Cyteen

  “Reseune staff is urged to continue with ordinary schedules. Bulletins will be issued as information becomes available.”

  “Damn,” someone said, on the other side of the room, “here it goes, doesn’t it?”

  Justin took his printout and left, out into the hall beyond the glass partitions, where people lingered to talk in small groups.

  He felt stares at his back, felt himself the object of attention he did not want.

  Felt—as if the ground had shifted underfoot, even if they had known this was coming.

  “It’s the slow preparation,” a tech said in his hearing. “He may already be dead. They won’t admit it—till the Bureau has the proxy settled. They can’t admit anything till then.”

  It was a dreadful thing—to go to Denys now. But a call on the Minder was too cold and too remote; and Ari faced the apartment door and identified herself to the Minder, with Florian and Catlin at her back, and nothing—nothing to protect her from the insecurity in front of her—an old man’s impending bereavement, an old man facing a solitude he had never—Giraud himself had said it—never been able to come to grips with.

  If Denys cried, she thought, if Denys broke down in front of her he would be terribly ashamed; and angry with her; but she was all the close family he had left, who did not want to be here, who did not want, today, to be adult and responsible, in the face of the mistake this visit could turn out to be.

  But she had, she thought, to try.

  “Uncle Denys,” she said, “it’s Ari. Do you want company?”

  A small delay. The door opened suddenly, and she was facing Seely.

  “Sera,” Seely murmured, “come in.”

  The apartment was so small, so simple next her own. Denys could always have had a larger one, could have had, in his long tenure, any luxury he wanted. But it felt like home, in a nostalgic wrench that saw her suddenly a too-old stranger, and Florian and Catlin entering with her…grown-up and strange to the scale of this place: the little living room, the dining area, the suite off to the right that had been hers and theirs and Nelly’s; the hall to the left that held Denys’ office and bedroom, and Seely’s spartan quarters.

  She looked that direction as Denys came out of his office, pale and drawn, looking bewildered as he saw her.

  “Uncle Denys,” she said gently.

  “You got the news,” Denys said.

  She nodded. And felt her way through it—herself, whom Union credited for genius in dealing with emotional contexts, in setting up and tearing down and reshaping human reactions—but it was so damned different, when the emotional context went all the way to one’s own roots. Redirect, that was the only thing she could logic her way to. Redirect and refocus: grief is a self-focused function and the flux holds so damn much guilt about taking care of ourselves…“Are you all right, uncle Denys?”

  Denys drew a breath, and several others, and looked desperate for a moment. Then he firmed up his chin and said: “He’s dying, Ari.”

  She came and put her arms around Denys, self-conscious—God, guilty: of calculation, of too much expertise; of being cold inside when she patted him on the shoulder and freed herself from him and said: “Seely, has uncle Denys still got that brandy?”

  “Yes,” Seely said.

  “I have work to do,” Denys said.

  “The brandy won’t hurt,” she said. “Seely.”

  Seely went; and she hooked her arm in Denys’ and took him as far as the dining table where he usually did his work.

  “There’s nothing you can do by worrying,” she said. “There’s nothing anyone can do by worrying. Giraud knew this was coming. Listen, you know what he’s done, you know the way he’s arranged things. What he’ll want you to do—”

  “I damned well can’t do!” Denys snapped, and slammed his hand down on the table. “I don’t intend to discuss it. Lynch will sit proxy. Giraud may recover from this. Let’s not hold the funeral yet, do you mind?”

  “Certainly I hope not.” He’s not facing this. He’s not accepting it.

  Seely, thank God, arrived with the brandy, while Florian and Catlin hovered near the door, gone invisible as they could.

  She took her own glass, drank a little, and Denys drank, more than a little; and gave a long shudder.

  “I can’t go to Novgorod,” Denys said. There was a marked fragility about the set of his mouth, a sweating pallor about his skin despite the cool air in the room. “You know that.”

  “You can do what you put your mind to, uncle Denys. But it’s not time to talk about that kind of thing.”

