In the Company of Mind

by Steven Piziks

CHAPTER THREE

now

Brad’s flat turned out to be three stories up. Lance tried to relax as he fell, and the hard pavement below rushed up to meet him. He landed badly, with a horrible wrench, and he forced himself to roll to absorb further impact. White-hot pain flooded his right leg and ankle.

[Robin![

[Cutting pain centers. Ankle badly twisted, not broken. Leg muscles slightly torn. If not for implants, damage would be much more severe.[

The pain vanished and Lance scrambled to his feet. He was in a rectangular courtyard paved with old-style cobblestones. Windows from other flats looked out over a few potted trees and battered sets of patio furniture. Someone had had a cookout, and the scent of grilled beef still hung faintly in the damp, misty air. A single narrow corridor led to the street beyond. Lance sprinted toward it. Above him came the hiss and crack of needler fire, but the courtyard was only dimly lit and the operatives in Brad’s flat had not been equipped with night glasses. The light fog was also working in his favor.

Lance pelted toward the corridor, needles pinging and snapping on the stones around him—

—and then he skidded to a halt. The corridor was the only exit to the street, and Lance couldn’t believe the operatives weren’t aware of this fact. There had to be more of them waiting for him right outside.

Lance dodged sideways and flattened himself against the wall, heart pounding, cobbles bumpy beneath his feet. He knew he was in no great physical danger—Jonathan Blackstone’s operatives wouldn’t dare do any permanent damage, not when Dad wanted him back in one piece. But they would take him back to Dad, who would do worse than anything his operatives even dreamed. The operatives also would know that Lance could take a great deal of punishment and pain.

He glanced up at the roof. The apartment building was four stories tall. Maybe—

[Forget it, Jaylance. Three-story up-jump is about maximum, even without wounded leg.[

The needle-fire stopped. Lance nervously licked his lips. Why would they stop shooting? They knew he was down here somewhere and would probably hit him by sheer luck if they kept firing.

Boots rang on cobblestones in the corridor, giving Lance his answer—the operatives didn’t want to hit their own people. Lance hugged brick and looked desperately at the impossibly high walls—no fire escapes or ladders. No way out. The clumping boots grew louder, and long, fog-blurred shadows entered the courtyard. There were at least six of them and they were carrying needlers.

Lance glanced around desperately, then darted toward a first-floor window that looked out on the courtyard just as half a dozen operatives burst into the area. Without pausing, Lance dove through the window. Crashing glass sliced his face and arms, but he rolled to his feet, eyes already adjusted to the near-blackness of the flat.

Outside, hoarse shouts ordered the operatives into the flat. Lance leaped over and dodged around furniture, making for the front door. Warm blood trickled down his face and arms, and his injured leg and ankle were getting swollen and stiff, though Robin was still blocking the pain. A light came on in an adjoining room, but Lance ignored it. He reached the front door and found it was bolted shut.

A figure appeared in the broken window. "Freeze!"

Lance braced himself and yanked. Wood splintered, and suddenly he was breathing cool night air. A needler hissed and cracked behind him, and he felt the familiar sting of a needle before he reached the sidewalk. He fled across the street, then staggered for a moment under sudden dizziness.

[Robin—[

[More terraphine. Trying to compensate, but am also blocking pain, stopping leg from stiffening up, and trying to keep ankle from breaking.[

Lance ducked down a side street to try and get his bearings. He was obviously in a residential district, a rather seedy one. Crumbling blocks of brick flats came right up to the sidewalk. A few had tiny gardens set off by black wrought-iron fences. Lance couldn’t hear anyone behind him yet, but another wave of dizziness hit him.

[Robin, drop the pain block and stop the terraphine.[

[Acknowledged.[

Pain roared over Lance’s body. His leg and ankle throbbed with it, and his face felt like it had been torn to shreds. He groaned under the onslaught, but forced himself to keep moving. Pain jolted him with every step, but the dizziness was gone.

He dashed down an alley and out to another street, trying to think around the pain. How had Dad’s operatives tracked him down? Obviously Andy had managed to get away safely. The operatives should have assumed he’d flee the country. How did they know he hadn’t?

The bar, he thought. The cab. [Robin, how did Andy pay the cab driver and the bar tab?[

[Cashcard.[

Electronic money. Easily traceable, if you had the connections. And Dad had the resources of a multisystem corporation at his disposal.

Lance stopped to rest a moment, trying to ignore his pounding leg and bleeding face. A glance at his wristcomp showed it was almost midnight. The chilly air was growing foggier, and Lance realized he was shivering.

I can’t go on like this, he thought. I need help. I need to rest somewhere safe.

[Meredeth’s place?[

Lance tensed his jaw. [I’ll rot in the gutter before giving her that satisfaction. Stay out of my head, meatless.[

Robin fell silent. Lance fished through his pockets and came up with about thirty pounds and change. It apparently had never occurred to Andy to use it. The cash might—might—get him halfway across London. But he didn’t know anyone in London except Mom.

And Delia.

An electric car swished by in the street and Lance ducked into a shadow. Delia. He liked Delia, and he knew she liked him. Everyone liked Lance. They couldn’t help themselves. Dad had seen to that.

Just another operation, he thought bitterly. One little adjustment to my pheromones, and suddenly everyone wants to be my friend.

The pain intensified. Robin was probably working hard on removing the terraphine. Lance could hand the situation over to Garth or Jessica—earlier in his life he probably would have—but that had already gotten him into enough trouble for the evening. He had to keep moving.

Lance turned and limped down the street as best he could, fiery pain ripping through his leg with every step. The city was eerily quiet, and the only sounds were the uneven scuffing noises his shoes made on the pavement. It felt like the aging buildings were staring at him. Dad’s people were probably fanning out, searching in all directions. They operated under a handicap, of course—they had to disappear before the police arrived and they had to remain unidentified—but they weren’t stupid and they had powerful resources. Lance himself was operating under a handicap. He couldn’t check into a hotel—the good ones didn’t accept cash anymore and the bad ones would happily answer questions about their clientele to anyone who waved enough money. Hospitals were also out of the question. Not only was Dad almost certainly watching them by now, Lance was a walking mess of illegal medical procedures.

The chill air was settling into his wounds like an icy cat kneading its owner’s lap. Lance had to rest someplace warm, and soon. It would be impossible for Robin to take care of his injuries while he was walking around, especially with the terraphine threatening to clog his system, and the pain was getting steadily worse. He could hardly put weight on his injured leg and ankle.

Delia offered you help whenever you needed it, he told himself. It looks like you’ll have to take her up on it.

Traffic noises cut through the fog ahead of him. He followed the electric hum of tires on pavement until he came to a well-lit, busy street and was able to flag down a cab.

"Bloody Christ," the driver said when he climbed in. The cab smelled faintly of fried fish. "What the hell happened to your face, love? And you’re pale as winter’s ghost. You want me to take you to the hospital?"

"No," Lance said, and gave her Delia’s address. "I’ve only got thirty quid, so let me know when the meter gets that far. I’ll walk the rest of the way."

The driver, a middle-aged woman with small brown eyes, gave him a motherly look. "You just relax, love, and let old Annie get ye where ye need to be."

Lance nodded and slumped down in the seat. Even when he looked like hell, people liked him. Or they thought they did.

Annie guided the cab into the street. The motion shifted Lance’s weight and he bit his lip to keep from screaming.

[Robin, how’s the terraphine coming?[

[Be a while, Jaylance. Apologies. Perhaps Garth or Jessica should—[

[No. Garth wouldn’t get along with Delia, and I’m mad at Jessica right now for making me stay in that office. She can sit and stew about what I said to Mom.[

The cab wove swiftly through the city streets, but most of it was a blur to Lance. Several glances over his shoulder assured him he wasn’t being followed, but he was still nervous—and in pain. A haze settled over him, and he was vaguely aware of Annie chattering at him, but he couldn’t focus on what she was saying. After what felt like a long time, the cab finally pulled to a stop.

"We’re here, love," Annie said.

Lance sat up, gasping when he moved his swollen leg. The meter said he owed Annie exactly 38 pounds.

"I told you I’ve only got thirty quid," Lance protested. And I can’t use the cashcard without telling Dad where I am.

Annie snorted. "I couldn’t let ye walk all that way, now could I? Don’t ye worry about Annie—some rich bloke tipped me a nice one earlier today. I can make the diff."

The pheromones at work again, but this time Lance didn’t care. He thanked Annie, handed her the money, and climbed stiffly out of the cab, making a mental note of the taxi’s identification number so he could send her full payment—and a tip—later. She gave him a cheery wave and drove off.

Pheromones.

