Safe House Part 2

"We think it must be someone involved with one of the national intelligence organizations, Major. Why Washington, otherwise?"

She wasn't convinced. "They could pick him up anywhere," the major muttered. "It wouldn't necessarily have to be there." She brooded for a moment. "Does the father possibly know anybody in that area?"

"It's a possibility. He studied there for a while," said her subordinate.

The major frowned. "In America? America? What was a loyal scientist from our country doing there?" What was a loyal scientist from our country doing there?"

"Please, Major, it's all too common. He was sent there by the government years ago, some student exchange program, to 'learn about their culture'-"

"To poach their science, you mean," she growled, "and to give their d.a.m.ned intelligence services a chance to try and suborn him." Still, she knew this kind of thing had gone on a lot in the last thirty years-people being sent overseas to get at the improved equipment and theory which the Western countries had refused to allow her country to import honestly, citing "human rights record problems" and other fabricated excuses to keep their enemies poor and technologically inferior. Well, in this particular case, it hadn't worked. The CIA and its cl.u.s.ter of other a.s.sociated intelligence agencies had hit Darenko and bounced. He simply wasn't interested in being a double agent, it seemed...too interested in just doing science. And now Darenko's work was proving unusually useful for the government. Everything about it had seemed to be going extremely well, there had been great hopes for the results of his newest research...until now.

The major felt like growling a lot louder. You gave people better than usual housing and salaries, rewarded them with high position and the favor of the government and the national defense establishments, and what did they do? Turn on you at the first opportunity. What does he mean sending his son off to the West like this? What does he mean sending his son off to the West like this? Except she knew perfectly well what was meant by it. He was getting ready to jump, and-smart man that he was-he knew that sending his son off alone increased their chances of a reunion later. Together, their escape would have been almost impossible. Yet by sending the boy away, he had also telegraphed his own intentions. He would shortly find out how big an error that had been. Except she knew perfectly well what was meant by it. He was getting ready to jump, and-smart man that he was-he knew that sending his son off alone increased their chances of a reunion later. Together, their escape would have been almost impossible. Yet by sending the boy away, he had also telegraphed his own intentions. He would shortly find out how big an error that had been.

She let out a long breath. "Well," Major Arni said, "what do you know about the person picking him up?"

"Uh...nothing as yet."

The major's eyes narrowed. "You must be able to find out something! something! There must be information about the person's ident.i.ty attached to the boy's ticketing information in the airline's computers." There must be information about the person's ident.i.ty attached to the boy's ticketing information in the airline's computers."

"We tried that," her subordinate said. "Unfortunately we couldn't hack into the ticketing system. The air ticket 'audit trail' starts in Zurich, and the Swiss computers' encryption-"

"I don't want to hear about their encryption!" she yelled. "d.a.m.ned paranoid Swiss, why why are they so secretive?" She let out a long breath of annoyance. "Stupid little mob of hold-up-your-hand-and-vote democrats-" are they so secretive?" She let out a long breath of annoyance. "Stupid little mob of hold-up-your-hand-and-vote democrats-"

The major bit off the diatribe, which would have served no purpose, and would just have re-inflamed slightly raw nerves anyway. Some months ago someone from her department had been caught bugging the new French Emba.s.sy building in Bern and had been ejected by the Swiss within six hours. No appeal, no chance to get someone in there to finish the job, just a lot of embarra.s.sment which she was still living down. She was fortunate not to have been rea.s.signed, and the incident still rankled. Meanwhile, the terrified silence at the other end of the phone was amusing.

"All right," she said at last. "Fine. I don't suppose you have anyone on the plane, someone who could get cozy with one of the flight attendants and get a look at the boy's travel doc.u.ments?"