  “I can’t,” Denys said, cradling the glass in his hands. “I’ve told Giraud that. He knows it. Take tape, he says. He knows damned well I’m not suited to holding office.”

  “It’s not a question of that right now.”

  “He’s dying, dammit. You know it and I know it. And his notions about my going to Novgorod—dammit, he knows better.”

  “You’d be very good.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. A public speaker? An orator? Someone to handle press conferences? There’s no one less suited than I am to holding public office. Behind the scenes, yes, I’m quite good. But I’m much too old to make major changes. I’m not a public man, Ari. I’m not going to be. There’s no tape fix for age, there’s no damned tape fix to make me a speechmaker…”

  “Giraud isn’t exactly skilled at it, but he’s a fine Councillor.”

  “Do you know,” Denys said, “when I came down to the AG unit that time—that was the first time since I was nine, that I’d ever left these walls?”

  “My God, uncle Denys.”

  “Didn’t add that up? Shame on you. I came down to see my foster-niece risk her lovely neck, the way I watched from the airport remotes when your predecessor would come screaming in, in that damned jet. I hate disasters. I’ve always expected them. It’s my one act of courage, you understand. Don’t ask me to handle press conferences.” Denys shook his head and leaned on his elbows on the table. “Young people. They risk their lives so damned lightly, and they know so little what they’re worth.”

  He wept then, a little convulsion of shoulders and face, and Ari picked up the decanter and poured him more, that being the only effective kindness she could think of.

  She said nothing for perhaps a quarter, perhaps half an hour, only sat there while Denys emptied another glass.

  Then the Minder said: “Message, Abban AA to Base Two, special communications.”

  Denys did not answer at once. Then he said: “Report.”

  “Ser Denys,” Abban’s voice said, cold with distance and the Minder’s reproduction, “Giraud has just died. I’ll see to his transport home, by his orders. He requested you merge his Base.”

  Denys lowered his head onto his hand.

  “Abban,” Seely said, “this is Seely SA. Ser thanks you. Direct details to be; I’ll assist.”

  Ari sat there a very long time, waiting, until Denys wiped his eyes and drew a shaken breath.

  “Lynch,” Denys said. “Someone has to notify Lynch. Tell Abban see to that. He’s to stand proxy. He’s to file for election. Immediately.”

  iii

  The Family filed into the East Garden, by twos and threes, wearing coats and cloaks in the sharpness of an autumn noon.

  With conspicuous absences, absences which made Ari doubly conscious of her position in the forefront of the Family—eighteen, immaculate in mourning, and correct as she knew how to be—wearing the topaz pin on her collar, the pin Giraud had given her…something that’s only yours…

  The funeral was another of those duties she would have avoided if she could have found a way.

  Because Denys had made a damnable mess of things. Denys had fallen to pieces, refused the appointment as proxy Councillor of Science, and refused to attend the funeral. Denys was over at the old Wing One lab, supervising the retrieval and implantation of CIT geneset 684-044-5567…precisely at this hour—at which Ari, even with compassion for his reasons, felt a
vague shudder of disgust.

  It left her, foster-niece, as nearest kin—not even directly related to Giraud, but ranking as immediate family, over Emil Carnath-Nye, and Julia Carnath-Nye, and Amy. She felt uncomfortable in that role, even knowing Julia’s attachment to Giraud was more ambition than accident of blood. Hell with Julia: there was prestige involved, and she hated to move Amy out of her proper place, that was the uncomfortable part. The Carnath-Nyes stood, an ill-assorted little association of blood-ties far from cordial these days—Amy bringing Quentin as she had brought Florian and Catlin, for personal security in troubled times, not to flaunt him in front of the Family and her mother’s disapproval; but that was certainly not the way Julia Carnath took it.

  Julia and her father Emil resented having Abban standing beside them; and took petty exception to the man—man, dammit, who had been closer to Giraud in many ways than any next-of-kin, even Denys; who had held Giraud’s hand while he died and taken care of notifications with quiet efficiency when no Family were there to do anything.

  That attitude was damned well going to go: she had served notice of it and scandalized the old hands before now. Let them know what she would do when she held power in the House: hell with their offended feelings.

