Nash and the rest of the Brethren viewed Michael as their source of information about the different realms. Michael knew that his position was still tenuous. The Brethren usually killed Travelers, but he had survived. He tried to make himself as indispensable as possible without showing the extent of his ambition. If the world was going to become an invisible prison, that meant one person had to be in control of both the guards and the prisoners. And why couldn’t that person be a Traveler?

The Brethren had originally attached Michael to their quantum computer and attempted to contact more advanced civilizations in the other realms. Although the computer was destroyed, Michael had assured General Nash that he could eventually get any information they required. He thought it wise not to mention his own goals. If he found his father and gained any special knowledge, he intended to use it to his own advantage. Michael felt like a man who had escaped a firing squad.

During the last month, Michael had left his body on two different occasions. It was the same each time-at first, a few sparks of Light emerged from his body, and then all his energy seemed to flow out into a cold darkness. To find his way to any Realm, he had to pass through all four barriers: a blue sky, a desert plain, a town on fire, and an endless sea. These barriers had once seemed like insurmountable obstacles, but now he was able to cross them almost instantly-discovering the small black passageways that led him onward.

Michael opened his eyes and found himself in a town square with trees and benches and an outdoor bandstand. It was early in the evening, and men and women wearing dark suits and overcoats wandered down the sidewalk, restlessly entering the brightly lit shops, then emerging a few minutes later with nothing in their hands.

He had been here before; this was the Second Realm of the hungry ghosts. It looked like a real world, but everything in this place was an empty promise to those who could never be satisfied. All the packages in the grocery store were empty. The apples on the corner stand and the slabs of meat in the butcher shop were painted pieces of wood or pottery. Even the leather-bound books in the town library appeared real, but when Michael tried to read them he discovered there were no words on the pages.

It was dangerous to be here; he felt like the only living creature in a town of phantoms. The people living in this realm seemed to recognize that he was different; they wanted to talk to him, touch him, feel his muscles and the warm blood that moved beneath his skin. Michael had tried to hide in the shadows while he peered through windows and searched the back streets for his father. Eventually, he found the passageway that led back to his world. When he crossed over a few days later, he ended up in the same town square, as if his Light had refused to go in any other direction.

THE GRANDFATHER CLOCK in the morning room began to chime, and Michael returned to the window. A powerboat had just arrived from Chippewa Bay, and the members of the Brethren executive board were stepping onto the dock. It was cold and blustery, but General Nash stood on the dock like a politician, saying hello and shaking hands.

“Has the boat arrived?” asked a woman’s voice.

Michael turned and saw Mrs. Brewster, a board member who had arrived last night. “Yes. I counted eight people.”

“Good. That means that Dr. Jensen’s flight wasn’t delayed.”

Mrs. Brewster walked over to the sideboard and poured herself a cup of tea. She was in her fifties-a brisk Englishwoman who wore a tweed skirt, a sweater, and the kind of thick-soled practical shoes you’d need for a hike across a muddy pasture. Although Mrs. Brewster didn’t seem to have a job title, the other board members deferred to the force of her personality, and no one used her first name. She acted as if the world were a chaotic school and she were the new headmistress. Everything needed to be organized. Slipshod work and bad habits would not be tolerated. No matter what the consequences, she was going to tidy up.

Mrs. Brewster poured some cream into her teacup and smiled pleasantly. “Looking forward to the board meeting, Michael?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sure it’s going to be very interesting.”

“You’re quite right about that. Did General Nash tell you what was going to happen?”

“Not really.”

“The man in charge of our computer center in Berlin is going to present a major technical innovation that will help us establish the Panopticon. We need the unanimous consent of the board to move forward.”

“I’m sure you’ll get it.”

Mrs. Brewster sipped her tea, and then placed the china cup in its saucer. “The executive board has a few peculiarities. Members usually vote yes at a meeting and then put the knife in later. That’s why you’re here, Michael. Did anyone tell you that your participation was my idea?”

“I thought it was because of General Nash.”

“I’ve read all about Travelers,” Mrs. Brewster said. “Apparently some of them can look at a person’s face and see what he or she is thinking. Do you have that particular skill?”

Michael shrugged. He was wary of revealing too much about his abilities. “I know if a person is lying.”

“Good. That’s what I want you to do during this meeting. It would be most helpful if you could notice who is voting yes, but thinking no.”

MICHAEL FOLLOWED MRS. Brewster to the banquet room, where General Nash gave a short speech welcoming everyone to Dark Island. Three flat-panel video screens had been placed at one end of the room, faced by a semicircle of leather club chairs. The middle television screen was white, but a grid of boxes appeared on the screens of the two side monitors. Members of the Brethren from all over the world sat down at their computers and joined the meeting. A few members had video cameras, so their faces appeared on the screen, but usually the box described only a member’s geographical location: Barcelona, Mexico City, Dubai.

“Ah, here he is,” Nash said when Michael entered the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Michael Corrigan.”

With his hand on Michael’s right shoulder, Nash guided him around to meet the others. Michael felt like a rebellious teenager who had finally been allowed to attend the adults’ party.

After everyone took their seats, Lars Reichhardt, the director of the Berlin computer center, walked up to the podium. He was a big man with red hair, flushed cheeks, and a booming laugh that filled the room.

“It’s an honor to be speaking to all of you,” Reichhardt said. “As you know, our quantum computer was damaged during last year’s attack on our research center in New York. At this time, it’s still not operational. Our new computer center in Berlin uses conventional technology, but it’s still quite powerful. We’ve also created bot nets of cooperating computers around the world that obey our commands without the owner’s knowledge…”

Lines of computer code appeared on the middle monitor behind the podium. As Reichhardt spoke, the computer code became smaller and smaller until it was condensed into a black square.

“We’re also expanding our use of computational immunology. We have created self-sustaining, self-replicating computer programs that move through the Internet like white blood cells in the human body. Instead of looking for viruses and infections, these programs search for infectious ideas that will delay the establishment of the Panopticon.”

On the screen, the tiny square of code entered a computer. It reproduced itself and then was transmitted to a second computer. Rapidly, it began to take over an entire system.

“Initially, we used computational immunology as a tool for discovering our enemies. Because of the problems with the quantum computer, we turned our cyber leukocytes into active viruses that damage computers filled with information that is determined to be antisocial. The program requires no maintenance once it is released into the system.