Regenesis

by C. J. Cherryh

  “I’m sure it’s very solid,” Grant said. “I apologize. I sincerely apologize.”

  “What for? For taking the punch?” He was all but vibrating with anger, but he had no one around him who wasn’t azi, and absolutely didn’t deserve what he was feeling; at the moment, a combination of the desire to break something and a conviction trying to surface, that what he’d just done and said hadn’t been the right thing—damn it. Damn it all, he’d set Jordan off, and not to Paul’s good. “I should go back in there.”

  “You absolutely should not,” Grant said. “He’ll do many things, but he won’t hurt Paul.”

  “What do you mean he won’t hurt Paul? He’s done nothing but hurt Paul.”

  “Trust yourself. Trust Paul to handle it. Let it be.”

  They had four witnesses who hadn’t asked to be witnesses, and who looked entirely confused and slightly upset.

  “It’s all right.” Justin said, obliged to say it, being the only born-man in the hallway, and supposedly rational. “It was a born-man argument, over with. No one was hurt.”

  “It is all right.” Grant said to the guards, who probably saw Grant as the sane and offended party, who had a bloody lip. “We’ll go to dinner now.”

  “Are you going to be able to eat?” Justin asked, remorse and a decent shame finally making it to the surface. And he was still shaking with anger. “I don’t think I have much appetite.”

  “Fruit ice,” Grant suggested. “That might do for a sore jaw.”

  He was tempted to say a bar would do better, but not after his quarrel with Jordan. “Fruit ice,” he agreed, and they took the lift down and bought ices for Mark and Gerry while they were at it, over in Ed, where the best ice parlors were.

  Everything was normal. Kids ran and played. Two preoccupied lovers walked along the mall, under the willows. The ice parlor had a vid, and it flashed, ominously enough, with the News logo.

  Justin took a hard draw of the shaved lime ice, just watched. They had the transcript crawl on. It said:

  Councillor of Information Catherine Lao has been taken to the hospital this evening with chest pains…

  He nudged Grant, but Grant was already watching, solemn-faced.

  The Councillor’s sudden crisis came in a late committee meeting. She has been in failing health for several months. The Proxy Councillor for Information, Adlai Edgerton, has not been available for comment.

  Meanwhile the crisis continues in Defense, as the incumbent Councillor for Defense has continued to postpone any announcement of a Proxy appointment; and has been closeted with the Proxy Councillor for Science in a session closed to the news media.

  Meanwhile the state of affairs in Reseune seems to hare normalized, with a declaration by Reseune Administration that, while Yanni Schwartz, current Proxy Councillor for Science, remains as Administrator of Reseune. Ariane Emory, aged eighteen, has formally assumed administrative control of ReseuneSec…

  “So they know,” Justin said.

  “Lao being sick, that’s no news.”

  “That’s the sort of thing they say before somebody turns up dead,” Justin said.

  “And Edgerton’s gone quiet.” Grant shook his head and took another draw on the lime. “It’s not sounding good.”

  “It’s sounding like we could have a new Councillor for Information before long,” Justin said. “It’s what Ari said, we’re losing too many that have a grasp of what went on.”

  “Ignore it,” Grant said. “It’s over our heads. We don’t have an opinion. Keep it that way.”

  “I do,” he said. “That’s the hell of it. I can’t advise her. It she asked me what to do, I wouldn’t know the least thing to tell her. And she put me in charge, mores the pity.”

  “I’m not sure Yanni knows what to do at this point,” Grant said. “Cheer up.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know why,” Grant said. “I just know it’s what I said, over our heads. We can’t stop it. We can’t do a dammed thing, except—”

  “Except wait for Jordan to blow?”

  “That, yes.”

  “He’s not speaking to me. Remember?”

  “I give it seven days.”

  “I don’t know why. He has a very good memory.”

  “He’s something we can take care of,” Grant said, “so he doesn’t land in young Ari’s new security office…and neither do we. We stay out of there, and we’re doing the best we can be expected to do.”

  “And we keep Alpha Wing from revolt,” he said, feeling a little lighter-hearted. “At least that’s not going to happen.”

