Part 10 (2/2)

But the card had turned up with the stack of clothing and towels the man laid on the chair by the door. The man told him to shower, that a plane had landed and a car was coming for him.

Grant had hurried, then, rolled out of bed, still dazed and blurry-eyed, and staggered his way to the bathroom, rubbed his face with cold water and looked in the mirror, at eyes that wanted sleep and auburn hair standing up in spikes.

G.o.d. He wanted desperately to make a good impression, look sane and sensible and not, not what Reseune might well report to them-an Alpha gone schiz and possibly dangerous.

He could end up back in Reseune if they thought that. They would not even bother with the police; and Ari might have tried some such move. Justin would have answered to Ari by now-however he was going to do it Grant had no idea. He tried not to think about it, as he had tried to send the thoughts away all night long, lying there listening to the sounds of a strange House- doors opening and closing, heaters and pumps going on, cars coming and going in the dark.

He had showered in haste, dressed in the clothes they had laid out for him, a s.h.i.+rt that fit, trousers a bit too large or cut wrong or something-given his hair a careful combing and a second check in the mirror, then headed downstairs.

”Good morning,” one of the household had said to him, a young man. ”Breakfast on the table there. They're on their way. Just grab it and come on.”

He was terrified for no specific cause, except he was being rushed, except that his life had been carefully ordered and he had always known who would hurt him and who would help him. Now, when Justin had told him he would be free and safe, he had no idea how to defend himself, except to do everything they told him. Azi-like. Yes, ser.

He dropped his head onto his chest while the plane droned on, and shut his eyes finally, exhausted and having nothing to look at but the barren deck, closed windows, and the sullen men who flew with him: perhaps, he thought, if he simply said nothing to them the trip would be easier, and he would wake up in Novgorod, to meet Merild, who would take care of him.

He waked when he felt the plane change pitch and heard a difference in the engines. And panicked, because he knew it was supposed to be three hours to Novgorod, and he was sure it had not been. ”Are we landing?” he asked. ”Is something wrong?”

”Everything's fine,” Winfield said; and: ”Leave that alone!” when he reached for the shade, thinking it could surely make no difference. But evidently it did.

The plane wallowed its way down, touched pavement, braked and b.u.mped and rolled its way, he reckoned, toward the Novgorod terminal. It stopped and everyone got up, while the door unsealed and the hydraulics began to let the ladder down; he got up, taking the wadded-up paper bag with him-he was determined not to give them a chance to complain of his manners-and waited as Winfield took his arm.

There were no large buildings outside. Just cliffs and a deserted-looking cl.u.s.ter of hangars; and the air smelled raw and dry. A bus was moving up to the foot of the ladder.

”Where are we?” he asked, on the edge of panic. ”Is this Merild's place?”

”It's all right. Come on.”

He froze a moment. He could refuse to go. He could fight. And then there was nothing he could do, because he had no idea where he was or how to fly a plane if he could take it over. The bus down there-he might use to escape; but he had no idea where in the world he was, and if he ran beyond the fuel capacity in raw outback, he was dead, that was all. Outback was all around them: he could see the land beyond the buildings.

He could hope to get to a phone, if they got the idea he was compliant enough to turn their backs on. He had memorized Merild's number. He thought of all that in the second between seeing where he was and feeling Winfield take his arm.

”Yes, ser,” he said meekly, and walked down the steps where they wanted him to go-which still might be to Merild. He still hoped that they were telling the truth. But he no longer believed it.

Winfield took him down to the waiting bus and opened the door to put him in, then got in after, with Jeffrey and Rentz. There were seven seats, one set by each window and across the back; Grant took the first and Winfield sat beside him as the other pair settled in behind them.

He scanned the windows and doors: elaborately airsealed. An outback vehicle.

He clasped his hands in his lap and sat quietly watching as the driver started up and the bus whipped away across the pavement, not for the buildings: for a line road, probably the one they used to get to the precip towers. In a little time they were traveling on dirt, and in a little time more they were climbing, up from the lowland and onto the heights beyond the safety the towers maintained.

Wild land.

Perhaps he was going to die, after they had stripped his mind down for what he knew. They might be Ari's; but it was a very strange way for Reseune to handle its problems, when they could easily bring him back to Reseune without Jordan or Justin knowing, just land like one of the regular transport flights and send him off in the bus to one of the outlying buildings where they could do whatever they liked till they were ready (if ever) to admit they had him.

They might, more likely, be Ari's enemies, in which case they might do almost anything, and in that case they might not want him to survive to testify.

