by Ada Palmer
Guildbreaker: “Had Masami known who was on your list?”
Sugiyama: “Only the three outsider names. Masami-kun set up the interviews for me. Most of the staff at Black Sakura can usually guess who my bottom three will be since they know who I’ve been interviewing lately, but I never show anyone the order of the Big Seven.”
Guildbreaker: “Did you write it down?”
Sugiyama: “Of course. I had a paper copy in shorthand, and half-finished essays on most of the ten started on my computer. I know what you’re thinking: Masami could have accessed my computer, and it’s true, they could have. So could anyone around the office. Thing is, I’ve seen a copy of Masami’s list now, and there’s no way Masami would come up with that after seeing mine. You know how you can tell if an artist has studied another even if they don’t copy it directly?”
Guildbreaker: “Do you have the original list here?”
Sugiyama: “I knew you’d ask. I’ve written a translation for you.”
Guildbreaker: “Thank you, but I will also want to examine the original paper list for fingerprints and other signs of tampering.”
Sugiyama: “Of course, of course, just read my translation first.”
I read the list at this time. It was on the same type of paper as that recovered by Mycroft, but written in a very unsteady English hand. I was unable to keep my hands from shaking as I read. I do not have (nor do I believe in) powers that can sense import in things beyond what reason and the facts supply, but I do believe that some minds, appropriately specialized, may get a true sense of a thing at first glance, even before the conscious mind translates the details into thoughts. Surely President Ganymede, presented with a painting, knows its period, school, and quality before becoming conscious of the brushstrokes, pigment, and stylistic traits which are the grounds for their deduction. Princesse Danaë Mitsubishi, though not as fluent in art as the President, is experienced enough at least to recognize the school. As Princesse Mitsubishi is with art, so I am far from the foremost expert at solving crimes, but even on first reading of the list, I knew that I held motive in my hands.
#1: Cornel MASON
#2: Anonymous
#3: Sniper
#4: Ziven Racer
#5: Bryar Kosala
#6: Felix Faust
#7: Hotaka Andō Mitsubishi
#8: François Quesnay
#9: Julia Doria-Pamphili
#10: Lorelei “Cookie” Cook
Guildbreaker: “This … this is … Sniper instead of the President? And Racer instead of Perry?”
Sugiyama: “I wanted to stir things up a bit.”
Guildbreaker: “Masami Mitsubishi knew about this?”
Sugiyama: “Masami knew I’d been interviewing Racer, Julia, and Cookie, but I’m sure they assumed those three would be eight, nine, and ten. In fact, I went so far as to start a fake editorial about Ganymede, so anyone glancing through my files would think my list was normal. Leaks are rare but they do happen, and I didn’t want anything to spoil the surprise. Bookies don’t even take bets about outsiders making it into the top Seven.”
Guildbreaker: “Did Sniper know?”
Sugiyama: “No. Every paper interviews Sniper twice a week, what’s one more?”
Guildbreaker: “Racer I understand, but why, if I may ask…”
Sugiyama: “Everybody knows Ganymede only had the margin they did last election because Sniper endorsed them. If Sniper didn’t always publicly decline office, they’d be Vice President or even Co-Consul by now.”
Guildbreaker: “So you say Sniper is the most important Humanist because they let President Ganymede win?”
Sugiyama: “Not just that. They meet a lot, Ganymede and Sniper, behind closed doors. Sniper’s careful never to admit anything, but no one would hand someone the Presidency without a big price tag attached. Why share power as Co-Consuls when you can blackmail Ganymede and not have to go to any boring meetings? I’ve met Sniper hundreds of times, so I know something of how the kid thinks.”
Guildbreaker: “And Hotaka Andō Mitsubishi you ranked below even Felix Faust?”
Sugiyama: “When I have time I’ll write summaries of my unfinished editorials for you, unless you have someone on your staff who reads Japanese.”
Guildbreaker: “I do.”
Sugiyama: “Of course: Tai-kun.”
(Note: Sugiyama means J.E.D.D. Mason, whose Japanese nickname I understand has something to do with being a young person crowned or near a crown.)
