Carnival-SA (39 page)

“Kii won’t give us the brane tech. What if we offer him another way out of a war? He’s ethical. We offer Kii the opportunity to engineer a virus that modifies the human genome, that
induces
Consent, and we get the fucker to downgrade self-interest as a motivating force.”

“The Christ,” Vincent whispered. They stared at each other.

“Vincent. This is…this has to be exactly—”

Vincent’s larynx bobbed as he swallowed, a shadow dipping in the hollow of his throat. “They were the first ones to die, you know. You can’t accuse them of hypocrisy. The Governors Assessed their creators first.”

“Cowards,” Michelangelo said. He shoved the tray aside and swung his feet out of bed, wincing as blistered flesh contacted the tiled floor. “Cowards who didn’t want to watch their program carried out. Could cause a genocide, but couldn’t stand to live through it.”

“This is just how they felt.”

“Heady, isn’t it?”

“Angelo—”

“No. Don’t argue.
Think
. What do you have that’s better?”

“Who are we to choose for an entire species?”

Michelangelo gave Vincent his sweetest smile. “Who better?”

Vincent backed up to lean against the wall and folded his arms. “Every solution is going to present us with new problems down the line. And this would put an end to Lesa’s problem, too. The way to stop men from preying on women without treating the entire sex as criminals is simply to remove the predatory urge. If we can’t be trained, we can be broken.”

“You’re Advocating.”

Vincent winked, but Kusanagi-Jones saw his hand shake when he checked his chemistry, taking a moment to revise the adrenaline load down to something manageable. “All right. I’ll Advocate. I’m Lesa. She would say it was immoral to tamper with human biology, and more defensible to institute social controls to the same effect.”

“So slavery is more moral than engineering out aggression.”

“It’s not chattel slavery.”

“No,” Kusanagi-Jones said. “An extreme sort of second-class citizenship.”

“Not much worse than women in the Coalition.”

“Women in the Coalition can vote, can work—”

“Can be elected to the government.”

“Theoretically.”

“Practically?”

“Doesn’t happen.” Kusanagi-Jones swallowed. “Who’d want a woman in charge?” Except on some of the repatriated worlds. But Ur was the only one with the nerve to send a woman to the Cabinet. The conviction had dropped from his voice. “I can’t even Advocate this anymore, Vincent. It’s just
wrong.
”

“No fanatic like a new fanatic,” Vincent said. He came to Kusanagi-Jones and crouched beside him, and patted him on the knee. “We’ll figure something out.”

“Scared,” Michelangelo said, a raw admission meant as much for himself as for Vincent. And Vincent knew it. Michelangelo could tell by his expression, the arched eyebrows, the line between them. “Having your preconceptions rattled is unsettling.”

“No,” Michelangelo said. He dropped his face to his hands, pushed fingertips against his eyelids until the pressure hurt. The pain didn’t help his focus, so he dropped his hands and looked up instead. “Scared we’ve already figured it out.”

Vincent stood, all lithe grace, and let his hand rest warmly on Michelangelo’s shoulder. “Whatever,” he said. “Let’s at least talk to Kii about getting that weapon cleaned out of your bloodstream, shall we?”

Michelangelo nodded. “And then tell Lesa about Kii, and see what
she
bloody thinks.”

Vincent and Michelangelo found Lesa on Elena’s beloved veranda, her bandaged feet propped on the softest available cushion, a plate on her lap and a sweating glass beside her as she watched Julian and some other children romp in the courtyard with a couple of khir. Vincent didn’t think Elena would have left her alone willingly. It must have taken a spectacular temper tantrum. She didn’t acknowledge them at first, as he and Angelo came up beside her—unescorted—and took places on a wooden bench. It was polished smooth, the wood warm in the muggy afternoon, and Vincent leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, watching in fascinated horror as Lesa worked her way around a piece of shellfish sushi rather like a snake ingesting a too-large mouse: lingeringly and with many pauses.

“I’m sorry about Robert,” Angelo said finally when the silence had gone on longer than Vincent expected.

Lesa didn’t look. “I’m not,” she said. “But don’t let Katya find out about it, okay?”

Vincent felt Michelangelo shrug. “I won’t.”

