The Will to Battle

by Ada Palmer

  The screen went dark. Tears welled in me, but practice did not let them fall. If one man in this world had deserved to see the oath live, to have been present when his allegiance shifted to a new commander in chief, that man was Ockham Saneer. Instead we watched it here, nineteen hours after the inauguration, and Ockham could not even stand to hear the words, since fetters and prison custom bound him to his chair. He did not even have his boots, just the jail uniform, slack navy and orange mockingly festive, like a child’s shapeless attempt to wrap a birthday gift. Ockham did not weep at his own state, but I saw him flinch, one taut twitch of his cheek, grief’s only token upon that bronze-strong Indian face, which always reminds me which people, alone among antiquity’s war-ready thousands, halted Alexander.

  “Complete voter turnout take four hours, seventeen minutes.” These words at least were live, spoken in warm (if imperfect) Spanish by President Ancelet, who sat across from Ockham in the sterile interrogation room.

  Ockham smiled at the speed with which his billion fellow Members had done their democratic duty.

  “¿Want to see the interimo vice president to swear cérémonia of Sawyer Dongala?” Ancelet offered, his well-meaning infant Spanish dappled with stray French and English. “After me, the biggest vote numbers are for Sniper, ex-president Ganymede, you, your éspoux Lesley, J.E.D.D. Mason, and Sawyer Dongala, so Dongala agrees to be vice president while we hold whether any these other is eligible in the circonstances. A second urgency vote confirmed Dongala.”

  Ockham’s throat cracked, stiff from the ten cautious days since his arrest, during which he had spoken nothing but guarded monosyllables and “toilet.” “I ac—khh—acknowledge that you have been lawfully elected President of the Humanist Hive, and that you now hold all the authority to question and command to which that office entitles you.”

  The warmth in the new president’s smile sharpened at once to action. “¿Who ordered Sniper to attack contre J.E.D.D. Mason?” he asked, with the sharp speed of a man who had never doubted that Ockham’s silence, which had not broken for all the threats and enticements the law could offer, would break for him. “¿Who else to know?”

  “English is alright with me if it’s easier for you, Member President,” Ockham invited gently, switching over. “No one else knew, to my knowledge. Oji-jiro acted alone.” He tripped over Sniper’s rarely voiced first name. “The bash’ was entirely out of contact with President Ganymede at that point, and even Lesley and I knew nothing of Ojiro’s plans.”

  Ancelet nodded his thanks for Ockham’s linguistic courtesy. “Then Sniper did act alone.” His shoulders eased. “Tell me about O.S.”

  “On or off the record, Member President?”

  “Off, for now. We’ll need a public statement soon, but first I myself need to understand.”

  That answer pleased Ockham, if I read him right. “Why is Mycroft here?” he asked.

  Ancelet followed Ockham’s gaze to where I sat on a metal bench in the corner, hugging my knees and trying to ignore the prison wraiths which clawed at my limbs and shoulders. I cannot tell you whether these wraiths are the ghosts of past prisoners, or simply spirits of the jealous walls, which recognize in me another criminal who should be theirs to claim. I try to tell myself there are no prison wraiths. This was not even a real prison, just a jail, a fleeting holding place for those awaiting trial, which should never have held anyone long enough to birth a bitter ghost. Still, here, as in every prison whose threshold I have crossed since my crimes, I saw the wraiths, heard them, felt their tendrils, real as the cloth across my skin.

  “I’m not allowed anywhere without a bodyguard anymore,” the new president answered. “I thought you’d prefer someone we both know and trust.”

  Ockham frowned at me. “Is that the only reason?”

  “No. You may or may not be aware, but I’ve relied on Mycroft a long time, not just as Censor but in my … secret office. Mycroft is my assistant, advisor, apprentice. My successor.”

