Justine gave him a gentle hug. “Stop it, Dad. This weekend is going to be tough enough for me as it is, without having to keep you in order.”
He made an attempt to grin back at her. It wasn’t an easy gesture for him, not with that face. She could still see his native human features; as a normal twenty-year-old he would have been strikingly handsome. His thick fair hair was already starting to curl mischievously as it sprouted vigorously from the short crew cut he’d come out of the tank with. But the sheer number and complexity of his OCtattoos meant that they had merged together and now completely covered his face, giving him 24 karat golden skin like the sarcophagus mask of an ancient Egyptian king. “Like I’d dare complain with you riding my ass.”
“How’s Mom?”
Gore rolled his eyes; they at least appeared normal. “How the fuck should I know. You tell me who she was, I erased the memory centuries ago.”
“Liar.” Justine saw the bodyguards stiffen slightly; they probably weren’t used to anyone talking to their boss like this. But then Justine was Gore’s firstborn, conceived and born entirely naturally, unlike the fifty-odd children that had followed her and her brother. Back then Gore had been a mere billionaire, inheriting the wealth of two distinguished old-money American families as his parents joined in dynastic union. With some astute judgments and predictions, and not a little political influence, his original extensive portfolios had grown in tandem with the human expansion into phase one space. The Burnellis, like all of Earth’s Grand Families, were living proof that money breeds money. Dawson Knight, the legal, accountancy, and management firm that was the core of the family financial empire, was staffed almost entirely by family members. Its raison d’être was accumulating more wealth, and protecting that which already existed. The Burnellis had holdings on every planet in the Commonwealth, from acres of strategic real estate around the outskirts of phase three space capital cities to entire blocks of manufacturing capacity on each of the Big15, from transport and retail companies to banks, utilities, and cutting-edge start-up enterprises. Anything that did or would one day turn a profit, they took a slice early in the game.
Justine had played a huge part in building the family fortune over the centuries, performing nearly every role from troubleshooter in the early decades, to chief acquisition negotiator, and more lately a subtle political broker. Not that she ever favored the more public political role her brother took. But despite all that, all the dealing, the maneuvering, the manipulation that she’d carried out over the long centuries, it was Gore who remained the sacrosanct heart of the ever-increasing Burnelli family.
“Well, I saw Mom a month ago,” Justine said. “She sends her love.”
“She’s not coming here, is she?” Gore suddenly shifted his focus. As always, his virtual vision surrounded him with financial displays, news précis, and market reports from Dawson Knight, looking to buy options, futures, land, currency. If there was an opportunity to advantage the family, he’d take it.
“No. You’re safe here,” Justine said.
“Good. I’m going to my lodge. But I want to see you and your brother before any of the horse trading starts this evening.”
“I’ll tell Thompson when he gets here.”
Gore and his retinue of bodyguards, assistants, and aides walked into the main house. A couple of beautiful Oriental girls brought up the rear of the procession, wearing tight white microdresses. They were twins, or reprofiled to look identical. Both of them bowed respectfully as they passed Justine, who just managed not to scowl back at them. In some respects, her father could be terribly predictable. The girls would be slotted into his schedule the same way as a finance conference or a meal. Every minute of his day was worked into his personal agenda weeks in advance. She knew a lot of people speculated that he’d received illegal psychoneural profiling to turn him into an obsessive compulsive about work and the family. But she still possessed the memories of her early childhood, when he was rarely home from Wall Street before ten or eleven in the evening, spending every weekend in his study with computer screens as his only companions. He’d always been single-minded, keeping human requirements to the minimum. As technology advanced, so he acquired more and more interface and processing functions to keep him attuned to the great pan-Commonwealth financial markets.
Half an hour after Gore arrived, Campbell Sheldon drove up to Sorbonne Wood. Justine greeted him with a genuine enough smile. He was one of Nigel’s great-great-grandchildren, the youngest of three brothers from a direct lineage granddaughter. That gave him a lot of seniority within the Sheldon family, and as he’d chosen a CST career he’d achieved a high-ranking position as the Director for Advanced Civil and Commercial Projects. Though Nigel was quite adamant that being family only ever got your foot on the bottom of the ladder, from there you had to move up on merit.
Campbell had a couple of aides with him, but that was all. Justine remembered enjoying that no-fuss attitude the previous time they’d met. Today, Campbell was halfway between rejuvenations, giving him an apparent age in his forties. A trim mouse-brown beard covered cheeks that were slightly chubby; he definitely had inherited some of Nigel’s characteristics: the deep eyes, small nose, darkening blond hair. A few discreet platinum OCtattoos spiraled behind and below his ears.
He kissed her lightly on both cheeks and said, “You’re looking fabulous.”
“Thank you. I think I was just about due for rejuve the last time we met.”
“The party on the Muang Senator’s yacht, if I remember rightly. The Braby bridge opening ceremony. They had airfish floating over the yacht like yellow balloons.”
“Oh, Lord, you are terribly well briefed. I can see I’m going to have to spend all night updating myself.”
“I hope not all night. That would be a waste of an evening.”
“Ah. I remember this part of you very well.” Her gesture invited him into the hall.
“What can I say? I’m a Sheldon. I have a reputation to keep up.”
“Weren’t you with that rock singer that time on the yacht?”
“Ah, the dear Calisto. We parted company not long after, I’m afraid. She left me for a drummer.”
“She named herself after a moon?”
He shrugged. “It was fashionable back then.”
“So what is now? Asteroids? Comets?”
Campbell laughed, then paused to look at the house. “Is that really drycoral? On Earth?”
“Yes. Please don’t report us to the Feds. It’s older than most of our family members.”
“I’m easily bribed. A quiet late-night drink. Bathing together in romantic candlelight. Making love in a four-poster bed.”
Justine smiled back. “I’ll certainly consider a plunge in a mountain stream with you. We have several in the grounds.”
“My God, you’re a sadist. In Washington state in springtime? Do you have any idea what water that cold will do to a man?”
“I’m game to find out if you are.”
“Okay. But I certainly expect that drink later on. What’s the form for the weekend?”
“Strictly informal. The main decision on the starflight agency has already be taken by the ExoProtectorate Council. All that’s left are a few policy shakedowns to get things working smoothly before the Senate confirmation. If I might suggest… This gives you an excellent opportunity to explore options with Patricia Kantil.”
“Huh,” Campbell grunted. “She’s coming, is she?”