The restaurant was fairly new. By the look of it and the faint smell of sawdust and plaster, it had opened or been remodeled within the last few weeks. The prices were high and the customer count was low—we very nearly had the place to ourselves. I guessed most folks were home, checking screens to find out whether Pakistan and India had graduated from conventional warfare to the thermonuclear variety. The food was good, maybe because the chef wasn’t juggling a lot of orders. Thalia had ordered salmon and I had ordered paella, both on Tau’s tab. The Eyns were a small Affinity with no financial superstructure and very little collective wealth, and it didn’t hurt to remind her of that.
I let her talk through dinner. The stereotype was that Eyns loved to talk and that they were a little goofy. I liked Thalia—we had negotiated complex inter-sodality covenants on a couple of other occasions, most notably when Eyn and Tau organized opposition to an insurance-reform act that threatened Affinity-based pension funds—but she wouldn’t have overturned anyone’s preconceptions about her Affinity. She told me she had just started a course in “tantric flexing,” an exercise routine with some kind of spiritual component. She said it made her feel more centered. I wondered if it made her feel better about backing out of her Affinity’s commitment to Tau.
I raised the question over dessert, in the bluntest possible way. “If you sign this agreement with Het, you know you’ll be out of the Bourse.”
She raised her napkin to her mouth and then folded it over the remains of her raspberry zabaglione. “I do understand that. Obviously, it’s an important concern for us.”
Four years ago Damian Levay had opened up TauBourse to investors representing other Affinities. To date, we had created rock-solid pension funds for twelve of the extant Affinities. The Eyns could certainly pull out their money and invest it elsewhere. But TauBourse had outperformed benchmark Wall Street funds for all our members, and by a wide margin, in part because we invested preferentially in Tau-operated enterprises. Leaving TauBourse would have an immediate financial downside for Thalia’s Eyns.
But she was still talking. “We see potential legal issues with the Bourse, though, Adam. We’re not sure it’s a stable, sustainable business model.”
“It’s perfectly stable, unless the Griggs-Haskell bill passes.”
“Which looks increasingly likely, however.”
“More than just likely, if you throw the support of Eyn behind it.”
“We’re not a political Affinity. You know that.”
“But Het is. And if you back them up—”
“If we back them up, and if Griggs-Haskell passes, and if the president signs the bill, we’ll be better off if our money isn’t tied up in TauBourse. That’s the bottom line.”
“Did Garrison tell you that?”
“I can’t talk about what I discussed with Vince Garrison.”
Vince, not Vincent. She was already on familiar terms with the Het negotiator. That was when I realized she was trying to let me down easy. Which meant Eyn had already secured an accord with Het.
“I’m sorry, Adam,” she said. “I like you personally. You’ve been more than fair to me and to the Affinity I represent. I do appreciate that. But you have to understand, it’s an existential issue for us. Even if the Griggs-Haskell bill doesn’t make it out of the Senate, some kind of legislation is inevitable. Sure, I’d prefer the kind of legislation Tau would write. And I know the Hets are jockeying for king-Affinity status. But it was only three weeks ago that the Russians blamed Tau for its role in the attempted coup—”
“It was a revolution, not a coup. And Tau’s role has been exaggerated. We don’t really have a huge footprint in the Russian Federation.”
“No, and it won’t be getting any bigger, will it?”
“United Russia is running an authoritarian regime. Are we supposed to collaborate with it?”
“Het did.”
“Het kissed Valenkov’s ass. Repeatedly. Until he gave them everything they wanted.”
“What Het did was eminently practical. Call it realpolitik if you like—it carved out a space for the Affinities in a closed society.”
“Except for Tau.”
“Well, yes.”
“What does that tell you?”
“It tells me the writing is on the wall. Do you know the story from the Old Testament? It’s where the saying comes from. King Belshazzar stole the sacred vessels from Solomon’s Temple and used them to praise false gods. A disembodied hand wrote on the wall: Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin. It meant Belshazzar’s days were numbered. He was killed by Persian soldiers the same night. Moral of the story, there’s nothing to be gained from signing up with the wrong god, even for a short-term benefit. Gods are jealous, and gods remember. And right now, Tau is the wrong god.”
