by Ada Palmer
A secondary screen below DeLupa replayed the footage from Sniper’s visit: Madame’s regulars giddy with delight as they dressed their living doll, now as a captain, now as a duchess, now as a groom. An eye accustomed to the view could see that the Flesh Pit was different with Sniper in it, all dancing and banquet tables, a masked ball, racy, with its fair share of bare breasts and crude gestures, but nothing like an orgy. It hardly seemed like a brothel at all, just a Blacklaw-run themed nightclub, scandalous only for using ‘he’ and ‘she,’ while every client who might have been ashamed to be caught there had retreated to the inner rooms. In the hour before the great crash, millions across the globe had seen Madame’s great banquet hall through Sniper’s cameras’ eyes and decided it was a place they might try visiting, even booked a dinner there; they could not thereafter censure Spain’s choice of venues without feeling the tickle of hypocrisy.
“The message we got wasn’t from the President,” Sniper answered, “it was faked by Casimir Perry. It was a setup. Perry wanted that meeting exposed, and O.S. too. They ordered me to go to Madame’s, and they ordered us to make the Harper Morrero hit knowing Papadelias was watching.”
Lesley frowned. “But Perry’s guilty too.”
“I know, but Perry doesn’t seem to care.”
“And what about the presence of Mycroft Canner at the meeting?” It was the reporter on the screen who asked first, but Ockham and Lesley wondered too: if even the Prime Minister would betray them, so might I.
DeLupa huffed. “The Emperor still insists that the Lex Familiaris forbids any public discussion of Mycroft Canner’s sentence, but I agree, an explanation is in order. Don’t forget, the victims of the Canner Spree were all influential people themselves: two Familiares, a leading Senator, Faust’s successor-designate…”
Even the reporter paled. “Are you suggesting the Canner murders were part of this same conspiracy?”
“I can’t comment on that, but if Canner was summoned there then someone at that meeting, probably Caesar, was wondering the same thing.”
Lesley’s hands clenched hard around her ba’sibs’. “If they blame us for Mycroft Canner there won’t just be a trial, there’ll be mobs and torches.”
Sniper scowled. “Smells like Vice President DeLupa can’t wait to drop the ‘Vice.’”
Lesley flexed her toes. “¿Should that be our next hit then?”
“¿What?”
“We still have the cars for a few hours, I’m sure Sidney and Eureka can work up a list of targets that would calm things down.”
“¡You can’t be serious!” The words came through the lab door, which Cato Weeksbooth had cracked open just enough to let the others see a sliver of white coat, wild hair, tears. “¿You’re going to keep going? ¿Now? ¡It’s over! ¿Can’t you see? ¡It’s over! ¡The world knows! ¡And they hate us! ¡And they’re finally going to tear us down like we deserve!” Cato’s throat was too sob-sore to scream. “¡People don’t want this! They don’t want us to keep going. They don’t want the world to be dirty like this. ¡They want it to stop! It’s not just Ockham who should stand trial, it’s everyone: Sniper, Lesley, Eureka, Sydney, me, the President, Andō, every Humanist who’s ever put a name down on the Wish List, everyone. It’s over. ¡Let it end!”
Sniper’s black eyes met Ockham’s. “¿May I handle this?”
“¡Don’t come near me!” The lab door vibrated as trembling Cato held it across him, like the shield of a novice hoplite, fearing he will make the phalanx fall. Such an unkind mistress Science is, her branches so infinite, each subspecialty demanding a lifetime and a lab to even scratch the surface. Cato has been Science’s True Disciple all his life, yet does she bless him now with knowledge enough to cobble a gun from the trash in his dustbin and defend himself? “Please, Lesley, they’ll listen to you, please, I’m sure you understand. We’re the last remnant of something dirty that’s been keeping the world on this track instead of something better. It’s time we died out.”
Sniper again to Ockham: “¿May I?”
“It’s your decision now, Ojiro Cardigan Sniper, Thirteenth O.S.”
With a nod of respect to its predecessor, Sniper sprang with full Olympic speed, ripped Cato from the doorway’s haven, and pinned him to the ground.
