But they were azi. They had no authority to go above their Supervisor. And as many times as he asked, the Supervisor never came.
It was a suicide cell he was in, padded walls and door, just a sink and the toilet and the sleeping mat. The light was always on. Food came in water-soluble wrappers little more substantial than toilet paper, without utensils. They had taken his clothes and given him only hospital pajamas, made of white paper. They had not questioned him any more. They had not spoken to him again. He did not know how much time had passed, and his sleeping was erratic with depression and lack of cues from lights or activity outside. And the tape-flashes, seductive and destructive. He refused to let the flashes take hold in the isolation. He refused it even when it would have been consolation.
Not me, he kept thinking, keeping himself awake, away from the dreams. Not my choice. I'm not hers. I won't think her thoughts.
Ari was holding him hostage, he thought. She was holding him and maybe Grant against some threat of Jordan's to go to the Bureau with charges. Maybe she had arrested Jordan too. Maybe Jordan could nothelp him. But in any case—the police would come. And they had not psychprobed him again; they could not psychprobe Jordan.
It was Grant who was vulnerable. She would use Grant against Jordan—and use him too. He had no doubt of it.
He hoped for the police to come. Internal Affairs. Science Bureau. Anyone.
He hoped that was the small commotion outside.
But he had hoped that—time after time.
Grant would have been waiting for him to come back; but instead it was security that would have come in on him, hauled him off for more questions—
He heard the electronic lock tick. The door opened.
"Ser Nye wants to talk to you," one of two azi said; both Security. "Please come."
He got up. His knees went to jelly. He walked out into the light, knowing it was another psychprobe session; but at least he would get a chance to say something to Giraud, at least he would have a chance for a half-dozen words before they put the drug into him.
That they just let him walk loose was the last thing he was prepared for. He felt himself dizzy, his knees aching and shaking so it was hard to navigate.
Tape-flash again. And Florian—
Down the hall to the barren little interview room he had seen before. He reached the open door and stopped, dazed and disoriented by the realization it was not Giraud Nye at the table. It was a stout round-faced man that for a bewildered second his mind insisted to make into Giraud's lean form.
Not Giraud.
DenysNye, rising from his chair with a distressed look.
"Where's Grant?" Justin demanded. "Where's my father? What's going on?" His voice gave way on him. His legs shook as he reached the narrow table and leaned on it in Denys' face. "I've got the right to talk to my family, dammit! I'm a minor! Remember?"
"Sit down," Denys said, fluttering a hand. "Sit. Please. —Get him something to drink."
"I don't want anything! I want to know—"
"Please," Denys said in his quiet, distressed way, and made a second appeal with his hand. "Please sit down. —Get him something. —Please, sit down."
Justin fell into the chair, feeling a crying jag coming on. He clamped his jaw and drew breaths until he had it under control; and Denys sank into his seat, folded his hands on the table in front of him and let him calm down while one of the azi brought back a soft drink and set it down on the table.
"What's in it?"
"Nothing. Nothing. Poor boy. Damn this all anyway. Have they told you about Ari?"
It was a strange thing to say. It made no sense. It fluttered like a cold chill through his nerves. "What aboutAri? Where's my father?"
"Ari's dead, Justin."
It was like the world jolted sideways. For a moment everything went out of focus. Then where he was came crashing in on him. Where he was and what they were doing and the silence all around him.
Dead. Like not-natural-dead. Like—
—the plane crashed?
—some crazy person—in Novgorod?
"Jordan found out what she was doing to you," Denys said in the gentlest voice Justin had ever heard him use, "and he killed her. Locked her into the cold-lab and killed her."
He just sat there a moment. It was not true. It was not true. Jordan had no idea what Ari had done. He had covered everything. And Ari was not dead.
Ari could not be—dead.
"Jordan admits it," Denys said in that quiet tone. "You know they can't do anything. Legally. The law can't touch him for—questioning, or anything like that. Not psychprobe. Certainly not mindwipe. Jordie's all right. He's safe. I promise you."
He was shaking. He picked up the cup and slopped it carrying the drink to his mouth. He slopped it again setting it down. The icy liquid soaked his knee. There was no sense to things. He could not get his mind to function. "What about Grant? I told him I was going to come back. I didn't come back—"
"Grant's still in hospital. He's safe. Jordan's been to see him. Jordan's flying to Novgorod this afternoon. They're working out an arrangement for him to leave Reseune."
"That's a damned lie!" They were starting to work psych games with him. He saw it coming. He flung himself up and came face to face with the two azi that moved to stop him. He froze. They froze.
"Boy. Justin. Please. Please, sit down. Listen to me."
"Ari's not dead!" he yelled at Denys. "It's a damned lie! What are you trying to do? What is shetrying to do?"
"Oh, God, boy, sit down. Listen to me. Your father won't have much time. Please. Damnthat brother of mine! So damned afraid of putting you in hospital— Look. Sit down."
He sat. There was nothing else to do. They could do anything they wanted to.
"Listen to me, Justin. Internal Affairs has been questioning Jordie; Jordie begged Giraud to keep you out of it. He didn't want the story out, do you understand? He didn't want them psychprobing you. Giraud just flat refused them permission. Jordie backed him on it. But my damn brother went off to the capital and kept the lid on, and they kept saying you were all right—" Denys drew a small breath, reached across and laid his hand on Justin's on the table. "You're not all right. Dammit, it wasn't like Giraud's was the first psychprobe you'd had in the last few weeks, is it?"
He jerked his hand from under Denys'. "Let me alone!"
"Do you want a sedative?"
"I don't want anything. I want out of here! I want to talk to my father!"
"No. You don't. Not in that tone of voice. Understand me? He's leaving. He won't be back."
He stared at Denys. Not be back—
"Council's drawn up a plan," Denys said, "to allow him a facility over in Planys. He won'tbe able to travel. He won't be able to call you—for quite a while. I don't want you to upset him, son. He's got to meet with a Council inquiry tomorrow. He's got to get through that in one piece. Are you understanding me? It's very important."
It was real. It had happened. He stared into Denys Nye's worried eyes with the feeling that the whole world was chaos, except it was going to sort itself out again in some terrible new shape no one he loved lived in.
"Do you want the sedative? No tricks, Justin. I promise you. Just enough to let you rest awhile before you talk with him."
He shivered. And controlled it. "No," he said. "Let me get dressed. Let me clean up."
"Absolutely." Denys patted his hand. "You can use the shower down the hall. I've told them to bring clothes for you."
He nodded.
"I'm going to have Petros have a look at you."
"No!"
"When you get through this. When you're satisfied everything's all right. No one's going to touch you. You've had enough of that. God knows. Are you getting tape-flashes?"