Rules of Conflict (36 page)

Evan eyed the cylinder with dismay. For years, his own physicians
had threatened him with similar devices. “That’s a gene-therapy cocktail.”

“Yes.” Mild surprise dulled Tellinn’s edginess. “If you know what
it is, you must realize the condition she’s in.”

“I remember what you said in John’s parlor. John didn’t think you
knew what you were talking about.”

“Dr. Shroud had allowed his ego to come before the needs of his
patient.” Tellinn rendered his own diagnosis of the situation quickly and
coolly. “I had to bribe one of his hybridization specialists to help me
manufacture this. It’s primarily designed to repair the defect in Jani’s heme
pathway, but it also contains components to fix the worst of her metabolic
abnormalities as well.” He resumed his rocking. “They’re packing her with
engineered carbohydrates because that’s the diet prescribed for patients with
AIP, but she’s synthesizing idomeni digestive enzymes that are cleaving the
molecules in different places, which is leading to the buildup of toxic
metabolites in her tissues—”

Evan jumped in before the torrent of words turned to flood. “Dr.
Tellinn! I can’t help you!”

“But . . .” Tellinn stilled, and blinked in
bewilderment. “Val said you agreed to help us. You felt guilty because of the
way you treated Jani years ago and you wanted to make it up to her.”

Vladislav’s got nothing on you for dramatic nonsense.
Evan
squeezed the arm of his chair. His hand closed over a Crème Caramel petal left
over from yesterday’s encounter with Joaquin, and he rolled it between his
fingers. “Dr.—”

“Call me Hugh,” Tellinn interrupted hopefully.

Evan glanced at the wisp of flower in his hand. “It sounds as
though you don’t know the entire story where Jani and I are concerned.”

“I confess, I don’t keep up with events as well as I should.”
Tellinn’s face lightened with an apologetic smile. “But Val said you almost
married—”

“John Shroud has circumstantial evidence linking me to Jani’s
transport explosion. I had nothing to do with it, of course”—Evan’s fingers
worked harder, grinding the petal to fragments—“but it looks very bad, and I’m
in no position to fight it. In other words, he held a shooter to my head.
That’s the only reason I agreed to perjure myself. I don’t care what happens to
Jani.” He brushed the bits of rose to the floor. “But now that she’s to be
discharged, it’s all academic.”

Tellinn’s eagerness evaporated. “No, Mr. van Reuter, not
all
of it.” He glared at the cocktail cylinder, then shoved it back into its case.
“You won’t help?”

“I can’t.”

“Her organs will fail, one by one. Her brain will be irreversibly
damaged. She will die.”

“Even if I could talk myself onto the base and somehow arrange to
meet Jani, I could never convince her to take anything from me.” Evan felt his
pocket for the flask, then pulled his hand away.
Not in front of the
children
. “I assume you’ve tried to contact her Service doctors yourself.”

“Just last night. Begged my way as far as a Roger Pimentel.
Received a very cold, ‘thank you, Doctor, but we have things under control’ in
response.” Tellinn’s face had paled to a Shroud-like pallor. He sat forward,
elbows on knees, hands clasped across his forehead.

Evan looked over the top of Tellinn’s head to the window and the
outdoors beyond. He wished he’d remained outside, never heard the buzzer. “John
loves her. If he has to resort to brute force or invoke compassionate
intervention to get into Sheridan, he will.”

“I don’t think you understand the extreme animosity that exists
between Service Medical and Neoclona.”

“I know all about that. If John hadn’t accused the Service
Surgeon-General of promoting butchery last year when she refused to allow
Neoclona to assist in the training of Service physicians, he wouldn’t find him
on the outside looking in now.”

“There’s more involved than that.” Tellinn’s face had the
nauseated cast of a man who had bitten into an apple and found half a worm. “I
think the Service higher-ups who remember the idomeni civil war hold John
responsible for the destruction of Rauta Shèràa Base. They feel that if he
hadn’t angered the idomeni by getting involved in illegal research, there would
have been much less outrage directed at the remaining humans as the war wound
down.”

“Knevçet Shèràa led to what happened at Rauta Shèràa Base, and
John Shroud had nothing to do with that.” Evan massaged the rough upholstery
until his fingers stung. “How many times do I have to tell you, Doctor? I can’t
help you.”

