Regenesis (v1.2)

by C. J. Cherryh

  That had to be part of Justin’s reaction to her… as long as she was a pretty good little kid, he had her in a safe place in his mind. Sex, in Justin, wasn’t going to go her way and she had to face it, was all. No other woman ever seemed to interest him; and she seemed to be the female he reacted to, but it wasn’t the reaction she wanted—or that at least part of her wanted. When she thought about it logically—or as logically as she could manage—she knew it was one thing to imagine having sex with Justin; but it was a damned scary prospect to contemplate really doing it. It scared him; it scared her. And—the real stinger—it inevitably had a morning after, which just wouldn’t be good for either of them.

  So maybe she was the little kid for now. As they aged, the difference in their ages would get less. He’d be more like Jordan was now, she’d be more like Ari was then—

  And it just wouldn’t get any better, would it? Forget the thought.

  She just had to prevent it all going nova, was all. She couldn’t lose him. the way Ari had lost Jordan. That was the important thing.

  She wondered what sort of answer she’d get from Jordan, if she asked him if he and the first Ari had ever had sex. She hadn’t found it in the records, and she wondered about it. He’d be shocked at the question, she thought, probably disturbed, given that the relationship had gone the way it did—and then he’d twist it around and ask her if she aimed at Justin. Only he’d probably put it more bluntly—to shock her.

  If she took the old war with Jordan into the realm of sexual innuendo, it could divert it away from the real issues—sex being, even with people who weren’t kids, a short-circuit in the logic process.

  So she didn’t want to ask him, or get into that dialogue, because he wouldn’t answer. He didn’t have to answer anything, ever, and he used that fact like a weapon, challenging them, outright challenging them to break their own law and go after him, because then they’d be what he’d always said they were.

  Maybe that was what went on in his head—just a spaghetti code of a thought process that hoped someday he could break them before they broke him…

  And, dammit, she’d let the recording get away from her again. She remembered the place, sent it back to the precise number, and ran it the third time—this time hearing that little kid remark with a lot more logic functioning. It was sad, it was hurtful, but her pulse rate had settled and she had her brain working again.

  The recording ran on. There wasn’t anything else… down to the bit Catlin had flagged.

  “Answer them, dammit! Leave it for security. Live your life. Ask Yanni for a few cases, and get busy, high-level, low-level, it doesn’t matter. I’ll go to him…”

  “But you haven’t done it, have you? I seem to remember you were going to do that.”

  “I’ve been a little busy. Never mind how. Just—I will.”

  “You really don’t get the picture, do you? They won’t let me write sets. They’re paranoid. And, no, I’m not going to get any work.”

  “Jordan, don’t explode. She’d check them over. If she passed them, ultimately, they’ll be passed.”

  “That’s not even worth a comment.”

  “Because you’re too fucking proud.”

  “Because I’m not going to deal with her. I’m not going to her begging.”

  “Then I will. She’ll get you through this. Nobody’s going to pin anything on you. No more frame-ups.”

  Would he ask her? She wasn’t sure how she was going to answer that if Justin did. It would be interesting to critique one of Jordan’s current designs. But if she said one word to him, Jordan would blow, and that wouldn’t help anything. If he really did, it might poison the atmosphere between her and Justin, and Jordan was perfectly capable of writing something she’d have to criticize, just to get that result.

  So maybe that wasn’t a good idea. Endlessly, Jordan played the martyr and Justin tried to do something to help him. Catlin didn’t like it, from the viewpoint of her own profession, and she’d flagged that particular exchange as worrisome, but that was how those two were, just being Jordan and Justin, to the hilt. That she’d be upset about something else in the file—Catlin, dear, loyal Catlin, hadn’t picked that up, didn’t feel the least upset herself by Justin’s statement, or remotely think she would be upset, or Catlin would have warned her. It was downright funny—Catlin just hadn’t seen it.