She did turn, then, and give them a painfully dilute smile. “I’ve just heard from Antonia Kyoto. She wanted me to pass along her thanks for your information as well, Michelangelo. And let you know that Miss Ouagadougou and Stefan have been arrested. And are under…considerable pressure to name the rest of the Right Hand apparatus.”

He grunted. “Miss Ouagadougou wasn’t working for the Right Hand,” he said. “She’s Coalition.”

“Yes,” Lesa said. “Antonia just led a raid on another encampment and found more Coalition tech. It might save us an insurrection if we can find enough of them.”

Vincent said, “And Katya?”

“She’ll go to prison.” Lesa said it so calmly that Vincent looked at her twice. The tension lines around her eyes told another story. “But she’s young. And it won’t be forever.”

Vincent had no answer. He leaned on Michelangelo and didn’t try to come up with one. Lesa cleared her throat. “And I also heard from Claude.”

“And?”

“She wants to set the duel for the sixth of Carnival.”

Vincent glanced doubtfully at Angelo, but Angelo’s gaze was on the children in the yard. “Three days. Will you be able to walk by then?”

That homeopathic smile didn’t flicker. She picked up another piece of sushi and contemplated it before she said, “I don’t need to walk to shoot somebody, Vincent.”

“And are you as fast today as you were the other afternoon?”

She didn’t answer, and he thought about her silence while she chewed. Angelo shifted on the bench, leaning closer while Vincent pretended not to notice. Funny how he could always tell exactly where Michelangelo’s attention was, even when Angelo was pretending it was somewhere else.

“We need to find that lab. Then there won’t be a duel.”

Too late, he remembered she didn’t have the context, and was opening his mouth to explain when she silenced him with a wave. “Mother told me.”

“I thought she would.”

“And I told Antonia,” she continued. Vincent opened his mouth, and she silenced him with one raised finger and a chipped stone glare. “If I don’t live through the duel, she needs to know what Claude is capable of.”

Vincent didn’t answer, but he swallowed and nodded. All right.

Lesa turned to Angelo. “Are you going to get the infection taken care of?
Can
you get it taken care of?”

She spoke to Michelangelo rather than Vincent, but Michelangelo didn’t look at her.

“We can,” Vincent said. “And will. Which reminds me. There’s somebody we want you to meet.”

“Where?”

“Inside.”

“Hand me my crutches.”

Michelangelo was still at his shoulder when they came into the house, following the stubborn staccato of Lesa’s crutches. She managed them well, stumping forward grimly—though she winced when her weight hit her hands. Thick batting padded the handles; it obviously wasn’t enough. She paused before the lift rather than heading for the stairs. Just as well, because Vincent didn’t fancy carrying her up them, and Michelangelo’s feet were in no shape for chivalry. Stubborn or not, Lesa was swaying by the time she stopped, and Vincent steadied her with a hand on her shoulder as he commanded the lift. The venom had left her weak, febrile, and probably aching. Inside the lift, she propped herself on him without seeming to, and he smiled as he tilted toward her. He hadn’t slept in days, and though he still had chemistry it was wearing thin. If Michelangelo was too proud to lean, Vincent wasn’t.

The lift brought them to the third floor, and Lesa paused before the doors to her bedroom. “Excuse the mess,” she said, and gestured them inside.

Michelangelo went first, covering Vincent, and for once Vincent reveled in it rather than chafing. But there was no one inside except a sleepy khir in a basket, who lifted his ear-feathers at them but seemed otherwise disinclined to stir. Vincent recognized Walter by his bandages and almost thought the khir grinned at him—if khir grinned.

He turned to assist Lesa in managing her crutches through the door, but she didn’t need him. She clumped to her bed and flopped down, letting the crutches slide to the carpetplant alongside. She closed her eyes, face sallow with pain, and didn’t seem to notice when Angelo bent down, picked up the crutches, and silently braced them upright against the wall between her bed and her nightstand.

“All right,” she said. “This is as private as I can manage on short notice.”

Vincent nodded and raised his eyes to the wall. “Kii, would you introduce yourself to Miss Pretoria?”

The swirling effect in the wall panels was just as before, though Vincent noticed that Lesa had turned off the jungle scenes in this room, leaving blank taupe walls. First eyes and then a tall lithe body coalesced from swirling pixels, and Kii lay at ease, its wings folded comfortably along its sides so it could recline on its elbows. It settled its plumed head between its shoulders like a somnolent bird and blinked at them.

