The Peyti Crisis: A Retrieval Artist Novel: Book Five of the Anniversary Day Saga (Retrieval Artist series 12) (31 page)

“What?” Zhu asked, frowning. “The domes didn’t act? Are you talking about Anniversary Day?”

“Yes,” she said. “I am. It’s too soon to see what kind of excuses the authorities will have for the Peyti Crisis. Not catching these clones immediately, not realizing they were clones, I mean, Torkild, the responsibility—”

“The law states that an organization is only liable when a future event is both foreseeable and preventable,” Zhu said.

She looked at him. “Who
are
you?”

“Blame goes to the clones and whoever created them,” Zhu said. “Innocent people suffered. It was awful for everyone. But you can’t make the wrong people pay.”

“The city governments
are
responsible,” she said. “It’s their job to protect us.”

“And they did the best they could,” he said softly. “Berhane, you have to account for failure. Not everything can be successful.”

“Like you are,” she snapped. “You just want to be rich. You want to be at the top of your stupid game, whatever that means. You don’t care about other people’s lives.”

He let the words hang between them. She was breathing hard, as if spitting out those thoughts had cost her too much effort.

“Berhane,” he said softly. “If S-Three succeeds in its defense of these clones, it will improve millions of lives.”

“So that’s the lie you tell yourself,” she said. “That you’re doing this for the public good.”

“You’re telling me that some lives are worthwhile and others aren’t? The Peyti clones are individuals, Berhane. All normally raised clones are. They are the same as the originals, except under the law. How is that right?”

“They should die for what they did,” Berhane said, her face squinched up. He had never seen her like this.

“If they were Peyti,” he said, “they would receive the appropriate punishment. But they’re clones. They can be destroyed in their sleep.”

“So?” she asked.

“So, isn’t a long punishment better? Something that would give them time to reflect—”

“No,” she said. “I don’t care what happens to them. And neither should you, Torkild.”

He stared at her. Who was this woman? She used to say that he should have compassion for everyone, including the aliens whose cultures were so different that he couldn’t understand them. He had never thought of Berhane as bloodthirsty, certainly not as dismissive of the rights of others as she was being now.

“Berhane,” he said softly, “I care about the law.”

“At the expense of real people, Torkild,” she said. “Stop thinking about theory, and start thinking about lives damaged and lost. Start thinking about
repercussions
, for once, instead of yourself and how famous you’ll become. You won’t be famous doing this. You’ll be
in
famous. Do you know how awful that will be? Do you have any idea—”

“Awful?” he asked. “For me? Or for my former fiancé?”

“How dare you,” she said. “
I’m
doing good work, no thanks to you or my father, and you’re getting in the way. Both of you are. And you’re ruining lives. Just ruining them. Don’t you see that?”

Zhu took a deep breath. They could argue about this forever. He thought it no coincidence that she was comparing him to her father.

Zhu was treating her—he had
always
treated her—like her father had. Dismissive, difficult, emotional, as if she counted for nothing.

She had just been arm-candy for him, never an equal. And now she was demanding equality and he was giving it to her, but not in the way that she wanted.

He would never be what she wanted, and she would never be what he wanted. He understood that. In calmer moments, she probably knew it as well.

“Berhane,” he said.

“Don’t use that tone with me,” she snapped. So she did know, deep down, how fraught their relationship had been.

“Berhane,” he said again, not changing his tone. “You are doing good work.”

“You always talk to me—what?” She blinked at him, looking young and startled and vulnerable. “What did you just say?”

“You’re doing
great
work. Things that I never would have expected of anyone. You’re changing the Moon all by yourself,” he said. “You’re making the kind of difference that so many people say they want to make and never do. It’s wonderful.”

Her frown grew deeper. “But?”

He shook his head. “No ‘but.’ None. You’re amazing.”

She swallowed hard. He could see her bracing herself for whatever was going to come next.

“So join us,” she said after a moment.

“You know that wouldn’t work,” he said. “We’re fighting now. We’ve been together half an hour and we’re at each other’s throats. I’m not made to do the kind of work you do. I
like
theory. I don’t like individuals much. I’m really good at what I do. So are you.”

“And we’re on opposite sides,” she said quietly.

He shook his head. “Weirdly, we’re on the same side. We’re both trying to preserve our way of life here, and repair the damage that’s been done. Deep down, I don’t understand what you do or how you can do it. I know you don’t understand me.”

“And who you’re working for,” she said.

“I’m working for S-Three,” he said.

“Your clients,” she said. “I’m talking about your clients.”

“S-Three’s client is the Government of Peyla,” he said, and watched her eyes widen in surprise. “This Crisis is ruining their place in the Alliance. They need our help.”

“Why didn’t you say that?” she asked.

“Because,” he said. “The help begins by representing the clones. Then we work from there.”

“But they have lawyers, right? The Peyti Government?”

“No Peyti is being allowed on the Moon, and no Peyti lawyer has a job since the Crisis,” he said.

She made an odd grunting sound, kind of an agreement mixed with humph. “I’m supposed to care about that, aren’t I? I’m supposed to say that it’s a shame, and the Peyti aren’t all alike. But how do we know that, Torkild?”

“The same way we know that we’re nothing like the clones of PierLuigi Frémont,” he said.

“It’s not the same,” she said.

He resisted the urge to close his eyes against her words. It was exactly the same. And if she weren’t so locked into her position, she would see that.

“It’s time you leave, Berhane,” he said.

“And we’ll agree to disagree,” she said.