  She loved Catlin. And Catlin helped her, finally, get it all in perspective. Her own reaction was all gauzy wisp, pure emotion, evaporative on a breeze, and nothing to do with rationality—unless you started taking your own rattled assessment for solid and factual, and that was a mistake that launched your whole universe into mythology, especially when it was a love-hate reaction. Catlin dealt purely in substance, and found real substance in that latter bit that she herself didn’t see as alarming, or at least didn’t see as at all surprising—so she wasn’t fluxed by it, just analytical, and that was that, and she could tell herself calmly, yes, she’d hear the request and she’d think about it and she’d probably say no. When Justin actually asked her.

  It was interesting, however, to hear that first scene as Catlin, and realize that, if she were Catlin, she just couldn’t be fazed by any assessment of her age—Catlin was just Catlin, and knew what she could do, any other judgement was, in Catlin’s view, just mistaken.

  Catlin did, however, worry about Justin’s mental engagement with Jordan’s frustration, and possibly the vector it would take, entangling her and trying for sympathy.

  And it would involve Justin going right to Yanni’s door, at a sensitive time in her own relations with Yanni. There was that little question.

  That was worth a slow rethinking, in Catlin’s way of looking at born-man behavior. In Catlin’s view, a born-man following his emotions was apt to do any damned thing, not necessarily prudent, or successful, or even in his own self-interest.

  This request certainly wouldn’t be in Justin’s interest. That was the thing about real self-sacrifice, unlike Jordan’s martyrdom: it knowingly gave away bits of itself, trying to make the environment saner, and better.

  On the other hand, another inquiry about Jordan could, coming from her, constitute a very interesting probe into Yanni Schwartz’s motives.

  She thought about it a moment. And she was surer and surer about her course of action.

  She wrote a note to Justin, and sent it. It said:

  Don’t go to Yanni with your fathers situation. The Patil investigation is going to have Yanni’s office in an uproar, ReseuneSec is conducting the investigation, and I don’t want Hicks’ office to sweep you and Grant up for questioning. Then I’d have Hicks getting all upset and bothered because I’d have to go over his head to Yanni to get you out. I would do it, understand, but that would just complicate things and you still wouldn’t get your answer out of Yanni and I’d have Hicks mad at me, which would just make matters worse. I have to talk to Yanni anyway. Let me approach Yanni about Jordan’s getting some work to do. I’d be happy to. I want things to work out, the same as I know you do. You and Grant just be careful about going out of the wing, even to restaurants, and don’t send Grant by himself. I don’t want trouble with ReseuneSec.

  Justin had a strong tic, where it concerned ReseuneSec. And it wasn’t altogether the most honest thing she’d ever written, but its purpose was. And there was still the question of who had put Jordan on to Eversnow, and who had dropped that card into his pocket—if they could believe a word of what he’d said.

  I won’t critique his work, she said at the end of that note. I won’t say a word. I know he’d like me to so he can have a fight. So I’ll just pass/fail it. Tell him he’ll have to write it well enough to get it past me and I’m going to be hypercritical. Bet he can’t do it. Tell him that.

  Chapter vi

  June 13, 2424

  0802 H

  “God,” Justin said, and then laughed, outright laughed. “That’s good,” Grant said.

  “I hope she can convince Yanni,” Just
in said, and Grant: “I want to see this one.”

  Chapter vii

  June 13, 2424

  2310 H

  Pajama conference. That was what they’d used to call it, back when the Enemy was Denys, and they did it now that they ruled the Wing and had a force of their own. Florian and Catlin sat on Ari’s big bed—Ari in her nightgown and Florian and Catlin in their gym sweats; and Ari tucked her knees up with her arms around her ankles and Florian and Catlin sat cross-legged. They played the oldest Game, Who’s the Enemy?

  “Paxers are easy,” Florian said. “They’re always out there.”

  Ari asked: “But have they got a leader?”

