But she kept all of those thoughts to herself, remembering that she was a soldier, one who was being punished. She accepted Cornelia’s condescension without complaint, only stopping to ask, “Do you want me to wait around and bring Dr. March back myself?”
“No. There’s no telling when Martinez will get around to finding him, and there are instructions on where we’re staying in the envelope. When March reads it, he’ll come, believe me.” Cornelia’s sneer returned. “And no need to escort him. If he’s managed this long on the streets of Panama, he can survive a little longer on his own.” It was probably Cornelia’s last effort to thwart the plan she was already against. Maybe she hoped he’d be gunned down on his way to the hotel.
And so, Mae found herself in her own room later that evening, in makeup and a mauve cocktail dress, arranging her hair into a Gibson tuck. Old-fashioned styles like that were trendy in the castes now, and no matter how far she’d strayed from her upbringing, it was hard not to fall back on old habits. Make yourself pretty. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so contemptuous of Cornelia’s attitude, because Mae suddenly had a weird flashback to her sixteen-year-old self, primped and polished to the same level of glamour, ready to be set out on display.
I am not that girl, Mae reminded herself, with one last look in the mirror. I am a soldier of the Republic.
A pr?torian might not have had any fear on the streets of Panama, but a lone woman—especially a blond, foreign one in a short dress—certainly attracted attention. It was a flaw in Internal Security’s plan. If they’d really wanted a discreet message sent, they should have brought a male pr?torian. Of course, they probably didn’t have any men in enough disgrace right now to deserve such a mundane mission.
Mae almost hoped one of the locals would start something. Her emotions were still in enough turmoil from the funeral that she would’ve welcomed the physical outlet. But although she received a few bold looks and dirty comments in Spanish, the tattooed teenage gangsters lingering outside her hotel left her alone. Most of her trip across town to Cristobal Martinez’s club was by hired car, and although the driver made no attempt to hide his leer, he too kept his distance.
In fact, the most significant encounter she had was with someone who wasn’t interested in her body so much as her soul. About half a block from the club’s entrance stood a man with a shaved head and ragged coat. He was beseeching everyone who walked past, waving crudely drawn pamphlets at them. Mae didn’t speak Spanish, but she did pick out words like “dios” and “salvación.” She didn’t know if he was peddling an old religion or one of the many newer ones that had popped up after the Decline, but it didn’t matter. They all ran rampant and unrestrained out here in the provinces, and one was as bad as another. She had no use for any of them and made that clear when the man ignored her polite refusals. After a harsh shove into the wall, he decided to keep his salvation to himself.
Women met little resistance at the door, much like at the nightclubs of her homeland. Unlike any Gemman establishment, however, this one had a gun check. It boggled the mind. The RUNA saw absolutely no reason for civilians to carry guns, and Mae watched incredulously as poshly dressed playboys and call girls strolled up to the guards and surrendered weapons as casually as their coats.
Inside the club, high-powered air-conditioning vied for control with the heat generated by so many people packed together. The latter was winning. Equally oppressive was the smell, body odor mixed with smoke from cigarettes and other substances. It created a haze in the dim room that made her eyes water. Between all of that and the deafening music, Mae’s senses were in overdrive. It might have been a party, but it was a dangerous one, and her wariness woke the implant up.
She didn’t entirely understand the intricacies of Panamanian gender roles, though she knew they were tied to class. There was an aristocratic demographic that kept its women out of the public eye, as well as a newer upper class emerging that was looser in its rules for the sexes. That latter group made up the majority of the club’s guests tonight, though there were also a number of less affluent women around who had no qualms about making themselves available to men of greater means. Being alone suggested to others that Mae was in that group, so she was eager to complete her task before anyone decided to test the theory.
As it turned out, she was hit on five times before finally finding Cristobal Martinez. Only one of her “suitors” turned hostile at her rejection, but a sharp look from a passing security guard saved Mae the trouble of standing up for herself. It was just as well, for the sake of discretion, though her increasingly darkening mood was still trolling for a fight.