Guildbreaker: “You realized when you wrote this that it would be quite a blow for Director Mitsubishi to be ranked so low by their native paper.”
Sugiyama: “Nothing like a good kick in the balls to get people going. You may not be aware, but I’ve been watching my Hive eighty years now: things are bad. We’ve been letting ourselves shrink too long. It isn’t good for us, sitting like lumps watching the Masons grow. But it’s not only my own Hive I’m kicking, there’s wallop enough for the Humanists, and for Europe. All three need it, the Cousins too. My draft editorials will make it clearer. I was sad when I quit that they wouldn’t be published, but you’ve got to hand the reins to the new generation sometime. Masami-kun has some pretty stimulating names on their list too, Darcy Sok and Crown Prince Leonor especially. Give the kid a year or two and they’ll be better than I was. Well, as good, maybe.”
(I asked Mycroft what I should read of the pattern of honorifics sometimes present and sometimes absent in Sugiyama’s English; Mycroft was unhelpful.)
Guildbreaker: “Would you be willing to let me schedule you for an Enhanced Memory Session to recall in detail the activity at the Black Sakura offices in the week before the theft?”
Sugiyama: “I don’t like Utopians pumping chemicals into my brain.”
Guildbreaker: “It could be vital.”
Sugiyama: “I still don’t like it.”
Guildbreaker: “The alternative is for me to send a professional police interviewer, which would take much longer. I’ve endured both myself, and I dislike drugs, but I vastly preferred the E.M.S.”
Sugiyama: “I’ll think about it.”
Guildbreaker: “Time is a factor.”
Sugiyama: “I’ll need at least one minute to think.”
Guildbreaker: “Of course. Are you familiar with how an E.M.S. works? Do you want to hear about the side effects?”
Sugiyama: “I’ve done them before, I just don’t like it.”
Guildbreaker: “I must also ask you to speculate about who else might have seen your list.”
Sugiyama: “You’re sure it leaked, aren’t you?”
Guildbreaker: “The theft seems to be engineered to bring your list before the public eye.”
Sugiyama: “My thought as well, someone at Black Sakura who saw my list and couldn’t bear not to let the public see it.”
Guildbreaker: “Or was bribed by one of the Hives that would benefit.”
Sugiyama: “You don’t know us at all, do you? Black Sakura isn’t a normal paper like Le Monde or Shanghai Daily, it’s staffed entirely by vokers, not just vokers but total Japanese Mitsubishi culture-obsessed literary zealots. It’s not unusual for us to spend a week in the office without sleeping, most of us hardly see our bash’es, and I don’t know a one person there who manages to spend their whole salary, since we don’t really do anything but work. Most of them wouldn’t know what to do with a bribe if you offered it to them, and a lot of them would probably physically attack anyone who suggested intentionally tampering with the press. There’s always the possibility of an outsider sneaking into the office, but if one of Black Sakura did it, it was because they wanted the public to see my last great work, not for money or power.”
Guildbreaker: “What about this Assistant Editor who went public about the theft and substitution, Hikaru Nakahara.”
Sugiyama: “Journalistic conscience, not bribery. If I know Nakahara-san they probably spent a long night deciding whether to go public or hand in their resignation. Well,
there will have been some ambition in it. When Hagiwara-san resigns, Nakahara-san will probably take over, and readership will skyrocket with all this fuss. If scary criminals think we’re important enough to burgle—”
Porphyrogene: “Imprimantur.” (Translation: “Let them be printed.”)
* * *
I held out my hand to silence Sugiyama, who could not hear the new voice over my tracker, but was startled seeing me sit so abruptly straight. Others always tell me they could not bear to live with a tracker connection set on permanent priority, so the person on the other end may hear and see through mine at any time without my knowledge, and speak to me suddenly without any warning beep or me having to select ‘Take Call.’ After seventeen years of the privilege, never facing any scene alone, nor enduring a second’s delay before the Porphyrogene’s words reach me, I could not bear to live without it.
Guildbreaker: “Quae?” (“What?”)
Porphyrogene: “Indices. Collegis auctoribus, petitum est ut indices perendie cum aliis pervulgare liceat. Nihil obstat. (The lists. At the urging of [Sugiyama’s?] colleagues, it has been petitioned that they be allowed to be disseminated with the others the day after tomorrow. Let nothing prevent it.)”
