Cherryh, C J - Alliance-Union 08 (119 page)

A clatter from down the table. Nye had knocked the water glass over his papers, and sat there—sat there, with the water running across his notes, in a frozen pose that at first seemed incongruous, as if he were listening for something.

Then Corain's heart ticked over a beat, a moment of alarm as he saw the imminent collapse, as Lao, next to Nye, rose in an attempt to hold him, as of a sudden everyone was moving, including the aides.

But Giraud Nye was slumping down onto the papers, sliding from his chair, completely limp as the azi Abban shoved Lao aside and caught Nye in his fall between the seats.

The Council, the aides, everyone broke into tumult, and Corain's heart was hammering. "Get Medical," he ordered Dellarosa, ordered whoever would go, while Abban had Nye on the floor, his collar open, applying CPR with methodical precision.

It was quiet then, except the aides slipping from the chamber—strange that no one moved, everyone seemed in a state of shock, except a junior aide offering to spell the azi.

Medical arrived, running steps, a clattering and banging of hand-carried equipment, Councillors and aides clearing back in haste to let the professionals through, then waiting while more medics got a portable gurney through and the working team and Abban, clustered about Nye, lifted him and lifted the gurney up.

Alive, Corain thought, shaken: he could not understand his own reaction, or why he was trembling when Nasir Harad, still standing, brought the gavel down on Chairman's discretion for an emergency recess.

No one moved to leave for a moment. Centrists and Expansionists looked at each other in a land of vague, human shock, for about a half a hundred heartbeats.

Then Simon Jacques gathered up his papers, and others did, and Corain signaled to his own remaining aides.

After that it was a withdrawal, increasingly precipitate, to reassess, to find out in decent discretion how serious it was, whether Nye was expected to recover from this one. Or not. In which case—in which case nothing was the same.

". . .
collapsed in the Council chamber,"
the public address said, throughout Reseune, and people stopped where they were, at their desks, in the halls, waiting; and Justin stood, with his arms full of printout from the latest run on Sociology, with that vague cold feeling about his heart that said that, whatever Giraud was to him personally—

—there was far worse.

"He stabilized in the emergency care unit in the Hall of State and is presently in
transit via air ambulance to the intensive care unit in Mary Stamford Hospital in Novgorod. There was early consideration of transfer to Reseune's medical facilities, but the available aircraft did not have necessary equipment.

"His companion Abban was with him at the time of the collapse, and remains with him in transit.

"Secretary Lynch has been informed and has taken the oath as interim proxy, for emergency business.

"Administrator Nye requests that expressions of concern and inquiries regarding his brother's condition be directed to the desk at Reseune hospital, which is in current contact with Stamford in Novgorod, and that no inquiries be made directly to Novgorod.

"Reseune staff is urged to continue with ordinary schedules. Bulletins will be issued as information becomes available."

"Damn," someone said, on the other side of the room, "here it goes, doesn't it?"

Justin took his printout and left, out into the hall beyond the glass partitions, where people lingered to talk in small groups.

He felt stares at his back, felt himself the object of attention he did not want.

Felt—as if the ground had shifted underfoot, even if they had known this was coming.

"It's the slow preparation," a tech said in his hearing. "He may already be dead. They won't admit it—till the Bureau has the proxy settled. They can't admit anything till then."

It was a dreadful thing—to go to Denys now. But a call on the Minder was too cold and too remote; and Ari faced the apartment door and identified herself to the Minder, with Florian and Catlin at her back, and nothing—nothing to protect her from the insecurity in front of her—an old man's impending bereavement, an old man facing a solitude he had never—Giraud himself had said it—never been able to come to grips with.

If Denys cried, she thought, if Denys broke down in front of her he would be terribly ashamed; and angry with her; but she was all the close family he had left, who did not want to be here, who did not want, today, to be adult and responsible, in the face of the mistake this visit could turn out to be.

But she had, she thought, to try.

"Uncle Denys," she said, "it's Ari. Do you want company?"

A small delay. The door opened suddenly, and she was facing Seely.

"Sera," Seely murmured, "come in."

