The last was routine, the standard procedure on Ariane's returns, whenever RESEUNE ONEcame screaming in and Ariane Emory settled into the place that was hers, in her wing, in her residency.
The word had come on yesterday's news that the Hope project had been tabled, and the stock market had reacted with a shock that might well run the length and width of space, although analysts called it a procedural delay. The good news was a tiny piece following, with biographical clip provided from Science Bureau files, that an obscure chemist on Fargone had been afforded Special status: thatbill, at least, had gone through. And the Council had wrapped up in a marathon session that had extended on into the small hours: more ripples in the interstellar stock market, which loathed uncertainties more than it disliked sudden reverses of policy. The news bureaus of every polity in Union had held a joint broadcast of commentary and analysis, preempting scheduled morning broadcasts, senior legislative reporters doing their best to offer interpretations, frustrated in the refusal of even opposition Councillors to grant interviews.
The leader of the Abolitionist faction in the Centrist coalition had granted one: Janni Merino, his white hair standing out in its usual disorder, his face redder and his rhetoric more extreme than ever, had called for a general vote of confidence of the entire Council and threatened secession from the Centrist party. He did not have the votes to do the one: he might well do the other, and Giraud Nye had sat listening to that, knowing more than the commentators and still wondering along with the news bureaus just what kind of deal had been struck and why Mikhail Corain had been willing to go along with it.
A triumph for Reseune?
A political disaster? Something lost?
It was not Ariane's habit to consult back during the sessions in Novgorod except in dire emergency, certainly not by phone, not even on Bureau lines; but there were staff couriers and planes always available.
That she had not sent—meant a situation under control, despite that precipitate adjournment—one hoped.
The social schedule had been thrown into utter confusion, the Councillors had canceled meetings right and left, and the Councillors from Russell's and Pan-paris had sped back to Cyteen Station to make passage on a ship bound for Russell's Star, departure imminent. Their Secretaries had been left to sit proxy, one presumed, with definite instructions about their votes.
It was more than protocol that brought Giraud Nye and his brother Denys to meet the small bus as it pulled up in the circle drive at the front of Reseune.
The bus door opened. The first one down was, predictably, the azi Catlin, in the black uniform of Reseune security, her face pale and set in a forecast of trouble: she stepped down and reached back to steady Ari as Ari made the single step—Ari in pale blue, carrying her briefcase herself as usual, and with no visible indication of triumph or catastrophe until she looked straight at Giraud and Denys with an expression that foretold real trouble.
"Your office," she said to Denys. Behind her, exiting onto the concrete with the rest of the staff, Giraud saw Jordan Warrick, who was not supposed to be with that flight, who had flown out five days ago on RESEUNE ONEand was supposed to come back at the end of the week, on a RESEUNEAIR special flight.
There was trouble. Warrick arriving in Ari's company was as great a shock as Centrists and Expansionists suddenly bedding down together. Warrick's staff was not with him, only his azi chief-of-Household, Paul, who followed along with a sober, anxious look, carrying a flight-kit.
Abban might collect gossip from the staff, the ones who were Family, and free to talk. Giraud gave Abban the order and fell in with Ari and Denys, silent Florian heading off to the left hall the moment they cleared the doors, Catlin walking along behind with Denys' azi Seely.
Not a word until they were inside Denys' inmost office, and Denys turned on the unit that provided sound-screening in the room. Then:
"We've got a problem," Ari said, opening the briefcase very carefully, very precisely on the expensive imported veneer of Denys' desk.
"Hope's in trouble?" Denys asked, accepting the fiche she handed him. "Or is it Jordan?"
"Gorodin is promising us unanimous approval for Hope—if Jordan gets a liaison post at a Fargone military psych facility we'regoing to have hidden in our budget."
"God," Giraud said, and sat down.
"You tell me how you buy Mikhail Corain's vote, and why Jordan Warrick's transfer has to be part of Gorodin's bargain."
Giraud had no doubts. It was certain that Ari had none.
"He's become a problem," Ari said.
"We can't touch him," Giraud said. Panic welled up in him. Sometimes Ari forgot she hadlimits, or that prudence did.
"He's counting on that, isn't he?" So, so quietly. Ari settled into the remaining chair. "It still has to be voted. It doesn't need to be voted until the facility exists. And we just got the appropriation."
Giraud was sweating. He resisted the impulse to mop his face. The sound-screening tended to make his teeth ache, but at the moment the discomfort was mostly in his gut.
"Well, it's not that bad," Denys said, and tilted his chair back, folding his hands on his ample stomach. "We can map this out. Jordie's being a fool.
We can merge his wing right back into Administration, absorb his staff and his records, that for a start."
"He's not a fool," Ari said. "I want to know if we're missing files."
"You think he's left something in Novgorod?"
"What's ever stopped him?"
"Dammit," Giraud said, "Ari, I warned you. I warned you."
Ari tilted her head, regarding him sidelong. "I'll tell you one thing: even if he goes, son Justin won't."
"We've got five more years of budget to fight through! What in hell are we going to do when Jordie's out there in front of the cameras?"
"Don't worry about it."
"What do you mean, don't worry about it?"
"He's here, isn't he? Left his aides, his staff, everyone but Paul in Novgorod. I didn't confront him about the leak. I just sent Florian to advise him he was wanted. He's well aware what he's done and that I know he's done it."
"If you touch him— Listen to me. He won't have done this without advance preparation. God knows what kind of harm he can do us. Or what kind of information he's smuggled out of here. My God, I didn't see this coming."
"Jordan and his little feuds. His requests for transfer. His bickering on staff. Oh, we're still friendly. We have our little policy debates. We had one on the way home. And smiled at each other over drinks. Why not? There's always the chance I believedGorodin."
"He knows damn well you didn't!"
"And he knows that I know that he knows, round and round. So we smile at each other. I'll tell you something: I'm not worried. He's sure I won't move until I know what he's got. He's manipulating the situation. Our Education Special thinks he's the best there is. He's gambling everything on things going the way he predicts. He'll make me a counter-offer soon. And I'll make mine. And that's how we'll pass the months. He's sure he can match me move for move. We'll see. I'm going to my apartments. I'm sure Florian's run his checks by now. I'm going to have a shower, put my feet up a while, and read the logs. Andhave a decent meal. Formaldinner tonight. It's a session-end, isn't it? Catlin can approve the menu."