Regenesis

by C. J. Cherryh

  “My God,” he said.

  “Rather pleasant place,” Grant said.

  “We don’t possibly earn this much,” he said.

  “It seems we do now,” Grant said. “And I’m sure, for whatever reason, we’re worth it to someone.”

  He drew a breath, headed back through the apartment to the bedroom.

  Correction: bedrooms. There were three, one green, one rust and reds, one blue. And an office or study, in lighter green.

  “What in hell are we supposed to do here?” Justin asked, turning from one bedroom to the other, in the hall. “Is it multiple choice?”

  “This must be the main one,” Grant said, and walked into the largest-looking bedroom, the blue one.

  Justin followed. Beyond was a bathroom beyond the size a public gym might need. Sunken tub. Shower. Exercise equipment. He didn’t even go in. He just turned full circle, saw a bed in a mirrored nook, mirrored ceiling.

  “Good God.” He was embarrassed.

  Grant walked over and touched the switches by the bed. Room lights went down. Water ripple made the whole area look underwater.

  “Dramatic,” Grant said.

  It was. Grant stood bathed in that light. He was still moderately appalled, as Grant apparently hit another switch. It became firelight, playing games on the bed, and in the mirrors on either hand.

  Third was flashing neon. A blare of music.

  Grant cut it off, startled, and, after two tries, went back to firelight. It was an interesting aesthetic effect. It might be, if nerves could quit insisting the building might be afire.

  “I think she means well,” Grant said.

  “I can’t imagine where they got this thing,” he said. “God, what does she think we are?”

  He walked midroom, where there was a bureau. A vase of fresh flowers of mixed colors sat propping a note card.

  Dear Justin, it read, I hope you like it. I hope it’s not too gaudy, but you’d said all along you wanted color. You’re safe here. Staff will do cleaning once a day, or oftener if you need them: you don’t have to maintain anything, or cook if you don’t want to. The minder has the call button. Wing staff will clean for you: they’re all going to be high security. And there’s going to be a restaurant downstairs on 1 sometime next week, so they’ll cater for you, at any hour: I wouldn’t presume to install domestic staff for you, but if you and Grant decide you need some, and Wing staff isn’t enough, you only have to ask. Guards assigned, specifically to Apartment 2 security are Mark BM-18 and Gerry BG-22—they’re general Alpha Wing security, but they’re two you passed on, and if there’s a general emergency, their first priority is you and Grant, so know who they are, and they’ll just look out for you in general. Your accesses are a subset of Base One, officially now, registered that way, so you don’t have to pretend to be Callie or Theo any more. All Library is open to you, and any security situation in the Wing will be at least as transparent to you as to any of my staff except my bodyguard, if you just query Base One, so if you ever get worried you or Grant can access it immediately from any handheld anywhere in Reseune. I know you’re careful with codes.

  Have I ever mentioned you and Grant kept me honest when I was a kid? You still do. You never flattered me, never lied to me. Please talk to me first if you ever have a problem. That means you’ll never cross up something I’m doing. Meanwhile I just feel safer and more comfortable if you’re across the hall. I don’t know why that is, but it’s so.

  The minder is primed with all the Alpha Wing service numbers as well as all your old ones. You can go anywhere you ever went. Just guard those keycards with your lives.

  Grant, keep him out of trouble. I love you both so much. And I’ll be so happy if you like this place, but you can change anything you want to change, anything at all.

  Ari.

  He walked back, sat down on the side of the bed. Just sat, and looked up at Grant, thinking—they’d never get back to their plain, ordinary apartment, their little place where they’d been alternately safe and scared as hell.

  This place wasn’t the ongoing penance of the posh black and white apartment. It was comfortable. Extravagant beyond belief.

  “It’s nice,” Grant said.

  “God, if that music cycles on in the middle of the night,” he said, “I’ll teleport.”

  “Well,” Grant said, “there’s probably a manual somewhere in System. We can look. Maybe we can change the programming.”

  Justin gave a rueful laugh. And looked around him soberly then, all but overwhelmed.

  “Why are we possibly this important to her?”

