Carnival-SA (8 page)

Singapore glanced at her watch—an old-fashioned wristwatch with a band, external—and then laced her right hand through Montevideo’s arm. “We’ll be wanted upstairs.”

Vincent fell in beside her and Kusanagi-Jones assumed his habitual place. He didn’t think Singapore was used to looking up to anybody, and she had to, to Vincent. “What I’d like to do instead of dinner is get a look at your power plant.”

“Unfortunately,” Singapore said, “we can’t arrange that.”

“Official secrets?” Vincent asked, not
too
archly. “We’ll have to talk about it eventually, if we’re going to work out an equitable trade arrangement.”

Kusanagi-Jones could have cut himself on Singapore’s smile. “Are you suggesting that the Cabinet will resort to extortion, Miss Katherinessen? Because I assure you, the restoration of our appropriated cultural treasures is a condition of negotiation, not a bargaining chip.”

She ushered them through the door. A half-dozen people around the room disengaged themselves from their conversations and followed them into the hall.

“It would make a nice gesture of goodwill,” said Vincent.

And Elder Singapore smiled. “It might. But you can’t get there from here.”

The route to the dining room wound up a flight of stairs and across an open footbridge, almost a catwalk. Kusanagi-Jones breathed shallowly; his chemistry was mostly coping with the alien pollen, but he didn’t want to tax it. He leaned on Vincent’s arm lightly as Vincent fell back beside him. “Why are we antagonizing the people in charge?”

“Did you see Montevideo glance at her wife?”

Kusanagi-Jones didn’t bother to hide his shrug.

“They’re not the ones in charge. Maybe a little fire will draw the real negotiators out.” Vincent paused and smiled tightly. “Also, aren’t you curious why they wanted us to see these friezes and Miss Pretoria was all a-prickle about it? Because I know I am.”

Kusanagi-Jones’s hands wanted to shake, but he wouldn’t let them. They entered a banquet room, and he saw Vincent seated on the prime minister’s left and took his own seat next to Miss Pretoria, touching the glossy wood of the chairs and table as if he were used to handling such things. He sat, and discussed his dietary needs with Pretoria, then allowed her to serve him—which she did adroitly. The food was presented family style, rather than on elaborately arranged and garnished plates, whisked from some mysterious otherworld to grace the incredible solid wooden table.

There
were
vegetarian options, although most of them seemed to contain some sort of animal byproducts. But the scent of charred flesh made eating anything—even the salad and the bread with oil and vinegar that Miss Pretoria assured him was safe—an exercise in diplomatic self-discipline. It smelled like a combat zone; all that was missing was the reek of scorched hair and the ozone tang of burned-out utility fogs.

The cheese and butter and sour cream were set on the table between plates laden with slices of roasted animal flesh, like some scene out of atavistic history—the sort of thing you expected to find in galleries next to paintings of beheading and boiling in oil and other barbaric commonplaces. Michelangelo brushed his sleeve up and touched his watch again, adjusting his blood chemistry to compensate for creeping nausea, and kept his eyes on his own plate until he finished eating.

He shouldn’t be huddled in his shell. He should be talking with Miss Pretoria and the assembled dignitaries, walking the thin line between interest and flirting. He should be watching the women—especially Elena Pretoria, a grande dame if he’d ever met one, and most likely Lesa Pretoria’s mother—and the two reserved, quiet men at the table, picking out what he could about the social order, trying to understand the alliances and enmities so he could exploit them later. The women seemed interested in Vincent and himself—by which he meant, attracted to—and a glance at Vincent confirmed he thought so, too. Elders Singapore and Montevideo were the obvious exceptions to the rule. They had eyes only for each other, and Kusanagi-Jones might have found it sweet if he hadn’t suspected they’d cheerfully have him shot the instant he wasn’t conforming to their agenda. The more he watched Montevideo, the more he thought—despite her apparent spunk—that she was like politicians’ wives everywhere: intelligent, intent, and ready to defer—at least publicly—to her mate’s judgment. Vincent was right; she looked at Singapore every time she said something. Kusanagi-Jones bit his lip on a pained laugh; he recognized no little bit of himself in her behavior. It didn’t hurt that Vincent was now paying an outrageous and obviously insincere court to the prime minister that still seemed to entertain her enormously. She had switched to treating them like indulged children; Kusanagi-Jones found it distasteful, but Vincent seemed willing to play the fool. The women were asking interested questions about the Colonial Coalition, seeming shocked by things in absolute disproportion to their importance.