“No,” he said. “We’re not going to agree on anything. I don’t think we should see each other at all any more.”

Her gaze narrowed. “Why not?”

Because what we used to have in common was our self-absorption,
he thought.
And we’re changing. We’re not those people any more. But we’re still self-absorbed. I think my way is better. You think your way is better. We’re probably both wrong
.

“Because,” he said, “I’m not your fiancée any more. You have no ties to me. What I do is what I do, and what you do is what you do. Tell your so-called friends that. Tell them we broke up because I was a prick. I was, too, and I’m sorry about that. Tell them I can’t be influenced—and neither can you. Tell them S-Three will do what it does, and nothing will change that. Tell them to focus on their work, and not mine.”

“You don’t know these people,” she said. “You don’t—”

“I do know them,” he said. “Maybe not them as individuals, but I know their type. And I know who you and I are, Berhane. Let’s declare this relationship over once and for all.”

Her breath caught, then she nodded. His heart twisted.
This
was the break-up. The real one. And it wasn’t mean or dispirited. It was the kind that two people who had nothing in common except an initial attraction should have had in the first place.

He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “Good-bye Berhane,” he said, and walked away.

THIRTY-SIX

FLINT TRIED NOT to pace. He fidgeted on the soft blue couch in the waiting area, clenching and unclenching his fists. He’d tried every relaxation trick he knew except finding some relaxation program through his links.

He even counted his breaths, trying to focus, but he kept staring at the door on the far wall. The door was fake blond wood—at least, he assumed that it was fake. He couldn’t imagine that a group of therapists made enough money to afford a real wood door.

He had come to the Armstrong Comfort Center on the strength of Popova’s recommendation. He hated the place’s name, because he worried that it promised more than it could give. Plus, he wasn’t certain comfort was what Talia needed.

He had left her with Popova, without telling either of them where he was going. He knew the Security Office was safe. Popova would provide Talia with a sympathetic ear and maybe find something for her to do.

He hadn’t told Talia he was coming here. He knew that Popova had breached the subject with Talia before, and he had asked Popova to discuss it with her again. Not to tell Talia to get help, but just to let Talia know that strong women sought help now and then.

He couldn’t say it without sounding patronizing. Or worried. Or both.

That door bothered him. It upset all of his assumptions about therapists. He had thought they had marginal businesses in these days of constant links and modern medicine.

But the door belied that. He was beginning to believe it was made of real wood, because the waiting room itself was upscale. The longer he sat here, the more money he realized the place had.

Two original pieces of art—the actual painted kind, not the kind that rotated on a screen—hung on the wall beside that door. The two chairs across from him matched the blue couch, and looked equally comfortable. End tables beside them had actual lamps on them, with clear artistic bases.

This wasn’t the only waiting room either. The designation was waiting room five, which meant there were at least four others, so that clients wouldn’t share the space, maintaining that all-important confidentiality.

These therapists had come highly recommended—and not just from Popova. Flint had spent a late night searching, as well as talking to friends, and he couldn’t find anything untoward about the place. He believed that if there was something untoward, he had the skills to find it.

So he searched. He searched databases, court records, arrest records. He’d searched through the Armstrong Therapists Association’s complaints files, he’d searched the medical licensing boards records, and he’d found nothing bad.

Then he started searching for recommendations: people who felt they got help, organizations who had sent employees who also felt they got help, and discovered several groups that started here. Groups that focused on trauma recovery and daily survival.

Not to mention Popova’s transformation.

Flint hoped for that for Talia. He knew he couldn’t provide it.

But he had some concerns that he wasn’t sure how to address.

He didn’t know if Talia could discuss the fact that she was a clone in this place. Flint believed she needed to, because in addition to losing her mother and watching a group of people die at her school, she had lost herself.

She had believed herself to be an individual, with a birthdate, the only child of Rhonda Shindo, with a dad who had abandoned her. Instead, Talia had learned that she was one of many clones of a child who had died, and that her mother had raised her without ever telling Flint about her existence. And then there was her mother’s crimes…

The door opened. A tall man, with a pencil-thin mustache and matching eyebrows peered out. The eyebrows were darker than his chocolate brown hair, and Flint wondered if the man had enhancements for the facial hair.

“Mr. Flint,” the man said, hand extended as he stepped into the room. “I’m Evando Llewynn. I’m a coordinating therapist here at Armstrong Comfort Center.”

Flint took Llewynn’s hand. It was warm and dry, the perfect handshake. Maybe Llewynn had enhancements for everything. His face had a perfectly neutral expression, his hands were the perfect temperature, and his voice was modulated to the perfect depth and softness.

Flint felt himself calming, and he didn’t want to. He wondered if actively fighting the calmness was worthwhile. Then he realized how stupid that thought was, and had his links search for additives in the environmental system.

“I understand that you would like to bring your daughter here,” Llewynn said.

“I have questions first,” Flint said.

“Of course.” Llewynn seemed unconcerned about Flint’s questions. Most people in service industries would have wanted to know if Flint had looked at the data the business provided before coming in, so they would know where to start.

Llewynn didn’t ask, didn’t even seem to think of it. Instead, he led Flint through a corridor that seemed remarkably empty. The walls were bare, the carpets were just plush enough, and there were no doors.

At least, until they reached a small L in the corridor. There Llewynn stopped at a dark wood door. He opened it, and stepped inside, leading Flint into an office filled with more dark wood and cream carpets. The furniture was the same mixture of dark and cream, and looked incredibly inviting.