by Ada Palmer
“Septem-Decem indices (Seven-Ten lists),” he grumbled. “Septem-Decem index modo est propagandulum! (A Seven-Ten list is just a little piece of propaganda.) Quid refert si Ganymedes Andōque haerent? (What does it matter if Ganymede and Ando are [in a tough/sticky situation]?) Cur perturbantur? (Why are they worried?) Cur etiam Anonymus perturbatur, et cur te tres illi lassant? (Why is even the Anonymous worried, and why are they exhausting you?)”
The Emperor was calm, strong as a man just risen from a healing bath when all around are battle-weary. His face as he gazed upon the lists had more the air of a philosopher studying some new phenomenon than of a worried king. Indeed, the only tension in him was his left hand, clenched behind him as he stood. I do not think Caesar is conscious of the habit, but he always clenches his black-sleeved hand behind him when I enter a room, as if he could not otherwise restrain it from sealing on my throat.
“Nescio, Caesar (I don’t know, Caesar),” I answered.
He gave me a stony glance. “Non nihil scies, Mycroft. (You know more than nothing, Mycroft.)”
I kept a careful distance from the Emperor, standing by the wall where he and his guards could watch my movements. “Apollo dicebat (Apollo Mojave used to say),” I answered, “ut Franciscus Quesnaeus sententiam Mitsubishorum praesentavisse (that François Quesnay previewed Mitsubishi thought). Sugiyama Apollini nunquam incidit, sed aliquem qui similiter Appollini cogitat gravissime considerendum est. (Sugiyama never met Apollo, but anyone who thinks similarly to Apollo should be given the greatest consideration.)”
The Emperor was pacing, like a lion too long in its pen, his limp conspicuous. I have Cornel MASON’s permission to disclose that he does not have his original left foot, and the replacement has never sat well with him, for reasons more psychological than medical. It still goes on, the trial by ordeal. In 2239, the autopsy of Mycroft MASON revealed evidence of old tortures on his body, protracted and professional. The public demanded an explanation, and so you learned how hard it is to be the Imperator Destinatus. Ordinary Masons face a law code stricter but no more brutal than any other Hive’s, but we Familiares, in return for trust and power, surrender all protections, subjecting ourselves wholly to Caesar’s will. If Caesar demands our imprisonment, our torture, or our death, we have no right even to ask why. Caesar accepts no less from those few he trusts with the welfare of his three billion. Outsiders imagined this was a symbol. If once a century a known traitor was put to death, you assumed this was the only exercise of MASON’s Capital Power. How wrong you were. A MASON will not pass the throne to one who has not been tested beyond the limits of sanity and mercy. Only he who comes through Hell still sane and loyal can, they say, resist the corrupting influence of power this close to absolute. I understand that Cornel MASON’s original left foot was hacked away in pieces with a heavy, clean-edged cleaver—not the most sophisticated of tortures (a trained eye can spot remnants of those elsewhere upon him) but one of the most psychologically damaging, as the victim watches pieces of his body turn to meat before his eyes. Young Ken Mardi, the prodigy who had fancied himself as sturdy as a samurai, I broke in an hour with such a method, but Cornel MASON endured three weeks at his predecessor’s order, and emerged as strong as he is now. That J.E.D.D. Mason has never disappeared for such a period is often taken as proof that He will not be the successor.
MASON’s voice was stone. “Indices mutati sunt. (The lists have been changed.)”
My eyes went wide. “Mutati? (Changed?)”
“Sic. Ecce. (Yes. Look.)”
At Caesar’s command a wall displayed video from the Romanovan Forum, where reporters besieged the marble podium of the Rostra, and a slouching figure at its microphones.
“Vice President DeLupa!” called the loudest of the pressmen. “Why didn’t the Anonymous realize before now that someone had tampered with their list?”
“The Anonymous can’t see into the Censor’s office,” the Vice President answered. “If someone intercepts the list between when the Anonymous sends it and when Censor Ancelet receives it, there’s no way the Anonymous can tell.”
“Does this mean other communications from the Anonymous are likely to be fake as well?”
“Absolutely not. Remember, when the Anonymous contacts me there are seven levels of security. The Seven-Ten list is an exception, since it’s delivered directly to the Censor. All we’ve learned is that Romanova’s security isn’t as good as mine.”
