Marley had already mentally slipped into doctor mode, so she found it easy to hide her surprise. The woman’s statement explained a great deal. “You’re a psi-filer?” She rested her fingertips against the woman’s wrist and felt the frantic pulse.
“Karolina,” the woman gasped and bit back a moan, the tendons in her neck straining as she white-knuckled her way through another contraction.
Marley hid the frown that wanted to form and got to her feet. “I’ll be right back,” she promised and stepped out of the room and closed the door.
Gawaine was three paces away, her big medical bag in his hand. Marley gave him a stiff smile. “She’s in second stage labor,” she told him. “The contractions are quite close together. I’m going to have to deliver her myself.”
“Here?” Gawaine asked.
“There’s no time to get her anywhere else. And besides, she’s psi.”
Gawaine’s eyes widened. “Pritti,” he muttered, putting it together.
“My reputation has preceded me,” Marley said dryly. She took the bag and went back into the bedroom.
The room was empty.
Marley put the bag down slowly. “What the hell?”
“Where is she?” Gawaine asked over her shoulder. “I thought she was about to have the baby.”
“She is,” Marley agreed. She stepped out, still not fully understanding what was happening. She looked around the main room. “Karolina?” she called.
Gawaine went to the window by his desk and looked out. “She might have gone out the window,” he proposed, scanning the street below.
“Not in her condition,” Marley said. “Not that fast.” She went back into the bedroom, to see if the window had been opened, anyway.
Karoline laid on the mattress, her eyes closed, her hands curled into tight fists. She wasn’t breathing.
Marley dropped down beside her, her concern for her patient overriding the mystery of where she had just been. “No, you have to breathe through it,” she said quickly. “Pant like a dog. Didn’t anyone coach you?”
Karolina opened her eyes. “Who?”
Marley sighed and pulled her bag closer to the bed. “I’ll have to explain. Next contraction.” She rolled up her sleeves. “Let’s see how soon your baby is going to be with us.”
As she settled in to deliver the baby, she reflected that in a year of stunning firsts and unexpected novelties, this one took the cake.
Chapter Five
Chronometric Conservation Agency Headquarters, Villa Fontani, Rome, 2265 A.D.
Laszlo, being human, didn’t have the luxury of jumping wherever he wanted to. But he did have resources, which Mariana discovered when she met him in the main courtyard in front of the big fountain, as he had suggested.
It was five p.m. and too early for dinner. Wear jeans or something casual. But that was the only hint his message had given about their destination.
Mariana didn’t wear jeans. The wardrobe staple that had been in fashion for five centuries already, was simply not flattering on her. Her hips were too big, her waist too small and her thighs…well, best not to go there. No amount of swimming made them slender.
She had spent two hours in the pool that afternoon, doing laps and working off her nervous energy. Then she had headed for Cybelia’s shop and tapped on her door, feeling relatively calm.
Cybelia and her clothing had become an haute couture brand in the last year. At Mariana’s suggestion, Cybelia had begun a small garage business, constructing ready-to-wear garments based on her own designs, especially those she developed for the more public figures in the agency, like Nayara and Deonne. Everyone but Mariana had been stunned when the first shipments sold out almost overnight. Cybelia had been sprinting to keep up with demand ever since.
As Cybelia’s fashion business brought in a very nice stream of revenue for the agency, Nayara had agreed to a development budget that Mariana had hammered out for Cybelia and put into place. Cybelia’s shop now took up a whole wing, with a factory workshop for commercial garments and a suite for haute couture clients. Cybelia’s lounge office was located just off the client suite, but Cybelia was in the showroom, fussing over a rack of wedding dresses.
“Really? Wedding dresses now?” Mariana asked from the door.
Cybelia glanced over her shoulder and grinned. “A private client wanted one and another one spotted the dress and wanted one for herself. It’s snowballed from there. These are all bought and paid for.” She waved to an assistant. “The beading on this one, here on the bodice. It’s loose. Would you ask one of the sewers to reattach it?”
The assistant hurried away.
“I’m surprised you have time left to build outfits for the travelers.”
“That always gets first priority,” Cybelia said soberly. “Plus, it’s a commercial division of its own, now.”
“Right—Orzci De Orvi,” Mariana said. The Italian film director had reached out to Cybelia, asking if she and the agency could flip back to medieval France, research the clothing of the period and reconstruct it for a movie he was making. His budget had been generous and Nayara had negotiated a deal that had paid very well indeed.
“Not just De Orvi,” Cybelia said. “The University in Prague asked me to redesign their graduate gowns to look like the originals the scholars would have worn when the university was established.” Cybelia grinned and pushed her fingers through her silver, spiked hair. “Brenden had a pink fit, trying to find someone that knew the location.”
“It will do him good to sweat a bit,” Mariana said complacently, recalling Kieran’s words about Brenden’s ego. “Everyone needs a challenge or two to keep them awake. Speaking of which….”
Cybelia just raised her brows. “A challenge?” she asked, sounding interested.
“Not for you,” Mariana assured her. “But it’s a challenge for me. I need something casual, the equivalent to jeans. There’s nothing in my wardrobe that comes close to laid-back.” All her clothes were for work.
