Free Rules of Conflict by Kristine Smith

Investigative asks you questions
about Jani.”
    “I couldn’t do that. They’ve already received preliminary reports
from my attorney as to what I’ll be saying. If I back down, they’ll know
something’s wrong. And if they don’t, Joaquin sure as hell will.”
    “You’re a maintenance alcoholic who’s gone without proper medical
care for months.” Shroud’s look turned professional—it was obvious from his
stern expression that he didn’t like what he saw. “You’ve lost weight. You look
like hell. I’m sure your nutritional indices would indicate several key
deficiencies, some of which can lead to memory disturbance.” He spread his
long-fingered hands in an offering gesture, as though what he promised was
worth a damn. “It’s the cleanest way, and with me signing off on any diagnosis,
there will be no questions.”
    “Selective amnesia?” Evan picked up the comlog with his thumb and
index finger and tossed it atop the beverage trolley.
    Shroud folded the document back in its slipcase and tucked it
away. As was his habit, he’d filmed his eyes to complement his clothing—the
pale gold-brown irises formed the only spots of warmth in his cold face. “I’ll
schedule you for a complete work-up at the downtown facility. We can discuss
matters further then.” He set his cup aside, then reached alongside the sofa
and hefted a large carryall onto his lap. “Now, in case one of us ever has to
testify as to what occurred here, if you wouldn’t mind undressing . . .
”

    Shroud’s preliminary examination proved mercifully quick.
He drew blood deftly and completed swab samplings well before muscles tightened
and gag reflexes kicked in.
    “Do you just dislike eating,” he asked as he watched Evan dress,
“or are you consciously trying to starve yourself?”
    Evan yanked on his shirt. So what if his ribs showed? They had for
as long as he remembered. “I like good food.”
    “As a modest complement to plenty of good wine, I’m sure.” Shroud
rummaged through the carryall, removing a variety of bottles and cartons. “Get
started on these. The bottles contain supplements. The cartons contain food
additives and mixes. Drinks. Soups.” He concentrated on arranging the
containers atop the trolley. “I only ask because I’m required by law, not because
I personally give a damn, but are you sure you want to continue with things as
they are? A brain insert and a gene retrofit, and it could all be a distant
memory.”
    Evan tucked in his shirt. “I’m a content drunk, John. Leave me
be.” He tightened his belt, using the last of the holes he’d punched only last
month.
    “As you wish. Your left knee requires a rebuild. The stabilizers
you had inserted last winter were only temporary.” Shroud hesitated. “I heard
Jani had something to do with that.”
    “Ah, don’t mince words, John. She cornered me in my office and
cracked my knee to keep me from running off.” Evan flexed the joint, which
emitted its inevitable click. “Just before she crippled me, she killed Durian
Ridgeway. The sheets called it suicide, but she broke his neck.” He remembered
it well, since he had been ordered to identify the body. In the interest of
efficiency, he’d been told, but he had known better. He had stood in Durian’s
office, supported by Justice officials on either side, injured leg numbed to the
hip. The crime-scene tech lifted the corner of the tarp and someone bit out, Take
a good, hard look.
    The images sneaked up on Evan now, sceneshots etched into his
brain. Durian’s goggled eyes. The unnatural twist of his neck.
    He walked over to a wall-mounted mirror and concentrated on
hand-combing his hair. “Durian. Rik Neumann. The Laum encampment at Knevçet
Shèràa. Our Jani has a pretty lengthy history herself, and those are only the
deaths we know about.” He watched Shroud shift containers back and forth.
“She’s lived on the thin edge for almost twenty years—God only knows what else
she’s