  “You’re asking the azi, born-man.”

  “It’s just—every ratchet up the scale, we’re increasingly in the target zone, if anything ever goes wrong.”

  “I think that’s always been a given, from way back. Hasn’t it?”

  “I suppose it was. Is. Will be.”

  “It’s probably very wise to put us behind her security wall. You’d easily be a target, if someone aimed at her. And I think, if you want my opinion, she’d be a different Ari if she lost you. I think she knows that very well.”

  “I don’t know why,” he said.

  “I do,” Grant said, “but I’m not going to tell you.”

  “You’re a help.”

  “She absolutely trusts you, and considering who you are, that’s probably quite a scary situation for her.”

  “I don’t have to be here for that. We had our arrangement. She can trust me anywhere.”

  “You’re a vulnerability. She’s sealing up her armor.”

  That, he saw. He could all but hear the clanks of doors shutting. Figuratively.

  She was growing up. The place was a fortress. Total security, her own guard…

  “She’s preparing to take Reseune,” he said. “She’s preparing not to be caught the way Denys was.” He recalled the paintings outside—different from anything that had hung anywhere—uncertain they were art, or just for color, but they had an effect. They dragged the eye from one to the next, took hold and led, one to the next.

  He remembered that night in Ari Senior’s apartment, when he’d had an injudicious drink and found himself changed, yanked sideways, away from Jordan, in ways he still couldn’t overcome. That hallway. The paintings on Ari’s walls.

  He’d admired one. A painting of trees that weren’t woolwood. He’d been terrified of his situation, fascinated by the intricate, fine-scale art. Set off balance by the luxury.

  Overload. That was what he was getting, in this place. Wild angles. Water. Art that went sideways and splashed wild color, vastly different from anything in Wing One—anything he’d ever seen. But it was an Ari kind of thing, the paintings. It played psychological games. They were stark. Potent. Expensive.

  “She’s becoming Ari,” he said. “We’re seeing it now. This may be the beta version, but this is power, not just wealth. This wing isn’t just decorated. If somebody did it for her, they know her. They painted her in this place. This is power. This just hits you in the gut.”

  “In some ways,” Grant said, “she’s alpha azi—but with an emotional dimension I certainly don’t understand.” Grant’s eyes traveled up and around. “Then I see this place. The ceilings, way off scale. The way colors hit you. The waterfall in the living room—” His voice trailed off. Justin made the little caution sign. If they’d been bugged before, they were surely bugged now. “The waterfall is CIT. Pure CIT. But it’s pleasant.”

  “The sky arch in the foyer. Like being outside. That’s a psychological difference, isn’t it?” He took the warning, took a deep breath. “Maybe a big difference in our Ari. Who knows?”

  “I’m sure we’re going to find out,” Grant said.

  “Are you all right here?” Grant asked him then, quietly. “Are you all right with this?”

  Sometimes Grant functioned as his Supervisor. He did a mental check. “I think so,” he said. It didn’t feel like home. It wouldn’t, for a while. “We had apartment de
sign A. apartment design B, and C. And pick one of three, over in Ed. This is certainly something else, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not black and white,” Grant said.

  “You know what bothers me here? The black and white place was a place where we stayed. This one—this one just gets right under your skin, doesn’t it? I like the colors. Like the look. She read me. Read both of us, didn’t she? She did, or somebody sure did.”

  “I’m not that difficult,” Grant said.

  “That’s what you think,” he said, and thought about their growing up together, and thought about Jordan, who never, ever could get in here to see where his son lived.

  Jordan. Step by step, he won’t like this, he won’t live with it, he’s going to blow, sooner or later.

  He’s doing those sets knowing she’s going to check them, and there’ll be something wrong, because he’ll find out about this place, and it’ll eat him alive. He doesn’t like unknowns. Doesn’t like anything that’s been happening. And when she does take over—

  “What are you thinking?” Grant asked.

  “That Jordan’s going to be pissed about this arrangement.”

  “We can’t fix it.”

