The Will to Battle

by Ada Palmer

  “Good,” Grandpa Jin continued. “Now, everyone who’s introducing an urgent motion, pass your drafts to the clerks. Meanwhile, you each get twenty seconds to describe your business and why it matters. Everyone else, sit down!” His glare added: and shut up! “Are there motions both for both Senatorial Orders and Senatorial Consults?” he asked.

  Diverse ‘Yes’es confirmed.

  “We’ll hear Orders first, then Consults.”

  Did you spot it, reader? Another old Imperial victory immortal in these neutral-seeming words? The Universal Senate may issue Orders to its many arms: to its court, the Sensayers’ Conclave, the Censor’s Office, Papadelias and his police, the Housing Board, the Archive, but the Hives are their own free beings, like children at a school, free at any time to ignore the teacher’s advice if they are prepared to accept the consequences. Since ancient days there has been a name for Senatorial recommendations that carry the force, not of law, but of the Will of the Leviathan, but the name is Latin, and we cannot say Senatus Consultum without implying that the Latin-speaking Masons somehow own this, much as we half believe they own all Romanova, built for us by MASONS past. So we instead say ‘Senatorial Consult,’ which translates to ‘Let’s pretend we aren’t thinking about Masons right now.’ Of course we are.

  “First, the Chair recognizes Hiveless Fracciterne.”

  “Thank you, Member Speaker.” The implausibly tall old Haitian bassoonist was accustomed to being recognized first, and accustomed too to serving as a neutral mouthpiece when multi-Hive coalitions cannot compromise on which should lead debate. “On behalf of thirty-two of my peers, and for the sake of ensuring the stability of global discourse, and to mitigate the current trend of innocently intended but nonetheless dangerous violations of the antiproselytory aspects of the First Law, I call for the urgent passage of a Senatorial Order to the Sensayers Conclave, commanding that they present, within forty-eight hours, a plan to facilitate safe global dialogue about the unavoidable theological questions involved in the supposed resurrection of J—” She caught herself. “Tribune Mason, focusing on—”

  Jin Im-Jin’s mace slammed. “Twenty seconds up. Next, Mitsubishi Zhao.”

  The young but dominant Senator from Wenshou was famous for modeling her vocateur tailor bash’mate Xiaodan Zhao’s lavish fabrics, and for the day’s gravity she had selected from her closet, not the traditional bright spring buds of March, but a nightscape with hints of blade-slim grass and fireflies that actually pulsed. “I call for the urgent passage of a Senatorial Order that Commissioner General Papadelias assemble a Special Task Force to investigate the so-called O.S. conspiracy, and report to the Senate before any trial is considered.”

  “Thank you. Are there any more motions from Senators for Senatorial Orders? No? Motions for Senatorial Consults, then. Mitsubishi Mudali.”

  Former Minister of Wildlife Madhur Mudali straightened the antiquated Greenpeace coat which today conspicuously replaced her customary Mitsubishi jacket, and sat much better over the folds of her dhoti. “I call for the urgent passage of a Senatorial Consult recommending that the Seven-Hive Council demand that the Hives known as the Humanist Union, the European Union, the Mitsubishi Group, and the Cousins’ Society draft proposals for the reform and correction of their governments, and that those Hives which fail to present satisfactory proposals to the Senate-within-one-month-be-considered-for-expulsion-from-the-Alliance.” Her voice turned to a high-pitched race as she saw Jin Im-Jin raise the mace, but she finished just in time.

  “Thank you. Gordian Petőfi? Gordian Petőfi?”

  “What, me?” Gordian’s celebrated psycholinguist Tisza Petőfi, her European pallor failing to hide delight’s flush in her cheeks, was almost too absorbed in the rich array of specimens before her to recognize her own name. “Oh, I withdraw my motion. Mitsubishi Mudali’s covered it.”

  “Any other nonredundant motions? Cousin Podrova?”

  Volga Podrova’s Russian paleness showed, not flush, but fear-blanch. “On behalf of twenty-two colleagues, I call for the urgent passage of a Senatorial Consult recommending that the Seven-Hive Council examine, expel, and dissolve the Hive known as the Humanists.”

  Grandpa glared. “I thank you for your brevity. Are there any more motions from Senators before I turn to motions from others?”

  This silence was, I think, the first thing to truly please Jin Im-Jin all day.

  “Good. Have the Minor Senators any motions or recommendations?”

