Seven Surrenders--A Novel Read online

  I could have tried to answer somehow, give a long blink, a distinct breath, but that would have spoiled it, undone these hours which truly were the pinnacle of my avocation. There’s a word to chew on, ‘avocation’: a second great occupation that takes you away from your vocation, like a musician sidetracked by acting, a teacher by politics, Thisbe by making movies, or my ba’pa designing dolls, all important tasks but secondary still. I don’t blame the parents who made me and Ockham rivals for O.S. (it made us stronger), but when Lesley entered the picture it was clear there would be a winner and a loser when we grew up, no ties. When the fuss over being a Lifedoll model made me a child star, I saw a second path before me, a surer shot than the fight for bash’ leadership, which was always fifty-fifty. The rest agreed a celebrity in the house would be a good addition to our arsenal, so I worked like a maniac to secure my fame: studying for the press, keeping informed, full of jokes, always the most fun to interview, then finding a sport at which my small body (neither exceptionally strong nor fast) could excel, and working to remain competition-worthy through three Olympiads and counting. I loved my avocation, suffered for it, and I took very seriously the duty of belonging to everyone who loved me. But that still came second, and my bash’ vocation first. I do apologize to all who were in love with what I was. I miss you too, and if you contact my underground and host me for a night I’ll do my best to be your Sniper again, but that comes second. My Hive, all Hives, come first. I am a Humanist because I believe in heroes, that history is driven by those individuals with fire enough to change the world. If you aren’t a Humanist it’s because you think something different. That difference matters. I will not let Jehovah Mason undo the system which (as Mycroft sacrificed so much to prove) gives us the right at last to be proud of what we choose to be. The Hives must be defended. Never before has one tyrant been in a position to truly threaten the whole world, so never in history has my true vocation been so necessary. I will kill Jehovah Mason for you; please accept that as my apology.

  I’m over my five-thousand-word limit already. What else should I cram in before I go? The Bridger parts are true. There’s proof. Unlike Mycroft, I won’t let you get away with pretending it’s madness. Don’t trust the gendered pronouns Mycroft gives people, they all come from Madame. The coup is happening, don’t let anybody tell you different. As for the resistance, I’m not expecting most of you to volunteer to fight and die, but if you support my side, all it means is that you love your Hive, and that you’ll cheer for us when the deed is done. The First World War was the moment humanity learned to count its casualties in millions, but as a Humanist I must ask, as my bash’ founders asked: which changed the world more? The loss of millions or of that handful who would have been the next generation’s heroes? Wilfred Owen left behind a tiny collection of poems, not enough to even make a book, but still the most upsetting things I’ve ever read; if Owen had lived they might have revolutionized literature, spurred presses and politics away from the guilt-laden bravado which would light war’s fire again, or driven countless readers to suicide. Karl Schwarzschild corresponded with Einstein from the trenches and deduced the existence of black holes while rotting knee-deep in muck; if Schwarzschild had lived they might have accelerated physics by fifty years, enabled Mukta two generations earlier, or given the Nazis nukes. Owen and Schwarzschild; calculate carefully which firebrands to snuff and one death can redirect history better than any battle. That was the foundation of O.S.

  —Ojiro Cardigan Sniper, Thirteenth O.S., May 23rd, 2454

  * * *

  END OF RESTRICTED SECTION. PUBLIC ACCOUNT RESUMES.

  CHAPTER THE THIRD

  O.S.

  “Your Grace President Ganymede, O.S. is here.”

  “Send them in.”

