“Affection?” Otto smiled. “Not the word I’d choose, Mr. Cyrus… but you have to admit that they’re enthusiastic.”

“A little too enthusiastic, if you ask me. You used to be capable of such subtlety, Otto. Using the Red Mafia is… I don’t know.” He waved a hand. “It’s cliché. And it’s not ‘us.’ ”

“It’s affordable and if the assets are taken out then so what? We lose no friends. And who would ever think that we, of all people, would rely on ex-Spetsnaz thugs? No matter how heavy-handed the Russians get, no one will look in our direction. Not in time, anyway.”

Cyrus made a sulky face. “I wish we had some of the Berserkers. That was the one thing I have to admit that the Twins did that was a step ahead of us.”

“Maybe. My sources say that they’re having some behavioral issues with the Berserkers.” Otto looked at his watch. “The North Korean buyers are waiting to leave and wish to say good-bye.”

Cyrus shook his head. “No, that’s boring. Send one of my doubles. Send Milo; he has good manners.”

Otto tidied the cutlery. “You shot Milo two weeks ago.”

“Did I? Why?”

“It was a Tuesday.”

“Oh yes.”

Cyrus believed that Tuesday was the dullest and least useful day of the week and he tried to liven the low spot of each week with a little spice.

“Shame about Milo,” Cyrus said, accepting a cup of tea. “He was good.”

“That he was. But that’s water under the bridge, Mr. Cyrus,” murmured Otto. “We’ll send Kimball.”

“Are you sure I haven’t killed him yet?”

“Not so far.”

Cyrus shot him a look, but Otto gave his master a small wink. No smile, though.

“Maybe I should kill you next Tuesday.”

“Mm, when you’re done threatening me I’ll go find a broom cupboard to hide in.”

“What else do we have today?”

“The latest batch of New Men has been shipped to the Hive. Carteret and his lot are conditioning them. We have orders for sixty females and two hundred males. We can fill those orders with the current batch; however, if we get the heavier requests you’re expecting then we’ll have to up production by twenty percent.”

“Do it. Speaking of the New Men-did that idiot van der Meer try to haggle on the per-unit price?”

“He tried.”

“And-?”

“This isn’t a buyer’s market.”

Cyrus nodded, pleased. He already had the money earmarked for a new research line. Something he’d been thinking about during those long hours in his sensory dep tank. He always did his best thinking in there-a place where he felt connected to the whole of the universe, a place where he could unlock every chamber in his infinite mind.

He lifted the heavy lid of the serving dish and studied the meal. Four slices of white breast meat were fanned out like playing cards in a thick cream sauce. He didn’t recognize the grain of the meat, though the accompanying vegetables were from a more familiar group of exotics-fingerling potatoes, whole crowns of dwarf broccoli, and a spill of hybridized spinach-carrots. Otto took the lid from him.

“Something new?” Cyrus asked.

“Something old, actually.”

“Oh?”

“Breast of dodo in a white wine cream sauce.”

Cyrus applauded like a happy child. “Delightful!” He reached for a fork, then paused. “Have you tried it?”

“Of course.”

“And…?”

“It doesn’t taste like chicken.”

Cyrus laughed.

Otto pursed his lips. “It’s a bit more gamey. A bit like bald eagle, though less chewy.”

Cyrus picked up his knife and fork.

“And, not to spoil your appetite, sir,” said Otto, “but I wanted to remind you that the Twins are on their way for their regular visit. Almost certainly to discuss the Berserker issue.” Cyrus began to protest, but Otto held up a calming hand. “Don’t worry; we’ve taken the usual precautions. They’ll see and hear exactly what they expect to see and hear.”

Cyrus cut a slice of the dodo meat and chewed it thoughtfully. Otto waited with practiced patience.

“I want them thermal-scanned during any conversation.”

“We’re already on that. The chair sensors in the private garden have all been checked. With the new vapor density scanners the doctor thinks we can expect a seventy to seventy-three percent confidence in the readings. If they lie, we’ll probably know it.”

“They’re smart, those two,” warned Cyrus.

“They would have to be,” said Otto, then smiled. “And no, sir, that’s not as obsequious as it sounds. I actually have a lot of respect for the Twins.”

“As far as it goes,” corrected Cyrus.

“As far as it goes,” agree Otto.

“My young gods…” Cyrus looked into the middle distance for a long moment, a half smile playing across his lips. He blinked his eyes clear and cut a look at Otto. “What about the SAMs?”

“One Sixteen and One Forty-four are coming along nicely. They’ll be getting their fourth round of psych evaluations today, and if we like the results we can process them into the Family. Ninety-five is getting high marks in surgical classes, and he seems to have a taste for it. A family trait. Most of the rest are coming along.”

“Make sure they’re out of sight. I don’t want Hecate or Paris to see them.”

Otto nodded. “As I said, they’ll see only what we want them to see. The only child the Twins have seen-or ever will see-is Eighty-two, and he’s still at the Hive.”

Cyrus paused. “And… what about Eighty-two?” When Otto didn’t immediately respond, Cyrus said, “I still have hopes for that one. I feel more… kinship with him than any of the others.”

“I know, but you’ve seen his psych evals, Mr. Cyrus. You know what the doctors have been saying about him.”

“What? That he can’t be trusted? That he’s warped? I goddamn well don’t believe it,” snapped Cyrus with a sudden viciousness. “The doctors are wrong in their conclusions!”

His valet crossed his arms and leaned against the footboard. “They would be the third set of doctors to come up with exactly the same set of erroneous conclusions. How likely do you think that is?”

Cyrus turned his head and glared across the room at the dozens of floral arrangements that lined one wall. His chest rose and fell and several times he began to speak, but each time he left his thoughts unspoken. This was an old argument, something he and Otto had been wrangling over for nearly three years. Cyrus’s rage over the findings about Eighty-two had been towering, destructive. All six of the previous doctors had been executed. Cyrus had done it with his own hands, garroting each of them with cello strings he’d ripped from Eighty-two’s instrument.

“Have them run the tests again,” he said quietly, and in a tone that left no opening for discussions. “Have them run every single fucking test again.”

“I’ve already ordered it,” said Otto. “I sent a new team of specialists to the Hive and they’ll run everything. As many times as it takes.”

Cyrus turned to look at him and then turned away again.

“Oh, and this should make you happy,” Otto said with a deft shift of gears. “That new Indian fellow, Bannerjee… he was able to solve the gas erosion problem with the jellyfish sensors. We’ll pump a dozen of them into the Twins’ jet while it’s being refueled.”

Cyrus smiled and turned back. He cut a piece of meat and resumed his lunch. “Give Bannerjee a bonus. No… hold off on that until we’re sure we can track the Twins to wherever the hell they hide from me. If we can find the Dragon Factory, then Bannerjee gets double his pay as a bonus on top of his contract.”

“Very generous, sir.”

“And tell him that he can own the patent on whatever laminate he cooked up for the sensor, though I would appreciate fifteen percent as a tithe.”

“ ‘Tithe’?”

“Oh, call it what you want. Kickback, whatever.”

“I’m sure Dr. Bannerjee would be delighted to give you twenty percent,” said Otto.

“You’ve become greedy in your old age, Otto.”