Cyteen

  Certain of the proposed future exchanges are quite ambitious.

  Earth is particularly anxious for the success of cetaceans and higher primates on Cyteen. It has proposed a joint study program as soon as the cetacean project is viable, for the study of cetacean development and the comparison of whalesong on Cyteen and on Earth.

  Cyteen finds such projects of interest too, for the future. But the present emphasis in terraforming and recovery is far more concerned with the immediate problems in large-scale atmospheric changes, and the problems of interface zones, high salinity, and trace minerals in Swigert Bay, at the delta of the heavily-colonized Novaya Volga, which offers the most favorable conditions for large-scale marine aquaculture…

  C H A P T E R

  2

  i

  Reseune from the air was a patch of green in the deep valley of the Novaya Volga, a protected, low-lying strip stretching yearly longer on the riverside, white buildings at the last, and the AG pens, the barracks, the sprawling complex of Reseune proper spread out under the left-side window that was always hers. Ariane Emory latched up her papers, quite on schedule as the gear came down and Florian appeared beside her seat to take temporary custody of her personal kit.

  She kept the briefcase.

  Always.

  The jet touched down, concrete coming up under the delta wings; it braked, taxiing to a gentle stop at Reseune terminal as ground crews swung into action, personnel transport, baggage crews, cleaning crews, mechanics, a crisp and easy operation from decontamination to docking that matched anything Novgorod could muster.

  They were all azi, all staff born to Reseune. Their training went far beyond what Novgorod counted sufficient. But that was true of most Reseune personnel.

  They were known faces, known types, and everything about them was in the databanks.

  For the first time in days Ariane Emory felt herself secure.

  The Security hand-off had gone smoothly enough, control passing to Reseune offices the moment the word reached Giraud Nye’s office that RESEUNE ONE had left the ground at Novgorod—with no more than an hour’s advance warning. Ari’s movements were usually sudden and unscheduled, and she did not always give advance notice even to him, who was head of Reseune Security—but this was a record suddenness.

  “Advise the staff,” he had told Abban, his own bodyguard, who did that, quickly, seeing to the transfer of logs and reports. He called his brother Denys, in Administration, and Denys advised Wing One as soon as the plane was on final approach.

  The last was routine, the standard procedure on Ariane’s returns, whenever RESEUNE ONE came screaming in and Ariane Emory settled into the place that was hers, in her wing, in her residency.

  The word had come on yesterday’s news that the Hope project had been tabled, and the stock market had reacted with a shock that might well run the length and width of space, although analysts called it a procedural delay. The good news was a tiny piece following, with biographical clip provided from Science Bureau files, that an obscure chemist on Fargone had been afforded Special status: that bill, at least, had gone through. And the Council had wrapped up in a marathon session that had extended on into the small hours: more ripples in the interstellar stock market, which loathed uncertainties more than it disliked sudden reverses of policy. The news bureaus of every polity in Union had held a joint broadcast of commentary and analysis, preempting scheduled morning broadcasts, senior legislative reporters doing their best to offer interpretations, frustrated in the refusal of even opposition Councillors to grant interviews.

  The leader of the Abolitionist faction in the Centrist coalition had granted one: Ianni Merino, his white hair standing out in its usual disorder, his face redder and his rhetoric more extreme than ever, had called for a general vote of confidence of the entire Council and threatened secession from the Centrist party. He did not have the votes to do the one: he might well do the other, and Giraud Nye had sat listening to that, knowing more than the commentators and still wondering along with the news bureaus just what kind of deal had been struck and why Mikhail Corain had been willing to go along with it.

  A triumph for Reseune?

  A political disaster? Something lost?

  It was not Ariane’s habit to consult back during the sessions in Novgorod except in dire emergency, certainly not by phone, not even on Bureau lines; but there were staff couriers and planes always available.

  That she had not sent—meant a situation under control, despite that precipitate adjournment—one hoped.

