exuberance that spelled first-lifer, smiling broad approval at what she saw.
“And this is Isabella,” Patricia said. “My companion.”
“Hi there. You have a lovely place here,” Isabella gushed. She stuck her hand out eagerly, wanting to make friends.
“Thank you,” Justine said. “It took a while, but we’ve gotten it how we like it.” It would be so easy to shower Isabella with sarcasm and irony, the girl would never notice. But that would make her a bitch, and this weekend didn’t need any ructions. “Get me a full file on her,” Justine told her e-butler. Something about her features was familiar enough to make Justine cautious. Isabella was obviously from a Grand Family or an Intersolar Dynasty, but which…
“Isabella Helena Halgarth,” Justine’s e-butler reported. “Aged nineteen. Second daughter of Victor and Bernadette Halgarth.” A small file printed down inside her virtual vision, detailing Isabella’s schools, academic achievements, sports, interests, charitable causes. The usual PR crap the family released on its own.
Damnit!
As soon as she’d shown Patricia to her lodge, Justine put a call through to Estella Fenton. “I need some information.”
“Darling, I’m humbled and honored,” Estella said teasingly. “What on earth do I know that your family doesn’t?”
“It’s about this girl.” Justine’s virtual finger touched an icon, sending Estella the small file on Isabella. “You’re the queen of gossip, I need to know what her true standing is in the Halgarths.”
“If it was anyone else asking, I’d resent that,” Estella said.
“Please! I know the status of nearly every Grand Family member, but the Halgarths are an Intersolar Dynasty.”
“I know, darling, nouveau riche offworlders, the worst kind. I’ve got my own profile of her here, what exactly do you want to know?”
“Is she considered important?”
“Not really. Fifteenth generation, and Victor was only eleventh. Both father and daughter were invitrogestated children, so they’re not direct lineage, just filling the family quota. She’s got a minimal trust fund, it pays enough so she doesn’t have to work, but she can’t quite afford to live a society high-life. She finished school last year, and hasn’t yet chosen a university. In fact, word has it that when she’s rejuved she might go for a little brain resequencing. Her IQ isn’t exactly lighting the top of the Christmas tree. Had a few boyfriends, all of equally minor status, and currently sleeping with… ah: Patricia Kantil. Is this why you’re calling?”
“Yes. I’ve got some senior Halgarths coming this weekend. I don’t know if Patricia’s secured their vote. It might be a problem if they interpret the relationship incorrectly.”
“Rest easy, darling. You didn’t hear this from me, but EdenBurg is already lining up behind Doi. That makes six of the Big15. I don’t think Patricia and Isabella will be a factor for you.”
“The Halgarths are backing Doi after all? Congratulations, you are better connected than me. Thanks, I really don’t need last-minute scares like this. I owe you.”
“You certainly do. Next time I need an A-list Grandee for dinner…”
“I’ll be there.”
Gerhard Utreth was next, a fourth-generation member of the Braunt family that had founded the Democratic Republic of New Germany. As an attorney he’d opted out of the family’s management and financial side to work in the planetary legal office. Decades ago he’d been the DRNG’s Commonwealth senator. He’d even been married to a Burnelli at one time, resulting in two invitrogestated children. Not that Justine expected that to count for much during the weekend, but it made him a good potential ally.
She had also invited Larry Frederick Halgarth, who was in the third generation of his dynasty. He arrived with Rafael Columbia, who was an inevitable addition to the weekend. But when the invitation was issued, Larry had also insisted on bringing Natasha Kersley, who shared the limo with the other two. When Justine ran her name through the Burnelli database she drew a blank. Natasha wasn’t a member of any major family. Nor had Justine ever heard of the Commonwealth Special Science Supervisory Directorate, of which Natasha was the chief executive. All Larry would say was: “It conducts theoretical studies of weapons. Exotic weapons.”
There were two more senators to complete the weekend gathering. Crispin Goldreich, whose position on the Commonwealth Budget Commission gave him a great deal of influence over the start-up arrangements of the whole starflight agency project. Justine’s briefing had him down as a mild skeptic; but as she knew there was really no such political animal. He was fishing for something.
Finally there was Ramon DB, the senator for Buta, although remarkably he didn’t belong to the Mandela family that had established that Big15 world. Instead, he was the leader of the general African caucus in the Senate, which gave him a respectable power base. He had also been Justine’s husband for twelve years. But that was eight decades ago.
“Remember me?” she asked coyly as he got out of his car.
He just wrapped his arms around her, hugging tightly. “Damn, you look hot when you’re this age,” he rumbled softly. He held her at arm’s length, looking her up and down. A wistful expression crossed his face. “Can we get married again?”
