"Yep." Bill Saunders looked at the holograph again. "That's pretty damned convincing. You've convinced me, it's that simple."
He sank back in his chair, fingers steepled and eyes closed. Taking it easier than I did, Henry thought. But then, he hadn't been easily thrown back in Nam either.
"Okay," the businessman said after a moment. "Why not the government? I've got some pull with them; they owe me. Not least for staying out in '96, that was close."
"Lafarge thinks—and I agree, and our contact with the FBI does too—that we couldn't get anything done quickly. Too much incredulity. And anything the government knew, she'd know. By now she's probably got some influential people working for her."
"Yep," the Texan said again. "But with this, or a few things more, we could convince the necessary people. This Ingolfsson, the time traveler, she doesn't have much fancy gear, you say. We send in a Ranger team, and the problem's solved."
Carmaggio shook his head. He could feel sweat break out on his forehead. The more people in the know, the closer to disaster.
"Bill, that's just what we can't do. Lafarge says these Draka, they specialize in genetics—that fits what Ingolfsson's been doing with her company; yeah, plenty of electronics, but biotech stuff too."
"That oil-eating bug," Saunders said thoughtfully. "I figured that one was too good to be true. But I bought a piece of the action," he added. "Made a fair dollar. So, they're geneticists. So what?"
"So making a plague would be trivial work for her. That's how Lafarge puts it: trivial. They won their version of World War Three with something like that. Something that could wipe out ninety-nine point nine percent of the human race, leaving her to pick up the pieces."
"Judas priest," Saunders said. The words grunted out as if he'd been punched in the belly. He sat silent again for a full minute before barking: "Why hasn't the bitch done it already?"
"These drakensis, they're conquerors. As far as I could follow the explanation, they get a major charge out of making people truckle to them. You can't get much groveling time out of a corpse; and it would slow her down considerably, having to make components for her beacon instead of ordering them from working firms. But if Ingolfsson thinks her cover's been blown, she'd do it—Lafarge said he'd bet his life, literally, that something like that is in place right now and ready to roll."
Carmaggio wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Lafarge had had some recordings of what Draka biobombs could do to organisms. Simple death, murderous insanity, hell, some of them had dissolved, rotting while still alive and fully conscious . . . .
"Damnation, this is like World War Three, only we've got our finger on the button," Saunders said, rising and going to the sideboard. "Speaking of which . . . a nuke? Drastic, but—"
"Lafarge is afraid there's a deadman switch on the bio-weapon," Carmaggio said. "His . . . he's got a computer, says it isn't conscious but does things no organic brain can do. And it says the probability of a fail-safe like that is over ninety percent now that he's here and she knows he's here, given what they know about enemy psychology."
"I don't know about you, but I could use a drink."
"I've tried it," Carmaggio said. "Several times since I talked to Lafarge. Doesn't help."
"Good thing you know that, but one won't hurt."
It was Kentucky bourbon; Carmaggio took a swallow of the sour mash and bared his teeth at the mellow bite at the back of his throat. He breathed heat, a little of it seeping into his soul.
"Yeah, El-tee, it just keeps getting worse. First I had a mass murderer, then a mass murderer who could do weird things, and then a time traveler . . . and now I've fallen into the script of a fucking—sorry"—Saunders didn't like swearing—"made-for-TV movie. As long as we don't start getting dreams about a little old black lady living in Kansas . . ."
"Mm-hmmm." Saunders was thinking with his eyes shut again; it emphasized the batlike ears. Then he opened them and looked at the holograph. "Heard about something like this in Hollywood. New gadget. Going to take a lot of expensive equipment, though." He nudged the black rectangle with one finger.
"So we can't call in the government," he said thoughtfully. "What can we do?"
"Play for time," Carmaggio said. "Stall—she evidently needs the warehouse, and she needs a lot of money for whatever she's doing there. Frustrate her without pushing her to use the . . . biobomb. And then when the moment comes, hit hard, take her out before she can do anything."
"Sounds like a longshot."
"Yeah. It is. What else can we do?"
"I'll think about that," Saunders said. "In the meantime, we could use some better intelligence." He paused. "Didn't you say that lady friend of yours who works for PB Securities was down there right now?"
