Endgame (23 page)

Jani leaned against Niall's desk. Felt all eyes upon her, Niall's and Lucien's and the rest of the staff's. Struggled to find her voice. “They know it was a bomb?”

Lucien slid off his desk and walked to her. “They've found a few pieces.”

“And you think my remarks triggered the attack?”

Niall swore under his breath. “Did you hear me say that?” He stepped around his desk and stopped in front of her. “Did you plant the bomb? Did you detonate it? Then you're not responsible. Don't let that bitch get to you.”

Jani nodded. “I should go over.”

“Why?” Lucien shrugged, ever the pragmatist. “What can you do?”

“I'm still a documents examiner.” Jani patted the place on her hip where for years her scanpack had hung. “I think Guernsey Station has two, total, and they're probably going in five different directions about now.” Long ago memories surfaced. The smells. The images. “We're always needed at times like this.”

“Why? You—” Niall paled. “Oh, Jan, no.”

“I have to.” She stared him in the eye until he looked away.

 

Scriabin's pilot docked the
Madelaine
with the
Ulanov
with practiced ease. From the juncture point, Niall escorted Jani
down tight winding corridors to the carrier shuttle bays, where medical teams and repair crews stood waiting for transport to the station.

“Station staff is overwhelmed in more departments than one.” Niall patted the pocket containing his nicstick case, then eyed the
NO IGNITION SOURCES
sign and let his hand fall. “Are you sure you want to do this? Because we have dexxies of our own whom we can send over.”

Jani turned her back on Niall and walked around the bay. Heard his muttered, “—and I may as well argue with a goddamned wall.” Felt the stares of the Spacers as they studied her, recognized her, and started talking. She had taken time to change clothes, switching out the delicate tunic and trousers for coveralls in drab dark grey. Her old Service duffel hung from her shoulder, nudging her hip with every step. Inside were her scanpack, tools, and spare parts. A verified copy of her Academy certificate, just in case anyone questioned her.

Her shooter, just in case.

“Ma'am?”

Jani turned to find a baby-faced corporal with a recording board eyeing her expectantly. “Jani Kilian. I'm part of the Shèráin mission.”
For the time being, at least.
“I'm a documents examiner, and I wondered if they needed help with close-outs at the station?”

Before the corporal could reply, one of the med techs piped up. “They do. I heard one of the doc techs say that they're falling way behind. The station dexxie was going to put out a call.”

“Looks like you won yourself a seat on the next nonmedical shuttle, ma'am.” The corporal glanced past Jani toward Niall, who hovered grim-faced like a doubt-filled father of the bride, then back at her board. “If you follow me over here, we'll scan you in.”

Jani followed her to the ID scanner. Stood still for the retinal, ear, and palm scans, and hid a smile as the diplomatic sigil popped up on the display alongside her confirmation.
Thank you, Stash Markos.
She held onto her duffel
and passed on through to the boarding chute into the shuttle, then turned in time to see Niall step around the scanner and hurry after her. “Diplomatic immunity works even better than scanproof compartments.”

“You're armed, aren't you?”

“I'm sorry, Colonel?”

“Goddamn it.” Niall followed her up the single aisle to a pair of empty seats. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing.” Jani opted for the window view. “I wouldn't lie to you, Niall. Not now.” She inserted her duffel into the grapple rack under her seat, then buckled herself in. “I know this isn't a good time, but when can we talk to Nahin Sela?”

“I knew you were going to ask that.” Niall fastened his own seat harness, then pressed a hand to the back of his neck. “I told Pascal to use his charm and see if he can get through to the station liaison, but I think they'll tell us that they have enough on their plate for the moment.”

“He's proving useful, isn't he?”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

Around them, seats, grapples, and overhead racks filled. Then came a series of warning
pings
, followed by wave after wave of shudders as the boarding chute detached, the airlock sealed, and the hangar door swept open. Jani looked across the aisle to the starboard observation port and the view beyond, pitch-black tempered by a spray of stars. Felt the acid rise to the base of her throat and her stomach threaten rebellion as the shuttle directionals activated and the craft elevated then drifted to the side, freeing itself from its mother carrier and the bulk of her gravitational field.