Lance found himself standing before a set of brownstone houses all connected in one long row, a much better neighborhood than the one he had just left. Even the fog seemed lighter. Sudden exhaustion washed over him as he limped up to one of the doors. The third button down read d. radford. Lance took a deep breath and pressed it. The tiny security camera above the door swiveled to focus on him. After a moment, Lance pressed the button again and looked down at his leg. It had swollen so much it was stretching his jumpsuit. He didn’t even want to think about what his ankle looked like.

The intercom hissed. "Who is it?" snapped Delia’s sleepy voice. "Show your face or I’m calling the bloody cops."

Lance turned his face up toward the camera, feeling suddenly uncertain. "Delia?" he said hoarsely.

"Lance?" The drowsiness vanished from Delia’s voice. "My God—what happened to your face? Hurry on in. I’m on the ground floor, second door on the left."

The door clicked open and Lance limped into a corridor, glad he wouldn’t have to climb any stairs. Another door further up the hallway opened and Delia, dressed in a housecoat—dressing gown, Lance corrected himself without knowing why—came scurrying toward him.

"God!" she said again, taking his arm. "Are you all right? Never mind—stupid question. Let’s get inside and get those cuts cleaned up."

Lance nodded and gratefully let her lead him into her flat.

Delia’s apartment was bright and airy, with high ceilings and comfortable-looking furniture. A pair of blond wood bookshelves were crammed with countless untidy piles of bookdisks. Photographs and drawings of birds hung on the walls, while avian statues occupied end tables and shelves. A locked cabinet with a glass door stored four cameras and three sets of field glasses. Two overnight bags sat next to the door. Delia brought Lance to a sofa and helped him lie down. It was a relief to sink into the soft cushions. He gratefully drank in the warmth.

"Yorik, lock the door," she said, and the front door clicked. "You wait right there, Lance."

She left the room and returned with a first aid kit. "Let me clean your face and you can tell me what happened. Are you all right? Besides the cuts, I mean?"

"I twisted my leg," Lance told her, wincing as she gently wiped the dried blood from his face and sprayed the cuts with antiseptic. The process was unnecessary—Robin had already gotten rid of the glass and would stop any infection—but he couldn’t tell Delia that. Instead, he wordlessly let Delia work. When she noticed his arm, she carefully rolled up his sleeve—Lance sucked in his breath as it came away from the dried blood—and cleaned that as well.

"What happened to you?" she demanded, and Lance noticed her hands were shaking. "Christ, you look like you went through a meat grinder."

"It’s my father," Lance replied. "One of his operatives saw . . . saw me go in to see Mom. When I came out, they chased me. I managed to get away, but I got hurt."

Delia’s eyes widened. "Your father’s people did this? Holy God. Yorik, security camera interface. Yorik, is anyone outside the flat?"

"Negative," the computer said.

"Yorik, continue scanning. Yorik, if any stranger approaches the flat, notify me immediately. Lance, I think we should get out of here."

"Acknowledged," the computer put in, as if echoing Delia’s sentiments.

"I lost them, Delia," Lance said. "If they had any idea where I was, they would’ve caught up with me by now."

"How can you be sure?" Delia asked tersely.

Lance closed his eyes. "I’ve been doing this since I was twenty. I know."

Delia set down the washcloth and reached for the phone. "I’ll ring the police then, shall I?"

Lance’s eyes popped open. "No!" he said, and Delia paused, startled at his tone. "Delia, don’t. It wouldn’t do any good. The only operative I got a good look at will be long gone by now, and I don’t have any proof that Dad was behind this."

"What? You can’t let him get away with this."

Lance shook his head. "I’ve tried the police before, Delia. It doesn’t work. The only thing I can do is stay away from him."

Delia opened her mouth to argue the point, then apparently thought the better of it and went back to cleaning his arm. The pain was easing, and Lance suspected Robin had dealt with most of the terraphine, allowing the pain block to function again.

Delia’s soft fingers worked at Lance’s arm, soothing and gentle. Lance closed his eyes again. His earlier exhaustion returned, and it felt wonderful to lie back and relax, let someone take care of him for a while. Especially if it was someone like Delia. She was an extremely attractive woman with her curly black hair, dark eyes, and dusky skin. And Lance thought her body was very nice, despite the numerous times Delia had complained that she needed to lose ten pounds.

She’d look awful, Lance thought, opening his eyes to look at her. Women aren’t supposed to be dolls or sticks.

Delia’s gaze briefly met his, and she smiled. Lance colored.

Keep your distance, he admonished. You’re too screwed up to be worth anyone’s time. A certified lunatic, remember?

"There," Delia said after a moment. "Your face and arm are clean. Now I think we should have a look at your leg."

Lance swallowed. That would mean taking off his jumpsuit. I can’t. She’ll see my—she’ll see what Dad did to me. He started to get up.

[Attention! Attention![ Robin said, and Lance froze. [Terraphine neutralized. Healing damaged body currently highest priority. Please remain stationary to facilitate process.[

"Lance?" Delia said.

"My leg’s all right." He sat up straighter and subtly pulled away from her. The pain had vanished. "I just twisted it a little bit, but it doesn’t hurt."

Delia leaned forward to get a better look. Her dressing gown parted slightly and Lance caught a brief glimpse of her naked breasts. He blushed furiously.

"Are you sure?" Delia asked, not seeming to notice. "It looks swollen to me, even through the jumpsuit."

"Yeah, I’m sure. Really." Lance tried to draw away again, but Delia showed no signs of backing off. He could feel the heat from her body, smell the faint odor of her perfume. Now that the pain was gone, he found Delia’s touch, her closeness, arousing. Lance’s face grew hotter. Those thoughts—those things—were wrong. He started to pull away, withdraw into—

"Lance!" Delia snapped. "Don’t you dare!"

Lance jerked back to himself and blinked at Delia’s angry, cat-like expression.

"Don’t you leave on me," she said. "You’ve given me a hell of a fright, and I don’t feel like dealing with anyone else at the moment."

Anyone else? A pang shot through Lance’s stomach. She doesn’t know. She can’t know. Can she?

"What do you mean?" he said with a nervous laugh. "There’s no one else here."

"Let me guess," Delia said, settling back on her heels. "You were going to put me on hold and let Jessica deal with this. Or maybe Andy."

The world seemed to jerk sideways. Lance’s mind ran in little circles and he felt like someone had just hit the back of his head with a board. "Andy?" he temporized, tensing himself to run. "Who’s Andy?"

[Don’t get up, Jaylance,[ Robin warned.

Delia sighed. "Lance, I’ve known about the Company for a long time now. You and Andy and Patrick and Garth and Jay. And Jessica."

Lance’s heart began to pound. She did know! She knew he was crazy! Any minute she would call the police—or Dad. He had to run, get out of here before—

[WARNING![ Robin boomed. [Healing process of ankle and leg at vital point. Careless motion would disrupt, cause more harm. Remain sessile or will be forced to block motor control centers.[

Lance froze, caught between the instinct to run and Robin’s order/request to remain on the couch. He looked at Delia, breath coming fast, eyes wide with fear.

Delia made a soothing sound and laid a hand on his arm. "Lance, it’s all right. I’m not going to have a fit. If I were, I would have done it a long time ago."

Lance opened his mouth, a lie already forming in his head. He hadn’t admitted to anything yet. He could tell her she was mistaken, that she had misunderstood. The pheromones would make her want to believe him.

But Delia’s dark eyes were filled with the truth, and Lance’s mind and body were soaked with exhaustion. He didn’t have the strength to lie. After a moment, he let out a long, heavy sigh.

"How did you find out?" he asked in a small voice.

"Jessica told me."

Lance stared. "What?"

"Jessica told me," Delia repeated with a nod. "She told me about you and the Company because she thought I should know."

[Robin?[

[Affirmative. Jessica told Delia about Company two years, five months, six days ago.[

[Why didn’t you tell me?[

[Jessica extracted promise. Said she would find way to fry servos if squealed. Believed her.[

Lance gulped. "How—how much did she tell you?"

"Enough," Delia replied. "Lance, I’ve done a lot of reading since Jessica talked to me, and I’ve learned quite a lot about multiple personality disorder. I suppose I should be afraid of you—men with MPD can get violent—but I’m not." Her eyes took on a faraway look. "Not after growing up with my brother." Delia shook her head as if to clear it. "Jessica also told me what kind of father you had, so I have some idea of why you’re . . . the way you are."

Lance looked away. Until now, only his parents and Dr. Baldwin had known about the Company. Lance had kept the secret for a long time, mostly by keeping to himself. Now a near-stranger had found out about it. A long-time pillar in his life had taken a severe blow, and he felt shaken, scared. Yet on another level, there was relief. Someone else had found out without hating him. He stared at the floor.

"I guess you must think I’m pretty crazy, huh?" he muttered.