"Uh, no, Major. On such short notice we couldn't get the disburs.e.m.e.nts office to authorize the funds for a 'jump' flight. That kind of expense, they want an application filed in s.e.xtuplicate a month beforehand." He sounded bitter and didn't bother concealing it. And this time the major was inclined to agree with him, though he really had no business complaining about it to her. One of the perpetual annoyances of her job was the tiny budget on which she was required to produce decent results. How am I supposed to defend the security of my country on a shoestring? How am I supposed to defend the security of my country on a shoestring? But hard currency was just that, hard to come by, and there was no one she could complain to, either, not without hurting her own position, for such complaints were likely to be taken as evidence of insufficient motivation, or (much worse) incipient treachery. But hard currency was just that, hard to come by, and there was no one she could complain to, either, not without hurting her own position, for such complaints were likely to be taken as evidence of insufficient motivation, or (much worse) incipient treachery.

She sighed. "So what you're telling me," the major said, "is that all we can do is watch to see who picks the boy up at the Washington end. And if it's the CIA, or Net Force, or some other government organization, then that's the end of everything, is it?"

"Oh, no, Major. Even they get clumsy sometimes. One slip in their security is all we need." She could hear him almost smiling a little on the other end of the link, and maybe he was right to do so. "And besides, his father has to try to follow shortly. The 'collectors' on that side themselves are likely to tip us off, just by whatever preparations they make. When the father does try to follow, we'll catch him and squeeze him dry. He'll He'll certainly know where the boy was headed. Either way, we'll have them both back in short order...or make them useless to the other side." certainly know where the boy was headed. Either way, we'll have them both back in short order...or make them useless to the other side."

"You'd better hope it works out that way," the major said. "I want a report as soon as that plane comes down. Who picked him up, who they work for, where they take him. I want him taken back at the earliest opportunity. And, Taki-make a note-if anyone slips and kills him, they'll be just as dead within hours. This isn't just some schoolboy. We need him intact."

"Ah," said the voice on the other end. "Pressure..."

"Oh, certainly. What father likes to see his son's fingernails pulled off with pliers in front of him?" said the major idly. "Though I doubt we'd have to do more than one or two. And if the boy turns out to be innocent, of course we'd compensate him afterward. The Government has to defend itself from spies and terrorists, but it doesn't prey on innocent citizens."

"Of course," said the voice on the other end, rather hurriedly. "Will there be anything else, Major?"

"Just that report in two hours, or when the plane comes down, whichever comes sooner. See to it."

He hurriedly clicked off. She put down the comm hand-piece at her end.

Innocent citizens, the major thought. Are there any? Are there any?

Personally, she doubted it. It was just as well. It made her job easier.

She looked out the office door. None of her staff were stirring. "Come on," she said, raising her voice, "look lively out there! Rosa, I want the schedules for the American Aeros.p.a.ce planes into Reagan and Dulles and BWI for the next six hours. With the 'possible diversion' variants. Check the weather to see if a diversion is likely at all. And get me the last list of our Washington a.s.sets-"

Out in the office she could hear them starting to bustle around again. She sat there for a few moments more in silence-a little slender blond-haired woman in uniform, her hair pulled back in the regulation twist, her hands folded, looking thoughtful. Ingrate Ingrate, she was thinking again. A pity they need you alive A pity they need you alive.

Though, once they make sure we've got all your work complete, it's not as if you're likely to be that way for long....

2.

For Maj, the previous evening had pretty much been routine. Maj's mom and dad left at eight-thirty for the PTA dinner, with Maj's mother bearing before her an astonishingly detailed and complete medieval castle rendered in sugar plate, right down (or up) to small spun-sugar banners flying from toothpicks fixed in the battlements. The m.u.f.fin went off to play in virtual s.p.a.ce until bedtime, and Maj sat at the kitchen table for a good while, snacking on a pomegranate while going through her piled-up e-mail and occasionally looking out of her own work s.p.a.ce through a "side door" she had installed into m.u.f.fin's virtual "play area," a large green woodland meadow which at the moment was populated by a number of deinonichuses, iguanas, and very small stegosaurs. In the middle of this pastoral landscape the m.u.f.fin was sitting on a large smooth rock and reading to the a.s.sorted saurians, very slowly, carefully sounding out the words. "...And the great serpent said, 'What has brought thee to this island, little one? Speak quickly, and if thou dost not ac-quaint me with something I have not heard, or knew not before, thou shalt van-...vanish like a flame-'"

