Too Like the Lightning (42 page)

 

C
HAPTER THE
TWENTY-FIRST

That Which Is Caesar's

I am grateful, so grateful, tolerant reader, that you read on despite learning of my crimes. With your trust so freshly shaken, this may be the worst moment to disappoint you, but, alas, I must. For, as the first black hour of March the twenty-sixth catches me arriving in MASON's capital, what am I to do about the parts in Latin? Martin Guildbreaker, glaring over my shoulder as I write, insists Latin is only for Masons, and must not be translated. Yet what good is that when even Masons can barely understand? J.E.D.D. Mason does not speak Masons' Latin, He speaks something closer to Classical Latin, as strange for Masons as Homer to a modern Greek. I have promised to treat you, reader, as if you were a brother of our Eighteenth Century, so I should assume you read Latin, else I insult you, though I realize that is probably untrue. Martin will not let me make the Latin into English, but I shall at least translate J.E.D.D. Mason's Latin into modern Latin, so Masons may understand what Masons should.

(I have translated the Latin, but since I'm doing so in secret from both Martin and Mycroft, you'll have to bear with my mediocre skills.—9A)

I felt ease as the car set down in the Masonic capital, leaving at last the spectacle cities of Tōgenkyō and Cielo de Pájaros for a real city, organic and irrational. What city would you have chosen for your capital if you were the first MASON? You cannot have the oldest, Ur and Uruk, for most of Mesopotamia is still a Reservation after the Church War, and in the rest Nature's war wounds will take another century or two to heal. In Greece you would have to choose between Athens and Sparta, wisdom and strength, two assets which no Emperor can afford to privilege one over the other. Rome herself has been through too much to head another empire, and, if you used her, your successors could not then make use of her design in Romanova to such great effect. Vienna and Cusco are too fragile, Chang'an and Paris occupied, Istanbul and Kiev overbalanced by their more recent histories. You have only one choice, young Emperor, one city as imperial as you pretend to be.

“The Six-Hive Transit System welcomes you to Alexandria. Visitors are required to adhere to a minimum of the Masonic
Lex Minor
while in this zone. Visitors are reminded that Masonic Laws do not allow the ignorance plea. To review a list of local regulations not included in your customary law code, select ‘law.'”

As I climbed the ziggurat steps to Caesar's threshold, the guards saluted at the sight of my
Familiaris
armband. Why do I not wear the armband always visible, as Martin does? It would be too suspicious, reader. There are only so many
Familiares
in the world, and all but Mycroft Canner are accounted for.

Caesar's voice was only half thunder tonight. “Cur omnes agitati sunt? (Why is everyone agitated?)”

I had not expected to encounter MASON right away. He was in the frontmost meeting room, gray marble with heavy chairs around the central table, and the freshly published Seven-Ten lists spread across the screen-walls like maps of active battlefields. There is no room in Alexandria that is not as grim and awe-filled as most throne rooms, no doorway without its heavy marble lintel, no floor without its labyrinth of patterned stone, no window that does not look out over the glittering gardens of absolute wealth, or the glittering city that is its source. But this was not among the grander rooms, a modest space, used usually by aids,
Familiares,
Masonic Senators on business from Romanova, Guildbreakers doing Caesar's will. I know why he chose it. There is an awe that Cornel MASON holds for the
Domus Masonicus,
the same awe Martin holds, the same that young Cornel held before the throne was his. An awe like a priest's for his temple. I think this Caesar does not wish to taint the rooms where his predecessors sat—Aeneas MASON, Marcel MASON—with the presence of Mycroft Canner.

“Septem-Decem indices (Seven-Ten lists),” he grumbled. “Septem-Decem index modo est propagandulum! (A Seven-Ten list is just a little piece of propaganda.) Quid refert si Ganymedes Andōque haerent? (What does it matter if Ganymede and Ando are [in a tough/sticky situation]?) Cur perturbantur? (Why are they worried?) Cur etiam Anonymus perturbatur, et cur te tres illi lassant? (Why is even the Anonymous worried, and why are they exhausting you?)”

