Contact Imminent (34 page)

“So you'll hold my hand?” Lucien rooted through a drawer, lifting out a bread slicer. “Ice my bruises? Tell me bedtime stories?” He tilted the crimped blade one way, then the other, then tossed it back in its place. “I need something more than that, I'm afraid.” He exhaled with a shudder, then turned on his heel and blew through the door into the hallway.

“Lucien?” Jani hurried after him, torn between wanting
him to stay and hoping that he'd leave. “Where are you going?”

“None of your business.”
He pulled a battered field coat out of the entry closet and dragged it on. “Veles might be able to give you a few possibilities, if you need to get hold of me.” He keyed open the door and walked outside.

“Don't—” Jani reached the open door to find he had already neared the end of the walkway.
“Lucien.”

He stopped, then slowly turned back to her. Late afternoon had come—the sky had lost its crystal brightness and the first wisp of cloud had formed in the east. He watched her as dogs barked and children ran past, a variation of life that had never touched him. Then he turned away and resumed walking, through the front gate and down the sidewalk, hands in pockets and shoulders hunched, finally disappearing in other houses' shadows.

Jani stood in the open doorway for a time. Then she closed the door and locked it. She worked for a few hours, sorting the paper mail that Lucien had collected, then culling her comport messages. Tried to contact both Prime Minister Cao and Ambassador Shai, and found herself relegated to the same second deputy assistants who dealt with the interview requests from prep school newssheets. Wandered from room to room like a haunt, wondering whether she should toss Niall's caution to the wind and search the city darkside for Lucien, bring him back to this empty house, and meet her growing edge with his.

“Welcome back to Chicago.” She stood in front of her bedroom window until the sky darkened and the night took hold.

Elon sat at her worktable and monitored the embassy security array from her display. The function of utilities had always been of little interest to her, but the lines that ferried pink throughout the buildings were closely aligned with those systems, and she needed to acquire Dathim's skill in little time if she was to shut them down prior to the beginning of the challenge.

Her mind felt most godly. Her soul. She had thought they might wait seasons, she and Ghos, to join their paths along the Way. But Admiral-General Mako had scheduled an emergency conclave with the Interior Minister, the Exterior Deputy, and Ambassador Shai, and to Elon's surprise had confirmed all that Pascal had told them weeks before.
Elements in the Service…radical…intentions to attack
…He had requested that the challenge be postponed, and Shai refused to consider such because the humanish Service had already delayed enough, and declaration needed to be made so that one and all could, as she said,
get on with matters
.

“Whatever such meant.” Elon's shoulders curved in the first stages of anger. Shai's speech and gestures had grown more humanish since she had come to this damned cold place, though she most strongly denied such when con
fronted. “It is fitting that she should die here.” As she had come to think as humanish, so let her die with them.

Elon continued to scroll through the screens. When she heard her door open, she did not turn to see who visited, for there was only one who it could be at this late time.

“Did you believe him?” Ghos dragged a chair to the side of Elon's table and sat. “Mako. The small one. Do you believe his tales of upcoming attack?”

“His suborn is the scarred colonel, who knows ná Kièrshia.” Elon reached out and plucked a dried grass blade from Ghos's braids—he had spent the day examining border systems, and no matter how well he laved, he never removed all that attached to him. “But Mako himself despises her. He would not act for her.” She gestured inconsequence. “Such does not matter. Whether what he says is truth or lie, our systems will still be disabled. The new-form pink will not flow in the lines. And whoever will come, will come.”

“So.” Ghos's breathing grew heavy as he moved in his chair. He had labored much in recent days to increase his blade skill, and his body ached from the exertion. “But the scarred colonel himself will attend tomorrow. He will demand to know of our preparations.”

“Then we lie.” Elon looked him in the eye and bared her teeth. Such familiarity was not as seemly since their pairing had accomplished its godly purpose, but the glory of their deaths would surely override such. “Then we lie.” She felt a surge of kinship unlike any other she had experienced when Ghos bared his teeth in reply, and she felt the warmth of Rauta Shèràa in her bones as she resumed her disabling of the security array.

