C. Cherryh - Cyteen

"Sera," he said in a low voice. "He's in the tunnels. Novgorod police almost had him. He left his keycard. They're sure it's him."

She almost had to sit down. She leaned on the table. "He's run?" But they could not discuss it; Lynch was moving up on her other side. She turned and took his hand. "Thank you." Lynch nodded. "Take care, sera." Harad wished her much the same. "Sera," Jacques said stiffly, non-committal. And Corain: Corain gave her a long and wary look as he shook her hand.

"Another, ser?" the guard asked, appearing by Jordan's seat.

"I could stand it," Jordan said. "Paul?"

"Yes," Paul said. And after the guard had walked down the aisle toward the bar: "You can't complain about the service."

"Sun off the right," Jordan observed. They were reaching cruising altitude again, after refueling at, he supposed, Pytho. In the dark. But the dawn-glow was visible ahead of the plane; and ever so slightly to the right.

From Pytho the plane could have gone to Novgorod or to Reseune. If it held course as they bore, it was Reseune—which was not, he was sure, any sort of good news.

Paul took his meaning. Paul was steady as ever, his support through the years; and now.

He wanted to see Reseune: it was strange that he could feel that way. But it was part of his life; it was civilization; and he was in some part glad to be going home. He hoped to see Justin.

He feared—much worse things.

"We've picked up a tailwind," one of the guards had said, in his better-than-average hearing. "We're going to beat our schedule."

The tunnels afforded few hiding places, only nooks, the dim recess of the news-shop; that took money to enter but the crowded doorway offered Justin a brief refuge and a vantage to scan the tunnel up and down. Then another public restroom, and a quick shave: he had kept the shaving kit and left the damned keycard; but he was afraid to stay there long—

The crowd in a restaurant, the general drift toward another corridor—another appeal to a shopkeeper: "Can I use your phone? I was robbed: I need to call my office—"

"Better call the police," the shop-owner said.

"No," Justin said; and seeing the look of suspicion on the man's face: "Please."

"Police," the man said into the receiver.

Justin turned and left, moving quickly into the crowds, dodging away, heart pounding. The strength the breakfast had lent him was gone. He felt the stiffness and the sprains, and his skull ached. He found himself farther down the corridor than he had thought, found another gap in his memory; and looked behind him in panic.

There were police at the intersection. He saw them look his way.

He turned back again and dived down a stairs: Subway, it said. He jostled past other walkers, came out at the bottom.

"Hey," someone yelled behind him.

He ran, out onto the concrete rim, evaded a headon collision and dodged around a support column.

People dived away from him, scrambled out of the way in panic: the whole strip was vacant. "Stop right there!" a voice thundered behind him, and screams warned him of a weapon drawn.

He dodged wildly aside and something slammed like a fist into his back; but he saw safety ahead—saw the black of Reseune Security, a man yelling: "Don't shoot!" and a gun in that man's hand too, aimed toward him.

But a numbness was spreading from his shoulder across his back, and balance went. He fell on the concrete, conscious, but losing feeling in his limbs.

"I'm Justin Warrick," he said to the black-uniformed officer who knelt down to help him. "Call Ari Emory."

And: "No," he heard the officer say, not, he thought, to him: "This man is a Reseune citizen. He's under our authority. File your complaints with my captain."

They wanted to take him to hospital. They wanted to take him to the Novgorod police station. They told him that it had not been a bullet but a high-velocity trank dart that had penetrated his shoulder: "I'm very glad to know that," he said, or tried to say, past the numbness of his mouth. And was equally relieved when the agent told him they had reached Ari, and that RESEUNE ONE, already on the runway, had turned back to hold for him.

"I'll walk," he said, and did, facing the climb up the passenger ramp; but Florian had come halfway down to help him and Ari was waiting at the top, in the doorway, with the frown he expected.

Ari put her arm around him when he made it through the doorway; so did Catlin, fending away other Security personnel; and steered him for the nearest seat. But he stopped, resisting their help for a moment, scanning the group of Security staff for Abban or for strangers. "Who's back there?" he asked. "Ari, who oversaw the plane, do you know?"

"The pilot and co-pilot," Ari said, in a voice only a little less hoarse than his. "And staff we're sure of."

"Abban—"

"Dead," Catlin said, and patted his shoulder. "We're onto it, ser. Come on."

He let go the seat then, eased himself into it, leaned back and stared at Ari in a dull, all-over malaise as she sat down opposite him. "Thanks for holding the plane," he said between breaths.

"Where in hell were you?"

"Went shopping," he said, as the door thumped to and sealed. For a moment he was disoriented. "Sorry." He knew her suspicions—and Florian's and Catlin's. He felt a dull surprise that they let him this close to her. "I wasn't anywhere. I got disoriented. Wandered off." The plane began to move, pale landscape swinging past the windows in the edge of his vision. "I just walked until I knew I was in the tunnels; and I found Security and I told them find you."

"That's not half of what I hear. Novgorod is real nervous about people acting odd around the subways."

He shut his eyes, just gone for the moment, exhausted, and the seat was soft, comfortable as a pillow all around him, while he was trying to organize his thoughts. The engines began to drown out sound, a universal white-out. Someone leaned near him and drew the belt over him. He looked up at Catlin as the catch snapped. The plane was gathering speed. Ari was belting in. Catlin and Florian dropped into the seats by him.

The takeoff had a peculiarly perilous feel. Maybe it was the drug that dizzied him; maybe it was the steep bank the pilot pulled, an abrupt maneuver unlike anything he had ever felt. He gripped the arms of the seat, remembering the chance of sabotage, remembering the fire—

"Wes, back there, is a class one medic," Ari said to him, raising her voice over the engine-sound. "He's got the equipment. When we level off we can get you an almost-real bed. How are you doing?"

"Fuzzed. They shot me with numb-out." He tried to focus on here and now, the list of things he wanted to ask her. "Giraud—Jordan—could be in danger."

"I'm head of Security at the moment," Ari said. "I'll tell you—I'm quite aware of our problems. I went to the Bureau, I laid the problems out, and when we land we're going to call Family council—that's why I desperately want you there. For one thing, you've a vote. For another, you can probably tell things I can't, about what's gone on all these years."

"You're challenging Denys?"

Ari nodded. "I'm bringing your father in. He's already left Pytho. That was for his protection, to get him home where there are witnesses. I could divert the plane. But that would tell too much. Say that I can hide certain orders from Denys. Not a whole plane. It's due in at 1500. We're projecting arrival about 1400. We're running that close. I can stall its landing, divert it to Svetlansk or somewhere, after we've landed. I hope to have Denys thinking I'm coming back for safety reasons. But he probably won't accept that."

He had thought he had had all he could take, already. He sat there with adrenaline pouring into his exhausted system and wondered why he was relatively calm. We're going to die, he thought. Somewhere along this—they're going to get us. Somewhere in the networks of Security orders, the airport, the military—the Bureau—House Administration—