Cyteen: The Betrayal (18 page)

“Ser, where is Merild? Why hasn’t he come? Is-” Jeffrey hauled him out of the chair and headed him for the bedroom, pushing him at the bed. “Lie down,” Jeffrey said, in a tone that encouraged no argument.

“Ser, I want to know where Merild is, I want to know-“

Rentz had followed him. It was the best set he was likely to have. He whirled and took out Jeffrey with his elbow, Rentz with his other hand, and rushed the other room, where

Winfield had realized his danger—

Winfield pulled a gun from his pocket, and Grant dodged. But Winfield did not panic as he might. Winfield had a steady hand and an unmissable shot; and Grant froze where he was, against the doorframe, while the door from the garage opened and a trio of men came in, two of them fast and armed.

One of the men behind him was getting up. Grant stood very still, until someone grabbed him from behind. He could have broken the man’s arm. He did not. He let the man pull him back, while Winfield followed up and kept the gun on him. “This the way it’s been going here?” one of the newcomers asked.

Winfield did not laugh. “Lie down,” he said to Grant, and Grant backed up to the bed and sat down. “Down!”

He did what Winfield wanted. Jeffrey got cord from his pocket and tied his right wrist to the bedframe, while Rentz was moaning on the floor and the several armed men stood there with their guns aimed in Grant’s direction.

The other wrist, then, at an uncomfortable stretch. Grant looked at the men who had come in, two of them large, strong men; and one older, slight, the only one without a gun. It was his look Grant distrusted. It was this man that the others deferred to.

Krahler, the others had called him. More names he did not know, names that had nothing to do with Merild.

They put away the guns. They helped Rentz up. Jeffrey stayed while all the others left, and Grant stared at the ceiling, trying not to think how unprotected his gut was at the moment.

Jeffrey just pulled the drawer open under the tape machine and took out a hypospray. He put it against Grant’s arm and triggered it.

Grant winced at the kick and shut his eyes, because he would not remember to do that in a few moments and he did not trust them to remind him. He gathered up the defenses he had in his psychset and thought mostly of Justin, not wasting time with the physical attack that had gone wrong: the next level of this was a fight of a very different sort. He had no more doubts. The guns had proved it. What they were about to do proved it. And he was, azi that he was, a Reseune apprentice, in Ariane Emory’s wing: Ariane Emory had created him, Ari and Jordan had done his psychsets, and damned if somebody he had never heard of could crack them.

He was slipping. He felt the dissociation start. He knew that the Man was back and they were starting the tape. He was going far, far under. Heavy dose. Deep-tape with a vengeance. He had expected that.

They asked his name. They asked other things. They told him they owned his Contract. He was able to remember otherwise.

He waked finally. They let him loose to drink and relieve himself; they insisted he eat, even if it nauseated him. They gave him a little respite.

After that they did it all again, and the time blurred. There might have been more such wakings. Misery made them all one thing. His arms and back ached when he came to. He answered questions. Mostly he did not know where he was, or remember clearly why he had deserved this.

Then he heard a thumping sound. He saw blood spatter across the walls of the room. He smelled something burning.

He thought that he had died then, and men came and wrapped him in a blanket, while the burning-smell grew worse and worse.

Up and down went crazy for a while. And tilted, and the air had a heartbeat.

“He’s waking up,” someone said. “Give him another one.”

He saw a man in blue coveralls. Saw the Infinite Man emblem of Reseune staff.

Then he was not sure of anything he had surmised. Then he was not sure where the tape had started or what was real.

“Get the damn hypo!” someone yelled in his ear. “Dammit, hold him down!”

“Justin!” he screamed, because he believed now he had always been home, and there was the remote chance Justin might hear him, help him, get him out of this. “Justin-!”

The hypo hit. He fought, and bodies lay on him until the weight of the drug became too much for him, and the world reeled and turned under him.

He waked in a bed, in a white room, with restraints across him. He was naked under the sheets. There were biosensors on a band about his chest and around his right wrist. The left was bandaged. An alarm beeped. He was doing it. His pulse rate was, a silent scream he tried to slow and hush.

But the door opened. A technician came in. It was Dr. Ivanov.

“It’s all right,” Dr. Ivanov said, and came and sat down on the side of his bed. “They brought you in this afternoon. It’s all right. They blew those bastards to bloody hell.”

“Where was I?” he asked, calmly, very calmly. “Where am I now?”

“Hospital. It’s all right.”

The monitor beeped again, rapidly. He tried to calm his pulse. He was disoriented. He was no longer sure where he had been, or what was real. “Where’s Justin, ser?”

“Waiting to see you’re coming round. How are you doing? All right?”

“Yes, ser. Please. Can you take this damn stuff off?”

Ivanov smiled and patted his shoulder. “Look, lad, you know and I know you’re sane as they come, but for your own good, we’re just going to leave that on a while. How’s the bladder?”

“I’m all right.” It was one more indignity atop the rest. He felt his face go red. “Please. Can I talk to Justin?”

“Not a long talk, I’m afraid. They really don’t want you talking to much of anybody till the police have a go at you-it’s all right, just formalities. You just answer two questions, they’ll make out their reports, that’s all there is to it. Then you’ll take a few tests. Be back up at the House in no time. Is that all right?”

“Yes, ser.” The damned monitor beeped and stopped as he got control of his pulse-rate. “What about Justin? Please.” Ivanov patted his shoulder again and got up and went to the door and opened it.

It was Justin who came in. The monitor fluttered and steadied and went silent again; and Grant looked at him through a shimmering film. Jordan was there too. Both of them. And he was terribly ashamed.

“Are you all right?” Justin asked. “I’m fine,” he said, and lost control of the monitor again and of his blinking, which spilled tears down his face. “I guess I’m in a lot of trouble.”

“No,” Justin said, and came and gripped his hand, hard, saying different things with his face. The monitor fluttered and quieted again. “It’s all right. It was a damn fool stunt. But you’re coming back to the House. Hear?”

“Yes.” Justin bent over and hugged him, restraints and all. And drew back. Jordan came and did the same, held him by the shoulders and said:

“Just answer their questions. All right?”

“Yes, ser,” he said. “Can you make them let me go?”

“No,” Jordan said. “It’s for your safety. All right?” Jordan kissed him on the forehead. He had not done that since he was a small boy. “Get some sleep. Hear? Whatever tape you get, I’ll vet. Personally.”

“Yes, ser,” he said.

And lay there and watched Jordan and Justin go out the door.

The monitor beeped in panic. He was lost. He had hell to go through before he got out of this place. He had looked at Justin’s face past Jordan’s shoulder and seen hell enough right there.

Where was I? What really happened to me? Have I ever left this place?

A nurse came in, with a hypo, and there was no way to argue with it. He tried to quiet the monitor, tried to protest. “Just a sedative,” the nurse said, and shot it off against his arm.

Or Jeffrey had. He went reeling backward and forward and saw the blood spatter the white wall, heard people yelling.

Xii

“Good enough?” Ari asked Justin, in her office. Alone.

“When can he get out?”

“Oh,” Ari said, “I don’t know. I really don’t know. Like I don’t know now about the bargain we worked out-which seems rather moot, right now, doesn’t it? What coin have you left to trade in?”

“My silence.”

“Sweet, you have a lot to lose if you break that silence. So does Jordan. Isn’t that why we’re doing all this?”

He was trembling. He tried not to show it. “No, we’re doing this because you don’t want your precious project blown. Because you don’t want publicity right now. Because you’ve got a lot to lose. Otherwise you wouldn’t be this patient.”

A slow smile spread on Ari’s lips. “I like you, boy, I really rather like you. Loyalty’s the rarest thing in Reseune. And you have so much of it. What if I gave you Grant, untouched, unaltered? What’s he worth to you?”

“It’s possible,” Justin said, in a measured, careful tone, “you can misjudge how far you can push me.”

“What’s he worth?”

“You release him. You don’t run tape on him.”

“Sweet, he’s a little confused. He’s been through hell. He needs rest and treatment.”

“I’ll see he gets it. Jordan will. I’m telling you; don’t push me too far. You don’t know what I’d do.”

“Oh, sweet, I know what you can do. A lot of it really exquisite. And I don’t have to deal with you about Grant at all. I have some very different kind of tapes. Your father would die, he would outright die.”

“Maybe you underestimate him.”