She stood up. I stood up. She gave me her hand. “The world’s moving on, Adam. Tau can’t stand still. Compromise or be left behind. That would be my advice to you.”
“I guess Eyn’s famous concern for social justice only goes so far.”
“Don’t make this worse. You’re alone in a world of trouble, and you know it.” She turned away, then turned back. “Thank you for dinner. It was very good.”
* * *
I called Trevor from the sidewalk outside the restaurant. This early on a Thursday evening midtown should have been crowded, but the street was mostly empty. “How was dinner?” he asked.
“The restaurant was lucky to have us. The city feels like a ghost town.”
“Otherwise?”
“No joy,” I said. “So it looks like Plan B.”
Which meant we were heading for Schuyler, New York. My old hometown. To do something that would tear my family apart.
CHAPTER 13
We got on the road in the morning. Trev took first turn at the wheel. It was a warm day in late May, pretty enough to make our troubles seem distant. Once we left the city the road wound through farmland and fallow fields where faded exit signs announced the names of equally faded small towns, and Trev cracked his window and let in a breeze that smelled of alfalfa and manure, and sunlight swayed across the dashboard as the road curved west and north.
Somewhere behind us was a second vehicle, a van, with six of Trev’s security guys in it. They were keeping a protective eye on us. So were various Taus along the route, locals alerted to watch out for suspicious or unusual vehicles. We didn’t really expect trouble. But we took precautions: there had been trouble in the past. In February a delegation of English Taus from a Manchester tranche had been run off the road and killed as their bus passed through the Lake District—no charges were laid, but we had reason to suspect the work of a Het undercover team. A month later one of our sodality leaders had been found dead in his hotel room in Chicago. Again, no actionable evidence, but the victim had been about to finalize an agreement that would have allied us with the Res Affinity and disadvantaged Het. And we had known for years that Het was capable of extreme action. The scar Amanda Mehta still carried was evidence of that.
It was possible but not likely that a Het team might follow us to Schuyler. I had good personal reasons to visit the town. Sure, there would be a sitting congressman in Schuyler at the same time. Yes, that congressman would soon be casting a potentially decisive vote on the Griggs-Haskell bill. And yes, I would be meeting that congressman face-to-face.
But none of that was surprising, given that the congressman was my brother.
* * *
On the road to Schuyler I took one call and made another.
The call I took was from Damian Levay, from the Laguna Beach property he shared with Amanda. I docked the phone to the dashboard port and tilted it toward me. Damian frowned out of the tiny screen, and beyond him I could just make out the suggestion of a balcony railing and the blue sweep of the Pacific in early-morning sunlight. I told him we were on our way to Schuyler. He said, “I just want to make sure you’re okay with this.”
“If Jenny’s okay with it, I’m okay with it.”
&nb
sp; “That’s good. But things are never really simple, though, are they? When it comes to family.”
He said the word family with a faintly disparaging emphasis. Non-Tau family, he meant. Biological family. Family as tether.
“It’s not a one-way deal. She helps us, we help her.”
“If we succeed, you probably won’t be going back to Schuyler for any more family reunions.”
Meaning I would probably never speak to my brother or my father again, after this weekend. But it wasn’t as if we spoke much now. It wasn’t as if I stood to lose much in the way of happy familial intimacy. Tranche or family: I wasn’t the first Tau to face the choice.
And Damian knew that. There was something else on his mind. It wasn’t about my family, it was about me. Damian was a sodality leader now, and he had assigned me diplomatic duties because he believed I had a knack for dealing with non-Taus, a little extra dollop of empathy or something: supposedly, the trait showed up in my Affinity-test numbers. But that could cut two ways. A little sympathy for those outside the tribe was a useful thing, as long as it didn’t generate dangerous mixed loyalties.