  Amy was there; Maddy Strassen was in the front row, with aunt Victoria—maman’s sister, and at a hundred fifty-four one of the oldest people alive anywhere who was not a spacer. Rejuv did not seem near failing Victoria Strassen: she was wearing away instead like ice in sunlight, just thinner and more fragile with every passing year, until she began to seem more force than flesh. Using a cane now: the sight afflicted Ari to the heart. Maman would be that old now. Maman would be that frail. She avoided Victoria, not alone because Victoria hated her and blamed her for Julia Strassen’s exile to Fargone.

  The Whitely clan was there: Sam and his mother; and the Ivanovs, the Edwardses; Yanni Schwartz and Suli; and the Dietrichs.

  Justin and Grant were not. Justin had sent, all things considered, a very gracious refusal, and let her off one very difficult position. It was the only mercy she had gotten from Family or outsiders. Reporters clustered down at the airport press area, a half hour down there this morning, an appointment for an interview this afternoon, a half a hundred frustrated requests for an interview with Denys—

  I’m sorry., she had said, privately and on camera. Even those of us who work lifelong with psych, seri, do feel personal grief. Coldly, precisely, letting her own distress far enough to the surface to put what Giraud would call the human face on Reseune. My uncle Denys was extremely close to his brother, and he’s not young himself. He’s resigning the proxy to Secretary Lynch out of health considerations—No. Absolutely not. Reseune has never considered it has a monopoly on the Science seat. As the oldest scientific institution on Cyteen we have contributions to make, and I’m sure there will be other candidates from Reseune, but no one in Reseune, so far as I know, intends to run. After all—Dr. Nye wasn’t bound to appoint Secretary Lynch: he might have appointed anyone in Science, Secretary Lynch is a very respected, very qualified head of the Bureau in his own right.

  And to a series of insistent questions: Seri, Dr. Yanni Schwartz, the head of Wing One in Reseune, will be answering any specific questions about that…

  …No, sera, that would be in the future. Of course my predecessor held the seat. Presently I’m a wing supervisor in Research, I do have a staff, I have projects under my administration—

  Every reporter in the room had focused in on that, sharp and hard—scenting a story that was far off their present, urgent assignment: she had thrown out the deliberate lure and they burned to go for it despite the fact they were going out live-feed, with solemn and specific lead-ins and funeral music. She handed them the hint of a story they could not, with propriety, go for; and kept any hint of deliberate signal off her face when she did it.

  But they had gone for it the moment they were off live-feed: to what extent was she actually in Administration, what were the projects, how were the decisions being made inside Reseune and was she in fact involved in that level?

  Dangerous questions. Exceedingly dangerous. She had flashed then on bleeding bodies, on subway wreckage, on news-service stills of a child’s toy in the debris.

  Seri, she had said then, direct, not demure: with Ari senior’s straight stare and deliberate pause in answering: any wing administrator is in the process.

  Read me, seri: I’m not a fool. I won’t declare myself over my uncle’s ashes.

  But don’t discount me in future.

  I came here, she had reminded them in that context, as a delegated spokesman for the family. That’s my immediate concern. I have to go, seri. I have to be up the hill for the services in thirty minutes. Please excuse me…

  It was the first funeral she had attended where there was actually burial, a small canister of ash to place in the ground, and two strong gardeners to raise the basalt cenotaph up from the ground and settle it with a final thump over the grave.

  She flinched at that sound, inside. So damned little a canister, for tall uncle Giraud.

  And burial in earth instead of being shot for the sun. She knew which she would pick for herself—same as her predecessor, same as maman. But it was right for Giraud, maybe.

  Emil Carnath called for speeches from associates and colleagues.

  “I have a word,” Victoria Strassen said right off.

  O God, Ari thought.

  And braced herself.

  “Giraud threw me out of my sister’s funeral,” Victoria began in a voice sharper and stronger than one ever looked for from that thin body. “I never forgave him for it.”

  Maddy cast Ari an anguished look across the front of the gathering. Sorry for this.