  The social schedule had been thrown into utter confusion, the Councillors had canceled meetings right and left, and the Councillors from Russell’s and Pan-paris had sped back to Cyteen Station to make passage on a ship bound for Russell’s Star, departure imminent. Their Secretaries had been left to sit proxy, one presumed, with definite instructions about their votes.

  It was more than protocol that brought Giraud Nye and his brother Denys to meet the small bus as it pulled up in the circle drive at the front of Reseune.

  The bus door opened. The first one down was, predictably, the azi Catlin, in the black uniform of Reseune security, her face pale and set in a forecast of trouble: she stepped down and reached back to steady Ari as Ari made the single step—Ari in pale blue, carrying her briefcase herself as usual, and with no visible indication of triumph or catastrophe until she looked straight at Giraud and Denys with an expression that foretold real trouble.

  “Your office,” she said to Denys. Behind her, exiting onto the concrete with the rest of the staff, Giraud saw Jordan Warrick, who was not supposed to be with that flight, who had flown out five days ago on RESEUNE ONE and was supposed to come back at the end of the week, on a RESEUNEAIR special flight.

  There was trouble. Warrick arriving in Ari’s company was as great a shock as Centrists and Expansionists suddenly bedding down together. Warrick’s staff was not with him, only his azi chief-of-Household, Paul, who followed along with a sober, anxious look, carrying a flight-kit.

  Abban might collect gossip from the staff, the ones who were Family, and free to talk. Giraud gave Abban the order and fell in with Ari and Denys, silent Florian heading off to the left hall the moment they cleared the doors, Catlin walking along behind with Denys’ azi Seely.

  Not a word until they were inside Denys’ inmost office, and Denys turned on the unit that provided sound-screening in the room. Then:

  “We’ve got a problem,” Ari said, opening the briefcase very carefully, very precisely on the expensive imported veneer of Denys’ desk.

  “Hope’s in trouble?” Denys asked, accepting the fiche she handed him. “Or is it Jordan?”

  “Gorodin is promising us unanimous approval for Hope—if Jordan gets a liaison post at a Fargone military psych facility we’re going to have hidden in our budget.”

  “God,” Giraud said, and sat down.

  “You tell me how you buy Mikhail Corain’s vote, and why Jordan Warrick’s transfer has to be part of Gorodin’s bargain.”

  Giraud had no doubts. It was certain that Ari had none.

  “He’s become a problem,” Ari said.

  “We can’t touch him,” Giraud said. Panic welled up in him. Sometimes Ari forgot she had limits, or that prudence did.

  “He’s counting on that, isn’t he?” So, so quietly. Ari settled into the remaining chair. “It still has to be voted. It doesn’t need to be voted until the facility exists. And we just got the appropriation.”

  Giraud was sweating. He resisted the impulse to mop his face. The sound-screening tended to make his teeth ache, but at the moment the discomfort was mostly in his gut.

  “Well, it’s not that bad,” Denys said, and tilted his chair back, folding his hands on his ample stomach. “We can map this out. Jordie’s being a fool. We can merge his wing right back into Administration, absorb his staff and his records, that for a start.”

  “He’s not a fool,” Ari said. “I want to know if we’re missing files.”
r />   “You think he’s left something in Novgorod?”

  “What’s ever stopped him?”

  “Dammit,” Giraud said, “Ari, I warned you. I warned you.”

  Ari tilted her head, regarding him sidelong. “I’ll tell you one thing: even if he goes, son Justin won’t.”

  “We’ve got five more years of budget to fight through! What in hell are we going to do when Jordie’s out there in front of the cameras?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “What do you mean, don’t worry about it?”

  “He’s here, isn’t he? Left his aides, his staff, everyone but Paul in Novgorod. I didn’t confront him about the leak. I just sent Florian to advise him he was wanted. He’s well aware what he’s done and that I know he’s done it.”

  “If you touch him—Listen to me. He won’t have done this without advance preparation. God knows what kind of harm he can do us. Or what kind of information he’s smuggled out of here. My God, I didn’t see this coming.”

  “Jordan and his little feuds. His requests for transfer. His bickering on staff. Oh, we’re still friendly. We have our little policy debates. We had one on the way home. And smiled at each other over drinks. Why not? There’s always the chance I believed Gorodin.”

  “He knows damn well you didn’t!”

  “And he knows that I know that he knows, round and round. So we smile at each other. I’ll tell you something: I’m not worried. He’s sure I won’t move until I know what he’s got. He’s manipulating the situation. Our Education Special thinks he’s the best there is. He’s gambling everything on things going the way he predicts. He’ll make me a counter-offer soon. And I’ll make mine. And that’s how we’ll pass the months. He’s sure he can match me move for move. We’ll see. I’m going to my apartments. I’m sure Florian’s run his checks by now. I’m going to have a shower, put my feet up a while, and read the logs. And have a decent meal. Formal dinner tonight. It’s a session-end, isn’t it? Catlin can approve the menu.”

  “I’ll tell the staff,” Denys said. The thought of food turned Giraud’s stomach.

  “It’s not a total disadvantage,” she said. “Have you seen the news? The Centrist coalition is showing seams this morning. Corain’s made Ianni Merino very, very upset. An old hand like Corain—this is moving much too fast for him. Corain had his people ready to walk, now he shifts stance on them—the Abolitionists will suspect a sell-out…won’t they? Let the Abolitionists peel off and start talking about dismantling the labs again. It’s bound to make the moderates a little anxious.”

  “That’s where Jordan can do us the most damage! If he goes to the press—”

  “Oh, you don’t think the Abolitionists are going to credit a voice out of Reseune.”

  “If he’s saying the right things they damn well will.”

  “Then we have to do something about his credibility, don’t we? Think about it, Gerry. Corain’s going to end up acquiescing—no, voting for—the establishment of a Reseune lab right on the Hope colony route. The Abolitionists haven’t gotten saner, just quieter; and we have our own sleepers in their rank and file. Keep Corain quite busy putting out fires on his own decks. Gorodin may find the whole noise a bit more than he wants: there are always deals we can offer him: he always stands with his feet either side of the line. Lu is the problem, that double-crossing bastard. But we can persuade him. This facility is exactly the kind of thing that may do it. I want you to look into these things, I don’t need to tell you how discreetly. Use your military contacts. The Science Bureau is dispatching a ship to notify Rubin of his status. They’re also going to take measures to establish him a protective residency in Fargone Blue Zone: the team is on its way Sunday, when Atlantis pushes off for Fargone.”

  “Harogo’s going to be aboard?” Denys asked.

  “Absolutely. There’s not going to be a hitch. He’ll get our staff right through customs, and Atlantis is running light.”

  “Military can beat her.”

  “A worry. But Harogo’s a much higher card, on his own station, and he’s bringing home the second biggest construction project Fargone’s ever lusted after. First being the Hope corridor, of course. There won’t be a hitch. If the Centrists try anything with Rubin, Harogo can fry them, no question. We’d love that kind of ammunition. Did you see the clip? Rubin’s a wide-eyed innocent. Pure science and total vulnerability. I thought that came across rather well.”

  “They can throw that back at us too,” Giraud said.

  “We can rely on Harogo, I think. At certain times, you have to let a thing go.”

  “Even Warrick?”

  “If they want him by then.”

  ii

  Ari smiled gently across the table, across the salad with vinaigrette, product of their own gardens, and dusted it liberally with a spoonful of Keis, synthetic cheese, a salted yeast, actually: spacer’s affectation. Her mother had used it. Ari still liked the tang of it, and imported it downworld at some little trouble.

  Most of the Family abhorred it.

  It was the formal dining hall: one long table for the Family, and a large U-shaped table around the outside for the azi who were closer than relatives, and somewhat more numerous, about two to one.

  Herself at the head: that had been the case since the day uncle Geoffrey died. To her right, Giraud Nye, to her left his brother Denys; then Yanni Schwartz rightside, left again, his sister Beth; and across from her, Beth’s son by Giraud Nye, young Suli Schwartz, long-nosed and thin-faced, and looking preoccupied as usual: sixteen and bored; left next, and right and right again, Petros Ivanov and his two sisters Irene and Katrin, then Katrin’s current passion the dark-skinned Morey Carneth-Nye; old Jane Strassen looking like a dowager empress in black and an ostentatious lot of silver; daughter Julia Strassen in green, a truly amazing decolletage; dear cousin Patrick Carnath-Emory, who was far more Carnath than Emory, and absolutely butter-fingered—he was already mopping his lap; Patrick’s daughter Fideal Carnath, olive-skinned and lovely, and her thirty-two-year-old son Jules who they had thought was Giraud’s until they ran the genetics and found it was, of all people, Petros’. Then Robert Carnath-Nye and his daughter young Julia Carnath; and of course, endmost, Jordan and Justin Warrick, who looked exactly like father and son, unless you had known Jordan thirty years ago and knew that they were twins.

  Vanity, vanity.

  Jordan had had his passages. (Who had not?) But when it came to bestowing his heredity he had not trusted nature. Or women. It was the temptation to godhood, perhaps. Or the belief that he, being a Special, was bound to produce another.

  A replicate citizen was not azi. There were considerable legal differences between young Justin, say, and elegant, red-haired Grant, at the second rank of tables, so, so close in all respects…born in the same lab, an insignificant day apart. But Justin, dark-haired, square-jawed, and, at a handsome, broad-shouldered seventeen, so very much Jordan’s younger image…was CIT 976-88-2355 PR, that all-important Citizen prefix and that expensive Parental Replicate suffix—replicate except for the little accidents like the break in Jordan’s nose, the little scar on Justin’s chin, and oh, indeed, the personality, and the ability. When Justin was a mote in a womb-tank, the Bok project had already failed—but (Ari was amused) Jordan had entertained notions that his tapes and his genes could overcome all odds.

  The lad was bright. But he was not Jordan. Thank God.

  Grant’s number, on the other hand, was ALX-972, experimental: a design of her own, aesthetic in the extreme, and with an excellent antecedent—another Special geneset, but, for certain legal reasons, she had corrected a genetic fault, incidentally expressing a few aesthetic recessives, to an extent that the legitimate descendants of a certain slightly myopic, brown-haired, unathletic biologist with a heart defect…would find astounding.

  Neither was Grant a biologist. An excellent student in tape-design, an Alpha capable of working on the structures which had made him what he was—structures wherein lay th
e legal difference, not in the substitution of certain sequences in the geneset, not in the wombs which gestated them.

  One infant had gone to a father’s arms, to lie in a crib in the House, to hear—nothing, at times; or to deal with the fact that Jordan Warrick might be busy at some given time, and a meal might be late, or a noise startle him—

  The other had gone to a crib where human heartbeat gave way at intervals to a soothing voice, where activity was monitored, crying measured, reactions clocked and timed—then extensive tape and training for three years until Ari had asked Jordan to take the boy in, nothing unusual: they fostered-out the suspected Alphas, as a rule, and in those days her relations with Jordan had been stormy but professional. A member of the House with a son the same age was a natural thought, and an Alpha companion was a high-status prize for a household, even at Reseune.

  I have every confidence in Justin, she had said that day to Jordan. It’s such a natural pairing. I’m perfectly willing to let that happen, on a personal basis, you understand, as long as I can continue my tapes and my tests with Grant.

  Meaning that the azi as he grew might pass into Justin’s care, become his companion—which implied her faith that young Justin would be in that small percentage licensed to work with Alphas—that Justin’s own scores would be Alpha-equivalent.

  Not entirely to her astonishment it had worked out very well. The correction was a routine one, minor, not likely to affect the azi’s intelligence,…although, within certain parameters, that had not been a primary concern in creating the set.