  This fifth day of my history plunges us into a sea of scenes I did not witness. I was a prisoner, trapped at Madame’s by Dominic’s orders, and by the certainty I would be lynched if I ventured on the streets, where murmurs of the Seven-Ten list theft, corruption at Black Sakura, the dread Canner Device, all had been swept away by the shockwave revelation unleashed by warmonger Tully Mardi: Mycroft Canner hides among the Servicers. Dominic Seneschal now carried my tracker in his pocket like a trophy, deactivated ‘for my mandatory rest’ by order of my court-appointed sensayer Julia Doria-Pamphili. I was blinded, mute, trapped without even the lifeline of a newsfeed. But I am not cut out for objectivity. I fill in: an expression I did not see, words I heard only in paraphrase, a gesture I know was there, though no witness can prove it. Why do I do this? Because, imaginative reader, you are human. You will fill in for me, invent faces and personality as you invent your own Alexander, your own Jack the Ripper, and your own Thomas Carlyle. You have never met the people I describe, so your imaginings will be less accurate than those of someone who has toiled beside them in these rooms, and seen them sweat. Caught between two lies I give you mine, which has more truth immixed.

  Ockham Saneer owns only one suit which their spouse Lesley may not doodle on, and it is used only for trips to La Trimouille. They met in the most secure room of the Humanist Presidential Mansion, the Treasure Cabinet: hexagonal, walled with a honeycomb of glass-faced cases containing carved stones, signet rings, miniature portraits, and curiosities both animal and mineral. Duke President Ganymede Jean-Louis de la Trémoïlle outdid the treasures, his mane as glaring as gold in sunlight, his eyes as biting as blue diamond. The ice-pale Duke expressed his displeasure by today’s choice of silks, a deep pearl color almost dark enough to be called silver, which is as grim on him as black on any other man. Ockham, beside him, with his warm Indian skin and black hair like the fertile ash after a forest fire, seemed a real, organic human being beside some icy idol.

  “Member President,” Ockham greeted his Hive leader with a stiff but awkward nod, which wanted to be something more formal, but the customs of our peaceful era will not permit the honesty of a salute.

  The Duke President gestured Ockham to the bench opposite his. “Why is Sniper not with you?”

  “Cardigan is AWOL, Member President.”

  In the crisis, the Duke did not even pause to smirk at Sniper’s middle name. “AWOL?”

  “They disappeared from their gym this morning sometime between 11:14 and 11:40 UT. We believe it was a kidnapping.”

  “What?”

  Ockham would not have showed his fear. “Lesley has our Humanist Special Guard investigating, but I thought it best not to report the incident to Romanova yet. It may turn out to be one of Cardigan’s fans, unrelated to the Black Sakura affair.”

  “How could you let this happen now?” The accusation came from Chief Director Hotaka Andō Mitsubishi. He paced the tiny room, agitated steps making his spring-patterned Mitsubishi suit rustle, as if a fox were stalking through its pattern of night-darkened bamboo.

  “My apologies, Chief Director,” Ockham answered crisply. “There were holes in my security.”

  “That’s clear.” These cold words came from a fourth man, who sat tensely on a seat’s edge at the far side of the little room. “Holes named Cato Weeksbooth and Ojiro Cardigan Sniper.”

  Ganymede’s blue eyes flashed murder. “You will not denigrate what Sniper does for us, Perry. They are our bulwark in this, as is Ockham.”

  Perry held his tongue. This the first time you have seen him take the stage, “the Outsider” as you have heard the others call him at Madame’s, Europe’s Second-Choice Prime Minister, Casimir Perry. He has spent these past days busy in Europe’s capital at Brussels, securing friends, flattering neutrals, and bargaining with the opposition that gnaws forever at the roots of his tender coalition. When the King of Spain was the European Hive’s Prime Minister, His Majesty kept the peace among the member nation-strats with grace, relying on the general goodwill that others give the man who has been so good to them, his father so good to their fathers, his grandfather so good to their grandfathers. Casimir Perry they work like a workhorse. Physically he is a fine man, as tall as the Emper
or, European in complexion but tanned and healthy, with a square face creased by a hundred kinds of stress, and a nub of brownish ponytail. He wears the full armband of his Polish nation-strat and finely tailored European suits, which sit well on him. Today’s is a deep mustard shade with a double-breasted coal black vest and black lapels, but his tailor’s efforts always look pathetic in the Parliamentary photos which show Perry where one’s eye expects the King. There is a strain in Perry’s voice when he speaks, making every phrase seem slightly urgent, and his hands strain too, latching on to armrests like barnacles, which conquer seas and tides only by clinging to the leviathans.

