by Ada Palmer
The frowns birthed by His answer were resigned, not critical. “Do you think they will accuse the Directorate directly?” Kim asked.
“In their heart they must have already. No other author would have made the traitors consider their betrayal both necessary and altruistic. This was clearly moved by no bribe, nor threat, nor small-scale gain for bash’ or person. Those who acted believed it was to benefit great bodies, cities, peoples, nations. Thus, yourselves. Or one of you.”
All Directors searched their fellows’ eyes.
Andō scratched his silvered temples. “And you are sure Ockham Saneer thinks this too?”
“Yes, Chichi-ue.” The Japanese form of ‘Father’ which ‘Tai-kun’ uses to address Andō is peculiarly formal and old-fashioned. “Ockham Saneer must have thought all this already. They have anti-proofs.”
Old Huang Enlai smiled at the ‘Tenth Director.’ “What anti-proofs?”
“Anti-proof the first: You know that Saneer will suspect you, and Saneer knows you realize this. If you had proof of your innocence, or of another’s guilt, you would have offered it to them. You have not. Anti-proof the second: Captain Zu Weichun will not lie to Ockham Saneer again. When asked who sent them, they may answer nothing, but they will not state explicitly it was not you. Thus Saneer will know it was.”
I did not catch which Director muttered the first few frustrated Chinese syllables, musical like Greek, but, as soon as someone broke the hold of English, more Chinese flooded in. I could not follow the words, but the five Chinese Directors’ body language was transparent enough: Beijing’s Wang Laojing was sparring with the Shanghai Directors, Lu Yong and Wang Baobao, though which side was accuser and which defender I could not say. Old Huang Enlai, interjecting often, was the net to their verbal tennis match, while Wenzhou’s Chen Zhongren added occasional notes of guarded brevity. There is something pure to politics without words, raw human side-taking stripped of its veneer of topics and justifications. I saw sighs of recognition pass among the non-Chinese speakers in the room too. Shanghai and Beijing had done this; we could all see it. One of their vast voting blocs had taken this gamble, scrambling to get the better of the other, money-fatted Shanghai against the proud and stubborn former capital. I know it is as egregious as conflating Paris and London, but, to we linguistic exiles in the room, it hardly mattered which of the two was the culprit—when siblings spar, the true cause is proximity.
“Enough!” Andō broke in. “This action endangers the [a/A]lliance!” His angry spoken English contained an ambiguity I cannot preserve in text. Did he mean the unofficial alliance between the Mitsubishi and the Humanists? Or Romanova’s Universal Free Alliance, which, like a watchman at some ancient port, tries with its tiny voice to give some aid and order to the man-made leviathans which crowd and jostle in the bay? At times like this I am reminded just how small a bay Earth is, and how vast these leviathans. “I care less who is at fault than how the ten of us will fix this. I’m prepared to be direct if no one else is. At this point we all know vaguely what the so-called Canner Device is, that responsibility for its development can be linked to our Hive…”
The newest Director, Shanghai’s young Wang Baobao, was aggressive enough to murmur, “Japan.”
Andō’s pause was brief. “Yes, it can be linked to my strat specifically. And I think we all realize that makes it easy for someone who wanted to harm our Hive to fire up the public about Mitsubishi culpability in everything the device has ever been associated with.” I thanked Andō in my heart for avoiding my name, but still it hung in the air like a pregnant storm cloud: Mycroft Canner. “One of you arranged this ‘drill’ today to try to seize the device. Perhaps you did it to protect the Hive.”
“Chichi-ue,” J.E.D.D. Mason broke in, his voice soft, like drizzle if the others’ words were rain. “Do you genuinely read such kindness in this act?”
Andō refreshed himself with a deep breath and a dark, judgmental glance at each of his fellows, who actually looked sincerely contrite. J.E.D.D. Mason is a hard Being to disappoint. “I would like to believe it was a kind act, Tai-kun. The alternative is that someone wanted to use the device as leverage against me, since the Japanese strat would suffer most from public outcry. But it sickens me to think that factional self-interest could lead any of you to poison the entire Hive in the eyes of the world.” He waited to let that blow sink in. “And to poison our relations with our most important ally.”
