Cyteen

i

Time stopped being. There was just the tape-flow, mostly placid, occasionally disturbing. There were intervals of muzzy waking, but the trank continued—until now, that Grant drifted closer to the surface.

"Come on, you've got a visitor," someone said, and a damp cloth touched his face. The washing proceeded downward, gently, neck and chest, with an astringent smell. "Wake up."

He slitted his eyes. He stared at the ceiling while the washing proceeded, and hoped they would let him loose, but it was not much hope. He wished they would give him trank again, because the fear was back, and he had been comfortable while it lasted.

He grew chill with the air moving over damp skin. He wanted the sheet back again. But he did not ask. He had stopped trying to communicate with the people that handled him and they did not hurt him anymore. That was all he asked. He remembered to blink. He saw nothing. He tried not to feel the cold. He felt a twinge when the tech jostled the needle in his arm. His back ached, and it would be the most wonderful relief if they would change the position of the bed.

"There." The sheet settled over him again. A light slap popped against his face, but he felt no pain. "Come on. Eyes open."

"Yes," he murmured. And shut them again the moment the azi tech left him alone.

He heard another voice then, at the door, young and male. He lifted his head and looked and saw Justin there. He distrusted the vision at once, and jerked at the restraints.

But Justin came to him, sat down on the side of his bed and took his hand despite the restraint that gave him only a little movement. It was a warm grip. It felt very real.

"Grant?"

"Please don't do this."

"Grant, for God's sake– Grant, you're home. You understand me?"

It was very dangerous even to think about believing. It meant giving up. There was no secret sign his own mind could not manufacture. There was no illusion tape could not create. Justin was what they would use. Of course.

"Grant?"

Tape could even make him think he was awake. Or that the mattress gave, or that Justin held him by the shoulder. Only the keen pain in his back penetrated the illusion. It was not perfect.

Reality—had such little discordances.

"They won't let me take you back to the apartment yet. Ari won't. What are they doing? Are you all right? Grant?"

Questions. He could not figure how they fitted. There was usually a pattern. These had to do with credibility. That was the game.

"Grant, dammit!" Justin popped his hand against his cheek, gently. "Come on. Eyes open. Eyes open."

He resisted. That was how he knew he was doing better. He drew several breaths and his back and shoulders hurt like hell. He was in terrible danger . . . because he thought that the illusion was real. Or because he had lost the distinction.

"Come on, dammit."

He slitted his eyes cautiously. Saw Justin's face, Justin with a frightened look.

"You're home. In hospital. You understand? Ari blew them all to hell and got you out."

(Blood spattering the walls. The smell of smoke.)

It looked like hospital. It looked like Justin. There was no test that would confirm it, not even if they let him out to walk around. Only time would do that, time that went on longer than any tape-illusion.

"Come on, Grant. Tell me you're all right."

"I'm all right." He drew a breath that hurt his back and realized he could get things out of this illusion. "My back's killing me. My arms hurt. Can you move the bed?"

"I'll get them to take those off."

"I don't think they will. But I'd like the bed moved. There—" The surface under him flexed like a living thing and shifted upward, bringing his head up. The whole surface made a series of waves that flexed muscles and joints. "Oh, that's better."

Justin settled back on the edge, making a difference in the ripples. "Ari tracked you to Kruger's. Kruger was being blackmailed. He handed you over to the Abolitionists. I had to go to Ari. She got somebody—I don't know who—to go in after you. She said they'd been running tape."

He had had no structure for that time. No division between there and here. He examined the gift very carefully. "How long?"

"Two days."

Possible.

"You've been here two days," Justin said. "They let Jordan and me in right after they brought you in. Now they say I can visit."

It frightened him. It wanted to move in permanently, an illusion against which his defenses were very limited. He was losing. He sat there and cried, feeling the tears slip down his face.

"Grant."

"All right." He was nearly gone. "But if I tell you to leave, you leave."

"Grant, it's not tape. You're here, dammit." Justin squeezed his hand till the bones ground together. "Focus. Look at me. All right?"

He did. "If I tell you to leave—"

"I'll go. All right. Do you want me to?"

"Don't do that to me. For God's sake—"

"I'll get Ivanov. Damn them. Damn them."

Justin was on his way to his feet. Grant clenched his hand, holding on to him. Held on and held tight; and Justin sat down again and hugged him hard. "Unnnh." It hurt. It felt real. Justin could pull him back. Justin knew what he was doing, knew what was the matter with him, knew why he was afraid. Was his ally. Or he was lost. "It's going to take a while."

"About a week to get you out of here. Ari says." He remembered crises other than his own. He looked at Justin as Justin sat back. Remembered why he had gone down the river. "She give you trouble?"

"I'm all right."

Lie. More and more real. Tape was better than this. In a while Justin would go away and he would remember believing it and be afraid. But in the meanwhile it made him afraid for a different, more tangible reason. Jordan's transfer; Justin's sending him away—the fragments assumed a time-sense. When existed again. The real world had traps in it, traps involved Ari, Justin had tried to get him free, he was home and Justin was in trouble. No. Careful. Careful.

"What did she do when she found out I was gone?"

"I'll tell you later."

Dammit, he did not need worry to upset his stomach. It felt like home. Secrets, Ari, and trouble. And everything he loved. He took in a slow, long breath. "I'm holding on," he said, knowing Justin would understand. "I don't want any more tape. I don't want any more sedation. I need to stay awake. I want them to leave the lights on. All the time. I want to get this damn tube out of my arm."

"I haven't got any authority. You know that. But I'll tell Ivanov. I'll make it real strong with him. And I'll take the tube out. Here."

It stung. "That's going to drip all over the floor."

"Hell with it. There." He stopped the drip. "They're going to put a phone in here. And a vid."

His heart jumped. He remembered why a phone was important. But he was not there anymore. Or none of it had happened. Or there were possibilities he had missed.

"You know I'm not really well-hinged."

"Hell, I don't notice a difference."

He laughed, a little laugh, automatic, glad Justin was willing to joke with him; and realized that had come totally around a blind corner. Surprised him, when he had been expecting smooth, professional pity. It was not a funny laugh. Surprise-laugh.

Tape could hardly get Justin down pat enough to do something his mind had not expected, not when he was resisting it and not cooperating out of his subconscious.

He laughed again, just to test it, saw Justin look Like he had glass in his gut, and hope at the same time.

"It's a worm," he told Justin. And grinned wide, wider as he saw an instant of real horror on Justin's face.

"You damn lunatic!"

He laughed outright. It hurt, but it felt good. He tried to draw his legs up. Wrong. "Oh, damn. You think they can get my legs free?"

"Soon as you know where you are."

He sighed and felt tension ebbing out of him. He melted back against the moving bed and looked at Justin with a placidity different than tape offered. It still hurt. Muscle tension. Sprain. God knew what he had done to himself, or what they had done to him. "I had you, huh?"

"If you put this on for an act—"

"I wish. I'm fogged. I think I'm going to have flashes off this. I think they'll go away. I'm really scared, if you don't come back. Dr. Ivanov's running this, isn't he?"

"He's taking care of you. You trust him, don't you?"

"Not when he takes Ari's orders. I'm scared. I'm really scared. I wish you could stay here."

"I'll stay here through supper. I'll come back for breakfast in the morning; every hour I can get free till they throw me out. I'm going to talk to Ivanov. Why don't you try to sleep while I'm here? I'll sit in the chair over there and you can rest."

His eyes were trying to close. He realized it suddenly and tried to fight it. "You won't leave. You have to wake me up."

"I'll let you sleep half an hour. It's nearly suppertime. You're going to eat something. Hear? No more of this refusing food."

"Mmnn." He let his eyes shut. He went away awhile, away from the discomfort. He felt Justin get up, heard him settle into the chair, checked after a moment to be sure Justin really was there and rested awhile more.

He felt clearer than he had been. He even felt safe, from moment to moment. He had known, if the world was halfway worth living in, that Justin or Jordan would get to him and pull him back to it. Somehow. When it came he had to believe it or he would never believe anything again, and never come back from the trip he had gone on.

ii

The reports came in and Giraud Nye gnawed his stylus and stared at the monitor with stomach-churning tension.

The news-services reported the kidnapping of a Reseune azi by radical elements, reported a joint police-Reseune Security raid on a remote precip station on the heights above Big Blue, with explicit and ugly interior scenes from the police cameras—the azi, spattered with the blood of his captors, being rescued and bundled aboard a police transport. It had taken something, for sharpshooters in outback gear to hike in, break into the garage via a side door, and make a flying attack up the stairs. One officer wounded. Three radical Abolitionists killed, in full view of the cameras. Good coverage and bodies accounted for, which left no way for Ianni Merino and the Abolition Centrists to raise a howl and convoke Council: publicly, Merino was distancing himself as far and as fast as he could from the incident. Rocher was deluging the Ministry of Information with demands for coverage for a press conference: he got nothing. Which meant that the police would be watching Rocher very carefully—the last time Rocher got blacked out, someone had unfurled a huge Full Abolition banner in the Novgorod subway and sabotaged the rails, snarling traffic in a jam the news-services could not easily ignore.

God knew it had not won Rocher the gratitude of commuters. But he had his sympathizers, and a little display of power meant recruits.

About time, he thought, to do something about Rocher and de Forte. Thus far they had been a convenient embarrassment to Corain and to Merino, discrediting the Centrists. Now Rocher had crossed the line and become a nuisance.

Convenient if the damage to Grant had been extreme. A before-and-after clip given to the news-services would show the Abolitionists up for the hounds they were. Honest citizens never saw a mindwipe in progress. Or botched. Convenient if they could take the azi down for extreme retraining—or take him down altogether. God knew he was Alpha, and a Warrick product, and God knew what Rocher's tapes had done: he had rather be safe; he had told Ari as much.

Absolutely not, Ari had said. What are you thinking of? In the first place, he's a lever. In the second, he's a witness against Rocher. Don't touch him.

Lever with whom, Giraud thought sourly. Ari was holding night-sessions with young Justin, and Ari was, between driving Jane Strassen to ulcers over the refitting of Lab One and the relocation of eight research students, so damned wrapped up in her obsession with the Rubin project that nobody got time with her except her azi and Justin Warrick.

Got herself a major triste. Lost youth and all of that.

Goes off and leaves me to mop up the mess in Novgorod. 'Don't touch Merild or Krugers. We don't want to drive the enemy underground. Cut a deal with Corain. That's not hard, is it?'

The hell.

The phone rang. It was Warrick. Senior. Demanding Grant's release to his custody.

"That's not my decision, Jordie."

"Dammit, it doesn't seem to be anybody's, does it? I want that boy out of there."

"Look, Jordie—"

"I don't care whose fault it isn't."

"Jordie, you're damn lucky no one's prosecuting that kid of yours. It's his damn fault this came down, don't yell at me—"

"Petros says you're the one has to authorize a release."

"That's a medical matter. I don't interfere in medical decisions. If you care about that boy, I'd suggest you let Petros do his job and stay—"

"He passed the mess to you, Gerry. So did Denys. We're not talking about a damn records problem. We're talking about a scared kid, Gerry."

"Another week—"

"The hell with another week. You can start by giving me a security clearance over there, and get Petros to return my calls."

"Your son is over there right now. He's got absolute clearance, God knows why. He'll take care of him."

There was silence on the other end.

"Look, Jordie, they say about another week. Two at most."

"Justin's got clearance."

"He's with him right now. It's all right. I'm telling you it's all right. They've stopped the sedation. Justin's got visiting privileges, I've got it right here on my sheet, all right?"

"I want him out."

"That's real fine. Look, I'll talk to Petros. Is that all right? In the meantime your kid's with Grant, probably the best medicine he could get. Give me a few hours. I'll get you the med reports. Will that satisfy you?"

"I'll be back to you."

"Fine, I'll be here."

"Thanks," came the mutter from the other end.

"Sure," Giraud muttered; and when the contact broke: "Damn hothead." He went back to the draft of the points he meant to make with Corain, interrupted himself to key a query to Ivanov's office, quick request for med records on Grant to Jordan Warrick's office. And added, on a second thought, because he did not know what might be in those records, or what Ari had ordered: SCP, security considerations permitting.

iii

The new separator was working. The rest of the equipment was scheduled for checkout. Ari made notes by hand, but mostly because she worked on a system and the Scriber got in her way: in some things only state of the art would do, but when it came to her notes, she still wrote them with a light-pen on the Translate, in a shorthand her Base in the House system continually dumped into her archives because it knew her handwriting: old-fashioned program, but it equally well served as a privacy barrier. The Base then went on to translate, transcribe and archive under her passwords and handprint, because she had given it the password at the top of the input.

