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  He unloaded his groceries and nuked a breakfast wrap. Ate it as he popped down the stairs to the garage. The two little rooms to the side were probably meant for servants. He had an assortment of rarely used tools in one and climate controlled wine racks in the other. He selected a bottle and headed back upstairs.

  The third level held four smallish bedrooms, two bathrooms, a laundry room, and a door out to a small yard. House on one side, rock cliff on two and a fence blocking a drop off of twenty feet or so on the last side. Scruffy, unmown grass. Axel had always considered it the "Kids' Level" and never furnished it.

  Up one more level and the open plan—bedroom, sitting area, and office—wrapped around a fancy bathroom. A glass door let out onto a small patio against the cliffs, the open side gave a sweeping view over the city and into the dusty distance.

  He emptied his pockets at the desk and opened the wine. Let it breathe while he shed his generic business suit and stepped into the shower. Used the "special" shampoo that stripped the dye from his dark red hair. Then he wrapped up in a robe and took a glass of wine to the couch. Settled down to stare out at the city lights and unwind.

  Tomorrow I go back to the Big House and play useless nephew. I wonder what misery those poor idiots will try to share with me? And what I should manipulate them into doing next?

  How much vacation have I actually accrued?

  And how long will it be until I get a new assignment?

  Or even just standard guard duty with the teams?

  What if they decided they didn’t need me anymore?

  What job would keep me from finally snapping and just killing all those pathetic relatives of mine?

  He snorted and walked back to his desk. Sat and pulled a pad of paper out of the desk.

  "So what would an Axel do if he had to start acting like an honest man?" He stared at the blank paper. "Politics?"

  He grabbed a pen and . . . failed to write.

  As it should have, just in case the house is monitored. Yes, paranoid. Only sensible in this society. Between the Bureaus and the Office of the Inquisition? The two arms of Government that administer and maintain obedience to the Council of the 300. And keep me happily busy.

  He unscrewed the tip of the pen and pulled out the “ink tube.” Opened desk drawers and found the box of replacements.

  Got back to planning.

  "Politics. Business. Layabout worthless nephew." He took a sip of wine, thinking that over.

  "I wonder if Dear Uncle even realizes I'm going to be fifty in three months? Hmm, I did let him think I was a year younger than the Terrible Twins. I was a slow grower, and it seemed like he'd sneer at my scrawny self less if he thought I was almost a year younger than his own utterly marvelous sons."

  Another sip.

  "Not that it softened him toward me. And surely he knew when I passed my Challenge, three months before his sons passed theirs. We were living in Vinogradov House at least part time, then . . ." He shook his head and drew a line through the layabout. "I'll sign onto the Historical Trust, remove Dear Uncle Vladimir from mine, and move out of there . . . most of the time. Damn my sense of obligation to all the servants’ kids."

  "Politics?” He rolled a sip of wine around his mouth. Shook his head and swallowed.

  “Really? I cannot picture myself starting out slow and working up. Neighborhood rep? Oh God, no. Especially since I've never met my neighbors and don't give a damn about them. Not interested in that kind of obligation." A line through politics.

  He eyed his list and shuddered, poured himself another half glass of wine. He stood up, palming the “old ink tube” as he picked up the cork. Turned and dropped the tube into the bottle, corked it and set it on the credenza. Turned back to the desk and dropped back into the chair.

  And ignore that I should not have snuck that sample of the zivvy dissolver past my bosses.

  A von Neumann potion they called it. It’ll spread in wine, they said.

  But of course I’ll never need it.

  "That leaves business. Well, I'm not going to open a shop, that's for sure. And I suppose I could play the Stock Market, but the Trusts' mutual funds seem to have done very nicely for the last fifteen years."

  Dad set it up so Dear Uncle Vladimir couldn't touch it. I hope. I'll know for sure in three months. But my "ten percent of annual gross increase in value" stipend has grown nearly every year, so it can't be in too bad of a shape.

  I hate guessing, but I really didn’t want to hack the bank. And Dear Uncle didn’t keep copies of the Trust statements on his computer. Oh well. I’ll find out in a few months.

