The Clan Corporate

Interruption

Miriam sat alone in her bedroom for a couple of hours, thoughts spi

They'd use artificial insemination. She'd have one or more small infants, be exhausted from the effort-it wasn't for nothing that they called it labor-and the babies would in turn be hostages to use against her. The idea of bringing up children didn't fill her with enthusiasm; she'd seen friends turned old before their days by the workload of diaper changes and late-night feedings. It was probably different for royalty: she'd have servants and wet nurses on call. But still, wasn't that a bit irresponsible? Miriam felt a twinge of conscience. She'd gotten into this mess of her own accord. It wouldn't be fair to take out her resentment on a baby who wasn't even around at the time. Or on the idiot prince. It wasn't his fault.

I wish I could just run away. She lay back on the bed and indulged her escape fantasies for a while, studiously not thinking about Iris. I could go back to New Britain. I've got friends there. But the Clan knew all about her company and her contacts. I'd have to start from scratch. Talk to Erasmus about a new identity. And without the Clan co

Her thoughts turned to Cambridge. Home. I could go back to being a journalist, she thought. Yeah, right. That would work precisely as long as it took for her to run into someone she'd interviewed at a trade conference. Or until she needed a bank account and a driving license. Post-9/11, disappearing and getting a new identity was becoming increasingly difficult-

Which leaves the feds, she thought. I could go look up Mike. He worked for the DEA, didn't he? Since Matthias went over the wall, something had clearly gone deeply wrong with the Clan courier networks. Matthias had blabbed to someone, and whatever he'd told them had caused the feds to start staking out safe houses. Which means they know something about the Clan, she told herself, with a dawning sense that she'd been far too slow on the uptake. She sat up. I've been an idiot. If I defected, I could join the Witness Protection Program and then-

She hit a brick wall. A series of unwelcome visions began playing themselves out in the theater of her imagination. There went Angbard-a scheming old bastard he might be, but still her uncle-shoved into a federal penitentiary at his age. Lock him up for life and throw away the key. And there went Iris-the entire family, everybody, they could arrest us all for complicity, criminal conspiracy. Right? There went Olga. And Brill-probably for murder, in her case, come to think of it. The government would play hardball. They'd find some way to come over here and mess things up. If necessary, they'd chop up a captured world-walker's brains to figure out what made them tick, grow it in a petri dish and mount it on a bomber. Before 9/11 she wouldn't have credited it, but this was a whole different world, these were dangerous times, and the administration might do anything if it thought there was a serious threat to the nation.

Forget law and order: it would be all-out war. Afghanistan was a source of hard drugs and terrorism before 9/11, and look what they'd done there when the rules changed. Everybody had cheered the collapse of the Taliban-and yes, those bastards had it coming-but what about the village goatherds on the receiving end of cluster bombs, intended for sheep that looked like guerillas when viewed in infrared from thirty thousand feet? What about the women and children killed when some bastard up the road with a satellite phone decided to settle a local long-ru

I can't do that, Miriam thought despairingly. She flopped back on the bed again. I want out, sure. But do I want out badly enough to kill people? If the only person to suffer was Baron Henryk, perhaps the answer was yes-and that asshole doctor, she wouldn't mind hurting him, or at least putting him through the same level of humiliation he'd inflicted on her. But the idea of turning everyone in the Clan over to the US government cut too close to the bone. I am one of them, she realized, turning the unwelcome idea over in her mind to examine it for feel. I don't think like them and I hate the way they work, but I can't hand my family over to the government. Leaving aside the fact that the Clan thought they were a government-and had a reasonable claim to being one-that thought clarified things somewhat.

And then there's Mom.

Miriam took a deep breath. Her mood of fragile hope crashed, giving way to bleak depression. Henryk's got me. Iris is right, I'm out of options. Unless something unexpected happens, I am stuck with this. I'll have to go through with it. She winced. What did they say about pregnancy? You can't world-walk while you're expecting. Another unwanted, hostile imposition on her freedom. He won't need a prison cell while I'm pregnant, she realized. And afterward… when Iris had made her escape she'd been young and healthy. By the time Miriam delivered, she'd be close to her mid-thirties.

There was a knock. Miriam pushed herself upright and stretched. The knock repeated, tentative, uncertain of itself. Not the ferret, she thought, walking over to the door. "Yes?" she demanded.

"Milady, we're to-" She didn't understand the rest, but she knew the tone of voice. She opened the door.

"You are, me, to dress?" Miriam managed haltingly. The two servants bobbed. "Good." She shrugged. This is going to happen, she realized dismally, walking toward the wardrobe as if on autopilot. Oh well. I guess I should leave this to Helge, then. Helge? "Now what am I to wear?" she said aloud, surprising herself with her diction.

The Clan weren't big on subtle messages. Helge let the servants lace her into an underdress, then help her into a winter gown of black silk and deep blue velvet. It had long sleeves, full skirts, and a neckline that rose to a high collar. Current fashion favored a revealing décolletage, but she was in a funereal mood. She wrapped a thick rope of pearls around her waist as a belt, and looped another around her collar. Then she checked her appearance in the mirror. Her cheek was coming up in a fine bruise where Henryk had struck her, so she picked out a black lace veil, cloak, and matching gloves from her armoire. Let 'em wonder what kind of damaged goods they're buying, she thought bitterly. This outfit wouldn't give much away: truthfully, it looked like Victorian mourning drag. "I'm ready to go now," she a

"Right here." The front door was open, the ferret standing beside it. "My, how mysterious."

"Is the coach ready?"

"If you would care to follow me…"

She managed to descend the staircase without tripping, and she clambered into the coach that was waiting. A sealed coach, with shuttered windows, she observed. Still a prisoner, I see, she noted ironically. Someone doesn't trust me.