Nothing today of a real security nature. Lab-work. Student-work. Any of the azi techs could be down here checking things, but she enjoyed this return to the old days. She had helped wear smooth the wooden seats in Lab One, hours and hours over the equipment, doing just this sort of thing, on equipment that made the rejected separator look like a technologist's dream.

That part of it she had no desire to recreate. But quite plainly, she wanted to say I in her write-up of this project. She wanted her stamp on it and her hand on the fine details right from the conception upward. I was most careful, in the initiation of this project—

I prepared the tank—

There were very few nowadays who were trained in all the steps. Everyone specialized. She belonged to the colonial period, to the beginnings of the science. Nowadays there were colleges turning out educated apes, so-named scientists who punched buttons and read tapes without understanding how the biology worked. She fought that push-the-button tendency, put an especially high priority on producing methodology tapes even while Reseune kept its essential secrets.

Some of those secrets would come out in her book. She had intended it that way. It would be a classic work of science—the entire evolution of Reseune's procedures, with the Rubin project hindmost in its proper perspective, as the test of theories developed over the decades of her research. IN PRINCIPIO was the title she had tentatively adopted. She was still searching for a better one.

The machine came up with the answer on a known sequence. The comp blinked red on an area of discrepancy.

Damn it to bloody hell. Was it contamination or was it a glitch-up in the machine? She made the note, mercilessly honest. And wondered whether to lose the time to replace the damn thing again and try with a completely different test sample, or whether to try to ferret out the cause and document it for the sake of the record. Doing the former, was a dirty solution. Being reduced to the latter and, God help her, failing to find solid evidence, which was a good bet in a mechanical glitch-up, made her look like a damn fool or forced her to have recourse to the techs more current with the equipment.

Dump the machine and consign it to the techs, run the suspect sample in a clean machine, and install a third machine for the project, with a new sample-run.

Every real-life project is bound to have its glitch-ups, or the researcher is lying ...

The outer lab-door opened. There were distant voices. Florian and Catlin. And another one she knew. Damn.

"Jordan?" she yelled, loud enough to carry. "What's your problem?"

She heard the footsteps. She heard Florian's and Catlin's. She had confused the azi, and they trailed Jordan as far as the cold-lab door.

"I need to talk to you."

"Jordie, I've got a problem here. Can we do it in about an hour? My office?"

"Here is just fine. Now. In private."

She drew a long breath. Let it go again. Grant, she thought. Or Merild and Corain. "All right. Damn, we're going to have Jane and her clutch traipsing through the lab out there in about thirty minutes. —Florian, go over to B and tell them their damn machine won't work." She turned and ejected the sample. "I want another one. We'll go through every damn machine they've got if that's what it takes. I want the thing cleaner than it's providing. God, what kind of tolerances are they accepting these days? And you bring it over yourself. I don't trust those aides. Catlin, get up there and tell Jane she can take her damn students somewhere else. I'm shutting down this lab until I get this thing running." She drew a second long breath and used the waldo to send the offending sample back through cryogenics, then ejected the sample-chamber to a safe-cell and sent it the same route. When she turned around the azi were gone and Jordan was still standing there.

iv

It was a hike from the hospital over to the House itself, a long round-about if the weather made it necessary to go through the halls and the tunnel, a good deal shorter to walk over under open sky. Justin opted for the open air, though the shadows of the cliffs had cut off the sun and he ought to have brought a coat. He got tape-flash. He got it almost everywhere. The sensations got to him most, and his stomach stayed upset– "You eat the damn stuff," Grant had challenged him, since hospital staff had brought two dinners. "I'll match you."

He had gotten it down. He was not sure it was going to stay there. It had been worth everything to have Grant able to sit up and laugh—they had let him free to have his supper and Grant had sat cross-legged in bed and managed the dessert with some enthusiasm. Even if the nurses said they were going to have to put the restraints back on when he was alone for the night. He would not have left for the night at all, and Ivanov would have let him stay; except he had an appointment with Ari, and he could not tell Grant that. Late work at the lab, he had said. But Grant had been a hundred percent better when he had left him than when he had come in, quickly exhausted, but with liveliness in his eyes, the ability to laugh—perhaps a little too much, perhaps a little too forced, but the way the eyes looked said that Grant was back again.

Just when he was leaving the mask had come down, and Grant had looked sober and miserable.

"Back in the morning," Justin had promised.

"Hey, you don't have to, it's a long walk over here."

"I want to, all right?"

And Grant had looked ineffably relieved. That was the good in the day. It was worth everything he paid for it. He felt for the first time since that day in Ari's office, that there might be a way out of this.

If—if Ari had enough to keep her busy, if—

He thought of Grant and Ari, Grant already on the edge of his sanity-Grant, who had the looks, the grace that every girl he had ever known had preferred to him—

He waded through tape-flash that diminished only to shameful memory, through a muddle of anguish and exhaustion. He was not going to be worth anything. He wanted to go somewhere and be sick—he could call Ari and plead that he was sick, truly he was, he was not lying, she could ask him the next time he—

O God. But then there was the agreement that let him get to Grant. There was the agreement that promised Grant would be free. She could mindwipe Grant. She could do anything. She had threatened Jordan. Everything was on him, and he could not tell Grant, not in the state Grant was in. He took in his breath and slogged on down the path that led around the corner toward the main door—a jet was coming in. He heard it. It was ordinary. RESEUNEAIR flew at need, as well as on a weekly schedule. He saw it touch down, walking along by the gravel bed and the adapted shrubbery that led to the front doors. The bus started up from in front of the doors and passed him on its way around the drive and down toward the main road. On its way to pick up someone on the jet, he reckoned, and wondered who in the House had been downriver in all this chaos.

He walked in through the automatic doors, using his keycard in the brass slot, clipped the keycard back to his shut and headed immediately for the lift that would take him up to his apartment.

Phone Jordan first thing he got in and tell him Grant was better. He wished he had had time to call while he was in the hospital, but Grant had not wanted him out of his sight, and he had not wanted to upset him.

"Justin Warrick."

He turned and looked at the Security guards, putting their presence together with the plane and the bus and instantly thought that some visitor must be coming in.

"Come with us, please."

He indicated the lift buttons. "I'm just going up to my room. I'll be out of here."

"Come with us, please."

"Oh, damn, just use the com, ask your Supervisor– You don't touch me!" As one of them reached for him. But they took him by the arms and leaned him up against the wall. "My God," he said, unnerved and exasperated, as they proceeded to search him thoroughly. It was a mistake. They were azi. They got their instructions upside down and they went damned well too far.

They wrenched his arms back and he felt the chill of metal at his wrists.

"Hey!"

The cuffs clicked shut. They faced him about again and walked him down the hall. He balked, and they jerked him into motion, down the hall toward the Security office.

God. Ari had filed charges. On him, on Jordan, Kruger, everyone involved with Grant. That was what had happened. Somewhere she had gotten the leverage she wanted, something to silence them and bring everything down on them; and he had done it, he, thinking he could deal with her.

He walked where they wanted him to go, down the hall and into the office with the glass doors, where the Supervisor sat. "In there," the Supervisor said with a wave of her hand toward the back of the office.

"What in hell's going on?" he demanded, trying bluff in the absence of everything else. "Dammit, call Ari Emory!"

But they took him past steel doors, past the security lock, put him in a bare, concrete room, and shut the door.

"Dammit, you have to read me the charges!"

There was no answer.

v

The body was quite, quite frozen, fallen right at the vault door, mostly prone, twisted a little. Surfaces in the vault still were frost-coated and painful to the touch. "Patch of ice," the investigator said, and recorded the scene with his camera, posthumous indignity. Ari would have resented that like hell, Giraud thought, and stared at the corpse, still unable to think that Ari was not going to move, that stiff limbs and glazed eyes and half-open mouth were not going to suddenly find life. She was wearing a sweater. Researchers would, who worked in the antiquated cold-lab: nothing heavier. But no cold-suit would have saved her.

"There wouldn't have been any damn patch of ice then," Petros muttered. "No way."

"She work with the door shut?" The investigator from Moreyville, smalltown and all the law there was for a thousand miles in all directions, laid his hand on the vault door. It started swinging to at that mere touch. "Damn." He stopped it with a shove, balanced it carefully and gingerly let go of it.

"There's an intercom," Petros said. "That door's swung to on most of us, sooner or later, we all know about it. It's something in the way the building's settled. You get locked in, you just call Security, you call Strassen's office, and somebody comes down and gets you out, it's no big thing."

"It was this time." The investigator—Stern, his name was—reached up and punched the button on the intercom. The casing broke like wax. "Cold. I'll want this piece," he said to his assistant, who was following him with a Scriber. "Does anyone hear?"

There was no sound out of the unit.

"Not working."

"Maybe it's the cold," Giraud said. "There wasn't any call."

"Pressure drop was the first you knew something was wrong."

"Pressure in the liquid nitrogen tank. The techs knew. I got a call a minute or so later."

"Wasn't there an on-site alarm?"

"It sounded," Giraud said, indicating the unit on the wall, "down here. No one works back here. The way the acoustics are, no one could figure out where it was coming from. We didn't know till we got the call from the techs that it was a nitrogen line. Then we knew it was the cold-lab. We came running down here and got the door open."

"Ummn. And the azi weren't here. Just Jordan Warrick. Who was back upstairs when the alarm went off. I want a report on that intercom unit."

"We can do that," Giraud said.

"Better if my office does."

"You're here for official reasons. For the record. This is not your jurisdiction, captain."

Stern looked at him—a heavy-set, dour man with the light of intelligence in his eyes. Intelligence enough to know Reseune swallowed its secrets.

And that, since Reseune had friends high in Internal Affairs, promotion or real trouble could follow a decision.

"I think," Stern said, "I'd better talk to Warrick." It was a cue to retire to private interviews. Giraud's first impulse was to follow him and cover what had to be covered. His second was a genuine panic, a sudden realization of the calamity that had overtaken Reseune, overtaken all their plans, the fact that the brain that had been so active, held so much secret—was no more than a lump of ice. The body was impossible, frozen as it was, to transport with any dignity. Even that simple necessity was a grotesque mess.

And Corain– This is going to hit the news-services before morning.

What in hell do we do? What do we do now?

Ari, dammit, what do we do?

Florian waited, sitting on a bench in the waiting room, in the west wing of the hospital. He leaned his elbows against his knees, head against his hands, and wept, because there was nothing left to do, the police had Jordan Warrick in custody, they would not let him near Ari, except that one terrible sight that had made him understand that it was true. She was dead. And the world was different than it had ever been. The orders came from Giraud Nye: report for tape.

He understood that. Report to the Supervisor, the rule had been from the time he was small; there was tape to heal distress, tape to heal doubts—tape to explain the world and the laws and the rules of it.

But in the morning Ari would still be dead and he did not know whether they could tell him anything to make him understand.

He would have killed Warrick. He still would, if he had that choice; but he had only the piece of paper, the tape order, that sent him here for an azi's comfort; and he had never been so alone or so helpless, every instruction voided, every obligation just—gone.

Someone came down the hall and came in, quietly. He looked up as Catlin came in, so much calmer than he—always calm, no matter what the crisis, and even now—

He got up and put his arms around her, held her the way they had slept together for so many years he had lost count, the good times and the terrible ones.

He rested his head against her shoulder. Felt her arms about him. It was something, in so much void. "I saw her," he said; but it was a memory he could not bear. "Cat, what do we do?"

"We're here. That's all we can do. There's no place else to be."

"I want the tape. It hurts so much, Cat. I want it to stop."

She took his face between her hands and looked in his eyes. Hers were blue and pale, like no one else's he knew. There was always sober sense in Cat. For a moment she frightened him, that stare was so bleak, as if there was no hope at all.

"It'll stop," she said, and held him tight. "It'll stop, Florian. It'll go. Were you waiting for me? Let's go in. Let's go to sleep, all right? And it won't hurt anymore."

Steps came up to the door, but people went back and forth every few minutes, and Justin had shouted himself hoarse, had sat down against the cold concrete wall and tucked himself up in a knot until he heard the door unlocked.

Then he tried for his feet, staggered his way up against the wall and kept his balance as two security guards came in after him.

He did not fight them. He did not say a word until they brought him back to a room with a desk.

With Giraud Nye behind it.

"Giraud," he said hoarsely, and sank down into the available round-backed chair. "For God's sake—what's going on? What do they think they're doing?"

"You're an accused accessory to a crime," Giraud said. "That's what's going on. Reseune law. You can make a statement now, of your own will. You know you're subject to Administrative rules. You know you're subject to psychprobe. I'd truly advise you be forthcoming."

