Regenesis (v1.2)

by C. J. Cherryh

  “My principal,” Catlin had reminded the man with some firmness, “is Ariane Emory.”

  One could watch the thoughts pass through the Supervisor’s eyes—a born-man considering his career options, perhaps. He hadn’t been more cheerful after that, but he’d been polite. And he’d let her insert the tapes she’d brought, giving her access to a whole row of lab beds, clearing two other doubtlessly deserving azi who’d been scheduled for the afternoon.

  “This is sera’s business,” Catlin had remarked further, as severely as possible, “and intimately pertains to her household. She will appreciate discretion. Your name is John Elway. Mine is Catlin AC-7892. I will report.”

  Reading born-men was possible, when they were strongly conflicted. The man just nodded, and likely had not made a phone call to higher levels, even yet.

  Twitch of BR-283’s head. Catlin looked critically at that subject, and let it pass. Possibly he’d just met a small alteration in his program. The dose had been heavy. BR-283 probably could have taken the tape without the drug… but he was deep enough that a twitch was unusual.

  Twitch became a tic. Jerk of the hands. “Let the tape run,” sera had told her. “Let it complete.”

  The subject sat bolt upright, eyes staring, then vaulted off the couch, right into the wall—a wall that assuredly was not there in BR-283’s vision. He rebounded against the couch, fighting for balance.

  He was dangerous in this state, dangerous to himself. He hit another wall, hard. His forehead was bleeding.

  There was a red button that could call help. Catlin opted not to use it. By the clock, she was due to call base. She touched the com button on her shoulder and said, “Catlin here. There’s been a reaction.”

  The micro receiver in her right ear said, in sera’s voice, “I’m coming.”

  The other subjects were getting to the end of their tape sessions without hurling themselves off their couches. There was one subject huddled on the floor in a fetal tuck in the corner, one subject in the throes of a psychotic episode from the deeptape he’d been given—and that individual happened to be the officer Hicks had put in charge of the unit. Rafael BR-283.

  That said something. And John Elway had not come to assess the progress of the session. In a little bit more, John Elway would have visitors to the section, visitors who would not be prevented. She watched the other azi, walked to the one-way glass and looked at BR-283, who had gotten into a corner the camera didn’t completely reach. He was bleeding down his face, shaking and rocking. It wasn’t a pleasant sight.

  It was 1601h, by her watch, when someone came down the hall outside. She drew her sidearm—one never assumed the other side wasn’t prepared to shoot—and faced the opaque door.

  It opened, and it was sera, with Florian, a very welcome sight, with Wes for reinforcement. John Elway had come in among them, looking upset, and two of his staff attended, just ahead of Wes, but sera didn’t seem worried in the least about them, only about the business at hand.

  Catlin said, holstering her sidearm, “A reaction, sera, in the unit senior.”

  “Well,” was all sera said, and sera went to the monitors, on which three azi were quiet, likely asleep; and then went to the window of the first room, assessing the situation. Sera punched that button for communication and said, softly, “Rafael. Rafael.”

  The subject convulsed, and knotted himself tighter into the corner.

  “This is Ariane Emory, your Contract and your Supervisor. I’ve come to help you. Can you get up?”

  Nothing, for a moment. Then a slight response, a leg straightened out of the tuck, folded, knee against the floor.

  “This is your Supervisor. Get up, Rafael.”

  He moved, unfolded his arms, laid hands on the wall, got a knee under him, and tried to get up. “Are you all right, Rafael?”

  “I can’t see.”

  “Yes, you can,” sera said, and Rafael turned his head and stared around him.

  “Is that better, Rafael?” A slight nod.

  “I’m your Supervisor,” sera said, in that calm, calm voice she could use—the tone that made Catlin’s own nerves twitch, and brought a silence and quiet from all of the azi present. “I’m your Contract. It’s all right. I have a resolution for you. Are you ready to hear it?”

