Too Like the Lightning

by Ada Palmer

  The third speech, Olympic Chairman Jean-Pierre Utarutu’s, was delivered by an actor, since the Olympian Hive was long since swallowed by the Humanists, and the Humanist President has more important work on Renunciation Day than assuring a bored audience that there will still be sports teams in this brave new world. Historians insist that Utarutu’s contribution was as vital as the others’, and I believe it, since there were already almost a billion subscribers who trusted the Olympic Transportation Union to clear their flights as they jaunted from continent to continent for the World Cup, or the Winter Games, or work.

  In the final speech, the words of the King of Spain were, naturally, read by the King of Spain.

  “Friends, all this is not as sudden as it seems. These three are not rash radicals, or business tycoons drunk with their own power. They are taking an inevitable step. The European Union has long recognized that it is absurd to force someone with a father from one country, a mother from another, raised in a third, and working in a fourth to pledge allegiance to one arbitrary geographic nation. More than sixty years ago we instituted floating citizenship, so children of mixed parents would not be compelled to choose between several equal fatherlands. It was not the end of our countries. Almost everyone still prefers to have a homeland to love and return to, and the legal possibility of life without a homeland does not destroy the bonds of culture, language, and history which make a homeland home. What Chairman Carlyle proposes today is nothing more radical than extending that floating citizenship to the world.

  “I stand before you today, both as a representative of the European Union, and as the King of Spain. As a representative of the European Union, I am authorized to announce that we too will be offering floating citizenship to any citizen who wants to leave America or any other geographic nation, whether involved in the war or not. Our floating citizenship will be equivalent in every way to what Chairpersons Carlyle, Kovács, and Utarutu are offering through their nongeographic nations. New floating citizens of the European Union may then apply for citizenship in a specific country if they find one whose laws and ideals match their own, or they may remain citizens of the EU only, the same two options that native-born floating citizens enjoy. Those who are frightened of your current countries may think of us as a fourth option, ready to welcome you as the Olympic Committee, the Cousins, and Gordian are.

  “Separately, as the King of Spain, and with no directive from the European Union, I wish to express my personal support for Chairman Carlyle and his ideal that citizenship should be voluntary, not forced. To that end, I hereby call on all Spanish citizens—no, on all people who consider Spanish identity an important part of who they are, to show their support for that ideal by renouncing their citizenship, becoming floating citizens of the EU for twenty-four hours, and then reapplying to become Spanish citizens again, this time by choice. What we choose means more than what is handed to us by chance. I will count every citizen who leaves and rejoins my country a more loyal Spaniard, a more sincere Spaniard, a truer Spaniard, than before, and I will stand proud as the king of a people brave enough to leave our fatherland to show support for those endangered by this war, but loyal enough to return again.”

  The delivery was perfect. The current king, Isabel Carlos II, has watched the recording of his ancestor so many times that he knows not just the words, but the gestures and the pauses. Later this year Spain will go mad with joy as it celebrates King Isabel Carlos’s sixtieth birthday, and his twentieth year on the throne, but I prefer to let you meet him here in this plainer ceremony. He is a calm man, not as moving as the actors, but precise and perfect in his duties, a human man holding himself to the elevated standards of a king. His hair is not quite black, his face mild and subtly Asian due to a Chinese grandmother, and his fine gray suit today is a replica of his ancestor’s, those simple suits of the early millennium when opulence was expressed only in the expense of cloth and cut. The king can only attend this ceremony today because of the recent scandal, otherwise he would be at the European Grand Parade, where Europe’s second choice, Casimir Perry, has been grudgingly given the seat of honor. But we who could see His Majesty’s face knew he was happier here, reciting his ancestor’s address, than there delivering a speechwriter’s concoction to a hundred thousand voters.

  “Ice cream!”

  The demand rose from the Servicers around me even before the applause had died. Oh, they discussed the performance, too, the first-timers especially, moved by the event, and by seeing three world leaders dignify it with their attendance. But a person’s reflections on the foundations of our world are private, and I will not intrude on yours by offering those of a lowly Servicer.

  “Ice cream! Ice cream! Ice cream!”

  The chant was powerless to call the Censor away from the dais as he waited for Cousin Chair Bryar Kosala to teeter over to him on her mad high heels and plant a light kiss on his cheek. “You said you couldn’t make it!”

  “I was wrong.” Vivien gave her a practiced squeeze, though they clunked shoulders briefly, since the costume shoes made Chair Kosala eight centimeters taller than the couple was used to. “You were great, again.”

  “Really great!” Jung Su-Hyeon Ancelet-Kosala demanded her rightful hug in turn.

  Vivien stepped back so he could admire spouse and ba’kid together, especially what the gendered period costume did to Bryar’s figure. It was striking, the crisp outline hugging breasts and hips which we usually saw only through the contoured drapery of a Cousin’s wrap. The deep blue of the suit fabric enhanced the subtle amber underglow of Kosala’s deep Indian skin, and the extra height exaggerated her tall, imperious beauty, the long chin, long nose, and high forehead which make her face commanding and otherworldly, almost stylized, like a mask or statue staring down at you from some lofty other-realm. “I hate speaking in this dome, I can never tell if someone else is talking over me or if it’s just the echo.”

