by Zen, Raeden
“A great honor, my lady,” Valentine said.
Isabelle wanted to throw her head back and scream. Valentine, like most Beimenians, knew she’d been a Maiden of Masimovian prior to marrying the chancellor. What they didn’t know was that it took persistent effort for her to convince the chancellor to allow her to seek new employment; she failed in her effort to convince him to give up his maidens entirely and except for Maritza Menendes, the keeper of Reassortment Hall, no others followed her lead.
“What do you want to be when you grow up, my sweet?” Isabelle said. Valentine squeaked as her breath caught. “It’s not a trick question.” In lieu of being auctioned to the highest bidders after the Harpoon Exams, adult couriers completed civil service exams to maintain their spot in the commonwealth. If they passed the exams, they typically transitioned to roles in the great city’s Central Government District; sometimes they were granted aristocratic positions in the capital city or elsewhere in the commonwealth.
Valentine found her voice. “I have so much to learn, my lady, but … I’d love to be a lady, like you … one day … if you think that makes sense.”
Isabelle swiveled, facing Valentine. The courier’s lips were closed in a seam, her eyes clear and intense, filled with determination that reminded Isabelle not a little of herself. She pushed her forefingers through Valentine’s wet hair, swiping it away from her face. “How would you like to be the lady of the First Ward of Beimeni City?”
Valentine swallowed deeply. Her cheeks turned as red as overripe apples. “I couldn’t.” She shook her head. “I wouldn’t.” She set the brush on the tub’s rim. “That’s my lady’s job and I’d never—”
“The First Ward of the great city is filled with nearly eight million transhumans and growing by the day. It’s the most populous ward in all the Great Commonwealth. You’d become one of the most powerful women in the country.”
“It’s such an honor, my lady.” Valentine trembled. “I’d love to.” She bit her lip. “Who would you rule then, my lady?”
“All of my candidates,” she turned away from Valentine, “all of my children.”
They lingered for a while, then wrapped themselves in towels and sat in the sauna, talking metaphysics and politics.
Later in the evening, Isabelle changed into a wrap dress, black but for the phoenix on the front, its long wings extending over her chest and shoulders. She took an elevator from her suite in Masimovian Tower to the Gallery of the Chancellor. Rays from the Granville sun shone at sharp angles from windows high above, lighting statues made of colorful marble, sculpted to represent the thirty territories of the Great Commonwealth. Chancellor Atticus Masimovian and his maidens didn’t see or hear her, too distracted by the feast that lay before them. Let them choke and retch, Isabelle thought, every one of them. She sighed and adjusted one of her many rings.
The maidens cooed, fed the chancellor with their forefingers, and filled his gold-rimmed crystal glass with cabernet sauvignon, synthetically aged two hundred years, the way he liked it. On the middle of the marble table sat two lobster tails as large as sledgehammers along with two filet mignons and three onions on a porcelain dish. Melted butter dripped from the lobster, which along with the meat sat in a bed of basil leaves and violet cabbage. Grapes, cherry tomatoes, strawberries, orange slices, cucumbers, and black olives formed semicircles around the meat and opened toward Atticus. Beside the dish stood three bottles of Loverealan wine, two of which were empty.
Isabelle clapped. The maidens pouted and scurried onto the terrace that overlooked Masimovian Center, their lingerie fluttering in the wind.
“Do you know,” Atticus licked the butter from his fingers, “how I’ve managed to keep peace for so long?”
He motioned for the two Jurinarian migrant workers on either side of the table to scram.
Isabelle sashayed around the table. “Naturally,” she said. She tossed her hair and sat on the table next to Atticus’s plate, giving him a good view of her. “Because you have me.” She took a strawberry from his plate and licked the whipped cream from it. “What other reason could there be?”
Atticus guffawed, then opened his mouth to receive the strawberry.
Isabelle got up and sat on one of the golden chairs next to him. She bit into the strawberry, letting the juice run down her chin.
