Once the meal was over, Raynor returned to his mat, removed his fone from the travel satchel, and surfed the latest sports scores, followed by a news summary.

He readied his Dopp kit, and began what turned out to be a long surveillance of the men’s bathroom. Raynor had taken Timson’s—and his father’s—advice seriously and knew there was a very good chance that a person like Harnack would come looking for revenge. And what better place to attack someone than in a restroom?

As he waited, Raynor brought up one of the digi-tomes he had uploaded for the trip. It came complete with a soundtrack that matched the story, continually morphing illustrations, and opportunities to pull up more information about the characters and their backgrounds. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Harnack and each one of his toadies had come and gone from the lavatory before he followed a group of three other recruits into the brightly lit space and took a quick sonic shower. Then, with a towel tied around his hips, he made his way over to one of the mirrors and went to work with his sonic toothbrush. That was when he heard the boy who had been singing in the shower stop suddenly.

Raynor turned, but not quickly enough, as a big bony fist hit him in the side of the head. He fell, and was still sprawled on the tiled floor when Harnack placed a size thirteen boot on his chest. Toadies formed a semicircle around him, and judging from the lack of other background sounds, the rest of the recruits had been ordered to vacate the room.

There was a black scab on the bridge of Harnack’s broken nose, one eye was beginning to turn purple, and there was no sign of humor in the smile he produced. “Well, sissy boy, we meet again. You surprised me, I admit that—I didn’t think you had the balls. But there’s a big difference between head butting someone when they don’t expect it and fighting like a man. So get up, sissy boy, and let’s see how you do in a real fight.”

Raynor considered mentioning the time he kicked Harnack’s ass in the fueling line, but refrained. A foot belonging to a very angry person was pressing down on his chest, after all. It was not the time for brutal honesty.

Jim understood both the situation and the part he was about to play. Having been put down in the gym, and having lost face in front of his followers, Harnack had to whip him. Or at least seem to, although Jim realized the chances of a truly fair fight were pretty slim as he scrambled to his feet.

That didn’t make any difference, of course, because what was, was, and all Raynor could do was accept the situation and make the best of it. Which was why he began the one-sided contest by taking a swing at the nearest toady. He felt his fist connect and had the satisfaction of seeing the youth go down.

That was a victory of sorts, but a short-lived one, as the other three rushed him. Raynor landed a punch on Harnack’s cheek, but that was the extent of the damage he could do as a flurry of punches and kicks drove him to the floor.

Then, while blow after vicious blow landed, all Raynor could do was curl up into the fetal position and try to protect his head as the other recruits kicked him. “How do you like this moron now?” Harnack demanded from some place far away, as Raynor began to fall toward the bottom of a deep well.

Then the beating was over, the pain was gone, and Raynor was at peace.

THE PLANET TARSONIS, THE CONFEDERACY OF MAN

The curtains made a hushed whisper as they rose far enough to let some sunlight in, the bed shivered ever so slightly, and the console that was built into the headboard of Ark Bennet’s bed produced a soft chiming sound.

The teenager yawned, swung his feet over onto thick carpeting, and began the process of getting ready for a new day. He threw open the double doors that led to his private terrace. Tarsonis City was so vast that it stretched all the way to the horizon, where the details of it were lost in the early morning haze. The metroplex was both the capital of the Confederacy of Man and its largest city, which meant it was home to millions of people—very few of whom had the privilege f viewing it from the perspective of a sixty-three-room mansion every morning.

But as a member of an Old Family, such was Ark’s birthright. And as his eyes swept across clusters of high-rise office towers, slab-like apartment complexes, and scabrous slums, he could feel the city’s seething energy, the dark allure of its mazelike streets, and the siren call of pleasures he had heard about but never experienced. Because to be rich was to be the target of thieves, kidnappers, and paparazzi. So he rarely had the opportunity to venture out without a small army of heavily armed bodyguards who would report whatever he did to his parents. So what good was wealth, Ark asked himself, if you’re a prisoner to it?

The city offered no answer other than the subdued roar of traffic as he closed the doors, turned back into the room, and crossed a broad expanse of carpet to his private bathroom. It was large enough to accommodate four. The walls were covered in exquisite marble, and at least a dozen fluffy towels were available for use, as Ark examined himself in a large, ornately framed mirror.

He was, according to his mother, “a very handsome young man,” although Ark knew it wasn’t true. His eyes were too far apart, his lips too thin, and his chin too narrow for that. Girls liked him nonetheless—or seemed to—but was that for real? Or the result of his family’s wealth?

There had already been talk of an arranged marriage with the Falco family, which, though less prominent than his, owned one of the smaller shipping lines. It was a logical merger—interstellar shipping, building spaceships, and developing atmospheric craft-like military transports would provide strong horizontal integration. An arranged marriage would allow the Falcos to maintain a measure of independence. And if they were part of the larger family—so to speak—they would have a greater voice, which could make an important difference. But the prospect of marrying sixteen-year-old Hailey Falco had very little appeal for Ark.

He had finished upper school two weeks earlier—and the pressure was on to choose between two competing visions of who he would become. His father wanted him to learn the family business, his mother wanted him to become a scholar, and Ark was pretty sure that he wouldn’t be any good at either one of those things.

The intercom buzzed as Ark ran a sonic razor over his face. The voice belonged to his father. “Ark, we’re leaving in twenty minutes.”

Ark sighed, said, “Yes, Father,” and eyed himself in the mirror. A very young face stared back at him. What should I do? The other Ark was mute.

There were two ways that members of an Old Family could travel, and each had certain advantages. They could blast through traffic in a heavily armed convoy, or move covertly in vehicles that didn’t look special but were. In this case Ark and his father were cocooned inside a groundcar that was tricked out with what dealers called “a city package.” That included screened windows, a bullet-proof skin, and solid run-flat tires. All of which was intended to ensure the Bennet family’s privacy as well as their safety.