Old-Boy Network

The sunlight was glowing softly through Rey’s eyelids when he woke up that last morning. For a few minutes he just lay there, luxuriating under the warm weight of the blankets and comforter, happy to be alive.

She had smiled at him again.

He smiled himself at the thought. The left side of his mouth didn’t join in the smile, of course, but for once he almost didn’t even care. At first the half-paralyzed face had bothered him terribly, even more than having been made a cripple. But today, none of it seemed to matter.

Because it hadn’t seemed to matter to her. And if it didn’t matter to her, it certainly shouldn’t matter to him.

She had smiled at him. For the fifth time in the past four weeks—he’d been keeping count—she had smiled at him.

He yawned deeply. “Curtains: open,” he called.

From across the room came a soft hum as the filmy curtains were pulled aside. He pried open his eyelids—rather literally in the case of his left eyelid, which had a tendency to glue itself shut overnight—and looked outside.

The sun was high up over the stark Martian landscape. He’d slept in unusually late this morning.

But that was all right. Unless and until Mr. Quillan called for him, his time was his own.

And if that call held off, and if he was lucky, he might see her again.

His chair was waiting beside his bed where he’d left it. Throwing back the blankets, he maneuvered himself to the edge of the bed and got himself into it. “Chair: bathroom,” he ordered.

Obediently, the chair rolled across the room and through the wide door of his bathroom. He took care of the usual morning business; and then it was time for a quick shower. The breakfast he’d ordered last night should be waiting by the time he was done.

Idly, he wondered what the meal would consist of. Mr. Quillan had been talking with the other men and women on the Network quite a lot lately, and that much TabRasa sometimes played funny games with his memory in general. Still, surprises could be pleasant, too.

By the time Rey was dressed and back in his chair the tantalizing aroma of Belgian waffles was wafting through the bathroom door. He rather hoped he’d asked for bacon with it, but it turned out he’d ordered a side of sausage instead.

No problem. He liked sausage too. He would just order bacon tomorrow.

Maneuvering his chair up to the table, wondering what she liked for breakfast, he began to eat.

“So this is Mars,” Hendrik Thorwald commented, gently swirling his coffee cup as he gazed out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the landscape and the cluster of domes that made up Makaris City. “Not nearly as claustrophobic as the Ganymede Domes.”

“That’s because here you can at least walk around outside without a full vacuum suit,” Archer Quillan pointed out, sipping at his own spiced coffee as he watched the circling motion of the other’s cup. It was almost as if Thorwald thought he was holding a brandy snifter.

A simple nervous habit? Or did it imply that the man drank too much?

Neither added up to much of a recommendation, in Quillan’s book. But in this case, Quillan’s book didn’t matter. Thorwald’s net worth had reached the magic trillion-dollar mark, and McCade wanted him in, and that was that. His wealth had made him an Old Boy, as McCade sardonically called them, and he would be offered a spot in the Old-Boy Network.

“Of course, you need an air supply and parka,” Thorwald said. “Still, it’s not as cold as the travel books make it sound.”

“Hardly worse than a typical Swedish winter, I imagine,” Quillan said politely.

“Hardly at all.” Turning away from the window, Thorwald resettled himself in his chair to face Quillan again. “But you didn’t ask me all the way to Mars to compare weather. We’ve had our breakfast; we’ve had our coffee. Let’s talk business.”

“Indeed,” Quillan agreed. Straight and direct, with neither belligerence nor apology. Much better. “Actually, it’s not so much business as it is an invitation. You’ve reached the magic trillion-dollar mark, and the thirty or so of us already in that rather exclusive club would like to congratulate you on your achievement.”

Thorwald inclined his head slightly. “Thank you.”

“But as you’ll soon realize, if you haven’t already, making a trillion dollars is only the first step,” Quillan continued. “The challenge now is to hold onto it. Currently, you’re Target Number One for every con man, minor competitor, and ambitious young Turk in Northern Europe, all of whom hope to pry some of that money away from you.”

“Joined by every governmental taxing agency from Earth to the Jovian Moons and back again,” Thorwald added sourly.

“Absolutely,” Quillan said. “And with all of them nipping at your heels, I would venture to guess that your biggest headache these days is that of secure communications.”

“Hardly an insightful guess,” Thorwald pointed out. “That’s everyone’s biggest headache. Even the best encryption methods I can get my hands on can’t keep up with the government snoops and industrial spies.”

“Indeed,” Quillan said. “And of course, there’s also that awkward time-lag whenever you’re transmitting across the Solar System. It would be nice to eliminate that, wouldn’t it?”

The gentle swirling of the coffee cup came to a halt. “I seem to remember from school that that’s a basic limitation of the universe,” he said, his eyes searching Quillan’s face.

“That’s what they taught in my school, too,” Quillan said. “Tell me, Hendrik: what would you give to have an absolutely secure information and transmission channel? I mean absolutely secure?”