  "Or I could become an eccentric artist. That might be amusing, if I had the faintest hint of artistic talent. My oil painting instructor said I had excellent technique and the soul of an engineer. I'm fairly sure he was insulting me.

  "Or I could write the Next Great Novel, except that while my reports are quite good, they . . . how should I put this? They abound in passive voice, eschew dialogue, and have no plot. Not to mention a lack of Happily Ever After."

  He finished the wine and set the glass down. "Well . . . I could always say I was writing a novel. Or better yet, the New, Definitive History of the Families! Darling! With my nose in the air.

  "Dear god. I'm going to bed before I think of anything worse."

  Chapter Two

  The Red Headed Step Child, er, Cousin

  Monday, August 13, 3738

  "I'm back!"

  The butler closed the heavy glass doors behind him.

  "Anybody miss me? Dramatic Pause! No, didn't think so." Axel strolled down the Grand Hall, glancing in rooms as he passed.

  All empty at this time of day. Breakfast was done, everything cleared away, and Ladies didn't receive callers so early, so the dining hall, the small dining room, and both large and small parlors were empty.

  Everything else on the right side of the great hall was Dear Uncle Vladimir's territory. Everything on the left was the demesne of the next generation, except the half that was frozen in time, as required by the Historical Trust. So Axel took the back-central cross-corridor on the left.

  This side was usually called the east wing, even though it was more north-northeast.

  Two pretty little offices where the Twins’ wives could write letters and invitations, and deal with their household accounts. High windows with frosted glass let in natural light from the back corridor that was right against the back wall and well provided with windows and sunlight.

  Two businesslike offices, for Young Mentalists Lord Andre Vladimir Vinogradov and Nikoli Vladimir Vinogradov. The third office, of course, was his own. Smaller, and very . . . austere.

  Andre looked up as he passed. "Oh, there you are. Out making a fool of yourself again?"

  "Now, now, no need to be jealous of my reputation with the ladies, after all, you're a married man, and no longer need to pursue . . . Ladies."

  Nikoli stomped out of his office. "What excellent timing! Take these to Father! They need his signature."

  "And he's in a bad mood?"

  "Damn straight. Probably your fault."

  "Oh, I doubt that." Axel grinned. "After all, I've been out having fun where he can't see it."

  That got him two glares, but he took the files and retraced his steps. Ducked out of sight long enough to see what business required the outmoded paper documents . . .

  Oh. Chip orders. Damn, I hate these. It looked like four of the servants’ kids were almost eighteen. So by law, they had to be chipped.

  Wait . . . How old are the Ranger kids . . . He flipped through them quickly. Winced. It would be the smartest of the kid flock. Dammit. I've taught and trained these kids. These four especially . . .

  None of my business. Until I turn fifty I’m as trapped by law as the kids.

  Nothing I can do to stop it . . .

  Unless I can manipulate Dear Uncle . . . The timing's about right, I just have to bring it up naturally . . .

  He reordered the files as he w
alked into Mr. Solovsky's office. The stiff old man's expression soured as he eyed Axel. Dear Uncle's Executive secretary.

  His hair was cut to show the executive plate, a quarter the size of the "Real Cyborg" plates.

  "Last thing he needs today is to see you!"

  "What's his problem this time?"

  "He's complaining about the cost of proper fiftieth birthday gifts for his sons."

  Perfect! "Well, he's got six or seven months to figure out how many servants to give . . . them . . ." Axel paused and looked down at the folders. "Actually . . . the appropriate gift would be an executive secretary each."

  "At a hundred thousand rubles each? And no telling what loyalty or spy training they've been given?"

  Axel nodded. And waved the files. "But the sets are only thirty thousand, if one does the training oneself. And here I have four almost eighteen year olds . . . let's see which boys are due to be chipped . . ." He slipped the top folder to the bottom of the stack and opened the next.

  "Pauli? Oh dear, no. Either the stutter or the accent would eliminate him, and both? No."

