The thug glares at me, rubbing her wrist. "Think you're real smart, don't you? Well I've seen smarter guys than you get dead. And then what use will you be to her?"

"Sounds like a threat. I'll bet the cops would be interested in that kind of behavior from one of their fine citizens."

The woman steps back, puffs her chest out, and laughs once. Hard.

"You don't have a clue, do you, junior? Listen, take my advice and stay far away from here," she says, glancing at the kid. "For everybody's sake."

I head home and cram some food in the kid and change her and put her down for a nap. I make myself some lunch, eat it, clean up the sink, and then sit down at the kitchen table. I stare at the wall and listen to the auto-cars headed down to forever up on the expressway. The carbon knife sits on the table in its sheath. I pull it out and look at it: light as a feather and sharper than sunlight in s.p.a.ce. It's got an interesting insignia pressed into it. A coat of arms.

Why'd the thug laugh when I mentioned the cops?

I sit for a while with the wooden slats of the chair pressing dents into my back, feeling the heat of the afternoon close in around me like carbon monoxide. I rub my aching right forearm stabilizer while it charges and wish I was just a little bit smarter so I could give this kid a life.

A warning. I got a warning. The lady was probably a low-level gun for hire without any solid affiliations. Could be working for anybody. Probably not the law.

I snap a pic of the coat of arms with my phone. Call it in for an image diagnostic. The ID comes back- the coat of arms reps an obscure Arkady splinter dynasty. It belongs to somebody in my family.

The Internecines have been raging since before I was born. Most people have distant cousins they run into every now and then. I have quasi-military factions of my family that routinely wipe each other out. And all the carnage is funded by speculative investing syndicates hoping to cash in on the goldenest goose of all- the Arkady Ransom.

It makes sense that the dynasties don't want me staking a claim. The day the Arkady Ransom goes t.i.ts up will be the day the syndicates put out their hands, palms up and hungry for four generations' worth of dough. But the obvious answer doesn't feel right. That dull silver knife with its gaudy coat of arms: it screams for attention. Could be that the dynasty wants to make sure I know who I'm talking to? Or the knife's a plant and this is a frame-up job.

One thing is clear: Somebody doesn't want me to figure out the Executor's riddle. But there's a soft warm lump asleep in her crib next to the kitchen window. Every troubled breath she takes is the world's best argument for figuring out the riddle. It is what it is. There's no bravery in my decision to go back. No determination or n.o.ble auspice. I've got to save my daughter for the same reason a gun has to spit bullets.

I'm a citizen of the human machine.

The phone rings and I grab it fast before it can wake up Abigail. I say h.e.l.lo before I realize it's a machine talking. "Attention. This is an auto-summons issued to Philip Drake." I'm to report to the police captain of the local precinct at my earliest convenience. As long as the next hour or two is convenient. Final notice.

I pick up the knife and the kid and I strap them both on.

Outside, it's one of those searing bright afternoons where the sunlight pounds into your shoulders and then comes boiling back up off the elasticrete to catch you under the chin. I hail the first auto that cruises past my house and tell it to head downtown. The air isn't working right in the vehicle so I figure out the voice command to roll down the window. I hang my arm out and curse as the red-hot door scalds me raw.

There's a bad feeling in my stomach and it's growing there like a tumor. As we pull up to the curb across from police headquarters I see a sleek black auto switchblade into traffic.

Something doesn't feel right.

I tap a new address into my ride's keypad because I don't want to be overheard saying it out loud. Ten minutes later, we stop at a drive-thru everything store. I buy some diapers and a one-size-fits-all clip of baby food and an expensive Guardian plasma padlock.

During the drive, I play with Abigail a little. Give her my half-grin and let her paw at the dimple in my cheek. It only comes out for her, now that her mother is gone.

When we reach the capsule daycare, I pick the cleanest coffin they've got and poke my head inside to make sure the lights and electrical are in order. It's a good one- most of the padding is still left on the baby-handling arm. I load the food and diaper applicators and set the entertainment to Abigail's favorite show. I give her a kiss on the face and push her inside the coffin and say good-bye. After I pay and press the door closed, it locks and seals.

Then I put the Guardian padlock on the outside, just to be sure. I kiss my fingers and press them against the gla.s.s before it goes dark for privacy.

