Katya was fifteen Amazonian years–twenty‑odd, in standard conversion–and impatient with anything that smacked of responsible adulthood. And she wouldn’t wear her honor around the house; her hip was naked even of a holster. Of course, Lesa–both hands full of groceries, unable to reach her honor without dropping chickens or fruit–wasn’t much of an example, whatever her renown as a duelist twenty years and three children ago.
Katya blew her fringe out of her eyes. “Sunblock.” She rubbed Lesa’s cheek with a greasy finger. “Hats are too hot.”
“On the contrary,” Lesa said. “Hats are supposed to keep you cool.” But it was like arguing with a fexa; the girl just gave her an inscrutable look and went back to braiding a gardeneid garland, the sweet juice from the crushed stems slicking her fingers. “Want help?”
“Love it,” Katya said, “but Claude’s in there. The Coalition ship made orbit overnight. You’re on.”
“They got here for Carnival? Typical male timing.” Lesa stretched under her load.
“See you at dinner.” Katya ducked from under her lapful of flowers and turned so she could lean forward mockingly to kiss the ring her mother wore on the hand that was currently occupied by the sack of chickens.
Inside the door, Lesa passed the groceries to one of the household staff and sent her off with Xavier once he’d kicked his sandals at the catchall. Lesa balanced on each foot in turn and unzipped her boots before hanging them on the caddy. In Penthesilea’s equatorial heat, all sorts of unpleasant things grew in unaired shoes.
She dug her toes into the cool carpetplant with a sigh of relief and hung up her hat, grateful to House for taking the edge off the sun. Claude and Elena would be in the morning room at breakfast, which was still being served. Lesa’s stomach rumbled at the smell as she walked through seashell rooms and down an arched corridor, enjoying the aviform song House brought in from the jungle along with filtered light.
Elena Pretoria was exactly where Lesa had imagined her, on the back veranda with her long hands spread on the arms of a rattan chair–real furniture, not provided by House–her silver‑streaked hair stripped into a tail and her skin glowing dark gold against white lounging clothes. For all the air of comfort and grace she projected, however, Lesa noticed the white leather of her holster slung on her waist and buckled down to her thigh. Elena had a past as a duelist, too, and as a politician. And she wasn’t about to let Claude Singapore forget it, even if Claude’s position as prime minister was enough rank to let her enter another woman’s household without surrendering her honor.
Claude was tall and bony, a beautiful woman with blunt‑cut hair that had been white as feathers since she was in her twenties, and some of the lightest eyes Lesa had ever seen–which perhaps explained the depth of the crow’s‑feet decorating her face. They couldn’t all be from smiling, though Lesa wasn’t sure she’d ever seen Claude notsmiling. She had an arsenal of smiles, including a melancholy one for funerals.
“Lesa,” Claude said, as Lesa greeted her mother with a little bow. “I’m here–”
“I heard. The grapevine’s a light‑minute ahead.”
Claude stood up anyway, extending her hand. Lesa took it. Claude had a politician’s handshake, firm but gentle. “I don’t know why we even have media on this planet.”
“It gives us someone to blame for scandals,” Lesa answered, and Claude laughed even though it hadn’t been funny. “I’m ready. When will they make landfall?”
“Tomorrow. We’re shuttling them down. You’ll come by this evening for a briefing?”
“Of course,” Lesa said. “Dinnertime?”
“Good for me.”
Claude stepped away from her chair, and Elena took it as a cue to stand. “Leaving us already?”
“The Republic never sleeps. And I can hear Lesa’s stomach rumbling from here. I imagine she’d enjoy a quiet breakfast with her family before the madness begins.”
“Claude, I don’t mean to chase you out of your chair,” Lesa said, but Claude was turning to shake Elena’s hand.
“Nonsense.” Claude stepped back, and adjusted her holster. It was a Y‑style, and they had a tendency to pinch when one stood. “I’ll see you tonight. I can show myself out–”
“Good‑bye.” Lesa did walk a few steps toward the door with the guest, so as not to give offense. When Claude was safely gone, she tilted her head at Elena. “Why did she come herself?”