  Axel dropped that folder on the desk. "Oh, Varfalomey. Now he's got the math and language skills . . . reasonably smart, but not above his station." Set that folder down. "Ah! And here’s another good one. Dimitri even has some polish and manners." For a member of the Rangers Kid Club.

  Mr. Solovsky leaned back. "And we'd train them ourselves. His Lordship knows what he wants, and I can assist in giving them some coaching on accessing the data bank and computer functions. Not to mention adding a lot of polish." He eyed Axel. "I hope you don't expect such a gift on your Fiftieth!"

  Axel snorted. "Not unless my uncle wants to inflict Pauli on me." He set the folder on top of the others, and opened the last. "However. What I thought I'd point out to Uncle Vladimir is this girl. Natasha. Very bright, very canny. I suspect he could sell her to the government as a potential spy. She's . . . got a knack for collecting information."

  He bumped his pocket and his phone obliged with a ring. He set the last file down and pulled the phone out and tapped at it "Lord Axel Vino . . . oh. Right now? Right." He clicked off and pocketed the phone. Reached for the folders. "I'll be back in a couple of hours."

  "Just leave them here." Mr. Solovsky whipped them over to the other side of his desk.

  Axel glowered. Solovsky smirked. Axel stomped out. Caught a flick of motion out of the corner of his eye and followed it into the rear of the large dining hall.

  Natasha froze, then tried to look around casually.

  "You ought to carry a feather duster. Makes it easier to look like you ought to be where you can overhear things."

  Natasha swallowed. "You want to sell me to the government?"

  "Yes. You're a natural, and the spies get either a no show plate very like an executive plate, or if you're really good, nothing at all, so that if they send you to new worlds, the Natives can't detect you with a head X-ray. Or Dear Uncle might prefer to keep you as a domestic spy. No way of telling."

  Her eyes widened, then she nodded at the wall between them and Mr. Solovsky's office. "But you are trying to get the guys executive plates, like his? Why?"

  "There are always random effects, but the executive plates are designed to not lower your intelligence, and not block your mentalist talent.”

  “I know all that! But why are you . . . doing it?”

  “That's the best I can do for you guys . . . And . . . I . . . you, all of you, matter to me."

  She paused . . . then scowled at him. "You were mean to Pauli."

  "Dear Uncle may think gifting me with a secretary with a low class accent and a stutter is funny enough to pay for Pauli to get one too."

  She blinked. "Because he wouldn't do it otherwise. And you know Mr. Snobosky will talk to his Lordship, and take the credit. You're trying to trick his Lordship? Because if you suggested it, he wouldn’t do it."

  Axel nodded. "One: never say that highly appropriate nickname out loud ever. Two: realize that winning is getting what you want to happen, to happen. It has nothing to do with who everyone else thinks won."

  "You always make my head hurt."

  "That's because you're young and innocent." He grinned and walked away.

  I hope it works . . . The Alliance isn't perfect, but it's mine and I'll fight for it. Especially against the destroyer of magic. No matter if, in my opinion, servants would better serve the 300 without chips. These four especially. And they aren't the first students of mine I've . . . lost.

  But these four have so much potential. And with the executive plates they'd be amazing. But if Uncle Vladimir doesn't jump at the bait . . . there are always more children down the line.

  And it doesn't hurt to say that.

  He walked back to his office and stared at his computer. It doesn't hurt.

  Fuck. In three months I could have helped those youngsters.

  Or at least tried.

  In three months I can legally go off on my own. Never have to watch this utter waste of talent being destroyed. It's not like I'll ever marry, have a household and servants. Have children who stand a good chance of being killed in a Challenge. Or chipped, Cyborged or sold.

  Or passing and growing up to be magnificent young men. Someone who might follow in my footsteps and take on the Family duty.

  The Family Duty. On my fiftieth birthday . . . I’ll have a scary amount of power, if I dare grasp it.

  And still too late for these four kids.

  What the hell. Maybe I'll write an utterly trashy novel, just to see if I can.

  . . . Maybe I'd better read a few first.

