Thou Canst Not Put It Off Forever, Mycroft
I was not there, but those who were testify that it began as a peaceful morning, sleepy after the holiday. The sky was a vivid overcast, white as a canvas against which the endless flocks of Cielo de Pájaros soared tauntingly: you claim, humans, to have mastered the skies, but you race through them on your busy way, while we, we play.
Cato’s voice when he calls from his room is usually too soft even to be called a whisper. “¿Is it safe?” Like good Humanists, they would have spoken Spanish here at home, which I approximate.
Eureka lay, as ever, sprawled on the floor in the shadow of the Mukta prototype, ancestress of the lifeblood of our world. <yes, cato, it’s safe, no scary sensayers today.>
“¿What about Cardie?”
<upstairs asleep.>
“¿Ockham?”
<ockham and lesley went to bed too. even the twins are out, and sidney’s upstairs on the exerciser. it’s just me and thisbe here this morning, nobody dangerous.>
“¿Does Thisbe have their boots on?”
<no. they’re on the sofa, drinking tea.>
Envision Cato Weeksbooth sticking his toe out first, as if testing the water, then, feeling no burn, he sweeps into the hall. He is majestic in his way, the white lab coat billowing like a cape, his black hair full as a lion’s mane, though wild and stiff as if frazzled by electrocution. He is not a Mad Scientist. Heartless reality does not grant humans the lifespan necessary to master every specialty of science, so no one genius in his secret lab can really bring robots, mutants, and clones into the world at his mad whim—it takes a team, masses of funds, and decades. But one man can love all sciences, even if he cannot wield them, and he can inspire children with the model of the mad genius, even if he cannot live it. Doctor Cato Weeksbooth is a Mad Science Teacher, who spends what hours are not required by the Mukta system at his dear museum plunged in the ecstasy of Show and Tell. He has just enough of every discipline at his command to answer almost all the children’s questions, and what he does not know he urges them to grow up and discover for themselves. “I’m going to the museum.”
“You’re on duty here in two hours.” Thisbe spends her empty mornings on the sofa by the window, staring at the sky over her chamomile.
“Screw that.”
“I’m not covering for you. I just had the night shift, I’m going to bed.”
“Let Cardie cover it. They owe me after last night.”
“Fair enough.”
<i saw the video. you looked like you were going to piss your pants.>
“I did piss my pants. ¿Where are my boots?”
“There.” Thisbe pointed. “Mycroft cleaned them.”
They stood in the corner, Cato’s own design, Griffincloth, which, when active, shows in an ever-changing cycle the bones, blood vessels, skeleton, or heat signature of feet, sometimes human, sometimes beast feet, or robotic feet, elastic hinges bending as the tendons would. What schoolbook could be better?
Thisbe claims that Cato smiled, but Eureka, blind within the computer’s embrace, cannot corroborate. “¿When was Mycroft here?” he asked.
“They just left. They say they’ll be around to help as much as possible until the threat is past.”
“¿Then those two crazy sensayers are coming back?”
Thisbe slurped her aromatic tea. “The two aren’t connected. Mycroft says Dominic Seneschal is a threat but Carlyle Foster is an ally.”
“¿And you believe that?”
“Yes. Carlyle’s a good one. Lesley and I were so impressed we invited Carlyle to come back today to meet with whichever of the twins we can catch, or you. You must have a session, Cato, it would do you good.”
Cato must be careful latching his boots, to keep the cuffs of his hospital scrubs from catching in their seal. “No thanks.”
<we can’t fake this for you, cato. you have to see a sensayer, or your shrink will put you back on clinic watch.>
Eureka recalls being startled as their brother stomped the floor in his rage. “¿How can all of you be over Esmerald already? ¡Eighteen years means something to me!”
No one can recall what the women said here; perhaps nothing.
“Anyway, I don’t think we should let Mycroft Canner be our judge of sensayers.”
Thisbe came to my defense. “¿You want to know what Mycroft really said? They said that, if one believed in Providence, one might believe Carlyle was sent here to help prepare us for the coming dangers.”
Cato answered as you would have, reader. “Mycroft shouldn’t talk that way. Neither should you.”
<thiz, ¿how much danger does mcrft thnk w’re in?> Eureka resorts to shorthand when spooked by questions their computer cannot answer.
“A great deal. Mycroft won’t admit it, but I think they’ve met this Dominic Seneschal before. They’re the worst kind of secret-sniffer, dangerous as they come, trust me. But Mycroft also doesn’t think Dominic’s behind this. Dominic’s a side effect, not the author. There’s no way to tell yet who’s targeting us, but whoever it is has significant resources and malevolent intent.”
“¿Malevolent intent? That’s a good phrase to hear first thing in the morning.” See Sniper stumbling down the stairs now, eyes vacant as a zombie’s. This time of day he would probably have mustered the baggy shirt and moplike straw brown wig he wore at home to keep visitors and low-ranked guards from recognizing him, but he was not yet awake enough to achieve pants. “Morning, Thisbe. Morning, Eureka. Morning, murderer. ¿Did you enjoy the party last night?”
Cato would not look at him. “I’m not speaking to you.”
