Lisa opened her eyes. A white ceiling. White walls. No windows, just a fluorescent light that flickered in the silence. She lay in a bed, in a flimsy hospital nightgown -- but this wasn't Medlab.

This wasn't Medlab, and judging by the solid steel door, she was a prisoner.

She sat upright. She had no memory of how she arrived here, wherever here was. She'd been in the warehouse, commencing egress, and then --

And then --

Her mind flailed helplessly, until finally it grasped a memory. Someone behind her, clamping over her mouth and nose with a cloth. An acrid smell. Choking. Then blackness.

And now here. In the custody of Section's enemies.

Her heart lurched in panic. She threw off the sheets and jumped from the bed -- to do what, she wasn't sure. The floor felt chilly beneath her bare feet.

She circled the room. It was empty but for the bed. There was no way to escape, and no means to defend herself. She could rig up a noose with the sheets, but where to hang it? Maybe she could get to the light fixture. She dragged the bed into the center of the room, stood on the mattress and reached, swaying on her toes, but she wasn't quite tall enough.

"Fuck," she said, and she fell back onto the bed with a bounce.

Then it occurred to her. Whoever was holding her captive hadn't strapped her down with restraints. They hadn't even roughed her up much, from what she could tell by the absence of bruises. She'd been left alone -- locked up, true enough -- in relative comfort. Certainly in better circumstances than Section provided for its prisoners. None of those poor bastards got pillows, that's for sure. She punched hers. Damn, it was even fluffy.

Maybe these people weren't going to torture her to a hideous screaming death after all. Maybe they'd at least give her a chance to talk first. Talking didn't seem like such a bad option, now that she thought about it. In fact, she kind of felt in the mood to spill her guts to someone. For the catharsis, if nothing else. And really, did she have anyone to be loyal to anymore?

Back at Section, after all, God only knew what had awaited her. A trip to the White Room. Swift cancellation, if she were lucky. Even if her mistake went undetected by Adrian, there had been something in Madeline's expression when Lisa confessed: a look of disgust, of cold malevolence that Adrian -- cruel as she was -- had never matched in all the years Lisa had known her.

Who was it, exactly, that Lisa had been helping? Adrian's regime was tyrannical, that went without saying, but was the alternative any better? Exchanging an autocratic monarchy for fascism wasn't necessarily a form of progress.

There was, however, Madeline's promise to release Seymour. Then again, promises were cheap. Lisa had no way to hold her to it. And if Lisa had learned anything over the past few years, it was that no one could be trusted.

That settled it. There was no reason to be loyal to Section, whoever was in charge. With the enemy, perhaps she had a chance at life. She had information they could find useful. She could bargain with them. In exchange, they could help her. Whoever the hell they were.

She fell back against the pillow and began to laugh.

***

"You know, I'm really not comfortable with this," said Mireille. She picked up a stack of papers from her desk, shuffled them to no apparent end, then set them down again. "I'm not supposed to give access to anyone."

"I have supervisory-level duties relating to R&D," replied Madeline. "This project qualifies under that category. There's absolutely nothing improper about my being here." If she'd been sitting closer, she would have reached over and patted Mireille's arm; instead, she shifted into the most reassuring tone she could muster. "You don't need to worry."

"That's what you told me when I gave you Lisa Birkoff's name." Mireille stared at Madeline, stony-faced. "And look what happened to her."

"She died on a mission." When Mireille shook her head skeptically, Madeline added, "Lisa had a high-risk job. You know that."

"What I do know is that she talked to you, and now she's dead." Mireille's voice wavered, and tears glistened in the corners of her eyes. "If I take you to see Seymour, maybe something will happen to him, too. Or to me!" She waved a dismissive hand. "I want nothing to do with whatever it is you're involved in."

Madeline stood from her chair. The attempt at reassurance wasn't working. Fine. She'd be blunt.

"You're in no position to dictate terms. You seem to be forgetting that I possess concrete evidence of your malfeasance that I can deliver to Adrian anytime I wish."

Mireille picked up the phone and held out the receiver. "Go ahead. Call her." She laughed. "Somehow, I think my "malfeasance," as you put it, has nothing on yours."

Madeline looked at the telephone, then back at Mireille. Of all the times for Mireille to choose to stand on principle, why did it have to be less than twenty-four hours before Paul launched his mutiny? Madeline didn't have time to woo this woman, didn't have time for more elaborate methods of persuasion, didn't have time for any sort of finesse. This was her last opportunity to solve this problem, and Mireille and her fears couldn't stand in the way.

Mireille had switched off the surveillance in her office at the beginning of their conversation. There didn't appear to be anyone else within hearing distance. That made things simple. Madeline pulled out a gun from her jacket pocket and fired straight into Mireille's forehead. A spray of crimson drenched the wall. The telephone receiver clattered to the desk.

Obstacle removed. Crude, but efficient.

Madeline rounded the desk, shoved Mireille's slumped body out of the chair, and sat down. She hung up the beeping telephone and rummaged through the desk drawers until she found what she was looking for: a directory of the test subjects and their room assignments. She scanned down the list of entries. Seymour Birkoff: Room 11.

Madeline exited the office and locked the door behind her. She would have to have a few trusted allies within Housekeeping clean the blood and stash the body somewhere -- temporarily, at least. In another day, it wouldn't matter anymore.

In another day, nothing would matter anymore. In a sense, it was terrifying. In a sense, it was a tremendous relief.

Room 11 was at the farthest end of the hallway. She knocked on the door. When there was no answer, she eased it open.

"Seymour?"

No one responded, so she looked inside. There was a skinny young boy sprawled on a bed, headphones on, digging his hand into a bag of cookies.

She walked across the room and pulled off the headphones. He jumped and gaped at her. Crumbs dangled from his lower lip.

"Seymour Birkoff?"

"Yeah." He looked a bit dazed.

"I'm Madeline. Nice to meet you." She sat down next to him. She spotted a bloodstain on her skirt and folded her hands in her lap to hide it. She watched him for a bit, smiling warmly.

He alternated between sneaking glances at her and looking away, seemingly embarrassed. Eventually, he held out the bag of cookies.

"Want one?"

"No, thanks."

He set the bag on the bedside table.

"You like computer games, don't you?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Sure."

"I hear you're pretty good at them."

He straightened his shoulders. "I'm the best."

"Really? How would you like to show me?"

At this, his face lit up. "Okay."

She handed him the disk that Lisa had returned to her.

"The game's loaded on here?" he asked.

"Not exactly. There are some data files on that disk. The object of the game is to download them onto a computer network without getting caught."

"That sounds easy."

"The last person who tried couldn't do it."

"I can." The determined look on his face startled her. Then it struck her how very much like his mother he looked, and she hesitated. He was a child. Entrusting him with such a dangerous task was beyond reckless. On the other hand, she'd run out of alternatives.

What was it Paul had said to her? Sometimes you just have to throw the dice.

"All right, then," she said, standing and offering him a hand, "let's give it a try."

***

Charles woke. The red glow of the clock on the nightstand said it was after three in the morning.

