Cyteen: The Betrayal (13 page)

“It’s not that bad.” He kept his voice ever so steady. “I called her bluff. I stayed around. She said-She said that this is the way it’s going to work: you get your transfer as soon as the facility is built, earnest of her good faith. Then I get Grant to go out there to you, earnest of mine. That way-“

“That way you’re left here where she can do anything she damn well pleases!”

“That way,” he reprised, calmly, carefully, “she knows that she can hold on to me and keep you quiet until her projects are too far advanced to stop. And the military won’t let you go public. That’s what she’s after. She’s got it. But there’s a limit to what she can do-and this way all of us get out. Eventually.”

Jordan said nothing, for a long, long while, then lifted his wineglass and took a drink and set it down. And still said nothing, for minutes upon minutes. “I should never, never have kept Grant,” Jordan said finally, “when things blew up with Ari. I knew it would happen. Damn, I knew it would, all those years ago. Don’t ever, ever take favors from your enemies.”

“It was too late then, wasn’t it?” Justin said. The bluntness shocked his nerves, brought him close to tears, an anger without focus. “God, what could we do?”

“Are you sure he’s all right?”

“I haven’t dared try to find out. I think Ari would have told me if she knew anything different. I set everything up. If the number I gave him doesn’t answer, Krugers will keep him safe till it does.”

“Merild’s number?” Justin nodded.

“God.” Jordan raked his hair back and looked at him in despair. “Son, Merild’s no match for the police.”

“You always said-if anything happened-And you always said he was a friend of the Krugers. And Ari’s not going to call the police. Or try anything herself. She said that. I’ve got all the ends of this, I really think I have.”

“Then you’re a damn sight more confident than you ought to be,” Jordan snapped. “Grant’s somewhere we’re not sure, Krugers could have the police on their doorstep-Merild may or may not be available, for God’s sake, he practices all over the continent.”

“Well, I couldn’t damn well phone ahead, could I?” Jordan’s face was red. He took another drink of wine, and the level in the glass measurably diminished.

“Merild’s a lawyer. He’s got ethics to worry about.”

“He’s also got friends. Hasn’t he? A lot of friends.”

“He’s not going to like this.”

“It’s the same as me coming to him, isn’t it?” He was suddenly on the defensive, fighting on the retreat. “Grant’s no different. Merild knows that, doesn’t he? Where’s ethics, if it turns Grant over to the police?”

“You’d have been a hell of a lot easier to answer for. If you’d had the sense to go with him, for God’s sake-“

“He’s not ours! He belongs to the labs! My being with him couldn’t make it legal.”

“You’re also a minor under the law and there’re extenuating circumstances-you’d have been out of here-“

“And they’d bring it to court and God knows what they could find for charges. Isn’t that so?”

Jordan let go a long breath and looked up from under his brows.

He wanted, he desperately wanted Jordan to say no, that’s wrong, there is something-Then everything became possible.

But: “yes,” Jordan said in a low voice, dashing his hopes.

“So it’s fixed,” Justin said. “Isn’t it? And you don’t have to do anything unless the deal comes unfixed. I can tell you if I’m getting trouble from Ari. Can’t I?”

“Like this time?” Jordan returned.

“Better than this time. I promise you. I promise. All right?”

Jordan picked at his sandwich, sidestepping the question. It was not all right. Justin knew that. But it was what there was.

“You’re not going to end up staying here when I transfer,” Jordan said. “I’ll work something out.”

“Just don’t give anything away.”

“I’m not giving a damned thing away. Ari’s not through You’d better understand that. She doesn’t keep her agreements longer than she has to. Grant’s proof of that. She’s damned well capable of cutting throats, hear me, son, and you’d better take that into account the next time you want to bluff. She doesn’t think any more of you or me or anyone than the subjects in her labs, than the poor nine-year-old azi down there in the yards that she decides to mindwipe and ship off to sonic damn sweathouse because he’s just not going to work out; be cause she needs the space, for God’s sake! Or the problem cases she won’t solve, she won’t even run them past my staff-she’s not going to use that geneset again anyway and she damned well put three healthy azi down last month, just declared them hazards, because she didn’t want to take the time with them, the experiment they were in is over, and that’s all she needed. I can’t prove it because I didn’t get the data, but I know it happened. That’s who you’re playing games with. She doesn’t give a damn for any life, God help her lab subjects, and she’s gotten beyond what public opinion might make of it-that’s what she’s gotten to, she’s so smart they can’t figure out her notes, she’s answerable only to Union law, and she’s got that in her pocket-she just doesn’t give a damn, and we’re all under her microscope-” Jordan shoved his plate away and stared at it a moment before he looked up. “Son, don’t trust there’s anything she won’t do. There isn’t.”

He listened. He listened very hard. And heard Ari saying that accidents at Reseune were easy.

vii

His watch showed 2030 when he exited the shower and picked it up to put it on … in an apartment entirely too quiet and depressingly empty.

He was halfway glad not to spend the night here, with the silence and Grant’s empty room, glad the way biting one’s lip did something to make a smashed finger hurt less, that was about the way of it. Losing Grant hurt worse than anything else could, and Ari’s harassment, he reckoned, even became a kind of anodyne to the other, sharper misery she had put him to.

Damned bitch, he thought, and his eyes stung, which was a humiliation he refused to give way to on her account. It was Grant had him unhinged, it was the whole damned mess Grant was in that had his hands shaking so badly he had trouble with the aerosol cap and popped it a ricocheting course around the mirrored sink alcove. It infuriated him. Everything conspired to irritate him out of all reason, and he set the bottle down with measured control and shaved the scant amount he had to.

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 suppertime, 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-/ 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.”