The Ariadne Connection

STATIC, REVERB, AND—

***dazzle of sun on brass, blare of trumpets, rattling drums, cold wind on Leeza’s face. Colors—gleaming parade uniforms, gold epaulets, spinning wheel of a flung baton, snapping American flag. That everybody’s-grandfather face nodding, smiling, as he holds out gloved hands. “This time of trial will bring the people of our great North American Federation closer, united in our cause, with God’s help defending the ramparts of freedom and prosperity”***

A whine as the visuals cut out into wavering color bands, retuned—

***“Our children are hungry!” A choking burn in the throat, and she gags, eyes streaming. Blur of dark rushing figures. Screams. Angry voices still distantly shout a ragged chant, “Our children are hungry, open the gates, open the gates. . . .” Yellow poison clouds swirl, and the riot police in bubble suits swing their prods, moving out from the locked warehouse gates. Sirens shrill, lights strobe. She’s gasping, eyes burning, falling***

“Got that box pushing you buttons again?” A pop in Leeza’s ear, Damiana’s voice breaking in. “You watch, that thing grow on you.”

Leeza jerked, shoved back the goggles, and blinked. Dingy hot basement. Damiana in dusty khaki stood over her, dark eyes cool and assessing.

That pushed some preset rage button. “Fuck you! Don’t you ever break in on me like that!”

Damiana snorted. “No time for you games now. Waste enough, searching this fool desert up and down. You don’t want to stay here, just you and that box, you get yourself packed up.”

“Yes sir, Damon.”

“That old history. No secret, you to ask the boys. Or Esther.” Sardonic smile. “I got no problem with what I be. You?”

Leeza’s fingers tightened around the chair’s armrests. Damiana had her, more ways than one, and knew it, moving closer to brush her fingertips over Leeza’s bare shoulder and breast. They lingered, dexterous black fingers against white skin, as the nipple stiffened under their touch. But Leeza had Damiana, too, had what she wasn’t sure except it was raw power captured on chip, hoarded gold, and she was moving toward the essence of a vague something, moving way beyond what she’d imagined. Madre, if she could keep it together she could blow out of the water anyone else’s stims—

“Hey, chief—uh, Damiana!” Freddy Stone-face calling down the stairway. “Reception’s clearing up. Might be able to get Turner again.”

Damiana turned away without a glance at Leeza and headed up the steps.

Leeza clenched her teeth, then flopped back into the chair, picked up the hash pipe, and took another hit. She reached through the swirling smoke to reset the recorder monitor, pushing in the ear buds. She’d run a frequency/wavelength scan earlier, on the hydrofoil, and located the mercenaries’ usual channels. She activated Seek and leaned back, eyes closed.

Static. Interference whine. Then it cued in:

“. . . still negative. Pulling the boys back in for you rendezvous—” A shrill squeal cut in, and Leeza winced.

“Cancel that.” New voice, biting the words even through the static. “New rendezvous back at Med League headquarters on Naxos. Bring the Conreid bitch. Constantin Demodakis wants to cut a deal.”

Leeza caught a quick breath, jitters racing down the lines and up her spine. She jerked forward to kill the monitor, glancing nervously over her shoulder. Pulling out the ear buds, she sagged back against canvas, twisting the heavy platinum ring on her finger and staring into the stone’s facets as the fan swirled smoke tatters.