Seven Surrenders--A Novel

by Ada Palmer

“A relation of the late lamented Apollo. My condolences.”

  The vizor, at least, showed no flinch. “Thank you.”

  “You’re the one Cornel brought here to represent Utopia at Mycroft Canner’s trial, aren’t you? I didn’t recognize you with your coat switched on.” Her eye followed the simulated ants trailing their odysseys across her floor. “Apollo’s only been dead a few months. Did you Utopians really have so much invested in one person that you surrender now without trying anything else?”

  Mushi did not move. “Is one of your demands for our surrender that we reveal what other strategies we have tried against you? If so, I am instructed to demand equivalent information in return.”

  She stroked her cheek with a rosy nail. “You’re determined to play soldier to the end, aren’t you?”

  “I am not playing,” the Utopian replied. “Since you built your empire by exploiting play, I’m sure you realize that. What are your terms?”

  The poise and softness fell from Madame’s face all at once, like a storm’s last sheet of rain. “Fine. No playing. First, no resistance to my current or future conquests, or my Son’s.”

  Utopia: “Agreed.” Mushi sealed the bargain with a nod. “For your part, you will not try to dissolve or weaken Utopia, or encourage attacks against us, be they physical, legal, economic, propagandistic, or intellectual.”

  Madame: “I hope you’re not expecting me to actively protect you.”

  Utopia: “No, just that you agree not to attack us yourself, not to cause your conquests to attack us, and not to feed the general ill will against us; it is already strong enough.”

  That last touch made her smile. “True. Agreed, then. Second term, I want all your resources at my disposal.”

  Mushi’s response was instant. “We will not divert resources from Mars.”

  Madame sniffed. “I meant your people, not your money, the teams you hire out for contract work. When I ask for something I want your best, and promptly.”

  Utopia: “You want to hire us without payment?”

  Madame: “Without payment, without waiting, without questions, without objections, without receiving less than your best people, best artists, writers, designers, accountants, teachers, doctors, architects, the best of every field, whenever I ask, and with appropriate discretion. What you do for me is not to be shared or repeated.”

  Three breaths passed as silent debate flickered from Mushi’s vizor across the constellations which cocoon Utopia’s earthly empire. “We will complete specific quests. We will not proactively pursue your goals.”

  A slow laugh percolated in Madame’s throat. “I don’t trust anyone I did not raise myself to understand my goals. It’s your arts I want, not your people. I may ask you to make a gun for me, but it will be my own creatures who pull the trigger.”

  “Utopia does not accept commissions to build lethal weapons,” Mushi answered quickly.

  Madame: “It was just a metaphor.”

  Utopia: “Utopia does not make anything that can be adapted into a Harbinger.”

  Madame: “A what?”

  Utopia: “Nukes, CMWs, bioweapons, chainbombs, positron cannons, armed satellites…”

  She laughed as at a child. “Why would I need those when I have sex?”

  “You would be surprised how many innocent-seeming projects can be adapted into Harbingers. At times you may request something which, without your knowledge, borders on such arts. We reserve the right to refuse.”

  Madame fingered the lace-trimmed choker at her throat. “What God-fearing woman could say no to that? I hope everyone who hires you faces that same restriction.”

  Mushi would not step up to her taunt. “We should fix a cap on how many Utopians you may indenture to your quests at once. Shall we say—”

  “The cap will be the necessity of discretion,” she supplied, “that is to say, as many as I judge it safe to employ without the risk of others sniffing out the alliance between us.”

  Digital eyes narrowed. “You wish to shroud our surrender from the other Alphas? That is agreeable to us as well.”

  Her smile widened. “I thought it would be. Better for you if the other Six still think the freaks are operating in isolated ignorance, yes?” She waited, searching the bare quarters of Mushi’s face for shadows of an answer. “It’s better for me, too,” she continued. “Not a few of my gentlemen might have heart attacks if they heard I’d snared you, too.”

  “MASON already knows.”

  Her painted brows arched. “Did Cornel tell you to come here?”

