Too Like the Lightning

by Ada Palmer

  Captain Zhu’s face grew bright with questions. “Oh, is Officer Herrera here?”

  Ockham raised one dark eyebrow, but the Guest spoke first, His gaze now on the Captain. “You need not wound yourself so.”

  The Captain shook. “Wha … what?”

  “Some people find that half-lies and omissions do not wound their consciences as direct lies do, but clearly you are no such person. You wound yourself with this deception. Rest in silence, you will suffer less.”

  “Uh … I…”

  Ockham’s voice grew black as storm. “What do you mean?”

  Remember, reader, there is no intonation in J.E.D.D. Mason’s words, so these men have no way to guess what side He takes, or why He exposes what He does. “The name Herrera that you spoke, Member Saneer, was no strange news to this person. It must be some very deep love to compel such painful self-injury.”

  With these words, a transformation seized the Captain. A sob rose in her throat, grief on her lips, while tear glints kindled in her eyes, her whole face flushing with that bloodred passion blush which flares so intensely in some Asian faces.

  The Tribunary Guards jumped closer to their Ward as Ockham raised his sidearm, though he aimed away from J.E.D.D. Mason, at the Captain, who gave a second sob.

  “Why anger?” J.E.D.D. Mason asked Ockham flatly, as if He genuinely struggled to understand. “Only a great good would move such an exacting conscience to this action.” He turned His eyes on the trembling Captain. “Was it Charity? Gain for many? Protection for many? Lessen the sum total of human pain at the cost of increasing yours?”

  Ockham cut Him off. “My interrogation, Tribune, not yours. Explain yourself.” He took one grim pace toward Zhu Weichun, his bare arm and weapon steady, with the rare phrase ‘deadly force’ behind both. The other forces here bear no such privilege, not even the Tribunary Guards, expert with the stun guns that Law judges sufficient to guard the highest officers of the Alliance, but not enough to guard the precious cars.

  Captain Zhu choked down a sob. “I’m sorry, Member Saneer. It’s nothing hostile, I swear! It was the least disruptive way to remove the threat. Or, it should have been.” She winced, looking around to her baffled fellows. “Can we … clear the room?”

  “Use text.”

  Zhu Weichun hesitated. “You will not want this to leave a record.”

  Ockham Saneer took a deep breath, then announced his orders over his tracker and aloud: “Cardigan, bring our Humanist Special Guard up here. I want people I can trust. Weichun, surrender your weapons. You two,” to the Tribunary Guards, “I appreciate your backup.” His eyes did a quick count-sweep and settled on the one warm body unaccounted for. Not the Visitor’s. “Cousin Foster…”

  The young sensayer had tucked himself into the most out-of-the-way sofa, watching all with that fascination which draws crowds to a flaming house. “I can leave if you like, or stay,” he offered. “No need to worry about security with me, I’m used to high-security bash’es, that’s why I’m here.” He gave a strong, calm smile, for our Carlyle had risen full of strength that day, March the twenty-fifth, the first day of the Medieval New Year, a festival of spring, as well as the Feast of the Annunciation, a day on which men had honored their Creator in many ways in ages past, and still do today.

  There must have been some little sign from red-faced Zhu Weichun: a breath, a twitch, a glance. Reason insists there must have been, to prompt J.E.D.D. Mason’s next words: “Let the sensayer stay, their presence doubles confession’s benefit.”

  Ockham turned, a precise, too-energetic movement, his body beneath the bare skin tense with that rare energy that reminds us humans once were predators. “What?”

  “Confession addressed to you will heal the peace and your confusion, and perhaps your trust, but, if a priest attends, confession will also lift weight from this sin-fearing person’s wounded conscience.” J.E.D.D. Mason’s eyes rolled down to Captain Zhu. “Will this sensayer suffice? If you prefer one with some formal ordination My Dominic can serve, if he is found. Or I could call Guiomar Capello.” The name made both the Captain and Carlyle twitch, since, in our age of theological anonymity, no sensayer is more widely suspected of being a secret Catholic than the personal sensayer of the King of Spain.

