Regenesis (39 page)

But she could try to fix it.

And the first Ari hadn’t lived in a prison, not half so much as she did. The first Ari had been absolutely free to run around the halls and go where she wanted and do what she wanted. The first Ari hadn’t been afraid of anything. But everybody but Giraud had hated that Ari. She’d begun to realize that, and it was a hard truth to live with.

She was different than that Ari. Some people hated her. But a lot of people loved her. And a lot more people knew they needed her. They’d all protected her so much, so devotedly, they’d made her afraid of people. Most of all, afraid of people.

And that made her mad. And Mad always made her
think
.

And she wasn’t like Yanni’s beetle, a creature in a bottle, forever going in the same circle, forever the same Ari.

“So sober, Ari,” Sam said.

“Thinking,” she said, and then thought that she’d used too harsh a tone, too much out of the dark depths of her heart. She set a hand on his shoulder and walked back to safety, Florian and Catlin attending.

Sam led them all back to the scissor-lift, the someday lift shaft, and sent it back down into what would be the central hallway of the whole complex—right where Sam’s river would run.

“So?” Sam asked.

“Perfect! It’s just
perfect!
”

He grinned, then. Sam was happy. That was all it took. And Sam’s pleasure lightened her heart. It always did.

“So,” he said, “do you want to pick out colors?”

“Blue,” she said. “A blue couch. Just so it’s comfortable.”

“Cooler white walls, then, for blue.”

“Violet and cool white walls. Maybe some quiet blue-greens. Pastel stuff. I want color.”

“That should be pretty,” he said. “Should be real pretty. Are you moving any of her stuff in?”

She gave a little twitch of the shoulders, thoughtless flinch. There was what she lived with. There was some in storage. Historic. Some really nice pieces, imports from Earth. Human history.

But human history had started over again on Cyteen. In cities founded, like Novgorod, mostly by azi, and going on into generations of freedmen—what did old Earth mean to them? What could it mean? Human history this lot of humans hadn’t replicated, had largely forgotten.

She didn’t have as many blank walls in the new place. Not as much room for paintings and sculptures.

And ought she to take those old paintings off her walls and lend them to a museum, or to the University down in Novgorod, and let people study them for what they were and try to figure out what it meant to lay paint on canvas, instead of commands into a computer?

Maybe the old things were important things to know. Maybe somebody should learn how to do it again.

“You’re thinking again,” Sam said. “Is something the matter?”

“No,” she said, and laughed, and laid a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “No. I was just wondering whether we ought to teach azi to paint.”

“To paint.” Sam laughed.

“Pictures. To paint pictures, like the old paintings. I think it might be good for them. Maybe it’s good for people. I think maybe I ought to let some of those paintings out, and see what they think.”

“They are pretty,” Sam said. “I always admired them.”

“They’re pretty. They’re alien as they can be. I can’t imagine trees that thick. That’s just strange. I think people would be looking at that, the green color, and not at the paint.”

“I think you’re actually supposed to,” Sam said, then. “You’re supposed to believe in them, and not the paint.”

“That’s a point.”

“What did you say about my little river? ‘I want to be amazed?’ I think the paintings are like that.”

He never ceased to surprise her. “So what do you think? Should I get into storage? Bring them out?”

He nodded. “I’ve seen them. Some aren’t that pretty. Some are spooky. But you feel something when you look at them.”

“Maybe I
should
look at more of them,” she said, and found she’d gathered her arms around herself as if she’d met a chill in the air. It wasn’t just paintings. It was the first Ari’s mind. It was the images the first Ari had seen, lived with, picked out to surround herself with, out of everything she could have had. What even the first Ari might have flinched at, and hidden away.

And instead of building, the first Ari had surrounded herself with things out of old Earth. Priceless things…spooky things. Things that weren’t Cyteen.

Trust Sam to have looked at them, when he was about to build this place. With a heart that had no guilt, no preconceptions, he’d looked at them, when probing that deep into the first Ari’s stored artwork was something she’d zealously avoided. She hadn’t wanted to meet them. Hadn’t wanted to be surrounded by the first Ari’s mind, swallowed up, drowned in the first Ari’s acquisitions. She wanted some of her own.

