Mother would have a cow if she knew. Italian, and a cop. "Mother, I just had dinner with him, we didn't elope to the Poconos."
Maybe she'd go out with him again. He had a sense of humor, and conversation from something outside the incestuous world she worked in. It beat listening to David talk about his therapist and how he was dealing with his Inner Child. What the Inner Child needed was a good spanking, and anyway she preferred to talk to adults.
Chapter Nine
Well-preserved, if you like them mummified, Thomas Cairstens thought, shaking the woman's hand.
Janeen Amier had been a notable actress in her day, and something of a celebrity in radical circles in the 1960s. Later she'd made a fortune of her own in exercise videos, and then married a much larger one. Now she was just plain lean and stringy, and the effects of too many facelifts were showing; you could see the same face anywhere in L.A. or San Francisco, anywhere money and a losing struggle against time came together. Her husband, Fred Lather was carrying his age better, a trim slender man with a graying mustache. He was the real power here in terms of money and political influence, but everything Cairstens had been able to learn said that his wife was at least half the brains.
"Glad to see you again, Fred," he said. "Janeen."
Fred was, he noticed, in cowboy gear again; well, this was a ranch—a buffalo ranch, to be precise; Lather was a fanatic for the beasts when he wasn't doing those Civil War re-creation things. All fieldstone and exposed Ponderosa-pine beams in here, with a fireplace big enough to roast one of Lather's bulls. The communications magnate led them in and poured drinks; white wine all round, Cairstens noticed. Evidently his Western act didn't extend to actually drinking whiskey. Some evidence of bicoastal civilization surviving, he thought mordantly, as they got the small talk out of the way.
"Now, what was it you had to say that was so urgent and confidential?" Lather asked.
Cairstens smiled with professional warmth. "Let's be frank, Fred, Janeen—you've both been a little puzzled about IngolfTech, haven't you?"
"I like to see a new company with a progressive attitude," Janeen said.
On Cairstens's advice IngolfTech had made carefully calculated donations to a number of Amier's favorite causes over the past few years. For that matter, they were mostly his favorite causes too, or had been back when such things mattered. Fairly soon the fight against tobacco smoking was going to become completely irrelevant. Even nuclear waste wouldn't be much of a concern. If the Project succeeded.
"I am a little puzzled by some of the stuff you've come up with," Lather said. "My technical people are too."
"It's all been satisfactory, I hope."
"That's just it. It's too satisfactory." Lather spread his hands. "I know that sounds odd. But there aren't any bugs in any of them. Everything works perfectly; and new products are never that way. There's always teething problems, things that have to be worked out in practice."
"You mean the products we've been selling you work like finished products. Like things that've been in widespread use for years."
"Yes, exactly."
"That's because," he said, opening his briefcase, "they have been in use for years."
***
"Yeah, well, it wasn't as if I had anything better to do," Henry muttered.
He slowed. The roads to JFK were not at their best on a Saturday afternoon in February, not with sleet added in. Especially once you were off the Van Wyck Expressway, although the layout wasn't as bad as the spilled-spaghetti setup they had at La Guardia, thank God. He peered through the windshield and its sludge of water and ice, then took the right-hand turn in a spray of slush and a long beeeeeep from the minivan behind him.
"I still appreciate it, Henry," Jenny said, smiling at him in the mirror. "You're the first person I've known in Manhattan in years who actually has a car. Real people, not CEOs."
"Yeah, well, it sort of goes with the job." He grinned. "New experiences—I drive, you get me to go to the opera."
He'd actually enjoyed it, which was a surprise. Although come to think of it, granddad had loved Neapolitan operettas, which wasn't quite the same thing.
"Wish I was going to the Bahamas," he said as they pulled in. "So. Want to catch a movie next week, after you get back?"
His voice was a little too casual. Three dates in a month meant more than we-get-together-sometimes . . . . Christ on a crutch, how can I be worrying about that at a time like this? Part of being human, he guessed.
"Sure," she said quietly, reaching over to touch him on the arm. "I'd like that."
The weather was a little less ghastly under the overhang. Carmaggio popped the trunk and swung out the driver's door, buttoning his coat. She had a surprising number of bags for a five-day trip, all assembling onto a neat little folding carryall. Efficient.
"Look, Jenny . . . there's something I've got to tell you." She looked up, startled at his tone. He continued:
"This Ingolfsson broa—ah, woman. Her name's come up in my line of work, you know? No charges, but . . ." He spread his hands. "I can't go into details. Let's just say she's been associated with some questionable people down there."
Jennifer nodded, serious. She knew all about confidentiality. He could see she wasn't surprised; well, dealing with offshore Caribbean money probably involved rumors of that sort fairly often.
"So watch yourself down there, okay?"
"I will, Henry." She leaned forward and kissed him, a quick touch. "And thanks. Don't worry, nothing happens to investment analysts."
He stood and watched her vanish into the terminal before slamming the trunk shut and dropping back into the driver's seat of the Mazda. She was right.
"Shit, I hope so," he said, waiting with his hand on the keys.
Should I have said something else? What the hell could he say: "Your company's prospective client is some sort of mad-dog inhuman killer with a ray gun who consorts with giant spotted baboons"?
