CHAPTER

TWENTY-ONE

Nexus II,
ISC Headquarters

At the time he’d calculated the ISC fleet should arrive in the system where Ky was, Rafe found he could not sit still. He left Emil to forward messages and went down to Control, where the feed from ansible Boxtop-zip-figaro-112 was already shunted to a station set up for him. If only this had been a system ansible, with its array of sensors to monitor activity in its area, he could have seen for himself what was going on. But this ansible, intended only to relay messages from other ansibles, lacked such enhancements. The only thing he could tell about it was that it was online. Control had a record of the message he had sent earlier. Rafe could not resist adding another. Do Not Attack Vatta Ships. Do Not Attack Space Defense Force under any circumstances.—Dunbarger, Chairman.

How long would it take them to retrieve their message? Had Ky at least moved away from the jump point, so they would have time to retrieve the message before they had a shot at her? She wasn’t stupid, but she was…just as stubborn at you are, something whispered in his head.

“Are you worried about our fleet, sir?” one of the technicians asked. “I’m sure they’ll be fine. We’ve never had any problem with privateers and such, once they recognize the ISC ship beacons.”

It would not help his authority to tell her there was always a first time. “No,” he said. “Or not the way you think. It’s a complicated situation out there.”

“Is it, sir? We haven’t had any alarms from the ansible.” Rafe glanced up. She stood just to one side and behind him, and seemed to have nothing to do but watch over him. Perhaps that was it. Even the Chairman couldn’t be left alone with Control equipment—after all, he wasn’t supposed to know how to operate it.

“We won’t have, from this ansible,” he said. “Relays can’t do anything but tell us if they’re tampered with. If it had the sensor capability of a full-service ansible, we could see exactly what’s going on.”

“But they might tamper with it again—”

“Who?”

“The people who tampered before—”

“They wouldn’t. All they did was fix it when it wasn’t working. That means they wanted it to work, so why would they turn it off?” From her puzzled expression, she wasn’t used to thinking that way. “If anyone does tamper with it, it’ll be someone else.” The pirates Ky had worried might come back, for instance. If they did, the ISC fleet—his fleet—would be in trouble. Statistics on that sector fleet were no better than the average—old ships, outdated equipment, inadequate training schedule.

Emil pinged him. “Your guards want to know what to do with Cuthen. He’s told them he’s going to sue—”

“He can’t do that if he can’t call out,” Rafe said. “But you may notify his family that he’s been unavoidably detained. I’ll speak to the guards myself.” He called down to the cells. “This is Rafe—I understand our friend is threatening?”

“Yeah. Says he’s going to have us all thrown in jail for unlawful imprisonment. Demands we let him out of this shielded room so he can use his skullphone.”

“Tell him that his family has been informed that he’s been unavoidably detained, but that he’s perfectly safe,” Rafe said. “Tell him that his safety still depends on the outcome of events now taking place, and I will let him know whether he’s got a future life when I know what that outcome is.”

“He says he needs rest,” the guard said.

“So do we all,” Rafe said. “He can rest when I’m satisfied. Are you…um…getting anything good out of him?”

“Oh, that pocket com you thought he had was full of data. I squirted it up to your office; Emil has it for you, or I can squirt it to you now.”

“No, that’s all right,” Rafe said. He stared at the screen in front of him, which remained obstinately blank. Time was passing, things were happening—things he could imagine vividly in sixty different varieties of disaster—and he was stuck here, out of contact. He wanted to use his internal ansible—he wanted Ky to use hers—but if she was in the middle of a fight, he couldn’t afford to distract her. Someone offered him a mug of something hot; he sipped it without noticing a flavor. His eyes itched and burned with staring at the console so long.

To distract himself, finally, he let himself think about his own family. His mother, his father, Penelope. His father’s behavior could be explained by the damage to his implant and to his brain, and the years of insidious conditioning by Lew Parmina. As predicted, his mental status had deteriorated after removal of the damaged implant, and neural regeneration was proceeding very slowly, in part due to his age and partly because the damage was extensive. His attitude toward Vattas had hardened from suspicion to outright paranoia, but his doctors said many brain-injured patients became suspicious and somewhat irrational until they recovered…if they recovered. Brain injury as extensive as his father’s often produced permanent changes in personality, one of the neurologists had said.