Maj smiled and turned her attention back to the electronic mail that "lay" all over the kitchen table, or bobbled around in the air in front of her in the form of various brightly colored three-dimensional icons. A lot of it was in the form of shiny black spheres about baseball-size, with the number 7 flashing inside it-mail from her friends in that wildly a.s.sorted loose a.s.sociation, the "Group of Seven." There were actually a lot more than seven of them, now, but as a group they were too lazy to bother changing the number every time someone new joined. They had other things to think about-one of them, at the moment, being the new sim that presently had a lot of other people on the Net interested as well.

Maj and the other members of the Group had originally started getting together on a regular basis because they were all interested in designing their own "sims"-simulated realities, "playrooms" or "pocket universes" based in the Net, where you could lose an hour or a week engaged in conversation, or combat, with other people-a few of them or thousands. For a lucky few with the necessary talent and perseverance, it could become a career, an incredibly lucrative one, and some of the Group of Seven had this kind of future in mind for themselves. They designed sims and let the rest of the Group play with them, "test-driving" them and working out the kinks. It was "practicing for the real world" for these kids. Others, like Maj, just liked to play "inside" small custom-designed sims rather than the big glossy ones, which tended to be expensive.

But every now and then one came along that caused an unusual amount of interest. Cl.u.s.ter Rangers Cl.u.s.ter Rangers was one of these. It was a s.p.a.ce sim-the latest of what, over the course of the life of the Net, had probably been thousands of s.p.a.ce-oriented games, puzzles, and virtual environments. But there was something rather special about this one. It wasn't just that Mihail Oranief, the sim designer, had taken incredible care over the details of it, which by itself was hardly unusual. It was a big, juicy, complex game, full of interesting solar systems, weird alien races, and interesting characters having interesting (and occasionally fatal) conflicts with one another. was one of these. It was a s.p.a.ce sim-the latest of what, over the course of the life of the Net, had probably been thousands of s.p.a.ce-oriented games, puzzles, and virtual environments. But there was something rather special about this one. It wasn't just that Mihail Oranief, the sim designer, had taken incredible care over the details of it, which by itself was hardly unusual. It was a big, juicy, complex game, full of interesting solar systems, weird alien races, and interesting characters having interesting (and occasionally fatal) conflicts with one another.

Cl.u.s.ter Rangers had a couple of additional attractions that had seemed to drop out of a lot of s.p.a.ce sims, or were never in them at all. For one thing, it was very interactive. Not just in the obvious sense, that you got into it and lived it for hours at a time. But Oranief had seen fit to release his "interface code," the "modular" programming which would allow players to design their own s.p.a.cecraft, s.p.a.ce stations, even their own planets, and "plug them into" the had a couple of additional attractions that had seemed to drop out of a lot of s.p.a.ce sims, or were never in them at all. For one thing, it was very interactive. Not just in the obvious sense, that you got into it and lived it for hours at a time. But Oranief had seen fit to release his "interface code," the "modular" programming which would allow players to design their own s.p.a.cecraft, s.p.a.ce stations, even their own planets, and "plug them into" the Cl.u.s.ter Rangers Cl.u.s.ter Rangers universe. universe.

This by itself was both a courtesy and a challenge-the sign of a very a.s.sured and confident programmer who was willing to let people come into his universe and make it better than even he had thought to. And that had powerfully attracted Maj and most of the rest of the Seven-all eleven of them. For some weeks now they had jointly been engaged in the design of a small squadron of fighter craft which would make their debut at the upcoming Battle of Didion, presently scheduled for tomorrow night.