  A baffled awe mixed with fear and shock on Zhu Weichun’s face, unlocking tears in the catharsis of deception’s end. “How … how did you know?”

  That drove Carlyle to his feet. “You can’t!” he cried, then paused, as if he was himself uncertain how to phrase his objection. “You can’t just say things like that! In front of people!”

  J.E.D.D. Mason did not turn, but his black eyes rolled around to fix on Carlyle, as when a too-lifelike painting seems to track you across a room. “You believe in noninterference. Is that not incompatible with benevolence?”

  Carlyle went white, holding his wrap tight about himself, as if some trespassing gale had caught him wet and almost naked to the storm. “No…”

  Nothing changed in the Visitor, except His words: “But I misunderstand. By ‘can’t’ you did not question the possibility of my words, you meant I should not say such things, under local human law. You are correct. I erred. I thought only to diminish present pain. But I concede and recognize that the laws and master of this house are not wrong to rank duty over pity.” His eyes drifted to Ockham. “I apologize, Member Saneer, for this mismatch in the radii of our consequentialisms.”

  The room fell silent. We are unaccustomed, reader, to words like His, which cut through the surface levels of our interactions to the reality beneath.

  Only Ockham had the strength to smile. “No need to apologize. It was a handy and original way to expose a conspiracy.”

  Still no expression. “Should I repeat the action? Conspirators are, by definition, plural.”

  Fear touched every face but those of Ockham and the Tribunary Guards.

  The master of the house phrased his invitation carefully: “If Weichun has co-conspirators, I want to know it.”

  One by one the drill troops held their breath as J.E.D.D. Mason’s dead eyes rolled across them. On the third—a slender Dutch Greenpeace Mitsubishi football player stationed by Cato’s door—they stopped. “Which karma do you want?” He asked.

  It is hard to name the expression of abject contact, more shocked and intimate than fear, which seized her face. With slow and careful hands she released the clasp which held her weapons belt, and let the whole fall to the floor. Three others followed suit.

  Ockham released a slow whistle, while Carlyle, tiptoeing forward from the sofa, gave a deeply shaken little gasp.

  Lesley:

  Ockham: <¿Is anyone trying to defend or justify this debacle?>

  Lesley:

  Ockham:

  Sniper entered now with the Humanist Special Guard. These twelve were all Humanists by Hive and birth bash’, mostly natives of Cielo de Pájaros, proud of their commissions, excited by the drill, and even more excited now that something real was happening. Their calm faces and Sniper’s presence eased Ockham instantly, like sea spray in the heat of August. They also eased the five conspirators in a way, since surrender doesn’t feel so real when you outnumber those you’re trying to surrender to. Ockham’s quick orders sent the regular troops and secondary prisoners off to parts secure, until the room was almost what he wanted: trusted Sniper, trusted troops, the oddly forthright traitor Zhu Weichun, all in Ockham’s control, save for the little sensayer, this strange Guest and His Honor Guard. And Thisbe. Her arrival in Sniper’s wake did not match Ockham’s orders, a fact which earned a twitch of irritation from his black brows. But he would not criticize a bash’member in front of outsiders, n
or would Thisbe, in any circumstance, admit why she had more reason than any of them to want to get the measure of this new Intruder.

  “Hinc…” J.E.D.D. Mason began in Latin but caught Himself. “From this point,” He translated, “do you desire help or privacy?”

  Ockham smiled appreciation at the great Prince-Tribune’s deference. “I understand high politics is your thing. If you can sort out that end, and leave me free to check my own security and deal with this supposed intruder, I’ll be grateful. I don’t know what the Mitsubishi are thinking right now, but I hear they trust you, and the last thing I need is Hive execs in a tizzy thinking there’s something wrong with my security.”

  “Your security’s vindication I shall undertake,” He answered, inclining his head in confirmation of the pledge.

  Thisbe intruded her voice now, as well as her presence. “The last thing we need is a public tizzy.”