His mother, arbiter of family standards…she had seemed to come back rapidly after the rescue, but now, to his eye, she was looking more and more brittle. She scarcely ate that he could see, and her energy seemed more frenetic than natural. She called him daily at the office; she hovered over his father, over him, over Penelope.

Penelope…he could not imagine what it was like to lose a husband and a newborn by violence in such a short time. But he had no idea what she had been like before, as a grown woman. His clearest memories were of that night when she had been so frightened and he had been so…so mean. Why had he slapped her? He wouldn’t have done that when they were playing together, no matter how annoying she was. He had known better; it was something good children did not do. So why? He had a vague memory of watching a video of some kind—at home, at a friend’s house?—in which a man slapped a hysterical woman and she stopped crying. Was that why? Or was it his dark side, as the therapist had said? Even knowing the therapist had been incompetent didn’t erase that doubt.

The screen lit suddenly; his attention snapped back to it. “ISC scout ship Beremund. Message received. No Vatta ship located. Blueridge Defense Alli—” The message cut off.

“Did you touch anything, sir?” asked the comtech standing by.

“No,” Rafe said. He watched the technician manipulate controls.

“Ansible’s still up, but there’s no contact. Their equipment must have malfunctioned.”

Rafe felt cold inside. “They were blown,” he said.

“Blown, sir?” The comtech’s expression was utter confusion.

“Attacked. Blown up. Pirates,” Rafe said as she continued to look blank. “The Mackensee ship insystem wouldn’t have fired on ISC. Neither would Vatta. Whatever this Blueridge Defense whatsis wants people to think, it’s our enemy; most likely it’s the same pirate force that overthrew Bissonet System. And others.”

“But how can you tell that just because the message was cut off?” the technician asked. “Equipment fails for all sorts of reasons.”

“When you know you have the potential for hostilities, the safer bet is enemy action,” Rafe said. He called Emil. “We have trouble, almost certainly hostile action against ISC. Get me a conference call with all the sector commanders in Enforcement. Then I’ll want to contact Mackensee—locate their headquarters system, and if their system ansible isn’t working, dispatch a repair crew immediately, fastest route. And get me a list of the most reliable mercenary companies in our files. And—let’s see—get hold of our own System Defense, and tell them I want a meeting with whoever’s at the top.”

“What’s happened, sir?” Emil asked.

“I don’t yet know, for sure,” Rafe said. “But it’s bad, and we don’t have what it takes to handle it by ourselves.”

“What about Cuthen?”

“His life hangs by a thread,” Rafe said. “I’ll get back to you.”

By the time Emil had located the sector commanders and set up the conference call, more data had come in. The Mackensee ship in system, Ky, and the Mackensee relief convoy commander had all squirted data to the ansible, tagged for ISC headquarters, but the varying lightlags meant that data came in out of order in chaotic lumps.

Rafe did not wait for computer analysis to sort things into chronological order; he didn’t need to.

“We have a serious situation,” he said to the sector commanders, using another of Control’s modules. Two techs now hovered over the console, aligning the images for his convenience. “An ISC sector fleet has been nearly destroyed, and the only reason it wasn’t was the presence insystem of other ships that assisted our fleet.”

“Are you sure?” asked one.

“The data will be squirted to you in code as soon as analysis puts things in order,” Rafe said. “We’ve lost at least five ships—”

“Sorry, sir, new data, it’s now six…no, seven…,” a third technician murmured.

“Seven ships,” Rafe said. “I expect that number to rise as more data come in. Our ships were hit by something calling itself the Blueridge Defense Alliance, but the ships have false IDs. By a lucky chance, the captain of one of the friendly ships recognized a serial number as belonging to a ship from Bissonet System, which as you know—I hope you know—fell to a pirate coalition.”