Henry felt the tips of his ears flush slightly. "She's not my lady friend, exactly," he said. "Not yet. And we can't get her to pass information. That's the last thing we could do. Evidently it's impossible to lie to a drakensis, impossible to hide what you're feeling overall. No, Jenny's safe enough—as long as she doesn't know anything. Ingolfsson needs this stock deal too much to risk anything."
I hope.
***
Jennifer tucked her hands into the sleeves of her thick cotton robe. The wall panels of this upper gallery were murals, some still in progress, eight feet tall by twelve between latticed windows. The style was unfamiliar, a high-gloss realism but slightly stylized. Gwen came in, also still in her robe, wrapping a towel around her hair and then moving to the ebony sideboard by the entranceway.
"It just occurred to me," Jennifer said. "Ms. Wayne wasn't at the last presentation."
"Alice is not feeling well, I'm afraid," Gwen said. She smiled with a peculiar closed curve of the lips, her green eyes holding a secret mockery. "Bit of nausea. But we expect her to perk up in a week or so."
"I'm sorry she's ill," Jennifer said politely.
"She's important to our future," Gwen agreed gravely.
"These yours too?" Jennifer asked, nodding toward the walls and accepting a sherry.
"Yes. In the nature of a hobby," Gwen replied.
Jennifer looked at the mural. "What is this?"
The panel showed a street scene. Nineteenth century, perhaps, from the wide skirts of the women and the tall hats of the men; but the men wore swords, extravagantly ruffled shirts, and kept their hair in pony-tails; their coats were gaudily striped. Flowering trees thick with a mist of blue flowers arched over brick sidewalks; pillared houses stood back from the street behind wrought-iron fences and elaborate gardens with a hot, tropical look to them. Moving among the elaborately-clad strollers were blacks, in livery or ragged work-clothes, carrying burdens and pulling handcarts, sweeping the street, all lands of labor.
Some weird part of the Old South? New Orleans? But there were cars on the street among the horse-drawn vehicles, big boxy-looking things with thin smokestacks and high iron-shod wheels.
"It's a historical piece, in a way," Gwen said, moving up behind Jennifer.
The New Yorker shifted uneasily; the head of IngolfTech seemed to radiate heat. She'd noticed that in the pool, an almost unhealthy warmth, like a fever. Obviously it wasn't, though. 7 wonder what that scent is she's wearing. Odd to put on perfume after a swim. Sort of a musk, but flowery too. Or was it a scent at all? Something that teased at the edge of perception.
The next mural was a sky view, clouds gilded by the sun. Across them swept the shadows of . . . airships, orca-shaped dirigibles. A fleet of them, dozens, perhaps hundreds. Biplanes were darting among them. Jennifer shook her head. When did that happen? The First World War?
A pastoral scene followed, vaguely Italian-looking. Hot sunlight on a dusty white road flanked by pencil cypress; vineyards snaking up a hill, the silvery-green of olives on the next, a line of Maxfield Parrish-blue mountains on the horizon, and a villa on a slope in the middle distance. In the foreground were a man and a woman on horseback, both in high-collared black jackets, boots, fawn trousers, wearing studde
d-leather belts with knives and heavy automatic pistols bolstered at their waists. They were halted in the shade by the side of the road, leaning on the pommels of their saddles and talking to a group of men and women in peasantish clothing. Italian, definitely, Jennifer thought. The costumes were pure cotadini, working clothes from three or four generations ago. But I can't place the context.
"Tuscany?" she said, nodding.
"Chianti," Gwen replied. "It's a family connection."
"Your family lives there?" Jennifer asked, surprised.
Gwen's name and bone structure were both rather Nordic, despite her coloring. And there was something mid-Atlantic about her accent, sometimes. Of course, a lot of Brits had moved there—it was even called "Chiantishire" occasionally in European Travel and Life, which Jennifer read religiously.
"Not . . . now," Gwen said. "More of a . . . tradition."
