Carnival

“Not by a male,” Lesa said.

Kusanagi‑Jones raised an eyebrow at Vincent, who rolled his eyes. “Angelo is probably finding your remark somewhat cryptic.”

“One of our household males has taken advantage of the recent confusion to run away,” Lesa said. “We are trying to recover him before it becomes public knowledge and we have to make an example of him when we catch him. Thank you very much for airing our dirty laundry, Miss Katherinessen.”

“Anything you can tell me, Angelo can hear,” Vincent said, which earned him another arch look from the Penthesilean. There was a subtext there that Kusanagi‑Jones wasn’t catching, and for a moment, he understood what it must be like for others, on the outside of his rapport with Vincent.

“The male,” Kusanagi‑Jones hazarded, his hands folded between his knees. “Robert, was it?”

Lesa, looking out the window, nodded.

Kusanagi‑Jones frowned. “Your secret is safe with me.”

He half expected to be installed in the harem, or whatever they called it, but he and Vincent were given a small, comfortable room with a balcony that opened onto Pretoria house’s i

A young male servant who was familiar from the previous night’s di

Neither one of them was hungry, but they were both determined to eat, which made the meal an extended comedy of dragging silences and lengthy chewing, interrupted by occasional distant cracks of thunder and the sound of music and shouting drifting from nearby streets. Nothing as minor as the attempted assassination of a head of state would put a cramp in Carnival.

Kusanagi‑Jones finished first and waited while Vincent picked bits out of his sandwich and poured drink into his glass one mouthful at a time. He waited poorly, bending his fingernails against the edge of the tray and wishing Vincent would break the silence with a conversational offer.

But Vincent seemed preoccupied, withdrawn. “All right?” Kusanagi‑Jones said finally, and then bit the inside of his cheek in frustration.

“Yes,” Vincent said, prodding his nose delicately with the tip of his finger. “Sore, exhausted, and full of released toxins, but I’ve been worse. Something’s preying on you.”

And if he was presenting strongly enough that Vincent could tell, Kusanagi‑Jones was doing even worse than he’d thought.

“Need to talk,” he said. And then, unable to bear the close intimacy of the two of them leaning together over their food, he swung his legs off the low New Amazonian bed and levered himself to his feet. The carpetplant dimpled under his soles. He strolled to the archway leading to the balcony and paused inside the air curtain, currents stirring the fine hairs on his arms.

The first fat drops of a tropical downpour splashed the green‑blue translucence of the balcony as the ceiling inside paled to simulate the storming sky. As the light outside dimmed, that within seemed to brighten in comparison, so when Kusanagi‑Jones glanced over his shoulder he was caught by the luster of rust‑colored highlights on Vincent’s hair.

He looked down, folded his arms to hide the way his hands were shaking–again–and stepped through the air curtain and out into the rain as if stepping through a spun glass drapery.

His wardrobe shunted it away, creating a shimmering outline centimeters from his skin. He pulled his folded arms apart and ran fingertips over his watch, opening the utility fog.

The water was warm. Blood‑warm, warmer than his skin, corpulent drops hitting hard enough to sting. He closed his eyes and tilted his face back, letting the rain wash him. It passed through his wardrobe without dampening the simulated cloth or affecting the hang of the outfit, soaking him, sluicing down his chest and thighs, saturating his hair.

He heard Vincent’s footsteps and saw his shadow cross the fisheye before Vincent spoke. “Do you suppose it’s safe?”

“Safer than the sunlight.”

“There could be pollution. Parasites.”

“Could be,” Kusanagi‑Jones said. Even when he dropped his chin to speak, water splashed into his mouth. It tasted strange, not neutral but crackling with ozone, faintly salty, sweet. From below, Kusanagi‑Jones heard voices, a woman’s and those of children, and the slap of bare footsteps ru

Water pattered on Vincent’s hair and shoulders as he came outside. He paused at Kusanagi‑Jones’s shoulder, and Kusanagi‑Jones leaned back slightly, so their wardrobes meshed. The coded cha

Vincent’s hand on his shoulder almost made him jump out of his wardrobe. “If you’re about to tell me that you’re seizing command of the mission, Angelo, I don’t blame you. But I will put up a fight. Can’t we come to an accommodation?”

Kusanagi‑Jones stopped hard, with his jaw hanging open. He put one hand out, found the balustrade, and used it to pivot himself where he stood. “Beg pardon?”

To see Vincent staring at him, similarly gape‑mouthed and blinking rapidly against the rain that dripped from his lashes. “I thought–” He stepped away, let his hand fall, and tilted his head back. “The Christ. I thought you’d made me.”

“As a double,” Kusanagi‑Jones said, understanding, but needing the confirmation.

Vincent snorted, shaking his head, water scattering from short, randomly pointed braids. He rocked back and slumped against the wall beside the doorway. “Well, now you know. It’s a good thing Idon’t claim to be a Liar.”

“Who?”

“You know I can’t tell you that–”

“Vincent. I won’t hand you over. Or your co

“I still can’t tell you.”

“What organization?”

The smile was tight, Vincent’s hands curled into fists beside his thighs. He didn’t look down. Kusanagi‑Jones hadn’t thought he would. “One that doesn’t have a name.”

Kusanagi‑Jones shouldn’t have been riding a rush of relief and joy; emotion made you stupid. But it welled up anyway. He reached out and took Vincent’s arm, the dry wardrobe sliding over wet skin beneath. “Know what I’m thinking?”

“Do I ever? It’s part of your charm–”

Michelangelo took a breath and let the words go with it when he let it out. “I threw the mission on New Earth.”

“The Skidbladnirsuffered a core excursion,” Vincent said. “You couldn’t have had…” And then his voice trailed off. He tugged away from Kusanagi‑Jones’s hand, but not hard, and Kusanagi‑Jones held on to him. “Angelo.”

“I’m Free Earth,” he said. “Have been for decades. I killed Skidbladnir,Vincent, and everybody on her.”

“To keep New Earth out of the Coalition.”

“To give them a fighting chance.”

Vincent licked his lips and looked down, jaw working. Kusanagi‑Jones imagined he was toting up the dead–the ship’s crew, marines, civilians. He started to pull his hand back and Vincent caught it, squeezed, held. “Do you mean to do it again?”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“If I have to.”

“Good,” Vincent said. “Me, too. We need a plan.”

If there was any tap on the door to the hall, neither one of them heard it over the sound of the rain, but Kusanagi‑Jones could hardly have missed it irising open. He pressed Vincent’s arm before stepping around him, turning him. Then he walked under the dripping door frame before pausing to shake the water off his hair. A shower of droplets bent the leaves of the carpetplant until his wardrobe took care of the rest, wicking moisture away so his clothes seemed to steam. “Come in,” he said to the young woman who waited outside in simple off‑white clothing with a Pretoria household badge embroidered on the breast.