“Hmm,” he said and licked his lips. “Isabelle, where would I be without you?”
“Best not to think on it.”
Atticus chortled and popped a grape into his mouth. “In the early days,” he slid his tongue over his lower lip and a seed fell to the dish, “I pondered whether immortality, this idea older than man, could sway the crowd.” He pushed a second glass filled with Loverealan wine in Isabelle’s direction.
“I remember, you would speak of nothing else.” Isabelle ignored the glass. Atticus seemed fairly soused already, and she preferred her advantage.
“Then I realized the only reason we are mortal is because we know we are mortal. Take age away from the crowd, and it will believe itself immortal and attach the idea of service to this immortality, and it will spread and take control of its host—”
“Perhaps even you still have a lot to learn.” She pushed the glass back to him.
Atticus closed his eyes and nodded. “Death,” he said, “no human timeline ended without it, and all because of aging—”
“It was a heinous disease, wasn’t it?” Isabelle pulled her bracelets up her forearm. “Alas, now we deal with Reassortment.”
Atticus’s head jerked, and he finished his drink. “I’m thinking big here, Isabelle! I’m thinking historically unprecedented!” He stormed out of his chair and looked out to the terrace, where the maidens lathered their bodies with pome lotions. “Never in the history of mankind have peace and prosperity endured so long! Two hundred years without a major war or economic contraction! Not under the Romans or the Russians. Not under the Chinese or the Japanese! Not under the English or the French! Not under the Germans or the Americans—”
Isabelle folded her arms. “What do you call the Evolutionary War with the BP? A minor skirmish, a nuisance to your perfect world, or simply something you cannot accept?”
Atticus ignored her. “See the future as I do,” he said. “We’ve built a heaven within the Earth. No one can deny it.” He massaged her neck and shoulders. She cringed. “I’d like to keep it that way.” She felt his breath before he kissed her neck. “So tell me now,” he said softly near her ear, “why did you command my Janzers to attack a supply depot and tunnel in Northport?”
Isabelle’s pulse quickened. For while the Janzers continuously connected to Marstone, and from Marstone to the chancellor, she took care, at times, to sever their connection to Atticus. How did he find out?
She stared blankly at his empty chair.
“What,” he murmured, “you were so eager to throw the war in my face before, you can’t speak up now?”
Isabelle stood and turned, meeting the chancellor’s eyes. “I did what had to be done,” she said, her voice a whip. “We need the people’s hearts and minds. That’s what the Evolutionary War is about, and if we’re to win it, we must turn the Northeast the way I did the North—”
“Oh, really! You think you turned the North?” Atticus laughed. “Ministers Mueriniti and Sineine were skilled telepaths when you were still a speck of cells in your mother’s cunt.” The fury in Isabelle’s face couldn’t hide her bemusement in the ZPF. “Oh, now here’s a first. I know something that you don’t.” Atticus paused, biting his moist lip. “Where Jeremiah plots openly to depose us, those women are far more cunning.”
Isabelle truly didn’t know what he was talking about. “The Northern ministers haven’t fought you on coolant pricing adjustments, or anything, in decades.” Historically, the Northern ministers negotiated pricing per liter for the water coolant, which flowed down piping and into the commonwealth’s cities and villages from the arctic bay in Boreas. But after a dispute in 317 AR left Atticus humilia
ted, he ordered General Norrod to redeploy thousands and thousands of Janzers from Farino Prison to the Northern cities. Isabelle had implored him to arrest the Northern ministers, the cow Mueriniti and diva Sineine among them. He’d refused. At the same time, Jeremiah had been recruiting heavily in the North. Isabelle couldn’t risk losing that region, which held the commonwealth’s most valuable resource, to the Liberation Front. She executed her false flag attacks for decades. She didn’t think Atticus knew. “The North has become so hostile to the BP we don’t even need to waste our time searching for them in that region any longer.”