Thorwald snorted gently. “Half my fortune. Cash.”

Quillan smiled. “Then you’re looking at a real bargain,” he said. “All it will cost you is a mere eight hundred million dollars. Paid to the right people, of course.”

Carefully, Thorwald set his cup on the polished crystal coffee table. “Tell me more.”

“I’ll do better,” Quillan said, getting to his feet. “I’ll show you.”

“Downstairs?” the broad-shouldered man repeated, his thick forehead wrinkling. “You were just downstairs yesterday.”

“Because downstairs is where the piano is,” Rey said, the frozen left half of his mouth slurring the words slightly. Grond was one of Rey’s caretakers, which meant he was on call whenever Rey needed something his chair or automated suite couldn’t handle.

He was also, Rey had long ago decided, something of a private watchdog.

“Yeah, but so what?” Grond grunted. “You’ve got a perfectly good keyboard in your room.”

“That’s a keyboard,” Rey explained patiently. “The piano downstairs is a baby grand. There’s a big difference in how it sounds.”

The wrinkles deepened. Obviously, that was something Grond had never noticed. Possibly music itself was something Grond had never noticed. “Mr. Quillan isn’t going to like you going downstairs all the time.”

“He’s never said I couldn’t,” Rey countered. “Just that he didn’t want me talking to anyone.”

“Yeah, but every day?” Grond objected. “You’re up and down those stairs like a yo-yo.”

“Would you rather get a couple of guys and move the piano upstairs?” Rey suggested helpfully.

Grond exhaled disgustedly. “Fine. Whatever you want.”

“Thank you,” Rey said. “Chair: library.”

He felt his heart starting to pound as the chair passed the second floor landing and began climbing down the wide staircase. Down here, on the mansion’s first floor, was where she worked. Let her be working in the library today, he pleaded silently with the universe. Please. Let her be in the library.

There were three women in traditional black-and-white maid’s outfits working on the brass and wrought iron when Rey reached the bottom of the stairs. None of them was her.

As usual, none of the maids even looked up as the chair rolled along the hallway toward the library. It was as if Rey didn’t even exist. Maybe they all had orders to treat him that way.

Or maybe they just didn’t like him. No one here really liked him.

Except.

There were two other maids dusting the old-style books lining the shelves as he rolled through the library door. Again, she wasn’t among them.

Rey’s heartbeat slowed back to a quiet ache as he made his way across to the baby grand piano, trying hard not to let the disappointment drag him down. All right, so two days in a row had been too much to expect. He would see her again. Maybe tomorrow.

“You got half an hour,” Grond warned, crossing the room ahead of him and moving the piano bench out of the way. “Then it’s back upstairs.”

Rey nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He settled his chair in place in front of the keyboard and punched in Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata on the music desk. Tentatively, he began to play.

He wasn’t very good at it. In fact, he rather hated playing the baby grand. There was no way to play it quietly, and every mistake and hesitation seemed to echo accusingly back across the room at him. Grond’s glowering presence a few steps away didn’t help, either.

But he had to pretend he was enjoying himself. This piano was his best excuse for coming downstairs, and he didn’t dare let Grond know the truth.

He had finished playing what he could of the Beethoven and had shifted to some easier Stephen Foster when a movement across the room caught the corner of his eye. He turned his head to look—

And felt his heart leap like an excited child.

It was her.

His breath felt suddenly on fire in his chest as he watched her walk alongside the shelves, a brass-polishing kit in her hand. So far she hadn’t looked his direction; but her path was bringing her ever closer to the piano. Eventually, he knew, she would have to notice him.

And when that happened, would she smile again?

He kept playing, his suddenly stiff fingers feeling as wooden as xylophone keys. She was coming closer, and closer …

And then, just before it seemed impossible that she could avoid seeing him, she looked over at the piano. Her large brown eyes met his—

And she smiled.

It was like the first drink of water splashing down a throat of a weary desert traveler. This was no ordinary smile, not just the kind a proper servant would politely offer one of the master’s other employees. This was a real, genuine smile. The kind of smile a person saved for a good friend.

He had no illusions as to what she could see in him, not in this wheelchair and all. But between Mr. Quillan, the unsmiling caretakers, and the rest of the oblivious household staff, he longed for someone who he could just talk to. Someone who could care for him solely for who he was. Someone who could be his friend.

Maybe, just maybe, she could be that friend.

“Susan?” someone called from the doorway.

Her eyes and smile lingered on Rey’s face for another second, lighting his heart and soul. Then, almost reluctantly, he thought, she turned back toward the door. “Yes?” she called.

Susan. So now he had a name to go with the face and the smile. Susan.

“You haven’t finished out here yet,” a woman’s voice said, an undertone of disapproval to it. “Come do this first.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Susan said. “I’m coming.”

