Endgame (13 page)

Rilas entered the concourse, walking past the groups that still gathered around the displays. The boarding alarm for her ship sounded, and she quickened her pace, thanking her goddess that she would soon leave this most damned of places behind.

“Jan?”

Jani looked up to find Niall standing in the entry. “Via and her suborns…” She waved toward the bed, which now lay empty, the covers stripped. “About—I don't know—a half hour ago.”

“I saw them leave.” Niall's voice emerged scratchy, as though his throat ached. “Yevgeny wondered how you were holding up?”

Yevgeny?
Jani struggled to place the name. Then the token dropped. “Scriabin's still here?”

“They all are.” Niall managed a weak smile. “It's only just afternoon.” The expression faded. “All lifetime in a day.” He fell silent. Coughed. “Anyway, he asked how you were doing, and if you could see your way clear to stopping by the library when you're up to it.”

“Which in minister-speak means now.” Jani tried to rise, and found her limbs had gone to lead. “Give me a minute.”

“Of course.” Niall stepped inside and let the door close, then dragged a chair next to hers. “Take all the time you need.”

There isn't that much time.
She plucked a dispo cloth from the dispenser on a nearby cart and wiped her eyes. “What's it like upstairs?”

“Quiet.” Niall brushed some nonexistent lint from his trousers. “Everyone had gathered in the courtyard. John talked to them a little while ago. He did well, I think.”

Jani imagined John's solemn mien, his voice. Not a combination one would choose to lighten the mood, but in this case they probably struck the right note. “What did he say?”

“That Tsecha died as the result of a brain hemorrhage.” Niall exhaled with a
whoosh
. “He didn't mention the undiagnosed tumor—let Via field that one.”

Jani thought back to the scene in the room a few short hours before, John showing Via analyzer readouts and instrument displays while she dogged his shoulder, like a stranger at a party sticking to the only person she knew. Did she feel lost amid the brightly lit bustle of a humanish-style hospital room? Did John even try to bring her up to speed, or did he barrel along as he always did, and assume she'd keep pace? “Idomeni often don't treat diseases until they fall visibly ill. But I thought Tsecha had gotten past that.”

“Maybe Via didn't.” Niall shrugged. “And it backfired.”

You will not allow the worldskein control of me?

Jani pondered Tsecha's words. He had included Via in his plea—he hadn't wanted her to take charge of him, either. She shivered, and blamed her chill on the temperature of the room. “Willful negligence?”

“I never thought I'd get to be the one to say this, but now you're thinking like a human.” Niall pointed an accusing finger. “I will never claim to understand the idomeni mind-set, but I'm not an idiot. Tsecha was
Tsecha
. A former Chief Propitiator, and, for want of a better term, a defining personality. He grew, but not all of his followers kept up. Not all of them thought as he did. If some of them felt that they still needed to treat him as an old-line idomeni because of what he'd been…? They'd ignore a developing problem until it became a problem, then get caught flat-footed when it blew up in their faces.”

Jani hugged herself. As she did, the rough weave of her
overrobe grabbed onto that of her shirt-jacket, pulling it so that she felt wrapped in restraints.

Then she looked toward the bed, and her eyes filled.

“Jan.” Niall touched her arm. “You need to get out of this room.” He took her by the elbow and supported her as she stood, then guided her to the door.

“It won't help.”

“Humor me.”

 

They navigated the twist of corridors. Heard voices, and followed them until they came upon John and Scriabin sitting in the clinic foyer. Their conversation was low volume, but animated, the sort of discussion one saw in hospitals.

John looked around when he heard footsteps. “Jani?” He stood and started toward her. “I thought you'd gone upstairs.”

“I was with Niall.” She leaned against him as soon as he embraced her. “He told me that His Excellency wished to see me.”

Scriabin stood. “I appreciate Niall's sense of urgency, but there is no rush.” He had changed clothes at some point, and now wore shirt and trousers in drab tan that looked like they'd been liberated from Dieter Brondt's own closet. “Anais has departed for Karistos, where press and staff await. I will be following her shortly. Stash and the others are conferring with ná Feyó. Colonial impact will be felt most immediately, of course.”