  A nod. “Yes.”

  “What you believed true, was true before this. Now something else is true, and I tell you it’s all right. Do you believe me? Do you accept it?”

  “I can’t,” Rafael said.

  Whatever someone had laid into him, it was a hard block.

  Sera said, slightly more sternly: “Rafael.”

  “Sera?”

  “When I tell you something, it’s true. It will always be true. Do you need to see your Contract, to know that?”

  “I want to see it,” Rafael said.

  Very high beta, strong-willed, not easily overcome. Catlin felt it in her own nerves. This azi was Enemy, and resisting, hard. Sera said, quietly, “Catlin, unlock the door.”

  “Sera, show him through the window.”

  “Unlock the door, Catlin. It’s all right.”

  She was alpha, and her resistance was harder to overcome than any beta ever devised. But she had to, if sera insisted. Florian and Wes were right with sera while she moved back to the console to open the door. If the Enemy went berserk, they’d hit him with all they had. But— “He’s security, sera.”

  “Do it,” sera said.

  Sera’s orders, in that tone, were sera’s orders, off her own deep sets, and Catlin moved and did it, watching the subject the while, her heart ticking up another notch as Florian and Wes moved in, right with sera.

  “These are your allies,” sera said calmly. “And this is your Contract.” She took a small reader from her coat pocket, and walked toward the subject, whose leaning against the wall could propel him off it in half a heartbeat, and sera was small and fragile in that reckoning, the subject a head taller, bloody-faced, drenched in sweat, and, at the moment, between loyalties.

  Sera calmly held the reader out to him, and he stood away from the wall, took it, and looked at it. Looked for a long time.

  It was something, to see one’s real Contract, and read the name on it, for the first time. It was identity, and right, and duty, all those things wrapped up in one. It had to have an effect. Just thinking about it had an effect on every azi in the room, and Catlin moved close to the door, tense as drawn wire, ready to defend her Contract if Rafael made a sudden move.

  “Do you believe,” sera asked Rafael quietly, “that I’m your Supervisor?”

  - Nod. Second nod. The eyes flickered. Rafael was processing things. Hard. He shook badly as he gave the reader back. It could go any direction from here. Any direction.

  “It’s all right,” sera said. “You’re one of us. You’re safe. You’re where you belong.”

  He felt for the wall behind him. Leaned against it. “It’s all right. Come here. Come.”

  He got his balance. Sera stood there holding out open arms, and that great tall azi came close and let her take his hands. “It’s all right,” sera said. “You only report to me, now and forever. All other claims on you are completely gone. Erased. You don’t have to do the other thing, do you?”

  “No,” Rafael said. A huge sigh came out of him, and he said shakily: “I won’t.” Deep breath. “I don’t have to.”

  Not a lie, Catlin thought. That had been a Conflict. Bad one. Something in that tape had reached out and presented this azi an irresolvable contradiction, thrown him into a box to which only an appropriate Supervisor had the key.

  And sera had come and rescued him, that simply.

  Catlin found her leg twitching. She was that wired up. But Rafael was Sera’s now. Safe. She saw the same subtle shift in Florian’s stance, and Wes’s. Three of them might not have been quick enough, strong enough, to take the man out fast enough, as close as sera had pushed it: they had to talk with her about that. But done was done. It was all right. Th
e other three, down the row, they were sera’s, too, peacefully, with no reactions.

  This one—this one had been a spy at very least, and sera had found it out.

  “You can come up to the Wing with us,” sera told Rafael. “So can the other three. You’ll make things ready for the rest of your command.”

  “Yes, sera,” Rafael said. He squared himself on his feet. Gave a little bow of the head.

  “My name is Florian,” Florian said then, “sera’s personal security.” A nod over his shoulder. “Catlin.” And left, “Wes. Wes will walk up the hill with you. Everything will be provided for you in the quarters there, including uniforms. You don’t have to bring anything but yourselves. You’ll prepare the place for the others when they come.”