Her eyes flicked back to Rey, and she smiled again. Not the same wide smile as the first, but a smaller, private one. The kind of smile shared by friends who are both in on the same private secret.

The kind of smile that promised she would be back later.

She turned and walked across the room. Rey watched her go, the image of that smile dancing in front of his eyes.

He was sure of it now. She would be his friend.

There was a heavy tap on Rey’s shoulder. “You going to play, or what?” Grond rumbled.

With a mild surprise, Rey realized his fingers had come to a halt. “Of course I’m going to play,” he said, shifting back to the Beethoven with new vigor. Susan would be back, just as soon as she’d finished out there. She would be back, and she would smile at him again. Beneath his fingers the piano was singing now—

And then, from his chair, came a soft trilling sound.

He could have cried. No, he begged the universe. No. Not now. Not when she’ll be coming back any minute.

But the universe didn’t care. With a tired sigh, he let his fingers come to a halt again on the keys. “Chair: Mr. Quillan’s office,” he ordered sadly.

The master had called, and it was time to go to work.

“The basic neurological theories are obscure, but there for the taking,” Quillan said as he gestured Thorwald to a chair in his private, ultra-secure third-floor office. “The genius of our associate in Ghana was in pulling it all together. And, of course, having the will to act on it.”

“Telepathy.” Thorwald shook his head, as if not sure he approved of the word. “Frankly, I wouldn’t have believed it.”

Quillan smiled. “Frankly, you still don’t,” he said. “That’s why you’re here. McCade thought you’d find the demonstration more effective if you were a few million kilometers away from him at the time.”

Across the room, the door chimed. Quillan keyed the remote, and the panel slid open to reveal Rey in his chair. “Come in, Rey,” he invited. “Hendrik, this is Rey, my personal terminal of the Old-Boy Network. Seventeen years old, in case you’re wondering. The younger they are when we get them, the better they react to the procedure.”

“A cripple?” Thorwald said, frowning.

“An unavoidable side effect of the process,” Quillan explained as Rey rolled into the room, the door sealing shut behind him. “It turns out the human brain hasn’t got enough spare neurological capacity to handle telepathy. Some creative clearing and retasking is needed.”

He stood up as Rey rolled to a stop beside the desk. “You basically need two clear areas to work with,” he said, circling around behind the boy. “The first is the section that operates the legs. No big loss; a programmed wheelchair can let him get around just fine.”

He touched Rey’s left cheek. “The other is the lower left side of the face. Smile for Hendrik, Rey.”

The skin around Thorwald’s eyes and lips crinkled with revulsion as Rey gave him that broken half-smile of his. “I see,” he said.

“Disgusting, isn’t it?” Quillan agreed. “All completely reversible.” It wasn’t, of course, and he and all the rest of the Old Boys knew it. Sometimes he toyed with the idea of telling Rey the truth, just to see what the boy’s reaction would be.

So far he’d resisted that temptation. Maybe someday when he was particularly bored he’d give it a shot.

“Has he actually performed any reversals?” Thorwald asked.

“At another eight hundred million a shot?” Quillan said pointedly. “Besides, in the fifteen years the Network has been running all the telepaths have worn out well before the ten years they signed on for. Easier and cheaper at that point just to replace them.”

Thorwald sent an almost furtive look at Rey. “Should we be talking this way … ?”

“Not a problem.” Quillan patted Rey’s shoulder. “Rey is an excellent telepath. I’m sure he’ll go the distance.”

“Besides,” he added, gesturing to the flesh-colored band around Rey’s neck as he sat back down again, “standard procedure is to give our telepaths a dose of TabRasa-33 after every session. Memory scrambler; wipes out all short-term memories for the preceding twenty to thirty minutes. I could tell him I’m going to kill him tomorrow and he wouldn’t remember a thing about it an hour from now. Well; let’s get started.”

Reaching into his desk, Quillan pulled out a stack of photos and a small picture stand. “Pictures of each of the others’ terminals,” he explained, showing Thorwald the stack as he set up the stand in front of Rey. “All Rey has to do is visualize the face, and the other telepath will pick up on the signal.”

“And then?” Thorwald asked.

“Then we’re in,” Quillan said, selecting the photo of McCade’s current telepath and putting it on the stand. “Go ahead, Rey.”

For a moment Rey gazed at the photo, as if trying to memorize it. Then, that familiar but still creepy look settled over his face. His eyes seemed to glaze over, his half-functional mouth went a little slack, and he let out a huffing sigh. “He’s in contact,” Quillan murmured. “Now it’s just a matter of the other telepath sending for McCade.”

“By phone?”

Quillan shook his head. “Single-tone, single-duration signal button on the wheelchair,” he said. “You never, ever want to have anything near your telepath that can record or transmit.”

“Including other people?” Thorwald asked.