  “No one was talking,” Vivien assured. “I think most of them were actually listening. Not me, of course.”

  She gave her spouse a mock shove, then saw the crowd of Servicers approaching. “Oh, hello there, [Name], [Name], [Name]…” I cannot list my comrades’ names here; Chair Kosala herself, as Servicer Program Director, has censored them. “I won’t ask if you liked it since you’re bound to say you did, but tell me, was my diction clear on ‘tax bracket back taxing’? I always muddle that.”

  My comrades were staring at the faces, so often seen on newscasts, now abruptly real.

  “I don’t remember, Chair Kosala.” I answered, honestly. “If it had been conspicuous, I would remember.”

  She did not have a smile for Mycroft Canner. “What is it? You’re all staring at Vivien as if something’s supposed to happen.”

  The least timid of them answered, “The Censor promised us ice cream.”

  “What, only ice cream? No hot fudge, or whipped cream, or strawberries? We can’t have that.”

  Vivien rolled his eyes.

  Chair Kosala reached to comb his dreadlocks with her long fingers, not because the locks were actually mussed, but because she still enjoys the feel of them. “Be sparing with the Romanovan budget, dear, not ours. Come on, everyone. Vivien’s getting us super-deluxe sundaes!”

  Cheers drowned the Censor’s joking groan.

  “Terry, Kirabo, you come too,” she called the actors over. “Your Majesty, would you care to join us?”

  The King of Spain smiled across at us from near the podium. “Thank you, Chair Kosala, but no, I have another obligation. Mycroft,” for privacy’s sake he addressed me in Spanish, “¿did La Trémoïlle summon you to their party tonight?”

  I replied in Spanish. “Yes, Your Majesty, they did.”

  “¿What excuse did they give?”

  “A very flimsy one, Your Majesty, not worth repeating.”

  Spain frowned. “I spoke to J.E.D.D. Mason about this invasion of the Saneer-Weeksbooth bash’.” Of course, His Majesty did not say “Jed Mason,” but as I approx
imate Spanish with English, so I substitute the name you recognize for one you would not. “They see more in this than just a prank.”

  “Then I believe it,” I answered. “Thank you for broaching the question; someone had to.”

  “Yes. Until tonight, Mycroft.”

  I bobbed my slouching bow. “Until tonight, Your Majesty.”

  Chair Kosala and the Censor watched as Spain graced me with his words, but they would not intrude. As for my fellow Servicers, most here knew me well enough not to be surprised, and the rest would mistake me for a Spaniard.

  An aide came now, and offered the Cousin Chair sane shoes in trade for her costume heels. “To the sundae bar!” she cried, and strode down the aisle like Athena before her armies, bodyguards holding the flanks like victories. She usually has at least four guards, though on this crowded day I spotted ten, glad of their numbers as the convicts schooled around their ward.

  I did not follow the happy band of princes and paupers, united here by the magic of sugar and cream. Only Su-Hyeon noticed that I lagged behind. “Mycroft, you coming?”

  “I’ll catch up. We have only honored four of our heroes today. I should pay my respects to the rest before departing.”

  Hearing my reason, Su-Hyeon joined me. We visited each tomb around the dome in turn, rereading epitaphs, admiring busts, and contemplating the many different human foundation blocks which formed our world. It was somewhat satisfying, but only somewhat. Jung Su-Hyeon Ancelet-Kosala is a good person, a worthy successor to the Censor and deserving of a place on a legitimate Seven-Ten list someday. But Su-Hyeon, like you, reader, would not have understood if I explained that the grave I most wished to honor was not there in the Pantheon.

  CHAPTER THE NINTH

  Every Soul That Ever Died

  “Thisbe, I love you!”

  “Go away or I’ll call the police.”

  “We have something special here, Thisbe! Something eternal! I know you felt it too, that night on the cliffs. How can you throw that away?”

  “We don’t have anything, you have an obsession. Now leave, and if I ever catch you around here again I’ll have one of my ba’sibs break both your kneecaps.”

  “You’re torturing me, Thisbe!”

  “You brought this on yourself.”

  “I can’t live without you!”

  “Then go away and die!”

  The witch swept in through the front door of the bash’house with a bounce in her gait and a smile on her lips, as if she had a mouth full of chocolate truffle. Did I forget to tell you Thisbe is a witch? I know you won’t believe me, but she is, a real witch, mistress of secret hexes that can warp the soul into whatever parody she wills. Did you not see, on first meeting, how her impulse was to steal Carlyle’s memory with her pill-potions? That was a witch’s instinct, as is the pride she takes here in a discarded lover’s pain. You find it strange that I trusted a witch to guard Bridger? I would not bring any normal child to her, but for Bridger Thisbe was the perfect guardian. To Thisbe every secret, from her brother’s security passwords to my name, is another chapter for her spellbook arsenal, and Bridger is the greatest spell of all.

