Seven Surrenders--A Novel
Page 40
Before this Matriarch, who had crafted him day by day and gene by gene but never let him speak the word ‘mother,’ the Duke could only take his place beside young Dominic and bow. “Of course, Madame. It will be an honor to aid in the Prince’s education.”
See victory in her smile.
“Good, I’ll need that,” the Emperor confirmed, smiling with unaccustomed warmth upon the Duke-consul, and winning in return a glance of blue perplexity. “I’ll need all of you. Precedent dictates that the porphyrogene should not be my successor. Nonetheless I hope our child will someday hold high office”—he squeezed Madame’s hand—“the world will expect it, in Romanova perhaps, or among the Humanists, or in another of your Hives. I want all of you to act as bash’parents, to spend time with the child, bring them to your capitals, teach them the ways and mind-sets of your Hives. I want you all to give them Minor offices when they’re old enough, so they can get to know all the Hive governments, and choose freely among them when they come of age.” He met the eyes of each colleague in turn. “I don’t want to make them Porphyrogene to take them away from the rest of you, I want to make them Porphyrogene so that all of us can spend as much time with our child as we like without the public finding anything strange in it, and so they can have a free choice of Hives, as all children should have. I know your objection, Andō,” MASON pressed before the Chief Director could interrupt, “but think carefully. Being Porphyrogene will not make our child a Mason, it will give them the freest choice of all, since they will grow up assuming that my seat—the only seat so tempting that it trumps all other choices—is not an option. I’m the only one who can take away that option, and thus make all others equally appealing.”
Doubt morphed to delight in faces around the room, then into doubt once more.
“What will you tell the public about the child’s parentage? It’ll be obvious it isn’t yours.” It was Censor Ancelet who had the thought first, his own dark African complexion making him acutely aware that he and deep bronze MASON were the two in the room who would least resemble this child of two pale parents. “The Celebrity Youth Act will seal the records, but if Spain spends a lot of time with the child people will talk.”
“Unless there’s a rival rumor!” Headmaster Felix Faust cut in, his eyes and fingers lively with delight. “You’re lucky, Andō, thanks to Queen Yijun you’re going to have your wish.”
Spain turned at this invocation of his Chinese ancestress. “What?”
“You take after your grandmother quite strongly, Spain,” Faust answered, pointing to His Majesty’s perfectly straight black hair, “and it’s visible in your little Leonor as well. If it’s visible in this child too then a credulous public should be willing to believe it’s Andō’s.”
“Andō’s…” the King Prime Minister repeated.
Was the Chief Director’s frown embarassement? Or frustration that the old Brillist had read his thoughts? “My offer stands to take responsibility for the child,” he began, stepping forward to place a hand beside MASON’s upon Madame’s belly. “I know you will not lie to the public, Spain, but if a rumor spreads that I’m the father, it will divert gossip, and strong Mitsubishi ties on top of Masonic ones will firmly eliminate the chance of entanglements with the Spanish succession.”
“I don’t…” Spain hesitated, “… what about the Princesse?”
Duke Ganymede scowled on behalf of his married sister. “The rumor will wound her little compared to the fact that Andō needed to wait for today’s test to be sure it’s not his child.”
If the rebuke stung Andō, he did not show it. “I will support this plan,” he confirmed, “the adoption and the rumor. This will be best for your people, Spain, and for the bash’ that the group of us can almost be for this child.”
“And for Madame foremost.” Now MASON set his grim left hand upon the warm bulge that held the child, so his right could grasp Madame’s. “I have no doubt, Madame, that such a loving mother as yourself will not rest until you have made your son the most privileged child in the world. Safer for all of us, I think, to get it over with.”
As when Medusa’s stare makes stones of heroes, the room froze at Madame’s smiling silence as she weighed MASON’s words. “You are right, of course, Cornel,” she pronounced at last. “I would like nothing better than to give my child every privilege, and I shall commit my full resources to that end. But I cannot accept your offer, generous as it is.”