“It’ll be good publicity for the museum, throngs of kids.”
Wordless, Cato hurried to the door, the winds of his lab coat brushing Sniper’s thighs with chill.
“Ockham approved, you know.” Would Sniper here have sounded cold or smug? “It was necessary. We can’t afford to have the President not trust us.”
“¡Never do anything like that again!”
“¿Or what? ¿What will you do, huh?”
What could Cato do? He hurled the door aside, eager to slam it behind him, but froze on the threshold, confronted with a figure there, about to knock. “Weichun?”
I have not met the security captain who smiled from the doorstep, but she is Cato and Eureka’s cousin, so imagine Cato, but in a Humanist uniform, black to make the bright Olympic rings of its embroidered patches brighter. “Good morning, Cato. Everyone. We’ve had call for a security drill.”
“Now?” Cato wriggled with the urge to bolt. “We just had one.”
“I think the higher-ups want to triple check, after the break-in.”
“Can I just—”
“Good call,” Sniper cut in. “We’re right at shift change, so I’m not even on duty yet. A disruptive moment is the best time for a test.” Likely the living doll apologized with a roguish smile for his lack of pants, and likely the captain did not mind one jot. “07:17 local 11:17 UT, I’ll clock in now. Eureka, message Ockham and Lesley upstairs, let them know it’s a drill.”
<done.>
Thisbe dragged herself up off the couch. “I’ll head downstairs.”
“Good. I’ll start the clock at 07:18 on my mark … Cato, you were here when the drill was called so here you stay.”
“Fine!” Cato spun and stomped back to his lab in a huff that made even this obedience rebellion. “Test my security, my security is perfect…”
Sniper smiled at Cato’s murmur, as at the sweet babbling of a toddler. “On my mark, then … Mark!”
I have never seen the house spring into action, lights and sirens, bolting doors, the robots pouring forth from walls and corners like the wrathful march of ants. I have once seen from a distance the sudden blackening of the sky as the cars race in, guards upon guards, some in the city’s police uniforms of white and gray-blue, some in Humanist colors, a second wave in civvies, rushed in from beds and sofas in the surrounding tiers of bash’houses whose residents are proud to add their names to the roster of Mukta’s defenders. Ockham’s prophecies were sound: fifty guards in two minutes and three hundred in five, who joined the automated system and the few guards always on duty in the computers’ humming depths. Soon every room in the bash’house had a guard, and coordinated squads took up their places, each on its appointed tier of the computers which climbed down and down beneath the city’s depths, like the vast, true body of the iceberg, a glimpse of which will make the horror-stricken sailor dream of monsters. Troops filled the trench outside too, chatting, cheerful in their proud routine, but Thisbe had showed us where their perimeter falls, so we dug Bridger’s dwelling far beyond.
<¡We’re going to break our record!> Cato boasted to the house over their tracker link.
Sniper: <Thisbe, ¿is someone down there with you? I’m getting a stray signal.>
Cato: <It’s that sensayer again. ¡I knew it!>
Thisbe: <Yes, our sensayer is back again. Carlyle. I called them.>
Sniper: <¿Again?>
Eureka: <¡smitten! ¡i knew it!>
Thisbe: <I appreciate the vote of confidence, Eureka, but it’s really just a session. They’re very good.>
Eureka: <i’m sure.>
Thisbe: <Not like that.>
Ockham: <Everyone carry on with the drill like all’s normal.>
Sniper: <¿What? ¿Is there a problem?>
Ockham: <The police called. Not our police. Romanova. Polylaws.>
Thisbe: <¿Making a fuss?>
Ockham: <Someone’s using the Canner Device.>
Thisbe: <¿The Canner Device?>
Ockham: <They’ve been watching for it. Someone activated it. Here, right here in the house.>
Eureka: <¿just now?>
Ockham: <Eleven minutes ago.>
Cato: <¿Eleven? ¿Just before the drill?>
Thisbe: <Getting my boots now.>
Sniper: <¿Who ordered this drill?>
Cato: <I … can’t confirm … >
Ockham: <Cato, take over the automated systems. Don’t let anyone know we’re taking action, just have something aimed at every non bash’member in the house. If anyone tries to leave, move, or access equipment, then slow them down, make doors stick, lights fail, robots seem to malfunction. Don’t let anyone realize you’re doing anything, but slow them down.>
Cato: <On it.>
Ockham: <Cardie, keep on as officer on duty. Go down with the drill captain and start checking off the levels one by one.>
Sniper: <On it. ¿Whose gray pants are these behind the couch, and can I borrow them?>
Lesley: <Mine, go ahead.>
Ockham: <Eureka, assemble a master list of everyone who’s here. See if there have been substitutions. No one should be here who hasn’t had a background check a kilometer deep.>
Thisbe: <I didn’t see any unfamiliar faces.>
Sniper: <Me neither.>
Eureka: <all ids check out.>
Sniper: <Entering green wing elevator now. Ockham, ¿where are you?>
Ockham: <Still upstairs with Lesley. We won’t move until we know what’s happening.>
