Daily, I jog the great circuit of the House, through the echoing square of corridor, past suite after empty suite, and reflect on the workings of fate.

My family is gone.

They were Homo Superior, no doubt of that. For three centuries, Their Seniors subtly, secretly controlled a vast financial net. For three centuries, Their young folk scaled mountains, explored jungles, un-earthed troves. Their youngsters swept whatever competition they condescended to compete. They walked like demi-gods and goddesses, accepted near-homage as Their unconscious due. They wore a dozen names to hide Their lineage, used a score of careful hideaways.

And, latterly, They came here, to this fine place We called, half jestingly, 'Olympus Mons'. They met and talked, puzzled esoteric webs and, always, baulked at what to do with me.

For, I was odd, it would be fair to say. They early saw, and made quite sure that no-one else could realise. When I was young, I took ill from a 'rare tropical disease'. It recurred conveniently. I 'relapsed' and 'convalesced' whenever visitors were due. Later, the child psychiatrists diagnosed 'Suspected Brain Dysfunction', care of 'rare disease'.

Then migraine, from 'Synergic Threshold Allergens'. The doctors never proved a thing. Nor were they meant. One expert taught me bio-feedback, lovely game. I learned to fake strange symptoms for the doctors who came and went. Give them their due; I think some guessed. Also, perhaps, the why. I hold that brave.

And now I come to the gym. Once more, I hurl my angers at the walls, the ladders, the weights and bars. Across the colonnade, the central pool. A dozen easy-breathing lengths, a yoga pause in submerged igloo, then out to run and run.

From young, I knew They would never set me free. My mere existence would have damned both Them and me, so I complied.

Don't get me wrong; I am no monster, even to the careful eye. I passed un-noticed in a thousand streets. Well, you take a dog for walks ! At puberty, They sent me for some fresh, unbiased tests. I was a dozen folk in twenty weeks. I had six more personas in reserve, but not the need. There was no doubt.

We had gene charts of Us, with Our key regions marked. They'd shown me mine so often, I knew it well. The part where Our genius should have been was filled with dross. Or worse ? They weren't quite sure. It hurt.

I pause on my circuit, glance into my empty room. Once bed, once place to hang my clothes, a dirty patch where the Terminal once stood.

When EdSat One brought the Global Library to any home, it was god-send to Them. I was but a number on a charge account. No matter what I asked or read, I stayed anonymous. The considerable cost was but a flea-bite to keep this bright but backward boy amused.

I needed little sleep to heal my easy days, and regularly browsed journals into the early dawn.

And so, I found that document, detailing some-one's patient, obscure work. It dealt with regulator genes, which I'd have skipped save it dealt with portion dear to me.

There, in black and white matrix, I saw and read my fate.

I checked it thrice, plus all supporting work. All matched. I took the print and then, as now, I walked to the breakfast hall.

Fine crescent tables, matching chairs, superb parquet under-foot. Exquisite art upon the walls. An exalted mobile tinkling in that soaring, airy dome.

I stepped within, laid my find before my billionaire brother. He was the youngest there save I, by custom my go-between.

He read it at Their normal, blurring pace then, some-what paler, once again, then twice. He left his meal, deferentially approached the next in line. A little while passed, then the two moved on. I waited, sadly watching our house of cards begin its low-g fall. Three, five, eight, thirteen; the snowball even had a Fibonacci roll.

A quorum reached, a Chairman was soon found. He read, re-read, delegated the necessary checks. The couriers soon returned, ashen. The Chairman called me forwards. He asked me if I knew what I must do. I told him yes.

He looked around the room as if for the last time. He asked me what I wanted. I told him. Also, why.

So, now, I turn from that empty room onto the shaded patio. I start to run, a loping down-hill stride that swiftly carries me to the reef-sheltered shore. A palm-tied rope draws my fish trap from the lagoon. I stun, gill-string the catch, begin an easy jog along the snow-white coral dust that forms the beach. Beyond steep headland, idyllic-set among young palms, a simple, airy bungalow.

"I'm back," I call.