“How many of these enemy ships?” asked one of the other commanders. “Any data on their weaponry?”

“Fifteen,” Rafe said. “And the technical data will be in the same squirt.” He paused; none of them spoke. “Now: in my short time as acting CEO, I have found that your maintenance, upgrade, and training budgets have been cut, and as a result our ships are markedly less able than those of other organizations, including this enemy. Some of you, I have no doubt, were colluding with Chief of Enforcement Cuthen to divert funds. I don’t care, at this point—it’s too late to worry about that. What I do care about is that you and your people aren’t thrown in the meat grinder to no purpose.” Another pause, longer this time. One of them—his implant informed him it was Bian Tarleton—opened his mouth and then shut it again.

“Go ahead, Tarleton,” Rafe said.

“Sir, I—there’s no way you can upgrade eighty percent of my ships at this point. They’re approaching the end of their structural reliability; they’d have to be completely rebuilt.”

“I know that. I also know that you have obsolete weaponry and some of you have dangerously old munitions. And your people haven’t done live-fire training for an average of six years.”

Now the resentment he saw on all the faces was replaced by dawning respect on some.

“How’d you know that?” Tarleton asked.

“I do my homework,” Rafe said. “Here’s the situation as I see it. All of you have what are essentially paper fleets: they look good on paper, they even look impressive in formation. As long as we had people convinced we were invulnerable, it didn’t matter…but there’s no way we can hide what happened. The enemy knows we’re a soft target, and we’re now a soft rich target.”

“I told headquarters years ago!” one of them said.

“Years ago isn’t our problem,” Rafe said. “Placing blame won’t get us out of this, though it certainly comes in later. So what I need from you right now is this: bring your fleets to what readiness you can, and start training your people for combat now. Review the data you’ll be getting, and revise your plans accordingly. By tomorrow, I want a list from each of you of the most critical needs. We can’t meet all of them, but we might meet some. Pick your best ships, however few that is, and get busy improving them. By tomorrow I want your assessment of the battle that cost us those ships; I want your plan for training that will address the weaknesses that made things worse.”

“By tomorrow?” asked one.

“Or if you can’t do it, I’ll find someone who can,” Rafe said. “If any of you feels unequal to command, I presume you have someone down the chain of command to whom you can hand over this onerous duty.” His voice, he realized, had hardened.

“What about our regular duties?” asked one of the others.

“Your top priority now is getting your command in as good shape as you can. Next is informing all legitimate governments that any entity calling itself Blueridge Defense Alliance is actually a swarm of pirates. Do not waste any time on routine enforcement; if systems want to repair their own ansibles, all the better. We get income from message traffic, and the more complete the communications net, the harder it will be for the pirates to evade detection.”

Heads were nodding now, all but two. “If anyone has comments, make ’em now, and then get busy. My assistant will set up another conference call tomorrow.” None of them spoke, and he clicked off.

“Another ship gone, sir,” said the tech who had spoken before. She looked very pale; glancing around the room, he saw that everyone was tense. And so they should be, but panic wouldn’t help, either.

Rafe stood up and raised his voice. “We’ve lost ships; we’ve lost people. Some of them may be your friends, or relatives, or just people you contacted regularly. It’s a blow, no doubt about it, but it’s not the end of ISC. I told our sector commanders to prepare for more trouble. But I’m hoping that we will find allies to help all civilized, legitimate governments and organizations survive and defeat these pirates.”

“But…but could they attack here?” came a timid voice from the back.

“They might, but I’m not going to let that happen,” Rafe said. “I’m going to meet with our government, warn them of the danger, and assure them that ISC will support system defense to the fullest extent possible. Some of you, I know, are aware of my decision that we will not prosecute or interfere with systems repairing their own ansibles. We need as much communication as we can get; these pirates used the lack of ansible access to hide, organize, and attack.”

He looked around. Too many scared faces, too many people looking for a way out. He smiled at them. “We will get through this,” he said. “ISC has survived challenges before, and we’ll do it this time. You are all intelligent, skilled people…you can help us pull through. There will be changes, yes: we have to meet this challenge, not just sit and let it happen to us. But you’re the kind of people who can do that.”