“The North fell in line because of your aggression, but their leaders haven’t forgotten what you did.” Atticus raised his voice. “Nor have I.” He paused, examining Isabelle’s consciousness. She revealed nothing.
“You knew then,” she said, “and you didn’t object. Why do you care now?”
“The Northerners see what you’re doing in the Northeast. They understand our predicament with the BP. If they were to reveal the truth to the Northeasterners and take advantage of the Polemon surge in the East, South, and West, well, you can see how that might be a problem for us, can’t you?”
“We’d crush them, the same as—”
“The BP.” Atticus swiped his trimmed beard. “Or the same way you crush my people—”
“My people,” Isabelle snapped. “I develop them, hone their mastery of their mind-body-cosmos connection, teach them the ways of a Beimenian, to dedicate themselves to service, to accept nothing less than excellence, to master their minds and bodies and emotions.” She looked him down and up, her upper lip twitching. “The destruction of the BP is all that—”
“Never again.” Atticus put his face closer to hers. His breath reeked like stale wine. She pushed him away. He grabbed her wrist but she broke free. Atticus breathed heavily, his face filled with malice. He grunted, stepping away from her, and slammed down onto his chair. “In secret, I long ago offered fair recompense to the North for what you did, and obtained assurances from Ministers Mueriniti and Sineine of their loyalty to the great city. You are never to harm them. If I find out that you do confront them, or that you’ve conducted another false flag mission again against my people, I’ll have you arrested, stripped of all your titles, and sent to the Lower Level. Is that clear enough for you?”
“The BP don’t give a fuck what you do to me—”
“Oh, come on, Isabelle.” Atticus threw up his arms. “The BP, the BP, the BP, you obsess about the BP. So tell me now, where’re you with Jeremiah Selendia?”
Isabelle eased onto her chair and crossed her legs. “I’ve broken him. Revealed the layers of his soul.”
The truth was that Jeremiah resisted her probing. She’d hoped he would’ve provided the location of the BP stronghold known as Blackeye Cavern by now. She had some leads from Marstone’s Database, but Jeremiah revealed neither the Cavern’s coordinates, nor any usable intel that might lead her to the BP’s allies throughout the commonwealth.
“What did you see?”
“He hates you, wants to hang you in the square—”
“Don’t insult me. I know my own brother-in-development. I’ve sensed his presence. He seeks to—”
“Strike the iron fist! What do you think that is?” Some of the maidens peeked into the gallery, but when Isabelle scowled they whipped their colorful, curly hair and pranced back onto the terrace. “Who do you think he wants to bleed?”
“Resolve, moderation, and persistence. These are virtues of the gods and have held Beimeni steady for the centuries of my rule. Jeremiah’s musings mean nothing.”
“You should let me kill him. It would set the proper example.”
“Your lack of foresight troubles me, Isabelle.” Atticus grabbed a carafe and splashed the cabernet sauvignon into his glass, spilling much of it. “Now tell me, finally, to what do I really owe the pleasure of your company this evening? I didn’t summon you. Have you come for business, pleasure? Both, perhaps?” He eyed the bosom of her dress and licked his lower lip.
She wanted to cut his tongue out but restrained her urge. “Antosha will deliver the BP to us—”
Atticus sulked. “Ah yes, of course.” He leaned forward and set his elbows on the table. “My lady, how many times must I urge patience on this topic? Our expert on Vigna will be transferred here in due time. To do so just now, with the Barão Strike Team about to launch, would be a bit awkward, don’t you think?”
Isabelle slouched in the chair and put her heels upon the table’s edge. “I don’t see why.”
“Because Antosha’s more … creative uses of the zeropoint field were conducted in the name of understanding the Lorum, and we’ve lost contact with the Lorum.” Atticus leaned forward. “I hate for my people to fear for their lives.”
“Then I guess you won’t be interested in my latest lead.” She observed one of her larger rings, radiant between her fingers. It was constructed by rare bacteria in the RDD, costing more than some buildings in Underground Central.
