Cyteen

  Like preparing a corpse for the funeral, he thought. Everyone in Reseune had a say in his future, everyone had a mortgage on him, even his father, who had not asked his son whether he wanted to grow up with a PR on his name and know every line he was to get before he was forty, not, thank God, a bad sort of face, but not an original, either,—a face carrying all sorts of significances with his father’s friends—and enemies; and Ari cornering him that first time in the lab storage room—

  He had not known what to do, then; he had wished a thousand times since he had grabbed hold of her and given her what she was evidently not expecting out of a seventeen-year-old kid with a woman more than twice old enough to be his grandmother. But being seventeen, and shocked and not having thought through what his choices were before this, he had frozen and stammered something idiotic about having to go, he had a meeting he had to make, had she got the report he had turned in on a project whose number he could not even remember—

  His face burned whenever he thought about it. He had gotten out that door so fast he had forgotten his clipboard and the reports and had to rewrite them rather than go back after them. He headed toward this appointment of Ari’s, this damnable, no-way-out-of-it meeting, with a carefully nurtured feeling that he might, maybe, get something of his self-respect back if he played it right now.

  She was old, but she was not quite beyond her rejuv. She looked—maybe late forties; and he had seen holos of her at twelve and sixteen, a face not yet settled into the hard handsomeness it had now. As women six times his age went, she was still worth looking at, what she had was the same as Julia Carnath’s in the dark, he told himself with a carefully held cynicism—and better than Julia, at least Ari was up front with what she was after. Everybody in Reseune slept with everybody else reasonable at some time or another, it was not totally out of line that Ari Emory wanted to renew her youth with a replicate of a man who would have been three times too young for her when he was seventeen. The situation might have deserved a real laugh, if things were not so grim, and he were not the seventeen-year-old in question.

  It was not sure he could do a damned thing, but, he told himself, she might at least be an experience: his was limited to Julia, who had ended up asking him for Grant—which had hurt so badly he had never gone back to her. Which was about the sum of his love affairs, and he had almost decided Jordan was right in his misogyny. Ari was a snake, she was everything reprehensible, but the key to the whole thing, he thought, was his own attitude. If he used it, if he handled it as if it were what Jordan called one of his damnfool stunts, then Ari had no weapon to use. That was the best way to take care of the problem, and that was what he had made up his mind to do—be a man, go along with the whole mess, learn from it (God knew a woman Ari’s age had something to teach him…in several senses)—let Ari do what she wanted, play her little games, and either lose interest or not.

  He reckoned he could take a page from Ari’s notebook—that a seventeen-year-old wasn’t going to be besotted with a woman her age—but a woman her age might have a real emotional need for a handsome, good-humored CIT bedmate. Let her get hooked.

  Let her have the problem, and him have the solution.

  Age and vanity might be the way to deal with her, the weakness no one else could find, because no one else was the seventeen-year-old boy she wanted.

  viii

  His watch showed 2105 when he walked up to the door and rang the bell of Ari’s apartment—the five because he meant to make Ari wonder if he was going to show or if instead he and Jordan were going to come up with something; and no more than five because he was afraid if Ari thought that, then Ari might initiate some action even she might not be able to stop.

  It was Catlin who opened the door, on an apartment he had never seen—mostly buff travertine and white furniture, very expensive, the sort of appointments Ari could afford and the rest of them only saw in places like the Hall of State, on newscasts: and blond, braid-crowned Catlin immaculate in her black uniform, very formal—but then, Catlin always was. “Good evening,” Catlin said to him, one of the few times he had ever had a pleasant word from her.

  “Good evening,” he said, as Catlin let the door close. There was a drift of music, barely intruding on the ears…electronic flute, cold as the stone halls through which it moved. He felt a shiver in his bones. He had eaten nothing but that handful of salted chips at lunch and a piece of dry toast at supper-time, thinking that if there were anything in his stomach he would throw up. Now he felt weak in the knees and light-headed and regretted that mistake.

