Regenesis (v1.2)

by C. J. Cherryh

“Precocious child.”

  “On a completely different topic—I’ve almost made up my mind this week. I’m pretty sure we’re going to clone Denys.”

  “Are we? Now? Or some time in the next seven years?”

  She frowned. That was a question. A big one: how close will we try to stick to program? “Giraud is the one we’re going to trust—a little. Without his brother Denys to protect—how do we make a Giraud? So we clone Denys, for him, so Giraud keeps on track. That’s my total reasoning in deciding. I was all set to tell you that this evening, when you dropped this Eversnow business in my lap. You said you were leaving the decision up to me. And I was thinking about it a lot while you were gone.”

  “Denys has no essential value,” Yanni paraphrased her, “except to keep Giraud on track.”

  “No. That’s what I changed my mind on. Denys helped create me. And if you have to create me again, you’d probably want a Denys to keep the new me in line, because Giraud is too soft.”

  “You don’t think I could fill that position?”

  “Uncle Yanni,” she said fondly, “you’re much too easy on me. You let me get away with everything.”

  “Hell. Sounds as if you’re already making a lot of minor decisions, especially when I’m out of the house.”

  “Except the Eversnow thing. I wouldn’t call that minor.”

  “It’ll be your problem, young lady.”

  “It’ll be your problem until it’s pretty well underway. You’re staying in office at least two more years. Maybe more.”

  “Two more years in purgatory. God, I hate politics.”

  “But please don’t fall down the stairs, Uncle Yanni. You have to be Director. My alternative right now is Justin or Jordan.”

  It was a joke. Yanni didn’t laugh. “Better to install Grant,” Yanni muttered.

  Probably true. Justin Warrick would hate the job more than Yanni did.

  Sacrifice was the situation Yanni was enduring. Never mind he was creating a planet—he wanted to be working with azi, which was what he really loved.

  “Yanni. Could you do one thing more for me?”

  “What?” Yanni asked, and an eyebrow lifted. “When you take that tone, I’m on my guard.”

  She thought: Ari wanted you to bring me up. She’d agree with me. But she wasn’t supposed to know that, so she said, “Giraud’s going to need a father in a few months. Would you?”

  “Good God!”

  “You’d be good at it.”

  “Like hell. Giraud? Good loving God. He’d turn out a serial killer. I’m not good with kids. Especially that one.”

  “You’re good at politics. People promise you things.”

  “I’m not sure that compliments my intelligence.”

  “So will you do it?”

  A sigh. “I’m already loaded down with Council work and Admin. Where do I find the hours?”

  “Who else am I going to get? Dr. Edwards? Giraud’s too devious for him.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “I’m completely serious.”

  “Well, it’s my appointment to make,” Yanni said. “Unless you want to take over this week.”

  “No.”

  “So I’ll think about it.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “So tell me about the rest of the session,” she said. “I’m sure you were brilliant.”

  “The rest.” he said, “was absolutely, deadly dull. Well, except the bomb scare. Paxers up to their old tricks. Nobody believed they could have gotten anything into the building, but I went back to the hotel and actually got my correspondence done.”

  Dinner wended happily on to dessert, a chocolate mousse, just a little of it, with a lot less tension. She found herself happy—so happy from relief that her hands shook a little; and she was fluxed. She’d just lost a planet, for God’s sake, and she found herself being grateful it wasn’t anything that personally threatened her. As for Yanni, he didn’t look at all guilty of double-dealing: he looked very tired by then, trying to be sharp, but considering the trip home, the wine, and the rich dessert, he was probably thinking of bed and really hoping she wouldn’t try any Working at the moment.

  She didn’t. She had all of her dessert and said she was tired herself, and yawned. That was no pretense and no Working. “You’re the one who’s had the long trip,” she said, “and look. I’m the one yawning.”

  “I’m done,” he said. “I’ve got a detailed report for you. I wrote down all the details. Session vids. Dull stuff.” He fished in his pocket and laid a capsule down. “All there.”

