Benavidez pondered for a moment. "We're going to keep the precise time under wraps, for now, and simply tell folks that we have several weeks. I want us to have s.p.a.ce to come up with alternatives. Speaking of which..."

Jane nodded, drew a breath. Here it came. "I've just learned that Ogilvie & Sons has an off-ledger shipment hitting Joves.p.a.ce soon."

The look of relief that washed over Benavidez's face was so intense that Jane had to suppress a wince. "My G.o.d! Why didn't you tell us this before you started talking about how we only have three weeks to live?"

"Because, sir, with all due respect, this does not save us. Ogilvie & Sons is a grave threat."

He looked irritated. "Yes, yes; Ogilvie & Sons has connections with the Martian crime syndicate. But what can they do? If they try to impose unrealistic conditions or constraints in the contract for the ice, we simply declare sovereign immunity from their claims. If they make trouble with our shipping contracts later in retaliation, we come up with strategies at that time to protect ourselves. We are not without allies, Upside or Down."

"They are not just connected with the Martian mob. They are are the mob. Philo Ogilvie, chairman of Ogilvie & Sons' board of directors, paid for a hit on a Downsider judge. He can never set foot on Earth again without facing charges for racketeering, tax fraud, and conspiracy to commit murder. He's confined to a few hundred square kilometers in the Libertarian Free Zone on Mars. His sons are running the company, and they may not have been convicted, but they are as thuggish as he ever was. His elder son, Morris, is reputedly responsible for the Vestan coup, and his younger son, Elwood, by all reports is eager to outdo his brother to vie for mob boss. the mob. Philo Ogilvie, chairman of Ogilvie & Sons' board of directors, paid for a hit on a Downsider judge. He can never set foot on Earth again without facing charges for racketeering, tax fraud, and conspiracy to commit murder. He's confined to a few hundred square kilometers in the Libertarian Free Zone on Mars. His sons are running the company, and they may not have been convicted, but they are as thuggish as he ever was. His elder son, Morris, is reputedly responsible for the Vestan coup, and his younger son, Elwood, by all reports is eager to outdo his brother to vie for mob boss.

"Furthermore, I've become convinced the warehouse disaster was no accident. Ogilvie & Sons is responsible for it."

All four of them stared at her. Benavidez asked, "You have proof?"

"Look at the facts. One: there has never been a gap as long between major ice shipments as the one we are currently facing, in over a hundred years of recordkeeping. Nor as lean an inventory in any of the trans-Jovian cl.u.s.ters or parking zones. How likely is it that this disaster would happen at such a time? Two: my technology executive is telling me that the life-support systems failed in a highly unusual way, which caused the disaster to be much worse than it should have been. We can't rule out the possibility that our systems were hacked.

"Three, and worst of all." She called up her waveface and pinged them. Her research spread out before them. "Within the past ten months, two dozen of Ogilvie & Sons' ships have made an unscheduled trip to Mars.p.a.ce. A sort of mobster's mecca. What you are looking at right now is a series of satellite photos of one of those stops."

Val leaned forward, and whistled-a sharp note. "Those look like military-issue shuttles they're loading. Equipped with armored plating and missiles," he elaborated, at Benavidez's look. "And-"

"And those are military troops, to all appearances, boarding the ships. Yes. I've checked seven of the other twenty-three so far, during their Martian docking period, and satellite photos show the same thing." Jane flipped through the images. Benavidez and the others stared, slackjawed.

"According to my a.n.a.lysis," she said, "if the pattern holds for all twenty-four, they've ama.s.sed between seven and eight thousand mercenaries. Each of the carrier ships is docked within a week or two's travel from here." She froze on a picture of the troops boarding one of the ships. The shot was blurred, but from the shadow angles, it was clearly mid-afternoon, and the helmeted heads and rifles were easy to distinguish.

The whites of Thomas's eyes gleamed. Emily looked sick; Val grim. Benavidez's face could have been carved in granite.

"The Ogilvies have ama.s.sed a private army," Jane finished. "It's clear that they are going to do to us what they did to Vesta, Mr. Prime Minister. They are going to use this disaster to force you to abdicate in all but name. You-all of us-will become their puppets. And if we resist, they'll send in the troops to 'restore order.' Maybe they plan to send them in regardless."

A tense silence settled over them.

"A week away?"

"That's correct," Jane said. "Seven to ten days."

"When are they likely to launch?"