  The ten Minor Senators were all in attendance, youthful voices without the culpability of votes, who sit in the front row and speak for the millions who are old enough to realize that they live under a law, but have not yet passed the Adulthood Competency Exam and earned the right and burden of making said law.

  “No new motions, Member Speaker,” Xinxin Hopper spoke for the group, sixteen years old and the pride of the great Beijing Campus, “but my peers and I wish to claim Minors’ Priority to speak first when the Senate considers Hiveless Fracciterne’s call for a Senatorial Order to the Sensayers Conclave, since we feel Minors are at special risk of being hurt by the current lack of guidance for structuring dialogue about the alleged resurrection of Tribune J.E.D.D. Mason.”

  Here was something sensible enough for Grandpa to smile at. “Your request for Minors’ Priority is recognized. Now.” Jin Im-Jin turned to the Officials’ seats that flanked his dais. “Acting Censor Jung Ancelet Kosala, I believe you have a motion?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do,” the wishing-he-were-still-just-Deputy Censor answered with all the force of desperation. Ten days without the boss—and worse, without myself and Toshi too—had not been kind to Su-Hyeon, and his purple uniform had served as pajamas for so many nights under his desk that even his tiny breasts showed through the wear-sculpted fabric. “Getting through all these urgent motions is obviously going to be slow and complicated, but I’m actually the one who convened the Senate today, because it’s been ten working days since this crisis began, and Censor—former Censor—Ancelet’s order that the market be frozen, and some other stuff they did before resigning, is going to expire at noon today, but since the powers of an Acting Censor are different from those of a Censor I can’t renew most of it unless you formally make me Censor, and if I don’t renew it by noon the economy is going to—”

  “Five seconds,” Speaker Jin warned.

  Su-Hyeon turned purple. “… do a bunch of stuff that’s bad!”

  Grandpa smiled. “Thank you, aptly put. Before we deal with any other action, since this one is mercifully uncomplicated, we have a motion on the floor to confirm Jung Su-Hyeon Ancelet Kosala as Romanovan Censor. Is there a second?”

  Several rose to second.

  “Does anyone want any further discussion of the Acting Censor’s motion?”

  “Point of Order, Member Speaker.”

  Had anyone else dared interrupt, I fear Grandpa would have thrown something.

  “The Chair recognizes Mason Guildbreaker Senior.”

  Grandma’s gesture was more bow than nod. “Thank you, Member Speaker. Given the current crisis, everyone in this room must realize that we may need to enable the emergency executive powers of the Censor, as set out in the Alliance Charter. No one in this room will doubt that Acting Censor Jung Ancelet Kosala can fulfill the standard duties of Censor masterfully, but I think many of us would be more confident in this decision if we had a chance to hear the Acting Censor briefly answer whether they feel prepared to accept these emergency powers, and serve as the temporary Executive Officer of the whole Alliance should the need arise.”

  “An apt point, thank you, Mason Guildbreaker Senior. Acting Censor, what have you to say?”

  Here it came, young Su-Hyeon’s moment. Not so long ago, barely a heartbeat by the Earth’s long reckoning, a young Julius Caesar stood like this, a young Mark Antony, a young Octavian not-yet-Augustus, receiving the Senate’s ear as crisis looms. “Take me,” Power whispers. “The Senate is a flock of sheep, that may bleat and
graze at leisure in summer’s peace, but in winter’s extremes it needs a shepherd. It could be you. In this self-hobbled government that has no real executive, no head, no swift hand to catch it as it falls, there is a shepherd’s crook, a scepter waiting with the name of Dictator upon it, which this Senate will hand to he who can best charm the terrified. Speak your piece, young statesman. The temporary kingly crown they are about to lend you could be yours to keep, if you seem leaderly enough in this audition. Make them love you. Make them yours.”

  Young Su-Hyeon frowned. “Former Censor Ancelet would not have left such a critical position in unready hands. I have no more to say.”

  I have never felt prouder to call anyone colleague; Fortune had offered Su-Hyeon her finest bribe, and the youth declined.

  Jin Im-Jin’s smile approved as much as mine, and he said something warm in Korean to young Su-Hyeon, the old Brillist and young Graylaw sharing an honest moment in their native tongue before protocol made them revert to stock phrases and common English: “Thank you, Acting Censor. I hereby call the confirmation vote. All in favor?”

  None opposed. The secretary entered the confirmation as Senatorial Order 2454–173, and Censor Su-Hyeon bolted for the exit like a man on fire.