Time slowed. Thoughts went racing in every direction, sudden disbelief that this could be happening, surety that it was, that it was his fault, that his father was involved because of him– Psychprobe would turn up everything. Everything. Jordan was going to find out. They would tell him.

He wished he were dead.

"Ari was blackmailing me," he said. It was hard to coordinate speech with the world going so slow and things inside him going so fast. It went on forever, just hanging there in silence. Mention Jordan and why Grant had to leave? Can they find that? How far can I lie? "She said Grant could go, if I did what she wanted."

"You didn't know about Kruger's link to Rocher."

"No!" That was easy. Words tumbled one onto the other. "Kruger was just supposed to get him away safe because Ari was threatening to hurt him if I—if I didn't—she—" He was going to be sick. Tape-flash poured in on him, and he leaned back as much as his arms let him and tried to ease the knot in his stomach. "When Grant didn't get to the city I went to her myself. I asked for her help."

"What did she say?"

"She called me a fool. She told me about Rocher. I didn't know."

"All that. You didn't go to your father."

"I couldn't. He didn't know about it. He'd—"

"What would he do?"

"I don't know. I don't know what he'd have done. I did everything. He didn't have anything to do with it."

"With stealing Grant, you mean."

"With anything. With Kruger. Rocher. Anybody."

"And Ari was going to let this happen."

It did not sound reasonable. Trap, he thought. She let it happen. Maybe she hoped he'd get through. Maybe—

–maybe some other reason. She was mad about it. She was—

But you never know with Ari. She plays reactions like most people use a keyboard.

"I think we'll ask the rest of the questions under probe. Unless you have anything else you want to tell me."

"Who's going to do it?" There were technicians and there were technicians, and it made a difference who he was going to be spilling his guts to. "Giraud, if I go on record, Ari's not going to like it. Does she know where I am? Does she know—" God, is this some politics between Ari and Giraud, has he snatched me up to get something on her? "I want to talk to Ari. I'm supposed to meet with her. She's going to be asking where I am. If she doesn't hear from me she's going to start—" – start after Jordan, maybe do something even she can't undo. They're going to tell him. Giraud will tell him. Maybe Administration wants something on Jordan, maybe this is some team action Ari and Giraud are running, her on me and Giraud on Jordan. O God, O God! what have I walked into? "—Start asking where I am. Hear me?"

"I don't think so. And I'm going to be asking the questions myself. You want to walk down to the room or are you going to make trouble about it? It'll go worse if you fight it, in all senses. You understand that. I just want to make sure you remember it."

"I'll walk."

"Fine." Giraud got up, and Justin sat forward and got up on shaking legs. He was halfway numb with cold, and the thoughts that had tumbled one onto the other lost all variety, became just a circle without escape.

He walked out the door Giraud opened for him, walked ahead of Giraud and the waiting guards, down the hall to a place he had heard about all his life, a room very like the rooms over at the hospital, in that wing where azi came for tape-adjustment, green walls, a plain couch. There was a camera-rig in the corner.

"Shirt," Giraud said.

He knew what they wanted. He peeled it off and laid it on the counter. He sat down on the couch and took the shot one of the azi had ready for him, tried to help them attach the sensors, because he always did his own, with tape; but his coordination was shot. He let himself back in the hands that reached to help him, felt them lift his legs up onto the couch. He felt them working with the patches. He shut his eyes. He wanted to tell Giraud to send the azi out, because what he had to say involved Ari, and the azi who heard that—would be in for selective wipe, there was no else about it.

Giraud asked him questions, gently, professionally. He was aware of the first ones. But that slipped. He could have been in the hands of one of the techs, but Giraud was the best interrogator he could have hoped for—quiet and not given to leaving an emotional load behind him. Professional, that was all. And if Giraud was checking the truth, Giraud was at least trying to find out what it was.

Giraud told him so. And under the drug it was true.

Giraud would not be shocked at what Ari had done. He had lived too long and seen too much. Giraud was truly sorry for him, and believed everything he said. A young boy of his qualifications, in Ari's vicinity—he had to understand this was not the first time. That Ari would try to work leverage on his father, of course. Who could doubt it? Jordan had surely known.

No, he argued, with a flash of white ceiling and bright light: he came that far to the surface. He remembered Giraud touching his shoulder.

You really took care not to have your father know. Of course. What do you suppose he would do if he found out?

Go to the Bureau.

Ah.

But he didn't know.

You can sleep now. You'll wake up rested. You can let go. You won't fall. Something was still wrong. He tried to lay hold of it. But it slid sideways, out of his vision.

"I don't think there's much doubt," Giraud said, looking at Jordan from across his desk. At forty-six, Jordan was far too athletic, far too capable physically to take a chance with; and they were careful, for other reasons, not to put a bruise on him. The restraints they used were webbing: no psychprobe, to be sure: Jordan Warrick was a Special, a national treasure. Not even the Bureau of Internal Affairs could do anything that might damage him, in any sense.

A Special was charged with murdering another Special. It was a situation that had no precedent. But Jordan Warrick could murder a dozen infants in Novgorod Plaza at noonday, and they could neither ask him why nor remand him to probe nor give him as much as the adjustment a public vandal would get.

Jordan glared at him from the chair Security had tied him to. "You know damn well I didn't do it."

"What will you do? Ask for a probe to prove it? We can't do a thing to you. You know that. You knew it when you did it."

"I didn't do it. Dammit, you haven't even got an autopsy yet."

"Whatever she died of, the cold was enough. The pipe didn't just break, Jordan, you know it and you know why it broke. Save us all the trouble. What did you do? Score the pipe and fill the lab tank is my guess. Fill the lab tank to capacity, then stop the main valve and turn the backflow pump to max. That'd blow the line at its weakest point, wherever someone damaged it."

"So you know how to do it. You seem to know the plumbing a hell of a lot better than I do. I do my work with a computer, Gerry, a keyboard. I'm sure I never cared where the pipes run in Wing One lab. I don't understand the cryogenics systems and I never cared to learn. There's one other thing wrong with your theory. I haven't got access there."

"Justin does. His azi had."

"Oh, you're really reaching. Grant's in hospital, remember?"

"We've questioned your son. We're starting to question the azi. Yours and his."

Jordan's face settled into stony calm. "You won't turn up a damn thing, because there isn't anything to turn up. You're going to have charges up to your eyeballs, Giraud. You had better plan on it."

"No, I won't. Because I know your motive."

"What motive?"

Giraud punched a button on the office recorder, on a pre-loaded clip.

"He passed the mess to you, Gerry. So did Denys. We're not talking about a damn records problem. We're talking about a scared kid, Gerry."

"Another week—"

"The hell with another week. You can start by giving me a security clearance over there, and get Petros to return my calls."

"Your son is over there right now. He's got absolute clearance, God knows why. He'll take care of him." Pause. "Look, Jordie, they say about another week. Two at most."

"Justin's got clearance."

End tape.

"What in hell has that got to do with anything?"

"That's when you went down to see Ari. Isn't it? Straight down there, right after that conversation."

"Damn right. You couldn't get off your ass."

"No. 'Justin's got clearance,' you said. That surprised you. A, Justin hadn't told you something he should have told you. B, Ari never gave away her advantages. C, you know Ari's habits. Right then, you guessed something you'd picked up on all along, right when you got onto the deal your son cut for Grant."

"Sheer fantasy."

"Your son tried to blackmail Ari. It was really quite a scheme. You thought he'd held Ari off. You let him run with it. But when Ari hauled Grant home, Ari had all the cards. Didn't she? All of them. Your son went to Ari for help, not to you. And your son got a favor out of her you couldn't get for all your threats. I wonder how."

"You have a hell of an imagination. I never suspected it of you."

"You confronted Ari, Ari either told you or you already knew—what your boy'd been doing for his tuition. And you killed her. You jammed a valve and turned a pump on, no great amount of time involved. Everyone in Wing One knew about that door. It was supposed to be an accident, but then you had to improvise."

Jordan said nothing for a moment. Then: "It doesn't work."

"Why not?"

"Let me tell you who else knew I was going down there. You knew. I left. Ari and I talked and I left. Check the Scriber."

"She didn't run one. You know that damn Translate. There isn't any spoken record. And she didn't leave us any notes. She didn't have time. You knocked her out, fixed the pipe, slammed the door, raised the pressure. By the time the alarm went off, you were back upstairs."

"I didn't do it. I don't say I'm shedding any tears. But I didn't do it. And Justin was over in hospital, you say so right on that tape you've got. You edit it and I'll make a liar out of you."

"Now you're reaching. Because if you go to trial, Jordie, I've got other tapes that belong in evidence. I'm going to run one for you."

"You don't have to."

"Ah. Then you guess what they are. But I want you to watch, Jordie. I'll run them all if you like. And you can tell me what you think."

"You don't have to."

"Ari said—you'd had your own passage with her . . . some years ago."

Jordan drew in a long breath. The mask was down. "You listen to me," he said on that breath. "You listen to me real well, slime, because you think you're handling this. If Ari's dead, and I'm gone, Reseune's got two wings in complete disorder. Reseune's got agreements it can't keep. Reseune's going to have real trouble meeting its contracts and all its political bedfellows are going to scramble for their pants. Fast. You're forgetting: if a Special dies, there's got to be an inquiry. And what they find out is going to be real interesting, not just for us lucky souls inside Reseune. When this hits the news-services, you're going to see department heads and corporation presidents running like bugs with the lights on. You're right. You can't question me. I can't testify by anything but my given word. You know what I'll tell them. I'll tell them you used tape on me. And they can't tell without a psychprobe. Which the law won't even let me volunteer for. You put me in front of a mike. You just go ahead and do that. That's the kind of coverage I've been waiting for. Best damn coverage I could get. Ari and her friend Lao could black me out. But you know the way it is—some stories are too big to silence. Murdering the head of Reseune is one of them. I'm damn sorry I didn't think of it."

"That's true. That's all very true."

"Right now you're thinking about killing me. Do it. You think one Special dead is hard to explain."

"But there's something so damned final about old news. A little scandal. A lot of silence after that."

"But you wouldn't be on Council. Damned sure you wouldn't. We can do murder in the streets but we can't cover it up. No political power. No dark spots for the bugs to snuggle in. Public contempt. You want to watch Reseune lose everything it's got—"

"Old news. Murder-suicide. You couldn't stand the notoriety that would come with a trial. You thought you could shut it up. You didn't know there were tapes. You didn't know Ari recorded her little parties. And people will be shocked. But only for a while. People have always liked scandal around the rich and famous. It's all lost in the glitter. Who knows, maybe your boy will take to the life. Or come to some tragic end. Drug overdose. Tape-tripping. A waste. But the one thing you know he won't get is a post at Reseune. Or anywhere else our influence reaches. Not mentioning the other boy. The azi. It's probably a mistake to put him under interrogation. He's so fragile right now. But we have to get to the facts."

Jordan did not so much as move for a long while.

"There's also, of course," Giraud said, "Paul."

Jordan shut his eyes.

"Defeat?" Giraud asked.

"I'm sure," Jordan said, looking at him, "you mean to make me a proposition. You've put this together so carefully. Their safety for my silence?"

Giraud smiled without humor. "You know we can take them. You just gave us too many hostages, Jordie, and you can't protect a one of them, except by following orders. You don't want your boy to five with that tape. You don't want him prosecuted, you don't want the Krugers up on charges, and your friend Merild dragged into court, and all your friends in Council tied to it, one string after another. There's just no place an investigation like this ends once you start it moving. You don't want Grant or Paul subject to interrogation after interrogation. You know what that would do. We don't want an investigation getting out of bounds and I don't want scandal touching Reseune. Let me tell you how it'll be. You give us a detailed confession. Nothing's going to happen to you: you know that. You'll even get your dearest wish: a transfer out of here. We'll insist your work is important. And you'll go on with it, in a quiet, comfortable place without cameras, without microphones, without visitors. Isn't that better than the alternatives?"

"Except I didn't do it. I don't know what happened. I walked out of there. Ari and I quarreled. I accused her of blackmailing my son. She laughed. I left. I didn't threaten her. I didn't say a thing. You know I'd be a damn fool to tell Ari what I intended. And it didn't include murder. I didn't know. That's the plain truth. I hadn't made up my mind to go to the Bureau. I wasn't sure if there wasn't a way to buy her off."

"Now we have a different truth. Do we get one an hour?"

"It is the truth."