  “Sera doesn’t entertain in this end of the apartments,” Catlin said, leading him through to another hall. “It’s only for appearances. Mind your step, ser, these rugs are treacherous on the stone. I keep telling sera.—Have you heard from Grant at all?”

  “No.” His stomach tightened at the sudden, mildly delivered flank attack. “I don’t expect to.”

  “I’m glad he’s safe,” Catlin said confidentially, as she might have said how nice the weather was, that same silky voice, so he had no idea whether Catlin was ever glad of anything or ever cared for anyone. She was cold and beautiful as the music, as the hall she led him through; and her opposite number met them at the end of the hall, in a large sunken den, paneled in glazed woolwood, all gray-blue and fabric-like under a sheen of plastic, carpeted in long white shag furnished with gray-green chairs and a large beige couch. Florian came from the hall beyond, likewise in uniform, dark and slight to Catlin’s athletic fairness. He laid a companionable hand on Justin’s shoulder. “Tell sera her guest is here,” he said to Catlin. “Would you like a drink, ser?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Vodka and pechi, if you’ve got it.” Pechi was an import, extravagant enough; and he was still in shock from the richness Ari managed inside Reseune. He looked around him at Downer statuary in the far corner beyond the bar, wide-eyed ritual images; at steel-sculpture and at a few paintings about the woolwood walls, God, he had seen in tapes as classics from the sublight ships. Stuck in this place, where only Ari and her guests saw them.

  It was a monument to self-indulgence.

  And he thought of the nine-year-old azi his father had mentioned.

  Florian brought him the drink. “Do sit down,” Florian said, but he walked the raised gallery about the rim of the room looking at the paintings, one after the other, sipping at a drink he had only had once in his life, and trying to calm his nerves.

  He heard a step behind him, turned as Ari walked up on him, Ari in a geometric-print robe lapped at the waist, that glittered with the lights, decidedly no fit attire to meet business company. He stared at her, his heart hammering away in him in the panicked realization that Ari was very real, that he was in a situation he did not know the limits of, and there was no way out from here.

  “Enjoying my collection?” She indicated the painting he had been looking at. “That’s my uncle’s. Quite an artist.”

  “He was good.” He was off his stride for a moment. Least of all did he expect Ari to start off with reminiscences.

  “He was good at a lot of things. You never knew him? Of course not. He died in ’45.”

  “Before I was born.”

  “Damn, it’s hard to keep up with things.” She slipped her arm into his and guided him toward the next painting. “That one’s a real prize. Fausberg. A naive artist, but a first view of Alpha Cent. Where no human goes now. I love that piece.”

  “That’s something.” He stared at it with a strange feeling of time and antiquity, realizing it was real, from the hand of someone who had been there, to a star humankind had lost.

  “There was a time no one knew what that was worth,” she said. “I did. There were a lot of primitive artists on the first ships. Sublight space gave them a lot of time to create. Fausberg worked in chart-pens and acrylics, and damn, they had to invent whole new preservation techniques up on station—I insisted. My uncle bought the lot, I wanted them preserved, and that’s why the Argo paintings got saved
at all. Most of them are in the museum at Novgorod. Now Sol Station wants one of the Fausberg 61 Cygni’s really, really bad. And we may agree—for something of equal value. I have a certain Corot in mind.”

  “Who’s Corot?”

  “God, child. Trees. Green trees. Have you seen the Terran tapes?”

  “A lot of them.” He forgot his anxiety for a moment, recollecting a profusion of landscapes stranger than native Cyteen.

  “Well, Corot painted landscapes. Among other things. I should lend you some of my tapes. I should put them on tonight—Catlin, have you got that Origins of Human Art series?”

  “I’m sure we do, sera. I’ll key it up.”