  “You’re so good,” she said warmly. And meant it, this time in gratitude. Even if she was relatively sure the secret meetings wouldn’t be in there. She pushed back from the table and Yanni got up and moved her chair for her, gentlemanlike. “Uncle Yanni.”

  “Don’t call me uncle.”

  “Grump.” She’d found that word in a book recently. It fit Yanni. She put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. “Good night. Go get some rest.”

  He returned the kiss, casual, but it made a warm feeling. There was no other CIT who had done that, not since Maman had gone away. Uncle Denys certainly hadn’t.

  And she had lately to think—did he dare try to manipulate her, sweeten his Eversnow maneuver, which he had come here knowing wouldn’t be totally to her liking?

  But she didn’t want to think that. And he had brought her a written report, and the session tapes. She just filed the feeling away… let it go for a while. There’d be changes. There’d be her administration, after his, but it didn’t have to be, yet. He was doing all right: she didn’t like the Eversnow thing, didn’t like the new labs, either, but he was being careful about it.

  She saw him to the door, his companion Frank joining him there, and Catlin showed up, too.

  Yanni left. The door closed. Systems went up again.

  “I think he’s all right,” she announced to Catlin when that door shut.

  There was no surprise there, just a nod of agreement. Her security had likely monitored the whole conversation. On the whole, the business with Yanni had gone amazingly well.

  Tonight—maybe it was the sheer relief of getting Yanni back, even if she had to bargain a bit of her soul for him—she finally felt as if she could get some sleep.

  Chapter x

  April 25, 2424

  1901 H

  Fancy restaurant. Columns of light and coherent fog with a rhythmic sea sound in the background, and a holographic beach shimmering in mirrors that reflected, by some optical trick, the diners but not the columns.

  It was a place called Jamaica, Justin hadn’t been here before. And whatever stipend his father was on, it didn’t, he was relatively sure, provide for a place like this. Jordan had called up, after a silence of several days—had asked him and Grant to dinner in the apartment; he’d balked, not wanting a renewal of the argument.

  He’d suggested a quiet dinner out. Jordan had said he’d call back. And did, with a reservation.

  Here.

  Jamaica lay on the main level of Admin—that should have warned Jordan about the cost. It lay a short walk from both Education and Wing One, an outdoor walk across the quadrangle or a protected one through the tunnels. Probably his father had seen the convenience—hadn’t likely seen the menu.

  And the late hour? Because, Jordan had said, it was booked to the hilt at prime hours, which must mean the food was good.

  It meant other things, too: that it was one of those Admin watering holes and Jordan was two decades out of touch with the changes in Admin. It had gotten pricier, to say the least. Jordan likely had no idea what he’d booked them into.

  “Nice place,” Grant observed. “Are you sure he said Jamaica?”

  “He’s not going to pay for this,” Justin said. “Make sure the bill comes to us, will you? I’ll keep on the lookout.”

  Grant immediately took charge and inquired with the maitre d’ near the desk
. There was quiet conversation, a nod, a credit chit passed, a little bow. The maitre d’ moved a little closer to where Justin stood and offered them immediate seating—Jordan hadn’t arrived yet—or a seat at the bar if they wanted to wait for their party; but in that same moment Jordan showed up with Paul, and claimed both them and the reservation.

  Jordan looked quite professorial tonight in a tweed coat, quiet brown, a little academic for the milieu. Justin wore green, mild sheen, fashionable among the youngish set—which did fit in here. The maitre d’ escorted them to their table, saw them seated, and promised them a waiter named Edward.

  “Well, and how are you?” Jordan asked, as they settled in at their table, two and two, serving assistants deftly maneuvering china, filling water glasses.

  “Oh, fine,” Justin said, and the drink waiter showed up extraordinarily quickly for a place like this, crammed as it was with diners. It might be that someone had recognized Grant, whose red hair and vid star looks made him easy to ID. In Grant’s company, people he had never met knew him, in every corridor in Reseune.

