There was no surprise there, just a nod of agreement. Her security had likely monitored the whole conversation. On the whole, the business with Yanni had gone amazingly well.
Tonight–maybe it was the sheer relief of getting Yanni back, even if she had to bargain a bit of her soul for him–she finally felt as if she could get some sleep.
BOOK ONE Section 1 Chapter x
APRIL 25, 2424
1901H
Fancy restaurant. Columns of light and coherent fog with a rhythmic sea sound in the background, and a holographic beach shimmering in mirrors that reflected, by some optical trick, the diners but not the columns.
It was a place called Jamaica, Justin hadn’t been here before. And whatever stipend his father was on, it didn’t, he was relatively sure, provide for a place like this. Jordan had called up, after a silence of several days–had asked him and Grant to dinner in the apartment; he’d balked, not wanting a renewal of the argument.
He’d suggested a quiet dinner out. Jordan had said he’d call back. And did, with a reservation.
Here.
Jamaica lay on the main level of Admin–that should have warned Jordan about the cost. It lay a short walk from both Education and Wing One, an outdoor walk across the quadrangle or a protected one through the tunnels. Probably his father had seen the convenience–hadn’t likely seen the menu.
And the late hour? Because, Jordan had said, it was booked to the hilt at prime hours, which must mean the food was good.
It meant other things, too: that it was one of those Admin watering holes and Jordan was two decades out of touch with the changes in Admin. It had gotten pricier, to say the least. Jordan likely had no idea what he’d booked them into.
“Nice place,” Grant observed. “Are you sure he said Jamaica?”
“He’s not going to pay for this,” Justin said. “Make sure the bill comes to us, will you? I’ll keep on the lookout.”
Grant immediately took charge and inquired with the maitre d’ near the desk. There was quiet conversation, a nod, a credit chit passed, a little bow. The maitre d’ moved a little closer to where Justin stood and offered them immediate seating–Jordan hadn’t arrived yet–or a seat at the bar if they wanted to wait for their party; but in that same moment Jordan showed up with Paul, and claimed both them and the reservation.
Jordan looked quite professorial tonight in a tweed coat, quiet brown, a little academic for the milieu. Justin wore green, mild sheen, fashionable among the youngish set–which did fit in here. The maitre d’ escorted them to their table, saw them seated, and promised them a waiter named Edward.
“Well, and how are you?” Jordan asked, as they settled in at their table, two and two, serving assistants deftly maneuvering china, filling water glasses.
“Oh, fine,” Justin said, and the drink waiter showed up extraordinarily quickly for a place like this, crammed as it was with diners. It might be that someone had recognized Grant, whose red hair and vid star looks made him easy to ID. In Grant’s company, people he had never met knew him, in every corridor in Reseune.
But it was Jordan Warrick’s name on the reservation. So it was very possible it wasn’t Grant that had gotten the fast attention. Very possibly it was Reseune Security that had picked their table for them, and bugged it. Thatmight get the maitre d’s quick attention, too, not to have a foul‑up with security reach the ears of the other patrons.
Menus were set in their hands, bound in leather, quite the extravagance, while they eyed each other intermittently’ like fencers and didn’t quite succeed at small talk. There were no prices on the menu. Not one. And Jordan by now knew what they were into, but he hadn’t said a thing.
“Did you come across the quadrangle?” Paul asked.
Grant nodded. “Nice evening.”
“So did we.”
Jordan played the host, scanned the menu, inquired about appetizers, signaling they were going to go the whole route–they settled on the pвtй–and didn’t say a thing about his line of credit. He was animated, pleasant, cheerful, Jordan’s public face, the face Justin had wanted to engage for this first phase of peacemaking. Jordan’s card was going to bounce if the maitre d’ failed them. And that wouldn’thelp the peace. Justin could foresee the moment, the embarrassment. God, the bill had better come to him. Quietly. Tactfully.
He and Jordan could patch things up. They’d not fought, since he’d grown. They didn’t know each other, that was the sad truth. Twenty years of separation from Jordan was a significant time, even in rejuved lives. Jordan had dealt with him in the interim, corresponded with him–not lived in reach of him, that was the problem, and they had to learn about each other all over again. They’d been through the tentative, polite period. A few days ago they’d finally gotten down to honest opinions and somehow, expert as he was in psych, it had just slid inexorably downward.
Which it wouldn’t do here. Jordan knew how to play to a crowd. He wasn’t going to embarrass himself, even if he was likely to try another tag‑you’re‑it attack. It would be subtle, if it came, reserved…unless something really, really jolted him; and they weren’t going to mention the name Ari tonight–if Jordan did, he’d stop it cold. He’d stayed away from the past with Jordan these last weeks. He’d broken the rule, pulled the scab off old wounds in their last alcohol‑fueled debate, and maybe he had to go on avoiding the topic until Jordan did get his license and his security clearance back and had a few months of behaving himself.
Or maybe they never would be able to discuss that particular subject–Ari, and the night that had changed him. Terrible as the experience had been, long before the argument with Jordan, he’d come to wonder if the first Ari’s action hadn’t been a rescue. Jordan’s path wasn’t really what he wanted. He’d been set on being Jordan until that night. That night he’d become somebody else. He wasn’t sure who. But he’d become different.
Thank God. Or he’d have agreed with Jordan four nights ago and they’d all lose their licenses. This way–
“Ever eaten here?” Jordan asked him, over the menu.
“No,” Justin said. “Never have.” And the real question: “You haven’t?”
“Random choice. A yen for something different.” And still, typical Jordan, not a mention of the absent prices. He’d heard the night’s specials and not asked. He maintained a pleasant expression on his face–also pure Jordan. “Planys was a lot of the same thing.”
Play along: change the subject: keep it light. “Not many choices there, I’ll imagine.”
“Five. It got boring in the first month. There were actually six choices when I got there. Two of the restaurants consolidated. One changed the menu, oh, about five years on. The other one never did. One Greek, one Italian, one French, one Colonial, and one you couldn’t depend on. That was the excitement. That was our suspense, that fifth restaurant.”
It might be humor. Every piece of humor he’d heard from Jordan lately‑had had a bitter edge. But he dutifully laughed, trying to take it lighter. “Remember Illusions? It’s been through most of those choices. Now it’s New Era.”
“I’m afraid I’ve missed that delight, so far.”
“A lot of expensive spices. The real thing, I understand, imported. Some of them are pretty good. Some of them I’m not so sure about. But the steaks are consistently good.”
“We’ll have to try it. Anything new.”
“We can do that.” Justin meanwhile looked through the menu. “Angry Shrimp and Pell Bordeaux,” he said. Pell Bordeaux wasn’t going to be cheap. “Sounds interesting. I think I’ll do that.”
“Adventurous.” Jordan said, and added, darkly. “You must be rich.”
“Well, I secretly thought I’d treat my father.”
“I didn’t ask you here to soak my son for the tab.”
“Let me do it. It’s my pleasure.”
“They pay you pretty well for what you do.”
“I’ve been where you are. It ends. You’ll get back. All the way back. You’ll be treating me.” Fast change of subject. A cheerier one. “How’s it coming with the sets you did? Your own ones, that you were looking at–how they’ve developed over two, three decades? That’s got to be interesting.”