  “No. MASON shared some information with us about the…” Mushi hesitates, uncertain how this grim and regal mother will react hearing her Son called by the honorable title of ‘The Alien.’ “About the Porphyrogene, and the various Alphas’ relationships with them. Or rather MASON confirmed some information. It was just therefore that we tell them our decision before we came to you. As for your proposal that we trust you to keep the number of Utopians you indenture to a shroudable level, we accept. Have you other demands?”

  She took a long breath. “I want hostages, two of your finest here at all times, and a further dozen I can summon at will.”

  A pause for consultation. “We will want to orbit them out in turns, shall we say five-year shifts?”

  “Acceptable, but I mean it when I say I want your finest. I want them to be brilliant, competent, with full access to your technology, the ability to translate your U-speak, many other indispensable traits. Have them be authors, artists, or inventors, too, hostages you’ll really value, I know how you hate losing authors and artists. And make them useful. They’re to serve while they’re here, servants and tutors for my Son. It isn’t right that He be tutored in the secrets of only six of seven Hives.”

  The vizor could not conceal a smile of pride. “Many of us fit that description, but we will find some hostages with skills likely to prove useful to you, and whose loss will hurt us deeply.”

  “I shall have Caesar make them Familiares Candidi.” Her smile swelled. “Caesar can be our neutral arbiter, to verify for me that those you send me are indeed as excellent and valuable to you as you pretend.”

  Utopia: “Agreed. In return we request full research access to Micromegas.”

  Madame: “I never expected such a graceless people to call Him by so elegant a name. That will be easy; as servants and tutors, you’ll have the fullest access.”

  Utopia: “Not just for the hostages, for our researchers. You had us in at the beginning.”

  Madame: “Your gynecologists you mean? Nothing but the best for my little Prince.”

  Utopia: “In recent years Headmaster Faust has been making efforts to block our access.”

  Madame: “Has he indeed? Well, I can’t blame him; such a Specimen has never walked the Earth, nor may again. If I ran Brill’s Institute, I’d never let Him leave, if I could help it, and I certainly wouldn’t let you near Him.”

  Utopia: “We will do nothing invasive, but we want to document their development. As you say, Micromegas may be unique in the scientific record.”

  Madame: “My great experiment.”

  Utopia: “We want to keep records in terms the world can understand, not just the Brillists.”

  Madame: “A full chronicle of my Masterpiece. You’ll share everything with me?”

  Utopia: “Of course, and publish nothing short-term without your permission. These records are for the future, not the present.”

  Madame: “Agreed, then, full access for research, within the limits set by His tutors. You mustn’t tire or trouble the Boy.”

  Utopia: “We will be careful. What is your next demand?”

  Madame’s swift fingertips tapped at the ebony chair arm, like the patter of a mouse. “That’s all I can think of off the top of my head. You have rather put me on the spot. I’ll want some time to think of more terms.”

  “A fortnight?” Mushi offered.

  “That would work. Come again in fourteen days. Meanwhile the agr
eement can stand as it is.”

  Utopia: “We have three more terms now.”

  Madame: “A most demanding surrender. Go on.”

  Utopia: “We require that you forbid Utopians from becoming members of your club, and that you discourage all Utopians from coming here, apart from the researchers and hostages. You will have them, no others.”

  Madame: “If you insist. If this surrender proves sincere, I’ve no further need to bring you in, and you tend to make other clients uncomfortable.”

  Utopia: “Forbidding and discouraging are different—we expect you to do both.”

  Madame: “Well observed. Agreed. What is your second term?”

  Utopia: “The Moon is off-limits to you and your creatures. Micromegas may visit if they wish, but not the others. You get the Earth, we get the Moon.”

  Madame: “You get the bare rock, I get the fertile one? That’s fine. What about Mars?”

  Utopia: “Since Mars won’t be ready for two hundred and fifty years, we can leave that to another generation to negotiate. We will not let you endanger the terraforming—”

  Madame: “I wouldn’t want to. That’s acceptable. What’s your third term?”

  Utopia: “We want the future.”

  She blinked. “That’s not a small demand.”

