Regenesis (90 page)

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.

A
UG
28, 2424
0439
H

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 hadn’t voted in the office for years—the point was that Lynch
could
vote, 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
there
was 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.”

“Trap,” Frank said.

“When is it going to be better?” Amy asked, which was a good question, in Yanni’s estimation. “We go over to the hotel behind us. Frank and Quentin get the cars, and two other cars go out front, while they go around the block, and we go straight over the bridge; and then we all just go hard as we can for the airport.”

“Planes aren’t safe,” Yanni said. “They’re shooting missiles lately.”

“Boats are slower,” she said. She was a gawky kid. She’d begun to grow into the lanky, large-eyed height; but at the moment she looked her youth, scared, but willing to try any damned thing, possibly because she didn’t adequately imagine failing. “Quentin and I will do it; we’ll get the car to the front, if you and Frank can get Councillor Corain to the curb.”

“Hell,” he said. “I’ve got files to wipe. I’m not ready for this.”

“She has a point.” Frank said suddenly. “Make a feint toward State. Two cars that way. Two more toward Lynch. One car gets us all to the airport.”

“We only have four cars,” Yanni said. “And the hotel bus.”

“Wouldn’t use it at the moment,” Frank said. “Or the cars they know. We take the executive car from the next building’s garage. Safer.”

“You’re agreeing with this,” Yanni said.

“The missile strike,” Frank said, “argues they’re fast losing their inhibitions. They’re feeling omnipotent—that, or something’s made them desperate.”

Yanni cast a glance at the Carnath girl, said, “Stand there,” and went to the bedroom and threw on what he’d been wearing, casuals, two tees under a sweater. His coat was going to be no protection against the chill. When the weather got like this upriver, they headed for the storm tunnels. To do what they proposed to do, they’d have to hold their breath and make a dash for it through open space in the alley, trusting the downpour to wash noxious life down the gutters, this far in among city towers, building connected to building by overhangs spanning some of the alley, but it was sloppy and cold out there.

He came back to the main room and started putting on the coat. “Frank, what do we do?”

“Five minutes for me to brief Jack and Carl, you get Corain out of bed, and get downstairs.”

“Got it,” he said.

“Quentin, you take the south stairs. Meet you at the back door.”

“Yes, ser,” Quentin said.

“Then go.” Frank said, and it was just that fast. They were into it. Launched. Yanni looked at his watch, then walked over, picked up the briefcase, and laid a hand on young Amy’s shoulder.

“Here,” he said to her, getting her attention. “
You
take the official briefcase.”

He had a gun in his own jacket pocket, courtesy of ReseuneSec. He didn’t plan to use it; he never in his life planned to draw it, but he made sure it was there, all the same.

He heard a quiet flurry exiting the room adjacent, where ReseuneSec was camped. Whatever orders Frank had given them, they were moving.

Three minutes. Frank and Quentin would be heading for the stairs.

Two minutes.

One. Their guards had left, somewhere. There wasn’t a sound, anywhere near.

“You stay with me,” he told Amy and waited the precise last seconds before he opened the door.

They headed out, then. Himself and the kid, out to rouse out Mikhail Corain, if their security moving into position hadn’t triggered Armageddon.

It hadn’t. At least that.

They made it down to Corain’s door, rapped softly, then louder, and there was a soft stir inside. Yanni stood against the door, trying to look casual.

“Mikhail.” he said. “Mikhail, it’s Yanni. Open up.”

Corain opened the door. Had on only underwear and the shirt he’d slept in. His hair stood on end. He turned an appalled look at young Carnath, and started to excuse himself.

“We’re going,” Yanni said, catching Corain’s arm. “Get dressed. Now.”