In the Company of Mind In the Company of Mind
CHAPTER ONEnow
[Jaylance—freeze![
Lance Michaels instantly froze on hands and knees. His brown eyes flicked rapidly back and forth in the dim light of the glowband around his wrist. His ears strained, but he sensed nothing. The dark, narrow maintenance conduit around him smelled faintly of heated plastic and ozone, nothing more.
[What’ve you got, Robin?[ he thought.
[Pressure plates. Half meter straight ahead. Move much further, alarm goes off, conduit floods with cyanide gas.[
[That’s illegal![
[So is breaking, entering, kidnapping, theft—[
[All right, all right.[ Lance sighed and ran a hand through deep red hair. [I think my fee just doubled. No one said anything about deadly security.[
[Risking life part of job, Jaylance.[
[Not unless the Company’s getting paid extra.[ Lance’s fingers searched his tool belt until he came up with a small flashlight. Although Lance had few problems operating in low light conditions, he didn’t want to take chances with cyanide gas.
A quick beam of light stabbed through the near darkness and Lance’s enhanced eyes had no trouble picking out the faint outline of the pressure plate. Jumping over it was out of the question—the conduit was barely high enough to let Lance crawl on his hands and knees. Lance soundlessly drummed his fingers on one thigh, considering options. He could try to locate the plate’s power source and cut it, but that might set off an alarm. He could also have Robin break into the plate’s local processor and fool it into thinking Lance wasn’t there, but—
[But were hired to do job without me,[ Robin finished. [Except for recon and checking for nanobot hives, of course.[
[Hey! Stay out of my head, meatless,[ Lance growled.
[Sorry, Jaylance. Permanent lease, even if gets crowded in here. Jessica, by the way, thinks you should use cups.[
[I was thinking the same thing.[
Lance unclipped from his tool belt four oddly shaped suction cups with handle straps on their backs. By contorting himself within the conduit’s narrow confines, he managed to strap one cup on each knee and the other two on his hands. Then he rolled over, pressed his knees and hands to the conduit ceiling, and thumbed a small button on the back of the hand cups. With a faint hiss, all four cups clamped themselves to the ceiling. Lance pulled his body free of the floor and released the button on the left hand cup. This also released the cup on his right knee, allowing Lance to "crawl" one step forward on the ceiling and re-clamp the cups again. A drop of sweat slid into his ear as he made his way over the sensor plate with painful slowness.
[Clear,[ Robin said, and Lance lowered himself gratefully back to the floor.
[Ask Jessica how much further to the bedroom it is,[ Lance said, putting the cups away and massaging his aching wrists. [Her memory is better than mine and I know she saw the blueprints.[
[She says not far. Less than ten meters. Hurry up. Garth getting nervous. Claustrophobic, you know.[
Lance continued crawling up the dark, stuffy conduit, pausing every so often to check for more security. In addition to the pressure plate, he had so far avoided eye beams, heat monitors, sonic sensors, and live guards both human and canine. This in addition to a high concrete wall topped with surprises ranging from simple broken glass to hair-thin whipwire, which could slice through flesh and bone like it was soft cheese. Almost missing the pressure plate had been Lance’s first mistake and he had no intention of making another.
The old lady paid a lot of money for her security system, Lance thought. She better have a money-back guarantee.
Eventually, Lance’s conduit branched and became too narrow to let him go forward. Frowning, he backed up until he came to a thick mesh barrier that looked into what appeared to be a storage room. The barrier had hinges on it and a latch on the other side. Lance popped a small welding torch out of his belt and used it to cut off the latch. It clattered to the ground and Lance soundlessly pushed the barrier open, wrinkling his nose at the sharp smell of melted metal.
[Caution! Atmospheric toxicity levels rising. Torch not meant for use in close quarters.[
Lance put the torch away, extinguished the glowband, and stole toward the storage room door. [Can’t you compensate?[
[Some. Have to carry poisoned red blood cells to excretory system before they can interact with other cells, then stimulate growth of replacements. No small feat. Takes much processing space. Please move with all haste toward exit. Jessica says bedroom is one level above us.[
Lance cracked the door open and peered into the hallway beyond. Empty. Like a redheaded shadow, Lance slipped down the corridor. Thick carpets and expensive statuary made the job easier by silencing his footsteps and providing good places to hide. The place smelled like cinnamon.
An abstract sculpture caught Lance’s eye and his heart beat faster. The sculpture was an intricate weave of copper wire that shone in the moonlight streaming through the windows. Lance stared at the sculpture, and a low moan escaped his throat. Wires. He remembered the wires. Panic rose. He had to run. He had to get away. Away from the—
Lance stiffened for the shortest of moments and his expression went perfectly blank. Then his face changed. Some of the lines softened, and the warm brown color drained from his eyes, replaced with a piercing emerald green. His posture was different—stiffer, less fluid—and when the moment passed, it was Jessica Meredeth Michaels who put her hands on her hips and looked confidently up and down the corridor.
Well, she thought. It’s about time. Now maybe we can get something done. [Robin?[
[Here. What is needed?[
[Just checking.[ Jessica moved swiftly up the corridor, shooting a careless glance at the wire sculpture as she left. Tasteless thing. Incredible what people will waste money on nowadays.
She found a staircase and took it one flight up, almost sinking to her ankles in the too-soft carpet. Cinnamon from the aromaducts wafted after her, and Jessica made a small face. She hated cinnamon.