Jani glanced at Niall, who sat with his head resting against his seatback, his eyes closed.

“I always like that floaty feeling when you first break away.” He sighed. “Like sleep without the dreams.”

“You can have it.” Jani swallowed carefully. Breathed slowly. Looked out her portside observation port and saw only the gunmetal bronze surface of the carrier, fretted by seaming and welds and the odd bleached splash mark that
developed when the destructive flash of the debris shield flared brightly enough to oxidize the surface coating.

“You ever pull carrier duty?”

Jani shook her head. “Never asked for it. The Academy degree pretty much guaranteed a slot at Rauta Shèràa Base.” More recollections surfaced. The entire damn voyage was proving one long gantlet run down memory lane. “And I'd heard stories about carrier duty.”

“The old Service.” Niall grimaced. “I remember her well.”

The shuttle began its swing around to the far side of the station, a maneuver that finally allowed Jani a clear view of the immensity that was the CSS
Viktor Ulanov
. Ten football fields in length and at least three in height, a sloping, featureless throwback to older style vessels that Service wits had christened “space whales.” In the distance, the winking lights of her escort destroyers and caravelles, arrayed in uncloaked patrol like worker bees guarding their queen.

“Roshi's making a point by taking her into the worldskein.” Niall leaned forward to take in the view, eyes alight with pride. “This is called a carrier group, Morden nìRau Cèel, and we've got thirty-three at home just like it.”

“The idomeni have carrier groups, too.” Jani sat back. Ships had never impressed her during her Service days, and the feeling hadn't changed with time. “Been years since I did close-outs. I'd hate to think that I can anticipate lots of practice.”

They passed the undamaged side of the
Capria,
an ornate silver bird outfitted with useless but attractive turrets and masts. Every so often a Service hullwalker, welder in hand, would float into view before disappearing on the other side of the ship.

Then came the darkness of Guernsey Station itself, a kilometers-long grid that dwarfed even Service carriers.

“They're going to drop us off on the other side of the main concourse, where there was no damage.” Niall settled back in his seat. “The hospital, all the waiting areas, they're all on that side as well.” He licked his lips. “The morgue.”

Minutes passed. Then came the clicks, hisses, and barely detectable bumps of docking. Another series of
pings,
followed by still silence. Then, as if on cue, everyone unsnapped their harnesses and gathered their belongings.

The first thing that struck Jani as she entered the main concourse was the quiet. The area had been evacuated after the blast, passengers, vendors, and other personnel shunted off to station annexes to wait out the emergency.

“It happened down there.” Niall pointed to a gangway entry halfway down the concourse, which had been sealed off with flex paneling and a semicircle of emergency cones. Station security paced the area, pulse rifles lowered but ready to be brought into play at any time.

Jani looked down a nearby gangway, a long, bare tunnel capped at the far end by the ship juncture. “It was like dropping a grenade down a well, wasn't it?”

“Pretty much.” Niall muttered under his breath. “It wasn't your fault, all right?” He nudged her elbow. “The paper pushers are all down here.”

Jani followed Niall down a corridor that ran between lines of darkened shops and kiosks, then into a large room filled with desks, the only sounds the rustle of parchment and the occasional beep of a scanpack.

“I think you can take it from here.” Niall waved her on into the room, then let the door close.

Jani walked to the nearest desk, where a woman in a green station uniform ran her scanpack across an identity card. “I thought you might need some help.”

The woman looked up. Her brown eyes were dull, her dark skin ashy from the shock of too much, too fast.

Then she fixed on Jani's face and her jaw dropped. “Jani Kil—” She stood. “If you're here to take charge—” She motioned toward her chair.

Oh, please, no.
Jani shook her head. “Just show me a stack.”

“Oh.” The woman stared at her desktop for a moment, then looked up. “Beah Lynn, Station Documentation.”