It was the third time he'd woken that night. Sadly, insomnia had become an all-too-familiar companion, ever since George's visit. Not that George had divulged anything, really. But the insinuations were maddening.

A man can be out of favor one day, and back in again the next. At first, Charles had assumed that George meant Paul could be back in favor with Adrian. But Charles saw no evidence of that. It was then that another one of George's remarks began to haunt him. For a fake, it's very convincing. By the way, how's your wife?

George couldn't have possibly intended to make that suggestion. The idea was absurd. Grossly offensive. And yet Charles hadn't been able to dismiss it from his mind. Paul had once, in fact, been very much in favor with Madeline. Was Charles so certain that it couldn't happen again? He didn't know. He didn't know, and the fact that he didn't know was what kept him up each night.

To his shame, he'd even resorted to tracking her whereabouts, searching through Section's records to see if he could lay his paranoia to rest. Instead, he had been vastly dismayed to discover that there was an inordinate amount of dark time. Time when she'd told Charles that she was working late, at a meeting, finishing a project -- and when she most certainly was doing none of those things.

She'd lied to him. She'd lied to him repeatedly, almost habitually -- and he hadn't the faintest idea what he was going to do about it.

With a sigh, he rolled over. The space next to him was empty. She'd been there earlier. Puzzled, he got up and walked out into the hallway.

A light shone from the living room. Following it, he found her sitting in a chair, her eyes closed. A teapot and cup sat on the table next to her, and a piano sonata played on the stereo. He could tell she was awake because her posture was too rigid for sleep; she seemed to be concentrating on every note as if following them was the most important thing in the world.

On the one hand, he never found her more beautiful than when she was laser-focused on something. On the other hand, it was like watching her from a distant mountaintop, a hundred miles between them.

He cleared his throat. She opened her eyes and smiled, and he changed his mind: no, he never found her more beautiful than when she smiled at him like that.

"I didn't wake you, did I?" she asked. "I tried to keep the volume low."

"No, not at all. I just wondered where you were."

Her smile faded. "I couldn't sleep."

"Something on your mind?" At that, she gave him a curious look, and he regretted saying it. Whatever his suspicions, he hadn't intended to blurt anything out. Not yet. Not like that. Not without thinking through the consequences.

The problem was that he couldn't face the consequences long enough to think them through.

She cocked her head to one side and frowned. "I suppose I have a lot on my mind. Sometimes it's hard to switch it off."

"I know the feeling." This time, it was his turn to give her a smile. He hoped she didn't notice it was a rueful one.

She sat quietly for a long time. He stood and watched her. On the stereo, the piano trilled brightly. Several minutes must have passed before she eventually spoke again.

"Do you trust me, Charles?"

The question took him aback. It was as if she'd read his mind. Or maybe as if she had a guilty conscience. "What do you mean?" he asked cautiously.

"If I told you that there were things about me that you didn't know, things that I couldn't share with you, would you trust me enough to accept that? Or would you feel betrayed?

He did feel betrayed. The feeling seized at his chest and burned the back of his throat. All he said, however, was, "Is this a rhetorical question?"

She didn't answer.

"Yes, I trust you," he said, and in a way he did, yet he also didn't, but he wanted to so badly that perhaps he could fool them both into believing it was true. "But," he added pointedly, compulsively, "I also trust that you won't hide things unnecessarily."

"I don't." There was something odd in her voice, a kind of fierce vehemence that made him inclined to believe her despite all his doubts.

She stood and went to the stereo, and she turned its volume up. Then she came over to where he was standing.

"Something's going to happen tomorrow," she said. "I want you to stay away from Section." She spoke in a low voice. Low enough, it occurred to him, that an eavesdropper wouldn't be able to make out what she was saying over the music.

She had been hiding something. But it appeared that it was considerably more complicated -- and worrisome -- than what he'd been thinking.

"Are you involved in something dangerous?" He kept his voice equally low.

"Yes."

"Then I can't stay away."

"You have to. Promise me that you'll stay away."

He couldn't. He just couldn't.

"Promise me," she repeated, more loudly this time, and there was a look on her face that he'd never seen before. Desperation? Pleading? He almost felt compelled to look away, as if witnessing the unfiltered emotion -- as if glimpsing his own wife's real self -- was somehow an invasion of privacy.

"I promise," he said.

It was a lie. He couldn't stay away. George was right. Paul was involved in whatever was going on, Charles could feel it, and there was only one chance to stop him. He wondered whether Madeline would trust that he had good reasons, or if she was the one who would wind up feeling betrayed.

"Thank you," she said.

She caressed his face and leaned in to kiss him. To his surprise, the bitterness of his lie only made her lips taste sweeter.

************

Adrian glanced at her watch. Half-past noon. She picked up the mission checklist from her desk and approached the row of television screens embedded in the wall. She pushed a button, and the camera feed from Van Access lit up one of the screens.

She expected to see a flurry of activity as technicians loaded the van. However, Van Access was completely empty.

Was there something wrong with her watch? No. The timestamp in the corner of the screen read 12:32. For an uncertain moment, she contemplated the possibility that her memory might have failed her. While it had never done so before, she had to accept the possibility that even she might eventually be vulnerable to the more distasteful effects of the aging process. But no, upon reflection, that wasn't it. This mission was all she had been thinking about -- all she had been able to think about -- for the past several days, and she knew without even an iota of doubt that the team was scheduled for egress at precisely 13:00.

Why, then, was no one engaged in prep?

A painful wave of heat and constricting muscles seized her body. She flung the checklist onto the desk and exited the office. Heading downstairs, she trod so forcefully that the metal stairway shook with the motion of her descent. Below, a hush fell over the room. Operatives stopped what they were doing and craned their necks upward, until the only sound remaining was the echo of her footsteps.

She found Paul just near Comm.

"You're behind schedule. Explain yourself."

"Behind schedule for what?" He looked around at the other operatives milling nearby, frowning as if confused.

Apparently, this was some sort of game. She was in no mood.

"Have you lost your mind?" she asked. "Or is this a joke? If so, your sense of humor leaves a great deal to be desired."

He raised his eyebrows. If she didn't know better, she could have sworn he was suppressing a smile. "Have I ever joked with you?"

He offered no further explanation. He just stood there with that vaguely amused-looking expression. As for the others, they continued to stare dumbly, like cud-chewing cattle. She didn't think anyone had so much as twitched a muscle since she left her office.

She took a menacing step toward Paul.

"Since you seem to be suffering from some sort of mental impairment," she said, "let me refresh your memory. In twenty minutes, your mission is due to depart for Beijing. Why is your team not assembling?"

"Oh, that." He broke into a broad smile. "We're not going."

He had lost his mind. Or she had lost hers.

"I'm not sure I heard you correctly. What was that?"

"We're not going," he repeated. The smile vanished. "Your orders are reckless and I cannot, in good conscience, carry them out." He straightened his shoulders, defiant. "If you're smart, you'll abort the mission. If not, I'll do it for you."

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Walter hide behind his worktable. Most of the other operatives continued their gawking, but a few -- scattered here and there, not so randomly at all, she suddenly realized -- shifted their stances. They appeared to be taking tactical positions.