It was a perfect answer, but Brody DeLupa could not afford less. Rarely has there been a man with so tenuous a hold on office as Humanist Vice President Brody DeLupa. Humanists love the Anonymous, since it is certainly heroic for a faceless, nameless voice to make itself the most influential in the world, just by publishing such intelligent opinions. Even young Sniper, who studied so hard to boost his fame by making himself a joy to interview, had charisma, sex appeal to keep him interesting, while the Anonymous has only the irksome merit of being always reasonable. The Voting Board was strict: however many thousands of Humanists may wish to vote for the Anonymous, one cannot hold office without revealing one’s identity. It did not take long for clever men to circumvent the rule by running for office with Earth’s simplest platform: I will be a proxy for the Anonymous.
“Does the Anonymous think there’s a connection between this tampering and the incident at Black Sakura?”
DeLupa scratched the stubble which persisted in the wrinkles of his cheeks, like mildew. They have all been ugly, the last five Proxies, did you notice? Some say the Anonymous does not want a puppet with charisma of its own, but I think they are chosen for the merit that Ganymede would find them too repugnant to seduce. “There’s no saying for certain at this point,” DeLupa answered, “but I suspect there’s a connection, especially considering the recent announcement that there was also an attempt to steal the Gordian list from the Brillist Institute.”
“Then there’s a conspiracy?”
The Vice President tried to make his nod feel sage. “I don’t know if it’s a prank or if someone is expecting profit, but when three of the lists are targeted, that’s not coincidence. It may be time to rethink the gambling, and what it incentivizes. Even without thefts and substitutions, the pressure on the columnists makes objectivity almost impossible.”
Cornel MASON scowled. “Quid facit Anonymus? Modone attentionem a Sakuram Nigrem avertit? (What is the Anonymous doing? Just drawing attention away from Black Sakura?)”
If so, it was brilliant. With interference in the Anonymous’s list and Gordian’s, Black Sakura would virtually drop out of the public eye, and with it Kohaku Mardi’s fatal numbers, 33-67; 67-33; 29-71. Even the Mitsubishi might be saved. I answered, “Fieri potest, Caesar. (It could be, Caesar.) Quotannis discipuli iocosi aliqui Brillem indicem surripere temptant, et nihil refert. (Every year some student prankster tries out stealing the Brillist list and it comes to nothing.) Causa necessest si hoc anno Magister Faustus populum operam dare vult. (There must be a reason if this year Headmaster Faust wants people to care.) Beneficium alicui necessest. (It must benefit someone.)”
MASON nodded. “Causa gravissima necessest si Anonymus mendacios vulgat. (The cause must be serious if the Anonymous is publishing lies). Hos quoque ecce. (Look at this too.)” At Caesar’s will the Vice President vanished, replaced by the newest chart:
I took my time in thinking, my toes tracing nervous circles on the stone. It was brilliant. The substitution was so plausible, just what an anti-Mitsubishi conspirator would have altered to make it feel like all the lists were ranking the Mitsubishi low. The “altered” list was the real one, I had no doubt—we had worked with it in the Censor’s office. The Anonymous was retro-fibbing, swapping in a list that made the Mitsubishi come out better, and, by crying, “My list was targeted too!” drawing attention away from poor Black Sakura. He found a way. The Censor’s powers could do nothing, but the Anonymous had found a way.
MASON turned again to me. “Non tibi imperio ut prodas aliquod de officio Censoris,
sed solum oppinionem tuum: quid possum facere ut curros protegam? (I will not order you to betray anything from the Censor’s office, but only your own opinion: what can I do to protect the cars?) Custodesne Saneer-Weeksbooth bash’domi ponere debeo? (Should I send guards to the Saneer-Weeksbooth bash’house?) Discipulosne mittere ut doceant et pro Sicario aliisque substituant? (Should I send students to learn and substitute for Sniper and the others?) Aut ab Utopianis petere debeone, ut parent sustinere ipsi totam systemam mundi si iste bash’ cadat? (Or should I seek from the Utopians, that they prepare to sustain the entire global system if that bash’ fails?)” The Emperor looked to the window, where we could see the cars landing across the city like a rain of constant meteors. His fists clenched. “Non vacuus sedebo et permittebo hic jocus mundum meum accidere. (I will not sit idly and let this prank wound my world.)”