“Especially other people,” Quillan agreed grimly. “Except for his caretakers, no one in this house is allowed to talk to Rey or even get within three meters of him.”

“Why don’t you just lock him up?” Thorwald asked.

“Counterproductive,” Quillan said. “You let your telepath get too bored or in too much of a rut and he burns out faster. It’s cheaper in the long run to let them roam around a little. You just have to make sure there’s no way to pass information back and forth. He’s not allowed any writing instruments, obviously.”

Abruptly, Rey seemed to straighten up. “Hello?” he said.

“McCade?” Quillan asked.

There was a brief pause. “Yes,” Rey said. “Quillan, I presume?”

“Correct,” Quillan said. “I have an acquaintance of yours here with me. Would you care to say hello?”

“Hello, Hendrik,” Rey said. “I trust Archer is treating you well?”

“Quite well, thank you,” Thorwald said. His eyes, Quillan noted, had the suspicious look of a small child watching his first magician. “What’s new at the ranch?”

“Well, we’ve got six new lambs,” Rey said. “Looks like we may get another twenty before the season runs its course. Has Archer invited you to drive up Ascraeus Mons yet?”

“He has, and I’ve turned him down,” Thorwald said. “Barbaric place, this. The next time we meet, I think we’ll do it at my house.”

“Now, be honest, Hendrik,” Rey said. “Is it Mars you find barbaric, or Archer’s lack of a proper wine cellar? When you visit him, Archer, you’ll have to talk him out of a bottle of the ’67 Bordeaux Sanjai. I understand he bought up the entire year’s vintage, except for a few bottles that went to some New York hotel by mistake. Which one was it again, Hendrik?”

“The Ritz-Aberdon,” Thorwald said, shaking his head. “I don’t believe this.”

“Neither did I, at first,” Rey said. “But as you see, it does work.”

“So it would appear,” Thorwald said. “So aside from allowing me to safely tell rude jokes about the President, Secretary-General, and Chairman of the Financial Reserve, what exactly is this good for?”

Rey made an odd snorting noise. “Shall we give him the standard example, Archer?” he invited.

“Certainly,” Quillan said, smiling. “At the moment, Hendrik, Mars is nine light-minutes from Earth. That means that information traveling by radio or laser takes nine minutes to get from there to here. Jonathan, what’s the Unified European Market doing at the moment?”

“Odd that you should ask,” Rey said. “As it happens, Bavarian General Transport hit a peak price of eighty-nine point three exactly four minutes ago. Two minutes later, the profit-hunters moved in, and it’s been on its way down ever since. Eighteen points so far, with no signs of a turnaround. I believe, Hendrik, that you have some minor investments in BGT?”

It was as if someone had touched a match to Thorwald’s lower lip. His whole body jerked, his eyes lighting up as the true reality of the situation suddenly caught up with him. “God,” he bit out, twisting his wrist up to look at his watch. “But—”

“Exactly,” Quillan said, reaching to his desk computer and punching up his InstaTrade connection. “The news of that eighty-nine high won’t hit the Martian Repeater Lists for another five minutes, and the downturn won’t start for seven. Would you care to place a sell order? Effective, say, six minutes from now?”

“God,” Thorwald muttered again, swiveling the computer around and starting to punch in his personal codes. “The possibilities—”

“Are endless,” Quillan agreed. “Stock manipulation, advance warnings of news events that could affect your holdings or your businesses, tips to share back and forth without all those ambitious young Turks listening in. The sky’s the limit.”

“Or rather, the sky is no longer the limit,” Rey put in dryly. “You can do conference calls, too, by setting out two or more photos for your telepath. That one can have uses all its own. As we all found out in that Estevez matter a few months back.”

“Indeed,” Quillan said. “The Securities Enforcement people got suspicious of Sergei Bondonavich and planted a spy on him. When Mr. Estevez suddenly disappeared—down an abandoned salt mine near Berchtesgaden, I believe—the rest of his group descended on Sergei like middle-management attacking the company Christmas buffet. He spun them a complete frosted sugar cookie, then hot-footed it onto the Network with a conference call and clued the rest of us in on the story he told. By the time their associates came knocking on our own doors ten minutes later, we were able to corroborate every detail.”

“All without a single indication that there’d been any communication between us,” Rey added. “As far as I know, they still haven’t even located Estevez’s body.”

“All right, I’m convinced,” Thorwald said. “What’s the catch?”

“There isn’t any,” Rey assured him. “Each of us in the Old-Boy Network has basically arrived. Each of us is powerful enough to be largely immune to attacks from the others, even if one of us was foolish enough to try. No, at this point our main focus is to bite off the heads of the smaller fish nipping at our tail fins.”

“And to deal with the self-appointed guardians of all that is right and good,” Quillan said contemptuously. “The solar system is our private pond now, to borrow Jonathan’s fish metaphor. Why not swim together?”

