Cherryh, C J - Alliance-Union 08 (101 page)

"I feel much safer," Grant said, "when you decide these things."

"I
don't, dammit, I had no right to do that without warning—but I was in a corner, it was the moment—it was the only moment to make the other situation right. ..."

"Because of the tape?"

"You do understand it, then."

"I understand this is the most aggressive personality I've ever met. Not even Winfield and his people—impressed me to that extent. I'll tell you the truth: I've been afraid before. Winfield, for instance. Or the Security force that pulled me out of there—I thought that they might kill me, because those might be their orders. I've tried to analyze the flavor of this, and the flux was so extreme in me at that moment in the office doorway—I can't pin it down. I only know there was something so—violent in this girl—that it was very hard for me to respond without flux." Grant's voice was clinical, cool, soft and precise as it was when he was reasoning. "But then—that perception may have to do with my own adrenaline level—and the fact the girl
is
a Supervisor. Perhaps I misread the level of what I was receiving."

"No. You're quite right. I've tried to build a profile on her . . . quietly. Same thing her predecessor did to me. The choices she makes in her model, the things she'd do if she were in the Gehenna scenario—she's aggressive as hell, and self-protective. I've charted the behavior phases—menstrual cycles, hormone shifts—best I can guess, she's hormone-fluxed as hell right now; I
always
watch the charts with her. But that's never all of it." He broke off another bit of bread and tossed it, right where the spotted koi could get it.
"Never
all of it with her predecessor. That mind is brilliant. When it fluxes, the analog functions go wildly speculative—and the downside of the flux integrates like hell. I've watched it. More, she
originated
the whole flux-matrix theory; you think she doesn't understand her own cycles?
And
use them? But
young
Ari made me understand something I should have seen—we deal with other people with such precision, and ourselves with such damnable lack of it—Ari is having difficulties with ego-definitions. A PR does, I should know; and it can only get worse for her. That's why I asked for the transfer."

"Fix her on us?"

He drew several long breaths. Blinked rapidly to clear away the elder Ari's face, the remembrance of her hands on him.

"She's vulnerable now," he said on a ragged breath. "She's looking for some sign of the human race—on whatever plane she lives on. That's the sense I got—that maybe she was as open then as I was—then. So I grabbed the moment's window. That's what I thought. That she's so damn self-protective—there might only be that chance—then—hi that two seconds." He shuddered, a little, involuntary twitch at the nape of the neck. "God, I hate real-time work."

"Just because you hated it," Grant said, "doesn't mean you weren't good at it. I'll tell you what this azi suspects—that she would
regret
harm to one of us. I don't think that's true with a CIT. If she ever does take me up on my proposition— No," Grant said as he took a breath to object; Grant held up a finger. "One: I don't think she will. Two: if she does—trust me to handle it. Trust me. All right?"

"It's not all right."

"No, but you'll stay back: do the puzzling thing, and trust me to do the same. I think you're quite right. The puzzling thing engages the intellect—and I had far rather deal with her on a rational basis, I assure you. If you can commit us to your judgment in the one thing—trust me for mine and don't make me worry. I wouldn't have been in half the flux I was in, except I wasn't sure you weren't going to come back into the office and blow everything to hell, right there. I can't think and watch my flank when it's you involved. All right? Promise me that."

"Dammit, I can't let a spoiled kid—"

"Yes. You can. Because I'm capable of taking care of myself. And in some things I'm better than you. Not many. But in this, I am. Allow me my little superiority. You can have all the rest."

He gazed a long time at Grant, at a face which had—with the years—acquired tensions azi generally lacked. He had done that to him. Life among CITs had.

"Deal?" Grant asked him. "Turn about: trust
my
judgment. I trust yours about the transfer. So we can both be perturbed about something. How much do you trust me?"

"It's not trusting
you
that's at issue."

"Yes, it is. Yes. It is. Azi to Supervisor . . . are you hearing me?"

