“Think,” his brother whispered. “We know that the Beehive is built by Cowles, and what bastard has money in that company? Whose son wastes our nation’s wealth on such indulgences, games in which he pretends to be a wizard or warrior or monster?” No names were needed. “The Bastard” meant only one man, one powerful, dangerous man. “We know that in just months, Botanica is set to open. Think about it. With an image from our Prince’s work woven into the story? I researched. And the player list has been published. And there is an ‘Ali Shannar’ listed as a player. Nationality? Republic of Kikaya.
“Then… let us say that this live role-playing game everyone’s talking about has been tampered with. Say that it is filled with imagery that the Prince has created.
“Say that the guest list is classified. Say that our sources in the republic can verify that the Prince is on the move… or even that I am right, and that he is planning to make the trip. Planning to take part in this foolishness. Coming here, to the Moon. To us. Think about it.”
Thomas cocked his head to the side. Doug was laying out the bones of a situation without fully making the argument. But where was he going?
Doug leaned forward. “For years we’ve dreamed of driving the dogs from the palace, taking back our country. We could go home! The Prince was one of only three things we ever believed might pry the Bastard from his throne. My brother… if I am wrong and I am merely fantasizing, I hope you will forgive me. But if I am right…”
Thomas reared back, the implications suddenly hitting him like the full strength of the unfiltered lunar sun. Doug had hesitated to speak directly, had danced around rather than speak his mind. Now it was out of the bag. Could a thing so nearly unspeakable be possible at all? Were the logistics feasible? The funding? Theoretically, they had access to adequate resources… but talk had always been a cheap commodity. Would their Earth-bound, cocktail-party radical friends actually come through? Would they dare even try?
And they had another resource, someone right here on Luna, who owed them a debt best repaid from the shadow.
Dared they even try?
Gaming. Cowles Industries. Webzine monsters. Yes, yes, yes. The more he thought about it, the more the whole thing smelled of the Captain, the royal Bastard’s only son, another indulgent adventure to drain the republic’s coffers.
There was a problem with raising a question, one that became clearer as the night went on. Some questions, once asked, could not be ignored.
If Doug’s suspicions were true, and the twins acted boldly, and their radical friends were patriots with deep pockets, then a great deal of good might be accomplished by bold and determined men.
In truth, if the operation could actually be mounted, what in the world was there to stop them…?
2
Geneva, Switzerland
June 22, 2085
For five hundred years, the world’s finest timepieces had been designed and assembled in Geneva, Switzerland. After centuries of conservative tradition, the twenty-first century saw a flowering of mechanical engineering and micro-electronics, as well as telecommunications, information technology and artificial intelligence.
Geneva had become Europe’s Silicon Valley, with all the money, power and glamour that that implied. According to Zagat, four of the world’s top one hundred hotels were located in this one ancient city, and the very best of these was the Geneva Arms.
Tonight, the Arms swarmed with luminaries and paparazzi, the streets lined with fans hoping to glimpse the wealthy and famous at play. The street and sky were crammed with traffic. Lightly drifting snowflakes dusted the street, lending the cobblestones an almost ethereal elegance.
Scotty Griffin stood near the doorway, eyes on the crowd. “Station One, Starburst is leaving the ballroom. Do you have visual?”
From his observation position two hundred feet away, Scotty’s partner Foley Mason answered. “Affirmative, Moonman. All clear.”
Moonman. If he hadn’t been on duty, Scotty would have either laughed or winced. He could hear his father’s voice in his head: You’re there for the client, Scotty. Stay focused on the job…
“Entering limo,” he said, and cleared the way for his primary, a seventeen-year-old Belgian chocolate heiress. Her snow-white hair and pouting ruby lips had graced a thousand magazine covers, especially those adhering to the Fit/Fat standard of beauty currently in vogue. Her body had the kind of effortlessly sensual plumpness that no teenager could appreciate, and any woman-and most men-over forty would die for. Adriana “Cocoa Angel” Vokker.
The girl favored the videographers with a slow-motion wave, a practiced regal gesture. She flipped her blond hair back and thrust out one ample hip, canted that beautiful rounded jaw into an angle no tabloid could resist, and smiled. It seemed to Scotty that she spread that charm equally thick across the entire crowd… but seemed to linger on a rather severe, powerfully built blond man, who smiled and nodded in return. Scotty turned slightly toward him, the video feed on his sunglasses automatically recording the man’s image.
Scotty remembered the blond man: The big fellow had danced with Adriana twice during the evening’s ball, and there had been much merry whispering between them.
Might be nothing at all. At seventeen, she was of legal age in either Belgium or Switzerland, and technically able to make her own decisions, but her father-who was paying the bills-seemed to have a tight grip.
The limo door closed, and it lifted from the ground and into traffic.
Adriana Vokker sighed massively and tossed her head. “That was… boring,” she said, in deeply accented English.
Scotty smiled without laughing. He rarely laughed in front of clients. “Boring? You never sat out a dance, miss. I wouldn’t have thought you were bored.”
She closed her eyes and leaned back against the seat. The night skyline glittered outside the car as they melded into the traffic flow, heading back to the hotel. “Scotty,” she said, as if speaking to a child. “It’s all image. Sparkle, sparkle, sparkle. Believe me, it wearies.” English was her third language, but while thickly accented, her speech was skilled. Some emotional undercurrent in her voice caught his attention, then vanished before he could decipher it. Ah well. It wasn’t really his job to read the little minx’s mind, just to keep her safe.
“I’m turning in early tonight,” she said, face still turned away.
“Your call, Miss Vokker.” He clicked his tongue against his back teeth, switching on his necklace mike. “Station One, Starburst is returning to roost. Let’s make it an early night.”
At the moment, there was nothing more to say. Their human chauffeur was for window-dressing and emergencies: All aircars rode the city grid. Still, the man went about his job’s minimal obligations soberly, scanning the instrument panel as if he might have to take control at any moment. Good man.
Well, so far nothing out of the ordinary. So, then… the day after tomorrow Adriana would return home, and Scotty’s assignment would be over.
The snow-sprinkled streets sped by beneath him, and as long as Scotty refused to look up at the naked stars overhead, he was just fine.
Some things change with dizzying rapidity, but certain aspects of the security trade had not changed in centuries. Clients often rested in high-end public hotels, but the average guests never saw celebrity guests coming or going. For men in Griffin’s peculiar profession there would always be staff to vet and guests to watch. There were always back doors, side entrances, underground garages and guest rooms to sweep.
The man meeting them at the private roof pad was Foley Mason, a former Dream Park employee who had worked with Scotty’s dad, Alex, before the old man retired, and now took gigs primarily to keep the rust off. He had served with distinction in the Second Canadian war, and was twenty years older than Scotty.