He had allies. Remarkable.

She chuckled. "My, my. A coup d'état. How very daring. But a trifle banana republic, don't you think?"

He shrugged. "I'll give you one more chance to save yourself. Are you going to abort the mission?"

"You've just signed your cancellation order. Pity. I've always been fond of you."

He pulled a gun from his belt and aimed it at her chest. "Then you leave me no choice but to take control of Section."

The room erupted with gasps, shouts, and crashes as people ran or dove for cover. A handful of security operatives drew weapons and aimed them at Paul -- but then still others did the same to them. More than she would have expected. And from all walks of Section. Paul had been better prepared than she would have given him credit for.

She curled a lip in disdain at the gun barrel pointed her way. "I wouldn't have taken you for someone prone to melodrama," she said. "Give up this idiotic stunt."

"I don't think you realize how serious I am."

There was silence. A bead of sweat ran down his face.

Just as she was about to dare him to shoot her, to tell him she wasn't going to make it easy for him, to hold her head high while she taunted him for his cowardice -- there was a commotion across the room. From around a corner, Madeline walked onto the main floor, flanked by an armed security detail. Her escorts stationed themselves by the various exits, but Madeline made her way toward Paul and Adrian.

Thank God. Madeline was the only person who could reason with him. Perhaps it might end without bloodshed after all.

To Adrian's surprise, however, Madeline went to stand beside Paul. Then she addressed the pro-Adrian operatives.

"Lay down your weapons. If you cooperate now, you won't be punished."

Adrian felt as though she'd been struck in the face. Why, that ungrateful turncoat. Paul's rebellion had been expected. In a way, even honorable. But Adrian had taken Madeline from nothing and built her up into what she was. Had pushed her relentlessly to better herself. And afterwards had rewarded and entrusted her with real responsibility. All for nothing: after all Adrian's efforts to mold her, it turned out that Madeline was just as devoid of moral fiber as on the day Adrian first met her.

How sad, really. Adrian had wanted to believe that humans were capable of redemption. If she survived this, she'd never indulge in such folly again.

Guns clattered to the floor as, one by one, Adrian's defenders surrendered. Except for one, Adrian noticed, who was hidden off to the side. He had Paul in his aim. She met his glance and nodded.

Just before the shot rang out, she dropped to the floor.

***

When Charles saw dozens of operatives running down the corridor, he feared he might be too late. He caught a man by the arm and dragged him to a halt.

"What's going on?" he demanded.

"A takeover! Run before they start shooting!" cried the man, who then yanked his arm free and took off again.

Charles did run -- but not away. He fought against the stream of people fleeing in the opposite direction. He shoved them aside, even knocked a few down; they were so consumed with panic that they didn't get angry, but rather just scrambled up again.

When he reached the entrance to Section's main floor, he found a crowd huddled just at the threshold to watch from relative safety. He threaded and elbowed his way to the front so he could see, and there it was: Comm, lit like a stage, the players frozen mid-drama. Paul and Madeline faced Adrian, the three of them encircled by armed men and women. No one moved; no one spoke. Paul held his gun with a steady hand; Adrian stared down the barrel just as coolly.

So this was what George had been hinting about. What Madeline, in turn, had warned him to stay away from. This was the source of all the secrecy and the lies and the subterfuge and the coded remarks. Both George and Madeline had known all along what was going to happen, but neither had seen fit to enlighten Charles. And yet they'd each clearly tried to maneuver him into some sort of role. George wanted him as a proxy, someone whose insecurities could be exploited to goad him into doing what George wasn't willing to do himself. In Madeline's case, it was more an absence of a role. She hadn't involved Charles in her plans, hadn't made him her confidante, hadn't even wanted him present. He was her husband, her life's companion, supposedly the person she cared for the most, but she'd excluded him from the only part of her life that really mattered.

Which was worse -- being manipulated by George, or being shut out by Madeline? Being treated as a puppet -- or as a spectator?

Adrian's supporters -- outnumbered -- capitulated quickly. Their loyalty didn't run very deep to begin with, Charles suspected. They placed their guns on the floor and raised their hands.

It was over. Without a shot being fired.

Or maybe not. Adrian glanced toward the far side of the room, and Charles followed her gaze. A man had a gun aimed at Paul.

Paul didn't seem to notice. Neither did Madeline, nor their fellow mutineers.

Charles reached into his jacket pocket and curled his fingers around the grip of his pistol. He could stop this man if he wanted. But why? Why should he involve himself at all? He felt no real sense of duty toward Adrian, and no respect for Paul. Had Madeline asked for his help or support, he'd be standing right there by her side. But she hadn't. She hadn't trusted him, apparently -- or was it something else?

She'd asked him to trust her, actually. To accept that if she kept secrets from him, there was good reason. And yes, she'd asked him to stay away, but what if it was because she didn't want him to be a spectator? Because the event he would witness might involve her death? Or even his, if things got out of control?

George had wanted him here, wanted him suspicious and angry, no doubt hoped he would be jealous enough to intervene or even challenge Paul, regardless of the risk it posed. Madeline, in contrast, wanted him elsewhere -- even though she must have known she could have used him easily if only she'd asked. So who, really, had his best interests at heart?

Once upon a time, George had asked Charles what he wanted, if he didn't want command of Section. He hadn't known how to answer. Now he knew. He wanted to live his life with integrity. And that meant when he told his wife he trusted her, he had to mean it.

When Adrian nodded to signal the man to shoot, Charles fired his own gun. The man fell backwards, blood and brains spattering along the floor.

He walked over to Paul and Madeline, aware that the entire room was staring. Adrian gaped at him from where she had sprawled across the floor.

"Shall I escort her to Containment?" he asked Paul. "Sir?" he added. Paul didn't deserve the title, but it didn't matter. Very few things did, and Charles had finally figured out what they were.

Paul blinked a few times, then he cleared his throat. "Yes. Thank you."

***

Alone in her cell, Lisa tossed a rolled-up sock against the door and caught it when it bounced back. It had been days since she awoke there, or was it weeks? She couldn't keep track, and although she had been attended to by her captors and made surprisingly comfortable, no one had told her anything. They brought her food, took her out for showers and exercise, delivered clean clothes and sheets, but kept as mute as monks bound by a vow of silence. She tried asking questions, but they ignored her.

The worst part was the lack of anything to do. For entertainment, she resorted to pushups, then counting as long as she could while balancing on one foot. Next, she sang to herself -- nursery rhymes from childhood, commercial jingles, even disco hits from the seventies, complete with dance moves. When she bored of that, she tried teaching herself to yodel, which made her laugh until she cried.

If anyone was watching -- and of course they would be -- they'd have to think she was completely nuts. If they left her in here too much longer, they might be right in that assessment.

The yodeling had started to hurt her throat, so she finally switched to the sock toss game. It bounced pretty well, considering. She tried hurling it at the door from different angles: basketball free-throw style, softball pitch style, under-the-leg style. She wound up to pitch a fastball -- and then the door opened. The sock hit a man square in the chest and fell to the floor. He eyed it for a moment with an indecipherable look on his face and then looked back up at her.