  “Won’t,” Grant said. “But we can double-check that the services are going to work, if we do get another shut-down.”

  He nodded. It was a practical thing to do, a Grant kind of thing to do. He’d interfered outside Alpha Wing for what he’ promised himself was the last time, the only time. If Jordan wanted to talk to him hereafter, he’d talk; but if Jordan wanted not to, well, maybe in a quieter world and with Paul better off, he might have options that didn’t exist with the current state of affairs. Time cured some things.

  It hurt. It hurt a fair bit that Grant had taken the shot for him, but that was a revelation in itself. Maybe it would penetrate Jordan’s hard head, that that was exactly what Paul had done. Jordan’s perfectly run little hell had just gotten revised, for good or for ill. And what was Jordan going to do about it? Suggest to Paul that he go on absorbing guilt and responsibility, the way things had been?

  He didn’t think Jordan would do that, not when it came to putting it into words. And maybe if Jordan read the manual he’ll annotated for twenty years, read it in the light of what he and Grant had just done to fix it, there was a remote chance Jordan would even see it for himself.

  BOOK THREE Section 5 Chapter xi

  JULY 27, 2424

  0403H

  “So you want to know about the military,” the first Ari said, out of Base One. “Are you having trouble with Defense?”

  “Yes,” Ari said.

  “So did I,” the voice said, which was more and more like her voice, or vice versa. “I particularly had trouble with Azov, who was a bastard of the first order. But you probably don’t want to hear about Azov. Is your question about Azov?”

  She was tempted. But it was the small hours of the morning, and her head hurt so, and she didn’t have the time. “No.” she said.

  “Is your question about defense projects or about the Bureau of Defense? You can give a keyword now. The program will find it.”

  “Military azi.”

  “Military azi, as in the azi who served in the armed forces.”

  “Yes.”

  “Question?”

  “An alpha azi named Kyle AK-36.”

  “Giraud’s assistant. Correct?”

  “I need to take him down. I need to deprogram Kyle AK-36. I need advice.”

  A small pause. Her heart picked up its beats, apprehension that the first Ari might not have any advice to give about the man who’d gotten through her defenses.

  “This program can locate files on Kyle AK-36. Proceeding.”

  “Could Defense have reprogrammed Kyle AK-36 while he was in the military? I have reason to believe Kyle AK-36’s mindset no longer corresponds to his personal manual. His axe code failed.”

  Another long pause. Longer than the first.

  A mechanical voice, different than Ari One’s, said, “Base One is prepared to open file on Kyle AK-36.” Then a synthetic female voice said: “Axe code failure. Causes: 1. Incorrect manual, 2. Block installed. 3. Psychset conflict. Choose one.”

  “1,2, and 3. Psychset conflict. Report.”

  “Psychset conflict: axe code failure. Three cases on record.”

  “Print case files to local computer.”

  “In process.”

  “1. Incorrect manual, re Kyle AK-36. Check and report.” She had a sip of coffee. She didn’t think it was the cause, either. Kyle had functioned well enough to be in Admin, in
both a military and a civilian operation. A conflict tended to show. Running on an incorrect manual—showed.

  “Manual on file corresponds with original manual.”

  “Block, re Kyle AK-36. Check and report.”

  A much faster answer. “Information incomplete. Base One cannot access information from Defense secure system. Further attempts may leave trace.”

  “Thank you. Base One. No further attempt. Method of removing a Defense-installed block.”

  A long pause. “Case record follows.”

  “Physical print, Base One.”

  “Printing. Transcript is three hundred and two pages.”

  Her head hurt even thinking about it. But the print began shooting into the tray.

  “Base One, Giraud failed to detect Defense Bureau block on AK-36 when he used an axe code. Method of concealment of block: check and report.”

  “Base One has no record of Giraud failure.”

  “Well, he did fail, dammit.” She dropped her head into her hands. “Base One, did Ari ever successfully deal with a Defense Bureau block? if yes, did Giraud ever access that file?”

  “First question: yes. Second question: Giraud’s Base insufficient to access Base One record.”

