Elena’s smile was tight with guarded triumph. “I hate hanging our hopes on a man, even if he is both gentle andhis mother’s son. But he came.”

2

BOADICCA WASN’T THE LEAST CIVILIZED STATION Kusanagi‑Jones had seen, but its status as a cargo transfer point rather than a passenger terminal was evident. New Amazonia’s trade was with other Diaspora worlds, a ragtag disorganization of colonies beyond the reach of Coalition growth–for now, anyway. (Kusanagi‑Jones occasionally wondered if the Governors’ long‑dead progenitors had understood that in their creation, they had delivered unto Earth’s survivors a powerful impetus to expansion.)

Boadicca reflected that isolation. The curved passageways were devoid of decoration, creature comforts, carpeting, kiosks, and shops. The only color was vivid stripes of contack, which scanned the watches of nearby pedestrians to provide helpful arrows and schematics. Kusanagi‑Jones paused to study the patterns, and frowned. “Security risk,” he said, when Vincent looked a question. “Too easy for a third party to match up destination with traveler. Must be short on saboteurs and terrorists here.”

Vincent smiled, and Kusanagi‑Jones read the comment in the air between them. Not anymore.

“Good old Earth,” Kusanagi‑Jones agreed, lapsing out of common‑pat and into a language that wasn’t taught in any school. “If you can’t bring it home, blow it up.”

Secrets within secrets, the way the game was always played. If they couldn’t find a way to bring New Amazonia under OECC hegemony with at least the pretense of consent–the way Vincent’s homeworld Ur had fallen–they would weaken the local government through any means necessary, until the colonials came crawling to Earth for help.

Colonies were fragile, short on population and resources. On Ur, for example, there had been the issue of sustainable agriculture, of a limited gene pool further damaged by the exigencies of long‑distance space travel, of the need for trade and communication with other worlds. Where Ur maintained a pretense of sovereignty and had significant representation on the OECC’s Cabinet, successful sabotage leading to a failure of strength would result in a worse outcome for New Amazonia in the long run. And if Vincent and Kusanagi‑Jones did their jobs as ordered, that was the plan, just as it had been on New Earth.

And just as on New Earth, Kusanagi‑Jones didn’t intend to allow the plan to come to fruition. He also wasn’t foolish enough to think that a second act of self‑sabotage would evade his superiors’ notice.

Vincent defocused as he checked his watch. “I’d kill for a coffee. But our luggage is on the lighter.”

“I hope it was well packed.” Luggagewas an inadequate term; the cargo pod that Vincent had shepherded all the way from Earth under diplomatic seal carried what their documents euphemistically identified as samples. Those samples included, among other objects, Fionha Dubhai’s holographic sculpture Ice Ageand an original pastel by the Impressionist Berthe Morisot. Irreplaceabledidn’t even begin to cover it. And bargaining chipwas only the beginning of the story. There was more back on Earth; this shipment was only to prove goodwill–to show willing, as Vincent would say. Whatever their history, the OECC wasn’t stinting on the tools to do its job, either by bargaining or by blowing things up.

Vincent put a hand on Kusanagi‑Jones’s elbow as they drew up before a loading bay, one identical among many. Two green lights blinking beside the archway indicated their destination. “This is the end of the line.”

“You said it.” They walked forward, side by side, to link their documents into the lighter’s system so the pilot could tell them where to go.

The long New Amazonian day was inconvenient for creatures whose biorhythms were geared toward a twenty‑four‑hour cycle. Lag became a problem in more temperate climes, but Penthesilea was fortunate in that high heat provided a supremely adequate excuse for a midafternoon siesta. During more than two‑thirds of the year, it was followed by the afternoon rains, which signaled the city’s reawakening for the evening round of business.

Lesa cheated and let Julian stay with her while she napped. Walter, the big khir that usually slept in her rooms, was nowhere in evidence–probably off with Katya–and Julian at six and a half local years was of the age when naps were an abomination before the god of men. He sat up at Lesa’s terminal while she flopped across the bed and closed her eyes. She’d seen the problem he was working. He said it was a minor modification of House’s program, though Lesa didn’t have the skills to even read it, let alone solve it, but Julian was so thoroughly engaged that she let him keep tapping away as she dozed, lulled by the ticking of the interface.

That sound blended into the patter of the rain on her balcony so that she didn’t rouse until House pinged her. She opened her eyes on yellow walls shifting with violent sunlight–entirely unlike the gray skies outside–and winced. “House, dial it down, please.”

The light dimmed, the walls and ceiling filling with the images of wind‑rustled leaves and vines. She stretched and rubbed her eyes. “Hello, Mom,” Julian said without looking up from the monitors. “Did you sleep well?”

She rubbed at her eyes and padded across the carpetplant to the wardrobe. “Too well,” she said. “I’m late. Save your work, Julian, and go eat.”

“Mom–”

She paused, a fistful of patterned sylk drawn out into the light, and turned to stare at the back of his head. “You know you can’t stay down here while I’m gone.”

His shoulders drooped, but his hand passed quickly over the save light, and he powered the terminal down before sliding, monkeylike, out of the chair. It was a little too tall for him, so he had hooked his toes over a brace while he worked, and the disentangling turned him into a study in conflicted angles. “All right,” he said, and came to hug her before vanishing through the door, gone before it had entirely irised open.

Lesa dressed for business in the warmth of the evening; the rain would be over before she left. She chose a tailored wrap skirt and the sylk blouse, and belted her honor over the skirt. Claude could take offense at anything, even if Lesa were of a mind to show up anywhere public unarmed. And the skirt would be cool enough; she couldn’t face trousers after the rain, with the hottest part of the year beginning.

Downstairs, she passed Xavier in the foyer, coming in from the decorating. Lesa had taken her own turn earlier in the day. At least it was better than pulling the flowers down, which was the part she truly hated.

She told House she was leaving, and asked it to summon a car. The vehicle was waiting by the time she reached the end of the alley that fronted Pretoria house; a diplomatic groundcar with a male driver, his street license prominently displayed on his shoulder–marking a gentle male, rather than a stud like Xavier. He smiled as she slid in. “Government center?”

“Singapore house,” she said. “I have a dinner invitation.”

He drove carefully, politely, through the rain‑flooded streets. Water peeled away under the groundcar’s tires on long plumes, but the only people outside during cloudover were one or two employed stud males with street licenses hurrying back to their households or dormitories for dinner, and the householders on their porches under umbrella‑covered tables, sipping drinks and enjoying the brief cooling.

The household Claude Singapore shared with her wife, Maiju Montevideo, was on the seaward side of the city, overlooking the broad, smooth bay. By the time Lesa arrived, the clouds had peeled back from the tops of Penthesilea’s storied towers. The rays of the westering sun penetrated, sparking color off the ocean, brightening it from gray to the usual ideal blue.