The Emperor was calm, strong as a man just risen from a healing bath when all around are battle-weary. His face as he gazed upon the lists had more the air of a philosopher studying some new phenomenon than of a worried king. Indeed, the only tension in him was his left hand, clenched behind him as he stood. I do not think Caesar is conscious of the habit, but he always clenches his black-sleeved hand behind him when I enter a room, as if he could not otherwise restrain it from sealing on my throat.

“Nescio, Caesar (I don't know, Caesar),” I answered.

He gave me a stony glance. “Non nihil scies, Mycroft. (You know more than nothing, Mycroft.)”

I kept a careful distance from the Emperor, standing by the wall where he and his guards could watch my movements. “Apollo dicebat (Apollo Mojave used to say),” I answered, “ut Franciscus Quesnaeus sententiam Mitsubishorum praesentavisse (that François Quesnay previewed Mitsubishi thought). Sugiyama Apollini nunquam incidit, sed aliquem qui similiter Appollini cogitat gravissime considerendum est. (Sugiyama never met Apollo, but anyone who thinks similarly to Apollo should be given the greatest consideration.)”

The Emperor was pacing, like a lion too long in its pen, his limp conspicuous. I have Cornel MASON's permission to disclose that he does not have his original left foot, and the replacement has never sat well with him, for reasons more psychological than medical. It still goes on, the trial by ordeal. In 2239, the autopsy of Mycroft MASON revealed evidence of old tortures on his body, protracted and professional. The public demanded an explanation, and so you learned how hard it is to be the
Imperator Destinatus.
Ordinary Masons face a law code stricter but no more brutal than any other Hive's, but we
Familiares,
in return for trust and power, surrender all protections, subjecting ourselves wholly to Caesar's will. If Caesar demands our imprisonment, our torture, or our death, we have no right even to ask why. Caesar accepts no less from those few he trusts with the welfare of his three billion. Outsiders imagined this was a symbol. If once a century a known traitor was put to death, you assumed this was the only exercise of MASON's Capital Power. How wrong you were. A MASON will not pass the throne to one who has not been tested beyond the limits of sanity and mercy. Only he who comes through Hell still sane and loyal can, they say, resist the corrupting influence of power this close to absolute. I understand that Cornel MASON's original left foot was hacked away in pieces with a heavy, clean-edged cleaver—not the most sophisticated of tortures (a trained eye can spot remnants of those elsewhere upon him) but one of the most psychologically damaging, as the victim watches pieces of his body turn to meat before his eyes. Young Ken Mardi, the prodigy who had fancied himself as sturdy as a samurai, I broke in an hour with such a method, but Cornel MASON endured three weeks at his predecessor's order, and emerged as strong as he is now. That J.E.D.D. Mason has never disappeared for such a period is often taken as proof that He will not be the successor.

MASON's voice was stone. “Indices mutati sunt. (The lists have been changed.)”

My eyes went wide. “Mutati? (Changed?)”

“Sic. Ecce. (Yes. Look.)”

At Caesar's command a wall displayed video from the Romanovan Forum, where reporters besieged the marble podium of the Rostra, and a slouching figure at its microphones.

“Vice President DeLupa!” called the loudest of the pressmen. “Why didn't the Anonymous realize before now that someone had tampered with their list?”

“The Anonymous can't see into the Censor's office,” the Vice President answered. “If someone intercepts the list between when the Anonymous sends it and when Censor Ancelet receives it, there's no way the Anonymous can tell.”

“Does this mean other communications from the Anonymous are likely to be fake as well?”

“Absolutely not. Remember, when the Anonymous contacts me there are seven levels of security. The Seven-Ten list is an exception, since it's delivered directly to the Censor. All we've learned is that Romanova's security isn't as good as mine.”

