"I see." Susan began to feel uneasy again. The blare of the car horns and shouting was beginning to fray her concentration. She tapped her cheek, waking up the comm-thread. "Good luck, Anderssen-tzin. I must warn you, however, the mansion is large – and very crowded. Good evening."
"Good evening," Anderssen called after her, obviously puzzled. "Best wishes to…"
The rest of the sentence was drowned out by the raspy shouts of Jehanan street vendors. Kosho left the crumbling sidewalk and slid sideways between two battered thirty-year-old Scandia panel trucks. The comm-thread woke to life with a tingle under her jaw.
"Felix, this is Kosho. Where are you?"
Twenty meters ahead, Sho-sa. An alley on your left, behind the cart selling sweetened ices.
Susan pushed against the crowd of natives flowing the other way, making slow going. The Jehanan came in different shapes and sizes, but they all took up a lot of sidewalk. Eventually she passed the cart – bright yellow, festooned with colorful paper banners and enameled masks – and turned into a shadowy opening.
Felix appeared out of the murk, a long field coat doing a poor job of covering her muzzle-down Macana assault rifle. Combat armor bulked beneath a civilian-style mantle. "This way, kyo."
"Put that away," Kosho hissed, shaking off her funk. The brisk walk was clearing her head. "Legation security will void themselves to see you waving a cannon around – not to mention the Imperial bodyguards!"
The sight of her security detail shouldn't have changed her mood, but it did. By the time Susan ducked into the back seat and Felix slammed the door closed she was feeling almost normal.
Without instructions, the Marine in the front seat fired up the engine, and immediately they were accelerating down the alley, driving lights illuminating refuse bins and indefinable structures protruding from the buildings looming on either side. Kosho leaned back wearily against the plush leather seats. "Heicho, status of security arrangements groundside?"
"Good, kyo." Felix turned, peering back over the seat. "Smith-tzin's lined up four or five hotels. We scouted out some bars selling liquor humans can drink. Seems the slicks like their methanol straight, with local alkaloids for flavor. Pure poison for us, of course."
"Slicks?" Susan stared out the window. Buildings dashed past, most of them wooden, with a few crumbling brick edifices thrown in. She'd seen skyscrapers from the window of the shuttle, but out here in the suburbs everything was low and squat and packed closely together.
"The Jehanan, kyo. Have you touched one? Their skin is smooth…almost like glass."
"Fine." Kosho craned her neck over a little, staring up at the sky. The clouds were low and glowing with the light of the city. "What kind of extraction points do you have on tap? Rooftops? Public parks? Streets?"
"Rooftops are poor, kyo. Every single one hosts a laundry, a hostel or some kind of aviary. The locals eat a lot of skomsh…it's just like chicken." Felix swallowed a laugh, catching the tense expression on her commander's face. "The streets are worse – they use electric trolleys with overhead power lines on all the avenues wide enough for one of our shuttles to touch down. Parks look like our best bet. Smith made sure the hotels he picked are across the street from a nice one. Not too many trees, mostly ornamental shrubs and fountains."
Susan felt combat tires rattle across recessed tracks as they bounced through an intersection. Neon lights over the storefronts reflected from the bracelets on her wrist. "Local situation? How do they feel about the Empire?"
"Hard to tell." Felix shrugged. "Smith-tzin says the local holovee is filled with all kinds of the-Empire-is-our-friend propaganda. But on the street, you can tell they don't like us much. They do like our quills, though. All the merchants I've dealt with were pretty friendly. It's hard to read their faces. But no one's taken a shot at us yet."
Kosho nodded absently. The sitrep reports forwarded from battle group command related much the same thing. "An undercurrent of resentment exists in the population," they said. "But no open violence." I think…the Chu-sa is a little jumpy about Villeneuve's extravagance. He is French. The real issues here are more immediate – and far more routine than an officers' plot.
"Everyone needs to take care, Heicho. Pass the word around to the squad leaders and petty officers to go ones-and-fours when ship's personnel are groundside. And armed." She turned her attention on the Marine, eyes sharp with an orange glow from the sodium lights passing overhead. "But if anyone goes rabbit on me and shoots someone – even a local! – then I will put them out the lock myself."
"Aye, aye!" Felix shifted in her seat uncomfortably. The Sho-sa seemed worked up tonight and nervous officers made her uneasy. "Something specific security detail should watch out for?"
"No." Kosho stared out the window again. The crowds on the sidewalks ignored the rain, letting the steady downpour sluice the day's dust from their scales. In the misty night, with the glare of neon in her eyes, they could have been any Saturday-night crowd along the Ginza or around the Tlatelolco. "I suspect I'm worrying for no reason, but everyone's to be on best behavior. No exceptions!"
"Oooh, native tribesmen!" Tezozуmoc laughed gaily, barely able to stand. His cloak covered with jadeite lozenges was disconcertingly heavy. He kept listing to one side and having to right himself. His blood buzzed with a delicious tide of oliohuiqui and 'little guardian of dreams.'"Legate, which province do these fellows come from?"
Petrel, his hand raised in preparation for formally introducing the prince to the commander of the 416th Imperial Arrow Knight regiment (motorized), halted abruptly, and then turned towards Tezozуmoc with a perfectly still face. "Your pardon, mi'lord?"
The prince could see the older man was nonplussed. Tezozуmoc could see furtive, hasty thoughts flitting behind the cultured face. Doesn't the Prince Imperial recognize fellow Imperial officers? Even his putative commander in the 416th? Even though – the prince felt cold anger welling in his churning stomach – this same officer has refused this same prince an actual command? Who has slighted this same prince by shunting him into a useless assignment?
"These black fellows." The prince cheerily waved a mostly full bottle of Char-odei vodka at the middle officer, a full colonel, who was indeed of Mixtec extraction and therefore possessed of dark, almost chocolatl-colored skin. "Him! Are these some of the…the Misa-whatever-dai…the barbarians you've been bending my ear about?"
"Tlacateccatl Yacatolli is an Imperial Arrow Knight, mi'lord." Petrel's white eyebrows stiffened and Tezozуmoc fought to keep a huge bellyful of laughter from bursting out. The old man looked like an owl! The Legate's perfectly groomed face was growing pink around the edges. Oh oh. The prince felt even giddier. He's getting angry! Soon some of those gelled hairs will be out of place!
The colonel, for his part, had grown dangerously still. Tezozуmoc peered at him, a little nauseous at the chance to twit the stone-faced Arrow Knight. Oh oh, he can't say anything to me! Not the Son of the Light of Heaven, the Prince Imperial! No no. Not in front of so many barbarians and civilians and other witnesses. But I can say whatever I want!
"Yack-a-toll-ee. Doesn't that mean snot in our language? What does it mean in his?"
The colonel twitched, fists clenching. The prince stared at the man's shoulders in delight. The carefully tailored fabric was stretching as every muscle in the man's upper body stiffened in rage. Will he burst right out of his uniform? Is he wearing underwear? Did he bring any spare? I think he only has one dress uniform, poor bean eater.