“Ser,” they called him, and they said “ser,” to Grant, too, keeping their pace with no effort at all.
“We’re going to Ed,” Justin said. “My father lives there. I want to be sure he’s all right, considering what’s going on.” He had his ordinary pocket com. He punched the fast‑response buttons as they exited the lift toward the security station, and let it ring.
And ring.
“Brilliant,” he said to Grant. “He’s not home and he’s not answering.”
“Probably out at dinner,” Grant said.
“Ten thousand‑odd people are probably caught out at dinner.” They reached the desk and Justin showed his keycard. “Sera’s direct permission,” he said. “Out to Ed, personal.”
“Yes, ser,” the guard said. “Stay to the tunnels.”
“Absolutely.” They went out the door, into the familiar storm‑tunnel level of Wing One, and took an immediate left, Mark and Gerry rattling along behind. The sirens were intermittent now, as they were during a storm. The main corridor as they came out of Wing One and into the area of Admin was full of traffic, people generally in a fair hurry, one direction and the other, most trending the same direction they were going, which led, as the rim of a great box, through the Ed tunnels and over to the Residencies and the Labs. Anybody from the Township was going to have a long wait for buses or a long hike, via the Labs, to the second tier of storm tunnels and shelters…and there were people with children, one upset lost child–the father came and swept the lost boy up out of the bewildering traffic just as they came in range: the father and his partner had four others in their group, and tried to urge them to more speed.
“It’s all right,” Justin said as he came up with the harried father. “It’s a precautionary alert. No rush.”
Others heard, shouted out, “What’s going on?” and Justin yelled, “Precautionary alert. Damage upriver is all.”
He didn’t know if he made a dent in the distress, but a little further on, just as they were leaving Admin, Yanni’s voice came over the general address:
“ This is Director Schwartz. The alert is downgraded to level three. Those with indoor business are advised to pursue it with attention to level three cautions. Repeat…”
That calmed things, afterward. People caught their breath and quit trying to buck the flow. People began to walk normally, and to talk, and to ask questions, particularly of Gerry and Mark, who just said, repeatedly, “We’re on duty, ser. We can’t stop.”
Justin made another try on the com. “Dad? Answer, dammit.”
And a second one, after the next intersection. He wasn’t used to this much exercise. His legs were burning. “Dad? Come on, answer.”
“ What in hell’s going on?” the question came.
“Where are you?”
“ Abrizio’s.”
“Right below you. Coming up.” He was vastly relieved. And he had two large, heavily armed azi in tow, who weren’t going to help his father’s nerves at all. “Mark, Gerry, you’re on my tab. Just go in, after us, order soft drinks and sandwiches, sit, and have dinner until Grant and I leave.”
“Ser,” Gerry said, “we’re on duty.”
“This isyour duty, to look inconspicuous and not have my father create a public furor, which is bound to cause me and sera trouble. Just do it. You’re doing personal security at the moment. My rules apply.”
“Yes, ser,” came back, from both, and meanwhile they reached the escalator and rode it up, this time, to the concourse level of Education.
“He’s going to notice them,” Grant said. “They won’t stay that far back.”
“I’m sure he will.”
They had Abrizio’s in sight: yellow lights were flashing, lending an unwholesome look to the area, but people were moving about in a fair simulation of calm. He and Grant lengthened stride, got a little ahead of Mark and Gerry as they reached the door, came in and advanced a few paces to try to spot Jordan. Things had gotten quiet, just as Paul stood up to make clear where they were. Paul’s eyes were averted to something behind them, and Justin didn’t look: the silhouettes of two helmeted ReseuneSec agents appearing in the doorway, blinking with ready‑lights, could generally put a pall on conversation, or stimulate it, and both happened.
They had Paul and Jordan in view, however, and wended their way through the clutter of tables to take the vacant two seats.
“You’re being followed,” Jordan remarked as Justin sat down.
“The whole damn place is under alert,” Justin said. There was a half‑eaten order of chips and cheese with peppers. It was one of Abrizio’s better offerings. He took a chip with cheese. “Just came from supper and a party. Not real hungry.”
“The same,” Grant said.
“Party,” Jordan said.
“Social evening. The new wing’s open. We’ve moved again. We didn’t plan to.”
“And you just got lonesome for our company,” Jordan said.
“Drop the barbs. I got worried. There’s been an explosion at the up‑river construction. We don’t know if there’s anything going on here, but since you draw trouble the way I did, I borrowed a couple of Ari’s guards and came looking.”
“An attack on the construction. Interesting. And a couple of Ari’s guards in attendance. I should be flattered.”
“It’s nothing. It’s probably just an accident, hit a gas pocket in a dieoff area, something like that. Methane. Blew a new precip tower to bits. Security’s on alert, nonetheless. They’re not letting anybody onto the grounds.”
“We heard the announcement,” Jordan said glumly.
At least Mark and Gerry had taken off the helmets and the lights on their gear didn’t show. The waitress was over there. They were making their order, likely soft drinks. Maybe sandwiches.
“Well, I was going to call you. We’d just had one thing after the other. We took an early supper, headed home from the restaurant to find out we’d been moved–my number hasn’t changed, neither has Grant’s. Office, the whole thing. Then we had a note on the minder we were due at a reception not that long after, so we didn’t actually change for that. Just went. Had a few drinks, so I’m at max. I was going to call you in the morning…”
“We just heard the warning sound,” Jordan said, “and there hadn’t been any advisement they were going to make weather, so we figured it must be a natural storm. Guess not. Methane, eh?”
Sometimes the web of lies he told Jordan just overloaded. Sometimes, if things were ever going to be different, there had to be a dose of truth. “Fact is,” he said, lowering his voice, “it probably wasn’t. Somebody apparently blew up the tower up at the new construction.”
“Somebody?”
“The usual suspicion goes to the Paxers. But that would be major for them, a real break with habit.”
“Logistics.” Jordan had leaned forward, and Paul had too, both of them, just taking it in, and for the first time in a long time, there was no bitter edge. “How in hell did they get through?”
“They needed river transport,” Justin said. “They had to get either up‑river past Reseune or downriver.”
“Out of Svetlansk,” Jordan said, “maybe. Downriver saves fuel.”
“Not much civilization up there,” Paul said, “or wasn’t–last we knew.”
“Mining, shipping, plenty of opportunity to lay hands on explosives. Unless things have changed.”
“Not much to stop them going ashore at the new construction,” Justin said. “No filtration equipment like here. No weir. No bots. All they’d need to do would be get a boat somewhere, load it with something–go ashore in suits, get out again.”