Jocuvn hunc non arbitror, Caesar (I don’t think it’s a joke, Caesar),” I answered, not quite daring to meet his eyes, “sed aliquid sinisterius, et credo ut vos omnes non prius placebimini quam omnes Septem apud Matronam conveneritis (but something more sinister, and I think that all of you will not be calm until all Seven convene at Madame’s). Omnes suspectum habetis ut unus ex Septem hanc perfidiam coniuraret. (You all have suspicions that one of the Seven planned this treachery.) Omnibus convocatis, invenire poteris si recte sentis. (When everyone has been called together, you’ll be able to discover whether you guess right.)”
It is maddening, is it not, my non-Masonic reader, watching the Latin slip past incomprehensible? It is worst with Latin, too, for it was by chance you were not raised to speak French or Japanese, but no one is raised on Latin. Latin is a choice. Hives are strengthened by having a tongue, so MASON chose the language of Rome, of Empire, of Power, simplified to make it easier. It is no race’s language anymore (not even Martin Guildbreaker dared study Latin before his Annus Dialogorum), so all Masons, whether new converts or the sons of Emperors, are equal as they sit down in those classrooms, the true sancta sanctorum of Masonic mysteries, which teach the tongue of power, as potent for Martin as for Machiavelli and Montaigne. It was your choice, reader, whether or not to heed the myth and study Latin; now you pay the price. (I didn’t have the heart to cut this.—9A)
I oversimplify; One living among us was raised on Latin. “Salve, Pater. (Hello, Father).” J.E.D.D. Mason entered from an inner room, announced by the guards saluting their Porphyrogene. “Mater salutem dicit. (Mother sends her regards.)”
A common father smiles at the arrival of his son, but MASON’s face does something deeper, graver, like a ship’s Captain peering at the morning sky to see what weather it might bring. “Salve, Fili (Hello, Son),” the Emperor greeted. “Bene investigatio estne? (Is the investigation going well?)”
No emotion accompanied His almost-whispered words. “Canis abest. (The dog is missing.)”
“Abest? (Missing?) Dominicus? Cur? Quamdiu? (Why? How long?)”
(This is where Mycroft started to supply Masonic Latin translations of the Prince’s rather bizarre Latin, but I’ll try my best to give you the sense of the Prince’s actual words.)
“Nescio (I don’t know),” the Son answered. “Ni ampliorem quam cimicem olfaceret non peccaret Dominicus. (Unless he smelled [something] larger than a bedbug, Dominic would not sin.)”1
The Emperor frowned. “Credisne ut in periculem sit? (Do you think they’re in danger?)”
“Nullo cursus pacto. (A very strong form of ‘No.’) Non ciccus est hic nebulo vero fidus canis. (This scoundrel is not [the membrane around a pomegranate seed, i.e., a negligible thing], [but/truly] the dog [is] faithful.) Quod superest, tibitemet non lucubrandum’st. (That aside, you yourself [emphatic] should not burn lamp oil late at night.) Brevi procaciam conivere potes. (For now, you can blink at this mischief.)”2
MASON searched his Son’s face for some sign of how He truly took Dominic’s absence, for it is hard for a father to believe that any child would not feel something at the absence of his most constant companion. His face showed nothing. Have you ever in a museum, reader, seen a case of lizards or small frogs, and you cannot tell in their stillness whether they are alive or models until you press your cheek against the glass and look for breath stirring their sides? Here you would have to do it with a Man.
“Non sufficit. (Not enough.)” The Emperor turned. “You could make a new car system, couldn’t you?” Like magic, reader, hear lightness in his English, as when Hector, breaker of horses, after days handing out death to foes around Troy’s ramparts, comes home at last to lift his child in his arms. No, it is not to me he speaks. See there, brilliant in the corner, the nowhere children, Aldrin and Voltaire.
The pair glanced at one another. “A new system, Caesar?”
