Cyteen

  “My God, it’s right down to mannerisms,” he had murmured, meaning the frown on Ari’s face. On both Ari-faces. The way of holding the head. “Have they taught her that?”

  “They could have,” Grant had said, unperturbed. “All those skill tapes. They could do more than penmanship, couldn’t they?—But a lot of us develop like mannerisms.”

  Not in a CIT, had been his internal objection. Damn, they’ve got to have done that. Skill tapes. Muscle-learning. You could get that off a damn good actress.

  Or Ari herself. No telling what kind of things Olga recorded.—Are they going that far with the Rubin kid?

  He watched that still, attentive little girl at the table, in front of the panel of judges. They had not let Florian and Catlin sit with her. Just Giraud and the team of lawyers.

  “Reseune declines to turn genetic records over to the court,” the Chief Justice observed. “Is that the case?”

  “I need not remind the Court,” Giraud said, rising, “that we’re dealing with a Special’s geneset…”

  The Justices and uncle Giraud talked back and forth and Ari listened, listened very hard, and remembered not to fidget, uncle Giraud had told her not.

  They were talking about genetics, about phenotype and handprints and retinal scan. They had done all the tests but the skin sample already, when she checked in with the court ID office.

  “Ariane Emory,” the Chief Justice said, “would you come stand with your uncle, please?”

  She got up. She didn’t have to follow protocols, uncle Giraud said, the Court didn’t expect her to be a lawyer. She only had to be very polite with them, because they were lawyers themselves, the ones who solved all the most difficult cases in Union, and you had to be respectful.

  “Yes, ser,” she said, and she gave a little bow like Giraud’s, and walked up to the railing, having to look up at them. There were nine of them. Like Councillors. She had heard about the Court in her tapes. Now she was here. It was interesting.

  But she wished it weren’t her case.

  “Do they call you Ari?” the Chief Justice asked.

  “Yes, ser.”

  “How old are you, Ari?”

  “I’m four days from nine.”

  “What’s your CIT number, Ari?”

  “CIT 201 08 0089, but it’s not PR.” Uncle Giraud told her that in the paper she had studied.

  The Justice looked at his papers, and flipped through things, and looked up again. “Ari, you grew up at Reseune.”

  “Yes, ser. That’s where I live.”

  “How did you get that cast on your arm?”

  Just answer that, Giraud had said, about any question on her accident. So she said: “I fell off Horse.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “Florian and Catlin and I sneaked out of the House and went down to the Town; and I climbed up on Horse, and he threw me over the fence.”

  “Is Horse a real horse?”

  “He’s real. The labs birthed him. He’s my favorite.” She felt good, just remembering that little bit before she went over the fence, and the Justice was interested, so she said: “It wasn’t his fault. He’s not mean. I just surprised him and he jumped. So I went off.”

  “Who was supposed to be watching you?”

  “Security.”

  The Justice looked funny at that, like she had let out more than she intended; and all the Justices thought so, and some thought it was terribly funny. But that could get out of control and make somebody mad, so she decided she had better be careful.

  “Do you go to school?”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “Do you like your teachers?”

  He was trying to Work her, she decided. Absolutely. She put on her nicest face. “Oh, they’re fine.”

  “Do you do well on tests?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I do all right.”

  “Do you understand what it means to be a PR?”

  There was the trap question. She wanted to look at uncle Giraud, but she figured that would tell them too much. So she looked straight up at the Justice. “That means I’m legally the same person.”

  “Do you know what legally means?”

  “That means if I get certified nobody can say I’m not me and take the things that belong to me without going through the court; and I’m a minor. I’m not old enough to know what I’m going to need out of that stuff, or what I want, so it’s not fair to sue me in court, either.”

  That got him. “Did somebody tell you to say that?”

  “Would you like it if somebody called you a liar about who you are? Or if they were going to come in and take your stuff? They can tell too much about you by going through all that stuff, and that’s not right to do to somebody, especially if she’s a kid. They can psych you if they know all that stuff.”