"But you can't be psychprobed. You can't prove what you witnessed. Or did. You can't prove a damned thing. So we're back where we started. Frankly, Jordie, I don't care whether you did it. You're our chief problem in the mop-up. You'd like to have done it, you're number one on my agenda, and if you're not the one who did it, you're more dangerous than the one who did, because if someone else killed Ari, it was personal. If you did it, it was something else. So we'll examine hell out of those pipes, the valves, the whole system. If we don't find evidence, we'll make it, quite frankly. And I'll give you the whole script you can use for the Bureau. You stick to that story and I'll keep my end of the bargain. Just ask for what you want. Anything within reason. You plead guilty, you take the hit, you just retire to a comfortable little enclave, and everything will be fine. If not—I'm really afraid we'll have to take measures of our own."

"I want them transferred out of here. Justin. Grant. Paul. That's my price."

"You can't get that much. You can get their safety. That's all. They'll stay right here. If you change your mind, so can we. If you attempt escape, if you suicide, if you talk to anyone or pass a message of any land—they'll pay for it. That's the deal. It's just that simple."

A long, long silence. "Then put them with me."

Giraud shook his head. "I'll be generous. I don't have to be, understand. I'll give you Paul. I have some sympathy for you. Paul, of course, will be under the same restrictions."

"You won't touch him."

"What do you think? That I'd set him to spy on you? No. Not him. Not your son. Not the azi. You keep your bargain, I'll keep mine. Do we have a deal?"

Jordan nodded after a moment. His mouth trembled, only slightly.

"You'll stay here," Giraud said, "pending the Internal Affairs investigation. You'll be in detention. But you'll have reasonable comforts. Access to Paul—we can manage that. Access to your son—only under very restricted circumstances. Let me advise you on that: that boy will try to help you. For his sake, you'd better stop it cold. You're probably the only one who can. Do we agree?"

"Yes."

"I want to show you that tape I promised you."

"No."

"I think you should see it. I think you really should. I want you to think about it—what we can use if you can't provide political motives for your crime. I'm sure you can be convincing. I'm sure you can suggest radical connections. Centrist connections. Because there has to be a motive. Doesn't there?" He pressed a button. The wall-screen lit. It was Jordan's face he watched. Jordan with his eyes fixed on the corner, not the screen. Jordan, with a face like a carved image in the dimmed light, the flashes from the screen. Voices spoke. Bodies intertwined. Jordan did not look. But he reacted. He heard.

Giraud had no doubt of it.

"Did Jordan Warrick ever discuss in your presence his opinion of Ariane Emory?"

"Yes, ser," Grant answered. He sat still at the desk, his hands folded in front of him, and watched the light on the Scriber flicker, the little black box between himself and this man who said he was from the Bureau of Internal Affairs. He answered question after question.

Justin had not come back. They had fed him and let him take a shower, and told him that a man would be interviewing him that afternoon. Then they had put him back to bed and put the restraints back on. So he supposed it was afternoon. Or it was whatever they wanted it to be. He could become very angry at what they had done to him, but there was no use in it; it was what they wanted to do, and he had no way to prevent it. He was frightened; but that did no good either. He calmed himself and answered the questions, not trying to make a logic structure out of them yet, because that would affect his responses and they would lead him then; and he would lead them; and it would become adversarial. Which he did not want. He wanted to understand, but when he caught himself wanting it too much, he turned everything off, in that way he had learned when he was very, very small—azi tactic. Perhaps it helped him. Perhaps it was another of the differences between himself and Justin, between himself and a born-man. Perhaps it made him less than human. Or more. He did not know. It was only useful, sometimes, when he knew that someone wanted to manipulate him.

He just became not-there. The information flowed. They would take it when he was unconscious if he did not give it freely; and he expected they would check it by psychprobe anyway, no matter.

He would put it together later, recalling the questions, just what he had been asked and what the answers were. Then he might be able to think. But not now.

Not-there, that was all.

Eventually the man from Internal Affairs was not-there too. Others appeared and the illusions of doors opened.

The next place was the psych-lab. Then was the hardest thing, to flow with it, to be not-there through the interrogation under drugs. To walk the line between there and not-there took a great deal of concentration, and if he began to wobble and went too far into not-there and stayed too long, then it would be hard to find his way back again.

There tried to find its way into his thinking, with doubt that Justin had ever come to his room, with suspicion that, if he had, Ari's wrath had finally come down on them, and Justin and Jordan were being charged with his abduction. . . .

But he drove that out. He did not fight the techs as he had the men—if ever they had been real. The techs were Reseune techs and they had the keys to every smallest thought he owned.

The first rule said: It is always right to open to your key-command.

The second rule said: A key-command is absolute.

The third rule said: An operator with your keys is always right.

No Reseune operator, he believed with all his heart, would create an illusion of Reseune operators. No one but a Reseune operator held his keys. The whole universe might be flux of particles and dissolve about him: but in it, he existed, and the operator who had his keys existed.

Justin might never have existed at all. There might be no such place as Reseune and no such world as Cyteen. But the one who whispered correct numbers and code-phrases to him could enter his mind at will, and leave without a trace; or pick up this or that and look at it—not change it: a vase set on a table stayed a moment and sought its old position, not violently, just persistently– the other face belongs out. It would take many such entries, many rotations of the same vase, many distractions, like moving another table, shifting the couch about, before the vase would stay awhile in its new orientation. Even then it would tend to go back—over time.

Easier if the visitor said: we're going to rearrange this one room; and showed him the key. And ordered him to stand aside and watch. And then explained how all of it was going to fit together with the rest of the house, after which, if it truly worked, he would have less and less apprehension about it.

As it was, this visitor was rough, and knocked things about and then cornered him and asked him questions. Which made him anxious, because he was smart enough to know that occasionally tactics like that could be a distraction to get that vase on the table moved. Or to avoid that obvious temptation and go for something he might not notice for a while.

The visitor hit him once or twice and left him dazed. When he knew the door was closed he lay there awhile, and the vase that was in pieces picked itself up and mended itself; and the furniture straightened itself, and all the pieces started to go back again.

He had to he there a long time being sure that everything really was in its right place. The stranger could have done worse. The stranger could have gone a level deeper, and chased him through deeper and deeper rooms, until the stranger cornered him where there was no retreat. Then the stranger would have found a way into him, whereafter he would have been dragged inside himself, into dark territory the invader knew and he would probe only reluctantly.

That was not the way it was, of course. It was only the image he had, a child's picture, that a tech had helped him build. The vase was the tamper-gate. The yes-no/are-you-safe gate. It was right at the entry and any operator who tried to reassure him always rotated it just a little.

This visitor had thrown it to the floor.

He came out again in a room far more bleak and blank. Shadows came and went and spoke to him. But he was still largely not-there. He was exhausted, and the rooms kept coming disarranged, the furniture flying about at random, requiring him to order it again, which meant he had to go inside a great deal, and these people kept hitting him, blows on the cheek which felt like the flesh was deadened there. They spoke to him, but the words flew apart in pieces. He had no time for them. He was coming apart inside and if they woke him up he was not sure things would go back where they belonged.

Someone gave him the key-words the last visitor had left. And insisted he wake up. After which he was looking at Petros Ivanov sitting on his bed.

"They're going to take you in the chair. Will you let them do that?

"Yes," he said. He would let them do anything. Whoever they were. He was much too busy putting things back on shelves and watching them fall off again.

The room became a different room. There were flowers. There was a waterfall. It made a rhythmical sound that had no rhythm. Of course. It was a fractal. Fractals were common in nature. He tried obligingly to discover the pattern. They had handcuffed him to the chair. He was not sure what that datum had to do with anything. He worked at the math since that was the problem they had given him. He did not know why.

He slept, perhaps. He knew they had done something to his mind because the tamper-gate was unstable: the vase kept tottering off the table by the door. Not safe. Not safe.

But of a sudden he remembered that Justin was supposed to come. That had been true before. He violated the cardinal rule and cautiously, examining the cost of it carefully, took something other than the operator's truth as valid.

If he was wrong there was no way back from this, and he had no map.

If he was wrong he would not readily be able to reconstruct himself.

He put the vase back. He sat down to wait.

Justin would come. If not—nothing had ever existed.

He could see and taste and walk in their world. But not really. They would make wreckage of him. But not really. Nothing was—

–real.

Anyway.

vi

The lying-in-state was barbaric, the Hall of State echoing with somber funeral music and cloyed with flowers and greenery—a spectacle right out of old Earth, some commentator had remarked, while other news analysts compared it to the similar display at the death of Corey Santessi, chief architect of the Union, whose forty-eight-year tenure on Council first in the Internal Affairs seat and then in the Citizens Bureau, had set the precedent for inertia in the electorates—then too, there had been a need, considering the far-flung colonies and the degree to which a rumor could travel and grow, to demonstrate indisputably that Santessi was dead, to have a decorous passing-of-the-torch and allow all the colleagues who had fought Santessi's influence to get up in public, shed sufficient tears, and deliver pious speeches that stifled speculation by endless repetition.

Much more so, when the deceased was synonymous with Reseune and resurrection, and the victim of assassination.

"We had our differences," Mikhail Corain said in his eulogy, "but Union has suffered an inestimable loss in this tragedy." It would be tasteless to mention that it was a double loss, counting the presumed murderer. "Ariane Emory was a woman of principle and vision. Consider the arks that preserve our genetic heritage, in orbit about distant stars. Consider the rapprochement with Earth and the agreements which have made possible the preservation and recovery of rare species—"

It was one of his better speeches. He had sweated blood over it. There were worrisome mutterings about suppression of evidence in the case, about the unexplained order which Reseune had claimed was buried in the House computers by Emory herself, calling for the termination of Emory's personal guards, a termination carried out by staff without question. There was the notorious case of the Warrick azi kidnapped and tampered with by Rocher extremists, then returned to Reseune. There was the fact of Rocher himself making inflammatory speeches, publicly rejoicing in the assassination, a newsworthy item that got far more press than the legitimate Centrist-affiliated Abolitionists like lanni Merino regretting the taking of a life, then going on to decry the termination of the azi, all of which was too complicated for the news-services: lanni never had learned the technique of one-issue-at-a-time, and it echoed too closely what Rocher had said. The reporters swarmed the stairways and office doorways like predators staking out a reef, darting out, Scribers running, to ask every Centrist in the Council and Senate: "Do you think there was a conspiracy?" and: "What's your reaction to the Rocher speech?"

Which was a damned narrow line for some Centrists to walk.

He hoped to hell he had defused some of it. That he had been quotable.

Never say that the news-services were a function of the Bureau of Information, whose elected Councillor was Catherine Lao, Ariane Emory's reliable echo on Council: never say that promotions could be had and careers could be made—if reporters came up with material that would make Upper Management happy. It was not the reporters' fault if they sensed that Upper Management wanted more, more and more on the Conspiracy theory: it sure as hell was good theater.

Corain sweated every time he saw a Scriber near one of his party. He nad tried to talk to each one of them, personally, urging circumspection and decorum. But cameras were an intoxicant, the schedule of meetings around the funeral was harried and high-pressure, and not every Councillor and not every staffer in the party agreed with the party line.

There were faces for the cameras that had never been available before: the director of Reseune, Giraud Nye, for one. The reporters took endless pains to explain to the viewing public that, contrary to the general assumption, Ariane Emory had not been the Administrator of Reseune, had in fact held no administrative post in Reseune at all for the last fifty-odd years. There were new names to learn. Giraud Nye. Petros Ivanov. Yanni Schwartz.

Nye, damn him, had a certain flair in interviews.

And when a Council seat fell vacant and the Councillor in question had appointed no proxy, then the Bureau Secretary of that particular electorate appointed a proxy. Which in this case was Giraud Nye.

Who might well resign his post in Reseune to run for Emory's seat.

That meant, Corain thought bleakly, Nye would win. Unless Jordan Warrick's trial brought up something explosive. Unless Warrick used the trial for a podium, and leveled charges. But Corain's own informants in the Bureau of Internal Affairs said that Warrick was still under house arrest; Merild, in Novgorod, himself under investigation by the Bureau as a possible conspirator, was not the lawyer to undertake Warrick's defense, and, God, an Abolitionist lawyer had tried to contact Warrick. Warrick had sensibly refused, but he had told Internal Affairs to appoint one to advise him—which made a major stir in the news: a man with Warrick's resources, a Special going before a Council hearing with a Bureau-appointed lawyer, like a virtual indigent, because his credit accounts in Reseune were frozen and Reseune could not with any propriety handle both prosecution and defense out of its own legal department.

Solemn music played. The family members gathered for a final moment at the coffin. Then the military honor guard closed it and sealed it. The military escort and Reseune Security waited outside.

