by Isaac Petrov
The crowd is silent, mesmerized. Some exchange glances, others simply listen, eyes and mouths lost in the sky.
“EIGHT. Aws Head kills your parents!”
A murmur begins to rise from the crowd, and then voices try to hush them.
“SEVEN. Aws Head kills you!”
Alwin is gesticulating something back at the crew behind the scenes.
“SIX. Goah loves your life!”
Marjolein is staring at Alwin, eyes drenched in panic, shouting inaudible words.
“FIVE. Aws Head is demon-ridden!”
Marjolein runs to the side of the stage and stops, confusion dashing across her face—or is it dread? She runs back.
“FOUR. The Pontifex kills you!”
Ximena and many students across the amphitheater gasp loudly at the words. The Pontifex? That can’t be right! Ximena sees a blur of movement in the GIA section out the corner of her eye, but she is too enthralled with Marjolein’s reaction to look.
“THREE. Cleanse aws Imperia!”
Aws Imperia?! Ximena shakes her head in disbelief as she watches Marjolein fall to her knees, defeated, tears of humiliation in her eyes.
“TWO. Behead aws Head!”
Some sort of tumult appears to be breaking out in the auditorium. A glimpse down on the stage reveals Censor Smith on his feet, talking to Miyagi. Ximena turns her attention back to Marjolein. Her eyes—wet, bloodshot—are eagerly scanning the crowd now. She is searching for something—for someone.
“ONE. Burn the Joyousday!”
Marjolein finds Edda’s eyes. And Edda is staring straight back at her, smug, defiant. Ximena can feel her exultation sending shivers up her spine.
Willem is gaping at his daughter. There is fear in his eyes. No, not fear. Terror.
“HAPPY NEW CENTURY!”
“… excuse me, they are telling me… Yes. Radio stations from Gallia, Scandinavia and Russia are joining us as well. The whole Hanseatic Imperium is listening—we are broadcasting now Imperium-wide! To our new listeners, welcome. This is Alwin Geissberger, transmitting live the events unfolding right in front of my eyes.
“A brief summary for our new listeners: this year Germania selected the colony of Lunteren for the traditional New Year’s Festival. Lunteren is a fishing colony in the West coast of Germania. I have the dubious honor of hosting this year’s broadcast, transmitting right now live from Lunteren’s Forum. The Quaestor of Lunteren, Marjolein Mathus, was the main influence behind the selection of the colony for this year’s Festival, and also the chief organizer of the ceremony. A very capable woman, I believe, although after tonight’s events, her competence might sadly be called into question. This is what happened: we heard the traditional blessings from Consul Levinsohn and Quaestor Mathus, but when the Quaestor was about to perform the ritual countdown, a rogue radio emission took over. Yes, you heard correctly. An illicit emission of the final century countdown was transmitted in full—country-wide!
“I’m still in shock at the words. Johan, have we got a recording already? … No? … Aha, I’m told that a recording is being retrieved, but we need a few more minutes to prepare it. Johan, please call in Fulda to see if our free-press license covers us on this one. Might be a problem. I hope we can replay it for our listeners. It was terrifying! The countdown was mocked with blasphemy, calls against the Joyousday and even, Goah forgive me, against our Pontifex and aws Head.
“The rogue transmission appears to be the work of professionals, considering the level of sophistication and the precision involved. Our regular transmissions were jammed, while the rogue transmission entered the repeater’s network. It was transmitted to all stations in Germania.
“Excuse me, a report is coming through… What? … Where, here? … Attention, listeners. A fresh development. Apparently the Joyousday House is on fire. I repeat, the Joyousday House in Lunteren is on fire! More information, one second please… Yes… Okay, apparently the fire started at… midnight? Really? What a coincidence. I guess my listeners are also wondering if this has anything to do with the rogue broadcast. The timing matches. And the symbolism… Wait, more details are coming in… Okay, everything is under control, firefighters are on site. It’s an isolated building, no spreading danger. No casualties, the only guard was found sleeping outside, possibly drunk. But the building appears to be irreparably damaged. What a terrible loss for Lunteren. The roof apparently went up in flames and eventually collapsed. The building is still burning. This despicable…”
Twenty-Nine
The Lure of Propaganda
Ximena feels her blood warming up with every word Censor Smith throws at Professor Miyagi. Thank Goah the Grand Censor is here! Somebody has to confront the professor and his one-sided version of truth.
