Law of Survival (30 page)

“And they would not put us amid their food for fear of sabotage,” Tsecha added. “Remember how they think. You cannot hope to live among them if you do not know how they think.” He pointed to a nonexistent place on the imagi
nary map. “As I said before, this is the capital, home to the Earthbound humanish. The colony humanish tolerate us because we provide them with supplies that they cannot obtain from their own merchants, but in this city, all can get what they wish. They do not need us here, and humanish dispose of that which they do not need.”

“You try to scare us, Tsecha?” Dathim's voice sounded again as the stone.

“I speak only truth, Dathim. Because you do not agree with it, you will not hear it. Allow me to honor you—you have become most as humanish already.” Tsecha waved a dismissive hand as the Haárin's shoulders rounded. “And this will proceed how? Will you visit Shai in her rooms and demand the right to petition the humanish for permission to live here? Can you imagine what her reply will be, she who would send you back into the worldskein with the next sunrise? Or perhaps you will go to the humanish directly? I can tell you what they will answer, Dathim, and you will not like that, as well. Your shoulders will round and you will argue and dispute, but they will not hear you anymore. They will know what you wish, and they will refuse it. To confront directly as with idomeni is not the way to deal with humanish!” Tsecha waited for the sound of his words to die in his ears before flexing his back, first one way, then the other. Even the painful support of one of Shai's chairs would have been preferable to this free-sitting agony. But even with that being the case, he knew that he dared not leave. Intercession had become his duty, as it had with his late Hansen.
My Hansen, who died in the explosion of an Haárin bomb.
Tsecha imagined the smoke and rubble of the long-forgotten scene, and felt the frigid air once more through his coldsuit.

“Then what do we do, ní Tsecha?” Beyva tilted her head and lifted a cupped hand in a most Vynshàrau display of question.

“If I could speak with my Kièrshia, we could together determine something. If I could speak—”

Dathim again expelled breath. “If? Is not the question when? Where? How? You are bound to this land, Tsecha. You are under arrest.”

Tsecha gestured agreement with a truncated Low Vyn
shàrau hand flick. “But you leave this land quite easily, Dathim. Any time you wish, so it appears, and truly.” He stared at the blank center of their circle, and considered his next words. So easily had they formed in his mind that he knew they had been put there by a god. Whether that god be Shiou or Caith did not matter. He felt their divinity. Therefore, he was fated to speak them, and take the consequences as they came. “You will take me to her.”

Dathim stared him in the face as the rest of the Haárin grew most still. “You are bound to this land, Tsecha, by Shai's decree.”

“Yes.” Tsecha again gestured strong affirmation, adding a humanish head nod for emphasis. “I am ambassador to this damned cold city. I am charged with representing my people to the humanish. Tell me, ní Dathim, if I am not to act as ambassador at this time, when am I? If not to prevent you from enraging the humanish so that they expel us all, when should I?”

“If not to prevent them from killing us all.” The garden Haárin spoke once more, his voice as dead. “If not to prevent another Knevçet Shèràa.”

Tsecha flicked his left hand in strongest disagreement. “Only my Kièrshia could enact another Knevçet Shèràa, and she would not do so in this case. She might yell, and question most loudly, but that is not the same as killing us all, and you are most stupid to say so!” He slumped with fatigue as his aged back surrendered its efforts to maintain its straightness. “If we persuade her of the worth of our argument, she will help us. She helps when she can. Such is her way, just as it is Shai's to press the old customs upon us all and Dathim's to trick and enrage.” His knee ached again. He shivered, and longed for the soft and warmth of his bed.

Dathim smiled once more. “You are so sure of her, ní Tsecha. You are so sure of us all. I must indeed take you to this meeting.” He looked to the timeform that sat within a niche on the other side of the room. “It is too late to go now—the darkness will soon be gone, and we still need darkness to travel in this city. But this next night we will go, and I will learn much of the ways of humanish from your discussions.”

Beyva gestured in strong affirmation. “I will go, as well,
to witness this discussion.”

“And I will go,” said the gardener. “I have never seen ná Kièrshia.”

“And I will go—”

“And I—”

“I, as well.”

“We will all go, and truly.”

Tsecha looked at the faces around him. Some appeared cool and questioning as Dathim's. Others, as Beyva's, held youngish enthusiasm. None held confusion. Such had been left for him, so it seemed, to hold in his soul.
I will disobey Shai.
Such, she would not forgive.
Perhaps she will challenge me.
After fighting her, he would be most as outcast, and truly. He worked his hand beneath the short braids that fringed his forehead, and massaged the tightening bands that encircled his skull.

“If you go out in this city looking as you do, Tsecha, all who see you will know you as idomeni.”

Tsecha looked up to see Dathim brush his hand over his own sheared head. “I have gone out into this city before, Dathim. My hair fits under a tight wig most well.”