“Greetings, Lesa Pretoria,” it said. “Greetings, Vincent Katherinessen and Michelangelo Osiris Leary Kusanagi-Jones. Kii anticipates your questions.”

At the sound of the mellow, neutral voice, Lesa lurched upright on the bed, hands braced to either side.

“Dragon,” she said, and shook her head, many-colored hair flying around her. She looked to Michelangelo, not Vincent. “Simulation?”

“Transcended,” Vincent answered, when Michelangelo didn’t. “Kii, Michelangelo would like to accept your offer of medical treatment.”

Kii’s head settled more solidly between ridged shoulder blades. “Michelangelo, is that so?”

Michelangelo kept his eyes straight ahead, though Vincent was waiting for the glance. “Yes, Kii.”

“It is done,” Kii said. “You will find a document for your life support device available in the datastream. It should enable your implants to locate and eradicate the infection.”

“Kii,” Vincent said, “can you tell me where to find the lab where that virus was tailored?”

“It is not within Kii’s range of access,” Kii said. It angled its head and stretched its neck, as if regarding Lesa more closely than before. “The khir like you, when you come. The Consent is that you may stay, to please the khir. We are fond of the khir. And Kii is grown fond of you.”

Lesa sat very still, the bedclothes knotted in her hands. She licked her lips, pulse visible at her throat, and Vincent found himself in sympathy with her nervousness. The Dragon’s regard had a tendency to make him feel like a snack, as well.

“That’s you-humans, not you-Lesa?” Michelangelo, surprising Vincent.

“The khir approve of Lesa Pretoria,” Kii said, the long neck swaying slightly, plumage ruffled by an unseen breeze.

In his basket, Walter flopped on his side and hissed, showing his belly to the air. Lesa turned her head and looked at him, leaning forward on the bed without lowering her feet to the floor. Not trying to stare the Dragon in the eye seemed to ease her. Vincent remembered some Old Earth legend about snakes and hypnosis, or maybe turning people into stone.

“The khir really aren’t smart enough to…talk…are they?” she said. Walter lifted his head, neck craning around like a hand puppet, and blinked back at her with triangular-pupiled eyes. It was that look that did it. He’d been telling himself, over and over, that his gift shouldn’t apply to Dragons or to khir. That their kinesthetics, their
everything
was different from that of humans, and deceptive.

But that intellectual knowledge hadn’t stopped him from reading them, and reading them correctly—Dragon and khir.

Because the khir had been living with New Amazonians for 150 years, and the khir—nonverbal, with a predator’s extended jaw structure and limited facial expressions—were quite perfectly capable of communicating through kinesthetics, the rise and fall of their peculiarly expressive plumage that ruffled independent of any wind.

Just as the Dragons must have, when they were meat.

“Actually,” Vincent said, “I think the khir tell the Dragons rather a lot, don’t they?”

“The khir are invaluable,” Kii said. “They are the protectors of the old world. We make them safe denning, and they give the city purpose. As now you do as well.”

“Because the city is
esthelich,
isn’t it?”

“That can be no revelation, Vincent Katherinessen.”

“No,” Vincent said, aware of Michelangelo shifting a half-step closer to him, a warm pressure at his elbow. “I’ve known that for a while. Since it helped me hide from the kidnappers. If it’s
esthelich
by your standards, it must have an aesthetic. And its aesthetic is…comfort? The care of its inhabitants?”

“Would you create a domicile that thought otherwise?”

“No.”

Lesa had looked away from Walter and was now sitting curled forward, the bedclothes dragged over her lap as she stared at Vincent. “And of course,” she said, “even if you were Transcendent, there’s always the chance that something could go wrong with the system, isn’t there?”

Smart woman
. Which was no more a revelation than House’s taste in art had been. “The possibility exists,” Kii said, hunching between its wings.

Vincent said, “And if you needed physical bodies again? Could you read your…personality onto an organic system?”

“The possibility exists.”

“The khir are a failsafe.”

“The khir are not disposable,” it answered, contracting again, pulling itself back on its haunches.

“Kii,” Michelangelo said. “If you had to translate
esthelich
. What would you say it meant?”

The Dragon hesitated. Its head swung side to side, the tongue flickering through a gap in its lower lip. “It does not translate into merely one of your words.”

“Try.”