Carnival

“The Consent is sometimes altered by a change in circumstances,” Kii said. “But the current probabilities do not indicate it likely. The Consent is to defend.”

Vincent rolled to his knees and pressed himself to his feet, careful of his twinging knee. He thought better if he walked, despite the unsettling oscillation of Kii’s head as it followed him. Michelangelo scooted back against the bed, out of the way. “If we could present a convincing argument, do you think the Consent would authorize us to build receivers? Only? Or even provide them, as a solid-state technology, for trade? That export would provide the Consent with leverage over the Coalition. They would have something to risk, in opposing you.”

Kii sunk lower, resting its chin on the interlaced knuckles of its wing-joint digits, the extended pinkie fingers folded against its sides. “You wish a crippled technology?”

“Why not?”

“It could be arranged. The Consent will contemplate it.” Kii considered, and tilted its long head toward Michelangelo. “This, Kii is not forbidden to impart, Michelangelo Osiris Leary Kusanagi-Jones. There is a weapon in your blood.”

Kusanagi-Jones heard the words plainly, but they didn’t process at first. He was tired, overstimulated, still unsettled with the dream he’d lied to Vincent about. It hadn’t been Skidbladnirat all, but the old dream, the one of Assessment. But it hadn’t been his death he’d dreamed this time, or his mother’s.

It had been Vincent’s.

He looked down at his hands, as if expecting to see what Kii meant, and then his eyes flicked up again and he bounced to his feet. “Bioweapon.”

“Yes.”

Of course, Old Earth didn’t need to invade New Amazonia. They could do it the easy way. And the months in cryo to help time the latency right. “The Coalition didn’t—”

Kii reached forward, as if to sniff, or sweep its whiskers and labial pits across Kusanagi-Jones. But its head was nothing more than a projection in the holographic wall, and Kusanagi-Jones was treated to the bizarre perspective of the Dragon seemingly lunging for him, and never arriving. Kusanagi-Jones locked his hands on the edge of the bed and held his ground, when he wanted to flinch and shield his eyes. It isn’t real.

“Since yesterday,” Kii said. “The infection is new.”

Kusanagi-Jones turned toward Vincent, who stood framed against the evening light filtering through the doorway to the balcony. “Saide Austin,” he said. “Bitch.”

Vincent stepped forward, and Kusanagi-Jones stepped away. Since last night. Which meant that Vincent had no more than casual exposure, and—“How long?”

“It is a tailored retrovirus,” Kii said. “It will affect only certain genetic strains of the human animal.”

“Mine,” Kusanagi-Jones said.

“Yours. In females, it will not express to disease. Kii estimates the latency period to be on the order of part-years.”

“The Penthesileans turned you into a bioweapon?” Vincent took another step forward, and this time Kusanagi-Jones let him.

“Time bomb.” Kusanagi-Jones bent over his watch, running diagnostics, search routines, low-level scans, calm despite the twisting tightness in his chest. “Not even a blip. My body thinks it’s me. Supposed to carry it back to Earth and— pfft!” He waved his right hand in the air, still hunched over the green and blue lights glowing under the skin of his wrist.

“The New Amazonians think genetic tailoring is anathema.”

“Not anathema enough—”

Kii shifted, fanning and refolding its wings, a process that involved leaning back on its haunches to get them clear of the ground. “Kii has subroutines to contain the infection,” it said. “The Consent is indifferent with regard to Kii’s dealings with individuals. Kii may intervene in this thing.”

Vincent grabbed Kusanagi-Jones’s arm and pulled him forward, front and center before the hologram. “You can cure him.”

“Kii can,” Kii said. The ragged-edged patterns on its wing leather showed bold against blue sky as it beat them twice. Kusanagi-Jones flinched from expected wind, but felt nothing.

“Wait.”

“No wait.” But Kusanagi-Jones shook Vincent’s hand from his arm and dropped to their subchannel.

“You trust him? You can’t processthat thing, you know.”

“You don’t think there’s a virus? It makes Claude Singapore’s plan make a hell of a lot more sense, doesn’t it? Get you sent home, in disgrace, maybe brought before the Coalition Cabinet to testify, make all their separatist friends happy.” Vincent glanced sideways at Kii.

“First thing we do, let’s kill all the men.”

Kii, filling an apparent silence, said, “Your genotype proves resistant, Vincent Katherinessen.”

“Don’t know,” Kusanagi-Jones said, over Kii. “If there is, it’s hiding in plain sight—You trust him.”

“It’s not human body language.”

“You trust him anyway.”

Slowly, Vincent nodded. He reached out gently and took Kusanagi-Jones’s arm again, folding his fingers around the biceps and holding on like a child clinging to an adult’s finger.