  Ockham did not acknowledge the dirty glances traded by the three Hive Leaders who faced him like a triad of Romanovan judges. “The primary hole in my security at the moment is that we’re without our Mitsubishi Special Guard. They had the privilege of handling Cardigan’s personal security.”

  The dirty glances were for Andō now, but the leader of the Japanese nation-strat had the most reason of all to scowl at this reminder of his Chinese rivals’ interference in the ‘security drill’ at the Saneer-Weeksbooth bash’house two days before. “Every link in the command chain responsible for that debacle has been disciplined. Severely.”

  “Including the top?” Ganymede pressed, fixing his eyes on Andō. “Problems in the Mitsubishi Directorate pecking order are only your private business so long as they don’t endanger the rest of what we’ve built. I haven’t seen any heads roll high in China’s ranks. Which was it this time, Shanghai or Beijing?”

  Andō’s almost-black eyes felt blacker as they narrowed. “Heads have rolled. Privately. With dignity. And permanence.”

  The Humanist President ran his alabaster fingers through his mane, holding the onlookers transfixed, like knights before a vision of their grail. “All right. For the time being, Ockham, I shall send you some of my own personal guard, to aid your search and substitute for the missing Mitsubishi. Perhaps Director Andō will do the same?”

  It took Andō some seconds to master himself. “My personal guard? Yes, I can spare some.”

  “Thank you, Chief Director,” Ockham acknowledged, glancing to Perry next.

  “Right. I…” The Second-Choice Prime Minister trailed off.

  Indulgence and gloating commixed in Ganymede’s smile. “It’s all right, Perry. We know you don’t have private forces. Andō and I shall see to things. As always.”

  “Thank you as always, then.” Casimir Perry scratched his forehead, hiding behind the gesture.

  In lighter days, the smile on Ganymede might have matured into a laugh. The Duke is in the French nation-strat, so can vote in Europe if he wishes, even as a Member of another Hive, and I asked him once whether he himself had voted for Perry in the absurd election after Ziven Racer’s attempt to fix the polls made the too-honorable King of Spain drop out. The Sphinx has no more smug a smile. “Ockham, I want reports on your search for Sniper at least every two hours. When you have leads, communicate with my own guard, and you have leave to request as many of my forces as you need. If the time comes that you think you need to contact Romanova, come to me first, and we shall go directly to Commissioner General Papadelias, no middletypes.”

  “Yes, Member President. Though, Papadelias is a problem already.”

  “Oh?”

  Even Ockham sometimes needs a breath to steel himself. “Martin Guildbreaker is with Papadelias as we speak.”

  Pacing Andō stumbled in his alarm. “Martin with Papadelias!”

  “Yes, Chief Director. Our set-sets have been tracking them. Martin Guildbreaker entered the Alliance Police Headquarters in Romanova nearly three hours ago, and Papadelias has not left in that time. If they are together, I believe that means Guildbreaker has strong suspicions of our activities, but no proof.”

  “How could they have suspicions?” Andō cried. “You said Martin hadn’t gotten near your equipment, or Cato’s lab, and you don’t keep records anyway.”

  The Duke President sighed beneath his silks as he saw Ockham frown. “Martin got to Cato?”

  “For sixteen minutes, yes,” Ockham confirmed. “At the museum. Cato reports that Guildbreaker mainly asked about their teaching, science club, their books, nothing touching directly on the rest of the bash’. Cato ended the interview in a state of some agitation, but believes they discussed nothing which might betray our work. More alarming, in my assessment, is the fact that Guildbreaker also approached Cato’s psychiatrist Ember Balin, and later accessed the records of Cato’s suicide attempts.”

  All frowned, familiar with O.S.’s weakest link.

  “Do Balin’s records contain indications of what caused the attempts?” Perry asked. “Did Cato drop hints?”

