Behind Gore’s impassive gold face there was a stirring of amusement as the hot stench of sex began to gush out from their bodies. While in Patricia’s bedroom there was only the overpowering smell of pine soap as she drew her bath. No alcohol, no bitter salts of disappointment prickling her skin. She was content.
So Isabella was the go-between, the one who would bind Ramon back into the deal, making him the promises her mistress had preauthorized to secure his vote. And of course, she had a passing resemblance to Justine. A seduction of both mind and body. Poor, lucky Ramon.
Gore found the book he was looking for, seeing the leather spine behind the continual stream of sparkling scarlet information that enveloped his world. He reached out a hand swathed in glowing bands of silver and platinum, sliding The Art of Financial Warfare by James Barclay off the shelf. Not that he needed to read it, all the wisdom it contained now flowed freely among his thoughts and management routines. But the physical touch was a strange comfort. This book had been his Bible during his first life, and was still regarded as a classic text for anyone going into finance. He could probably do a good job updating it himself.
For some reason he always found himself searching it out when he was performing difficult placements; and this was one of the most complex. The starflight agency had so many variables, many more than the usual political-economic ventures he was accustomed to. By rights, it ought not to work, or at best be another cash-starved government institution that limped along on poor performances and missed quotas. This was too grand for today’s drab careerist politicians to make work. And yet… the people who would normally be tearing each other apart were actually cooperating and accommodating each other to facilitate its inception.
What am I missing?
Every formidable instinct he possessed was singing through his brain that something was wrong. He would have loved to believe that the human race was worthy and mature enough to behave so splendidly. To see a problem and address it with logic and resolution. There had been progress along the social evolutionary scale, he was the first to admit. Thanks to rejuve, people did take the long-term view very seriously indeed nowadays. The starflight agency was a perfect example of that.
So maybe I am the anachronism.
Untrustworthy, suspicious, always looking for the worst in people. The barbarian who had no need to invade the city, for he had watched it grow up around him. He still wouldn’t believe the agency could be birthed so easily.
Unless the manipulators themselves are being manipulated.
That notion was even harder to accept. He had been on this right from the start, watching with his usual Olympian detachment as Justine caught the implications from her own contacts and convened this weekend. As the most cursory reading of Barclay showed, to manipulate this situation earlier than he had, you would have to know the outcome of the Dyson mission before it was launched. Nobody possessed that kind of knowledge.
With a dismissive sigh he replaced the book, and went to sit in front of the small pile of embers that the fire had reduced to. If Isabella’s sweet body and wicked promises didn’t do the trick, he would need to outflank Ramon DB by midmorning tomorrow. Names flared within his private data casement, contacts within the African caucus who would not take kindly to their leading Senator turning down the subcontracts that re-siting the agency at High Angel would bring to their worlds. He sniffed the air, infusing the bouquet of Justine and Campbell and clean cotton sheets in mellow combination. Now that would be an advantageous union given what was expected to unfold over the next few years. Virtual hands reached out, purchasing shares in companies around the peripheries of where the larger starflight agency contracts would fall amid the African caucus planets. Preparing the family. Strengthening the family.
“I have to tell you,” Campbell said, “Nigel isn’t happy about moving the starship assembly platforms to High Angel.”
Justine stroked his nose in reply, moving her finger down to his lips so he could kiss the tip. She was lying directly on top of him, with the duvet flung somewhere on the floor. The ancient logs of the cabin were thick enough to retain the bedroom’s warmth against the chilly night outside, she didn’t need covering just yet. Candles in bulbous glass bowls flickered in various alcoves, filling the air with a musky scent of lavender and sandalwood.
“Poor Nigel,” she said with a pout, then smiled happily as his arms tightened around her, one hand was sliding sensually down her spine toward her rump. “What’s his problem?”
“He gave clearance for everything that’s been agreed so far, but moving to High Angel will delay the project by several months, and that includes the new scout mission. He won’t shift on that.”
“What about the ground defense segments of the navy? Do you mind losing out on them?”
“We don’t envisage losing out, exactly. We’re doing what your family is doing, and positioning ourselves. The primary contracts will be handled by the DRNG, but we’ll still come out ahead. Augusta is the largest of the Big15, everything is proportional.”
She looked around to find the bottle of Dom Perignon vintage 2331 was empty and neck-down in the ice bucket at the side of the bed. A quick order to the house array sent a maidbot hurrying to bring another. “It’s going to be interesting to see the New York market board on Monday morning. This weekend is going to see so many stock acquisitions and movements the traders are going to know something’s up.”
“Yeah, we can’t hold off introducing the agency for much longer.” He looked up as the maidbot slid toward the bed. “Ah. More?”
“Yes please!”
He moved his head back to find her grinning devilishly at him. “My God, remind me never to be around the week after you leave rejuve. I doubt any man could survive that.”
The delicious memory of those few days spent in a glade on the side of Mount Herculaneum came back to provoke a warm tingle of satisfaction inside her. “One did,” she murmured contentedly.
Campbell lifted the cold bottle from the maidbot’s grip. “Shall I open it?”
“Afterward.”
“What about the High Angel problem?”
“We’ll find a fix in the morning.”
There was no specific time arranged for breakfast on Sunday morning. The guests arrived as they woke, drifting in across the lawns. For once the day had started without any clouds. Strong sunlight cast the estate’s exuberant vegetation in a pleasant aspect; there were even a couple of red squirrels bounding about over the lawn. Justine sat with Campbell, relishing the tired but happy feeling that was soaking her body. Thompson had said a polite good morning when he came in, although his tone told her he was quite aware of what she’d been up to during the night. Not quite disapproving, but close. She and Campbell shared a secretive grin as her brother walked away. The grins reinforced each other, threatening to become the kind of unstoppable giggles that afflicted school kids.
“May I join you?” Ramon asked.
“Please do,” Justine said. There was no sign of Isabella. Nor Patricia, she realized.
One of the house staff brought Ramon a pot of fresh English breakfast tea. Justine remembered introducing him to that drink, she always found it the best way to start the day. Coffee was too abrupt for her.
“I may have an idea that would smooth the way to move the agency to High Angel,” Ramon said.