A fist catches me in the stomach two steps into the captain's office. I get the feeling that the fist has been waiting here for me- maybe for hours, maybe for days. The knuckles are smooth and round and made of metal, attached to the a.s.sistive gripper arm of a walkchair.

The greeting isn't entirely unexpected, but it still knocks the breath out.

Captain Bales, a gruff, bald bullet of a man, gives me a sharp nod and a nasty grin. He's a lump of muscle confined to a beat-up walkchair that crouches on four stubby legs just inside the office door. The legged chair is brand new and black and stripped of all branding- squat and powerful as a linebacker.

"Got your attention?" Bales asks.

He turns his back on me. The chair carries him behind a sweeping steel-top desk docked in the middle of the room like an ocean liner. Bale's broad meaty shoulders sway and tremble with each scratching step of the walkchair.

I'm glad it was the chair that hit me and not the man.

"Plea sure to meet you, too," I wheeze, holding my stomach.

"Take a seat," he says, and I collapse into a metal slug of chair. Bales drops those meat hooks on his desk and leans forward, shoulders rising like mountains. Behind him, a wall of books looms to the ceiling, up to where only a guy with a telescoping walkchair arm could reach.

"You got a problem, son," he says. "You made somebody very mad."

"Been known to happen," I say.

"Are you aware that the place you visited this morning is owned by a dynasty family? You were trespa.s.sing and they're not happy about it."

"Pushing it a little, aren't you?"

Bales gets very still. His brow drops and the next words come out slow and precise. "What are you talking about, Drake?"

"The dynasties don't own the Executor's office. Sure, they bought up the whole block and everything around it. But the Executor owns its own corridor and the speaking room. It's history. First time an A.I. ever bought property. Maybe you ought to dust off a book or two."

"Listen, you puke, it doesn't matter who owns the corridor. You walked into the building and that whole block's owned. We got you on video breaking the law."

"This isn't about the dynasties. Who's behind it?"

"You don't ask the questions, bub. That friendly pat got you all confused."

"Fine. I'll paste in my own answers. I think it's somebody rich. Powerful. Got to be if you're here wasting your batteries bullying me. An influential somebody is worried that I'm going to hit the big score. Figure out the Ransom. Why would that be?"

"You're way off, pal."

"This isn't the first day of school for either one of us, so let's say we stop playing patty cake like a couple of little girls?"

Bales grunts at me, leans back, and crosses his arms.

"The dynasties are a bunch of cutthroats," I say. "Criminals. They're locked in a fight that's never made an inch of progress and never will. All they do is borrow money from the syndicates and stake their failed claims and run around in tight little circles with guns. This is bigger. No planted knife is going to fool me."

Bales' face is blank. But the absence of information is plenty informational.

"Let me fill in that dull expression on your face, Captain. The Arkady Ransom is the biggest fund on the planet. The most stable and profitable investment that's ever existed. And for one reason: it's not run by a man. It's run by a machine. A dependable, immortal, predictably successful machine. Who cares if that machine was designed by a half-crazy scientist a couple centuries ahead of his time? Who cares if I happen to be related to that man? What matters is that I've got the potential to claim the money and ruin the best investment in history. Destabilize the world economy. That's why I've got a feeling that the toes I'm stepping on belong to a government or a multinational or somebody with enough swagger to buy you a prototype McLaren walkchair."

Bales readjusts his bulk in the legged chair.

"Great," he says. "So you're getting your little brain wrapped around it. Don't change a thing. Whoever you're dealing with, a dynasty or just a somebody, is over your head, Drake. Backing off is your only option. I could threaten you. Rough you up. G.o.d knows you think you're harder than you are. With this chair I could twist you into a G.o.dd.a.m.ned pretzel and soak you in the cooler for a week. But I'm going to skip it. You're just a man and we've all got the right to wad up our lives like tissue paper and throw 'em away. My job today is just to make sure you know exactly what will happen if you go near the Executor again. You'll be throwing your life away, Drake. Walk down that road again, pal, you won't be coming back."

I stand up to leave.

"Thanks for the warning, captain. And I hate to break your heart. But you were right about one thing: I'm just a man."