Better now; they were listening, they were not as tense, not as frightened.

“The ships that hit our fleet did not escape unscathed, and they are far away—even if they headed directly here, which they won’t, they’re not going to hit Nexus today or tomorrow. It’s not physically possible. We are going on emergency schedules; I want doubled watches posted here, so that every change in ansible function, every bit of data we can gather, will be noticed as soon as possible. If someone is able to locate and identify the pirate fleet…well, that would be an enormous help.”

“Who was it that helped us?” someone asked.

“Mackensee Military Assistance Corporation. I’ll be contacting their chief, to thank them and ask for some more help. And the new group, Space Defense Force.”

“Weren’t they the ones who…?”

“Fixed that ansible? Yes. Neither of those two had many ships in the system, but they did assist our fleet and finally drove off the attackers. From what I gather, Space Defense Force figured out where the pirates’ commander was and attacked that ship directly. They weren’t able to destroy it, but they did chase it out of the system, and the surviving pirate ships followed.”

“So they’re not really against us?”

“Not at all,” Rafe said. “Now. I need to go back up to my office and contact the government and Mackensee. I trust you’ll all keep at your stations here, and let me know if there’s anything new—”

The chorus of “Yes, sir” and “Of course, sir” sounded firm enough. Rafe waved to them and headed back upstairs. He was tempted to stop off at the Enforcement safe rooms, but Ky was alive and he had no excuse for roughing up Cuthen himself. More urgent matters awaited. He needed to get ansibles onboard all ISC ships, for one thing, not those pitiful booster units.

“You’ve got a call from home,” Emil said as Rafe came past him. “Your mother sounds upset; she wants to know when you’ll come home.”

Outside, the day had already darkened into night again. A clear night; the glowing cloud of the Arctan Nebula hung over the city. He shouldn’t go home; he had too much to do. Those calls to the government, to Mackensee. He could make them from home, but then his parents would want to know what was going on.

“What about the government?” he asked Emil.

“The office was closed by the time I got your message, sir. I didn’t know how urgent it was.”

“Urgent—but probably not worth interrupting the secretary at dinner.” And he himself was tired; he could feel it in his shoulders, in his eyes. When had he last slept? Before the blizzard began? “What about Mackensee?”

“I’ve contacted their local office; the ansible in their system is still down. I’ve directed the nearest ISC repair team to go there—it’ll be several days.”

“Good work,” Rafe said. He noticed that Emil, too, had dark circles under his eyes. “Take a shift off at least, Emil. Get a proper meal, somewhere off the premises, and a good night’s sleep.”

“Are you sure that’s all right?”

“You have a skullphone—I can always wake you if I need you. I’ll go home tonight; call the car. We can drop you somewhere if you like.”

On the drive across the city, Rafe tried to sort out how to tell his father what was going on. He shouldn’t; the doctors had said to limit business talk. But every time he came in the door, his father had a hundred mumbled, semi-coherent questions along with a stream of advice. He felt smothered, trapped in his father’s expectations, his father’s…he hated to say it even to himself…his father’s limitations.

How could his father not have seen what Lew Parmina was? How could he have let ISC’s fleet slide into obsolescence? He’d always thought of his father as completely competent, all-knowing; even when he was angriest with the man, he’d felt pride in being Garston Dunbarger’s son. Now…he felt pity for his father, for what had happened to him, for his struggles in rehab, but his admiration had dimmed as he dug into ISC and found so many things so badly awry.

What he should do was move out, separate himself from the family. At the thought of having his own place, a place without the associations of so much misery, he felt better immediately. If he lived closer to headquarters—even in headquarters; the guest suite could be rearranged for him—he would lose less time traveling back and forth. Weather conditions would matter less.

By the time the car turned into the drive, he had decided that moving out was the best possible solution to the whole family entanglement. The house loomed ahead, the familiar pattern of its façade, the windows, the portico. How, he wondered suddenly, did it seem to his family? Twice this house had been invaded, once successfully. Yet he could not imagine his parents living anywhere else.

