When he leaned out, he looked down on the heads of the group seated immediately below. And Vincent was just as unprotected from anybody watching from the next tier above.
While the immediate security concerns distracted Kusanagi‑Jones, Vincent touched his elbow. He didn’t need to be told to follow Vincent’s line of sight; he did it automatically, his alerted interest becoming a startle and a reflexive step closer as another cheer went up.
The floor of the arena was divided into long ovals, each one bounded by white walls that were thick, but not higher than a man’s waist. And in each of the pits were men.
Young men, judging from the distance, paired off and engaged in contests of martial arts, each pair attended by an older man and a woman–referees or adjutants. Kusanagi‑Jones, his hands tightening on the railing, had the expertise to know what he was seeing. These were men trained in a sort of barbaric amalgam of styles, and they were not fighting for points. He saw blood on the white walls, saw at least one individual fall and try to rise while his opponent continued kicking him, saw another absorb a punishing roundhouse and go down like a dropped handkerchief.
Beside him, Miss Pretoria cleared her throat. “There are screens,” she said, and touched the wall he leaned against. “Please sit.”
Vincent did, back to the wall, and Kusanagi‑Jones was comforted when he saw Vincent surreptitiously dial his wardrobe higher. Kusanagi‑Jones wasn’t the only one feeling exposed.
Miss Pretoria continued fussing with the wall, and images blossomed under her hands. These were the same combats being carried out below, close‑up, in real time. Nothing here was faked, or even as ritualized as the pre‑Diaspora bloodsports that had masqueraded as contests of athletic prowess.
It was a public display of barbarism that Kusanagi‑Jones should have found shocking if he were at all well socialized.
Vincent shifted slightly, leaning back in his chair, but Kusanagi‑Jones wouldn’t allow himself to give away so much. Instead, he placed himself in the seat before Vincent, beside Miss Pretoria, and leaned forward to speak into her ear as another roar went up from the galleries and–on the sand, on the monitors–another man fell. Medics came to him, capable women checking his airway and securing him to a back board, and the view on the monitor shifted to the weary champion feted by the referees. Around them, Kusanagi‑Jones saw women consulting datacarts and bending in close conversation.
“What’s the prize?”
Miss Pretoria considered him for a moment. “Status. To the victors go a choice of contracts; households with more status will bid for preferred males. Which benefits both them, and their mothers and sisters–”
Kusanagi‑Jones didn’t need to turn to see Vincent’s expression. He hadn’t let his fisheye drop since they set foot planetside.
Vincent reached past him, leaning forward, and indicated the monitor. “You’re selecting foraggressive men?”
Miss Pretoria showed her teeth. “We’re not docile, Miss Katherinessen. And we’re not interested in forcing males to conform to standards that ignore what nature intended for them.”
She said it easily, without apparent irony. But the look Vincent shot the back of Kusanagi‑Jones’s head had enough of that for all three of them and the self‑effacing security agents, too.
They lingered at the arena for an hour or so longer than Vincent really wanted to be there, although he supposed it was beneficial in terms of information gathered–both regarding the society they found themselves contending with, and what Miss Pretoria chose to show them about it. Angelo, of course, watched the bloodsport with as much appearance of interest as he might have mustered for a particularly tiresome political speech. Even Vincent wasn’t certain if he was analyzing the technique of the duelists and finding it wanting, musing on the ironies of this open display of arts that on Old Earth would be considered illegal, or sleeping with his eyes open.
Vincent, by contrast, let himself wince whenever he felt like it. Which was fairly frequently. Eventually, Miss Pretoria chose to take note of her guest’s discomfort, and suggested she show them their quarters so that they could take advantage of siesta to get ready for the reception and dinner.
The walk back was quiet and uneventful, though the still‑increasing heat left Vincent feeling unwell enough that he was grateful it wasn’t long. He recognized the courtyard where they’d first emerged from the limousine by its colors and layout. The particular building they approached–if any given portion of the city could be called a separate building–had a long sensual single‑story arch rising into a slender tower with a dimpled curve like that of a hip into a high‑kicked leg. The tower was even shaped like a human leg–a strong, shapely one, with a pointed toe and a smooth swell of calf near the peak. An oval window or door opened into that small valley; Vincent would have liked to see a garden there, pots and orchids, maybe. On Ur, on Old Earth, there would have been flowers, great waterfalls of them growing up the wall. The swags and garlands of dead, cut flowers were another alien grace note, a funereal touch. They even smelled dead, sweet rot, although if you ignored the fact that they were corpses they were pretty.
Miss Pretoria smiled a quiet professional smile. “We think the Dragons were fliers. That’s one of the reasons we call them Dragons; half the access points to the dwellings are above ground level, some of them at the tips of spires. It used to be more like four‑fifths of them, but now that people have been living here for a hundred years, things have changed.”
A hundred New Amazonian years; 150, give or take, of Earth’s. “I was noticing the lack of plants.”
“Oh,” she said. “We don’t really–well, I’ll show you.” She gestured them inside, through a curtain of cool air that ruffled the fine hairs on Vincent’s neck. The doorway was simply open to the outside, air exchange permitted as if it cost nothing in resources to heat or cool. He bit his lip–and then lost his suppressed comment totally as they walked through the dim entryway and he got his first glimpse of the interior.
For a moment, he forgot he was inside a building at all. The walls seemed to vanish; he had the eerie sensation of standing in the center of a broad, gently rolling meadow bordered on three sides by jungle and on the fourth by the sunlit curve of the bay. A dark blue sky overhead poured sunlight, but less brilliantly. Vincent’s headache eased as his squint relaxed. He no longer had to fight the urge to shade his eyes with his hand; this was like the sunlight he was accustomed to, the tame sunlight of Ur or Old Earth.
“Better?” Pretoria asked, pulling off her shoe.
“Very much so.” He glanced around, aware of Michelangelo’s solid presence on his left side, and pressed his foot into the flooring. It was soft, living. Not grass, of course, or the tough broad‑turf of home, but a carpet of multiple‑leaved, short‑stemmed plants sprinkled with bluish‑gray trefoils. He gestured at the ceiling and walls. “This is…awesome.”
He adjusted his wardrobe so he, too, was barefoot. Michelangelo did the same, without seeming to have noticed anyone else’s actions.
Miss Pretoria placed her shoes on a rack by the door, and Vincent stole a look at them. He couldn’t identify the material. The security detail kept their boots, custom bowing to practicality.
“This is the guests’ quarters of government center. The lobby is yours to make use of as you please. For your safety, we ask that you do not venture out unescorted.”
“Is Penthesilea so dangerous for tourists?” Vincent asked. It had seemed tame enough on their two brief jaunts, and he was interested by how casually the local dignitaries ventured out in public. The culture, in that way, reminded him of pre‑Repatriation Ur, a small‑town society in which everybody knew everybody else. He craned his neck, looking through the almost‑invisible ceiling, and watched some small winged animal dart overhead.