  “We have names,” Catlin said. “But there’s no one single leader that anybody knows.”

  “Anton Clavery. Is that one?”

  “A new name,” Catlin said. “Anton Clavery doesn’t show on any records. There is no CIT number.”

  “An alias, then.”

  “Or a nonperson,” Florian said. “Births happen off the record. Particularly Paxer children. And children from the outback don’t always get logged in.”

  That was a small revelation—though not a huge surprise. She saw it could certainly happen, if parents opting for natural birth didn’t go to a hospital or register a birth for weeks—or months. Or never got around to it. “They’d have to intend to do this long-term. Motive?”

  “Secrecy from the authorities,” Florian said. “No registry of DNA, fingerprints, retinals, nothing of the sort. Hard to track a nonperson.”

  “Hard to find a job, too,” Ari said. “How do they manage?”

  Catlin hugged her knees up. “They borrow. Their job is being off the records and out of the system. They borrow cards, to ride public transport. People steal for them: they use a stolen card, then dump it before they get caught. They always have jobs. They’re employed by clandestine groups. They’re greatly prized for employment in some circles.”

  “Do we have data on the parents of these individuals? Do we try to track pregnant people that don’t register a child?” She was instantly interested: a subset of the Paxers, likely of other dissident groups. And she’d about bet they were all CIT, not azi, in origin. Azi-descended weren’t inclined to plots, and they’d prize that CIT registry for their children: but CITs were inclined to be argumentative. People who’d opted to leave where they were and emigrate to Cyteen hadn’t been the happiest where they were, or they’d have stayed. They’d either been hungry for something they didn’t have, or they’d been at odds with where they were. Maybe a certain segment was at odds with the status quo again.

  “There are names and numbers,” Catlin said. “Some are known. It’s a felony to fail to register a child—crime against person.”

  Mark a new element. Novgorod had existed at the outlet of the Novaya Volga since Reseune had existed near its headwaters. Her predecessor’s mother, Olga, had seen the first days. So they weren’t that many generations into Novgorod’s existence. The Paxers had organized around opposition to the War, which had pretty well been going on since before Cyteen existed, in its cold war phase. But malcontents had been there probably since the second batch of people got to Cyteen Station in its pioneer days and complained about some regulation the first batch of colonists had voted on.

  It took something, to deny your offspring a number, a normal life— medical care, and schooling, and easy travel, and everything else you could do with a CIT number.

  “People groomed just to get past surveillance,” she said. “I suppose they’re more used than users. I can’t see it would be a happy life. But if there was a nonperson who was really, really a black hole in the system, and he was really smart, he could get power, I suppose. If he was really determined, if he had a lot of arms and legs, he could do damage.”

  “He could,” Florian said. “You’d only see the arms and legs. And Anton Clavery doesn’t exist. A nonperson is one possibility. A hollow man is the other thing you have to deal with. A dead person anybody can be, if he pays the rent on the identity. Back during the War, there were even a few instances of Alliance agents—stationers. Not spacers, that we never found. The stationers didn’t cope well, however.”

  “There are a lot of schemes in Novgorod,” Catlin said. “Cons and schemes alike.”

  “One thing Novgorod CITs are in my notes as being,” Ari said, “is really good at finding ways around rules. I’m betting CITs descended from azi aren’t much inclined to be nonpersons. Or use hollow men. I’m betting that’s not in their psychsets. They’ll go to birthlabs, mostly, to have their children. They’ll get them registered. A CIT number is important to them.”

  “I certainly don’t want one,” Catlin said. “But then I don’t want to be a CIT.”

  “You’re not setted for it,” Ari said, which threw her into thinking about what would in fact happen to them if she died, the way Maman had left Ollie, and she didn’t want to think about that. It was one real good reason for her to live a long, protected life, was what. Two people relied on her, absolutely, and this Anton Clavery, whoever he was, whatever he was— threatened more than the Eversnow project. He had brought her really unpleasant questions, like currents running in Novgorod, among the Paxers, and the Rocher Party, the Abolitionists, who absolutely wouldn’t understand Catlin’s rejection of being a CIT. They’d want to free her, depend on it.

