Regeneration (4 page)

The café and grocery at the top of the High Street were already in sight when Eve asked another question. “Mama?”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“Am I a gem?”

“
What?
Of course you are!”

“Are you
sure,
Mama? 'Cause I don't think I'm ever going to get as strong as Papa, and I only have one thumb on each hand, and I can't jump as high as Misha, or hear people's thoughts like Gabe, or see things like you. My eyes are
boring
.”

“Oh,
Eve
.”

“And my hair doesn't glow.” Eve's lips were trembling and there were tears in her eyes as Gaela put a finger under her chin and tilted her face up. “Maybe they made a mistake,” she whimpered, “Maybe they gave you a norm baby.”

“Eve, honey . . .” Gaela felt herself caught between the desire to comfort and reassure her daughter and utter exasperation.
If anyone had told me, all the times I couldn't get food or work or walk safely down the street because of this red brand on my head, that I'd one day have a child who
wished
for it, I'd've laughed myself sick. Or killed them. Or both.

She crouched down and wrapped her arms around her daughter. “Evie, so what? You're perfect. You really, really are. You know how my eyes give me headaches sometimes? And how Gabe doesn't always like the things he hears in people's heads? And sometimes Uncle Mikal's hands hurt—that could happen to Suri, too, when he grows up. Powers aren't always fun to have, you know that. It doesn't matter that you don't have a gemsign. A lot of kids don't. It doesn't mean anything.”

But it does,
she thought even as she rubbed Eve's back, dried her eyes, and coaxed a hesitant half-smile out of her.
It means you can go wherever you like, among gems or norms, and never have to worry. As long as you're careful. As long as the thing you don't even know about yet doesn't become a danger to you or the people around you. As long as it doesn't set you apart the way my hair does me. If we can teach you to manage the truth of who you are, you'll be safe, and you'll be free.

Eli Walker caught sight of Gaela and Eve as he pushed open the door of the café. They were too far away to hail from the entrance; Gaela was bending over Eve, her head turned away. He stepped back inside, knowing the odds of managing to disappear around a corner before she spotted him were slim.

Bal was at the back of the big room, his brush of close-cropped indigo hair flickering with the movement as he morosely wiped down the service counter. If he wiped much harder, Eli thought, he'd wear a hole right through it. He looked up in surprise as Eli came toward him through the rows of scrubbed trestle tables and sturdy low stools, bearing two empty coffee cups he'd retrieved along the way.

“Weren't you off? I'd've gotten those.”

“Gaela and Eve are just coming,” he explained. “I thought I'd wait, say hello.”

Bal nodded. His broad brown face was grim. “We won't say anything in front of her.”

“Of course not.”

“Can't keep it from Gabe, though.”

“No,” Eli said, then, thoughtfully, “Would you want to?”

“Not unless I could protect him from everything else as well. And it's way too late for that.” He flicked at the gleaming counter in disgust, then tossed the cloth aside. “Gabe will be okay. He'll want to know, and he's solid. Reliable.”

“And Eve?”

“Eve—” He hesitated, scowling as he leaned against the counter. “I'm not sure, sometimes. When Gabe was her age, we could tell, you know? We could already see who he was going to be, how he was going to handle the madness of his life. It's harder to be certain with Eve.”

Sighing, he straightened up, meeting the other man's eyes. “Don't get me wrong, Eli. I don't for a moment regret the decision we made when you and Aryel came to us all those years ago. I love my daughter, but she's a very different proposition.”

By the time Agwé finally got back, Gabriel was up to speed with what had happened out in the estuary. Now he was watching for any mention on the streams and discussing strategy with Pilan.

“You need to be ready,” Gabriel told him. “Even if you don't want to be the first to put it out there. Once the rumors start—”

“You think they will?”

“I wouldn't bet against it.” Pilan was leaning against a workstation opposite Gabriel, legs planted and powerful arms folded, the vexation he had suppressed earlier now plain to see. His bodysuit still looked damp, and Gabriel did not need telepathy to know that the head of Thames Tidal Power was angry.

Agwé appeared behind his blocky shoulder. The curvy girl in her cherry-red bodysuit, her band almost invisible beneath a cascade of green curls, caught Gabriel's eye and scrunched up her face into a good-natured grimace. She threw a glance at Lapsa, sitting near Pilan, and then headed for a workstation as though she had not noticed them at all. The workstation was only a few places from Gabriel's, just far enough for her to pretend not to be listening.

Gabriel swallowed a grin and continued, “Once the police report gets filed it's in the system, it's on their infostream. Plus there'll be the investigation—someone's bound to get wind of it. Also, you're having to do repairs and install more gear to improve security, and Qiyem here”—he gestured at the young gillung who'd come to sit next to Lapsa—“says that's supposed to be reported to the planning department.”

Pilan twitched with irritation. “Really?” he growled.

Qiyem nodded solemnly. “Any incidents or phenomena which might affect the operation of the plant and any alterations to submitted schematics must be recorded and the application updated.”

He sounded like he was quoting from an official document, Gabriel thought. In fact, that was probably the case: Qiyem might well have memorized the entire thing. His meticulous organization, along with calm in the face of often contradictory directives from a ridiculously large number of regulatory authorities, had won him the unenviable job of coordinating project submissions, making sure they covered every single requirement and request, no matter how mundane or obscure. It was tedious, frustrating, and vitally important. Qiyem made up for an otherwise aloof disposition by doing it very well indeed, which was why Pilan generally managed to contain his annoyance at the level of bureaucracy it entailed.

Gabriel was not sure Pilan would be able to do so today; his face had darkened visibly. Lapsa intervened, as she always did when things got awkward.

“That just reinforces Gabriel's point,” she said. “I don't see any value in pretending this didn't happen, even if we could. We knew there was opposition out there—well, now we know someone has stooped to sabotage, maybe because they haven't been able to stop us any other way. And they still haven't: most of the array is already back online and we're making the system even more robust than it was before, so it's to our advantage to demonstrate that, isn't it? Why downplay it? Qiyem”—she glanced over at him—“should include a link to the police file. Don't let Planning have to ask us for it. Make it very clear that we're not the ones who have anything to hide here.”

Pilan nodded as Qiyem silently made a note on his tablet.

Honestly,
Gabriel thought,
couldn't he at least
pretend
to actually use the band?
When he looked back at Pilan, he found his boss watching him expectantly.

“I agree with all of that,” Gabriel said. “The question is, how do you want to play it on the streams? If we put out a statement ahead of any leaks, the inference will be, ‘Look at what someone tried to do to us! Aren't they terrible? And look how we've handled it! Aren't we great?' We'll be calling attention to it, giving it importance and congratulating ourselves at the same time. On the other hand, if we do all the things we're supposed to, with the police and Planning and so on, but don't mention it otherwise, then when the story breaks our reaction is more like, ‘Yes, there was a sabotage attempt, we reported it and we're cooperating with the authorities, but it really wasn't much of a problem!'—well, that's dismissive, implying it was too pathetic to be bothered about. There might be really good reasons to go either way, but you can't do both. You need to decide.”

Pilan and Lapsa were both smiling oddly at him. Qiyem, who never offered an opinion if he could help it, sat silent and impassive, but Gabriel heard a muffled snort from Agwé. He did not dare look around at her. Most of the time he didn't mind relinquishing his telepathy and the unpleasant things it often showed him, but now he found himself wishing that he could reach up and tap the band off, just for a moment.

“If you
do
want to put it out there,” he went on hastily, discomfited, “that should happen right away. If you don't, well, just remember it could kick off in the next five minutes anyway. Although it would probably be better for the police investigation if it didn't,” he added, remembering any number of Sharon's grumpy rants about how publicity generally got in the way of good police work.

“I think that's another good argument for staying quiet,” Pilan said. “And I don't want to give these asses, whoever they are, any more of our time and attention than we have to.” He gestured at the screen behind Gabriel. “Talk to Agwé about what she recorded, read what Qiyem's putting in the file, draft something for the streams and send it to me. Beyond that, it's business as usual.”

“You are
such
a grown-up,” Agwé laughed, as soon as Lapsa and Pilan had gone and Qiyem had taken himself back to his usual spot at the furthest end of the room.

“What?”

“You should hear yourself! You rattle off all this stuff—‘reports to Planning' and ‘cooperating with authorities' and how to spin the streams—you're so
professional,
Gabe. Honestly.”

“
Me?
Remind me who's documenting this project?”

“Mmm . . .”

“For a degree in underwater photojournalism, no less?”

“That's just being sensible.” She shrugged and moved over to sit on the worktop next to him. “All the licensed journos are topsiders, even the gems. Every now and then someone drags on a divesuit, but the truth is they're pretty terrible at covering what happens below. I'm filling a niche.”

“How very
professional
of you.”

She grinned down at him, her luminescent hair tumbling in an unruly mass around a mobile, mischievous face with wide cheekbones, huge brown eyes, and a never-ending smile. She favored bodysuits in warm, vivid colors as rich and deep as her own dark skin. Lapsa might have chosen to foster her in part because of how alike they looked, but if Lapsa was a gentle whisper, Agwé had grown into a joyous shout.

“Do you want to split hairs or look at pictures?”

“Pictures, please.”

As Agwé spun smoothly off the worktop and onto the seat Qiyem had vacated, Gabriel felt the request for control of his screen as she activated her band. He assented, and the first of the sequences she had recorded appeared. She dropped into a low and, he thought, very
professional
monologue as she described what they were looking at. They spent a little time on close-ups of the turbines, hit so violently by the sudden current that blades had twisted and bearings ruptured, then she showed him some odd furrows in the silt, perpendicular to the array.

“That would make sense if there was a strong current directly above,” she said. “Speaking of which, if I put a filter on the security vids, we might see what your mom saw.”

“Let's do it.”

