Cyteen

  Justin Patrick Warrick, it said, CIT 976-088-2355PR, which was damning enough; but in faint outline behind that was the Infinite Man emblem of Reseune Administrative Territory.

  “Reseune,” the boy said, looking up, checking the picture, he thought—in case it was stolen. “Never seen one of those. You from there?”

  “I—” He had not tried talking. His voice was hoarse and cracked. “I work in the city offices.”

  “Huh.” The boy slid it into the register slot and handed it back with the cup and the roll on the lid. “You return the cup and lid we refund half.” The number 3 was on both.

  “Thanks.” He went over to the counter, unlidded the drink, and took down the roll with huge gulps of the sugary, iced drink, no matter the rawness of his throat—uneasy on his stomach in the first few moments and then altogether equal to anything Changes could offer at twenty times the price. He leaned there a moment with his eyes watering, just breathing and letting his stomach get used to food.

  Where in hell am I going? What am I going to do?

  He wiped his blurring eyes, went back to the counter with the cup and the lid, among other customers, delayed a moment until they were served. “Where can you get the news?”

  “They got a board down to the subway.”

  “Where?”

  “Straight on, to your Wilfred tunnel, go right.—You been up to that fire at the Riverside?”

  “Up all night with it,” he said. “You hear anything—who did it, why?”

  The boy shook his head, and served another patron. Justin waited.

  “Emory was on vid this morning,” the boy said; and Justin’s heart skipped. “Madder’n hell.”

  “Emory’s all right?”

  “She was, yey.” The boy broke off to take a card and pour a drink. “You from Reseune?”

  Justin nodded. “Can I use a phone? Please.”

  “I can’t do that.” Another customer. The boy yelled, pointing past the woman: “Down to the corner, public phone.”

  “Thanks!”

  He went, walking fast, with the traffic, in the direction the boy had said, passing some casual walkers. Call the Bureau. Ask for protection. They can’t think I’m responsible. They can’t blame anyone but Reseune Security—

  Abban, the head of it—

  He saw the sign that said Phone, and kept his keycard in his hand. He knew the Bureau number: he had had it memorized for years—but he had never used a phone outside Reseune, and he picked up the receiver, reading instructions: Lift receiver, insert card, key in or touch 0 and voice in…

  “Ser.”

  He turned and saw a gray uniform, a tall, heavy-set body.

  Novgorod police.

  He dropped the receiver and hit the officer a glancing blow getting past him; and ran, desperately, through the crowds.

  But his keycard, he realized to his horror, dodging past a group of workers and down a side tunnel—his keycard was still in the phone-slot.

  xi

  “…My own Security was remiss at best,” Ari said, in what of a voice she had left, sitting at the table in the conference room where Justin had sat. “Reseune will be conducting an internal investigation. I will tell you this, seri,—” Her voice cracked, and she took a drink of water. She had gotten her clothes changed, her hair pinned up—Catlin and Florian had helped; and she had the shakes—even if they had gotten her a cup of coffee and a liquid breakfast, which was all she could stand on her smoke-irritated throat. “I’m sorry. The voice isn’t much.—I was about to say: I’m functioning as temporary head of Reseune Security; I’m ordering transfers; I’m posting and making assignments. I’m prepared to continue in that post at least administratively if Family council confirms it, though I’m quite aware my age and experience in Security are at issue: my view of my position is as someone qualified to assess the individuals in charge of operations and to make sure communications go through. I feel—to put this delicately—that my uncle’s death has left some disarray in the department; the death of the acting head in the fire—is extremely unfortunate.”

  “Do you feel,” Lynch asked, “that there is a chance the attempt was entirely internal?”

  She drew a breath and took another drink of water. “Yes. I don’t discount that possibility. Reseune is in transition. Dr. Nye—my surviving uncle—is very much affected by his brother’s death. There are questions about his own health. But there are certainly experienced administrators who can deal with the problems if Reseune’s own council should give them that mandate.”

