Ainsley Zangari was waiting in the lounge. Yuri was impressed. At 136, the richest man there’d ever been had clearly spent something like a medium-size country’s arms budget on genetic therapy; his anti-aging treatments went far beyond the simple telomere extensions Yuri had spent decades of his generous bonuses on. Anyone who didn’t know him would think he was a normal forty-year-old who ate sensibly and exercised properly. Even his hair had turned from silver back to a youthful brown, as if follicle hues were merely seasonal, and now spring had come once more.

“Yuri, good to see you.” A handshake, with a strong grip, underscoring easy vigor.

“Sir. Poi said this was urgent.”

“Yes, let me introduce you. This is Gwendoline.” Ainsley gestured at a teenage girl sitting awkwardly on one of the antique settees.

“Pleased to meet you,” Yuri said automatically. Boris was running facial recognition on her, but there was nothing in Connexion’s database. That didn’t bode well. Connexion had files on everyone remotely important. He told Boris to find out who owned the penthouse. Answer: a firm registered on Archimedes, a post-Jupiter-orbit habitat whose major industry was serving as a zero-tax enclave.

“Sorry to be so much trouble,” Gwendoline said. Her voice was high and hesitant. Yuri stopped analyzing her and actually looked. She was pretty, of course, but not just in that way all teenage girls were. Gwendoline was groomed to perfection. Casually, of course, but not cheaply. Personal stylists and the right schooling had created an effortless ingénue elegance. He decided she was maybe seventeen or eighteen, with a thin face and strong jaw, giving her glass-cutter cheeks. A button nose was heavily freckled, and her long strawberry-blond hair possessed a healthy gloss that rivaled the gold ornaments glittering around the lounge. Her dress was also deceptively simple: white and scarlet cotton with a square-cut neck and a hemline high above the knee. Yuri just knew it wasn’t printed in any fabricator; this was Rome or Paris couture with an eye-watering price tag. Gwendoline was a true golden-child heartbreaker. So then: spoiled brat or wallet-busting mistress.

“I’m sure you won’t be,” Yuri said with as much sincerity as he could assemble.

“Gwendoline is my granddaughter,” Ainsley said, letting the pride seep into his tone.

Yuri was suddenly much more alert. That fact wasn’t listed in any Connexion security network, which was extremely odd. Ainsley already had nine marriages under his belt, producing thirty-two acknowledged children, most of whom worked in Connexion management. In turn they had numerous grandchildren and great-grandchildren, forming a large dynasty covering the full spectrum from dedicated workaholics to high-maintenance airhead princesses, every one of whom was guarded with a vigilance that was once the province of Earth’s nuclear codes.