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gravely misunderstand the nature of the Gaespora.”
    “Enlighten me.”
    “With pleasure. In the, say, apple pie of American politics, there are three major players: First and most assuredly foremost are the scions, like our dear Mistress, Priscilla. They are the sons, daughters, spawn, and spores of the American Founders—those proud industrialists who built this kleptocratic utopia. The scions are the center of the pie, the delectable filling, the owners of the land, the energy grids, the water purifiers, the factories, the fabrication dozers, the Nets, the militias, and the justice systems, such as they are. Do you follow?”
    “I know the big dicks—the Hathaways, obviously. The Koch-Husseins, the Anheisers.”
    “To name a few. Less notorious, but no less significant, is the crust of our pie: the hidalgos. Hidalgo is a catchall term for the nouveau riche, those law-bound citizens who through luck or ruthlessness have consolidated enough wealth and influence to pose a threat to one or more of the scions. Hidalgo comes from the Spanglish term hijo de algo , ‘son of something.’ It is a signal, you see, that one of these strivers has designs to expand beyond prudence; they begin to discover noble parentage.
    “This is the friction of our civilization. When an individual achieves the status of a hidalgo, expansion can come only at the cost of the scions. Enter: the Gaespora. They are the pie pan. It is their thankless chore to keep the pie intact and uneaten. You may have seen my erstwhile brethren exert influence within the cities. I fear this may have given you an inflated opinion of their ability to guide human action. The cities and their charming denizens are the crumbs of the American pie. They have no bearing on politics. The Gaespora are few. They control no military of their own; that would render them an unacceptable competitor. When it comes to matters involving the scions, the Gaespora are utterly reliant on playing one scion against another to achieve their ends. This is accomplished through the assiduous collection and parsimonious deployment of information. Do you see now the role that I played, and the danger I undoubtedly face?”
    Saru digested his words, trying to capture the point. Maybe John wasn’t Gaesporan any more, but he retained their annoying habit of speaking in riddles. She thought back to the Hathaway estate, piecing together her pain-bent memories. John had stood with the mistress, and the mistress had routed her orders through him. She’d called him consigliere. He was an advisor. A butler. A confidant.
    “You’re a spy,” Saru said, marveling at her own brilliance. And not even a goddamn implant to help. “You were spying on the Hathaways for the Gaespora.”
    “A point for the detective!” John declared. “I was a spy of a fashion. A sanctioned one. Part advisor, part diplomat. The scions know that the Gaespora can communicate in ways beyond the reach of interception. They believe this ability to be the result of genetic engineering—telepathy, if you will. The scions use the Gaespora to communicate with one another without fear of their words leaving the inner circle. This ensures an equilibrium. No scion can war against another; it is impossible to gain the informational advantage necessary for victory. And most importantly, the Gaespora prevent—”
    “Third parties,” Saru interrupted, her mind racing ahead of him. “You keep all the information inside the clique. You keep out the riffraff, the, uh, hidalgos.”
    “Very good,” John said, admiringly. “You have a gift for politics.”
    “I know filth. That’s why the Hathaways will be after you. You’ve gone rogue. You know all their scandals, and their gossip, and their tech, and who’s plotting to fuck over who.”
    “Reason enough to miss me,” John said, dryly. “But there is a far greater incentive for my recapture. Priscilla is a cretinous debauchee, but her seneschals—the technocrats who