Regenesis u-3

by C. J. Cherryh

  Everybody broke out in conversation at once, voices with an undertone of alarm, frustration, and some relief.

  “Let’s get home,” Justin said, and they weren’t the only ones. A waft of cooler air came through, that was the opening of the section doors that would let them leave the concourse. There began to be a general drift in the crowd, mostly toward the right hand tunnel.

  Their own way lay left, and it was thinner traffic over there, a little faster progress. They lost no time clearing the concourse, and entering the cross‑corridor that would take them over to the Wing One tunnels.

  Much less traffic once they were going that direction, which was to be expected, so much of Wing One being under construction, but once they got to the Wing One concourse, there were faces Justin didn’t immediately recognize, and that was entirely surreal; people standing around in the generally dim light the tunnels afforded–two Justin recognized from news reports as guests in the wing, both standing near the stairs, talking with, of all people, his father and Paul.

  He could hardly ignore it. “Jordan,” Justin said, as they joined the group in passing. “Councillors.” A nod to Councillor deFranco, Councillor Chavez.

  “My son Justin Warrick,” Jordan introduced him. “And Grant ALX.”

  “Sera. Ser.” Justin set down the briefcase and offered a hand in courtesy. Grant did the same. “An honor.”

  “I’d say it’s a pleasure,” deFranco said, “except for the circumstances.”

  “Khalid, damn him.” Chavez said. “Taking this little business up a notch. Probably aiming at the airport. Maybe at the media people. Or us. This is getting damned serious.”

  “A crazy universe,” Jordan said, and put a hand on Justin’s shoulder, just a little unfriendly pressure of the fingers that said he was, at the moment, as welcome as the plague. “Here we are expecting the rest of the Council, and Vladislaw Khalid casts an early vote. I don’t think it’s going to win him friends.”

  “I’ve got to get back to Alpha Wing,” Justin said.

  “You aren’t going anywhere until they open the upstairs doors,” Jordan said.

  “I’ve got a responsibility next door. And twenty kilos of records to stow. I’ll at least get through to the tunnel.”

  “My talented son,” Jordan said, and let him go.

  He went. He picked up his briefcase, gathered up Grant and Mark and Gerry without a word and went on into the nook that separated Alpha Wing. “Try the key,” he asked Grant, not even looking back, and to his vast relief it did work, and let them through, out of Jordan’s vicinity.

  It let them through at least as far as the guard station and two others of Mark’s and Gerry’s unit.

  “Can I possibly get upstairs?” he asked.

  “Keycard will actually override, ser,” one said, “but it’s advised you stay below. We don’t know that that’s the last that will come in. Best to go into the safety tunnel, ser. Anyone you’re looking for is probably there.”

  Nothing sensible to do, then, but go aside, down the ramp to the deeper fortification, where, in fact, everyone else had gone. There was a bank of chairs, a galley an auxiliary command post, quite a few of Ari’s staff out and about. Maddy Strassen, Tommy and Mika–they were there. Wes and Marco were busy at the command post…

  “We’re all right,” Justin said to Mark and Gerry, and walked into the command post alcove to set down the heavy briefcase. “Wes, Marco: these belong to Ari.”

  “Thank you, ser,” Wes said.

  “What have we got out there?”

  Monitors were active. There was a large one above the console. Wes moved a hand, and that one went live.

  It didn’t make sense for a moment…a floodlit area in the dark, beside a white strip that appeared to be part of a road. A lot of twisted metal, lit against the night.

  “That’s the airport road,” Grant murmured.

  Then the scale made sense, the twisted metal–a small plane, maybe; but large enough to make a hell of a hole. It was surreal, the crater and that wreckage beside the main road, right near the streetlight–it was tilted; outraged bots were scurrying along the perimeter, never coming closer. A handful of hazard‑suited figures were out there, in the shadows.

  That it hadn’t hit any building when it had come down had been, Justin thought, their supreme good luck.

  That crater was–dammit–right near the hospital.

  “What is it?” he asked. “What was it?”