  Got him again.

  “God,” Justin said, and lifted his eyes above his hand, watching while Giraud got Ari back to her seat.

  “She certainly answered that one,” Grant said.

  Mikhail Corain glared at the vid in his office and gnawed his lip till it bled.

  “Damn, damn, damn,” he said to his aide. “How do we deal with that? They’ve got that kid primed—”

  “A kid,” Dellarosa said, “can’t take priority over national security.”

  “You say it, I say it, the question is what’s the Court going to hold? Those damn fossils all came in under Emory’s spoils system—the head of Justice is Emory’s old friend. Call Lu in Defense.”

  “Again?”

  “Again, dammit, tell him it’s an emergency. He knows damn well what I want—you go over there. No, never mind, I will. Get a car.”

  “…watch the hearing,” the note from Giraud Nye had read, simply. And Secretary Lu watched, fist under chin, his pulse elevated, his elbows on an open folio replete with pictures and test scores.

  A bright-eyed little girl with a cast on her arm and a scab on her chin. That part was good for the public opinion polls.

  The test scores were not as good as the first Ari’s. But they were impressive enough.

  Corain had had his calls in from the instant he had known about the girl. And Lu was not about to return them—not until he had seen the press conference scheduled for after the hearing, the outcome of which was, as far as he was concerned, a sure thing.

  Of paramount interest were the ratings on the newsservices this evening.

  Damned good bet that Giraud Nye had leaned on Catherine Lao of Information, damned good bet that Lao was leaning on the newsservices—Lao was an old and personal friend of Ari Emory.

  Dammit, the old coalition seemed strangely alive, of a sudden. Old acquaintances reasserted themselves. Emory had not been a friend—entirely. But an old and cynical military man, trying to assure Union’s simple survival, found himself staring at a vid-screen and thinking thoughts which had seemed, a while ago, impossible.

  Fool, he told himself.

  But he pulled out a piece of paper and initiated a memo for the Defense Bureau lawyers:

  Military implications of the Emory files outweigh other considerations; draft an upgrading of Emory Archives from Secret to Utmost Secret and prepare to invoke the Military Secrets Act to forestall further legal action.

  And to his aide: I need a meeting with Harad. Utmost urgency.

  Barring, of course, calamity in the press conference.

  iv

  “Ari,” the Chief Justice said. “Would you come up to the bar?”

  It was after lunch, and the Justice called her right after he had called uncle Giraud.

  So she walked up very quiet and very dignified, at least as much as she could with the cast and the sling, and the Justice gave a paper to the bailiff.

  “Ari,” the Justice said, “the Court is going to certify you. There’s no doubt who your genemother was, and that’s the only thing that’s at issue in this Court today. You have title to your genemother’s CIT number.

  “As to the PR designation, which
is a separate question, we’re going to issue a temporary certification—that means your card won’t have it, because Reseune is an Administrative Territory, and has the right to determine whether you’re a sibling or a parental replicate—which in this case falls within Reseune’s special grants of authority. This court doesn’t feel there’s cause to abrogate those rights on an internal matter, where there is no challenge from other relatives.

  “You have title to all property and records registered and accrued to your citizen number: all contracts and liabilities, requirements of performance and other legal instruments not legally lapsed at the moment of death of your predecessor are deemed to continue, all contracts entered upon by your legal guardian in your name thereafter and until now are deemed effective, all titles held in trust in the name of Ariane Emory under that number are deemed valid and the individuals within this Writ are deemed legally identical, excepting present status as a minor under guardianship.

  “Vote so registered, none dissenting. Determination made and entered effective as of this hour and date.”

  The gavel came down. The bailiff brought her the paper, and it was signed and sealed by the whole lot of judges. Writ of Certification, it said at the top. With her name: Ariane Emory.

  She gave a deep breath and gave it to uncle Giraud when he asked for it.

