“That, too, offers little to me now,” she said. Sasaki turned to the man beside her on the bench. “I am ready for your counsel. How should we deal with this?”
“Hold our nose and take our medicine,” was the answer. “I was looking at lightning polls in the outer office. We’ll be seen as responsible whether or not we blame Homeworld. And if we blame them, we publicize our vulnerability to Homeworld tricks—and probably the details of the gag they used against us. In my opinion, it’s marginally better for us to be seen as fallible than as weak.”
“Yes,” Sasaki said. “I agree.”
“Perhaps something can be worked out with the Kenyans.”
Sasaki nodded. “I have already consulted with the Kenyan government,” she said. “They understand the true circumstances and are willing to be helpful. For appearances, they will insist on a suspension of launch operations while an investigation takes place. But I have been promised the restoration of our license, with certain cosmetic changes in the inspection and oversight provisions, in no more than ten days.”
“Wait just one moment,” Dryke interrupted. “Are we talking about taking the blame for this ourselves?”
“Yes,” Sasaki said. “I have decided to issue a statement accepting full responsibility for the accident. Mrs. Havens, we will need to agree on a plausible failure scenario.”
“Yes, Director.”
“What in the hell are we doing this for?” Dryke exploded. “They’re the murderers, not us.”
“We can’t win the war of opinion,” the sociologist said simply. “We have no credibility. This is Robin Hood we’re up against. Who listens to the Sheriff of Nottingham?”
“This is wrong,” Dryke said, shaking his head in disgust. “This is dumb wrong.”
Sasaki sought and held his eyes. Her focus made it as though no one else was with them. “This is reality,” she said. “We must win the other war. We must persevere, and complete
“This is a crime,” snapped Dryke. “A bloody crime. And you want to wash it away.”
“No, Mikhail,” Sasaki said softly. “We will not forget, no more than we forgot Dola Martinez. You must find Jeremiah and put an end to his interference. You made a promise to me. I am counting on you to keep it.”
His eyes questioned, then accepted, her meaning. “There are some threads I can follow.”
“Then do so,” she said, her voice still soft, but her eyes hard. “It is clear that Jeremiah can hurt us. He must not get a chance to try.”
CHAPTER 12
—AUU—
Like a child exploring the scar left behind by a bandage, Christopher McCutcheon traced his finger along the nearly invisible crack on the back of his ancient Martin steel-string. The luthier had lovingly healed the wound in the century-old rosewood dreadnought. McCutcheon strummed a chord, and the mellow-voiced guitar sang as sweetly as always.
The club audiences preferred the bright sound of his Mitsei electronic, which was just fine with Christopher. The Mitsei had a versatile effects kit, could go six- or twelve-string at a touch, and still looked more or less traditional. Most important, unlike the Martin, it could easily be replaced should anything happen. Christopher did not want to expose the fragile antique to the rigors and risks faced by a working instrument, much less violate it by having a performance port installed.
But there were certain songs and certain times that demanded a softer, richer voice. And when he played for pleasure, more often than not it was the supple-actioned D-42 that came out of its case. The luthier had asserted that a wooden instrument held all the music that had ever been played on it, and said that Christopher’s Martin had been played well. He was not inclined to argue.
Almost of their own volition, his fingers found the opening chords of “Caravan to Antares.”
“Look at me, I’m flying free, living in the stars,” he sang, head down, eyes closed. “Signed my name and set my sights on a destination far—”
Sometime between the first verse and the last, Loi came to his room. He opened his eyes to discover her leaning lightly against the wall near the doorway, folded hands pinned behind her, listening. Though it was barely eight, she was wearing a short black nightdress which showed much leg and shoulder and clung slinkily to the rest.
“Haven’t seen that for a while,” he said. She had bought the nightdress for herself on an early dinner-and- shopping date in the Embarcadero, then proceeded to take him home and show him that no visual aids were necessary. As play wear went, the nightdress was demure, but the associated memories were still potent.
“Are you busy?” she asked in her thoroughly direct and un-coquettish way.
“I was planning to be for a while,” he said, gesturing at the guitar. “I just got Claudia back.”
“Too busy to help a friend in need?”
A crooked smile. “Is that a proposition?”
“Of sorts. I think Jessie could really use both our attention. Unless you think Claudia will be jealous.”
Christopher frowned, hugged the guitar to his chest. “I don’t think Jess wants my attentions.”
“I think she’s been missing them.”
He squinted uncertainly. “Did she say that?”
“If I had to wait for her to speak her mind plainly to know what she’s feeling, this family would be in serious trouble,” Loi said with a smile. “But you don’t have to, if you’re uncomfortable. I’d rather you didn’t if you’re uncomfortable, if you’ve still got business to work out with her.”
“I just don’t want to make her say no.”
“I don’t think she will,” Loi said. “She needs what you can give her, Chris.” She smiled affectionately. “I don’t think you realize how much good you can do.”
Her words were processed through a filter of self-image that removed most of the compliment, but left intact the hope of being worthy of it. “Sure,” he said finally, setting the guitar aside. “Let’s see if we can’t put a smile on Jessie’s face.”
She came toward him. “Hug me first,” she said. “Let me find you. Then we can go out there and remind her what she’s part of.”
It was hard to say what each of them brought to that joining that made it so special. But it was the best they’d ever been together, intense and intimate, loving and sharing. It was like they’d never shared a bed before; it was like they’d always been lovers. Everything was new, a discovery. Everything was familiar, seamlessly easy.
There was little said. Hunger and healing, doubt and reassurance, all were given purely physical expression. Eyes and smiles and mingling energies did the work of words.
Christopher let Loi take the lead. Smiling mischievously, the older woman settled beside Jessie on the couch and purposefully began to undress her. Christopher joined in the task from the other side, determinedly plucking at buttons and tugging at sleeves.
Though their movements were unhurried, their focus and intensity gave them an urgency flavored with inevitability. Together, Loi and Christopher wrapped Jessie in a timeless, dreamlike experience of sensuality. Any surprise, any resistance, boiled away in the growing sexual heat.
Naked, Jessie surrendered, releasing all Mind, embracing Moment. Four knowing hands caressed her soft cool skin and silken folds. Two hungry mouths tattooed gentle bites along a shoulder, sought crinkled nipples to tease. She opened to their touch, their energies. She took a kiss from Loi, long and hungry, and passed it in turn to Christopher, warm and forgiving.
In barely noticed pauses, Loi shed her nightdress with a shrug, and Christopher his shirt. Skin to skin to skin they embraced, dry tinder for the fire that ran through them.
Sometime in that span, Christopher let go of calculation and plan, centering in the immediate—the rich scent of Jessie’s excitement, the soft sounds of pleasure, the warm touch of a hand, his own pounding blood.