“She’s been through so much.”

“I hate to sound cold, but she brought a lot of it upon herself.”

Tellinn stared at him, tired eyes searching in vain for something.
Then he stood slowly and walked, back bowed, step heavy. He paused in the room
entry and turned back to Evan. “Val tells me stories about Rauta Shèràa Base.
He leaves a lot out—I can tell from the way he jokes to fill the holes.” He
hesitated, dark eyes reflecting the horror described. “He talks about the last night.
The Night of the Blade. The dead quiet when the bombing finally stopped, and
the Laum streamed out of their homes and lined up to be slaughtered.” He looked
at Evan. “Humans don’t line up to be killed.”

“Not unless they’re forced, no.”

“So the humans who died there probably weren’t killed by Haárin,
because the Haárin weren’t carrying the sorts of weapons that could compel them
to stop. Val thinks they were executed by criminals for failing to come through
on contracts, or just to keep them from talking.”

“That’s certainly possible.”

“Jani wasn’t a criminal. She got into trouble for fighting the
criminals.” Tellinn’s hands twitched. He kicked at the carpet—the tread of his
shoe caught so that he almost lost his balance. Gone clumsy again. “So how can
you say Rauta Shèràa Base was her fault? Seems to me quite a few
humans
went over the edge there. Panicked. Rode the madness of the moment. They’re the
ones to blame, not her.”

Evan reached for his flask again. Stopped himself again. “Jani
won’t die. Remember that she has Nema on her side, and Prime Minister Cao knows
she dare not anger him.” He stood, hoping that Tellinn would take the hint.
“Something will shake loose.”

“I hope you’re right.” Tellinn accepted the invitation to get
lost. “Thank you for nothing, Mr. van Reuter.” He headed for the door—it swept
aside, and he almost collided with a grocery-carton-laden Halvor.

“I’ll be outside,” Evan informed the confused aide. He had the
flask out of his pocket before he stepped out of the house.

It would have been nice to officially blame the Haárin or some
criminal syndicate for the deaths of Ebben, Unser, and Fitzhugh. That would
have provided answers enough to cut off the questions and the rumors that
sprang from the events of that night. And the magic Joaquin could have worked
with a few holos of the blade-cut dead or signs of ritual execution would have
dispelled once and for all the cloud of suspicion hanging over Evan.
Nothing
works like firm, hard paper.
From there, it would have been an easy leap to
suppose Jani’s transport crash the product of Haárin vengeance or criminal
bungling.
And I’d have been out of this house by autumn.
He ducked into
the shed, leaned against the sheet-metal wall, and emptied the flask down his
throat.
If not for Roshi’s screwup
.

He kicked at the decomp bag, distended by weed bulk and digestion
gasses, and gagged as a warm belch of half-rotted vegetation stench puffed
through gaps in the opening. He grasped the handle of the bag and dragged it
across the floor to rest near the solvent storage ventilator. The digestion
mechanisms built into the sack worked quickly—in a few days, there would be no
sign of what the muck had been or where it had come from—

Something flitted in Evan’s head, like a whisper. He picked
through his myriad thoughts trying to recover it, but it wriggled away like a
fish.

The madness of the moment . . . .

He stood in the doorway of the shed, Tellinn’s words echoing in
his head, and stared at the decomp bag until Markhart called him in to lunch.

Jani set aside the issue of
Blue and Grey
that
she’d been paging through, and stifled a yawn as post-augie languor settled
over her. Sitting in a stream of red light wasn’t the medically approved way to
deal with Neumann’s hallucination, but she’d grown desperate since she’d
awakened that morning to hear his off-key bass emerge from her bathroom.
I
always dreamed of this, Kilian,
he said when he stuck his shower-damp head
out the door.
All you’d have to do is strip and join me to make this moment
complete.

A few minutes later had found her trudging barefoot across the
South Yard, wearing the same base casuals she’d slept in, duffel on her
shoulder. It had still been dark, thankfully. No A&S-holes out and about to
find her in sweat-stained dishabille.

Working on sleep-deprived autopilot, she had showered in the
women’s locker room of the South Central Gymnasium. Dressed. Applied makeup
with a trembling hand. And walked out into the blaze of day to find Neumann
leaning in the gymnasium doorway, waiting for her. He’d stood close enough for
her to smell his breath drops, the cinnamon candies he had sucked incessantly.