Montevideo was particularly fascinated by eugenics and population-control legislation, and kept asking pointed questions, which Vincent answered mildly. Kusanagi-Jones pushed his plate away, unable to face another mouthful of red-leaf lettuce and crispy native fruit mixed with imported walnuts. It wasn’t so bad when he wasn’t trying to eat, and it was amusing to eavesdrop as Montevideo tried to get a rise out of Vincent.

“Well, of course the Cabinet tries to limit abortions,” Vincent was saying. “Ideally, you control population through more proactive means—” He shrugged, and speared a piece of some juicy vegetable that Kusanagi-Jones couldn’t identify with a perfectly normal Earth-standard fork—except Kusanagi-Jones would bet the forks were actual metal, mined and refined, and not fogs. “But even medical bots fail, or can be made to fail. Biology’s a powerful force; people have a reproductive drive.”

“You don’t think…
people
can be trusted to make their own decisions, Miss Katherinessen?” Arch, still sharp.

Kusanagi-Jones didn’t need to look at Vincent to know he would be smiling that wry, gentle smile. He looked anyway, and didn’t regret it, although Vincent’s expression made it hard to breathe. Again. Dammit.

He could not afford to care, to trust Vincent. He was here to destroy him. New Earth, all over again. Only worse this time.

“No,” Vincent said, as Kusanagi-Jones picked the remainder of his bread apart. “We evolved for much more dangerous times, and memory is short. Just because Old Earth survived pandemics and famines and Assessments during the Diaspora to achieve a few modern ideas about stewardship doesn’t mean that enlightenment trickles down to everybody. And it’s very hard for most people to postpone an immediate want for a payoff they won’t see, and neither will their grandchildren.”

“Thus the Governors,” Elder Montevideo said, folding plump, delicate hands. The prime minister watched, silently, and so did Elder Pretoria, who was seated at the far end of the table.

“The Coalition,” Kusanagi-Jones said, to demonstrate solidarity. He would
not
show pain. “So the Governors don’t intervene again on a large scale. They
are
still watching.”

He knew better than to attempt Vincent’s trick of speaking as if to an idiot child, but it was tempting.

“The Coalition isn’t allied with the Governors, then?” asked one of the other women at the table, an olive-skinned matron with cool hazel eyes who never stopped smiling. Elder Kyoto, if Kusanagi-Jones had the name right. He’d logged it; he could check his watch if needed.

“The Coalition is interested in…minimizing the impact the Governors have on human life. And the Governors permit the Coalition Cabinet that latitude.”

“And the Governors must be prevented from intervening?”

“If you know your history.” Vincent smiled right back. “It keeps us on our toes.”

Elder Singapore covered her partner’s hand with her own. “If it wasn’t for Diaspora, New Amazonia wouldn’t be here. And we would be robbed of the pleasure of each other’s company. Which would be a great pity indeed.”

Vincent asked, “Was yours one of the private ships?”

“The Colony craft? Yes. Ur was also, wasn’t it?”

He turned his fork over as if fascinated by the gleams of light on the tines. “My great-grandmother was disgustingly rich. It was an experimental society, too. The colonists were all pregnant women. No men. And there was a religious element.”

Elder Montevideo leaned forward, although she wasn’t quite overcome enough to rest her elbows on the table. “What was the purpose of the experiment?”

“To prove a point of philosophy. To establish an egalitarian matriarchy based on Gnostic Christian principles.” He glanced up, twinkling. “My mother is the only woman on the Colonial Coalition Cabinet. We’re not so different.”

She sat back, picked up her silver knife, and gave minute attention to buttering a roll. “Our founding mothers believed that it was possible to live in balance with nature,” she said. “And by balance, they did not mean stasis. They meant an evolving dynamic whereby both the planet’s Gaian principle and her population would benefit. Not exploitation, as it was practiced on Old Earth: women do not
exploit
. We take care when we practice forestry, for example, to leave renewal niches, and we practice sustainable agriculture and humane animal husbandry.” The knife went down with a
clink
. “Of course, the impact of our activities is attenuated because we didn’t need to bootstrap through a fossil-fuel economy. We’ve been fortunate.”

At least they know it,
Kusanagi-Jones thought. He sipped his wine and watched her eat.

“I’m curious,” Vincent said. “Something you said earlier hinted to me that you find eugenics distasteful.”