Jani reached into her duffel and pulled out her scanpack case. “I'm traveling on the
Ulanov.
I heard you were shorthanded.”

“Yes.” Lynn led her to an empty desk in a far corner, glancing over her shoulder every few steps as though making sure she was still there.

Meanwhile, the stares from the surrounding desks. The buzz of voices.

“Jani Kilian—”

“Two of Six—”

“Academy—”

“Tsecha—”

“Knevçet Shèràa—”

“Here.” Lynn pulled out Jani's chair, then transferred a stack of document slipcases from another desk. “These have all had prelim and collate. They just need to be closed.”

Jani sat. Removed her scanpack from its case and ran a hand over the scuffed black surface, then touched the device's underside, activating it. Took the top slipcase from the stack and started to undo the clasp until she realized that Lynn still stood by the desk.

“I just want to say—” The woman rolled her eyes, struck her thigh with her fist. “Twenty-five years ago the Helier Express ran a series of stories about you and the other humans who attended the Academy. I saved them all, and I read them over and over.” Her face lit, despite the fatigue and the hell that surrounded them. “But yours especially, because you were a colony kid, like me, and I thought that if you could make it—” Her eyes filled. “I became a dexxie because of you, and now you show up to help.” One tear spilled, then another, and she turned and ran back to her desk.

Jani watched the woman until she sat and resumed her work. Then she undid the clasp of the slipcase. Removed the contents and spread them out on the desk. Identity cards. Three credit chits. She read the names, examined the faces.
Albee.
Mother and daughter. They'd each named the other as their emergency contacts.

Jani adjusted her scanpack settings, then ran the device over the cards, sending a burst of energy through the inset chips. Fried them, canceled them out so they couldn't be used, so that relatives could show them, along with the d-certs, as proof of demise.

D-certs.
Death certificates.
And all the old terms come back into play…

“You're really Jani Kilian?”

Jani glanced at the young man at the desk next to hers. “Yes.”

“Wow.”…
as dust upon my tongue…

Another slipcase. Thicker, this one.
The Denischevs, from Hortensia.
Father, mother, and two sons, ages fifteen and twelve.

Scan. Cancel the paper like the bomb canceled the lives it represented.

The Seligs, from Helier, Guernsey Colony.
Husband and wife, ages eighty-four and seventy-eight.

The d'Abos of New Indies.
A family of three, mother, mother, and daughter.

“You don't have to do this.”

Jani looked up to find Val standing in front of her desk. He had dragged on a disposable coverall, probably to cover the bloodstains. “I have to do something.” She took another slipcase from the stack. “And I've done it before. One of the duties they don't tell you about when you sign up for the scanpack and make the appointment to have your brain cells farmed.” She sorted out the d'Abos' lives atop the desk. “How are you doing?”

Val twitched a shoulder. “'Bout what you'd expect.” He pulled a dispo pack of nicsticks from his trouser pocket. Shook one out, then showed the pack to Jani. “The colonel will be glad to learn that I do occasionally buy my own.” He bit the tip, took a long pull. “John told me to take a break.”

“Is John taking a break?”

“You're kidding, right?” Val pulled over a chair from an
empty desk and sat. “Word is that as the Guernsey-based emergency services arrive, we'll start backing off. Six-eight hours. Then off we go.”

“Val?”

Jani and Val looked around to find John standing in the side entry to the room. Like Val, he wore a disposable coverall, only his didn't cover everything.

“Sorry. We need you again.” John looked in Jani's direction. “What are you doing here?” His chill, dark voice. The voice he used for strangers, and those he knew whom he didn't like.

Jani pointed to the documents on the desk. “Help with close-outs.”

“Hmm.” John stepped aside so Val could walk past him into the corridor. “The next time you wonder why we don't tell you things, remember this day.”

“Dammit, John.”
Val grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the room.

Jani stared at the door after it closed. Then she completed the close-out of the lives of the d'Abos, and moved on to the next slipcase. Then the next. The next.