She waited. This one wasn't carrying anything to give her, so he probably wanted her to follow him somewhere. It was always a guessing game with these people.

"Good morning," he said.

My God! Actual speech! His accent was British, but that didn't tell her anything useful.

"Hello," she replied guardedly. She wasn't going to volunteer too much, not at first. Ultimately, yeah, she'd spill her guts, but they had to work a little for it. Otherwise, they might not believe she was telling the truth, and then she really might be dead.

"I hope you've been made comfortable," he said.

"Yeah."

He headed to the bed and sat. "Do you know where you are?"

She shrugged. "A Red Cell prison somewhere, I guess. Could be anywhere."

"You think you're being held by Red Cell?"

Bzzzzzzt! The tone of his voice told her she'd got something wrong already. She'd better be more circumspect.

"Uh...well...that seemed the most likely."

He smiled. Far from being reassuring, it made him look completely untrustworthy. "Do you really think Red Cell would treat you so hospitably?"

He had a point. It wasn't like Red Cell at all. It wasn't like anyone at all, and that's what bothered her. He bothered her, too. There was something creepy about him. Creepy, and smarmy, and entirely pleased with himself -- which, in Lisa's world, usually meant that he had a nasty trick up his sleeve.

Terrific. All of this time they'd been lulling her into a state of bored somnolence, so that it would be all the more traumatic when they finally tossed her into the dungeon filled with man-eating rats, or the pool of piranha, or the vat of boiling oil, or whatever horrible thing she knew had to be in store.

He continued to stare at her, and she realized he was probably expecting an answer to his question.

"I don't know what to think," she said. Nicely noncommittal -- and also true.

"Then let me enlighten you. You're in a facility belonging to the Center. You do know what that is, don't you?"

She blinked. So that was the nasty trick up his sleeve. She felt it like a kick to the stomach.

"The Center," she said. "You're the ones running the experiment on my sons. I hacked into your database until...until--"

"Until we shut you down," he finished. "Very good. I was beginning to worry that my agents had killed a few too many braincells when they knocked you out with the chloroform. They tell me you've been acting erratic since we brought you in."

Everything now made horrible sense, but then at the same time made no sense whatsoever.

"Why would you chloroform me on a mission?" she asked, baffled. "Aren't the Center and Section One on the same side?"

He laughed. "In a manner of speaking. But you see, security levels at the Center are much stricter than those at Section One. When you joined the Section, you had to die to the outside world. When you join the Center, you have to die to the Section."

"Join Center?"

He held out his hand. "You can call me Mr. Jones. I'm your new employer."

************

The guard unlocked the door and held it open for George. George nodded in thanks and entered the room.

It was an empty holding cell -- padded, George noticed. That had to be Paul's doing -- a final insult to Adrian's dignity.

She sat on the floor in the corner, her arms wrapped around her bent knees. The white vacuum of the bare cell almost swallowed her up. She looked tiny, frail, like one might be able to snap her bones with no more than a puff of air aimed her way. Like she might just crumble into dust all by herself.

What have I done? he wondered. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Then again, what was it supposed to be like? He hadn't actually given it any thought. He'd done his best to avoid thinking about it at all, in fact. If there had been a way to ease her out of power without harming her -- a magic wand, or three wishes from a genie -- that would have been ideal. Because there wasn't, he simply had to avoid dwelling on the unpleasant side. Until it stared him in the face, alone and vulnerable.

She climbed to her feet -- unsteadily at first, as if she'd been sitting in the same position too long -- but then her expression brightened.

"Thank God you're here," she said. She clasped his hands so tightly it hurt. "How many of them have you cancelled so far?"

He looked away. "It's a bit complicated."

She let go of his hands. "You line them up against a wall and shoot them," she said sharply. "How is that complicated?"

"The Council has intervened," he explained. "They weren't happy to learn about your plans in China. Some of them seem to believe Paul was justified."

She made a noise of disgust. Angry, she seemed her old self again. "A mutiny is never justified. There are channels--"

"And then there's the money," he interrupted.

"What money?" She frowned.

"The money the Taiwanese paid you to intervene in Beijing. Paul found the records of all the payments."

"No one paid me anything." Her eyes darted back and forth as she took in George's statement. This had clearly caught her off guard, as George knew it would. "If there are records, then Paul planted them himself."

"The Council had experts review them. They're convinced they're genuine." He reached a hand to clasp her shoulder sympathetically. "Why didn't you tell me?" he whispered. "I could have helped you conceal everything."

She wrenched her shoulder away from his grasp. "You, of all people, believe I would stoop to taking bribes?"

He forced his expression into something he hoped looked kind. "If you say you didn't do this, then I believe you," he said, in a tone that suggested he didn't, really, but would play the loyal friend no matter what. "But that might not be enough. The Council is sending an investigator. It's out of my hands now."

***

"Just a few more questions for clarification, if you don't mind." The investigator peered at Paul over the thin, gold rims of his glasses, his pen poised over a notebook.

"Of course," said Paul.

"The one thing I'm having trouble understanding is why you waited to take action. You knew the mission objective was improper from the very beginning. Yet you went ahead and prepared the profile as Adrian directed. Why?"

"Profiles are meaningless," Paul said. "We create theoretical profiles all the time, testing out hypotheticals that we may have no intent of ever putting into action. That alone wouldn't justify a drastic step like mutiny. I had to wait until I received a clear order to carry it out."

"I see." The investigator -- he'd declined to give a name, as had his phalanx of blue-suited assistants -- nodded solemnly and jotted down Paul's answer. Whispering to himself, he ran his finger down what appeared to be a checklist of questions.

Paul stretched out his legs and leaned back in his chair. He could afford to relax, at least a little. The investigator clearly wasn't anyone with real authority, just a fact-collector. Still, it was important to make a good impression. Paul adopted an elaborate military courtesy with the man, tossing off a multitude of "Sirs" and official-sounding jargon. The bloodless pencil-pusher probably wouldn't understand half of it, but that was a large part of the effect. Paul also made sure to weave name-dropping of his outside contacts into his answers as often as possible; he noticed that the investigator's note-scribbling became distinctly more energetic each time he did.

He suspected that this was a mere formality. They wouldn't be bothering with interviews and investigations if there was any chance that Adrian would be retained. Instead, they would have brought out a firing squad.

The investigator turned to the last page of his checklist. "Aside from the Taiwanese payments we already went over," he asked, "have you found evidence of any other illicit transactions?"

"No. Not yet, at least. We're still reviewing older records. Of course, it's possible that data may be unrecoverable. So we may never know the full extent of her misconduct."

Paul had to bite back a smile. Although the prospect of being obligated to George made him uneasy, he knew this was the coup de grâce for Adrian. There wasn't proof enough to get her cancelled, but her reputation would never recover from the accusations. Paul was impressed that Madeline managed to salvage the mess Lisa had created, but then he should have known better than to underestimate Madeline's resourcefulness and persistence. She hadn't told him how she'd done it -- she still seemed to harbor a bit of resentment at the way he had spoken to her after Lisa's death -- but she'd come around. After all, she never stayed angry at him. Especially when they had a triumph to celebrate. He'd put a bottle of Bollinger on ice, and after a few toasts she wouldn't be able to resist gloating about how she'd succeeded in doing what he said she couldn't. Then he'd laugh and all would be well, because while Madeline was obsessed with always being right, he couldn't give a damn. Right, wrong, whatever -- he knew that didn't really matter. Instead, what he cared about was coming out on top. It was the end game, not how you got there.