The long black auto is waiting outside. A guy who looks carved out of a rock face opens the door and motions me inside. I go because, frankly, I'm getting exhausted. Inside, the limo is as sleek and plush as the inside of a violin case- the sort you'd keep a Stradivarius in. It's also empty.

The rear wall of the limo is a curve of dark polished gla.s.s. It smells like ozone, purified air. I notice a few pin-head cameras and a.s.sume there are plenty more I can't see. The bar is all gla.s.s and light- pirate treasure glimmering just under Ca rib be an waves. I grab a crystal tumbler, pour myself a drink of an amber-something that could pay my rent for a month, and salute the nearest camera with it.

At that, the gla.s.s wall flickers to life and I'm looking into a three-dimensional drawing room. A man sits in a wingback chair, staring at me with expressionless gray eyes. He's middle-aged and built slightly, but decked out in a flamboyant old-school tartan smoking jacket. No technology of any kind is visible in the room, not even a lighter. The more money a person has, the more stuff he owns that's made of real wood. And I'm guessing this fella deals in the billions. The chair he sits in, the room around him, h.e.l.l, even the jacket he wears are ribbed out in exquisite patterns. It's the sort of luxurious detail that slaps you in the face with the fact that your own life is nasty, brutish, and oh so disposable. I scan the scene and sigh and then pour myself three months' rent.

Off my lack of reaction, the man finally decides to speak.

"I'll get straight to the point, Drake. You're interfering. You wouldn't listen to Bales, so I'm going to see to it that you cease. Personally."

I take a drink and savor it, feeling the buzz creeping in around the corners of my vision. The man in the gla.s.s launches two shotgun slugs of gray stare my way. My response is careful: "I'd love to take some credit for interfering, friend, but I don't know who you are."

And I'm not sure I want to.

"My name is Holland Masterson and I'll tell you who I'm not. I am not your friend. I am not your family. I am Zeus on the mountaintop. You needn't concern yourself about me except inasmuch as you should avoid incurring my wrath."

I think this over a second.

"Well, I'm glad to hear we're not related. It's families like mine that keep the calluses on gravedigger's hands."

"You refer to the Internecines. Pathetic. A broken family borrowing money and making promises to strangers so they can arm themselves to murder each other. The late Dr. Arkady had amazing prescience to build the Executor. He knew the calculating avarice of so-called family and he sought to avoid it."

A trace of anger ripples over the man's face. It's like spotting a shark fin out of the corner of your eye. Something's hidden under the surface here. Something with teeth.

"I take it you're not a family man?"

"I am not, Mr. Drake. I believe achievement is the only measure of a man. And each man will be measured on his own before the eyes of G.o.d. Everything I have accomplished was achieved on my own merits. Only I taste the fruit of those labors."

"So what do you leave behind when you're gone?"

"A legacy of triumph. And preferably, as small a gang of squabbling vultures as is possible. Think of the pharaohs, Mr. Drake. They left behind pyramids to shine brightly through the ages. Their descendants fell into madness and despair long before time could ravage the beauty of those monuments."

"Sounds lonely as h.e.l.l in there."

Masterson shoots those gray bullets at me again. Then the padded shoulders slump. "You are not an achiever and thus you cannot understand. You are only capable of taking commands. Very well, do not approach the Executor. Do not ask why. And do not interfere with me again or you will learn what pain feels like."

The screen fades back to dark polished gla.s.s and I notice the auto isn't moving anymore. For a second, I'm staring into my own flat, faded reflection. My face looks wooden and blank- a G.o.dd.a.m.ned toy soldier on the march, drink in hand.

Then a shadow falls across the window and the driver yanks open the door with a thunk. Blinking at the sudden blazing sunlight, I step out of perfumed ozone and into hot reality. I don't hear the driver slam the door shut. I'm busy grasping the fact that I'm standing in front of the capsule daycare- the word pain still ringing in my ears.

The Guardian plasma lock is sliced, laying on the ground next to the capsule. I pick it up and the dribble of melted metal is still warm from whatever industrial torch ate through it. With shaking fingers, I drop the privacy screen and unlock the capsule.

Inside, Abigail is laying on her back, watching the vidscreen with one eye and working on putting her foot into her mouth. She's fine and dandy- a cog in this efficient coffin-shaped machine. I exhale and then take a deep breath, realizing that I've been gut-punched since I saw the lock on the ground. Message received, Mr. Masterson.

