Because I do. I hurt when he’s cold with me. It feels so good when he’s happy.
Hell if I can give him what’s mine, but I don’t need to take what’s his. And he’s a lot like me, everybody’s messed with his life.
If I could figure out something, if I could figure out something of Ari senior’s that I could give him, maybe that would make it fair. Because I know so much, but I don’t know enough to make it worth anything. And maybe I’m sitting still with something I think is a real little piece, but that would be worth a lot to him.
Because, oh, he’s smart. I know, because when he tells me his reasons for what he does, he has a lot of trouble, because he just knows some of these things. He said once I’m making him structure his concepts. He said that’s good. Because we can talk, sometimes Grant gets into it, and once, it was the best day we ever worked together, we all went to lunch and talked and talked about CIT and azi logic until I couldn’t sleep that night, I was still going on it. It was one of the best days I ever remember. And they were happy, and I was. But it sort of died away, then, and everything got back to normal, things just sort of got in the way and Justin came in kind of down, the way he does sometimes, and it was over. Like that.
I’m going to Get him one of these days, though. I’m going to Get both of them. And maybe this is it.
Maybe if I just run through everything I’ve got on this model thing, maybe it won’t work, I guess if it did someone would have thought of it—
No, dammit, Ari, Justin said—I should never tell myself that.
Don’t cut ideas off, he says, till you know where they go.
If I could do something real,—
What would he do,—get mad, because then I’d be getting closer to what he’s working on, and he’d resent that?
Or get mad, because he’d want it all to be his idea?
Maybe he would.
But maybe he’d warm up to me and it could be the way it is sometimes—all the time. That’s what I wish. Because so much bad has happened. And I want to change that.
C H A P T E R
12
i
There were new tapes. Maddy brought them. Maddy did the ordering of things like that, because her mother didn’t mind, and uncle Denys said that it would be a scandal if it were on her account: which Maddy might have figured out, Maddy was not really stupid, but it pleased Maddy to be involved in intrigue and something she truly did best.
So that was a point Maddy got on her side. That kind of favor was something Maddy could use for blackmail, Ari thought, except there was no percentage in it. If Maddy ever wanted to use it in Novgorod, that was all right, she would be grown then and people would not see the sixteen-year-old—just a grown woman, who was, then, only like her predecessor—whose taste for such things was quietly known. Strange, Ari thought, how people were so little capable of being shocked in retrospect: old news, the proverb ran.
And Maddy could be free as she liked with sex, because Maddy was just Maddy Strassen, and the Strassens had no power to frighten anyone—outside Reseune.
It was a quiet gathering. The Kids. Period. Mostly she just wanted to relax, and they sat around watching the tape quite, quite tranked, except Florian and Catlin, and drinking a little—except Florian and Catlin. Sam spilled a drink—he was terribly embarrassed about it. But Catlin helped him mop up and took him to the back bedroom and helped him in another way, which was Catlin’s own idea, because Sam and Amy were having trouble.
God, life got complicated. Amy had a fix on Stef Dietrich; and that was hopeless. Sam had one—well, on herself, Ari reckoned; and that was the trouble, that Amy got seconds on a lot of things in life. And Amy was interested in a lot of things Sam wasn’t. And vice versa. She wished to hell Sam would find somebody. Anybody.
But he didn’t. And Sam was the main reason why she didn’t go off to the bedroom with Tommy or Stef or anyone who came to the apartment; but he wasn’t the only reason. The main one was what it had always been, the same reason that she was best friends with Amy and Sam and Maddy and kept everyone else at arm’s length—because Sam was always in the way to get hurt, there was no way to shut him out, nor was it fair, and yet—
And yet—
Of all the boys he was the only one who really liked just her, herself, from before he ever knew she was anybody.
And that made her sad sometimes, because all the others would be thinking about themselves and what it meant to them, and how she was a Special and she was rich and she was going to be Administrator someday, and making her happy was very, very important—
Which was a lot different than Sam, who loved her, she thought, who really truly loved her. And she loved him—what time she was not frustrated that he existed, frustrated that he had to love her that way, frustrated that he was the focus of all her other frustrations and never, ever, deserved them—
Because she would not sleep with Stef Dietrich if there never had been a Sam. That was still true.
For one thing it would kill Amy. Amy could stand to be beaten by Yvgenia, but not by her—in this. No matter that Amy was still gawky and awkward, and never worked at her appearance…until she took after Stef, and then it was almost pathetic. Amy, with eyeshadow. Amy, fussing with her hair, which was loose now, not in braids. After Stef, who was so damned handsome and so sure of it.
While Sam was a little at loose ends, not quite betrayed, but a lot at a loss. And if Stef had antennae for anything, he knew damned well he had better walk a narrow line between Yvgenia and Amy.
And it left her, herself, to watch the tapes and afterward, after Florian and Catlin had showed everyone out, to lie on the couch and stare at the ceiling in a melancholy not even they could relieve.
“Come to bed, sera,” Florian said.
Worried about her.
Worried and absolutely devoted.
The ceiling hazed in her sight. If she blinked the tears would run and they would see them.