  “Missile,” Wes said, and Marco, “Seems to be out of Svetlansk. There’s a Defense base up there.”

  “God,” he said. “They’re crazy.”

  And then he thought that Mark and Gerry might have had training that enabled them to accept explosions as part of the environment, but that Grant certainly hadn’t. Justin took hold of Grant’s arm. “Are you all right with this?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure I ever quite expected things falling on the grounds,” Grant said in his best attempt at levity. “I think I’m doing all right. It’s like being shot at, isn’t it?”

  “I think it’s a little worse than that,” he said. It wasworse, for everybody. “Come on. Leave the briefcases here. Mark, Gerry, you’re on your own.”

  He walked with Grant just outside the alcove, and ran into Maddy. “Any news?” Maddy asked.

  “Not much, except it may be a missile,” he said quietly “Is there coffee?”

  “In the galley. Staff will get it. Sandwiches if you want them.”

  “Thanks,” he said. His stomach didn’t want food. But a drink of something hot was more attractive. He and Grant walked on toward the galley–didn’t even get close, before one of Ari’s staff–Del, it was–presented them a choice of juices and sweet rolls.

  Juice, he decided. Grant took one, too, and they went and had a seat at the galley tables, which had been let down from the wall. There was a news monitor nearby, people talking into the camera, a low, steady sound.

  “I think they wanted to take a tower down,” he said, “just like upriver. They wanted to scare us.”

  “Well, they’ve certainly done that,” Grant said over a sip of juice. “What are the chances of another one, I wonder?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, which was the truth.

  “Reseune defenses will get it,” a young voice said, and Tommy Carnath arrived with his sister, settling near them, likewise with juice. “If they come near the towers and they’re not aircraft, they’ll knock them down.”

  Not saying what they’ll fall on, Justin thought unhappily, but, considering Grant, he kept that observation to himself.

  “Attention.”The vid changed abruptly. Ari was suddenly on camera, not with the news, but somewhere else, somewhere office‑like. “We’ve identified the object as an I‑82 air to ground missile, serial number 38298, which did detonate conventional explosives. It came from the military base at Svetlansk. It fell in the green space between the airport and the warehouses, and it’s no longer a threat. We have the following statement:

  “Reseune asks why any Defense installation on Cyteen is in possession of such armament and what enemy they anticipate to exist on this planet. Reseune asks who authorized its import and storage. Reseune asks who targeted it at a sovereign Administrative Territory, where only Union civilians are present.

  “Reseune calls on the Council Office of Inquiry to ask these questions where appropriate and to relay their findings to the Council of Nine and the Council of Worlds. The citizens of Reseune call on patriotic members of the Bureau of Defense to consider this event and act immediately to prevent another such attack on the constitution and the rights of the people of Union.

  “We will interrupt tonight with bulletins only if necessary. Security doors will open at this point. Please proceed to your destinations and remain alert in the event we are not done with alarms. Thank you.”

  Justin finished his drink, put a hand on Grant’s shoulder, and said, “Well, what do you want to do? Stay here, or go up?”


  “I leave that to the wisdom of born‑men,” Grant said, and gave him a look that said he really wished he could. “Do you think there’ll be another?”

  “No way to know. I think if they know where that came from, they’ll be watching. We’ll get an alert.”

  “Well, I suppose it’s more comfortable upstairs,” Grant said.

  So they went. So did the rest, except part of Ari’s staff, who might intend to keep the tunnel facilities active–in case.

  Ari herself was over in Admin, now, Justin had no personal doubt, probably in ReseuneSec or up in Yanni’s office; and she’d put him in charge of Alpha Wing, a charge he took seriously. A little phone inquiry, once they’d gotten into their own apartment, proved Yvgenia Wojkowski was over in Admin, so was Patrick Emory. Sam Whitely was upriver, in his own hot spot, and Amy Carnath was in Novgorod, which was probably the worst place in the world to be at the moment. He checked on Stasi, Dan, and Will, who all returned com calls after the system had opened up again.