  J.E.D.D. Mason’s gaze fell now upon Thisbe Saneer. “No one comes to stone the servant when they could watch the execution of the king.”

  Sniper physically interposed himself between J.E.D.D. Mason and intruding Thisbe, and the distant Duke President would have been glad to know Sniper was so mindful of his warning. “I think we’re okay on the public front. No one’s here except our people, Mitsubishi people, and Cousin Foster.”

  “My Dominic may be here,” J.E.D.D. Mason warned. “Have you seen him? He is perhaps your height, vicious, in dark costume, with a Blacklaw Hiveless sash. I seek him. He was last seen here, but has gone stray.” Ockham and Thisbe did not remember observing that the Guest used ‘he’ for Dominic—it was too far from the strangest thing He did.

  <¡That’s who it is!> Cato Weeksbooth could hear all through the door. <¡In B-block! They’re on camera. Not now, almost an hour ago, the system didn’t register it as an intruder but there was somebody there. I was having trouble with the ID. ¡It’s that scary Blacklaw sensayer!>

  “Dominic Seneschal?” Ockham said it aloud. “Dominic Seneschal works for you, Council Mason? Does that mean you work with Martin Guildbreaker?”

  “Both Martin and Dominic are Mine, yes. But Martin is well. It is Dominic who strays. His tracker has been off since he entered this house yesterday. When was he last sighted?”

  “Tracker off since yesterday?” Here, reader, is your rare chance to see Sniper show fear. “Did anyone see Seneschal leave the house yesterday?”

  Lesley:

  Glances flew between Ockham and Sniper. “Who else was here then?”

  “I was,” Carlyle volunteered, stepping gently forward. “I didn’t see them leave either. But they couldn’t stay in the house for twenty-four hours with no one noticing, right? Not in this house, with your security.”

  J.E.D.D. Mason’s eyes turned back to Ockham. “While your case is Mine, your gates will open for My Dominic.”

  Cato:

  Ockham took a deep breath. “This is intolerable. Council Mason, I know you and your team were chosen for your discretion, but this is ten times as disruptive as the Black Sakura list turning up in the first place.”

  “I agree,” J.E.D.D. Mason answered. “It is not tolerated. Dominic will be disciplined when found. They know this.” Carlyle says that, even with the airy naturalness of J.E.D.D. Mason’s tone, the word ‘disciplined’ had an ominous sense of corporeality to it, invited by the Familiaris armband with its reminder of Masonic force, and the Blacklaw sash around Dominic’s waist proclaiming his renunciation of all protections of the law. “You have My promise and My apology, as One responsible for whom I send.”

  The apology eased Ockham’s scowl somewhat. “You and Martin Guildbreaker have been reasonably helpful. Yourself very helpful in fact, but—”

  “That fact gladdens Me,” He interrupted.

  “Good. But I don’t want you coming here again unannounced. No one comes here unannounced, ever. Understood?”

  A pause. “Factually untrue, but as a wish I understand it, and shall endeavor to help it approach truth.”

  Ockham took a moment to parse that one. “Good. And I want that Blacklaw out of my house, and away from my bash’mates. Forever. Get them out of here, or I will.” He tapped his deadly sidearm, still in his hand for lack of the holster which rested upstairs with his other clothes. Sniper joined the threat, tapping his own holster, though with a touch of frown, since what he carried was not deadly, or even elegant like the sport pistols he used for the pentathlon, but a common stun gun, unworthy in his hand like instant noodles on a gourmet’s tongue.

  “These prayers I shall endeavor to grant. If I fail to prevent an altercation between yourselves and My Dominic, I should be infinitely grateful if you spared his life.” I wish J.E.D.D. Mason could have expression in His voice, emotion in His face, for moments like this when I’m sure the deadness of His request kept them from understanding how passionate a plea it was, how literal, how vast His Fear when Dominic was threatened. “I am told My third was near here too?” He continued. “He is shorter, in Servicer uniform, full of guilt, cunning, and languages, and answers to Mycroft. I hoped he might have seen the stray.”

