Cherryh, C J - Alliance-Union 08 (85 page)

"No troubles with me," Ari said. "Florian told me everything. It's all right."

The tension went away, and Catlin gave one of her real smiles.

"He was real happy," Catlin said, the way she could go straight to the middle of something.

Of course Florian had been happy. His Super took him to bed and told him he was fine; sent him away in a heavy flux-state to deal with a Catlin fluxed as Catlin could get—her Super locking her out of the room and doing something emotional and mysterious with her partner.

So they wake up with
that
load on them.

Fool, Ari. Upset them twice over, for all the wrong reasons. Can I do anything right?

They ate breakfast. Pass the salt. More coffee, sera?—While her stomach stayed upset and she tried to think and look cheerful at the same time.

Then: "Florian," she said, finally. "Catlin."

Two perfectly attentive faces turned to her, open as flowers to light.

"About last night—we're really pretty young yet. Maybe it's good to get experience with each other, so we don't get fluxed too badly if we do it with other people, because it's a way people can Work you. But the last thing we need to do is start Working each other, not meaning to, even if it is fun, because it sure gets through your guard. It got through mine."

It was Catlin she was talking to, most. And Catlin said: "It does that." With her odd laugh, difficult to catch as her true smile. "You could use that."

"You sure could," she said finally, steadier than she had been. The flux diminished, steadily, now that she knew her way. "But it's hard for CITs.
I'm
having flux problems . . . nothing I can't handle. You'll have to get used to me being just a little
on
now and again; it doesn't last, it doesn't hurt me, it's part of sex with CITs, and I know I'm not supposed to discuss my psych problems with you—but now I'm onto it, I've got my balance. Nothing at all unnatural for a CIT. You know a little about it. I can tell you a lot more. I think maybe I should—use
me
for an example, to start with. You aren't used to flux—" Looking straight at Catlin. "Not real strong, anyway. You did fine when Florian got hurt. But that's something you knew about. This is all new, it feels good, and it's an Older thing. Like wine. If you feel uneasy about it, you tell Florian or you tell me, all right?"

"All right," Catlin said, wide-open and very serious. "But Florian's had tape about it already, so he's all right. If he doesn't get a
no
with me it's just something he's the specialist at, that's all. But I can learn it all right."

Trust Catlin. Ari paid earnest attention to her eggs, because Catlin was real good at reading her face, and she came near laughing.

Hormones were still crazy. But the brain was starting to fight back.

The brain has to win out, Ari senior had said. But the little gland at the base of the brain is the seat of a lot of the trouble. It's no accident they're so close together: God has a sense of humor.

"We're giving permission," Yanni said, "for Will to assimilate the routine.
I
think—and the board thought—he'd already done it to a certain extent, from the time it started working. With its touch with deep-set values, it's not at all surprising . . . and I agree with the board: it's cause for concern."

Justin looked at the edge of Yanni's desk. Unfocused. "I agree with that," he said finally.

"What do you think about it?"

He drew a breath, hauled himself back out of the mental shadows and looked at Yanni's face—-not his eyes. "I think the board's right. I didn't see it in that perspective."

"I mean—what's your view of the problem?"

"I don't know."

"For God's sake, wake
up,
son. Didn't think, don't know,
what in hell's
the matter with you?"

He shook his head. "Tired, Yanni. Just tired."

He waited for the explosion. Yanni leaned forward on his arms and gave a heavy sigh.

"Grant?"

Justin looked at the wall.

"I'm damn sorry," Yanni said. "Son, it's temporary. Look, you want a schedule? He'll get his permit. It's coming."

"Of course it is," he said softly. "Of course it is. Everything's always coming. I know the damn game. I've had it, Yanni. I'm through. I'm tired, Grant's tired. I know Jordan's getting tired." He was close to tears. He stopped talking and just stared, blind, at the wall and the corner where the shelves started. A Downer spirit-stick, set in a case. Yanni had some artistic sense. Or it was a gift from someone. He had wondered that before. He envied Yanni that piece.

"Son."

"Don't call me that!" He wrenched his eyes back to Yanni, breath choking him. "Don't—call me that. I don't want to hear that word."

