Unlike some of the Old Families, who clearly enjoyed “giving face” as the paparazzi referred to it, Ark’s parents had gone to great lengths to keep both him and his sister under wraps. That was partly because they looked down on families who consistently played to the press as being crass, but it was a practical matter as well, because kidnappers frequently went after the most visible targets. And young people who were out on the town, traipsing from one nightclub to another, were easy to intercept. So Ark was used to playing his status down rather than up, and was constitutionally happy to do so.

Clearing a path for the nondescript car and its two passengers was what appeared to be a beat-up cab with a couple of armed guards inside. And bringing up the rear was a graffiti-covered delivery van, equipped with drop panels. Once the sides fell, two combat-suited ex-marines would be free to wade into traffic firing AGR-14 gauss rifles. Which should be more than sufficient firepower to defeat kidnappers or assassins.

But, for the moment, all three vehicles were waiting for a light to change. That was the problem with the low-key approach. The convoy was forced to blend in rather than blast through intersections with lights flashing and sirens bleeping.

The elder Bennet had a broad forehead, close-set eyes, and a prominent jaw. The businessman was dressed in a two-thousand-credit silk suit, which shimmered slightly as light from the moon roof hit it. Ark couldn’t imagine wearing something like that; he preferred to dress the way most of his peers did, in a wire jacket that morphed from color to color depending on the nature of his surroundings, a Thump Band T-shirt, and the latest Street Feet shoes.

“So,” Errol Bennet said dryly, as he eyed his son, “this will be your first conference—which is to say your first opportunity to see what awaits you.”

Given the way his comment was framed, Errol Bennet clearly assumed that once everything was said and done, Ark would see things his way. The business—an empire really, that was built around interstellar shipping, but had holdings in related industries as well—was an endless source of fascination for Ark’s older sister, Tara. She had been groomed for as long as he could remember to follow in their father’s footsteps.

But the business held little interest for Ark, a fact that the youth had recently conveyed to his father in a particularly contentious family discussion. Errol had responded by sending Ark’s mother and sister out of the room so he could have a man-to-man conversation with his “beloved son,” as he put it. It seemed as though he’d uttered the phrase with a tinge of hostility, and Ark felt it like a kick in the gut. After Errol had effectively convinced the teenager that he had no other options—what with no natural talent and average intelligence, what could he possibly have to offer?—the deal was set: Ark would attend the meeting.

“Who will be there?” Ark asked as the light changed and the convoy continued.

“Representatives from the various families, as I told you before,” his father replied. “We compete with each other, but we must cooperate as well, or risk tearing the system apart.”

By “system,” Ark knew his father meant the interlocking relationships between the Old Families, the government, and the public. All of which struck him as intensely boring. The prospect of going to meetings every day, of trying to figure out what each attendee’s true motives were, building alliances, executing strategies, cutting costs, and boosting profits filled him with dread. Surely there was something more to life?

“I want you to pay very close attention today,” Errol added. “I can’t have you appearing ignorant in front of my associates because you can’t be bothered to listen.”

“Yes, Father.”

The convoy had turned into the campus by then, having been forced to pause in front of a heavily fortified gate, prior to being allowed to proceed. The university was a private institution that owed its existence to the largess of families like the Bennets and was more than happy to provide the ruling oligarchy with a place to meet. Ten minutes later the vehicles were parked in an underground garage, where they would remain until the conference came to an end.

Ark accompanied his father upstairs, where the senior Bennet was quickly surrounded by well-wishers, oily enemies, and hopeful sycophants. He nodded to Ark, who smiled in return before going off to find his seat. It was as one would expect for a person of low status, high up and in the very back row.

The Hall of Reason was circular in shape, which some wags claimed was a pun, foisted on the unsuspecting university by a cynical architect. Ark was impressed by the soaring domed ceiling and the unconventional manner in which the tiered seats were wrapped around the speaker’s platform. Once the opening ceremonies were over, Ava Holt, the rather dowdy matriarch of Holt Enterprises, rose to introduce Ark’s father.

The crowd rose to applaud Errol Bennet and continued to clap as he mounted the platform. The businessman gave Holt a hug and motioned for the audience to sit down. Bennet began his remarks by reiterating the need for harmony and what he called “an obligation to provide the Confederacy with support and guidance.”

That’s how the process was explained in all the textbook digi-tomes that Ark and millions of other students had been exposed to in school. The Old Families were expected to provide the democratically elected government with advice that it could accept or reject.

But, as the meeting continued, Ark was reminded that the reality of the situation was quite different. Especially when it came time for his father to address the Guild Wars. “The conflict with the Kel-Morian Combine has been very profitable by any measure,” Errol Bennet intoned, as the platform under his feet slowly rotated.

“Those who manufacture uniforms, body armor, weapons, ammunition, vehicles, tanks, aircraft, naval vessels, communications systems, orbital defense platforms, and all of the other countless items supplied to our military forces have profited from the war. That includes every family represented in this room, although I’m sure every single one of us regrets the terrible cost borne by the Confederacy’s brave soldiers, and by their families.”

That was true, the families had profited handsomely, and Bennet’s summary brought the representatives to their feet. The noise was thunderous, but as Ark clapped his hands, he wondered what the audience was applauding. The money they had made? Or the “brave soldiers” his father had referred to? Especially since none of his privileged friends were planning to join the military.

“But regrettable though it is, the conflict has had the effect of bringing our population together,” Errol Bennet continued as the representatives took their seats. “And,” he added, “to the extent that the UNN spends its time covering battles, it’s not talking about us!”

That got a laugh, and it was supposed to, since all of those present had to contend with the press corps’s eternal eagerness to run stories about the Old Families. A lot of it was society fluff focused on who was engaged to whom, coming out parties, and the like. But there were serious pieces, too, many of which were focused on allegations that certain officials were becoming rich by taking money from the Old Families in return for no-bid government contracts, favorable regulations, and a host of tax breaks. The stories were annoying, and potentially dangerous to the status quo, which everyone in the room had reason to protect.

Now Ark was beginning to understand why his mother hadn’t wanted him to attend the meeting and why his father had insisted that he do so. Lisa Bennet wanted her son to pursue an academic career both as a way to “give something back,” as she put it, and to insulate him from the family’s financial dealings.