Cato: <I see twelve people out of position, mostly near each other, four groups of three, moving … moving fast, upper tiers, just under the house, they look like they’re searching.>
Ockham: <ID them.>
Cato: <On it. ¿Should I take them out? I have clear shots on all twelve.>
Ockham: <¿Are they a threat to the system where they are?>
Cato: <No, they’re nowhere near controls. Not a vulnerable area. Whatever they want, it isn’t the system. They’re definitely searching. Systematically.>
Sniper: <¿Who are they?>
Cato: <<ATTACHMENT>>
Thisbe: <Cato, ¿do you see the Canner Device? ¿Do they have it?>
Cato: <If anyone knew what a Canner Device looked like, that question might mean something.>
Thisbe: <They might be searching for the device, if it was used here.>
Cato: <You brought Mycroft here in the first place, Thisbe.>
Lesley: <Bicker later. Cato, ¿do they have any tech you can’t identify?>
Cato: <Checking. Nothing extraordinary.>
Eureka: <incoming cars. not our cars, emergency system, police.>
Ockham: <¿Reinforcements?>
Sniper: <¿Whose?>
Eureka: <checking.>
Thisbe: <¿Where are these stray twelve, Cato? Give me a location, I’ll flush them out.>
Ockham: <Not yet, Thisbe. I want to watch them. Cato, ¿show me?>
Cato: < Sānlíng.>
Eureka: <¿what?>
Cato: <They’re all Sānlíng. The stray twelve. It’s our Sānlíng Special Guard.> He means Chinese Mitsubishi, reader. Cato and Eureka use their Chinese parents’ name for Mitsubishi. Of course, in one sense, Sānlíng is the Hive’s real name, since a majority—slim but constant—of its Members are Chinese, but the remainder of the Earth finds ‘Mitsubishi’ less intimidating to pronounce than pitch-strict Chinese vowels.
Eureka: <i trust our sanling guard better than the regulars.>
Cato: <Maybe.>
Lesley: <¿What about our Humanist Special Guard? ¿Are they moving?>
Cato: <No, they’re in place. ¿Do you want to let them know there’s a problem?>
Ockham: <Get me a contact list for them, but no word yet. If our Mitsubishi Special Guard can’t be trusted, we don’t know about them, either.>
Sniper: <¿Should I call Director Andō? ¿Or the President?>
Eureka: <reinforcements landing.>
Cato: <¿Sānlíng reinforcements?>
Eureka: <no. city police and humanists, plus looks like the local alliance officer.>
Lesley: <¿Herrera?>
Sniper: <Someone’s calling me. Yes, it’s Herrera. Ockham, ¿you want to take it? ¿Or keep pretending you’re off duty?>
Ockham: <Lesley, call Director Andō. Cardie, put me through to Herrera, then call the President.>
Sniper: <Done.>
Lesley: <On it.>
Cato: <¿Should someone call Director Huang?>
Thisbe: <No. Cato, ¿where are these stray Mitsubishi twelve? ¿What level?>
Cato: <B117.>
Eureka: <reinforcements all landed. they’re heading down the trench.>
Lesley: <On hold, waiting on Andō.>
Cato: <¿Thisbe? ¿What are you doing? ¿Why are you going toward B-block? Ockham hasn’t ordered you to move.>
Ockham: <All right, Herrera confirms the drill was unplanned, ordered after the Canner Device went off. Thisbe, Herrera’s forces are going to enter through your door, get ready to guide them straight to B-block.>
Cato: <I can take these twelve down myself.>
Thisbe: <Ditto.>
Eureka: <¿why are we trusting this alliance person more than our sanling special guard?>
Ockham: <I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t talk to me first. Cato, ¿you’re sure the block where the stray twelve are isn’t sensitive at all?>
Cato: <¡I know my job, Ockham!>
Ockham: <Good. Thisbe, ¿ready to let Herrera’s forces through?>
Thisbe: <¿Why my room? It’s not a good time with Carlyle here. I don’t see why we can’t just handle this ourselves.>
Ockham: <I want to see how the two forces react to each other. We see the confrontation, see what each side does or tries, then if there’s any trouble, Thisbe, Ockham, take them all down.>
Thisbe: <With pleasure.>
Ockham: <¿How are things elsewhere? ¿Drill going smoothly?>
Cato: <We’re not going to break our record.>
Ockham: <¿But do all the forces think everything’s normal?>
Cato: <Looks like.>
Sniper: <I’m down to H-level, everything’s running like clockwork.>
Eureka: <there’s another car coming. utopian system, not ours.>
Cato: <¿Really?>
Thisbe: <¿Working for Romanova?>
Sniper: <I’m through to the President. On a scale of one to pissed I’d rate them pissed.>
Cato: <¿At us?>
Sniper: <No. They’re calling Andō. They think we can trust our Humanist Special Guard, even if the Mitsubishi ones are being weird.>
Ockham: <Good. I’ll alert our Special Guard.>
Lesley: <Still waiting on Andō.>
Thisbe: <I’m in place. Ockham, ¿should I let Herrera’s forces in now?>
Ockham: <Yes. In. Now.>
Thisbe: <Done. Herrera doesn’t want Carlyle down here in our way. ¿Where should I send them?>
Ockham: <Up to the Mukta hall. Cato & guards can watch them there.>
Thisbe: <Right. Cato, incoming sensayer. ¿Are you going to freak out?>
Cato: <¡I’M FINE!>
Eureka: <new car’s landed. ¿can anyone see them? i don’t know utopian ids.>
Cato: <Can’t see from here. But the sensayer’s here now and I’m totally fine. ¿See?>
Thisbe: <Bravo.>
Ockham: <Herrera confirms Utopians are helping Romanova track the device.>
Cato: <Thisbe and Herrera’s force will reach the twelve Sānlíng in 50 seconds.>