Oh, great. That would really be convincing. Talk about consigning yourself to the tabloid-reading realms of the trailer trash in one fell swoop.
"The hell of it is, when I come right out and say it I don't believe myself," he mumbled.
An airport security guard was looking at him from the shelter of the overhang; probably for taking up too much time at the drop-off. Fuck you very much too, asshole, Carmaggio snarled under his breath, pulling out into the laneway.
Jenny wasn't in any danger, anyway. Whatever Ingolfsson was after, right now she seemed to be concentrating on making large amounts of money, serious money, legitimate money. You didn't do that by hurting investment analysts; the financial world had a severe aversion to physical violence in its own ranks. The most that could happen would be a heavy swindle and the loss of her job, and he didn't expect that to happen either. Jenny was as bright as anyone he'd ever met, and she knew the twisted rules of her field as well as he knew his.
Carmaggio slammed on the brakes. Sweat broke out on his forehead and clammily under his arms as he felt the greasy skid of the tires on slick pavement. When the car halted he took several deep breaths before restarting the stalled motor; you could get yourself dead easy in this weather, driving with your mind in a fog of worry.
He concentrated on the road with a ferocious effort of will. Occasionally his hand would reach into his coat for cigarettes that weren't there.
***
"Whoop!" Gwen said, and caught the falling child.
He had been twelve feet up the coconut palm. A half-scream of terror turned to a giggle. Gwen tossed the slender black form up again, rolled him over her shoulders and tucked him under one arm head-down, grinning toward the ground and the delighted white smile.
"Hey, put me down now!" the boy said in the Haitian Creole patois.
Gwen did, watching with mild affection as he somersaulted off his hands and ran to join a half-dozen other youngsters playing outside a small concrete-block schoolhouse. This section of the property was sand and rock, scrub-covered with a fe
w taller pines or coconuts. It was a fine winter's day, sun bright through the thin foliage overhead, a little over seventy degrees. The brisk sea breeze brought scents of salt, silty mangrove swamp, pine, fresh-cut stone, and human. That was more agreeable now that she was used to it again, although she missed the odors of Draka and servus. She walked slowly, bare feet gripping the stone beneath her, savoring a feeling of relaxed well-being.
"You like children?" Tom asked over his shoulder as they walked; he and Alice preceded her down the pathway. She could hear undertones of surprise in the man's voice.
"Children and puppies, yes," Gwen said. "They're among my favorite things."
He nodded thoughtfully. "And wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings, no doubt," he said.
Gwen looked at him, liking his smile. There was no insolence in it, and outright fear was a crude tool of dominance. I'm getting the knack of dealing with humans, she thought. Killing them was fairly easy, gross manipulation with terror, bribes or pheromones not too difficult, but really managing them took skill. Centuries of dealing only with servus and her own kind had let hers rust, but mining her memories and careful study were bringing it back.
"That's a quotation?"
"From a musical . . . a movie with singing. An unbearably sentimental one."
"It's unhealthy not to like children," she said. "Not good evolutionary strategy. I'm very fond of mine."
"Hard to imagine you having children," Alice said.
"Oh, I only contribute the egg," Gwen said. "We fertilize in vitro and transplant the ovum. Sex is recreational and social, for us."
Alice looked back over her shoulder, caught Gwen's eye on her and blushed—thoroughly visible, since the Australian was in bikini and sarong—put a nervous hand to her hair, and glanced away. Delightful, Gwen thought. She'd become enthusiastic very quickly. Besides being an efficient administrative assistant.
A splendid pair, she thought, viewing them together. And they'd make a good breeding combination, when we have time. They might be past prime reproductive age when this operation was complete; best if she had sperm and egg samples preserved. The servus modifications only applied to a minuscule fragment of the archaic-human genome, and there were other qualities here it would be useful to preserve.
She inhaled, catching a feral scent. Chalmers, she thought with distaste. Here again.
"Ms. Ingolfsson!"
A human hurried up, carrying a clipboard. One of the local officials; and not one of the many that the energetic Captain Lowe had on the payroll. Lowe's strain I will not preserve. Even modified. He was useful here and now, though. This other feral wasn't useful even in the short term. A nuisance.
"Dr. Chalmers?" Gwen said politely.
Tom and Alice turned at her back; the plump Bahamian health official goggled a little at the Australian's cleavage, notable even here on an island nation of beach resorts. He reacted to Gwen with a bristling nervousness that stained his white shirt at the armpits despite the mild air. Her sex pheromones were naturally low right now anyway, with her appetites satisfied for the present, and she kept them throttled back. Aggression she let swell a little, watching with a secret amusement as the human's fear-defiance cycle intensified. The Bahamian didn't know what he was sensing, but his subconscious was wiser than his waking mind. It remembered the caves, and the smell of tiger.
"Ms. Ingolfsson, I've completed the health inspection of your Haitians."
Dislike and fear understressed in the word. The Bahamians' contempt for their southern neighbors was well-seasoned with consciousness of their numbers and desperation, and of the difficulty of keeping them out—the more so as the native-born were increasingly unwilling to do the menial work the Haitians accepted gladly.