  So he knew, at least, where all his Alpha Wing residents were. The Security office downstairs, where Mark and Gerry had gone, reported some members out on the grounds assessing damage and reporting to Ari, the rest accounted for as well.

  So everybody was safe. Everybody he was remotely in charge of was accounted for; and those in charge of him were over in Admin, making contact with somebody, he hoped, who could at least have the decency to claim it was an accidental launch. A lie, at least, would be more welcome than a direct challenge.

  Or maybe some fool had vastly exceeded orders.

  Vid, coming from the news channels now, showed people, black figures, out by the impact site, under the streetlight. The bots were still scurrying around, probably held from intervening on the site until the investigation was done. A call over to hospital reached Ivanov himself, who said their patient was doing well and Hicks had opted to stay with him.

  “A good idea,” Grant said. And made an executive decision and turned off the vid, which was only repeating, endlessly, all that it had.

  Justin sat there a moment staring at the screen, just shaken. He wanted things to be right, and safe, and in good order. And dammit, the people in charge of the world weren’t acting sane, except Ari, except a handful of Councillors who were a long way from the halls of power down in Novgorod–sharing the shelters with Reseune’s citizens, was what, as helpless as the rest of them.

  He took out his own com and called Jordan’s apartment, then, reaching a point of resolution to make up at least one point of discord in the world. It rang through, and Grant set a vodka under his hand. He took a sip of it, feeling at least a little calmer, hoping Jordan was. “Dad? Just checking on you. Are you all right over there?”

  “Doing fine.” Jordan said. “I’m in the process of sending a letter to young sera’s office. I want it in writing. I’m clear. Absolved. I want it for the court. And I want my damned back pay.”

  He didn’t know what he thought about the last. But he didn’t say so. Leave it to Jordan to think of that…but then…

  “Well, good you’re all right, Dad. We’re back. We’re fine. ‘Night.”

  “ ’Night,” Jordan said flatly, and Justin shut down the connection.

  Dammit, he and Grant sat where they sat, knowing that if Defense had its way, Ari would be dead and God knew how long they’d live–but in Jordan’s way of thinking, Defense was only one among many obstacles to Jordan having his way, just one more annoying entity he’d dealt with in his life, one more power that didn’t give a damn for the rules.

  So what if Defense fired a missile at them? Fine. It missed. Jordan wanted what he was due.

  Maybe he was tired. Maybe it was just bone‑deep exhaustion hammering the last sense out of him, but after all their work over recent days, there ought to have been some sense of winning the round–getting Jordan vindicated–something.

  He wished to hell Jordan had some soft, sentimental reaction in his soul, some sort of gratitude for being part of the team effort with Ari. Something he could take away with him tonight and feel good about.

  But back pay, with a bloody great hole in the lawn, and no guarantee there wouldn’t be another hole in a significant building before morning, or the whole damned environmental envelope ruptured, AG in ruins, everything contaminated, as far as Reseune’s land ran?

  Jordan was going to ask Ari for his back pay?

  He had another sip of the vodka, he called Jordan back, and when Jordan answered, he said, “You’re welcome, Dad. On behalf of myself, and Grant, and Ari, you’re just fucking welcome.”

  And hung up.

  BOOK THREE Section 6 Chapter iii

  AUG 28, 2424

  0439H

  Vid worked intermittently. It came on–it went off. They had audio, at times, Yanni and Frank did, when they didn’t have image on the vid; and they kept it constantly on, a low static hiss for hours of the night, their tie to the outside world.

  There was a report of a broadcast that had reached some parts of the network–reports of a missile strike that had come in at Reseune. The Carnath girl had made a try at finding out, young Quentin had risked his neck, and more particularly, his lungs, trying to rig an antenna to get something in from some more distant station that wasn’t being interfered with, and they’d still learned nothing more than that.

  A storm had come in, unmoderated by the towers–rain had lashed the windows for hours, and they’d lost their watchers for a while, which tempted one to make a move, but Yanni nixed it, on the part of any of their security.