  “Among others.—That, young friend, is one of our own. Shevchenki. We have him on file. He died, poor fellow, of lifesupport failure, when they were setting up Pytho, up on the coast. But he really did remarkable work.”

  Red cliffs and the blue of woolwood. That was too familiar to interest him. He could do that, he thought privately. But he was too polite to say it. He sketched. He even painted, or had, when he was fresh from the inspiration of the explorer-painters. Ground-bound, he imagined stars and alien worlds. And had never in his life expected to get clear of Reseune.

  Until it looked like Jordan might.

  Florian came up and offered Ari a drink, a bright golden concoction in a cut-crystal glass. “Orange and vodka,” she said. “Have you ever tasted orange?”

  “Synthetic,” he said. Everyone had.

  “No, real. Here. Have a sip.”

  He took a little from the offered glass. It was strange, a complicated, sour-sweet-bitter taste under the alcohol. A taste of old Earth, if she was serious, and no one who had these paintings on her walls could be otherwise.

  “It’s nice,” he said.

  “Nice. It’s marvelous. AG is going to make a try with the trees. We think we have a site for them—no messing about with genetics: we think the Zones can accommodate them just the way they are. It’s a bright orange fruit. Just like the name. Full of good things. Go on. Take it. Florian, do me another, will you?” She locked her arm tighter, steered him toward the steps and down, toward the couch. “What did you tell Jordan?”

  “Just that Grant was out of the way and everything was all right.” He sat down, took a large swallow of the drink, then set it down on the brass counter behind the couch, having gotten control of his nerves as much as he figured was likely in this place, in present company. “I didn’t tell him anything else. I figure it’s my business.”

  “Is it?” Ari settled close to him, at which his stomach tightened and felt utterly queasy. She laid her hand on his leg and leaned against him, and all he could think of was the azi Jordan had talked about, the ones she had put down for no reason at all, the poor damned azi not even knowing they were dying—just some order to report for a medical. “Sit a little closer, dear. That’s all right. It’s just pleasant, isn’t it? You really shouldn’t tense up like that, all nervous.” She slipped her arm about his ribs and rubbed his back. “There, relax. That feels good, doesn’t it? Turn around and let me do something for those shoulders.”

  It was like when she had trapped him in the lab. He tried to think what to answer to something that outrageous and failed, completely. He picked up the drink and took a heavy swallow and another and did not do what she asked. Neither did her hand stop its slow movement.

  “You’re so tight. Look, it’s a simple little bargain. And you don’t have to be here. All you have to do is walk out the door.”

  “Sure. Why don’t we just go into the bedroom, dammit?” His hands were close to shaking. The chill of the ice went right through his fingers to the bone. He finished the drink without looking at her.

  I could kill her, he thought, not angrily. Just as a solution to the insoluble. Before Florian and Catlin could stop me. I could just break her neck. What could they do then?

  Psychprobe me and find out everything she did? That’d fix her.

  It might be the way. It might be the way to get out of this.

  “Florian, he’s out of orange juice. Get him another.—Come on, sweet. Relax. You really can’t do anything like that, you know better and I know better. You want to try it yourself? Is that the problem?”

  “I want the drink,” he muttered. Everything seemed unreal, nightmarish. In a moment she was going to start talking to him the way she had in the interviews, and that was all part of it, a sordid, duty business he did not know how to get through, but he wanted to be very drunk, very, very drunk, so that possibly he would get sick, turn out incapable, and she would just give up on this.

  “You said you never had experimented around,” Ari said. “Just the tapes. Is that the truth?”

  He did not answer. He only twisted round on the couch to see how long it was going to take Florian to get him the drink, to have any distraction that might turn this in some other direction.

  “Do you think you’re normal?” Ari asked. He did not answer that either. He watched Florian’s back as Florian poured and mixed the drink. He felt Ari’s hands on his back, felt the cushion give as she shifted against him, as her hand came around his side.