Ariane Emory was going to space. No monuments, she had said. Cremation and transport into space, where the carrier Gallant, happening to be in Cyteen System, would use one of its missiles to send Emory's ashes sunward. Which was the final extravagance she had asked of the Union government.

The bitch was determined to make sure nobody made off with a sample, that was what. And chose the whole damn sun for a cenotaph.

vii

Assassination meant a funeral on too short notice to muster the whole Council—but the Bureau Secretaries were in Novgorod or on the Station; the Cyteen senate had been in session; the Council of Worlds had been in session. And the ambassadors from Earth and Alliance had come down from Cyteen Station. Three Councillors had been accessible: Corain of the Bureau of Citizens, resident on Cyteen; Ilya Bogdanovitch of the Bureau of State; and Leonid Gorodin, of Defense.

An actual two-thirds majority of Centrists, Corain reflected. Damned little good it did at a funeral.

One was expected, of course, to offer Nye welcoming courtesies on his appointment as proxy. No reception: the solemnity of the occasion forbade, even if he had not been Emory's cousin. But one did drop by the offices that had been Emory's. One did present one's respects. One did meet with Nye, however briefly, and offer condolences. And study this man and judge this man and try, in the few moments one was likely to get, to estimate what sort of man this was, who came out of complete shadow inside the enclave of Reseune, to assume the mantle of Ariane Emory. . . .

To judge in five minutes, if it were possible, whether this man, who was a Special, could possibly take up all the linkages of power that Emory had, give the bitch credit, wielded all too well.

"Ser," Nye said, on that meeting, took his hand. "I feel I know you, after all the dinner discussions Ari and I had. She respected you."

That put a body at immediate disadvantage, first because if Nye knew him, it was not mutual; and second, because he remembered what Nye was, and thought how Ariane Emory would react to that description of the situation.

For a half second he felt halfway nostalgic for the bitch. Ariane had been a bitch, but he had spent twenty years learning to read her. This man was a total blank. And that gave him a lost and frustrated feeling.

"We opposed each other on issues," Corain murmured, as he had murmured similar things to other successors in his long tenure, "but not in our desire to see the best for the state. I find myself at a loss, ser. I don't think I ever expressed that to her. But I don't think any of us realize even yet what Union will be without her."

"I have serious things to discuss with you," Nye said, not having released his hand. "Concerns that would have been foremost in her mind."

"I'd be pleased to meet with you, at your convenience, ser."

"If you have time in your schedule now—"

It was not the sort of thing Corain liked, abrupt meetings, without briefings. But it was a new relationship, an important relationship. He hated to start it off with an excuse and a refusal to talk.

"If you prefer," he said; and ended up in the office that had been Emory's, with Nye behind the desk, no Florian and Catlin, but an azi staffer named Abban, whose rejuv-silvered hair had no dye, no pretenses, less than Nye, whose hair was silvered brown, who was easily a hundred, and probably the azi was no less than that. Abban served them both coffee, and Corain sat there thinking of the journalistic and political eyes watching every move outside these offices, marking who called, who stayed, and how long.

There was no graceful way to hasten matters.

"I think you know," Nye said quietly, over the coffee, "that a great deal has changed. I'm sure you know that I will stand for election,"

"I wouldn't be surprised, no."

"I'm a good administrator. I'm not Ari. I don't know how to be. I would like to see the Hope project through: it was very dear to her heart. And I believe in it, personally."

"You know my opinion, I think."

"We will have our differences. Philosophical ones. If I'm the choice of the Science electorate." A sip of coffee. "But the most urgent thing—I think you understand—is the Warrick case."

Corain's heart increased its beats. Trap? Proposition? "It's a terrible tragedy."

"It's a devastating blow to us. As head—ex-head of Reseune Security, I've talked with Dr. Warrick, extensively. I can tell you that it was personal, that it was a situation that had arisen—"

"You're saying he's confessed?"

Nye coughed uncomfortably and sipped at his coffee, then looked up into Corain's eyes. "Ari had trouble keeping her hands off her lab assistants. That was what happened. Justin Warrick, Jordan's son, is a parental replicate. There was old business between Dr. Emory and Jordan Warrick."

More and more tangled. Corain felt an irrational unease at this honesty from a stranger. And did not say a word in the gap Nye left for him.

"Ari transferred an Experimental who was virtually Warrick family," Nye said, "to put pressure on the boy—to put pressure on Jordan. This much we understand now. The boy acted on his own to protect his companion, sent the azi out to people he understood as friends of his father. Unfortunately—the issue isn't presently clear—there were further links that led to the Rocher party. And extremists."

Damn. An evidence-trail like that was trouble. Of course he was supposed to feel the threat.

"We got the azi out, of course," Nye said. "That's what was behind it. There's no way the azi got to Ari: he was under observation at the hospital. But Jordan Warrick found out what Ari had done—to his son. He confronted her in the lab, alone. They quarreled. Ari hit him; he hit her; her head hit the counter-edge. That wasn't murder. It became murder when he took a lab-stool and used it to damage the conduits, shut the cold-lab door and upped the pressure in that line. Unfortunately that kind of damage didn't look like an accident to the engineers."

"Council will determine that." Murder, between two Specials. And too much entrusted to him by a very dangerous third. Corain warmed his hand with the tiny cup, feeling a certain chill.

"Warrick doesn't want this to go to trial."

"Why?"

"The law has limited power over him; but reputations can be harmed. The son, in particular."

"Meaning—forgive me—someone's made that clear to him."

Nye shook his head gravely. "Motive is going to come out in a trial. There's no way to avoid it. There are other considerations, for us. We are going to withhold information in this case. That's why I wanted to talk to you—because it's important that you understand. We know about your interview with Dr. Warrick. We both know that the inquiry could range far afield if it got started. A political free-for-all. Damned little justice. Merino may restrain himself, but Rocher won't, if the case comes before Council, and what could come out at that point isn't in our interest, your interest, certainly not in the interest of the Defense Bureau or our national security; it's not even in Jordan Warrick's interest. He's given us a confession. He doesn't want to testify, —he can't testify, you understand, by psychprobe; and young Justin's evidence under probe is damning. We don't want to use it against his father. The boy's been through enough and it's meaningless cruelty in a case where the murderer has legal immunity."

The room seemed very close of a sudden. Corain thought of recorders. Was damned sure that one was running, somewhere. "What are you asking me?"

"We don't want Ari's problems made public. We don't think that would serve any useful purpose. On the one hand we understand very well what provoked Dr. Warrick; and we have utmost sympathy for him; on the other hand, we very much fear that questioning is going to involve a conspiracy theory. Much as we'd like to get Rocher—that line of questioning is only going to give him a forum he couldn't get otherwise, worse, it'd give him a right-of-discovery in this. I don't think you want that any more than we do."

Recorders. Dammit. "We have nothing to hide."

"We're not talking about a cover-up. We're talking about saving an innocent boy unnecessary grief. Jordan Warrick has already confessed. He doesn't want to have his personal life and his son's dragged through a public hearing. The law can't mindwipe him. The worst he can get is close confinement, removal from his work—which in my estimation, would be as tragic as the act he committed."

Corain thought it through a moment, knowing there was a hook in it somewhere, in the situation or in the proposal, one, but he could not see where. "You mean a non-adversarial settlement. This is a murder case—"

"A case with security implications. A case in which the murderer and the victim's family and resident territory are equally willing to ask for a non-adversary proceeding. If the aim here is justice instead of a political forum—justice would be better served by a settlement in closed Council."

"There's no precedent for this."

"Precedent has to be set somewhere—in this case, on the side of humanity. There are no losers by this procedure. Except Rocher loses his forum. Even Ari gains by it. The last thing she would want is to have her death give Rocher a chance to damage the institution she devoted her life to. We can establish a separate facility for Dr. Warrick, provide him everything he needs to continue his work. We don't want a vendetta. We will insist on his retirement—his complete retirement from public life, because we don't want him taking advantage of this once the settlement is made. Very plainly, ser, both of us have to refrain from making this a political issue. And that includes Dr. Warrick. The settlement will postpone trial indefinitely. In case he breaks his silence. We don't want to have our hands tied."

"I have to think about this. Before I agree to anything, frankly, I'd like the option of talking to Dr. Warrick on neutral ground. Matter of conscience, you understand. A lot of us, who might be the natural opposition—will feel that way."

"Of course. Damn, I hate to have to deal with this on the day of Ari's funeral. But business goes on. It has to."

"I understand you, ser Nye." Corain finished the little cup, made up the nethermost recesses of his mind that he had to find out what the going rate was on real coffee, that it was worth the extravagance, that he could afford it, even at two hundred a half kilo, which was the freight from Earth to Cyteen. Another level of his mind was saying that there was a camera somewhere, and still another that all the advantages he had seen in Ariane Emory's death were there—

If a deal could be worked out, if a compromise could be made. Nye was damned sharp. He had to start all over learning his signals the way he had learned Emory's. The man was a cipher, an unknown quantity out of a territory none of his observers could penetrate. Only Warrick. And Warrick was lost to them. That much was clear.

Things were different in Union. From the time that pipe in the laboratory had exploded, the course of history had shifted.

They were entering a period in which the Centrist party might make rapid gains, if they could avoid getting bogged down in wrangling that won no one anything and would not unseat the Expansionists.

The Rubin project and the Fargone project were presumably on hold. The Hope project might be funded, but further expansions and colonizations might be subject to more intense debate. One could look forward to a period of adjustment inside Reseune as well as out, while personalities inside Reseune held in check during the nearly sixty years of Emory's autocratic regime (there was no question who in Reseune had directed the director even after she had resigned the post) were likely to break out and grab for power within the administrative structure.

That also went for other alliances, like those on Council.

Ludmilla deFranco was a freshman Councillor. Nye would be. Powerful Science . . . was going to have a novice at the helm—a damned smart one, but still, a novice who did not have the network to support him. Yet. Two of the five Expansionists were successors this year and Ilya Bogdanovitch was a hundred thirty-two years old and tottering.

Corain murmured the courtesies, thanked the proxy from Reseune, expressed condolences to the family, and walked out with his mind busy with the possibility, the very real possibility, of a Centrist majority in the Council.

It occurred to him that he had not raised the issue of the terminated azi. Merino's issue. He could hardly go back and do it. In fact, he was reluctant to do it, because very possibly that order had come from Reseune Security, for exactly the reasons Nye gave. It was morally repugnant. But it was not, not quite as if azi who had served Ariane Emory for most of her hundred and twenty years were harmless. There were, he understood, severe psychological consequences of such a loss; no human reared as CIT could possibly understand the impact of it, except perhaps the staff who routinely worked with azi. He would raise the issue with Warrick. Ask Warrick whether it was warranted. Or whether Warrick thought it had in fact been Emory who had put that instruction in the system.

Damn, he had rather not bring it up at all. The azi were dead. Like Emory. That closed the book. There was no use for that issue; instinct had kept him from raising it.

It was the old proverb. Deal with the devil if the devil has a constituency. And don't complain about the heat.

viii

Adm. Leonid Gorodin settled uncomfortably into the chair and took the offered cup. He had come in to pay the requisite courtesy, and Nye had said: "There's something I have to discuss with you. About the Fargone facility. About the Rubin project. And Hope. Have you got a moment?"

It was not Gorodin's habit to discuss any issue with the opposition or with reporters—without his aides, without references, in an office his own staff had not vetted. But the same instinct for intrigue that said it was dangerous also said it was the one chance he might have without having Corain aware that he was in serious conference with the opposition.

And the names were the names he wanted to hear.

"I truly hate to get to business on the day of Ari's funeral," Nye said. "But there's really no choice. Things can slip out of control so quickly." He took a sip of coffee. "You know I'm going to run for Ari's seat."

"I expected," Gorodin said. "I expect you'll win."

"It's a critical time for us. Ari's death—the potential loss of Warrick on top of it—it's a double blow. Not only to us. To Union. To our national interests. You understand that I have a top-level security clearance. Equal to Ari's. I have to have. I won't ask you for answers; but I am associated with your projects– I worked with your predecessor during the war—"

"I'm aware you have the clearance. And that you're privy to those files. And you're keeping them out of the investigation."

"Absolutely. No discussion of those files and no interview with a staffer on those projects, except by personnel with equivalent clearance. You don't need to worry about leaks, admiral. Or a trial."

Gorodin's heart jumped. He wished he had not heard that. There was the likelihood of recorders, and he had to make his reaction clear. "What are you saying?"