All of them were determined to make a splash, and they had come up with what they considered the ultimate small fighter craft for exploiting the laws of science as the sim designer had laid them down. There were some big differences there from the average virtual universe. Light speed was much lower, and the human body could stand more G's, but to Maj's mind, the most amusing change was that, though vacuum there was vacuum, it also was allowed to conduct sound-and when you blew something up, you heard the BOOM! BOOM! without breaking any rules. There were people who despised this warping of conventional physical reality as excessive whimsy. For her own part, Maj was willing to cut the sim designers a small amount of slack. She liked the booms. without breaking any rules. There were people who despised this warping of conventional physical reality as excessive whimsy. For her own part, Maj was willing to cut the sim designers a small amount of slack. She liked the booms.

But ship design was what was primarily occupying her and the rest of the Group at the moment. All these mails now piled up on Maj's "desk" involved last-minute changes to the craft-suggestions and alterations, ideas picked up and immediately discarded, rude remarks about other people's ideas (or one's own), bad jokes, fits of nervousness or excitement, and various expressions of scorn, panic, or self-satisfaction. The Group had picked a side to align itself with in the Battle, had made some new friends and some new enemies, and was, Maj judged, pretty much ready to get out there now and go head-to-head with some of the Archon's "Black Arrow" squadrons. Their own "Arbalest" ships were both effective and handsome-a point about which, considering the quality of the rest of the game, Maj had had some concern.

Most designers who simply adapted astronomical photos from the Hubble and Alpher-Bethe-Gamow s.p.a.ce Telescopes for their scenarios wound up, despite the sometimes spectacular nature of the images, with backgrounds that looked hard and cold. Maj wasn't sure what Oranief had done to his "exteriors," but they somehow looked hard and warm warm. It was an unusual distinction, this ability to make s.p.a.ce, already beautiful enough, look even more so, to make blackness more than just black, but also dark and mysterious, and either threateningly so-so that you looked over your shoulder nervously while you were flying-or kindly kindly so, so that you hung there in the darkness with a feeling that something approved of you being there. However Oranief did it, the effect of so, so that you hung there in the darkness with a feeling that something approved of you being there. However Oranief did it, the effect of Cl.u.s.ter Rangers Cl.u.s.ter Rangers, the sense of depth depth in a game, of it all meaning more somehow than it looked as if it did, was like nothing else on the Net, and people had been flocking to join the sim as a result. Maj was glad that she and the Group had gotten in early, since there was talk of the designer closing down admissions soon and limiting the number of users to those who had already signed up. in a game, of it all meaning more somehow than it looked as if it did, was like nothing else on the Net, and people had been flocking to join the sim as a result. Maj was glad that she and the Group had gotten in early, since there was talk of the designer closing down admissions soon and limiting the number of users to those who had already signed up.

She sighed and put the last mail aside, a panicky voice-mail from Bob, who had been complaining that he wasn't sure the camber of the wings on the Arbalest craft was deep enough. Maj recognized this for what it was-last-minute nerves. "Mail routine," she said.

"Running, boss," said her work s.p.a.ce in a pleasant, neutral female voice.

"Start reply. Bobby, baby," Maj said, "if you think I for one am going to support you in yet another change of design the day before the balloon goes up, you're out of your mind. We have a beautiful ship. We are going to beat the b.u.t.ts off the Black Arrows when they come after us." When- When-the thought made the hair on the back of Maj's neck p.r.i.c.kle a little, for there was something inhumanly nasty nasty about the way the Black Arrows flew-too quick to be affected by G's, too merciless in the aftermath of an attack. There were rumors in the game that the Black Arrow craft were flown by the undead...and it was equally rumored that Free Fighter squadrons should do anything to avoid being taken alive by their enemies, lest they get that way themselves. about the way the Black Arrows flew-too quick to be affected by G's, too merciless in the aftermath of an attack. There were rumors in the game that the Black Arrow craft were flown by the undead...and it was equally rumored that Free Fighter squadrons should do anything to avoid being taken alive by their enemies, lest they get that way themselves. Not that we've seen that many squads survive an attack by them in the first place Not that we've seen that many squads survive an attack by them in the first place, she thought. "So just weld your spinal vertebrae together for the time being and play the man. We're going to be fine. Signed, Maj. End mail."