“I imagine it's begun.” Jani eased away from John, who ran his fingers down her back, then took hold of her hand.

Scriabin eyed her, then tilted his head toward John. “I told John of our discussion this morning, and the outcome. You have lost an inestimable ally, but that does not change the economic reality. We would prefer that the situation here remain as it is. We will do what we can to ensure that.” He looked down at his clothes and sighed. “I dread leaving, to tell the truth. Stash's decision to treat Thalassa as a sovereign state reaped unforeseen benefits. You have borders, and your
own com system. No one has to talk to the press because you haven't cleared it, and no one can report back to Cao while they're here because your secure system and Chicago's secure system can't talk to one another.” He sighed. “I think I could live here.”

“Just say the word, Zhenya.” John gestured down the hall toward the labs.

Scriabin's eyes widened. “Perhaps not quite yet.” He grinned, then hung his head. “Jani.” He looked at her, all professional seriousness. “Words cannot express. He was one of the greatest, most influential beings who ever lived, and you called him friend for over twenty years.”

“Among other things.” Jani fielded Scriabin's startled look. “If you'd known Tsecha for a quarter-century, you would have, too.” Her eyes stung, and she inhaled slowly, exhaled, struggled to maintain control. “Thank you.”

“Now it's important that we preserve his legacy. This place—” Scriabin gestured around the foyer. “—and sound relations between humans and idomeni.” He squeezed Jani's hand, then nodded to John and Niall and walked to the lift.

Jani waited until the farewells had been said and the lift door closed. “I thought we'd have things to discuss.” She let go of John's hand and paced around the foyer.

“They're not machines, Jan, and they know you're not, either. They're giving you time. They know what you're going through.” John stepped in front of her, forcing her to stop. “I have to go.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her hard. “I'll see you later.” He nodded to Niall, then headed down the corridor into the clinic proper, disappearing around a corner.

Jani remained in the middle of the foyer. Eventually, she stared down at the patterned lyno, then at the gleaming walls. “I'm going to make some coffee.”

Niall fell in behind her as she headed for the break room, which was located just off the foyer. “We could go upstairs. Your mess crew has hot and cold running everything up there.”

“I need to do something with my hands.” Jani scanned the break room for bodies before entering, and was relieved to find it empty. She walked over to the coffee table and started to assemble the brewer. “Want some?”

As usual, Niall chose a table by the wall, with a clear view of the entry. “Sure,” he said as he dug for his nicsticks.

For a few minutes the only sounds were the clatter of metal parts and glassware, the gravel tumble of beans, a metal gnashing, and the gurgle of water. Then came the aroma, like dark brown velvet, swamping out the odor of Niall's clove smoke.

Jani rummaged for cups in the community cupboard. She filled them to the brim, forgoing flavorings or any other additives that might dilute the caffeine. Sat down. Took a sip of coffee, tried to savor the flavor, and tasted only heat and bitterness.

Niall took a swallow, then reached for the creamer. “There's awake, and then there's orbit, gel.” He poured half the contents of the small pitcher into his cup. “John would be proud.”

Jani sat back, cradling her cup. “I'm wondering if I should change.” She tugged at the front of her overrobe. “I know this is priestly garb and should be correct no matter the situation. My mother would consider it appropriate, but to her, white is a color for funerals.”

Niall tipped back his chair, 'stick in one hand, coffee in the other. “I see your father in black. With a red rose in his buttonhole.”

“Close.” Jani took another sip, felt her head clear. “He preferred sprigs of lavender. He said the scent reminded him of his grandmama.” She laid back her head. “The looks I got from Via's suborns when they came in for his body. As though I'd committed some grave sin. Spread out dinner on the edge of the bed.” The patterned ceiling reminded her of the beach, the swirls of the tile coating like sprays of sand. “My father would've demanded more time. A proper wake, with stories and whiskey and laughter. We'd have had
a chance to say good-bye. We wouldn't have felt like roadblocks in the way of those gods I'm supposed to intercede with even though I don't believe in them.” She looked across the table to find Niall watching her, eyes dark with worry.