"Non-adversary settlement. Warrick did it. He's confessed. The motive was blackmail and sexual harassment. His son, you understand. With a complicated situation that—between you and me—could do the boy great harm. Warrick's deal is simple: a facility where he can continue his work. We won't agree to Fargone. It'll have to be on Cyteen. But I've talked to Corain."

"Already."

"An hour ago. I didn't mention the security aspects of this. We talked politics. You know and I know, admiral, that there are radical elements involved on the fringes of this case. There are people going to be going over the testimony of witnesses that can be psychprobed, and going over it, and going over it. There are elements of Justin Warrick's testimony that involve the Fargone project, that are going to have to be classified."

"Warrick discussed it with his kid?"

"The motive for the transfer was the boy. Justin Warrick knows—more than he ought to know. If there have been leaks in this, admiral, they've all come from Jordan Warrick. And frankly, if it gets to trial, I'm afraid the threads of motivation—run into some very sensitive areas. But if we black out too much of the transcript, that raises other suspicions—in some minds, —doesn't it?"

"My God, what's your fucking security worth? Who else knows?"

"Very likely the azi that was kidnapped. He's Justin's."

"My God."

"It's not likely that Rocher's boys cracked him. He's Alpha and he's a tape designer—the azi is, understand. Not an easy subject. But there is the possibility that he wasn't aware of having classified information. That's why we went to Lu's office when we needed help breaking him out of there. We needed to get hold of him alive and debrief him, in the case we missed someone. Fortuitously and fortunately, the action took care of the kidnappers. All of them. We think. But we weren't overusing our authority when we told Lu that azi was a security risk. I suppose the rush of events has been too rapid for all of us. Ari was going to send me to the city with the report for Lu. Unfortunately—"

"You don't think there was any possible motivation on Warrick's part, involving the azi and Rocher—"

"When he killed Ari? A crime of anger that didn't start out that way: he hit her, that was all. But when she turned out to be seriously injured he realized he'd just killed his chance of appointment at Fargone. So he killed her and tried to make it look like an accident. It wasn't quite in cold blood; it wasn't quite otherwise either. He hated her. I'm afraid Ari had serious weaknesses when it came to adolescent boys. A great mind. Correspondingly eccentric vices. Frankly, we're anxious to avoid having that aspect of Ari put out in public view. Conspiracies—no. There weren't. You can interview Warrick yourself if you like. Or his son. We have his deposition under psychprobe. Not Jordan Warrick's, of course, but the son's indicates fairly well what was going on. There are also some vids that are—very explicit. We don't intend to erase them. But they don't have to go out to the news-services. It's a very old story, I'm afraid. Blackmail. Outraged parent. A cover-up that turned into murder."

"Damn." Get my son out of there, Warrick had said. Had meant it, evidently. "Damn."

"We want to honor our commitments. The arrangement we have in mind puts Jordan Warrick in a facility of his own, under guard. And he can go on doing work for you. We'll do the testing. You won't have to worry about its integrity. It's altogether a humane solution, one that conserves a talent we can't afford to lose."

"You've talked to Corain."

"He says he's got to study the idea. I tried to point out, there are no disadvantages to him in supporting a settlement. What does anyone gain from a prosecution of this case? What does anyone gain, except Rocher and his cronies? —And we've lost terribly by this. Not only the mind. You understand . . . we're still committed to the projects."

"The Fargone facility."

"We assume that will go forward. Perhaps—the military can make use of more of it than we planned."

"Meaning the Rubin project is going under."

"No. We're still committed to that."

"Without Dr. Emory?" Gorodin drew a large breath. "You think you can succeed."

Nye was silent for a moment. "Refill," he said to the azi who served them, and that man, gray and silent, came and poured in both cups.

Nye sipped thoughtfully. Then: "Do you want the technical details?"

"I leave that to the scientists. My interest is practical. And strategic. Can you go on from Emory's notes?"

"Which had you rather have duplicated? A chemist who is, admittedly, extraordinary in potential. Or Emory herself?"

Gorodin swallowed down a mouthful. "You're serious."

"Let me go into some of the surface technicalities, at least. The project demands a subject with an extraordinary amount of documentation—on the biochemical level. There aren't many subjects of the quality we want, who have that land of documentation. Both Ari and Rubin have it: Rubin because of his medical problems, Ari because she was born to Emory and Carnath when they were both above a century in age. Born in Reseune labs, of course. By a process we ran, on which our records are immaculate. Her father was dead when she was born; her mother died when she was seven. Her uncle Geoffrey brought her up beyond that. She succeeded Geoffrey Carnath as director of Reseune when she was sixty-two. And she was Olga Carnath's own prize project, the subject of intensive study and recording first by her mother and then by Geoffrey Carnath. Suffice it to say, her documentation is equal to Rubin's, if not more extensive. More than that—Ari always intended that she eventually be one of the Specials affected by this project. She left abundant notes—for her successor."

"My God."

"Why not? She has the value. Now that she's gone, granted her theories are valid—we have a choice between recovering a chemist who, frankly, means nothing to us, or Ari—whose mind, I don't hesitate to say—is on a level with Bok or Strehler, whose research has had profound effect on national security. And we can do it."

"You're serious."

"Absolutely. We see no reason to abandon the project. There are essentials: Warrick is one. You understand—as many of the elements of Ari's life we can study, the better our chances of success."

"What—about Rubin?"

"It would still be possible to go ahead with that. It would be useful as a control. And a cover under the cover, so to speak. I don't want the Rubin project in Reseune. I don't want it impacting what we plan to do. You understand—the name of the game is re-tracing. Intensive monitoring—Ari was used to that, but her successor ought not to have direct contact with someone else undergoing the same thing. We'd have to run both halves of the Rubin project at Fargone."

"You imply you intend to do this—whether or not you have official support."

"I'm seeking that support. I want to save Warrick. I want to cooperate fully with the military. We need the kind of security and cover you can provide us—at least until the new Ari can surface. Then it appears as a Reseune project—a thoroughly civilian project. That's useful, isn't it?"

"God." Gorodin drank down the other half of his coffee. And held out his cup to the azi.

"Abban," Nye said. The azi came and filled the cup—while Gorodin used the delay to do some fast adding.

"What," he said then, carefully, "does this have to do with Warrick?"

"We need him. We need him to go on with his work."

"Him? To reconstruct her? Working on her tapes?"

"No. That wouldn't be wise. I'm talking about Reseune. Remember—we have to think in twenty-, fifty-year terms. He's still young. He's only now showing what he can do. His own research interlocks with Ari's. Let me be honest with you: Ari's notes are extremely fragmentary. She was a genius. There are gaps of logic in her notes—sort of an of course that Ari could bridge and didn't need to write down. We can't guarantee success: no program of this son can. We only know that we have a better chance with Ari, that we knew intimately, than with a stranger that we don't. She coded a great deal. Her leaps from point to point, the connections ... in a field she damned near built. . . make her notes a real maze. If we lose the principals of Ari's life—if we can't recover something like the life Ari lived—if certain people aren't available to consult, then I think our chances of seeing this project work go down and down. Ultimately Ari's notes could become meaningless. The matrix becomes lost, you see, the social referent irrecoverable. But we have it now. I think we can do it. I know we can do it."

"But what damn use is all of this, then—beyond recovering Emory herself? How many people are we going to have that land of record on? What can it apply to? It can't get us Bok."

"Emory herself is not negligible. Emory able to take up her work where she left off—but at about age twenty. Maybe younger. We don't know. We'll find out. Understand: what we learn doing this will tell us how much data we have to have with other projects. Like Bok. We just have to be damned careful this round. Because if the worst-case holds, every precaution is necessary: every influence is irreplaceable. Getting Ari back is step one. If there's going to be an amplification of her work on personality formation– Ari is the key to it. We have a chance with her. We know her. We can fill in the gaps in the information and make corrections if it looks necessary. We don't know Rubin to that extent. We don't have the headstart even with him we do with her, do you see? Rubin has become a luxury. Retrieving Ari Emory is a necessity. We can try it on our own, but it would be a hell of a lot easier—with Defense Bureau support."

"Meaning money."

Nye shook his head. "Cover. The ability to hold on to Warrick. The ability to shield what we're doing. The authority to protect our research—and our subject—from Internal Affairs."

"Ah." Gorodin drew a deep breath. "But money—it always comes to money."

"We can bear our end of it if you fund the Rubin project. But the necessity to protect our subjects is absolute. Success or failure hinges on that."

Gorodin leaned back in his chair and chewed his lip. And thought again about recorders. "Have you talked to Lu?"

"Not yet."

"You haven't mentioned this to anyone outside Reseune."

"No. I don't intend to. We had one security breach—with the azi. We've covered it. There won't be another."

Gorodin thought about it—civilians running their own affairs under military cover. One breach and God knew what else. Too many amateurs.

Reseune wanted to start a close cooperation, on a project Gorodin, dammit, saw shifting the balance of power irrevocably toward Union—

Ariane Emory experimenting with a kid on Fargone had seemed a hell of a lot safer. Reseune trying to raise the dead seemed—

–hell, go for the big gain. Go for everything.

It was a pittance, to the Defense budget.

"I don't think there's much problem," Gorodin said. "We just appropriate the Fargone facility. We invoke the Military Secrets Act. We can cover any damn thing you need."

"No problem," Nye said. "No problem in that. As long as it stays classified."

"No problem with that," Gorodin said.

"So we stamp everything Rubin project," Nye said. "We build the Fargone facility; we work the Rubin project under deep secrecy out there; we get deeper cover for our work on Cyteen."

"Two for the price of one?" It struck Gorodin after he had said it that the expression was a little coarse, on the day of Emory's funeral. But, hell, it was her resurrection they were talking about. Not identity, Warrick had said. Ability. That was close enough.

He was damned sure Giraud Nye had the inclination to keep Reseune's control over the project. The Project, meaning an embryo in a womb-tank and a kid growing up in Reseune. Twenty years.

He suddenly added that to his own age. He was a hundred twenty-six, ground time. A hundred forty-six by then. And Nye—was not young.

It was the first time it had ever really hit him—what Warrick had meant about the time factor in Reseune. He was used to time-dilation—in a spacer's sense: that hundred forty-six ground-time would lie far lighter on him, who lost months of ground-time in days of jump. But Reseune's kind of time meant lifetimes.

"We'd like that second project full-scale," Nye said. "Having a comparative study could save us in a crisis, and we're beyond any tentative test of theories. Comparison is going to give us our answers. It's not a luxury."

Part of the Rubin project at Fargone meant part of the data within easy reach. And meant a fail-safe. Gorodin always believed in fail-safes—in equipment; or in planning. Spacer's economy. Two was never too many of anything.

"Do it," he said. "Makes cover a hell of a lot easier." There was the matter of clearing it with Lu, and the chiefs of staff. But Lu and the chiefs of staff would go with anything that promised this kind of return and put Emory's work at the disposal of Defense.

Defense took a lot of projects under its wing. Some were conspicuous failures. Those that worked—paid for all the rest.

ix

Steps passed the door continually. More than usual. There were voices. Some of them Justin thought he knew; someone had stopped outside the door, a group of people talking.

Please, he thought. Please. Somebody stop here. He hoped for a moment; and feared. He listened, sitting on the sleeping mat that was all the furniture in the room. He clenched his hands together in the hollow of his crossed legs.

"Call Ari," he kept saying to anyone who dealt with him. "Tell her I want to talk with her."

But they were azi. They had no authority to go above their Supervisor. And as many times as he asked, the Supervisor never came.

It was a suicide cell he was in, padded walls and door, just a sink and the toilet and the sleeping mat. The light was always on. Food came in water-soluble wrappers little more substantial than toilet paper, without utensils. They had taken his clothes and given him only hospital pajamas, made of white paper. They had not questioned him any more. They had not spoken to him again. He did not know how much time had passed, and his sleeping was erratic with depression and lack of cues from lights or activity outside. And the tape-flashes, seductive and destructive. He refused to let the flashes take hold in the isolation. He refused it even when it would have been consolation.

Not me, he kept thinking, keeping himself awake, away from the dreams. Not my choice. I'm not hers. I won't think her thoughts.

Ari was holding him hostage, he thought. She was holding him and maybe Grant against some threat of Jordan's to go to the Bureau with charges. Maybe she had arrested Jordan too. Maybe Jordan could not help him. But in any case—the police would come. And they had not psychprobed him again; they could not psychprobe Jordan.

It was Grant who was vulnerable. She would use Grant against Jordan—and use him too. He had no doubt of it.

He hoped for the police to come. Internal Affairs. Science Bureau. Anyone.

He hoped that was the small commotion outside.

But he had hoped that—time after time.