  “No, never. Cato is fragile, but no traitor. Lesley and I have both personally screened every record. But Cato’s suicide attempts precede our hits quite regularly. Regularly enough that an intelligent person could see the pattern in the conjunction of crashes and suicidal episodes. I am approaching this presuming Martin Guildbreaker is as skilled at their work as I am at mine.”

  Ganymede nodded agreement.

  “Guildbreaker has no way of detecting the hits which did not involve our cars,” Ockham continued, “but, for the crash deaths, they can’t fail to find it striking that Cato made these attempts before, not after, people died riding our cars.”

  Again Ganymede nodded. “Where is Cato now?”

  “Sequestered at home. Martin has made no further attempt to contact Cato, but early this morning they sent for details about Esmerald Revere.”

  Outsider Casimir Perry rubbed his chin, in need of shaving. “I know that name.”

  “Our late sensayer, Prime Minister,” Ockham prompted. “The one who realized what we were doing, and couldn’t handle it.”

  “Ah, yes. Unfortunate. Then Revere was a hit?”

  “Yes. Our second-most recent, before the Mertice O’Beirne hit to silence Sugiyama’s Seven-Ten list.”

  The three Hive leaders’ faces—severe Andō, exhausted Perry, dazzling Ganymede—all took on that signature determined darkness of mourning someone whose death you chose, and would choose again.

  “Did you use a crash for Revere?” Andō asked. “Or one of Cato’s inventions?”

  “Neither, Chief Director. Thisbe handled Revere.”

  “Good, that should be difficult to link to the O’Beirne crash, or anything Martin can find.”

  Ockham took an unhappy breath. “Unfortunately, Chief Director, Thisbe assisted with the O’Beirne hit as well.”

  The Chief Director’s frown grew even graver. “I thought you alternated techniques.”

  “We try to. Practical details are not always so accommodating.”

  I am glad to say that all three Hive leaders nodded here, respecting Ockham and his judgment. Less worthy commanders might have snapped at him with the corrections of hindsight, but an officer as steadfast and excellent as Ockham Saneer deserves respect, and here receives it.

  Ganymede drew all eyes to him with a tossing of his mane. “How much do you think Martin Guildbreaker has pieced together?”

  “Much, but certainly not everything, Member President. Not yet. If Guildbreaker had proof they’d go to MASON. If they’ve turned to a sleuth-hound like Papadelias, it means they have the scent, not substance.”

  Andō had no patience. “What action do you propose?”

  “I don’t have enough data to propose action yet.”

  “What data do you need? You know the direction of the investigation.”

  Ockham paused to think. “I need to understand the degree to which we can or cannot trust Tribune J.E.D.D. Mason.”

  For three dead seconds no one even breathed.

  “I have to ask, Excellencies,” Ockham pressed. “I know Martin Guildbreaker works for Tribune Mason. You yourselves arranged to put this investigation in the Tribune’s hands, I thought because they are personally close to you and can be trusted. But then you yourself, Member President
, gave Cardigan a very intense if incomplete warning to keep the Tribune away from our ‘weaker’ bash’members. I’ve heeded the warning, but I remain deeply confused, and that confusion is compromising my ability to make decisions, especially about how to handle Guildbreaker. What is Tribune J.E.D.D. Mason to us? Friend or foe? I need to understand.”

  What are these glances that they trade, Andō, Ganymede, and pursed-lipped Perry? So many labels—fear, doubt, optimism, affection, shame—both fit and fail.

  “I … am … aware that I know Tribune Mason less well than my colleagues…” It was Perry who began, looking from Andō to Ganymede and gaining momentum as he found both willing to let him answer first. “But, as I understand, personal duty, family duty, is more important to them than any Hive. Or at least, personal duty is the Tribune’s tiebreaker, when they have multiple Hives tugging at them. And they have strong personal ties to both of you, yes?” His eyes flicked between Andō and pensive Ganymede.

  “Tai-kun honors me as a father,” Andō answered, darkness clearing from his face as he put it into words. “And Ganymede is one of Tai-kun’s bash’parents.”