Contact Imminent (39 page)

He would have liked to know Manda's real name as well, but he tried not to think about that.

 

He fell asleep. Dreamed quiet dreams for a change. Awoke with a lighter heart, and had his hopes dashed as soon as he opened his eyes.

“Hello, Micah.” Pascal had dragged a visitor's chair to the bedside and sat. He wore civvies, which was surprising, a blue shirt and tan trousers. An outpatient ID bracelet encircled one bandaged wrist. “How are you feeling?” He waited for an answer, then shrugged when one didn't prove forthcoming. “I was in the area—” He raised his braceleted wrist. “—thought I'd stop by to see how you're doing.” He smiled. “Veles is dead—did you kill him?”

Micah gripped a handful of sheet as the remembered voice rasped in his ear. He tried to imagine the man's face, but the effort made his head swim. “No.”

“You're sure? Didn't have another one of your moments, like you did during our last meeting?”

Micah closed his eyes, then opened them. Unfortunately, Pascal didn't prove a moment. “No. I didn't kill him.”

Pascal studied him as though he was a not particularly interesting piece of furniture. “You're the only one left—did they tell you that? They couldn't save Chrivet.”

Micah replayed a curtain of brown hair. A coffee-flavored kiss. “No. They didn't tell me.”

“And now they have you locked away. No press, no interviews, no lawyers. May as well have fallen down a hole—”

“What do you want!” Micah pushed himself into a sitting position hugging the bed's guardrails as the room tilted. “What the hell do you want?”

“To fix you in my mind.” Pascal cocked his head. “In case someone changes your face, your build, your coloring. Mannerisms are the hardest thing to unlearn, and you have a few interesting ones. I won't tell you what they are, of course, because…well, then you'd know.”

“My face?” Micah leaned forward slowly, and tried to stretch. His muscles felt stiff from inactivity. Flabby. He knew that if he could only work out that ache, his head would clear. He'd stop thinking about advocates and courts martial and prison cells, what the Service wanted to do to him and how quickly they planned to do it. Stop thinking about goddamned Pascal, sitting in his room as though he owned it, all arrogance and alien scars.

He pressed his hands to his head. With all the watchers who had monitored him since his arrival, he'd have thought someone would check on him now. Intervene. Ask Pascal to leave. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“No, I don't think you do.” Pascal raised a hand to his forehead, revealing a thin line of blood that marred his shirt-sleeve. “If you consider cities as beasts, Chicago qualifies as a predator of sorts. Dangerous, yes, but also shrewd. Adaptable. It moves quickly when it senses the hunter close in.” He sat back, hands folded in his lap. “Change is the hunter, in this case. Fear of what the future holds.” He smiled. “You are in for an interesting next few months, I expect. I advise you to relax and observe. Take good notes. Remember what is said and who says it. You will witness feats of denial, chicanery, and outright criminality the likes of which you'll never see again. I'd look forward to it if I were you.”

“You're crazy.” Micah leaned forward and hugged his
aching stomach. “Chrivet's dead. I killed her.” He relived the scene at times. Dreamed it. Saw the fear in Chrivet's eyes as she faced her own shooter. Heard Kilian call to him to stand down. Wondered if he should have listened. “They're going to execute me.”

Pascal shook his head. “No. Not if they want to maintain the support of the ultraconservative anti-idomeni factions, which I think they do. They're scared, you see. They know she won't rest until they're nailed.” He looked down at his hands, then fingered his bloodstained sleeve.

“You'll be medicalled out, I'm guessing. That's how the Service usually buries their mistakes.” He brushed some imaginary blemish from his trousers, then stood. “I shall follow your career with interest, Micah, whatever it happens to be. I'm quite confident that we shall meet again.” He left the room as quietly as he'd entered, the door closing behind him with a sigh.

It was possible to arrange the transport of an enclave's worth of Haárin from a standing start in a day's time, Jani found, if one went without sleep and had the entire Prime Ministry at one's beck and call in the bargain.

And if one has Lucien
. She tried not to notice that his labors to that end contained the same undercurrents of desperation as had his lovemaking.
See what I can do
, his every action whispered.
You don't want to leave me behind
.

“I'll handle the cancellation of the town-house lease.” He sat beside her in the isolated corner of the idomeni shuttle-port that was open to humanish. “The office supply company will pick up the combooth equipment and workstation this afternoon.”

“Wipe the boards first.” Jani pressed her palms against the sides of her throbbing head. “Erase all the inputs.”

“I did that this morning while you were in the shower, after I made breakfast and packed your luggage, such as it was.” Lucien stifled a yawn. “It's good to know that I'm still officially on leave and under orders to take it easy.” He lay his head against the seatback and closed his eyes.

Jani turned to study his resting profile, as she had so many times that morning. “Thank you.”

One side of Lucien's mouth twitched. “I'm being completely self-serving, of course. That's always the reason behind everything I do.”

“I know.” Jani lay her head back and closed her eyes as well. The old Service rule—sleep whenever the opportunity presented itself, because you never knew when you'd get the chance again.

She felt herself relax, heard Lucien emit a barely audible snore—

“Nìa!”

—until that familiar voice rattled around in her skull and jerked her upright.

Lucien groaned and struggled to his feet. “I knew the silence was too good to last.”

“Shai is mad, I have decided.” Tsecha swept through the concourse behind Dathim, his coat flapping around his ankles. “To agree to my leaving with you. Cèel will recall her, of this I have no doubt. Kill her, most likely.” He stepped to the edge of the barrier that separated the concourse from the humanish section, then shrugged, hoisted his coat to his knees and stepped over it. “We leave in less than an hour. Every Haárin finds that they now have more to pack than they ever brought with them. All is madness.” He slumped into a seat.

Jani glanced over at Dathim. “You can arrange to have things shipped.”

“Pascal and I have already done such. We are the only two sane ones left.” Dathim turned to Lucien. “You will come to Elyas. From what I hear, there is much to organize there as well.”

Lucien opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He looked to each of them in turn, his eyes finally coming to rest on the strapping Haárin. “When I can.” He wiped a hand across his mouth. “Excuse me.” He hurried from the waiting area, pushing through the entry door before it had a chance to open completely.

Tsecha watched Lucien depart. “Humanish leave-taking. If you have never experienced such, Dathim, you must pre
pare.” He turned back to Jani. “All that will meet again, will meet again. All that will separate, will separate. Such is as it is.” He gestured uncertainty. “And yet, I understand…” He turned back to look out through the windows to the rolling spring green outside. “Such dreams I had for this damned cold place.”

Dathim walked to his side and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Then we should go outside, ní Tsecha, and bid this damned cold place a proper good-bye.”

“Yes.” Tsecha rose and followed Dathim outside.

Jani looked around the empty area. The other Haárin waited in a separate wing of the port. The shuttles had all arrived, and were being loaded even now. “Nothing to do but wait.” She sat down and wondered if she had time to grab a nap.

“Jan?”

She turned.

Lucien stood in the entry. He pressed his thumb and first two fingers together and held them to his lips, as if he held a nicstick. “You have a visitor.”

 

Jani cut across the front of the port and around to the charge lot reserved for humanish skimmers, to find Niall standing beside a dark blue sedan. He couldn't smoke on the premises, so he made do with tapping an irregular beat on the skimmer roof.

“Niall.” Jani stopped short of the lot's edge.

Niall stopped in mid-tap, then stepped back from the skimmer. “Hello.” He looked up at the sky. “Clear. Not much crosswind. PM kept the reporters away. Good day to fly.” He turned to her. “What time do you leave?”

Jani checked her timepiece. “The shuttle dominant wants us aboard in a half hour.”

“Can't the idomeni even call their pilots ‘pilots'?” Niall paused for a time over that bit of annoyance. “So, I understand the PM herself is providing the ships.”

Jani nodded. “They've been in emergency drydock at
Luna Station getting retrofitted to transport idomeni. Amazing how quickly things can get done when a Prime Minister wants you out of the way.” She sighed, which precipitated a yawn. “It's all gotten very complicated.”

“Well, you're involved. Stands to reason.” Niall grinned, then scuffed his feet. “Faber's going to be medicalled out. That's the latest buzz, at any rate. Someone in Service Investigative started a death pool—pick the day we find his body washed up on the lakeshore.”

Jani recalled the slight figure Lucien led away. Lost. Broken. “I thought I had no pity left, but I pity him. He didn't belong in that sort of operation—he didn't have the mind-set for it. Now all he has left are memories of the dead and a shattered career.”

“There but for the grace of God…?” Niall shook his head. “I don't buy it, sorry. It's very simple—there are people who have what it takes and people who don't, and whether you're one or the other is determined at birth.” He pushed his hands into his pockets, then pulled them out immediately. “For example, I'd trust you at my back anytime, even when you don't follow orders. But then, you're worth any number of Micah Fabers.”

“Don't let any of your friends at Supreme Command hear you say that.” Jani smiled. “What about Lucien?”

“You're worth any number of him as well. But I'm not in Intelligence, so I have no say in the matter.” Niall shrugged. “What time is it?”

Jani glanced at her timepiece. “Twenty minutes.”

“Right.” Niall cleared his throat. “I'm…going to miss you, now the hurly-burly's done.”

Jani's eyes stung. She looked around to see if Tsecha and Dathim were in sight, then walked up to Niall. “I'm going to miss you, too.” She slipped her arms around his waist and hugged him.

Niall stiffened at first. Then he hugged back, his hands tentative on her shoulders, as if he never expected to touch her and didn't know what to do.

“Farewell, too little and too lately known, whom I began to think and call my own.” His tunic felt rough against Jani's cheek, the cloth scented with fresh air and the sharp undercurrent of smoke. “‘For sure our souls were near allied, and thine cast in the same poetic mould with mine.'” He stopped, inhaled shakily. “‘One common note on either lyre did strike, and knaves and fools we both abhorred alike—'” His voice cracked. He released her abruptly and stepped back, eyes fixed on the ground. “John Dryden. Poet. Critic. Playwright. Restoration period, old England.” He turned away, took a long, slow step toward his skimmer, then stopped. “He wrote the poem for a friend who died. ‘To the Memory of Mr. Oldham.' John Oldham, a satirist and poet…” His voice dwindled once more. He reached into his trouser pocket and removed a folded sheet of parchment. “I've written the rest out, in case you want to read it later. I know how much you love when I give you things to read.” He walked back to Jani and handed her the sheet, pale blue with charcoal trim, courtesy of Supreme Command HQ. “Speaking of men named John.” He still didn't raise his eyes to look her in the face. “You love him. He loves you. You're happy.”

“Yes.” Jani nodded carefully. A sudden move on her part and the tears would spill, and once they started, she doubted they'd stop.

“Good. You deserve to be.” Niall nodded, then pointed to the sheet of parchment. “It's not that I believe this to be an epitaph or a eulogy, or that we've reached the end of our friendship. I know things have changed between us, and will continue to change, and that…a time may come when we find ourselves on opposite sides. But whatever happens, whatever events transpire, I just wanted you to know that…I consider you my best and closest friend.”

Jani closed her eyes and stood as still as she could. “I feel the same way.” She breathed, concentrated on the air pulling in and pushing out. “I have to go.” She turned and hurried back to the terminal.

“I may be out your way in the autumn,” Niall called after her. “Possibly earlier. Sorting out Fort Karistos.”

Jani stopped and turned around. “Mako's sending the right man.”

“Yeah.” Niall patted his pockets again, then stilled. “Think there's any neutral ground where we can meet for dinner?”

“I'm sure something can be arranged.”

“You can still eat in a restaurant?”

“I still eat in a restaurant.” Jani regarded Niall for a time. Then she drew to attention and snapped a salute. “Colonel.”

Niall saluted back. “Captain.”

Jani turned and walked back into the terminal. The place was deserted now—her footsteps echoed within the space, the dull rasp of boot soles against rough tile.

She returned to the humanish side of the concourse and took a seat by the window, waiting for the final call to board. Three shuttles had already departed for Luna, leaving the runways bare and her sightlines clear. She could see Tsecha and Dathim strolling toward the far end of the tarmac, as well as the shuttle dominant who paced around the remaining craft that abutted the concourse's Haárin gangway, executing her preflight walk-around.

Not shuttle dominant. Pilot
. Jani replayed Niall's grumble, and smiled.

“And the time dwindles down.”

Jani looked around to find Lucien standing at the end of the row of seats.
It's just the two of us
. She'd had a feeling that when the time came for good-byes, his would be the last. Unfortunately, that hadn't helped her prepare. Forewarned and forearmed never did much good when it came to Lucien Pascal. “I was just thinking of something Niall said.” She stifled a cough. She loved John more than her life, saw aspects of him in the sun-bright surface of a cloud or the sweep of a shuttle's wing, had only to close her eyes to imagine his smile, his touch.

And yet…

“Dathim says I'm not allowed on the tarmac.” Lucien
walked to the window and watched the pilot circle. “Anything we say needs to be said here.”

Jani's hand went to the neck of her coverall, which felt constricting despite its usual baggy fit. “Such as?”

Lucien stood up straight and clasped his hands behind his back. He wore civvies, shirt and trousers in shades of blue that managed to look like a uniform. “I've put in for a spot on Pierce's Karistos audit team. He doesn't know it yet, of course. I can't wait to hear the howls of agony.”

Jani grinned. “I'll just bet you can't.” She tugged at her cuffs. Checked her timepiece. Then she looked up to find Lucien had turned his back to the window, and watched her.

“You'll miss me, won't you?” He smiled his brilliant smile.

Jani nodded. “Yes, I think I will.”

“You think.” Lucien stood still for a time. Then he started toward her, walking so slowly, as though he knew she'd wait forever.

Jani's heart pounded as he pulled her to her feet, his hands roaming over her body before locking around her waist. He drew her in slowly, his lips tracing heat over her face, her neck and throat before finally settling over hers. She savored his taste for what she told herself would be the last time. Pepper with a hint of bitter orange, flavors he knew she enjoyed.

He released her just as gradually, hands drifting along her neck, her shoulders, over her breasts before finally falling away. He backed off, fingers curled as though he held onto her still, his eyes locked with hers. Then he turned on his heel and walked to the entry, through the doors and away.

Jani watched the space where Lucien had been as the last sense of him faded. Then she detected motion out of the corner of her eye, and looked out the window in time to see Dathim and Tsecha hurrying toward the terminal.

“It is time, nìa,” Tsecha called as he bustled through the entry, his step slowing as he drew close. “Time to leave this damned cold place.” He stopped and looked around the ter
minal as though lost. “So strange. I thought, and truly, that I would die here.”

“You might have.” Dathim cut in front of Tsecha, then waved him and Jani both toward the gangway. “As we all might have. Now we shall go someplace else, and live.” He looked to the window, then away. In his way, he had wanted to live on Earth as much as had Tsecha, but if he felt any regret at leaving, he kept it to himself. “Now we shall go,” he said again.

They boarded the shuttle. Jani strapped herself into her seat, then sat back. Studied the other Haárin who had already boarded. Wondered at how far she had come in a year and a half, and where she still needed to go.

Then came the rumble of the engines. The acceleration. The lift and bank of flight.

“Nìa?” Tsecha loosened his seat brake and spun around to face her. “What is that on the water?”

Jani loosened her safety harness and edged closer to the porthole until she could see the lake below.

The skimmers flitted side by side over the water like low-flying seabirds, their rings of emergency lights blazing yellow-white. At first they darted to the left, then to the right, like glowing waterbugs. Then their paths straightened as they sped up to race the shuttle, their lights flashing on then off in flickering patterns.