It was a perfect answer, but Brody DeLupa could not afford less. Rarely has there been a man with so tenuous a hold on office as Humanist Vice President Brody DeLupa. Humanists love the Anonymous, since it is certainly heroic for a faceless, nameless voice to make itself the most influential in the world, just by publishing such intelligent opinions. Even young Sniper, who studied so hard to boost his fame by making himself a joy to interview, had charisma, sex appeal to keep him interesting, while the Anonymous has only the irksome merit of being always reasonable. The Voting Board was strict: however many thousands of Humanists may wish to vote for the Anonymous, one cannot hold office without revealing one's identity. It did not take long for clever men to circumvent the rule by running for office with Earth's simplest platform: I will be a proxy for the Anonymous.

“Does the Anonymous think there's a connection between this tampering and the incident at
Black Sakura
?”

DeLupa scratched the stubble which persisted in the wrinkles of his cheeks, like mildew. They have all been ugly, the last five Proxies, did you notice? Some say the Anonymous does not want a puppet with charisma of its own, but I think they are chosen for the merit that Ganymede would find them too repugnant to seduce. “There's no saying for certain at this point,” DeLupa answered, “but I suspect there's a connection, especially considering the recent announcement that there was also an attempt to steal the Gordian list from the Brillist Institute.”

“Then there's a conspiracy?”

The Vice President tried to make his nod feel sage. “I don't know if it's a prank or if someone is expecting profit, but when three of the lists are targeted, that's not coincidence. It may be time to rethink the gambling, and what it incentivizes. Even without thefts and substitutions, the pressure on the columnists makes objectivity almost impossible.”

Cornel MASON scowled. “Quid facit Anonymus? Modone attentionem a
Sakuram Nigrem
avertit? (What is the Anonymous doing? Just drawing attention away from
Black Sakura
?)”

If so, it was brilliant. With interference in the Anonymous's list and Gordian's,
Black Sakura
would virtually drop out of the public eye, and with it Kohaku Mardi's fatal numbers, 33-67; 67-33; 29-71. Even the Mitsubishi might be saved. I answered, “Fieri potest, Caesar. (It could be, Caesar.) Quotannis discipuli iocosi aliqui Brillem indicem surripere temptant, et nihil refert. (Every year some student prankster tries out stealing the Brillist list and it comes to nothing.) Causa necessest si hoc anno Magister Faustus populum operam dare vult. (There must be a reason if this year Headmaster Faust wants people to care.) Beneficium alicui necessest. (It must benefit someone.)”

MASON nodded. “Causa gravissima necessest si Anonymus mendacios vulgat. (The cause must be serious if the Anonymous is publishing lies). Hos quoque ecce. (Look at this too.)” At Caesar's will the Vice President vanished, replaced by the newest chart:

I took my time in thinking, my toes tracing nervous circles on the stone. It was brilliant. The substitution was so plausible, just what an anti-Mitsubishi conspirator would have altered to make it feel like all the lists were ranking the Mitsubishi low. The “altered” list was the real one, I had no doubt—we had worked with it in the Censor's office. The Anonymous was retro-fibbing, swapping in a list that made the Mitsubishi come out better, and, by crying, “My list was targeted too!” drawing attention away from poor
Black Sakura.
He found a way. The Censor's powers could do nothing, but the Anonymous had found a way.

MASON turned again to me. “Non tibi imperio ut prodas aliquod de officio Censoris, sed solum oppinionem tuum: quid possum facere ut curros protegam? (I will not order you to betray anything from the Censor's office, but only your own opinion: what can I do to protect the cars?) Custodesne Saneer-Weeksbooth bash'domi ponere debeo? (Should I send guards to the Saneer-Weeksbooth bash'house?) Discipulosne mittere ut doceant et pro Sicario aliisque substituant? (Should I send students to learn and substitute for Sniper and the others?) Aut ab Utopianis petere debeone, ut parent sustinere ipsi totam systemam mundi si iste bash' cadat? (Or should I seek from the Utopians, that they prepare to sustain the entire global system if that bash' fails?)” The Emperor looked to the window, where we could see the cars landing across the city like a rain of constant meteors. His fists clenched. “Non vacuus sedebo et permittebo hic jocus mundum meum accidere. (I will not sit idly and let this prank wound my world.)”