Thisbe: <¡These guys can really book it! ¡This is fun!>
Cato: <¿Was that the doorbell?>
Lesley: <The Utopians.>
Cato: <¡Oh! ¿Should I get the door?>
Thisbe: <You need to be ready to help me at B117.>
Cato: <I’m ready, flick of a finger. Ockham, ¿may I get the door? I’m the only bash’member up here.>
Ockham: <Wait for me to come down.>
Cato: <If they’re tracking the Canner Device it could be urgent.>
Ockham: <Coming. Hold on.>
Cato: <¿What’s taking you so long?>
Lesley: <We’re not decent up here.>
Thisbe: <Oh, you poor things. ¡Timing!>
Cato: <They’ve rung the bell again. The guards up here are getting antsy. We shouldn’t keep them waiting, not if they’re with Romanova. ¿What if they have urgent news?>
Ockham: <Fine, let them in.>
With an eagerness which must have baffled the drill troops in the living room, Cato Weeksbooth rushed to the front door and opened it to find a dark figure. Cato froze. He did not run this time. The sensayer’s scarf around Dominic’s shoulders had given him something concrete to run from, but this Stranger wore nothing so clear. His clothes were all black, as antique as Dominic’s: tight britches buttoned just below the knee, stockings, leather shoes, a swallow-tailed coat over a short waistcoat, a fine cravat. It was not the luxurious costume of Ganymede’s Eighteenth Century but simpler, a cut from the century’s end, when the Revolution’s austerity had stripped fashions of their ornament. The embroidery was gone, frills, lace, trim, brocade, gone, leaving the elegance of the style naked, if one can call clothing naked. Only the cloth itself and the long tails of the coat remained luxuriant, falling behind the figure like folded wings. In our age of peace, we easily forget the Revolution’s grim equality, whose Terror prescribed the same uniform to peasant, to noble, and to the citizen who handed death to both. When Robespierre—
Enough delay. Thou canst not put it off forever, Mycroft. Thou must describe the wearer, not just the suit.
And so I must, master. And so I try.
His is forgotten flesh, statue-still except for the bare minimum of breath and necessary motions: walking, reaching. His eyes move only to search, His lips only to speak, never to smile. He does not fidget as He sits or stands, but lets His limbs lie abandoned, dead as a vehicle whose driver leaves it by the roadside. His skin is light enough to prove that Europe had some part in His ancestry, but has color to it too, though whether it is Mediterranean color or something from farther around the globe’s wide sweep cannot be guessed from His face alone. His long hair is tied back, rich waves whose almost-blackness makes it harder yet to guess which races mixed to birth this body for Him. His clean face is beautiful, as a well-proportioned stag is beautiful. I think His eyes are black, with a little touch of Asia in their shape, but when I try to picture them I remember no color, just their distant deepness as they focus, never on, but past the base matter before them. A room feels cold with Him in it, not because He drains it of heat, but because He seems to make none, so the air is as empty as if you were alone. He is now in His twenty-first year upon this Earth, with a minor’s sash still about His hips, but had you seen Him at seven years or younger, you would still have counted Him graver than His Imperial father.
“¿How long until the next Mars launch?” He asked Cato in Spanish, His voice soft to the point of weakness, as when one talks to one’s self to relieve too long a silence.
“Two days, fifteen hours,” Cato answered automatically, like a child caught mid-daydream by the teacher.
“¿For how many generations has the Saneer-Weeksbooth bash’ been Humanist?”
“I don’t know. Ten, maybe.”
“Thank you. I am J.E.D.D. Mason. The safety of your bash’ and the incomparable service you provide humanity has been entrusted to Me, by order of all seven Hives and the will of the Alliance. I am looking for My dog. ¿May I come in?”
Cato gaped.
The men and officers murmured, and some saluted. The impulse was natural. No insignia of any kind touched J.E.D.D. Mason’s black suit, but patches crowded for space on a cloth band around His right arm: the azure Lady Justice of the Cousins’ Chief Council’s Office, the gold-trimmed red and green trefoil of the Mitsubishi Executive Directorate, the six Olympic-colored swords of the Humanist Attorney General, the Gordian knot of Brill’s Institute, the amphitheater ringed with stars of the European Parliamentary Council, the blue and gold scales of the Polylegal Bench, and Romanova’s Earth-blue circle bisected by a belt of gray which marks a Graylaw Hiveless Tribune. All these patches ringed the main symbol on the armband: a Masonic Square & Compass in black against iron Imperial Gray, the mark of a Familiaris Regni, an intimate of the Emperor. While Martin Guildbreaker’s Familiaris armband is plain, this one had borders, stark white bands at the top and bottom, edged with the blood purple piping which marks out the Porphyrogene, one ‘born the purple,’ a MASON’s child.