  Ockham, Sniper, and even Carlyle looked to Thisbe.

  “I know who you mean, but Mycroft isn’t here now,” she answered. “If I see them I’ll ask.”

  J.E.D.D. Mason moved His flesh again now, calm, precise steps back toward the narrow entrance hall. “I thank you for your hospitality.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  He did not turn, but His eyes found Sniper. “Your Ockham tasked Me to settle the high political concerns raised by this event. This I undertake. But you yourself do not want Me here. If My Martin and Mycroft are more comfortable to you, then henceforth let all My work within this house be theirs.”

  Even Sniper stared in puzzlement. “Yes. Yes, that sounds good?” He looked to Ockham.

  Ockham: “Agreed. Thank you for coming, Council Mason. Thank you for doing what you can to keep this out of the public eye, and to shield us from high politics and Hive leader idiocy, which seems to be primarily responsible for the day’s fiasco. But thank you just as much for leaving us to handle our own ourselves.”

  J.E.D.D. Mason paused, but did not turn. “It may not help. Secrets pour out like water, even from a single hole.”

  Now curiosity bested even Sniper. “What do you—”

  Ockham shook his head. “Stop, Cardigan.” How Sniper hates that name. “Just let them go.”

  All under Ockham’s command watched in rapt but disciplined silence as this strangest of Princes padded away on His nearly lifeless feet.

  Carlyle was not under Ockham’s command. “How … how did you do that?” He gave a little running chase, to catch the Visitor in the barren trophy hall.

  J.E.D.D. Mason’s slow gaze fell upon the Gag-gene. “You cannot be this bash’s sensayer.”

  The comment struck strangely, but Carlyle managed a smile. “I’m new.”

  “What befell your predecessor?”

  Too uncomfortable. “How did you know?” Carlyle pressed. “Back there? You knew. Confession, karma…” Even after all was already exposed, the sensayer would not speak the forbidden names of Faiths. “Did you look at their files? That’s a horrible abuse of privacy.”

  “No files.” Even as He spoke, J.E.D.D. Mason neither sped nor slowed, but made for the exit with the steady minimum of motion most practical for human limbs. “He … yappari … premenda…” His eyes searched Carlyle for nation-strat insignia. “You speak only English?
”

  This Cousin raised by Cousins nodded.

  “Then I cannot sufficiently explain.”

  “But—”

  J.E.D.D. Mason’s feet still sought the door. “What name was given you, sensayer?”

  “Carlyle Foster.”

  “What happened to this bash’s real sensayer?”

  Carlyle blinked. “They passed away. Recently.”

  “Be careful with this bash’, Carlyle Foster. I exit now, because I Love Truth, so I perceive I am a danger to this bash’, and it to Me. That is clear, as clear to Me as it was clear which of those loyal soldiers inside feared karma and which sin. You too seem to love Good, and Dialectic at least, if not raw Truth. I advise you to part from this bash’ before you harm each other. But I recognize your right to incur risk in service of your vocation”—He lowered His voice—“and your Maker.”

  Carlyle screamed inside at this last and deepest violation of that special privacy which is the last thing in the world our cautious public still calls ‘sacrosanct.’ It was no easy thing to distill his objections into words, so he watched in silence as this famous Stranger—as strange as He was famous—made His soft retreat. The Tribunary Guards followed Him closely, and one paused, turning back with a frown and gentle gesture of apology for her Ward’s strangeness. Moments later the Utopian car took off, and J.E.D.D. Mason had vanished as abruptly as He had come.

  What then? It was too much, His strangeness, much too much. They needed answers, all of them. Once the drill troops were dismissed and the house secure once more, each bash’member turned to his favorite oracle: Ockham and Sniper to their prisoners and their President, Cato and Eureka to their computers and their surveillance tapes, while Carlyle and Thisbe raced down the flower trench, to me.

  CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH

  Tocqueville’s Valet

  Thisbe’s summary had far less detail than my reconstruction of the scene, but it was enough. “He can’t find Dominic?” I cried.