Whatever had happened, Kruger was involved in it, beyond a doubt, and it could even be monetary . . . perhaps everything rumor had said about Kruger's humanitarian concerns was a lie. Reseune was full of lies. Perhaps it was something Ari herself maintained. Perhaps Kruger had just fooled everyone, perhaps he was engaged in a little side business, in forged Contracts whenever he got a likely prospect. Maybe he was being sold off to some mining site in the hinterlands, or, G.o.d, some place where they could try to retrain him. Try. Try. Anyone who started meddling with his tape-structures on a certain level, he could handle. On others . . . Anyone who started meddling with his tape-structures on a certain level, he could handle. On others . . .

He was not so sure.

There were four of them, counting the driver, and such men might well have guns. The bus seals were life itself.

He clasped his hands together and tried desperately to think the thing through. A phone was the best hope. Maybe stealing the bus once they trusted him, once he knew where civilization was and whether the bus had the fuel to get there. It could take days to get a chance. Weeks.

”I think you know by now,” Winfield said finally, ”this isn't where you're supposed to be.”

”Yes, ser.”

”We're friends. You should believe that.”

”Whose friends?”

Winfield put his hand on his arm. ”Your friends.”

”Yes, ser.” Agree to anything. Be perfectly compliant. Yes, ser. Whatever you want, ser.

”Are you upset?”

Like a d.a.m.ned field supervisor, talking to some Mu-cla.s.s worker. The man thought thought he knew what he was doing. That was good news and bad . . . depending what this fool thought he was qualified to do with tape and drugs. Winfield had mismanaged him thus far. He did not give way to instincts simply because he reckoned that they did not profit him in this situation, and because there was far more profit in keeping his head down . . . reckoning that his handlers were not stupid, but simply too ignorant to realize that the Alpha-rating on his card meant he could not have the kind of inhibitions born-men were used to in azi. They should have drugged him and transported him under restraint. he knew what he was doing. That was good news and bad . . . depending what this fool thought he was qualified to do with tape and drugs. Winfield had mismanaged him thus far. He did not give way to instincts simply because he reckoned that they did not profit him in this situation, and because there was far more profit in keeping his head down . . . reckoning that his handlers were not stupid, but simply too ignorant to realize that the Alpha-rating on his card meant he could not have the kind of inhibitions born-men were used to in azi. They should have drugged him and transported him under restraint.

He was certainly not about to tell them so.

”Yes, ser,” he said, with the breathless anxiousness of a Theta.

Winfield patted his arm. ”It's all right. You're a free man. You will be.”

He blinked. That took no acting. 'Free man' added a few more dimensions to the equation; and he did not like any of them.

”We're going up in the hills a ways. A safe place. You'll be perfectly all right. We'll give you a new card. We'll teach you how to get along in the city.”

Teach you. Retraining. G.o.d, what am I into?

Is there any way this could be what Justin intended?

He was afraid, suddenly, in ways that none of the rest of this had touched . . . that he did not not have it figured, that defying these people might foul up something Justin had arranged- have it figured, that defying these people might foul up something Justin had arranged- -or Jordan, finding out about it, intervening- They might might be what the only friends he had in the world had intended for him, they be what the only friends he had in the world had intended for him, they might might be heading him for real freedom. But retraining, if that was what they had in mind, would reach into all his psychsets and disturb them. He did not have much in the world. He did not own anything, even his own person and the thoughts that ran in his brain. His loyalties were azi-loyalties, he knew that, and accepted that, and did not mind that he had had no choice in them: they were real, and they were all he was. be heading him for real freedom. But retraining, if that was what they had in mind, would reach into all his psychsets and disturb them. He did not have much in the world. He did not own anything, even his own person and the thoughts that ran in his brain. His loyalties were azi-loyalties, he knew that, and accepted that, and did not mind that he had had no choice in them: they were real, and they were all he was.

These people talked about freedom. And teaching. And maybe the Warricks wanted that to happen to him and he had to accept it, even if it took everything away from him and left him some cold freedom freedom where home had been. Because the Warricks could not afford to have him near them anymore, because loving him was too dangerous for all of them. Life seemed overwhelmed with paradoxes. where home had been. Because the Warricks could not afford to have him near them anymore, because loving him was too dangerous for all of them. Life seemed overwhelmed with paradoxes.

G.o.d, now he did not know, he did not know who had him or what he was supposed to do.

Ask them to use the phone, get a message to Merild to ask whether this was all right?

But if they were not with Merild that would tip them off that he was not the compliant type they took him for. And if they were the other thing, if this was not the Warricks' doing, then they would see he had no chance at all.

So he watched the landscape pa.s.s the windows and endured Winfield's hand on his arm, with his heart beating so hard it hurt.

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