“I wouldn’t miss it,” she said. “We’ve arranged a meeting with some technical specialists afterward, who can explain what we’re prepared to offer for our part of the deal. I’m sure Lesa’s made sure you have a copy of the schedule.”
“She functions as a secretary, too?” Vincent asked with a thickly insincere smile. He stepped back as Kyoto stepped forward. Miss Pretoria was coming up behind him, and he sidestepped, as if accidentally, opening the tкte‑а‑tкte. One, two, three, four–“A multitalented individual.”
“Why, thank you, Miss Katherinessen,” Pretoria said, and then let her eyes rest on the minister of Security. “Oh, Elder. I didn’t see you back there, behind this great wall of a man. I’m sorry to interrupt, but his partner asked me to fetch him–”
She smiled, and Vincent wondered if the venom was as apparent to Kyoto as to him. Perhaps not, because Kyoto excused herself and brushed past them with every indication of calm.
Vincent tilted the glass against his mouth, inhaling redolence that stung his eyes, and smiled at the warden as he licked a droplet off the cleft of his lips. The liquor, now that he finally tasted it, was good, warm on the tongue. And if he wasn’t mistaken, it had enough kick to shift a moon in orbit.
He shifted the glass to his left hand to extend the right. He was adapting to thatlocal quirk, at least. Her clasp was still warm and firm. “I am indebted beyond words.”
“She’s good at her job,” Pretoria said.
“Did Angelo really send you to the rescue?” Vincent would have expected Michelangelo to take a special kind of lingering pleasure in watching him twist, actually, but he would take pity if it was on offer.
“I suggested to him that he–and you–might want to sneak downstairs and indulge in a little tourism…I mean, inspect the gallery space. What do you say?”
Vincent finished his drink. So Pretoria was avoiding the fair‑haired man, and Vincent’s own presumed desire to avoid Elder Kyoto was a convenient excuse. “Grab your security and let’s go.”
Kusanagi‑Jones glanced up as Vincent laid a gentle hand on his arm and insinuated himself into the conversational circle. “We’re escaping,” Vincent murmured against his ear, and Kusanagi‑Jones nodded while Miss Pretoria made excuses to her mother involving long trips and early rising.
“Whatever the warden wants,” Kusanagi‑Jones replied, using Vincent’s body to cover the shape of the words. Vincent steered him out of the group as he made his farewells. There was a scent of liquor and herbs on Vincent’s breath, and Kusanagi‑Jones sighed wistfully. “Don’t suppose you saved me any of that.”
“Sorry. We’ll get room service later.”
“They overcharge for the licenses in hotels.”
Vincent laughed under his breath and gave Kusanagi‑Jones’s arm a squeeze. “Miss Pretoria wants to show us the gallery.”
“That’s the wardento you,” she said, falling into step. She met Kusanagi‑Jones’s guilty look with a toss of her rainbow hair, but she grinned. “Oh, yes, I heard that.”
“Just as well,” Vincent said, releasing Kusanagi‑Jones’s arm after one more caress. “What do you do when you’re not shepherding visiting dignitaries, Warden?”
She shrugged. “You just met my boss. I’m security directorate. I review licensing for gentle males and others.”
“Political officer,” Vincent said. She wasn’t tall, but she moved with direction and strength. If she had been wearing boots, they would have been thumping on the groundcover. Even the security detail was hustling to keep up.
She flipped her hair behind her ear again. It kept escaping in ways a grooming license would not permit. “You could say that.”
The curved corridor opened into a bell‑shaped chamber. She selected a side corridor. Kusanagi‑Jones noticed she was running the tips of her fingers down the left‑hand wall. “Just here–”
Another room, this one long and narrow like a gallery. The walls were the faux‑transparent type, the ceiling view of a perfect, cloudless night sky.
“This is the museum?” Kusanagi‑Jones asked. “Where’s the art? Doesn’t the sunlight damage it?”
Miss Pretoria smiled, seeming pleased that he’d broken his silence, but she addressed them both as she waved them forward. “It’s downstairs,” she said. “Underground. Come along.”
Penthesilea looked small on the surface, but Kusanagi‑Jones had gained a hard‑won appreciation for how rarely appearances matched actuality. After the arena, he wasn’t surprised by the scale of the underground city.
They stepped from a lift into a cavernous space. The air here was cool, the illumination indirect, bright but soothing, with long splashes of light reflecting from scrollworked eggshell‑white walls. Vincent cleared his throat. After glancing at Miss Pretoria for permission, Vincent reached out and softly ran his hand over the decorations, if that was what they were. Kusanagi‑Jones resisted the urge, despite the tactile charm.
Vincent said, “If the original inhabitants–”
“The Dragons.”
“The Dragons. If they could fly, why the lift?”
“It’s new.”
“Do you understand the technology that well?” And Vincent made it sound casual, startled. Natural. Kusanagi‑Jones wondered if Pretoria was fooled.
Truthfully, though, he listened with only half an ear to the conversation. His attention was on the security detail, the multidimensional echoes caused by the cavern’s organic shapes, the possibility of an attack. He was surprised by how freely they were permitted to move; on Earth, there would have been an entourage, press, a gaggle of functionaries. Here, there was just the three of them, and the guards.
Convenient. Andindicative of even more societal differences that would be positively treacherous to navigate. As if the openly armed women hadn’t been enough of a hint.
“…this seems like a very fine facility,” Vincent said. He moved casually, his hands in his pockets as he leaned down to Miss Pretoria, diminishing her disadvantage in height. “Controlled humidity and temperature, of course.”
“Yes. These are the galleries that were emptied by the OECC robbers in the Six‑Weeks‑War,” she said. Her body language gave no hint that she considered any potential to offend in her phrasing. It was matter‑of‑fact, impersonal.
And this is a diplomat,Kusanagi‑Jones thought. He trailed one hand along the wall; the texture was soapy, almost soft. He imagined a faint vibration again, as before, but when he tuned to it, he thought it might just be the wind swaying the fluted towers so far overhead. They’ve been alone out here a very long time. Long enough that awareness of ethnocentrism is a historical curiosity.
He stroked the wall again, trying to identify the material. It didn’t come off on his fingers, but it felt like it should. Like graphite or soapstone–slick without actually being greasy. There was a geologist’s term, but he couldn’t remember it.
“These galleries?” Vincent said. “This is where the Coalition troops…”
“Were killed, yes.” Thissubject, Miss Pretoria seemed to understand might be touchy. “The ones who came to repatriate the art. And New Amazonia. Seven hundred. Give or take.”
“A ship’s complement of marines.”
“We warned them to withdraw. They attempted to disarm us.”
Kusanagi‑Jones glanced over in time to catch that predatory flash of her teeth once more. Vincent was watching her, his hands still in his pockets, his face calm.