“May I know your reasons?”
“You’re entitled to know, my dear.” She squeezed his hand in hers, but sighed at the other, its black sleeve. “The Porphyrogene must be a Familiaris. I will not have my son in your power to execute at will, especially if, as you propose, he will be raised by all of us, and thus have sympathies for many rival fathers, tempting him to stray.”
MASON frowned. “You think I am looking for a legal excuse to kill your son? My affection for you aside, Madame, I and all here know what the consequences are of breaking friendship with you. You could destroy me.”
Her head slumped back against her pillow in a show of delicate fatigue. “You are the Masonic Emperor, Cornel. It is hard to believe you fear anything, besides your law.”
The others waited for MASON’s next move, all silent except for Spain, who hiccupped with soft sobs, neither joy nor sadness, but commingling passions too multiform to have a name.
“Let them be a Familiaris Candidus, then,” Caesar offered, “the office I created for Apollo Mojave. With a Familiaris Candidus the Hive retains the authority to override my justice should it prove too harsh. While the child remains a Minor, Romanova’s Third Law will guard them from my Capital Power,” he nodded to the Censor, “and, once they pass the exam, veto will rest in the leader of whichever Hive they choose.” He nodded to the others: Andō, Faust, the bright Duke-Consul, Prime Minister Spain. “You already control five Hives, Madame, and neither the Cousins nor Utopia will tolerate death.”
“That is a good solution…” The blushing mother smiled slightly, her fingernails playing across the creases of the Emperor’s palm. “I know the depths of your affection for me, Caesar, but I can’t help wondering why you would give this gift so freely, if not to have my child in your power.”
MASON’s shoulders twitched, a gesture Faust claims was common in years closer to the harsh Masonic testing which robbed Cornel of his foot and younger self. “All that I have I will share with our child,” he answered, hollow-voiced. “You have less reason to attack what you can freely exploit. I ask no more.”
“But will you love him?”
MASON is hard to blindside. “Love?”
“You can’t expect me to trust my child to a father who will not love him. It wouldn’t be healthy, not to mention proper.” Madame laughed brightly as she placed her right hand palm over Caesar’s left against the hot skin of her belly. “Will you love him?”
A hush; as centuries are too rough a measure for the passing of an age, so seconds cannot track the tides of emotion which flowed across Caesar’s face, eroding away his masks of stone and iron and baring something human. “We both know I will have little choice.”
“In that case, Caesar, you have made me the happiest woman in the world.”
* * *
« Hilliard Wolfe? »
« Confirmed dead at Parliament. »
« Fisher Yilmaz? »
« Confirmed dead at Parliament. »
« Aster Zinc? »
« Dead in their bedroom. »
« This can’t be happening. »
« Have we heard back about Peckory Ingrams yet? »
« Dead in their home, Papadelias just confirmed it. Clubbed with a shovel. »
« That’s it for the current Commissioners. What about the Justices? »
« That’s no good, Perry called them into the session too. »
« This can’t be happening. »
« Did they all attend? »
« We may as well go through them. Cooper Aubrey? »
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br /> « Confirmed dead at Parliament. »
« Sol De Léon? »
« Confirmed dead at Parliament. »
« Lindy Gaylord? »
« This can’t be happening. »
« Would you stop saying that! » The others could only take it so many times without snapping. « Get a grip, Czerwinski! You’re not helping! »
Jay Czerwinski, personal assistant to the late Vice President of the European Economic and Social Committee, was, in fact, rocking forward and backward in her chair hugging her knees, an activity only minimally less helpful than those of many others in the office, who twitched and shuddered as they scanned videos of the still-flaming wreck of the European Parliament. On screens around them, lists of the dead and missing were too long to do anything but blur into one horrific alphabet. Seven others remained with Czerwinski: two speechwriters, the personal assistant to the Prime Minister’s Deputy Chief of Staff, a Deputy Counsel, two security guards, and the scheduling secretary for Tuesday through Thursday. The rest of the staff of Prime Minister Perry’s offices were dead with their master in the flames, had fled from the mobs, or were simply gone, empty cabinets and blank hard drives testifying to cold premeditation. Feeds replayed footage from Romanova: DeLupa, Kosala, Heloïse, ex-Censor-Anonymous Ancelet, their desperate faces positively cheerful contrasted with the ashen cheeks of these few who remained in Brussels’s inner sanctum. Wind batted a litter of papers across the office floor, and in and out through the shattered mouth of what had been (before the riot) a most charming window, ceiling-high with a magnificent view of the Parliamentary Hall, whose carcass still belched smoke into the sky.