  “Yes,” Rafael said. His face had a different look. An azi knew. He was still somewhat in shock, still rattled, the experience having knocked his defenses flat—it was a kind of openness that might never appear in this azi again. Right now he was fragile, entirely, needing protection. When he got where he was going, when he got an official assignment, and knew where he would be and what he was to do, he’d become what he would be, and not until then. Right now he needed help.

  “I’ll meet you there,” sera said, “and give you your orders.”

  “Yes,” he answered her, and nodded. “Yes, sera.” The waking mind was in fragments. It needed time and quiet to reassemble its boundaries.

  “You can go with Wes,” sera said gently. “Go on, now. The others will follow when they wake.”

  The door was open. Wes took him by the arm, and steered him out, past John Elway, past the other staff. Sweat stood on Elway’s face… fear for sera, or fear of his situation, Catlin was unsure which, and didn’t like that lack of information.

  “It’s perfectly all right,” sera said, pausing for a moment to address the man. “I can take care of him. Catlin will stay here and escort the others up the hill. Are we agreed about that?”

  Elway nodded slightly, looking pale. Elway might, Catlin thought, be just a little less conflicted than the azi, but sera was going to run Reseune one day, and born-men in Reseune all knew that. If Elway was supposed to report this, he might decide to be careful what he reported and to whom. He was a very worried born-man.

  And maybe it wasn’t just Rafael sera had Worked, omitting to give Elway any clear indication what he ought to do and what was safe.

  Instead sera simply walked off with Florian, behind Wes and Rafael. Rafael was theirs now, very, very little chance he wasn’t.

  It was a scary thing to watch. It had been a far scarier moment when sera had walked into that room. But given sera’s work, it was very likely it wouldn’t be the last time sera personally did a thing like that, no matter how they objected.

  And her security just had to be in position, and fast. Very, very fast, Catlin thought. And armed with non-lethals, next time. Sera had surprised her security. It felt wrong to complain about it, but it certainly shouldn’t happen twice, and it was their job to take precautions.

  There was another matter. Rafael had come from Hicks, at least by previous Contract.

  That was worth talking over with Florian and with sera, on an absolutely urgent basis. For right now, Hicks and all his immediate staff were on her Unreliable list.

  Chapter viii

  June 7, 2424

  1712 H

  Catlin was back, Ari noted, from the minder link in her office. Florian had escorted her back. Wes was still downstairs, helping Rafael and his three settle into their temporary quarters—Marco had been manning the security station solo the while, and Ari let pass a little sigh, now that everybody was back safely.

  Four Contracts down, twenty-six more to set, and there was a message on the minder this evening from Justin, informing her that he didn’t think Library had given him everything it said it had given them.

  No, she noted, at her console, Justin hadn’t quite caught the problem. But she hadn’t either, from a scan of the set—it was there, and you could spend hours and hours looking through the set and the specific individual’s list of tapes given, searching and searching for something to make sense of a set of lines in that program… all the earmarks of reference to deep set, but nothing in the deep set record that would quite satisfy- it. It was like an if-then link, but when you got there, there was nothing listed. Every instruction ever given to that azi was supposed to be recorded in his specific manual—but if it wasn’t?

  That if-then was just a shape without anything to attach to—a point at which hooks could be set to turn an azi into a spy… or assassin, if that was the game; and Justin had found something wrong: he just hadn’t assumed it wasn’t him, so he was still looking for the link.

  She sent him a memo that said:

  All done. You should have trusted yourself. You were right to keep looking, your delay warned me to keep looking, and Library wasn’t lying to us. ‘Night, both of you.

  Nasty. It wouldn’t let Justin get a peaceful sleep. He’d worry about it. He’d reach a right conclusion. And now after one long, hard stretch of work, he knew what ReseuneSec tape looked like, and he’d found a problem and put a finger close to it. Not too shabby an accomplishment on his part, considering she’d been working with security sets for years.