"I think," Delia replied slowly, "that you’ve been through more than any human being could hope to survive. That takes a lot of courage."

Lance laced his fingers together in his lap. "I’m not brave, Delia. I’m scared a lot. Even after I got away from Dad the first time, it didn’t take me long to start being scared again."

"Courage isn’t a lack of fear, Lance," Delia said softly. "Courage is the ability to do what has to be done even when you’re scared stiff."

Her voice sounded sad, haunted. Impulsively, Lance reached over and took her hand. She gave a small smile and squeezed briefly with strong fingers, then slipped away and got to her feet.

"Well," she said briskly, breaking the mood, "I think that’s enough maundering for one night. How about some tea?"

[Please accept,[ Robin said. [Body currently suffering from light dehydration.[

"Sure," Lance replied, himself a bit relieved at the change in subject. "If it wouldn’t be a bother."

"Not at all. You just lie there and rest." Delia headed for the kitchen. As she walked, Lance noticed the tiny limp that marked her prosthetic leg.

"So what happens now?" Delia asked through the open doorway. Water hissed through an electric heater. "About your father chasing you, I mean."

Lance relaxed a little. This was something he was used to dealing with.

"I have to get out of England," he said. "I’ll probably just slip down to the ferry and across the channel. I’d take the Chunnel, but I don’t like it."

"You don’t, or Garth doesn’t?" Delia said. "Jessica mentioned that he doesn’t like enclosed spaces, I think."

Lance blinked. No one—not Mom, not Dad, not Dr. Baldwin—had treated the others like separate people before. Everyone else always insisted they were merely facets of himself. A warm feeling started in his stomach and spread, easing some of the fear and discomfort over Delia learning about his secret.

"I meant Garth," Lance said. "Anyway, when I buy the ferry ticket, Dad’ll track my cashcard, I’m sure, but crossing borders always slows down a trace. I’ll zip down to Rome, hop their skyhook, and be heading out of orbit long before he picks up my trail. I wish I could take the London hook, but it’d be too risky right now."

Delia came back into the living room carrying a tray with two steaming mugs on it. "I’ve brought biscuits, in case you’re hungry," she said, setting the tray on the coffee table. "Or perhaps I should call them cookies so you won’t think they’re something hot with honey on them."

Lance raised his eyebrows. "I lived in Dover for a long time, Delia, and you know Mom’s from London. I can follow British English."

Delia sighed in near exasperation. "Joke, Lance," she said, and handed him a mug. "You know—that dry British humor?"

"Oh." Lance accepted the cup and sipped. The tea was perfect—hot, sweet, and strong. "Thank you."

She gave him an odd look. "Do you ever smile, Lance? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do it. Garth and Andy, yes, but not you."

"What? Well—yeah, I guess I do." He shrugged and bit into a cookie. "I never really thought about it. There isn’t a whole lot to smile about, with Dad chasing me and everything."

"Ah." Delia settled into an armchair near the couch and tucked her legs beneath her. "What does he want with you, anyway? You can’t possibly be a pawn in a custody suit. You’re, what, twenty-one? Twenty-two?"

"Thirty," Lance replied, taking another cookie. He felt strangely comfortable here, even natural, talking to Delia while sitting on her sofa. The colorful bird statues and pictures suited the flat. Suited her. She sat among them like a creator who was unaware of what she had called into being.

"Thirty?" Delia said. "An awfully young-looking thirty you are, then."

"Dad had me bodysculpted," Lance replied almost shortly. "And no, Dad’s chasing me has nothing to do with his and Mom’s divorce. That was years ago. This is all with me."

"How so?"

Lance spread his hands. "Dad wants an heir," he said. "He wants the perfect son to take over his perfect empire when he dies."

Delia set down her cup in disbelief. "That’s what all this fuss is about? He wants a bloody CEO?"

"He wants a perfect son," Lance corrected. "I can’t be one, but he’ll try to force me." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Just like he always did before."

"Oh." Delia reached for her mug, and Lance noticed her hand was shaking again. "Lance, I’m sorry."

Lance looked at her and found himself staring into her eyes. They were warm with genuine concern. Pheromones or not, no one he could remember looked at him that way. Not even his mother. He was suddenly seized with the impulse to touch her like she had touched him—softly and gently. He wanted to run his fingertips over her face and feel her breath warm on his palms. He wanted to circle his arms around her and hold her to him. Her eyes met his again, and he found he couldn’t break away.

Stop it! he snarled to himself. None of this is real. She only likes you because of the pheromones. Back off.

[Attention! Attention![ Robin interjected. [Healing process no longer at critical stage. Limited range of movement now available.[

Lance set his mug aside and stretched, breaking the moment. "God, I feel better," he said. "I guess I just needed a little rest. Um, thanks for the tea. I’d better be going. You have to get up early for your trip, I’m sure."

Delia shook her head. "You aren’t going anywhere. Not looking like that. I have a spare bedroom. And—" she raised a finger, forestalling his next remark "—it won’t be any trouble." She tapped the arm of her chair thoughtfully. "In fact, why don’t you stay for a couple of days? No one followed you here—as you said, they’d have burst in by now—and it would give your trail time to grow cold."

"I’ve been dodging Dad for a long time, Delia," Lance said stubbornly. "I’ve had lots of practice."

"Well, then—in your experience—wouldn’t that be the safest course?"

Lance opened his mouth to deny the idea, then snapped it shut. Delia was right. If Dad’s operatives had known where he was, they would have had him by now. And they would doubtless be watching the main travelling exits from London, including the ferry. Lance had been planning to disguise himself, but it would certainly be easier if he waited a day or two. The operatives would get discouraged and grow careless.

"Yeah," he admitted finally. "I guess it would be safest."

Delia nodded. "Then I’ll show you the guest room."

Early the next morning, Delia sat on her bed holding a leg in her lap. Its coloring matched hers exactly, and a series of tiny heaters kept its skin temperature even with the rest of her body’s. Beneath her dressing gown, Delia’s right thigh ended in a stump set with tiny electrodes and flashing LED’s that told her someone had taken her leg off.

With practiced ease, Delia ran her fingers over an invisible seam just above the knee, and an access panel slid smoothly open. Delia pulled a retractable lead from her wristcomp and plugged it into the panel.

"Yorik," she said, "run complete diagnostic."

The wristcomp’s tiny screen flickered. "Power module fully charged," Yorik said dispassionately. "Nervous system interface operating within normal parameters. Nanobot programming operating within normal parameters."

The leg twitched and wiggled on her lap like a warm fish.

"Muscular control systems operating within normal parameters."

Delia sat nervously while Yorik droned through the routine, afraid Lance might wake up and knock on the door. The only people who saw her without her prosthetics were her technician and her doctor. No exceptions. Delia knew full well that in private she looked like a freak, and she saw no reason to let her deformities be seen in public. True, no one would say anything, but she knew what people thought. Crip. Freak. Or—worse yet—poor thing.

Delia normally only checked her prosthetics this thoroughly once a month, but she wanted to be sure everything was fine before boarding a jumpship. She’d hate to discover several hundred light years away from the nearest repair facility that something was wrong. A perfect diagnostic wouldn’t make her feel any better, however, if Lance walked through that door before she could put herself back together.

Come off it, Delia, she told herself. Lance isn’t the type to barge in without knocking. He’s too shy for that.

Yorik completed the diagnostic and reported that all systems were operating within normal parameters. Delia swiftly disconnected the computer and shifted her weight on the bed so she could slip her leg back into place. A simple click, and she was whole again. Delia had already checked her arm. She got up and paced the room to make sure everything had connected up, then tightened her dressing gown about herself and headed for the closet to get dressed.

A bit later, Delia bared her teeth at the mirror and checked over her reflection one more time. Spotless suit, tastefully understated jewelry, prominent wristcomp. Good. Meredeth required absolute professionalism at all times, even during travel, and Delia saw no reason to challenge the policy. It made sense. People treated you with an amazing amount of deference if you looked smart, well-groomed, and businesslike. Delia had noticed it the first time she made a private jumpship trip and had worn a casual bodysuit for comfort’s sake. The service had been terrible. So was Delia’s tip.

They must have thought I was a colonist, she mused. Though what your average colonial would be doing in a first-class cabin is beyond me.

Delia padded toward the front door and rechecked her luggage with quick, practiced thoroughness. Everything was in place, and the cab she had called would be here in fifteen minutes. She nodded once and tiptoed over to the spare bedroom. The door was open a crack and Delia could just hear the sounds of deep, relaxed breathing. Lance was still asleep. Delia shook her head. It had taken some persuading to get him to stay, even after insisting it wouldn’t be any trouble.

He’s always doing that, she thought. He acts as if, just by existing, he’s a bother to other people.