But some things you can't change.

I sit on the curb outside the capsule care with Abigail on my lap and watch the street for an older-model auto. The old ones are made of metal instead of plastic, and they cost less. I hail the first likely suspect and direct it to stop off at a j.a.panophile store. There, I drop some cash on a portable impact sh.e.l.l. The hot pink pod is hard outside and padded inside: gyro-stabilized and designed to keep an infant safe at ultra high-speeds. Hard to believe that in some places there's no stigma attached to taking your baby on a turbo-bike.

I shrug the sh.e.l.l onto my chest and slide Abigail into it. She's like a chubby pearl inside a clam. The glistening hull is rated for everything from impact to puncture to temperature and pressure fluctuations. With a couple of sharp yanks I secure the impact sh.e.l.l to my chest, straps cutting into my shoulders. Then I close the breather lid on top and listen for the gyros to engage. A soothing blue light spreads across the top of the sh.e.l.l, forming a happy face. Very j.a.panese.

The auto waits for us patiently, like a dog. An upgrade job, it has a vestigial driver compartment with a steering wheel and everything. The auto is doing its part in this clockwork city. All of us are doing our part. Not because we want to or even because we have to, but because it's the only way there is. You don't pick where the highway goes, you just keep one eye on the horizon and hope you're headed someplace nice.

I peek into the driver's-side window and notice a layer of dust on the front seat. The hunk of metal isn't designed for this but we've all of us have got to adapt. I drum my fingers on the roof and sigh then grab the door handle and yank it open. I crawl inside the doomed auto and buckle myself in and roll down the windows so the gla.s.s won't cut me when it shatters.

There are more suits outside the offices than I expected. I catch at least one with the first jump over the curb. He has a confused look on his face and a gun in his hand for a split-second. Then he is gone. Under the auto somewhere or maybe he dove out of the way.

n.o.body ever drives an auto on manual anymore- surprise.

The rest of the lookouts scatter as a ton of screeching metal gallops over the curb and plows into the front door of the Executor's office. The safety belt catches me hard, dislocating my shoulder. A spray of red light slashes my face and the impact sh.e.l.l emits a warning shriek. The front door of the building explodes, spraying splinters into the dark corridor leading to the Executor's office.

It's quiet for an ear-ringing five seconds after impact. Dust from the pulverized office door floats in my open windows. I glance down at my chest and see a bright red sad face on top of the impact sh.e.l.l, fading back to a safe blue.

Breathing in ragged gasps, I try to unclip my safety belt and hiss in pain. I wrap my good arm around my hurt shoulder, hold my breath, and ram the auto door a couple times. The joint pops back into the socket and I'm underwater for a second with my pain. Tires screech and men shout as other autos arrive.

"It's Drake!" shouts somebody.

I kick the dented door open and clamber over the hood of the auto, stepping through the splintered door frame into the dark corridor. At the end of the hallway, I draw my piece and aim it at the crashed auto wedged into a rectangle of fading evening light. A dark face peeks in but disappears quick when it sees me coiled up in the shadows like a viper.

One hand over my baby, I squeeze the trigger until I see a ball of fire.

I stagger just inside the door to the Executor's office before my joint-stabilization field fails. I crumble to the floor and I can hear Abigail crying but my eyes aren't working for some reason. I try to hug the impact sh.e.l.l tight against me but my arms won't listen to my brain.

An explosion rocks the hallway on the other side of the door.

I realize that I've really failed now. It was always a long shot. Strong out of the gate but faded on the stretch. In the end, no threat.

Then, the sh.e.l.l gives off a soft blue glow.

My eyes still work. It must be dark because they've cut the power to the building. My joint stabilizers failed, but now they've flipped to local batteries instead of leeching the ambient power supply. The stabilizers quiver- they're having trouble pulling out a pattern to offset the noise coming from my diseased nervous system.

I'm able to drag myself into a sitting position and flip the lid on the impact sh.e.l.l. Abigail is inside, angry and fussing but not hurt. And of course, looming over me, watching without expression, is the Executor. The ghost of the old man himself, standing in the blue-tinged darkness.

"Why didn't you listen to Mr. Masterson?" asks the machine.

"Who?" I ask. "The spook?"