"Yes?" Gwen arched an eyebrow.
It was a bit frustrating not to simply grab the annoying little human by the neck and arm and pull until he came apart—the image made her smile slightly—but there was a hunters satisfaction in playing him along, for now. Time enough to rebuke insolence when the beacon was established.
I'll throw him to the ghouloons, Gwen decided, making a mental note. They like to play with their food. This planet was inconveniently overpopulated, anyway. She imagined him weeping slow tears of absolute despair as he clung to the top of one of the palms, long wet fangs beneath him, and clawed hands reaching up with mocking slowness. The first scream . . .
"They are all in perfect health," Chalmers said.
"Doctor, you seem disappointed," Gwen said. "I'd have thought you'd be pleased—the Bahamas are so particular about tropical diseases."
If the dirty savages were sick, I could deport them, Chalmers thought/subvocalized. How did she get so many permits? A human would have seen only a glare.
"I'm sure your government realized the potential of IngolfTech," she said. Quite true; genuine productive enterprise was rare in this banking-smuggling-tourism enclave nation. "And I have high standards for my . . . employees. You've seen our clinic, and we spare no expense."
Also quite true. Even in the Old Domination, her human ancestors had been strict about conditions for their plantation hands; she could remember her mother's pride in that. There was no satisfaction in owning inferior stock.
Chalmers gave a curt nod and strode away, back toward the vehicle park.
Tom was sensitive enough to guess something of her moods by now. She heard him clear his throat.
"Is it wise to bait him like that?" he said. "I know he's only a minor bureaucrat, but this is a small country."
"Indulge me," she said dryly. Tom bowed his head. "No, that's not a criticism; keep telling me when you think I'm making a mistake. We're not infallible."
She cocked her head, focusing on his gestalt. "Yes, I do take the whole matter seriously, Tom," she said to his unspoken question. "But remember, I'm designed to actively enjoy conflict and its risks. Speaking of which," she went on, "have the weapons arrived?"
Tom nodded, unhappily. "Young Lowe brought them in on the last flight," he said. "I've had them unpacked and taken to the armory. Vulk says the Haitians he picked are learning quickly—enthusiastic, according to him."
Disgusting thug, he added unconsciously. Tom did not like the man who called himself Vulk Dragovic, but the Serbian was useful.
Gwen made no comment on Tom's subvocalization; it was fair enough, by the American's standards.
"Is it really necessary?"
"It never pays to neglect basics," she said. "We've accumulated substantial wealth and power here, by local standards—industrial espionage can be crude as well as subtle. Besides, it's . . . interesting to have human guards. Reminds me of my childhood."
The Old Domination had used janissaries, slave-soldiers, back before the Last War. There was no need for them in the Final Society, but there was a fascination to recapitulating the technique, even if only on this miniature scale. It was profoundly satisfying to have human slaves not only willing to obey but to fight and die for her.
"Speaking of basics," she went on, "I want another meeting of the inner circle tonight to go over protocols for the American financial group. It would be . . ."
Tom and Alice paled a little at her expression.
". . . extremely inconvenient if they were to stumble on anything they shouldn't. Killing them would put a severe crimp in the Project."
***
Jennifer Feinberg looked out the window of the floatplane. The west coast of the Abacos glittered in the afternoon sun, pinkish-white beaches and palms, tidal marsh, a scrubby olive-green landscape with patches of pine trees standing up from the low bush. Roads were black strings through the countryside, and an occasional tin rooftop showed through. Soon, she told herself. She felt jet-lagged, sandy-eyed and weary after the brief stopover in Nassau.
At least I get a trip to the tropics, she thought. New York had been crazier than usual, this November of 1998. And an excuse to stop worrying whether she'd pass the CFA 2&3 or get shelved for the rest of her life. Henry had bee
n properly envious.
Why am I sitting back here with the secretaries? she wondered again. I should be up there with the rest of the team.
There were three of them, Vice-President Coleman, Managing Director Klein, and her, one Series 7 Investment Analyst. Was he just making tasteless jokes, or was that a pass? she thought, glowering at the back of the VP's balding head. There were times when she wished she'd stayed in premed instead of switching to economics, but . . . oh, the hell with it: there were assholes in any line of work. Besides, after her father died the money was too short. You had to wait too long in medicine.
She looked out the window again. The clouds on the western horizon were turning crimson and gold, casting a path of light down the waves. Jennifer could see a cluster of people waiting by the long white pier jutting out into the water, and the pools and roofs of a settlement not far away. Several of the buildings looked new.
"Boss, boss, de plane, de plane!" she murmured to herself.
"What's that?" the secretary said, bewildered.
"Never mind," Jennifer replied That made her feel ancient for a second. Thirty-four's not old. The secretary was from Minnesota or somewhere, with those blue eyes that made you think of deep wells. Empty wells. No room for brains with all those hair roots. "Classical reference."
"Ladies an' gentlemen," the pilot's voice said, in his lilting Island accent. "Fasten seat belts an' prepare for landin'."
The hull touched the surface with a skip . . . skip . . . skip motion that was unlike anything Jennifer had ever felt before.
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