  Well, there was an answer. And he hadn’t gone to Ari. He hadn’t admitted failure. He might not have recognize it. Faced with dealing with an alpha, he hadn’t opened up his files and Denys’ to Ari’s close scrutiny, especially counting that Denys’ certificate was a damned lie. His secrecy would have been compromised if he’d let Ari into the manuals he had. Open one, all might have been of interest. Wasn’t that like Giraud, too?

  “Note for Giraud Two: dealing with failure. Tell Base One. Dammit.”

  “Recorded.”

  She thought a few beats, while the printout flipped into the tray. “Base One, did Ari ever successfully deal with a Defense Bureau block in an alpha subject?”

  “Yes.”

  “Print case file.”

  “Printing. Transcript is three hundred and two pages.”

  “Is that the same file currently printing?”

  “Yes.”

  Damned stupid computer. “Cancel second print. Continue.”

  Same case. At least there were only three hundred two pages to read before she slept.

  Catherine Lao was in the hospital with a coronary, a real one, and diminishing liver function. It was likely the tail end of rejuv. Nobody could locate her Proxy, who was either dead in Swigert Bay or hiding out under an assumed name, trying not to be dead, and it was getting chancy whether Yanni could muster the usual closely knit bloc of Reseune-friendly vote’s on Council. Yanni could call the Council of Worlds into session—but that got into regional fights and vote trading between stations and Bureaus and it was just a whole either headache. They didn’t want to go to that, and get Pan-Paris at odds again with Fargone… God, no. Yanni had done his job. Catherine Lao was asking Yanni to come to the hospital, and Ari’d told Yanni no, don’t go, just come home, but was he going to listen?

  She couldn’t swear to it—because it Yanni was going to call a Council of Worlds, it was more politic to do it from Novgorod; and because Jacques hadn’t gotten right onto the evening news and made Tanya Bigelow his Proxy Councillor…

  God, it was a mess. And she, meanwhile, was wasting time trying to figure out who’d been responsible for killing her predecessor twenty years ago, which wasn’t relevant, and trying to make sure Yanni had good information, which was; and most of all trying to find out if Kyle AK had gotten some signal for some other kind of mayhem, beyond murdering her…which could relate to what he’d been into twenty years ago, when somebody, maybe the same people that wanted Khalid in office, had been politicking behind closed doors in the Defense Bureau, dealing with Jordan with one hand and arranging her predecessor’s murder with the other.

  She took a headache remedy. She wasn’t supposed to. She’d do better going to the hospital herself, or just asking Wes to look her over, but her pupils looked the same size in the mirror, and she didn’t want to upset Florian by admitting he’d cracked her head that hard. So she just took the headache remedy and then threw up, and took another, with less water, which staved down.

  It might not be smart. But it was what she had to do. Scan the files she had to absorb, make sure they were safe, and then have a long stint with deepstudy.

  BOOK THREE Section 5 Chapter xii

  AUG 2, 2424

  0548H

  Breakfast on a sunny morning in Novgorod…they’d been down to granola bars and coffee they made themselves, things from random vending machines, since they’d stopped trusting the hotel kitchens.

  But after days of short commons, Quentin AQ, the Carnath girl’s Quentin, had showed up with a case of dried fruit, another of oatmeal, four cases of bottled water, five kilos of ground coffee, a case of orange drink, a commercial carton of real eggs, fifteen loaves of bread, a case of precooked bacon, five bottles of vodka, and a large carton of irradiated sandwiches that wouldn’t go bad for the next decade. That lot was a gift for which Yanni and Frank marked Amy Carnath down for future brilliance. They’d sent ReseuneSec down to the hotel kitchens to confiscate a portable grill, a room refrigerator, plates, silverware, and detergent, and ran their own kitchens in the diplomatic suite. A man named Bert BB-7 and his partner took instruction from Frank on elementary cooking, managed not to overcook the eggs, which the Carnath girl had offered to resupply on call; and they’d three times hosted Jacques, damn him, who showed up with two aides and a lengthening list of concerns, the last over a supper meeting of grilled sandwiches, salted chips, and wine Jacques brought, while he and his staff stuck to the vodka.