“I … guess you’d better come in.” Cato backed into the house, leading J.E.D.D. Mason and His two Tribunary bodyguards through the spartan trophy hall to Mukta’s sanctum. This Guest would not have seemed to glance at the articles and papers framed on the walls He passed, but He would remember every one.
Sniper: <Don’t talk to them, Cato.>
Cato: <¡But it’s Xiao Hei Wang!> The Chinese have their name for J.E.D.D. Mason too.
Sniper: <Don’t talk to them. The President warned me about this.>
Cato: <¿How do I not talk to them? They’re a Bailiff. And a Tribune. ¡They’re in charge of the case! ¡The President and Chair Kosala were on the news saying Xiao Hei Wang’s in charge of the case!>
Cato and our Guest reached the Mukta chamber now, where the drill troops crowded in wonder around this most elusive Prince.
“Tribune Mason!” The highest ranked officer hailed the Visitor in English, and by His most neutral name. “What an unexpected honor having you here in person! You could have just called.”
Only the subtlest motion of His eyes proved that He turned His attention to the speaker. “These bodies have so few senses. How can you be content with less than all?”
Those around the Guest froze in confusion, since His lack of tone made it impossible to guess whether the question was rhetorical.
<well said!> Eureka trumpeted over the public line.
Without moving, the Visitor lowered His eyes to the set-set. “Oklahoma Turner has a new essay on whether computer interfaces are artificial senses or prostheses to the standard five. You will enjoy disagreeing with it.”
Perhaps Eureka smiled here, puckering the film of sensors across their lips like half-shed skin. <that’s a good way to put it. i enjoyed disagreeing when turner argued against there being meaningful data in intuitively sensed recurring number patterns. idiot.>
“Do you draw strong meaning from the recurrent patterns of your habitat, as Brillists do from minds and geologists from stone?”
<heh. strong’s an understatement.>
Only Eureka remembered His next question precisely. “Are both this home’s set-sets Pythagorean?”
“You mean Cartesian,” Cato corrected.
He did not, but would not contradict.
Sniper: <¡Ockham! ¡Get Cato and Eureka out of there! ¡Now! ¡Now! ¡Now!>
Ockham Saneer leapt down the stairwell, as quick as a god appearing at the invocation of his name. He had pajama bottoms and one sock, and had seized his sidearm from the bedside table, but the rest of him was naked, Lesley’s doodles fresh on his chest and lithe bronze back.
Fear and obedience warred with curiosity in Cato, but fear won, and he helped Eureka to the lab’s locked door.
Now Ockham faced the Visitor, his sock and pajamas against the high insignia of every government, but if Ockham hesitated it was the Visitor’s strange gaze that chilled him, not His offices. “I am Ockham Saneer. Whatever your charge from Romanova or any other power, Council Mason, I am in command in my house unless my President orders otherwise.”
“Your devotion sows respect,” J.E.D.D. Mason answered. “I know something of your present small crisis. Would action or inaction on My part be more helpful?”
Ockham took a breath to consider. Meanwhile:
Thisbe: <¡Victory! Our stray Mitsubishi twelve have surrendered to me and Herrera. They’re acting natural, saying they came up here following signs of an intruder. Could be true.>
Sniper: <Fishy. I’ll come to you, Thisbe. Cato, ¿any signs of an intruder near B117?>
Cato: <Checking … >
(I abridge further texts, as we move our focus to the Guest above. You may trust Sniper with their loyal Humanist Special Guard, and Thisbe with Romanova’s honest reinforcements, to secure the safety of all things.)
Ockham breathed deep as he faced the new Arrival. “My small crisis seems to be contained, though you would help me if you shed light on the reason for it.”
“I can attempt.” J.E.D.D. Mason’s eyes rolled slowly across the rapt, excited faces in the room. “I love openness, but trust your judgment whether I should shed My light in front of all these gathered. Secrecy is one of your bash’s armors, is it not?”
Ockham paused, then smiled at the courtesy, and turned to the nearby captain. “Zhu Weichun, isn’t it? Clear the room. And pause the drill. Keep everyone in place, exactly where they are, just hold position. Nobody moves without my order, except the Humanist Special Guard, and Herrera’s people.”
Captain Zhu’s face grew bright with questions. “Oh, is Officer Herrera here?”
Ockham raised one dark eyebrow, but the Guest spoke first, His gaze now on the Captain. “You need not wound yourself so.”
The Captain shook. “Wha … what?”
“Some people find that half-lies and omissions do not wound their consciences as direct lies do, but clearly you are no such person. You wound yourself with this deception. Rest in silence, you will suffer less.”
“Uh … I…”
Ockham’s voice grew black as storm. “What do you mean?”
Remember, reader, there is no intonation in J.E.D.D. Mason’s words, so these men have no way to guess what side He takes, or why He exposes what He does. “The name Herrera that you spoke, Member Saneer, was no strange news to this person. It must be some very deep love to compel such painful self-injury.”