“Why don't you get some sleep?” He extinguished his spent 'stick, then immediately ignited another. “I'll hold off everyone, tell him that you had things you needed to see to.”

“Can't sleep.”

“Let John give you something.”

“It's not the getting-to-sleep that's the problem.” Jani's eye fell on the image someone had tacked up on the wall opposite. A forest scene, all green and leafy and shadowed. Quiet. Peaceful. “It's what happens after I arrive.”

Niall stared at the smoke as it drifted upward, then he shook his head. “How long?”

“Three months. Maybe a little longer.” Jani set down her cup. Plucked sugar packets from the dispenser, and stacked them one atop the other. “You don't have to listen to—”

“You've listened to me enough over the last couple of years.” Niall took a long drag. “How many versions have you heard? A dozen? Two? ‘What did you do during the War of Vynshàrau Ascension, young Niall?' ‘Night of the Blade, sir. Laum blood running in the streets and shatterboxes shredding the air like tissue. Botched an arrest during evac, blew the commander of Rauta Shèràa Base and two of her cronies to bits, then spent the next twenty or so years covering it up.'” He stared straight ahead, the room's soft lighting making his battered face look very young. “‘And why is that a problem, young Niall?' ‘Because, sir, the man people think I am and the man I know I am are quite different. Because the honors I have since received are as dust upon my tongue. Because I'm living a lie.'” His head tilted toward Jani. “‘But I have a friend who tells me that the man I am now is the one who matters.'” He cleared his throat. “Out with it.”

“I never…even after it happened, I didn't…” Jani struggled for the words, wondered if the right ones existed. “The years went by. Nothing. I came here, and I was fine for
months. Then…” She studied the forest scene again, and wondered at the feel of cool, damp air. “I don't know if it's the heat, or the scenery. Or the fact that this is so much an idomeni place, despite the humanish presence. The voices, that soft rise and fall. The gestures, and the smells, and the colors of the clothes.” She paused, debated continuing, and felt the pull of Niall's patient gaze. “The first one. I'm walking down a dune. I can't find my footing, and I keep sliding. There are tents in the distance. The Laumrau tents. I'm wearing drop-dead whites instead of desertweights. I never get to the tents. I never even get to the base of the dune. I just keep walking, and sliding.”

Niall remained silent, and waited.

“The second one…” Jani tugged at the red-slashed cuff of her overrobe. “I'm wearing desertweights. I have my shooter drawn.” She raised a hand, index finger extended. “I'm standing at the first tent and pulling at the flap, but it won't open. It's like the fabric's all one piece—I can't find a gap. Then I freeze, because I know someone's behind me, and if I make any move to turn around, they'll kill me.” She felt her heart pound and waited until it slowed. “Then I hear a shooter hum, and it isn't mine, and I know they'll kill me anyway.” She flicked the pile of sugar packets, sending them splaying across the table. “Last night, they finally did.” She waited for Niall to say something, then looked across the table to find him sitting with a fist pressed to his mouth, his eyes closed.

He lowered his hand eventually and opened his eyes. “Have you told John?”

Jani shook her head. “He'd get Neuro right on it. And who knows what else they'd take out along with the memories? They tend to overcompensate where I'm concerned.” She picked up her coffee, then set it back down. “I wish I could drink.”

“It doesn't help.” Niall's voice emerged quiet, almost a whisper. “You dodged it for all those years. It was one of the things I held onto. Not that it did me any good. But just
knowing…that if you never had them, maybe eventually I wouldn't have them, either.” A twitch of a shoulder. “Doesn't make sense, but not much does. Can you talk to Parini?”

“Val tells John everything. They'd gang up on me like always, tell me it's for my own good.” Jani looked at the forest again, but she'd lost the sense of it. Instead, she felt the heat and the dust, and smelled the bay, and saw the body on the gurney. “It happened so fast. He was there, and we were talking, and five minutes later he's on the ground, and ten minutes later he's—”

Niall stood. “I'm getting John.”

“No.”
Jani rose, cup in hand, and walked to the sink. “I'll be all right.” She poured the dregs down the drain, rinsed the cup with cold water, held her hand beneath the flow until her fingers ached.