thought, that Max hadn’t gone off knowingly or willingly with whomever had killed him. Because no Good Man thinking he might be away for more than a few minutes would leave that office locked. Particularly not when he was the last survivor of his line. That meant someone would have to blast through the genlock to get in. And no one would. Not until the Good Men decided which of them was to take over. Doing otherwise would mean hell to pay.
That meant that if anyone else—most likely Sam Remy—had papers or work in there, he would have to wait in abeyance until the new owner of Olympus took over. And then the Olympus functionary would have to submit to whatever the new Good Man thought of his unfinished business. A bad business all around—one to which no Good Man should subject his loyal servant. Not a Good Man interested in the loyalty of his servants, at least.
The door, black and unreflective, didn’t open as I approached. Blindly, trying not to think of what would happen if somehow my genes didn’t open it, I shoved my finger into the soft grey membrane of the genlock.
A deep click sounded and the door opened slowly inward. I had a moment, nothing more, to register that the office looked exactly as it had under my father, meaning that Max either had lacked the time or the interest to redecorate, then I turned around to face the crowd of servants.
Sam Remy was the closest, bowing. He reached into his pocket and brought out a small box. “Sir,” he said. He need not say more. The box he was extending to me had a large, golden K on the lid and I knew it. It was the box into which every night, before going to bed, my father had sequestered the signet ring of the Keevas.
I hesitated a moment, then took the box, opened it, and took out the ring, as I said, as casually as I could, “I assume the police returned it?”
Was that a momentary hesitation? He shook his head and I got the very strong impression he was trying not to look at someone. But I didn’t know whom. I just got the impression he was exerting the strictest possible discipline over his eyes. “No, sir. Your brother disappeared from his bed.”
Ah! Max had been enticed away. Honeypot then, most likely. It happened. Though Max should have known the risks as well as I did. At least I didn’t have to worry about whether the ring, which besides a signet was also a data gem that contained a lot of the needed information and codes to run my territory, had been corrupted.
When I looked up from slipping the ring on my finger, and noting in some surprise it fit perfectly, the household was bowing to me. More people had gathered than before. I never understood how news passed around the house, but clearly they had heard. And Sam Remy was gesturing wildly at a young man who stood at the edge of the crowd, looking up at me with an unreadable expression.
Sam hissed, “Nat,” which should not be a word that could be hissed, and gestured more wildly.
The young man, the same who had been doing such a creditable job of stuffing most of his fist in his mouth, now approached, reluctantly, doing as much of an impression of robotic walking as I must have done on the way here. He stopped next to Sam, who bowed just slightly, in that sort of bow people give when indicating this is a formal occasion, and said, “Good Man Keeva, this is my oldest son, Nathaniel Remy.”
Nathaniel was so pale that he might have been cast of the same white dimatough that imitated plaster on the ceiling. He was taller than Sam by a head. His hair was the sort of pale blond normally described as white-blond, a color not normally seen in anyone over two years of age. His features looked older than he could be. Because if he’d been in his late teens when I’d been arrested, I’d have known him well enough. In fact, I seemed to remember that Sam’s marriage had occurred when I was twelve or so. I remembered my mother talking about it. And Sam was not the type of man to have a son
That meant that if anyone else—most likely Sam Remy—had papers or work in there, he would have to wait in abeyance until the new owner of Olympus took over. And then the Olympus functionary would have to submit to whatever the new Good Man thought of his unfinished business. A bad business all around—one to which no Good Man should subject his loyal servant. Not a Good Man interested in the loyalty of his servants, at least.
The door, black and unreflective, didn’t open as I approached. Blindly, trying not to think of what would happen if somehow my genes didn’t open it, I shoved my finger into the soft grey membrane of the genlock.
A deep click sounded and the door opened slowly inward. I had a moment, nothing more, to register that the office looked exactly as it had under my father, meaning that Max either had lacked the time or the interest to redecorate, then I turned around to face the crowd of servants.
Sam Remy was the closest, bowing. He reached into his pocket and brought out a small box. “Sir,” he said. He need not say more. The box he was extending to me had a large, golden K on the lid and I knew it. It was the box into which every night, before going to bed, my father had sequestered the signet ring of the Keevas.
I hesitated a moment, then took the box, opened it, and took out the ring, as I said, as casually as I could, “I assume the police returned it?”
Was that a momentary hesitation? He shook his head and I got the very strong impression he was trying not to look at someone. But I didn’t know whom. I just got the impression he was exerting the strictest possible discipline over his eyes. “No, sir. Your brother disappeared from his bed.”
Ah! Max had been enticed away. Honeypot then, most likely. It happened. Though Max should have known the risks as well as I did. At least I didn’t have to worry about whether the ring, which besides a signet was also a data gem that contained a lot of the needed information and codes to run my territory, had been corrupted.
When I looked up from slipping the ring on my finger, and noting in some surprise it fit perfectly, the household was bowing to me. More people had gathered than before. I never understood how news passed around the house, but clearly they had heard. And Sam Remy was gesturing wildly at a young man who stood at the edge of the crowd, looking up at me with an unreadable expression.
Sam hissed, “Nat,” which should not be a word that could be hissed, and gestured more wildly.
The young man, the same who had been doing such a creditable job of stuffing most of his fist in his mouth, now approached, reluctantly, doing as much of an impression of robotic walking as I must have done on the way here. He stopped next to Sam, who bowed just slightly, in that sort of bow people give when indicating this is a formal occasion, and said, “Good Man Keeva, this is my oldest son, Nathaniel Remy.”
Nathaniel was so pale that he might have been cast of the same white dimatough that imitated plaster on the ceiling. He was taller than Sam by a head. His hair was the sort of pale blond normally described as white-blond, a color not normally seen in anyone over two years of age. His features looked older than he could be. Because if he’d been in his late teens when I’d been arrested, I’d have known him well enough. In fact, I seemed to remember that Sam’s marriage had occurred when I was twelve or so. I remembered my mother talking about it. And Sam was not the type of man to have a son
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