“Probably a subtle message not to try anything tricky. She hasn’t forgiven me for getting her wife ousted from the Export Board, and she still thinks the Coalition can be appeased.” The twist of her mouth revealed what she thought of that idea. It made Lesa restrain a smile: it was also Katya’s moue, and Lesa’s son Julian made the same face when he was concentrating.
Lesa used that image of Julian to keep her voice under control. “As soon as they have what they want, the Coalition will scorch us off the surface. They’re distracting us while they set up the kill.”
“They’d have to justify the ecological damage from an orbital attack to the Governors, and that would be…hard to get approval for, I imagine. They might convince the Governors that we need to be Assessed, however, and brought under control. We’d fight.”
Lesa caught the glint of Elena’s smile. “You heard from Katherine Lexasdaughter.”
“Coded. A packet concealed in the Kaiwo Maru’s logburst as she made orbit.”
Lesa could imagine the resources required to arrange for treason and insurrection to be transmitted in a ship’s identification codes on a governed channel. Katherine was head of the Captain’s Council on Ur, and held a chair in the Colonial Cabinet on the strength of it.
“He’s coming.” Lesa’s chest lightened and tightened both at once. Elena might think she was the saltspider at the center of the web, but Lesa couldn’t allow her to recognize all the layers of machinations here. Elena was not going to be happy with Lesa when things shook out.
Elena’s smile was tight with guarded triumph. “I hate hanging our hopes on a man, even if he is both gentle andhis mother’s son. But he came.”
2
BOADICCA WASN’T THE LEAST CIVILIZED STATION Kusanagi‑Jones had seen, but its status as a cargo transfer point rather than a passenger terminal was evident. New Amazonia’s trade was with other Diaspora worlds, a ragtag disorganization of colonies beyond the reach of Coalition growth–for now, anyway. (Kusanagi‑Jones occasionally wondered if the Governors’ long‑dead progenitors had understood that in their creation, they had delivered unto Earth’s survivors a powerful impetus to expansion.)
Boadicca reflected that isolation. The curved passageways were devoid of decoration, creature comforts, carpeting, kiosks, and shops. The only color was vivid stripes of contack, which scanned the watches of nearby pedestrians to provide helpful arrows and schematics. Kusanagi‑Jones paused to study the patterns, and frowned. “Security risk,” he said, when Vincent looked a question. “Too easy for a third party to match up destination with traveler. Must be short on saboteurs and terrorists here.”
Vincent smiled, and Kusanagi‑Jones read the comment in the air between them. Not anymore.
“Good old Earth,” Kusanagi‑Jones agreed, lapsing out of common‑pat and into a language that wasn’t taught in any school. “If you can’t bring it home, blow it up.”
Secrets within secrets, the way the game was always played. If they couldn’t find a way to bring New Amazonia under OECC hegemony with at least the pretense of consent–the way Vincent’s homeworld Ur had fallen–they would weaken the local government through any means necessary, until the colonials came crawling to Earth for help.
Colonies were fragile, short on population and resources. On Ur, for example, there had been the issue of sustainable agriculture, of a limited gene pool further damaged by the exigencies of long‑distance space travel, of the need for trade and communication with other worlds. Where Ur maintained a pretense of sovereignty and had significant representation on the OECC’s C
abinet, successful sabotage leading to a failure of strength would result in a worse outcome for New Amazonia in the long run. And if Vincent and Kusanagi‑Jones did their jobs as ordered, that was the plan, just as it had been on New Earth.
And just as on New Earth, Kusanagi‑Jones didn’t intend to allow the plan to come to fruition. He also wasn’t foolish enough to think that a second act of self‑sabotage would evade his superiors’ notice.
Vincent defocused as he checked his watch. “I’d kill for a coffee. But our luggage is on the lighter.”
“I hope it was well packed.” Luggagewas an inadequate term; the cargo pod that Vincent had shepherded all the way from Earth under diplomatic seal carried what their documents euphemistically identified as samples. Those samples included, among other objects, Fionha Dubhai’s holographic sculpture Ice Ageand an original pastel by the Impressionist Berthe Morisot. Irreplaceabledidn’t even begin to cover it. And bargaining chipwas only the beginning of the story. There was more back on Earth; this shipment was only to prove goodwill–to show willing, as Vincent would say. Whatever their history, the OECC wasn’t stinting on the tools to do its job, either by bargaining or by blowing things up.