  “The new Anonymous? I did not know.” There was no surprise in Ockham’s gaze, just digestion, fact catalogued without comment. “Thanks to voter preference, the office of Anonymous may have frequent association with our Vice Presidency, but it is not a Humanist office, nor is Mycroft a Humanist. How do you justify granting the new Anonymous access to the secrets of O.S. given your declaration that you have severed all allegiance to your former offices?”

  Ancelet frowned. “It’s my understanding that Mycroft has known of your work and kept your secrets for many years now. It’s not new information for them.”

  “Mycroft has had no details,” Ockham answered, “merely the vague knowledge that we were homicides. In the past we secured Mycroft’s silence through two threats: the threat of exposing to the public the fact that Mycroft is a Servicer, and the threat of denying them access to Thisbe. Mycroft and Thisbe are lovers,” he added. “But at this point the public knows the former and I assume Thisbe is either in custody or missing, so the latter threat is also meaningless.”

  “In fact, Member Ockham,” I added in quiet Spanish, my voice stirring the prison wraiths to hiss, “Thisbe and I were never actually lovers. But you can trust me with this. That Authority Which, for me, supersedes all has ordered me to tell no one, not even Them, anything I learn here without permission from both yourself and President Ancelet. You may not know What Authority I mean, but I think you do know that you and I both hold equally absolute the command of those authorities we answer to.”

  “J.E.D.D. Mason?” Ockham guessed at once.

  I could tell from his face that mine betrayed me. My allegiance was not yet public knowledge then, and I had expected Thisbe to keep this revelation private, one more secret to make her spellbook dangerous. Apparently not.

  “Mycroft is assembling a history of the past week,” Ancelet interceded, “at J.E.D.D. Mason’s order. The book is supposed to explain events as neutrally as possible, and to include as much truth as Mycroft can piece together. No one but Mycroft will have access to the interviews and research materials, and everyone involved, including you, will have equal and complete veto power over every single line. I personally will not green-light its publication until you have told me that you are satisfied.”

  “A history.” Ockham stretched back in his seat as the idea sank in. “Why?”

  “J.E.D.D. Mason likes the truth,” Ancelet and I answered in unplanned unison.

  Ancelet laughed, his dreadlocks falling back across his shoulders like willow whips in breeze. I was glad to see he could still laugh. “That really is the idea behind it,” he explained. “J.E.D.D. Mason wants the human race to have the truth. Most everyone else, including me, wants some controlled version of the truth out there, since you know there will be many pointed lies, most pointed against us. We must fight them with something. If you prefer, Ockham, I will send Mycroft away and summon a Humanist bodyguard, but you or I or both will wind up repeating all this information to Mycroft later on, and, since I’m new to having Humanist guards, there are none yet that I trust as much as I trust Mycroft”—he paused—“or you.”

  “Prospero.” The name sounded dead on Ockham’s lips.

  “What?”

  “Prospero. My name, my middle name, is Prospero. I am no longer O.S., so I should not be addressed as Ockham.”

  It hurt hearing him say it, as it would hurt hearing a deposed king say he no longer merits “Majesty.”

  Prospero Saneer let his eyes close, consulting with the darkness before breaking the seal on secrets he has carried since he was old enough to know what secrets were. “O.S. is that organ which acts when the Humanist Hive is best served by taking human life,” he answered. “Its charter, which I can recite for you if you wish, recommends but does not formally restrict it to targeting those whose connections to Humanist interests are obscure enough that no investigation may be reasonably expected to uncover our motive. The deaths should, if possible, be brought about by means subtle enough that no investigation could re
asonably suspect foul play either. The Six-Hive Transit System and its computers have been our main means of both selecting and killing targets, but other methods are employed when needed. The hereditary Saneer-Weeksbooth bash’ is entrusted with both the Transit Network and the assassination system. We are O.S., though the title O.S. is also used for the system’s single leader. As Ockham Saneer I was the twelfth O.S., and now Ojiro Sniper is thirteenth.”

  “That organ which acts…” Ancelet repeated, a hint of French tinting his vowels as he translated the phrase in his mind. “Interesting terminology. Who chooses the targets?”