  And what someone had done with Rafael… the deep level at which that compulsion had gone in said Alpha Supervisor in blazing letters. A Beta Supervisor could marginally have done it, and it was true it hadn’t been totally neat, but it had been damned deep and resistant, all of which argued only that the perpetrator wasn’t the best Alpha Supervisor in Reseune. The best? That was, in her private assessment, beginning to be her.

  But it left Yanni, Hicks, Jordan Warrick, Justin Warrick. And, postscript, there was also grim old Chi Prang, the head of Alpha section in the azi labs. Prang could have done it, at someone’s orders, or in collusion with someone, and she didn’t know the woman.

  Fast computer search said Prang was one hundred thirty-seven years old and had, yes, worked in that capacity during the first Ari’s regime and Denys’ and now Yanni’s. That was a wide range of potential allegiances. Prang had five assistants, any one of which was provisionally alpha-licensed, which meant they had the skills, but had to have Prang’s oversight. That spread the search wider afield, and led, very probably, further and further from the culprit, because subordinates wouldn’t have as immediate a motive. So she was wrong about there being just five people. But the list of original suspects was still the primary list. Yanni, she was relatively sure, could have done a better job, Justin wouldn’t have done it in the first place, Jordan hadn’t had access, and that…

  That left the fingerprints of the Director of ReseuneSec, Hicks, who had the rating to handle his own assistant, but who didn’t practice on a wider scale—his command was beta, in the main. Very, very few alphas, and those not socialized into the general society—specialists, technicals— they’d report their own personal problems to Hicks, but being purely technicals, they weren’t in a position, in their ivory tower, to encounter much angst. That meant Hicks wouldn’t be often in practice. A provisionally licensed, only-occasional kind of operator wasn’t really up to finesse, unless he’d been shown how to do it, and was following a sort of recipe.

  There were two styles of dealing with azi difficulties. One was the meticulous route that figured a Supervisor could make a mistake. You searched and researched the files until there was a theory, and a treatment. It was a very soft, very gentle method of going after the problem and fixing it—which didn’t always work at optimum, unless you were as good as Justin; but at least it didn’t generally go badly. If you were good, you could eventually lay a finger on the specific line in the set that was causing the conflict and change it, with proper annotations on the record. That was very much Justin.

  The other was the brute force method—when you wanted something and knew the basic architecture of the set, you could ignore most of the subsequent manual and go right after
the primal sets, gut level. You could do that if you didn’t, ultimately, care about the result long-term, or you could also do it if you were that good, that you could work at primary level in a subject, and if you had a clear vision how it could make everything subsequent settle into place.

  I’m that good, she thought. She’d taken a chance with it. Was still taking a chance with it, in the sense that she now believed Rafael was clear—because she’d set his Contract very tightly, very exclusively on her, as the resolver of all conflicts, the source of all orders. She’d been brought up on the first Ari’s tapes. She’d been working with two alpha sets for years; and, being the born-man equivalent of an alpha, what she read in the manuals resonated at gut level; and the differences between an alpha and a theta resonated that way, and, once she got into the manuals, beta level made sense—the same with gamma, zeta, and eta—each with their own constellation of needs and satisfactions. Even for a born-man… it made sense.

  Why was the key. Why individuals did things, even when they had consistently negative outcomes… why people had to do things… she’d been asking that question of the universe for years. And born-men got the worst of it, all their lives.

  Why did they have to take Maman away? Why was Denys nice to me sometimes? Why is Jordan what he is? Why does Yanni bring me presents? Who is Hicks working for?

  Those were all, all important questions, and she’d fairly well gotten the answer to all but the last one—which might lie somewhere tangled with the cruel thing someone had done to Rafael.

  She was very very thankful Catlin hadn’t had to shoot Rafael, or that she herself hadn’t broken him down and not been able to fix it.