That was worth half a laugh at least.
There was an in‑office coffee dispenser sitting on a sideboard. That was new, and good. The machine was loaded and it turned on and functioned at the touch of a button. That was even better.
And the movers had improved on one other thing: the move had organized the supply cabinet contents in a logical, eye‑pleasing way, with little colored bins for the various styli and clips and pointer‑tags. He surveyed it top to bottom, looking for flaws.
“Color‑coded.” Justin remarked, giving up his search. “I suppose our mess was too much for them to get here intact. We have all shiny new paper clips.”
“Have a cup of coffee.” Grant handed him one, an implicit calm‑down.
“You know Jordan’s going to be beside himself this morning.”
“Likely he is,” Grant said. “Just about now.”
He took a sip. It was better coffee than what they’d had available down the hall in the old office. Much better. It was probably real. “Pricey.”
“Free,” Grant said.
“Meaning we’re entirely on her tab.” That didn’t improve the taste.
“Do we ever actually run through our wages?” Grant asked.
“We never get a chance to find out, do we? And what about our regular work?” He turned full circle, looked at the walls, the river view, and something beyond vertigo bothered him, something indefinably bothered him and made his shoulders twitch. He walked across the office and back before it dawned on him. “It’s backward. It’s damned backward! The back wall is south. The old office wall faced north.”
“Is that going to bother you?”
“It’s already bothering me.” He was still frustrated. The office had always had its carefully designed clutter–even his every‑other‑layer stacking was preserved, in the pile on the corner of his desk. The room was white‑walled, had a view that cost a month’s pay. The desks were new black lacquer, not brown lake wood, scarred from years of use. Their use. It was like that damned black and white bedroom they lived in, that was what. “I want some flowers in here. Some pictures that don’tmove.”
“I can order the flowers,” Grant said, and added wickedly. “Red?”
“No. Blue. Green. Purple. Anything but red.” There was one red pillow, one red flower, in their professionally decorated black, gray, and white quarters.
“Maybe you’d like to pick out the pictures yourself.”
That nettled him, too. “Ordering flowers is not your job to do. You’re not my–”
“I’m not as afflicted by the decor as you are,” Grant said. “It’s a born‑man problem. You’re fluxed. I’m sure I could order flowers in a sane, logical way. Possibly I’d be calm enough to pick out complementary pictures. Clearly–”
“The hell.” He found his mood improving, unwanted improvement, even toward laughter. “Oh, hell, blue. Blue would be good. Blues and purples, that sort of thing.” The single screen pretending to be a window drew the eye and suggested blue‑greens and grays. “Cancel the purple. Blues and quiet greens. That might do it. I’d like that. If you wouldn’t mind doing it. I’m not that logical, at the moment.”
“I’m sure there’s something that’ll work,” Grant said nicely. “I’ll look.”
By computer. You could do anything by computer. It would be there in an hour, if they opted for messenger service, and flowers and paintings could get through security, oh, by tomorrow, if security was in a good mood.
It certainly wasn’t the way he’d done things in the days when he’d been free, on his own salary and Grant’s.
Before the first Ari had gotten her hands on him. Before Jordan had gotten himself in trouble and gotten shipped to the far side of the world.
So Jordan came back, and Ari protected him from his own father…meaning she’d finally gotten her way and gotten him all the way into her wing–to do nothingin his career, but teach her.
Standing, he flipped on the computer. The screen blinked up.
Threemessages from Ari, in the upper righthand corner.
Calamity?
He dropped into the chair, keyed the messages up.
And had to laugh, however ruefully.
“What is it?”
“Ari’s postscripts. The first Ari didn’t do postscripts. Wouldn’t have done a postscript when she was six. Our girl’s done two in the same letter. She’s worried I’ll hit the ceiling. I think she’s really worried.”
“What does she say?”
“That they’re giving the other office to Jordan. That were better off here. That the old office was bugged, anyway.”
That got a laugh from Grant.
Justin keyed off and got up. “Let’s go out for lunch.”
“Out for lunch? We haven’t gotten any work done yet. I’m just into the flowers.”
“Lunch. Relaxation. Out of the Wing. Prove we can. But somewhere lesslikely to run into Jordan.”
“Jordan is going to be heading for Yanni’s office about now. If we stay off that track, we’ll miss him.”
This time helaughed. It made fair sense. Jordan was going to take about five minutes to realize he’d been given the office solo, and bet on it, Jordan wasn’t going to be working today, either.
Straight line course for Yanni’s office, no question.
Not that Yanni would do anything to make Jordan happier. Yanni didn’t do it, Ari’s final note had said. And she claimed she hadn’t done it.
So who had? What other authority was there, ruling his life?
Justin walked over to the desk, picked out the printout he’d been working over. Laid the project‑book, open, on his desk, where he would work on it when he got back. “There. We’re officially moved in and my desk is officially cluttered, so it’s home. God knows what the fallout was from that card Jordan handed me. Opening barrage, in what’s going to be some kind of war, I’m afraid. A war for possession of us, for starters. For possession of Reseune, I’m very much afraid. Jordan’s not going to win anything and I don’t think he’ll stop until someone stops him. And I don’t want that, Grant, damn, I really don’t want it.” His mood crashed. He leaned on his chair back. “He’s headed for a fall.”
“You think she’ll send him back to Planys?”
Deep down, he actually wished she would, this morning once and for all. And that was so startlingly dark and traitorous a thought that he felt deeply ashamed of himself. Jordan had spent twenty years in comparative privation, shut out of the modern world for a crime his accuser had likely committed; and his own son at least owed him some sympathy for the resultant bitterness, didn’t he?
But not when Grant was in danger from that sympathy: Ari had created Grant, Jordan had written some of his first tapes, knew at least his initial keywords and triggers, and if Jordan decided there might be flaws in Grant’s loyalty, and wanted to revise things, he could do major damage.
And hellif he’d let that happen, not if it meant Jordan going straight back into exile. He shoved back from the chair and picked up his coat.
“Jordan’s not making it easy for anybody,” he said grimly. “Not for me, not for you, not for two hours running since he’s been back.”
“Why does he do it?” Grant asked, reaching for his own coat. “What does an intelligent CIT want out of this situation?”
“Intelligent as he is, I’m afraid intelligence is nowhere in this situation.”
“You’re angry with him.” Halfway into the coat.