  It still spat rain, an outside sound which confused itself with static noise from the vid, but Yanni waked with the distinct impression the static had somehow become words, and then he was sure it had. He came out of the bedroom into the sitting room to a white flicker of visual static. In that light, Frank was sitting on the edge of the chair.

  Yanni didn’t ask. He took an adjacent chair and listened. In fitful reception from somewhere, maybe even from the Science tower, it was Ari’s voice, saying they were unharmed, despite a missile strike designed to hit the reporters at the airport. “ They missed us,” she said, saying nothing about Reseune’s defenses. And then a reporter, Yanni was relatively certain, said they were all unharmed, and that Reseune had taken measures to protect them. She must be down at the airport.

  At this hour of the night.

  Static took over again. They had a few bandit stations that operated intermittently and from non‑fixed points in the crisis, this and that Bureau, maybe–God knew what. They didn’t use call signs.

  “We don’t know,” Yanni muttered, “how much of this the opposition intends we get. I don’t entirely trust the transmission.”

  Frank nodded agreement. They were both short of sleep. There was constant harassment, maneuvering of agents around the building, communications that came and went. They hadn’t heard from Lynch, and were supposed to have heard; at the moment Yanni didn’t know whether he was still Proxy Councillor or Councillor for Science, whether Lynch was still alive or as dead as Spurlin and probably Jacques and probably Lao by now, give or take the mechanical support that reportedly sustained her.

  They’d done all they could. They’d sent messages. Bogdanovitch, son of the late Councillor for State, and Proxy for the current one, Harad, had headed upriver by air. Then Harad himself had gone, or was supposed to have gone a few hours ago, last but him and Corain, holed up here in the hotel; young Bogdanovitch carried Corain’s Proxy as well–illegal, but Bogdanovitch didn’t need to show both, they hoped to God, just one of them. The document was signed. The name had yet to be filled in. Could be anybody. Corain’s wife. One of his kids. And they hoped not to get to that.

  A pass by the window showed a sheet of water, nothing of the watchers at the curb. Tempting. Too tempting.

  Easy to assume they could make a break for it. He hoped Harad had made it. He’d wanted to get Lynch on a plane sometime today, let him get to Reseune, because–never mind that Lynch h
adn’t voted in the office for years–the point was that Lynch couldvote, if he got to the rest of the Council…and if Lynch just quietly disappeared, and dropped off the face of the planet, the Proxy for Science couldn’t name another proxy. It didn’t actually say he couldn’t. But there was that pernicious clause… and other powers not specifically named are reserved to the Council in special quorum.

  Which was what it took to seat a new member, too. Eight of the Nine.

  Now therewas a gaping great logical defect in a fairly new constitution, wasn’t it? The founders had been optimists.

  So the meeting was supposed to happen on September 12. But the; hours were fast slipping away in which they could still do something–faster still, if Khalid had dared fire a missile at Reseune Airport. Planes weren’t that safe. Boats on the river wouldn’t be, if the renegade Proxy Councillor for Defense had given orders to prevent them moving…not to mention it was a long river with lonely spots where nobody observed what happened. Barge traffic was still snarled, with all its concomitant problems, but it was starting to move. A number of enterprising citizens had gotten together and cleared a warehouse by taking foodstuffs and distributing them to all comers; so there was room to offload an incoming barge or two, barges had gone out yesterday; but things were getting increasingly desperate in the city, and the mayor was ordering the police to take action to get dockworkers to the docks, failing which he threatened to hire any applicant to take the jobs.

  That wasn’t going to be popular with the dockworkers.

  Fact was, a city could only take so much disorder before things began to break; and patience was the first thing to go.

  A rap came at his door. Frank got up from the chair, and drew a gun that was very rarely in evidence. Yanni went to the door, flicked on the outside vid, and opened it fast. It was Amy Carnath and Quentin behind her.

  “Ser,” the girl said, “Quentin thinks we should move. They’re not out there.”