by Ada Palmer
I smell urine on the wind.
It is no lie, not as they understand the name: a title of honor, Most Wanted, Archfiend, Devil. Those of the underground who are willing to believe that “Ghost” exists have long suspected their monster was this monster. He was too otherworldly, a trackless killer who cared nothing for rank or power, or even sides. He dealt only in barter, accepting food or arms or tradable treasures, and delivering in return, not only death, but terror’s torture, and, if the client requested, bodily tortures too. One who would show his victim Hell hired that Hell here. Only one name in our century has created Hell on Earth, and since Saladin and I shared those deeds, so he deserves to share my name.
「You don’t look like the Mycroft Canner we saw on the news.」
「Don’t I? Here.」 The visible sliver of opening in the front of Apollo’s captured coat wriggles like a snake as Saladin gropes beneath the folds of Griffincloth and loosens the straps of the piggyback harness. He spins as I step down, so the coat lifts from me all at once, revealing my dappled Servicer beige and gray, while Saladin settles in beside me, my wonderful, beautiful monster, his back against my back, invisible except for a slice of grinning face. 「Better?」
I pick up the light and aim it at them now. The six are clustered tight, their faces, some Japanese, some not, all ashen. The archkiller Mycroft Canner might loom dark enough in the media’s memory to be the stuff even of mobsters’ nightmares, but the Mycroft Canner who stood upon the Rostra sixteen days ago is worse, the tool of MASON and of MASON’s Son, and of His other fathers, Andō, Spain, whose resources are matchless, untouchable, and angry. If my Saladin is childhood’s fear, the unknowable evil in the closet’s depths, I have become adulthood’s fear, fear of power, law, illustrious contacts, police resources, covert agencies, and sweet judicial murder. Not only the wounded guards whimper. I know I should not enjoy this task so much, reader. It is sinful of me. April the twelfth is a High Holiday, the highest, Yuri’s Night, the day mankind first broke Earth’s eggshell and touched our rightful Space—a day for hope, for thanks, for recommitment to the Great Project. But I am weak, and it has been so long, reader, so very, very long since last my Saladin and I stood back-to-back and tasted fear-sweat.
「D-did Tai-kun send you themself?」 the protectee asks, almost bravely.
「Others too, but yes. You see why you can’t pay me more than I’m already getting.」 It is Saladin who speaks, more fluent than I in the ways of the mobs, whose need for subtle killings have fattened him these thirteen years with hunts to ease the boredom.
「What do you want?」
I answer this time. 「To discuss the black market.」 I take off my hat. 「There’s going to be a war.」
「So I’ve heard.」
「War profiteers will get very rich, very fast.」
「It had crossed my mind.」
I like this young one, not afraid to seem afraid—Saladin chose well, approaching the heir to the group rather than its inflexible patriarchs. 「In wartime,」 I continue, 「a lot of small crimes earn large punishments. The Hives are all preparing to wield lethal force again, not just Blacklaws and MASON. Death will soon be a lawful penalty.」
「That had also crossed my mind.」
「Groups like yours can waste a lot of lives and time working against us, or you can work with us, and get rich safely while we vent our … energy … on bigger enemies.」
Pressed hot against my back, Saladin punctuates ‘energy’ with a zealous slurp of flesh. It drips, meat on the bone, in a way no meatmaker steak does, the living juices of the animal still quick inside the tissues, as if seeking a heart to give them life again. One thug retches audibly.