  But it was Jordan Warrick’s name on the reservation. So it was very possible it wasn’t Grant that had gotten the fast attention. very possibly it was Reseune Security that had picked their table for them, and bugged it. That might get the maitre d’s quick attention, too, not to have a foul-up with security reach the ears of the other patrons.

  Menus were set in their hands, bound in leather, quite the extravagance, while they eyed each other intermittently’ like fencers and didn’t quite succeed at small talk. There were no prices on the menu. Not one. And Jordan by now knew what they were into, but he hadn’t said a thing.

  “Did you come across the quadrangle?” Paul asked. Grant nodded. “Nice evening.”

  “So did we.”

  Jordan played the host, scanned the menu, inquired about appetizers, signaling they were going to go the whole route—they settled on the paté—and didn’t say a thing about his line of credit. He was animated, pleasant, cheerful, Jordan’s public face, the face Justin had wanted to engage for this first phase of peacemaking. Jordan’s card was going to bounce if the maitre d’ failed them. And that wouldn’t help the peace. Justin could foresee the moment, the embarrassment. God, the bill had better come to him. Quietly. Tactfully.

  He and Jordan could patch things up. They’d not fought, since he’d grown. They didn’t know each other, that was the sad truth. Twenty years of separation from Jordan was a significant time, even in rejuved lives. Jordan had dealt with him in the interim, corresponded with him—not lived in reach of him, that was the problem, and they had to learn about each other all over again. They’d been through the tentative, polite period. A few days ago they’d finally gotten down to honest opinions and somehow, expert as he was in psych, it had just slid inexorably downward.

  Which it wouldn’t do here. Jordan knew how to play to a crowd. He wasn’t going to embarrass himself, even if he was likely to try another tag-you’re-it attack. It would be subtle, if it came, reserved… unless something really, really jolted him; and they weren’t going to mention the name Ari tonight—if Jordan did, he’d stop it cold. He’d stayed away from the past with Jordan these last weeks. He’d broken the rule, pulled the scab off old wounds in their last alcohol-fueled debate, and maybe he had to go on avoiding the topic until Jordan did get his license and his security clearance back and had a few months of behaving himself.

  Or maybe they never would be able to discuss that particular subject— Ari, and the night that had changed him. Terrible as the experience had been, long before the argument with Jordan, he’d come to wonder if the first Ari’s action hadn’t been a rescue. Jordan’s path wasn’t really what he wanted. He’d been set on being Jordan until that night. That night he’d become somebody else. He wasn’t sure who. But he’d become different.

  Thank God. Or he’d have agreed with Jordan four nights ago and they’d all lose their licenses. This way—

  “Ever eaten here?” Jordan asked him, over the menu.

  “No,” Justin said. “Never have.” And the real question: “You haven’t?”

  “Random choice. A yen for something different.” And still, typical Jordan, not a mention of the absent prices. He’d heard the night’s specials and not asked. He maintained a pleasant expression on his face—also pure Jordan. “Planys was a lot of the same thing.”

  Play along: change the subject: keep it light. “Not many choices there, I’ll imagine.”

  “Fixe. It got boring in the first month. There were actually six choices when I got there. Two of the restaurants consolidated. One changed the menu, oh, about five years on. The other one never did. One Greek, one Italian, one French, one Colonial, and one you couldn’t depend on. That was the excitement. That was our suspense, that fifth restaurant.”

  It might be humor. Every piece of humor he’d heard from Jordan lately-had had a bitter edge. But he dutifully laughed, trying to take it lighter. “Remember Illusions? It’s been through most of those choices. Now it’s New Era.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve missed that delight, so far.”

  “A lot of expensive spices. The real thing, I understand, imported. Some of them are pretty good. Some of them I’m not so sure about. But the steaks are consistently good.”

  “We’ll have to try it. Anything new.”

  “We can do that.” Justin meanwhile looked through the menu. “Angry Shrimp and Pell Bordeaux,” he said. Pell Bordeaux wasn’t going to be cheap. “Sounds interesting. I think I’ll do that.”