The stairs ended at a large round foyer. More statues and sculptures had been carefully placed around the circle, and a large set of double doors loomed opposite the staircase. If Jessica remembered correctly—and she always did—the bedroom and her quarry were within easy reach.
The woman is an idiot, Jessica thought. She has state-of-the-art security outside her mansion and almost none inside. Once one penetrates it, there are no problems.
[Just pressure plates, eye beams, sonic—[
Jessica waved a mental hand. [Yes, yes. But I see precious little of that here.[
Still, Jessica stayed close to the wall, keeping a sharp eye out for additional security. It would be foolish to take careless chances at this stage. She reached the double doors, however, without difficulty. Holding her breath, she turned the knob. Locked.
Bother, Jessica thought. [Robin, has Garth recovered from his claustrophobic fit, or is he still quivering in the corner?[
[Garth fine,[ Robin replied.
[He’ll have to get us inside,[ Jessica said. [I’m a technician, not a common lockpick.[
And the face changed again. Green eyes shifted back to brown, a lazy, lopsided grin stole over the mouth, and the body’s posture loosened considerably. Garth Blackstone scratched his nose and glared at the door.
"Oh my. I’m a technician, not a common fucking lockpick," he thought. [Robin, tell Jess-baby if she doesn’t take that stick out of her ass, I’m going to get a hammer and—[
[Message relayed. Going to open door now? Job already taking too long.[
[Yeah, yeah.[ Garth plucked a small leather packet from the tool belt, removed a pair of small tools, and bent over the lock. Watch and learn, Jess-baby.
In less than ten seconds, there was a tiny click.
Ta da! Garth put the lockpicks away and fished a small black box from one of his jumpsuit’s many pockets. Looks like Jess-baby isn’t so perfect after all. She should have had this in her hand before she even tried to open the door. He punched a button on the box, took a deep breath, and flung the door open.
The bedroom beyond was stiflingly warm and luxuriously large. Moonlight streamed over a large elegant vanity table near an equally large bed. The bed’s only occupant, an elderly woman, sat bolt upright and clutched the blankets to her chest. Garth flipped the door shut before she could scream and he smacked the manual light switch on the wall. Blinded, the old woman flung a wrinkled hand to her eyes and, with a speed that belied her age, slapped a button near the bed.
Nothing happened.
"We disconnected the alarm, Mrs. Gruenfeld," Garth said lazily. "And this—" he held up the little box "—is a short-range radio jammer, so the backup alarm you’re fumbling for under your pillow won’t work either."
Mrs. Gruenfeld lowered her hand and blinked at him. She had thin white hair and watery gray eyes. Her nightgown was thick and frilly, and it covered her from neck to wrist.
"Mr. Michaels?" she said.
That wasn’t Garth’s name, but he was used to answering to it, so he nodded and dropped the jammer back into his pocket. He didn’t like the way Mrs. Gruenfeld was looking at him. Her eyes seemed to linger over his body, seeking, tracing. All of a sudden the formfitting jumpsuit Jessica insisted the Company use for breaking and entering seemed too tight, too revealing.
[Being ridiculous,[ Robin said. [Imagination working overtime.[
[What do you know, meatless? Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it ain’t there.[ Garth’s eyes accidentally met Mrs. Gruenfeld’s and he almost flinched. [This isn’t my area. I’m outta here.[
Another change, this one the reverse of the last. The eyes reverted to emerald green and the posture went from easygoing to stiff and tight. Jessica blinked, then quickly glanced around to get her bearings.
[Listen fast,[ Robin said. [Garth unlocked bedroom door, jammed radio alarms. Mrs. Gruenfeld startled, surprised to see us.[
"How on earth did you get in here?" Mrs. Gruenfeld asked, still holding the blankets up to her neck. Her English was British, like Jessica’s.
"That would take a while to explain, Mrs. Gruenfeld," Jessica replied. "The short version, however is that you have at least fourteen—"
[Sixteen,[ Robin interrupted. [No security of any kind on door, and bedroom soundproofed. Can’t scream for help.[
"—that is, sixteen weak points in your security system."
Mrs. Gruenfeld’s mouth fell open in indignation. "Sixteen? I paid half a billion for this system. It’s supposed to be impregnable."
"You obviously had doubts," Jessica pointed out with a tiny smile. "Otherwise you wouldn’t have hired us to test it." She ejected a button from the computer on her wrist and dropped it on a nearby table. "The data is all there. We can fix the flaws and look for others, but that would be a separate job with a separate contract."
"I see." Mrs. Gruenfeld shook her head, then yawned. "You’ll have to excuse me. I wasn’t aware that you would try to break in here at three in the morning."
Jessica spread her hands. "Not many criminals come calling in the daylight, Mrs. Gruenfeld."
"You do have a point. Did you see any signs of hive activity?"
[Negative. Searched most diligently.[
"No," Jessica said. "Not a one."
Mrs. Gruenfeld sighed with relief and seemed to relax slightly, though she still held the blankets firmly in place.
Nice woman, Jessica mused, despite the cyanide in the security system.
"In that case," Mrs. Gruenfeld said, "you’re worth every penny of your fee, Mr. Michaels. I have nightmares about nanobot hives."
"They’re exceedingly rare, Mrs. Gruenfeld. You stand a greater chance of getting hit by a falling meteorite than having your computer systems go hive."
"You must allow an old lady her paranoia, Mr. Michaels," Mrs. Gruenfeld said. "In any case, I’ll sleep better having had your assessment. I’m certainly glad your mother recommended you."
And Jessica changed without warning. A snarl twisted her face and her eyes glowed a dark blue. Patrick Kuiper crossed the room in three angry steps and grabbed the front of Mrs. Gruenfeld’s nightgown. With one yank, he brought her face to his. The old woman’s eyes flew wide and she gasped in surprise. Patrick could smell her breath, sour and warm.
"What do you mean Lance’s mother recommended us?" he hissed.
"Let me go," Mrs. Gruenfeld whispered.
Patrick grinned at her fear. It felt good to be in control. He released the anger into his face and exulted as Mrs. Gruenfeld tried to cringe away.
"You’re not so smart, rich bitch," he said in a dangerously soft voice. "I could snap your neck and be in free fall long before anyone found the body. I could call the fucking cops and let them know about the cyanide gas in your security system." He tightened his grip. "Now tell us who the fuck told you about the Michaels Company or I’ll turn your head all the way around."
Mrs. Gruenfeld began to shake. "It was your mother," she quavered. "M-Meredeth Michaels. Please—you’re hurting me."
"Fuck." Patrick released the old woman so quickly she fell against the pillows and lay there, gasping like a half-dead fish. Patrick strode angrily toward the door. We’re going to have words with Lance’s mom, he thought. [Robin, do you have control of the fucking security system?[
[Negative. Michaels Company had to break in without me interfacing with estate’s computers. Would invalidate analysis otherwise.[
[Then interface and shut it down, asshole. I’m keeping control for a while and I can’t get around the goddamn system like mama-boy Lance.[
[Working.[
Patrick shuddered and his skin crawled as he left the bedroom, closing the door on Mrs. Gruenfeld’s wimpy cries for help. He couldn’t actually feel Robin’s nanos leaving his body, streaming from his eyes, ears, nose, even his cock and ass, in a microscopic stream, but it seemed like he could. Patrick hated that. And he hated Robin for making him feel that way, and he hated Lance for being such a wimp, and he hated Lance’s mother for making a fool out of him. The hatred boiled within him, thick and black, and Patrick’s hands shook with the intensity. He wanted to break something, something that would shatter with a satisfying crash. He wanted to get his hands around Merry Michaels’s neck and squeeze until she—
[Interfacing with estate computer,[ Robin reported. [System’s nanos using standard protocols. Please hold position until I can override command structure.[
[Hurry up,[ Patrick snarled.
[Override completed,[ Robin said almost instantly. [Advise you to vacate premises with all speed. And watch tone. Frontal lobotomy would almost certainly improve disposition and can be arranged at will.[
Patrick’s face contorted into a murderous mask. He snatched a piece of statuary off a nearby pedestal and threw it at a window. The priceless ceramic statue hit bulletproof polyglass and shattered with a satisfying crash.
"Fuck your lobotomy," Patrick said. But he loped quickly down the hallway before any servants arrived to investigate the noise. Although Robin had shut off some sensors and was probably putting ghosts on the rest to keep the live guards busy, Patrick didn’t want to waste time. He had things to do.
Patrick wound his way through the Gruenfeld mansion, partly relying on what he had seen through Lance’s eyes and partly relying on the directions Robin occasionally threw at him. Patrick didn’t like this place—it was spacious, airy, full of soft carpets and hard furniture. It reminded him of the house Lance had grown up in. And Patrick hated that house. It had taken them fucking forever to get the hell out.
A side door provided an easy exit and Patrick’s blue eyes automatically flicked over the darkened grounds, searching for signs of movement. Elegantly sculptured bushes bedecked a perfect lawn and provided a riot of color that Patrick’s enhanced vision had no trouble picking up even in the dim moonlight. Reds, purples, golds, and blues were laid out in a rigid perfection that completely destroyed any eerie feelings the alien flora would have invoked.
Oooh, Patrick thought. She can afford a garden put together from sixteen fucking planets. Mars comes to England. I’m so impressed.
There were sirens and shouts in the background. Patrick faded into a shadow and scanned the area, looking for guards.
[Will be none,[ Robin said. [Guard staff currently chasing three sets of "intruders," none of which are in our vicinity. Head for main gate. Will arrange for it to be open.[
When Patrick arrived at the main gate, he found it unguarded—and open. He ground his teeth. Robin enjoyed showing Patrick up, and there was no way for Patrick to get back at Robin. He chalked up another note on his growing mental tally and jogged toward the car Lance had parked about a kilometer from the Gruenfeld estate.
[Please hold position until nanobots able to extricate selves from security system, return to main body.[
[Forget it, meatless,[ Patrick sneered. [You’ll have to do without.[
[Loss will endanger my consciousness. Hold position, or will take steps per Company Policy.[
[Oh yeah?[ Patrick kept jogging up the road. The shouts and sirens began to fade behind him. [Like what?[
The road plunged into absolute blackness. Patrick stumbled and fell to the rough pavement, knocking the breath from his lungs and skinning the palms of both hands.
"Jesus fucking Christ!" he yelped. "What the fuck—?"
[Vision will return soon. Meanwhile, please hold position.[
"You goddamned bastard!" Patrick howled, and pounded the unyielding cement with his fists. Pain flashed through his hands, but he barely felt it. "I’ll kill you! Kill you!"
[Welcome to try. Just please hold position. Nanos travelling through power lines above head, will return to body in thirty seconds. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight.[
Patrick raged and bellowed as Robin ticked off the seconds in his head, but he didn’t dare move far from his position. Not when he couldn’t see. Abruptly, Robin reached zero and Patrick’s vision snapped back into focus.