「Tai-kun wants us as allies?」
「Tai-kun」—our Master’s Mitsubishi nickname drips like syrup from Saladin’s tongue—「has never heard of you, but They trust me to scent the powers of the underground.」 He cannot smile without baring fangs. 「I like you.」
「What do they want us to do? Hunt down Sniper?」
「Take a potshot if you have a chance, sure, but hunting’s more my strong suit. Yours is business. The powers that be want your black-market channels flowing, to lubricate distribution of goods to civilians when normal channels inevitably fail.」 I catch the scent of marrow as the bone cracks. 「Accept our terms, and we’ll see to it that your problems with the authorities are minimized.」
The protectee nudges the largest guard aside, striving to make eye contact against the dark and glare. 「What are your terms?」
「So long as what you leech from official stockpiles doesn’t exceed two percent of our stores of food and materials, or one percent of medical supplies, then you may find that the efforts to stop your operations fall slack, while those of your people who do get caught may find evidence lost and prosecutions bungled. Take more than that, and repercussions will be in deadly earnest, and will start with your bash’.」
「What about weapons?」 the young boss asked. 「Two percent of goods, one of medical supplies …」
「Your current avenues for arming yourselves will stay open, but if you touch war weapons you risk death; no leeway there. Also, you’ll minimize use of deadly force against our people, obviously. And no selling the lion’s share of the supplies to our enemies rather than to civilians. Once things break down every bash’ on Earth will be desperate to stockpile everything it can; get rich off them and leave the war to soldiers.」
The protectee pauses. 「You think the Transit System will go down?」
Saladin beams pride at his chosen contact’s quickness, or seems to through the digital translation of Apollo’s stolen vizor. 「Or at least flow much less freely, yes. Sabotage is easy. But you’re used to working around the traceable. You have your own transport, slow, clumsy, filthy, but you have it. We want that flowing, moving goods where we can’t, and more.」
「More?」
「When the need arises, we’ll pay you to move food and supplies into a specific place or, more important, to move people out.」
「You want to use us as a rescue service?」
Saladin cocks his head. 「Why not? You’re equipped for human trafficking. In six months we may have land vehicles enough to do it ourselves, but you could do it tomorrow.」
「Our touch isn’t exactly gentle.」
「Needs must. You can rob them some, extort them some, recruit them if you can, but hand them over to us safe and uninjured and we’ll pay you well for every head. Plus, do this well, and we’ll also help take out any black-market rivals that crop up to interfere with your profits. We’ll even give you a list of other groups in other territories that have made the same deal with us, so you can keep out of one another’s way.」
The scent of power and profit cuts through fear. 「A global underground?」
Saladin nods. 「For a global war.」
I stiffen; something was off about that nod. I know my Saladin so well by sound. This is a new sound, not fabric, not skin, but the creaking friction of Griffincloth rubbing against the tooled leather collar that now rounds his neck. I hate that collar. It is a lovely object—I’ll admit that—gilded scrollwork tooled into Madame’s favorite shade of burgundy, an object much too lovely for the wild thing he is, but that isn’t why I hate it. I can’t hate it for being wrong either, since it is in all ways right, the culmination of my Saladin’s renunciation of all things human. Madame brought my feral cynic off the streets and into the salon which is the center of truth and power, and where, after thirteen years, we can at last lie safe in one another’s arms. But I still hate it. I hate the new callus its rubbing has traced across his neck, and how its leather odor mixes with the sweat upon his skin. It’s changed him. And it isn’t mine.
「What assurance can you give that we’ll really be protected?」
Saladin smiles. 「The assurance the gardener gives the insect; we will try not to step on you so long as you destroy more weeds than crops.」
「Not very comforting.」
<
br /> I take over. 「I can offer the assurance that Jehovah Mason believes it is important to protect human life, as do the King of Spain and … others.」 It was not the time to try to force the unready into believing in Achilles. It may never be. 「If you do what we ask, you will win the gratitude of princes. That is worth a lot, especially now.」
A pause—a wise, long, thinking pause. 「I’ll need more details, if I’m to persuade my bash’, and more proof that this deal is real than just your word.」
Look at my Saladin’s beautiful victory grin. 「Whose word do you want? MASON’s? Spain’s? Madame’s? Name your prince.」
All stiffen. 「Is Madame part of this too?」
「Everything and always. I thought the underbelly knew about Madame long before the public.」
「We did, but not as much as we know now. After recent events, you must understand we’re reluctant to get closer to such an unpredictable force.」
I answer this one. 「Madame doesn’t care about this, or about you. This is about saving lives and preserving some semblance of an economy. That’s not Madame’s concern, only her Son’s.」
Again the young boss pauses for thought. 「I’ll talk to my people and see what else we need from you to move on this. How can we find you?」
「I’ll find you.」 A shimmer betrays the vizor’s edge across Saladin’s cheeks. 「Oh, there is one more thing I’m supposed to ask you for.」
「What?」
「Whichever of your people sold the real Canner Device to Merion Kraye.」
「What for?」
「Fun.」
「No, not fun,」 I correct quickly. 「Information. Perry-Kraye may be gone, but their network of allies likely isn’t, and we don’t know that the extermination of Europe’s leadership is the end of their plan. We need to know all we can about their contacts, for the near future as well as for history.」
Frowns pass among the guards.
