The Hackworths have a family reunion;

Hackworth strikes out on his quest;

an unexpected companion.

Atlantis/Seattle was designed small and to the point; the narrow, convoluted straits of Puget Sound, already so full of natural islands, did not leave much room for artificial ones. So they had made it rather long and slender, parallel to the currents and the shipping lanes, and been rather stingy when it came to the parks, meadows, heaths, gentleman farms, and country estates. Much of the Seattle area was still sufficiently rich, civilized, and polite that New Atlantans did not object to living there, and little Victorian mini-claves were scattered about the place, particularly east of the lake, around the misty forest domains of the software khans. Gwen and Fiona had taken a townhouse in one of these areas.

These tiny bits of New Atlantis stood out from the surrounding forest in the same way that a vicar in morning coat and wing collar would have in the cave of the Drummers. The prevailing architecture here, among those who had not adopted neo-Victorian precepts, was distinctly subterranean; as if these people were somehow ashamed of their own humanity and could not bear to fell even a handful of the immense Douglas firs that marched monotonously up the tumbling slopes toward the frozen, sodden ridge of the Cascades. Even when it was half buried, a house wasn't even a proper house; it was an association of modules, scattered about here and there and connected by breezeways or tunnels. Stuck together properly and built on a rise, these modules might have added up to a house of substance, even grandeur; but to Hackworth, riding through the territory on his way to visit his family, it was all depressing and confusing. Ten years among the Drummers had not affected his Victorian aesthetics. He could not tell where one house left off and the next one began, the houses were all intertangled with one another like neurons in the brain.

His mind's eye again seemed to seize control of his visual cortex; he could not see the firs anymore, just axons and dendrites hanging in black three-dimensional space, packets of rod logic maneuvering among them like space probes, meeting and copulating among the nerve fibers.

It was a bit too aggressive to be a reverie and too abstract to be a hallucination. It didn't really clear away until a gust of cold mist hit him in his face, he opened his eyes, and realized that Kidnapper had stopped after emerging from the trees at the crest of a mossy ridgeline. Below him was a rocky bowl with a few cobblestone streets sketched out in a grid, a green park lined with red geraniums, a church with a white steeple, whitewashed four-story Georgian buildings surrounded by black wrought-iron fences. The security grid was tenuous and feeble; the software khans were at least as good at that kind of thing as Her Majesty's specialists, and so a New Atlantis clave in this area could rely on the neighbors to shoulder much of that burden.

Kidnapper picked its way carefully down the steep declivity as Hackworth looked out over the tiny clave, musing at how familiar it seemed. Since leaving the Drummers, he hadn't gone more than ten minutes without being seized by a feeling of déjà vu, and now it was especially strong. Perhaps this was because, to some degree, all New Atlantis settlements looked alike. But he suspected that he had seen this place, somehow, in his communications with Fiona over the years.

A bell clanged once or twice, and teenaged girls, dressed in plaid uniform skirts, began to emerge from a domed school. Hackworth knew that it was Fiona's school, and that she was not entirely happy there. After the crush of girls had gone out of the place, he rode Kidnapper into the school yard and sauntered once around the building, gazing in the windows. Without much trouble he saw his daughter, sitting at a table in the library, hunched over a book, evidently as part of some disciplinary action.

He wanted so badly to go in and put his arms around her, because he knew that she had spent many hours suffering like punishments, and that she was a lonely girl. But he was in New Atlantis, and there were proprieties to be observed. First things first. Gwendolyn's townhouse was only a few blocks away. Hackworth rang the bell, determined to observe all of the formalities now that he was a stranger in the house.

"May I ask what your visit is regarding?" asked the parlourmaid, as Hackworth spun his card onto the salver. Hackworth didn't like this woman, who was named Amelia, because Fiona didn't like her, and Fiona didn't like her because Gwen had given her some disciplinary authority in the household, and Amelia was the sort who relished having it. He tried not to confuse himself by wondering how he could possibly know all of these things.

"Business," Hackworth said pleasantly. "Family business."

Amelia was halfiway up the stairs when her eyes finally focused on Hackworth's card. She nearly dropped the salver and had to clutch at the banister with one hand in order to keep her balance. She froze there for a few moments, trying to resist the temptation to turn around, and finally surrendered to it. The expression on her face was one of perfect loathing mixed with fascination.

"Please carry out your duties," Hackworth said, "and dispense with the vulgar theatrics."

Amelia, looking crestfallen, stormed up the stairs with the tainted card. There followed a good deal of muffled commotion upstairs. After a few minutes, Amelia ventured as far down as the landing and encouraged Hackworth to make himself comfortable in the parlor. He did so, noting that in his absence, Gwendolyn had been able to consummate all of the long-term furniture-buying strategies she had spent so much time plotting during the early years of their marriage. Wives and widows of secret agents in Protocol Enforcement could rely on being well cared for, and Gwen had not allowed his salary to sit around collecting dust.

His ex-wife descended the stairway cautiously, stood outside the beveled-glass parlor doors for a minute peering at him through the gauze curtains, and finally slipped into the room without meeting his gaze and took a seat rather far away from him. "Hello, Mr. Hackworth," she said.

"Mrs. Hackworth. Or is it back to Miss Lloyd?"

"It is."

"Ah, that's hard." When Hackworth heard the name Miss Lloyd, he thought of their courtship.

They sat there for a minute or so, not saying anything, just listening to the ponderous ratcheting of the grandfather clock.

"All right," Hackworth said, "I won't trouble you talking about extenuating circumstances, as I don't ask for your forgiveness, and in all honesty I'm not sure that I deserve it."

"Thank you for that consideration."

"I would like you to know, Miss Lloyd, that I am sympathetic to the step you have taken in securing a divorce and harbour no bitterness on that account."

"That is reassuring to know."

"You should also know that whatever behaviour I engaged in, as inexcusable as it was, was not motivated by rejection of you or of our marriage. It was not, in fact, a reflection upon you at all, but rather a reflection upon myself."

"Thank you for clarifying that point."

"I realize that any hope I might harbour in my breast of rekindling our former relationship, sincere as it might be, is futile, and so I will not trouble you after today."

"I cannot tell you how relieved I am to hear that you understand the situation so completely."

"However, I would like to be of service to you and Fiona in helping to resolve any loose ends."

"You are very kind. I shall give you my lawyer's card."

"And, of course, I look forward to reestablishing some sort of contact with my daughter."

The conversation, which had been running as smoothly as a machine to this point, now veered off track and crashed. Gwendolyn reddened and stiffened.