But the tears spilled anyway, just ran from the outside edge of her eye, so she blinked, it made no difference.
“Sera?” There was profound upset in Florian’s voice. He wiped her cheek, the merest feather-touch. And was certainly in pain.
Dammit. Damn him. Damn him for that reaction.
I’m smarter than Ari senior. At least I haven’t fouled up things with Sam and Amy. They’ve fouled it up with each other.
I don’t understand CITs. I really truly don’t understand CITs.
Azi are so much kinder.
And they can’t help it.
“Sera.” Florian patted her cheek, laid a hand on her shoulder. “Who hurt you?”
Shall we kill him? she imagined the next question. For some reason that struck her hysterically funny. She started laughing, laughing till she had to pull her legs up to save her stomach from aching, and the tears ran; and Florian held her hands and Catlin slid over the back of the couch to kneel by her and hold on to her.
Which only struck her funnier.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” she gasped finally, when she could get a breath. Her stomach hurt. And they were so terribly confused. “Oh. I’m sorry.” She reached and patted Florian’s shoulder, Catlin’s leg. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired, that’s all. That damn report—”
“The report, sera?” Florian asked.
She caught her breath, flattened out with a little shift around Catlin and let go a long sigh. “I’ve been working so hard. You have to forgive me. CITs do this kind of thing. Oh, God, the Minder. I hope to God you didn’t re-arm the system—”
“No, sera, not yet.”
“That’s good. Damn. Oh, damn, my sides hurt. That thing—calling the Bureau—would just about cap the whole week, wouldn’t it? Blow an assignment, miss the whole damn point. Amy’s making a fool of herself and Sam’s walking wounded—CIT’s are a bitch, you know it? They’re a real pain.”
“Sam seemed happy,” Catlin said.
“I’m glad.” For some reason the pain came back behind h
er heart. And she sighed again and wiped her eyes. “God, I bet that got my makeup. I bet I look a sight.”
“You’re always beautiful, sera.” Florian wiped beneath her left eye with a fingertip, and wiped his hand on his sleeve and wiped the other one. “There.”
She smiled then, and laughed silently, without the pain, seeing two worried faces, two human beings who would, in fact, take on anyone she named—never mind their own safety.
“We should get to bed,” she said. “I’ve got to do that paper tomorrow. I’ve got to do it. I really shouldn’t have done this. And I don’t even want to get up from here.”
“We can carry you.”
“God,” she said, feeling Florian slip his hands under. “You’ll drop me—Florian!”
He stopped.
“I’ll walk,” she said. And got up, and did, with her arms around both of them, not that she needed the balance.
Just that she needed someone, about then.
Ari bit her lip, perfectly quiet while Justin was reading her report. She sat with her arms on her knees and her hands clenched while he flipped through the printout.
“What is this?” he asked finally, looking up, very serious. “Ari, where did you get this?”
“It’s a world I made up. Like Gehenna. You start with those sets. And you tell them, you have to defend this base and you teach your children to defend it. And you give them these tapes. And you get this kind of parameter between A and Y in the matrix; and you get this set between B and Y, and so on; and there’s a direct relationship between the change in A and the rest of the shifts—so I did a strict mechanics model, like it was a fluxing structure, but with all these levels—”
“I can see that.” Justin’s brow furrowed, and he asked apprehensively: “This isn’t Gehenna, is it?”
She shook her head. “No. That’s classified. That’s my problem. I built this thing with a problem in it, but that’s all right, that’s to keep it inside a few generations. It’s whether all the sets change at the same rate, that’s what I’m asking.”
“You mean you’re inputting the whole colony at once. No outsiders.”
“They can get there in the fourth generation. Gehenna’s did. Page 330.”
He flipped through and looked.
“I just want to talk about it,” she said. “I just got to thinking about whether some of the problems in the sociology models, you know, aren’t because you’re trying to do ones that work. So I’m setting up a system with deliberate problems, to see how the problems work. I changed everything. You don’t need to worry I’m telling you anything you don’t want to know. I just got to thinking about Gehenna and closed systems, and so I made you a model. It’s in the appendix. There’s a sort of a worm in it. I won’t tell you what, but I think you can see it—or I’m not right about it.” She bit her lip. “Page 330. One of those paragraphs is Ari’s. About values and flux. You tell me a lot of things. I looked through Ari’s notes for things that could help you. That’s hers. So’s the bit on the group sets. It’s real stuff. It’s stuff out of Archive. I thought you could use it. Fair trade.”
It was terribly dangerous. It was terribly close to things that people weren’t supposed to know about, that could bring panic down on the Gehennans; and worse.
But everybody in Reseune speculated on the Gehenna tapes, and people from inside Reseune didn’t talk to people outside, and people outside wouldn’t understand them anyway. She sat there with her hands clenched together and her stomach in a knot, with gnawing second thoughts, whether he would see too much—being as smart as he was. But he worked on microsystems. Ari’s were macros—in the widest possible sense.
He said nothing for a long while.
“You know you’re not supposed to be telling me this,” he said in a whisper. Like they were being bugged; or the habit was there, like it was with her. “Dammit, Ari, you know it—What are you trying to do to me?”
