Cherryh, C J - Alliance-Union 08 (34 page)

Then Grant lingered at the door of his office. Just looked at him, as if to ask if he was all right. "I've got to run to library."

He gave Grant a silent lift of the chin. I'm all right. Go on, then.

Grant bit his lip. "See you at lunch."

"Right."

Grant left. He sat down in the disordered little office, logged on to the House system, and prepared to get to work. But a message-dot was blinking on the corner of his screen. He windowed it up.

See me first thing, my office,
it said.
Giraud Nye.

He sat there staring at the thing. He found his hand shaking when he reached to punch the off switch.

He was not ready for this. Psychprobe flashed into his mind; all the old nightmares. He needed all his self-control.

All the old reflexes were gone. Everything.
He
was vulnerable. Grant was.

He had whatever time it took to walk over there to pull himself together. He did not know what to do, whether to route himself past the library and try to warn Grant—but that looked guilty. Every move he could make could damn him.

No, he thought then, and bit his lip till it bled. It flashed back to another meeting. A taste of blood in his mouth. Hysteria jammed behind his teeth.

It's started,
he thought.
It's happened.

He turned the machine on, sent a message over to Grant's office:
Giraud wants to see me. I may be held up on the lunch. —J.
It was warning enough. What Grant could do about it, he had no idea.

Worry. That was what.

He shut down again, got up, locked the office, and walked down the corridor, still tasting the blood. He kept looking at things and people with the thought that he might not be back. That the next thing he and Grant might see might be an interview room in the hospital.

Giraud's office was the same he had always had, in the Administrative Wing, the same paneled and unobtrusive entry with the outside lock—more security than Ari had ever used. Giraud was no longer official head of Security. He was
Councillor
Nye these days—for outsiders' information. But everyone in the House knew who was running Security—still.

Justin slid his card into the lock, heard it click, set for his CIT-number. He walked into the short paneled hall and opened the inside door, on the office where Giraud's azi Abban was at his accustomed desk.

That was the first thing he saw. In the next split-second he saw the two Security officers and Abban was rising casually from his chair.

He stopped cold. And looked at the nearer of the azi officers, eye to eye, calmly:
Let's be civilized.
He took the next quiet step inside and let the door shut at his back.

They had a body-scanner. "Arms out, ser," the one on the left said. He obliged them, let them pass the wand over him. It found something in his coat pocket. The officer pulled out the paper napkin. Justin gave him a disparaging look in spite of the fact that his heart was going like a hammer and the air in the room seemed too thin.

They satisfied themselves he was not armed. Abban opened the door and they took him through it.

Giraud was not the only one there. Denys was. And Petros Ivanov. He felt his heart trying to come up his throat. One of the officers held him lightly by the arm and guided him to the remaining chair, in front of Giraud's desk. Denys sat in a chair to the left of the desk, Petros to the right.

Like a tribunal.

And the Security men stayed, one with his hand on the back of Justin's chair, until Giraud lifted a hand and told them to leave. But Justin's ears told him someone had stayed when the door had shut.

Abban, he thought.

"You understand why you're here," Giraud said. "I don't have to tell you."

Giraud wanted an answer. "Yes, ser," he said in a muted voice.

They'll do what they damned well please.

Why have they got Petros here? Unless they're going to run a probe.

"Have you got anything to say?" Giraud asked.

"I don't think I should have to." He found a tenuous control of his voice.
Dammit, get a grip on things.

And like a wind out of the dark:
Steady, sweet.
Don't
give everything away.

"I didn't provoke that. God
knows
I didn't want it."

"You could have damn well left."

"I left."

"After."
Giraud's face was thin-lipped with anger. He picked up a stylus and posed it between his fingers. "What's your intention? To sabotage the project?"

"No. I was there like everyone else. No different. I was minding my own business. What did you do, prime her for that show? Is
that
it? A little show? Impress the Family? Con the press? I'll
bet
you've got tape."

Giraud had not expected that. He gave away very little. Denys and Petros looked distressed.

"The child wasn't prompted," Denys said quietly. "You have my word, Justin, it wasn't prompted."