Vincent put a hand on Kusanagi‑Jones’s elbow as they drew up before a loading bay, one identical among many. Two green lights blinking beside the archway indicated their destination. “This is the end of the line.”
“You said it.” They walked forward, side by side, to link their documents into the lighter’s system so the pilot could tell them where to go.
The long New Amazonian day was inconvenient for creatures whose biorhythms were geared toward a twenty‑four‑hour cycle. Lag became a problem in more temperate climes, but Penthesilea was fortunate in that high heat provided a supremely adequate excuse for a midafternoon siesta. During more than two‑thirds of the year, it was followed by the afternoon rains, which signaled the city’s reawakening for the evening round of business.
Lesa cheated and let Julian stay with her while she napped. Walter, the big khir that usually slept in her rooms, was nowhere in evidence–probably off with Katya–and Julian at six and a half local years was of the age when naps were an abomination before the god of men. He sat up at Lesa’s terminal while she flopped across the bed and closed her eyes. She’d seen the problem he was working. He said it was a minor modification of House’s program, though Lesa didn’t have the skills to even read it, let alone solve it, but Julian was so thoroughly engaged that she let him keep tapping away as she dozed, lulled by the ticking of the interface.
That sound blended into the patter of the rain on her balcony so that she didn’t rouse until House pinged her. She opened her eyes on yellow walls shifting with violent sunlight–entirely unlike the gray skies outside–and winced. “House, dial it down, please.”
The light dimmed, the walls and ceiling filling with the images of wind‑rustled leaves and vines. She stretched and rubbed her eyes. “Hello, Mom,” Julian said without looking up from the monitors. “Did you sleep well?”
She rubbed at her eyes and padded across the carpetplant to the wardrobe. “Too well,” she said. “I’m late. Save your work, Julian, and go eat.”
“Mom–”
She paused, a fistful of patterned sylk drawn out into the light, and turned to stare at the back of his head. “You know you can’t stay down here while I’m gone.”
His shoulders drooped, but his hand passed quickly over the save light, and he powered the terminal down before sliding, monkeylike, out of the chair. It was a little too tall for him, so he had hooked his toes over a brace while he worked, and the disentangling turned him into a study in conflicted angles. “All right,” he said, and came to hug her before vanishing through the door, gone before it had entirely irised open.
Lesa dressed for business in the warmth of the evening; the rain would be over before she left. She chose a tailored wrap skirt and the sylk blouse, and belted her honor over the skirt. Claude could take offense at anything, even if Lesa were of a mind to show up anywhere public unarmed. And the skirt would be cool enough; she couldn’t face trousers after the rain, with the hottest part of the year beginning.
Downstairs, she passed Xavier in the foyer, coming in from the decorating. Lesa had taken her own turn earlier in the day. At least it was better than pulling the flowers down, which was the part she truly hated.
She told House she was leaving, and asked it to summon a car. The vehicle was waiting by the time she reached the end of the alley that fronted Pretoria house; a diplomatic groundcar with a male driver, his street license prominently displayed on his shoulder–marking a gentle male, rather than a stud like Xavier. He smiled as she slid in. “Government center?”
“Singapore house,” she said. “I have a dinner invitation.”
He drove carefully, politely, through the rain‑flooded streets. Water peeled away under the groundcar’s tires on long plumes, but the only people outside during cloudover were one or two employed stud males with street licenses hurrying back to their households or dormitories for dinner, and the householders on their porches under umbrella‑covered tables, sipping drinks and enjoying the brief cooling.
The household Claude Singapore shared with her wife, Maiju Montevideo, was on the seaward side of the city, overlooking the broad, smooth bay. By the time Lesa arrived, the clouds had peeled back from the tops of Penthesilea’s storied towers. The rays of the westering sun penetrated, sparking color off the ocean, brightening it from gray to the usual ideal blue.