She pushed the door open a bit and peered inside. The blinds were drawn and the room was dim, but Delia could easily make out Lance’s sleeping form sprawled face-up on the bed. Blankets and sheets were twisted round him, indicating he was a restless sleeper and, incidentally, giving Delia a good look at the smooth, well-defined muscles that covered his frame.

Move that bit of sheet a little to the left, and I’ll really go to work with a smile, she thought wickedly. So you’re thirty years old, are you? Then I’m not trying to rob a cradle after all. He does look like a boy when he’s asleep, though—all innocent and naive and—

She cut off a snort. Listen to that! Straight out of a bad romance novel, that was. Still, it’s a good thing I managed to persuade him to stay last night.

Last night. It all seemed so unreal. Being woken out of a sound sleep, stumbling to the door, finding Lance with his face and arm all bloody. Not the sort of thing one expected after a tasteless supper and a quiet visit to the cemetery to see Quinn and the parents before bed. And then Lance had actually talked to her. Not just inane conversation—real talk. Delia had shared half a dozen lunches with Jessica, but this was the first time Delia had spent a long period with Lance. Somehow, that seemed more amazing than all the blood.

Not that blood bothered Delia. She had seen enough of it whenever Quinn had gone into one of his fits and gnawed at his own wrists or banged his head against the floor. Unconsciously she rubbed her left arm—her real arm—remembering the time Quinn had broken it. She had been reading on the floor of her family’s East End flat three days after her twelfth birthday. Papa had called her to dinner and she was just getting up when Quinn came flying out of nowhere, snarling like a wild beast. He smashed into her, flung her to the ground, and Delia felt more than heard her arm snap.

Automatically she shoved Quinn away with her legs and shouted for help. Mom and Dad came running, Papa right behind them, and they pulled Quinn away. He was swearing and screaming and almost frothing at the mouth. Mom and Dad hauled him into another room to calm him down, while Papa hustled Delia out to hospital.

Poor Papa, Delia thought, leaving the doorway and heading for the kitchen. He was more panicked than I was. She buttered a cold pair of rolls and ate them over the sink, alternating bites with quick sips of tea. Once I got to hospital and it stopped hurting, I wasn’t scared at all. Quinn was, though.

That night in bed, heal-splint an unfamiliar weight on her arm, Delia had heard the door creak open. She tensed.

"Deeda?" came Quinn’s thick, unmistakable voice. "Deeda?"

"I’m awake, Quinn," she said, cautiously allowing herself to relax. Quinn’s fits were often predictable if you knew what signs to look for, and he wasn’t showing any. He had caught her by surprise earlier.

Quinn padded softly across the floor. "Arm hurts," he whispered. He was nine years old but his voice sounded much younger.

"Yeah," Delia replied. "A little."

"Quinn sorry. Very sorry. Didn’t meant to hurt Deeda." He started to cry. "Never hurt Deeda."

Delia reached over to stroke his coarse hair with her good hand. Quinn’s skin was lighter than hers—he was Mom and Papa’s child while Delia was Mom and Dad’s—but you couldn’t really tell in the dim light.

"Didn’t meant to hurt Deeda," Quinn whimpered. "Didn’t meant it."

"I know, Quinn," she said softly. "It’s all right. Come on—climb in."

"Love Deeda," Quinn sniffled, curling up next to her in the narrow bed. "Love Deeda best."

This was true. Delia couldn’t remember a time when Quinn wasn’t following her around the flat. He had always cried a lot as a baby—something which got worse after the blood clot damaged his brain—but he would almost always stop when Delia held him. There were times when he would spit his food out or fling his plate to the floor for the parents, but he would always eat for Delia. And Delia was the only one who seemed to be able to lessen the horrible pains that sometimes wracked his head.

Mom and Dad and Papa didn’t know what to make of it except to bring Quinn to Delia whenever he became difficult, though even Delia wasn’t completely immune to Quinn’s erratic behavior.

And I still get angry about it, Delia thought, adding more sugar to her mug. Quinn had hated sugary tea. He died almost twelve years ago, and I’m still angry at him. How can you love someone and be angry at them at the same time?

Delia did love Quinn. He was her little brother. The fits came rarely—once a month at most. It was usually easier to remember the sound of his laughter when she tickled him, or the look of anticipation on his face when she mixed him a big glass of chocolate milk, or how they giggled and shushed each other while sneaking into the kitchen after bedtime to raid the cake plate and getting sweet, guilty crumbs on their fingers.

It wasn’t Quinn’s fault that a freak bit of dried blood had torn through his brain, causing the retardation, headaches, and irrationality. Delia knew it, even if Quinn didn’t. Besides, a broken arm would heal in a couple weeks. Quinn would be like this forever.

Usually she could remember that, but more than once as a child she had found herself awake at night, staring at the ceiling, so angry at him she was afraid to move. Quinn got all kinds of special attention. It was all right for Quinn to throw fits, but Delia got spanked for the same behavior. Because Quinn might have one of his fits, Delia could never have friends over. Mom and Dad and Papa never took Delia anyplace fun like other parents because they couldn’t leave Quinn with a babysitter.

Quinn had killed Mom and Dad and Papa.

Now that’s enough of that! Delia told herself sharply. She dusted the crumbs off her hands with a single quick motion and dumped the rest of her tea down the drain. Not even the firefighters knew for certain what happened—only that Mom’s paint thinner was involved. It might have been Mom’s accident, it might have been Quinn’s. Delia shook her head, trying to clear herself of the old mix of grief, guilt, and anger. Come on, woman. That’s yesterday’s news. You’ve got to deal with Lance now.

Except she didn’t have to deal with him now—she had to leave in a few minutes. Delia fumed, suddenly frustrated. She had been waiting for the chance to get to know Lance better, and now that the opportunity had come up, she wasn’t able to take full advantage of it.

She strode into the living room. For a moment Delia considered calling Meredeth and telling her she was sick and couldn’t go to Thetachron III. But no, that wouldn’t work. It was hard for anyone but colonists to get sick these days. And it would be letting Meredeth down. Meredeth, who had recognized Delia’s talent for organization and had pulled her out of the secretarial pool to give her a job that challenged her. Who had somehow forced the insurance company to pay for the prohibitively expensive bodysculpt and reconstruction procedures after the fire.

Delia picked up a carved titmouse and ran her fingers over the smooth contours. Yes, her job challenged her. A maze also challenged a mouse. It wasn’t what she had envisioned herself doing at age thirty-three.

One of these days, she thought for the hundredth time, I’ll have to do something about that.

Delia set the titmouse down and checked her wristcomp. The cab would be here in a few minutes. She poked her head into the guest room to say good-bye to Lance, then changed her mind.

He needs the rest, she decided, watching him sleep. After what he went through last night, who wouldn’t?

Lance shifted slightly without waking up and Delia cocked her head. The light was bad and the angle made it hard to see, but Lance’s face looked a lot better than it had last night. She couldn’t see the cuts at all.

Impossible, she thought, pushing the door open a little more for a better look. Those cuts couldn’t have—

A car beeped from the street.

She pulled on the shoes she had left near the luggage, gathered up her overnight bags, and strode briskly out the door.

Light seeped between the cracks in the blinds, and Lance lazily rolled over to check his wristcomp on the nightstand. Eight-fifteen on Tuesday morning. He gave a minor sigh of relief—no one else had taken over since last night.

He stretched and sat up, surprised at how well he had slept. The bed had proven to be supremely comfortable, just like Delia and the rest of her apartment.

Impatiently Lance shoved the last part of the thought aside. There were more important things to deal with.

[Robin?[

[Here, Jaylance. Healing process complete. Ankle, leg, arm, and face all in top condition.[

[Thanks, meatless.[

[Also checked with house computer. Yorik says Delia left for business trip one hour, ten minutes, six seconds ago. Has been programmed to answer your voice commands. Delia also left note for you on kitchen table.[

[Right.[ Lance poked his head out of the guest room. Sunlight streamed down the hallway from the living room windows. Something odd about the apartment bothered him, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

"Yorik," Lance said, "close all the blinds."

The sunlight obediently faded away, accompanied by a faint swishing noise, and Lance stepped naked into the hallway, secure in the knowledge that Delia was gone and no one on the street would be able to see him. He padded through the dim living room and into the kitchen, which smelled faintly of tea, nothing else. The odd feeling stole over Lance and he sniffed again. Nothing. Then he realized what had been bothering him—there was no artificial scent in the air. There hadn’t been last night, either. Delia must have shut off the aromaducts. Strange.

A computer notepad on the table blinked softly for his attention.

"Yorik," he said, "play message."