“¿You think you’re different from the rest of us?” it pressed, seizing Cato’s black hair in its right fist. “¿You think you’re less guilty than the rest of us because you didn’t want to do it? ¿Because you felt bad all these years? ¿Because we forced you? ¿You think you’re innocent just because you would finish the program and then hide under your desk and cry and wait for me to come and push the button? That makes you the worst of us. Prospero, Lesley, me, we did this because we think it’s right. We chose it. We believe in it, saving lives, helping the world. ¡You thought it was wrong and you did it anyway! Two hundred people you’ve killed, Cato, you, not the rest of us, you with your poisons, and your accidents, and the science you love so much. You could’ve ended it any time. You didn’t.”
Salt crusts would not let Cato fully close his eyes. “I still can.”
Even injured, Sniper’s left arm was not too numb to feel Cato reach for something in the depths of his lab coat pocket. Sniper seized Cato’s wrist and twisted. “You know the penalty for pulling a weapon on—” It stopped short as Cato’s fingers slipped, and a jar with one coarse white pill rolled out across the floor.
“¡Coward!” Sniper cried, its voice black. “Oh, no you don’t. You’re going to live through this, Cato. You’re going to live to see what the consequences are when it all ends like you pretend you always wanted.”
“¡Cardie! ¡Please! ¡I just want it to be over!”
“It’s Ojiro now,” Sniper corrected sternly, “and it won’t be over.” Twisting Cato’s arm, Sniper dragged the sobbing Mad Science Teacher to his feet and steered him back into the lab, where festive flashing screens stood ready to weave more murder. “This is beginning, Cato, not ending, and you don’t get to run away.”
A bin of scraps and string and other bric-a-brac standing by for quick inventions supplied tape strong enough to strap Cato’s hands behind him.
“¡No!” Cato wriggled like a scooped-up puppy, protest without real hope of escape. “Cardie—Ojiro—Don’t make me, I can’t face—”
“¿The Utopians?” Sniper supplied, cold. “¿Afraid they’ll treat you as a traitor? ¿Letting them think of you as almost one of them all these years? ¿Or is it your students you can’t face? ¡When they find out what your science was really for!”
The words, more than Sniper’s grip, forced Cato to the floor. “This isn’t what it’s for,” he whimpered. “It shouldn’t be. It should be for the future, for Space, and Mars, and medicine, and talking to dolphins, and finding what the universe is made of. That’s what I should have been, but I can’t look at a spool of tape without thinking how to hide poison in the glue, or plant a pathogen in the fibers. ¡You made me into this!”
Sniper grunted, its injured shoulder straining as it strapped Cato methodically to a table leg. “We’re all living weapons, Cato. That’s why humans are born with fangs and claws. You can have a few hours to think about your choice.”
“¿Choice?” Cato flexed to test his bonds. “You’re not leaving me any choice. You never have.”
Sniper straightened. “I am this time, Cato. That’s your punishment: you get to choose. You can stay here, and stand trial, and see how sympathetic your precious public is when they hear your sob story about how you never wanted to commit mass murder, or you can come with me, and keep doing what you’re so good at doing, to protect the world now that it needs us more than ever.”
“It never needed us.”
“It did. You know it did. And it does now. You may not care about the Humanists, but you can’t honestly believe this mess won’t touch Utopia. Once Ockham’s arrested, Utopia will take over our cars. ¿Do you think the world won’t see that as a coup? They helped the police unmask us, that
’s three billion very angry Humanists, Mitsubishi, and Europeans against half a billion Utopians. ¿You really want to sit back and trust it’ll end well?”
Cato shivered like a fly in a web. “They’re not involved. They’re clean. This is our sin, everyone’s but theirs. The world can’t turn around and attack the only innocents. ¿Can they?”
Sniper fished a rag from the invention bin and wound it into a gag. “I don’t expect you’ve got the guts to bite out your own tongue, but I don’t have time to babysit you, and I’m not taking the risk.”
“¡I’m not what the world needs!” Cato cried. “The world needs a real mad scientist, someone who could concoct something to save everyone, some world-saving wonder, not just death. If I were that—”
“You’re not.” Sniper forced the gag between Cato’s teeth. “I’ll be back by dawn. Have an answer ready: stay with me in O.S. and save the world, or rot.”