The historical Edda, a hero of hers since she was first told her story by Abuelo when she was a child, would never have used such words against aws Imperia. The rot Edda fought against was in Hansasia, Goah’s Mercy, not in Townsend! What a cheap propagandistic trick—so transparent!—to alter the historical narrative and misuse a revered historical figure to attack a rival regime.
Ximena feels her cheeks warm at the intensity of her indignation. Her disappointment. She worshiped this man, this giant among historians, the great Evangelist of History. He represents the peak of what she aspires to be one day. With all his authority and prestige, with the full weight of the oh so illustrious University of Lunteren-Deviss, with all his talk of cold facts and truth, with all his obsessive attention to historical context and detail, how could he stoop so low as to actually falsify such a well-known account as the Century Blasphemy?
“Please, Censor Smith,” Miyagi says, raising his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “You are blowing things out of proportion.”
Censor Smith is walking across the stage towards Professor Miyagi. “You are using misleading historical records,” he shoots an accusing finger at Miyagi, “in an academic seminar no less, and it is me who is blowing things out of proportion? Unheard of!”
Miyagi keeps waving his hands down, and speaks in a calm, soothing tone, “I assure you, Censor Smith, that was the true Century Blasphemy, word by word.” He looks up at the white-and-blue section of the amphitheater where half of the GIA students are standing, hands in the air, shouting words of support for their Censor, while the other half exchange words of outrage. “People, there is nothing controversial here, the sources are plentiful, and well preserved.”
“Which sources?” Censor Smith asks with a challenging tone.
“The radio broadcast, of course. We have independent, matching copies from the archives of several stations across the world.”
“You mean across Hansasia.” Censor Smith says the word like it were suspect.
“I’m sure you have your own reproductions stored in Townsend University’s archive, but of course I’ll send you ours for good measure.” Miyagi turns to Ank. “Could you please take care of—?”
“We don’t need your tampered recordings,” Censor Smith says before the Neanderthal woman has time to confirm.
“Tampered?” Miyagi’s eyes widen in disbelief. He seems lost, without words, his eyes locked on the Censor’s.
“And very deftly too. Changing just the one word or the other, very tactical; and effective. You made it look like the Century Blasphemy was directed against the entirety of aws Head, and not just the corruption surrounding Marjolein Mathus.”
Miyagi is replying something, but Ximena cannot hear his words anymore from up here, since all students, even the Lundev section around Ximena, are now throwing loud opinions over each other. The auditorium has split into a cacophony of dozens of heated discussions.
“Hey, GIA,” Sky—the pretty South Asian girl on the front bench below Ximena—has turned and is shouting straight at her. “What’s the mensa talking about?”
Ximena still feels too aggravated to speak. Especially to a sassy Lundev brat that dares to argue about the civilizing of the Americas with Cody, an American sc
holar through and through! How daring ignorance can be.
“Her name is Ximena,” Mark says. “And Censor Smith is saying that Professor Miyagi falsified the Century Blasphemy.”
“I know what he said,” Sky says, frowning at him. “And I want an explanation.”
“Perhaps you should ask him yourself,” Mark says. “Leave her alone.”
“I don’t need you to protect me,” Ximena says with an icy voice. “Who do you think you are?”
“Ouch!” Sky says, and laughs out loud. “Nice one, GIA!”
Mark blinks at Ximena. “Sorry,” he finally says. “Didn’t mean to—”
“The Century Blasphemy,” Ximena is leaning now forward, staring down at Sky, “the true one, was explicitly—”
“The true one?” Sky replies mockingly. “So you’re also saying that Professor Miyagi is bullshitting us?”
“Let her speak, Sky,” Mark shouts, and gives Ximena an encouraging nod. “I also want to understand.”
Ximena glares at him, and then at Sky. “I don’t think you really want to hear the truth.”
Sky snorts and rolls her eyes.
“I do,” Mark says. “I really do. Please.”