With these words, a transformation seized the Captain. A sob rose in her throat, grief on her lips, while tear glints kindled in her eyes, her whole face flushing with that bloodred passion blush which flares so intensely in some Asian faces.
The Tribunary Guards jumped closer to their Ward as Ockham raised his sidearm, though he aimed away from J.E.D.D. Mason, at the Captain, who gave a second sob.
“Why anger?” J.E.D.D. Mason asked Ockham flatly, as if He genuinely struggled to understand. “Only a great good would move such an exacting conscience to this action.” He turned His eyes on the trembling Captain. “Was it Charity? Gain for many? Protection for many? Lessen the sum total of human pain at the cost of increasing yours?”
Ockham cut Him off. “My interrogation, Tribune, not yours. Explain yourself.” He took one grim pace toward Zhu Weichun, his bare arm and weapon steady, with the rare phrase ‘deadly force’ behind both. The other forces here bear no such privilege, not even the Tribunary Guards, expert with the stun guns that Law judges sufficient to guard the highest officers of the Alliance, but not enough to guard the precious cars.
Captain Zhu choked down a sob. “I’m sorry, Member Saneer. It’s nothing hostile, I swear! It was the least disruptive way to remove the threat. Or, it should have been.” She winced, looking around to her baffled fellows. “Can we … clear the room?”
“Use text.”
Zhu Weichun hesitated. “You will not want this to leave a record.”
Ockham Saneer took a deep breath, then announced his orders over his tracker and aloud: “Cardigan, bring our Humanist Special Guard up here. I want people I can trust. Weichun, surrender your weapons. You two,” to the Tribunary Guards, “I appreciate your backup.” His eyes did a quick count-sweep and settled on the one warm body unaccounted for. Not the Visitor’s. “Cousin Foster…”
The young sensayer had tucked himself into the most out-of-the-way sofa, watching all with that fascination which draws crowds to a flaming house. “I can leave if you like, or stay,” he offered. “No need to worry about security with me, I’m used to high-security bash’es, that’s why I’m here.” He gave a strong, calm smile, for our Carlyle had risen full of strength that day, March the twenty-fifth, the first day of the Medieval New Year, a festival of spring, as well as the Feast of the Annunciation, a day on which men had honored their Creator in many ways in ages past, and still do today.
There must have been some little sign from red-faced Zhu Weichun: a breath, a twitch, a glance. Reason insists there must have been, to prompt J.E.D.D. Mason’s next words: “Let the sensayer stay, their presence doubles confession’s benefit.”
Ockham turned, a precise, too-energetic movement, his body beneath the bare skin tense with that rare energy that reminds us humans once were predators. “What?”
“Confession addressed to you will heal the peace and your confusion, and perhaps your trust, but, if a priest attends, confession will also lift weight from this sin-fearing person’s wounded conscience.” J.E.D.D. Mason’s eyes rolled down to Captain Zhu. “Will this sensayer suffice? If you prefer one with some formal ordination My Dominic can serve, if he is found. Or I could call Guiomar Capello.” The name made both the Captain and Carlyle twitch, since, in our age of theological anonymity, no sensayer is more widely suspected of being a secret Catholic than the personal sensayer of the King of Spain.
A baffled awe mixed with fear and shock on Zhu Weichun’s face, unlocking tears in the catharsis of deception’s end. “How … how did you know?”
That drove Carlyle to his feet. “You can’t!” he cried, then paused, as if he was himself uncertain how to phrase his objection. “You can’t just say things like that! In front of people!”
J.E.D.D. Mason did not turn, but his black eyes rolled around to fix on Carlyle, as when a too-lifelike painting seems to track you across a room. “You believe in noninterference. Is that not incompatible with benevolence?”
Carlyle went white, holding his wrap tight about himself, as if some trespassing gale had caught him wet and almost naked to the storm. “No…”
Nothing changed in the Visitor, except His words: “But I misunderstand. By ‘can’t’ you did not question the possibility of my words, you meant I should not say such things, under local human law. You are correct. I erred. I thought only to diminish present pain. But I concede and recognize that the laws and master of this house are not wrong to rank duty over pity.” His eyes drifted to Ockham. “I apologize, Member Saneer, for this mismatch in the radii of our consequentialisms.”
The room fell silent. We are unaccustomed, reader, to words like His, which cut through the surface levels of our interactions to the reality beneath.
Only Ockham had the strength to smile. “No need to apologize. It was a handy and original way to expose a conspiracy.”
Still no expression. “Should I repeat the action? Conspirators are, by definition, plural.”
Fear touched every face but those of Ockham and the Tribunary Guards.
The master of the house phrased his invitation carefully: “If Weichun has co-conspirators, I want to know it.”
One by one the drill troops held their breath as J.E.D.D. Mason’s dead eyes rolled across them. On the third—a slender Dutch Greenpeace Mitsubishi football player stationed by Cato’s door—they stopped. “Which karma do you want?” He asked.
It is hard to name the expression of abject contact, more shocked and intimate than fear, which seized her face. With slow and careful hands she released the clasp which held her weapons belt, and let the whole fall to the floor. Three others followed suit.
Ockham released a slow whistle, while Carlyle, tiptoeing forward from the sofa, gave a deeply shaken little gasp.