The investigator snapped his notebook shut and stood, offering his hand.

"Thank you for your candor," he said. "You can be assured that the Council appreciates your assistance."

Paul shook the man's hand firmly, then, what the hell, threw in a salute. It was time to bring a little spit and polish into Section.

It was time for change. Change on his terms. Now that was something to celebrate.

***

"This was a difficult decision to make." Simpson stared at Adrian from his seat at the head of the Council table. His forehead glowed with a sheen that somehow made his face seem as stiff and pompous as his words. "I think I speak for all my colleagues when I say that we have the utmost respect for your profound contributions toward making this a safer, more democratic--"

Adrian stood. "Please. Spare me. It's obvious why I'm here. At least do me the courtesy of being done with it."

The five men exchanged looks with each other, looked at their hands, looked at the table -- looked everywhere except in her direction.

"We'd like you to retire," said Strickland, finally.

"Retire?"

"We'll provide a generous pension," said Reynolds in his avuncular drawl. "And even a staff to assist you in your future pursuits." He smiled. "Perhaps you'd like to take up charitable work," he offered.

"A staff to assist me," Adrian repeated, scornful. "You mean a team of minders to ensure I don't get up to any mischief."

Reynolds chuckled. "The two don't have to be mutually exclusive."

She glared at him until his smile began to waver. They might be able to strip away everything she possessed, but, by God, they wouldn't patronize her.

"I'm being imprisoned, aren't I?" she said. "Why not just come out and say it?"

"That depends on how you choose to look at it," he replied. "I hope you can come to see your situation in a more positive light."

He had dispensed with the kindly old man façade, but there was still a trace of sympathy. Perhaps it was even genuine. Somehow, that felt worse than condescension.

Her shoulders sagged, bereft of anger. "What's to become of my organization?"

"There's going to be a restructuring," said Laplace.

"A restructuring." She laughed. "Let me guess. You've handed control of the Sections to Center."

Their uncomfortable expressions confirmed that her guess was correct. So Phillip had managed to pull everything into his slimy grasp at last. She'd made a noble stand, but the old boys' network still triumphed in the end. The only comfort was that Phillip would detest Paul even more than he did Adrian. And the feeling, she was quite certain, would be more than mutual. It served them both right. They deserved each other.

"Bringing everyone under the same umbrella eliminates redundancies," said Simpson. He seemed to think that she might actually care what pathetic rationale they invented to justify their actions. "It's more efficient in the long run," he explained.

"Of course," added Laplace, "integrating the Sections with Center will be a significant administrative challenge. That's why we've created a third organizational layer to act as a buffer between them."

"We're calling it Oversight," said Simpson. "We've decided to put George in charge of it."

That caught her attention. "He's not being asked to retire?"

"No, he's staying on," answered Strickland. "You should thank him, by the way."

"Oh?"

"He made a rather spirited defense of your character." Strickland's curled lip suggested how little he thought of the attempt. "It's only because of him that we're granting you any privileges at all."

Good old dependable George. She should have sought his advice and support more often. If she'd had someone to turn to, someone to share her burdens with, perhaps the outcome would have been different. But she hadn't wanted him to be dragged into her political battles. What a relief that his career wouldn't be tainted by his association with her.

Actually, now that she reflected upon it, it was more than a relief. His presence at Oversight offered some hope. Maybe it wasn't too late. Maybe all wasn't lost. George -- stalwart, loyal George -- could fight to preserve her legacy even as Phillip and Paul sought to dismantle it. Although he could never prevail by himself, he might be able to slow down the inevitable -- and that, in turn, would give her time. Time to think. To assess her mistakes. To regroup. To plan. To gather manpower and resources. To fight. And yes, to rise again. This time in triumph.

She wasn't vanquished at all. How could she be? She was the mother of the Sections, and no one could take her children from her. Least of all these imbeciles. Why, they weren't even worthy of her anger.

She swept her gaze across the table and smiled, gracious and magnanimous. "Thank you, gentlemen, for your kind words. I've considered your offer, and have decided to accept it. I'm looking forward to a fruitful and rewarding retirement."

***

The chilly air struck Lisa before she'd even crossed the threshold. Inside the room, she wrapped her arms around herself to ward off goosebumps -- but then forgot the temperature entirely as soon as she had a chance to see her surroundings. She stood inside a vast, climate-controlled IT center. It stretched farther than she could see: row upon row upon row of clustered multiprocessors, so state-of-the-art it made Section One's systems look like a collection of medieval abacuses. There wasn't a speck of dust in the room; the polished floors gleamed in the bright overhead light. She fought the impulse to touch one of the computers the way one might stroke the wax finish of a racing car: they were beautiful, but so flawless that even a fingerprint on one of the panels might ruin the aesthetic.

Mr. Jones waved his hand in a grand gesture that encompassed the entire room. "This is all yours," he announced. "Make yourself at home."

"Are you serious?" She laughed, incredulous. When he smiled and nodded, she said, "They did everything they could to keep me away from computers in Section."

"Yes. So they did." He watched her inspect one of the clusters for a few moments. "You've been researching the experiment with your sons quite extensively the past few years," he said, and there was an odd undertone to his voice that made her look up. "Tell me, what do you think the object is?"

To break up families? To fuck with people's lives? Those were the real answers, as far as she was concerned, but she knew better than to say so. His question was some sort of test, she could tell from the nervous flutters that erupted in her stomach, but what kind of answer was he looking for? After years of practice, she knew how to read Adrian, but this Jones was a cipher.

Best to stick with simple facts, at least to start with. "The object is to test genetic aptitude for certain skills," she said blandly. "You give one sibling intensive training and use the other as a control by letting him live a normal life."

"So one is encouraged, and the other left to his own devices?"

"Yeah. That's right."

He shook his head in disappointment. "I'm afraid you've missed something rather important."

Oh, for God's sake. She couldn't even get the safe answer right? Dealing with the unwritten rules of Center was like learning an entirely new language.

"The study doesn't compare two family members," Jones went on. "It compares three." He smiled with an air of cultivated patience, like a schoolteacher with a particularly backwards student. "One is encouraged; one left alone; and the other is actively discouraged."

Three family members. Not two. The flutters in her stomach turned into cold, churning nausea. Three meant Seymour, Jason -- and Lisa.

The experiment she thought she was researching, thought she was combating, thought she was outwitting -- thought she could save her sons from -- had actually encompassed her within its scope all along. And she didn't need Jones to tell her which of the three of them had been the discouraged one. All that time, she had struggled and been denied, set back, thwarted, slapped down -- and it hadn't been due to her own mistakes or miscalculations. It hadn't been due to Jules being a sexist ass or Adrian a shortsighted fool. It hadn't even been due to the phenomenally bad luck Lisa thought she was saddled with. It was all scripted.

