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the
long-deprived recesses of his memory. “Was that necessary?”
    Joaquin tossed his recording board into his briefbag. “Evan, just
because you have a hard-on for Veda doesn’t mean I have to cease doing my job.”
    “Pithy, Quino.”
    “Let that be a lesson to you.”
    The SIB hallways mirrored the stripped-down aesthetic of the
conference room. Evan fingered the austere beige sacking that cloaked the walls
near the lift bank. Roshi probably picked out the wall coverings himself. Hiroshi Mako took pride in his functional, unadorned Service. He had battled to
the dizzy heights of the Admiral-Generalcy with one goal in mind, to salvage
his beloved Blue and Grey. They were a true military now, he claimed, instead
of the Family police force they had been in the Bad Old Days.
    Those Bad Old Days were pretty good to me. But then, Evan
could admit his bias. Anything that improved a Family’s place in the
Commonwealth was right and commendable, and anyone in the NUVA-SCAN Family
network who claimed to feel differently lied. Now, however, in these days of
restless colonies clamoring for autonomy and argumentative idomeni demanding
trade agreements that encroached more and more deeply into human territories,
wise Family members kept such sentiments to themselves.
    Family first. Even though, as far as the van Reuters were
concerned, the Family had for years consisted of him and him alone.
    “Rather fine qualifying match on the ’Vee this evening,” Joaquin
said. “Live from Geneva—Gruppo Helvetica vs. some poor colonial appetizer.”
    A scene flashed in Evan’s mind. Tanned, coltish legs pumping—black
ponytail flipping. Daddy, watch me—! His eyes stung. “Soccer’s not my
game, Quino.”
    “It is the Commonwealth Cup.” Joaquin grew thoughtful.
“Although God knows what the upsurge of colonial pride will wash out of the
drains if one of those teams actually wins it this time.”
    “Serena used to play on her school team.” Evan blinked until his
vision cleared. “I haven’t watched a match since she died.”
    Joaquin shifted his feet. “Evan, I—”
    “Just drop it.” He braced for a clumsy apology. When none proved
forthcoming, he turned to find his attorney regarding him with impatient
admiration.
    “If the people of Chicago could see you at this moment, they’d
storm Sheridan to free you.” The man exhaled with a rumble. “You’re my client.
My responsibility is to you. Everyone’s heard the rumors. Let me place one
official story about the children—”
    “No.”
    “Damn it, it’s the prime example of how your late father
manipulated everyone around him! He subjects Martin to an experimental
personality augmentation at the age of three—eleven years later, Martin dies
during the boating mishap he’d arranged to kill Serena and Jerrold.”
    “Thank you for mentioning it. I needed that.”
    “The deaths of your children destroyed any chance you and Lyssa
had to rebuild your marriage.”
    “Our marriage was a joke from the start.” Evan thumped the lift
bank keypad with his fist. “We’ve discussed this before. I haven’t changed my
mind. Use anything but the children. Let them rest in peace. End of subject.”
The lift door finally opened. He limped in, left knee clicking with every
stride.
    “Since you brought up colonial pride, Quino, here’s a question. I
heard on CapNet that Acadia and the other Channel Worlds have lodged some kind of
protest concerning the arrests of political prisoners despite insufficient
evidence. One of those prisoners wouldn’t happen to be Jani, would it?”
    “As soon as Kilian is found, the SIB is required to notify us. If
Veda lets us down in that regard, not even your esteem will prevent me
from tearing her apart.” Joaquin boarded the lift and punched the pad for the
ground floor. “Apropos of nothing, how is the Crème Caramel doing?” The mention
of roses erased the discomfort from his bony face.
    “Fine, Quino.” Evan bit his lip to keep