Delia’s face appeared on the screen. "Morning, Lance," she said, smiling. The timer said she had recorded the message at six-thirty in the morning. Lance grimaced. How anyone could smile at such an ungodly hour was beyond him.

"Sorry to be a poor host by not getting you breakfast," the message continued, "but I had to leave, and you needed your sleep. Help yourself to whatever you can find in the kitchen. There’s plenty to feed even a big guy like you" —Lance glanced down at himself and blushed, though he was sure that wasn’t what Delia was referring to— "for at least a week. I left some cash under this notepad in case you’re short and don’t want to risk using your card. Don’t worry about paying it back. You can buy me dinner instead." She smiled again, then adopted a bad Yiddish accent. "And call me when you get out of England. For all I know you’re lying dead in a ditch somewhere. No, seriously—let me know you’re safe, all right? I’ll worry if I don’t hear from you. Good luck, Lance." Delia’s image paused for a moment as if she wanted to say more. Then she apparently thought the better of it and the screen went blank.

Lance lifted the notepad and found a small stack of paper currency. He hesitated for a moment, then picked it up. It looked close to five hundred pounds. His first instinct was to leave it, but he also realized it would make getting out of England a lot easier. He had been planning to wait two or three days, then buy a ticket for the ferry or skyhook and make a mad dash before Dad heard about it. But with five hundred in untraceable cash, he could run for it tonight.

A growl rumbled in Lance’s stomach and he suddenly realized he was ravenously hungry.

Well, what did you expect, he thought, with all that healing Robin had to do?

He went back to the bedroom and pulled on his jumpsuit, too hungry to pause for a shower. He didn’t need one anyway—Robin kept him clean. Even brushed his teeth for him on a microscopic level.

Yeah, Lance thought sourly, heading back to the kitchen. Wouldn’t do to have a son who wakes up with messy hair and bad breath like everyone else, would it?

[Sorry,[ Robin said. [Healing and general caretaking hardwired into system. Still unable to override.[

[Yeah, yeah. I know.[

After a hearty breakfast of cereal and eggs, Lance carefully cleaned the kitchen and wandered into the living room with a mug of tea. The room was neat and tidy, except for the sloppy piles of disks on the bookshelves. He picked up a few and inspected the titles. Birds of the Americas. Dictionary of Ornithology. An Ornithological Taxonomy of Diomedes II. Avian Biology: A Field Handbook. Group Minds: Four Case Studies of Multiple Personality Disorder.

Lance quickly set the bookdisks down and turned to examine some of the photographs on the walls. A raven perched on a fencepost caught his eye, and he pressed the button on the picture frame. Raven and fencepost turned in place, giving Lance a view on all sides. As far as Lance could tell, it was an excellent piece of work. So were the other photos in the room. He turned his attention to the statues. Blobby pelicans, tiny wrens, bright bluejays, glaring raptors, and many others all vied for shelf and table space. Each carving was either unique or a limited edition and none of them were animated. Delia seemed to be one of the few people that found animatronic statues tacky. Lance nodded in approval. Grandpa Jack would love this place.

Delia certainly loves birds, Lance thought, sinking into the sofa to look at them all. Why doesn’t she have any live ones? He took a sweet sip of orange pekoe. Now there’s a silly question. She must travel a lot. Who would take care of them?

Lance checked the time. Delia’s ship was almost certainly phased out by now. He wondered if she liked travelling and if she was worrying about him like she said in her note.

A moment later, Lance went back to the kitchen and replayed Delia’s message. Twice. Then, feeling slightly guilty, he downloaded it into his own wristcomp and erased it from the notepad. He refreshed his tea and went into the living room to check the nets for news about himself.

Garth switched off the newsnet.

[Robin?[

[Here, Garth.[

[You’ve linked up with the house computer, right?[

[Affirmative.[

[Get into the communications net and block anyone who tries a trace. I’ve got a call to make.[

[Acknowledged.[

Garth set Delia’s vidphone next to the sofa, dropped to the cushions, and casually entered a code. After a moment the screen winked to life.

"Pop!" Garth said breezily. "How’s it hangin’? To the left or to the right?"

Jonathan Blackstone’s eyes widened for the briefest of moments. He was a large man with a shrewd, handsome face. Jonathan Blackstone and his son shared the exact same shade of red hair, though the elder Blackstone wore his shorter and he had allowed a trace of silver to show around the temples. He looked uncannily like Garth, though Garth was of the opinion that he and Lance were better looking.

"John?" Blackstone said. "How did you get this number?"

"I can always get hold of you, Dad-o," Garth told him. "And it’s Garth, not John. Johnny won’t talk to you and Lance is gone, spaced, phased, out to lunch. He doesn’t even know I’m calling."

"What the hell do you want?" Jonathan Blackstone asked. His shoulders moved slightly, as if he were punching keys off-camera and trying to hide it.

"Don’t bother with a trace, Pop," Garth snorted. "I’ve secured the line. I always do. You oughta know that by now."

Blackstone’s expression didn’t change. "I’m a busy man, John. I asked what the fuck you wanted."

"I’m taunting you, Pop," Garth said. "Come on—you know how it works. One of the Company—" Garth tapped his forehead "—makes a mistake, your goon squad tries to catch us, we get away, I call you up and make fun of you. It’s tradition. Other families do Christmas, but we’ve always been different, haven’t we?"

"What are you talking about?" Blackstone asked.

"Ah. The tradition continues." Garth laced his fingers behind his head and put his feet up. "Dad Admits to Nothing. VR at eleven. You blew it, Dad. I’m still somewhere out of your reach and there’s not a fucking thing you can do about it. We’ve got a pile of untraceable cash in our pocket and a huge deposit in our savings account that’ll keep us flush for a long time." [Right?[

[Affirmative. Deposit made early this morning.[

"You mean the Carlina Gruenfeld affair," Blackstone said. "I hear she was quite upset at the way you slapped her around. Nice work."

"Score one for Daddy’s intelligence squad," Garth said. "Except it was Patrick who scared the old lady. Patrick’s a jerk, not charming like me. You’re never gonna catch us, Pop. Never. You make stupid mistakes, but don’t expect me to tell you what they are."

"Are you done now?"

"I haven’t even started, Pop. This is the most fun I’ve had since I learned how to screw."

"I taught you that."

"You taught Andy, Dad-O. Not me." Garth leaned forward thoughtfully. "But you’re awful calm. Usually I’ve got you frothing at the mouth by now. What’s up? You got a secretary swinging from your dick?"

"I’m just not in the mood today."

"Not in the mood for a secretarial sausage slurp? Pop! You’ve changed."

"That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Where the hell is John?"

"Who cares? On a completely unrelated topic, by the way, I contacted a VR sex company. They said they’d pay some mighty big bucks for a certain little vidcard a certain little ex-wife of a certain little trillionaire made involving a certain little son and a certain little bodyguard. Whaddaya think?"

Blackstone shrugged. "Vidcards aren’t valid in court anymore, and anyone who sees it will assume someone was fucking around with a computer imager."

"Only because one of your companies—pardon the expression—screwed around with the technology," Garth pointed out. "If it weren’t for you, vidcards would still be untamper-with-able."

"If it weren’t for me."

Garth paused, but Jonathan Blackstone didn’t comment further.

"Well," Garth said finally, "it’s been fun talking to you, Pop. Better luck next time." Garth switched off the phone and flung himself back on the sofa with crossed arms.

[Pouting?[ Robin inquired.

"A little," Garth said petulantly. "Dad’s usually a lot more fun than that."

[Said wasn’t in mood.[

But Garth only tapped his fingers thoughtfully on the sofa.

"We can also increase material output by fifty-seven point oh four percent for eight point oh oh nine days, if necessary," the tour guide said. "As a result of this capability, profits for the quarter rose sixteen point one five three percent during the plague on Notre Dame. We also saved five hundred and fifteen additional lives," he added as an afterthought.

Delia patted back a yawn and resisted the temptation to glance at her wristcomp. Sayed Sabeel was a gracious host with a pleasant manner, but he was overly fond of his statistics.

"I see," Meredeth Michaels said gravely, rolling her eyes at Delia when Sabeel turned to flick a bit of dust off an instrument panel. They were in the control center of the station orbiting Thetachron III, and Delia was so far unimpressed. Although the place certainly seemed to be in excellent working order with powerful manufacturing and research capabilities, the designers had gone in for a lot of gray metal and off-white ceramic. Footsteps echoed unpleasantly and the lights were harsh fluorescent. Not the kind of place Delia would want to live and work.

"Perhaps we could see the research labs?" Ms. Michaels continued. "I think those would be of greater interest."

Sayed Sabeel nodded. His skin was almost as dark as Delia’s, and his silvering black hair was immaculately trimmed. "Of course," he said. "This way."

