C. Cherryh: Cyteen

"I'll take questions."

It was all right, she thought. She got off with a: "I'm sorry, my voice is going"; and a tremor in the hand she used to wipe a stray strand of hair—no need to pretend the latter: she had hid it until then, and got away from the cameras and had to sit down quickly, but she had gotten through it and said exactly what she had wanted to say.

"Is there any word?" she asked Catlin, who had been monitoring the net.

"No, sera," Catlin said.

She let go her breath and took the water Florian handed her. "Damn." Tears threatened, pain and exhaustion and the frustration of the situation. It was dawn. She had not slept since the morning of Giraud's funeral. Yesterday. God. "I'm going to make a phone call to Amy," she said in a controlled, quiet voice. "Ask Lynch to set up a very brief meeting with the Councillors and proxies at hand; and with the Bureau; I want to be at the airport by 0900."

"Sera, you haven't slept. Allow for that."

She sat a moment and thought about that. The blast kept replaying in her memory. The burned bodies. The smoke-filled halls, the lights shining out of haze.

She had no desire to shut her eyes at the moment, or to put food into her stomach, or to disturb her wounds by wrestling herself into the sweater she had brought: such little pains unnerved her, when there was so much worse to think about.

So one did not think about what-if and might-have-been. One handled things at the present, and trusted one's long-prepared decisions.

One Worked the whole of Union if that was what it took. One promised order where order did not exist; one held out the promise of moderation and rapprochement to shore up Corain, who was the opposition she preferred to Khalid.

One moved close to center for a while, to move the opposition closer to one's position—granted, of course, that they were trying to do the same: and granted at that point the clever and the quick would make the next jump out, leaving the opposition sitting bewildered at the new center.

Working the macrosystem, Ari senior would say.

While everything else went to hell and nothing that one wanted—stayed for long.

Except Florian and Catlin. Except the one flawless loyalty—the one thing that Ari's murderer had not dared to face.

Justin waked, winced at stiffened joints and the cramped position the thinly-padded bench in the restroom afforded; waked and tried to move in a hurry at the sound of the outer doors, to rake his hair into some kind of order and get to his feet before the intrusion passed the second doors; but he was only halfway up and off his balance before he faced two men in work-clothes, who stared at him half a heartbeat in surprise. He just turned to the sink, natural as breathing, turned on the water, wet his hands and ran them through his hair.

Except the two men showed up in the mirror, close behind him.

One moment he panicked. The next he thought: Hell, they're not Reseune Security, and turned around with a right elbow and all the strength he had—shocked as it connected, but still moving in the tape-taught sequence, full spin and a punch to the breastbone.

He stared a split-second at the result, one man flung backward against the corner, the other down– God, he thought, and then seeing the first man bracing to go for him, darted for the door and knocked it banging, went through the second the same way, and came out into a tunnel already beginning to fill with morning traffic.

What if I was wrong? That man could die. I may have killed someone.

Then: No. I read it right.

And: I haven't studied that tape since I was a kid. I didn't know I could do that.

He slowed to a fast walk, shaking in the knees and hurting in his shoulders and his back and knowing he was attracting attention with his unshaven face and his agitated manner: he tried to match the pace of the general traffic, put his hands in his pockets and tried to look more casual, all the while thinking that the men could be after him now with more than robbery in mind.

Damn, I'd have given them the keycard and wished them luck using it, let them lead the police on a chase—

God. No. Novgorod doesn't have a check-system. There's no tracking system, they refused to put it in.

He turned on one foot—his neck and shoulders were too stiff—caught his balance, looked back and moved on. He was not sure he could even recognize the men among the crowds—

More strangers than I've ever seen at once in my whole life—too many faces, too many people in clothes too much alike. . . .

People jostled him and cursed him: Damn z-case, a man said. He rubbed an unshaven chin and, since shutters were opening and shops were lighting up in this section of the tunnels, he found a pharmacy and bought a shaving kit; and a breakfast counter and bought a roll-up and a glass of synth orange. But the boy took an extra look at the keycard and made him nervous.

Justin Patrick Warrick, it said, CIT 976-088-2355PR, which was damning enough; but in faint outline behind that was the Infinite Man emblem of Reseune Administrative Territory.

"Reseune," the boy said, looking up, checking the picture, he thought—in case it was stolen. "Never seen one of those. You from there?"

"I—" He had not tried talking. His voice was hoarse and cracked. "I work in the city offices."

"Huh." The boy slid it into the register slot and handed it back with the cup and the roll on the lid. "You return the cup and lid we refund half." The number 3 was on both.

"Thanks." He went over to the counter, unlidded the drink, and took down the roll with huge gulps of the sugary, iced drink, no matter the rawness of his throat—uneasy on his stomach in the first few moments and then altogether equal to anything Changes could offer at twenty times the price. He leaned there a moment with his eyes watering, just breathing and letting his stomach get used to food.

Where in hell am I going? What am I going to do?

He wiped his blurring eyes, went back to the counter with the cup and the lid, among other customers, delayed a moment until they were served. "Where can you get the news?"

"They got a board down to the subway."

"Where?"

"Straight on, to your Wilfred tunnel, go right. —You been up to that fire at the Riverside?"

"Up all night with it," he said. "You hear anything—who did it, why?"

The boy shook his head, and served another patron. Justin waited.

"Emory was on vid this morning," the boy said; and Justin's heart skipped. "Madder'n hell."

"Emory's all right?"

"She was, yey." The boy broke off to take a card and pour a drink. "You from Reseune?"

Justin nodded. "Can I use a phone? Please."

"I can't do that." Another customer. The boy yelled, pointing past the woman: "Down to the corner, public phone."

"Thanks!"

He went, walking fast, with the traffic, in the direction the boy had said, passing some casual walkers. Call the Bureau. Ask for protection. They can't think I'm responsible. They can't blame anyone but Reseune Security—

Abban, the head of it—

He saw the sign that said Phone, and kept his keycard in his hand. He knew the Bureau number: he had had it memorized for years—but he had never used a phone outside Reseune, and he picked up the receiver, reading instructions: Lift receiver, insert card, key in or touch 0 and voice in. ...

"Ser."

He turned and saw a gray uniform, a tall, heavy-set body.

Novgorod police.

He dropped the receiver and hit the officer a glancing blow getting past him; and ran, desperately, through the crowds.