“I presume Archer’s already quoted you the price,” Rey said. “The only other requirement is that you share secrets and information with the others in fair value for what you receive. And, of course, that you maintain complete airtight security on the whole operation. If you’d like, we’ll give you a week to think about it.”

“No need,” Thorwald said, straightening up from the computer. “I’m in.”

“Excellent,” Rey said. “Then enjoy the rest of your stay, and call me when you get back to Earth. I’ll have things set up, and we’ll go from there. Oh, and do try to get up Ascraeus Mons at least once. No trip to Mars is complete without it.”

“I’ll think about it,” Thorwald said. “Good-bye, Jonathan.”

He looked at Quillan. “Is that right? Do I say good-bye?”

“You can,” Quillan said. “Rey, break contact. How was it?”

He watched as Rey gave the little shudder he always did as he cleared the connection. “Pretty clear,” the boy said, rubbing at his lips. “The other … he didn’t seem completely on track today.”

“What does that mean?” Thorwald asked, frowning.

“The contact wasn’t as sharp as it should have been,” Quillan explained. “At least, in Rey’s estimation.”

“What could cause that?”

“The other telepath might have been distracted.” Quillan looked at the clock. “Or tired—it is only four a.m. at McCade’s ranch. Any misfires, Rey?”

“No,” Rey said hesitantly. “I don’t think so.”

“Misfires?” Thorwald asked.

“As Rey listens to what I’m saying, the other telepath hears it through his ears and brain,” Quillan explained. “Rather like hearing an echo, I expect. The other telepath then repeats the message back to McCade, and it’s Rey’s turn to hear the echo as he speaks.”

“That’s why there was that pause before the other end answers,” Thorwald said, nodding. “McCade had to get the message relayed, and then answer.”

“Correct,” Quillan said. “Misfires are when the other telepath doesn’t repeat the message exactly the way it was sent. Usually it’s only a dropped word here or there, and usually it’s just carelessness or a case of someone using sentences too long or complicated for the telepath to handle.”

“But if it’s not?”

“Then it could be the first sign of a burned-out telepath,” Quillan said bluntly. “At which point, that particular Old Boy is advised that it may soon be time to upgrade his equipment.”

He patted Rey on the shoulder. “Fortunately for McCade’s wallet, it sounds like his mouthpiece is holding up just fine.” He shifted his hand, squeezing the collar around Rey’s neck in the proper place. “That’ll be all, Rey.”

“Yes, sir,” Rey murmured, his eyes starting to glaze over as the TabRasa trickled into his bloodstream.

“Go take a nap,” Quillan added. “Chair: Rey’s bedroom.”

The chair turned and rolled across the room. “Trouble?” Thorwald asked as the door opened and passed the chair and its dozing passenger out of the office.

“I don’t know,” Quillan said slowly. “It occurs to me that there’s another possibility for that sub-par connection just now. That it may not be McCade’s telepath who’s tired or distracted.”

Quillan got up from his chair. “Help yourself to my cigars, or anything else you want. I’ll be back soon.”

Rey woke abruptly, with the disorientation that always came after a dose of TabRasa. After three years he was used to it, but it was never entirely comfortable.

Still, there were worse things in life. Much worse things. He could certainly put up with it for the remaining seven years of his contract.

And when he had finished, Mr. Quillan would give him back his legs and his face, and he would get the bonus money he’d been promised.

And his parents and siblings would finally be able to get off that dirt-scrabble Central American farm and have the kind of financial security that had never been more than an impossible dream for anyone in his village.

For a minute he let himself enjoy that thought. Then, bidding his family a silent goodbye, he began searching for the edge where memory ended and this most recent gap began.

Yes; the library. The piano. Beethoven.

Susan.

He let her image hover in front of his closed eyes, tracing every line and curve in his memory. Making sure that, no matter how much TabRasa Mr. Quillan gave him, he would never, ever forget that face. That face, or that smile.

That smile that had promised she would be back …

With a start he opened his eyes and looked over at his clock, then grabbed for the arm of his chair. Less than an hour had gone by since the library, which meant she was probably still cleaning somewhere in the house. If he could figure out where, he could at least explain to her that he hadn’t just casually run out on her.

He wasn’t supposed to talk to anyone except his caretakers, he knew. But surely Mr. Quillan would understand this one time. Surely he would.

“That’s her,” Grond said, nodding across the solarium at one of the three maids polishing the brasswork around the flower pots. “Name’s Susan Baker; came on about three months ago. A little standoffish, the housekeeper says, but she has no complaints about her work.”

“What about her attention to Rey?”

“Probably the last month or so,” Grond said. “That’s when he started acting strange. Making excuses all the time to go downstairs.”

Quillan nodded, studying the girl. About eighteen years old, thin, dark hair, plain mousy face. Not at all attractive, to his way of thinking. “But she’s never talked to him?”