They left the control center, a circular, utilitarian room lined with gray metal and computer monitors, most of which were blank. The station, Sabeel had explained, was on standby status. The equipment was ready for use, but nothing was being produced at the moment—Pinegra couldn’t afford to pay the workers and had laid them off.

"Where are your employees now?" Delia asked as they headed down another empty gray corridor. Two other MM inspection teams were on tour elsewhere on the station, but it was easy to believe they were completely alone. The air was slightly chilly, and Delia rubbed her arms.

Sabeel shrugged. "We shipped them back home—deducting the ticket price from their final paychecks, of course. We can supply you with their names and locations if you want to hire them back, but it’s just as easy to find new ones. There aren’t any labor unions out here, so you can do as you like."

Delia nodded curtly and dropped the information into her wristcomp, trying not to fume. No wonder Pinegra was going bankrupt. Treating your employees like slaves made sense in the short run—it drove up quarterly profits—but in the long run it created more problems than it solved. Delia was certain a quick check of the company’s records would show employee theft had run rampant and that worker morale was nonexistent.

I know mine wouldn’t be very high if I had to work here, she thought, ignoring the steady stream of statistics issuing from Sabeel’s mouth. No comforts at all. I haven’t even seen any rec areas or VR channels. If we buy this place, there’ll have to be some changes made. Loyal employees are worth their weight in gold, and you don’t get them by treating them like disposable tissues.

The overhead lights flickered up and down the hallway for a moment before settling back to their steady white glow. Sabeel paused in his recitation to frown at them.

"Strange," he said. "A small power surge elsewhere on the station, perhaps. No need to worry, I’m sure."

"I’m sure," Ms. Michaels agreed impatiently. "You were taking us to the research labs?"

Delia glanced up at the lights, then shrugged and followed Sabeel. As Sabeel said, no need to worry. Anyone who bolted for the air locks every time a light flickered would eventually qualify as an Olympic sprinter.

Sabeel led them two levels down, still spouting his facts and figures, and Delia’s mind began to wander back to Lance. She glanced uneasily at Ms. Michaels, who was listening to Sabeel with politely feigned interest. Without saying a word, both of them seemed to have agreed not to mention Jessica’s revelation, though Delia knew they would have to confront it eventually. A bit of tension rode between the two of them, but Delia had been relieved to discover it wasn’t bad enough to interfere with the business at hand.

Jessica said Lance’s father abused him horribly, Delia mused, but Ms. Michaels must have known what was happening. Why didn’t she do anything about it? Why did she stay with Jonathan Blackstone for so long? Multiple personality disorder doesn’t start overnight. God, it must have been horrible for Lance. I hope he made it across the channel. Delia’s stomach flipped over. You’ve got it bad, girl. That man has got some real mental problems, but you can’t stop thinking about him.

They emerged from an elevator and strode up yet another gray, featureless corridor. The lights flickered again, but Delia barely noticed.

Treatable, but not easily. Would you be willing to stay with him through it all? She mentally shook her head. Hard to tell. I’d have to try it to find out, wouldn’t I?

"Here we are," Sabeel said. "Research and development, level four, section two."

They were standing at a six-way intersection. Signs in half a dozen languages pointed the reader in the proper direction for low-grav labs, isolation chambers, DNA engineering, animal kennels, VR simulation (research only), and more.

"The surface of Thetachron III produces three species of lichen," Sabeel said, "which can be refined and combined to produce fourteen essential medicines, six of which must be engineered in low gravity. These lichens have given us the ability to cure or control epilepsy, thyroid storm, nephroblastoma, radiation poisoning—"

"Yes, I’m aware of all that," Ms. Michaels interrupted. "May we see the labs, please?"

Sabeel nodded. "Hajira, release all lab doors."

Static burst briefly over the speakers. "Please present authorization," said the computer.

Sayed Sabeel said something in what Delia presumed was Arabic. Another burst of static followed, and Delia frowned. So did Sabeel.

"Authorization acknowledged," said the computer. Clicks and clacks echoed up and down the corridor as the doors released their locks.

"Is something wrong with the computer?" Delia asked. "All that static?"

"I don’t know," Sabeel admitted, looking up at the ceiling. "I’ll have our technicians look into it. You may be certain the problem, if there is one, will be repaired before you take possession of the station, if you do choose to buy."

"Thank you," Ms. Michaels said. "The labs?"

The first room Sabeel showed them was crammed with worktables and equipment—robotic arms, centrifuges, sample cases, flash freezers, and more. Lining the walls were a series of clear plastic chambers, each about twice the size of a vidphone call box. More robot arms reached inside them.

"This is the low-grav lab," Sabeel told them. "The chambers are isolated from the station’s own gravity and are capable of producing a field that goes as high as twice Earth normal or as low as point oh one g’s. Because Pinegra is going bankrupt, we are willing to sell the research equipment as part of the station."

"What about patent rights?" Ms. Michaels asked.

"Pinegra owns the patents of everything our researchers have discovered," Sabeel said. "But those are going up for sale separately."

"The patents wouldn’t do anyone much good unless they also bought the station," Ms. Michaels pointed out, "since all of them involve the lichens on Thetachron III."

"Perhaps," Sabeel said. "But that would be a—"

The lights went out and a blast of white sound crashed through the room. Delia gave an involuntary yelp and put her hands over her ears. The emergency lights came on, casting an eerie, blood-red glow over the lab. The noise cut off, leaving a ringing silence, but the lights didn’t come back on.

"What’s going on?" Ms. Michaels demanded.

"Hajira!" Sabeel barked. "Explain the nature of the emergency."

"Hajira," the computer repeated, "explain the nature of the emergency."

"Hajira, return power to Research Lab One immediately!"

"Hajira, return power to Research Lab One immediately."

The door slammed and locked itself. Delia’s stomach twisted, and from the look on Ms. Michaels’ face, hers was doing the same thing. Sabeel continued snapping at the computer, which blithely returned his commands. Delia spotted a terminal and made for it, but Ms. Michaels was faster. She switched it on and ran her fingers over the keys with hurried taps and clicks.

"Without an access code I can only access basic mainframe information," she said, "but that should let us know what’s going on."

Codes and symbols sped across the monitor.

"It’s gibberish," Delia said, peering over Ms. Michael’s shoulder and trying to keep her voice steady while Sabeel continued arguing with the computer. "What’s going on?"

Ms. Michaels pursed her lips and tried to access the mainframe again. A pair of robot arms suddenly came to life on the other side of the room and whirred madly in place. The lights in one of the low-grav chambers flickered and flashed like someone trying to send Morse code, and another burst of static blared from the speakers. Ms. Michaels ignored it all, her fingers almost a blur above the keyboard. A possibility sprouted uneasily in Delia’s mind.

"Ms. Michaels?" she asked. "What—"

Ms. Michaels slammed her hands on the terminal with a crash and Delia jumped.

"I think," Ms. Michaels said, her calm voice belying her pale face, "that we’re in the middle of a nanobot hive."

The skyhook port was blessedly busy. Lance, dressed in a new hooded jumpsuit and sunglasses, slipped through crowds of luggage-laden tourists with practiced ease, keeping an eye out for anyone who seemed too interested—or too disinterested—in him. Loudspeakers blatted messages and announcements, while overpriced restaurants wafted rich, meaty smells into the throughways. Clumps of people gathered at large windows to watch the skyhook compartments. Each was shaped like a sleek white railroad car, and at regular intervals one would trundle up to the skyhook, wait a brief moment for connection, then soar skyward, hauled straight up the cable like a fish on a line.

Lance ignored the sight and shifted the carryall slung over his shoulder, privately seething about the side trips he’d had to take. Just before he had left Delia’s apartment late that afternoon, Robin had informed him that Patrick had left the carryall—and the breaking-and-entering equipment within—inside a locker at Victoria Station. Lance had been forced to go get it, and the trip had done nothing for his nerves.

And then I find out he didn’t return the rental car, he fumed. The rental company found it. Nice fine to pay there—and with Delia’s money. One of these days the Company’s going to have to do something about him on a permanent basis.

There was nothing for it now, though. Lance stole another surreptitious glance at the crowd around him. No apparent operatives. It was strange. He hadn’t seen any all day. Not at Victoria Station. Not in the skyhook ticket line. Not on the way to the boarding gate. A formless unease stole over him as he showed his pass to the attendant and followed him to a seat.

The skyhook passenger area resembled a train compartment with acceleration couches instead of chairs. Lance buckled his seat belt and swallowed dryly. No matter how many times he used it, the skyhook still made him nervous. It wasn’t at all like phase jumping. A phase ship could fly, and Lance was used to things that flew. The skyhook, on the other hand, didn’t fly—it looked like it was reaching up into space, though it actually dangled from orbit. Lance could just imagine a wizened old man playing an oddly shaped flute at the base of the cable, and he shuddered to think of what would happen if the guy ever paused to take a breath.