She had thought she was living a real life, with real risks and accomplishments; in actuality, she was just a little white mouse running through a maze, while bored lab technicians took notes. Drop in a hunk of cheese, they'd say to each other, and watch her scurry!

She covered her face with her hands. She would have groaned, but no sound came out.

"Come now," said Jones. "You developed a remarkable talent despite every obstacle we placed in your path. You should be proud."

She grabbed hold of a nearby chair and sat before her legs could crumple beneath her. She had no more energy to stand. No more energy to talk. She had no more energy for anything, ever.

He took a seat next to her.

"You're lucky, you know," he said. "You were born with a gift. Not everyone is."

She didn't say anything in response. What was there to say? She just stared at the floor, drained.

"Have you read Plato?" he asked.

At this, she looked up at him and laughed. What the hell did that have to do with anything? "No," she answered.

"You should," he said. He cleared his throat and once again adopted a pedagogical mode, although what lesson he was trying to convey, if any, was beyond Lisa's comprehension. "He believed that humans are, at birth, imbued with certain temperaments that suit them for different roles in society. There are the commoners, for example, driven by the craving for pleasure. The warriors, who seek honor. And finally, the philosophers, who desire knowledge. In Plato's ideal society, the commoners would be protected by the warriors, who in turn would be led by the philosophers."

Was this a riddle? More of the experiment? Or was Jones simply insane? Lisa began to suspect all three. Section One and looming cancellation started to look rather appealing in comparison to falling down this rabbithole of delusion.

"Plato's system is a beautiful model for our organization," said Jones. He was enthusiastic now, his voice louder, his expression animated. "What better way to describe the Sections than as a fierce warrior caste, selected and trained to defend the unknowing masses?"

That settled it. He was a lunatic. She might as well play along.

"So that makes you...?" she prompted.

"The philosopher-king, of course!" He threw his head back and laughed. When he finished, he asked, "You think I'm spouting utter nonsense, don't you?"

Yes. And no. Just when she'd decided he was certifiably crazy, she spotted a twinkle in his eye that made her wonder if he might be engaged in an elaborate joke. At her expense, no doubt.

She shrugged in surrender. This was all too exhausting. A lesson, a test, a game, a joke -- whatever he was up to, she no longer cared.

He frowned, apparently sensing her exasperation. "My point is simply this," he said, serious once more. "Some people are born with talents that ought to be developed and put to public service. For the greater good of all. You're one of these people. You've proven yourself worthy."

"Worthy for what?"

"Worthy to help me create my life's work. It's called Veytoss."

************

When George arrived, he found Paul pacing impatiently in Section One's conference area. George glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes late, just as he planned. He'd considered making it thirty, but that would have been too obvious. No, twenty was perfect, judging by the angry flush in Paul's cheeks.

George could have demanded that Paul come to Oversight's newly-opened offices. He decided, instead, that the symbolism was better at Section One. Meeting here served as a reminder to Paul that Section was George's territory, not Paul's. A reminder that Paul was a caretaker, not an owner, and that he held his privileges only at George's sufferance.

George went to stand -- quite deliberately -- a little too close to Paul. It was intended as another territorial encroachment, one meant to force Paul to step backwards in an acknowledgement of his subordination. Paul, however, remained resolutely in place, staring at George with those pallid eyes that always seemed so vacant of anything but self-absorption. Alas, once George adopted his stance he could hardly reverse himself, so they were stuck in place, inches away from each other's faces, trapped in nauseating proximity to each other.

"I'll be forwarding Oversight's new protocols within the week," said George. "You'll be expected to conform to them to the letter."

"Of course."

"You will submit weekly reports on all activities. In addition, once a month, you'll attend a Committee meeting at Oversight with the other Section heads."

"Understood."

George leaned in even closer, so close he could barely stand it. "There will be no black ops," he growled, "no secret projects, no off-the-book accounts -- and absolutely no deviation from my instructions."

"Whatever you say." Paul didn't change expression in the slightest, but he still managed to convey the impression that he was smirking -- as if delighting in the prospect of violating every single instruction George had just given.

"I'm glad that's clear," George said, but he wasn't glad at all. In fact, the veins in his temple were starting to throb.

Being caught between Phillip and Paul was like being consigned to one of the inner circles of hell. A fitting punishment, he supposed, for his treachery. Except that it wasn't treachery. Adrian had been on a path of self-destruction. If things had taken their natural course -- if George hadn't intervened to ease her out in a controlled fashion -- she might very well have wound up dead instead of retired in splendor on her plush country estate. He'd saved her life. He'd saved the very organizations that she held so dear. He'd done the right thing, really, and he deserved accolades, not punishment.

In any event, Paul's ascension at Section One was just a temporary setback. One that George would now bring to an end. Or at least he could take the first step in that direction.

He took a step backwards to put Paul at ease. "Now that's all settled, I'd like to address a more sensitive matter."

"Yes?"

"It's about Charles Sand."

"Really?" Paul's forehead creased in surprise.

"There is a source," said George, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial level, "who I'm afraid must remain confidential. He claims that Charles has been passing intel to Red Cell."

It was a complete fabrication, and not even a very believable one. But it didn't have to be: it was mere bait to dangle in front of Paul. Would he bite?

Paul looked dubious. "Charles? Working with Red Cell?"

George shrugged. "There's no real proof. In fact, I don't find it credible in the least. However...."

Paul raised his eyebrows.

"It's somewhat inconvenient for there to be suspicion cast on someone -- how do I put this -- so intimately connected to Section's leadership," said George. "Especially so soon after the recent upheavals. An investigation -- no matter how it turned out -- would reflect badly on everyone and might undermine the Council's confidence in the new leadership structure."

"I see." Paul nodded gravely. He'd bitten, just as George hoped. Now all that remained to be seen was whether the hook would catch or not.

"It might be better," George said, "if the issue could be resolved informally, without the Council having to be involved."

"I agree."

"Then I trust you'll take care of it."

"I'll make it my top priority."

And so the hook caught. Charles, of course, was utterly finished. Which he thoroughly deserved, as far as George was concerned. George had virtually pressed a gun into the man's hand and pasted a target on Paul's chest, and what had Charles done? Saved Paul's life. The idiot. He could have solved all their problems so very neatly, but instead he threw that opportunity away. George didn't feel the least bit sorry for him.

However, eliminating Charles wasn't the point, in and of itself. Rather, the aim was to undermine Paul. Aside from Paul himself and perhaps Madeline, Charles was Section One's most experienced field operative, and during this latest fiasco he'd shown himself willing to be loyal to Paul despite having every reason to hate the man. That made Charles an asset: one that Paul was too much of an egotist to appreciate, and that George would therefore take away from him -- chipping away at Section's foundation, bit by bit, until it began to crumble out from under Paul's feet. The fact that George had maneuvered Paul into sabotaging himself only made things all the more satisfying. It might also -- or at least George hoped -- drive a wedge between Paul and Madeline. The day that happened, George was quite certain, would be the day Paul's reign would come to a crashing demise.