 

The call had come that morning, in Micah's latest wafer. The time, the place, what to bring, what to wear.

Now, twelve hours later, he sat on the floor in the cargo bay of a truck parked in the middle of some unknown woods, cradling his left arm, studying the faces around him
as best he could through a haze of pain.
They all look like they did in the sims
. Even though their faces had changed, he'd have known them anywhere. Bevan with his perpetual sneer. O'Shae with her arched eyebrows and startled expression. Manda with her coltish walk, all knees and elbows like a twelve-year-old boy.

Except that now they'd left their sneers and starts and gangly walks behind and sat with him on the floor, their positions mimicking his as the bone-deep pain of blitzed ID chips made them partners in misery.

Micah heard a thud and looked up to find Foley sprawled across the table that centered the bare room. He barely stifled his cry as Chrivet pressed the IDscan to the place on his inside lower arm and activated it. His left arm spasmed just as theirs had. He pressed the side of his face against the cool polywood just as they had, clenching the edge with his free hand, biting his lower lip until the blood came. Chrivet, for her part, displayed a remarkable lack of emotion as she bore down on the device charge-through, delivering that little extra burst of energy that would ensure that Foley's Service ID chip, like the rest, had been rendered untraceable in every way.

Shared agony
. One way to bond those for whom the sim exercises hadn't been enough. Micah caught the looks that passed between Manda and Bevan, the way O'Shae scooted along the floor to make room for Foley as he slid down the wall, arms folded, eyes clamped shut. The way she stroked his right arm with her fingertips, sympathy softening the rough planes of her face. O'Shae, who howled for idomeni blood and slaughtered with glee in every scenario.

They all looked up to watch as Patel, the last of their crew to be zapped, walked to the table. Even Foley pried open his lids so that the barest glitter of eyes shown. Fear set Patel's face like stone, but Foley caught her eye and held up a clenched fist. The left one, hand tremoring from the pain. That drew a smile from the stone, a raised fist in return. Then
Patel lowered to the tabletop and held out her arm. Got the jolt. Moved to the floor.

Micah studied his compatriots. They all dressed alike, in blue and grey springweights stripped of all designators and badges, anything that identified the clothing as Service. After entering the room, they'd all disrobed to their underwear and submitted to scanning by the focused Chrivet, modesty discarded in the interest of self-preservation, another humiliation designed to bond.
Can't be too careful, boys and girls
, Chrivet had said as she waved the scanning wands over their bodies.
There are a lot of people out there who would like to know who you are
. She had seemed to stare at Micah for an unduly long time when she said it, but she didn't like him, after all. She probably wished someone had found him before he showed up at the truck.

Micah stretched out his arm, slowly worked it back and forth. The pain had eased, but when he tried to pick up a wadded dispo on the floor beside him, he couldn't close his fingers to grip.

“It will take you until morning to regain your strength.”

Micah looked up to find Chrivet looming straight above him, her breasts like a ledge she peeked over. “Yes, ma'am.” He tried not to stare at her for too long—just as she did on the sims, she unnerved him. As it turned out, she most closely resembled her sim image—the razored hair and downturned face, the muscular build and barking voice. “Looking forward to it.”

“Are you?” Chrivet smiled. As always, when she smiled she looked as though she was the only one who got the joke, and it was being played on someone else. “Get some sleep, Tiebold. You're going to need it.” Then she walked to the bay controls and lowered the lights.

“Did you get any sleep last night?” Val steered the sedan through the early morning traffic. “I sure as hell didn't.”

Jani stifled a yawn. “Neither did I.” She caught sight of the
Trib-Times
headline in a kiosk window—
TODAY'S THE DAY
!—and decided she didn't need to read any further. “Not that it's any of my business, but did Lucien stop by your place last night?”

