Someone came down the hall and came in, quietly. He looked up as Catlin came in, so much calmer than he—always calm, no matter what the crisis, and even now—
He got up and put his arms around her, held her the way they had slept together for so many years he had lost count, the good times and the terrible ones.
He rested his head against her shoulder. Felt her arms about him. It was something, in so much void. "I saw her," he said; but it was a memory he could not bear. "Cat, what do we do?"
"We're here. That's all we can do. There's no place else to be."
"I want the tape. It hurts so much, Cat. I want it to stop."
She took his face between her hands and looked in his eyes. Hers were blue and pale, like no one else's he knew. There was always sober sense in Cat. For a moment she frightened him, that stare was so bleak, as if there was no hope at all.
"It'll stop," she said, and held him tight. "It'll stop, Florian. It'll go. Were you waiting for me? Let's go in. Let's go to sleep, all right? And it won't hurt anymore."
Steps came up to the door, but people went back and forth every few minutes, and Justin had shouted himself hoarse, had sat down against the cold concrete wall and tucked himself up in a knot until he heard the door unlocked.
Then he tried for his feet, staggered his way up against the wall and kept his balance as two security guards came in after him.
He did not fight them. He did not say a word until they brought him back to a room with a desk.
With Giraud Nye behind it.
"Giraud," he said hoarsely, and sank down into the available round-backed chair. "For God's sake—what's going on? What do they think they're doing?"
"You're an accused accessory to a crime," Giraud said. "That's what's going on. Reseune law. You can make a statement now, of your own will. You know you're subject to Administrative rules. You know you're subject to psychprobe. I'd truly advise you be forthcoming."
Time slowed. Thoughts went racing in every direction, sudden disbelief that this could be happening, surety that it was, that it was his fault, that his father was involved because of him— Psychprobe would turn up everything. Everything. Jordan was going to find out. They would tell him.
He wished he were dead.
"Ari was blackmailing me," he said. It was hard to coordinate speech with the world going so slow and things inside him going so fast. It went on forever, just hanging there in silence. Mention Jordan and why Grant had to leave? Can they find that? How far can I lie?"She said Grant could go, if I did what she wanted."
"You didn't know about Kruger's link to Rocher."
"No!" That was easy. Words tumbled one onto the other. "Kruger was just supposed to get him away safe because Ari was threatening to hurt him if I—if I didn't—she—" He was going to be sick. Tape-flash poured in on him, and he leaned back as much as his arms let him and tried to ease the knot in his stomach. "When Grant didn't get to the city I went to her myself. I asked for her help."
"What did she say?"
"She called me a fool. She told me about Rocher. I didn't know."
"All that. You didn't go to your father."
"I couldn't. He didn't know about it. He'd—"
"What would he do?"
"I don't know. I don't know what he'd have done. I did everything. He didn't have anything to do with it."
"With stealing Grant, you mean."
"With anything. With Kruger. Rocher. Anybody."
"And Ari was going to let this happen."
It did not sound reasonable. Trap, he thought. She let it happen. Maybe she hoped he'd get through. Maybe—
—maybe some other reason. She was mad about it. She was—
But you never know with Ari. She plays reactions like most people use a keyboard.
"I think we'll ask the rest of the questions under probe. Unless you have anything else you want to tell me."
"Who's going to do it?" There were technicians and there were technicians, and it made a difference who he was going to be spilling his guts to. "Giraud, if I go on record, Ari's not going to like it. Does she know where I am? Does she know—" God, is this some politics between Ari and Giraud, has he snatched me up to get something on her?"I want to talk to Ari. I'm supposed to meet with her. She's going to be asking where I am. If she doesn't hear from me she's going to start—" — start after Jordan, maybe do something even she can't undo. They're going to tell him. Giraud will tell him. Maybe Administration wants something on Jordan, maybe this is some team action Ari and Giraud are running, her on me and Giraud on Jordan. O God, O God! what have I walked into?"—Start asking where I am. Hear me?"
"I don't think so. And I'm going to be asking the questions myself. You want to walk down to the room or are you going to make trouble about it? It'll go worse if you fight it, in all senses. You understand that. I just want to make sure you remember it."
"I'll walk."
"Fine." Giraud got up, and Justin sat forward and got up on shaking legs. He was halfway numb with cold, and the thoughts that had tumbled one onto the other lost all variety, became just a circle without escape.
He walked out the door Giraud opened for him, walked ahead of Giraud and the waiting guards, down the hall to a place he had heard about all his life, a room very like the rooms over at the hospital, in that wing where azi came for tape-adjustment, green walls, a plain couch. There was a camera-rig in the corner.
"Shirt," Giraud said.
He knew what they wanted. He peeled it off and laid it on the counter. He sat down on the couch and took the shot one of the azi had ready for him, tried to help them attach the sensors, because he always did his own, with tape; but his coordination was shot. He let himself back in the hands that reached to help him, felt them lift his legs up onto the couch. He felt them working with the patches. He shut his eyes. He wanted to tell Giraud to send the azi out, because what he had to say involved Ari, and the azi who heard that—would be in for selective wipe, there was no else about it.
Giraud asked him questions, gently, professionally. He was aware of the first ones. But that slipped. He could have been in the hands of one of the techs, but Giraud was the best interrogator he could have hoped for—quiet and not given to leaving an emotional load behind him. Professional, that was all. And if Giraud was checking the truth, Giraud was at least trying to find out what it was.
Giraud told him so. And under the drug it was true.
Giraud would not be shocked at what Ari had done. He had lived too long and seen too much. Giraud was truly sorry for him, and believed everything he said. A young boy of his qualifications, in Ari's vicinity—he had to understand this was not the first time. That Ari would try to work leverage on his father, of course. Who could doubt it? Jordan had surely known.
No, he argued, with a flash of white ceiling and bright light: he came that far to the surface. He remembered Giraud touching his shoulder.
You really took care not to have your father know. Of course. What do you suppose he would do if he found out?
Go to the Bureau.
Ah.
But he didn't know.
You can sleep now. You'll wake up rested. You can let go. You won't fall.Something was still wrong. He tried to lay hold of it. But it slid sideways, out of his vision.
"I don't think there's much doubt," Giraud said, looking at Jordan from across his desk. At forty-six, Jordan was far too athletic, far too capable physically to take a chance with; and they were careful, for other reasons, not to put a bruise on him. The restraints they used were webbing: no psychprobe, to be sure: Jordan Warrick was a Special, a national treasure. Not even the Bureau of Internal Affairs could do anything that might damage him, in any sense.