But you felt something, Sam said. And Sam was always in favor of feeling things.

“Hang them all,” she said suddenly. “Hang the ones you like wherever you think they ought to be, in my apartment, in the corridors where people walk.”

“Hey, I’m the builder, not the decorator.”

“You know them, though. You’ve seen them. Hang the really spooky ones in the guest apartments.”

He laughed. “Wicked, Ari.”

She laughed, too. Laughing took the haunt out of her predecessor’s furnishings and made her think—maybe I ought to use more of them. I’m saving Denys’ stuff, and Giraud’s, to bend their successors’ brains into the old mold.

Maybe—it was a sobering thought—maybe I should meet her…finally. She’s the voice of Base One. I’ve always trusted her voice…

So what’s to be afraid of, in seeing what she saw, what she troubled to bring here out of old Earth?

“About the furniture, Sam,
her
stuff. Don’t strip her old apartment, the one I’m in. We’ll just lock it up, leave it as it was, just like Giraud’s, just like Denys’. With all the pictures that hang there.” In case they didn’t replicate her, but the first Ari, but she didn’t say that to Sam. “But with what’s in storage, if you can use it, never mind my colors—do it.”

“Her taste was a lot of brown and green.”

That was true. Along with occasional greens and golds in the paintings, alien greens, yellowy Earth greens like the lawn outside, like the plants in the vivarium, when every green growing thing native to the planet was tinged with blue and gray, and the ground was red. “Maybe I should do green and brown in this room, her green, water green. Old Earth brown. Oh, just make it fit, Sam.”

“I told you, I’m no decorator. I’m really not.”

“But you knew how to look at the paintings in the warehouse. You’ll know what to do with them. Surprise me.”

“That’s too many surprises, Ari.”

“No such thing,” she said suddenly, and remembered the first Ari saying, out of Base One, “
There are people who aren’t surprised because they don’t notice what’s surprising in the world and they just never wonder. And there are, much rarer, people who aren’t surprised because they always see what’s coming. When you’re a child, you’re surprised by most things. It gets rarer as the years pass. Surprises keep us sane. They set us into new territory. They give us something to think about, when same old things have been the rule. You can go to sleep for years with the same old things. Sleep can eat away at your life. And sleep can be dangerous
.”

Not always good things, but maybe—maybe it was good for her to meet some things she hadn’t planned.

And paint was cheap…until it made a thousand-year-old painting.

“No such thing, Sam. You’re king of surprises. You do it all. You pick.”

“You’re going to hate it!”

“I’ve never hated anything you’ve ever done. Don’t hold back. Give me the best place you can, with whatever of her stuff fits, and bring all the hidden stuff out where people can see it.”

“All right.” Sam said, and together they walked out of her apartment and on down the corridor, past scaffolding and into the vicinity of a good deal of cutting and banging—past doors that would belong to people she’d grown up with, and then downstairs by yet another scissor-lift.

There was space for shops, besides the security quarters and wing admin—little hole-in-the wall shops where she and all the people who had a right to be here, and their staffs, could do something she didn’t ever get to do in the tight security Reseune had now, and just go shopping—well, at least they could order something to be in one of these shops and go down and look at it before they bought it off catalog: that was
almost
like shopping.

There’d be a nice little snack shop and breakfast place, which would turn into a nice evening restaurant. It would cater, too, with special attention to security. That was all planned.

There’d be a men’s shop, for Yanni and Frank, and Justin and Grant, and Sam and Pavel, when they got back from Strassenberg, and Amy’s Quentin, what time Quentin wasn’t, like Florian and Catlin, in uniform. And there’d be a few conference and gathering rooms for anybody that needed them.

They could use one of those conference rooms for displays—for art, she thought suddenly.

“We can have a museum in Alpha Wing,” she decided. “We can have our own museum. A little one, for some of the paintings. We can have another over in the Admin Wing, where they’ll be safe. I think that’s a good thing. Sam, you can do it—”

“A museum?”

“The first Ari knew people who’d seen the world built. They’re all dead, now. We’re the first generation that doesn’t know anything about Cyteen before there were people here. And all their things, if they aren’t in archive, are just going away, thrown in the cycler. A virtual museum’s a good thing. You can look that up any time you want, but you have to ask for the displays—and you have to know to ask. You need to know what you’re looking for in the first place to look something up, and that necessarily slants it, doesn’t it?”

