The Will to Battle

by Ada Palmer

  But I must find Ojiro Sniper. We sit on a steaming volcano as we trust to Lesley Saneer’s impersonations, text announcements, and the excuse that the two-time silver medalist intends to minimize public activity while training for the gold. Any hour someone could pierce the deception, so no hour holds peace. Human Saneer, Senator Quarriman, and Hiveless Mardi Mojave are working on strategies to break the news gently to the public if we despair of recovering Sniper, but even should the public accept it, that would solve only half the problem. Dominus Jehovah is only recently reconciled with the cosmic pattern they refer to as their Peer, and to have that pattern snatch Sniper away, and so thwart this great test of human dignity, has sown doubt where doubt must not be.

  And a third task presses too. The Universal Free Court at Romanova requests my industry in the investigation of O.S., whose history remains still half opaque. The case must, in a matter of days, be presented to the High Court Tribunal as we enter terra ignota. This mandate from a power outside the Empire may seem of least import, but I do not hold it so. What I have read of war suggests that the most devastating mistakes are often made either in war’s inception, when the front lines take their shapes, or after the surrender. In the latter case, exaltation and vendetta often have clouded victors’ judgments as they laid the architecture of their postwar worlds. When this war ends, all Hives, except perhaps the Cousins, Utopians, or Gordian, will have taken many lives, and we will have no precedent to establish the rights of Hives to kill except the bitter memory of nation-states, and this terra ignota of Human Ockham Prospero Saneer, which will naturally discuss the Hive leader whose tool Saneer was, former Humanist President Duke Ganymede Jean-Louis de La Trémoïlle. MASON’s Capital Powers derive from Mandate and IMPERIUM far older than Thomas Carlyle and their Hives, but, since the Empire has so long consented to be treated as a Hive by the Alliance, I sympathize with those who argue that the Emperor must either submit to the same rules which bind other Hives’ sovereigns, or else surrender the pretense of the Empire being part of the Alliance. If the questions I help the Court ask of La Trémoïlle may, after the war, be asked of my Emperor, then I consider this as weighty a task as I may ever receive.

  Yet it is on a fourth mystery that my mind dwells. Who stabbed Mycroft Canner the second time? Instinct and intuition are mere nicknames for conclusions one cannot yet consciously justify, and something in me has concluded that whoever stabbed Mycroft the second time is at the heart of all.

  Progress of Investigation:

  April 17: The Medical report on Mycroft’s injuries confirms a right-handed assailant. The wound was clumsily inflicted, without medical or professional training. The knife was a single-bladed kitchen knife, recently in contact with olive oil and used to cut onions, potatoes, orange bell peppers, and parsley (DNA traceable to a Broadland Model GG700 kitchen tree), as well as sausage. The great boon of a complex meat product, produced, not in a home vat, but by a professional kitchen with limited production, indicates that the user of the knife shopped at one of only three hundred and thirty-six shops, all located in Europe.

  April 22: I have found the room where Mycroft was stabbed (in Debrecen, which has eight shops supplying the aforementioned sausage). It still contains the chair Mycroft was tied to, and the residue of Mycroft’s blood, with Sniper’s footprints in it, along with the footprints of three others identified as close Sniper followers—they will be interviewed but their arrest delayed until after the Olympics. Dominic left no detectable trace in the room, nor did any other.

  April 24: I had Mycroft tied in the same way to the same chair in the same room where they received their injuries, and had a series of people of varied heights and builds approach them from behind and bend as if to stab. Mycroft’s memory of footsteps and the angle of breath and blade verify that the assailant was between 165 and 174 cm in height and weighed between 90 and 105 kg, though a somewhat smaller person might feign this weight with bulky clothes.