[Robin, change eye color. Gray, please.[

[Acknowledged.[

Lance removed his sunglass—they were too conspicuous indoors. Fortunately, the hood covering his hair was fashionable under any conditions. More people moved steadily into the compartment, and Lance scrutinized each one carefully to take his mind off his nervousness. None of them looked even remotely suspicious.

I should have at least seen someone, Lance thought, buckling his harness. Dad wouldn’t let a chance like this go by without some kind of fight.

He went over the details of the last couple of days, trying to see if he had made a mistake. Nothing he hadn’t already seen came to mind. Once he had gotten out of Brad’s flat, he hadn’t used a cashcard, not even for the skyhook ticket. He’d made no mistakes and had had a fairly easy time of it, actually.

Lance stiffened. That was it. That’s what was bothering him. It had been too easy to get away. Every other time Dad’s operatives had gotten that close, simply running through a stranger’s flat wouldn’t have been enough to get him away, especially not when they had time to plan—and by Lance’s best estimation, they’d had hours. Why the mistakes? They weren’t stupid or poorly trained.

One attendant came around to make sure everyone was buckled in properly while another outlined safety procedures over the loudspeaker. Lance leaned back on the couch, listening with only half an ear. Had Dad let him escape on purpose? Lance turned the idea over in his head, unable to come up with anything else that made sense. But why would Dad let him get away?

There was a slight jerk and Lance’s stomach dropped as the compartment rushed upward. It would take about an hour and a half to reach the top, whereupon the compartment would be disconnected from the skyhook and ferried by shuttle to Ride Station, where Lance had docked his ship. Lance spent the time looking at every possibility. He came up empty. Dad’s operatives had indeed made several mistakes—they had burst into Brad’s bedroom after he and Andy were . . . finished, they hadn’t posted anyone in the courtyard, and they hadn’t adequately surrounded the block of flats. Everything pointed to Dad ordering his operatives to give Lance a hard time, yet let him escape.

The compartment met the station with a slight thump, and several passengers got up to pull carry-ons from the overhead carriers despite the attendants’ warning to wait until the docking clamps were fully engaged. Lance gathered his carryall and joined the line of people filing onto the station, keeping watch from force of habit but not expecting anything to happen. He quickly threaded his way through the metallic Ride Station corridors until he got to the personal craft docks and the Defiant Lady—his ship. He identified himself by voice and retina print, flipped the dock operator a generous tip, and stepped through the air lock into the Lady with a sigh of relief.

He was home.

Lance trotted through familiar corridors, feeling safer and more relaxed than he had in days. The Lady was his own space. Here he could rest without having to worry about Dad or Mom or anything else. And assuming Mrs. Gruenfeld had paid his fee, he wouldn’t have to worry about money for a while, either.

[Robin?[

[Nanos leaving body, merging with local systems. Will have ship under control in approximately ten minutes.[

Lance ignored his crawling skin and headed for the residential part of the ship.

All in all, there were four sets of quarters on the Defiant Lady. Garth and Andy shared one set, Patrick and Johnny shared another. Jessica, of course, had a cabin to herself, and Lance shared his with Jay, Grandpa Jack, and a few others who weren’t around often enough to need separate digs. Robin had never asked for quarters, but then, Robin had the run of the ship.

Lance’s cabin was large and scrupulously neat. The carpet was thick and brown, and two holographic "windows" on the walls let him pretend he was looking out over the narrow houses of Amsterdam. Wood paneling covered walls lined with racks of bookdisks that included a large selection of research papers on nanobots and several psychology texts about multiple personality disorder. A guitar stood in the corner and a rough-carved wooden horse pawed at the sky on a shelf, surrounded by other similar carvings.

Lance dropped the carryall on his bed and skinned out of the new, uncomfortable jumpsuit. While rummaging through the closet for a different one, he caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror fastened to one wall. The scars from last night had completely faded. Lance walked slowly over to the mirror and stared long and hard at his image.

Delia thought he was good-looking. He could see it in her eyes and posture. She probably thought he had a nice body, too. Everyone else did.

"Robin," he said suddenly, "activate program one."

The image shifted and wavered. In the mirror, Lance’s hair lengthened slightly and faded to strawberry blond. He lost several inches of height and his eyes shifted from gray to emerald-green. His muscles lost their athletic definition and softened and blurred. His face . . . changed. The cheekbones flattened and his eyes became smaller. Muscle and bone rearranged themselves, changing features in subtle, yet important ways. His penis shortened and shrank. When the image stopped changing, Lance was no longer perfectly handsome. Attractive, definitely. Handsome, perhaps—depending on the viewer. But not gorgeous, stunning, alluring, or beautiful.

It was the way he was supposed to look.

Lance raised a hand and waved at himself, naked in the mirror. His image returned the wave as if it really were a reflection instead of a computer-generated image. He looked normal.

Except Lance wasn’t normal. Not in any sense of the world. Even his looks were an illusion. Suddenly impatient, Lance lashed out and punched the mirror image in its imperfect, normal face. Pain exploded in his hand, breaking his thoughts, though the shatterproof mirror didn’t break.

"Robin," he almost snarled, "end program."

The mirror wavered and Lance’s reflection returned. He stared at it with undisguised loathing. This was the reality. This was what Delia was attracted to. Someone else’s handiwork. Someone else’s creation.

Hatred burned harshly behind his eyes, and he tried to push the feeling away, but it wouldn’t go. Abruptly his face went blank, then his eyes shifted from Robin’s artificial gray to a deep and brooding blue. Humming softly to himself, he turned away from the mirror and went into the bathroom, where he searched through stacks of towels and eventually extracted a small plastic packet. Inside was an assortment of surgical instruments that glittered metallic in the bright overhead light. He selected one and held it comfortingly against his cheek for a moment, then began cutting, heedless of the blood that splashed down his chest and into the sink.

Blackness. Lance hung suspended in nothing. He could vaguely feel the others around him—Garth’s mocking grin, Patrick’s anger, little Johnny’s fear, Andy’s carefree hedonism—and he knew that Jay was in charge of the body, but he had no idea what Jay was doing with it. Probably playing more sad songs he had written for the guitar or just moping around. At least, Lance hoped he was.

At one time Lance had had no awareness or memory at all during the times his alters had the body. Years of practice had alleviated total blackout, but he was still cut off from the world with only a vague awareness of the passage of time.

Lance floated, waiting. Like most core personalities in cases of MPD, Lance could not communicate directly with any of his alters, though they could communicate with each other with varying degrees of success. Jessica and Patrick, for instance, only had access to Lance’s thoughts and memories while Andy and Garth saw and heard everything. Or so they claimed. The exception was Robin, who could talk to anyone at any time, but Robin was special anyway.

The darkness abruptly cleared and Lance found himself fully dressed and sitting cross-legged on his bed with Jay’s guitar in his lap. Then a sharp, all-too-familiar pain creased his cheeks. Lance put a hand to his face, and his fingertips came away slicked with blood. Some of it had dripped onto the guitar.

Lance sighed and put his fingers in his mouth. [Robin?[

[Here, Jaylance.[

[How long was Jay in control?[

[Two hours, fourteen minutes. Cut face, body, then tried to commit suicide again.[

Lance set the guitar aside and checked his hands. There was a fresh scar across each wrist and, he was sure, a sinkful of bloody water in the bathroom.

[Staunched bleeding,[ Robin continued. [Establishing pain block. Working on lacerations.[

[Why didn’t you just stop him from doing it in the first place?[ Lance growled.

[Unable to interfere unless behavior would directly endanger self. Committing suicide falls under that category. Slicing face does not. So states Company Policy.[

Lance sighed. [Jay didn’t take the Lady anywhere, did he?[

[Negative. Still in clamps. Docking authority says in two more hours will have to charge for another day.[

Thank heaven for small favors. The last time Jay had taken over, Lance had come to himself in the middle of a religious retreat run by a man who claimed to be the reincarnation of Cleopatra and Mao Tse Tung. Lance set the guitar aside and got up, grimacing as circulation returned to his cramped legs. He had drained the bathroom sink and was reaching for a roll of gauze to help Robin control his bleeding face when an alarm began to chime.

[Attention! Attention![ Robin said. [Incoming transmission.[

Lance closed his eyes in irritation. "Can you take a message, Robin? I don’t feel like dealing with anyone right now. Did Mrs. Gruenfeld credit our account, by the way?"

