Then Martin Humphries swept into her existence. A lifetime younger, bold, vital, even ruthless, he stormed her academic tower with the news that an alien artifact had been discovered deep in the Asteroid Belt.

“It’s some kind of art form,” he said, desperate with excitement. “You’ve got to come with me and see it.”

Trying to control the long-forgotten yearning that stirred within her, Elverda had asked quietly, “Why do I have to go with you, Mr. Humphries? Why me? I’m an old wo—”

“You are the greatest artist of our time,” he had answered without an eyeblink’s hesitation. “You’ve got to see this! Don’t bullshit me with false modesty. You’re the only other person in the whole whirling solar system who deserves to see it!”

“The only other person besides whom?” she had asked.

He had blinked with surprise. “Why, besides me, of course.”

So now we are on this nameless asteroid, waiting to see the alien artwork. Just the three of us. The richest man in the solar system. An elderly artist who has outlived her usefulness. And a cyborg soldier who has cleared everyone else away.

He claims to be a priest, Elverda remembered. A priest who is half machine. She shivered as if a cold wind surged through her.

A harsh buzzing noise interrupted her thoughts. Looking into the main part of the room, Elverda saw that the phone screen was blinking red in rhythm to the buzzing.

“Phone,” she called out.

Humphries’s face appeared on the screen instantly. “Come to my quarters,” he said. “We have to talk.”

“Give me an hour. I need—”

“Now.”

Elverda felt her brows rise haughtily. Then the strength sagged out of her. He has bought the right to command you, she told herself. He is quite capable of refusing to allow you to see the artifact.