He nodded finally. Because whatever Ari could do—
he
could hurt Grant.

He lied, of course. Maybe Grant knew he did.

"There's a tape," Ari had said to Denys, in his office, and told him
which
tape.

"How did you find out about it?" he had asked.

"My Base."

"Nothing
to do with dinner at
Changes
last night."

"No," she said without a flicker, "we discussed cultural librations."

Denys hated humor when he was serious. He always had. "All right," he said, frowning. "I certainly won't withhold it."

So he sent Seely for it. And said:
"Don't
use kat when you see this, don't expose Florian and Catlin to it, for God's sake
don't
put it where anyone can find it."

She had thought of asking him what was in it. But things were tense enough. So she talked about other things—about her work, about the project, about Justin—without mentioning the disagreement.

She drank a cup and a half of coffee and exchanged pleasant gossip; and unpleasant: about the elections; about the situation in Novgorod; about Giraud's office—and Corain—until Seely brought the tape back.

So she walked home with it, with Catlin, because she was anxious all the time she had it in her carry-bag; she was anxious when she arrived home and contemplated putting it in the player.

Her insecurity with the situation wanted Florian and Catlin to be beside her when she played it—

But that, she thought, was irresponsible. Emotional situations were
her
department, not theirs, no matter that sera was anxious about it, no matter that sera wanted, like a baby, to have someone with her.

I wouldn't have advised this,
Denys had said—distressed, she picked that up. But not entirely surprised.
But I know you well enough to know there's no stopping you once you start asking a question. I won't comment on it. But if you have questions after you've seen it—you can send them to my Base if you find them too personal. And I'll respond the same way. If you want it.

Meaning Denys wasn't putting any color on the situation.

So she closed the door on the library and locked it; and put the tape into the player—
not
taking a pill. She was no fool, to deep-study any tape blind and unpreviewed, and without running a check for subliminals.

She sat down and clenched her hands as it started—fascinated first-off by the sight of a familiar place, familiar faces—Florian and Catlin when they would have been a hundred twenty at least; and Justin—the boy was clearly Justin, even at the disadvantage of angle—he would be seventeen; and Ari herself—elegant, self-assured: she had seen newsclips of Ari this old, but none when Ari was not simply answering questions.

She listened—caught the nervousness in Justin's voice, the finesse of control in Ari's. Strange to
know
that voice so well, and to feel inside what it was doing—and to understand what kat would do to that experience, for someone skilled at tape-learning: she felt a little prickle down her back, a sense of hazard and involvement—
conditioned response,
a dim, analytical part of her thoughts said: the habits of this room, the physiological response of the endocrine system to the habit of taking kat here, and the lifelong habit of responding to tape— Azi must do this, she thought. And: The emotional context is kicking it off. Thank
God
I didn't trank down for this.

As muscles felt the sympathetic stimulus of nerves that
knew
what it felt like to walk and sit, and speak, and a brain that understood in all that context that Ari was On, and that her pulse was up, and that the target of her intentions was a Justin very young, very vulnerable, picking up the signals Ari was sending and reacting with extreme nervousness—

Back off,
she told herself, trying to distance herself from the aggression Ari was radiating.
Disinvolve.

The switch was beside her. She only had to reach to it and push it to cut it off. But the sexual feeling was too strong, toward an object otherwise out of reach—toward a Justin not quite real, not the man she knew, but Justin all the same.

She saw the glass fall—realized then what Ari had done to him, and that he was in terrible danger. She was
afraid
for him; but the muscles she felt move in response to that falling glass were Ari's, the impulse she felt through the heat of sex was concern for the orange juice spill on the damned upholstery—
Her
couch—

Oh, God, she should shut this off. Now.

But she kept watching.

It was a simple computer-delivered
See me: my office, 0900. —Denys Nye. —
that brought him to the administrative wing, and to the door that he dreaded.

So she had the tape, Justin thought; so Denys knew about the dinner at
Changes.

