Jani Kilian Chronicles Books 1-3

Kristine Smith

Description

A three-volume omnibus containing Books 1-3 of the Jani Kilian Chronicles: CODE OF CONDUCT: Jani Kilian has been on the run for 18 years. But when Interior Minister Evan van Reuter, her former lover, tracks her down and begs her help in finding his wife's killer, she has no choice but to agree. RULES OF CONFLICT: After eighteen years, Captain Jani Kilian's life as a fugitive has ended. Captured by the Service, she now faces court martial. It will surely lead to her execution. But relations with the idomeni have deteriorated. Jani's knowledge of that alien race and her friendship with Nema, their ambassador, earn her a reprieve. And if she is able to help stabilize the crisis, she may be in line for a pardon.LAW OF SURVIVAL: Jani Kilian finally has her life under control. Discharged from the Service, she's become an important player in negotiations with the alien idomeni. But when a classified report containing revelations about past crimes comes to light, Jani realizes that old enemies still seek to destroy her.

Sujets

• Science fiction
• Space opera

Informations

• Publié par: Book View Cafe
• Date de parution: 12 février 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781611387742
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Jani Kilian Chronicles :

Books 1-3


Kristine Smith
The Jani Kilian Chronicles
Books 1-3

Omnibus Cover Design
Robin Ludwig Design Inc.

Individual Cover Designs
Dave Smeds

Omnibus Interior Design
April Steenburgh








www.bookviewcafe.com





Book View Café Edition

January 29, 2018

ISBN: 978-1-61138-774-2





Code of Conduct Copyright 1999 by Kristine Smith
Publication History: Eos Mass Market Paperback, November 1999
Harpercollins eBook Edition, October 2009
Book View Café eBook Edition, December 2015
Bookview Café Print Edition, December 2015




Rules of Conflict Copyright 2000 by Kristine Smith
Publication History: Eos Mass Market Paperback, September 2000
Harpercollins eBook Edition, January 2009
Book View Café eBook Edition, January 2016
Bookview Café Print Edition, January 2016




Law of Survival Copyright 2001 by Kristine Smith
Publication History: Eos Mass Market Paperback, October 2001
Harpercollins eBook Edition, October 2009
Book View Café eBook Edition, March 2016
Book View Café Print Edition, March 2016


First SFBC Science Fiction Printing: October 2007
Contents Code of Conduct




Rules of Conflict




Law of Survival
Code of Conduct
The visible aspects of the condition, it is believed, first manifested themselves during a stressful period in the patient’s life. Therefore, the mild agitation that commonly precedes the acute phase, although evident, was easily ascribable to the patient’s augmentation or other, more mundane, causes.


