“Reseune asks why any Defense installation on Cyteen is in possession of such armament and what enemy they anticipate to exist on this planet. Reseune asks who authorized its import and storage. Reseune asks who targeted it at a sovereign Administrative Territory, where only Union civilians are present.
“Reseune calls on the Council Office of Inquiry to ask these questions where appropriate and to relay their findings to the Council of Nine and the Council of Worlds. The citizens of Reseune call on patriotic members of the Bureau of Defense to consider this event and act immediately to prevent another such attack on the constitution and the rights of the people of Union.
“We will interrupt tonight with bulletins only if necessary. Security doors will open at this point. Please proceed to your destinations and remain alert in the event we are not done with alarms. Thank you.”
Justin finished his drink, put a hand on Grant’s shoulder, and said, “Well, what do you want to do? Stay here, or go up?”
“I leave that to the wisdom of born‑men,” Grant said, and gave him a look that said he really wished he could. “Do you think there’ll be another?”
“No way to know. I think if they know where that came from, they’ll be watching. We’ll get an alert.”
“Well, I suppose it’s more comfortable upstairs,” Grant said.
So they went. So did the rest, except part of Ari’s staff, who might intend to keep the tunnel facilities active–in case.
Ari herself was over in Admin, now, Justin had no personal doubt, probably in ReseuneSec or up in Yanni’s office; and she’d put him in charge of Alpha Wing, a charge he took seriously. A little phone inquiry, once they’d gotten into their own apartment, proved Yvgenia Wojkowski was over in Admin, so was Patrick Emory. Sam Whitely was upriver, in his own hot spot, and Amy Carnath was in Novgorod, which was probably the worst place in the world to be at the moment. He checked on Stasi, Dan, and Will, who all returned com calls after the system had opened up again.
So he knew, at least, where all his Alpha Wing residents were. The Security office downstairs, where Mark and Gerry had gone, reported some members out on the grounds assessing damage and reporting to Ari, the rest accounted for as well.
So everybody was safe. Everybody he was remotely in charge of was accounted for; and those in charge of him were over in Admin, making contact with somebody, he hoped, who could at least have the decency to claim it was an accidental launch. A lie, at least, would be more welcome than a direct challenge.
Or maybe some fool had vastly exceeded orders.
Vid, coming from the news channels now, showed people, black figures, out by the impact site, under the streetlight. The bots were still scurrying around, probably held from intervening on the site until the investigation was done. A call over to hospital reached Ivanov himself, who said their patient was doing well and Hicks had opted to stay with him.
“A good idea,” Grant said. And made an executive decision and turned off the vid, which was only repeating, endlessly, all that it had.
Justin sat there a moment staring at the screen, just shaken. He wanted things to be right, and safe, and in good order. And dammit, the people in charge of the world weren’t acting sane, except Ari, except a handful of Councillors who were a long way from the halls of power down in Novgorod–sharing the shelters with Reseune’s citizens, was what, as helpless as the rest of them.
He took out his own com and called Jordan’s apartment, then, reaching a point of resolution to make up at least one point of discord in the world. It rang through, and Grant set a vodka under his hand. He took a sip of it, feeling at least a little calmer, hoping Jordan was. “Dad? Just checking on you. Are you all right over there?”
“Doing fine.” Jordan said. “I’m in the process of sending a letter to young sera’s office. I want it in writing. I’m clear. Absolved. I want it for the court. And I want my damned back pay.”
He didn’t know what he thought about the last. But he didn’t say so. Leave it to Jordan to think of that…but then…
“Well, good you’re all right, Dad. We’re back. We’re fine. ‘Night.”
“ ’Night,” Jordan said flatly, and Justin shut down the connection.
Dammit, he and Grant sat where they sat, knowing that if Defense had its way, Ari would be dead and God knew how long they’d live–but in Jordan’s way of thinking, Defense was only one among many obstacles to Jordan having his way, just one more annoying entity he’d dealt with in his life, one more power that didn’t give a damn for the rules.
So what if Defense fired a missile at them? Fine. It missed. Jordan wanted what he was due.
Maybe he was tired. Maybe it was just bone‑deep exhaustion hammering the last sense out of him, but after all their work over recent days, there ought to have been some sense of winning the round–getting Jordan vindicated–something.
He wished to hell Jordan had some soft, sentimental reaction in his soul, some sort of gratitude for being part of the team effort with Ari. Something he could take away with him tonight and feel good about.
But back pay, with a bloody great hole in the lawn, and no guarantee there wouldn’t be another hole in a significant building before morning, or the whole damned environmental envelope ruptured, AG in ruins, everything contaminated, as far as Reseune’s land ran?
Jordan was going to ask Ari for his back pay?
He had another sip of the vodka, he called Jordan back, and when Jordan answered, he said, “You’re welcome, Dad. On behalf of myself, and Grant, and Ari, you’re just fucking welcome.”
And hung up.
BOOK THREE Section 6 Chapter iii
AUG 28, 2424
0439H
Vid worked intermittently. It came on–it went off. They had audio, at times, Yanni and Frank did, when they didn’t have image on the vid; and they kept it constantly on, a low static hiss for hours of the night, their tie to the outside world.
There was a report of a broadcast that had reached some parts of the network–reports of a missile strike that had come in at Reseune. The Carnath girl had made a try at finding out, young Quentin had risked his neck, and more particularly, his lungs, trying to rig an antenna to get something in from some more distant station that wasn’t being interfered with, and they’d still learned nothing more than that.
A storm had come in, unmoderated by the towers–rain had lashed the windows for hours, and they’d lost their watchers for a while, which tempted one to make a move, but Yanni nixed it, on the part of any of their security.
It still spat rain, an outside sound which confused itself with static noise from the vid, but Yanni waked with the distinct impression the static had somehow become words, and then he was sure it had. He came out of the bedroom into the sitting room to a white flicker of visual static. In that light, Frank was sitting on the edge of the chair.
Yanni didn’t ask. He took an adjacent chair and listened. In fitful reception from somewhere, maybe even from the Science tower, it was Ari’s voice, saying they were unharmed, despite a missile strike designed to hit the reporters at the airport. “ They missed us,” she said, saying nothing about Reseune’s defenses. And then a reporter, Yanni was relatively certain, said they were all unharmed, and that Reseune had taken measures to protect them. She must be down at the airport.
At this hour of the night.
Static took over again. They had a few bandit stations that operated intermittently and from non‑fixed points in the crisis, this and that Bureau, maybe–God knew what. They didn’t use call signs.