“Why would you want jeans?” Cybelia asked, wrinkling her nose. She had the same opinion about ‘canvas trousers’ as Mariana did—they were the least flattering garment a woman could wear.
Mariana could feel her cheeks heating. “Well….”
Cybelia clapped her hands to her face. “A date! You have a date!”
“Shh…” Mariana said quickly, looking around.
“Who is it?”
Her cheeks began to glow. Mariana took a breath and made herself say the name. “Laszlo Wolffe.”
Cybelia’s eyes grew very wide. She kept up with society news because most of her private clients came from the rich and famous, so she would know exactly who Laszlo Wolffe was. “No! Really? But that’s wonderful. I didn’t know he was back from that thing with the model.”
“Actress. He went to Evergreen, but yes, he’s back.”
Cybelia nodded. “I have just the thing for you to wear.” She had given Mariana a dress from her ready-to-wear samples. “I know it will fit you because I designed it for someone with your shape, which is the shape of most normal women. Well, perhaps not quite as curvy as you, not with that little wasp waist you’ve got now. But it will stretch. Go…go and have a good time and promise me you’ll tell me about it tomorrow.”
“If I’m back by tomorrow,” Mariana said and kept her face still.
Cybelia shrieked with laughter. It was the first time Mariana had heard her laugh.
The dress did fit. It was very stretchy, which was just as well. Mariana looked at herself in the mirror, wondering if the dress was casual enough to compete with jeans. The styling of it made her think of very old fashioned clothes—twentieth century costumes, just after the second phase of the World War. The stretchy material looked like highly polished sateen in a cheerful dark mulberry tartan print and hugged her figure from her shoulders to her waist. Then it flared out into a very full skirt that dropped to below her knees.
Cybelia hadn’t thrust shoes at Mariana along with the
dress, which she sometimes did if the type of shoe was critical to finishing the outfit. But Mariana had some flats that were the same maroon as the tartan.
After swimming that afternoon, Mariana had showered and dressed with care, feeling pleasantly mellow from all the exercise. She took extra time with her makeup, instead of rushing through it as she did most mornings. She pinned up her hair in a messy up do that would look after itself. She didn’t want to have to worry about stray hairs and tangled ends. Not tonight.
She hurried to the security center when she was ready. There, she would hear as soon as anyone else when Laszlo Wolffe had been cleared through the front gate.
Brenden was in his office when she got there. Of course he was. He lived here, just about. No one could accuse him of not attending to his job. Although, to be fair, it was a very demanding role. Nayara was always consulting with him and if she wasn’t, Ryan was. Or Kieran. Or Rob, who was second in charge now and had taken some of the work away from Brenden.
Brenden scowled through the glass at her. He had unpolarized it so light passed through from both directions, which meant that the arrangement of ancient weapons on the wall behind him was on display. This morning, when Laszlo had been here, the glass had been opaque, but that was standard practice. When a client was touring the security center items like weapons and costumes were tucked out of sight.
Mariana smiled at Brenden, too mellow to let him bother her. She went over to the desk she used most often. With a few touches, she brought up the alert feed from the front gate. No sign of Wolffe yet.
“Why are you monitoring the gate?” Brenden said from behind her.
Mariana turned to face him. “I’m waiting for my date. The gate will tell me when he’s here, instead of standing around in the heat outside.”
His expression darkened. “You’re using Agency resources to coordinate your dating?” His black eyes were thundery.
Her heart beat harder, but Mariana lifted her chin. “You have a personal computer I’m not aware of, to keep all your widows and society wives from tripping over each other?”
The desk chimed softly behind her.
“My date,” Mariana told him and picked up her bag.
Brenden turned wordlessly and strode back to his office. He didn’t quite slam the door, but it was next to impossible to slam the doors in the center anyway, as they were controlled by the network.
She was halfway across the room, heading for the exit, when Brenden threw the door open again and shouted. “Someone find that Scottish bastard who is supposed to be my assistant! On the double!” The door closed again.
Mariana smiled to herself, remembering Kieran’s words. There was no possible way Brenden might think she worshipped him, now.
She hurried through the gallery and stepped out into the courtyard. It was hot and still and the fine mist that sprayed up off the fountains made her skin sigh as she stepped through it. That was another good reason not to wear jeans—they would have been stifling in this weather.
The limousine reached the steps leading up to the courtyard as Mariana did. She stared at it, astonished. It was a jump car, not a simple road car. It was a current model, too, with panels that slid over the wing compartments and polarized windows.
The driver’s door opened and Laszlo Wolffe got out. He was wearing jeans.
“You know how to pilot?” she asked.
He moved around the car and climbed the steps to where she stood at the top. He stopped on the step below her, which put his gaze just above hers. “You’re here. Thank you.” He seemed genuinely pleased. His eyes were an interesting green color.
“You thought I would simply fail to arrive?” Mariana asked.
The corners of his eyes crinkled and his mouth turned up. “I know what they say about me. I didn’t know if you were aware of my reputation when you said yes to my invitation this morning but I’m quite sure that Justin, at least, would have filled you in since then.”