  “It’s still stupid,” she whispered to him.

  But she was awfully glad to have it, and wished she could keep it herself, so uncle Giraud wouldn’t get careless and lose it.

  The reporters were not mean. She was real glad about that, too. She figured out in a hurry that there weren’t any Enemies with them, just a lot of people with notebooks, and people with cameras; so she told Catlin and Florian: “You can relax, they’re all right,” and sat on the chair they let her have because she said she was tired and her arm hurt.

  She could swing her feet, too. Act natural, Giraud had said. Be friendly. Don’t be nasty with them: they’ll put you on the news and then everybody across Union will know you’re a nice little girl and nobody should file lawsuits and bring Bills of Discovery against you.

  That made perfect sense.

  So she sat there and they wrote down questions and passed them to the oldest reporter, questions like: “How did you break your arm?” all over again.

  “Ser Nye, can you tell us what a horse is?” somebody asked next, out loud, and she thought that was funny, of course people knew what a horse was if they listened to tapes. But she was nice about it:

  “I can do that,” she said. “Horse is his name, besides what he is. He’s about—” She reached up with her hand, and decided that wasn’t high enough. “Twice that tall. And brown and black, and he kind of dances. Florian knows. Florian used to take care of him. On Earth you used to ride them, but you had a saddle and bridle. I tried it without. That’s how I fell off. Bang. Right over the fence.”

  “That must have hurt.”

  She swung her feet and felt better and better: she Had them. She liked it better when they didn’t write the questions. It was easier to Work them. “Just a bit. It hurts worse now, sometimes. But I get my cast off in a few weeks.”

  But they went back to the written ones. “Do you have a lot of friends at Reseune? Do you play with other girls and boys?”

  “Oh, sometimes.” Don’t be nasty, Giraud had said. “Mostly with Florian and Catlin, though. They’re my best friends.”

  “Follow-up,” somebody said. “Ser Giraud, can you tell us a little more about that?”

  “Ari,” Giraud said. “Do you want to answer? What do you do to amuse yourself?”

  “Oh, lots of things. Finding things and Starchase and building things.” She swung her feet again and looked around at Florian and Catlin. “Don’t we?”

  “Yes,” Florian said.

  “Who takes care of you?” the next question said.

  “Nelly. My maman left her with me. And uncle Denys. I stay with him.”

  “Follow-up,” a woman said.

  Giraud read the next question. “What’s your best subject?”

  “Biology. My maman taught me.” Back to that. News got to Fargone. “I sent her letters. Can I say hello to my maman? Will it go to Fargone?”

  Giraud didn’t like that. He frowned at her. No.

  She smiled, real nice, while all the reporters talked together.

  “Can it?” she asked.

  “It sure can,” someone called out to her. “Who is your maman, sweet?”

  “My maman is Jane Strassen. It’s nearly my birthday. I’m almost nine. Hello, maman!”

  Because nasty uncle Giraud couldn’t stop her, because Giraud had told her everybody clear across Union would be on her side if she was a nice little girl.

  “Follow-up!”

  “Let’s save that for the next news conference,” uncle Giraud said. “We have questions already submitted, in their own order. Let’s keep to the format. Please. We’ve granted this news conference after a very stressful day for Ari, and she’s not up to free-for-all questions, please. Not today.”

  “Is that the Jane Strassen who’s director of RESEUNESPACE?”

  “Yes, it is, the Jane Strassen who’s reputed in the field for work in her own right, I shouldn’t neglect to mention that, in Dr. Strassen’s service. We can provide you whatever material you want on her career and her credentials. But let’s keep to format, now. Let’s give the child a little chance to catch her breath, please. Her family life is not a matter of public record, nor should it be. Ask her that in a few years. Right now she’s a very over-tired little girl who’s got a lot of questions to get through, and I’m afraid we’re not going to get to all of them if we start taking them out of order.—Ari, the next question: what do you do for hobbies?”