  “May be. But I’m a stupid, emotional born-man and I want to fix it. And he’s a damned fool. He’s writing those sets. He’ll foul them in some particularly subtle way to try her. Just to try her. And if she bounces them back with no comment, he’ll just try again.”

  “At least he has a focus,” Grant said, and that was true.

  “I don’t think she’s shown anybody yet what she can do,” he said absently. “I don’t think she knows herself what she can do. Jordan’s going to try the limits. Hell, maybe it’s good for both of them.”

  “Maybe,” Grant said.

  “All those other numbers up and down the hall. And this is the third floor. Who else has she targeted, do you think? Who else decorates her universe?”

  “Amy Carnath,” Grant said. “Sam Whitely. Probably Madelaine Strassen. —Maybe Yanni.”

  “The kids. Yanni. And us. Oh, that’s going to be a well-matched social set.”

  “Yanni won’t want to move from where he is,” Grant said. “Yanni always seems to like things to stay the way they are.”

  “Yanni’ll hit the roof if he gets home and she’s moved him. If he gets it. If he doesn’t get in on this—Yanni could be on his way back to the labs. God knows. I honestly hope not. He doesn’t deserve that kind of dealing.”

  Upheaval in the whole world could be going on and they wouldn’t know. Except Ari had said they could know anything if they just asked. It didn’t seem that easy from here.

  He got up off the bed and opened a closet. Their own plain clothing hung there, mostly brown, casual, out of place, looking lonely, a little worn and tired outside the offices they’d worked in.

  What did they do for a living now? Where did they go from here? They had a new office downstairs, near, he supposed, a restaurant that was going to exist next week.

  Where did they sit in the evening, in a living room with running water and no vid that he’d spotted with any casual glance?

  What did they have in the fridge?

  Probably what they’d had in it before, a saner thought informed him. The automations were probably loaded. He remembered the coffee dispenser in the Wing One office.

  That would be good. Now they just had to find the damned kitchen.

  BOOK THREE Section 3 Chapter v

  JULY 3, 2424

  1728H

  Just cocktails, Ari had said, inviting the new residents for the evening reception in her apartment, and she knew if Sam and Justin and Grant were there it wasn’t going to be a wild evening, certainly not in the sense that the youngers had used to have wild evenings. They were all grown up now. They had outside interests. It was just a quiet drink shared among new neighbors, canapes and not even a very late evening.

  And it went well. Amy showed up with Quentin—they were a couple, everyone knew it, even if Quentin hung out with Grant and Sam’s Pavel and Yanni’s decidedly older Frank. Maddy’s Samara stood out like a fashion doll in that company; well, but so did Maddy, who’d arrived in a very pricy azure blue bodysuit with just the tiniest hint of white sparkle-lights running at cuffs and collar. Maddy looked fabulous. Amy wore a nice black suit with an electric blue blouse, shocking and stylish contrast to her companion. Quentin, in his black uniform—bet that Maddy had had something to do with that, too. Patrick Emory showed up—he looked fairly cheerful, for cousin Patrick. He’d already spilled a drink on his coat, and had two more, and was getting a little loud, but he was family, and Ari felt responsible for him, not to leave him outside the way everyone had, even the first Ari. He had worked in Admin, in records, just quietly, forever, the same job, every day, and he did pretty well, by all she knew, though he had no relationships and never seemed to get any enjoyment out of life. His obsession was vids, and he would talk about them if you wanted to; and he always came to family parties.

  Aunt Victoria Strassen hadn’t moved in: Aunt Vickie had her apartment over in Residential A. She sent a precisely written, neatly folded note that informed her niece that she appreciated the offer, but that she preferred her current residence and her old neighbors, and sent along a little box, which she called a housewarming gift. For Aunt Victoria, that was very, very considerate. It proved to contain a small carved plaque, which said, between sprigs of carved leaves, Family Matters. Probably Aunt Vickie had taken a bit of effort picking that out, to mean absolutely anything one wanted it to—particularly whatever Aunt Vickie meant, which might not be entirely polite, considering Vickie’s opinion of her origins. But Ari had Spessy hang it on the inner wall of the dining room, where it nearly matched the stone.