“No, sir.” Grond was positive. “At least, not on my watch. Hasn’t even gotten within four meters. All she’s done is smile.”

Mentally, Quillan shook his head. Such a lot of fuss and bother over so very little.

If it was, indeed, a lot of fuss and bother. “Go get her,” he ordered, stepping to one of the chairs beside the curved windows and sitting down.

A minute later she was standing in front of him. “Yes, sir?” she asked tentatively.

For a moment Quillan just gazed up at her. Sometimes letting an underling squirm under a direct glare could squeeze out a glimpse of a guilty conscience.

But she just stood there, looking puzzled. “I understand you’ve been trying to meet my nephew,” he said.

She frowned a bit harder. “Your nephew, sir?”

“The boy in the wheelchair,” Quillan amplified. “Recovering from a serious accident. Weren’t you told when you arrived here that if you saw him you weren’t to speak to him?”

“Yes, sir, I was,” she said. “But I haven’t spoken to him.”

“You’ve smiled at him,” Quillan said, making the words an accusation.

Again, nothing but more puzzlement. “I smile at everyone,” she protested, her face looking more mouse-like than ever. “I was just trying to be friendly.”

“I don’t want you to be friendly,” Quillan said firmly. “Not to him. The psychological aspects of the accident have been far more severe than even the physical damage. He needs time to work it all through.”

“I understand, sir,” she said. “But …”

“But?” Quillan echoed, making the word a challenge.

“Wouldn’t it be better for him to mix with other people?” she asked, the words coming out in a rush. “To see that he can be accepted just like he is?”

Quillan raised his eyebrows. “Are you telling me that my thousand-dollar-an-hour psychologists don’t know what they’re talking about?” he asked pointedly.

She actually winced. “No, sir,” she said in a low voice.

“Good,” Quillan said. “I would hate to think I’d been wasting all that money when an unschooled cleaning woman had better advice to give. You’re to stay away from him. You’re not to talk to him, or look at him. You’re especially not to smile at him. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, bobbing her head.

“Good,” Quillan said. “Then get back to work.”

“Yes, sir,” she said again. In that peculiar gait people have when they’re trying not to look like they’re hurrying, she hurried away.

Grond stepped to his side. “Sir?”

“I don’t know,” Quillan said thoughtfully. “She seems such a pathetic specimen to be distracting our terminal.”

Abruptly, he came to a decision. “Give her a month’s severance and get her out of the house,” he said, standing up. “Right now. Tell her we’ll collect her things from her room and send them on to her at the Ares Hiltonia—set up a room there for her. You pack her bags yourself, and make sure to look everything over carefully while you do.”

“Yes, sir,” Grond said. “What exactly am I looking for?”

“Anything that might suggest she’s more than the waste of skin she appears,” Quillan said. “A camera, perhaps. Nothing electronic gets into this house that I don’t know about, but it’s possible to make a purely mechanical camera.”

“If there’s anything there, I’ll find it,” Grond promised. “You want her just out of the house?”

Quillan rubbed his lower lip as he gazed across at the girl’s back. Grond was right. She was almost certainly harmless; but on the other hand, Rey was a multi-million-dollar investment. There was no point in taking the risk. “You just give her that month’s severance,” he said. “I’ll call Bondonavich and have him get whoever handled Estevez to take care of her more permanently.”

Grond’s lumpy forehead wrinkled. “You’re going to have Rey send the order for her to disappear?”

“TabRasa is a wonderful invention,” Quillan reminded him. “You just get her out of my house.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hunching his shoulders once, Grond headed across the solarium. Giving the girl one last look, Quillan headed for the door.

No, Rey wouldn’t like it. Not at all. But by the time he realized what was going on, the call would be in progress and there would be nothing he could do about it.

And the boy would certainly get over it. TabRasa was indeed a wonderful invention.

She wasn’t in the library. She wasn’t in the main hallway, either, or the kitchen, or the dining room.

Where could she be?

Sitting in the middle of the hallway, Rey looked around him at the various directions he could go, his heart pounding uncomfortably. He wasn’t even supposed to be down here alone, never mind giving himself a tour of the house this way. So far the only servants he’d seen were all at a distance, and as usual none of them had given him a second glance. But sooner or later, if he kept at this, he was bound to bump squarely into someone.

And then what? Would he compound his disobedience by asking where Susan was?

At this point he didn’t really know what he would do. All he knew was that he needed to find her. Turning the chair around, he headed down the main hallway. Somewhere back here, he had heard, was a stairway that led down to the servants’ quarters.

He had just rounded a corner off the main hallway when an older man emerged from the theater room. “Rey!” he said with surprise. “What are you doing here?”

Rey froze. Someone was talking to him! And not just someone, but a man he’d never seen before in his life. Some guest of Mr. Quillan’s?

