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The family has raised remote viewing, in all its forms, to something of an art. And since we’ve always seen both science and magic as just two sides of the same useful coin, we work hard to stay in the forefront of all the latest advances. In fact, our research labs work every hour there is to make damned sure we’re always one step ahead. We’ve turned out weapons, and answers to weapons, that most of the world doesn’t even dream exist yet. We use whatever we have to, to keep the world safe.
I was surprised, and just a little alarmed, to see how many red alerts were showing; warnings of major threats not as yet narrowed down to any particular country or group or individual. And when I say major threat, I mean a clear and present danger to the world. I’d never known the War Room to seem so busy, with people crowded around every display, every computer, every paper-strewn table. There was a general susurrus of combined murmured voices, almost like being in a church. (Raised voices are discouraged; they breed agitation.) Messengers were constantly hurrying in and out, bearing notes and reports and vital updates. And fresh pots of tea. The family runs on tea. And Jaffa Cakes.
No one even glanced in my direction.
The Matriarch was sitting at the main mission table, stiff-backed and coldly attentive as always, studying an endless series of urgent reports as they were handed to her. Some she initialed, approving an action; others she sent back for more detail. Messengers waited in line for a chance to push a paper in front of her, or murmur confidentially in her ear, before hurrying off with new instructions. The Matriarch never allowed herself to seem hurried or worried, and she never raised her voice. If some especially harried messenger did overstep the mark, by questioning a detail or insisting on the importance of his message, one look from the Matriarch’s cold gray eyes was all it took, and the messenger would practically break his back bowing and scraping as he hurried away from her.
The Sarjeant-at-Arms advised the Matriarch of my arrival, and she turned immediately to look at me. I stared calmly back, not even bothering to unfold my arms. She beckoned imperiously, and I ambled across the War Room to join her, deliberately not hurrying. The Matriarch gestured sharply for everyone to withdraw, and they all fell back a decent distance so she and I could talk in private. The Sarjeant looked actually outraged at being lumped in with everyone else, but he went. One didn’t argue with the Matriarch. She stood up to greet me, wearing her usual cold and disapproving expression.
The family Matriarch. Martha Drood. Tall, elegant, and more royal than any queen. In her mid-sixties now, she dressed like country aristocracy, all twinset tweeds and pearls and understated makeup. She wore her long gray hair piled up in a sculpture on top of her head. She’d been beautiful in her day, and her strong bone structure ensured she was striking even now. Like the Ice Queen of fable, who drives a splinter of her ice into your heart while you’re young and helpless, so you have no choice but to love her forever. She didn’t offer me a hand to shake, and I didn’t offer to kiss her on the cheek. Honours even. I nodded to her.
"Hello, Grandmother."
The family has always been led by a Matriarch; it’s a holdover from our Druidic heritage. Martha is descended from a long line of warrior queens, and it shows. Her word is law. When I was a child, in family history class, I pointed out to the teacher that if she was our queen, the rest of us were just her drones. I got shouted at a lot for that. Technically, the Matriarch has absolute power over the family. In practice, she is very firmly advised by a council of twelve drawn from the foremost members of the family. You have to achieve something really quite remarkable for the family even to make the short list. Matriarchs who don’t or won’t listen to their councils don’t tend to last long. In extreme cases, accidents have been known to happen, and a new Matriarch takes over. The family can be extremely ruthless, when it has to.
Martha’s second husband, Alistair, stood diffidently at her side, as always, ready for whatever she might need him to do. Tall and sturdy, he dressed like a gentleman farmer; the kind that never ever gets his expensive boots dirty. He was ten years younger than Martha and handsome enough, I suppose, in a weak and unfinished sort of way, like the investment broker who assures you that the deal he’s proposing is absolutely guaranteed to make you rich. I nodded briefly to him.
"Hello, Alistair."
He was Principal Consort of the family, by long tradition, but I was damned if I’d call him Grandfather. My real grandfather, Martha’s first husband, Arthur, died fighting the Kiev Conspiracy in 1957. I never even knew him.
Alistair and I never did get along. Officially, his function in the family was as personal advisor to the Matriarch, but that was just something to keep him busy, so he wouldn’t realise he was just a glorified gopher. He’d never been on a field mission in his life, to his and everyone else’s relief. Before he married Martha he was something in the City, but only because he inherited it. Word was, the City was glad to be rid of him. The whole family knew he was useless, but Grandmother loved him, so out of respect for her no one ever said anything. While making very sure Alistair was never allowed near anything important. Or breakable. There’s one like Alistair in every family.
Martha studied me coldly. "It’s been quite a while since you graced us with your presence, Edwin."
I shrugged. "I like to keep busy. And it’s not as if there’s anything here I miss."
"After all this time, you still blame the family for the deaths of your mother and your father," said Martha. "You should be proud of their sacrifice."
"I am," I said. "But no one’s ever going to send me to my death on an operation that wasn’t pla
"You serve the family," Alistair said, trying for Martha’s frosty tone and not bringing it off.
"I serve the family," I said. "In my own way."
"The people responsible for the inadequate pla
"Sorry," I said. "But I’ve been recently diagnosed as fashion intolerant. I can’t wear anything good, in case I develop style."
She looked at me. "You know I don’t find humour fu
"That is something else I’ll decide for myself," I said firmly.
"What was wrong with dear Stephanie Mainwearing?" said Martha.
"Delightful creature, I thought."
"Oh, come on, Grandmother. If she was any more inbred, she’d be her own sister."
"Alice Little?"
"Lives in a world of her own and only comes out for mealtimes. Lots of mealtimes."
"Penelope Creighton?"
"You have got to be kidding! She’s slept with more women than I have! Don’t your people do even basic research anymore?"
"Well…are you at least seeing anyone at the moment, Edwin?"
I considered telling her about Silicon Lily but rose above the temptation. "No one special, Grandmother," I said.
"I hope you’re being…careful, Edwin," said Alistair in an even more snotty voice than usual. "You know how the family feels about bastards."