“No.”
Val graced her with a fish-eyed stare as he turned onto the Boul artery that would take them to the embassy. “Not that he didn't show up at the occasional odd hour over the course of your absence—that young man doesn't take ‘Go to hell' for an answer, does he—but after the challenge, his focus changed. He spent most of his time at the enclave, training. Why?”

Jani folded her arms and hugged herself, shivering despite her long-sleeve tunic and coat. It was a hard sun that shone, highlighting the pedestrians, the other skimmers, the occasional
NO BLOODSPORT
sign that hung in a store window. “He seemed tense yesterday, is all. Destructive.”

“My guess is that he wanted to break John over the head.” Val frowned as another No Bloodsport sign came into view. “You were his ticket, Jan. Now you've moved on, and he's
angry. Given all the other things that have been going on in his life, I'd say ‘destructive' might describe his feelings pretty well.” He veered off onto the embassy access road, which was already lined with news vans and buses. “Isn't that how he should feel, considering the circumstances?”

“No. Counterintuitive as it sounds, you really need to go into a challenge with a cool head. Helps prevent accidents.” Jani watched as a group of humanish carrying anti-challenge signs trudged up the road. “I'm surprised Niall's letting all these people get this close.”

“I doubt he has much choice.” Val slowed as he reached the end of the vehicle check-in line. “Face it, Jan, Lucien's story is pretty farfetched. All he has is his gut feeling, some odd wafer recordings, and one name. For all we know, Micah Faber is a one-man fighting force, getting his rocks off killing simulated idomeni on nights and weekends.” He let his hands drop to his lap as, up ahead, Vynshàrau and Interior security searched and checked vehicles one by one. “I think we have enough to worry about without throwing a hypothetical attack into the mix.”

“Yeah.” Jani watched the protestors wave signs, the lettering showing in reverse in her side mirror. “
TROPSDOOLB ON
.” She lay her head back, thought of a black and brown stone nestled in the bottom of her duffel, which she'd left behind at Val's, and muttered a prayer to her Lord Ganesh, as she had so often that morning.

 

The challenge room was filling by the time Jani and Val entered. A sprawling space, it was furnished at opposing ends with banked rows of seats to accommodate spectators of both species. While some humanish and idomeni still wandered the floor, they stuck with their own for the most part, with little mixing. Jani spotted Tsecha on the idomeni side, gesturing roughly at something Ambassador Shai said while Elon looked on. She caught his eye and raised a hand in greeting; he nodded in return, his expression grim.

Val tugged at his shirtfront. Experience in Rauta Shèràa
had taught him the value of cool clothes—he wore a short-sleeve shirt and trousers in white desertweave. “God, this brings back memories, and not all of them happy ones.” He took a pale yellow scarf from his pocket and tied it around his forehead to catch the sweat. “My heart's pounding.”

“Yours and mine both, Doctor.”

Jani turned to find Niall standing behind them, kitted out in desertweights, shooter holster uncapped, an earbug with mouthpiece hugging one side of his head. “What's wrong?”

“No one can find Micah Faber, that's what's wrong.” Niall leaned close and lowered his voice. “As soon as I walked out your door yesterday, I called ahead to Sheridan and sent someone to back up Veles. She gets to Faber's building, no Veles, and Faber is nowhere to be found.”

Jani surveyed the crowd, which eyed the entry doors in anticipation. “Has Veles shown up?”

“No.” Niall brushed his hand over his damp brow. “He was either in on it with Faber, which doesn't make sense, or he's moved on to more interesting pastures, as he has done in the past. Or…” He hesitated. “Or he's dead.” He paced a tight circle, his eyes on the attendees. “V-790 detection specs have been programmed into everyone's systems. I've got Exterior security on the north border, Interior monitoring the south, with my folks mixed in for good measure. The Vynshàrau are handling the lake and the air—they were pretty insistent, and Burkett couldn't sway them.” His eyes were bloodshot, his remark about not getting any sleep the night before seemingly fulfilled. “I didn't like this before, but I really don't like it now.”