“The Humanists will get over it.” Shanghai’s confident Lu Yong stretched back in his seat, with an expression something between smug and testy. “We trust you stay in the saddle where Ganymede is concerned, Andō. I would rather hear more about the theft, and about what you let happen at Black Sakura.” I think Lu Yong is more blunt and rude in English than in his strat tongue; I think they all are.
Andō controlled his expression, but could not keep wrath’s red from rising in his cheeks. “I have with difficulty placated President Ganymede.” He glared at Lu Yong as he stressed the title. “I have also ensured that the investigation of this double break-in is in hands we trust. That means the issue of the device is also in hands we trust, a fact which may be the only thing which keeps this from exploding in our faces.” His eyes softened as he turned to the camera once again. “Tai-kun?”
“Yes, Chichi-ue?”
“Do you believe anyone here is responsible for the device, for its creation, its use, or any part of it?”
A long pause while He thinks. “I believe not.”
The Chief Director almost smiled. “I believe that the world will suffer greatly and gain nothing by the exposure of the device’s origins. Do you agree?”
“Directors,” the Strange Prince answered slowly. “Does any of you genuinely know the details of the device’s origin? Or is it lost in time?”
All Nine Directors aimed earnest faces at the unofficial Tenth.
“From what I can tell,” old Huang Enlai was the one brave enough to answer, “the records were systematically destroyed.”
Again the Tenth Director paused to think. “I believe the threat to global tranquility is genuine, that your plan to shelter the world with silence is practical and well considered, and that your desire to protect your people is as humane as selfish. The public fears much and rightly from this new use of the device. That truth must be exposed. But the question of origin is both separate and old. The public feels no active pain from that curiosity, and any answer you give would be painfully partial, aiding far less than it harms. I will facilitate your silence on that count. If my Utopians catch the thief who targeted Black Sakura and attain the device, I will seek to destroy it, and I consider Myself to have no obligation to reveal its origin.”
Many shoulders relaxed.
“To anyone?” Wang Laojing tested. Would it be easier for you, reader, if I adopt the King of Spain’s habit and differentiate these Chinese directors by the regions whose sub-nation-strats they represent? Wang Laojing, then, is confident Beijing.
“I have been tasked with this by many authorities,” J.E.D.D. Mason answered, “but all task Me to heal the peace, not harm it, and there is none among them who does not keep secrets in return. If I tell Patrem Meum that all threat is ended, and say the same to Censor, Chair, Headmaster, Their Majesty, and Their Grace, then they and theirs will rest content.”
Andō smiled. “We will do all in our power to help you ensure the device is found and destroyed”—he paused to let the others nod assent—“whether that means giving you what few records we have of it, acting as you direct, or pledging not to act again, since today’s action was so horribly disruptive.”
“The billions whose happiness you guard would thank you if they knew, Chichi-ue,” J.E.D.D. Mason answered. “However, I believe the Canner Device is the prior but not the larger threat.”
“The Seven-Ten list?”
“Yes.”
“It was none of us,” Beijing answered for all.
J.E.D.D. Mason scanned their faces once again.
“That I believe.”
Beijing: “Do we know the reason for the theft yet?”
Shanghai: “Your bash’child was involved, Andō.”
Japan: “Masami is another victim of this, yes. And knows nothing.”
Korea: “I understand Black Sakura is going to publish both lists now. It’s not clear to me who benefits.”
Shanghai: “Sugiyama’s list does hurt us, but it hurts others even more.”
Shanghai the younger: “Ganymede especially.”
Dongbei: “Yes, Ganymede and Casimir Perry both come out worse than us in Sugiyama’s list.”