Yanni stared at him a long time. Yanni could rip him apart. Yanni knew him well enough. And he had given Yanni all the keys, over the years. Given him a major one now, with his reaction.

Even that didn't matter.

"Morley's sent a commendation on your work with young Benjamin," Yanni said. "He says—says your arguments are very convincing. He's going to committee with it."

The Rubin baby. Not a baby now. Aged six—a thin, large-eyed and gentle boy with a lot of health problems and a profound attachment to young Ally Morley. And in some measure—his patient.

So Yanni started hitting him in the soft spots. Predictably. He was not going to come out of this office whole. He had known that when Yanni hauled him in.

He stared at the artifact in the case.

Non-human. A gentle people humans had no right to call primitive. And of course did. And threw them into protectorate.

"Son—Justin. I'm telling you it's a temporary delay. I told Grant that. Maybe six months. No more than that."

"If I—" He was cold for a moment, cold enough at least to talk without breaking down. "If I agreed to go into detention—if I agreed to cooperate with a deep probe—about everything that's ever gone on between myself and Jordan—would that be enough to get Grant his permit?"

Long silence. "I'm not going to give them that offer," Yanni said finally. "Dammit, no."

He shifted his eyes Yanni's way. "I haven't got anything to hide. There's
nothing there,
Yanni, not even a sinful thought—unless you're surprised I'd like to see Reseune Administration in hell. But I wouldn't move to send them there. I've got everything to lose. Too many people do."

"I've got something to lose," Yanni said. "I've got a young man who's not a Special only because Reseune wouldn't dare bring the bill up—wouldn't dare give you that protection."

"That's a piece of garbage."

"I gave you a chance. I've taken risks with you. I didn't say I thought Will's got a problem. I'm saying that testing your routines—may have to absorb Test subjects. By their very nature. Once they've run, it takes mindwipe to remove them. That doesn't mean they're not useful."

Defense Bureau.

Test programs with mindwipe between runs—

"Justin?"

"God. God. I try to help the azi—and I've created a monstrosity for Defense. My God, Yanni—"

"Calm down. Calm down. We're not talking about the Defense Bureau."

"It
will
be. Let them get wind of it—"

"A long way from Applications. Calm down."

It's my work. Without me—they can't. If something happened to me—they can't—not for a long while.

Oh, damn, all the papers, all my notes—

Grant. . . .

"Reseune doesn't give away its processes," Yanni said reasonably, rationally. "It's not in question."

"Reseune's in
bed
with Defense. They have been, ever since Giraud got the Council seat."

Ever since Ari died. Ever since her successors sold out—sold out everything she stood for.

God, I wish—wish she was still alive.

The kid—doesn't have a chance.

"Son, —I'm sorry, Justin. Habit. —Listen to me. I see your point. I can see it very clearly. It worries me too."

"Are we being taped, Yanni?"

Yanni bit his Up, and touched a button on his desk. "Now we're not."

"Where's the tape?"

"I'll take care of it."

"Where's the damn tape, Yanni?"

"Calm
down and listen to me. I'm willing to work with you. Blank credit slip. Let me ask you something. Your psych profile says suicide isn't likely. But answer me honestly: is it something you ever think about?"

"No." His heart jumped, painfully. It was a lie. And not. He thought about it then. And lacked whatever it took. Or had no reason sufficient, yet.
God, what does it take? Do I have to see the kids walking into the fire before I feel enough guilt? It's too late then. What kind of monster am I?

"Let me remind you—you'd kill Grant. And your father. Or worse—they'd live with it."

"Go to hell, Yanni."

"You think other researchers didn't ask those questions?"

"Carnath and Emory built Reseune! You think ethics ever bothered that pair?"

"You think ethics didn't bother Ari?"

"Sure. Like Gehenna."

"The colony lived. Lived, when every single CIT died. Emory's work, damned right. The azi survived."