Val pondered this. "Most likely they'll launch to arrive with the ice. They'll probably say that they are there to help distribute supplies and help shorthanded security staff."

Benavidez turned to Val. "How many personnel do we have trained? Who would be qualified to fight if called?"

Val ran through his lists. "If we include the Zekeston, Portsmouth, and Pikesville police forces, perhaps as many as a thousand experienced fighters. We could muster five times that, but they'd be inexperienced, and going up against military-grade weaponry with hammers and lengths of pipe." He rubbed his mouth. "Sir, it'd be a slaughter."

Benavidez looked at Jane. "Suggestions?"

"Stall for time. They have us in a bad place. But we have strengths that Vesta didn't, besides our advance knowledge of their military capacity."

"Like?"

"Well, 'Stroiders,' for one. They can't afford to come into the open and be revealed as the thugs they are. They'll have to be more underhanded than they were in Vesta. It makes it harder for them."

"Why?" Emily asked. "Why do this to us? They already have Vesta."

"Basic astropolitics," Benavidez said. "We are the only major unaffiliated shipping locus between the outer planets and the inner system. Eros is tied up by two or three major mining corporations, Vesta is locked into Ogilvie & Sons and the Downside majors, who can afford to pay their exorbitant fees. The co-ops and independents can only ship through us. The Ogilvies want to shut them out. Weaken them."

"Right," Jane said. "And there is more to it than that. Major construction is planned in Earth and Venus...o...b..t. They want a seat at that table. But in order to do so, they not only need to trounce their shipping compet.i.tors-they have to do it sneakily, otherwise Downsider sentiment will turn against them." Jane turned to the prime minister. "Here is what I propose. Give me till Friday. By then, if they are guilty of this sabotage-and I'm sure they are-I should be able to prove it. Then you can negotiate a deal we can live with, and threaten them with the fact that if they even think think about sending those troops here, you will hold a press conference and reveal their involvement in the disaster." about sending those troops here, you will hold a press conference and reveal their involvement in the disaster."

Benavidez said nothing. Jane and the others waited.

"All right," he said finally. "Val, I want you to a.n.a.lyze Jane's data on those troops. See what records you can dig up about their purchase. Find out what we are up against in terms of their military capacity. What kind of fighting equipment do they have? And what about the troops? Did they just give shock rifles to a bunch of Martian farmers, or are those soldiers a real threat? Begin planning for how we would counter it. Yes, I know you are up to your eyeb.a.l.l.s. We all are. But we can't neglect this threat."

Val looked as though he had bitten into a lemon. "Understood."

"Contact Sean if you need him," Jane told Val. "He's ex-military."

"Emily," Benavidez said, "I need you to be thinking about the public relations aspect. How much do we tell people? When? What format? I'd like your recommendations before dinnertime."

"Yes, sir." Emily scribbled notes into the air.

"Thomas, I'm sure I don't need to emphasize that you must apprise me the instant we hear from one of the Ogilvies," Benavidez told him. "In the meantime, get me everything you can on them-their connections, their methods, their history. Who do we know who has influence over them? I want as many levers as we can find."

"Will do."

The prime minister turned to Jane. "You know what you have to do. Find proof of their complicity. Find us other sources of ice. And be quick."

It took Geoff longer to get home than it should have. The lifts were congested, but many already seemed to know of his role in saving the ice, and insisted he cut in line; he reached his neighborhood within half an hour of leaving his friends up top in the rocketbike hangar. It was the last few meters that took the most time to traverse.

He and his parents lived in a mid-gee, working-cla.s.s neighborhood in the Main Metro district. He found a bench in a small plaza near his parents' apartment and rested there. He dangled his helmet between his knees, threw bits of his uneaten burrito to the chattering birds and squirrels at his feet, and watched some kids playing basketball against a nearby bulkhead.

For a while he tried to come up with entry lines, but language failed him. I'm home I'm home seemed hollow. seemed hollow. I'm sorry I'm sorry was more how he felt, but he was d.a.m.ned if he was going to apologize for having lived. He didn't even know if they knew yet, and he didn't want to be the first to tell them. There was this big empty hole he teetered at the edge of. A place where his brother had been. was more how he felt, but he was d.a.m.ned if he was going to apologize for having lived. He didn't even know if they knew yet, and he didn't want to be the first to tell them. There was this big empty hole he teetered at the edge of. A place where his brother had been. Burn hot, Burn hot, he thought, thinking of his last words to his brother. f.u.c.king awful. he thought, thinking of his last words to his brother. f.u.c.king awful.