Miss Pretoria laughed out loud and glanced at the prime minister for permission to continue. Kusanagi-Jones saw the elder Pretoria lean forward, but she still held her tongue.
A watcher.
Dangerous, if the mind was as sharp as the eyes. “If Old Earth gave women reproductive autonomy, I don’t believe you’d have a population problem.
We
don’t—”

“
You
have an undamaged ecosystem,” Kusanagi-Jones said. Vincent might have been the one to guess that a bold-faced refusal to temporize was one way to earn their respect, but Kusanagi-Jones wasn’t too shy to capitalize on it. Vincent didn’t quite smile, but the approval was there between them, warm and alive. “For now, at least, until you overrun it.”

Kusanagi-Jones, who had been about to continue, closed his mouth tightly as Elder Montevideo spoke.

“One of the reasons our foremothers chose to emigrate was because of Earth’s eugenics practices. They did not feel that a child’s genetic health or sexual orientation determined its value. Do
you,
Miss Kusanagi-Jones? Miss Katherinessen? Because I assure you, the mothers at this table would disagree.”

Vincent’s eyes were on Montevideo, but Kusanagi-Jones could tell that his attention was focused on Miss Pretoria. And even Kusanagi-Jones could feel her discomfort; she was
buzzing
with it. “I think,”

Vincent said, carefully, “the health of a system outweighs the needs of a component. I think prioritizing resources is more important than individual well-being.”

“Even your own?” Miss Pretoria asked, laying down her fork.

Vincent glanced at her, but Kusanagi-Jones answered.

“Oh, yes,” he said, directing a smile at his partner.

He was a Liar; neither his voice nor his expression betrayed the venom he’d have liked to inject into them. He projected pride, praise, admiration. It didn’t matter. Vincent would know the truth. It might even sting. “Especially his own.”

Lesa shouldn’t have been taking so much pleasure in watching Katherinessen bait Maiju and Claude, but her self-control was weak.
And a small gloat never hurt anyone,
she thought. Besides, even if the enemy of Lesa’s enemy wasn’t necessarily Lesa’s ally, the prime minister richly deserved to be provoked—and in front of Elena. Lesa saw what Katherinessen was playing at. He lured them to underestimate and patronize, while picking out tidbits of personal and cultural information, assembling a pattern he could read as well as Lesa could have.

He was also staking out space, while getting them to treat him like a headstrong male. Clever, though confrontational. Lesa often used the same tactic to manipulate people into self-incrimination. Just when she thought she had their system plotted, though, Kusanagi-Jones turned and sank his teeth into Katherinessen, hard. And Lesa blinked, reassessing. A quick glance around the table confirmed that only she had caught the subtext. And that was even more interesting—a hint of tension, a chink in their unity. The kind of place where you could get a lever in, and pry.

She wondered if Kusanagi-Jones was aware of Katherinessen’s duplicity, and if he was, if Katherinessen
knew
he was aware, or if there was a different stress on the relationship. They’d been apart for a long time, hadn’t they? Since New Earth. Things changed in seventeen years. Then as fast as it had been revealed the flash of anger was gone, and Lesa was left wondering again. Because it was possible she’d been intended to see it, that it was more misdirection. They were good enough to keep her guessing, especially when Katherinessen smiled fondly across the table at Kusanagi-Jones, not at all like a man acknowledging a hit.

Lesa was aware of the other dynamics playing out around the table. They were transparent to her, the background of motivations and relationships that she read and manipulated as part of her work, every day. But none of them were as interesting as Katherinessen and Kusanagi-Jones. Their opacities, their complexities. She could make a study just of the two of them.

And something still kept picking at the edge of her consciousness, like Katherinessen picking at Maiju, like a bird picking for a grub, though she didn’t quite know what to call it. She wondered if they could have fooled her, if perhaps they weren’t gentle after all. The idea gave her a cold moment, as much for fear of her own capabilities eroding as for the idea of a couple of stud males running around loose. Even the best of them—even Robert, whom she loved—were predators. Biologically programmed, as a reproductive strategy. Uncounted years of human history were the proof. In previous societies—in
all
recorded societies, other than the New Amazonian—when a woman died by violence, the perpetrator was almost always male. And almost always a member of the woman’s immediate family, often with the complicity of society. The Coalition was a typical example of what men did to women when given half an excuse: petty restrictions, self-congratulatory patronization, and a slew of justifications that amounted to men asserting their property rights.