"Nice timed," sweet Marianne replies. "My lecture's starting soon !"

I behead, gut and skin the fish with practised flicks of blade, rinse them and leave the fillets cooling in the fridge. I step outside, ensure our arm-span alloy paraboloid still points to EdSat Twelve, then sit beside Marianne's weighty sprawl of books and documents.

"Good run ?"

"Yes, thank you."

She nods, sets our two-metre colour screen alight as the play-in chimes.

"Welcome back to the 'University of the Air'. Course F_128. Unit 29. Mayan Economics-- The rôle of the coastal traders in the decline of the religious elite. Good day ! My guest today is Dr. Anthony Smith who, as you should have read from the course texts, has..."

I lounge, disinterested, casually leafing through the texts, off-prints and short-hand notes. Marianne calls a reference. I swiftly read aloud its summary. She shakes her head, attention rivetted to the screen. She calls another, excitement rising in her voice. I read it back.

"Go on," she prompts then, when I am silent, turns to find me hunting through the pile. She grins. We share the private joke. She returns to the screen's arcane debate.

After, when our grilled fish and greens are debris on our plates, she laughs, a chime-clear note. " 'Wanted, holiday companion. Quiet male student with academic tastes seeks female student, similar inclined. Box N.' "

I shrug.

"You didn't mention the tropical beach, the millionaire's deserted isle !" She shakes the cascade of silken, ebon hair that frames her classic features, asks, "So, tell me again; what's a nice boy like you doing in a dream like this ?"

I smile. We've played this out so many times before. "I did a friend a favour. He let me stay a while."

"And you..." She looks me up and down. "No accent, scars or easy age. An even tan. A skinny, Sunday Athlete's build but, when you move-- Phew !"

"My thyroid's marginally hyper, rarely shows."

"Your scholarship is Harvard ? MIT ? Cambridge ?"

"I'm no-where qualified. I was home-taught."

"Don't jest," she snaps. "Your skills in Bio', Economics, all the rest ! Your study rate-- You're so bright-- That, I know !"

I shake my head. "Eidetic's children's trick. I'd not pass Mensa's door."

Nor they to Ours before, and now We're not...

"But still-- They teach us how to gauge--"

I touch a finger to her lips. "Don't mock me, Master. I should know."

She smiles so gently, certain that I do. We turn to other things.

Sweet Marianne; though ignorant of much, I am most pleased to learn. Sweet Marianne, my tutor unsurpassed. She adds three languages to mine, an archaeologist's perspective on deep-time. She tells me of the world outside, to flesh out my news reports. She teaches thus and then, as one, we deploy skills that can't be used alone.

When Marianne sleeps, a sated tigress, I rise. I run and run. I see like day by the crescent Moon. I hear the tree-mice talk. I gain the palm-crested headland, stare at the summit silhouette.

Ten years, it's been, and what ten years, the like that none had seen. The media joked about a 'New World Order', as dozens of mega-rich collectively divested their holdings, put that money to work, oft ruthlessly. It's brought an end to war, repression, opium, disease, starvation, fear.

The 'Second Renaissance', it's called, and people wonder how. I know. But, even so, I sigh, for They are still my kin.

Think of a combination lock. Better, think of a 'Fruit Machine'. So many plays can win, for prizes large and small. Within our genes, there's similar dice, as regulator segments cross and re-combine.

Within Our genes, that genius trait--

But We were wrong for, not the trait, it merely gave odds-on. To get the jackpot took some more which, from that chart, I found. Nor had I that. Instead--

We were quite few always, so very slow to mate and multiply. Tradition held Our high intellect turned thoughts from carnal ways. I found that wrong; most tragic, grievous, arrogant mistake.

One in a million was the activator's key. One in a million, recessive, threshold cumulative, vile.

My brother, cousins, kith and kin and I were yet alike this single way. We could not pass the genius trait to kids.

But, there we part.

That set my price.

They'd raised me kindly as a retarded demi-god, but I was more and less. For I had not the trait to pass, while They, Their trait betrayed.

Which made me Heir.

I cry.