Cherryh, C J - Alliance-Union 08 (113 page)

"He'll like that."

"Oh, he'll get credit. I've told him. And unlike Jordan, Justin grew up number two in everything. He's got a good deal more flexibility than Jordan."

"What are you going to do with Jordan in your administration, pray tell?
Let him loose? That would be abysmally stupid, Ari. And that's exactly what your young man is going to ask of you—what he already
has
asked of you, why not be honest? I'm sure he has, just the same as he connived his way into your sympathy."

"He's asked. And I asked him if he thought Jordan himself would be safe—or whether Jordan could defend himself against people who'd want to use him. Like the Paxers."

"Young woman, you
are
meddling."

"It doesn't take
my
abilities, uncle Denys, to guess what kind of stuff Giraud would like to have planted on Grant and Jordan—about the time you break the news the Centrists are in contact with him. I'm sorry to mess Giraud up. I know he's furious with me. I'm sorry about that. But Giraud's messing up a much more important operation—mine. And I won't stand for it." She poured more wine. They had chased the waiter away and asked for him to respond only to the call-button. "You just don't give me enough credit, uncle Denys. Remember what I said about muddying the waters. I don't like that. I don't like it at all. Giraud's not thinking straight and I wish you'd straighten him out; he's tired, he's ill, and in this, I just don't know how to talk to him."

"I thought you knew everything."

"Well, say that I know enough to know he's not well, he's trying to hide that from the world, he doesn't want to admit it to me, and it's a guaranteed explosion if I try to reason with him. Excluding trank, which I'm not about to do to my uncle. You're the only one he'll listen to in this, you're the only one who can get him calmed down, because he knows you're objective and he won't believe that about me. And there's something else I want you to tell him. I want you to tell him ... the Warrick influence isn't the only thing going in Reseune. He should believe ... he should definitely believe . . . the Nye influence is terribly important to me. Indispensable to me ... and to Reseune."

"That's gratifying."

"I haven't gotten to my point yet. This is terribly delicate, uncle Denys. I don't want you to take this wrong. And it's so hard to discuss with Giraud—but . . . Giraud's so hardheaded practical, and he's been such an influence—on me; on Reseune— What do you think he'd feel—about having a replicate done—like me?"

Denys sat still, a long, long moment. "I think he'd be amazed," Denys said. "He'd also point out that he's not documented to the extent you are."

"It's possible it'll work. It's even probable. All I'd need is the ordinary House stuff. Damn, this is so awkward! I don't know how to approach asking him. I don't know how he feels about dying. He's—never brought it up with me. I gather he doesn't want me to know. But I know a lot more about psychogenesis than you knew when you started; I know a lot I haven't written up—I know it from the inside, I know what matters and what doesn't and where you came close to a real bad mistake. And I really think I could run it with Giraud. If he'd let me."

"Dear, when one's dead, there's not a precious lot one can do to stop you from any damn thing, now, is there?"

"It matters what you want. And what Giraud wants, I mean, his opinion is the most important, because that has to do with his psychsets, and whether his successor would be comfortable with what he is. That's critical. And there's who would be the surrogates. You're not young yourself, to take on another kid. I thought about Yanni, Yanni's got the ability, and the toughness. Maybe Gustav Morley. But you'd be best, because you know things no one else
can
remember about your upbringing, and you can be objective, at least you could with me. But you weren't related to me. That's a difference to think about. That could be a lot of stress, and I'm not sure you want to cope with that now, with Giraud."

Denys had laid the fork down altogether. "I'd have to think about that."

"At least talk to him. Please make him understand—I
don't
want to fight with him. I need him, I'll need him in things I can't foresee yet. That's why I want to do this. Tell him—tell him I love him and I know why he's doing these things to stop me, but tell him I know something too and he should let me alone and let me operate. Tell him—tell him I understand all his lessons. I've learned from him well enough to protect myself. —And tell him if he wants to know what it's like to
be
a successor—I can tell him."

