Carnival

If there were, the nanodocs should handle it. He shook his head and sipped; it looked like swamp water, but tasted tart, with complex overtones. “The reason for the postponement?”

Vincent said, “Officially, a delay in negotiations.”

The artifacts in the cargo pod, officially,were an expression of goodwill—not termed a gift because they already belonged to the New Amazonian people. Negotiations had nothing to do with it. “Unofficially?”

“A threat against the prime minister’s life,” Miss Pretoria said, after a glance at Vincent to see if he was going to speak. “And Miss…and Vincent’s.”

That moment of communication unsettled Kusanagi-Jones. There was something behind it, and he thought if he had Vincent’s gifts he would know what it was. But Vincent’s hazel eyes were undilated and he met Kusanagi-Jones’s gaze easily. “Do we know the source of the threat?”

“We suspect the Left Hand. A radical free-male group. Although it could as easily have been one of the Separatist movements; they put Claude in power, and they can’t be pleased that she’s negotiating with…” Lesa shrugged apologetically.

“Men,” Vincent finished. “These Maenads you mentioned. Is that such a group?”

“The most radical of them. Claude doesn’t actually believe there’s much of a threat, you understand. If enough people wanted to get rid of her badly enough to risk their lives to do it, you’d hear no end to the challenges.” Lesa didn’t quite smile. “We’ve never had an assassination on New Amazonia, though two prime ministers have been shot down in the street when they weren’t fast enough on the draw. So no, we’re cautious, but not too worried.”

“Then why the rush?”

“The ceremony is delayed, but we’re still expected for breakfast. And we might as well see the art installed in the gallery, since we have the time after all.”

“And in the evening?” Kusanagi-Jones asked, folding his hands around the moist, cold glass. Vincent might not be worried, but when it came to his own personal safety, Vincent was sometimes an idiot. And additionally, Kusanagi-Jones suspected that Vincent wouldn’t show concern in front of the New Amazonian women.

She smiled. “My mother has invited you to dinner and sightseeing tonight. And of course, there’s Carnival.”

They attended the state breakfast, which thankfully involved less probing-out of territorial limits and more honest gestures toward dйtente, and a generous quantity of sliced fruit and plain porridge, which Vincent was assured had been prepared without any animal products. He even got Michelangelo to eat, and drink half a pot of tea laced heavily with sugar, and almostmanaged it without pausing to wonder how his partner had survived seventeen years without him.

They’d returned to the gallery by the time Miss Ouagadougou arrived with three lorry-loads of repatriated art. It came under heavy guard by New Amazonian standards: six armed women and the driver. Vincent couldn’t help comparing the way politicians and dignitaries walked everywhere, attended only by one or two personal retainers, and wondered how the death threat would affect that. On Old Earth, there would be a renewed frenzy of security preparations. Here, with the New Amazonians’ culture of macha, they might just flaunt themselves more. Bravado seemed to be the most likely response.

Michelangelo was going to have a few stern words to say about that, Vincent imagined.

An armed population might cut down on personal crime—although he wasn’t willing to gamble on it unless he had the analyzed statistics graphed on his watch—but apparently property crime was still a problem.

Strike two for Utopia. The problem with the damned things always comes when you try to introduce actual people into your philosophical constructs.

At the gallery, Vincent attempted to assist with the unloading and the decisions on what would be displayed and where, but there were burly men with laborer’s licenses and handcarts and floatcarts for the former, and Michelangelo and Miss Ouagadougou for the latter. And Miss Ouagadougou finally clucked at Vincent and told him that he might as well go for a walk, because he was more in the way than she wanted.

He’d thought he might find a quiet corner and go over his notes from the last day, and attempt to present the appearance of a serious diplomat, but half an hour’s restless flipping through the information on his watch and trying not to distract Michelangelo left him pacing irritably in the anteroom. His focus was compromised. It wasn’t just the variations in gravity, daylight, and atmospheric balance, or the unfamiliar food—in fact, New Amazonia’s oxygen-rich air was a vast improvement over New Earth’s, to choose a world not particularly at random. He was as accustomed to those things as he was to the slightly folksy Colonial Christian persona he’d been using on Lesa all morning. Adaptation was his stock in trade.