The last panel was still incomplete, about three-quarters done. Jennifer blinked in surprise. The background was buildings, burning and shattered, under a darkened sky. The foreground was a hillock. Bodies sprawled about it, in unfamiliar uniforms and equipment but with an American-flag shoulder flash. On the hillock was . . . well, a monster. Alien? Something that looked like a cross between a gorilla and a wolf, at least. Much of its body was covered by futuristic-looking equipment, armor perhaps; the firelight caught at dull-red fur on the rest, and glinted off its eyes. One clawed foot rested on a human face; a huge curved knife was in one fist, a chunky-looking weapon throwing an iridescent beam in the other. The long jaws were parted in a fanged gape, long tongue lolling like a scarlet banner, serrated teeth gleaming. She could almost hear the bellowing snarl; the thing radiated a lust to kill.
"Now don't tell me that is historical," she said, glancing aside and out the tall windows.
"No, not in the present context. Although perhaps it might be someday."
"My God, what an imagination you've got!"
That closed-in smile again. "Actually I'm not very imaginative. It doesn't . . . run in the family, you might say."
Jennifers mouth twisted. "It must have taken a fair amount of imagination to produce all this," she said, waving her free hand.
"No, just intelligence, memory, and application—not at all the same thing," Gwen corrected.
"Ms. Ingolfsson—"
"Gwen."
"Gwen, why do I get the feeling you are bullshitting me?"
"I'm not," she said. "I'm just not telling you enough to understand what I am telling you. The information's accurate, but radically incomplete."
Jennifer swung around, a spark of anger in her face. "In other words, you're bullshitting me. Look, I may be only a minor player—"
Gwen put the tips of her fingers on Jennifer's arm. The contact jolted her, a slight but perceptible shock. Her skin prickled again, and she felt flushed, as if she were coming down with the flu. The sensation startled her; she usually had better control of her temper than that.
"That's not necessarily true," Gwen said. She maintained the touch for a moment, then removed it. "I'm something of a judge of . . . human nature, and I think you're going to be a good deal more than a bit player. Otherwise I wouldn't waste time on you."
Jennifer finished the sherry. And here I thought you wanted me for my body, she thought sardonically—a suspicion which had crossed her mind, for some reason,
"That too," Gwen said tranquilly.
"I didn't say that!" Jennifer blurted in horror. She stared at her glass. Two sherries and a couple of glasses of Chardonnay at dinner; she couldn't be that drunk.
"Not very loud," Gwen agreed. "But I've got excellent hearing."
"Look, I'm sorry, that was a joke." Her reputation would be ruined if she offended a client so gratuitously.
The alarm she felt was sluggish, somehow. She felt breathless, as if the Bahamian night was much warmer than it actually was. Sweat trickled down her face, and she could feel a pulse beating in her throat. And there seemed to be a hint of some unfamiliar scent from Gwen, something indescribable, like perfumed meat—except that it was wholly pleasant. Jennifer inhaled more deeply.
Gwen smiled and tapped rhythmically on the rim of her glass. "That's your heartbeat. You seem to be upset about something, Jenny. You don't mind if I call you Jenny, do you?" .
"No," Her tongue felt thick. "My friends call me Jenny." Why in God's name did I say that?
"Jenny."
Gwen drifted a little closer, moving with that smooth dancer's gracefulness. Jennifer blinked; the other's green eyes seemed to be enlarging, filling her vision. Something touched her on either side of the neck, a soft light caress. Fingers. Moving with excruciating delicacy, barely touching her skin. Patterns of heat flowed after them.
"Look . . . ah—please—I, um, like men."
"Wonderful, that gives us something in common."
The fingers trailed down over her collarbones to the sensitive skin beneath her arms, stroking at the tender areas on the inside of her elbows. Jennifer shuddered, dazed. Lips touched hers; she responded instinctively, raising her face to the kiss. Off-balance, her arms came up and rested on the other's bare back The skin beneath her hands burned hot, the muscles beneath moving like sheets of living metal. Her eyes jerked open in startlement. Gwen's tongue slid between her teeth.
"Mmmmph!"
I can't believe I'm doing this! The only other time she'd ever kissed a woman was once at university as an experiment; she'd been drunk then, and even so it had been about as exciting as kissing an arm.
Gwen leaned back slightly. "Lovely," she said.
"This is unprofess . . . ional," Jennifer said.
The top of her robe came down around her shoulders. Gwen's hands cradled her breasts lightly, fingertips brushing over her nipples. She bit back a moan; it was the most sheerly erotic sensation she'd ever felt, the carnal equivalent of a mouthful of chocolate tiramisu. Her knees quivered.