He paused outside the door of the house, scraping his feet carefully. This was not going to be easy. He put his hand to the reader, and the lock opened; a chime sounded inside as he pushed it open. He wished he’d been able to persuade his parents that they needed to have someone in the house to answer the door, but he hadn’t. At least they hadn’t balked when he upgraded the house security system and hired more external guards to patrol the grounds.

“Rafe—I thought you were never coming home—” His mother came from the music room.

“The snow finally stopped,” he said.

“You could work from home; your father did sometimes.”

“He knew everyone, and everyone knew him,” Rafe said, unwrapping his scarf, slipping out of his coat. “I need to be visible, on the job. Parmina had a lot of people confused, and his departure has left…holes…in various departments.” He glanced at the door to the library, where his sister Penelope stood, wrapped in a big shawl, her shoulders hunched. “How—”

“Don’t ask,” Penelope said. His mother drew in her breath; his sister came forward with a quick, angry glance at their mother. “I lost my husband,” Penelope said. “I lost my baby. How do you think I’m doing?” Her gaze swept the entrance hall, and in this house carried to him without words. In this house where she’d been the night they were abducted, the night her husband died. Where she’d been the night Rafe had saved her, and terrified her, and the night he had not saved her, and the terror went on too long.

She needed to go somewhere else, too…but would she? Could she?

“What’s for dinner?” he asked, retreating from that dilemma. His sister’s face twisted a moment into a knowing look that recognized his retreat.

“A well-balanced meal designed by a medical nutritionist,” Penelope said. Her voice matched her expression: cold and scornful.

“Dear—” his mother said.

“Well, it is,” Penelope said. “It doesn’t matter what it is, that’s what it tastes like. The right amount of protein, carbohydrates complex and simple, the right amount of fiber and vitamins and minerals…they sent a cook with a list, Rafe. What father should have, how much, and so on.”

“It’s not that bad,” his mother said. “Quite good, really—”

“I’ve been told it tastes that way to me because I’m depressed,” Penelope said. Rafe eyed her. She looked far worse than she had when they first came back.

“It’s probably too early,” he said, as they went into the living room. “But I was going to ask if you could possibly do a little work for me.”

Her expression shifted a little. “Work? What kind?”

“Rafe, she can’t possibly; how can you ask?” his mother said.

“Mother, please. I have nothing to do all day around here except…what I do. Mope. Cry. Go to therapy. Mope and cry some more. Have nightmares.”

“I’m sorry,” Rafe said. “I don’t remember what it is you studied, if I ever knew, but you are family, and I know I can trust you. There’s a ton of data to go through, trying to untangle Parmina’s relationships in the company. I need someone to help me with that. Even a couple of hours a day would help.”

“Do you think I could?” she asked.

“Rafe, you can’t be serious,” his mother said. “After all she’s been through, she doesn’t need—”

“Mother, please—I need to get out of this house!” Penelope said. She turned to Rafe. “If I just have something to do, something useful…I may not do it well…”

“Be ready to leave when I do in the morning,” Rafe said, keeping his tone light. “I’ll take you in with me. We’ll see how it goes.” Clearly, Penelope couldn’t be expected to leave tonight, as he had planned to, nor should she make her own way to ISC headquarters…he would have to spend at least another night here, and tell his parents in the morning that he was moving out.

Dinner was not as bad as his sister had said, but nothing like the meals he remembered. His father, propped in a float chair, seemed barely able to feed himself; a medical attendant sat beside him, murmuring suggestions. His father’s left eyelid drooped almost shut, and his mouth sagged. Rafe felt his stomach tightening. They were all worse than they had been even three days ago, before the storm. Was something wrong with their medical care? Had Parmina somehow arranged to mess with that?

Rafe ate steadily, silently, glancing now and then at his mother. She ate little that he could see, perched like a bird about to take flight on the edge of her chair. His sister ate even less…one or two bites of each offering, that was all.