  ANALYSIS (April 28): My most valuable clue is the fact that the assailant did not say anything to Mycroft, nor pause to “savor the moment.” A killer has no reason to hide their identity from a victim whom death will shortly silence. Many thousands of people want to kill Mycroft Canner out of revenge or hatred, but any of these would want to let the “monster” see the face of the avenger, and watch and lecture as the final moment came. This was, in contrast, a passionless execution, an attacker who wished to delete Mycroft as a [resource/factor], but did not care about the fact that this was the most hated criminal in the world. This rules out Hiveless Mardi Mojave, friends of the Mardi bash’ or of Apollo Mojave, the many persons morally agitated by Mycroft’s crimes, and any members and supporters of O.S. who might begrudge Mycroft’s part in its exposure. It also rules out Dominic, who might have stabbed Mycroft, changed their boots, put on a heavy overcoat, and returned to stab Mycroft again, intending that they survive and pass on a misleading story, but Dominic, who harbors such passionate envy of Mycroft’s privileged access to dominus Jehovah, would certainly have paused to enjoy the second stab as they enjoyed the first. Even a professional killer would, I expect, pause for reflection while executing Earth’s most famous amateur, and the possibility of a hired assassin is more thoroughly eliminated by the knife. A professional might choose such a clumsy and traceable tool in order to seem an amateur, but said professional would never, knowing the handicap presented by a single-bladed weapon, use the knife so clumsily as to inflict the comparatively minor injury which accounts for Mycroft’s survival.

  The attacker, then, is an amateur at homicide. They do not care about what Mycroft has done (which eliminates a large slice of the human race), but about what they will do, either the history they are writing, or their work for dominus Jehovah, the Emperor, etc. The attacker also reached Mycroft faster than Sniper could, whose followers Dominic had intentionally tipped off. Thus the assailant must either have been spying on Mycroft, or on Dominic, or must have had access to Sniper’s contacts, and been in a position to arrive faster than Sniper themself. Finally, the assailant was with Mycroft minutes before Mycroft’s contact with Sniper, on the same day Sniper disappeared. The assailant may well have continued to spy on Mycroft when Mycroft was with Sniper and Tully Mardi. It is therefore possible, though far from certain, that this assailant either authored, or at least witnessed, Sniper’s fate.

  I will therefore set a series of traps.

  Mycroft is my bait—having lured the attacker once, they may again. Since Mycroft’s degenerating mental condition necessitates intervals of enforced rest, I can easily arrange for said rest to take place in seemingly vulnerable situations, for example letting Mycroft roam through a fenced section of olive groves without visible guards, or taking them to a beach house where I can arrange a power outage. This bait may flush out my attacker.

  May 10: First trap. Isolated Mycroft on a farm. Informed no one. No sign of any attempt to kill or kidnap.

  May 11: Second trap. Released Mycroft in chaotic Alexandrian shopping district. Informed no one. No sign of any attempt to kill or kidnap.

  May 12: Third trap. Released Mycroft in Alba Longa gardens, where they grew up. Informed no one. False positive when Mycroft dropped off surveillance, but it turned out to be a resurgence of Mycroft’s ‘younger self’ or ‘beast’ aspect. Recapture was comparatively smooth, and a good opportunity to test the remote tranquilizer robot. No sign of any attempt to kill or kidnap.

  ANALYSIS (May 12): I conclude that our assailant is probably not spying directly on Mycroft. This had seemed unlikely anyway, since, when the original attack took place, Dominic had taken Mycroft beyond the reach of the Emperor and the Commissioner General, so anyone who might still have been tracking Mycroft must have had access to unknown technology, or magic.

  Magic is opened as a possibility by Mycroft’s reference to a ‘crystal ball’ employed by Bridger in the rescue of Lt. Patroclus Aimer. This artifact, if it exists, must be in the possession either of Achilles Mojave or the Utopians�
��not reasonable suspects. [I have asked Achilles whether the artifact exists and, if so, whether I might use it in my investigation. They have not yet answered.]

  My next traps will be for anyone who might be spying on Dominic (we may posit a traitor among Dominic’s subordinates from Madame’s, among their associates at the Sensayers’ Conclave, or among the Mitsubishi). But this step must wait, since tomorrow is the day mandated by the Romanovan Senate for the Cousins, Mitsubishi, Humanists, and European Union to present their proposals for self-reform. Neither Dominic nor anyone spying upon them can be expected to pay attention to anything else for the next days.