“How else am I going to learn?” she hissed back, whispering because he whispered. “Who else is there?”
He fingered the edges of the pages and stared at it. And looked up. “You’ve put in a lot of work on this.”
She nodded. It was why she had blown the last assignment. But that was sniveling. She didn’t say that. She just waited for what he would say.
And he did see too much. She saw it in his face. He was not trying to hide his upset. He only stared at her a long, long time.
“Are we being monitored?” he asked.
“My uncles,” she said, “probably.” Not saying that she could. “It might go into Archive. I imagine they take every chance to tape me they can get, since I threw them out of my bedroom a long time ago. Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter what they listen to. There’s no way they’ll tell me no, when it comes to what I need to learn. Or give you any trouble.”
“For somebody who held off the Council in Novgorod,” Justin said, “you can still be naive.”
“They won’t do it, I’m telling you.”
“Why? Because you say so? You don’t run Reseune, your uncles do. And will, for some years. Ari,—my God, Ari—”
He shoved his chair back and got up and walked out.
Which left her sitting there, with Grant on the other side of the cluttered little office, staring at her, not quite azi-like, but very cold and very wary, like something was her fault.
“Nothing’s going to happen!” she said to Grant.
Grant got up and came and took the report from Justin’s desk.
“That’s his,” she said, putting a hand on it.
“It’s yours. You can take it back or I can put it in the safe. I don’t think Justin wants to teach you any more today, young sera. I imagine he’ll read it very carefully if you leave it here. But you’ve grounded him. I don’t doubt you’ve grounded me as well. Security would never believe I wasn’t involved.”
“You mean about his father?” She looked up at Grant, caught in the position of disadvantage, with Grant looming over her chair. “It doesn’t make any difference. Khalid’s not going to hold on to that seat. Another six months and there won’t be any problem. Defense is going to be sensible again and there won’t be any problem.”
Grant only stared at her a moment. Then: “Free Jordan, why don’t you, young sera? Possibly because you can’t?—Please go. I’ll put this up for him.”
She sat there a moment more while Grant took the report and took it to the wall-safe and put it inside. Then Grant left.
Just—left her there.
So she left, and walked down the hall with a lump in her throat.
He was better, at home, with a drink in him. With the report in his lap—he had gotten it from the safe, and when Grant said that it was dangerous to carry about, he had said: So let them arrest me. I’m used to it. What the hell?
So he sat sipping a well-watered Scotch and reading the paragraph on 330 over and over again. “God,” he said, when he had gone through it the second time, sifting through the limitation of words for the precious content. It was valuable—was like a light going on—in a small area, but there was nothing small or inconsequential where ideas had to link together. “She’s talking about values here. The interlock of the ego-net and the value sets in azi psych and the styles of integration—why some are better than others. I needed this—back at the start. I had to work it out. Damn, Grant, how much else I’ve done—is already in Archives, just waiting there? That’s a hell of a thought, isn’t it?”
“It isn’t true,” Grant said. “If it was, Ari would have been doing the papers.”
“I think I know why I interested her,” he said. “At least—part of it.” He took another drink and thumbed through the report. “I wonder how much of this is our Ari’s. Whether it’s something Ari senior suggested to her to do—and gave her the framework on—or whether Ari just—put this together. It’s a graduation project. That’s what it is. A thesis. And I can see how Ari must have looked at mine—when I was seventeen and naive as he
ll about design. But there’s a lot more in this. The model work is first rate.”
“She’s got a major base in the House computers to help her,” Grant said. “She can pull time on nets you couldn’t even consult when you were her age—”
“On facilities I didn’t know existed when I was her age. Yes. And I hadn’t had her world-experience, and a lot of other things—I was younger—in a lot of ways—than she is right now. Damn, she’s done a lot of work on this. And typically, she never said a thing about what she was working on. I think it is hers. This whole model is naive as hell, she’s planted two major timebombs in the center-set, which is overkill if she’s trying to get a failure—but she’s likely going to run it with increasing degrees of clean-up. Maybe compare one drift against the other.” Another drink and a slow shake of his head. “You know what this is, it’s a bribe. It’s a damn bribe. Two small windows into those Archived notes, and both of them completely unpublished material—And I’m sitting here weighing what else could be there—that could make everything I’m doing obsolete before it’s published—or be the key to what I could do—what I could have done—if Ari hadn’t been murdered—And I’m weighing it against losing years of contact with Jordan. Against the chance neither one of us might ever—”
He lost his voice again. Took a drink and gazed at the wall.
“Because there’s no choice,” he concluded, when he had had several more swallows of whiskey and he was halfway numb again. “I don’t even know why, or what part of this report is real, or how much of Gehenna is in here.” He looked at Grant; and hated himself for the whole situation he was in, because it was Grant’s chances of Planys that had been shot to hell, equally as well as his. Grant had sat at home waiting on all his other visits—because the whole weight of law and custom and the practical facts of Grant’s azi vulnerabilities to manipulation and his abilities to remember and focus on instruction—had barred him from Planys thus far.