  “Adventurous.” Jordan said, and added, darkly. “You must be rich.”

  “Well, I secretly thought I’d treat my father.”

  “I didn’t ask you here to soak my son for the tab.”

  “Let me do it. It’s my pleasure.”

  “They pay you pretty well for what you do.”

  “I’ve been where you are. It ends. You’ll get back. All the way back. You’ll be treating me.” Fast change of subject. A cheerier one. “How’s it coming with the sets you did? Your own ones, that you were looking at—how they’ve developed over two. three decades? That’s got to be interesting.”

  “Getting back into it, at least. I need an office.”

  “Yanni might be agreeable.”

  “You’re rattling around in our old one.”

  “We have staff,” Justin said. His guard was instantly up… . God. he hated to be so paranoid. And he didn’t want to show it in his expression. But talking to Jordan lately was like walking through broken glass barefoot.

  “Nice location. Convenient. And there’s room enough.” Guard went way up.

  “Not with staff. Sorry, Jordan, that won’t work.”

  “Paul and I haven’t gotten all our Planys notes pried out of Security,” Jordan said glumly. “Our wardrobe’s barely made it through. You can see our splendor this evening. Pretty shabby stuff.”

  “You’re fine.”

  “Don’t suppose you can use your influence with the little darling to speed our stuff along.”

  “I’ll ask, if you like.” He was glad the little darling was as far as the sarcasm about young Ari went in this venue. The walls had ears and even if they didn’t, he didn’t like Jordan dragging him into a proxy quarrel with Admin while half the Wing Directors and Agency heads in Reseune sat at the other tables. “Be genteel. Trust me. This time, trust me, and take my word for it. She’s not her genemother.”

  “No?” Jordan feigned surprise. “After all they’ve done to be sure she is?”

  The- waiter arrived. Mercifully. The dinner wasn’t going well and they hadn’t even ordered yet.

  Justin gave his order. Grant ordered smoked salmon, a likely match for cost, Paul ordered boeuf a la maison and Jordan ordered a modest, all-local caesar salad with blackened chicken.

  “Saving room for dessert,” Jordan said when Justin frowned at his economy. “I noticed a cheesecake.”

  “Sounds good,” Justin said—not tempted t
o believe Jordan was through with gestures this evening, no. Not once he’d started. And the waiter departed.

  “So I’m going to impose on you,” Jordan said. “We need desk space. I’m sure they watch me. I’m sure they watch you. We can consolidate their job. Make them happy.”

  “I’m telling you we have staff. Five staffers and us in that office. And security won’t let you in there.”

  “So who’s important? Your clericals or your father?”

  “I’m saying we need the staff. They have work to do.”

  “Fine. Ask the little dear for space for them. I’m sure she’d find it. After all, she’s not stingy like her predecessor.”

  “Jordan, give it up. You haven’t got your clearance. You’ll get it. But it’s still no, on the office.”

  “I’m saying I’m going eetee locked into that living room. I can’t work in there. Put your spare clericals into our living room if you have to. You’re not even there five days a week. Who’s using the desks?”

  It wasn’t an outrageous request—except it was his convenient Integrations computer access, which his staff used, which he used, dammit, for Ari’s lessons, and his father didn’t have clearance, or a license. His safe was there. His manuals were there. His projects were there—he didn’t keep those in their cubbyhole of a Wing One office.

  “You’re not happy,” Jordan said. “Sorry.”

  “Look, if you want your office back…” Yanni wasn’t likely to approve Jordan’s moving into general office space in the first place, there was that. But he could easier get another office in the Education wing, for them and their staff.

  “I would like that. Yes. I mean when I get the license back, for God’s sake. We can share. What happened to us working together?”

  And his and Grant’s work with the G-27, while not under security seal, had some bits in it he felt fairly proprietary about, and, no, dammit, he didn’t want another round of security investigations going through his notebooks, or Grant’s because Jordan was in there. More to the point, he didn’t want his father going through his notes and appropriating anything he was working on.

  No way in hell.