But whether or not Rey knew who he was, it was clear he knew who Rey was. “You’re not supposed to down here alone,” the man growled, striding toward him. “Where’s your caretaker?”

“I—I don’t know,” Rey managed. “He’s not—”

“Get yourself upstairs,” the man snapped. “Right now.”

“Yes, sir,” Rey said automatically. “Chair—”

He stopped short as a face suddenly seemed to appear before his eyes, pushing aside his mental picture of Susan. “Yes, I’ll get him,” he murmured in response to the silent call, pressing the signal button underneath his chair’s armrest.

“What is it, a call?” the man asked, glancing around. “Come on, we’d better get you to his office.”

“He says it’s very important,” Rey murmured. “Vitally important.”

“What’s vitally important?” Mr. Quillan’s voice came from somewhere behind him.

The man looked up over Rey’s shoulder. “He’s got a call from someone,” he said. “I thought you said he’s not supposed to be down here alone.”

“He’s not,” Mr. Quillan said grimly, coming around the chair into Rey’s line of sight and glaring down at him. “Rey, what are you doing here?”

“Vitally important,” Rey repeated. “Must talk to you. Now.”

“Damn,” Mr. Quillan muttered. He glanced around, gestured toward the door across from the theater room. “Chair: Conference Room One. It’s secure enough,” he added to the other man as the chair started rolling, “and faster than getting him upstairs to the office. This just better be damn urgent.”

A minute later they were in the conference room. Mr. Quillan checked the monitors built into the table, then dropped into one of the chairs. “All right, we’re secure,” he said. “This is Quillan. Who is this?”

As if it were being carried down a long hollow tube, Rey heard a man’s voice in the distance. This is McCade.

“This is McCade,” he repeated.

We’ve got a problem.

“We’ve got a problem,” Rey echoed.

Or rather, you do. I’ve just learned Enforcement has planted a spy on you—

“Or rather, you do,” Rey said. “I’ve just learned Enforcement has planted a spy on you—”

Named Susan Baker.

“Named Susan Ba—”

Abruptly, Rey faltered, her face springing into sharp new focus in front of his eyes. Susan Baker? Susan?

“What?” Mr. Quillan snapped, bounding up out of his chair. “Susan what?”

“Baker,” Rey stammered. “I—Mr. Quillan—”

But the other wasn’t even listening. “Grond!” he shouted into his remote as he sprinted toward the door. “Stop her! Don’t let her get out of the house!”

He slammed the door open and was gone. What’s happening? the voice echoed through Rey’s mind.

Rey didn’t answer. Swiveling his chair around, he started toward the door.

A hand grabbed at his shoulder. “No you don’t,” the other man bit out. “Where do you think you’re—?”

The last word came out in a strangled gasp as Rey slammed his elbow with all the strength he could manage into the man’s abdomen. Maneuvering the chair around the table and potted trees, he rolled out the door.

They were all there, down by the bend in the hallway: Quillan, Grond, and Susan. Grond had a grip on Susan’s arm, holding it bent behind her back. Her face—that wonderful, kind face—was twisted almost beyond recognition with pain and fear.

“Stop!” Rey shouted. Or at least, he tried to shout. Instead, the words came out as barely a squeak. Susan’s eyes flicked to Rey’s face, a wordless plea there …

And with a sudden blaze of anger, Rey sent the chair rolling toward the trio at full speed. Words weren’t going to stop Grond now, he knew. From somewhere in the distance he could hear the warbling of some kind of alarm—

And then, to his astonishment, five men charged into view around the corner of the hallway. Grond barely had time to snap a warning before three of them leaped at him, wrenching Susan’s arm out of his grip and wrestling him to the floor. One of the others pushed warningly at Quillan’s chest, while the last hurriedly pulled Susan away from the confusion. “You all right?” Rey heard him ask.

“I’m fine,” she breathed, looking over at Rey again. “There’s Rey,” she added.

“Right,” the man said briskly, beckoning Rey toward him. “Rey? Come on over.”

Rey let the chair coast to a halt where he was, staring at them in confusion. Did Susan know these people? What were they doing here? Who were they? “It’s all right, Rey,” Susan called, smiling weakly as she rubbed her arm. “Don’t worry. These are the good guys.”

Quillan snorted loudly. “And they’d better enjoy themselves while they can,” he said. “You’ve leaned way over the mark with this one, Winslow. Way over. By this time tomorrow you’ll be on suspension, pending charges of gross misconduct.”

“No, I don’t think so,” the man beside Susan—Winslow—said calmly. A dozen more men appeared around the corner, all of them dressed in police uniforms, and strode purposefully past Rey. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw them start checking the rooms. “Come on, Rey, join the party,” Winslow added. “It’s all over. Really.”

Hesitantly, Rey nudged the chair forward. “Let’s run through the formalities, shall we?” Winslow said, turning his attention back to Quillan. “Archer Quillan, you’re under arrest for stock manipulation, illegal business practices—”

He paused dramatically. “And obstruction of justice and accessory after the fact in the murder of Securities Enforcement agent Juan Estevez.”

Quillan snorted again. “And you’ll be awaiting a full psychiatric examination on top of it,” he said scornfully. “You couldn’t make charges like that stick to the floor.”

Winslow smiled. “You might be surprised,” he said. “You see, we finally have a witness to all this sludge-water manipulation you and your trillionaire buddies have been indulging in. Someone who can quote your words exactly. Yours, and Jonathan McCade’s, and Sergei Bondonavich’s. Everything you’ve said on your cozy little Old-Boy Network for the past month, in fact.”

“You are insane,” Quillan insisted, looking at Susan and then Rey. “There’s not a thing either of them can tell you. I’ve made sure of that.”

“Who said I was talking about either of them?” Winslow countered, shifting his eyes toward the corner. “Julia?” he called, raising his voice. “It’s safe—come on in.”

He looked back at Quillan. “We knew we couldn’t get anything from the inside,” he said. “Between TabRasa and electronic countermeasures, you had all those bases covered.

“And so we arranged for you to deliver the information outside the house. To us.”

“You’re bluffing,” Quillan said flatly. “Nothing has left this house.”

“Ah, but it has,” Winslow said. “We figured that with all this paranoid secrecy, you’d probably have Rey locked away someplace where he would be starved for human contact. So we provided him with a friendly face. A face that, hopefully, he would always have hovering at the edges of his mind.”

“A pathetic face,” Quillan said contemptuously, looking at Susan.

“In your opinion,” Winslow said. “But obviously not in Rey’s. Tell me, Quillan; have you ever heard of a carbon copy?”

Quillan frowned. “A what?”

“A carbon copy,” Winslow repeated. “That’s an out-of-date term for a duplicate you make of a communication to send elsewhere. That’s basically what we were getting.”

Quillan was looking at the man as if he were crazy. “What in the System are you talking about?” he demanded. “There aren’t any copies.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Winslow gestured at Susan. “Meet Enforcement Agent Trainee Susan Converse.”

And then, from around the corner, rolled another wheelchair. A wheelchair just like Rey’s. A wheelchair holding a young woman.

A woman with a very familiar face …

Quillan inhaled sharply. “And,” Winslow added quietly, “meet Susan’s identical twin sister Julia. As you can see, your associate in Ghana was willing to cut himself a deal.”

“We’ll want you to stay on Mars another couple of weeks,” Susan said, setting a mug of hot tea on the table in front of Rey as she slid into the seat across from him. “Just in case we need you to add to your deposition.”

“So what Mr. Quillan said was true?” Rey asked, looking down at his tea, afraid to look directly at her. Her, or her sister. “When they took him away? That you were just using me?”

“They needed to be stopped, Rey,” she said gently. “They didn’t believe any of the rules applied to them anymore. Juan Estevez was just one example of the sort of thing they were getting away with every day. Quillan would have killed you, too, once you were of no more use to him. Just as he killed the telepath he had before you.”

She reached across the table and touched his hand. “But that said, no, we weren’t just using you. Any more than we were just using Julia. Or me.”

“You and Julia volunteered,” Rey said bitterly. “I didn’t have any choice in the matter.”

“How could we have asked you?” Susan pointed out. “Quillan had you totally isolated.”

“From everybody except Julia,” Rey countered, his voice coming out harsher than he’d expected. “You ever think of that? She could have asked me.”

“Winslow suggested that,” Julia’s slightly slurred voice said softly from Rey’s left. “But I was afraid to.”

The sheer surprise of the comment got Rey’s gaze up out of his tea. She’d been afraid to? “Why?

To his surprise, he saw tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. “Because there was no proof I could give you,” she said softly. “I was afraid you’d think I was just trying to stir you up against Quillan. I thought you’d never want to see me or talk to me …”

She looked away. “There’s no reversal, Rey. We’re going to be like this for the rest of our lives. We’re never going to fit in anymore, not with anyone. I was afraid if you started hating me …”

Rey looked at Susan. There were no smiles there now, on that face whose every line he’d memorized. Nothing but love and heartache and sadness as she gazed at her sister.

He looked back at Julia. Then, hesitantly, he reached over and took her hand. “It’s okay,” he said. “Really. I’ve never hated anyone in my life. I’m sure not going to start with you.”

She looked back at him, blinking away the tears. Then, almost as if afraid to believe it, she gave him a tentative smile.

A half smile, with the left part of her lips frozen in place. A nervous, almost frightened smile.

Rey smiled back. With the enormity of the sacrifice she’d made now crashing in on her, what Julia really needed was someone who could understand her. Someone who could care for her solely for who she was. Someone who could be her friend.

He would be that friend.