"I'd find that a point of curiosity too," Denys said after a moment, "what degree of integration there is.
Is
there identity?"

Gentle smile. "Profiles? Say they're real close. What it feels like, uncle Denys, what it feels like—is, you think,—
I'd never do that.
But eventually you would. You almost remember—
remember
things. Because they're part of the whole chain of events that lead to the point you go on from. Because you
are
a continuance, and what your predecessor did was important and the people she knew are still there, the enemies and the friends are still there for reasons of what she was and what she did—more, you
understand
what she felt about things and how it all fitted, from the gut, in your glands, in your bloodstream, and, oh, it makes more and more sense. You see yourself on an Archive tape and you feel this incredible—identity—with that person. You see a little slump; you straighten your own shoulders—
Stand straight, Ari, don't slouch.
You see a little upset—you feel personally threatened. You see anger. Your pulse picks up a bit. I
will
write a paper someday, when the subject's much more commonplace. But I don't think it's a thing I want to have in the
Bureau Reports
right now. I think it's one of those processes Reseune can bastardize for the other agencies that want to do it with easy types. But they'll always send the Specials to us, because they're going to be the real problem cases: Alphas always are. Even CITs. And that means more and more of the best talent—begins at Reseune."

Denys gazed at her a long time without speaking. "I
am
very much the woman you knew," she said. "Never mind the kid's face. Or the fact my voice hasn't settled yet. There is a kind of fusion. Only I'm already working on Ari's final notes, not her starting hypotheses. Psychogenesis is a given with me. I'll do much more, much more than she did. Isn't that what you wanted?"

"Much—more than we expected."

She laughed. "Which way do I take that?"

"That we're very proud of you. I—personally—am very proud of you."

"I'm glad. I'm very glad. I'm very grateful to you, uncle Denys. And to Giraud. I always will be. You see: Ari was such a cold bastard. She learned to be, for very good reasons. But that part didn't have to be exact. I can love my uncles, and I can still be a cold bastard when I have to be, just because I'm very self-protective—because no matter what the advantages I've had, I'm a target and I know it. I won't be threatened. I'll be there first. That's the way I am. I want you to know that."

"You're very impressive, young sera."

"Thank you. So are my uncles. And you're both dears and I love you. I want you to think about what I want to do—about Giraud; and talk to Giraud, and tell me how he feels about it."

Denys cleared his throat. "I don't think—I don't think he'll turn you down."

Is there identity?

She knew damn well that Denys was asking for himself.

What's it like?

Will—I—remember?
That was the really eetee one, which a sane man knew better than to wonder. So she flirted it right past him now; and made him sweat.

"I'll tell you where an interesting study might be, uncle Denys. Getting me and Giraud together someday and letting us compare notes.
I
have the illusion of memory. I wonder if he will."

Denys had not taken a bite in a half a minute. He sat there a helpless lump.

Shame on you,
she thought to herself.
That's awful, Ari.

But something in her was quite, quite satisfied.

What in hell's the matter with me?

I'm madder than hell, that's what. Mad that I'm young, mad that I'm dependent, mad that I'm trapped here and Denys is being Denys, and mad that Giraud's timing is so damn lousy, leaving me no way to get that seat. Dammit, I'm not ready for him to die!

Denys' fork rattled, another bite. He was visibly upset.

How can I enjoy doing that? My God. He's an old man. What's gotten into me?

Her own appetite curdled. She poked at the salad, extracting a bit of tomato.

She thought about it that night, listlessly dividing attention between a light sandwich Florian had made her, the evening news, and doing a routine entry on the keyboard—which she preferred to the Scriber when she was listening to something: the fingers were output-only, and what they were outputting was in a mental buffer somewhere. Pause. Tick-tick-tick. Pause. While the visual memory played out lunch and uncle Denys and the logical function worked on the politics of it.
Is
there identity? —An eetee kind of question in the first place, never mind that she had eetee feelings about it—she knew how to explain them, in perfectly solid and respectable terms: she was used to deep-study, she could lower her threshold further by wanting to than most people could on E-dose kat, the tapes involved a person identical to her in the identical environment, and the wonder would be if the constant interplay of tape-flash and day-to-day experience of the same halls, the same people, the same situations—did not muddle together in a flux-habituated brain.