Oh, to hell with it. She put her hands behind Gwen's head and kissed her again.
***
For a moment, Jennifer wondered where she was. Then memory avalanched back in.
"Oh, my God," she mumbled.
The other half of the big bed was empty; it stood under a ceiling fan, with French doors on three sides leading to shaded galleries. By the quality of the pale light, it was near dawn.
"Good morning, Jenny," Gwen said.
Jennifer flushed and pulled the sheet up under her chin with both hands. Gwen took a glass of orange juice from the wheeled tray and sat on the edge of the bed. She was naked and entirely comfortable with it, something that Jennifer envied a little. That's not all I envy, she thought. The head of IngolfTech had a figure like a ballet dancer, except for the thicker arms and neck and the fact that she wasn't flat-chested. I feel like a slug.
"Isn't it a little late to be shy?" Gwen asked, offering the glass of juice. "I mean . . ." She inclined her head toward the sheet. "Been there. Done that."
True enough, Jennifer thought, sitting up and taking the glass. She gave Gwen a quick peck on the lips and looked out the window as she drank.
"You make me feel self-conscious," she said after a moment. And embarrassed. God. She remembered more of the details. I yelled and everything. I never lose control of myself like that.
"What, about your weight?" Gwen said, and touched her lightly. "Ridiculous. Just pleasantly plump in the right places—what's the word, zaftig?"
She rose and belted on a robe, then pulled a medicine jar from a drawer. "But if it really bothers you, I'll put some of these in your purse." She picked it up off the chair—somebody had brought in her clothes, which made Jennifer blush again.
"What's that?" she asked, sipping at the orange juice.
"Metaboline, one of our products. Take one a week for a month, then one every month for a year." She came back and sat cross-legged on the foot of the bed.
Jennifer made a face. "Diet pills?"
"No, it's a metabolic adjustment. Increases your appetite, if any
thing—eat whatever you please—but it puts your body's static burn up even more." She smiled. "Trust me."
Jennifer blushed again, down to her breasts. Gwen watched with enjoyment, which made the flush worse.
"This isn't . . . ah . . . isn't like me," the New Yorker said, looking out the window.
Gwen made a graceful gesture. "Think of it as a matter of personal chemistry," she said. "No big deal. Besides, it had been a while for you, hadn't it?"
"Yes. You too?"
"No, I don't believe in passing up an opportunity for pleasure," Gwen said. She grinned. "You may have noticed. Come on, let's have a shower and then you can get back to your room before your colleagues wake up."
***
"Homesickness," Gwen said thoughtfully, looking down from her perch in the deep window, down to the dock where the Americans had boarded their plane.
That plan was launched, like a javelin—better, like a cunning shipkiller missile, with its own mechanical intelligence. It would strike or miss, and she would act accordingly. Dismiss it.
"I've been realizing how much homesickness must affect you humans."
"More than you?" Alice said from the lounger, looking up from her magazine, Architectural Digest.
"Much," Gwen said. "Your lives are so short, and yet this world you've made changes so quickly."
Something—perhaps the way the sun flickered through the bougainvillea on the coral-rock wall outside—prompted a memory.
First century, she thought. Back visiting on Claestum in Tuscany; she'd been . . . yes, a section-director on the Mars project then, glad of a break from space habitats.
Riding down from the hills, with a gralloched deer slung over the pack horse behind her. Rough slopes, the rutted earthen track and the slow clump of hoofs, the panting breath of the hound-beasts at heel. Summer smells of arbutus and thyme, leaf mold, horse, dog, the meaty scent of the deer carcass. Creak of leather and rattle of javelins in the holster before her knee; a flash of shy movement in the bushes, a glimpse of great brown eyes—a faun, still new and rare then. Stabbing flickers of light as she rode out into the valley fields, with the slow warm wind bringing her scents from miles beyond. Through an orchard of gnarled old apple trees—memory within memory, the sloping field new-planted with thin saplings—and into a grain field half reaped, the line of servus and the rhythmic flash of their sickles. Crimson poppies among the tall corn, the way the tunics stuck to the workers' flanks, the sweet mild smell of their sweat.
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