Battleground by Terry A. Adams

response. On one level, she was not surprised at Jameson’s ease with Mickey; she knew that he rather liked what he called “the species human child,” and that relatives, friends, acquaintances, and complete strangers often inflicted their offspring on him in the course of his public life. But there had been a subtle restraint before, and it had vanished in her absence. Jameson behaved, in the terminology of her own culture, like one of her kinship group, as if there were some tie of love or blood to all of them, though the faraway persons who composed her actual kinship group were convinced that he was bad for Hanna in every way. His assumption that he stood in such a relation to Mickey would have horrified them. He must have known it, too, but it did not seem to affect him.
    And it was clear that he
had
missed her, though he did not say so. He touched her more often and more openly, drawing surprised glances from people previously convinced that whatever he was getting from her presence in his home had little to do with affection—and Hanna could not decide if she liked it. She knew precisely how to respond to his touch when it was meant to arouse her—with the willing certainty of what he was going to make her feel. Now that he seemed ready to consider the possibility of loving her—
finally,
she thought—she also thought she probably did not want to wait another ten years or so for him to make up his mind. It seemed a long time to wait for the satisfaction of rejecting him.
    Equally surprising, and more troubling, was the dramatic increase in the number of social gatherings at Jameson’s home. Formerly these had been rare and Hanna had joined them with a minimum of discomfort, even, often, with enjoyment, because the guests were interesting. Now there were not only more of them; now the people invited were usually not companions she would have chosen. Many were from Heartworld, where Hanna was especially unpopular. She resolutely shut her mind to their frequently demeaning thoughts about her, and minded her manners. She was Jameson’s guest herself, in the final analysis, so she owed the others courtesy, at least.
    But at last she said to him: “What are you up to?”
    She asked the question in his study after an especially boring evening, purposely avoiding the intimacy of the bedroom. This could turn out to be the kind of conversation you wanted to have with clothes on.
    â€œIn what way, exactly?” he said, which was his fairly predictable reply to such a global question.
    â€œFifty of the last sixty-five people you have had to this house have been from Heartworld, and most of those have close ties to its council,” said Hanna, who had expected the demand for precision.
    â€œGroundwork,” he told her.
    â€œFor?”
    â€œI don’t intend to be exiled from the Coordinating Commission for the rest of my life.”
    â€œNo one ever thought you did. What does that have to do with the people I have to put up with lately?”
    Her tone was amiable enough, if the question was not, and his was too.
    â€œI’ve been hearing rumors of some weaknesses of Edward’s for some time, and it seems likely that they’re true. I’ve been informed, in the usual roundabout ways, that the administration in Arrenswood might be ready to forgive me. Apparently I’ve begun to look better to them again, compared to Edward.” He meant Edward Vickery, who had succeeded him on the Commission and took great pleasure in such mastery as he had over Jameson.
    â€œTo forgive you for me, among other things . . . ?”
    They were standing nearly on opposite sides of the room. A cool wind blew in through the doors from the gardens outside. The smell of autumn came with it, the wealth of fallen leaves. Hanna was wearing something dark blue and long and beaded; the fabric was warm enough, but her arms were bare, and she shivered. But the breeze