A Lunatic Fear. B. A. Chepaitis
sun on her bare back as she leaned over the stream and dipped her hand into the water. The curve of her hips as she swayed with Terez, dancing her flesh into desire. He felt it directly, as if it was injected into his veins. Fear and desire and power. The most potent and potentially combustible combination he knew, and Jaguar danced with it as if it was the easiest thing in the world. Every motion of her hand seemed both effortless and inevitable. What she did with her body was only what the laws of the universe had insisted on from the beginning of time. Yet, he also felt her concentration, her focus on the task. She danced lightly, but she understood the forces she partnered with.
Fear and desire, saturated with the power of the moon. The intensity of it, and her willingness to give herself so completely to it in this dance were more than he could bear right now.
He withdrew, pulled his hand back from hers. She leaned back against the windowsill, tilted her head at him.
“Problem?” she asked.
“I’ve seen enough to - to understand. Unless there’s more I need to know?”
She shook her head. “I’m good.”
He resisted all possible responses he could make to this. Instead, he stood and pressed his hands against his lower back. “Let’s go to the kitchen. I want some coffee, and we have to talk.”
She padded behind him, talking as they went. “Terez is coming along already,” she said. “The others should clear just as quickly if I keep sweating them.”
“We still need proof,” he said, then hushed her impending protests. “I mean, proof for the Hague.”
“What kind of proof?”
He sighed. “Not the kind you just showed me.”
He led her into his kitchen, and made coffee in the warm darkness, the aroma creating a comforting intimacy. She perched herself on his counter while he worked, watching him silently from this post, swinging her legs back and forth. He felt her gaze on him, still full of the moon, as he moved from stove to cupboard, making coffee, being normal, trying not to let his hand slip and find itself suddenly on her thigh.
When the brew was finished, he poured her a cup, set it down at his small kitchen table and took a seat. She sat across from him, letting the steam rise to her face and breathing it in deeply.
“We need to establish the source,” he said. “Odds are the women know how they were exposed. They might even know where the manufacturing’s going on. Can you get them to talk?”
“I think so,” she said. “Two of them are desperate to do penance as it is.”
“How long until they’re clear?”
“Two weeks tops, if I don’t run into any snags.”
“Okay. I’ll have Rachel dig up anything she can find about the people in their lives. Husbands. Bosses. Family. If the exposure’s that heavy it must be someone they see all the time, or a place they’re at all the time. You get what you can from them, too.”
He swirled his coffee in his cup, brooded over it a minute. “Jaguar, what do you know about phase psychosis in men?” he asked.
She blinked. “What?”
“I’ll explain in a minute. Just tell me what you know.”
“Same as everyone else. Nothing. No one admitted it existed in women, much less men, who never reported trouble with exposure to Artemis. Of course, I’ve got my own theory about that.” He waved a hand, inviting her to continue, and she did. “Given what we call acceptable male behavior, nobody would see it as a problem. Now tell me why you ask,” she said.
He stirred his coffee, brooded over it a moment.
“Shaking your web, Spider Magus?” she asked, as she always did when she thought he’d been using his Adept skills.
“Yes. Though, apparently, I don’t have to,” he said.
“What’s that mean?”
“Your vision in the sweat. I saw something similar.”
“I’m not an Adept,” she said immediately.
He grinned. She wouldn’t like seeing herself that way. “Don’t worry. Actually, I think you saw it with your clairvoyance. That just means it’s closer than either of us would like.”
“How close?” she asked.
“Here. The man in your vision – he’s here. A prisoner.”
“You know who he is?”
“Brendan Farley,” he said. “Got in trouble in Connecticut. And he used to work for La Femme.”
She sucked in breath. It was unusual for Adept space to be that specific. Usually information was metaphoric, tricky to interpret. That’s why she trusted so few Adepts. What they saw was a gift. Their ability to interpret well took great skill, which most didn’t have. Alex, she had to admit, was damn good. But this vision needed little interpretation.
“La Femme – one of my women worked there. Karena. But her personnel file’s missing.”
“I know.”
“Farley’s?”
That’s here, but it doesn’t say much.”
“So why - or how - did he show up in my sweat lodge vision?”
“I’m not entirely sure, but I think it means more trouble.”
“Do you mind,” she requested, “being more specific?”
He turned sharp eyes to her. “Specifically, corporate trouble. Big money and big politicking trouble. Specifically, when we drag all this out into the light, someone’s bound to get pissed off, and we’ll be standing right in line to get pissed on, if we don’t manage it right.”
“You think you can manage moon madness?” she asked, “It’s like gold fever. Greed and fear are in charge of this one.”
He considered his next words carefully. They would light a fire under her, but maybe she was already warm enough. On the other hand, he promised not to hold back.
“Listen,” he said, “it may be worse than that.”
She leaned back and sipped at her coffee. “Go on,” she said.
He stirred his coffee, put the spoon down on the table. “I’ve been hearing some rumors, so I asked Rachel to track private Board memos. She found a bunch between some CEOs and governors talking about support for moratorium repeal, and discussing the idea of renting Planetoid space to Global Concerns - for lunar crystallization plants.
He didn’t have to say more. She was suddenly and fully alert. “Which governors do we need to dodge?”
She tumbled to that quick enough, he thought. “Could be all of them. The memos were from a variety.”
“Rat fuck,” Jaguar said.
“Dry and hard,” Alex agreed. “So the connection between Farley and Global Concerns gets important fast. Rachel’s pursuing that.”
“Global - that’s Larry Barone’s outfit. More Rat fuck.”
He was always surprised at the bits of information she did and didn’t carry around in her head, but this was very unexpected. High finance ranked nowhere on her continuum of what was important. That she knew the name of a CEO seemed about as likely as governors inviting her to dinner.
“How do you know that?” he asked.
“I read,” she said cryptically. Then, she added, “And I’m very fond of Anna Burhasa’s writing.”
“Oh,” he said. “Burhasa. I should’ve guessed.”
Of course she’d know about that. Anna Burhasa was a novelist, screenwriter,