"In squalor. In abominable conditions—like damned
primitives—"

"Through
squalor. Through catastrophes that peeled away every advantage they came with. The culture on that planet is an azi culture. And they're unique. You forget the human brain, Justin. Human ingenuity. The will to live. You can send an azi soldier into fire—but he's more apt than his CIT counterpart to turn to his sergeant and ask what the gain is. And the sergeant had better have an answer that makes sense to him. You should take a look at the military, Justin. You have a real phobia about that, pardon the eetee psych. They do deal with extreme stress situations. The military sets will walk into fire. But an azi who's too willing to do that is a liability and an azi who likes killing is worse. You take a look at reality before you panic. Look at our military workers down there. They're damned good. Damned polite, damned competent, damned impatient with foul-ups, damned easy to Super as long as they think you're qualified, and capable of relaxing when they're off, unlike some of our assembly-line over-achievers. Look at the reality before you start worrying. Look at the specific types."

"These are survivors too," Justin said. "The ones who outlived the War."

"Survival rate among azi is higher than CITs, fifteen something percent. I have no personal compunction about the azi. They're fine. They like themselves fine. Your work may have real bearing on CIT psych, in behavioral disorders. A lot of applications, if it bears out. We deal with humanity. And tools. You can kill a man with a laser. You can save a life with it. It doesn't mean we shouldn't have lasers. Or edged blades. Or hammers. Or whatever. But I'm damned glad we have lasers, or I'd be blind in my right eye. You understand what I'm saying?"

"Old stuff, Yanni."

"I mean, do you
understand
what I'm saying? Inside?"

"Yes." True. His instincts grabbed after all the old arguments like he was a baby going for a blanket. About as mature. About as capable of sorting out the truth. Damn. Hand a man a timeworn excuse and he went after it to get the pain to stop. Even knowing the one who handed it to him was a psych operator.

"Besides," Yanni said, "you're a man of principle. And humans don't stop learning things, just because they might be risky: if this insight of yours is correct you're only a few decades ahead of someone else finding it on his own. And who knows, that researcher might not have your principles—or your leverage."

"Leverage! I can't get my brother a visit with his father!"

"You can get a hell of a lot if you work it right."

"Oh,
dammit!
Are we down to sell-outs, now? Are we through doing morality today?"

"Your brother. Grant's a whole lot of things with you. Isn't he?"

"Go to hell!"

"Not related to you. I merely point out you do an interesting double value set there. You're muddy in a lot of sensitive areas—including a little tendency to suspect every success you have, a tendency to see yourself perpetually as a nexus defined by other people—Jordan's son, Grant's—brother, Administration's hostage. Less as a human being than as a focus of all these demands.
You
have importance, Justin, unto yourself. You're a man thirty—thirty-one years old. Time you asked yourself what Justin is."

"We
are
into eetee psych, aren't we?"

"I'm handing it out free today. You're not responsible for the universe. You're not responsible for a damn thing that flows from things you didn't have the capacity to control. Maybe you
are
responsible for finding out what you
could
control, if you wanted to, if you'd stop looking at other people's problems and start taking a look at your own capabilities—which, as I say, probably qualify you as a Special. Which also answers a lot of questions about why you
have
problems: lack of adequate boundaries.
Lack
of them, son. All the Specials have the problem. It's real hard to understand humanity when you keep attributing to everyone around you the complexity of your own thinking. You have quite a few very bright minds around you—enough to keep you convinced that's ordinary. Jordan's, particularly: he's got the age advantage, doesn't he, and you've always confused him with God. You think about it. You know all this with the Rubin kid. Apply it closer to home. Do us all a favor."

"Why don't you just explain what you want me to do? I'm real tired, Yanni. I give. You name it, I'll do it."

"Survive."

He blinked. Bit his lip.

"Going to break down on me?" Yanni asked.

The haze was gone. The tears were gone. He was only embarrassed, and mad enough to break Yanni's neck.

Yanni smiled at him. Smug as hell.

"I could kill you," Justin said.

"No, you couldn't," Yanni said. "It's not in your profile. You divert everything inward. You'll never quite cure that tendency. It's what makes you a lousy clinician and a damned good designer.
Grant
can survive the stress—if you don't put it on him. Hear me?"