“Everyone is paying too much attention to the Seven-Ten lists, and not enough to the cars. The Seven-Ten lists are nothing, an embarrassment. The cars are the bloodstream of civilization. You have your own system, your own computers. If the Saneer-Weeksbooth bash’ goes down, could you take over running transport for the world?”
They looked at each other through their vizors. I will never tire of studying the space station which Aldrin’s Utopian coat makes of Alexandria. It is not new and cold like a fresh-launched shuttle, but a patchwork, bits of mismatched hull barely space-tight. An ancient space station, if you can imagine such a thing, used, battered, and remade, like the museum wing of the ISSC, where field trips pause to see the original parts of the station that grew appendage by appendage into the current city. That is Aldrin’s Alexandria. Voltaire’s I avoid looking at—exquisite as it is, I cannot bear seeing the capital in ruins.
“What about the backup station, at Salekhard?” Aldrin asked. “Surely they’d take over.”
“I want two safety nets when civilization teeters.”
Again they traded digital glances. “It’s not our constellation, Caesar, but with time and access to the current systems, I imagine we could develop a substitute.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know, I’ll ask. A lot would depend on whether we can have access to the proprietary parts of the Saneer-Weeksbooth system.”
“Why do you need their system?”
“We’d need to control their cars. We don’t have enough, and ours are slower, plus…”
“Plus?”
J.E.D.D. Mason answered more bluntly than Voltaire dared: “The world will not be content handing such power to Utopia. There will be backlash.”
MASON scowled. “Then make it for me. Let it be my Masons, not Utopia, who hold it in the world’s eyes. I will not watch this halt the bloodstream of my world.”
“All right, Caesar, we’ll see what we can do.”
“Thank you.” Even an Emperor does, on occasion, thank. “How’s your part of the investigation going? Well, I hope?”
“Yes, Caesar. The Traceshifter Artifact was only on for two point two seconds at its second activation, inside the Saneer-Weeksbooth bash’house, but we learned much more about its initial effects. We are preparing a report to present to all Seven soon.”
“Good. And Mycroft has been forthcoming?” Here the iron returned to MASON’s voice.
“As forthcoming as they can be when they don’t really know anything. The ‘Canner Device’ is very badly named.”
A glance at me. “Have they been forthcoming about Andō and Ganymede?”
Vizors traded confusion. “Caesar? I’m not sure what you mean.”
MASON’s eyes fixed on me with no less menace than the barrel of Ockham’s gun. “Andō summoned you to Tōgenkyō, Mycroft, minutes after the break-in was reported. And Ganymede summoned you to La Trimouille.”
“Ye-e-e-e-es, Caesar.”
“Are they frightened for the cars? Or for themselves?” There was disgust in the set of his jaw.
“Both, Caesar, I would say.”
“Why?”
The word transfixed me, like a needle through a butterfly. It was not just Danaë’s blackmail that made me he
sitate, her power to reveal that I still have my method to move unseen. The Mitsubishi need no blackmail to command me. I serve the world, all of it, every Hive, every human. What I destroyed robbed all, so it is to all that I owe my great debt. I owe Andō, from whom I took Kohaku Mardi, Jie Mardi, probably young Ken if he had lived to choose a Hive. I owe Ganymede from whom I took Malory Mardi, and the half of Seine that belonged more to the Humanists than to her dear Apollo. I owe Utopia. But by law my life is Caesar’s. And I owe Caesar too, for Geneva Mardi, for Aeneas, for Chiasa, Jules, and I owe, owe, owe, owe, owe them for Apollo.
“Their Grace the Duke suspected Sniper,” I answered; that much was easy. I could be good witness to Ganymede’s innocence, and ignorance. “I helped them confirm it was unfounded. They were upset, worried, largely about protecting the cars, the Saneer-Weeksbooth system, a-and the peace.” Trapped in Caesar’s gaze I shivered reflexively, feeling that I must have transgressed, sinned, even though, in fact, it was the truth.
“And Andō?”
Panic took me. Caesar could see it, I read it in his face, imperious like Zeus when he gazes on others, but, for me, he becomes Hades.
If there is a limit on how much righteous punishment Cornel MASON will inflict upon me, that Limit stands beside him. “I can answer, Pater. Chichi-ue asked Mycroft about the misnamed Canner Device.”