"Very well then," said George. "I'll contact you to schedule the first Committee meeting sometime in the next fortnight." He gathered up his overcoat to take his leave. As he made his way to the door, he stopped and looked over his shoulder. "It slipped my mind until now, but I suppose I should extend my congratulations on your promotion."

"I could say the same to you."

Indeed he could. George smiled. The game had begun.

***

Madeline found Adrian's office -- no, Paul's office, she reminded herself -- completely empty. It had been stripped of all furniture, decorations, equipment -- even the floors appeared scrubbed clean, as if somehow that would banish Adrian's shade from within the walls. It didn't work. In fact, the cleansing only seemed to draw more attention to her absence.

Paul stood by the window ledge, watching through the glass at the activities on the floor below. When Madeline joined him, he looked up and smiled.

After all their plotting, all their struggles, they were victorious. It shocked her how good it felt: a dizzy euphoria gripped her, and the scope of the risk they'd faced only made it more exquisite. The feeling would fade, she knew, and then they'd have to seek out another challenge, like high-stakes gamblers addicted to beating the odds. But for now, it was glorious.

Eventually, Paul broke the spell. "Have you reviewed the protocols from Oversight?" he asked.

She nodded. "They're completely unworkable."

He rolled his eyes. "Then we'll have to ignore them."

"While appearing to comply, of course."

"Of course."

They shared a smile of silent understanding.

"We'll have to draw up our own internal regulations as well," he said.

"I've begun that process already."

"Good." He scowled. "I want the rules tightened up. Adrian let us get away with murder," he grunted. "I won't make the same mistake."

"I agree," said Madeline. "However," she added, "I suggest that we improve material conditions for anyone Level Two or above. Housing upgrades and enhanced expense allowances, all across the board." At his questioning look, she explained, "We need to reassure experienced personnel that they made the right decision in supporting us."

"What about those who didn't?"

"Some, we can remobilize to less desirable locations. Others, we'll need to purge."

"Mmm." He frowned. "How badly is that going to make us bleed?"

She shrugged. "We'll manage. With a little creative resource allocation, we can achieve full quotas in most departments within ninety days. The main exception is with the field operatives. I recommend implementation of an accelerated recruitment program over the next several quarters." He nodded, and she added, "Fortunately, we'll have Charles to manage tactical, and his experience will help compensate for some of the shortages."

"Ah. Yes. Charles." Paul turned to stare out the window. "When you first married him, I was skeptical. But you were right. It did turn out to be a good idea." He turned back to look at her, and there was something in his expression she couldn't quite read. "The marriage has served its purpose now. There's no real reason to keep it up."

Wasn't there? She blinked in surprise. Perhaps not. After all, she had married Charles for eminently practical reasons, not the least of which was her belief that it might persuade him to side with them during a crisis. And she'd been right: he had, just when it counted the most. Goal achieved -- and that should have been that.

Why, then, did the suggestion that she end her marriage -- that she discard it like the empty promise she knew it was -- sting her with a sharp prick of resentment? For that matter, if her motives were as purely pragmatic as she liked to believe, why had she been so desperate to keep Charles away from Section One -- away from where he could be useful, but also away from where he'd be in danger -- on the day of the coup?

So far, she'd avoided asking herself that question. Now that Paul posed it for her, the answer was actually rather simple. It was because she liked coming home to Charles. Liked it more than she ever would have anticipated.

Her relationship with Paul might be more passionate. It was more everything, in fact -- and perhaps that was the very problem. Paul was like Section itself: rapacious, all-consuming to the point where, unless she held something back, unless she drew a circle and stood inside its boundaries, declaring "This is where I exist," he would demand everything. Or Section would demand everything. Or both of them would, now that they were one and the same.

Her marriage was that circle of independent existence. And Charles? She might not feel a burning desire for him, but what did that matter? Romantic love, after all, was irrational and destructive. Stability, warmth, mutual respect, affection: those were the things Charles offered. Those were good things. Things worth having. There was no shame in choosing them.

Her resentment faded, replaced by resolve. She looked at Paul steadily. "Married life suits me," she said. "I find it helps me focus on my work."

Section was insatiable, and Paul voracious. She understood that. She accepted it. She'd gladly give them everything she possessed -- except this one thing.

This one thing would be hers, and hers alone. She didn't think that was too much to ask.

***

Life at Center was everything Lisa could have asked for. She had her own residential suite, with a big-screen TV and a stereophonic home entertainment system, an exercise room, and a sauna. So that she didn't have to be bothered expending any effort to take care of herself, she had a cook, a maid, an assistant, a personal trainer, and a masseuse. She knew they were all spying on her and reporting to Jones, but she was nice to them anyway, because hey, what choice did they have? At the IT center she was now in charge of, she had a virtually unlimited budget to buy equipment so advanced it wasn't even on the market yet, plus an entire staff of hand-selected programmers to do her bidding. They were all terrified of her because she was the boss, so she was nice to them, too. No one shot at her anymore, and as far as she could tell no one ever would again; instead, she got to sit in front of a computer terminal all day long, working at the job of her dreams.

Life at Center, however, was nothing Lisa wanted. Because now she knew she'd never leave.

Center was a prison, in actuality, and she had a life sentence. It was all thanks to Veytoss. In order to create it -- or him, as she and her staff kept falling into the uncomfortable habit of saying -- she'd been given access to every single piece of data possessed by Center, as well as by Oversight and the Sections. As a result, she held the same security clearance as Jones himself. He, however, was the "philosopher king" and she the mere servant: while he could therefore come and go as he wished, she was confined to the premises.

Forever.

Jones warned her that if she ever contacted anyone outside Center, for whatever reason, he'd have that person killed. She believed him, and so she didn't even try. She confined her human interaction to her household staff, who were really her jailers, and her professional staff, who were really her prisoners. She spent her days constantly talking to people, and yet it was still a form of solitary confinement.

The world outside Center existed only on television or through the lens of a surveillance camera. Sometimes she turned on random feeds while she worked, like airport security networks or even traffic monitoring systems, just so she could feel like she'd gone somewhere. Mostly, however, she found herself tapping into Section One's surveillance -- she was homesick, and Section, oddly enough, felt a lot like home. Once, she spent an entire day trailing Walter as he went about his work. She ached to do something to get his attention, maybe to signal "hello" in Morse Code via flickering lights, but then she remembered Jones's warning and stopped herself. Jones had told her she was dead to the Section, and it was true. She was a ghost, omnipresent and invisible, able to watch and listen at will, but unable to come to life.

The other thing that Jones made very clear was that if she involved herself in any way in the lives of her sons -- to help them, protect them, or God forbid free them -- he'd have them killed, too. Her part in the experiment may have been over, but theirs would continue -- and no interference by her would be tolerated.

She could, however, watch over them. She could witness their lives from a distance, through status reports and surveillance footage. She could take pride in their triumphs and celebrate their moments of happiness. And if any harm ever befell either one of them, she could take revenge against whoever was responsible. Slow, meticulous, relentless, pitiless revenge. A revenge so subtle that the victim wouldn't recognize what was happening, but so thorough that there could be no escape. She might be a ghost, but thanks to Veytoss -- with his power over careers, over finances, over lives -- she could still reach out from the grave and bestow a curse.

That, however, was the future, something that might never come to pass. There was also the past to account for: wrongs already committed that cried out for justice. A man who treated her family as his plaything. A man who thought he was a god, or at least a king. She'd bring that man back down to earth and remind him he was a mortal, just like her -- that like all mortals, he could be judged and face retribution.

She couldn't kill him. Nothing so blatant or obvious. He had her watched day and night, and she'd never get the chance. Nor could she take a sledgehammer and smash Veytoss to bits, which was her second impulse. Jones would just cancel her and start all over again with another programmer.

So she thought about it. Obsessed over it. Ran through the options in her mind while she exercised on her treadmill, while she played old movies on the big-screen TV, while she scarfed down banana splits served to her in bed, while she walked through her state-of-the-art IT center at midnight and watched everyone work. And it finally came to her. The cruelest, most fitting punishment would be to give him exactly what he thought he wanted.

He wanted Veytoss to give him the answers to everything. He wanted to create a utopia led by a genetically-endowed elite. She'd give him both those things. Except that since he thought it was morally acceptable to enslave her children in the process, why, the same standard would apply to his family, too.

Her security clearance gave her access to everything -- including information about his daughters. One of them was already a prisoner, more or less -- coddled and spoiled and pampered, to be sure, but just as much a captive as Lisa. But there was another: a daughter who had her freedom. Not a false, provisional, we-can-yank-it-away-in-an-instant pseudo-freedom like Jason had, but the real thing.

It wasn't fair. So Veytoss -- as programmed by Lisa -- would put an end to that. Veytoss was going to proclaim this girl the savior and the chosen one, and if Jones truly believed in his own fucked-up philosophy, he'd have no choice but to do as Veytoss demanded. This girl would be recruited, and then Jones -- just like Lisa -- would have to sit by helplessly and watch, prohibited from intervening, while his own child was "tested" for genetic worthiness. All because Veytoss said so, and because Jones was madman enough to follow the dictates of silicon prophet.

Veytoss was power. Veytoss was also karma.

And karma was about to meet a girl named Nikita.

***

A steady ant trail of workers trudged in and out of Madeline's new office. Some carried boxes; others arranged furniture; still others installed fixtures. Doing her best to ignore the background noise, Kathleen, the senior administrator of Recruiting, spread out several files across the coffee table. The top one bore the label, "Samuelle, M."

"We followed your search parameters and identified twenty-three potential recruits," said Kathleen. "But I've looked over the files and, honestly, I don't think any of them are going to work out."

"We'll see." Madeline leaned back in her chair, crossed her legs, and examined the other woman carefully. Kathleen, Madeline suspected, didn't fully understand Madeline's new criteria. She hadn't yet adapted from Adrian's way of doing things. She'd better adjust quickly if she wanted to keep her job. They were short-staffed, certainly, but everyone was still expendable.

Kathleen began to clasp and unclasp her hands in her lap, as if uncomfortable being the subject of such intense scrutiny. She and Madeline never got along particularly well. Once, in fact, shortly after Madeline married Charles, Kathleen had made a snide remark about Madeline sleeping her way to the top. Madeline hadn't forgotten it. Neither had Kathleen, judging by the way she now squirmed in her seat at the prospect of Madeline being second-in-command.

Madeline wouldn't hold it against her. As powerful as the temptation might be, she wouldn't allow herself to indulge in petty grudges. She was stronger than that, she told herself, and that's why she deserved to wield the power she now held.

Still, she couldn't help but derive a certain enjoyment from seeing how nervous Kathleen seemed. There was no point setting her mind at ease, at least not immediately. She'd let the anxiety intensify a while longer before she revealed herself to be the gracious victor, and then Kathleen would be all the more in her debt.

It was always useful to hold a debt. Madeline was starting to collect them.

"I think that's all for now," she said, polite but cold. "Thank you, Kathleen."

Kathleen departed as quickly as she could without actually breaking into a run, the relief on her face apparent. Madeline gathered the files and placed them on her desk for later review. Despite Kathleen's doubts, Madeline hoped she could salvage a few decent prospects out of the collection.

However, while additional recruits would help in the long term, they needed short-term solutions as well. They'd done the best they could to restructure with the resources they had. Thanks to some imaginative personnel reassignments, they'd managed to keep most departments running without major disruptions. But Madeline still felt as if they were only one step ahead of disaster -- that a badly-timed death or illness or just a simple mistake could bring missions to a standstill.

The biggest headache was Systems. There weren't actually many Adrian loyalists there to purge. That would have been easier to deal with. The real problem was far more entrenched: a culture of laziness, of doing just the minimum necessary to get by, of cutting corners and finding ways to shift the blame. It was the sort of thing that couldn't be remedied by replacing marginal performers here and there -- their entire approach to work had to be relearned. Perhaps from scratch.

Madeline had anticipated commencing that process by putting Lisa -- an outsider -- in charge. Unfortunately, that was no longer an option. She'd have to keep Jules on, for now.

But maybe not too much longer.

Lisa's son -- that boy up on Level 16 -- had shown himself to be a genuine prodigy: the kind that existed in fiction but one never expected to meet in real life. He'd planted those fake financial records so perfectly that the Council's data forensics team had been completely fooled. It was remarkable. And if he could do that -- with hardly any effort, it had seemed -- what miracles might he accomplish if she turned him loose in Systems?

That might just be the answer. She'd have to test him out in stages, of course. She couldn't just place a 12-year-old in charge of a mission-critical department. So she'd retain Jules and assign this boy -- what was his name again? Seymour? -- small projects here and there, just to see how he handled them. If he did well, if he had the kind of potential that Madeline believed he did, then in a few more years, who knew? Jules might wind up working for him instead of the other way around.

Was it crossing an ethical line to put a child -- however brilliant -- to work? Probably. There was also the promise she'd made to Lisa to find a way to set Seymour free. She'd meant it at the time, but, well, that was before she knew what he was capable of. As nice a gesture to Lisa's memory as it might be, throwing away a resource like that would be foolish. Besides, what meaning did a promise to the dead have, anyway? It wasn't like Lisa was still around to be grateful.

It was settled, then. She would go ahead and use him. Curiously, she didn't feel any guilt at the prospect. Once, she might have felt a twinge -- a compulsion to justify herself, to rationalize away the actions that left her morally uncomfortable. Now, she reached inside -- and felt nothing. She had no more doubts, and thus felt no more need to persuade or reassure herself. She knew her place in the world, knew her purpose in life, knew the significance of her identity -- and knew exactly what she was and wasn't willing to do. There were no more unresolved choices, and thus no more questions to ask -- only work to do and action to take.

Somewhere along the way, she'd crossed a threshold. She wasn't sure where, and she wasn't sure when, but she knew there was no going back. Maybe that was a kind of freedom. Or maybe it was a kind of death.

It didn't matter. She'd died so many times already; what was once more?

The End

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