I watched you through the gap in the shower curtain, and you
didn’t see me.

“Nervous, Jani?” Friesian shuffled through a file and made a
notation into his handheld. He had gone the “B” shirt route, as well. And had
his hair trimmed.

“No more than usual, considering the circumstances.”

“They will probably holocam this, even though it’s a nonjudicial.
Just forget it’s there and act natural.”

Act natural, he says.
She’d have a hard enough time staying
awake. She had tried to give Neumann the boot by breakfasting decently, then
making sure her morning in Foreign Transactions remained uneventful by locking
herself in her office and letting her comport screen her calls. He hadn’t shown
up—she thought she’d beaten him.

Then he had reappeared during her meeting with Sam Duong, dogging
her shoulder and offering advice on how to get Burkett off her back. Foul
comments all, and some physically impossible besides.

So she drove augie to the edge, felt the white light in her head
and the hurricane gales at her feet, and pitched Neumann over the side, at
least for a while.
Roger would kill me if he knew.
But augie’s
neurochemical magic had worked wonders—she felt better than she had for a week.
Just a little wobbly . . .

A gentle throat-clearing sounded from the opposite side of the
anteroom. General Burkett’s adjutant spoke a few words into her comport, then
glanced at Jani and Friesian. “You may go in, Major. Captain.”

Jani stood slowly, gripping the arms of her chair for support. She
sniffed, smelled only filtered office air, and offered silent thanks. She
followed Friesian to the door, let him palm it open, and preceded him inside.
As expected, she saw Burkett sitting at his glossy bloodwood desk, glare at the
ready.

She didn’t, however, expect to see Frances Hals sitting across
from him, nor another older, blond-haired woman who, judging from the stars on
her collar and the scanpack on her hip, could only be Major General Hannah
Eiswein, commander of the First Documents and Documentation Division.

I’m gonna die.
“Captain Kilian reporting as ordered, sir.”

“Come in, Captain.” Burkett’s gaze shifted to Friesian, and his
frown deepened. “Major?”

“Major Piers Friesian, General. Defense Command.” His voice
sounded tentative as he looked at Hals and Eiswein. “I’m Captain Kilian’s legal
counsel.”

“There’s no need for that, Major.” Eiswein smiled. She appeared
companionable, with the sort of relaxed, unlined face that
implied
an even
temper. “This isn’t a disciplinary action.”

Friesian shot Jani a befuddled look. His thick, black eyebrows
knit. “Ma’am, my client was given to understand—”

“Circumstances have changed, Major.” Eiswein smiled again, more
coolly. “Captain Kilian’s role here will be more in a consulting capacity. If
you feel at all uncomfortable about this, of course you may stay. But you’ll be
wasting your time.”

Friesian settled back on his heels, chin raised, eyes narrowing.
Jani could read the questions in his expression. The concern. The stars.

“If it’s all the same to you, ma’am, I’d prefer to sit in on
this.” He gave Jani a “be careful” nod as he walked to a small conference table
that basked in the light of the office’s window-wall. “I do possess top-level
security clearance, if consultations reach that point.”

“They shouldn’t,” Eiswein said softly as she withdrew a recording
board from the briefbag by her chair. Pink-skinned and cushy, she looked the
polar opposite of the tanned, narrow-faced Burkett. “Captain Kilian. The famous
Eyes and Ears.” She gestured toward the empty chair between her and Hals. “I’ve
been looking forward to meeting you.”

Hals offered the barest smile as Jani approached; the expression
altered to one of concern as she took her seat. “Are you feeling all right,
Captain?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jani caught herself on the chair arms just in time
to keep from collapsing into it. “Trouble sleeping.” She noted that Hals wore
the less formal light grey “A” short-sleeve, as did Burkett and Eiswein.

We’re overdressed, Piers.
Jani looked around Burkett’s
office, a showcase of wine-red cabinetry and satin-finish steel, on the alert
for hidden lieutenants with holocams. She faced front to find Burkett glowering
at her.

“Looking for something, Captain?”

“Just admiring your office, sir.” It took true force of will for
her to smile at him. He made no effort to hide his feelings—the animosity
rolled across his desk and buffeted her like a wave.