Sugiyama: “What’s happening?”
Guildbreaker: “I am to tell you that there is no legal obstruction to prevent Black Sakura from publishing the two lists, yours and Masami Mitsubishi’s, when the other papers release theirs on the day after tomorrow.”
Sugiyama: “I was about to ask that.”
Guildbreaker: “Yes, they knew you were.”
Sugiyama: “Is that Tai-kun on the line?”
Guildbreaker: “Yes.”
Sugiyama: “Tai-kun themself. Quite the honor for my little mystery. Has Tai-kun met with Director Andō about this yet? Has the Directorate approved the publication of the lists?”
Porphyrogene, in English, repeated verbatim by Guildbreaker: “The Directorate has no right to silence words; only the author does. This theft tells us that some specter wants your list in the world’s eye. We know not why. By publishing, you blindly serve that specter, but you also serve Truth, and relieve the curiosity-pain of frightened humanity. You must choose, but if within these two days we can name the specter, you will choose less blindly.”
Sugiyama: “You’re right. Call your Utopians, let’s get this E.M.S. over with.”
Guildbreaker: “You’ll do it?”
Sugiyama: “If it might help, yes. Your Tai-kun’s right, the public needs to see what this is all about, but something’s rotten here, and someone’s trying to use me and use my paper. The only way to stop them is for you to find out what they’re after.”
Guildbreaker: “Thank you. We appreciate your help.”
Sugiyama: “Good. I wouldn’t do an E.M.S. for just anyone.”
Porphyrogene, repeated by Guildbreaker: “No, you do it for Truth and Charity. Your choice is kind. I thank you.”
HERE ENDS THE SECOND DAY OF THIS HISTORY.
CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH
If They Catch Me
I see Martin has introduced the word ‘murder’ into our tale. Technology has eliminated that middle breed of criminal who thinks that, if they wash their hands and dump the body far from home, they can get away with it. Criminals now are either self-labeled geniuses who, through elaborate preparation, think they can outwit the trackers, DNA, and all the practice and experience of law, or else they are plain men with no delusions of escaping punishment. Of every five killers now, three turn themselves in right away, having acted in the grip of rage, or else in the calm confidence that the deed was worth the price. One out of five escapes by suicide. Only the last of the five attempts to hide, having schemed and toiled for months to form the perfect plan. He fails. There are professionals, of course, for the mob will always need its violence, but they too know that someday they must either flee the Alliance entirely, living out their lives in trackless hiding, or else be caught. Gone are the days when the police would gather evidence, conduct their interviews over a few days, and, in the end, discover the boyfriend, ex-wife, or business rival who had seen the opportunity and seized it. I asked Commissioner General Papadelias once which he preferred, the would-be mastermind who challenges the detective to a game of wits, or the honest criminal who waits red-handed at the scene. The former, he answered, was more stimulating, but usually only the latter commanded his respect. I understand it. The Prince of Murderers, said Papadelias, the Moriarty he waited for, would do both, accepting fully and philosophically his inevitable end, yet still fighting with all his strength and cunning to extend his freedom to the last breath. He needed, I think, to meet a soldier.
“Good morning, Major.”
“Mycroft! You look ready to drop.”
The stiffness in my shoulders made me wince as I ducked the plastic sheeting which camouflages Bridger’s cave. It is a cheerful cave, walled with foam of festive colors, carved out by the robots which mine the trash beneath Cielo de Pájaros. Inside the cave is all clutter, the choicest treasures gathered from the trash of which Bridger has first pick: bright marbles, balls, tricycles, toy cars, chunks of dozens of dollhouses assembled into a hodgepodge palace, and mounds of storybooks stacked dense as bricks. My own more hygienic contributions add to the nest: blankets, cushions, clothes, video players and digital readers, good paints and paper, and a shelf of real food: rice, animal-shaped cookies, instant bacon, anything too difficult for the boy to make from mud and grass.
“I had a long day yesterday,” I answered.
