The reports came in and Giraud Nye gnawed his stylus and stared at the monitor with stomach-churning tension.
The news-services reported the kidnapping of a Reseune azi by radical elements, reported a joint police-Reseune Security raid on a remote precip station on the heights above Big Blue, with explicit and ugly interior scenes from the police cameras—the azi, spattered with the blood of his captors, being rescued and bundled aboard a police transport. It had taken something, for sharpshooters in outback gear to hike in, break into the garage via a side door, and make a flying attack up the stairs. One officer wounded. Three radical Abolitionists killed, in full view of the cameras. Good coverage and bodies accounted for, which left no way for Ianni Merino and the Abolition Centrists to raise a howl and convoke Council: publicly, Merino was distancing himself as far and as fast as he could from the incident. Rocher was deluging the Ministry of Information with demands for coverage for a press conference: he got nothing. Which meant that the police would be watching Rocher very carefully—the last time Rocher got blacked out, someone had unfurled a huge Full Abolition banner in the Novgorod subway and sabotaged the rails, snarling traffic in a jam the news-services could not easily ignore.
God knew it had not won Rocher the gratitude of commuters. But he had his sympathizers, and a little display of power meant recruits.
About time, he thought, to do something about Rocher and de Forte. Thus far they had been a convenient embarrassment to Corain and to Merino, discrediting the Centrists. Now Rocher had crossed the line and become a nuisance.
Convenient if the damage to Grant had been extreme. A before-and-after clip given to the news-services would show the Abolitionists up for the hounds they were. Honest citizens never saw a mindwipe in progress. Or botched. Convenient if they could take the azi down for extreme retraining—or take him down altogether. God knew he was Alpha, and a Warrick product, and God knew what Rocher's tapes had done: he had rather be safe; he had told Ari as much.
Absolutely not, Ari had said. What are you thinking of? In the first place, he's a lever. In the second, he's a witness against Rocher. Don't touch him.
Lever with whom, Giraud thought sourly. Ari was holding night-sessions with young Justin, and Ari was, between driving Jane Strassen to ulcers over the refitting of Lab One and the relocation of eight research students, so damned wrapped up in her obsession with the Rubin project that nobody got time with her except her azi and Justin Warrick.
Got herself a major triste. Lost youth and all of that.
Goes off and leaves me to mop up the mess in Novgorod. 'Don't touch Merild or Krugers. We don't want to drive the enemy underground. Cut a deal with Corain. That's not hard, is it?'
The hell.
The phone rang. It was Warrick. Senior. Demanding Grant's release to his custody.
"That's not my decision, Jordie."
"Dammit, it doesn't seem to be anybody's, does it? I want that boy out of there."
"Look, Jordie—"
"I don't care whose fault it isn't."
"Jordie, you're damn lucky no one's prosecuting that kid of yours. It's his damn fault this came down, don't yell at me—"
"Petros says you're the one has to authorize a release."
"That's a medical matter. I don't interfere in medical decisions. If you care about that boy, I'd suggest you let Petros do his job and stay—"
"He passed the mess to you, Gerry. So did Denys. We're not talking about a damn records problem. We're talking about a scared kid, Gerry."
"Another week—"
"The hell with another week. You can start by giving me a security clearance over there, and get Petros to return my calls."
"Your son is over there right now. He's got absolute clearance, God knows why. He'll take care of him."
There was silence on the other end.
"Look, Jordie, they say about another week. Two at most."
"Justin's got clearance."
"He's with him right now. It's all right. I'm telling you it's all right. They've stopped the sedation. Justin's got visiting privileges, I've got it right here on my sheet, all right?"
"I want him out."
"That's real fine. Look, I'll talk to Petros. Is that all right? In the meantime your kid's with Grant, probably the best medicine he could get. Give me a few hours. I'll get you the med reports. Will that satisfy you?"
"I'll be back to you."
"Fine, I'll be here."
"Thanks," came the mutter from the other end.
"Sure," Giraud muttered; and when the contact broke: "Damn hothead." He went back to the draft of the points he meant to make with Corain, interrupted himself to key a query to Ivanov's office, quick request for med records on Grant to Jordan Warrick's office. And added, on a second thought, because he did not know what might be in those records, or what Ari had ordered: SCP, security considerations permitting.