Except the two men showed up in the mirror, close behind him.
One moment he panicked. The next he thought: Hell, they're not Reseune Security,and turned around with a right elbow and all the strength he had—shocked as it connected, but still moving in the tape-taught sequence, full spin and a punch to the breastbone.
He stared a split-second at the result, one man flung backward against the corner, the other down— God,he thought, and then seeing the first man bracing to go for him, darted for the door and knocked it banging, went through the second the same way, and came out into a tunnel already beginning to fill with morning traffic.
What if I was wrong? That man could die. I may have killed someone.
Then: No. I read it right.
And: I haven't studied that tape since I was a kid. I didn't know I could do that.
He slowed to a fast walk, shaking in the knees and hurting in his shoulders and his back and knowing he was attracting attention with his unshaven face and his agitated manner: he tried to match the pace of the general traffic, put his hands in his pockets and tried to look more casual, all the while thinking that the men could be after him now with more than robbery in mind.
Damn, I'd have given them the keycard and wished them luck using it,let them lead the police on a chase—
God. No.Novgorod doesn't have a check-system. There's no tracking system, they refused to put it in.
He turned on one foot—his neck and shoulders were too stiff—caught his balance, looked back and moved on. He was not sure he could even recognize the men among the crowds—
More strangers than I've ever seen at once in my whole life—too many faces, too many people in clothes too much alike. . . .
People jostled him and cursed him: Damn z-case,a man said. He rubbed an unshaven chin and, since shutters were opening and shops were lighting up in this section of the tunnels, he found a pharmacy and bought a shaving kit; and a breakfast counter and bought a roll-up and a glass of synth orange. But the boy took an extra look at the keycard and made him nervous.
Justin Patrick Warrick,it said, CIT 976-088-2355PR,which was damning enough; but in faint outline behind that was the Infinite Man emblem of Reseune Administrative Territory.
"Reseune," the boy said, looking up, checking the picture, he thought—in case it was stolen. "Never seen one of those. You fromthere?"
"I—" He had not tried talking. His voice was hoarse and cracked. "I work in the city offices."
"Huh." The boy slid it into the register slot and handed it back with the cup and the roll on the lid. "You return the cup and lid we refund half." The number 3 was on both.
"Thanks." He went over to the counter, unlidded the drink, and took down the roll with huge gulps of the sugary, iced drink, no matter the rawness of his throat—uneasy on his stomach in the first few moments and then altogether equal to anything Changescould offer at twenty times the price. He leaned there a moment with his eyes watering, just breathing and letting his stomach get used to food.
Where in hell am I going? What am I going to do?
He wiped his blurring eyes, went back to the counter with the cup and the lid, among other customers, delayed a moment until they were served. "Where can you get the news?"
"They got a board down to the subway."
"Where?"
"Straight on, to your Wilfred tunnel, go right. —You been up to that fire at the Riverside?"
"Up all night with it," he said. "You hear anything—who did it, why?"
The boy shook his head, and served another patron. Justin waited.
"Emory was on vid this morning," the boy said; and Justin's heart skipped. "Madder'n hell."
"Emory's all right?"
"Shewas, yey." The boy broke off to take a card and pour a drink. "You fromReseune?"
Justin nodded. "Can I use a phone? Please."
"I can't do that." Another customer. The boy yelled, pointing past the woman: "Down to the corner, public phone."
"Thanks!"
He went, walking fast, with the traffic, in the direction the boy had said, passing some casual walkers. Call the Bureau. Ask for protection. Theycan't think I'm responsible. They can't blame anyone but Reseune Security—
Abban, the head of it—
He saw the sign that said Phone,and kept his keycard in his hand. He knew the Bureau number: he had had it memorized for years—but he had never used a phone outside Reseune, and he picked up the receiver, reading instructions: Lift receiver, insert card, key in or touch 0 and voicein. ...
"Ser."
He turned and saw a gray uniform, a tall, heavy-set body.
Novgorod police.
He dropped the receiver and hit the officer a glancing blow getting past him; and ran, desperately, through the crowds.
But his keycard, he realized to his horror, dodging past a group of workers and down a side tunnel—his keycard was still in the phone-slot.
xi
". . . My own Security was remiss at best," Ari said, in what of a voice she had left, sitting at the table in the conference room where Justin had sat. "Reseune will be conducting an internal investigation. I will tell you this, seri, —" Her voice cracked, and she took a drink of water. She had gotten her clothes changed, her hair pinned up—Catlin and Florian had helped; and she had the shakes—even if they had gotten her a cup of coffee and a liquid breakfast, which was all she could stand on her smoke-irritated throat. "I'm sorry. The voice isn't much. —I was about to say: I'm functioning as temporary head of Reseune Security; I'm ordering transfers; I'm posting and making assignments. I'm prepared to continue in that post at least administratively if Family council confirms it, though I'm quite aware my age and experience in Security are at issue: my view of my position is as someone qualified to assess the individuals in charge of operations and to make sure communications go through. I feel—to put this delicately—that my uncle's death has left some disarray in the department; the death of the acting head in the fire—is extremely unfortunate."
"Do you feel," Lynch asked, "that there is a chance the attempt was entirely internal?"
She drew a breath and took another drink of water. "Yes. I don't discount that possibility. Reseune is in transition. Dr. Nye—my surviving uncle—is very much affected by his brother's death. There are questions about his own health. But there are certainly experienced administrators who can deal with the problems if Reseune's own council should give them that mandate."
"In short, you feel Reseune can handle the problems."
"I have no doubt."
"Internally," Dr. Wells said, Corain's voice in Science. "But there is, pardon me, sera Emory, some question in my mind, regarding Dr. Warrick's disappearance. You say he was lodged in the room next to yours—but you know he cleared that area."
"Yes."
"Do you consider there's a chance he ran?"