The Major stretched back in his rocking chair on the roof of a pink plastic castle, switching off the handheld news screen which dwarfed him like a billboard. “Did you sleep?”
I gave a guilty wince. “I napped on the flight back here from Romanova.”
The Major always breathes deeply, as if he enjoys the taste of air itself. “Are ten kinds of trouble coming, or only two?”
“It’s bad, sir,” I answered, comfortable in company where I could say ‘sir’ and have no one stare. “I don’t know how bad yet.”
“Bad far away or bad here?”
“Both. I just spoke with Lesley Saneer. Someone very dangerous came to the house yesterday, a sensayer in historical clothes named Dominic Seneschal.”
“I know. They spent hours searching Thisbe’s room.”
I nodded. “If we’re wise we’ll assume Dominic found enough evidence to know there have been unregistered strangers in that room.” I eased myself into my own scavenged metal chair, between the Major’s castle and a white-painted cardboard box, transformed into a functioning refrigerator by Bridger’s power. “I did my best to clean up yesterday, but we’ve been so comfortable in that house lately, we haven’t been worrying about tiny bits of evidence like skin flakes. We aren’t prepared to evade a professional.”
The Major nodded, the relaxed but heavy nod of a patient who has already deduced the worst before the doctor works around to the word ‘fatal.’ “You’ve crossed swords with this Dominic before?”
“I know Dominic well, though we haven’t literally crossed swords. Dominic does carry a sword, though, and has killed several opponents in duels. Not an enemy we can face. It’s time to move on.”
The veteran nodded slowly, his sigh heavy and frail at once. “Yes.”
“Is Bridger—” I didn’t have to finish, for light and smiles burst in through the plastic door.
“Mycroft!”
“Oof!”
Bridger was long since too big for my lap, but had never realized it. “Aimer was just reading more of Les Misérables with me!” His elbows jabbed my ribs as he climbed onto me, and his legs spilled out of the chair over mine, like a hermit crab in need of a new shell. “I think Jean Valjean would get along really well with Odysseus, don’t you? They could talk about what it’s like being on a really long journey with lots of different stages and never knowing if it’s almost over, and I bet Odysseus would have lots of clever suggestions for how Valjea
n could disguise themself and never be caught!”
“Yes, they probably would.” Bridger needed new pants, too, I noticed, as more centimeters of sock showed beneath ever-rising cuffs. Thirteen years old; he would begin to shoot up soon, and we would have to guess how tall he would become, and teach him how to shave.
Children rarely notice whether or not you’re listening. “I was thinking about what you were telling me before, about how the Greek heroes are beloved of the gods, and how that’s sort of good but also bad, because it means big scary divine things always happen to them, and they never get to rest, and everyone around them always dies, like Odysseus’s sailors all die. That’s what happens to Valjean, too, like they’re also beloved of the gods, so I bet they and Odysseus could help each other deal with it, and Odysseus could come up with a clever way to make money and feed all the poor people in Paris!”
He got me. My mind strayed first to imagining what ingenious barricade Odysseus could construct, and then I saw it all, the conversation he imagined, the two wanderers breaking bread together, drawing succor from seeing another pair of eyes as tired as their own. The Major gazed darkly at me, reminding me of his objections when the mining bots had dragged Les Misérables from the dump, a real old paper copy, somehow still legible. I had not had the heart to forbid Bridger to read it, but at story time Bridger always used to turn on the waterworks even when the ‘bad guy’ died. Now we were watching the bookmark crawl millimeter by millimeter through the masterpiece which brings tears to the eyes of disillusioned adults. We all imagine happy endings to such books, pick out the page, the paragraph, in which we would step in and pluck the innocents to safety. Only one among us actually can. All it would take is some store manikins, the costumes, and a miracle.
“I don’t know,” I forced myself to answer. “I don’t know if Odysseus could get used to dealing with armies that have guns, or with people who believe in one God instead of lots of gods. You know it’s very hard for people to deal with a world completely different from their own.” I rubbed the boy’s hair, chewing on the future in my mind. Yes, we would have to guess how tall he’d grow, and teach him how to shave, and make decisions like this for himself, not just to be a good boy and obey when we said ‘no.’