“Fine,” Ximena sighs, and gathers her thoughts. “Everybody knows—or so I thought—that the Century Blasphemies were a call against the Joyousday, not against aws Imperia.”
“Well—” Mark begins.
“Let me finish!” Ximena says, a warning in her eyes. “Of course there were also lines in the countdown that condemned aws Head, since it is aws Head that administers the Joyousday. But the true Edda van Dolah only denounced the corrupted section of aws Head, not all of it!”
“Which corrupted part?” Sky asks from below. All the students in the immediate proximity are silent, following the conversation with great interest.
“The Hanseatic Imperium, of course!”
“The Hanseatic Imperium?” Sky says from below. “Edda didn’t give a shit about—”
Ximena ignores her. “There was this one line in the Century Blasphemy, in the true one, mind you, that said: ‘The Imperator kills you!’; and another one was even more explicit: ‘Cleanse aws Hansa!’”
“Aws Hansa?” Sky spreads her arms in an exaggerated gesture. “What are you talking about? Aws Hansa is not mentioned anywhere in the Century Countdown.”
“Not in the revisionist version we just heard!” Ximena says, her eyes continually jumping between Mark, Sky and the other listeners. “That’s precisely my point. And what does it say instead? It says: ‘The Pontifex kills you!’ Not the Imperator, no; the Pontifex, Goah’s Mercy! And instead of calling to cleanse aws Hansa from corruption, Edda here is apparently calling to cleanse aws Imperia!” She chuckles humorlessly, shaking her head in disbelief. “So minimalistic, so surgical. A couple of tiny changes in the wording, and suddenly Edda van Dolah is denouncing the entire aws Head hierarchy in the six Imperia of Goah, including Townsend!”
The listening students initially stare at her in silence, like they do not understand, or do not know how to react.
Mark finally clears his throat. “Please correct me if I’m wrong, Ximena. You are saying that Edda van Dolah was not really opposed to aws Head?”
“Not to the true aws Head, no!” Ximena shouts, standing. “Why would she be?! But look at her life,” Ximena gestures in the air as if there were a scene still floating there, “plagued by the corruption of Quaestor Mathus and the rest of Hansasia’s aws Head.”
“Hansasia?” Mark exchanges a glance with Sky.
“I mean Hansa, sorry. The Hanseatic Imperia.”
“I see.” Mark nods slowly and looks again down at Sky.
Ximena gives out a sigh of exasperation. She doesn’t like how Mark is ganging up with that bitch against her. “How do you think the Dreamwars even began?!” Ximena’s voice is more urgent now; louder, shriller. “It was all that corruption, Goah’s Mercy, spreading like cancer across the colonies of Germania and then to the rest of the Old World! Van Dolah’s true fight was obviously against the corruption surrounding her!”
Sky snorts loudly. “Somebody’s been fed a large scoop of juicy BS.” Again, her eyes meet Mark’s.
Raw, burning rage pumps up through Ximena, making her stand at once and lock an accusing finger at the smug girl below. Her legs shake with adrenaline, her heart pumps hatred. “How dare you!”
Mark puts a friendly hand on Ximena’s shoulder, encouraging her to sit.
She jumps away. “Don’t touch me!” she says, glowering at him, and walks briskly away, making all students in her path stand hastily to let her through.
She doesn’t take her eyes off her immediate next step, but the enraged chatter storm that had engulfed the students is waning with every step she takes. She feels the gaze of the whole auditorium falling on her like a judge’s hammer.
After a while nobody speaks, as she keeps pushing her way through rows of students, her blush surely visible to all. She doesn’t know where to look. First at her feet as she paces along the narrow bench, then at the faces of those standing to let her pass as she mutters words of apology, then at the other end of the amphitheater where she is headed, then at her feet again. Oh, Goah, it’s taking forever!
She finally arrives at her destination, amid the white-and-blue section of the amphitheater, and without a word, sits next to the wide-eyed Cody O’Higgin. The students next to them hastily adjust their position on the bench to make space for her.
A slow clapping makes its way from the stage. “Well done, Woman Epullan,” Censor Smith says.
Ximena raises her eyes to see him and Professor Miyagi side by side, staring at her. There is amusement in Censor Smith’s eyes, but in Professor Miyagi’s there is something else entirely, something hard to pin down.
