Regenesis

The two weren’t the same. Opposite ends of the age spectrum, for sure, but they weren’t the same.

Isn’t that what the whole program is about? Jordan had asked him.

Yes and no. If and maybe. The kid was brilliant. The kid was sopping up deepteach on science at a phenomenal rate. He didn’t know precisely at what rate: he supposed Ya

Stop everything he personally was doing, detour for a year or so to rescue Jordan from his twenty‑year‑gap?

Maybe he wasa selfish ingrate. Maybe he should spare a couple of years, out of a long life.

And every time he thought about doing it his stomach knotted up.

A couple of years couldn’t make Jordan happy. He could take Jordan off to the wilds up by the new lab they were building and do dedicated deepstudy until he could get Jordan factually up to date, and Grant could meanwhile work on Paul in that isolation–he’d actually thought about it–but what would they have at the end of it? An up‑to‑date Jordan who was never going to accept Reseune the way it was–who’d given him that card, damn him, knowing they were being watched.

Jordan had done it deliberately, knowing he was going to run his son and Grant straight into an inquiry, if–hell, if!–he’d done it becausesomeone in security would have spotted that card–Jordan would have been disappointed if they hadn’t.

It was bait, was what. It was Jordan stirring the pot, seeing what would happen–maybe hoping his son would be stopped, harassed, that the card would be confiscated and gone over by security–and so would his son be, which would throw him into a funk where Jordan could psychologically get at him; or maybe bring Grant ru

And what was the number? What in hell was Jordan doing? The thing was radioactive. You didn’t want to touch it. The room they were in was bugged beyond a doubt.

He couldn’t stand it.

He couldn’t stand it a moment longer.

“Grant.”

Keystrokes stopped. “Mmm?”

“Did you chance to look at that card?”

“It wasn’t chance.”

Heartbeat bumped. Leave it to Grant. “What was on it?” he asked.

“A number.”

“What number?”

“It had the form of a personal number. I recall it. Do you want me to find out?” Grant asked.

“No,” he said, and made a sudden decision: he didn’t want Grant involved, didn’t want to be on record doing anything furtive. “No, Iwill.”

He windowed up the message function and shot a query out straight to Ari’s security office address. WHAT WAS ON THE CARD JORDAN GAVE ME? DO YOU KNOW?

The answer came back fairly quickly. A CONTACT NUMBER AT THE UNIVERSITY IN NOVGOROD. A WOMAN NAMED SANDI PATIL. DO YOU KNOW THAT PERSON?

He typed: NOT A CLUE.

The answer came back, under Ari’s household ID, no further name telling who he was talking to: SENIOR LECTURER WITH A SPECIALITY IN BIONANISTICS. THERE IS NO APPARENT CONNECTION WITH JORDAN. WHAT IS YOUR THEORY?

His heart began a series of labored beats, old familiar fear, of a flavor he’d known for all the bad years, the twenty years when the Nyes had run Reseune. He typed: IS THIS FLORIAN?

–CATLIN, SER. MY QUESTION?

–I HAVE NO IDEA WHY HE WOULD GIVE ME THAT NUMBER. I DON’T KNOW THIS WOMAN. I HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH HER FIELD. HER FIELD HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH MY FATHER’S, EITHER, AS I’M SURE YOU’RE WELL AWARE.

Grant had gotten out of his chair, and leaned over to see the screen. Set a hand on his shoulder. His heart beat harder and harder, the old instincts awake and alert.

–WE DON’T KNOW THE REASON OF THIS CONTACT, SER, OR OF HIS GIVING IT TO YOU. BUT THE RESTRICTED MILITARY NATURE OF THE PROFESSOR’S RESEARCH URGES CAUTION.

Bionanistics. God. Manufacturing? Genetic machines? Experimental, self‑replicating life? Military secrecy?

–I HAVE NO IDEA,he typed. HE’S NEVER MENTIONED ANY SUCH CONTACT TO ME.

–WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE DONE WITH THE NOTE IF YOU WERE WELL‑DISPOSED TO OBEY YOUR FATHER AT THE TIME?

Thump. Thump‑thump. I SUPPOSE I WOULD HAVE LOOKED UP THE NUMBER. MAYBE I’D HAVE CALLED THIS PERSON IN NOVGOROD IF I WERE A TOTAL FOOL AND WANTED TO KNOW WHAT IT MEANT OR WHERE IT LED. I’M NOT A FOOL. AND I’D HOPE MY FATHER KNOWS I’M NOT. I’M NOT INTERESTED IN HIS OLD BUSINESS, WHATEVER IT IS, AND I THINK HE KNOWS THAT, TOO.He added that last sentence and felt like a traitor, for reasons not entirely well‑defined. He manipulated azi minds for a living–and his own motivations eluded him. There damned sure wasn’t any co

–UNDERSTANDABLE,came the answer. SO YOU HAVE NO INCLINATION TO PURSUE THE INFORMATION.

–NONE WHATSOEVER,he answered back.

–BE AWARE THAT INFORMATION OR DEVICES INVOLVING DR. PATIL COULD PASS IN FORMS VERY DIFFICULT TO DETECT. TAKE PRECAUTIONS IN ANY FUTURE DEALINGS WITH YOUR FATHER, WITH THIS IN MIND.

–I TAKE THE WARNING. THANK YOU.

Catlin signed off. He did. He felt sick. He didn’t move. He felt the pressure of Grant’s fingers, and finally got up from the chair, knowing, damn them all, that everything he said was being recorded, watched, parsed, combed through.

“Security’s upset. I can’t blame them. Nanistics. They don’t want the experimental stuff on a planet…particularly the one we happen to live on. Particularly the one the radicals have wanted to terraform for the last century or so. Damn. Damn. Damn it, Grant. I don’t want any part of this. What is he doing to me? What does he think he’s doing?”

Grant shook his head slowly, helplessly. “Logic tells me he wants you involved with him in his situation. Beyond that–”

It hit like a hammer blow. He could have said it himself ten times, even thought it himself, and not heard it quite the same way, but from Grant, in that calm, reasoned way Grant struggled to navigate CIT emotional insanity, it made utter, reasonable sense. Jordan wasn’t azi. Neither he nor Jordan had, as Grant liked to put it, their logic‑set at the foundation of their reasoning. No. They were born‑men, and born‑men grew up by chance, not by tape‑study. Emotions ruled their actions, foundational, and inescapable. Flux‑thinking at its finest.

Jordan had created him out of his own geneset and Jordan had lost him. Lost him to Ari, who had done things to Jordan’s work that Jordan couldn’t counter, and the new Ari was co‑opting him out of Jordan’s reach.

“The government didn’t kill him for killing Ari,” he said aloud, to Grant’s worried look. “they could only exile him. So he figures whatever he does, exile’s the worst that will ever happen to him. He created me. He wants me back. He’s making his best play.”

“To get you on the outs with Ya

“To get us allsent to Planys, where he ranhis own little world.” Things clicked, just clicked, all of a sudden. “It might have been a prison, but he ran it, inside, and Ari ripped him out of it and brought him here to put him under what he sees as close house arrest. He’s not grateful for it, not once he got here and saw the way things are: he’s damned pissed. He wants me to break with Ari. He wants to create a situation. I don’t know who this Patil is, or how Jordan got that number, but Patil isn’t really the game…”