How could he be gone? How? Geoff just slumped there-speechless-staring into that invisible, endless s.p.a.ce, while the lights dangling from the rafters overhead shifted their colors toward late afternoon and the shopkeepers started closing up shop. Burn hot, Burn hot, he thought. he thought.

Finally, he stood. It's not going to get any easier. Get it over with.

As he pa.s.sed by a gap between buildings, someone grabbed his arm and pulled him into it. He jerked free. "Hey!" Then he stared. The one who had grabbed him-he didn't know how he could tell she was the real thing, and not just a wannabe-was a Viridian.

She was as tall as he, perhaps six or eight years older. Her eyes were a warm brown, her skin a smooth honey tan, and her hair a cropped cap of tight, reddish curls. She wore Viridian garb: a multilayered, diaphanous top spun with more metal and lighted fibers that reached her waist; leggings; a delicate set of tattoos traced her cheekbones and forehead. No other mods showed on the surface, but with a Viridian, Geoff knew better than to trust his eyes.

While he was sizing her up, she was doing likewise to him. "Hey, yourself." She had a mild accent, a pleasant one: perhaps British, or Luny ex-pat.

"What do you want?"

"Very sorry about your brother. It sucks." She hesitated. "Don't know what I'd do if something happened to mine."

Anger surged in him. "What do you want, I said?" Then confusion. Carl's death had occurred less than an hour before. Geoff wasn't even sure whether his parents knew yet. How could she know?

She lifted her hand, almost too quickly to see. If Geoff had not been looking right at her hand, he would not have noticed the globe she tossed upward. It grew into a big, flimsy bubble, which settled over them. Cool, moist velvet touched his face and hands, and then they were encased in a globe. Through the bubble's faint rainbow traceries, he could see their surroundings clearly, but the sound of the boys playing across the plaza was noticeably m.u.f.fled and distorted. He had not noticed how many motes were out till they fell in a soft haze around the bottom seam of the bubble.

"a.s.semblers?"

"Yes. My own creation." A quick grin. "Repels 'Stroider' motes and distorts sound. Only lasts thirty seconds at this gee-level, so I need to make this quick. We know it was you who made the skeletons dance today."

Geoff gasped. He had all but forgotten about it. "What- How can you-" He drew a breath. "I don't know what you're talking about."

She rolled her eyes. Then she wiggled her fingers-link up?

Grudgingly, he brought up his own waveface and touched her fingers. In response, he saw an image of himself dropping the triggering proteins into the fountain.

"Wait, there weren't any cameras in that location! How did you-" He bit his lip to avoid incriminating himself further. She just smiled.

"No cameras you know about. Don't worry; you covered your tracks well enough. n.o.body caught you at it but us."

"'Us' being the Viridians?"

"Duh." She went on. "The police are investigating, but they think a university student did it. Besides, they'll be busy now with the disaster. You're safe enough, for now, as long as you don't spill.

"So. Here's the deal. We were suitably impressed by your stunt. We can teach you more. A h.e.l.l of a lot more."

The Viridians hacked their own DNA. He did not want to admit it to this young woman... or whatever he, she, or it was... but the notion of being in close proximity with them for any length of time made his skin crawl.

She read his expression, and shrugged. "Your call. If you change your mind, just go to this cafe and tell them you are a friend of mine." She transmitted the name of a restaurant-Portia's Mess-and an address.

"No thanks."

"Uh-huh." She gave him an arch stare. "One thing you should know. Bug hacking is harder to control than you think. Doing it solo can get you into serious s.h.i.t. We've all been where you are right now, so we get it. But. If you try something stupid, we will be all over your s.h.i.t in no time."

His fingernails dug into his palms. "And there's one thing you you should know: I don't take well to being threatened." should know: I don't take well to being threatened."

She shrugged. "Nothing personal. But if you screw up and hurt or kill somebody, the first ones they are going to blame are us Viridians. And we don't take well to being scapegoated."

"Well, I'm not stupid, and I don't plan to let anyone get hurt. My art project didn't hurt anybody."

She shrugged. "Just continue with the nonstupid approach, then."

With a flick of her fingers, she severed the wave connection. The bubble around them burst. Glimmering motes swirled around them on the breeze.

He was almost too irritated to ask, but did anyway. "I can't exactly ask for you if I don't know your name."