"Queue or immediate send?" said Maj's works.p.a.ce.

"Send." She sighed, glanced up. "Time?"

"Nine sixteen P.M. P.M."

"Oh, gosh, and the Muf is still up," Maj said to herself. She got up, plucked the icon-sphere of the last e-mail from Bob out of the air, picked up the remaining ones from where they lay on the table, and strolled over to the "filing cabinet" where she kept the Cl.u.s.ter Rangers material-a virtual "box" the shape of an Arbalest fighter. She pulled up the canopy of the fighter and stuffed the little message spheres down into it, then closed the canopy and took one last look at the fighter's design. The beautifully back-slanted wings were perfect, even though they were more often than not superfluous. The fighter spent most of its time in deep s.p.a.ce. Still, the group had designed into the ship the ability to go atmospheric if necessary-it was intended to be an ace-in-the-hole. Not many designers retained that capability, opting instead to use shuttlecraft or transporter platforms for their on-planet work. In the upcoming Battle, conditions were ripe to exploit the ship's versatility.

"'Camber,'" she muttered. "Bob needs his head examined."

She turned toward the "door" into the m.u.f.fin's s.p.a.ce and headed through it. m.u.f.fin was still sitting on her rock and reading to the dinosaurs-one particularly large stegosaur was looking over her shoulder, while chewing a mouthful of gra.s.s.

Do they really eat eat gra.s.s? gra.s.s? Maj wondered. Maj wondered.

"And the woodcutter said-"

Maj peered over the m.u.f.fin's shoulder briefly. "Come on, you," she said. "Bedtime."

There was a general groan of annoyance from the dinosaurs. Way up above her, a tyrannosaur bent down and most expressively showed its teeth. "Yeah, you, too," Maj said, unimpressed, waving a hand expressively in front of her face. "Wow, when did you brush last?"

"It's not my fault," the tyrannosaur said. "I eat people."

"Yeah, well, you could try flossing in between meals," said Maj, wondering once more who was doing the programming for these creatures. They were somebody's somebody's sim and theoretically came from someone who had been qualified to write sims for small children, though at moments like this Maj wondered exactly what those qualifications looked like. At any rate, she doubted they were doing the m.u.f.fin any particular harm. Her little sister was in some ways unusually robust. sim and theoretically came from someone who had been qualified to write sims for small children, though at moments like this Maj wondered exactly what those qualifications looked like. At any rate, she doubted they were doing the m.u.f.fin any particular harm. Her little sister was in some ways unusually robust.

"I didn't finish the story," the m.u.f.fin said, annoyed.

"Okay," Maj said. "Finish it up. Then bedtime."

The m.u.f.fin opened her book. The dinosaurs leaned down again. "And the woodcutter chopped the wolf open, and Little Red Riding Hood and her grandmother fell out. Then the woodcutter took great stones and put them in the wolf's belly, and sewed the wolf up again, and threw it in the lake, and it never came back up. And the kindly woodcutter took Red Riding Hood home to her mother and father, who cried and laughed when they saw her, and made her promise never to go into the woods alone by herself again."

The m.u.f.fin closed the book, and the dinosaurs stood up around her with a kind of sigh of completion. "Good night," m.u.f.fin said to them, and there was a chorus of grunts and hoots and growls, and they all stalked off among the trees, where darkness began to fall.

Maj suddenly began to wonder why she had been bothering to worry about the saurians. Chopping wolves open, stuffing them with stones, and throwing them in lakes-?! I don't remember that being in the story Chopping wolves open, stuffing them with stones, and throwing them in lakes-?! I don't remember that being in the story I I read read. But then it had been a long time ago.... "All done?" she said to the m.u.f.fin, picking her up.