"The hell it wasn't. It's a damn good show for the news, isn't it—just the sort of thing that makes great fodder for the eetees out there. The kid singles out the killer's replicate. God! what a piece of science!"

"Don't bother to play for a camera," Giraud said. "We're not being taped."

"I didn't expect." He was shaking. He shifted his foot to relax his leg, to keep it from trembling. But, God, the brain was working. They were going to haul him off for another session, that was what they were working up to; and somehow that shook the fog out of his mind. "I imagine you'll work me over good before I get to the cameras. But it'd be sloppy as hell to have me on the tape in that party and dropping right out again. Or turning up dead. Makes a problem for you, doesn't it?"

"Justin," Petros said, a tone of appeal. "No one's going to 'work you over.' That's not what we're about here."

"Sure."

"What we're about," Giraud said in a hard, clipped voice, "is one clear question. Did
you
cue her?"

"You find your own answers. Write down whatever you want. Look at the damn tape."

"We have," Giraud said. "Grant had eye contact with her. So did you, right before she moved."

Attack on a new target. Of course they got around to Grant. "What else were people looking at? What else were we
there
to look at? I looked at her. Did you think I'd come there and
not?
You saw me there. You could have told me to leave. But of course you didn't. You set me up. You set up the whole thing. How many people in there knew it? Just you?"

"You maintain you didn't cue her."

"Dammit, no. Neither of us did. I asked Grant. He wouldn't lie to me. He admits the eye contact. He was looking at her. 'I got caught at it,' was the way he put it. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't mine."

Petros stirred in his chair. Leaned toward Giraud. "Gerry, I think you have to take into account what I said."

Giraud touched the desk control. The screen tilted up out of the surface; he typed something with his right hand, likely a file-scan. Dataflow reflected off the metal on his collar, a flicker of green.

Manipulation of more than data. Orchestrated, Justin told himself. The whole play. A little moment of suspense now. Secrets.

And he still could not keep himself from reacting.

Giraud read or mimed reading. His breathing grew larger. His face was no friendlier when he looked up. "You don't like tapestudy. Odd, in a designer."

"I don't damn well trust it. Can you blame me?"

"You don't even do entertainment tapes."

"I work hard."

"Let's not have that kind of answer. You skipped out on your follow-ups with Petros. You don't take tape more than once every month or so. That's a damned strange attitude in a designer."

He said nothing. He had used all the glib answers.

"Even Grant," Giraud said, "doesn't go into the lab for his. He uses a home unit. Not at all regulation."

"There's no rule about that. If that satisfies him, it satisfies him. Grant's bright, he's got good absorption—"

"It's not your instruction to do that."

"No, it's not my instruction."

"You know," Petros said, "Grant's self-sufficient, completely social. He doesn't need that kind of reinforcement as often as some. But considering what he's been through, it would be better if he took it deep. Just as a checkup."

"Considering what you put him through? No!"

"So it is your instruction," Giraud said.

"No. It's his choice. It's his choice, he's entitled, the same as I am, the last I heard."

"I'm not sure we
need
a designer-team that's phobic about tape.

"Go to hell."

"Easy," Denys said. "Take it easy. Giraud, there's nothing wrong with his output. Or Grant's. That's not at issue."

"There was more than one victim in Ari's murder," Petros said. "Justin was. Grant was. I don't think you can ignore that fact. You're dealing with someone who was a boy when the incident happened, who was, in fact, the victim of Ari's own criminal act, among others. I haven't wanted to press the issue. I've been keeping an eye on him. I've sent him requests to come in to talk. Is that true, Justin?"

"It's true."

"You haven't answered, have you?"

"No." Panic pressed on him. He felt sick inside.

"The whole situation with the Project," Petros said, "has bothered you quite a bit, hasn't it?"

"Live and let live. I'm sorry for the kid. I'm sure you've got all the benefit of Security's eavesdropping in my apartment. I hope you get a lot of entertainment out of the intimate bits."

"Justin."

"You can go to hell too, Petros."