His father tried to speak, his one good eye fixed on Rafe, but managed only a rough jumble of noises. Supposedly the left side of his brain hadn’t been damaged; why was his speech so impaired? Like everything else, it had worsened over the past weeks. Rafe struggled to hide his worry and concentrated on the sounds, trying to parse meaning from them.

“Everything’s going well,” Rafe said, interpreting this as a request for information, information he was not about to impart. “We’ve found a few more of Parmina’s cronies and we’ve taken care of them.”

“No business worries…,” the attendant said to Rafe, with a warning glance.

“Sorry,” Rafe said. “I’m glad to see you up and around, Father. That was quite a snowstorm. When the weather is bad, I may spend nights at the office—please don’t be concerned if I don’t come home.” He shot a glance at his mother. “In fact, I was thinking of getting a place near the office—or even bunking in that guest apartment.”

His father’s hand twitched, sending a spoonful of the steamed greens flying onto the carpet. The attendant bent to wipe it up.

“I want to do a good job,” Rafe went on, hoping his face matched the tone he was trying for. “I want to take care of the company—as you asked me—”

“Yuh…duhnuh…dih-wih-vvvvatttah…”

“You’ll be better soon,” Rafe said. No one else might have understood that, but he knew that You do not deal with Vatta was what his father wanted to say. “If you rest, if you do what they tell you. I know you’ll be all right, and I will take care of things for you in the meantime.” He finished his own meal, all he could eat, and looked at his mother. “Mother, I need to take a long, hot bath, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” she said, her brow furrowed a little. “Are you coming down later?”

“Not if I fall asleep in the tub,” Rafe said, forcing a smile. “Don’t wait for me, I beg you.”

When he emerged from the bathroom, rubbing his hair dry, his sister was waiting in the hall, shoulder propped into the corner between a case of antique porcelain belt ornaments and the wall.

“Were you serious? About giving me a job?”

“Yes,” Rafe said.

“I hate this house,” she said with quiet intensity. “I’ve hated it since…and then what happened made it worse. I can’t sleep here. I keep seeing…what happened. Jared’s face…when they shot him…and…then it comes back, that night when you saved me. It’s always cold; I’m always cold. I tried to tell Mother I wanted to move out, find someplace. She thinks I’m better here, or I should go back to our—to Jared’s and my house—and I just can’t. And you’re getting out, aren’t you? I can tell. You don’t want to live in that little boy’s room; you’re not that boy anymore. You’ll get your own place, or stay at the office, and I’ll be here with…with all this.” She waved again at the surroundings.

“It…would be easier to do my job if I lived closer,” Rafe said.

She gave him a long look. “Would Father be happy if he knew exactly what you were doing?”

“What kind of a question is that?” Rafe asked. “Why would you think not?”

“Because you’re you,” she said. “You’re not like him…you have that other…that other flavor. What are you doing, Rafe?”

“Come and see,” Rafe said, trying to keep it light.

“Is it all going away?” she asked, her eyes shifting now from his face to the hall, to the pictures on the walls, the carpet on the floor. “Is something wrong with ISC?”

“You are in deep grief,” Rafe said. “You are seeing all the darkness there is, and that’s perfectly normal—”

“But there is something wrong, isn’t there—I can feel it—”

This was not a conversation he wanted to have here, in the hall, where anyone might hear. Yes, his father was supposed to be having a final series of exercises before bed, but houses had been bugged before.

“You are upset,” Rafe said. “Tomorrow will be different; tomorrow you won’t spend all day here. And if you can show me that you have a definite plan in mind, I’ll help you move away, if that’s what you need.”

She stared at him now…was she as irrational as she looked? He didn’t know; he had no idea how to interpret her expressions, her quickly changing moods. “But I’m…I’m not like I was…I never will be…”

“Doesn’t matter,” Rafe said firmly. “Yes, you’ll need to stay in therapy—you’ve had terrible things happen, and everyone needs help after something like that. But I’m here, and I’ll help you.” She looked as if she might cry again; Rafe was too tired to deal with that, he told himself. “Good night, Tinkabear,” he said, softly. For a moment, her face lit up: it had been her nickname as a toddler.