He had
not
expected Giraud with Denys. He froze in the doorway, with Seely at his back, then walked in and sat down.

"Let's dispense with what we both know," Denys said, "and not bicker about details. What in hell do you think you're doing?"

"I thought about coming to you," he said, "but she was embarrassed as well as mad. I figured—if I did—come to you—she might blow. I thought you wanted to avoid that."

"So you took a wide action. On your own judgment."

"Yes, ser." Denys was being reasonable—too reasonable, with Giraud sitting there staring at him with hostility in every line of his face. "And knowing you'd call me."

"She has the tape," Denys said. "That surprised me, Justin, that truly surprised me."

Giraud's not the Special. Denys is. . . .

"I'm flattered, ser. I don't expect to surprise you. But that wasn't why I did it. I wish you'd
let
me explain. Ari—"

"I don't need your explanation. Neither of us does."

"It's a simple adolescent infatuation—"

"She's been sexually active since she was thirteen. At least. And this fascination is thoroughly in program. We're not worried about that. Her predecessor had a pattern of such things. That you're young, male, and working at close quarters with her— No question."

"I haven't encouraged it!"

"Of course not. But you've tried to manipulate her by that means."

"That's not so. No."

"Sins of the heart, if not the intellect. You took her on, you've taught her, you've tried to steer her—admit it."

"Away
from that kind of thing—"

Denys leaned forward on folded arms.

"That," Giraud said, "is intervention, in itself."

"Not to harm her," Justin said, "or me." Giraud had only to speak and reactions started running through him, kat-dream, deep as bone. He could not help that flutter of nerves, could not forget the whip-crack that voice could become ... in his nightmares. He looked at Denys, feeling a tremor in his muscles. "I tried to keep it all low-key, non-flux."

"Until yesterday," Denys said, "when you decided to handle a situation yourself. When you exacerbated a situation—and decided to handle it... by handing her a major key. That is an intervention, you're an operator, you knew exactly what you were doing, and I want you to lay that out for me in plain words—consciously and subconsciously."

"Why should I?" His heart was slamming against his ribs. "Duplication of effort, isn't it? Why don't we just go over to Security and save us all time and trouble?"

"You're asking for a probe."

"No. I'm not. But that's never stopped you."

"Let's have a little calm, son."

Jordan. Oh, God.

He means me to think about that.

"Answer the question," Giraud said.

"I did it to save my neck. Because she's a damned dangerous enemy. Because she could as well blow up in your direction. What in hell
else
was charged enough to knock her back and make her reassess?"

"That's a tolerably acceptable answer," Denys said. Confusing him. He waited for the redirect and the flank attack. "The question is—what do you think you've induced? Where is your intervention going? What's her state of mind right now?"

"I hope to God," he said, his voice out of control, "I hope to God—it's going to make her careful."

"And sympathetic?"

"Careful
would do."

"You're courting her, aren't you?"

"God, no!"

"Yes, you are. Not sexually, though I imagine you'll pay that if you have to—if you can gain enough stability to handle the encounter. But you'd much rather avoid it. 'Hell hath no fury'? Something like that in your considerations? Politics may make strange bedfellows, but bedfellows make deadly politics."

"I just want to survive here."

"In her administration. Yes. Of course you do. Protect yourself—protect Grant. The consequences of enmity with us—have only a few years to run, is that what you're thinking? A couple of old men—weighed against the lifespan of a sixteen-year-old whose power is—possibly adequate to work for you if you could maneuver your way into her considerations. A very dangerous course. A
very
dangerous course, even for a man willing to sell—what you were willing to sell her predecessor—"

Temper. Temper is . . . only what he wants here.

"—
but then, your choices
are
limited."

"It doesn't take a probe," Giraud said, his deep voice quite gentle, "to know what your interests are. —And the latest business on my desk—I think you'll find quite—amusing in one sense. Alarming, in the other. The Paxers—you know, the people who blow up Novgorod subways, have decided to invoke your father's name—"