“A wig is trickery, is it not, Tsecha? But I am the trickster, and I see no need for such.” Dathim lowered his chin in challenge. “You are our ambassador to humanish ways. So you said. So you said.” He rose to his feet and walked across the room, disappearing through the front entry and into the night. One by one, the others followed him, the gardener and the rest, until Tsecha sat alone with Beyva.

He watched the door close. “Ní Dathim is most vexing.” Once more, he pushed his forehead fringe aside to rub his scalp.

“Such is his way.” Beyva lifted her right hand, open palm facing down. A gesture of acceptance. “He wishes to live as he will, where he will. Such is what we all wish.”

Tsecha nodded in such a humanish manner that even he did not understand what he meant. He tugged at one of his braids, felt something give, then pulled back his hand to look at the short length of unfurled silver cord that he held between his fingers.

“You must retie it before you leave, ní Tsecha.” Beyva
rose. “The loose hair hangs before your eyes.”

“Yes.” Tsecha rolled the lock between his thumb and forefinger, then released it and instead tied the hair cord into a knot. He heard Beyva's footsteps, but did not look up to see where she walked or what she did. When he heard her approach from behind, he did not turn back to look at her.

He flinched when he felt her hands work through his braids. Then he felt the steady pull as she gathered the twirled lengths of hair in one hand, followed by the gradual loosening as she applied the cutter to the root of each one in turn and snipped it through.

“You will have to wear a covering out of doors, ní Tsecha,” Beyva said as she cut. “You are not used to the cold.”

Tsecha listened to the soft grassy sighs as his hair fell to the tile. Felt the slackening over his scalp as Beyva hacked away the tight braiding, and the pain in his head ease. It took so little time, to turn away from that which he had been. It took such simple acts, to become as outcast.

He sensed Beyva step back from him, and knew that she had finished. He rose, his knee cracking as it unbent. She held out the cloth to protect his head; he gave his answer by walking out the door and into the chill night, uncovered.

None saw him as he crossed through the trees, the lawns, the veranda. He entered the embassy and walked to the residence wing, up and down the halls to his rooms, seeing no one until the last corner when he turned and found himself face-to-face with Shai.

“Tsecha.” The Suborn Oligarch stared at the top of his head, then turned from him, her shoulders hunched and rounding.

Tsecha said nothing in reply; Shai said no more. Humanish often said that there were times when no words were necessary. This was one of those times.

She stood in a hallway, or an alley. Dim light seemed to come not from a single point but from all about her, as though the surfaces themselves served as the source of illumination. But even though she could see, she couldn't tell exactly where she was. The light wasn't bright enough to define any doors or openings that could identify the space. She could only sense that she stood in a walled place, long and narrow.

Her breathing came quick and hard. She could feel her heart pound, the pulse in her throat. Her right knee ached. She knew she had been running, but she couldn't remember why.

She touched the nearest wall. Green, it seemed to be—she couldn't see the color, but green made sense for some reason. The wall felt smooth as glass. Cold. The surface possessed a strange translucence, like a leaf coated with ice.

“Jani!”

She wheeled toward the shout. She recognized the voice, knew the name it called was hers. Strange name. She hadn't used it in a long time.

“Where the hell are you!”

A man's voice. Young. Angry.

I'm running from him.
She remembered now.

“They're waiting for us at Gaetan's.” Lucien appeared in the distance. He wore drop-dead whites, the formal Service uniform; he looked like the officer in his painting. “Your parents are there. They're worried about you. Your mother asked me why you ran away. I told her they needed you at the embassy—I didn't know what the hell else to say.”

Jani remained silent, watching him. He looked far away, but she knew that was illusion. He had always been closer than she thought.

“Jani?” Lucien stepped down the narrow space toward her. What little light there was reflected off the white cloth, the badges and the gold braid on his shoulders. His silver-blond hair. How he glowed, like a platinum column. “They're waiting. Niall. Nema. John. Everyone.” He removed his brimmed lid, the same gold-trimmed white as his uniform, and tucked it under his arm. “We can take the long way back, if that would make you feel better.” He smiled as he held his hand out to her. His face seemed as translucent as the walls, as though it possessed layers, as well. “Let's go.”

She backed away. One step. Another. Then turned and ran—

“Jani!”

—and collided with Sasha. Blood streamed down the side of his face. Jani reached out to touch the blood—just as she did, the light exploded through the coated walls. The force of the blast drove shards of ice into her body. She collapsed, heard Lucien close in from behind as her blood poured from gaping wounds and spread across the floor—

“Jani! Damn it, come on!”

She felt a hand close over her sore left shoulder, and struck out with all her remaining strength—

“Shit!”

