” The idea of thwarting Pascal with the request appealed to him. For about a minute. “No one who's innocent asks for an advocate.” Besides, they'd just wanted to find out about the duty switch, which even he had to admit appeared suspicious. “And about Wode and his headset.” That bothered him. What did they think they knew about Wode?

“Excuse me, Lance Corporal.”

Micah straightened as though someone shoved a knee in his back. He knew he did, damned himself for it, and couldn't help himself. Knew who he'd see when he turned around, yet couldn't help for that, either.

“Looking up a point of law, I see,” Pascal said as he squinted toward the display. “I hope our little session didn't alarm you.”

“No, sir.” Micah dug his fingernails into his chair arms. He'd rather have been anyplace on Earth instead of his cube at this moment, and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about that, either.
This is part of the game, too
. To pretend it didn't matter. He wondered if you needed to be someone like Pascal in order to play. If you needed to be someone like Pascal to even take the field.

“We need some help upstairs with one of the imagers.” Pascal stepped back to allow Micah room to get by. “I've been advised that it's better to come down personally to request assistance. You folks have been so inundated over the past month and a half that you've turned off your handcoms.”

“That's not true, sir.” Micah reached into his gear holster and held up his own activated handcom for inspection. “It's the ‘how do you turn this thing on' aspect that's getting to us. You'd think that some people had never seen a touchpad before.” He pressed a hand to his forehead, then lowered it fast. “Apologies, sir. It's my job.” He stood and gathered up his gearbag yet again.

“The joys of Technical Support.” Pascal followed him out the bullpen door, then drew alongside as they headed back down the hall toward the lift bank. “I remember it well from my on-call days. You wonder if some people's mothers know they're here.” They boarded a car. The doors closed.

“You're from this area, Faber?” Pascal stood to the rear of the car.

Micah nodded. “Yes, sir.” He took his place near the front, facing forward so he didn't have to look Pascal in the face. “Small town north of here—Fort Jefferson.”

“You must have some opinion about all this trouble with the idomeni.”

Micah watched the figures on the floor indicator display increase, and willed them faster.
I thought you were finished with me, Pascal? What are you trying to do?
He thought over his activities, six weeks pondered in a few seconds.
What did I do to attract his attention? Why does he think me suspicious?
“They're odd, sir.” Every hate-filled slogan he'd learned from Chrivet scrolled through his head, bubbled to the base of his throat, tickled his tongue like soda. One by one he choked them back down. “I suppose they're all right.”

“You suppose they're all right.” Pascal snorted. “That has got to be the most tepid assessment I've ever heard.” The doors opened and he brushed past Micah into the hall. “We've moved to another conference room.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “One of your penmates has been trying to help us set up, but he's not having much luck. Lance Corporal Cashman?”