The apartment was so small, so simple next her own. Denys could always have had a larger one, could have had, in his long tenure, any luxury he wanted. But it felt like home, in a nostalgic wrench that saw her suddenly a too-old stranger, and Florian and Catlin entering with her . . . grown-up and strange to the scale of this place: the little living room, the dining area, the suite off to the right that had been hers and theirs and Nelly's; the hall to the left that held Denys' office and bedroom, and Seely's spartan quarters.

She looked that direction as Denys came out of his office, pale and drawn, looking bewildered as he saw her. "Uncle Denys," she said gently.

"You got the news," Denys said.

She nodded. And felt her way through it—herself, whom Union credited for genius in dealing with emotional contexts, in setting up and tearing down and reshaping human reactions—but it was so damned different, when the emotional context went all the way to one's own roots. Redirect, that was the only thing she could logic her way to. Redirect and refocus:
grief is a self-focused function and the flux holds so damn much guilt about taking care of ourselves. . . .
"Are
you
all right, uncle Denys?"

Denys drew a breath, and several others, and looked desperate for a moment. Then he firmed up his chin and said: "He's dying, Ari."

She came and put her arms around Denys, self-conscious—God, guilty: of calculation, of too much expertise; of being cold inside when she patted him on the shoulder and freed herself from him and said: "Seely, has uncle Denys still got that brandy?"

"Yes," Seely said.

"I have work to do," Denys said.

"The brandy won't hurt," she said. "Seely."

Seely went; and she hooked her arm in Denys' and took him as far as the dining table where he usually did his work.

"There's nothing you can do by worrying," she said. "There's nothing anyone can do by worrying. Giraud knew this was coming. Listen, you know what he's done, you know the way he's arranged things. What he'll want you to do—"

"I damned well
can't
do!" Denys snapped, and slammed his hand down on the table. "I don't intend to discuss it. Lynch will sit proxy. Giraud may recover from this. Let's not hold the funeral yet, do you mind?"

"Certainly I hope not."
He's not facing this. He's not accepting it.

Seely, thank God, arrived with the brandy, while Florian and Catlin hovered near the door, gone invisible as they could.

She took her own glass, drank a little, and Denys drank, more than a little; and gave a long shudder.

"I can't go to Novgorod," Denys said. There was a marked fragility about the set of his mouth, a sweating pallor about his skin despite the cool air in the room. "You know that."

"You can do what you put your mind to, uncle Denys. But it's not time to talk about that kind of thing."

"I
can't,"
Denys said, cradling the glass in his hands. "I've told Giraud that. He knows it. Take tape, he says. He knows damned well I'm not suited to holding office."

"It's not a question of that right now."

"He's
dying,
dammit. You know it and I know it. And his notions about my going to Novgorod—dammit, he knows better."

"You'd be very good."

"Don't be ridiculous. A public speaker? An orator? Someone to handle press conferences? There's no one less suited than I am to holding public office. Behind the scenes, yes, I'm quite good. But I'm much too old to make major changes. I'm not a public man, Ari. I'm not going to be. There's no tape fix for age, there's no damned tape fix to make me a speechmaker . . ."

"Giraud isn't exactly skilled at it, but he's a fine Councillor."

"Do you know," Denys said, "when I came down to the AG unit that time—that was the first time since I was nine, that I'd ever left these walls?"

"My God, uncle Denys."

"Didn't add that up? Shame on you. I came down to see my foster-niece risk her lovely neck, the way I watched from the airport remotes when your predecessor would come screaming in, in that damned jet. I hate disasters. I've always expected them. It's my one act of courage, you understand.
Don't
ask me to handle press conferences." Denys shook his head and leaned on his elbows on the table. "Young people. They risk their lives so damned lightly, and they know so little what they're worth."

He wept then, a little convulsion of shoulders and face, and Ari picked up the decanter and poured him more, that being the only effective kindness she could think of.

She said nothing for perhaps a quarter, perhaps half an hour, only sat there while Denys emptied another glass.

Then the Minder said:
"Message, Abban AA to Base Two, special communications."

Denys did not answer at once. Then he said: "Report."