[Finished. Suggest you leave area immediately. Guards almost certainly attracted by animal howling.[
[I’ll kill you, meatless,[ Patrick snarled, getting to his feet. [One day I’ll find a way, and you’ll die, just like Kepplinger and Fletcher and that old derelict and that bitchy whore and all the others.[
Robin didn’t answer. Patrick wiped his sore, bleeding hands on his jumpsuit and silently trotted to Lance’s car. It was just a rental—not even a sports car—but it would get him to the train station. London, and Lance’s mother, were only two connections away. The bitch was going to pay for what she had done. She was going to pay.
Patrick punched in the access code and gunned the motor, wishing it would make a satisfying gasoline roar instead of a faggoty turbine whine. At least it had halfway decent acceleration.
The tires squealed as Patrick tore down the road and flashed his middle finger at the Gruenfeld estate. Then he rolled down the windows and concentrated on driving. Patrick loved to drive. He could feel every nuance of the road beneath him and he leaned into every turn as if he were part of the car itself. He laughed aloud and tugged at his crotch, hoping someone would challenge him to an impromptu drag race or a game of chicken.
No one did. At the train station, he abandoned the car without returning it to the rental agency, wishing he could drive all the way to London, knowing he was too tired. Instead, he bought six first-class tickets on the night run to London so he could have an entire seating compartment to himself. It was expensive as hell, but Patrick deserved it after everything Robin had put him through. Lance was paying for it, so it didn’t matter anyway. Besides, hadn’t he gotten the Company out of the Gruenfeld mansion?
Smiling to himself, he settled back in his seat to get some sleep.
Delia Radford stubbornly crossed her arms and glared across her desk at—well, she wasn’t totally sure who she was glaring at. He had blue eyes, so it was either Andy, Patrick, or Jay.
No, she thought. It’s not Jay. Jay’s a dear. So it’s either Andy or Patrick. He certainly isn’t Lance.
"You’ve got orders to let me in whenever the hell I want," not-Lance growled, yanking at the brown leather jacket he was wearing over a worn black jumpsuit. "You and everyone else in this fucking corporation. And I want to see Meredeth now."
Patrick, Delia decided, resting one foot lightly on the security call button under her desk. Orders or no orders, Patrick could get violent, and although he had never directed any hostility at her, Delia saw no reason to put up with nonsense—or endangerment—from him, no matter how much she liked Lance and Jessica.
"I’ve already informed you that she isn’t in," Delia replied with freezing English civility. Americans were often easier to deal with if one remained perfectly, icily polite. "If you would care to tell me what this is about, I may be able to contact her and let her know you need to see her."
A sneer twisted Patrick’s face. "Where the hell is she? Balling another physicist friend?"
"She’s getting ready for a business trip," Delia said levelly. "A company called Pinegra is going bankrupt and has to sell a research station orbiting Thetachron III. Ms. Michaels is an interested buyer, and she wants to inspect the place herself, which means she has things to do before she leaves tomorrow morning. Why do you need to see her?"
"Fucking nigger bitch." Patrick’s foot lashed out and thumped against Delia’s desk. Since the desk was solid hardwood and bolted to the floor, the kick had little impact. Delia didn’t even blink, despite the racial slur. As long as Patrick was lashing out at the furniture, the people around him were pretty safe. Still, she kept her foot on the alarm button.
"Is there a problem?" she asked with polite concern.
"The bitch recommended us for a security job," Patrick said, pacing to the wall-sized window that looked over a dreary, cloud-enshrouded London. "She can’t keep her fucking nose out of our business, can she? For years she never did a fucking thing, and now she can’t stay out of our life."
"Ms. Michaels didn’t make the recommendation," Delia said quietly. "I did."
Patrick spun around. "What?"
"Ms. Michaels is very busy," Delia reminded him. "So when Carlina Gruenfeld dropped Ms. Michaels a netnote asking for a security specialist, I answered it and gave her your company’s name."
Patrick stared at her. Delia steadily met his gaze. Then, between one heartbeat and the next, Patrick’s eyes went from dark blue to a warm brown. The sneer vanished, replaced by an almost haunted look.
Delia mentally shook her head. The man standing by the window was handsome—incredibly handsome—under any conditions, but when he was "himself," as Delia thought of it, he was at his best. Red hair didn’t often combine with large, puppy-brown eyes, but on Lance it worked. The formfitting black jumpsuit and short leather jacket showed off a very nice body that deliciously stirred Delia’s hormones. But what attracted her most was the fact that he didn’t seem to be aware of his looks. A nice change from most of the other men that had wandered through Delia’s life.
"Lance?" Delia asked.
Lance—if it was Lance—blinked and glanced around the outer office, a tasteful affair carefully furnished in wood and leather. Miniature trees trained to grow in a lush imitation of a medieval forest lined the walls. Delia’s desk was scrupulously neat, though where most people would have pictures of relatives, Delia put half a dozen carvings of small birds in keeping with the office motif. The aromaducts, of course, had been programmed for loam and fresh breezes, though Delia could smell neither one.
"Delia?" Lance said. Then his eyes briefly took on a glazed look, as if he were listening to some kind of inner voice. "Uh, right. Umm, so Mom isn’t in?"
Delia shook her head. "Sorry. She—we—should be back in three or four days."
Lance took a hesitant step toward Delia’s desk. "We?"
Delia nodded. "Ms. Michaels wants minimal staff on this visit. Since I know more about the deal than anyone else besides her, I get to go." She grimaced. "I’m not looking forward to it—I swear phasing mucks with my implants." She held up her right hand and wiggled the fingers. It looked perfectly normal, but there was poly-steel and plastic beneath the newskin. Her right leg had been rebuilt the same way, along with large portions of her face. On most days, Delia couldn’t tell the difference.
"A phase drive shouldn’t affect your implants," Lance said.
"I know." Delia shook her head wryly. "It just seems like I get phantom pains more often after a jump. But duty calls. And I get a hefty bonus for trips like this, so I suppose it’s worth it. Anyway," she said, changing the subject to keep the conversation going, "how’s the security analysis business going?"
"Fine," Lance replied, nervously removing his jacket and holding it in front of him. "Carlina Gruenfeld’s system was full of holes, though. The person who designed it should be shot."
"Are you going to redesign it for her?"
Lance shook his head ruefully. "I doubt it. She, uh, didn’t like us much." He paused and wet his lips. "Listen, Delia—I’m sorry about . . . about what I said. I guess I, uh, lost my temper."
The look on his face was so contrite that Delia’s heart went out to him. She had met Lance three years ago, just after she had become Meredeth Michaels’s chief administrative assistant. A few months later—spurred by Lance’s odd behavior, his constantly shifting eye color, and a certain conversation with Jessica—she had become a regular on the library nets reading up on multiple personality disorder. Delia, however, had not told Lance that she knew about the Company. It was odd, in its way—in three years, the timing had never been right for it.
Mostly because the only time I see Lance is in this office, she thought wryly. And just what is one supposed to say, anyway? "Oh, and Lance—Jessica told me you have multiple personalities. Just thought I’d let you know."
"You don’t have to apologize, Lance," Delia said, smiling. "I’m sure the cleaning staff can remove the footprint from my desk."
Lance cringed and Delia was instantly sorry she had made the joke. Lance was always so serious. Delia couldn’t ever remember seeing him smile. Andy smiled, but Andy made Delia nervous.
Lance ran a hand through his hair. "Well, sorry to bother you. I guess I’ll be going."
"You don’t have to dash off," Delia said before he could turn away. "I’m just about finished here and was planning to get a cup of coffee before going home to pack. Join me?"
"Uh, well, I’m kind of behind schedule," Lance temporized, "and I have things to do."
You always have things to do, Delia thought with an inward sigh. But she knew better than to push. Lance would disappear for weeks if she did.
"I see," she said aloud. "But Lance—if you ever want to talk to someone, or if you ever need help, just let me know. All right?"
"Yes, all right," Lance said quickly. "Thanks, Delia. I really have to go." He turned, got halfway through the doorway, and stopped cold. His back stiffened. Puzzled, Delia craned her neck, trying to see what was going on.
"Lance?" she asked.
After a long moment, Lance backed into the room, still holding his jacket in front of him. A short woman stood in the doorway. Her strawberry-blond hair was pulled back into a French braid and she wore an immaculate beige business jumpsuit with no jewelry. A large computer notebook was tucked under one arm. She appeared to be in her very early thirties, but had the unmistakably confident, mature air of someone at least twenty years older. Not even bodysculpt could hide attitude.
"Mom," Lance said quietly.
"Hello, Lance," Meredeth Michaels said. She made no move to embrace him. "What are you doing here? Not that I mind," she added quickly. "It’s just a surprise. I haven’t seen you in—what?—almost six months."
"I thought you were going on a trip," Lance said. Tension rose in the room and Delia shifted uncomfortably.
"I am," Meredeth said. "I just remembered a few details I needed to take care of back here, but they can wait. Have you eaten lunch?"
"Probably," Lance replied evenly, and Delia caught sight of the slight wince that crossed Meredeth’s face. Then Delia realized she was staring and quickly busied herself with tracking down a missing netfile, though she couldn’t help sneaking glances.
"Yes, well," Meredeth floundered, "perhaps we could pop downstairs for a quick cup of coffee or tea? I’d like to see you."
Lance’s jaw clenched and his posture went so taut, Delia half expected it to snap. "No thanks, Mom. I’ve really—well, why not? I could use a bit of something, I think."
Delia glanced up sharply. In mid-sentence his accent had gone from American to English, and his voice was pitched quite a bit higher. His eyes had become a brilliant green. The eye-color changes fascinated Delia, no matter how many times she had seen it. It was a puzzle how Lance—or his alters—pulled it off. As far as she knew, MPD didn’t normally produce such dramatic physical alterations.
Ms. Michaels had obviously noticed the switch. "Why don’t we go into my office for a moment?" She flicked her eyes at Delia, who had gone back to work again with what she hoped was the air of someone who hadn’t heard a thing.
"Don’t be silly, Mother. Delia knows about the Company." Green-eyed Lance strode briskly across the room to Delia’s desk and held out a hand. "Hello, Delia. So nice to see you again."
Delia’s stomach made a quick flip-flop at Jessica’s forthright gesture. She had not told Ms. Michaels what she had learned about Lance—it hadn’t seemed appropriate—and she cast about for a graceful way out of the greeting. None came to mind. Delia smiled faintly and shook the proffered hand. "Hello, Jessica."
Meredeth Michaels was staring. "You told her?"
"Why shouldn’t I?" Jessica replied blandly. "It’s not Lance’s fault—or yours—that your first husband was a monster. Besides, Delia would never hurt us, and Lance likes her a great deal, even if he can’t bring himself to say more than three words to her."
Delia cleared her throat and tried not to squirm. "Perhaps I should go down to accounting and check those receipts you were asking about, Ms. Michaels?"
"Yes, thank you, Delia," Ms. Michaels replied faintly. "That would be very helpful."
Delia all but bolted from the office, wondering how on earth she was going to face spending the next three days with Meredeth Michaels.
"Are you all right?" said Meredeth. "Hello?"
Lance shook his head and flicked a quick glance at his surroundings. He was sitting at a table in Mom’s office, which was more heavily forested than the foyer where Delia had her desk. Birds—or recordings of the same—sang sweetly, while bright sunlight seemed to filter pleasantly through the branches. Lilac-scented breezes coasted by. The table was littered with snack plates, crumbs, and empty china teacups, and his jacket was draped across the chair behind him.
"Your eyes are brown," Meredeth said. "Is that you, Lance?"
"It’s me, Mom," Lance replied. "Though I’m not sure why I’m here."
"You were just saying that I’m your mother and that a good son would at least say hello." There was a pinched look on Meredeth’s too-youthful face. "We were having a very nice chat about mothers and children, you and I."
"You and Jessica had the chat," Lance corrected. "I had nothing to do with it."
"You and I," Meredeth repeated in a stubborn voice. "I’ve done research, Lance. Jessica isn’t real. She’s—"
"Jessica is another person, Mom," Lance interrupted tiredly. "Just like Garth and Jay and Grandpa Jack and the rest of the Company. I’m not them and they aren’t me. I’ve told you that over and over."
"I remember. Have you gone back to see Dr. Baldwin yet?"
"Mom, I haven’t seen Dr. Baldwin in twelve years. Why would I go back now?"
"Well, one can’t help hoping—"
"That your son will stop being a loony?" Lance got up to pace the loamy carpet. "That one day I’ll integrate and be sane, healthy, and normal?"
"That’s not what I said."
"It’s what you meant. Things are fine the way they are, Mom. I’m sorry you don’t like it. I can’t help what you and Dad did to—"
"I had nothing to do with it," Meredeth interrupted, echoing Lance’s earlier words. "Your father made you what you are. We both know that."
Lance turned and locked eyes with her for a long time. She met his gaze for a moment, then looked away.
"Enjoy your trip, Mom," Lance said at last. "I understand there’s a lot of money to be made, and we all know how important that is."
He snatched up his jacket and left the office, ignoring the white knuckles on his mother’s hands.
The elevator ride to the ground floor took forever, and Lance all but sprinted into the streets of the London business district, glad to get out of the office.
[Always are,[ Robin said.
"Keep your opinions to yourself, meatless," Lance muttered, and trotted up the nearly empty sidewalk. It was a cloudy day—normal for London—and the sidewalk was damp, though Lance didn’t remember it raining. A faint chill hung in the air.
Occasional electric cars buzzed by on the pavement, and a lone man wheeled an elderly bicycle down the sidewalk. Lance glanced upward at the tall, half-empty buildings. The business district, with its blocky concrete and precisely placed windows, was actually rather boring. There was talk of levelling the place and trying to re-create historical London. Almost no one was left there anyway. Most executives preferred to live on less crowded planets and conduct meetings on vidphone via Tach-Com. Meetings could even be attended in simulated person, if everyone didn’t mind wearing virtual reality gear and plugging into Tach-Net.
All thanks to Mom, Lance thought, bitterly shoving his hands into his pockets. What a woman.
Lance passed a small park where a young woman sat eating a late lunch on one of the benches. She paused, sandwich halfway to her mouth, as Lance drew near. Lance could feel her eyes on him, staring, hungry, and he automatically hunched into himself until he passed her by. He continued down the street, trying to pull his jacket lower over his jumpsuit. The jumpsuit, while functional for contract work, was far and away too tight, and Lance blushed furiously at the thought that Delia had seen him in it.
[Suit not that tight, Jaylance,[ Robin commented.
[I said, keep it to yourself.[
Lance jammed his hands into his jacket pockets and turned his thoughts back to the Gruenfeld affair so he wouldn’t have to think about his mother. Patrick had violated Company Policy by taking over during the fulfillment of a contract. Probably the only thing that kept Mrs. Gruenfeld from pressing assault charges was that the Company knew about the illegal cyanide in her security system. In any case, she would certainly never call the Michaels Company again. Patrick had screwed up everything and, as manager, Lance had to mete out discipline. He grimaced. May as well get it over with.
[Robin, tell Patrick no more prostitutes until further notice. He can watch Andy if he wants, but that’s it. And I’ll do any driving.[
[Done.[
A passerby turned to stare at him. Lance sighed and trudged onward, sinking lower into depression with every step. Meredeth Michaels, his own mother, had built the largest communications empire in existence while her son ran a tiny security system analysis service out of a jumpship. Patrick was probably pissed, the Company had lost a lucrative client, Lance had spent the afternoon arguing with his mother—
And he was being followed.
The depression vanished, replaced by sudden tension. Lance casually glanced over his shoulder. The man with the bicycle was still about a block behind him, though Lance had turned three corners by now. Panic rose, and he fought it off.
[Robin?[
[Here, Jaylance.[
[Did you get a good look at the man back there with the bike?[
[Affirmative.[
[Link up with my wristcomp and check the ship’s computer to see if his face is in the database for Dad’s operatives.[
[Working.[
Lance turned another corner and broke into a trot for a count of ten, then lapsed back into a walk. The bicycle man came around the corner a moment later. Lance hoped he hadn’t noticed the increased distance between them. Though Lance could probably outdistance the man with ease, he didn’t want to break into a run—it would be better to lose him by "accident" and get out of London as fast as possible.
[Identity confirmed,[ Robin said. [Name unknown, but is operative for Jonathan Blackstone. Was involved in kidnapping attempt two years ago.[
Lance cursed under his breath. Mom had forced Blackstone International out of London just after Lance’s last visit to Dr. Baldwin, but Dad still maintained an underground presence there. It was either sheer bad luck that Lance had been spotted, or—more likely—Dad’s operatives kept an eye on MM, Limited. Lance himself hardly ever went near the place, but Patrick had been the one to go in.
The bicycle man raised his wrist and muttered briefly to it, then reached into his coat.
Shit, Lance thought, speeding up without looking back. Probably calling for backup. And it won’t take them long to arrive, if I know Dad. His eyes flicked left and right, looking for a probable escape route.
[Attention! Attention![ Robin interrupted. [Message from Andy. Has been exactly ten days since he has had "night out" and wishes to remind you of Company Policy: one night for Andy every ten days, no excuses or exceptions.[
Lance gritted his teeth, trying to think of options. [Not now, Robin. Tell him we’ll talk as soon as I get myself out of this.[ The alleys, maybe?
[Could head back to MM building,[ Robin pointed out. [Mother doubtless willing to handle Blackstone goons encroaching on—[
[Shut up, meatless,[ Lance snapped. [I don’t need her help.[ The alleys. It would have to be the alleys.
With a deep breath, Lance turned another corner and bolted.
He shot down the street, making for an opening between two buildings just as the bicycle man came around the corner. There was a hissing crack, and a projectile needle shattered against a building wall. The few people on the sidewalk turned to stare. Lance tore past them, shoved a suited man out of his way, and the bicycle man fired his needler again. Something sharp pierced the back of Lance’s right arm, but he kept running.
[Robin![
[Working.[
"Stop that man!" shouted Bicycle. "He’s a wanted criminal!"
People on the street were either turning to gawk or screaming in fear. Bicycle dropped the bike and ran forward, ignoring the people who scrambled to get out of his way.
"Stop him!" he cried again. "Halt!"
Lance kept running. The alley was only ten meters ahead. Five. One. Lance risked a glance behind, and another needle penetrated his shoulder. He threw himself around the corner into the alley, then staggered dizzily against the rough bricks.
[Robin—[
[Needles coated with terraphine,[ Robin said. [Am trying to keep contaminated blood cells from carrying anesthetic to brain, but success limited. Body has received enough drug to drop adult hippopotamus. Do not get shot again, Jaylance.[
Lance stumbled forward, forcing his legs to work. The alley smelled of cheap beer and fried fish and the walls looked fuzzy—the terraphine at work. A fire escape formed a black lattice against the side of the building, but Lance wouldn’t have time to climb it. Bicycle would be there in seconds.
[Adrenaline rush to boost the implants, Robin,[ he said. [Now![
[Done.[
Lance’s vision snapped back into focus and his heart pounded madly. With a quick glance upward, he gathered himself and leaped. Air rushed past his ears and the ground fell away. His fingers grasped the side of the fire escape almost three stories above the alley pavement just as Bicycle rounded the corner, needler in hand. He wasn’t looking up. Heart still hammering in his chest, Lance clung to the cool metal for a moment, then began to haul himself quietly over the edge. Carefully, silently, he brought his body level with the rail—
—and overcompensated. His adrenaline-hyped muscles flipped him too quickly and he landed with a ringing thump on the other side. The operative glanced upward and fired. Another needle shattered with a loud pung on the fire escape.
[Attention! Attention![ Robin said. [Andy taking over soon. Says to remember Company Policy.[
[Oh God—not now.[ Lance yanked himself to his feet and clattered up the metal stairs. Another needle shattered right behind him. [Tell Andy to wait! Tell him he can have a full vacation later, no strings attached![
[Trying, but Andy not good listener.[
Lance bolted up another flight. A few more steps, and he would be safe on the roof. Even if Bicycle climbed the fire escape, Lance would be long gone. He could easily evade the backups, hop the ferry, and be in France before—
Sharp pain as another needle pierced his arm. The world tilted dizzily. Darkness lined the edges of his vision and his limbs felt too heavy to move. Lance barely threw himself up the final step and onto the roof.
[Robin . . . [
[Too much, Jaylance. Can’t keep terraphine out of central nervous system.[
Lance’s eyes slid shut. Below, he heard metallic thumps as someone climbed the fire escape before darkness rose and claimed him.
Andrew Braun scrambled to his feet and cautiously peered over the edge of the roof. Bicycle was climbing the fire escape, whistling to himself and probably calculating his bonus. He was a tall, lithe man, with brown hair and blue eyes.
Andy crouched near the top of the fire escape ladder and cracked his knuckles. Bicycle was after Lance, not Andy, but in Andy’s experience most people didn’t bother to ask about the difference. Andy was no relation to Jonathan Blackstone or Meredeth Michaels and he didn’t give two shits about either one of them, but he was still stuck with some of Lance’s problems.
Like this operative.
A pair of hands grasped the top rung of the ladder. Andy waited a moment, then grabbed the man’s wrists and yanked him over the edge of the roof. Bicycle squawked in alarm, then grunted when Andy threw him to the roof tiles. In a flash, Andy was sitting on his chest with the operative’s arms pinned beneath his knees.