  Florian handed him the drink, and he leaned there with his elbow on the back of the couch sipping the orange drink and feeling the slow, light movement of Ari’s hands on his back.

  “Let me tell you something,” Ari said softly, behind him. “You remember what I told you about family relationships? That they’re a liability? I’m going to do you a real favor. Ask me what that is.”

  “What?” he asked because he had to.

  Her arms came around him, and he took a drink, trying to ignore the nausea she made in his gut.

  “You think tenderness ought to have something to do with this,” Ari said. “Wrong. Tenderness hasn’t got a thing to do with it. Sex is what you do for yourself, for your own reasons, sweet, just because it feels good. That’s all. Now sometimes you get real close to somebody and you want to do it back and forth, that’s fine, and maybe you trust them, but you shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. The first thing you have to learn is that you can get it anywhere. The second thing—it ties you to people who aren’t family and it mucks up your judgment unless you remember the first rule. That’s how I’m going to do you a favor, sweet. You’re not going to confuse what we’re doing here. Does that feel good?”

  It was hard to breathe. It was hard to think. His heart was hammering and her hands did quiet, disturbing things that made his skin all too sensitive, the edge of pleasure—or intense discomfort. He was no longer sure which. He drank a large gulp of the orange and vodka and tried to put his mind anywhere else, anywhere at all, in a kind of fog in which he was less and less in control of himself.

  “How are you doing, dear?”

  Not well, he thought, and thought that he was drunk. But at the edge of his senses he felt a dislocation, a difficulty in spatial relationships—like the feeling that Ari was a thousand miles away, her voice coming from behind him and not straight back, but aside in a strange and asymmetrical way—

  It was a cataphoric. Tapestudy drug. Panic raced through his brain, chaotic, stimuli coming in on him too fast, while the body seemed to lag in an atmosphere gone to syrup. Not a high dosage. He could see. He could still feel Ari tug his shirt up, run her hands over his bare skin, even while his sense of balance deserted him and he felt his head spinning, the whole room going around. He lost the glass and felt the chill of ice and liquid spreading against his hip and under his buttocks.

  “Oh, dear. Florian. Get that.”

  He was sinking. He was still aware. He tried to move, but confusion set in, a roaring muddle of sound and sensation. He tried to doubt. That was the hardest thing. He was quite aware that Florian had rescued the glass and that his head was back in Ari’s lap, in the hollow of her crossed legs, that he was gazing up into Ari’s face upside down and that she was unfastening his shirt.

  She was not the only one unfastening his clothing. He heard
a murmur of voices, but none of them involved him. “Justin,” a voice said, and Ari turned his head between her hands. “You can blink when you need to,” she whispered, the way the tapes would. “Are you comfortable?”

  He did not know. He was terrified and ashamed, and in a long nightmare he felt touches go over him, felt himself lifted up and dragged off whatever he was lying on and down onto the floor.

  It was Catlin and Florian who hovered over him. It was Catlin and Florian who touched him and moved him and did things to him that he was aware of in a kind of vague nowhere way, which were wrong, wrong and terrible.

  Stop this, he thought. Stop this. I don’t agree with this.

  I don’t want this.

  But there was pleasure. There was an explosion in his senses, somewhere infinite, somewhere dark.

  Help me.

  I don’t want this.

  He was half conscious when Ari said to him: “You’re awake, aren’t you? Do you understand now? There’s nothing more than this. That’s as good as it gets. There’s nothing more than this, no matter who it’s with. Just biological reactions. That’s the first and the second rule…”

  “Watch the screen.”

  Tape was running. It was erotic. It blurred into what was happening to him. It felt good and he did not want it to, but he was not responsible for it, he was not responsible for anything and it was not his fault…

  “I think he’s coming out of it…”

  “Just give him a little more. He’ll do fine.”

  “There’s nothing can do to you what tape can do. Can it, boy? No matter who it is. Biological reactions. Whatever does it for you…”