  * * *

  This is Mycroft, reader. I must interrupt Martin to present May the thirteenth, that dawn of bated breath when a strangely quiet Senate watched the delegations come, much as the crew of a stranded ship, spotting white sails on the horizon, peers and prays as they wait for the stranger-vessel to inch close enough for the flag to show whether she brings salvation or death. Few mobs assembled, thanks to Papa’s diligence in what Censor Su-Hyeon still pretended was not martial law. Bash’es watched this crisis in their hushed living rooms, students in their dorms. Students felt the fear most, as the campuses, which should be—must be, for pity’s sake!—unspotted oases of self-creation were suddenly pierced by the elder generation’s failure. Can you hear it, reader? The tenuous thunder of their heartbeats? As the colleges and craft-schools which cluster on each campus stand empty, and cafeterias, which should be lively with talk of sport, flirting, and fiction, lie fear-locked and mute? In common rooms, clutches of friends and roommates, just congealing into nascent bash’es, watch the Senate vid-feed, and learn to fear the Adulthood Competency Exam. Why fear? Because, reader, when this bright new generation earns the right to shed their minor’s sashes, they should have ten paths before them: seven Hives, three Laws. But, after today, which options will remain of that palette of brave, alluring paths that you, our elders, promised us—a palette you now change?

  The Cousins’ draft did not disband the CFB. Instead it garlanded it with compromise. In their proposal, the Transitional Congress created by Jehovah’s interim constitution would become a permanent Parliament, letting the Cousins join Europe and the Humanists in aping the geographic nations’ old faith in the tyranny of voters. Kosala and Jehovah had managed to preserve the Cousins’ infinite suggestion box, but it would henceforth be processed by topical committees specializing in different issues: education, sanitation, entertainment, whose recommendations would be passed on to the Parliament as well as to the Board. This left the whole Hive much more a generic government, and much less like itself. One could smell political parties forming too, as Lorelei Cook strided beside Bryar Kosala across the Senate floor, receiving approving applause from the sixteen out of the thirty-nine Cousin Senators who wore the brightly colored mismatched socks which symbolize the unstructured childhood Cook’s “Nurturists” paint as the antithesis of the set-set process. Cook’s proud, predatory stride made she and Kosala seem dangerously like co-Chairs. Heloïse was Kosala’s antidote, Heloïse who trotted behind the Chair, angelic in a wrap of baby blue, and such the darling of the media that, these days, she almost fills the gap left by Sniper and fallen Ganymede. Kosala used her perfectly. Nurturist ringleader Lorelei Cook had traded much to get Kosala to agree to let it be Cookie, not Kosala, who set the reform draft in Speaker Jin Im-Jin’s hands, but few noticed the gesture, since what eye or camera would linger on Kosala’s rival when we had a real princess to feast upon?

  With Apollo as my witness, I swear that acting Chief Director Dominic Seneschal wore, as he marched down the aisle, a full Mitsubishi suit, black with a motif of summer maple leaves in white and red, and not a hint of his usual French finery. The bloated crate of papers which passed for the Mitsubishi reform draft addressed such tangled minutiae of their corporate bylaws that a full day with Censor Su-Hyeon and Kohaku Mardi has not helped me unravel their import. Each Member, or ‘shareholder’ as Mitsubishi documents term them, will, as before, receive one ‘share’ (vote) for existing and another for each unit of property, small properties providing a single vote and vast estates vast power. As before, minor shareholders will commit their votes to Managers (who must receive minimum of 1,000 votes to qualify), who in turn commit theirs to Electors (minimum 100,000 votes), who commit theirs to Executives (10,000,000 votes). Among these last, the nine who command the most votes (over a billion each) become Executive Directors, with the Chief Director’s throne (desk) passing to that supreme powerbroker who manages the most. What are the changes, then, if all this stays the same? The draft affects, among other things, the ratio of property to votes, the relative vote-value of different kinds of property, and the standardized exams which qualify Mitsubishi members for the Manager, Elector, and Executive tracks. Such changes to the minutest texture of the Hive might, like a field transformed from clay to black earth, yield wondrous new crops, or it might produce the same thorned weeds that birthed the Canner Device. I do not know how to predict which, nor does a nervous Romanova.