  He fired up his computer and searched for the top ten selling novels.

  Chapter Three

  Ranger's Report

  Monday, August 13, 3738

  "Well . . . the news is mixed." Natasha looked at her brothers, or cousins or whatever. She'd heard that in some households it was different, but in this one? They might not know who their fathers were, but they all looked enough like the legitimate Vinogradov's—and most of the other servant's children—to make it pretty certain they were all either the old lord's bastards or one of his twin son's.

  I wish I had red hair! I wouldn't mind being Lord Axel's bastard.

  "Lord Axel is back from wherever he got to this time."

  All three boys grinned.

  "W-we h-heard." Pauli grinned. "I c-can't wait to s-see what he fools the tw-twins into this t-time!"

  The awkward little attic space was cramped with the four of them and Pauli's computer equipment in it. And probably mostly stuff he's scavenged from throwaways. It's not like we have any money. I . . . do wish he wasn't keeping this stuff secret from Lord Axel.

  "Actually he's up to something with His Lordship. I'm not . . ." sure I should get your hopes up! "sure what. Something about the Twins’ big fiftieth bash in six months."

  "When we get to find out if we're being given to Nikoli or Andre, or stuck here, and whether they're going to keep living here or set up separate households." Barf—Varfolomey—snorted. "I haven't a clue which way I'd like it to be."

  Natasha nodded. "Any luck on the trace today?"

  Pauli shook his head. "S-same as ever. C-cab picked him up at a public venue on the west side of the Old Town."

  Dimitri grinned. "So, he's got a sweetheart somewhere around there. That's a pretty nice part of the city."

  "Now that it's gotten cleaned up. It was pretty bad for a while." Barf leaned to look at the map Pauli was displaying. Dozens of red dots, Lord Axel's pickup spots.

  "I'll b-bet he's secretly m-married and has three k-k-kids, at least."

  Natasha glared at him, then leaned and put her finger back behind the spray of dots. "Maybe he's got one of the old cliff houses."

  "T-too expensive."

  "Now. But years ago . . . How old is he, anyway?"

  Pauli laughed. "Older than he l-looks. Everyone keeps s-saying he looks younger than 48, but I ch-checked central records. He's
49. Going to be f-fifty in three months."

  "Really? Oh man, His Lordship will kick him out of here . . ."

  "Yeah, and I heard his trust wasn't any big deal." Barf looked worried. "I sort of wondered if he might buy us."

  "M-maybe he'll marry a r-rich widow?"

  Natasha sighed. "And we're running out of time to figure it out. I . . . guess I'll like having a real job . . . but I hope I'm not too stupid." She blinked damp eyes. Please make it work! Please! I'd love to be a spy. Really! And my friends would be excellent executive secretaries.

  "Well, we'll always be the Rangers, right? Only, not a kids club anymore, right?" She had a nasty feeling she sounded like she was about to cry.

  The guys looked around glumly and they all shrugged.

  Getting chipped was as inevitable as puberty, and less avoidable.

  They slipped out of the attic and headed for their bunks.

  Chapter Four

  A Novel Idea

  Friday, August 17, 3738

  Once he had eliminated the rest of the sappy romances from his reading list of best sellers, he found himself reading the most appallingly inaccurate police and espionage thrillers imaginable.

  I know I've been busy, but how did I ever miss these amazingly bad stories? They're almost as bad as the two romances I read.

  Then he read how-to books, and Learn to Plot Like a Pro, and . . .

  Had a major attack of indigestion when he realized the kids were missing.

  They didn't come for Natasha for testing, damn it. They took all four at once. Damn, damn, damn.

  Those kids are so talented . . . I've been working with them for years . . . well, all their lives, since the company's so much better in the servants' areas, and reading to the little kids is a good excuse for revisiting some of my favorite stories . . .

  And a bit of martial arts. And sometimes, a very few kids somehow become special to me. These four . . . it's been three years since I started occasionally hauling them out to my old camping spots to teach them how to shoot, to meditate, and use their Mentalist Talents . . . to combine them.