  “True, but you don’t care about it. You want to conquer the world to prove you can. You want your child to eclipse Augustus and Alexander. You want to show your enemies they were fools for throwing away the old weapons of sex and religion. You don’t care about establishing a dynasty. Two generations are as good to you as twenty. We want what comes after.”

  Madame frowned. “What does that mean in practical terms?”

  “We will not fight you or Micromegas for control of anything for the next hundred and fifty years. You will not interfere with our preparations for events thereafter.”

  “You mean Mars?”

  “I mean everything. It’s no more than the other Alphas have already granted. This world is content. The other Hives vie one with another for power and population, but a peaceful, happy Earth is utopia enough for them. The next step for humankind is left to us, and in return we share our practical inventions, let the others mass produce our cures and tools, and enjoy our art and stories, for Earth’s benefit. That is the agreement between us and other Hives, implicit but universal. It’s never been threatened before because power has been too diffuse for any few people to be in a position to change such an ingrained attitude. A global monarchy is different. We cannot sit back and let you take control until we are certain you will let our work continue.”

  “Your work for the future.” Madame’s shoulders tensed with the strength which makes the she-wolf fiercer when she has cubs to defend. “I have your word that your preparations won’t threaten my empire, or my Son’s?”

  “None of them are intended to, but if any do by accident you will have our full resources ready to help you reestablish yourself. You get the present. One hundred and fifty years, a long lifetime. Leave us the future.”

  She made them wait, Mushi and the others watching from their distant cities, though whether the prolongation was deliberate or deliberation I cannot guess. “Agreed,” she said at last. “Just two more petty things.”

  “What?”

  “Hand me your vizor, and address me as Madame.”

  “What?”

  “Address me as Madame. You haven’t yet. Even Caesar uses the title now, but you’re deliberately avoiding it, as if that keeps you clean. You’re not clean, any of you, not anymore. As for the vizor, I’m tired of being curious, all the rumors about what you keep hidden in there.” She extended an impatient hand. “A good servant would not make me wait.”

  She did wait, though, this calmly staring Matriarch, while debate sparkled across the constellations of Utopia as they felt the first tug of the yoke. “Just a moment, Madame. I need to evacuate it first.”

  “Evacuate? Oh!” Madame both winced and giggled as a platoon of Mushi’s ants emerged from the vizor, making a forced march back into the safety of hair and coat. “Yes,” she laughed, “and you shall tell the hostages when you send them that if any of your vermin so much as fright a lady beneath my roof, you’ll bring them here no more.” Her eye followed the last retreating ant into the depths of Mushi’s collar. “Are those robots or real?”

  “Both, Madame.” Mushi blinked hard as the vizor slid free. “I am instructed to remain as your first hostage. I do meet your requirements.”

  “Coming from the Mojave bash’ I trust you do.” Madame blew on the inside of the vizor before trying it, as if imagining that ants left dust. “I’ll have my maids prepare you a cell.” She smiled, gloating at the ambiguity which left Mushi guessing whether her hospitality would prove a cloister or a jail. “It’s normal!” She exclaimed as the vizor settled in place. I have Utopia’s permission to expose this secret, reader; it is sad to let the mystery die, but better that than let you think that all Utopians have their vizors engineered for war and combat, as Apollo did. “The world’s unchanged!” She gazed about at arm, walls, ceiling. “I expected everything would look like your coat.”

  Mushi squinted against the bare air’s unfamiliar cold. “We would hardly work so hard for our utopias if we let ourselves live in the illusion that they are already real.”

  She smiled at that. “What are all these floating tags on things?”

  “Select one to zoom in. They’re things you can fix or improve: stains or damage, litter, blank walls waiting for art, subjects for research, mysteries, hazards to life or health, clumsy technology waiting for a better alternative.”

  She lifted a cup from the nursery table, examining whatever suggestions the vizor made for its improvement. “You see this all the time?”

  “Unless I’m watching a movie or something.”

  “It would drive me insane. Do all Utopians see this?”