  The ancient European Union is as accustomed to self-reform as a maple to dropping its leaves, but this was different. This named an Emperor, modeled on the MASONS, to “approve but not appoint” the popularly elected Prime Minister, and to “stand above” the European Parliament, Council, and Commission “as their guide, governor, and conscience.” All the old institutions would continue: the European Council composed of the heads of member nation-strats, the European Commission elected one from each member nation-strat, the Members of Parliament elected proportionally from European Members, and the Prime Minister shepherding the cats. Even Europe’s signature idiosyncrasy survived, the policy that all nation-strat Members may vote for their Commissioner and MPs, even non-Europeans, so Blacklaw Chagatai can have her say in who should represent Mongolia, Achilles in our dear Greece, and France receives votes from Humans Ganymede and Ancelet, Mitsubishi Danaë, Utopian Voltaire, even the Blacklaws at Madame’s. The creation of a European Emperor was the only real change, proof that, when burned, human habit still trusts the legends of Augustus and Charlemagne over democracy. To this new throne, a more modest proposal might have nominated Isabel Carlos de Borbón, and some modern method for selecting his successor. Instead the draft named “the Bourbon Royal House of Spain,” one line, unlimited, forever. Those who remembered the Spanish dynasty’s generations of ceaseless and heroic public service cheered. Those who, like Martin, thought of Caligula and Commodus shuddered. Those who thought of not-yet-officially Crown Prince J.E.D.D. Mason armed for war.

  Humanist President Vivien Ancelet braved the Senate floor last and alone. “This is not a reform proposal,” he declared as he placed on the Speaker’s desk a sleek white packet, with the Humanist flag bright upon it, the six Olympic rings each paired with one flying V. “It is a defense of the current Humanist Constitution, which I and my fellows on the reform committee believe to be the best and soundest form of government ever created by the human species. As this report makes plain, there is no unsoundness at the heart of the Humanists. Rather an unsoundness in the times drove my predecessors to respond. If O.S. was an extreme means, it was not chosen selfishly. Those who used O.S. used it to preserve this age of peace and prosperity. I agree that O.S. and those who used it must now answer to Romanova’s law, but the Hive itself is not flawed for electing leaders who were so faithful to their mandate that they were willing to take painful steps to preserve World Peace. We all hope to move beyond depending on O.S., but, as we strive to do so, we should not throw away the proven stability and flexibility of the Humanist Constitution, we should instead fall back on it. This is not the moment to rashly reject the one institution which has done the most to protect the best age yet forged by humankind. It is the moment to use that institution as we forge a better one.”

  Screams across the House demanded that the Humanists be expelled from the Alliance at once for defying the Senate’s order to reform, and that Ancelet stand trial wit
h Prospero and Ganymede for “murders they condoned.” Speaker Jin Im-Jin, in his authority as Grandpa, made everyone shut up. “A proposal of no change is still a proposal. We will consider it as seriously as the others, and thank Human Ancelet for presenting it so articulately.” Jin then browbeat the Senate into voting to cool its heels a while, while experts evaluated the four proposals’ viability. If the Senate judges the changes sufficient to make these four unstable Hives stable again then all is well; if any proposal is rejected, then we will learn what happens when the Alliance declares a member Hive a danger to the human race, Nature, and the Produce of Civilization.

  And what about our students on their fear-hushed campuses, still facing their choice? The Cousins now feel much less unique. The Humanist refusal to reform feels like a heretic’s last refusal to recant before sentence is passed. The Mitsubishi too may evaporate, since there is no guarantee Romanova will accept their boggling and opaque proposal. Europe’s bulwark has been heritage, and the comfort of self-identity, which its nation-strats provide: “I am Irish,” “I am Canadian,” “I am Greek, and love the special sense of homecoming when I sit down to a meal with those who speak my tongue, and bake the bread my ba’pas baked. I want my nation-strat, my people, to have a voice in my Hive, and its laws which bind me.” Yet now the young Greek or Canadian hears that the European Council, and his Strat President within it, suddenly want to answer to the King of Spain? Uncomfortable. They are all uncomfortable now, these greater hives: the Cousins, Mitsubishi, Humanists, Europe, even the Masons with wrathful Death now at their helm. As for the minor Hives, Gordian, though safe and stable, is intimidating to those not raised Brillist. Utopia? One does not, when all paths seem steep, plunge lightly into thorny wilds. All Hives have oaths of allegiance, reader, but only one names such a frightening sacrifice: