PETRA SULLENLY SOAKED IN THE TUB IN HER rooms at the Ellison mansion, staring at the ceiling. A mural here, too: water sprites and mermaids. Did the Ellisons control the aquatic mammal franchise on this planet, too, she wondered?

They seemed to control practically everything else. Mainly, they controlled their son. She was certain now that Pug would take the Pelham job. How could he not? Whit Bartholemew might be a cynic, but he was perceptive. Like Saffron Mingus long before him, and countless others, Palmer Ellison would wind up doing what was expected of him. Enduring dynasties like that of the Ellisons did not permit their substance to be frittered away by independent offspring. Even Whit, for all his contempt and bitterness, had wound up running the family business.

She could see the future as clearly as she could see the water sprites on the ceiling. Pug would become Imperial Secretary under Uncle Benedict, spend a few years on Pelham, then move onward and upward in Dexta until he was, probably, about thirty. He’d have stalled at about an Eleven or Ten by then, or at least, failed to advance to the higher levels as quickly as his family would prefer. They wouldn’t let him waste more than a few years in Dexta before they pressured him back into the family orbit. By the time he was thirty-five, Pug would be a senior vice president in the Ellison empire, and eventually, he’d take the reins from his father, just as Whit Bartholemew had.

And she could be right there beside him. If that was what she wanted.

Unless Pug decided that Steffany Fairchild would make a more appropriate companion on such a journey.

Not for the first time, she wished they had never come to this goddamn planet. Ever since Sylvania, it had been just the two of them, and it had been wonderful. Now, Steffany Fairchild and Whit Bartholemew had materialized in the midst of their lives, complicating and confusing everything.

She wasn’t sure if she had simply been getting even with Pug or whether she felt something deeper for Bartholemew. He was a fascinating but frightening man. Petra was flattered by his attentions and couldn’t deny that she had enjoyed making love with him—more than she ever had with Pug, frankly. Maybe it was just the jigli, or the delicious tang of naughtiness, but there was something about Bartholemew that reached a part of her that Pug had never touched. Nor had any other man.

Petra got out of the bath, stepped in and out of the stato-dryer, then paused in front of a full-length mirror. She spent a long time standing there, staring at her naked reflection, wondering just who that person was.

A rap at the door roused her from her meditations. She threw on a robe, went to the door, and found Standish, one of the Ellisons’ omnipresent butlers, waiting there. “Dinner in ten minutes, Miss Petra,” he said.

“Would you make my apologies to the Ellisons, please? I’m not feeling well. Do you suppose I could be served here in my room?”

“Certainly, Miss Petra.” Standish departed, Petra closed the door, and slumped down on the immense bed. She didn’t feel like having to deal with the Ellisons this evening. Let them think she was still hungover. Let them think whatever the hell they wanted.

 

PUG CAME IN MUCH LATER AND FOUND PETRA staring at vid coverage of the Quadrant Meeting. He watched over her shoulder as their boss gazed into the imagers, smiling and sexy, and gave her standard OSI spiel. Gloria seemed to be getting more than her fair share of vid time, but the coverage eventually moved on to other matters. “Makes you proud to be in OSI, doesn’t it?” Petra said without looking up from the screen.

Pug didn’t rise to the bait. “I checked out Stavros & Sons today,” he said. “No Stavros, no sons. They were absorbed years ago by a division of Trans-Empire. Apparently they purged all the old files. I didn’t get anything because there was nothing left to get.”

“Took you all day, did it?” Petra turned her head and looked up at him.

Pug looked back at her. “Some of it,” he said at last. “And how was your lunch with Whit?”

“We had fish,” Petra told him. “What did you and Steffany have?”

“Make you a deal,” Pug said. “You don’t ask me about Steffany, I won’t ask you about Whit.”

“Sounds reasonable to me.” Petra got to her feet and stared at Pug. “Why didn’t you tell me Whit’s father was in the zamitat?”

“I didn’t see that it was relevant.”

“I was investigating B & Q Shipping, and you didn’t think it was relevant?”

“I didn’t realize B & Q was a Bartholemew company. If I had, I would have told you. But speaking of B & Q, have you deleted those files yet?”

Petra opened her mouth, then closed it again without having said anything. She turned sharply and marched over to a dresser, seized her pad, and held it up for Pug to see.

“It’s all in here,” she told him. “I haven’t deleted anything, and I’m not going to.”

“Petra, you have to—”

“Don’t tell me what I have to do! First Whit, now you! What the hell is this, anyway?”

“Look, Petra, be reasonable. All you need is the files from 3163.”

“I don’t know what I need because I haven’t looked at it yet. Spirit, Pug, how can you ask me to delete information from an official Dexta investigation? Don’t you realize what you’re asking?”

“What I realize,” he said evenly, “is that you inadvertently downloaded information that could be very damaging—and dangerous. Do you have any idea what could happen if the zamies ever found out what you’ve got?”

“Why would the zamies find out? Whit certainly isn’t going to tell them. Or is there something I don’t know? Maybe something else you didn’t think was relevant? Is your father in the zamitat, too?”

“Of course he’s not!” Pug glared at her from across the room. “My family’s business is entirely legitimate. Or as legitimate as any business ever is.”

“Then why are you so upset about this? What difference does it make to you if I accidentally stumbled across something about the Bartholemews?”

Pug walked toward her, stopped halfway there, then turned and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Petra,” he said, “you know my mother is very close to Saffron Bartholemew. Our two families are…well, close. Over the years, my father and Whit’s father have had converging interests in a number of matters. It could hardly have been otherwise. There have been times when the Ellisons were able to do favors for the Bartholemews, and vice versa. For Spirit’s sake, Petra, that’s how things work in this galaxy! There’s nothing underhanded or illicit about it; it’s simply the way things get done.”

“One hand washes the other?” Petra smirked.

“Yes!” Pug ran his hand through his hair and breathed heavily. “Look, Petra,” he said, “I don’t expect you to understand this, because you haven’t had the…the background. Among families like mine and Whit’s, there are certain mutual relationships, certain understandings…”

“Which I couldn’t possibly comprehend because of my…background?”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Pug said. “Honestly, Petra, I’m just trying to explain why you should delete those files. Don’t try to turn this into class warfare, all right? I know what you think of my family and my friends, but I’d appreciate it if you’d try to be a little more understanding. I mean, I put up with your mother, didn’t I?”

Petra had no answer for that. She put the pad back on the dresser and went to sit down next to Pug.

“You’re taking the Pelham job, aren’t you?” It was more a statement of fact than an accusation.

“I haven’t decided yet,” he said.

“But your parents have. And that’s all that matters, isn’t it? Just another one of those understandings that families like yours have, right?”

Pug abruptly rose to his feet. “Give me a break, would you?” He turned and looked down at her. “You think this is easy for me? You think there aren’t times when I want to tell my father to take his fucking empire and shove it?”

“You sound just like Whit Bartholemew,” Petra observed. “And look what he wound up doing.”

“If I wanted to run my father’s business, would I have joined Dexta?”

“You might have,” Petra replied. “Just a little youthful, pro forma rebellion, before returning to the fold. Isn’t that the sort of thing that usually happens in families like yours?”

“You know, you’re as big a snob as your mother. I don’t hold it against you that you were born poor, Petra. Why must you hold it against me that I was born rich?”

Petra considered that for a moment and decided that it was a fair question. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s just that I need to know where we’re going, Pug.” She stood up, closed the distance between them, and put her arms around his neck. “I still want this to work.”

“So do I.” Pug drew her closer and kissed her softly on the neck. “And as for where we’re going…yes, we’re probably going to Pelham. Would that be so awful?”

Petra pulled back a little so she could look at his face. “I made a commitment to Gloria,” she said. “We both did.”

“And what if Gloria decides she’d rather be Empress? Where would that leave us?”

“I talked to her about it. She says she hasn’t made up her mind. But if she did leave Dexta, I think she’d want me to come with her. Personal secretary, maybe.”

“And I could be your assistant?” Pug released his hold on her. “Look, I really don’t mind being your assistant now. But I don’t want to spend my whole life doing that. This Pelham job could put me on the fast track at Dexta. If I rise high enough, soon enough…”

“Then you wouldn’t have to come back here to the family business?”

Pug nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “In any case, if Gloria leaves, or OSI collapses, I wouldn’t be hurt. And neither would you if you came along. There’s nothing wrong with an Undersec slot on Pelham, you know.”

“And in a year, when you make ImpeSec, I could be your assistant.”

“That bothers you?”

Petra sighed. “I guess not,” she said. “Unlike you, it looks like I am going to spend my whole life being someone’s assistant. I suppose that’s the most I can expect, given the tragic limitations of my background.” She offered Pug a weak smile, which he returned.

“Right now,” he said, reaching into her robe and fondling her breasts, “I’d rather concentrate on your foreground.”

“Which is also tragically limited.”

“That’s all right,” he said. “I don’t mind slumming.”

 

CORNELL DUBRAY STARED AT GLORIA VANDEEN, chattering away about OSI on the far side of the room. If he was honest with himself—and he usually was, because he could afford to be—he had to admit that he admired her, and not simply for that magnificent ass, which was currently on full display in a bizarre bit of sartorial architecture that left her front mostly covered in swirling silver tinsel. VanDeen was smart and ambitious and, in her own way, as ruthless as DuBray himself. She was easily the most formidable woman he had encountered since Elsinore Chandra in her prime.

The Sector 21 Reception was well attended because it was the host Sector, and it was no surprise to find VanDeen here. Inevitably, he was going to keep tripping over her at these affairs throughout the length of the Quadrant Meeting. That could prove to be inconvenient; he didn’t want any public scenes with her because there was no way he could come out on top in such an encounter. She had public support that he could never hope to muster. And, as she had pointed out in that broom closet this afternoon, Dexta people liked her. DuBray resolved to keep to the far side of the room from her and avoid confrontations.

That was ridiculous, of course, but there was no help for it. This was his Quadrant, and—at least until Norman Mingus arrived—he was the senior Dexta official on New Cambridge. Yet that twenty-five-year-old harridan had somehow put him on the defensive.

DuBray helped himself to a fresh glass of champagne from a passing waiter and munched on a caviar-covered cracker. If he didn’t watch it, he’d probably put on ten pounds in the next two weeks. Long ago, when he’d lived on this planet, he’d been lithe and athletic and didn’t have to worry about such things. In bed, Saffron had called him “Slim.”

Saffron was here tonight, too. They’d made their peace years ago—or an armistice, at any rate—but there were unexpected moments when he still felt a pang. It had all worked out for the best, in the long run, he supposed; fifty-five years certainly qualified as the long run. They had each prospered, the Empire survived, and history had buried all their tawdry little secrets.

Until now.

He was certain that he was correct in what he had said in the closet that afternoon. VanDeen truly had no idea what she was dealing with. She was like a dog tugging on the corner of some half-buried shroud because, just maybe, there was a bone somewhere down there. If he told her the truth, would she stop tugging, stop digging?

She might. But he simply couldn’t risk it. Truth was like a plasma bomb; you only used it when there was no other choice. Truth, like unleashed plasma, was indiscriminate and unyielding and devoured everything in its path. Lies were safer because lies could be controlled. He had learned that, if nothing else, in seventy years at Dexta.

One of his aides caught his eye and signaled to him. DuBray nodded, set down his champagne, and followed the aide out of the mansion’s ballroom, down a long corridor, and into a small, opulent private office. The aide retreated, closing the door behind him, leaving DuBray alone with the girl.

She stood before him, clearly frightened, but with her widely set dark eyes gleaming in anticipation. Something big was about to happen to her, and DuBray gained the impression that she might possibly welcome it.

“Ms. Murakami,” he said, “thank you for coming. You know who I am?”

The girl nodded. “Yessir. Cornell DuBray, Quadrant 4 Administrator.” Then she added, unnecessarily, “Level Four.”

DuBray smiled. “That’s right,” he said. “And you are Level Fourteen, currently assigned to the Office of Strategic Intervention.”

“Yessir.”

She was very attractive, another one of OSI’s young Tigers. She was wearing nothing on her small, slim body but a tiny scrap of black mesh band skirt and a matching shawl carelessly draped over her shoulders. Her face, Asian-Pacific, was carefully made up to emphasize her hypnotic dark eyes. She looked as if she might have been about twelve, but DuBray knew she was twenty-five. And he knew much more than that.

“Ms. Murakami,” he said, “your father is currently incarcerated at the prison colony on Hingson III. He has two years left to serve on a three-year term for fraud and embezzlement. Would you like to get him out next month?”

Her eyes widened even more. “You could do that?”

“Of course I can. And I will, if you cooperate.”

DuBray could tell from the way she hesitated that Murakami was not the innocent young waif she appeared to be. She was already calculating the angles, measuring the moment for maximum advantage, like a pool shark plotting a three-cushion shot. So much the better.

“I’ll cooperate in any way I can, sir,” she said at last.

“I know you will.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“You are presently working as Gloria VanDeen’s assistant, correct?”

She nodded. “Petra Nash is her regular assistant, but she’s busy on another assignment, so I’m filling in for her.”

“And just how close are you to Ms. VanDeen?”

The girl hesitated, then smiled slyly. “We’ve made love,” she said.

“Have you, now?” DuBray found that intriguing, but not entirely relevant. “Does she confide in you? Tell you her plans? Share information?”

Murakami shrugged. “In general. I don’t think she tells me everything that’s going on, but I think I have a pretty good idea of what she’s up to, most of the time.”

“And how would you feel about sharing that knowledge with me?”

“You want me to spy on Gloria?”

“That’s what I want. Will you do it?”

The hesitation again. The girl would not have been a good poker player.

“I…I’m not sure. I need to think about it.”

“Think about this, Ms. Murakami. Your father is in prison on Hingson III. I can have him released, or I can send you there to join him.”

A look of sudden doubt flickered across the girl’s features.

“On an irregular basis for the past two years,” DuBray said, “you have been involved in the sale and distribution of illegal substances—Orgastria-29, to be precise.”

“How did you know that?”

“How I know is of no moment. What matters is that I do know. Well, Ms. Murakami, can I count on your cooperation?”

“I’ll do it,” she said.

“Of course you will. After we’re through here, my aide will instruct you in your duties and communication procedures.”

“How do I know I can trust you?” Murakami asked. She had some nerve, DuBray was pleased to see.

“If you do as I ask, your father will be released. Frankly, I don’t care a farthing whether your father is released or rots in prison. I have no interest in the matter, so I have no reason to lie to you.”

“And what about me?”

“What about you?”

“Naturally, I want to see my father released. But I could be risking my Dexta career by doing this for you, Mr. DuBray. I mean, what’s in this for me?” She gave him that sly smile again.

DuBray smiled back at her. “I’m glad you asked me that,” he said. “Selflessness makes me suspicious. Very well, then, what’s in it for you is a promotion to Thirteen when we return to Earth and a transfer to an appropriate position on Quadrant staff. Does that meet with your approval, Ms. Murakami?”

“Yes…but wouldn’t that let Gloria know what I’ve been doing?”

“By then,” DuBray assured her, “it won’t matter.”

 

EDWIN OGBURN, PRESIDENT OF THE REPUBLIC of New Cambridge, made the introduction. “Ms. Gloria VanDeen of Dexta, allow me to present Ms. Saffron Bartholemew, one of our world’s most beautiful and respected citizens.”

They shook hands politely and took each other’s measure. Saffron’s resemblance to her father was unmistakable; something in the aristocratic slope of her nose and the high, unlined forehead. Her fine, cornsilk hair was artfully arranged, and her V-shaped jaw jutted out just a little. Her eyes were the same color as her father’s, a watery blue-gray.

Both women simultaneously turned their heads to look at the man who had introduced them. Ogburn, no fool, quickly made his apologies and departed, leaving the two women alone.

“So,” Saffron said at last, “you’re my father’s latest popsy.”

Gloria ignored the verbal sally and smiled pleasantly. “I’m hardly that,” she said, “but I do work closely with him.”

“All the stories and rumors aren’t true, then?”

“I doubt if one percent of them are true. But we aren’t intimate, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“No?” Saffron frowned, as if disappointed at this news. “Well, he is a hundred and thirty-one. Finally slowing down, I guess.”

“I wouldn’t know about that. But the fact is, his health has not been good of late. He just had a new pancreas put in. He’ll be here next week, Ms. Bartholemew. Perhaps you should take the opportunity to find out for yourself how he is, instead of relying on rumors and secondhand reports.”

Saffron raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take it under advisement,” she said.

“He’s a lonely old man,” Gloria said. “It would do him good to see his family.”

“Ah, but would it do his family any good?”

“I don’t see how it could do you any harm.”

“Then, Ms. VanDeen, you don’t know my father as well as you think you do.”

“Look, Ms. Bartholemew,” Gloria said, feeling a growing sense of exasperation, “I don’t know anything at all about Norman’s personal life. I don’t know why the two of you are estranged, and I don’t want to know. But I think he’s a good man, and I care very much about him.”

Saffron gave her a lingering, appraising stare, like a jeweler considering a gem. Then she said, “You really do care about him, don’t you?”

Gloria nodded. “I do.”

“No reason you shouldn’t, I suppose,” Saffron said. “He does have…qualities. You know, I was just about your age when we became, as you say, estranged. Until that point, I worshipped him. Thought the galaxy revolved around him. And I suppose it does, now. Even then, you could sense greatness in him. But greatness is not necessarily an endearing trait, Ms. VanDeen.”

“Is that why you resent him? Was he too busy being great to be a good father?”

“Not at all. I wasn’t neglected—far from it. My mother died in an accident when I was only twelve, you know. And my father was very devoted to me. Credit where credit is due—I can’t deny him that. He positively doted on me, and took great pains to see to it that I grew up with every advantage. He was also demanding, but not oppressively so. I think he simply wanted me to be perfect so that I could have a perfect life.”

“And now you blame him because you didn’t?”

Saffron didn’t quite laugh at that. “That’s one way of looking at it,” she said. “Ms. VanDeen, you are obviously unaware of what transpired between my father and me. Perhaps my father will see fit to enlighten you someday, but I have no intention of dredging up painful memories just for your sake. I’m glad that I had the chance to meet you, Ms. VanDeen. Allow me to give you some advice. Whatever affection or esteem you feel for my father, and whatever his emotional attachment to you may be, don’t for one minute imagine that you are anything more to him than what I was—what everyone is.”

“And what is that?”

“A tool, Ms. VanDeen. A tool.”