"All done," said m.u.f.fin. The virtual landscape faded away, replaced by Maj's little sister's bedroom.

Maj got the m.u.f.fin into her pajamas and put her in bed. "What did you make of that story, small stuff?" Maj said.

"I didn't make it. It was there."

"I mean, what do you think think it meant?" it meant?"

"That you shouldn't go into the forest by yourself, or talk to strangers," the m.u.f.fin said. "Unless you're a grown-up, or you have an ax. And it's very bad to kill people, or eat people. Unless you're a dinosaur and can't help it."

Maj blinked. "And that last bit, about the stones?"

"The wolf had it coming," said the m.u.f.fin.

Maj choked on a laugh. "Oh," she said. "You want a drink of water?"

"No."

"Okay, honey. You have a good sleep."

"Night night," said the m.u.f.fin, and turned over and snuggled down among the covers.

Maj softly shut the door to her room and decided that she didn't have to bother worrying about her sister's relationship with the virtual dinosaurs. The Brothers Grimm, though, might be another matter, though in this area as well the m.u.f.fin seemed to be handling things her own way, calmly and with a certain panache.

She chuckled and made the rounds of the house, checking the locks before turning in. She had an early morning coming up, and then there would be this new kid, Nick, to deal with as well. As long as his being here doesn't interfere with the sim As long as his being here doesn't interfere with the sim, she thought, everything should be fine.... everything should be fine....

Six in the morning came all too early. It was not Maj's idea of a normal time to get up, but some of the Group of Seven were on the Pacific Coast, and this was the time of day and/or night when it was easiest to get everyone together.

All the same, she was not going to go virtual at such an hour without at least a little preparation. She strolled out to the kitchen in her bathrobe, rubbing her eyes, and put the kettle on, then went back down the hall, hearing a voice-her mother's, she thought.

By her mother's office door she stopped and listened. No sound-the voice she had heard was coming down the hall from the master bedroom.

Some early morning Net show, she thought. Her father was addicted to news and talk shows and might be caught listening to them at any hour of the day or night.

However, a little light seeped under her mother's office door. Maj knocked softly-no answer. She opened the door very quietly, peeked in.

Her mother was leaning back in her implant chair, her eyes closed. The chair began to hum as she stood there, going into a "ma.s.sage" cycle to keep her mother's muscles from getting cramped up while she worked.

Maj backed out and shut the door. As late as they had been out last night, there was no keeping her mother away from her work, even on a weekend. "When I sell a system, honey," her mother kept saying, "I sell service, too. That's why they keep coming back to me." And indeed Maj knew her mother's systems were well thought of in the DC area. She had at least one small government contract, which she didn't discuss, and many other contracts for various firms in the District and the tristate area. I just wish these people wouldn't screw their systems up after Mom installs them I just wish these people wouldn't screw their systems up after Mom installs them, Maj thought, so that she has to keep fixing them.... so that she has to keep fixing them....

She headed on down to the bathroom. Her brother's bedroom door, which she pa.s.sed on the way, was open just a crack. She could hear a faint snore coming from inside.

Another late night for him, Maj thought. But this time of year, that was normal. He and his curling buddies often didn't finish a "weekend" training session until midnight, after which they would go to one of the all-night diners down in Alexandria and eat and drink until two or sometimes three. Her brother claimed that it was amazing the way curling took the energy out of you. It was all mindwork, he claimed-nothing to do with the mere physical exertion involved, which mostly involved scooting up and down a lane of ice, brushing it with brooms and shouting occasionally off-color suggestions to a large polished rock. Maj had her doubts about the "mindwork" aspects of this sport, or how much energy it took out of you. But she didn't bother voicing them to her brother, who sometimes claimed that there couldn't possibly be any energy expended while playing a viola. Like he has the slightest idea... Like he has the slightest idea...