Grant would have been waiting for him to come back; but instead it was security that would have come in on him, hauled him off for more questions—

He heard the electronic lock tick. The door opened.

"Ser Nye wants to talk to you," one of two azi said; both Security. "Please come."

He got up. His knees went to jelly. He walked out into the light, knowing it was another psychprobe session; but at least he would get a chance to say something to Giraud, at least he would have a chance for a half-dozen words before they put the drug into him.

That they just let him walk loose was the last thing he was prepared for. He felt himself dizzy, his knees aching and shaking so it was hard to navigate.

Tape-flash again. And Florian—

Down the hall to the barren little interview room he had seen before. He reached the open door and stopped, dazed and disoriented by the realization it was not Giraud Nye at the table. It was a stout round-faced man that for a bewildered second his mind insisted to make into Giraud's lean form.

Not Giraud.

Denys Nye, rising from his chair with a distressed look.

"Where's Grant?" Justin demanded. "Where's my father? What's going on?" His voice gave way on him. His legs shook as he reached the narrow table and leaned on it in Denys' face. "I've got the right to talk to my family, dammit! I'm a minor! Remember?"

"Sit down," Denys said, fluttering a hand. "Sit. Please. —Get him something to drink."

"I don't want anything! I want to know—"

"Please," Denys said in his quiet, distressed way, and made a second appeal with his hand. "Please sit down. —Get him something. —Please, sit down."

Justin fell into the chair, feeling a crying jag coming on. He clamped his jaw and drew breaths until he had it under control; and Denys sank into his seat, folded his hands on the table in front of him and let him calm down while one of the azi brought back a soft drink and set it down on the table.

"What's in it?"

"Nothing. Nothing. Poor boy. Damn this all anyway. Have they told you about Ari?"

It was a strange thing to say. It made no sense. It fluttered like a cold chill through his nerves. "What about Ari? Where's my father?"

"Ari's dead, Justin."

It was like the world jolted sideways. For a moment everything went out of focus. Then where he was came crashing in on him. Where he was and what they were doing and the silence all around him.

Dead. Like not-natural-dead. Like—

–the plane crashed?

–some crazy person—in Novgorod?

"Jordan found out what she was doing to you," Denys said in the gentlest voice Justin had ever heard him use, "and he killed her. Locked her into the cold-lab and killed her."

He just sat there a moment. It was not true. It was not true. Jordan had no idea what Ari had done. He had covered everything. And Ari was not dead.

Ari could not be—dead.

"Jordan admits it," Denys said in that quiet tone. "You know they can't do anything. Legally. The law can't touch him for—questioning, or anything like that. Not psychprobe. Certainly not mindwipe. Jordie's all right. He's safe. I promise you."

He was shaking. He picked up the cup and slopped it carrying the drink to his mouth. He slopped it again setting it down. The icy liquid soaked his knee. There was no sense to things. He could not get his mind to function. "What about Grant? I told him I was going to come back. I didn't come back—"

"Grant's still in hospital. He's safe. Jordan's been to see him. Jordan's flying to Novgorod this afternoon. They're working out an arrangement for him to leave Reseune."

"That's a damned lie!" They were starting to work psych games with him. He saw it coming. He flung himself up and came face to face with the two azi that moved to stop him. He froze. They froze.

"Boy. Justin. Please. Please, sit down. Listen to me."

"Ari's not dead!" he yelled at Denys. "It's a damned lie! What are you trying to do? What is she trying to do?"

"Oh, God, boy, sit down. Listen to me. Your father won't have much time. Please. Damn that brother of mine! So damned afraid of putting you in hospital– Look. Sit down."

He sat. There was nothing else to do. They could do anything they wanted to.

"Listen to me, Justin. Internal Affairs has been questioning Jordie; Jordie begged Giraud to keep you out of it. He didn't want the story out, do you understand? He didn't want them psychprobing you. Giraud just flat refused them permission. Jordie backed him on it. But my damn brother went off to the capital and kept the lid on, and they kept saying you were all right—" Denys drew a small breath, reached across and laid his hand on Justin's on the table. "You're not all right. Dammit, it wasn't like Giraud's was the first psychprobe you'd had in the last few weeks, is it?"

He jerked his hand from under Denys'. "Let me alone!"

"Do you want a sedative?"

"I don't want anything. I want out of here! I want to talk to my father!"

"No. You don't. Not in that tone of voice. Understand me? He's leaving. He won't be back."

He stared at Denys. Not be back—

"Council's drawn up a plan," Denys said, "to allow him a facility over in Planys. He won't be able to travel. He won't be able to call you—for quite a while. I don't want you to upset him, son. He's got to meet with a Council inquiry tomorrow. He's got to get through that in one piece. Are you understanding me? It's very important."

It was real. It had happened. He stared into Denys Nye's worried eyes with the feeling that the whole world was chaos, except it was going to sort itself out again in some terrible new shape no one he loved lived in.

"Do you want the sedative? No tricks, Justin. I promise you. Just enough to let you rest awhile before you talk with him."

He shivered. And controlled it. "No," he said. "Let me get dressed. Let me clean up."

"Absolutely." Denys patted his hand. "You can use the shower down the hall. I've told them to bring clothes for you."

He nodded.

"I'm going to have Petros have a look at you."

"No!"

"When you get through this. When you're satisfied everything's all right. No one's going to touch you. You've had enough of that. God knows. Are you getting tape-flashes?"

The question triggered one. Or simple memory. It shamed him. Like some dark, twisted side of himself that was always—very like Ari. That—dammit—had learned what she did—felt good. He never wanted a psychtech wandering through that. He never wanted Jordan to know, he never wanted to let it show on his face what was going on in the dark inside him. And maybe everyone knew.

Ari had said—she had pictures. If Ari was dead—the House investigators had them. Had everything.

There was no dignity left him then, except to keep from noticing they knew, or admitting the truth to anyone.

"Listen to me, son." Denys' hand closed on his again. It was soft and warm and any human contact affected him in terrible ways. "Son, I can't excuse what Ari did. But there was more to her than—" He jerked back.

He saw Denys read him. Saw the thinking going on in Denys' eyes and tried to keep the color from his face. "—than you want to hear about," Denys concluded. "I know. Listen. Listen to me. Make this register— All right?"

"All right. I'm with you."

"Brave lad. Listen now. Jordie's covering—for us and for you. He's lying to the press, and the Council. He's telling them it was Ari standing in the way of his transfer. Every reason in the world but the truth—and they can't psychprobe him. You have to understand, Justin—you're . . . him, as much as you're his son. That puts a freight on everything that happened between you and Ari that—that pushed him beyond the limit. It was old business—between him and Ari. He understands what happened to you. Yes. You know what I'm telling you. And he loves you very much. But part of it is his own pride. Do you understand? Those of us who work inside these walls—know how tangled and complicated even a parent's love can be ... in a moment when he was pushed too far. Everything he wants is gone, except you. And you can take everything else he's got—if you go in there with your emotions out of control. I want you to get control of yourself. Let him take a little peace of mind out of here with him. Let him see his son's all right. For his sake."

"Why won't they let me go with him?"

"Because you're a minor. Because of the security arrangements. Because, truthfully, I couldn't get Giraud to agree to it. Security, they keep saying."

"That's a damn lie!"

"Listen, now. I'm going to get some arrangement where you can get visiting privileges. Not right away. Maybe not even this year. But time and quiet can do a lot for this situation. They're scared as hell there's a conspiracy—the Winfield-Kruger mess, you know."

O God. My fault. My fault. "They can't think Jordan was in on that. I was. Giraud ran the psychprobe. Run it again! I can swear he didn't know a damn thing—"

"Unfortunately, son, that's exactly the kind of thing Jordie wants to prevent—getting you involved in the investigation. There is fire under that smoke. I'm afraid Jordie was meeting with a man called Merild, who had connections that are running into some very dark corners. He was also meeting in secret with a number of very high-up Centrists who are linked to lanni Merino—the Abolitionists. And Rocher has come out with a very inflammatory statement about Ari's death that Merino hasn't quite repudiated. A lot of people in the government are running scared, scared of investigations, scared of guilt by association. Internal Affairs demanded to get hold of Grant. Giraud had to do a probe to satisfy them—"

"Oh, my God—"

"He had to. I know. I know, son. But they could have learned too much from you. Justin, the shock waves Ari's death has generated—are enormous. You can't imagine how enormous. The government is in crisis. Careers are in jeopardy. Lives are. There's an almost universal conviction that this had to be political; that the reasons for what's changed their lives has some meaning beyond a dissatisfied scientist breaking Ari's skull. It's human to think like that. And Jordie's testimony—the fact that he can't testify under probe—the fact that Florian and Catlin were put down—some posthumous order of Ari's, they think. . . . Yes. They're gone too. —People sense something else going on. They want to think something else is going on. Crime of passion, from an education tape-designer, you know, gives people cold chills. We're supposed to be too rational. Jordie's going to have to do the best damn psych-out in front of the Council committee he's ever done in his life. And for Jordie's own sake, the quieter things stay for the next few years, the better. Just be patient. Jordie's not without friends. He's not old. Forty-six isn't old. He can outlast the furor, if you don't do something that blows the lid off everything we've arranged."

He found enough air to breathe finally. He tried to think that through. He tried to think—what was the safest thing for his father and what his father would want. Tried not to think—O God!—that it was his own mistakes that had caused it.

"Can you get yourself together?" Denys pressed him.

"I'm together. I'm all right. What about Grant?" Oh, God, they could mindwipe him. Florian dead! And Catlin—

"Giraud is assigning Grant back to you."

Good things no longer happened to him. He did not believe them. He did not trust them.

"He has," Denys said, "because I just signed the papers. Get through this business with Jordan and you can get him out of hospital. —Do you want that sedative, son?"

Justin shook his head. Because Jordan would know if there was any drug involved. He had read him all along. Jordan must have. He hoped—

He hoped he could keep from tape-flashes if Jordan hugged him. That was how bad it was. That was what Ari had done to him. He was losing his father. He was not going to see him again. And he could not even tell Jordan goodbye without feeling Ari's hands on him.

"I'm all right," he said. If he could not lie to Denys and make it credible, he had no hope of lying to Jordan. Getting himself together had to start now. Or he was not going to make it.

x

Mikhail Corain looked anxiously at the aide who had laid the fiche-card on his desk. "Dell's?" he asked.

The aide nodded.

Corain waved a hand, dismissing the aide, slid the card into the desktop viewer and tilted the screen.

Dell Hewitt was a member of Internal Affairs. She happened to be a Centrist who was a friend of Ginny Green, who had been the Centrist candidate in Internal Affairs in the last election. And in this nervous time of investigations and committees rummaging into every dark corner in Novgorod, she had laid more than her own career on the line with what she had leaked to Yvonne Hahner, who she knew would leak it to Dellarosa in his staff. As good as wrap it up and mail it.

Regarding the azi Catlin and Florian: no conclusion. Perhaps the termination was ordered outside the system. Perhaps inside, by persons unknown. Perhaps Ariane Emory did order the termination, not wanting them interviewed. Perhaps she felt it was humane. Perhaps it was some kind of death pact the azi themselves had asked for: Reseune says they would have been very profoundly affected by the thought of losing her. Also, Reseune says, they were Security, but with a fix on Emory. They were therefore capable of harm to Reseune, and retraining would be difficult if not impossible without mindwipe, which their age precluded. Giraud Nye refuses to open the books on their psychsets. The order did come under Emory's personal code. Giraud Nye cites security considerations in refusing to allow Internal Affairs technicians to examine the computers.

Corain sipped the coffee warmed by the desk-plate. Two hundred fifty cred the half-kilo. They were damned small sips. But, a man was due a little luxury, who had been a scratch-and-patch outback farmer most of his life.

No new news. That was disappointing. He traced down the long list of things Reseune had refused to allow Internal Affairs to do, and read the legal justifications. Reseune's legal staff was winning every round. And Internal Affairs, at the uppermost administrative level, was not hitting back.

Then:

Internal Affairs is investigating the rumor at Reseune that certain genesets were checked out and not logged. This means someone could have duplicated genesets that ought not to exist. . . .

Azi-running? God, you can get a geneset from a blood sample. From anything. Why would anyone steal one from Reseune?

. . . such as Experimental and Special material which cannot otherwise be obtained.

Smuggling actual genesets prepared for use by Reseune requires cryogenics which would be detected in shipment unless simply omitted from manifests. However—the digitalized readout of a geneset is another story. Reseune in the person of administrator Nye denies that there is any such activity, or that documentation could have been released without record.

Also there is some rumor on staff that there have been unwarranted terminations. Reseune is blocking this inquiry.

