Carnival

Just a couple of fairies. He gritted his teeth into an answering smile. Apparently, it would have been thought a victory for Vincent if he provoked the woman enough to make her draw. A Pyrrhic victory, for most men in their shoes–

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 di

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

“Official secrets?” Vincent asked, not tooarchly. “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 werevegetarian 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… peoplecan 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 notshow pain. “So the Governors don’t intervene again on a large scale. They arestill 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‑ski