Nothing.
And yet she would become herself. She would. For to be like them—to be "normal" in the way that they were normal—would be a living death for her. A slow and painful suffocation. And she would rather die than suffer that.
She had been running from it. All her life she had been running from it. But now, suddenly, she was awake. That moment at the Graduation Ball . . . she understood it now. That—that awful moment when she had turned and goaded him—had been the moment when she had stopped running. The moment of awakening, when she had turned, quite literally, to confront the very thing she hated.
"I'm sorry." she said softly. "It wasn't you, it was . . ."
She shivered, understanding finally what had happened to her that evening. It wasn't Lieutenant Lothar Bachman she had meant to hurt. It was what he represented. He ... well, he had been like . . . She looked about her, her eyes coming to rest on the figure of the kitchen god, squatting on the shelf above the cooking utensils, and nodded to herself.
Yes. It was as if she had been confronted by the clay figurine of an evil demon; a figure that she had had to smash to be free of its enchantment.
And was she free? „
Jelka looked down at her long, slender hands, seeing them clearly, as if she had never seen them before. No, not free. Not yet. But she would be. For she was awake now. At long last, she was awake.
"Mary? Have you got the file of old MemSys contacts?"
Emily looked up from behind the desk screen and met Michael Lever's eyes, conscious of the slight edge in his voice. This business with his father was getting to him, especially since the Old Man had frozen the accounts.
"It's here," she said, reaching into her top left-hand drawer and taking out the bulky folder. "Not that it'll do you any good. None of them will talk to us, let alone contemplate trading with us. They're all scared as hell of taking on your father, Michael. You'd be better off trashing this and starting anew."
"Maybe." He hesitated, then came across and took the folder from her. "Even so, I'm going to try each one of them again. Someone's got to give."
"Why?" There was a strange hardness in her eyes. "Your father holds all the cards. Every last one of them. And you've got nothing."
"Maybe," he said again, not challenging what she'd said. "But I've got to keep trying. I can't go back. Not now."
"No." She said it softly, sympathetically, knowing how much pressure he'd been under these past few weeks, and how well he'd coped with it. The old Michael Lever wouldn't have coped, not one tenth as well. "As for the other matter. . . I'll let you know if we hear anything, okay?"
He smiled uncertainly. "Okay. I'll get to it."
When he was gone, she sat back, combing her fingers through her short blond hair. The other matter—the freezing of the accounts— was what lay behind his current tenseness. If the Old Man refused . . . She took a deep breath, trying to see ahead. What would she do if Michael gave up and went back to his father? She'd be out of a job, for a start. Worse than that, Old Man Lever would make sure she'd never work again. Not in North America, anyway. And maybe other places too. Wherever his long arm reached.
But strangely enough her own fate didn't concern her half so much as the prospect of Michael giving up. Of him succumbing after coming this far. She'd survive. She always did. But Michael... If he gave up now it would destroy him—cripple him emotionally. If he gave up now he would be tied—tied forever to his father's will, whether his father lived or not.
She shuddered and looked about her at the room in which she sat. In three short weeks they had built this thing from scratch. And though it was as nothing compared to MemSys and the great ImmVac Corporation, it was at least something. New growth, not an expansion of the old.
Yes, and left alone it would have grown and grown. Michael and Btyn were a good team. Innovative, capable, resourceful. As good as any she had worked for these past three years. The Company would have been big. As it was, it was likely it would be dead, and probably within the hour.
"NuShih Jennings?"
She looked up again. It was Chan, the guard. He'd slid back the outer door and was looking in at her.
"What is it, Chan Long?"
"There's a messenger here," he said quietly, ominously. "From ImmVac. I think it's an answer."
She nodded. Chan knew as well as anyone what was going on. That was his business. And like her, he knew what it was likely to mean. She smiled tightly, feeling sorry for the man.
"Okay. Search him and show him through. But show the man respect. It's not his fault."
Chan gave a small bow and slid the door closed again. A minute or so later the door slid fully back and Chan came through, ushering in a tall, dark-haired Hung Moo in the bright red uniform of ImmVac's messenger service. From the way he glanced at Chan as he passed, it was clear he had not welcomed being body-searched, but Emily was taking no chances.
She stood, coming around the desk. "You have a message, I understand? From Shih Lever."
He hesitated, then gave the slightest nod of his head. Inwardly Emily smiled ironically. If she had been a man, his bow would have been low, to the waist, perhaps, but as she was merely a woman . . .
"I have a note," the man answered, looking away from her, as if he had dismissed her. "It is to be given directly into the hands of young Master Lever."
She took a long, deep breath. Young Master Lever. How clearly those words revealed Old Man Lever's attitude toward his son. How subtly and damagingly they placed Michael.
She moved closer, until her face was almost pressed against the man's. "I will tell Shih Lever that you are here. If you would be seated," she pointed past him, indicating the chair on the far side of the reception room. "He is a very busy man, but he will see you when he can."
As she turned away, she could see it in her mind. The thing to do was to keep the messenger waiting—an hour, two hours, maybe even to the close of business. That way the message would get back to Old Man Lever that his son was not to be treated like a troublesome infant, but respected as a man. That was what she would have done, anyway. But she was not Michael. Michael wanted an answer. Wanted an end to the tension and misery of not knowing.
She hesitated, then slid back the door. Inside she closed it behind her, then went across. Kustow was sitting to the left behind his desk, Michael to the right. They watched her cross the floor, their eyes filled with a tense expectation.
"It's here," she said simply.
She saw how the color drained from Michael's face. He closed the MemSys folder, then turned in his chair, looking across at Kustow.
"Well, Bryn, what do you think?"
Kustow sat back, eyeing his partner somberly. "I think he's given you the finger, Michael. That's what I think."
"But he can't," Michael said quietly. "Surely he can't? I mean, it's my money. Legally my money. If I took the matter to court. . ."
Kustow shrugged fatalistically. "You'd win, certainly, but not for several years. You, better than anyone, should know how expert your father's lawyers are at drawing things out. And in the meantime youVe got nothing. Not even this . . ." ,,
"Maybe, but . . . ach . . .what gives him the right, Bryn? What gives him the rucking right?"
For a moment all of the anger and frustration he was feeling was there in Michael Lever's face. Then, with a shudder, he took hold of himself again and looked across at Emily.
"Okay. Show him in. Let's hear the worst."
She went back and brought the messenger through, watching as Michael took the envelope from him and slit it open. He read it through, then, his hand trembling, passed it to Kustow at his side.
"Okay," he said, meeting the messenger's eyes, his whole manner suddenly harder, more dignified. "Tell my father that I note what he says and that I thank him for his generosity."