  “In short, you feel Reseune can handle the problems.”

  “I have no doubt.”

  “Internally,” Dr. Wells said, Corain’s voice in Science. “But there is, pardon me, sera Emory, some question in my mind, regarding Dr. Warrick’s disappearance. You say he was lodged in the room next to yours—but you know he cleared that area.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you consider there’s a chance he ran?”

  “I don’t think that likely, no.”

  “Why? Because his father is detained by Reseune?”

  “Because,” she shot back, “of his testimony before this committee. The Paxers were damned—excuse me: were extremely quick to take advantage of the hotel bombing; I’m scared mindless that there may well have been Paxer agents hovering around the hotel because we were there, and that whether or not they were the ones who planted the bomb—they may have been in a position to recognize Dr. Warrick among the evacuees and to kidnap him.”

  “Certain people might suggest other agencies.”

  “We certainly have no motive to. We brought him here.”

  “His father remains in detention.”

  “Under protective guard, in view of a security breach that put him in contact with unauthorized personnel. We don’t know what else could have gotten to him. The attempt on my life makes that more than a remote possibility. In the meanwhile I’m extremely worried about Justin Warrick’s whereabouts and about his physical condition.”

  “While Dr. Jordan Warrick remains under arrest.”

  “You can call it what you like, ser; the facts are as I gave them.”

  “Under your direction of Security.”

  “Under my direction.”

  “From whom are you taking your orders?”

  “I operate within the directives of Reseune Administration. I’m reviewing Jordan Warrick’s security and I will be in communication with him; and with Reseune Administration; I’m not empowered to make changes without consultation.”

  “Is he aware of his son’s disappearance?”

  “No, ser. We hope to have better news for him. Justin’s well aware of his personal danger—he may well have hidden somewhere until he can be sure of the situation. That’s my best hope.”

  “Is there any likelihood,” Lynch asked, “that one of the blasts was aimed at him?”

  “The blast was incendiary and directional; they put it in his room because my security could have found it immediately if it had been inside. It was elaborately shielded, it was mounted, more than likely, my security tells me, behind the very large bureau—a floor-to-ceiling cabinet—against that wall.” Her voice cracked. She took another drink. “Excuse me. Justin was at a connecting door at the time, right against that wall—he was trying to warn me or my staff of something: we don’t know what. The wall blew; the bureau spun half about and fell against the bed between him and the blast; and the plastic fragments hit that and the far wall. He was protected. That’s how we know he survived the blast and we know he made it out of that room. Possibly he had seen something in the room that shouldn’t have been there. I want to ask him. I want to know why his personal guard was found dead down the hall, not in the room. There are a lot of unanswered questions revolving around Dr. Warrick.”

  “For the record, you don’t consider any possibility that Dr. Justin Warrick was part of a conspiracy.”

  “Absolutely not. For the record, I’m worried about a problem inside
our own staff, within the area of personnel attached to my late uncle—and I’m very hesitant to be more specific than that even with this distinguished committee and guests. I’m continuing to answer questions, but I’m exceedingly anxious to get to the airport and get home, to carry reports to members of the Reseune staff who may decide to take action. The attack proves well enough that lives may be in danger.”

  “From what source?” Wells asked.

  “Again, ser, I don’t feel I should make charges: the next step is internal investigation, after which appropriate authorities from my Territory will be in contact with the Bureau.”

  “You’re extremely young to lecture this committee on judicial matters.”

  “I believe, ser, that I’m factually right; and I hold an administrative post within Reseune which requires legal expertise—I refer to my post as wing supervisor, ser. It is correct for me to bring my information before Reseune authorities: I can appeal to the Bureau only in a personal matter, and it would be irresponsible to treat this as a personal incident: its implications are far more extensive.”

  “Specifically?”