  Not your fault, Ari thought.

  “What about you, Ariane Emory PR? Are you going to have me thrown out for saying what the truth is?”

  “I’ll speak after you, aunt Victoria. Maman taught me manners.”

  That hit. Victoria’s lips made a thin line and she took a double-handed grip on her black cane.

  “My sister was not your maman,” Victoria said. “That’s the trouble in the House. Dead is dead, that’s all. The way it works best. The way it’s worked in all of human society. Old growth makes way for new. It doesn’t batten off the damn corpse. I’ve no quarrel with you, young sera, no quarrel with you. You didn’t choose to be born. Where’s Denys? Eh?” She looked around her, with a sweeping gesture of the cane. “Where’s Denys?” There was an uncomfortable shifting in the crowd. “Sera,” Florian whispered at Ari’s shoulder, seeking instruction.

  “I’ll tell you where Denys is,” Victoria snapped. “Denys is in the lab making another brother, the way he made another Ariane. Denys has taken the greatest scientific and economic power in human history and damned near run it into bankruptcy in his administration,—never mind poor Giraud, who took the orders, we all know that—damned near bankrupted us all for his eetee notion of personal immortality. You tell me, young sera, do you remember what Ariane remembered? Do you remember her life at all?”

  God. It was certainly not something she wanted asked, here, now, in an argumentative challenge, in any metaphysical context. “We’ll talk about that someday,” she said back, loudly enough to carry. “Over a drink, aunt Victoria. I take it that’s a scientific question, and you’re not asking me about reincarnation.”

  “I wonder what Denys calls it,” Victoria said. “Call your security if you like. I’ve been through enough craziness in my life, people blowing up stations in the War, people blowing up kids in subways, people who aren’t content to let nature throw the dice anymore, people who don’t want kids, they want little personal faxes they can live their fantasies through, never mind what the poor kid wants. Now do we give up on funerals altogether? Is that what everyone in the damn house is thinking, I don’t have to die, I can impose my own ideas on a poor sod of a replicate who’s got no say in it so I can have my ideas walking around in the world
after I’m dead?”

  “You’re here to talk about Giraud,” Yanni Schwartz yelled. “Do it and shut up, Vickie.”

  “I’ve done it. Goodbye to a human being. Welcome back, Gerry PR. God help the human race.”

  The rest of the speeches, thank God, were decorous—a few lines, a: We differed, but he had principles, from Petros Ivanov; a: He kept Reseune going, from Wendell Peterson.

  It ascended to personal family then, always last to speak. To refute the rest, Ari decided, for good or ill.

  “I’ll tell you,” she said in her own turn, in what was conspicuously her turn, last, as next-of-kin, Denys being exactly where Victoria had said he was, doing what Victoria had said, “—there was a time I hated my uncle. I think he knew that. But in the last few years I learned a lot about him. He collected holograms and miniatures; he loved microcosms and tame, quiet things, I think because in his real work there never was any sense of conclusion, just an ongoing flux and decisions nobody else wanted to make. It’s not true that he only took orders. He consulted with Denys on policy; he implemented Bureau decisions; but he knew the difference between a good idea and a bad one and he never hesitated to support his own ideas. He was quiet about it, that’s all. He got the gist of a problem and he went for solutions that would work.

  “He served Union in the war effort. He did major work on human personality and on memory which is still the standard reference work in his field. He took over the Council seat in the middle of a national crisis, and he represented the interests of the Bureau for two very critical decades—into my generation, the first generation of Union that’s not directly in touch with either the Founding or the War.

  “He talked to me a lot in this last year: Abban made a lot of trips back and forth—” She looked to catch Abban’s eye, but Abban was staring straight forward, in that nowhere way of an azi in pain. “—couriering messages between us. He knew quite well he was dying, of course; and as far as having a replicate, he didn’t really care that much. We did talk about it, the way we talked about a lot of things, some personal, some public. He was very calm about it all. He was concerned about his brother. The thing that impressed me most, was how he laid everything out, how he made clear arrangements for everything—”