Free Rules of Conflict by Kristine Smith Page B

from the shuttle gate into the O’Hare Service Terminal concourse. Jani
gripped the sides of her floating seat as two members of her escort tried to
wrestle it through the narrow arch. After one particularly hard push, the chair
shuddered, bucked, then bounced to the floor and back up into the air. Her
stomach turned. The acid rose in her throat.
    “How many mainliners does it take to push a skimchair?” Jani thought she muttered under her breath. Every other person and device in the concourse
chose that moment to fall silent, however—her commentary cut the air like
inappropriate sounds usually did.
    The mainline lieutenant who steered glanced over her head at the
mainline lieutenant who ruddered, then at her. “Do you have any suggestions,
Captain?”
    “The signals from the doorscan and the skimchair lift array are
confounding one another. Ask someone from Port Security to shut down the
doorscan until you can push me through.”
    The looie grimaced. He was a man of action, who preferred pulling
and grappling and nauseating his passenger to asking for help. He released the
chair grudgingly and strode off in search of a Security guard, the red stripe
on the side of his trousers flicking like an ambulatory exclamation point.
    Jani crossed her arms over her queasy stomach. Then she looked
through the arch at the third member of her escort, who had entered the
concourse ahead of them and now sat perched on the arm of a nearby bench,
regarding her with mock solemnity. He had worn the same sideline summerweights
since they’d departed MarsPort; days of wear had left the light grey
short-sleeve and steel blue trousers rumpled, the sideline white trouser stripe
puckered. His pale skin, black, curly hair, and stocky build would have marked
him as Josephani Dutch even without his accent, which sounded like Hortensian
German with the edges ground down.
    Piers Friesian. Major. Defense command, out of Fort Constanza. Appointed by the staff Judge Advocate to see to her defense. A nice enough man.
She wondered what he had done to deserve her.
    He rocked back on his tenuous seat and locked his hands around his
knee. “I heard the news walking by one of the kiosks. Acadia Central United won
its final qualifying match. They defeated Jersey Conglomerate four to one.”
    Jani managed a smile. “That means they’ve drawn a first-round
bye.”
    “The merry dance starts in two weeks. Guess who I’m rooting for?”
    “Josephan Arsenal.”
    “You got it.”
    “Won’t make it out of the quals.” Behind her, the rearguard looie
swallowed a chuckle.
    “Says you.” The light in Friesian’s eyes dimmed. He glanced over
the top of Jani’s head at Rearguard, who stepped around the skimchair into the
concourse and took a seat beyond hearing range. “How are you feeling?”
    “Fine, sir.”
    Friesian ran a hand over his face. “Fine, sir. You said that at
Fort Constanza, just before that stomachache dropped you like a rock. You also
said it just as we broke through Felix GateWay. Right after that, you passed
out, then awoke two days later speaking street Acadian and insisting you were
fifteen years old. I don’t think the medical officers will ever be the same.
Neuro was not his specialty.”
    “I was fine by the time we reached MarsPort.”
    “Yes, you were. You did tell me that. I thought we might actually
get some work done. Then you ate lunch and became royally sick.” His impatience
broke through his even speech like flecks of foam on smooth water. “Your ‘fine,
sirs’ aren’t worth much, are they?”
    Jani tugged at her own baggy short-sleeve. From what little she
could remember of the last three weeks, it had once fit her
perfectly—otherwise, she wouldn’t have been issued it. How much of a weight
loss did that imply? Five kilos? Ten? “What do you want me to say, sir?”
    “I want you to call me Piers, and I want you to level with me.”
    Jani examined her right arm, halfway between elbow and wrist,
where a tiny,