He almost heard Vincent sigh in answer. Irritation: do something, Angelo.Not words, of course–just knowing what Vincent wouldhave said.
Kusanagi‑Jones took his cue as they entered the receiving line and tried for a conversation with Miss Pretoria between the archaic handshakes and watch‑assisted memorization of each name and rank. He knew as soon as he thought it that he shouldn’t say it, but it was his job to be the brash one, Vincent’s to play the diplomat.
He leaned over and murmured in Miss Pretoria’s ear, “How does a planet come to be called New Amazonia?”
Her lip curled off a smile more wolf than fox. “Miss Kusanagi‑Jones,” she said, the dryness informing her voice the first evidence of personality she’d shown, “surely you don’t think we’re entirelywithout a sense of humor.”
He shook another stranger’s hand over murmured pleasantries. There was a rhythm to it, and it wasn’t unpleasant, once you got the hang of it. The New Amazonians had firm grips, sweaty with the scorching heat. He wished he’d worn a hat, as most of the women had.
He decided to risk it. “I admit to having worried–”
She didn’t laugh, but her lip flickered up at the corner, as if she almostthought it was funny. “You’ll be pleasantly surprised, I think. You’re just in time for Carnival.”
3
THEY HAD NOT BEEN LIED TO. THE MEN WERE GENTLE; when one leaned, moved, spoke, the other one mirrored. She sensed it in the energy between them, their calm failure to react on any visceral level to her smile, the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips–or to the more youthful charms of her security detail. She knew it as surely as she would have known fear or hunger. Not only were they gentle, they were together.
She’d been afraid the Coalition would try to send stud males, to pass them off–even to replace Katherinessen with an impostor. These weren’t quite like the gentle males of her acquaintance, though. They were wary, feral, watching the rooflines, eyes flickering to her honor and to the weapons of the other women. She shouldn’t have been surprised. Without women in a position to protect them, gentle males would find rough going in a society dominated by stud males and hormonally driven aggression. She liked the way they backed each other, the dark one and the tawny one, shoulder to shoulder like sister khir against a stranger pack. She wondered how old they were, with their strange smooth faces and silken skin, and the muscled hands that didn’t match their educated voices.
They survived the receiving line without a diplomatic incident, but both men seemed relieved when she ushered them inside. Even filtered by the nebula–invisible in daytime–the sun was intense at the equator, and they weren’t accustomed to it. She’d read that on Old Earth the cities were small, widely spaced, and densely packed, the population strictly limited–through culling and fetal murder, when necessary–and the regenerated ecosystems were strictly off‑limits without travel permits.
She shuddered, thinking of that circumscribed existence, locked away from the jungle for her own protection and the world’s–unable to pick up a long arm, sling it over her back with a daypack and a satphone, and vanish into the bush for a day or a week, free to range as far as her daring would support. She could have been like these men, she realized: coddled, blinking in the bright sunlight–or worse, because a woman wouldn’t rise to their position in the OECC. They’d probably never been outside a filter field in their lives.
Good. That was an advantage. One she’d need, given what Claude had told her about Katherinessen. The legendary Vincent Katherinessen, and his legendary ability to know what one thought before one knew it oneself.
She collected herself and focused on the deal at hand–which was, after all, a deal like any deal. Something to be negotiated from the position of strength that she was fortunate to have inherited. “We’ve arranged a reception before we sit down to dinner. And some entertainment first. If you’re not too tired from traveling.”
Katherinessen’s gaze flicked to his partner; Kusanagi‑Jones tipped his head in something that wasn’t quite a nod. The communication between them was interesting, almost transparent. Most people wouldn’t have even seen it; shecouldn’t quite read it, but she thought she might learn. In the meantime, it was good to know that it was going on, that the dynamic between the two men was not quite the leader‑and‑subordinate hierarchy they projected. Something else developed for navigating a male‑dominated space, no doubt.
“I think we’re acceptably fresh,” Katherinessen said, “as long as our licenses hold out. We both got a lot of sleep on the ship. But it would be nice to have a few moments to relax.”
Lesa wanted to ask if he meant cryo, but wasn’t sure if it would be in poor taste, so she nodded. “Come with me. The prime minister is eager to greet you, but she can wait half a tick.”
“She thought it best not to overdignify our arrival with her presence?” Katherinessen asked. A sharp, forward question; Lesa glanced at him twice, but his face stayed bland.
“I’ve negotiating authority, Miss Katherinessen. Parliament, of course, will have to ratify whatever we agree.”
“On our end, too. I’m assured it’s a formality.” His shrug continued, but so are we always assured, are we not? The raised eyebrow was a nice touch, including her in the conspiracy of those who labor at the unreasoning whim of the state. “Am I supposed to inquire as to the nature of the entertainment?”
She smiled back, playing the game. “It’s the day before Carnival. We thought you might like a real frontier experience, and the Trials began at first light today. If that meets with your approval.”
His smile broadened cautiously. He was really a striking man, with his freckles and his auburn hair. Pity he’s gentle,she thought, and then mocked herself for thinking it. If he wasn’t, after all, he wouldn’t be here. And she shouldn’t be anywhere near him, honor on her hip and security detail or not.
“We are at your disposal, Miss Pretoria,” he said, and gestured her graciously ahead. The security detail followed.
One reason Kusanagi‑Jones trained as rigorously as he did was because it speeded adaptation. He could have taken augmentation to increase or maintain his strength, but doing the work himself gave additional benefits in confidence, balance, and reflex integration. His brain knew what his body was capable of, and that could be the edge that kept him, or Vincent, alive.
That never changed the fact that for the first day or two in a changed environment, he struggled as if finding his sea legs. But as far as he was concerned, the less time spent tripping over invisible, immaterial objects, the better.
So it was a mixed blessing to discover that wherever Miss Pretoria was taking them, they were walking. It would help with acclimation, but it also left Vincent exposed. Kusanagi‑Jones clung to his side, only half an ear on the conversation, and kept an eye on the windows and the rooftops. To say that he didn’t trust the Penthesilean security was an understatement.
“Tell me about these Trials,” Vincent was saying. “And about Carnival.”
Lesa gave Vincent an arch look–over Kusanagi‑Jones’s shoulder–but he pretended oblivion. “Your briefings didn’t cover that?”
“You are mysterious,” Vincent answered diplomatically. “Intentionally so, I might add. Are they a sporting event?”