"Justin. Tell me the truth.
Are
you still getting tape-flashes?"

"No."

"You're sure."

"Yes, I'm sure."

"You felt a lot of stress when you walked into the party, didn't you?

"Hell, no. Why should I?"

"I think that's your answer," Petros said to Giraud. "He came in there stressed. Both of them did. Ari had no trouble picking up on it. That's all there is to it. I don't think it was intended. I'm more disturbed about Justin's state of mind. I think it's just best he go back to his wing, and show up at family functions, and carry on as normally as he can. I don't think anything useful is served by a probe. He's carrying enough stress as it is. I do want him to come in for counseling."

"Giraud," Denys said, "if you
believe
young Ari's sensitivities, bear in mind she wasn't afraid of Justin. Stressed as he was, she wasn't afraid of him. Quite the opposite."

"I don't like that either." Giraud drew a breath and leaned back, looking at Justin from under his brows. "You'll take Petros' prescription. If he tells me you're not cooperating, you'll be tending a precip station before sundown. Hear me?"

"Yes, ser."

"You'll go on working. If something takes you across Ari's path, you speak to her or not according to your judgment, whichever will provoke the least curiosity. You'll show up at Family functions. If she speaks to you, be pleasant. No more than that. You stray off that line, you'll be in here again and I won't be in a good mood. And that goes for Grant, just the same. You make it clear to him. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, ser." Like any azi. Quiet. Respectful.
It's a trap. It'll still close. There's something more to this.

"You can go. Open the door, Abban."

The door did open. He shoved himself out of his chair. Denys did the same. He made it as far as the door and Denys went out it with him, caught his arm, steered him past Security out into the small box of the entry hall and out again into the main corridor.

Then Denys tugged him to a stop. "Justin."

He stayed stopped. He was shaking, still. But defiance did not serve anything.

"Justin, you're under a lot of pressure. But you know and I know—there's no memory transfer. It's
not
the old Ari. We don't want, frankly, another case of animosity with the Warricks. We don't
want
you taking Jordan's part in this. You know what's at stake."

He nodded.

"Justin, listen to me. Giraud did the probe on you. He knows damned well you're honest. He's just—"

"A bastard."

"Justin. Don't make things hard. Do what Giraud says. Don't make a mistake. You don't want to hurt the little girl. I know you don't. What Ari did to you—has nothing to do with her. And you wouldn't hurt her."

"No. I never did anything to
Ari,
for God's sake. You think I'd hurt a kid?"

"I know. I know that's true. Just think about that. Think about it the next time you have to deal with her. Ari tore you up. You can do the same thing to that child. You can hurt her. I want you to think seriously about that."

"I didn't do anything to her!"

"You didn't do anything. Calm down. Calm down and take a breath. Listen to me. If you can handle this right, it could help you."

"Sure."

Denys took his arm again, faced him closer to the wall as Security left the office. Held on to him. "Justin. I wanted to tell you—the request that's on my desk, the phone link: I'm going to give it a few weeks and then allow it. You'll be on some kind of delay—Jordan's clever, and Security has to have time to think. That's the best I can do. Does that make you feel better?"

"What's it cost me?"

"Nothing. Nothing. Just don't foul it up. Stay out of trouble. All right?"

He stared at the wall, at travertine patterns that blurred in front of his eyes. He felt Denys pat his shoulder.

"I'm damn sorry. I'm damn sorry. I know. You haven't had a day of peace. But I want you
on
the Project. That's why I fought Giraud to keep you here. Ari liked you—no. Listen to me. Ari
liked
you. Never mind what she did. I know her—posthumously—as well as I know myself. Ari's feud with Jordan was old and it was bitter. But she got your test scores and made up her mind she wanted you."

"They were faked!"

"No, they weren't. Not outstandingly high, you know that. But scattered through half a dozen fields. You had the qualities
she
had. Not her match, but then, you hadn't had Olga Emory pushing you. She told me—personally—and this is no lie, son, that she
wanted
you in her wing, that you were better than the tests showed, a damned lot better, she said, than Jordan. Her words, not mine."