He had held up, absolutely no fractures, till his voice began to give out: the temper built, the nerves steadiedhe always did that, nervous as hell because politics gave him flashes, because that mind of his saw so many possibilities in everything, and sorted and collated over so wide a range he had trouble thinking of where he was and what was going on around him, but he had stalled off, found his equilibriumshe had recognized that little intake of breath, that set of the shoulders the instant she saw it on camera in the adjoining room, known that all of a sudden the committee was dealing with a Justin Warrick who was in that room, and starting onto the offensive.
Good, she had thought then, good. They think they can push him. He hasn't even been here till now. Now he is. He's too smart to go over to Corain. He'll never follow anyone's lead who's making mistakes: he's got far too much impatience with foul-ups and he said it while he was under kat: No one helped my father then. Not one of his damn friends. He has a lot of hostility about that.
They'll find out they're dealing with a Special, after he's made off with their keys and their cred-slipsdamn, he's good when he cuts loose; everything they say his father has, including the temperonce you get it going, once you get him to stop analyzing and move. He's still learning these people and he hates real-time work with a passion. Field-too-large. He's never learned to average and extemp the way I have: Justin wants exactitudes, and you don't get that in real-time and you don't get it in politics. The same precision that makes him so valuable in design, that's why his designs are so cleanthat's why he's so damn slow, and why he keeps putting embellishments on thempatches, for intersects he can see and the other designers, even Yanni, damned well can't
Someday, when we get back, out of this, we've got to talk about that. . . .
There's got to be a search-pattern he's using that isn't in program, even if he's got total recall on those sets
If he could explain it
I can almost see it. There's something in the signature of the designers themselvesa way of proceedinghe's comprehending on a conceptual level. But he's carrying it into CIT work
"They're sending a tray up," a strange voice said, and Justin, lying on the bed and almost gone, felt a jolt of panic: it should be Grant's voice; and it was not.
Kelly, the man's name was. Security. He passed a hand over his eyes, raked fingers through his hair and murmured an answer.
He was all right, he kept telling himself; he was safe. Kelly was on his side, there only to protect him.
He levered himself up off the bed, dizzy from fatigue, the down-side of the adrenaline high he had been on hour after hour. "I don't think I can eat."
"I have orders you should, ser," Kelly said, in a tone that said he would, bite by bite.
"Damn." A thought got to him. "I have a hospital appointment tomorrow. Rejuv. God." He thought of making the request through Kelly, but by his experience, nothing got done through lower levels. "Is Florian or Catlin still in the net?"
"Yes, ser."
"Tell them give me a call. Tell them I'm without my medication." He went into the bath and splashed water into his face and onto the back of his neck, worried now about Grant. He had no liking for taking medication from any random stock in Novgorod; he thought about Ari's elaborate security precautions around Grant and worried about the breach it could create, or whether there was any motive for anyone at Reseune to substitute drugs.
"Ser Justin?" Florian hailed him, from the wall-speaker. "This is Florian. Do you mean your prescription? We have that."
"Thanks. Have they made arrangements for Grant? He's on the same schedule."
"We thought of that. It's taken care of, ser. Do you need it tonight?"
"Thank you," he said, relieved. Trust Florian. No detail dropped. "No, I'm going to rest tonight, it sends me hyperGod knows I don't need it before bed." It also hurt like hell; and he was not looking forward to it. Could not go through tomorrow's hearings on pain-killer.
"Yes, ser. It's all right then. Have a good sleep."
"Endit," he said to the Minder. And heard the suite door open. His heart jumped.
Kelly, he told himself. Dinner was a little early. He toweled his face dry, hung the towel on the hook and walked out into the bedroom.
No Kelly.
Not like Security. "Minder," he said. "Minder, get Florian AF. Next door."
No sound.
"Minder, give me an answer."
Dead.
O my God.
"It's Abban, sera," the Minder said; and Ari levered herself out of the chair to manual the door herself, Florian and Catlin still being occupied about their checks in the bedroom.
"Sera!" Florian said sharply from behind her, and she stopped as he hurried to get the door himself. The Rule again. "I'll set supper out," he said quietly then, and with a little smile: "The shower's safe."
"I'm so glad." She started on her way, looked back as the door opened and Abban showed up with the catering staff.
As suddenly there was a pounding on the adjoining door from Justin's side. "Florian!" she heard him shout.
Then the whole wall blew outward, a sheet of bright fire, a percussion like a fist slamming against her; and she fell over a chair arm, complete tumble onto her knees and into the narrow wedge against the wall as flames shot up, as of a sudden a volley of gunshots exploded from her right, shells exploded to her left, and she stared in a split-second's horror, flinging up her arms as a flying body came at her, bore her over and cracked her head against the floor.
Second explosion, jolting the bones. "Sera!" Florian gasped into her ear, and she tried to move, cooperating by instinct as he tried to haul her along the floor behind the chair, with fire lighting the smoke and heat already painful. One more shot went off and exploded, and Florian fell on top of her, covering her with his body, protecting her head with his arms.
In a moment more there was a dreadful quiet, except the crackle of the fire that lit the lowering pall of smokethen a sudden scrape of the chair pulled away and flung tumbling. Florian moved. She saw Catlin's stark, grim face upside down above her in the orange light, felt Florian's knee bruise her leg and his hand press her shoulder as he tried to get up and they tried to get themselves sorted out: he hauled himself up and got an arm around her with Catlin on the other side, Florian stumbling and catching himself on the wall.
A solid wall of fire enveloped the open door, a tumult of voices outside Theirs or ours? Ari wondered desperately The fire enveloped bodies on the floor, half-exploded, unrecognizable except the black Security uniformswhere Abban had been standingand the heat burned her hands and her face
Who's the Enemy? What's waiting out there? What's first? Can you run through fire that thick? Is it burning in the hall?
She felt the hesitation in Florian and Catlin, only a second; then Florian breathed, to someone not present: "Florian to Security Twosomebody's turned off the fire-systems. Re-engage, system two. That's an incendiary. Acknowledge."
"They're answering," Catlin said.
"Who's they?" Ari said, and choked on the smoke. The fire blinded, burned them with the heat, worse by the moment. "Dammit to hell, where's the hand extinguishers?"
As suddenly the fire-systems cut on with a wail of sirens.
There was fire: Justin was aware of that first, of blistering heat that drove him to move before he was fully conscious, of smoke that stung his nose and his throat and his lungsdeadly as the fire and harder to evade. He clawed his way up over debris of shattered structural panels and hot metal, felt one cut his leg as he went over, lost his balance and wormed through underneath the massive bureau that had come down onto the end of the bedaway from the fire, that was all he could think of at the moment, until his vision cleared and he could see the hallward door through the smoke, beyond the ruin of ceiling and wall-panels piled on the furniture.