Corain gnawed his lip. And thought: I don't want to know this. Not right now. Things are too delicate. My God, if this hits the streets—all the arrangements can come unglued.

A side note from Dellarosa: What about the chance Emory was running the genesets herself? Or ordered it? What's a Special worth, to someone who has access to a birth-lab?

Votes. A Council seat. Support from the very, very rich. Corain took a swallow of coffee. And sweated.

Physical evidence suffered from inexpert handling from the Moreyville police. Certain surfaces in the outer lab and the cold-lab have Jordan Warrick's fingerprints, Emory's fingerprints, the prints of the azi attendants, of certain of the other regular users of the lab, and a number of students who have come forward to be printed. The door bears a similar number of prints. No presence-tracers were available to the Moreyville police who did the preliminary investigation. Subsequent readings would have been meaningless due to the traffic in and out of the lab by police and residents. The security door records were released and corroborate the comings and goings given in verbal testimony. Again, Reseune will not allow Internal Affairs technicians access to the computers.

The autopsy results say that Emory froze to death, that the skull fracture was contributory, in that she was probably unconscious at the time of the pipe rupture. She was suffering from extremely minor rejuv failure and had arthritis of the right knee and mild asthma, all of which were known to her doctors. The only unexpected finding was a small cancer in the left lung, localized, and unknown to her physician at the time: it is a rare type, but less rare among early pioneers on Cyteen. The treatment would have been immediate surgery, with drug therapy. This type of cancer does respond to treatment but frequently recurs, and the prognosis combined with other immune-system problems due to the rejuv difficulty would have been less than favorable.

God.

She was dying anyway.

xi

Justin composed himself with several deep breaths as he walked down the hall beside Denys Nye. He had showered, shaved, was dressed in his ordinary work-clothes, blue sweater, brown pants. He was not shaking. He had asked for three aspirin and made sure that that was all he had gotten before he swallowed them. As a tranquilizer it was at least enough, with his exhaustion, to dull the nerves.

Jordan looked all right. He would. Jordan was like that.

God, he couldn't have killed her. He couldn't. They're making him say these things. Someone is lying.

"Hello, son."

It was not one of the cold little interview rooms. It was an administrative office. Denys was not going to leave. He had explained that. Neither were the azi guards going to leave. And a recorder was running, because no one trusted anything, and they wanted to be able to prove to investigators that nothing had gone on in the meeting.

"Hello," he said back. And thought he ought to go and put his arms around his father at a time like this, in front of all the people who would see the tape, but, dammit, Jordan was not inviting it, Jordan was being reserved and quiet and had things to say to him Jordan needed to get in order. All he had to say was goodbye. All he could say was goodbye. Anything else– anything else—and he could make a mistake that would go on that tape and ruin everyone's life worse than he had already done.

Things like: I'm sorry I tried to deal with Ari. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I'm sorry you had to find it out yourself. It's all my doing. All of it.

Don't bring up Grant, Denys had warned him. Don't bring it up at all. The committees could want to talk to him if you do. Let them forget about him.

"Are you all right?" Jordan asked him.

"I'm fine. Are you?"

"Son, I—"

Jordan's mouth trembled. O God, he's going to lose it. In front of all of them.

"They told me everything. You don't have to tell me. Please." Jordan drew a deep breath and eased it out again. "Justin, I want you to know why I did it. Because Ari was an influence this world didn't need. I did it the same way I'd try to fix a bad tape. I don't have any remorse for it. I won't ever have. It was a perfectly logical decision. Now someone else is running Reseune and I'm transferred, which is exactly what I wanted, where I won't have Ari changing my designs and using her name on my work she's done over. I'm free. I'm just sorry—sorry it blew up like this. I'm a better scientist than I am a plumber. That's what the investigators said. I backed up the pressure and they caught it in the monitor records."

The anger had been there at the start, real anger, profound, shattering anger. It cooled at the last. It became a recitation, a learned part, an act meant to look like an act. He was grateful for that last coolness, when Jordan threw the ball to him.

I know why you did it, he almost said, then thought that that could come out wrong. Instead he said: "I love you."

And nearly lost control. He bit his lip till it bled. Saw Jordan with his own jaw clenched.

"I don't know if they'll let me write to you," Jordan said.

"I'll write."

"I don't know if they'll give me the letters." Jordan managed a small laugh. "They imagine we can pass messages in hello, how's the weather?" "I'll write anyway."

"They think—they think there's some damn conspiracy. There isn't. I promise you that, son. There isn't anyone who knew and there wasn't supposed to be anyone who knew. But they're afraid out there. People think of Ari as political. That's how she was important to them. They don't think of her first as a scientist. They don't understand what it means when someone takes your work and turns it inside out. They don't understand the ethics that were violated."

Ethics that were violated. God. He's playing for the cameras. The first was a speech to the committee but the last was a code to me. If he goes on any longer they're going to catch him at it.

"I love you," Jordan said then. "More than anything."

And held out his arms. It was over. The play was over. The actors had to embrace. It was all right to cry now.

He would not see Jordan after this. Not hear from him.

Maybe forever.

He crossed the little space like an automaton. He hugged Jordan and Jordan hugged him hard, a long time. A long time. He bit his lip through, because the pain was all that helped keep him focused. Jordan was crying. He felt the sobs, quiet as they were. But maybe that would help Jordan's case. Maybe they had done all right, in front of the cameras. He wished he could cry. But for some reason he was numb, except the pain, and the taste of blood.

Jordan had played it too hard, had sounded too cold-blooded, too dangerous. He should not have done that. They might play that tape on the news. People would be afraid of him. They might think he was crazy. Like the Alphas that went over the edge. Like Bok's clone. They might stop him from his work.

He almost shouted: He's lying. My father is lying. But Jordan was holding on to him. Jordan had done exactly what Jordan wanted to do. Jordan had not been locked in a room for a week. He knew what was going on in the world, he had been talking to the investigators. Jordan was playing a part, running psych on all of them, that was what he was doing: Jordan was going to go to that Senate committee and get himself the best deal he could; and maybe that bit would keep the tape off the news, because Jordan's work was very important to Defense and the military could silence anything it wanted.

"Come on," Denys said.

Jordan let him go and let him leave. Denys walked him out the door.

Then Justin cried. Leaned against the wall outside after the door had shut and cried until his gut ached.

xii

He had thought there could be no more shocks.

But Petros Ivanov met him at the door of the hospital, took him away from his Security escort and walked with him to Grant's room.

"How is he?" he asked before they got there.

"Not doing well," Ivanov said. "I wanted to warn you." Ivanov said other things, how they had had to put Grant under probe again; and how he had gone into shock; how they took him out to the garden in a chair every day, how they massaged him and bathed him and waited on treatment because Denys had kept telling them Justin was going to come, this day, and the next day and the next—they were afraid to probe Grant again, because he was right on the edge, and they thought there might be illegal codewords, words not in the psych record.

"No," he said before he pushed Grant's door open. And wanted to kill Ivanov. Wanted to beat him to a bloody pulp and go for the staff next and Giraud Nye into the bargain. "No. There aren't any codewords. Dammit, I told him I'd come back. And he was waiting."

Grant was still waiting. Right now he had his hair combed, looked comfortable enough unless you knew he did not move on his own. Unless you knew he had lost weight and the skin was too transparent and you saw the glassiness in the eyes and took his hand and felt the lack of muscle tone. "Grant," he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Grant, it's me. It's all right."

Grant did not even blink.

"Get out of here," he said to Ivanov, with a glance over his shoulder; and did not try to be polite. Ivanov left.

He shifted over and gently unfastened the restraints they kept on him. He was calmer than he had thought he could be. He picked up Grant's arm and laid it across him so he had room to sit, and raised the head of the bed a little. He reached then and with two fingers along Grant's jaw, turned his face toward him. It was like moving a mannequin. But Grant blinked. "Grant? It's Justin." Another blink.

O God, he had thought Grant would be gone. He had thought he was coming in here to find a half-corpse that they could not do anything with except put down. He was prepared for that... in five minutes from the front door to Grant's room he had gone from the hope of recovering Grant to the expectation of losing him. Now it was full circle.

Now he was scared. He was safe if Grant was dead. O God! Damn me for thinking like that! Where did I learn to think like that? Where did I learn to be that cold? Is it tape-flash too? What did she do to me?

He felt like he was coming apart—felt hysteria welling up like a tide; and Grant did not need that. His hand was shaking when he took Grant's hand in his. And even then he thought of Ari's apartment, how the room had looked. He began talking to distract himself, not knowing what he was saying, not wanting to think again the thought that had flashed through his mind, like it was somebody else's. He knew that he could not touch people anymore without it being sexual. He could not hold on to a friend. Or embrace his father. He kept remembering, day and night; and he knew that it was dangerous to love anyone because of the ugliness in his mind, because he was always thinking thoughts that would horrify them if they knew.

And because Ari was right, if you loved anyone They could get to you, the way They had gotten to Jordan. Grant was the way to him. Of course. That was why They had let him have Grant back.

He was not on his own now. Someday Grant was going to lay him wide open to his enemies. Maybe get him killed. Or worse—do to him what he had done to Jordan.

But until then he was not alone, either. Until then, for a few years, he could have something precious to him. Until Grant found out what kind of ugliness he had in him. Or even after Grant found out. Grant, being azi, would forgive anything.

"Grant, I'm here. I told you I'd come. I'm here."

Perhaps for Grant it was still that night. Perhaps he could go back to that, and pick it up again at the morning after.

Another blink, and another.

"Come on, Grant. No more nonsense. You fooled them. Come on. Squeeze my hand. You can do that."

Fingers tightened. Just slightly. The breathing rate increased. He shook at Grant slightly, reached up and flicked a finger against his cheek.

"Hey. Feel that? Come on. I'm not taking any of this. It's me. Dammit, I want to talk to you. Pay attention."

The lips acquired muscle tone. Relaxed again. The breaths were hard now. Several rapid blinks.

"Are you listening?"

Grant nodded.

"Good." He was shaking. He tried to stop it. "We've got a problem. But I've got permission to get you out of here. If you can wake up."

"Is it morning?"

He drew a quick breath, thought at first to say yes, then thought that disorientation was dangerous. That Grant was wary. That Grant might pull back at a lie. "A little later than that. There was a glitch-up. A bad one. I'll explain later. Can you move your arm?"

Grant moved it, a little twitch. A lift of the hand, then. "I'm weak. I'm awfully weak."

"That's all right. They're going to take you over in the bus. You can sleep in your own bed tonight if you can prove you can sit up."

Grant's chest rose and fell rapidly. The arm moved, dragged over, fell at his side like something dead. He gulped air and made a convulsive move of his whole body, lifting his shoulders barely enough to let the pillow slip before he fell back.

"Close enough," Justin said.

Food tasted very strange to him. Too strong. Even soggy cereal was work, and made his jaws ache. He ate about half the bowl that Justin spooned into his mouth and made a weak movement of his hand. " 'Nough."

Justin looked worried when he set the bowl aside.

"It's a lot for me," Grant said. Talking was an effort too, but Justin looked so scared. Grant reached put and put his hand on Justin's because that was easier than talking. Justin still looked at him with all hell in his eyes. And he wished like hell he could take that pain away.

Justin had told him everything last night, poured it on him while he was still groggy and exhausted, because, Justin had said, t hat's the way they hit me with it, and I guess it hurts less while you're numb.

Grant had cried then. And Justin had cried. And Justin had been so tired and so unwilling to leave him that he had stretched himself out on Grant's bed beside him, still dressed and on top of the covers, and fallen to sleep.

Grant had struggled to throw the bedspread over him, had not had the strength in his arm; so he had rolled over, left the spread with Justin and rolled back again.

And lay there with just the sheet, too cold until Justin woke up midway through the night and got a blanket for him. And hugged him and cried on his shoulder, a long, long time.

"I need you so much," Justin had said.

Perhaps because he was azi, perhaps because he was human, he did not know—that was the most important thing anyone had ever said to him. He had wept too. He did not know why, except Justin was his life. Justin was everything to him. "I need you too," he had said. "I love you."

In the dark hours. In the hours before morning. When people could say things that were too real to say by daylight.

Justin had fallen to sleep by his side a second time. Grant had waked first, and lain there a long time, content to know Justin was there. Until Justin had waked and gotten up, apologizing for having slept there.

As if he had not wanted Justin there, all night. As if Justin was not the most important thing in the world to him, who made him feel safe. Who was the one he would do anything for.

Whom he loved, in a way that no woman and nothing he had ever longed for could matter to him.

xiii