 

“The perimeter of the embassy compound is most closely monitored, and truly.” Elon straightened in respect before Shai, then gestured to one of the many humanish ministers who had come to attend the challenge. “Admiral-General Mako's suborns have been most precise with their information. We do not anticipate assault, but we are most prepared for it.” She hesitated when she noticed the Kièrshia, who
stood beside Colonel Pierce in a far corner of the room, speaking to another humanish male she did not recognize.

“You are not assisting Ghos in his preparations, Elon?” Shai's words came rough, so much like Vynshàrau Haárin even when it was English she spoke. “You have left him to pray alone?”

“It is his right to ready himself in his own way, nìRauta.” Elon felt a surge of anger that Shai would question her in front of the humanish. So much she spoke of the “united front” they were to project at all times, yet when it suited her, she ignored her own dictum most readily. “He requested I depart so that he could contemplate the blade Captain Pascal chose with which to fight.”

“The knight marking vigil over his sword.” The minister, Abascal, moved his head up and down. The humanish nod, which could mean nothing or everything.

“Ghos is not contemplative.” Shai jerked her left hand in a gesture of dismissal. “It is a wonder to me that on this day he divines the meaning of calm. I regret he did not do so on the day he offered challenge to Pascal.”

Elon felt her shoulders curve, and fought them straight. Beneath her overrobe, the weight of three blades provided her the same calm that Ghos sought with his prayers. “It has always been Pascal's desire to learn of our ways. Did you not say yourself, nìaRanta, that it is thus our place to instruct him?” She offered a gesture of parting, then walked away before Shai gave voice to the anger that bowed her own back.

Elon relaxed as she walked from one side of the meeting room to the other then back, her blades bumping softly against her thigh with every step. According to the perimeter guard, the morning sun offered its usual cold light. She knew that if she walked outside, the wind off the lake would flay her as a hundred knives.
I will never feel that wind again
. The thought filled her with such joy that she wanted to step into the circle and offer thanks to the gods, unsheath one of her blades and bleed herself in their honor. She con
sidered such, striding to the center of the room and stepping up to the painted edge that would soon enclose Ghos and Pascal in combat, ignoring the questioning postures of the Vynshàrau who wondered at her seemliness—

“Elon?”

—but stopping at the sound of the voice. She felt Caith's hand on her heart, as chill as the wind. “Tsecha.”

“Such an oddness here. A sense of tension. One would think that neither we nor the humanish understood the concept of fighting.” Tsecha's shirt and trousers pained the eye with their colors, the blue of indicator illumins and a yellow seen only if one shone ultraviolet light on certain types of seaweed. “The outer perimeter scan sometimes malfunctioned here. Something to do with the acidity of the soil.”

“The soil has been dredged and replaced since you left, ní Tsecha.”

“The guardposts near the border with Exterior—the trees impair their ability to sight—”

“Those trees have been cut, ní Tsecha. Exterior Minister Ulanova proved quite accommodating to our request, and truly.”

“You are so confident, Elon, and truly.” Tsecha positioned the toes of his boots as close to the red-ring edge of the circle as he could without touching. No one expressed surprise at this action, but then, he was Tsecha, was he not, and thus expected to behave as he would, even as the justice of Temple awaited him. “Do you possess such faith in the order of Shiou, or in the quality of your security?”

Elon turned away from the circle and looked her old teacher, her esteemed enemy, in the face. “Security is a most sound thing, and truly. But order is all, nìRau.” She gloried in his anger at her use of his former title. It would prove a fitting end to their conflict as the time for their journey to the Star grew closer.

She left Tsecha by the circle and found a quiet corner where she could monitor her scanset in private. She entered the codes for various points about the compound, and re
ceived only machine responses. No guards remained in the perimeter—Ghos had ordered them to one of the meeting rooms to watch the challenge via holoremote. He had also reduced the settings of the field arrays to standby status—no autoweaponry would discharge, even if one of the humanish invaders fired at it first. Structural systems announced the same quiet state. The doors of the embassy would open to all who wished to enter.