In the morning, she was dressed and ready by the front door, holding a small suitcase, when he came down. He didn’t comment; he, too, was carrying a suitcase, packed with two of his new suits and other necessities. The house was silent; his parents, he hoped, were still asleep. Rafe tapped out the security code; the car outside answered. He opened the door for her, nodding as she went past, and called softly into the silent house “We’re on our way!” as cheerfully as if they were headed for a picnic.

On the ride into the city, she settled herself warily into the wide backseat; her face was pale and her fingers tightened on her case every time they went around a corner. Finally, in the last stretch up to the entrance, she said, “I’m not going back.”

“No one can make you,” Rafe said. “Certainly not me.”

“No one can—you just said that.”

“So I did. Now, what time is your usual therapy appointment, and do you go, or does someone come?”

“The doctor comes. At eleven.”

“We’ll call, to be sure the doctor comes here…unless you’d rather go to someone’s office—and by the way, do you like this therapist?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Her voice had gone soft.

“Of course it does. You’ll get better faster with someone you like and trust.”

“Not…really. He’s all fatherly and comforting, but I can tell he thinks I’m just a spoiled girl who will always be too weak.”

Whether the therapist really thought that or not was not as important as his sister’s belief. Rafe felt the family bond tightening around his shoulders, a noose that would hold him here longer, keep him from Ky. And yet—this was Tinkabear, Pretty Penny, Pennyluck…all the silly childhood pet names came back to him. This was the little sister he’d smacked one time, and much good it had done her. She was his only remaining sister, all he had, really. He could not abandon her just because she was so unlike Ky.

“I’m sure that’s not the only good therapist in the city,” he said. “But first, let’s be sure Mother doesn’t panic when she finds you gone and the therapist is coming. Then we’ll find you a place to stay. Do you want an apartment, or would you feel safer here?”

“I won’t feel safe anywhere,” Penelope said. “But—I’d like to be near you for a while.”

He was not going to have her in his apartment…which meant they should both stay at headquarters for the time being. “Did you visit Father at work much?” he asked.

“No. Not at all since I married, and not much before that.”

“Well then: welcome to the executive life.” One of his bodyguards preceded them up the steps and through the door; Rafe led her to the security desk and spoke to the middle-aged woman there. “Hi, Sylvie. This is my sister Penelope; you will have her biometrics on file. We’ll need an all-shift pass for her. She’s going to be helping me out for a while.”

“Of course, sir.” Sylvie glanced up at Penelope. “If you would, please, put your hand in here and look into the hood. We need a current image for the tag.” In less than a minute, the machine spat out a laminated tag; Sylvie punched a hole in it, attached the clip and a lanyard, and handed it over. “There you are.”

Penelope clipped the tag to her jacket. Rafe waited as his bodyguard checked the lift and his fellow upstairs, then nodded. Rafe ushered Penelope into the lift with a low bow.

“Stop it,” she said, turning pink. “You’re being silly…people will look…”

“You used to like it when I played prince to your princess,” he said, leaning against the wall. “Don’t you remember the time you made me wear Linnet’s dance tights and that coronet?”

This time she giggled. “I’d forgotten that. It must have been a scene out of one of the videos. And you kept wrapping Mother’s evening cape around you, when it was supposed to trail out behind.”

“There are reasons,” Rafe said, putting on a scowl, “why I needed that cape…those blasted tights were too big.”

The elevator coasted to a stop; Penelope stepped forward, but Rafe blocked her. “Why—” she began, but he caught the nod from his guard and stepped back.

“After you, Princess.”

“You aren’t going to call me Princess—”

“Only when you deserve it,” Rafe said. “Now let’s find you a desk—”

“Are you serious? You’re really going to put me to work?”

Rafe shrugged. “Sitting around here doing nothing won’t help you any more than sitting around home…the house. Emil, this is my sister Penelope. Find her a place to work, will you? On this floor, close to me. She’s going to be helping me with some research. In the meantime, Penelope, come into my parlor…”

She gave him a weak, wavering smile.