Carnival

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.

“There’s been a lot of practical experiment on what happens after the occupiers disarm the locals. Just because we’ve disavowed Old Earth history doesn’t mean we fail to study it. You can file that one with sense of humor,if you like.”

Kusanagi-Jones felt the thrum between them, Vincent and Pretoria. Her chin was up, defiant. Vincent stood there, breathing, smiling, for her to bash herself against. For a moment, Kusanagi-Jones pitied her; she didn’t stand a chance. Vincent’s silences were even more devastating than his sarcasm.

He ended this one with a soft, beckoning gesture, something that invited Miss Pretoria into the circle of his confidences. “I don’t suppose you’d consent to tell me how you managed to herd or lure an entire ship’s complement into these chambers, Miss Pretoria? Just as a goodwill gesture, something to get negotiations off on a congenial foot?”

She tilted her head. “You never know when we might need it again. And speaking of goodwill gestures, do you have a list of the art treasures you’re returning?”

“One wasn’t sent ahead?”

“One was,” she answered. She started walking again. Vincent accompanied her and Kusanagi-Jones fell in closer to the security detail. “But since we’ve planned that repatriation ceremony for tomorrow, it doesn’t hurt to make sure we’re all working from the same assumptions.”

Her tone made it plain she knew they weren’t, but was willing to play the game. Kusanagi-Jones found himself admiring her a little. More than a little; she had sangfroid, an old-fashioned haggler’s nerve. Maybe she’d known exactly what she was doing with that too-sharp word robbers.

Her next comment clinched it. “If you’ll follow me,” she said, “I’ll show you some things that weren’tstolen.”

Vincent, surprising everyone except Kusanagi-Jones, laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d heard in a week. Kusanagi-Jones laughed, too. But he was laughing at the startled expression on Pretoria’s face. “About that sense of humor—”