  Uncle Giraud was Working them, of course, and they knew it. She could stop him, but that would be trouble with uncle Giraud, and she didn’t want that. She had done everything she wanted. She was safe now, she knew she was, because Giraud didn’t dare do a thing in front of all these people who could tell things all the way to her maman, and who could find out things.

  She knew about Freedom of the Press. It was in her Civics tapes.

  “What for hobbies? I study about astronomy. And I have an aquarium. Uncle Denys got me some guppies. They come all the way from Earth. You’re supposed to get rid of the bad ones, and you can breed ones with pretty tails. The pond fish would eat them. But I don’t do that. I just put them in another tank, because I don’t like to get them eaten. They’re kind of interesting. My teacher says they’re throw-backs to the old kind. My uncle Denys is going to get me some more tanks and he says I can put them in the den.”

  “Guppies are small fish,” uncle Giraud explained.

  People outside Reseune didn’t get to see a lot of things, she decided.

  “Guppies are easy,” she said. “Anybody could raise them. They’re pretty, too, and they don’t eat much.” She shifted in her chair. “Not like Horse.”

  v

  There was a certain strange atmosphere in the restaurant in the North corridor—in the attitude of staff and patrons, in the fact that the modest-price eatery was jammed and taking reservations by mid-afternoon—and only the quick-witted and lucky had realized, making the afternoon calls for supper accommodations, that thoroughly extravagant Changes was the only restaurant that might have slots left. Five minutes more, Grant had said, smug with success, and they would have had cheese sandwiches at home.

  As it was, it was cocktails, hors d’oeuvres, spiced pork roast with imported fruit, in a restaurant jammed with Wing One staff spending credit and drinking a little too much and huddling together in furtive speculations that were not quite celebration, not quite confidence, but a sense of Occasion, a sense after hanging all day on every syllable that fell from the mouth of a little girl in more danger than she possibly understood—that something had resulted, the Project that had monopolized their lives for years had unfolded unexpected wings and demonstrated—G
od knew what: something alchemical; or something utterly, simply human.

  Strange, Justin thought, that he had felt so proprietary, so anxious—and so damned personally affected when the Project perched on a chair in front of all of Union, swung her feet like any little girl, and switched from bright chatter to pensive intelligence and back again—

  Unscathed and still afloat.

  The rest of the clientele in Changes might be startled to find the Warrick faction out to dinner, a case of the skeleton at the feast; there were looks and he was sure there was comment at Suli Schwartz’s table.

  “Maybe they think we’re making a point,” he said to Grant over the soup.

  “Maybe,” Grant said. “Do you care? I don’t.”

  Justin gave a humorless laugh. “I kept thinking—”

  “What?”

  “I kept thinking all through that interview, God, what if she blurts out something about: ‘My friend Justin Warrick.’”

  “Mmmn, the child has much too much finesse for that. She knew what she was doing. Every word of it.”

  “You think so.”

  “I truly think so.”

  “They say those test scores aren’t equal to Ari’s.”

  “What do you think?”

  Justin gazed at the vase on the table, the single red geranium cluster that shed a pleasant if strong green-plant scent. Definite, bright, alien to a gray-blue world. “I think—she’s a fighter. If she weren’t, they’d have driven her crazy. I don’t know what she is, but, God, I think sometimes,—God, why in hell can’t they declare it a success and let the kid just grow up, that’s all. And then I think about the Bok-clone thing, and I think—what happens if they did that? Or what if they drive her over the edge with their damn hormones and their damn tapes—? Or what if they stop now—and she can’t—”

  “—Integrate the sets?” Grant asked. Azi-psych term. The point of collation, the coming-of-age in an ascending pyramid of logic structures.

  It fit, in its bizarre way. It fit the concept floating in his mind. But not that. Not for a CIT, whose value-structures were, if Emory was right and Hauptmann and Poley were wrong, flux-learned and locked in matrices.