  “The possibility that Reseune law is being violated. That security is compromised to the extent I can’t be sure of my Administrator’s security. Either his involvement—or his safety from persons who may be. I have to say that much, to make you understand it could cost lives if we delay in this committee, or if a message goes out of here to Reseune.” God. Let’s not have a debate on this. We can’t leak it that Jordan Warrick is on a plane, it’s too damn vulnerable till it’s on the ground; and after it is—

  It lands at 1500. God knows into what.

  “Then perhaps Reseune should ask for Bureau Enforcement.”

  “Perhaps Reseune will. At the moment I ask you to realize that Reseune’s internal stability is threatened. Its sovereignty is at issue. I hope to find I’m wrong. I’d like for this to have come entirely from outside. I don’t see a reasonable possibility that it did.”

  “You talk about personnel attached to your late uncle, the Councillor. I have questions about that.”

  How many of the Bureau have ties to Giraud?

  Lynch himself?

  God, have I made a mistake?

  “In consideration of sera Emory’s health,” Lynch said, “and request for consultation with her staff—”

  “Mr. Chairman,—” Wells objected.

  “—we’ll take a recess at this time.” The gavel came down. “Committee will re-convene at 1930 hours, sera Emory’s health permitting.”

  She let go the breath she had been holding, and shoved back the chair from the table. “Thank you, ser Secretary,” she said in what voice she had left; and looked to the side as Florian came up to her and cut the microphone off.

  “Sera,” he said in a low voice. “He’s in the tunnels. Novgorod police almost had him. He left his keycard. They’re sure it’s him.”

  She almost had to sit down. She leaned on the table. “He’s run?”

  But they could not discuss it; Lynch was moving up on her other side. She turned and took his hand. “Thank you.”

  Lynch nodded. “Take care, sera.”

  Harad wished her much the same.

  “Sera,” Jacques said stiffly, non-committal.

  And Corain: Corain gave her a long and wary look as he shook her hand.

  xii

  “Another, ser?” the guard asked, appearing by Jordan’s seat.

  “I could stand it,” Jordan said. “Paul?”

  “Yes,” Paul said. And after the guard had walked down the aisle toward the bar: “You can’t complain about the service.”

  “Sun off the right,” Jordan observed. They were reaching cruising altitude again, after refueling at, he supposed, Pytho. In the dark. But the dawn-glow was visible ahead of the plane; and ever so slightly to the right.

  From Pytho the plane could have gone to Novgorod or to Reseune. If it held course as they bore, it was Reseune—which was not, he was sure, any sort of good news.

  Paul took his meaning. Paul was steady as ever, his support through the years; and now.

  He wanted to see Reseune: it was strange that he could feel that way. But it was part of his life; it was civilization; and he was in some part glad to be going home. He hoped to see Justin.

  He feared—much worse things.

  “We’ve picked up a tailwind,” one of the guards had said, in his better-than-average hearing. “We’re going to beat our schedule.”

  The tunnels afforded few hiding places, only nooks, the dim recess of the news-shop; that took money to enter but the crowded doorway offered Justin a brief refuge and a vantage to scan the tunnel up and down. Then another public restroom, and a quick shave: he had kept the shaving kit and left the damned keycard; but he was afraid to stay there long—

  The crowd in a restaurant, the general drift toward another corridor—another appeal to a shopkeeper: “Can I use your phone? I was robbed: I need to call my office—”

  “Better call the police,” the shop-owner said.

  “No,” Justin said; and seeing the look of suspicion on the man’s face: “Please.”

  “Police,” the man said into the receiver.

  Justin turned and left, moving quickly into the crowds, dodging away, heart pounding. The strength the breakfast had lent him was gone. He felt the stiffness and the sprains, and his skull ached. He found himself farther down the corridor than he had thought, found another gap in his memory; and looked behind him in panic.

  There were police at the intersection. He saw them look his way.

  He turned back again and dived down a stairs: Subway, it said. He jostled past other walkers, came out at the bottom.

  “Hey,” someone yelled behind him.