But I understood what I was getting into, and I reassured him of that. Going back to Schuyler wasn’t “going home.” I had just one real home, the home I retreated to whenever possible, a house in Toronto (Lisa’s house, since Loretta’s death last year), where there was a room set aside for me, folks who genuinely loved me, no simmering rivalries, no hidden sexual violence … “I just hope what we do this weekend makes a difference.”
“It will,” Damian said. Then he looked away from the screen and looked back. “Somebody wants to say hi.”
Amanda.
The last few years hadn’t much changed her. The same hair, shiny as the wings of a perfect black bird; same flawless skin, the color of coffee with cream; same sharp, observant gaze. Time had left subtle marks, ghosts of expressions that had lingered long enough to set, a hardness of purpose where there had been a playful openness, resolve where there had been uncertainty. But the smile she gave me was eternal. “Hi, Adam,” she said.
We hadn’t talked much since her marriage to Damian. Not out of any awkwardness, just lack of opportunity. She had moved to California with Damian; I had stayed in Toronto. She was a sodality leader, I was just a functionary. She had made it clear, as had Damian, that although the marriage solemnized a real commitment, it didn’t mean she and I were finished. But we saw each other far less often than we once had. And to be honest, I was a little uncomfortable about sleeping with a married woman. Not because the relationship was immoral but because it was brutally asymmetrical.
So we said pleasant and inconsequential things to each other for a couple of minutes and finished the conversation with smiles that were genuine but seemed weirdly distanced from the present crisis. Then Damian got back on the line.
“One more thing. And this is for Trevor as much as it is for you. We’ve got information that there’s a Het security detail en route to Schuyler.”
I relayed this news to Trev, who gave me a look signifying something like: “Whoa—really? Why?”
“I can’t tell you anything more than that. It might be they want to keep an eye on Congressman Fisk prior to the vote. Or it could be more sinister. So keep your guard up, right?”
Right.
* * *
Getting closer to Schuyler, as farmland gave way to scrubby forest and outcrops of glacial debris, I called my father’s house.
A voice call, not a video call. Neither Mama Laura nor my father believed in paying good money for a little extra bandwidth. The last time I’d been there, the phone had been a landline with a clunky handset. My father carried a contemporary phone for business purposes, but he had never given me the number.
“Adam!” Mama Laura exclaimed. “So good to hear your voice! Where are you?”
“Just a few miles out of town, actually.”
“Wonderful! Your old room is all ready for you. You’re not the first to arrive—Aaron and Jenny aren’t here yet, but can you guess who is?”
“Geddy?” I hoped it was Geddy. I hadn’t seen Geddy for years, but he still called from time to time.
“Yes, Geddy! And he brought a friend!”
“Oh?”
“A girl friend.” I could hear the pause she put between the two words: she wasn’t sure whether the girl friend was in fact a girlfriend. “Her name is Rebecca. Rebecca Drabinsky. She’s from New York City, one of those places in New York you read about, I don’t know, Brooklyn? Queens? I forget.”
This was Mama Laura’s way of telling me two things. One, Geddy’s new friend was Jewish; and two, Mama Laura was okay with that. Which suggested to me that my father wasn’t okay with it, and that Mama Laura wanted to get her own opinion on record before any controversy erupted.
“I look forward to meeting her.”
“She’s quite a character! But I like her. Can you still find your way to the house or do you need directions?”
“I could find it in my sleep.”
“That’s good. I can’t wait to see you! And I can tell you Geddy’s very excited, too.”
And still not a word about my father. “What time do you want people arriving for dinner?”
“You’re welcome anytime. Say five o’clock if you want to freshen up first?”
“Five it is.”
I ended the call and Trevor drove a few more miles. We passed what I recognized as the quarry road, winding into a patch of wild scrubland where you could break your leg tripping over glacial till or stumbling into some ancient kettle hole buried in the duff. “Family,” Trevor said philosophically. “Remember what Robert Frost called it? The place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.”