  “Hi, Lesley!” Thisbe beamed as she entered the living room and found, slouched in the comfort of the sofa, her dear … actually it is difficult to decide whether to call Lesley Thisbe’s ba’sib or her bash’mate, since adopted Lesley is not a ba’sib born in Thisbe’s bash’, but neither is she a bash’mate chosen in adulthood. Either way, Thisbe smiles on her like family. “Oh, and Carlyle, you’re here too, good.” She nodded to the sensayer, who had made a nest of cushions on the sofa opposite. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m sure you want to get our session done so you can get back to the festivities.”

  Lesley scooted forward on the sofa, ruining the doodles her fingertip had traced into the plush. “Is Holly stalking you again?”

  “No, this is a new one. I’ll handle it.” Thisbe’s fast fingers pulled the pins from her hair, and let its black torrent tumble free from the prison of a professional clip. “Did everything arrive for the barbeque?”

  “Yes, though I can’t imagine how the nine of us are supposed to eat all that one day. What are the twins growing in the meatmaker, a whole bison?” Lesley rose, and offered Carlyle a hand up from the couch whose down-soft foam threatened to trap him in its comfort. “Thanks for the session. Another the Tuesday after next?”

  “Three o’clock,” he verified.

  Thisbe took the least squished fig from the still-too-full bowl on the side table. “Wait, you two just had a session?”

  Carlyle smiled. “Yes, but I don’t mind doing another right away.”

  “You’re not too tired?”

  He shook his head. “I do it all the time.”

  Thisbe chuckled. “Quite the voker, aren’t you?”

  Carlyle beamed. “Shall we?”

  Thisbe led Carlyle downstairs to the darkness of her bedroom, which showed no sign of Dominic’s intrusion. But she did not stop there, stepping out instead into the wildflower trench.

  “Are you taking me to them?” Carlyle felt the need to whisper it. “To Bridger?”

  “Yes.”

  Carlyle tiptoed behind her, savoring the song of insects, the buffeting of grass fluff aglow with slanting sun. To an expert, his delight in the Book of Nature might betray something of Carlyle’s own beliefs, which his sensayer’s vows forbid him to discuss, but I will not strip him naked yet. Eavesdropping through Thisbe’s tracker, I caught the warning whistle of the lookout as the soldiers spotted the approaching pair, but I doubt that a child of peace like Carlyle could differentiate All Clear from birdsong.

  “Welcome, Carlyle, Thisbe. Thanks for coming out on a holiday.” It was the Major’s voice, seasoned and powerful, like an old piano which sounds better than new ones because it’s yours.

  Thisbe spotted the soldiers, assembled on an upside-down plastic bucket, with chips of wood as benches pulled close around a small block, draped like a banquet table. “No problem, Major. I brought something special today.”

  “All right!”

  “Three cheers for Thisbe!”

  “Set it here!”

  Thisbe drew a small box from her pocket, and from it unpacked a tiny banquet in colored clay: cheeses, salami, French bread, pea-sized apples and peaches, a tiny roast fowl with the brown and green speckles of stuffing painted around the edge, milk, wine bottles with tiny intricate labels, plates of cookies and croissants, even a three-tiered wedding cake two centimeters tall.

  “Look at all that grub!”

  “You’re a goddess of plenty, Thisbe!”

  Thisbe basked in their thanks as she set out the tiny meal. Most of the food was not quite to scale with the soldiers, apples the size of volleyballs in their arms, the wine bottles standing higher than the knees of the men who struggled to stand them upright, but it was close enough.

  Lieutenant Aimer smiled up at Carlyle. “We usually eat ordinary food, and sawing hunks off a giant strawberry or eating a gingerbread house from inside out is every bit as fun as you’d imagine, but sometimes one just wants to break bread like a normal person.”

  Carlyle’s eyes were bright with wonder as he leaned low over the bucket. “I can understand that. Where’s Bridger?”

  “Looking at a nest of baby birds.” The Major pointed to some brush nearby, where the boy crouched, half-hidden by the stems.

  As when a mountain climber on some cloud-locked peak grows so weary that he forgets the world around him in the pain, and pull, and pain, and pull, aware of nothing but his muscles, fog, and stone, but then suddenly a bright wind sweeps the clouds aside, and there open the boundless blue heavens, the sentinel heads of mountains thrusting through the fog floor, and the climber gasps as he sees, sovereign up above, the terrible, all-giving Sun, so Carlyle gasped at the sight of Bridger. And so he should. So should we all.

  “Have they…,” he whispered when his breath returned, “did they make their decision yet? Whether to
bring back the one who died?”

  “They wanted to talk you first.”

  Carlyle’s pale brows arched in wonder at the brave patience of this little boy. “One question for you first.”

  “Just one?” the Major teased.

  “One above all. Can you tell me whether this is Bridger’s first taste of death? The first time one of the animated toys has died? Apart from the person in the photograph, I heard about that.”

  A veteran’s sigh is always heavy. “No, but it’s the first time since Bridger was old enough to understand. There were men from both sides in the soldier playset. When he first animated us we didn’t understand what was going on. There were some casualties in the minutes before we managed to spot the giant three-year-old in the sky and call a truce. Back then Bridger didn’t know enough of the world to understand resurrection, and we didn’t manage to keep the corpses.”