Rachel Duncan in her usual contemptuous, supercilious, dismissive mode is irritating but predictable, a known quantity, the wasp you can see in the room.

Rachel Duncan being respectful, conciliatory and kind scares the shit out of me.

My mind races furiously as I walk down the long corridor back to my office, consciously slowing my strides and forcing myself to remain outwardly calm.

Of course the story about Aldous' having had a heart attack on a company jet is completely bogus. For a man his age, he was in remarkably good health, though I suspect that was largely due to the stupendous biochemical, surgical and other means available to him rather than through effort and discipline on his own. I do not doubt that he is indeed dead, though, and that likely Rachel was parroting the story and performing for the cameras' benefit.

So they killed him.

Foolish to ask why? or how? or even who "they" are. Whether Dyad or Topside, someone or some entity clearly found him no longer useful and... dispatched him, neatly and efficiently.

Dyad has always been the province of those drawn to the tantalizing allure of unimaginable power, wealth and influence. Some, like Aldous, manage to ride the thermals and turbulent airs like predatory hawks, rising ever higher and always vigilant to weakness below until they are picked off in turn by a yet more powerful hawk swooping down from above. And then there are the many underlings who dance attendance on those who wield authority and clout, like moths who cannot resist flying ever closer to the flames.

I am neither hawk nor moth. Rather, I envision myself as one of the invisible horde of worker bees who put their heads down and keep the machinery moving, harmless and unthreatening in their very anonymity.

Reaching my office at last, I lock the door behind me and flop gratefully into my desk chair, blowing out a plosive puff of air.

The awkward pressure at my right thigh reminds me of the presence of my small friend. Lifting up my hips, carefully I ease the holster out of my pocket. Point to Diana: neither Rachel nor her personal close protection detail nor her painfully over-groomed assistant had spotted the Sig — or, as is more likely, none of them had even considered the possibility that I was armed. However, where I am going next, the security will not be so lax.

Slipping the gun out of the nylon sheath, I make a mental note to tell Diana to add the holster to my tab. Dropping the mag and thumbing free the hollow points, then pulling back the slide to clear the chamber, I return the little Sig to its rug and the bullets to their box. Zipping my range bag shut, I lock it securely in the largest drawer of my desk.

From another drawer, I pull out my AeroPress, setting it up on top of a thick ceramic mug. While filtered water heats in my electric kettle, I grind coffee beans in my manual burr grinder, sniffing appreciatively at the aroma when I pour the grounds into the press' chamber. Just as large bubbles start to form in the kettle, I pour in enough water to saturate the grounds, letting them bloom and fully discharge carbon dioxide, then fill the chamber; after stirring thoroughly and then allowing the grounds to steep, I depress the plunger. Popping out the "puck" of spent grounds into my bathroom trashcan, I rinse the rubber seal, then return to my desk and indulge myself in sipping the incredibly rich, smooth, flavorful brew.

Calmer now, I contemplate Rachel's ostensible change of heart.

It is undeniably an act, but to what end? Her unsettling shift in demeanor reminds me inexorably of Cleckley's case studies in his pioneering work on sociopathy, which despite its many outdated observations still affected me profoundly when I did my Psychiatry blocks in med school. Over and over, he demonstrates how the sociopath, at least nominally aware of his character, emulates normalcy by overcompensating.

I cannot rid myself of the impression that Rachel is putting on her best imitation of an empathetic human being.

Surely there is at least some truth to her transformation. Perhaps she has finally realized that the disease that is assaulting Cosima may someday affect her as well. That, and the knowledge that Aldous withheld critical information from all of us, could very well explain her attempt at rapprochement.

I had long ago come to the conclusion that her attitude toward me was at least in part a reflection of Aldous'. Take, for example, her attitude toward Cosima, which has always been considerate, even deferential — because Aldous had always made it clear that she was a prize worthy of pursuit. Never mind that my credentials are impeccable and, frankly, far more impressive than Cosima's. Clearly I had miscalculated in attaching myself to Aldous so early on in my career at Dyad; I have since paid the price for it in his and therefore Rachel's disdain, unconscious or otherwise.

But that no longer matters.

Assuming that she is at least partly sincere in her willingness to extend the olive branch, I cannot see any other way to move forward besides the plan she is proposing.

I finish my coffee, grab my purse and head down to the garage, entering my destination into the car's GPS.

As I approach the house, whose absolutely ordinary appearance belies the extraordinary nature of its occupants, I see the edge of a curtain flutter back into place in a window on the lower floor. Steeling myself, I knock firmly on the door, hoping fervently that Mrs. S won't simply shoot first and not bother to ask questions later.

"Mrs. S, someone here to see you," says a male voice behind the door. I cannot be certain, but I think it belongs to that man with the face like a mournful hatchet, the one who always seems to be in Siobhan Sadler's orbit.

She doesn't even try to hide the shotgun.

As I allow my coat and purse to be searched and my person to be patted down, I look around surreptitiously, but I am sure that Mrs. S is highly unlikely to allow any interloper to catch so much as a glimpse of either Kira or Duncan.

"She's clean."

"Thank you, Benjamin." A glance from those cold blue eyes is all it takes. The hatchet-faced man excuses himself from the room, no doubt remaining within earshot of any potential trouble.

After my delivery of Rachel's message and offer to an understandably sceptical Mrs. S and Sarah, I leave the house feeling as though I have a target prominently pinned to my back. I do not breathe freely until I am back in my car.

During the drive back to the office, it occurs to me that of all the reasons for which Rachel might hate Sarah — her having successfully conceived and carried and borne Kira, the fierce love and support of her sisters and brother, her ability to disrupt by the mere fact of her existence the very institutions and protocols that are the only life Rachel knows — the thing that worms its way into her gut and eats at the shriveled dark thing she calls a soul is her immeasurable envy that Sarah has a mother who would literally kill for her.