I CANNOT SAY THE SIXTH DAY EVER REALLY ENDED, BUT HERE, WITH DISASTER’S BREATH UPON THE WIND, THE SLEEPLESS EARTH SPUN ON TO THE SEVENTH AND LAST DAY OF MY HISTORY.
CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH
The Most Important Person in the World
We reach at last March the Twenty-Ninth of the Year 2454. The birds of Cielo de Pájaros still teemed that morning, numberless as spirits over the rings of glass roofs which studded the mountainside’s descent toward an Ocean black and barely crusted with the gold of infant dawn. Seven days had passed since Martin Guildbreaker and Carlyle Foster had made their first approaches to the Saneer-Weeksbooth bash’. Today it was Papadelias who came with Martin, with others behind them, police uniformed in Romanovan blue, who marched with reluctant awe across the bridge which gave Bridger his name. You did not know that, did you, reader? In childhood all names were ‘-er’ for him, Stander, Looker, Aimer, Croucher, Canner, even Saneer, so, dwelling as he did beneath a bridge, Bridger. It is a name which, like all good names, means nothing. I hope you will keep calling Jehovah ‘Jed Mason,’ reader. An empty name is healthier.
Martin and Papadelias separated on arrival, each taking a squad to cover the two bash’house entrances, the Commissioner General taking Thisbe’s door in the trench below, while the Mason took the front. His hand shook as he activated the intercom.
“This is Mycroft Guildbreaker, acting for Romanova. I am here for Ockham Saneer.”
“Is the world about to end?” the master of the house called back. “If not, leave. I have eight hundred million lives to oversee.”
Martin breathed deep within his square-breasted Mason’s suit. “I’m afraid the sky is falling this time. Ockham Prospero Saneer, by order of the Universal Free Alliance I am here to place you and all members of your bash’ under arrest for murder and conspiracy.”
The twelfth O.S. did not yet open his fortress door. “I am a critical officer appointed by the Humanist government, and charged by the Alliance with the maintenance of the cars. I may not leave my post unless relieved, nor may I permit anyone to interfere with my bash’mates’ work without an order from my President.”
“I know.” At Martin’s gesture the Utopians stepped into line of sight, nine of them, somber in muted shades of ancient temples and nanolabyrinths, with a reluctant set-set riding their triceratops. “These replacements have trained on the Utopian Transit Network. My orders are to have the two most vital of your bash’mates remain here under house arrest to help them with the transition, while you and the others are conducted to Romanova.”
One did not have to see Ockham’s face to sense his frown. “Utopians are a strange choice.”
The Mason swallowed hard. “The Humanist backup facility by Salekhard was destroyed in an explosion late last night. There are two survivors of the backup crew, both in hospital.”
Even Ockham required some moments to digest that. “You realize this cannot be coincidence.”
“It was revenge,” Martin confirmed. “The perpetrators already confessed. They were the bash’ of a Brillist killed in a car crash, and attacked the Salekhard backup facility with a homemade incendiary device. If your bash’house weren’t in a major population center, they would have targeted you, too.”
A pause. “Which Brillist?”
“Giller Edison.” Martin smiled slightly. “Do you remember all their names?”
The door opened at last. This is the moment you should remember, reader, not, as the news replayed so many times, Ockham marching with hands bound behind him, the police escort fighting back the sea of hysteria that crowded around his jail. You must have seen that video, rioters pelting the silent prisoner with screams and tomatoes, like a so-called witch dragged as scapegoat to the gallows by the thirsty mob. That was not Ockham Saneer, but what we made of him, to our collective shame. Here, this is Ockham, standing in his trophy hall like the guardian statue outside an abandoned temple, facing vandal and storm with dignity. His clothes were his favorites, comfortable and alive with doodles, and the steel and deerskin of his boots were polished brighter than even I could make them. His belt he now removed, the holster with it, holding the weapon out for Martin to accept.
“I recognize that your preparations for my relief are sufficient, and your authority legitimate. As of 22:21 UT today I have been relieved. From this point I may do nothing without orders from my Hive.”
Martin took the surrendered gun with reverence, then signaled his men to storm the house and capture all within. Ockham waited silent, stretching his wrists and shoulders to prepare for hours in cuffs.