Lesley: <Ockham, I’m finally live with the President and Director Andō. They say this drill was ordered by someone mid-ranked in our Mitsubishi backup, as a stupid plan for going after whoever has the Canner Device. Apologies are flying, and the President’s in full-fledged righteous fury mode. ¿Shall I add you to the call?>
Ockham: <¿Is anyone trying to defend or justify this debacle?>
Lesley: <No.>
Ockham: <Then no need yet.>
Sniper entered now with the Humanist Special Guard. These twelve were all Humanists by Hive and birth bash’, mostly natives of Cielo de Pájaros, proud of their commissions, excited by the drill, and even more excited now that something real was happening. Their calm faces and Sniper’s presence eased Ockham instantly, like sea spray in the heat of August. They also eased the five conspirators in a way, since surrender doesn’t feel so real when you outnumber those you’re trying to surrender to. Ockham’s quick orders sent the regular troops and secondary prisoners off to parts secure, until the room was almost what he wanted: trusted Sniper, trusted troops, the oddly forthright traitor Zhu Weichun, all in Ockham’s control, save for the little sensayer, this strange Guest and His Honor Guard. And Thisbe. Her arrival in Sniper’s wake did not match Ockham’s orders, a fact which earned a twitch of irritation from his black brows. But he would not criticize a bash’member in front of outsiders, nor would Thisbe, in any circumstance, admit why she had more reason than any of them to want to get the measure of this new Intruder.
“Hinc…” J.E.D.D. Mason began in Latin but caught Himself. “From this point,” He translated, “do you desire help or privacy?”
Ockham smiled appreciation at the great Prince-Tribune’s deference. “I understand high politics is your thing. If you can sort out that end, and leave me free to check my own security and deal with this supposed intruder, I’ll be grateful. I don’t know what the Mitsubishi are thinking right now, but I hear they trust you, and the last thing I need is Hive execs in a tizzy thinking there’s something wrong with my security.”
“Your security’s vindication I shall undertake,” He answered, inclining his head in confirmation of the pledge.
Thisbe intruded her voice now, as well as her presence. “The last thing we need is a public tizzy.”
J.E.D.D. Mason’s gaze fell now upon Thisbe Saneer. “No one comes to stone the servant when they could watch the execution of the king.”
Sniper physically interposed himself between J.E.D.D. Mason and intruding Thisbe, and the distant Duke President would have been glad to know Sniper was so mindful of his warning. “I think we’re okay on the public front. No one’s here except our people, Mitsubishi people, and Cousin Foster.”
“My Dominic may be here,” J.E.D.D. Mason warned. “Have you seen him? He is perhaps your height, vicious, in dark costume, with a Blacklaw Hiveless sash. I seek him. He was last seen here, but has gone stray.” Ockham and Thisbe did not remember observing that the Guest used ‘he’ for Dominic—it was too far from the strangest thing He did.
<¡That’s who it is!> Cato Weeksbooth could hear all through the door. <¡In B-block! They’re on camera. Not now, almost an hour ago, the system didn’t register it as an intruder but there was somebody there. I was having trouble with the ID. ¡It’s that scary Blacklaw sensayer!>
“Dominic Seneschal?” Ockham said it aloud. “Dominic Seneschal works for you, Council Mason? Does that mean you work with Martin Guildbreaker?”
“Both Martin and Dominic are Mine, yes. But Martin is well. It is Dominic who strays. His tracker has been off since he entered this house yesterday. When was he last sighted?”
“Tracker off since yesterday?” Here, reader, is your rare chance to see Sniper show fear. “Did anyone see Seneschal leave the house yesterday?” <Lesley, ¿did you?>
Lesley: <No. I last saw them near Thisbe’s room.>
Glances flew between Ockham and Sniper. “Who else was here then?”
“I was,” Carlyle volunteered, stepping gently forward. “I didn’t see them leave either. But they couldn’t stay in the house for twenty-four hours with no one noticing, right? Not in this house, with your security.”
J.E.D.D. Mason’s eyes turned back to Ockham. “While your case is Mine, your gates will open for My Dominic.”
Cato: <Xiao Hei Wang is right, Ockham. Our system has the scary sensayer registering with the same super executive access privileges you do. More, they also have the back-end system editing privileges I do, and looks like they used them to clear records of themself. ¿You know the setting we use to make the system not record our secure meetings? They turned that on themself. With this they could wander anywhere, and the system would just delete the records. They may well have been in here all night.>
Ockham took a deep breath. “This is intolerable. Council Mason, I know you and your team were chosen for your discretion, but this is ten times as disruptive as the Black Sakura list turning up in the first place.”
“I agree,” J.E.D.D. Mason answered. “It is not tolerated. Dominic will be disciplined when found. They know this.” Carlyle says that, even with the airy naturalness of J.E.D.D. Mason’s tone, the word ‘disciplined’ had an ominous sense of corporeality to it, invited by the Familiaris armband with its reminder of Masonic force, and the Blacklaw sash around Dominic’s waist proclaiming his renunciation of all protections of the law. “You have My promise and My apology, as One responsible for whom I send.”