「You must understand, Ghost, Canner, whatever, why I’m skeptical that even I could convince one of our people to hand themself over to you.」
Saladin purred at the compliment. 「Fair enough. Have the guilty party call Romanova’s police, ask for Detective Desi O’Callaghan, ask them for Deputy Commissioner Bo Chowdhury, ask them for Papadelias. Be helpful and I doubt the law will want to waste its time prosecuting the peon of a middleman. Might even help exonerate Japan a bit if they can focus blame on Perry-Kraye. Good for you.」
「I can’t promise anything at present.」
「Fine, but I know who it was, and I know their bash’mates, and I can start mailing them finger bones if it would help.」 He smiles. 「Would it?」
「Not necessary, thank you.」 Dignity is strong in this one. 「One more question, Ghost.」
Saladin enjoys that title. 「Yes?」
「Who gets all this when the war’s over? You’re laying the foundations for a unified global underground. Who controls it in the end?」
The beast’s eyes narrow. 「You lead a luxurious life, getting to think so far ahead. Right now the powers that be are working on surviving next week. If you want to try to make yourselves kings of the underground, go for it. No one has time to stop you, but you know what?」
「What?」
「If I had extra resources right now, I’d use them making sure the human race survives.」
CHAPTER THE FIFTH
Strangest Senator
Written July 16–19, 2454
Events of April 13
Romanova
Most events are close for me, reader, and far for you, but some, like this, we watch from equal distance, as Jehovah’s twin enemies, distance and time, render us both impotent. I lived through the Senate Meeting of April the thirteenth, 2454, but I could no more touch those marble benches than you could stop the arrow that deprived Achilles of his first Patroclus back in Troy, or he, wading knee-deep through the mud-blood of the Scamander plane, could reach forward to save your life, or Bridger’s. Before the crisis, I often walked the streets of Romanova, but now the mob knew me. Would look for me. The police had closed off the Forum to anyone not on critical business, but among the billions of the Earth there were enough who could concoct critical business to form a mob. They packed the streets and ringed the Rostra, pilgrims pressing close to where one could still see Jehovah’s blood upon the stones. I don’t think the stain was kept in place for science or police tests anymore. I think no one dared touch it.
Records of the Senate meeting must survive to your day, reader, if anything does, but I ask you to watch it again with me, through me, and see as I did the subtext, the strings of power which tugged the Senate from the depths. The benches were full again, all two hundred Senators present, but I could swear more of them wore temporary sashes than had their senatorial stripes dyed into the cloth. Of the twenty-seven Mitsubishi Senators more than half were new appointees attending for the first time, and fifteen of the twenty-two Humanist Senators were doe-eyed proxies. The block of Masons stood intact, and I saw no unfamiliar nowheres among the Utopian contingent, but I spotted a replacement or three among the Cousins. On the front benches, where Europe’s chosen habitually gathered, I did not see one familiar face.
Jin Im-Jin, Speaker of the Senate, took the dais now, her thin Korean eyes almost vanishing as she massaged her temples, overburdened by more than a full century’s wrinkles. The Speaker’s sash sat comfortably across her chest, gold-trimmed ocean blue fabric pledging that, despite the coded Brillist sweater underneath, today she served not Gordian but Earth. No, the feminine feels wrong here. Speaker Jin’s demeanor was unmistakably paternal, not a stern Father like the Emperor, but Grandpa, too friendly to be quite imperious as he presides over a gaggle of squabbling grandkids who each think the other’s slice of pudding is unjustly large. It took Jin Im-Jin seven cries of “Order” to achieve even a tolerable approximation of silence.