  Justin and Grant showed up in brown knit and tweed—it set off Grant’s red hair and did absolutely nothing good for Justin. Set Maddy on him, was Ari’s wicked thought.

  But she held back. She thought probably she’d pushed Justin just a little too far all in one day as it was, and figured if he’d wanted to stand out in the crowd, he might really have picked something other than that medium-beige sweater and Harris tweed coat.

  Truth was, he didn’t look particularly happy in being here, and mostly, nursing one drink, and surrounded by people twenty years younger than he was, he stayed close to Yanni, who himself stayed close to the cluster of azi—social, all of that lot of azi, more even than Florian and Catlin. The olders seemed more comfortable there, and with each other.

  As for Florian and Catlin, both of them stayed on the fringe of the azi group, cheerful enough, but not indulging in wine at all this evening, she’d noted that, not even with these people who were her dearest friends in all the world. She saw absolutely no reason in present company that they couldn’t or shouldn’t relax, but they didn’t let go, not for a heartbeat. They’d worked so hard, so long, they’d gotten her here safely, they’d gotten her friends here, and there wasn’t anything wrong tonight—was there?

  Was there something afoot that she didn’t know?

  She almost went and asked them. But she was the hostess, and she had a very conscientious serving staff trying to manage a new arrangement, a new kitchen, and new premises, and trying not to ask questions of her. That was her situation to watch, her current level of crisis being an upset and lost azi maid standing there idle.

  “Joyesse,” she said, “you’ve done very well setting up. Would you mind serving canapes? Go to Wyndham. He’ll like your help.”

  Joyesse took off. Happy again. All her younger friends were happy—Sam, with his girlfriend at his side, and with Pavel hovering close to him, was telling one of his stories, talking about the build. Justin and Yanni were talking about something—probably lab business. Or Jordan, their mutual problem. And she wasn’t going to think about Jordan tonight.

  The fish wall was an absolute success. Everyone admired it. Even the azi serving kept looking up at it, or around at it, in moments of utter, unguarded d
istraction, eyes taking in this and that detail. Amy naturally wanted to know the names of all the fish and everything that waved or moved or crawled in that tank—because Amy’s place had a similar tank, but round, a cylinder in the middle of her living room, and her aquarium specialist would serve Amy’s place, too. Amy knew fish, but she’d never dealt with salt water, and she was fascinated, happy and excited—for Amy. Maddy—Maddy got a waterfall, with orchids. Sam got a river all through his apartment, with a little pond under a glass floor in the rec room; and Yanni got a big vivarium, with lots of little skinks, which were lizards; and plants and flowers—Yanni said it was a damned waste of money. That was Yanni. He was most probably nervous about actually enjoying it.

  She hadn’t asked Stef Dietrich to move in, so there, for someone double-dealing in relationships from the time he was a kid. She’d arranged a very good job at Viking for Stef, he’d live like a prince on a Reseune salary on that mining station, and that was that for him, who’d tried to break hearts in the group…and never had changed his ways.

  There were Dan and Mischa Peterson, each with a significant other; there was Stasi Morley-Ramirez, who’d grown up taller than any of them—she just towered; she was going into airport admin, and had a beta azi assistant she’d gotten on her own. She’d grown much more serious than she’d used to be, and that was very, very serious; but she unbent and laughed with Dan and Mischa, like old times.

  And there were Mika and Tommy Carnath, each with their own place, both single, so that would have to be watched: they got terrarium gardens and sky-roofs. There was Dan Peterson and Will Morely with under-floor ponds—Will had a relationship going with Peterson’s sister Judith, and she was all right: she was a Gamma Supervisor, and had a clean record, and they were almost engaged.

  There were no children in the entire lot. That was going to change, this November.

  God, she thought, Giraud. Giraud was going to be fascinated by the skinks.

  And that would actually work very well. Giraud had so loved little microcosms. He’d visit here, with the fishes. With Sam’s river. He’d be all over the place. If she were a kid again, in this place, she’d have it all mapped out, and she’d be everywhere.