Cyrus laughed.
Otto pursed his lips. “It’s a bit more gamey. A bit like bald eagle, though less chewy.”
Cyrus picked up his knife and fork.
“And, not to spoil your appetite, sir,” said Otto, “but I wanted to remind you that the Twins are on their way for their regular visit. Almost certainly to discuss the Berserker issue.” Cyrus began to protest, but Otto held up a calming hand. “Don’t worry; we’ve taken the usual precautions. They’ll see and hear exactly what they expect to see and hear.”
Cyrus cut a slice of the dodo meat and chewed it thoughtfully. Otto waited with practiced patience.
“I want them thermal-scanned during any conversation.”
“We’re already on that. The chair sensors in the private garden have all been checked. With the new vapor density scanners the doctor thinks we can expect a seventy to seventy-three percent confidence in the readings. If they lie, we’ll probably know it.”
“They’re smart, those two,” warned Cyrus.
“They would have to be,” said Otto, then smiled. “And no, sir, that’s not as obsequious as it sounds. I actually have a lot of respect for the Twins.”
“As far as it goes,” corrected Cyrus.
“As far as it goes,” agree Otto.
“My young gods…” Cyrus looked into the middle distance for a long moment, a half smile playing across his lips. He blinked his eyes clear and cut a look at Otto. “What about the SAMs?”
“One Sixteen and One Forty-four are coming along nicely. They’ll be getting their fourth round of psych evaluations today, and if we like the results we can process them into the Family. Ninety-five is getting high marks in surgical classes, and he seems to have a taste for it. A family trait. Most of the rest are coming along.”
“Make sure they’re out of sight. I don’t want Hecate or Paris to see them.”
Otto nodded. “As I said, they’ll see only what we want them to see. The only child the Twins have seen-or ever will see-is Eighty-two, and he’s still at the Hive.”
Cyrus paused. “And… what about Eighty-two?” When Otto didn’t immediately respond, Cyrus said, “I still have hopes for that one. I feel more…
“I know, but you’ve seen his psych evals, Mr. Cyrus. You know what the doctors have been saying about him.”
“What? That he can’t be trusted? That he’s warped? I goddamn well don’t believe it,” snapped Cyrus with a sudden viciousness. “The doctors are wrong in their conclusions!”
His valet crossed his arms and leaned against the footboard. “They would be the third set of doctors to come up with exactly the same set of erroneous conclusions. How likely do you think that is?”
Cyrus turned his head and glared across the room at the dozens of floral arrangements that lined one wall. His chest rose and fell and several times he began to speak, but each time he left his thoughts unspoken. This was an old argument, something he and Otto had been wrangling over for nearly three years. Cyrus’s rage over the findings about Eighty-two had been towering, destructive. All six of the previous doctors had been executed. Cyrus had done it with his own hands, garroting each of them with cello strings he’d ripped from Eighty-two’s instrument.
“Have them run the tests again,” he said quietly, and in a tone that left no opening for discussions. “Have them run every single fucking test again.”
“I’ve already ordered it,” said Otto. “I sent a new team of specialists to the Hive and they’ll run everything. As many times as it takes.”
Cyrus turned to look at him and then turned away again.
“Oh, and this should make you happy,” Otto said with a deft shift of gears. “That new Indian fellow, Bannerjee… he was able to solve the gas erosion problem with the jellyfish sensors. We’ll pump a dozen of them into the Twins’ jet while it’s being refueled.”
Cyrus smiled and turned back. He cut a piece of meat and resumed his lunch. “Give Bannerjee a bonus. No… hold off on that until we’re sure we can track the Twins to wherever the hell they hide from me. If we can find the Dragon Factory, then Bannerjee gets double his pay as a bonus on top of his contract.”
“Very generous, sir.”
“And tell him that he can own the patent on whatever laminate he cooked up for the sensor, though I would appreciate fifteen percent as a tithe.”
“ ‘Tithe’?”
“Oh, call it what you want. Kickback, whatever.”
“I’m sure Dr. Bannerjee would be delighted to give you twenty percent,” said Otto.
“You’ve become greedy in your old age, Otto.”
The German bowed. “I learned at the feet of a great master of the art.”
Cyrus laughed until he choked and then laughed some more once he’d coughed up the unchewed piece of broccoli. Otto turned on the TV, adjusted the channel to a split screen of
Chapter Four
The White House
Saturday, August 28, 8:07 A.M.
Time Remaining on Extinction Clock: 99 hours, 53 minutes
“Mr. Vice President,” said the aide, “all teams have reported in. Everyone’s in position.”
“All of them?”
“Yes, sir, and the teams assigned to solo pickups have already moved in; the main teams are at the gates of each facility. I issued the go order.”
William Collins, Vice President and Acting President of the United States, nodded and sat back in his chair. He used his palms-the callused steelworker’s hands so often remarked upon in his press-to vigorously rub his face until his cheeks glowed. He let out a sharp sigh and clapped his hands together. The aide flinched.
“How soon before we know anything?”
“The Agents In Charge will call in on an individual basis once they’ve secured their objectives. Every situation is different and I’ve impressed upon them the need for delicacy, the need to get this done right rather than fast.”
The Vice President shot him a hard look. “Fast is pretty goddamned essential, don’t you think?”
The aide was immediately conciliatory. “Of course, sir, but it has to be done right. To the letter of the law.”
“Yeah, yeah… okay. Keep me apprised.” He sat back in his chair and waited until the aide left; then the Vice President turned to the other man in the room, an old crocodile in a five-thousand-dollar suit. The man’s face was fat, wrinkled, and flushed with hypertension, but his expression was calm, his eyes calculating and amused.
“Christ, this had better work, J.P.,” muttered the Vice President.
Jonas Paul Sunderland, the senior senator for Texas and one of the most vocal advocates of biotech development, smiled. “It’ll work, Bill. Don’t get your nuts in a knot.” He rattled the ice in his Scotch and took a pull. “We have good people well placed.”
“I have a lot at stake here, J.P.”
Sunderland gave him a bland smile. “We all do. But even if this tanks, you’ll come out looking like Joe Patriot and I won’t even be in the picture. This is well planned and you have the law on your side… which is nice. We’re actually the good guys here.”
“On paper,” Collins said.
“Sure, on paper, but that paper is the Constitution, so calm down. If you look stressed you’ll look guilty.”
The Vice President shook his head. “You don’t really appreciate this President, J.P. You think he’s a green kid with his head up his ass, but he’s a lot sharper than you think.”
Sunderland did not speak the string of racial invectives that rose to his lips. He said, “You think too highly of