  “You do, Member President. Or, you would, in simpler times.”

  The new president’s black brows narrowed. “Who chose before me?”

  “O.S.’s charter specifies which officials may know about us and command us, depending on which form the Humanist government takes after an election. If there is a majority sufficient to elect a single Executive, the Executive alone knows and commands, but may, at their discretion, inform the Vice Executive. When power is split among a Triumvirate, Council, Commission, Congress, or Parliament, there are unique protocols for each combination, though usually the two to four persons commanding the largest voter margin are entrusted with the secret.”

  “Ganymede, then.”

  “Yes, former president Ganymede commanded us most recently.” Prospero frowned. “I am not trying to be evasive, Member President, but this is complex for me. I personally acknowledge you as president and want to give you what you need, but it should be the leader of O.S. who tells you these things, not a subordinate or former member. The times justify us suspending that rule, but I still need to think about what Ojiro would say in my place.”

  “Sniper.” Ancelet breathed deep. “If I were to summon Sniper now—”

  “Ojiro,” Prospero corrected. “They are O.S. now.”

  “Ojiro, then. If I were to summon Ojiro and order them to do, well, to do something, do you think they would obey me?”

  “I think they would consider your orders very carefully before acting.”

  Ancelet took some silent time to think. “Why are you still here while Ojiro and most of O.S. have gone rogue?”

  “O.S. has not gone rogue. It remains that arm which acts when the Humanist Hive is best served by taking human life. You are that arm which acts when the Hive is best served within the framework of its government and Romanova. Has it occurred to you, Member President, that your goal may not be achievable with peaceful means?”

  “Which goal?”

  “To preserve the Hive. You hope to placate the other Hives, and make the concessions necessary for them to stop calling for the Humanists to be dissolved.”

  “I’ve considered the possibility that they’ll refuse. It is, by my calculations, avoidable.” I could almost see the numbers moving behind the former Censor’s eyes.

  So could Prospero. “What about the possibility that they’ll demand so many changes that the Hive wouldn’t be itself anymore? Or the possibility that violence will break out before you finish? Or that you yourself will be assassinated? Extraordinary times may require extraordinary means. If you decide you need those means, if you talk to Ojiro and issue orders, they will almost certainly obey. If you avoid those means and yours fail, O.S. will act without you. It is one organ of the Humanists, the presidency another. Don’t mistake yourself for the head, or heart.”

  Curiosity sparked a smile. “Where would you locate the head and heart, then?” the president asked.

  “The head would be the voting members,” Prospero answered instantly. “The heart the Olympic Committee.”

  “So while the people and the Olympic Spirit live on, the letter of the law can get stuffed?” Ancelet’s brief chuckle seemed aimed mostly at himself. “I don’t mean to tease. You’re right. I may fail. War may be inevitable, as Mycroft fears. I’m glad the Hive has another force separate from me to protect it. I also understand why you are being careful. You have every reason to doubt my fitness for this position, my loyalty to the Hive, even the validity of an election held in such circumstances. On my end, what I can say is that I trust you, Ockham … Prospero,” he corrected himself. “I genuinely trust you, but at present it’s only intellectual trust, based on Mycroft’s descriptions of you and your past actions. It will take time and interaction for that to mature into personal trust.”

  Something relaxed in Prospero, just a bit, in his spine, his shoulders, as the freshly planted seed of confidence extended its first tender leaf. “Former President Ganymede alone had the authority to give O.S. orders, but Chief Director Hotaka Andō Mitsubishi and Prime Minister Casimir Perry were consulted before each strike.”

  “Why?”

  “From the beginning, through convention but no rule, the Chief Director of the Mitsubishi Hive has been taken into the confidence of whatever Humanist executive commands O.S., and O.S. has been used to aid the Mitsubishi Hive.”

  “Why?”

  Now it was Prospero whose black brows narrowed. “Possibly because the center that originally built the Transit Network was partly staffed by Mitsubishi. Possibly because the center’s first Co-Directors, Orion Saneer and Tungsten Weeksbooth, thought it would be a good way to pull the Mitsubishi into a long-term alliance. Possibly because when the system was first formed Olympian President Adeline Dembélé wanted to involve the Mitsubishi for reasons now lost to history. O.S. intentionally keeps few records, so many details are irretrievable.”

  How does it feel, I wonder, to bear the sins, not of a father, but of a semiparent, half forgotten? Before your dynasty was founded, noble king, some maternal grandfather, with far too many “greats” before his name, was a murderer. Before your forefathers made the small fortune you used to make your large one, they bought their tickets to the New World with corpse-loot. Before there was a Humanist President there was an Olympian President, whose successors merged with O.B.P. to form the Humanists, and it was that Olympian President who brought O.S.’s curse on both your houses.

  “Is that why, when the bash’ takes in new bash’mates each generation, they’re usually from Mitsubishi bash’es?” Ancelet asked.

  “It is a rule,” Prospero confirmed. “Outside spouses and bash’mates must be approved by the Executive, and must have Humanist or Mitsubishi backgrounds, or, with extra permissions and background checks, European.”

  Ancelet nodded. “How did Europe get involved?”

  “It was in 2333. I believe it was a concession made to Europe in return for the E.U. not banning the sale of European-owned land to non-Europeans the way the Mitsubishi ban sale to non-Mitsubishi. I … Is there a problem?”

  The word ‘land’ had made Ancelet twitch like a fly’s bite, and I saw him grope instinctively for the controls that would have been beside him had we sat in the dim, screen-lined sanctum of the Censor’s Office back in Romanova. There he, and I, and not-yet-Censor Jung Su-Hyeon, and not-yet-traitor Toshi Mitsubishi could have checked all the land sale numbers, back and back, all the way to the 2330s, where our equations, keener than truffle pigs, would have smelled out the knots of tension metastasizing in the aftermath of the Gordian-Auxilio Hive Merger. But those numbers were Su-Hyeon’s now, not Ancelet’s, that sanctum, too. There is a special cruelty in making the still-living master pass on his instrument when no living student has yet surpassed him.

  “Is there a problem?” Prospero repeated.

  “Yes, but not a new problem,” the new president answered, with a frankness I did not expect. “Associates and I”—his lips quivered at the ever-fresh memory of Kohaku Mardi’s bloody corpse—“have long predicted that the Mitsubishi landgrab policy would lead to an economic—or more than economic—crisis. It’s … interesting … to see how long ago others predicted the same.”

  Prospero studied his new commander slowly, unused to frankness after Ganymede’s golden façade. “The greatest purpose of O.S.,” he answered slowly, “is to prevent large conflicts like the present one. I myself
have never been involved with selecting targets or tracking trends, but from Eureka’s comments I believe we have been working to stave this off for a long time.”

  Ancelet nodded. “You were. I’ve seen the numbers. You were. You did it well.”

  “Thank you, Member President.”

  I wondered briefly whether Prospero understood the full depth of the compliment, coming from the one man in the world who could see the impact rippling through the past perhaps better than set-sets could. No matter. His president had praised him. A spearman’s joy as he receives praise from Athena’s lips does not depend on how well he understands the goddess’s mastery of one particular technique.

  “I don’t necessarily condone the system,” Ancelet added, “but you did do good with it, a lot of good. Now, this O.S. charter, which I will need to see, does it mention the alliances with the Europeans and Mitsubishi?”

  “No.” Prospero’s bonds clanked as he shook his head. “There is no physical record of any kind that can establish European or Mitsubishi involvement.”

  “Not even anything suggestive?” Ancelet spoke almost before the last syllable had winged its way from Prospero’s lips. “The policy of not assassinating European and Mitsubishi Hive Members, was that ever written down?”

  “No. That was a verbal agreement made by past presidents. If you yourself choose to use O.S., you must decide whether or not to continue that policy.”