“Slants it, too,” Sam said, “if somebody picks out what you’ll see.”

“Someone’s always picking for us. But the people who painted those paintings did their own picking about what to paint. You can see the virtuals. You can get any repro you want, if you want to put your hands on it, but if you want to get surprises, that you didn’t
ask
to be face to face with, maybe that’s the idea. You’re right. Maybe I should look at what I don’t expect. It’s why I decided I want the first Ari’s stuff. Maybe it ought to be like that for other people. They need to be surprised. And we need to haul some of the stuff out of the warehouses before it goes into the cyclers and just have it for people to look at. We’re the generation that doesn’t remember the beginning. Maybe we need to look hard.”

Sam stopped still and looked at her a long moment. “Sometimes you don’t make thorough sense, but you always seem like you do.”

She laughed. Not many people would tell her she babbled. She knew she did. She saw things in her head, saw things she didn’t have vocabulary for. The first Ari, people said, had been very spare with words. The first Ari had had ideas in her head, too, which didn’t have words. The first Ari didn’t habitually let those things out. She, on the other hand, tried to talk to the people she thought would understand. And she babbled thorough nonsense, and amused Sam.

“You see through me,” she said to Sam.

“I try to see into your head,” Sam said. “You’re awake all the time, you know that. You’re the most incredibly awake person I know. You want a museum in Admin, sure, you get Yanni Schwartz to agree and give me space, and I’ll figure how to do it. I have to go the slow way and look up things like a regular guy, but you’ll get your museum.”

“I’m not about museums,” she said, “I’m not supposed to be, at any rate. It’s just a side thought. I have to do so many other things. God, Sam. I’m studying. I’m studying all day long. I’m learning the things I’m supposed to, psych, and design, and genetics, and I spend so long at deepstudy I’m starting to go into deepstate without the damn pills, sometimes so I don’t even know I’m doing it. But when I have thoughts that aren’t on-topic I have to shed them, I just have to turn them loose and shed them or go crazy, because I haven’t got time to do them, and my museum is a thought like that. I had it. I want to get rid of it but I don’t want to lose it, and I’m going to be busy, so you do it, Sam.”

“Ari.” He reached out and gripped her shoulders—a contact Florian and Catlin would allow very few people—and kissed her on the forehead. “Take a break, Ari. Take a day off and take a break.”

She sighed, rested her hands on his arms, looked him closely in the eyes. “You’re a genius, you know it. You really are.”

“That’s a laugh.” He dropped the contact. “That’s the last thing I am.”

“I know it when I see it. You are. Always were. Sam, Take care of yourself. I mean that.”

“Is there any special reason you should say that?”

“Selfishness. I need you. I’ll always need you. I’ll think of you when I’m studying that wretched population equation till my eyes cross.”

Second kiss, this one on the cheek. Like a brother, if she’d been born with one. She’d never had sex with Sam. Never would. That wasn’t the way they were with each other. “You just take care of yourself, Ari, hear me? You’re going too hard, again. But what’s new about that?”

She was so tired, she felt tears start in her eyes, but she wouldn’t shed them. She laughed, instead. “I’m paying for this place,” she said, “or I will. I’m starting real work. High time I earn my keep, I say. You’ll see.”

“Good for you,” Sam said and let her go. And he probably did see the dampness of her eyes and had the common sense not to fuss over it.

It was a rare morning. The bash and clatter of hollow forms and the whine of cutters was hundreds of workers and bots busy keeping Sam’s promises. She made her own promises as they walked back to the exit, and the runabout: that by summer and move-in, she was going to be in a position to take care of Sam.

Pay for it, indeed. Her whole life paid for it.

Just watch, she said to Yanni, in absentia. Just watch. The first Ari developed most of what we do—what every lab in the wide universe does. I’m starting where she finished. I’ve run through the teaching tapes in three months: everything but this last couple of weeks was basic, and I’m into her notes, and I’m doing integrations. I’ll be working on gammas soon. Alpha sets before New Year’s. Strassenberg population sets by next year. I’ll be able. I’ll know what I’m doing, Yanni.