An arriving ambulance jumped a curb, and Justin reeled back, stumbled and recovered himself in the dark, in the chaos of lights and firefighting equipment, announcements over loud-hailers, guests in night-robes and pajamas huddled together in the street outside and onto the gravel garden area. Firelight spread through smoke, smoke hazed the emergency lights and the floods around the entrance and down the drive.
He was on the street then. He did not know how he had gotten there, or where the hotel was. He was wobbling on his feet and he found a bench to sit on, in the dark. He dropped his head into his hands and felt clammy sweat despite the night chill.
He was blank for a time more. He was walking again, confronted with a dead end in the space between two buildings, and a stairway down. Pedway,the sign said.
Find a phone,he thought. Get help. I'm lost.
And then he thought: I'm not thinking clearly. God, what if—
It was someone on staff. Security had checked it.
Abban—had checked it.
Was it aimed at me? Was I the only one?
Ari—
He stumbled on the steps, caught himself on the rail, and made it to the bottom, to security doors that gave way to his approach, to a lighted tunnel that stretched on in eerie vacancy.
"Uncle Denys," Ari said; and of a sudden the load seemed too much— Uncle Denys,the way she had said in the hospital when she had broken her arm, when they had handed her the phone and she had had to tell Denys she had been a fool. Not a fool this time, she told herself that; lucky to be alive. But the report was nothing to be proud of either. "Uncle Denys, I'm all right. So are Florian and Catlin."
"Thank God for that. They're saying you were killed, you understand that?"
"I'm pretty much alive. A few scratches and some burns. But Abban's dead. Five others. In the fire." There was a limit to what they could say on the net, via the remotes Florian had set up with the mobile system. "I'm taking command of Security here myself. I'm issuing orders through the net. Security is compromised as hell, understand me. Someone got inside." Her hand started to shake. She bit her lip and drew in a large breath. "There've been two other bombings tonight—Paxers blew up some track in center city, they're claiming the attack on the hotel, and they're threatening worse; I'm in contact with the Novgorod police and all our systems—"
"Understood,"Denys said, before she had to say more than she wanted. "I'm relieved. We've got that on the net. God, Ari, what a mess!"
"Don't be surprised by much of anything. It's all right, understand. Bureau Enforcement is moving on the hotel situation. Watch the net."
"Understood. Absolutely. We'd better cut this off. I'll up your priorities, effective immediately. Thank God you're safe."
"I plan to stay that way," she said. "Take care of yourself. All right?"
"You take care,"Denys said. "Please."
She broke the contact, passed the handset back to Florian.
"We have confirmation," he said. "The plane has left the ground at Planys. They expect touchdown about 1450 tomorrow."
"Good," she said. "Good." From the fragile amount of control she had.
"Councillor Harad is waiting on-line; so is Councillor Corain. They've asked about your safety."
Strange bedfellows,she thought. But of course they would—Harad because he was an ally; Corain because, whatever he feared from her, he had more to fear from the Paxers, the radicals in his own spectrum; and the radicals in Defense.
"I'll talk to them. Have we got reporters down there?"
"Plenty."
"I'll talk to them."
"Sera, you're in shock."
"That's several of us, isn't it? Damn, get me a mirror and some makeup. We're in a war, hear me?"
The mirror in the ped-tunnel restroom showed a soot-streaked face that for a heartbeat Justin hardly knew for his own. His hands and arms were enough to raise question, the smell of smoke about his clothing, he had thought; and now he turned on the water full, took a handful of soap and started washing, wincing at bruises and burns.
The dark blue sweater and pants showed soot, but water and rubbing at least got the worst off and ground the rest in. He went through an entire stock of soap packets and dried his hair and his shoulders under the blowers, looked up again and saw a face shockingly pale. He was starting to need a shave. His sweater was burned and snagged, he had a tear above the knee and a gash I where the tear was. Anyone who saw him, he thought, would report him to the police.
And that would catch him up in Cyteen law.
He leaned against the sink and wiped cold water across his face, clamping his jaws against a sick feeling that had been with him since he had come to. Thoughts started trying to insinuate themselves up to a conscious, emotional leveclass="underline" It was Ari's wall; whoever did this was staff—whoever did this—
Abban. Giraud's orders. But I'm only the incidental target. If she's dead—The thought was incredible to him. Shattering. Ariane Emory had years to live. Ariane Emory had a century yet, was part of the world, part of his thinking, was—like air and gravity—there.
— someone else is in charge, someone else—wanting—someone to blame. Paxers. Jordan.
Amy Carnath waiting in the apartment, with Grant, with Security—if Ari's dead—what can anyone do—
They've got Jordan, got Grant—I'm the only one still free—the only one who can make them trouble—
Something was wrong. Grant heard the Minder-call in the other bedroom—they had given him Justin's, which was his own as well, out of courtesy, he thought, as the larger room, or perhaps because they had known. Florian had re-set the Minder to respond to Amy Carnath, so nothing of what it was saying got to him, but he reckoned that it was not minor if it wakened young sera in the small hours of the night. After that he heard both Amy and Quentin stirring about and talking together in voices he could not quite hear with his ear to the door.
He slammed the door with his open palm. "Young sera, is something wrong?"
No answer. "Young sera? Please?"
Damn.
He went back to the large and unaccustomedly empty bed, lay staring at the ceiling with the lights on and tried to tell himself it was nothing.
But finally sera Amy came on the Minder to say: "Grant, are you awake?"
"Yes, sera."
"There's been an incident in Novgorod. Someone bombed the hotel. Ari's all right. She's coming on vid. Do you want to come to the living room?"
"Yes, sera." He did not panic. He got up, got his robe, and went to the door, which Quentin opened for him. "Thank you," he said, and walked ahead of Quentin as far as his own living room, where Amy was sitting on the couch.
He took the other side of the U, Quentin took the middle, between him and Amy; and he sat with his arms folded against too much chill, watching the images of emergency vehicles, smoke billowing from breached seals on the hotel's top two floors.
"Were people killed?" he asked quietly, refusing to panic. Sera Amy was not cruel. She would not bring him out here to psych him: he believed that, but it was a thin thread.
"Five of Security," Amy said. "They say the Paxers got a bomb in. They aren't saying how. I don't know any more than that. We're not supposed to do things on the phones that give away where people are or what's going on or when they're going to be places. That's the Rule."