Carnival

He looked demure, or a convincing approximation. “Elder Elena Pretoria sends her regards,” he said, folding his hands behind his back. “And requests her daughter inquire as to whether the emissaries would consent to join the household for supper and Carnival tonight in the absence of other plans.”

Lesa thumbed the cart and slipped the chip into her pocket casually with the opposite hand. “All I can do is ask.”

Michelangelo swung down from the pod in a state of elation, feeling light and taut enough that he actually checked his chemistry to make sure it wasn’t a malfunction. The twin expressions of concern that Vincent and Miss Pretoria wore stopped him short before he was firmly grounded. His foot skipped on the wood underfoot, and he reached up and tilted his borrowed hat to cut the glare.

“Problem.” His eyes were on Vincent, but it was Miss Pretoria who answered.

“A small one,” she confirmed, and moved forward with one hand upraised to stop Miss Ouagadougou from running into Kusanagi-Jones’s back. Which was fortunate. Kusanagi-Jones was not looking forward to apologizing to the first unwary New Amazonian who bounced off his wardrobe or was shocked by it…but he also wasn’t about to dial the safety features down unless he was actively engaged in shaking someone’s hand.

“Nkechi,” Miss Pretoria said, “I’ve been asked to hurry Miss Katherinessen and Miss Kusanagi-Jones back to the government center. Can you see to the relocation of the cargo?”

Kusanagi-Jones stepped aside and turned in time to see her nod and vanish back inside. He crossed the slight distance between the landing and his partner and took up station at Vincent’s side. His shadow still stretched long on the dock beside him, but the sun was climbing enough to sting where it snuck around the shade of his hat. “Is everything in order?”

“Perfectly,” Michelangelo answered.

Miss Pretoria turned back to them and held up a datacart. She ducked her head, speaking under the shadow of her hat. “A message from my mother, in her role as opposition leader. Countersigned by Antonia. Elder Kyoto, I mean.”

Their habitual security detail flanked them, just far enough away not to overhear if they kept their voices down. Two more women in plain black uniforms remained by the lighter.

“I’m not sure we ever heard her Christian name.” Despite his height, Vincent’s heels rang on the docks with the effort of keeping up with Pretoria; the warden could move when she had to.

She frowned. “That’s an odd term for it.”

Kusanagi-Jones didn’t have to look at Vincent to know he’d led her into that particular trap on purpose, although his purpose was mysterious. “The first emigrants to Ur were religious refugees,” he said. “It’s just a turn of phrase.”

“Pregnant religious refugees? Miss Katherinessen—”

“Vincent.”

“—I suspect you’re pulling my leg.”

“Some of them were political refugees—”

“Some of usare still waiting to hear about the crisis,” Kusanagi-Jones said irritably. It wasn’t Miss Pretoria’s leg Vincent was yanking. It was Kusanagi-Jones’s chain.

“Sorry,” Vincent lied, biting back a widening of his smile.

I never should have fucked him. But he had, whatever advantage it gave Vincent. And he’d do it again.

At least the crisis couldn’t actually be a crisis. Vincent wouldn’t be playing cat-and-mouse games with him if it were.

It was a measure of his own stress and his reactions to the New Amazonian culture that his brain spent a full half-second pinwheeling on the atavistic roots of the phrase cat-and-mouse,as archaic to Earth’s governed culture as saying hoist on his own petard. The New Amazonians probably had cats, or the native equivalent. And they probably set them on local herbivores for entertainment, too. When they weren’t enjoying a good duel or a round of cockfighting.

Savages.

Anyway, Vincent was enjoying toying with him far too much for the crisis to be anything overwhelming. In fact, confounding Pretoria’s careful observation of them into that slightly furrowed brow could be Vincent’s entire objective. In which case, Kusanagi-Jones was content to play the game. He cleared his throat, deciding the silence had gone on long enough.

“In the car,” Pretoria said.

It waited where they had left it, a low-slung honey-brown groundcar complete with a wet bar and seats more comfortable than most armchairs. The doors hissed shut after they entered—a perfect seal—and Kusanagi-Jones used every iota of his craft to appear as if he relaxed against the upholstery, while trying not to picture the animal it must have come from. Cool air shocked the sweat on his neck.

The car rolled forward like a serpent sliding over grass.

“The repatriation ceremony has been postponed,” Miss Pretoria said, and leaned forward in her chair to pull glasses and a decanter of cloudy gray-green fluid out of the refrigerator. One at a time, she poured three glasses and handed the first two to Vincent and Kusanagi-Jones. “Any allergies?”