“Martin. Please listen. I have independent confirmation that there is indeed a UN covert mission in the New Republic. Lead special agent is Rachel Mansour, which means they expect serious trouble. She is a heavyweight, and she’s been out of sight for almost a year, which implies she’s been in the New Republic for most of that time. Meanwhile, the agency representatives on Luna have bought out your personnel files and have been talking to MiG management about contracting you. Furthermore, they are substantially correct in their analysis. The New Republic is preparing to send the entire home fleet to Rochard’s World, going the long way around, where they intend to attack the Festival. This is a very bad idea — they obviously do not understand the Festival — but preparations appear to be too advanced to divert at this time.
“It is also quite possible that you will endanger yourself if you appear to be panicking. Given the current level of surveillance you are under, an attempt to cut and run to a civil liner will be seen as treason and punished immediately by the Curator’s security apparat; and Mansour is unlikely to be able to protect you even if she wants to. I emphasize, the New Republic is already on a low-key war footing, and attempting to leave now will be difficult.”
“Oh shit.”
“The situation is not irretrievable. I want you to cooperate fully with Mansour. Do your job and get out quietly. I will attempt to arrange for you to disembark safely once the fleet arrives. Remember, you are in more danger if you run than if you withdraw quietly.”
Martin felt a tension he’d barely been conscious of leaving him. “Okay. Do you have any backstop options for me if the UN screws up? Any ideas for how I can get out with my skin intact? Any information about this Festival, whatever it is?”
Herman was silent for a moment. “Be aware that this is now definitely a direct-action situation.” Martin gasped and sat bolt upright. “I want you on hand in case things, to use your own terminology, go pear-shaped. Millions of lives are at stake. Larger-scale political issues are also becoming clear; if the New Republic meets the Festival, it is possible that the resulting instabilities will catalyze a domestic revolution. The UN subscribing bodies, both governmental and quasi-governmental, have a vested interest in this for obvious reasons. I cannot tell you more about the Festival at this point, because you would incriminate yourself if you betrayed any knowledge of it; but it is accurate to say that the Republic is more of a danger to itself than to the Festival. However, in view of the nature of the situation, I am prepared to pay a bonus double the size of that promised by the UN inspectorate if you remain in place after completing their assignment and do as I request.”
Martin’s throat was dry. “Alright. But if it’s that likely to go critical, I want three times the bonus. In event of my death, payable to my next of kin.”
Silence. Then: “Accepted. Herman out.”
Rachel lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, and tried to pick apart her feelings. It was early morning: Martin had left sometime ago. She had a bad feeling about the business, even though it was clearly going well; something gnawed at her below the level of conscious awareness. Presently, she rolled sideways, laid her sleepless head back on the overstuffed pillow beside her, and drew her knees up.
It should have been a simple recruitment meeting: put the arm on a useful contact and brief him for a single task. Nice and objective. Instead, she’d found herself sharing a dinner table with a quiet but fundamentally decent man who hadn’t tried to grope her, didn’t treat her like a piece of furniture, listened with a serious expression, and made interesting conversation: the kind of man who in ordinary circumstances she’d have considered a pleasant date. She’d gone a little bit crazy, walking along a knife edge of irresponsibility: and he’d been stir-crazy too. And now she was worried about him — which wasn’t in the plan.
It had come to a head across the kitchen table as they finished discussing business. He had looked up at her with a curious expectancy in his eyes. She crossed her legs, let a foot peep out beneath her skirts. He studied her intently.
“Is that everything?” he asked. “You want me to keep my eyes open for clock-skew rollback instructions, carry the plug-in, notify you if I see anything that looks like a CVD — that’s all?”
“Yes,” she said, staring at him. “That’s essentially everything.”
“It’s ah—” He looked at her askance, sharply. “I thought there was something more to it.”
“Maybe there is.” She folded her hands in her lap. “But only if you want.”
“Oh, well,” he said, absorbing the information. “What else is part of the job?”
“Nothing.” She tilted her head, meeting his angled gaze, steeling herself. “We’ve finished with business.
Do you remember what I said earlier, back in the restaurant?”
“About—” He nodded. Then looked away.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing.” He sighed quietly.
“Bullshit.” She stood up. “Come on. Let’s talk.” She reached for his hand and gave him a little tug.
“What?” He shook his head. “I’m just—”
“Come on.” She pulled a little harder. “The parlor. Come on.”
“Okay.” He stood up. He was no taller than she was; and he seemed to be avoiding her eyes.
Uncomfortable, really.
“What’s wrong?” she asked again.
He chuckled briefly; there was no amusement in it. “You’re the first sane person I’ve met in the past four months,” he said quietly. “I was getting used to talking.”
She looked at him, steadily. “You don’t have to stop,” she said.
“I—” He froze up again. Why is he doing that? she wondered.
“Say something,” she said.
“I—” He paused, and she was afraid he was going to stop. Then he burst out, all at once. “I don’t want to stop. This place is squeezing me into my own head all the time — it’s like being in a vise! The only thing anyone wants of me is my work—”
Rachel leaned against him. “Shut up,” she said quietly. He shut up. “That’s better.” He was, she decided, really good at being leaned on. She put her arms around him; after a moment he hugged her back.
“Forget work. Yeah, you heard me. Forget the New Republic. Think you can do that for a few hours?”
“I—” she felt his breath shuddering. “I’ll try.”
“Good,” she said fiercely. And it did feel good: here was somebody who she could be sure about.
Somebody who seemed to feel the same way about this whole claustrophobic abortion of a culture as she did. He held her steadily, now, and she could feel his hands running up and down her back, exploring how narrow her waist was. “The parlor. Come on, it’s the next room.” Martin had stared back at her. “You sure you want this?” he asked. That was part of his charm.
“What’s to be unsure about?” She kissed him hard, exploring his lips with her tongue. She felt as if she was about to burst right out of her clothes. He gently pulled her closer and let her dig her chin into the base of his neck; she felt stubble on his cheek. “It’s been so fucking long,” she whispered.
“Same to you too.” He took some of her weight in his arms. “Been lonely?” She barked a hoarse laugh. “You have no idea. I’ve been here ages; long enough that I feel like some kind of deviant because I talk to strange men and have some role in life besides hatching babies. The way they think here is getting its claws into me.”
“What? A big strong government agent like you is letting something like this get to you?” he said, gently mocking.