“You mean, your habit of throwing away perfectly good women?”
He grimaced. “It looks like a habit, but I assure you, it’s a curse I would like to break.”
“You could try dating men, instead. That would break it instantly.”
He laughed, showing his slightly crooked teeth. “Then I would miss out on the evening I have planned for us. Come and get in the car. It’s hot out here.”
She let him open the door for her, stepped up into the cab and settled into the seat. The four-way belt was similar to those in the limousines the agency owned, so she strapped herself in without problems.
Laszlo shook his head. “You are the first woman I haven’t had to teach how to use them.”
Mariana smiled at him. “I think you’ll find I’m not like anyone else you’ve known.” It was perfectly true, as far as she was concerned, but he would read it a different way and that was fine by her, too. A pleasant evening spent verbally parrying with one of the most eligible bachelors in the world was just what she needed.
Laszlo didn’t rise to the bait. He considered her frankly. “I already know you are unique.” He shut the door and moved around to his side of the car.
The inside of the limousine was as luxurious as any the agency owned. Mariana had only taken one semi-ballistic jump in the agency cars. It was completely different from the public jump buses she had used in the past. The buses were fun, but a private vehicle took it from fun all the way up to hold-your-breath amazing. The view at the top of the apex was nearly as good as the view had once been from the observation lounge of the satellite station the agency used to be located on.
Laszlo settled himself behind the controls and strapped himself in.
“Where are we going?” Mariana asked curiously.
“I’ve been pining for Moqueca de Camarão,” Laszlo said. “There’s only one place to get that.”
“I’m not even sure what it is,” Mariana confessed. “But the name sounds wonderful.”
“It’s a shrimp stew, Brazilian style.” He drove the car around the turning circle and back out to the gate. There was a jump strip along Lungotevere Tor di Nona, only thirty seconds away from the gate. That was probably the one he would use. Mariana thought about offering him the use of the strip behind the villa, but remained silent. This wasn’t agency business and she had already pushed Brenden’s good will as far as she should.
“So we’re going to Brazil?” she asked.
“Macapá,” he said in agreement.
Macapá, where the Worlds Assembly was located and the seat of government for Earth and the other eight inhabited worlds. Mariana had never been there, but she had heard Cáel Stelios speak about the city that had sprung up around the Assembly, the social life there that was barely disguised political maneuvering dressed up in evening clothes. The backstabbing and the gossip. Cáel made it sound like fun, like the endless intrigue was just a part of the lifestyle. But then, he was very good at his job.
Mariana pressed her hand against her knee. “I’m not nearly well dressed enough for Macapá.” She had seen the net reports on the glittering events that went on there.
“Relax,” Laszlo told her. “I’m not dressed for high society either. The Assembly is not in session and Macapá is as quiet as a grave in off-season. But they still have some of the best restaurants in the world there and they are open all year round.” He merged the car into the traffic on Lungotevere Tor di Nona and settled back, one hand on the wheel.
“The strip is just up ahead,” Mariana warned, pointing.
“Thank you.” He cut across lanes of traffic and veered into the waiting lane for the strip. The robot sentry was one of the simple green/go-red/stop controllers that could be found all over the world at public strips and private strips built with economy in mind.
There were two cars in front of them. It would take a few minutes to get their clearance. Laszlo punched in coordinates for their landing, setting up the parameters of the jump. That was one of the adrenaline producing effects of semi
ballistic jumps. Once the car reached the top of the jump and began the descent, it couldn’t stop. If the strip at the other end wasn’t clear, well, that was unfortunate.
The installation of neural net-connected sentries on every landing strip had resolved that issue. The car’s navigator spoke to the sentry here, providing coordinates for the destination strip. Clearance to jump wasn’t given until the strip at the other end was clear. The simple robot sentries like these ones would hold the strip clear until the requesting car arrived. Sometimes, the higher jumps could take fifteen minutes from apex to landing, even at the supersonic speeds that the jumps created. But no one minded…or they were patient about their wait. The simple system saved lives.
The more sophisticated traffic controllers would monitor the arrival of a cleared car and allow more to take off right up until the arriving car landed. At the bigger public strips, Mariana had watched, fascinated, as a car took off barely thirty seconds in front of the arriving car—on the same strip.
She had read that when commercial jet travel had been at its peak in the early twenty-first century, the London strips had landed aircraft every forty-five seconds and just as many had taken off, too. She had seen pictures and footage of the huge craft that had been in vogue then—graceful domed and fixed-winged craft that carried hundreds of people.
The traffic those primitive strips had handled was almost the same volume as some of the bigger strips in use today, but the scary part was that all that traffic had been coordinated by humans.
She loved semi ballistic jumps, but she tended to hold her breath from apex to landing.
“This could take a few minutes if there’s an incoming,” Laszlo said. He glanced at her. “Sorry.”
“The car in front is taking off. I don’t think there are any arrivals due.” She smiled back. “Although that could change at any second.”
“You’ve jumped before,” Laszlo observed.
“Only once or twice, after I started working for the agency. They have their own jump cars, of course, but they rarely use them.”
Spartan Resistance Page 6