Denys understood that, surely, on the logical level.

People
surely understood that.

Damn,
she
was not dealing well with that aspect of it. She dealt with massive movements in the populace. Microfocus failed her.

The average, harried, too-busy-for-deepthink Novgorod worker.

Listen and learn, Ari, sweet: ordinary people will teach you the truest, the most sane things in the world. Thank God for them.

And beware anyone who can turn them all in one direction. That one is not ordinary.

People were aware . . . of Reseune's power, of the power her predecessor had wielded.

IN PRINCIPIO
was a phenomenon, Ariane Emory's basic theories and methodologies and the early character of Reseune, set almost within the most educated laymen's grasp, so that there was, in the public mind, at least the glimmering of what no demagogue could have made clear before that book aroused such strange, such universal interest in the popular market.

It had spawned eetee-fringe thinkers of its own, a whole new and troublesome breed who took Emory for their bible and practiced experimental so-called Integrations on each other, in the idea it would expand their consciousness, whatever that was. There were already three cases down in the Wards, Novgorod CITs who had all drug-tripped their way to out-there on massive overdoses, run profound interventions on each other and now outraged staid old Gustav Morley by critiquing his methodology. A handful of admirers had outraged Reseune Security, too, by trying to leave the lounge down at the RESEUNEAIR terminal and hike up toward the House, proclaiming that they had come to see Ariane Emory—with the result that Reseune was urgently considering building a new terminal for commercial flights,
far
down from the old one where, in the old days, Family and ordinary through travelers using RESEUNEAIR had once mingled with casual indifference. A handful of would-be disciples had turned up over in Moreyville looking for a boat, until wary locals, thank God, had figured out what they were up to and called the police.

My God, what do I do if I
meet
one of these lunatics? What are they after?

It's a phase. A fad. It'll go. If it weren't this they'd be getting eetee transmissions on their home vids.

Why
didn't
we see this?

But of course we saw it. Justin saw it. There's always the fringe. Always the cheap answer, the secret Way—to whatever. Novgorod's in chaos, Paxers threatening people, wages aren't rising to meet spot shortages—

Danger signs. People yearning after answers. Seeking shortcuts.

Seeking them in the work of a murdered Special—

In the person of her replicate, as the Nyes fade, as the unstable period after that assassination births more instabilities, elections upon elections, bombings, shortages, and the Child—the Child verges on womanhood and competency in her own right, announcing herself with the recovery of Ari senior's legendary lost notes—

Damn well what I expected Science to understand—

But Novgorod's understanding it at a completely different level . . .

The children of azi's children—the constituency of Reseune: Ari's own creation, no theory in a Sociology computer. It's there. It's ready.

And Giraud, damn him, can't hold on to that seat long enough for me.

"Vid off," she said, and leaned back and shut her eyes, feeling that general pricklishness that meant her cycle was right on schedule.

Tomorrow I should work in, stay away from people.

I hurt Denys today. I Had him, I didn't need to take that twist. Why in hell did I do that?

What am I mad about?

Adrenaline high, that's what's going on. Not mentioning the rest of the monthly endocrine cocktail.

Damn, that was an underhanded shot I took. Denys didn't deserve that.

I
know
what Ari came to. Her temper, her damnable temper—the anger she was always afraid to let out—

Frustration with the irrational—with a universe moving too slow for her mind—

God, what's going on with me?

She tasted blood, realized she had bitten her lip, and unfocused.

She pressed her hands against her forehead, leaning back in the chair, shut her eyes . . . thinking about that tape, Justin's tape, thinking—