"Good point." She flashed him another smile. "Call me Vivian."

Her fingertips brushed his forearm as she pa.s.sed him. She strode away. He didn't know which disturbed him more: the way his skin crawled at her touch, or the intense erection he got at that dazzling smile.

He reached his flat. Motes swarmed in with him as the door opened. They filled the small s.p.a.ce with their distinctive scent of mint and acetone. Mites-little mechanical insects-also scurried in as the door closed. Geoff stomped a "Stroider" minicam, in a flash of rage, kicked several others out the door, and slammed it shut. Downsiders. A bunch of ghouls.

His parents, Sal and Dierdre Agre, lurched to their feet at the sound.

"Where the h.e.l.l have you been?" Dad demanded. "What are you doing? We are going to have to pay for that!"

But Mom shoved past Dad with a cry and grabbed Geoff. "We were worried sick! Thank G.o.d you're all right." Geoff wrapped his arms around her. Mom's shoulders shook and her tears left wet spots on his shirt. For a moment, he thought they already knew about Carl, but Dad turned away, frowning and gesturing in a way that told Geoff he was trying to make a call. "Dammit, pick up pick up."

Carl's not going to answer, Geoff wanted to say. But he couldn't force the words out. A rock-hard knot had formed in his throat. He glanced toward his room. The door felt like another black hole. He'd shared the tiny s.p.a.ce with Carl. He went and stood at the door, and felt his parents' stares on his back. Geoff wanted to say. But he couldn't force the words out. A rock-hard knot had formed in his throat. He glanced toward his room. The door felt like another black hole. He'd shared the tiny s.p.a.ce with Carl. He went and stood at the door, and felt his parents' stares on his back.

Everything was just as they had left it that morning. It was all so ordinary. Carl was organized. Tidy. Unlike Geoff, whose clothes and belongings were scattered all over. Geoff started picking up his things, stuffing them in the locker. Sorry, Carl. I left the room a mess on your last day. Sorry, Carl. I left the room a mess on your last day. The world's worst brother. In the front room, Dad and Mom got into a fight over why Carl wasn't answering and what to do next, which Geoff tried to tune out. He sat down at his desk and called up his waveface. The world's worst brother. In the front room, Dad and Mom got into a fight over why Carl wasn't answering and what to do next, which Geoff tried to tune out. He sat down at his desk and called up his waveface.

Kam had already posted the video of the dancing skeletons-anonymously, of course-on the local wave hangout. There were already thousands of views and over eight hundred comments-most of them raves. Geoff called up the video and watched the ensuing bone dance. It was hard to believe that was his handiwork, getting all that attention.

At some point during his parents' argument, Dad left. Almost immediately thereafter, the doorbell rang. Mom didn't answer right away; maybe she thought it was Dad again, or maybe she was on the toilet or something. So Geoff went back into the front room and opened the door.

It was Commissioner Jane. Her russet skin was wan, but her expression composed. She dressed formally in a long silvery grey vest and leggings, and carried what looked like a real smoked turkey.

Mom walked in from her room, holding out her hands. "Jane! What brings you here?" But her pleased smile vanished at her friend's expression.

"Geoff," the commissioner said. "Dee." She set the turkey down and took Mom's outstretched hands. "I'm afraid I have hard news."

Mom took a step back. "No."

"Carl was killed in the disaster, up top."

Mom went ashen. "It's a mistake."

"I'm afraid not."

"It can't be right."

Commissioner Jane said nothing. Mom bent her face into her hands, rigid. Geoff shifted. The motion caught the commissioner's eye. She turned her nickel grey gaze to him. "I'm so sorry."

Eventually they'd find out he had been there when Carl had died, and then they'd know he had spent a half hour in their company afterward without telling them. They'd wonder whether he had done everything he could to save him. He'd f.u.c.ked up. Again.

Geoff hunched his shoulders. "Thanks," he said.

Commissioner Jane sat next to Geoff's mom and covered her hand. Mom hadn't moved yet. Geoff felt when she did, she might explode. He got up and went back into his room, dropped fully clothed onto his bunk. Burn hot. Burn hot.

It had been he, Geoff, who was supposed to die young. Not Carl. He fell into a deep sleep that lasted eighteen hours.

4.

Jane Navio heard the Voice late Wednesday evening as she jetted home along the commuter treeway that fanned out among the asteroids of the Phocaean cl.u.s.ter.