“Doesn’t always work that way,” I said.
* * *
We approached the outskirts of Schuyler. There was the usual strip of highway-exit businesses—gas stations and fast-food franchises—and then a couple of motels, sparsely populated. We could have stopped there, but Trev wanted accommodations closer to town. That left two obvious choices, a Motel 6 just off the main drag or a Holiday Inn a little farther north. Trev started to pull into the Motel 6 but paused before making the turn. We could see most of the parking lot in front of us, cars fronting a two-story row of rooms with doors painted Pepto-Bismol pink. “Huh,” he said, and pulled back into traffic.
“What?”
“You see that? In the lot? Four black Chevy SUVs, identical models.”
“So?”
“Those are Het cars, bet you any money. And I’d rather not share accommodations with Het enforcers if I can help it.”
So he registered at the Holiday Inn. He talked to the concierge about arranging a rental car, and I took the vehicle we had come in. Alone on the drive to Mama Laura’s, I turned on the radio and tuned in a news site. The announcer was using solemn words like “international crisis” and “ultimatum,” but nobody had actually nuked anybody. Yet.
CHAPTER 14
Polite commentators liked to call the state of affairs between Tau and Het a “rivalry.” In reality it was a fight—a fight for the future of the Affinities. Tau wanted to preserve and defend what Meir Klein and InterAlia had created. Het wanted to take absolute control of it.
Het was winning.
Het had about as many members as Tau, according to a recent census, and we were the most populous of the twenty-two Affinities. So we brought roughly equivalent numbers to the field, but Het had an immediate advantage: in sociodynamic terms, Het was monohierarchical. Which meant it possessed a single hierarchy: just one rigorously denominated chain of command, one leader, stacked ranks of followers. It was a classic form of human collaboration: horizontal equality among members of any rank, but top-down decision-making. Usually that takes a certain amount of policing and coercion, but the genius of Het is that its members tended to fall into place as neatly as Tetris pieces. The result was a kind of instinctive monarchy. They didn’t call him t
hat, but the Hets had a king: I had seen him in passing, during sodality negotiations. His name was Garrison, and when Garrison said jump, Het jumped.
Tau, on the other hand, was polyhierarchical. When we did the leader-follower thing, we did it to address some specific task or local problem. You want to put out a fire, you let the fire chief call the shots. You want to build a house, you defer to an architect and a carpenter. We had hierarchies, but we were constantly constructing and dismantling them, hierarchies like temporary circuits in a vast neural network.
It made us versatile, adaptable. It also made us loose and complex and slow, where Het was blunt and simple and fast.
And Het had brought blunt, simple weapons to the battlefield. Weapons like bribery and expensive lobbyists, backroom threats and hired lawyers. Not to mention, should you step out of the light and into the shadows, actual guns and muscle. Whereas Tau had come to the fight like earnest Quakers, armed with little more than a love of justice and the power of persuasion. In brief, our asses had been kicked.
At least at first. Slowly, slowly, we were bringing our own weight to bear. We didn’t punch with much strength but we knew how to swarm. How to find a vulnerable point and work it from many angles. How to crowdsource a counterattack.
One thing you look for is the unexpected connection: say, between a Tau member and a congressman who might be about to cast a critical vote.
Say, between me and my brother Aaron.
Then you look for an exploitable weakness. A troubled marriage, maybe, in which one partner has a great many secrets to keep.
Like Aaron’s marriage to Jenny.
You find the weak point. Then you press until something breaks.
* * *
It was Mama Laura who had engineered this family reunion, and it was Mama Laura who answered the door when I knocked.
Late afternoon, and the sun was behind me. Sunlight came through the branches of the budding willow, and Mama Laura shaded her eyes as the door swung open. She gave me what she sometimes called her “big old welcome-home smile,” but with a hint of uneasiness in it. “Adam,” she said. Then, almost as an afterthought, she opened her arms and I hugged her. “Come on in,” she said.