She played it the first time without alteration, and they watched as a row of turbines turned broadside to the current, apparently of their own volition. Then Agwé added the filter and some of the surfaces assumed an odd, too-shiny patina. This time they could see a faint, silvery turbulence roiling out of the side of the image and separate into little whirligigs of force as it hit the turbine blades.

“Wow.”

“Your mom's eyes,” Agwé declared, “are the coolest thing
ever
.”

“I'll tell her you said so. You're packaging this up for the cops, right?”

“Yep, putting it together right now.” She flicked with her mind and her hands, coordinating seamlessly, and then leaned back in the chair. “So, no one's talking about this?”

“Onstream? No.” He checked his monitor apps, though he knew they would have alerted him. “Not yet.”

“That's weird, isn't it? I mean, isn't the point of this kind of crap to take credit, make a fuss?”

“Maybe they're embarrassed at how quickly it's being fixed.”

“But nobody except us knows that yet. Unless there's a hack into the main system, but then—”

“—why not mess with the array that way?” Gabriel finished. “Not that anyone's been able to get past Herran's firewall, though we know they were trying hard until a few months ago. I don't know, Ag. Maybe they just wanted to mess things up for the launch?”

“But then you'd plan it for a night or two before, surely, not a week. They might not have realized we could fix it in five hours, but they
must
have known we could do it in five
days
.” She sounded personally offended.

“When Aunt Sharon catches them, I'll ask her to let them know how annoyed you are that they underestimated the competence of Thames Tidal.”

Agwé roared with laughter. “D'you think she's going to handle this herself? That's big-time.”

“I think she might. That's who Mama went to see after she left here.
We're
big-time, Ag. Thames Tidal is a big deal for the city, in more ways than one. We're a priority for both of the Varsis.”

Mikal flicked his tablet to standby, unfolded his eight-foot bulk and stood up, looking out and several stories down to the broad esplanade that ran alongside the river. He was in his City Hall office, just a few hundred yards upstream and on the opposite bank from Sinkat. Were it not for the huge, ancient double-tiered bridge that spanned the channel, and the unbroken line of buildings along the embankment, he would have been staring across at the pale, segmented silhouette of Thames Tidal Power's headquarters. Instead, his view was of the enormous girders and piers of the bridge, recently repaired and coated with a tough biopolymer shield through which the scars of its own great age still showed. Mikal had always thought it the most solid of structures, at once functional and ornate, and reassuringly immovable, but the unexpected effect of the restoration work was that it now appeared slightly fuzzy around the edges. The protective layer that was supposed to preserve it had, ironically, given it an aura of impermanence.

He shook his head at the paradox and flexed his hands, thinking it would be nice to feel a bit less huge, ancient, and subject to the vagaries of time himself. The call from Sharon, combined with the earlier unscheduled visit from Robert Trench, had left him contemplating his next meeting with a deep sense of foreboding.

It can't be connected,
he thought.
Standard BioSolutions is too big, too powerful, too much a bulwark of the Establishment to engage in anything as criminally stupid as sabotage. And if they did
, he reflected grimly,
they'd be a hell of a lot more effective at it.

Unless it had been intended less to damage than to intimidate, to demonstrate the extent of the industrial intelligence and logistical capacity Thames Tidal Power was up against. If that was the point, the saboteurs had miscalculated badly.

He was still trying to judge the likelihood of coincidence over conspiracy when his guest arrived. She was a norm woman some years older than himself, sharp-eyed and sharp-voiced, dressed in the well-tailored, unimaginative style of corporate executives everywhere. He offered his hand and she took it, almost managing to mask her momentary surprise as the double thumbs wrapped around her own. She shook quickly and let go.

Not bad,
he thought,
considering
.

“Councillor Varsi, I'm Moira Charles. Thank you for seeing me.”

“It's always good to meet the people who maintain the city's infrastructure.” Mikal gestured toward the window, and the excuse for the meeting. He was quite certain it was not the real reason, and that she would not fail to grasp the full meaning behind his words.

She stood for a moment, regarding the bridge with a satisfied smile. “We were delighted to work on such an important monument, part of the nation's heritage. What a stunning view you have of it. Do you like the new look?”

“Its preservation adds to its story,” he said diplomatically, showing her to a chair.

She started by fishing for information about the city's ongoing building and restoration programs. Mikal gave her nothing, and waited through a monologue on the various subsidiaries—horticultural products and high-yield agriculture, pharmaceuticals and processed foods, paints and sealers and solvents—that together made up the behemoth that was Standard. The largest division was conspicuous by its omission. He decided that if she didn't mention it soon, he would do so himself.

“We're really a collection of local businesses that have expanded through investment and collaboration,” she said finally, with the slight straightening of posture and change in tone that told him she was at last approaching the point of the meeting. “Some of the founders were community leaders from this very area, much like yourself.”

Probably not that much like me,
Mikal thought. “Bankside BioMass,” he said. “The first network of local waste-conversion plants. I'm aware of the history.”

“Indeed. Bankside still provides more than a third of London's energy needs. They've been a reliable, safe supplier for a very long time.”