Lesa Pretoria was not Claude Singapore, and her own rank as a deputy chief of Security Directorate did not entitle her to carry her honor inside another woman’s house. She paused at the top of the steps to Singapore house’s door and surrendered it to the woman who waited there, along with her boots. Both were hung neatly on a rack, and Lesa smiled a thanks. There was a male servant present, too, but he could not touch firearms.
She must come armed, to show her willingness to use her strength in defense of Pretoria household’s alliance with Singapore, and she must be willing to lay that strength aside to meet with Claude. There were forms, and to ignore them was to give offense.
Lesa wasn’t particularly concerned about offending, however prickly Claude might be. Lesa could outduel her. But it was also polite. She gave the male servant her overcoat and followed the woman inside.
Although the rains were barely breaking, Lesa was the last to arrive. Claude and Maiju and the other guests were gathered around a table under a pavilion in the courtyard, sitting on low carpet‑covered stools to keep the dampness off their clothes.
In addition to the prime minister, there was Miss Ouagadougou, the art expert who would be working directly with the Coalition diplomat. She was joined by her male confidential secretary, Stefan–a striking near‑blond, almost unscarred, though Lesa knew he’d had a reputation during his time in the Trials. Beside them sat Lesa’s superior, Elder Kyoto, the head of Security Directorate.
Claude stood as Lesa emerged from the passageway, disentangling her long legs from the bench, and ushered Lesa to a seat–one strategically between Maiju and Stefan, Lesa noticed with a grin. Maiju was separatist; she’d as soon see all the males–stud andgentle–on New Amazonia culled down to the bare minimum and confined to a gulag. Or better yet, the widespread acceptance of reproductive gene splicing.
It would take a revolution to make that happen. Lesa wasn’t the only Penthesilean woman who honestly enjoyed the company–and the physical affection–of males. And artificial insemination and genetic tampering were banned under the New Amazonian constitution. On Old Earth, before the Diaspora, there had been extensive genetic research, and it had led to the birth of people who would be considered abominations in Lesa’s culture. Human clones, genetically manipulated people–their descendents might still be alive on Old Earth today.
One of the representatives the Coalition Cabinet was sending was an Old Earth native. Lesa tried not to think too much about that, ab
out what could be lurking in his ancestry.
Maiju was a radical. But her wife was prime minister, and so she kept her opinions to herself.
“Good evening, Elder Montevideo, Elder Kyoto, Stefan,” Lesa said, as she helped herself to a glossleaf to use as a plate. The dining was informal, and Stefan served her without being asked, graciously playing host.
The dark green leaf curled up at the edges, a convenient lip to pinch her food against. She was hungrier than she had realized, and once Claude resumed her place and began eating, Lesa joined in, rinsing her fingers in the bowl of water by her place to keep them from growing sticky with the sauce. The wine was served in short‑stemmed cups, and she kept her left hand dry for drinking with.
At a more formal meal there would have been utensils, but this was family style, intended to inform those assembled that they might speak freely and conduct business with candor. Nevertheless, Lesa waited until Claude pushed her glossleaf away before she spoke. “Tell me about the delegates,” she said.
“You know the senior diplomat is Vincent Katherinessen, the son of the Captain of Ur.”
“Reclaimed peacefully by the Old Earth Colonial Coalition some fifty‑seven standard years ago,” Lesa said, “and, though there are Governors on‑planet, generally granted unprecedented freedoms by the Cabinet because they keep their own population down, accept Old Earth immigrants, and practice a religion that encourages ecological responsibility. Katherinessen is a superperceiver, which is why he’ll be my especial problem.”
“Yes,” Claude said. “We requested him. He’s the only admitted gentle male in the Coalition’s diplomatic service. There was a scandal–”
“Something on New Earth, wasn’t it?”
Stefan stood as the women talked and began whisking used glossleafs off the table, piling them to one side for the convenience of the service staff. Meanwhile, Maiju did them all the honor of serving the sweet, an herb‑flavored ice presented in capacious bowls, with fluted spoons, and accompanied by real shade‑grown Old Earth coffee–a shrub that flourished in the New Amazonian climate.
Carnival Page 2