« This is pointless. They’re all dead! All of them! »
« Shut up! » Courtesy was dead too. « There are hundreds of people in the line of succession, we won’t know until we check them all. Lindy Gaylord? »
« Confirmed dead at Parliament. »
« They’re all dead! They were all at the session, and the ones who weren’t were murdered in their homes. It’s a conspiracy! It’s O.S.! »
« It’s not O.S., idiot, O.S. is on our side. There must be something else we can do, an emergency protocol, somebody we’re supposed to call to summon special forces. »
« I don’t know how. »
« The security database was just deleted an hour ago, can we restore it? »
« I don’t know how. »
« Maybe there’s a hard copy in Perry’s desk. Can anyone unlock it? »
« I don’t know how! »
« The Director of the Registry of Gifts has a copy of the desk key; their extension should be listed in the purple book on the bookstand in the corner under the Picasso. Next call the Brugmann and Saint-Pierre Hospitals, they both have emergency teams trained in case something happens here, and call Professor Erasme Torbert Bordet at the VUB history department, they’ve retired now but they were the officer in charge of emergency forces when I was in office, they should still be able to get us started. »
« Your Majesty! »
A sun-bright angel, flaming sword and all, could not have brought more joy to the tear-streaked cheeks of these survivors than the King of Spain, who alighted straight from his car through the shattered window. Half his old staff followed shortly, some of his cabinet too, former Secretaries of State, Treasury, an ex-Justice, an ex-Auditor, and a pack of seasoned clerks, who found their old desks as comfortable as familiar horses.
« We thought we might be of some assistance. » King Isabel Carlos II faced each volunteer in turn, not smiling but assessing them with solemn, grateful calm. « Who is in charge here? »
« Ge … eh … we … » After a quick scan of her panicked fellows, the Deputy Counsel Marden Navarro settled on, « We don’t know, » but her silent eyes answered just as clearly, « You are now, Your Majesty, » perhaps adding, « praise God. »
Spain’s nod thanked her. « Chair Kosala should arrive shortly with disaster relief. Meanwhile, we should forget the EU lines of succession and start to examine the lines of succession of the nation-strats to find substitutes to repopulate the Parliament and European Council, and arrange a broadcast to calm the press. Scaliger and De Vries »—even Perry’s people he knew by name—« can you two help my former Press Secretary draft a statement? »
« Of course, Your Majesty! »
Further commands from Spain and Spain’s staff rained like healing dew upon the room. Panic turned to action as experienced hands plucked out folders and backup discs, not much changed from their arrangement of five years before.
“¡Everyone’s dead, Your Majesty!” Navarro lapsed into Spanish with her King, as if that small comfort might soften the news. “¡Even the ones who weren’t at Parliament¡ Council Members, MPs, and others. ¡They’ve all been murdered!”