"Ser Denys,"
Abban's voice said, cold with distance and the Minder's reproduction,
"Giraud has just died. I'll see to his transport home, by his orders. He requested you merge his Base."
Denys lowered his head onto his hand.

"Abban," Seely said, "this is Seely SA. Ser thanks you. Direct details to be; I'll assist."

Ari sat there a very long time, waiting, until Denys wiped his eyes and drew a shaken breath.

"Lynch," Denys said. "Someone has to notify Lynch. Tell Abban see to that. He's to stand proxy. He's to file for election. Immediately."

The Family filed into the East Garden, by twos and threes, wearing coats and cloaks in the sharpness of an autumn noon. With conspicuous absences, absences which made Ari doubly conscious of her position in the forefront of the Family—eighteen, immaculate in mourning, and correct as she knew how to be—wearing the topaz pin on her collar, the pin Giraud had given her . . .
something that's only yours. . . .

The funeral was another of those duties she would have avoided if she could have found a way.

Because Denys had made a damnable mess of things. Denys had fallen to pieces, refused the appointment as proxy Councillor of Science, and refused to attend the funeral.
Denys
was over at the old Wing One lab, supervising the retrieval and implantation of CIT geneset 684-044-5567 . . . precisely at this hour—at which Ari, even with compassion for his reasons, felt a vague shudder of disgust.

It left her, foster-niece, as nearest kin—not even directly related to Giraud, but ranking as immediate family, over Emil Carnath-Nye, and Julia Carnath-Nye, and Amy. She felt uncomfortable in that role, even knowing Julia's attachment to Giraud was more ambition than accident of blood. Hell with Julia: there was prestige involved, and she hated to move Amy out of her proper place, that was the uncomfortable part. The Carnath-Nyes stood, an ill-assorted little association of blood-ties far from cordial these days—Amy bringing Quentin as she had brought Florian and Catlin, for personal security in troubled times, not to flaunt him in front of the Family and her mother's disapproval; but that was certainly not the way Julia Carnath took it.

Julia and her father Emil resented having Abban standing beside them; and took petty exception to the man—
man,
dammit, who had been closer to Giraud in many ways than any next-of-kin, even Denys; who had held Giraud's hand while he died and taken care of notifications with quiet efficiency when no Family were there to do anything.

That attitude was damned well going to go: she had served notice of it and scandalized the old hands before now. Let them know what she would do when she held power in the House: hell with their offended feelings.

Amy was there; Maddy Strassen was in the front row, with aunt Victoria—maman's sister, and at a hundred fifty-four one of the oldest people alive anywhere who was not a spacer. Rejuv did not seem near failing Victoria Strassen: she was wearing away instead like ice in sunlight, just thinner and more fragile with every passing year, until she began to seem more force than flesh. Using a cane now: the sight afflicted Ari to the heart.
Maman would be that old now. Maman would be that frail.
She avoided Victoria, not alone because Victoria hated her and blamed her for Julia Strassen's exile to Fargone. The Whitely clan was there: Sam and his mother; and the Ivanovs, the Edwardses; Yanni Schwartz and Suli; and the Dietrichs.

Justin and Grant were not. Justin had sent, all things considered, a very gracious refusal, and let her off one very difficult position. It was the only mercy she had gotten from Family or outsiders. Reporters clustered down at the airport press area, a half hour down there this morning, an appointment for an interview this afternoon, a half a hundred frustrated requests for an interview with Denys—

I'm sorry.,
she had said, privately and on camera.
Even those of us who work lifelong with psych, seri, do feel personal grief.
Coldly, precisely, letting her own distress far enough to the surface to put what Giraud would call the human face on Reseune.
My uncle Denys was extremely close to his brother, and he's not young himself. He's resigning the proxy to Secretary Lynch out of health considerations— No. Absolutely not. Reseune has never considered it has a monopoly on the Science seat. As the oldest scientific institution on Cyteen we have contributions to make, and I'm sure there will be other candidates from Reseune, but no one in Reseune, so far as I know, intends to run. After all—Dr. Nye wasn't bound to appoint Secretary Lynch: he might have appointed anyone in Science, Secretary Lynch is a very respected, very qualified head of the Bureau in his own right.