“Who, or what, pray tell, is your latest dead end?” More food escaped Atticus’s mouth.
“I’m closing in on the BP stronghold.”
“And tomorrow I’ll start shitting benari coins.”
Isabelle pulled her heels from the table, setting them on the ground. She bit into another strawberry. “Then you best prepare for a long morning, Atticus. Marstone doesn’t lie.” She transferred the neural histories of commonwealth double agents to him directly through the ZPF. She could tell by the way he looked at her he wanted her, right here, right now, on this table, as they’d done countless times before. But she was in no mood. He’d sleep unfulfilled tonight, at least by her lips and thighs.
“This is a big year for the commonwealth,” Atticus said. He counted on his forefingers. “We have the Mission to Vigna, we have the Bicentennial in Hammerton Hall, we have the Autumn Gala in Luxor City, we have—”
“I understand,” Isabelle said. “The Janzers are prepared—”
“And you can’t even capture the undeveloped whelp …”
Lieutenant Arnao had debriefed them about Cornelius Selendia’s alleged whereabouts in Ope Territory. Isabelle was confident the whelp would soon be back in custody. She hoped to use him during her next interrogation of Jeremiah; her illusions didn’t work as well with him as they did on Hans.
Atticus massaged Isabelle’s hand. “… perhaps you should go yourself to find Cornelius. He survived the fever. He might one day become as skilled as his father with the zeropoint field. What then?”
She snatched her fingers from him. “You should’ve thought of that before you forced me to keep them in the DOP. I was prepared to send them to the prison! Instead, Hans broke into Marstone’s Database, and only the gods know what he stole from us.”
Atticus wiped his mouth. He hid his emotions from her, but she didn’t need telepathy to see the fear in his eyes. “What’s your next move?”
“My search through tunnels in Piscator, intelligence reports, and mining of Marstone’s Database suggest a BP convergence on the Block.” Isabelle had learned during an interrogation of Hans that an intricate layout of tunnels lay between Piscator City and Piscator Shore, but when she searched there, the labyrinth no longer existed. She’d sent Arnao to investigate, and through the course of her own searches determined the Block a commonality in the evidence.
“Interesting,” Atticus said. He gazed at the statue of a blacktip shark, whose ruby eyes followed anyone in its presence. “I think it’s time you brought Icarian home.”
ZPF Impulse Wave: Damosel Rhea
Research & Development Department (RDD)
Palaestra, Underground Northeast
2,500 meters deep
“To your left are the genesis silos,” Damy said, “where the synisms reproduce and undergo fermentation.”
She spoke with authority to conceal the tremor of worry that crept into her voice whenever she thought about tomorrow’s launch. The newest class
of neophytes, freshly minted elite performers from the Harpoons purchased by the RDD consortiums, might mistake her tension for weakness if she let them. And how could she assess their talent if they didn’t respect her?
Damy recalled her tour when Brody had led her class through the Tomahawk Facility in 286 AR and she’d pushed Noria aside, feeling that first acorn of infatuation that had matured into an eternal partnership spanning days, trimesters, years, decades. Today, the Barão Strike Team was running final simulations. Tonight would be her and Brody’s last night together for anywhere from fifty days to an eternity, depending on his ability to execute the jumps through space-time, collect the sample upon Vigna’s surface, and return to her, the way he promised.
Now they toured along a grooved promenade. The phrase ANYTHING YOU CAN IMAGINE IS REAL streamed in holographic letters high above on either side.
“Most everything you know, from the air you breath and the plastic on the outside of transports to our farm animals, water, and food, to the materials in the clothing on your backs and the implanted mesh in your brains that produce those pretty images of the extended consciousness, it all originated from synisms in these vats.”
The neophytes gaped at the massive silos, organized in rows that seemed as if they spread all the way to Venus. “To your right,” Damy said, and the neophytes turned together, “is the preparation center.”