All reviewed Sugiyama’s list, which they had now in an advance copy, distributed to the Hive leaders as tomorrow’s publication loomed:
#1: Masonic Emperor Cornel MASON
#2: The Anonymous
#3: Sniper
#4: Ziven Racer
#5: Cousin Chair Bryar Kosala
#6: Brillist Headmaster Felix Faust
#7: Mitsubishi Director Hotaka Andō Mitsubishi
#8: François Quesnay
#9: Julia Doria-Pamphili
#10: Lorelei “Cookie” Cook
Korea: “Spain could also be an intended target. Including Ziven Racer on the list is an insult to the King as much as to Perry.”
Beijing: “Everyone knows Spain was not involved when Ziven Racer tried to fix the election for them. Bringing attention to Racer will only remind everyone how honorable Spain was withdrawing from the race after Racer’s exposure. Casimir Perry’s the one who looks bad for benefiting from Spain’s misfortune.”
Shanghai: “Sugiyama’s far from the first to point out that Ziven Racer is the only reason Perry is Prime Minister, but no one’s ever said before that Sniper is the only reason Ganymede is President, at least not so publically. That’s a far worse blow.”
Japan: “What do you think, Tai-kun?”
Himself: “The worst blow is not to Europe, Chichi-ue, but to Asia.”
Beijing: “To Asia? Why do you phrase it like that?”
Himself: “François Quesnay.”
Dongbei: “The eighth name on the list.”
J.E.D.D. Mason fell silent here, breathing slowly, like one sick with fever, struggling to stay awake and speak with visitors. “What is the Source?” He asked at last.
Beijing: “Of what?”
Himself: “If you wrote a poem titled ‘The Source,’ what would be its subject?”
Of the Directors, Andō is least afraid to answer His strange questions. “Nature,” he ventured, “the interconnectedness of life, forests, the ocean, maybe rural life, a farm, a spring of water.” Such trust, reader, voicing these personal, almost theological, opinions and trusting Him to make the tangent pertinent.
Himself: “Do all agree?”
Shanghai: “Mine would be about Spring. New growth.”
Beijing: “Spring, yes.”
Dongbei: “Land, perhaps. Land changing, the parting of the snow.”
“The ocean, or a well, or maybe a mountain or a tree.” This last came from Kimura Kunie, the second Japanese director, who had done well in the decades since he realized it was more prudent to be Andō’s strong right arm than Andō’s rival.
“Then you are alone.” The dead softness of His voice felt cautious now, as when you comfort a wounded animal, and you know your syllables are meaningless, but, seeing it in pain, you must do something. “Faced with that question, a Cousin might answer the heart, a European the past, a Humanist themself, a Brillist the psyche, a Utopian imagination. All are pieces of the Masonic answer: humanity. Only the Mitsubishi place the Source outside humanity, in Nature.” Through the tracker I could see fear spread from eye to eye among the Nine Directors. “In this thought, you are the most alone. This is what Sugiyama thought, which Masami Mitsubishi would not have said, but all Earth will read now.”
“Why do you see danger in that?” At last Greenpeace Mitsubishi director Jyothi Bandyopadhyay broke her silence. Her vibrant suit was cut like a sherwani, patterned with the fierce, flame-orange spring blossoms of the Palash tree, with a leaf-green sash across her chest representing the veto reserved in the terms of the Greenpeace-Mitsubishi Hive merger sixty-four years before. Her expressions had been the most guarded throughout this, a sad spectator more than a confederate, and I gender her female for you, reader, as a reminder of how far apart she stands from Andō and his ilk. “Everyone knows caring for the land is our great strength, greater now than ever. Are you expecting some new hue and cry about exorbitant rents?”
“That My servant may speak to.”
After a moment’s silence I remembered Dominic was missing, so He must mean me. “Y-es, Directors,” I began, hearing my voice shake as I feared recognition. “Speaking fo-or the Tribune on behalf of Romanova, yes. We do predict new hostility about rents and property.” It is no breech of confidence that I share the Censor’s predictions here, reader. J.E.D.D. Mason is a Hiveless Tribune; the Censor’s data is at His service while He is at Romanova’s.
Beijing: “We’ve capped rent increases, and we’ve been acquiring land less rapidly, just as the Censor recommended.”