  “I’m glad I’m not,” Catlin said. “Most of the troubles anywhere in the universe are CIT.”

  “Well, We do have our uses,” Ari said, a little more cheerfully.

  “So we don’t have to do things,” Florian said. “You do them.”

  “Well, right now I wish I could figure how to find a man who doesn’t exist.”

  “We’ve looked through lab results,” Catlin said, “and the rush from the blown window and the blast from the grenade messed up the sniffer, so we don’t even have the smell of this person, well, not much, at least, but we’re pretty sure it was male: we have a little bit of a scent. He was likely using a masker or a puffer to mess up the sniffers, to boot, but all we really have is Dr. Patil’s saying the name before she died. We don’t know if she recognized him as breaking in, or if she just thought of him when someone else was about to kill her. The way she said it—’the name is Clavery’—seems to indicate she wanted Justin to remember that name and report it.”

  “And it was definitively a grenade?” Ari asked.

  “Yes. Hand launcher,” Catlin said. “they aren’t big. They carry farther than a toss can do. Unskilled people can use them the same way they’d use a handgun. Setting it off in a room wasn’t really appropriate use for it. But it was probably on a few seconds’ delay: that’s one advantage of a grenade. That would let the perpetrator get the door shut so he wouldn’t get blown out, too.”

  “Using the launcher in that small a space says this was a novice,” Florian said. “Someone that was likely to make a mistake with a grenade, maybe freeze. The launcher—you just preset the delay you want, and pull the trigger. It could have sent the grenade halfway to Admin from here. In that little room, it probably stuck in the wall and then blew up: if it had hit the window, it would actually have done less damage. The door was shut by then: there was blast impact on its inside. The perpetrator was on his way out of there—if he wasn’t blown out, too. They tried sniffers outside the room, but he was probably using a puffer, and he was probably moving fast. They went ahead and took sniffer readings in every room on that floor and above and below, but they never found the launcher or the puffer, so that part was clever. Somebody probably took it from him, maybe somebody else took over the puffer as they passed in the hall—that’s the lab’s theory. If he didn’t land on a rooftop somewhere as yet undetected. Possibly the assassin was on building staff. I don’t think they’re going to find too much that’s useful. A lot of things about this are very well-organized.”

  “That could even mean they meant to give the impression of a novice,” Catlin said, “and whoever was running it rea
lly wasn’t. A grenade like that—it could have taken out the apartment downstairs. It didn’t. The owner downstairs was very lucky, or the assassins knew the building design.”

  “Not nice, all the same,” Ari said.

  “No,” Florian agreed. “Not nice. And Paxers haven’t been at all careful about collaterals. No rules.”

  “If it was Paxers,” Catlin said.

  “Paxers had the motive,” Ari said, “if they thought Patil was betraying their interests or selling out to Reseune. Paxers really don’t like us. But you’re right: there could be others. And where do you get grenades and launchers?”

  “Mostly from Defense,” Catlin said, “but there’s pilferage, mostly at Novgorod docks, and things can be had.”

  “That needs fixing,” she said.

  “It’s not easy to fix,” Florian said, “from what I hear.”

  “First is to make sure they’re not hiring any Paxers dockside,” Catlin said, “which has happened.”

  “That would be top of the list, yes,” Ari agreed. It was a wide, confusing world—unlike Reseune. But there were slinks in both, and they hadn’t found the one in their own halls, not yet: that there was one, potentially—the movement of the card indicated there was.

  “Sera,” Catlin said, “you have on file a list of all her contacts.”

  “Yes. Largely Defense, and academics. Academics don’t have access to grenade launchers. Unless they’re getting them from Paxers.”