  “Almost all. It’s our Infinite To-Do List. It staves off complacency. It’s not easy to maintain a race of vokers in such a comfortable world.”

  Madame’s eyes fell on Mushi, dazzled by the calls for medical research and coat improvements which, as she describes it, glittered in the air like fireflies flashing their quick prayers for attention. “It would have been Apollo who was sent for these negotiations, wouldn’t it?” she asked softly, “if they’d lived.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “MASON would never have let Apollo set foot here.” Mushi’s bare eyes faltered as they tried to meet hers. “Besides, Apollo was too passionate. Their description of the future would have been too moving for you to be content to give it up.”

  * * *

  「Yes, Chief Director. 」

  Now only Tōgenkyō remains, reader, Asia’s compromise capital, the lotus blossom towers with their inner sides alight with commerce’s neon fire. Tonight their outer mirrors had more to reflect than Indonesia’s seas. Lights of a thousand colors filled the streets between the petals. The day’s disasters, the exposure of O.S., Sniper’s attack on precious ‘Tai-kun,’ the exposure of the Anonymous, the flames at Parliament, all had fueled these Mitsubishi mobs. As sunset crept on in Romanova and midnight’s black in Indonesia, the raging thousands brought their own lights to Tōgenkyō’s streets, a few torch-warm, most electronic, cold as moon-bright ghosts. The blood they screamed for hid above, seven of the nine Mitsubishi Executive Directors sheltering in their administrative headquarters in the greatest lotus’s central stamen spire.

  “Where are the other two?” It was Korea’s Director Kim Yeong-Uk who brought English into the room. The five Chinese Directors had been conferring in their own tongue, even the representatives of Beijing and Shanghai united for once by fear as all watched the dance of the police lights trying to shift the crowds below. Greenpeace’s Director Bandyopadhyay was nowhere to be seen. As for Japan, Chief Director Hotaka Andō Mitsubishi sat at his desk, eyes closed as he concentrated on editing the files which flicked acros
s his lenses, alone.

  “Bandyopadhyay went to Delhi.” It was the younger of Shanghai’s directors, Wang Baobao, who answered, good at hiding fear. “They’re trying to rally the ex-Greenpeace bigwigs and convince people of their innocence. I hear it isn’t working.”

  “And Kimura?” Kim Yeong-Uk glanced to the empty chair where the second Japanese Director should have sat.

  “They took their own life.”

  Mortality’s hush fell across the room, the Directors watching as chunks like bites disappeared from the churning star-sea of rioters below: police releasing gas.

  “I hear there are hundreds dead down there.”

  “There’s no way to tell yet.”

  “How many of the dead are Japanese?” Kim Yeong-Uk asked it, and stared at the Chinese directors, surveying the too-festive spring colors creeping across their Mitsubishi suits: maple leaves sprouting from black stripes, geometric patterns maturing into cranes or flying fish. China’s great faction leaders, Wang Laojing of Beijing and Lu Yong of Shanghai, had words only for each other; the rest had words for none.

  Chief Director Hotaka Andō Mitsubishi did not look up from his work. “I imagine almost all those dead are Japanese.”

  Kim Yeong-Uk nodded. “I’m sorry this happened while you were Chief Director, Andō. You worked hard and did well. This isn’t Japan’s fault.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Will you follow Kimura?”

  Kim Yeong-Uk says Andō smiled, as if grateful for the confidence shown by this bluntness. “No.”

  “But it is your fault, Chief Director.” It was Wang Baobao who said it, looking to Lu Yong for approval, but his elder was too wary. He was not. “Bad enough the Japanese made the Canner Device, but, if you hadn’t gotten mixed up with Ganymede and that Merion Kraye, none of this would have happened. Now you’re not even going to take responsibility for it?”

  Still Andō did not glance up. “If you’d care to ‘take responsibility,’ ask maintenance to show you how to unlock that window. I have work to do.”

  Lu Yong silenced Wang Baobao with a frown, and stepped toward the Chief Director’s desk. “We need to plan. Now. All of us together.” He added the last loudly as the others started to whisper again.