The apology eased Ockham’s scowl somewhat. “You and Martin Guildbreaker have been reasonably helpful. Yourself very helpful in fact, but—”
“That fact gladdens Me,” He interrupted.
“Good. But I don’t want you coming here again unannounced. No one comes here unannounced, ever. Understood?”
A pause. “Factually untrue, but as a wish I understand it, and shall endeavor to help it approach truth.”
Ockham took a moment to parse that one. “Good. And I want that Blacklaw out of my house, and away from my bash’mates. Forever. Get them out of here, or I will.” He tapped his deadly sidearm, still in his hand for lack of the holster which rested upstairs with his other clothes. Sniper joined the threat, tapping his own holster, though with a touch of frown, since what he carried was not deadly, or even elegant like the sport pistols he used for the pentathlon, but a common stun gun, unworthy in his hand like instant noodles on a gourmet’s tongue.
“These prayers I shall endeavor to grant. If I fail to prevent an altercation between yourselves and My Dominic, I should be infinitely grateful if you spared his life.” I wish J.E.D.D. Mason could have expression in His voice, emotion in His face, for moments like this when I’m sure the deadness of His request kept them from understanding how passionate a plea it was, how literal, how vast His Fear when Dominic was threatened. “I am told My third was near here too?” He continued. “He is shorter, in Servicer uniform, full of guilt, cunning, and languages, and answers to Mycroft. I hoped he might have seen the stray.”
Ockham, Sniper, and even Carlyle looked to Thisbe.
“I know who you mean, but Mycroft isn’t here now,” she answered. “If I see them I’ll ask.”
J.E.D.D. Mason moved His flesh again now, calm, precise steps back toward the narrow entrance hall. “I thank you for your hospitality.”
“You’re leaving?”
He did not turn, but His eyes found Sniper. “Your Ockham tasked Me to settle the high political concerns raised by this event. This I undertake. But you yourself do not want Me here. If My Martin and Mycroft are more comfortable to you, then henceforth let all My work within this house be theirs.”
Even Sniper stared in puzzlement. “Yes. Yes, that sounds good?” He looked to Ockham.
Ockham: “Agreed. Thank you for coming, Council Mason. Thank you for doing what you can to keep this out of the public eye, and to shield us from high politics and Hive leader idiocy, which seems to be primarily responsible for the day’s fiasco. But thank you just as much for leaving us to handle our own ourselves.”
J.E.D.D. Mason paused, but did not turn. “It may not help. Secrets pour out like water, even from a single hole.”
Now curiosity bested even Sniper. “What do you—”
Ockham shook his head. “Stop, Cardigan.” How Sniper hates that name. “Just let them go.”
All under Ockham’s command watched in rapt but disciplined silence as this strangest of Princes padded away on His nearly lifeless feet.
Carlyle was not under Ockham’s command. “How … how did you do that?” He gave a little running chase, to catch the Visitor in the barren trophy hall.
J.E.D.D. Mason’s slow gaze fell upon the Gag-gene. “You cannot be this bash’s sensayer.”
The comment struck strangely, but Carlyle managed a smile. “I’m new.”
“What befell your predecessor?”
Too uncomfortable. “How did you know?” Carlyle pressed. “Back there? You knew. Confession, karma…” Even after all was already exposed, the sensayer would not speak the forbidden names of Faiths. “Did you look at their files? That’s a horrible abuse of privacy.”
“No files.” Even as He spoke, J.E.D.D. Mason neither sped nor slowed, but made for the exit with the steady minimum of motion most practical for human limbs. “He … yappari … premenda…” His eyes searched Carlyle for nation-strat insignia. “You speak only English?”
This Cousin raised by Cousins nodded.
“Then I cannot sufficiently explain.”
“But—”
J.E.D.D. Mason’s feet still sought the door. “What name was given you, sensayer?”
“Carlyle Foster.”
“What happened to this bash’s real sensayer?”
Carlyle blinked. “They passed away. Recently.”
“Be careful with this bash’, Carlyle Foster. I exit now, because I Love Truth, so I perceive I am a danger to this bash’, and it to Me. That is clear, as clear to Me as it was clear which of those loyal soldiers inside feared karma and which sin. You too seem to love Good, and Dialectic at least, if not raw Truth. I advise you to part from this bash’ before you harm each other. But I recognize your right to incur risk in service of your vocation”—He lowered His voice—“and your Maker.”
Carlyle screamed inside at this last and deepest violation of that special privacy which is the last thing in the world our cautious public still calls ‘sacrosanct.’ It was no easy thing to distill his objections into words, so he watched in silence as this famous Stranger—as strange as He was famous—made His soft retreat. The Tribunary Guards followed Him closely, and one paused, turning back with a frown and gentle gesture of apology for her Ward’s strangeness. Moments later the Utopian car took off, and J.E.D.D. Mason had vanished as abruptly as He had come.
What then? It was too much, His strangeness, much too much. They needed answers, all of them. Once the drill troops were dismissed and the house secure once more, each bash’member turned to his favorite oracle: Ockham and Sniper to their prisoners and their President, Cato and Eureka to their computers and their surveillance tapes, while Carlyle and Thisbe raced down the flower trench, to me.