She brushed her teeth while waiting for the kettle to go off, and as she finished and came out of the bathroom, she caught that murmur of sound again, from the main bedroom...Not a show. Her father's voice. He was using the "repeater" in the bedroom to hook into the main Net computer in his study, and talking to somebody. At this hour? At this hour? But then again, in Europe it was lunchtime. If it was something to do with their new guest... But then again, in Europe it was lunchtime. If it was something to do with their new guest...

Maj started to turn away, then paused. She was not a big eavesdropper, normally, but there was something about the timbre of her father's voice that made her stop and stand still right where she was, straining to hear better without going any closer.

"...Yes. Yes, I know, but I didn't feel that I had much choice. He's a friend, Jim. If you don't help your friends when they need it badly, then there's not much point in the concept of friendship to begin with."

Maj had been about to step away from the door, rather embarra.s.sed at her own eavesdropping, until she heard the name "Jim." There were only two people whom her father addressed that way. One was an uncle in Denver, his brother. The other was James Winters, the Net Force Explorers liaison. Considering what time it was in Denver, Maj thought she could guess which one it was.

"Yes, I know. Well, it's a done deal. He's about to arrive. I would have liked to give you more warning, but by the time this particular movement had to start happening, any more communication between him and me might have tipped off the very people he was trying to avoid. And then I couldn't get you last night."

A long silence. "Of course we will," her father said. "Maj is good that way." And another pause. "Yes, around ten. We should have gotten him home by then, a.s.suming the traffic's not too bad. Right. Till then."

She blushed and moved off quietly down the hall. Bad enough to hear yourself being complimented while you were being a sneak and listening to people's private conversations, or half of them.

But this kid coming in, this Nick, is one of our relatives. Why would Dad be talking to James Winters about him...?

She went back up the hall toward the kitchen, listening for the kettle. It was grumbling to itself, not ready to whistle yet. At the door of her dad's study Maj paused, was briefly overcome by one more yawn, then wandered in to look at some of the books and paperwork piled up on the worktable in vast quant.i.ties, as usual. Some of them were quite old-"Eastern European studies" stuff, bound magazines in various East European languages, some in Cyrillic lettering and some in Roman, some of them fifty, maybe sixty years old. Somehow Maj started to get the idea that all this stuff was not anything to do with coursework.

She wandered back out again and into the kitchen, where the kettle's grumbling and rumbling was getting louder, and thought about her relatives. The Greens had relations all over the Western part of Europe-Ireland, mostly, and some in France and Spain and Austria. She had been surprised to find that some of them had married into the famous Lynch winemaking family, Irish emigrants who had settled in Bordeaux in the 1800s and had been deep in viticulture ever since. Eastern Europe, though Eastern Europe, though, Maj thought, putting the kettle on. No one ever mentioned before that we had anybody out that way. Weird.... No one ever mentioned before that we had anybody out that way. Weird....

Unless we don't really have anyone out that way.

The kettle began to whimper, preparatory to breaking into full cry, and Maj reached up to open one of the cupboards and get a teabag of the j.a.panese green tea with roasted rice that she favored, then she got a mug off the mug tree. That her father was on the link to James Winters was in itself odd enough. Not that she didn't know that they were friends. Apparently they had been at school together at some point. But why would her dad be discussing their visitor with him...? him...?

Unless this new kid is Net Force business somehow-Which made it, as far as Maj was concerned, her business as well...especially when it turned up in her own household.

The kettle started to shriek. Maj pulled it hurriedly off the burner and poured the boiling water onto her teabag, then killed the burner and took the cup over to the table, sat down with it. A moment later her mother came scuffing in, also wearing that slightly beat-up "work bathrobe" she favored for these early morning work sessions, a garish multicolored thing she had brought back from Covent Garden in London after a consulting trip. "These people," she muttered, making for the same cupboard Maj had opened, and taking out a one-shot coffee dripper from it. "I build them a system that works like a dream, but can they leave it alone? Noooo. They have to tinker with it, and attach new programs to it, and they don't debug the programs, and then they wonder why the whole thing crashes...."

"Morning, Mom," Maj said.