  He ran, out onto the concrete rim, evaded a headon collision and dodged around a support column.

  People dived away from him, scrambled out of the way in panic: the whole strip was vacant. “Stop right there!” a voice thundered behind him, and screams warned him of a weapon drawn.

  He dodged wildly aside and something slammed like a fist into his back; but he saw safety ahead—saw the black of Reseune Security, a man yelling: “Don’t shoot!” and a gun in that man’s hand too, aimed toward him.

  But a numbness was spreading from his shoulder across his back, and balance went. He fell on the concrete, conscious, but losing feeling in his limbs.

  “I’m Justin Warrick,” he said to the black-uniformed officer who knelt down to help him. “Call Ari Emory.”

  And: “No,” he heard the officer say, not, he thought, to him: “This man is a Reseune citizen. He’s under our authority. File your complaints with my captain.”

  They wanted to take him to hospital. They wanted to take him to the Novgorod police station. They told him that it had not been a bullet but a high-velocity trank dart that had penetrated his shoulder: “I’m very glad to know that,” he said, or tried to say, past the numbness of his mouth. And was equally relieved when the agent told him they had reached Ari, and that RESEUNE ONE, already on the runway, had turned back to hold for him.

  xiii

  “I’ll walk,” he said, and did, facing the climb up the passenger ramp; but Florian had come halfway down to help him and Ari was waiting at the top, in the doorway, with the frown he expected.

  Ari put her arm around him when he made it through the doorway; so did Catlin, fending away other Security personnel; and steered him for the nearest seat. But he stopped, resisting their help for a moment, scanning the group of Security staff for Abban or for strangers. “Who’s back there?” he asked. “Ari, who oversaw the plane, do you know?”

  “The pilot and co-pilot,” Ari said, in a voice only a little less hoarse than his. “And staff we’re sure of.”

  “Abban—”

  “Dead,” Catlin said, and patted his shoulder. “We’re onto it, ser. Come on.”

  He let go the seat then, eased himself into it, leaned back and stared at Ari in a
dull, all-over malaise as she sat down opposite him. “Thanks for holding the plane,” he said between breaths.

  “Where in hell were you?”

  “Went shopping,” he said, as the door thumped to and sealed. For a moment he was disoriented. “Sorry.” He knew her suspicions—and Florian’s and Catlin’s. He felt a dull surprise that they let him this close to her. “I wasn’t anywhere. I got disoriented. Wandered off.” The plane began to move, pale landscape swinging past the windows in the edge of his vision. “I just walked until I knew I was in the tunnels; and I found Security and I told them find you.”

  “That’s not half of what I hear. Novgorod is real nervous about people acting odd around the subways.”

  He shut his eyes, just gone for the moment, exhausted, and the seat was soft, comfortable as a pillow all around him, while he was trying to organize his thoughts. The engines began to drown out sound, a universal white-out. Someone leaned near him and drew the belt over him. He looked up at Catlin as the catch snapped. The plane was gathering speed. Ari was belting in. Catlin and Florian dropped into the seats by him.

  The takeoff had a peculiarly perilous feel. Maybe it was the drug that dizzied him; maybe it was the steep bank the pilot pulled, an abrupt maneuver unlike anything he had ever felt. He gripped the arms of the seat, remembering the chance of sabotage, remembering the fire—

  “Wes, back there, is a class one medic,” Ari said to him, raising her voice over the engine-sound. “He’s got the equipment. When we level off we can get you an almost-real bed. How are you doing?”

  “Fuzzed. They shot me with numb-out.” He tried to focus on here and now, the list of things he wanted to ask her. “Giraud—Jordan—could be in danger.”

  “I’m head of Security at the moment,” Ari said. “I’ll tell you—I’m quite aware of our problems. I went to the Bureau, I laid the problems out, and when we land we’re going to call Family council—that’s why I desperately want you there. For one thing, you’ve a vote. For another, you can probably tell things I can’t, about what’s gone on all these years.”