  In the first three meetings it had gone moderately well: Jacques wasn’t sure of Bigelow and said there was some concern because the station Defense people weren’t happy with her, and they wanted to propose another candidate, a Tommy Kwesi, who’d been out at Beta…who would be here in a week.

  “We can’t have this dragging on another week,” Yanni had objected, and then alter two days of arguing for him, Jacques revealed that Khalid was landing within the hour in Novgorod, and that Khalid absolutely refused to accept either Bigelow or Kwesi.

  “He didn’t win the election,” Yanni had said to that, and Jacques had ducked his direct gaze, and said they had to have consensus within the Bureau, because without it there were some officers who were going to take the matter to the judiciary, and the rest of Defense didn’t want that precedent.

  Then the stinger, from Jacques: “There’s a contingent pushing Albert Dean.”

  He’d said, “Dean’s a damned fool.” Dean was the one who’d consistently voted with Khalid’s allies on appropriations, trying to get increased military spending at Mariner and Pan-Paris, which played well politically on the stations that wanted the construction, but infringed on treaties in more ways than they could count. “He’s playing politics, he’s been playing politics, while we’ve spent the last thirty years trying to build trust on that border—the only damn border we’ve got, and he wants to go turning up the heat on it! You want to see two years of absolute stalemate in Council—no. We can’t work with him.”

  “I don’t think, in the long run, that what Science can work with is the ultimate criterion for the Proxy I choose.”

  “No,” he’d said flatly, “it isn’t. It is, however, what the rest of Council can work with. Dean may play well with the Council of Worlds, but they don’t originate the budget, and you can’t get a majority to back his program.”

  “So he’s safe,” Jacques said with a shrug. “Dean talks. He makes his listeners happy. Nothing of his program ever gets done.”

  “And your Bureau goes on with its internal business, stirring the pot constantly.”

  “Some say Science is far too monolithic. Far too one-sided.”

  “It has advantages, having some sort of consensus. We don’t live in a friendly universe, but nothing’s helped by provoking our trade partners—and
talk provokes, even if the program doesn’t pass. It keeps us from progress in negotiations.”

  “Their trade goes on their ships through our territory. So does ours.”

  “That’s the way State wrote the Treaty. If you want to change it, debate it in Council. Don’t set up a program guaranteed to rip the peace apart by degrees, dammit, Councillor. Khalid didn’t win the election, not by a long shot. You have no need to accommodate him.”

  Jacques had had another wine. He had another vodka. They’d settled it down. But he didn’t think the last meeting with Jacques had gone at all well. Dean wasn’t much better than Khalid, except that Dean was so damned abrasive he’d alienated half those who might have been his allies. And Khalid back on the planet was not good news.

  “See if we can come up with a third choice,” Yanni suggested at the last. “I’ll give up pushing Bigelow. You suggested Dean because you know what I think.”

  “Science isn’t my only consideration,” Jacques said.

  “It’s the old coalition. It’s the one that’s got things done. You think you can work with Trade? I don’t think so. Trade suffers from the same split that’s in Defense. One way one time, another way the next issue. You can deal with us.”

  That was the way they’d parted company yesterday.

  Today, in the small hours when dayshift and nightshift were trading places in the twenty-four hour city, his own staff had gotten to Mikhail Corain, and Corain, Frank said, was on his way up. Bert was making a decent breakfast, toast and eggs, orange and coffee.

  Corain showed, quietly arrived, and surrendered his gray overcoat to Frank—it wasn’t quite a hand-shaking meeting: Yanni didn’t expect it, and in Council there was meaning to such events; but Corain very readily took his place at the small dining table, and took the coffee Frank poured for him.

  “You’re still in charge?” Corain asked him.

  “Pretty firmly so,” Yanni said. The news had settled down on the matter of Ari’s takeover. “It’s an internal matter. I doubt she’ll hold the office too long. The tower blowing—that’s on Hicks’ watch. That’s an issue. Paxers are an issue. Lao’s an issue. Nothing caps the Defense mess.”