It was her turn to look at him. His traditional robe had a wonderful rainbow hem of semiorganic fiber that kept swirling as if he were in a breeze. Not even that movement could entirely disguise the way it fell over his stomach. His apparent age was approaching sixty, with white hairs infiltrating his temple. Midnight-black OCtattoos ran across his cheeks, flickering in and out of visibility.
“How much weight are you carrying under there?” she asked.
He put his hands together in prayer, and appealed to the sky. “Once a wife, always a wife. I keep in shape.”
“What shape? A beach ball? Rammy, you know you have trouble with your heart when you put on this much weight.”
“It is the fate of senators to attend huge meals every day of the week. I expect you’ll be sitting us down for an eight-course dinner tonight.”
“You are definitely not having eight courses; and I’m going to talk to the chef about your diet for the rest of the weekend. I don’t want to have to visit you in a re- life procedure ward, Rammy.”
“Yes, yes, woman. I am due to rejuve soon. It will all be sorted out then. Stop worrying.”
“Have they got a specific retrosequence for your condition yet?”
He gave an impatient swish of his fly whisk. “I have rare genes. It is difficult for doctors to isolate the problem and correct it.”
“Then have them vector in a sequence for a new heart. It’s simple enough.”
“I am what I am. You know that. I don’t want somebody else’s heart.”
She gathered a breath, ready to sigh at him. Before she had a chance his thick forefinger came up under her chin. “Don’t scold me, Justine. It is so good to see you again. Being a senator isn’t nearly as wonderful as everyone claims. I was hoping we could spend a little time together, you and I, this weekend.”
“We will.” She patted his arm. “I want to talk to you about Abby, anyway.”
“What’s up with our great-grandchild now?”
“Later.” She read the clock in her virtual vision. “I have to check in with Dad and Thompson before the evening begins for real.”
“Your father is here?” Ramon was suddenly reluctant to get closer to the house.
“Yes. Is that a problem?”
“You know he never liked me.”
“That’s your insecurity and imagination. He always accepted you.”
“Like a lion accepts a wildebeest.”
Justine burst out laughing. “You’re a senator of the Commonwealth, and he still intimidates you?”
He took her arm, and walked into the entrance hall. “I will smile at him and make polite conversation for exactly three minutes. If you don’t rescue me by then, I’ll…”
“Yes?”
“Put you over my knee.”
“Ah, hark the heavenly angels as they sing glad tidings: the good old days are back in town.”
Gore Burnelli had decompressed his parallel personality into Sorbonne Wood’s large array, settling himself into the house as other humans would return to a comfortable old armchair. Unlike most humans who underwent frequent rejuvenation, he didn’t dump his memories into a secure store for nostalgia’s sake. He carried them around with him in high-density inserts, loading them into local arrays wherever he went. They were essential to him; to make the deals that gave his family a smooth ride into the future he had to have the knowledge of past deals, and the reasoning behind them, if they’d worked, what the problems were. Others, like his daughter, relied on briefings and extensive database access through an e-butler; while he had the real events immediately available thanks to the homogenized access programs that his early memories were rooted to.
Business and positioning the family in the market were his constant now. Technology made it possible for him to be involved for most of the day. Some of the routines he’d developed for managing the process were almost autonomous, allowing him to parallel multitask. Even now, as he watched his son and daughter enter Sorbonne Wood’s big classical library, he was reviewing the deluge of data that fell between them like red digital rain. Figures and headlines briefly flared green as his virtual fingers flashed among them, rearranging them into new configurations, shunting money and information to form the new deals and purchases.
“Everybody’s here,” Justine told him.
He made no comment. That information had long since flowed past him; the house was now updating him on the location of the guests and their aides and staff and spouses and lovers: who was using the showers and baths, who was using heavy (and heavily encrypted) bandwidth to the unisphere, who was walking along the pergola paths to the main house ready for predinner drinks in the Magnolia lounge. Secondary information like that was now presented to his brain in the form of scent; the multitude of OCtattoos allowing him to smell where the guests were and what they were up to.
“I think these guests provide us with a critical mass,” Thompson said. “As long as there aren’t any unforeseen problems it should go smoothly.”
“That’s self-evident, boy,” Gore snapped. “But there are always problems. I’m relying on you two to anticipate them and massage them out of those grossly bloated egos gathering out there.”
“The only possible glitch so far was Isabella,” Justine said. “But she won’t register on the Halgarth radar. Just another trustbabe having herself some first-life fun. I don’t think Patricia had an ulterior motive for sleeping with her.”
Thompson dropped down in one of the winged leather armchairs in front of the big fireplace. “Not like Patricia to take any sort of risk. The girls she normally fucks are completely sanitized as far as political connections are concerned.”
“Maybe it’s true love?” Justine said in amusement.