“Praeses!” called one of the police, a Cousin herself but habituated to the Latin title Masons use for a polylaw of Martin’s pedigree. “Cato Weeksbooth is in here, gagged and tied to a table leg.”
“Injured?”
“Doesn’t seem to be. We’ve also secured Eureka Weeksbooth and either Kat or Robin Typer, we can’t tell which. No sign of anyone else on this level or the upper floor. No resistance entering the computer areas below.”
Martin looked to his prisoner. “Why was Cato Weeksbooth tied up?”
Ockham met the Mason’s eyes but answered nothing.
“Where are the others?” Martin pressed. “The other Typer? Sidney Koons? Lesley Saneer? Thisbe Saneer? Sniper? Do you know?”
“Cato, Eureka, and a Typer should be enough to break in our replacements.” Ockham’s voice had an unfamiliar lightness, relaxation from a man whose work had never until now been done.
An old blood Mason can only sigh surrender before such dignity. “All’s secure up here, Papa,” he called over his tracker, “but five bash’members are still missing. How are you doing downstairs?”
“Give me time, Martin,” the Commissioner General wheezed back. “Some things have to be done subtly.”
It is a unique definition of subtlety that includes a squad of eleven well-armed guards in gas masks and a percussive charge to blast down Thisbe’s door, but perhaps Papa meant the subtlety of thought behind the execution. The instant the door shattered his force struck, like dancers pouring out into formation on a stage. They covered every corner of Thisbe’s room: the closet, the underbed, the inner door, and trained a bank of the finest, fastest stun guns on their target.
She was there, Thisbe, soft in her house clothes, black hair sparkling shower-wet as she leaned her elbows on the table, sipping her fresh-brewed oolong. “Gas masks?” Subtly, within her throat, she laughed. “You look like giant fleas with those stupid rubber noses.”
“No fast movements, Thisbe.” Papa’s voice sounded nasal through the filter of his mask, old technology which has needed little honing during our long peace. “Take your boots off slowly and set them on the table. You’re under arrest. The charge is murder.”
Her eyebrows twitched. “My boots?” Beneath the table, her toes played with each other, the landscapes traced on the metallic surfaces of her boots eclipsing each other like colliding layers of mirage.
“That’s where you keep it, isn’t it?” Papa accused. “It has to be.”
“Keep what?”
“Your ‘witchcraft.’ We found smelltrack chemical residue on Carlyle Foster’s clothes last night, and in the crashed car that killed Aki Sugiyama’s fiancé, and on the late Esmerald Revere. You’ve won two Oscars for driving crowds to tears, I can’t imagine suicide’s much harder. You made Cato Weeksbooth design the delivery system, I assume. Buttons in the toes?”
The witch smiled. “That doesn’t matter.”
“Take the boots off, Thisbe. Now.”
Gloves and guns creaked as the police tensed.
Thisbe swished her tea. “You realize this is a Masonic coup, right? Guildbreaker’s manipulated you so they can wrest the transit system out of Humanist hands.”
Papa nodded for his men to approach Thisbe, weapons primed. “I didn’t say anything about the transit system. You’re under arrest for the murders of Luca Cormor, Quinn Prichard, and Alex Limner.”
Now the witch flinched. “What?”
“Your ex-lovers. Three of them. You made them kill themselves, just like you did to Revere and almost did to Carlyle Foster. And you didn’t do it for O.S., either. I think you made them kill themsleves for fun. You like playing around with death, just like you like to play around with Mycroft Canner.”
Thisbe’s smile refreshed its darkness. “Jealous? Mycroft loves you too, you know. More than they love me, I think. Except when I make them love me more.”
The Commissioner General, who marks my every heartbeat through his tracker, stood his calm ground.
Thisbe stroked her teacup’s hot rim, smiling, as calm as if the weapons and guards were mere illusion. “None of this matters. Only one thing in the entire history of the world matters.” She locked her eyes on Papa’s. “You think I’d wait around here for you to arrest me if the world weren’t at stake? In the name of your oath of office as Commissioner General to protect and serve the peace and happiness of all humankind, I demand that you drop everything else and help me find the child named Bridger.”
