They walked. Doors on the left and right, very widely spaced. “Big apartments,” he said to Grant. There was number 10, 8, 6–all evens in this hall. And a corner.
Number 1, a blue‑green door, occupied an enormous stretch of hall, and right across from it–
“Number 2,” Grant said.
There was a red door on the right, number 4, then, occupying the middle, number 2, a bright green one, and beyond that, finishing that corridor before another bend, gold number 3 and blue number 5.
“Right across from her,” he said tentatively. “Who are 3, 4 and 5, I wonder?”
“I have no notion,” Grant said, and used his new keycard on the door. It shot open.
The lights came on, brightened overhead, a high‑ceilinged corridor with the illusion of mid‑afternoon sky overhead–it drew the eye up, in total startlement, made one think, nervously, that it was a skylight.
But it went on brightening. There was the sound of water splashing, somewhere. And down the hall, beneath it–statuary, and pictures, old ones, classic ones.
Living room at the left. New furniture. Medium green couch. Abstract carpet pattern in rust browns. Classy. Goldtone metal edge on the coffee table in front of it. Big wall sculpture in brass and rust brown enamel, an explosion of angles. He just stood there, half‑blocking Grant’s entry, until he realized that fact and walked all the way in.
Dining room, beyond that, in brass and glass, tiled floor like stone. A stream of water ran noisily down one wall, with a splashing sound that carried into the living room and the foyer.
“My God,” he said.
“Rather pleasant place,” Grant said.
“We don’t possibly earn this much,” he said.
“It seems we do now,” Grant said. “And I’m sure, for whatever reason, we’re worth it to someone.”
He drew a breath, headed back through the apartment to the bedroom.
Correction: bedrooms. There were three, one green, one rust and reds, one blue. And an office or study, in lighter green.
“What in hell are we supposed to do here?” Justin asked, turning from one bedroom to the other, in the hall. “Is it multiple choice?”
“This must be the main one,” Grant said, and walked into the largest‑looking bedroom, the blue one.
Justin followed. Beyond was a bathroom beyond the size a public gym might need. Sunken tub. Shower. Exercise equipment. He didn’t even go in. He just turned full circle, saw a bed in a mirrored nook, mirrored ceiling.
“Good God.” He was embarrassed.
Grant walked over and touched the switches by the bed. Room lights went down. Water ripple made the whole area look underwater.
“Dramatic,” Grant said.
It was. Grant stood bathed in that light. He was still moderately appalled, as Grant apparently hit another switch. It became firelight, playing games on the bed, and in the mirrors on either hand.
Third was flashing neon. A blare of music.
Grant cut it off, startled, and, after two tries, went back to firelight. It was an interesting aesthetic effect. It might be, if nerves could quit insisting the building might be afire.
“I think she means well,” Grant said.
“I can’t imagine where they got this thing,” he said. “God, what does she think we are?”
He walked midroom, where there was a bureau. A vase of fresh flowers of mixed colors sat propping a note card.
Dear Justin,it read, I hope you like it. I hope it’s not too gaudy, but you’d said all along you wanted color. You’re safe here. Staff will do cleaning once a day, or oftener if you need them: you don’t have to maintain anything, or cook if you don’t want to. The minder has the call button. Wing staff will clean for you: they’re all going to be high security. And there’s going to be a restaurant downstairs on 1 sometime next week, so they’ll cater for you, at any hour: I wouldn’t presume to install domestic staff for you, but if you and Grant decide you need some, and Wing staff isn’t enough, you only have to ask. Guards assigned, specifically to Apartment 2 security are Mark BM‑18 and Gerry BG‑22–they’re general Alpha Wing security, but they’re two you passed on, and if there’s a general emergency, their first priority is you and Grant, so know who they are, and they’ll just look out for you in general. Your accesses are a subset of Base One, officially now, registered that way, so you don’t have to pretend to be Callie or Theo any more. All Library is open to you, and any security situation in the Wing will be at least as transparent to you as to any of my staff except my bodyguard, if you just query Base One, so if you ever get worried you or Grant can access it immediately from any handheld anywhere in Reseune. I know you’re careful with codes.
Have I ever mentioned you and Grant kept me honest when I was a kid? You still do. You never flattered me, never lied to me. Please talk to me first if you ever have a problem. That means you’ll never cross up something I’m doing. Meanwhile I just feel safer and more comfortable if you’re across the hall. I don’t know why that is, but it’s so.
The minder is primed with all the Alpha Wing service numbers as well as all your old ones. You can go anywhere you ever went. Just guard those keycards with your lives.
Grant, keep him out of trouble. I love you both so much. And I’ll be so happy if you like this place, but you can change anything you want to change, anything at all.
Ari.
He walked back, sat down on the side of the bed. Just sat, and looked up at Grant, thinking–they’d never get back to their plain, ordinary apartment, their little place where they’d been alternately safe and scared as hell.
This place wasn’t the ongoing penance of the posh black and white apartment. It was comfortable. Extravagant beyond belief.
“It’s nice,” Grant said.
“God, if that music cycles on in the middle of the night,” he said, “I’ll teleport.”
“Well,” Grant said, “there’s probably a manual somewhere in System. We can look. Maybe we can change the programming.”
Justin gave a rueful laugh. And looked around him soberly then, all but overwhelmed.
“Why are we possibly this important to her?”
“You’re asking the azi, born‑man.”
“It’s just–every ratchet up the scale, we’re increasingly in the target zone, if anything ever goes wrong.”
“I think that’s always been a given, from way back. Hasn’t it?”
“I suppose it was. Is. Will be.”
“It’s probably very wise to put us behind her security wall. You’d easily be a target, if someone aimed at her. And I think, if you want my opinion, she’d be a different Ari if she lost you. I think she knows that very well.”
“I don’t know why,” he said.
“I do,” Grant said, “but I’m not going to tell you.”
“You’re a help.”
“She absolutely trusts you, and considering who you are, that’s probably quite a scary situation for her.”
“I don’t have to be here for that. We had our arrangement. She can trust me anywhere.”
“You’re a vulnerability. She’s sealing up her armor.”
That, he saw. He could all but hear the clanks of doors shutting. Figuratively.
She was growing up. The place was a fortress. Total security, her own guard…
“She’s preparing to take Reseune,” he said. “She’s preparing not to be caught the way Denys was.” He recalled the paintings outside–different from anything that had hung anywhere–uncertain they were art, or just for color, but they had an effect. They dragged the eye from one to the next, took hold and led, one to the next.
He remembered that night in Ari Senior’s apartment, when he’d had an injudicious drink and found himself changed, yanked sideways, away from Jordan, in ways he still couldn’t overcome. That hallway. The paintings on Ari’s walls.
He’d admired one. A painting of trees that weren’t woolwood. He’d been terrified of his situation, fascinated by the intricate, fine‑scale art. Set off balance by the luxury.
Overload. That was what he was getting, in this place. Wild angles. Water. Art that went sideways and splashed wild color, vastly different from anything in Wing One–anything he’d ever seen. But it was an Ari kind of thing, the paintings. It played psychological games. They were stark. Potent. Expensive.