—Internal Communication, Neoclona/Seattle
Shroud, J., Parini, V., concerning Patient S-1
Chapter 1
The frigid morning dampness seeped through Jani’s weatherall as she hurried out of the charge lot. She jammed the notes from her crack-of-dawn meeting into the side pocket of her duffel; as she did, she quickly surveyed the scene behind her. Rain-slick skimmers hovered beside boxy charge stations. Trickle-charge lights glimmered like distant stars. A single streetlight bathed everything in a cold blue sheen. No movement in the ice-light. No sound.
Jani took a step. Stopped. She could feel eyes follow her, could sense their probing like a skin-crawl across her shoulders. She turned.
A few meters away, a feral cat regarded her from its perch atop a discarded shipping crate. It stared at her for a few moments, then poured to the ground and vanished into an alley. Seconds later, Jani heard the scatter of garbage, followed by a strangled squeak.
Sounds familiar . The poor mouse. It probably never knew what hit it. Jani could sympathize. Her meeting had gone much the same way.
It’s like everyone’s forgotten Whalen’s Planet exists, girly. Commercial traffic at the docks is down sixty percent in the last two weeks. That’s six-oh .
She trotted down a side street that led to the main thoroughfare. Her right knee locked as she turned the corner, and she stumbled against a pair of mutually supportive inebriates who had emerged from one of NorthPort’s many bars.
One of the drunks shouted as Jani disentangled herself and hurried away. Something about how her limp made her ass wiggle. She looked over her shoulder, caught glimpses of brightly colored ship patches and a slack-jawed leer. She felt the heat creep up her neck and kept moving.
She entered the lobby of a hostel that catered to merchant-fleet officers, tossing a wave to the desk clerk as she hurried to the holoVee alcove. Several employees already sat on the floor in front of the display screen, their positions carefully gauged to allow them a clear view of the front desk.
On the lookout for the manager . Jani kept quiet until she entered within range of the holoVee’s soundshielding. She knew an unauthorized break when she saw one. “Is this it?”
One of the cleaners nodded. “Hi, Cory,” she said without looking up. “It’s the CapNet broadcast. It’s just getting started.”
Jani did a quick mental roll call of the small group, counting faces, uniforms. She didn’t know their names—she tried to avoid the complication of names whenever possible. “Where’s the garage guy?”
“He’s still out sick,” the cleaner said. “Should be back tomorrow. He’ll be mad he missed this.” The young woman grinned. “I’ll tell him you asked about him. He thinks you jam.”
Jani responded with her “Cory” smile. Quiet. Closed. A smile whose owner would blush and keep walking. She leaned against a planter and surveyed with satisfaction the lack of fuss that greeted her arrival. Yes, Cory Sato, documents technician, had settled quite nicely in NorthPort over the last six months. Jani Kilian had never seemed farther away.
Until her morning meeting.
Business has dropped over the side these past two weeks, girly. NUVA-SCAN annex won’t answer our calls. Even the Haárin are complaining. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you ?
An overwrought voice interrupted Jani’s troubled meditation. “A great honor is being paid the Commonwealth,” the CapNet reporter gushed, “opening a new and exciting chapter in human-idomeni relations!”
Spoken like someone who has no idea what she’s talking about , Jani thought as she watched members of the Commonwealth Cabinet walk out onto the sheltered stage that had been erected in front of the Prime Minister’s palatial Main House. Steam puffed from their mouths. A few of the coatless ministers shivered in their formal, color-coded uniforms. Chicago in winter looked even less hospitable than NorthPort, if that was possible.
Treasury Minister Abascal, ever-flushed face glowing in lurid contrast to his gold tunic, trundled to the podium “to say a few words.”
“Where’s the ambassador?” someone grumbled.
“He doesn’t come out till later—you want the poor old bastard to freeze to death?”
“Never get to see him at this rate.” One of the day-shift waiters checked his timepiece. “All fourteen ministers gonna talk—it’ll be hours.”
“Not all fourteen,” said the restaurant hostess. “Van Reuter’s not there.”
Really ? Jani studied the rows of faces, looking for the one she knew. Had known. Long ago. “Too bad,” she said. “He’s the best speaker of the bunch.”
“You like him?” The waiter glanced at Jani over his shoulder and sneered. “He’s a Family boy nance.”
“He knows the idomeni,” Jani replied. “That’s more than you can say for the rest of them.”
“You don’t see him much since his wife died,” the hostess said. “Poor man.”
“You hear about him, though,” the waiter muttered. “Nance.”
On-screen, Abascal finished to scattered applause and gave way to Commerce Minister al-Muhammed. Jani leaned forward, straining to hear the commentary over the buzz of multiple conversations. Commerce controlled trade and transport schedules—maybe something al-Muhammed said would shed light on the slowdown around Whalen.
“Is al-Muhammed the ‘A’ in NUVA or the ‘A’ in SCAN?” someone piped, drowning out the minister’s voice.
Oh blow ! Jani shouldered her bag and walked through the middle of the huddle. “Al-Muhammed’s the ‘A’ in SCAN,” she said, bumping the speaker in the back of his head with her knee.
“He’s another nance,” griped the waiter.
“Cory, I thought you wanted to see this,” someone called after her. “You’ll miss the ambassador.”
“I have to go. I’ll catch it somewhere else.” Somewhere quieter. She should have known better than to try to watch the program with others. Some things needed to be studied in private. Pondered. Mulled.
We’ve officially reopened relations with the idomeni . Jani rubbed her stomach, which had begun to ache. Wonderful . She walked past buildings of black-and-yellow thermal scan-brick toward NorthPort’s Government Hall. The elegant twelve-story edifice loomed over all like a stern but forgiving patriarch, offering numerous types of guidance to his wayward children. Audit assistance from External Revenue Out-reach. Documents counseling from the Commerce and Treasury Ministry annexes. By all appearances, family relations appeared very close.
Appearances, as the old saying went, could be deceiving.
Why you always hang about with the nances at Guv Hall, girly? What goes on there so interesting you need to see it every day ?
She increased her pace as she headed out of the business district, monitoring her stride in shop windows and mirror-glazed brick. She had only become aware of the hitch in her walk over the past couple of months, and had attributed it to a combination of the NorthPort weather and a cheap mattress.
Among other things . Jani took a step. Right foot down . Another. Left foot . . . down . She had to assume that. She hadn’t much sensation in her left leg. Or her left arm. The lack of feeling sometimes made quick movement an adventure, but she maneuvered pretty well for a half-animandroid patch job. And my ass does not wiggle —she glanced at her reflection— not much, anyway .
Block after block fell behind as she tried to walk off her growing apprehension. She passed warehouses, long-term skimmer charge lots, then a three-hundred-meter stretch of sand and scrub before coming to the houses.
The facades of the one- and two-story polystone homes would have appeared familiar to most humans, but a careful observer would have noticed the subtle alterations. Smaller, fewer windows. No doors opening out to the street. Blank walls facing the human side of town. For humanish ways are strange ways, and godly idomeni avert their eyes .
The low clouds opened. Cold rain splattered down. Jani yanked the hood of her weatherall up over her head, but not before looking around to see if she was being observed. She wouldn’t be welcomed here. The made-sect Haárin, like their more disciplined born-sect counterparts, preferred that their humanish neighbors keep their distance.
Except when it comes to business . The Haárin were non-violent criminals and other idomeni social anomalies, their manufactured sect the pit into which the born-sects dumped their misfits. Eve