“Oh? Have you told him? -I thought not. You have to understand the situation, you see. It’s not just his son. It’s not ‘some woman.’ You’re his twin. It’s me, Ari Emory. Not mentioning the azi.” She chuckled softly. “It’s a marvelously good try, it really is. I respect that. I respect it enough to give you a little latitude. Come here, boy. Come here.”

She held out her hand. He hesitated in confusion and finally held out his own within her reach. She took it gently, and his nerves jumped, his pulse fluttered and a flush came over his skin, confusing all his thinking.

He did not jerk away. He did not dare. He could not formulate a sarcasm. His mind was darting too fast in a dozen directions, like something small and panicked.

“You want a favor? You want Grant back? I’ll tell you what, sweet: you just go on cooperating and we’ll just make that our private little deal. If you and I get along till your father goes, if you keep your mouth shut, I’ll make him a present to you.”

“You’re using deep-tape.”

“On you? Nothing to really bend your mind. What do you think, that I can take a normal, healthy mind and redesign it? You’ve been reading too many of those books. The tapes I used with you-are recreational. They’re what the Mu-class azi get, when they’re really, really good. You think you can’t stand them? You think they’ve corrupted you? Reseune will do worse than that, sweet, and I can teach you. I told you: I like you. Someday you’ll be a power in Reseune-here, or Fargone, or wherever. You’ve got the ability. I’d really like to see you survive.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Is it? It doesn’t matter.” She squeezed his fingers. “I’ll see you at my place. Same time. Hear?”

He drew his hand back.

“It’s not like I don’t give you a choice.” She smiled at him. “All you have to do is keep things quiet. That’s not much, for as much as you’re asking. You make my life tranquil, sweet, and stand between me and Jordan, and I won’t have his friends arrested, and I won’t do a mindwipe on Grant. I’ll even stop giving you hell in the office. You know what the cost is, for all those transfers you want.”

“You sign Grant over to me.”

“Next week. In case something comes-up. You’re such a clever lad. You understand me. Make it 2200 this evening. I’m working late.”

Verbal Text from:

PATTERNS OF GROWTH

A Tapestudy in Genetics: # I

Reseune Educational Publications: 8970-8768-1 approved for 80+

ATTENTION OPERATOR BATCH ML-8986: BATCH BY-9806: FINALFINALFINAL

The computers flash completion, appealing for human intervention. The chief technician alerts the appropriate personnel and begins the birth-process.

There are no surprises: the womb-tanks, gently moving and contracting, have all manner of sensors. The two ML-8986s, female, Mu-class, have reached the mandated 4.02 kilo birth-weight. There are no visible abnormalities. The two BY-9806s, Gamma-class, are likewise in good health. The techs know their charges. The BY-9806s, highly active, are favorites, already tagged with names, but the names will not stay with them: the techs will have no prolonged contact with them.

The wombs enter labor-state, and after a space, send their contents sliding down into fluid-cushioned trays and the gloved hands of waiting techs. There are no crises. There is little stress. The Mu-class females are broad-faced, placid, with colorless hair; the two Betas are longer, thin-limbed, with shocks of dark hair, not so handsome as the Mu-classes. They make faces and the techs laugh. The cords are tied, the afterbirth voided from the bottom of the tray, and clean warm water gives the infants their first baths. The techs weigh them as a formality, and enter the data on a record which began with conception, two hundred ninety-five days ago, and which will have increasingly fewer entries as the infants pass from a state of total moment-by-moment dependency into the first unmonitored moments of their lives.

Azi attendants receive them, wrap them in soft white blankets, to be tenderly handled, held and rocked in azi arms.

In intervals between diaper changes and feeding, they lie in cribs which, like the wombs, gently rock, to the sound of human heartbeat and distant voice, the same voice that spoke to them in the womb, soft and reassuring. Sometimes it sings to them. Sometimes it merely speaks.

Someday it will give them instruction. The voice is tape. As yet it is only subliminal, a focus of confidence. Even at this point it rewards good behavior. One day it will speak with disapproval, but at this stage there are no misbehaviors, only slight restlessness from the Betas… .

BATCH AGCLLT-789X: EMERGENCYEMERGENCY

AGCULT-789X is in trouble. The experimental geneset is not a success, and after staff consultations, a tech withdraws lifesupport and voids AGCULT-789X for autopsy.