« I know. It was Merion Kraye. That is Casimir Perry. » The King did not chide his subject, but would not let his royal title hijack any facet of that office: not its powers, not its titles, not its French. « I received a message from Kraye just after the first missiles hit. It’s a prerecorded confession. I have already sent it on to Papadelias. Kraye intentionally gathered as many officials as they could at Parliament before the attack, and published the whereabouts of others on the net so mobs could find them if Kraye’s own agents failed. »
« Then Kraye—Perry—planned the missiles! »
« They expected an attack. We can’t be certain yet if they arranged the missiles or trusted public wrath to do so, but the rest of the deaths, those who weren’t lured to Parliament, those I’m sure they planned. »
« How? »
Perhaps His Majesty had already guessed what forces Kraye had gathered, Madame’s castaways, hundreds, burning for vengeance, happy to be aimed like bullets at the clients and allies of she who had destroyed their loves and lives. But if he knew, the King knew too that there is a time for details, and a time for action. « Deloucé, call the stock exchange, make sure it’s shut down. Czerwinski, call the Mayor’s office and get a report on what emergency action they’ve taken. Southcot, go through the list of building staff and confirm who is physically here, who is missing, and who is dead. Tiburon, tune in to the three emergency broadcast channels, Brussels’s, Papadelias’s, and Romanova’s, and keep us updated. » His Majesty paused, spotting tremors in many hands. « I am asking you to exceed your duties, not your capacities. This crisis is a horror beyond what anyone should have to face, but it is not beyond what the human race has faced in the past, and overcome. We are not weaker than our ancestors. We will do this. » Spain hesitated, but accepted as the Deputy Council offered him the Prime Minister’s chair. « I know it is an unendurable task, Navarro, but I must ask you go through the Parliamentary and Consiliar Rosters name by name a second time. In crisis there is a tendency to declare the missing dead before it is known with certainty. There must be some who slipped through Kraye’s net. »
« Yes, of course, I … » She winced. « I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but you ought to know, among the confirmed dead, Crown Prince Leonor Valentín … they were standing right by Perry in the video, you can see … they … It was quick. »
In ancient days the treasons of dynasties could so harden a monarch that he might watch his child put to the sword without so much as a moist eye; not anymore. « Yes. » Spain tried to hide his face. « Yes, I saw. »
Navarro said it hurt more even than the sight of flames, seeing the King’s cheeks wet with tears. « Is … » she began, « how is … your other … »
« Epicuro Mason is recovering. »
The news heartened all, as shade salves the laborer’s sun-seared shoulders.
« I can’t tell you how glad we are to have you here, Your Majesty. I mean, to have you back. This never would have happened if you were still Prime Minister. »
« We don’t know that, » His Majesty replied.
She was afraid to contradict the King, but the room’s silence urged her on with its panorama of agreeing faces. « Maybe not, Your Majesty, b
ut we do know your family was the biggest restraint on O.S. all these decades. You, Epicuro Mason, your predecessors, you’re the only ones who tried to keep us off this path. If Europe had an Emperor like the Masons do— »
Spain stopped her there. «I failed to prevent this as much as anyone. It is no credit to me if I’m the one Kraye chose to pick up the pieces.»
* * *
“The Utopian is here, Madame.”
“Ah, welcome. I had begun to wonder if your Hive was boycotting my little establishment.”
Madame elected to receive this visitor in her nursery, vivid with painted animals and red damask. Madame’s intimates testify that she became even more beautiful during the years of Jehovah’s childhood than she was before His birth, rich-voiced, bright-eyed. If so, it was the idea of motherhood more than the act that changed her, for with three nurses, eight servants, ten bodyguards, five tutors selected by His fathers, and four more chosen for the Boy by her, she spent barely enough time with the Child to train Him to recognize her as the Matriarch to whom He owed French and obedience.
“Sit, friend,” she invited. “Sit.”
“I prefer to stand.” The Utopian faced her squarely, hands clasped behind as a silent promise that no beasts or wonders would pounce forth from the sleeves. “I have a message for you. We surrender.”
“What?”
“We know what you are doing here. Your conquest of the other Hives has progressed beyond their ability to counter. We have no desire to destroy ourselves fighting back alone. I am here to negotiate terms.”
Madame tapped her chair arm with the day’s fan, albino peacock feathers streaked with poppy red to match her gown. “That’s a very cold way of describing the situation.”
“You are a self-made siren. You’ll understand why I ward myself.”
She blinked at the compliment. “What is your name?”
“Mushi Mojave.”