Carnival

She shrugged, and slid into bed beside him, rolling onto her stomach, voice muffled in the pillow. “Let me guess. I forgot to tell Agnes that I wanted you tonight?”

“She said to check in with her in the morning, because she thought you’d be late, too, and didn’t feel like waiting up. Arms down by your sides, please?”

His hands were strong; he slicked them down with the oil from the bedstand while she shrugged her nightshirt off, and started work on her shoulders first. Maybe not safe to give him so much autonomy, so much freedom. Maybe not wise to be as permissive with him as she was. But this was Robert, after all, and he was as much hers as he could be without a transfer and a marriage, and she trusted him more than any woman she knew.

She didn’t doubt his temper, or his capacity for violence. They were marked on his body, and his status as males figured such things was significant. But he’d never directed either of those things at her, or any woman.

Not gentle, no. But smart.

“Thank you,” he said.

Her spine cracked under his weight. “Mmph.” It might have stood a better chance of being a word if she hadn’t had a mouthful of pillow. Robert pulled the cushion out of the way, straightening her neck, and ran his thumbs down her spine, triggering a dizzying release of endorphins. “You heard something? Or is this a social call?”

“Would that it were, my lady.”

She laughed at his pretend formality. “It can be a social call, too.”

“Business first.” But the kiss he planted between her shoulder blades promised pleasant business, at least. He stayed bent down, nuzzling through her hair to brush his lips across her ear. “Did you meet the Colonials?”

“Yes. And yes, it’s them. Well, I’m as sure as I can be.”

“And what do you think? Can we trust Katherinessen?”

His hands forestalled her shrug. Flinty, dangerous hands, the gnarled scar across the palm of the left one rough when it caught on her skin. “Do we have another choice? I can’t tell, Robert. I don’t know. Claude won’t risk it. There’s no guarantee about Katherinessen. Kusanagi‑Jones is hard‑line Old Earth, though I don’t understand it and it makes me sick to think about, and Claude’s bound to think placating the Coalition is safer than open opposition, especially if it means allying ourselves with Coalition worlds in open revolt.”

“Appeasement has such a glorious history.”

“This isn’t about glory. And it worked for Ur. Sort of.”

“Which is why they’re so eager to be rid of the Governors now?”

His tone was arch and dry. She matched it. “Keep it in your pants, Robert.”

“I’m not wearing any pants,” he said reasonably.

Somewhere, she found the energy to snort. “Anyway, if Mother finds out I’ve been letting you read history, she’ll–”

“Have your hide for a holster. I know.” His caresses became more personal and she rolled over, looking up through the dark. He touched the tip of her nose. “What are you going to do?”

She shrugged, and sighed. “I’ll know tomorrow. If we miss the meeting, it’s not like we’ll get another chance–”

“No.” He kissed her. “Not in time for Julian, anyway.”

Kusanagi‑Jones was long past feeling guilt about lying. Conscience was one of the first things to go. If he’d ever had much of one to begin with, the job had burned it out. So it was with a certain amount of amusement that he identified the emotion he was feeling over telling the truth–as guilt. Well, a limited sort of truth, with the limitations carefully obscured, but still. Unmistakably the truth.

The fact that he was doing it selfishly didn’t enter into it, he told himself. The fact that Vincent was right, and what he really wanted was to punish–

Of course, Vincent only knew that because Kusanagi‑Jones wasn’t bothering to hide it. Pretoria had probably picked up on it, too, but with luck she’d think it was jealousy, male games.

Oh, hell.

An omission was as good as a lie, and he had told Vincent he’d chosen the therapy. He was justifying. Justifying, because if Vincent didn’t think Kusanagi‑Jones cared for him anymore, that was one less way Vincent could hurt him. Justifying, because if he hadn’tcared, if he was doing his job, then he was a much better actor than this. Justifying because he, Kusanagi‑Jones, deserved Vincent’s loathing and anger for other reasons entirely–reasons Kusanagi‑Jones was too good a Liar for Vincent to suspect, even years later.

Justifying, and it was the sort of thing, the sort of self‑delusion, that got you killed. He knew it.

And so did Vincent, apparently, because Vincent pushed against his hand and looked up, leaving an arc of moisture cooling on Kusanagi‑Jones’s skin. “Something’s wrong,” he said. “Or else I’m more out of practice than I thought.”

The dry tone, brittle enough to break an edge and cut yourself on. It still worked, too; Kusanagi‑Jones laughed, an honest laugh. Startled into it, though nothing Vincent said was surprising. It was just very Vincent,and Kusanagi‑Jones had been so deep in his own bout of self‑pity that he’d forgotten.

“Tired,” he said, not bothering to hide the fact that it was a lie.

Warm hands stroked his thighs. “Mmm. You were the one who said you didn’t need rest; you had chemistry.”

“Rub it in.” It could only be fraught if he let it. He was a professional. And Earthneeded what they had come for. The Coalition needed it; the Governors were ruthless in balancing population and consumption against their programmed limits. Even wind farms and geothermal caused impact. Action, reaction, as incontrovertible as thermodynamics. And–seemingly abrogating those laws–clean, limitless New Amazonian energy could change the fate of two dozen worlds.

And Kusanagi‑Jones needed their mission to fail. Or more precisely, heneeded a win–because he wasn’tVincent Katherinessen, and he wasn’t getting any younger, and accepting therapy had kept him his job, but it hadn’t done enough to lift the cloud after their last awful failure, the mess on New Earth. Kusanagi‑Jones needed a win.

And meanwhile, ethics and–sod it, humanity–demanded he take a fall. Just like New Earth. But a win here was the only way he could count on staying alive. The only way he might be allowed to stay with Vincent. It left him cold from throat to groin to think of losing that again.

Vincent had always been worth paying attention to in bed. And Vincent had noticed that he still wasn’t doing so. “Angelo,” he complained, “you’re thinking.”

“And that’s supposed to be your job?” Not quite Vincent’s dry snap, but enough. “Really want to know?”

Vincent nodded, his depilated cheek smooth on Kusanagi‑Jones’s skin. “I’ve no right to ask.”

Somehow, in their own private language, it was possible to talk. “You never came,” Kusanagi‑Jones said, as if his betrayal hadn’t happened. And as far as Vincent knew, it hadn’t. “I know. Unrealistic expectations. You couldn’t have come. Couldn’t have found me, and there was nowhere to run. Doesn’t help.”

Kusanagi‑Jones felt Vincent flinch. “I failed you.”

“Didn’t–”

“I did,” he said, as if he needed to. “But you took the therapy.”

“I did,” he said. Six months of biochemical and psychological treatments. Kusanagi‑Jones wouldn’t call it torture; they’d both experienced torture. Profoundly unpleasant. That was all. And he wouldn’t let his hands shake talking about it now. “They said I was a model patient. Very willing.”

Vincent tensed, shoulder against his thigh, the long muscles of his body tightening. “If this is–”

“Vincent,” he said, “I don’t want to lie to you.”

That shudder might have been relief, or pain. Or the flinch of a guilty conscience. But Vincent nodded and shifted his weight, moving back, pulling his warmth away. Kusanagi‑Jones stopped him, tightening his fingers on Vincent’s head.