The voice jarred Jani awake. Her heart stumbled and her chest tightened as she pushed herself into a sitting position, her hands scrabbling for purchase on the soft pillows. She comprehended the familiar around her—the armoire, the dresser, the windows, and walls.

“Jesus, gel! Steady on.” Steve backed away from the bed, his arm crossed over his stomach. “Tryin' ta knock the wind outta me, or what?”

“I told you to just keep calling from a safe distance until she opened her eyes.” Angevin stood at the foot of the bed, arms folded. “The last time I tried to wake her up by shaking her, she almost broke my wrist.”

“No I dint—” Jani coughed the dryness from her throat. Then she licked her teeth, which felt unpleasantly coated.
She looked down at herself. She recalled falling into bed fully clothed; sometime during the night, someone had removed her trouser suit and replaced it with a T-shirt and shorts. She hoped it was Angevin, but given the young woman's reluctance to approach her as she slept…

“We just wanted to see if you planned to wake up before the end of the year.” Angevin remained by the footboard. “You've been sleeping for almost fifteen hours. Even Lucien's starting to worry.”

“How is he?” Jani looked toward the door to make sure that
he
wasn't standing there, listening.

“He's fine.” Steve's lips barely moved, as though two words concerning Lucien took more effort than he wanted to expend.

“You've had calls.” Angevin frowned. “We wouldn't bother you otherwise.”

Jani dropped her legs over the side, and let the momentum pull her to her feet. “What calls?”

 

“—and something stinks!” Derringer's reddened face filled the comport display. “Nobody questions this letter for weeks. Then you get involved and two days later, every dexxie in the city is backpedaling!” His eyes looked dull despite his anger, the skin beneath smudged with fatigue. Jani could imagine the late night meetings with Callum Burkett that led to his current exhausted state.

“I don't know what you did, you meddling pain in the ass bitch.” Derringer paused to yawn, striking his desktop with his fist as it went on and on. “But I will find out and when I do, you can kiss any reversal of your bioemotional restriction good-bye.”

Jani watched his face still, then shard like the ice walls in her nightmare. “What was the time stamp on this?”

“Oh-five twelve this morning. Judging from the look of him, he'd had a long day and a damned short night.” Steve tipped back in his chair, his feet braced against the edge of Jani's desk. “I don't believe he let himself be recorded making a threat.”

“He's panicked. He sees his quest for a star going down in flames, and every time he makes a move to cover himself,
there's Callum Burkett asking him for a full and complete report.” Jani stifled her own yawn. She still felt tired, even after her more than full night's sleep. “I'm not too worried. I think that by this point, he's screwed himself enough that Cal might be willing to listen to my side of the story.”

Steve nodded, his fingers drumming a beat on his knees. “Not going to tell us what letter he's talking about, are you?”

“It's better if you don't know.”

“You know, working with you is like punching through a GateWay without knowing if you'll make it out the other side. You just says yer prayers and takes yer chances.”

“Sorry,” Jani said, without feeling very sorry at all. The less you said, the less you needed to lie. The less you lied, the less you needed to remember.

“Well,” Steve finally said, when it became obvious Jani wasn't going to say any more. “Then there's this cryptic masterpiece.” He leaned forward and hit the comport pad.

Roni McGaw looked as though she'd gotten even less sleep than Derringer. “I left my stuff in your skimmer. Eight files, next to a big, empty box.” The hollow-eyed face stilled, then fragmented.

“See what I mean?” Steve turned to Jani before Roni's image had dissolved completely. “You don't have a skimmer.”

Jani suppressed a sigh as she watched the display dim. What had Roni found out? Had she been able to check Ulanova's calendar in Exterior systems? Had Security taken the next step and shut down the ministry entirely?

Steve crumpled a piece of notepaper and tossed it at the display. “She didn't even tell you what time she were bloody stopping by.”

Yes, she did—oh-eight tonight.
But she wanted to meet Jani in the garage instead of their favorite bookstore.

“Roni's good. She's been Exterior Doc Chief for three years.” Angevin had dragged one of the dining room chairs beside the desk, and sat heavily. “At least she lends an air of legitimacy to all this muck.”

“And what is
that
supposed to mean?” Jani started to rise, but Steve's hand on her arm compelled her to stay seated.

“There's one more.” He picked up his nicstick case from its resting place atop a stack of files, and shook out a gold-
and-white striped cylinder. “This was the kicker. Took us both aback, me and Ange.” He hit the pad and sat back, smoking 'stick fixed between his teeth.

Jani groaned as this face formed.

“Janila?” Her mother looked back and forth, then up and down, as if she could look into Jani's flat if she tried hard enough. “Are you all right? Dr. Parini says that you are, but he has not seen you, so how would he know?” She leaned forward and dropped her voice. “He said I should not call you, but why not? His comport is secure, is it not? And yours, surely—” Her eyes widened as something off-screen captured her attention.

“Mère Kilian? Who are you talking to?” John's bass resounded in sharp question. “Val asked you not to contact anyone.”

“I am just playing, Dr. Shroud. I am bored and I am playing.” Jamira's hands moved toward the disconnect, but not quickly enough. A white hand shot in from the side and caught her wrist. A white face followed.

“Damn.”
John's cheeks pinked as he comprehended the code on Val's display. He wore a jacket in Neoclona lilac, and had filmed his eyes the same startling shade. The purple accents heightened his flush so that he looked enraged. “You shouldn't have done this, Mère Kilian.”

“No! No! Do not touch me, you—!” Jamira pulled back from John, but not in time—he caught her two thin wrists in one hand with a grip Jani prayed was more gentle then it looked. “Let me go!” Jamira tried to twist away, but John held on to her with brutal ease as he reached for the comport pad. “Janila, I am so sorry! I love you! Please come—”

Jani watched as the scene of her mother struggling in John's grasp faded. She hit the comport pad's reply button to try to reconnect to Val's flat, and felt only a little reassured to find the code had been blocked to all calls. Then she sat forward and buried her head in her hands.

“Jan?” Steve spoke. “Is that yer mum?”

Jani nodded. “My father's with her. They're”—she couldn't force herself to say the words—“at Val's flat,” even though it didn't matter, even though every security force in the city knew where her parents were by now. “They're in a
safe place.” What had been a safe place. She wondered if John felt spooked enough to move them to one of the numerous Neoclona buildings located throughout the city. “Someone tried to set them up to be kidnapped, but we found out in time.”

“You're sure about that?”

Jani's head shot up. Beside her, Steve muttered a not-so-soft “Shit.”

Lucien sat on the edge of the couch back. He had exchanged his pajamas and robe for winter base casuals. Thanks to a combination of augmentation and a twenty-six-year-old body, he had lost the haze of pain and weakness; he looked merely tired now, rather than debilitated. “Neoclona's security force has always been overrated, in my opinion.”

“Has it?” Jani rose, waving off Angevin's murmur of concern. “I disagree. Considering some of the things that had to be done, we didn't need an Office of Professional Standards getting in the way.”

“Any security officer who answers to an OPS would have made sure the comports were blocked for outgoing. Failing that, they sure as hell would have canceled the transmission of that call.” Lucien stood. “That's the problem when you use an actual home for a safe house—the people who live there tend to still treat it like a home.” He waited for her to circle the desk, then walked to her. His step was still slow, but steady, unhampered by his injury. “I would have thought your good friend Niall would be involved in this, but no Service safe house that I know of lets their guests call out. Where are they, with John or Val?”

Jani brushed past him, her pace quickening as she neared her room. In the opening to the hallway, however, she stopped and turned back. Steve and Angevin regarded her as she expected them to, with a mixture of anger and hurt. She'd seen the look before, had accepted it as an inevitable and necessary part of her life. She would have worried if the faces around her looked too happy all the time. “I consider you my friends.” She took care not to look at Lucien as she spoke. “But I've known people to die because they told their friends too much. I've known the friends to die, as well. The
people Steve talked about at dinner, the ones who kill over a crateful of chips, those are the people we're dealing with here.”

“We understand that,” Angevin piped. “But—”

“But what?” Jani took a step back into the room. “But you wouldn't have said anything? But you'd have promised not to talk? How long would that promise last if someone held a shooter to your head? To Steve's head? How long would it last against an injector full of Sera? That was
my
mother's face on the display, not yours. If anything happened, you'd lose a few nights' sleep. But you'd get over it, because you'd have saved what meant most to you. Well, looking after what means most to me is how I've lived for the last twenty years, and I'm too goddamned old to change. You're both sweet kids, but if absolute push came to bottom line shove and you had to choose between each other and my mother, who would you pick?” She turned and headed for her room before they felt compelled to answer. Some things could never be spoken of between people who called themselves friends, or they wouldn't remain friends for long.

The memory of her mother struggling in John's grasp replayed in Jani's mind, and she struck the doorway with the flat of her hand on the way through. She already had her T-shirt up over her head when she heard the door open again. She pulled it off anyway, because she had slept the day away and had only a few hours before her meeting with Roni. Because she needed to shake off the last of her languor, shower and change clothes and brush the coating out of her mouth. Because she needed to contact John and find out if he had moved her parents, contact Niall and find out where the hell he was. “I don't have time for company.”

“This isn't a social call.” Lucien sat on the edge of the bed. His eyes fixed on her bare breasts, but only out of generalized interest. “Drives you crazy to be out of the loop, doesn't it? To not know what's going on. Well, triple it and you'll know how I feel.”