I: “Yes, you have. You’ve made good efforts, the Censor’s data reflects that. But people are already so worried about it, and there are so many hostile counter-campaigns, so many people riled up, most people aren’t aware you’ve slowed down, they just see Mitsubishi landlords on every street and feel like you’re eating up more land even if you aren’t. Sugiyama’s list will make it worse, much worse.”
Beijing: “Why? Who is this François Quesnay?”
I: “Was, not is, Director. François Quesnay is a historical figure. Sugiyama was planning one of their clever presence-by-absence pieces.” Those in the room seemed to lack enthusiasm for the journalistic art. “François Quesnay was one of the leaders of the physiocrats, a group of European economists influential in the Seventeenth Century, at the very birth of modern economic theory. They believed that wealth and value came from land, shared your idea about the ‘source’ in a sense.” I smiled, thinking how much more clumsily I would have phrased this without His frame to guide me. “When Adam Smith came along, a big part of what they did was disagree with the physiocrats, saying the source of wealth was labor, not land. Everyone since has basically agreed with Smith, even Marx and Morais, though they refined it with ideas about capital and axons. But these days everyone pretty much thinks in terms of human labor as the source, population, work hours, especially with the Hive system, Hives competing for more Members, seeming strong or weak based on how many they gain, or lose. Everyone counts people, Directors. Everyone except you.”
“I don’t disagree with Marx and Smith,” Beijing boasted. “We value our size, our people.”
J.E.D.D. Mason cut in softly. “How many voting shares are presently pledged to you, Director?”
“One point two billion.”
“Precisely how many?” He pressed.
“One billion, two hundred thirty-two million, four hundred thousand and some.”
“How many people? How many Members pledged their voting shares to you to make that bloc?”
“About a hundred and fifty million.”
“Precisely how many?”
Beijing frowned at his companions. “Maybe slightly under one hundred fifty?”
He does not nod. “You know much more precisely how much of Nature you represent than how many people.”
Again I smiled, seeing how His meandering demonstration made the point more clearly than the straight-seeming path. “Exactly,” I confirmed. “These days not even Gordian still clings to the corporate model so closely as to distribute Brillist votes by share instead of by person. Sugiyama’s editorial on François Quesnay would have been their manifesto that the Mitsubishi shareholder democracy has failed.”
“Shareholder democracy makes us strong,” Korea objected fastest. “It’s an incentive. Our Members work harder to get property, own their homes, invest, knowing hard work
will make their voices stronger, one share-vote at a time.”
Young Shanghai nodded. “We own more than half the property on Earth now. That proves our system works.”
There was pride in Korea’s glance at Bandyopadhyay here, or, I should say, at India, for, back when the Mitsubishi Hive proposed its mighty marriage with Greenpeace, it had lusted after more than Greenpeace’s twelve billion acres of nature reserve and five hundred million nature-loving Members. It lusted after India. The lion’s share of the Indian nation-strat was always with Greenpeace, and an entrenched cultural tick, something between tradition and self-defense, makes Indian landowners intractably unwilling to sell India’s land to outsiders. That made the subcontinent the last delicious corner of the Earth which had few Mitsubishi landlords. What Mitsubishi can’t buy, they adopt.
J.E.D.D. Mason’s voice was gentle as a chant. “One vote for being a Member, two for owning an apartment, five for a house, twenty for a factory, thirty for a forest, none for an idea.”
I: “You’re the richest Hive measured in land, but what if we measure by manpower?”
Shanghai: “The Masons win by their standard and we win by ours, I see that. That doesn’t make us wrong.”
I: “But there aren’t only two measures, Directors. There are many. Measure by income: half the human race pays rent to you, but Utopia earns more for its services and inventions. Or measure by output: you say shareholder democracy makes your Members work harder, but every single Utopian is a vocateur.”
Younger Shanghai: “The Utopians aren’t a competitor. No matter what they earn, they can’t grow while they spend it all on their Moon Base and lobbing junk at Mars.”
“Terraforming,” I corrected. “It is terraforming. In two hundred and fifty years it will be done. Even if you own this world by then, Utopia will own another one.”