“Thus and so.” Elon deactivated the scanset and returned it to her beltpouch, and offered a prayer to Shiou that the humanish would arrive soon.

 

“They'll be starting any minute,” Jani said as the doors to the challenge room opened and Vynshàrau attendants entered bearing the weapons of choice. “We should choose our seats.” She watched Tsecha speak with Elon, the security dominant. Elon ended their conversation abruptly, leaving Tsecha to cut through the crowd on the opposite side of the room and make his way to Shai, whose back bowed as soon as she saw him. “That's my old teacher—sowing disorder wherever he goes.”

“Like I said, the memories.” Val inhaled deeply as he fell in behind Jani. “The heat. The nerves. The underlying sense of panic.”

“They didn't get this fancy when you fought Hantìa last summer.” General Callum Burkett, head of Service Diplomatic, followed them to the second row of seats on the humanish side of the room. “If I recall correctly, it was pretty much a case of throwing the blades at you and getting out of the way.” He had dressed in the latest Service weapon against Vynshàrau room temperatures, desertweights equipped with cooling cells. His tan shirt still appeared crisp and dry. Sweat already sheened his horsey face, though, and he cast an envious glance at Val's headband as he took his seat.

“The level of formality can vary. Anything from the equivalent of a corner brawl to a three-day event.” Jani sat,
mindful of the stares, not all of them friendly, that greeted her arrival. “I think the Vynshàrau realize how uncomfortable most of the Service brass feel about this, so they're doing their best to play it up.”

As if on cue, the door mechanisms hummed and the panels opened wide. “Remove all obstacles in Lucien's path, my Lord Ganesh, I pray,” Jani whispered once, then again.

To an overwhelming press of silence, Dathim and Elon entered. In contrast to his usual attire, Dathim's brown trousers and tan wrapshirt appeared staid—his appearance complemented that of Elon, who wore the dull brown overshirt and trousers favored by diplomatic suborns, topped with an off-white overrobe.

Jani watched as Dathim's amber gaze searched the human side of the room before settling on her.
He's been prowling about his old territory, I bet
. She sensed the question in his stare, noted the tension in his bearing, and felt the long, slow clench of her stomach.
He's found something
. Her legs tensed—she almost stood up, but forced herself still.
He'll tell me when he can
. The challenge had begun—any disruption at this point would be considered unseemly in the extreme.

After a slow ten-count, Lucien and Ghos entered side by side. Lucien looked at home in grey base casual trousers and steel-blue T-shirt; the harsh light thrown by the chandeliers reflected off his muscled arms, accentuating the rough blend of fresh and healing contusions that hashed his skin. He made a quick scan of the crowd as he strode to the place outside the circle that Dathim had chosen, a momentary pause as his eyes met Jani's his only acknowledgment of her presence.

Ghos, for his part, carried with him the odd calm that most idomeni did as they prepared for violence. He moved as though he walked through a garden, eyes fixed straight ahead, snake face in repose. He wore a sleeveless tunic and trousers in off-white, and had bound his fringed braids in a loose napeknot, tying them with a strip of cloth.

Then Dathim bent to Lucien's ear and spoke. Lucien looked to Jani again, then slowly nodded once. Dathim left his side and headed in Jani's direction.

“Ná Kièrshia?” The occupants of the front row scooted in either direction to allow him room. “You must act in my place.”

Jani heard the gasps and mutters around her. Everyone had read the 'sheets and learned the challenge drill, and knew what rule Dathim was about to break. “Why?”

“Yes,” Niall echoed. “Why?”

Dathim bent close. “I initiated my check of systems, and they did not respond properly.” He spoke without gesture, his hands clenched by his sides. “I will go to primary control and evaluate. When I do this, ná Kièrshia must take my place as Pascal's second.”

“I'm sending one of mine with him.” Niall started muttering into his earbug mouthpiece, but before he could get out one sentence, Jani silenced him with a tug on his arm.