Andy gave him a cheerful grin. "You’re looking for Lance, aren’t you?"
Bicycle stared up at him, eyes wide, mouth open. "How—how did—?" he squeaked. "I mean—I got you with the terraphine."
"You shot Lance, bucko. Not me."
"What are you talking about?" he sputtered, but Andy could feel his muscles tensing, getting ready to move.
Andy calmly reached behind himself and grabbed Bicycle’s crotch. "Move, and I’ll give you the motherfucker of all squeezes."
Bicycle froze. "I’ve got backups coming," he said. "We’ll find you eventually."
Andy squeezed, and Bicycle sucked in his breath. With his other hand, Andy went through the man’s pockets until he came up with the needle pistol. He thumbed the safety off and aimed it at Bicycle’s neck.
"I’m allergic to terraphine," Bicycle said in a calm voice. "I’ll die if you use that."
Tires squealed on the pavement below. Doors clicked open and slammed shut, footsteps and shouts echoed up the alley to the roof. The fire escape started to thrum under hurried feet.
"Ain’t that a bitch?" Andy said, and pulled the trigger. Bicycle gasped and went limp.
"Be grateful," Andy told him. "Patrick would have thrown you off the roof."
He got up, dashed lightly over the rooftop, and dropped four stories to the alley opposite the backup team. He trotted briskly away, confident that he was safe. If Bicycle really was allergic to terraphine, his buddies would be distracted by the need to get him hospitalized. If Bicycle was lying—well, the backups weren’t expecting an unconscious agent, and they would pause to investigate, long enough for Andy to disappear. He laughed, enjoying the feel of muscle moving beneath skin. Lance just didn’t understand that you had to get out and have fun once in a while. You couldn’t let yourself get bogged down in stupid worries.
Andy emerged from the alley and almost ran into a taxicab. He grinned. See? he thought. Everything’ll work out fine if you just go with the flow.
He yanked open the passenger door and dropped into the seat. It had taken Andy forever to work out some kind of schedule with Lance, and Andy was going to stick to it no matter what. He got his night out every ten days, come hell, high water, or Jonathan Blackstone.
And then there was the vacation Lance had promised. It was his, no conditions, no strings attached. Andy would have to get on the network and make some reservations. He fingered Lance’s cashcard and grinned.
The driver turned his head. "Where ye headin’, mister?"
"New Whitechapel," Andy replied, still grinning.
The driver suddenly matched Andy’s smile with one of his own. A friendly, knowing smile. "Go for the odd bits, do you? Listen, I know a great place. Easy to find what you’re looking for. Female, male, group—you name it."
Andy leaned back and cracked his knuckles. "Sounds perfect. Step on it—I’m already behind schedule."
The driver stepped on it.
Callused fingers stroked Lance’s arm. He blinked, then realized he was lying on a strange bed in a strange room staring into the eyes of a stranger. Again.
Lance sat up. Both he and the other man were completely naked atop a set of rubber sheets, but an array of black leather clothing was strewn over the floor and bedposts. A length of hose and a set of handcuffs dangled from a ceiling hook. One corner was entirely taken up by a narrow table fitted with leather straps and strategically placed holes. Plastic instruments littered the floor, and the room stank of old leather and sweat. Lance’s groin, back, and buttocks stung, and there was something in his mouth. He grimaced and pulled out a pair of white feathers. One of them was streaked with blood.
"Something the matter?" the man asked, also sitting up. He was fair-skinned and muscular, with a pale blond mustache.
Lance’s skin crawled with embarrassment. Every fiber of his being cried out that this was wrong, that he would be punished for this. But Andy didn’t care. Andy’s tastes knew no discrimination. Women, men, teens, singles, doubles, groups, actives, passives, or psychos. It was all the same to Andy. And Lance always had to pick up the pieces. Lance was always the one who got punished.
[Robin—[
[Here, Jaylance. Andy took "night out," found partner in S and M bar about an hour ago. Name is Brad and you don’t owe him money. Are in his flat. Has been almost two hours since alley dustup, but this still London. Suggest we leave immediately. Have removed terraphine from system, so alters don’t have to keep you awake.[
Lance nodded to himself. It was a common occurrence among sufferers of multiple personality disorder. One alter might be drunk or drugged, but the others usually remained unaffected. After all, why should Andy get knocked out if Lance was dosed with terraphine? Andy was a different person.
"Andy?" Brad asked again. His accent was vaguely Scottish. "What’s wrong?"
Forcing himself to overcome his embarrassment, Lance got up and rummaged around on the floor until he found his jumpsuit and jacket near the flat’s single window. He had to get moving. Robin said they were still in London, and therefore still in danger. Andy wasn’t very good with details and was likely to be careless and overconfident when it came to running away from Dad.
"Andy?" Brad asked, starting to get up.
"Uh, listen," Lance said, hurrying into his clothes. "I have to go."
Brad sighed and slumped back into the bed. "I knew you were going to say that. They always say that. I really like you, Andy. Why do you have to run?"
"It’s not why you think," Lance said uncomfortably, going through his pockets and strapping on his wristcomp. "I mean—"
The door crashed open. Two men with pistols filled the doorway and sprayed the room with a barrage of needles. Brad’s jaw had time to drop before he crumpled into a heap on the bed. Without thinking, Lance dove straight out the window amid shattering glass and fell through the chill night air.