  Back on the Speaker’s dais, Grandpa’s smile was all condescension as he watched the others watch the departing Censor: See, kids? Accomplishing things! It’s what we’re here for! He turned to the next impatient face. “Deputy Commissioner Chowdhury, you also have a motion?”

  “Yes, Member Speaker.” The trusty deputy whom Papadelias made his primary ambassador to the Zoo (as Papa calls the Senate) was born to a Graylaw bash’ in Bangladesh, proud runner-up in the 2411 Youth World English Spelling Bee, and had been first a Humanist, then, leaning Greenpeace, tried the Mitsubishi, and was now a Whitelaw Hiveless. “This is already on the agenda for today,” Chowdhury began, “but should be decided before some of the honorable Senators’ urgent motions: I have here from the Universal Free Court an urgent request for a Senatorial Order telling the Court whether to accept or reject Ockham Saneer’s petition for a solo trial with the plea of terra ignota.”

  “Terra ignota? For O.S.?”

  “That’s insane!”

  “You can’t argue for one minute that O.S. was legal!”

  “Thank you, Deputy Commissioner!” Speaker Jin screeched, “For this timely reminder. Is there any oth—” He trailed off into silent, mouthed Korean, likely profanity. Who could blame him? The ceremonial paper draft held aloft by the figure who rose before him now was not the pale blue pages of a proposed Senatorial Consult to the Hives and Hiveless, nor the sunny yellow of a Senatorial Order to Romanova’s administrative organs, nor even the white or gray of common draft bills, but a coal-black page inscribed with pale ink, shimmering like steel. One hundred and thirteen years serving in Romanova and even Jin Im-Jin had never seen one.

  “Order!” the Speaker had to scream. “Order! Order! Minister Cook, you are proposing a new Black Law?”

  “Yes, Member Speaker.”

  “Today? You’re proposing a new Black Law today?”

  “Yes, Member Speaker. As an urgent motion to address this current crisis, I propose that the following be added to the list of Universal Laws, quote: It is an Intolerable Crime to take action which will cripple a child’s ability to participate in and interface naturally and productively with human society and the world at large.”

  Chaos erupted as only volcanoes have the right to do. “The old Eighth Law.” The dire misnomer cut swathes through the crowd like the curse it was.

  The midwife of this chaos smiled calmly. You know this name well, reader, though this is the first time you have seen her: Minister of Education Lorelei “Cookie” Cook: educational theorist, teacher, boxer, poet, Cousin-born with one stray Brillist among her ba’pas. Judging by the bags around her eyes, Cookie had hardly slept the fifteen nights since her name had appeared on Tsuneo Sugiyama’s ill-fated Black Sakura Seven-Ten list, and the depravation leant a predatory energy to her carriage, which I have rarely seen a Cousin muster. Cookie is of that free and easy human type that is too mixed to have bonds to any nation-strat, or even to any continent, her face neither dark nor pale, her hair wavy and dark, her round face ever cheerful in her wrap of many colors, with orange shoes, Nurturist mismatched socks, and bulging pockets promising fun and tissues. When she was twelve years old, Cookie’s essay “The Adulthood Competency Exam: Why I Will Wait” secured her election as a Minor Senator. She retired from that post at twenty-one, completed law school, managed the Senate snack supply, then took the exam and joined the Cousins at the tardy age of thirty-six, clerking for Minister of Education Carlyle Kovacs Warsawski until, at forty-one, Cookie herself became a Senator and Minister of Education on the same day. So far so cheerful, but many a creature’s cuddle-soft underbelly belies its ready claws. If there can be a Prince of Thieves, reader, a Pirate King, a Bandit Chief, then there can be a Queen of Nurturists. Of the bills Cookie has personally introduced into the Senate, a quarter have touched on set-sets, and her bash’ has personally raised thirty-seven children ‘adopted’ from set-set training bash’es that have broken up. ‘Broken up.’ The savvy public knows the difference between when ice ‘breaks up’ from the sun, and when it is shattered by some conniving submarine. It is always strange for me, seeing the Nurturist leader’s face clean and whole. When service used to take me to Tōgenkyō, I often saw the set of darts Danaë’s broodlings kept on hand to help them fidget as they brainstormed, and I saw too the photograph, hanging ever on their dartboard’s cork surface and replaced with a new copy whenever one dart too many made the old one fall to shreds: the image of Lorelei Cook. After seeing it so full of holes, my mind insists that the Cousin’s cheeks should be pockmarked, or at least heavily freckled, but Cookie’s is a smooth face, clean-shaven, and expressive as an actor’s.