[Yes. And wouldn’t suggest putting off call. Could be important. Will do level best to slow bleeding, make you presentable.[

Lance shrugged. "Fine." And he headed for the Defiant Lady’s control room, a gray, utilitarian affair. Instruments crowded the walls and ceiling, spilling onto the flight boards. The place was also surprisingly small—no board was out of arm’s reach of any other, and the ceiling was low and cramped. The signal alarm continued to chime and a blue light on one of the panels blinked insistently.

"Who is it, anyway?" Lance asked, taking the room’s single chair and sliding it over to the communication boards.

[Name is Francis Rutherford. Call preceded by business code.[

Lance shut off the alarm and reached for the com controls. "What does he want?"

[No idea. Your job to ask, not mine.[

A drop of blood slid around Lance’s chin and he wiped at it automatically with a finger as he tapped the final key. "Michaels Company Security Analysis. You have reached Lance Michaels."

A violet-to-red spectrum washed over the com screen as the computer pulled the carrier wave out of phase and reconfigured it into the image of an almost stereotypical male business executive—youthfully dark hair, flat stomach, blue eyes, a very few wrinkles, and a serious expression which made it clear that his problems were more important than anyone else’s. Surprise flickered in his eyes when he caught sight of the condition of Lance’s face.

He’s rich enough to afford bodysculpt, Lance noted, but not rich enough to stave off all signs of aging. Either the CEO of a small company or middle management of a big one.

"Mr. Michaels?" the man said.

That’s what I said. "Yes?"

"My name is Francis Rutherford, executive vice president for Pinegra, Incorporated. We are interested in hiring your services as a consultant."

Lance almost jumped, startled. Pinegra? Isn’t that the company that’s selling the pharmaceutical plant to Mom?

[Affirmative.[

[Rhetorical question, meatless.[ "Pinegra?" he said aloud. "Why would you want to hire a security specialist when you’re going bankrupt?"

Rutherford looked surprised again. "How did you know about that? We haven’t made any kind of announcement."

"I’m a security specialist, Mr. Rutherford," Lance replied blandly. "I have contacts."

"Ah. Of course." Rutherford cleared his throat. "At any rate, we haven’t gone under just yet, and we still have a few problems."

"Such as?"

"A plant on one of our asteroids has gone hive. We need someone to reclaim it."

Lance sat up straighter. "Hive?"

"Apparently so. The plant isn’t operating at the moment, but a group of inspection teams boarded it about four hours ago after a negotiation meeting. Not an hour after the inspection tour started, the plant’s computers and systems went wild. Communications went down and the security system isn’t letting anyone in—or out. Classic signs of nanobot hive activity. As far as we can tell, life support has been stable but could go at any moment. Normally we’d write the place off and blow it up, but the inspection teams are still aboard."

Lance’s heart started to pound. "Mr. Rutherford, where is this plant located?"

The answer came like a lead weight. "It’s orbiting the third planet in the Thetachron system. The buyer is Meredeth Michaels of MM, Limited." Rutherford cocked his head, as if something had just occurred to him. "A relation of yours, Mr. Michaels?"

This is a trick, Lance thought wildly, ignoring Rutherford. He’s lying.

[Checking, checking,[ Robin said. [Located newstach broadcast. Synopsis: pharmaceuticals plant orbiting Thetachron III has gone wild. Security system destroyed two ships trying to bypass and enter. Half-dozen people trapped inside. Nanobot hive activity suspected.[

All expression left Lance’s face and he stared emptily at the com screen.

"Mr. Michaels?" said a voice. "Mr. Michaels, are you all right?"

Garth Blackstone blinked and glanced around the control room of the Defiant Lady. Then he realized someone on the com screen was looking at him with polite concern. Garth scrambled to remember who it was. Although he saw what Lance saw and had access to Lance’s memories, it didn’t mean he was always paying attention.

"I’m fine, Rutherford," he said breezily. "Just fine. And no, Meredeth Michaels isn’t any relation." Garth grinned lopsidedly, then winced. He put a hand to his cheek and it came away with a sticky red smear. "Oh yuck. Not again. Take a nap and look what happens."

"Pardon?" Rutherford said.

"Nothing." [Hey, Robby—speed up the healing, will you? This face-cutting shit is really getting old.[

[Sorry. Am currently running diagnostic on life-support systems, monitoring newstach broadcasts, and checking station’s overhaul of phase drive. Can only do forty-six things at once.[

"So." Garth stretched lazily. "You want us to get rid of a nanobot hive on Thetachron III. It’ll cost you."

"I’m aware of that, Mr. Michaels."

"Ten million dollars. That’s twenty-four million in colony creds."

Rutherford’s face reddened. "Ridiculous! That’s five times the going rate for security analysis."

"You’ve done your homework, Rutherford," Garth said easily. "Trouble is, we’ve got a monopoly. No one else is willing to deal with the itchy problem of nanos with hives."

[Not funny.[

"So," Garth continued, ignoring Robin’s remark, "it’ll cost you ten million. Plus expenses."

"Look," Rutherford said, "we’re going bankrupt here. We can’t afford ten million."

"You can’t afford the lawsuit when your plant kills the rest of those people, either. And the courts won’t let you go bankrupt until a lawsuit is settled. You’ll be in court for the rest of your life."

"Five million," Rutherford countered.

"Ten." Garth reached for the control panel. "And if you don’t say yes this time, I’m cutting you off. I’ll give you a count of three. Ready? One . . . two . . ."

Rutherford ground his teeth. "All right, all right. Ten million."

"Expenses?"

"Expenses."

Garth sighed with theatrical rapture. "I love it when people cry ‘uncle.’ Standard contract—half now, half when the hive problem has been cleared out. Transfer the money—in dollars—to TRRA-486-7386-LM465. See you."

He tapped the disconnect key before Rutherford could reply.

"Goshgollydarn that was fun," Garth said to no one in particular. "Ten million will keep us in underwear—and out of it—for a couple years. Forward ho!"

He contacted the port authority to ask for permission to disengage from the station, released the docking clamps, and carefully nudged the Defiant Lady out of orbit, keeping a close eye on local traffic patterns. Garth could have hooked himself into the ship’s VR system and, in effect, become the ship, but that wasn’t real piloting. That was more like swimming through space.

Garth liked piloting. There was nothing like feeling the sweet, tremulous response of several tons of sleek metal under his hands and seeing the stars shoot away into blackness when the phase drive was engaged. It was almost better than sex. Almost. Patrick probably felt the same way about driving a car.

Piloting was also what made it possible for Garth to work in the tiny control room without feeling like the walls were closing in. There was more space out there than Garth could comprehend, and he could move through it with absolute freedom. Claustrophobia wasn’t a problem in the control room.

Once he was clear of the station, Garth looked up the coordinates for Thetachron III and programmed them into the phase drive’s systems. The computer said it would take about two hours to get there unless Garth was willing to risk burning out the generator.

The Lady shuddered delicately as she came about, and Garth frowned. Something was nagging at him, but he couldn’t figure out what.

Pinegra, he thought, goosing the thrusters. According to law, he had to be at least five thousand kilometers away from the station before engaging the phase drive. Strange name for a company. And isn’t it just a dandy coincidence that Merry Michaels was aboard that station when it went hive? And that last night Dad’s goon squad let us get away so easily? And that he didn’t seem so upset about it when I talked to him this morning?

The more he thought about it, the more he felt he was missing something.

Pinegra. Where does that name comes from? He absently caught a falling droplet of blood from his cheek and stuck the finger in his mouth, ignoring the coppery taste. [Robby, access business databases on the nets. See what you can find out about Pinegra.[

[Working.[ There was a pause. [Pinegra, Incorporated. Relatively small pharmaceutical company founded six years ago. Founder and CEO named Patricia Kang. Two months ago, assets included—[

"Hold it," Garth interrupted. "Why would a woman called Patricia Kang name her company ‘Pinegra’? Is it some kind of old family name?"

[Unknown. Information not in databases.[

Garth sucked on his teeth as the Defiant Lady glided quietly through space. There was something about the name. "Robin, what does ‘pinegra’ mean?"

[Unknown. Word not in language database.[

"Dissect it. Maybe it’s an abbreviation for a phrase. It’s got to mean something."

[Working.[ Brief pause. [Found four hundred forty-five possible phrases.[

"Christ. How many of those are less than, say, five words long?"

[One hundred two.[

"And how many of them make sense if translated into English? No ‘red fish dick’ or any weird shit like that."

[Thirty-one.[

"Put them on monitor."

A screen winked to life and text scrolled down. Garth looked at the list, then swore.

"Robin, highlight number nineteen," he snapped. The scrolling stopped and one of the entries glowed. Garth slammed a fist on the arm of his chair. "Fuck."

The entry read:

Copyright © 1997 by Steven Piziks

Return to Baen Books Home Page

• In the Company of Mind Chapter One
• In the Company of Mind Chapter Two