SOREN BERDICHEV waited at the security checkpoint, straight backed and severe, his bodyguards to either side of him, and thought of his wife. It was more than a month now since her death, but he had still not recovered from it. The doctors had found nothing wrong with her in their autopsy report, but that meant little. They had killed her. The Seven. He didn't know how, but there was no other explanation. A healthy woman like Ylva didn't just die like that. Her heart had been strong. She had been fit—in her middle-aged prime. There was no reason for her heart to fail.
As they passed him through he found himself going over the same ground again, no nearer than before to finding a solution. Had it been someone near to her—someone he trusted? And how had they managed it? A fast-acting drug that left no trace? Some physical means? He was no nearer now than he had been in that dreadful moment when he had discovered her. And the pain of her absence gnawed at him. He hadn't known how much he was going to miss her until she was gone. He had thought he could live without her . . .
The corridor ended at a second security door. It opened as he approached it and a dark-haired man with a goatee beard stood there, his hand out in welcome.
Berdichev ignored the offered hand and waited while one of his guards went through. A team of his men had checked the place out only hours before, but he was taking no chances. Administrator Jouanne had been killed only a week ago and things were heating up daily. The guard returned a moment later and gave the all-clear signal. Only then did he go inside.
The official turned and followed Berdichev into the center of the room. "The boy is upstairs, sir. The Builder is with him, to make introductions. Otherwise—"
Berdichev turned and cut the man off in midsentence. "Bring me the Architect. I want to talk to him before I see the boy."
The official bowed and turned away.
While he waited, he looked about him, noting the spartan austerity of the place. Employees were standing about awkwardly. He could sense the intensity of their curiosity about him, though when he looked at them they would hasten to avert their eyes. It was common knowledge that he was one of the chief opponents of the Seven, that his wife had died, that he himself was in constant danger. There was a dark glamour to all this and he recognized it. But today his mood was sour. Perhaps seeing the boy would shake him from its grip.
The official returned with the Architect in tow. Berdichev waved the official away, then took the Architect by the arm and led him across the room, away from the others. For a moment he studied the man. Then, leaning forward, he spoke, his voice low but clear.
"How stable is the new mental configuration? How reliable?"
The Architect looked down, considering. "We think it's firm. But it's hard to tell as yet. There's the possibility that he'll revert. Only a slender chance, but one that must be recognized."
Berdichev nodded, at one and the same time satisfied with the man's honesty and disappointed that there was yet this area of doubt.
"But taking this possibility into consideration, is it possible to—" He pursed his lips momentarily, then said it: "to use the boy?"
"Use him?" The Architect stared at him. "How do you mean?"
"Harness his talents. Use his unique abilities. Use him." Berdichev shrugged. He didn't want to be too specific.
The Architect seemed to understand. He smiled bleakly and shook his head. "Impossible. You'd destroy him if you used him now." There was a deliberate, meaningful emphasis on the word.
"How soon, then?"
"You don't understand. With respect, STiih Berdichev, this is only the beginning of the process. We reconstruct the house, but it has to be lived in for some time before we can discover its faults and flaws. It'll be years before we know that the treatment has worked properly."
"Then why did you contact me?"
Berdichev frowned. He felt suddenly that he had been brought here under false pretenses. When he'd received the news he had seen at once how the boy might be used. He had planned to take the boy with him, back into the Clay. And there he would have honed him; made him the perfect weapon against the Seven. The means of destroying them. The very cutting edge of knowledge.
The Architect was explaining things, but Berdichev was barely listening. He interrupted. "Show me the boy. I want to see the boy."
The Architect nodded and led him through, the bodyguards following some four paces behind.
"WeVe moved him in the last few days. His new quarters are more spacious, better equipped. Once he's settled in we'll begin the next stage of the treatment."
Berdichev glanced at the psychiatrist. "The next stage?"
"Yes. He needs to be resocialized. Taught basic social skills. At present he has very few defenses. He's vulnerable. Highly sensitive. A kind of hothouse plant. But he needs to be hardened up, desensitized, if he's to survive up-levels."
Berdichev slowed and then stopped. "You mean the whole socialization program has to be gone through from scratch?"
The Architect hesitated. "Not exactly. But . . . well, near enough. You see, it's a different process here. A slow widening of his circle of contacts. And no chance of him mixing outside this unit until we're certain he can fit in. It'll take three years, maybe longer."
"Three years?"
The Architect looked down. "At least."
Berdichev stared at the man, but he hardly saw him. He was thinking of how much things would have changed in three years. On top of all else this was a real disappointment.
"And there's no way of hastening this process?"
"None we can guarantee."
He stood there, calculating. Was it worth risking the boy on a chance? He had gambled once and—if these men were right— had won. But did he want to risk what had been achieved?
For a moment longer he hesitated, then he signaled to the Architect to move on again. He would see for himself—see how the boy was—and then decide.
BERDICHEV SAT on a chair in the middle of the room; the boy stood in front of him, no more than an arm's length away. The child seemed calm and answered his questions without hesitating, without once glancing toward the Builder, who sat away to the side of him. His eyes met Berdichev's without fear. As though he had no real conception of fear.
He was not so much like his father. Berdichev studied the boy a long time, looking for that resemblance he had seen so clearly—so shockingly—that first time. But there was little sign of Edmund Wyatt in him now—and certainly no indication of the child he might have been. The diet of the Clay had long ago distorted the potential of the genes, refashioning his physical frame in a manner analogous to the way they had shaped his mind, here in this place. He seemed subdued, quiet. There was little movement of his head, his hands, no sign of restlessness. Yet beyond what was seen—behind the surfaces presented to the eye—was a sense of great intensity. The same could be said of his eyes. They, too, were calm, reflective; yet at the back of them was a darkness that was profound, impenetrable. It was like staring into a mirror and finding the vast emptiness of space there behind the familiar, reflected image.
Now that he faced the boy he could see what the Architect had meant. The child was totally vulnerable. He had been reconstructed without defenses. Like Adam, innocent, he stood there, facing, if not his Creator, then, in his new shape, his Instigator. The boy knew nothing of that, of course. Nor did he understand the significance of this encounter. But Berdichev, studying him, came to his decision. He would leave well enough alone. Would let them shape the boy further. And then, in three, maybe four years' time, would come back for him. That was, if either he or the boy was still alive in four years' time.
THE CAMERA TURNED, following Berdichev's tall, aristocratic figure as it left the room, looking for signs of the man it had heard about. For the machine, Outside was a mosaic formed from the broken shards of rumor. In its isolation it had no knowledge of the City and its ways other than that which it overheard, fitting these imperfect glimpses into an ever-widening picture. When the guards talked, it listened, sifting and sorting what they said, formulating its own version of events. And when something happened in that bigger world beyond itself, it would watch the ripples spread, and form its own opinion.