“Somewhat melodramatic,” Censor Smith continues, “but I celebrate your return to your own people. This is a place of scholarly learning, after all, not of shameless socializing. I trust you agree with me, my dear professor?”
Miyagi keeps his gaze locked on Ximena for a few moments of silence. “This is a place of truth,” he finally says.
“Of course it is,” Censor Smith says with a chuckle. “But we are seeing here how relative truth really is, aren’t we?”
“Truth is not relative,” Miyagi says, his usual all-knowing smile gone now. “Truth is the fuel of science. Truth is the blood of our survival in an inhospitable universe.”
“Very poetic.” Censor Smith gives Miyagi a friendly pat on the shoulder. “I suggest we agree to disagree, like respectful colleagues, and move on. There is still plenty of material to go through, if I am not mistaken?”
Professor Miyagi draws a deep breath. “Yes,” he finally says. “Just one last comment to everybody, so that this distasteful moment doesn’t go to waste. People, please. You are scientists. Always analyze the evidence thoroughly—and skeptically. You are historians,” he points a finger at the crowd, that ends its wide sweep directly on Ximena’s face, “and prime prey to the favorite hunting sport of the powerful of all ages: propaganda. It is your professional duty to avoid the lure of propaganda. Especially you, Ximena Epullan.”
Me?! Ximena blushes at the explicit call out. All heads in the auditorium—every single one—turn to face her.
“Why me, Professor?” she asks, voice quivering from the sudden rush of adrenalin.
“That’s a good question,” Censor Smith asks. “What’s so special about Woman Epullan? Is it because she was sitting with your people?”
Miyagi purses his lips, still looking at her. But then, after a few moments, waves his hand with a casual, dismissive gesture. “Doesn’t matter. My point is, people,” he raises his voice, and sweeps his gaze across the entire audience, “that propaganda is like a recreational drug: it feels good, it feels right, but it eventually corrupts you, and kills you. So, keep on your toes, all right?”
“Well put, Professor,” Censor Smith says. “And for that exact reason, I am sure that
you understand that the last section we witnessed—the Century Blasphemy—cannot be published in the Goah’s Imperia of the Americas. Oh, why the long face?” He smiles amicably. “I’m not censoring it. Just enforcing a couple of edits for accuracy’s sake. Other than that, it is a splendid piece of work!” He laughs, pats Miyagi once more on the shoulder and returns to his seat on the bottom bench.
Ximena, still shaking slightly, is trying to rein in her breathing. She looks down at the stage and finds Professor Miyagi staring right back at her. And now, as she meets his gaze, she sees again that peculiar something in his eyes, but this time she recognizes it: disappointment.
An uncomfortable lightness spread inside Ximena’s guts, like her soul aches. She turns her look away and keeps her eyes on her lap, too fearful to meet anybody else’s glance. But her imagination pictures two beautiful blue eyes staring at her from across the amphitheater. She wants to believe they would look sad—perhaps even hurt. But she doesn’t dare raise her head, in fear of meeting only more disappointment.
Professor Miyagi is once more pacing the stage. “We’ve gone through a lot of material, people,” he says, his voice loud and serene. “The Leap-Day Reformation is underway. With the Century Blasphemy we are finally witnessing the first real-world effects of First Contact on the complacent civilization of Goah’s Gift. Not unlike Pizarro’s fateful arrival to the coasts of Peru, Edda van Dolah and Aline Speese have just left a sour taste in the government’s mouth, a taste impossible to ignore. And just like Pizarro, Edda is far from done.”
Miyagi stops pacing and looks up at the benches. There are many tense faces in the amphitheater. Way too many. Both the white-and-blue robed students and their more colorful Lundev counterparts look like they have eaten something too unpleasant to admit.
With a sudden, loud clap, Miyagi says, “I think it is a good time for a short recess, what do you say, people? We need to calm our nerves, I think. So I’m going to ask Ank to wake you up, all right? Let’s meet back here again in… fifteen wake minutes? Perfect. Use the time wisely, people! Take a nice, relaxing leak, drink a hot glass of milk, whatever you need to chill, all right? See you in a sec!”
