Seven Surrenders--A Novel

by Ada Palmer

  The Proxy stepped aside, a few steps, just enough to let himself get both Papadelias and the crowd in line of sight. “I am the voice of the Anonymous. I am the one chosen to share their wisdom with the world, not you or anybody else. Dissolve the Humanists. That is the Anonymous’s wish, not mine.”

  I have rarely seen Papa let himself look so tired in public. “MASON, if you would?”

  I think the Emperor’s silence was plain grief. Most would read rage or Stoic dignity into the hush as he set chisel to stone, but a man with so few peers, and without ambition’s poison in his veins to make him hate them, must mourn seeing one fall. Technology sealed the secrets, layers of ingenious keys and detectors, but the lowest layer was still the simplicity of mortar sealing stone, which crumbled ashlike across MASON’s cuffs as he lifted the page within. “On this, the third day of May in the year twenty-four thirty,” he read aloud, “I, the Sixth Anonymous, appoint as successor, and Seventh in my line, Vivien Ancelet.”

  “The Censor?”

  No one moved at first, but murmur did not take long to turn its focus on the Censor’s office, just out of shouting range along the street behind. Vivien Ancelet emerged, closing the doors behind him with a quick stroke of the old bronze. The crowd was too stunned to part around him, but let him slide between them, so the Censor’s Guard struggled to keep pace with him, shoving back the crowds, many of whom reached out for a last touch of his dreadlocks or purple uniform, as this higher office lifted him away. He bent as he reached the steps, taking up the long scroll of the Wish List.

  “A … Ab … Ad…” he skimmed aloud, “An … Ancelet: one thousand, two hundred votes for me. B … C … D … Da … De … Seventeen thousand for you, Brody. Ah, and here’s your nine hundred eighty-nine million,” he pinched the paper to underline the name he sought, “for Mycroft Canner.” Vivien Ancelet mounted the stairs. “I don’t think any Mason, Brillist, or even Cousin here can claim the Humanists are the only ones who’ve ever wished Mycroft Canner dead. Am I wrong?” He waited, but trembling DeLupa gave no answer. “I might be wrong. I don’t know what this Wish List tells us about the character of Humanists. I’m Earth’s greatest expert on big long lists of information, and I still don’t know. Neither does the Vice President.” He glanced at his Proxy, his face more fatigue than criticism. “Is there really something about the Humanist mind-set that encourages homicide? Or is this list something anyone would sign in jest if they didn’t think it was real? I don’t know. A couple months of study and maybe Felix Faust and I could figure it out, but raw data like this tells me almost nothing, certainly not enough to call for the dissolution of a Hive.” He let the list fall from his hands, its white length stained gray by the rain-wet steps. “We can’t handle a change like that right now. Change is the enemy here, too many changes, too big, too fast. Like Tully Mardi said, we’ve lost O.S., the system that’s maintained peace for however long. We might lose the CFB, the heart of the Cousins. We’ve lost Sniper, that’s irreparable now. We’re going to lose Ganymede, Chief Director Andō, and Casimir Perry.” Still-shy Vivien rocked in place as he spoke, fighting off the instinct to duck behind one of his own guards to escape the swarming cameras. “Now you’ve lost me, too, at least as your Anonymous. Madame D’Arouet—Joyce Faust—has been exposed. We might lose J.E.D.D. Mason, who, all else aside, kept things civil by making Andō and Caesar and Spain and Felix Faust all think of each other as family. If we don’t lose J.E.D.D. Mason, those of you who saw the video of what happened after the shooting know something else very important happened there, something that’s going to have huge consequences, perhaps bigger than all the others put together. The best thing we can all do over the next days is take it slow.”

  Vivien paused here, catching in the corner of his eye Bryar Kosala, who stepped out of the Senate doors behind to watch her husband and lover finally—in the public eye—reveal themselves as one. Those who warn of the dangers of mixing love with politics are right, about cases like this couple at least. Bryar Kosala’s face as she stepped out here had the power to make or break her Vivien’s speech, which would itself make or break the Humanists. All power here was hers. She might chill him to silence with the cold glare of the Cousin Chair for the Anonymous who undermined her CFB. She might comfort him with the tearful smile of a lover ready to soothe her lifemate’s pain. She might stab him with the disinterested stare of a spouse betrayed by the awkward public partnership they had forced on themselves despite Madame’s repeated warnings not to let marriage ruin their beautiful affair. Vivien felt the threat she posed to him, the Humanists, the world, his syllables stumbling even as he began to look at her. Whatever her inner thoughts, Bryar Kosala was merciful enough in that moment to wear on the outside the subtle, understated mask of a sympathetic friend. That let him carry on.

  “We’re all shocked by what’s happened,” the no-longer-anonymous Anonymous continued, stronger now that love’s threat had been diffused, “and our instinct is to want shocking solutions, to destroy the system that’s gone so wrong, to purge the guilty, and make something new. We mustn’t be so rash. Before you listen to Sniper, or Tully Mardi, telling you a bloody revolution is the only way to make a new world, think about what you’ll be giving up: utopia! Don’t let one Hive using it as a name fool you, the Mars colony they’re building, their space fantasies, those aren’t utopia. This is utopia, right here! Right now! We have everything past generations worked for. Human history consisted of exploring, inventing, struggling, progressing inch by inch through toil and sacrifice to achieve what? Longevity, prosperity, safety, family, liberty, culture, art, the leisure to pursue happiness, the end of plague, the end of famine, peace: we have it all!” He gestured at the pseudoancient Senate house behind him. “If I had a time machine I could go back in time and find a king, any ancient king who ever lived, and bring them here and they would weep with envy for what the most modest of us has: a bash’house, warm in winter, cool in summer, comfortable clothes, appliances that do the work of a thousand servants, a bash’ we choose, a spouse we choose, laws we choose, a job we choose, and enjoy, and only have to work at twenty hours a week, while the rest of the time we can listen to music at the touch of a button, read any book we want, travel the world in safety, dine as well as kings could, better!” He smiled to himself. “If I were Charlemagne or Julius Caesar I’d abdicate for that. This world is not perfect. It’s scarred by mistakes, past and recent, but this is the utopia past generations worked to make for their descendants, not a perfect world, but the best one humanity has ever had, by far. This is the better world that history’s future-builders dedicated their lives to making. We cannot throw away, because of two thousand deaths, the legacy which billions died building for us. This world is a utopia, not perfect, not finished, but still a utopia compared to every other era humanity has seen. Calm, slow change is what we need, to make this good thing better, not war, not revolution, not tearing it all down. If we all dedicate ourselves to saving this good world, and to improving this good world, we can preserve the good, and make the bad parts better.”

  The cheer woke slowly from the crowd, like dawn’s incremental chorus. Such a speech deserved a cheer, acceptance, thanks for this benefactor who charged unwilling into the limelight when we needed him. I cheered when I heard it some hours later, though at the moment of its delivery the surgeon’s anesthesia held me still. The live crowd around the Senate house was too shell-shocked to burst into anything warm or lively, but applause did come, hollow at first, but it swelled steadily until even Brody DeLupa found himself applauding.

  “Anonymous,” Papadelias invited, “would you like to come inside and address the Senate?”

  Vivien swallowed hard. “I can’t be the Anonymous anymore. I already have a successor prepared. The title will pass on to them now.”

  Papa nodded his sympathy. “Censor, then.”

  Vivien swallowed harder. “I’m also stepping down as Censor.” He raised his eyes to face the crowd again. “I don’t
want everyone to think the Censor’s always been the Anonymous. It was coincidence with me; the skills that let me track the previous Anonymous also caught the last Censor’s eye, but that’s the only connection between the two offices, and no previous Anonymous has been Censor or vice versa. Anyway, I filed my resignation as Censor as I left the office. My last act as Censor was to place a twelve-month freeze on the Senatorial proportioning. The number of Senators allotted to each Hive will remain locked as it is now. No matter how many people leave one Hive for another, even if one Hive dissolves, or two merge, or who knows what, the governing body that has safely maintained this utopia longer than any of us has been alive will stay in its present proportion, and stay in control. It’s my hope this will make people wait, and think, and keep the changes slow. All day today my … the Censor’s … office has been flooded with applications to switch Hives, more than we normally get in a year. If you have doubts about your Hive, there’s no reason to switch today, you can switch tomorrow, next week, after six months, after we all know more about everything.” He steeled himself, one last deep breath. “I know nobody trusts the Humanists right now. Nobody can trust Ganymede, and after this nobody can trust the Vice President, either.” He dug his fingers hard into his Graylaw Hiveless sash. “Before I left my office, I filed an application to join the Humanists. It should be processed within a few days. In that time, the Humanist Senators should have no difficulty passing a vote of No Confidence in the current Humanist government. In the emergency election that follows, if I am nominated for office in the Hive, whether Preisdent or any other office, I will accept, and, since all the other Hives still trust me, hopefully I can help oversee the Humanists as we transition to a system without O.S.”

  A real cheer rose now, confident, unanimous, and, to not a few of us, frightening.

  * * *

  «Non, Altesse, les Utopistes et les Brillists sont différents.» (No, Highness, Utopians and Brillists are different.)

  “Quomodo?” (How?)

  The nurse sighed at her young Charge, eight years old then, too big for her to carry Him as she used to. «‘Quomodo’ n’est pas français, Altesse,» (‘Quomodo’ is not French, Highness,) she corrected gently as she set Him on His feet. «Dirons, ‘Comment.’» (We say, ‘Comment.’)

  «Comment?» the Child Jehovah parroted.

  Felix Faust turned to watch the pair. Do not ask me how the thirteen years between this scene and now have changed Faust, reader; you may as well ask how they have changed the Sphinx. The master of Brill’s Institute of Psychotaxonomic Science sat as ever by his window in the Salon de Sade, burying his grief over the loss of his prize pupil Mercer Mardi by studying the Flesh Pit where Madame’s clients explored the depths of love. “Language trouble again?”

  “It’s been rough all day, Headmaster.” The nurse brushed fluff off Jehovah’s miniature jacket, black mourning silk fresh from the tailor’s, since my murders were the first time He had needed mourning dress, and at the tender age of eight He had not yet started to demand that His clothes always be the color most different from the Light of This Universe’s God. “We just had the most frustrating failure to converse with Papa Andō, didn’t we, young Highness?” the nurse prompted.

  “Hola, Uncle Felix.” Jehovah tried to stop there, but His nurse’s expectant frown commanded that He try again. “Vale … Ohayō … Bon … Guten Tag?”

  “Guten Tag, Donatien.” Faust patted his lap. “Come, sit on my Lap.” The master Brillist used German with the boy, that modular, semielastic tongue that gives all nouns the capitalized dignity which its bastard cousin English reserves only for names, Gods, concepts, and the selfish I. “It’s not your Fault, we’ve all had a hard two Weeks.”

  The Headmaster says he felt Jehovah shiver as He settled into his lap. Fatigue perhaps? Or something subtler? I cannot confirm, for at this moment I was still in my cage in Papa’s prison van, dreaming of execution. “It makes no Sense that Things stop,” the Child began.

  Jehovah’s uncle mussed His hair. “I miss Mercer and the Others too.”

  “How will you stop Caesari burying Appollonem in Pantheon?”

  Faust tapped Jehovah gently on the shoulder, the barest pantomime of a slap. “You’re Latinizing again. And why would I want to keep Apollo Mojave out of the Pantheon? It’s a reasonable Suggestion, even if Cornel is still thinking with their Dick.”

  “You need them to be conspicuousment Outsiders,” the Child answered, “to distract Everyone from noticing ut you’re also Rivals for the Trunk.”

  Faust gave his Nephew a reassuring squeeze—back then Faust still thought Jehovah’s physical detachment might someday develop toward some second stage. “Slow down, Donatien, one Idea at a time. What is this Trunk?”

  “Of the Evolution Tree. A Tree has many Branches but one Trunk. When it’s still young you can’t tell which of the top Branches will become the Trunk, and which will branch off and lose Momentum. The Dinosaur Branch got as far as Birds, but only Mammals achieved Sentience. Humanity’s Tree had many Branches too: Tribes, archés que, nationesque, religionesque. Some persist in Reservations, but yappari Hives turned out to be the Trunk.”

  Faust recorded all of this, and wants me to warn you that a mere transcript cannot capture the pauses as Jehovah hunted for elusive words, or the shifts in His tone and body language, almost absent, which Felix Faust, alone of all men, claims that he can read. In the original transcript, Faust also corrects Jehovah’s German strictly after every line, but I shall omit this, since you, reader, are not attempting to raise a heptalingual Child.

  “I’m not sure if Trees actually grow that way,” Faust answered, “but I think I understand.”

  “Itaque, every via … Branch … worries it might not be the Trunk.”

  “You mean the Hives?”

  “Viae,” Jehovah corrected. “Branches. Ways. Going Ways. Only the leaving Hives say the Rest are wrong.”

  “Which Hives do you think are leaving?” Faust asked at once.

  “You and Utopia.”

  Faust stroked the bristle of his chin. “You think we’re dying out? I could see that, we are the smallest two.”

  “Not dying. You leave, explore, exitis, go.” The Child flexed his still-growing fingers, not an idle fidget but deliberate practice, like an athlete impatient to rehabilitate after an injury.

  “The Utopians are leaving, that’s true,” Faust confirmed. “I doubt if anyone expects many to stay once they have Mars.”

  “You go too. They go out, you go in.” Jehovah illustrated this point, one small hand pointing to the infinity beyond the ceiling, the other to the equal infinity within His uncle’s skull. “Either the Trunk is on Earth, or in Space, or Inside with Brain Words. If Either of you is right, the Majority is wrong.”

  “Majority,” His uncle repeated slowly, playing with the word like caramel.

  “Histories say scared Majorities hurt Minorities. That’s why you hide. Utopia pretends ut because they’re openly giving Implants to U-beasts they aren’t secretly giving them to humans too, and you pretend ut because you don’t make Set-Sets anymore you aren’t making other, stranger Things. They make U-Beast Jokes to make Others forget Mars will be real; you make Number Puzzles to make Others forget your Machine-Brain-Copy will be real too.” The Child reached up to touch His uncle’s head above the ear, where thinning hair left visible the reddened pressure marks left from the Headmaster’s last session with the mind-to-machine experiments that every Fellow at the Institute will claim are nothing. “Gordian isn’t in Danger now,” the Child continued, “because Utopia is so conspicuous that all the Afraid target them. You don’t seem alien because they are more so. You need that. There has to be an Outsider or the next strangest will be named Outsider. If Caesar Apollonem condit in Pantheon, si plus Utopianes in Pantheon qu—” He caught Himself. “If there are more Utopianes in Pantheon than Brillists, you will be in Danger.”

  The Headmaster nodded, a slow commixture of agreement and praise
. “Perfect. I’d never have phrased it as Branches and Trunk, but you’re right, we do depend on the Utopians to focus Paranoia on themselves.”

  “How will you stop it?”

  The Headmaster sighed. “I don’t dare mess with the Pantheon Vote. Cornel MASON is a good Person in most ways, but if they found out I deliberately blocked Apollo from the Pantheon they’d destroy me.”

  The Child looked at His uncle. “People must not kill, we don’t know the full Consequences.”

  “‘Destroy’ does not always mean ‘kill,’” Faust corrected. “Do you want to help protect us, Donatien? To help protect me and my Hive?”

  Jehovah took nine silent seconds to think. “You want me to keep my Fathers friendly ad you?”

  “That would help, yes, but what I need most isn’t that, it’s this.” Faust tapped the Child lightly on the temple, then eased Him forward on his lap, pointing through the window. “Look at that Pair there, in the Cleopatra Room, third on the left, the 3-5-10-9-3-10-3-10 and the 4-3-5-9-3-8-3-9. What do you think of them?”

  Jehovah’s black eyes took some seconds to digest the pair. “The recent Death of a Parent has made the one on top consider Reincarnation. The other I can’t see well from here.”

  Faust held his Nephew close, and remembers wondering whether he did it because children build connections through touch, or to comfort himself. “Your Mother made a Bet with me when we built this Place, that they could combine de Sade’s and Diderot’s Techniques with Brill’s to raise a Human-Creature more alien and ‘Enlightened’ than anything anyone had imagined Humans could become. I still say you’re not too many Steps past Diderot’s Rameau and Nietzsche’s Zarathustra, but on the other hand you exist, which is a real Plus. I need you.” He turned the Child to face him. “You’re eight Years old and you can understand the secret Dynamics between the Hives, but not the Rules of Tag, or Grammar. You’re what I need. Things are bad, Donatien. Something is brewing; your mother’s smug Smiles are Proof enough. Gordian is vulnerable. Our old Brain-bash’ is running dry, and, with the Mardis dead, there’s no one else I know of with a Psyche novel enough to keep us fueled with Innovations through what’s coming. You know what I mean, don’t you? The Utopians fuel their Spaceships with whatever they can mine from the Space Rocks they’ve already reached, and the Resources on those Space Rocks limit how much further they can go. You’re the only Outpost left on my Frontier with enough Resources to let me go further. I don’t like to let your Mother’s Fangs sink into Gordian, but we need a Brain-bash’, and at this point, Donatien, it’s you or no one.”