“I hereby call this, the Second Special Emergency Session of the Three-Hundred-and-Tenth Universal Free Senate to ord—”
Before the final syllable took wing, no fewer than five Senators leapt to their feet with the selfish urgency of game show contestants. “Motion to Bring to the Table a matter of…” The rest was muddle, one Senator shouting “Universal Emergency,” another “Imminent Global Disaster,” another the ever-primary “Urgent Defense of the First Law,” all those stock phrases which have the power to trump and hijack Senate procedure.
Speaker Jin Im-Jin took a deep breath as the ranks of Senators burst into hubbub. “Order! Order! This emergency session was convened to … Order! Order!” Grandpa’s face made plain the true complaint: Is anyone in this room not having a temper tantrum?
Seeing Grandpa’s exasperation, Grandma rose to her feet, Charlemagne Guildbreaker Sr., ever-smiling champion of order and courtesy, whose wooly beard, white against the dark warmth of Persian skin, has for decades been Romanova’s symbol for calm. Charlemagne was no longer Minister of Labor, nor even technically the leading Mason in the Senate, but had passed those honors on in order to graduate to the more essential office of assisting the Speaker as the Unofficial Nonpartisan Resolver of Unnecessary Bickering. When the children dropped the ball, Grandma passed it back to Grandpa to serve again. “Incidental Motion, Member Speaker.”
“The Chair recognizes Mason Guildbreaker Senior.”
In pictures which predate her beard, Charlemagne is the image of her grandchild Martin in poise as well as face, but a decade in her office as keeper of the Senate’s much-tried civility has so softened Charlemagne that today they hardly seem the same stock. (I know it is strange for me to call any Mason “she,” reader, but see Charlemagne with Jin Im-Jin and you will agree with me.) This is not to suggest that Charlemagne no longer serves the Emperor—the imperial gray band of a Familiaris on her arm proves she is a Guildbreaker still—but while Martin’s ba’pa Senator Charlemagne Guildbreaker Junior now serves MASON on the Senate floor, Senator Guildbreaker Senior’s role in the Empire’s agenda lies in accelerating
all agendas, trusting that most changes moving in the world are shaped by MASON’s will.
“Thank you, Member Speaker.” Guildbreaker’s cottony beard puffed as she nodded. “Motion to Suspend the Rules. Given the impossibility of establishing straightforward priority among all the urgent motions, I move that the Chair review all the new motions and improvise an equitable emergency agenda.”
A junior Mason “Seconded!” at once.
“All in favor?”
The Ayes had it.
You must not think, reader, that MASON’s dictates mold the Senate like wax. Sixty-one Masons among two hundred votes is not near a majority, merely enough to steady or to tip a rocking boat.
“Motion to Suspend the Rules passes,” Jin Im-Jin confirmed. “And before we move on, I want to point something out. After we’re done today it will be easy for one or another of you to raise objections alleging that today’s decisions are invalid because we failed to follow one or another procedure. To those already planning such objections I say this: right now this Senate is the only body on Earth with any hope of stabilizing things. People are dying every day in riots which are getting worse, the economy is groaning”—a pointed glance at the still-not-admitting-they-were-striking Mitsubishi—“and we have a better shot than anyone of fixing things. If our authority is undermined, if the public sees us as weak, or squabbling, or impotent, or, worst of all, illegitimate, there will be nothing left but seven very angry Hives and a lot of very vulnerable Hiveless. Yes, we’re on rocky ground as far as procedure. Yes, half the Senators in this room are sudden replacements chosen in questionable circumstances. Now is the time to demonstrate that, in spite of everything, we remain a competent and fair governing body, and that we will solve this. If anyone tries to undermine what we do here today by raising objections to procedure after the fact, you won’t just have blood on your conscience, you’ll have destroyed the best and freest government the world has ever known. So speak now or forever hold your peace.”