  Grandpa was not pleased. “And what, Minister Cook, is urgent about reintroducing a two-hundred-year-old defeated Black Law?”

  Cookie did not flinch. “Set-sets created, enabled, and maintained O.S., and did so without a hint of conscience, because the brainwashing which passes for a set-set’s childhood keeps them from even understanding what a human being is. And the children publicly identified as set-sets are not the only ones involved in this crisis whose development was crippled by parental manipulation which intentionally destroyed their ability to think rationally about their crimes. We have proof, developmental records, testing, neural maps. What was done to young Eureka Weeksbooth and Sidney Koons should not be legal. What was done to Director Andō Mitsubishi’s adopted children, Masami, Toshi, and the others, should not be legal. What was done to young Cato Weeksbooth, Ojiro Sniper, Ockham and Thisbe Saneer, and Kat and Robin Typer should not be legal. What was done to young Dominic Seneschal, and Ganymede and Danaë de La Trémoïlle by Joyce Faust D’Arouet in Paris should not be legal. What was done to Tully Mardi, crippled on the Moon, and to young Mycroft Canner and the other Mardi children by the think-tank experiments at Alba Longa should not be legal. I think multiple cases of mass murder are proof enough that this should have become law when it was first proposed two hundred years ago. This is not just urgent, Member Speaker, it is two thousand murders overdue.”

  It is not Speaker Jin’s place to rebut, merely to enforce order, but in his impartial silence he has a certain slouching confidence which projects the fact that he could easily expose the stupidity of your claims, small child, if that duty were not better left to your fellow children. That confidence faded before Cookie’s rhetoric. Invocation, I should say, for Cookie’s words summoned all our terrors—the assassinations, Black Sakura, the grotesque charms of Ganymede and Dominic, Mercer Mardi’s heart’s blood dribbling down my chin—all conjured by one word of power: set-set. Cookie’s good at this, reader. She’s very good. Even when Laurel Mardi and I were Minor Senators, long after Cookie’s tenure, things she had done and said in that little-great office were with us, inspiring, guidin
g, like an allegorical statue. Now that same skill made Jin Im-Jin pale. “I trust there is not any further urgent business to be added to the mountain,” Grandpa half asked, half growled, “before I adjourn for ten minutes to draft a new agenda, my draft to be approved by simple majority when we reconvene?”

  A new voice: “I have business.” Quick gasps ricocheted across the Senate as the wolf among the sheep flocks rose from her Tribunary throne. Like old vines strangling a garden statue, so black coils draped her fit and fertile frame: her diagonal Tribunary sash of blue-and-gold-edged black, the Hiveless sash black around her waist, her own black hair, and the coiled leather belts which held the empty scabbard where her dueling rapier would nest again as soon as she left Romanova’s strict security. Only three of the nine Hiveless Tribunes were in attendance that day, the others absenting, perhaps for fear of a repeat of the Brussels attack. Present representing Whitelaws was Dr. Chambeshi Rhymer, an emigrant to our Alliance born in the Great African Reservation, now a stained-glass collector, psychopathologist, and former president of the World Institute for Suicide Prevention Research; representing Graylaws came Jay Sparhawk, master gambler, sailor, marine ecologist, and longtime first mate of the flagship Ahab’s Folly, around whose salt-white sails the flotilla city Neverland assembles whenever the Seaborn nation-strat requires a capital; finally, attending for the Blacklaws came India’s brave daughter Castel Natekari, baking hobbyist, retired leader-by-conquest of the Algheni Group, and long-unchallenged Rumormonger of Hobbestown. At age twenty-two Natekari had been kidnapped by a brutish fellow Blacklaw and endured three months’ captivity before planning, luck, and guile conjoined to grant both her escape and her revenge, as sweet and cold as ice cream. Three months by choice. Her late captor was as upright a Blacklaw as herself, and had obeyed the Fourth Law’s stricture that he leave his captive’s tracker intact, and with it her ability to call for aid to Romanova, whose agents would have saved her in an instant if only she would submit herself to its Gray Laws, and the police which guard them. Castel Natekari, who rose now to face the Speaker’s bench, would not renounce her Blacklaw pride to save such little things as liberty, or life.