Carnival

“A small one,” she confirmed, and moved forward with one hand upraised to stop Miss Ouagadougou from ru

“Nkechi,” Miss Pretoria said, “I’ve been asked to hurry Miss Katherinessen and Miss Kusanagi‑Jones back to the government center. Can you see to the relocation of the cargo?”

Kusanagi‑Jones stepped aside and turned in time to see her nod and vanish back inside. He crossed the slight distance between the landing and his partner and took up station at Vincent’s side. His shadow still stretched long on the dock beside him, but the sun was climbing enough to sting where it snuck around the shade of his hat. “Is everything in order?”

“Perfectly,” Michelangelo answered.

Miss Pretoria turned back to them and held up a datacart. She ducked her head, speaking under the shadow of her hat. “A message from my mother, in her role as opposition leader. Countersigned by Antonia. Elder Kyoto, I mean.”

Their habitual security detail flanked them, just far enough away not to overhear if they kept their voices down. Two more women in plain black uniforms remained by the lighter.

“I’m not sure we ever heard her Christian name.” Despite his height, Vincent’s heels rang on the docks with the effort of keeping up with Pretoria; the warden could move when she had to.

She frowned. “That’s an odd term for it.”

Kusanagi‑Jones didn’t have to look at Vincent to know he’d led her into that particular trap on purpose, although his purpose was mysterious. “The first emigrants to Ur were religious refugees,” he said. “It’s just a turn of phrase.”

“Pregnant religious refugees? Miss Katherinessen–”

“Vincent.”

“–I suspect you’re pulling my leg.”

“Some of them were political refugees–”

“Some of usare still waiting to hear about the crisis,” Kusanagi‑Jones said irritably. It wasn’t Miss Pretoria’s leg Vincent was yanking. It was Kusanagi‑Jones’s chain.

“Sorry,” Vincent lied, biting back a widening of his smile.

I never should have fucked him. But he had, whatever advantage it gave Vincent. And he’d do it again.

At least the crisis couldn’t actually be a crisis. Vincent wouldn’t be playing cat‑and‑mouse games with him if it were.

It was a measure of his own stress and his reactions to the New Amazonian culture that his brain spent a full half‑second pinwheeling on the atavistic roots of the phrase cat‑and‑mouse,as archaic to Earth’s governed culture as saying hoist on his own petard. The New Amazonians probably had cats, or the native equivalent. And they probably set them on local herbivores for entertainment, too. When they weren’t enjoying a good duel or a round of cockfighting.

Savages.

Anyway, Vincent was enjoying toying with him far too much for the crisis to be anything overwhelming. In fact, confounding Pretoria’s careful observation of them into that slightly furrowed brow could be Vincent’s entire objective. In which case, Kusanagi‑Jones was content to play the game. He cleared his throat, deciding the silence had gone on long enough.

“In the car,” Pretoria said.

It waited where they had left it, a low‑slung honey‑brown groundcar complete with a wet bar and seats more comfortable than most armchairs. The doors hissed shut after they entered–a perfect seal–and Kusanagi‑Jones used every iota of his craft to appear as if he relaxed against the upholstery, while trying not to picture the animal it must have come from. Cool air shocked the sweat on his neck.

The car rolled forward like a serpent sliding over grass.

“The repatriation ceremony has been postponed,” Miss Pretoria said, and leaned forward in her chair to pull glasses and a decanter of cloudy gray‑green fluid out of the refrigerator. One at a time, she poured three glasses and handed the first two to Vincent and Kusanagi‑Jones. “Any allergies?”

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 di

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.