“Because they’d catch them,” Papadelias supplied.
Martin and Papa stared at Aldrin and her peers, waiting for some answer, some comment, but they faced only blank, digital eyes. What do you think they feel as they uncover our sins? These ‘clean’ Utopians? Three Hives targeting three Hives leaves them aloof, like Noah safe in his ark while a sick world drowns. Is that what you think, reader? Noah had assurances from God that he and his would live: infallible, omnipotent protection. Utopia does not. Imagine what fear Noah would have felt without that promise, seeing the waters rising, countless neighbors turning greedy eyes on his small ship.
“Do it.” Papa ordered. “As Alliance Police Commissioner General, I am commissioning you to protect Harper Morrero, and trace anyone who attempts to kill them. Report to me directly.”
“Acknowledged.” Aldrin, the others with her, their attendant beasts, and who knows how many other individuals, teams, and cities which formed a constellation lacing the human empire from Paris to Luna City, nodded.
“That’s it, then.” Martin’s shoulders slumped within his square-breasted Mason’s suit. “If they make this hit that’s it, we have them.”
Papa shook his head. “No.”
“No?”
“If they make this hit, we can prove someone in the Saneer-Weeksbooth bash’ has attempted one murder, but that’s all. We need one more thing to land the big fish.”
“More? We’re lucky to have even this. What more can we get?”
“A confession.”
“What? Whose?”
“Time to make a call.”
Call logged 03:42 UT 03/28/2454
Papadelias: “Foster, how are you hanging in there? I hope my forensic team wasn’t too rough.”
Foster: “I feel like I’ve been dry-cleaned.”
Papadelias: “I know the feeling. It’ll pass.”
Foster: “Do we know what Thisbe did to me? Do we have a plan? If it really was witchcraft we’re all in danger!”
Papadelias: “Give the lab time, Foster. I’ve called in some Utopians. Whether it’s fake witchcraft or real witchcraft, they’ll know better than anybody what to do.”
Foster: “I guess.”
Papadelias: “Look, Foster, I don’t have time for friendly. Give me the recording.”
Foster: “What recording?”
Papadelias: “I haven’t been stalking Julia Doria-Pamphili eleven years for nothing. I know how they work, and how they train their pawns to work. They taught you to eavesdrop, and if Thisbe Saneer tried to kill you it’s because you stumbled on something major. Julia’s also taught you to record everything on your tracker so you can review it afterwards. I need that recording.”
Foster: “There is no recording.”
Papadelias: “It’s not a violation of your vows, I’m not asking you to tattletale on something from a session, this is an unrelated scene that you happen to have witnessed.”
Foster: “There is no recording.”
Papadelias: “I know what you’re thinking, you’re thinking you wouldn’t have been there if you weren’t their sensayer, that you have to protect your parishioners, whether it was a session or not, but that’s bull.”
Foster: “There is no recording.”
Papadelias: “You know what they are, don’t you? The Saneer-Weeksbooth bash’. They’re just going to keep killing.”
Foster: “A sensayer can’t be forced to testify about planned crimes.”
Papadelias: “Do you know who they’re working for?”
Foster: “I don’t know anything.”
Papadelias: “Did they say who they’re working for?”
Foster: “I don’t know anything.”
Papadelias: “You think you’re protecting your parishioners, but you’re not. You’re protecting their bosses. We’re going to catch the bash’members, that’s a certainty at this point, and you know what’ll happen when we do? They’ll take full responsibility themselves, tell the world the assassinations were their idea from the start, and destroy any evidence to the contrary. Your parishioners will go to trial, Cato Weeksbooth will kill themself, and their bosses, the ones who’ve been forcing them to do this, they’ll sit back content and find a new way to get their killing done.”
Foster: “You’re sure they’re working for someone?”
Papadelias: “I know who, I know how, I know since when, but what I have won’t convince a judge. If you give me that recording I can land the bosses, and probably get Cato and a couple of the others to testify against them and get lighter sentences as a consequence. That way the parties truly responsible get what they deserve, the killing stops, and those who were forced unwillingly into doing the dirty work get the more lenient justice they deserve. It’s your call, Foster. Justice is a lot less blind in our day but a sword is still a very clumsy instrument. It’s up to us to guide the blade.”
Foster: “Tell me what you know.”
Papadelias: “What?”
Foster: “You said you know who, how, and since when, so prove it. Tell me. You haven’t even directly said what crime it is we’re talking about.”
Papadelias: “I can’t tell you, it’ll prejudice you as a witness.”
Foster: “I’m not going to testify. If there were a recording and I did give it to you, I’d agree to give a written deposition explaining how I got it, but that’s it. I won’t take the stand against a parishioner, the precedent would rip the Sensayers’ Program apart, and no law, certainly not Cousins’ Law, can make me do it.”
Papadelias: “No chance your conscience will make you, is there?”
Foster: “Not likely when you won’t even tell me what cause I’d be supporting.”
Papadelias: “Fine, you want it spelled out, you got it, but if you breathe a word of this to Julia or anyone but me, you’ll be under arrest faster than you can say Greenpeace-Mitsubishi Merger, clear?”
Foster: “Clear.”
Papadelias: “Two hundred and forty-four years ago, the Six-Hive Global Transit Network, developed by the two Olympian doctors Orion Saneer and Tungsten Weeksbooth, started using Mitsubishi-trained Cartesian set-sets. They rapidly discovered that set-sets hooked to the transit computers could identify people whose deaths would solve big tensions in world history, or help their Hive. The Mitsubishi and Olympians, later Humanists, made a deal to use this system for their mutual benefit against the other Hives. The Europeans got on board in the twenty-three thirties, forming what I’m calling the Saneer-Weeksbooth Set-Set Transit System Three-Hive Secret Alliance—O.S. for short—which has thus far claimed two thousand, two hundred and four victims, and will claim more if you don’t help me end it.”
Foster: “O.S.?”
Papadelias: “That’s what I’ve nicknamed our assassins.”
Foster: “Why O.S.?”
Papadelias: “It’s easier to pronounce than S.W.S.S.T.S.T.H.S.A. The head of the bash’ always has the initials O.S. Before Ockham Saneer the last leader was Ockham’s mother Osten Saneer, before that Oyuki Sniper, Oleisia Sniper, Napoleon Weeksbooth Saneer who went by Ollie, before that Rong Oakhart Shen, Kiran Omi Saneer, Omid Saito, always O.S., back twelve generations to Orion Saneer, who put the system together. Even Sniper’s full name is Ojiro Cardigan Sniper, and Thisbe is Thisbe Ottila Saneer. So, O.S.”
Foster: “I am the twelfth O.S.”
Papadelias: “What?”
Foster: “Ockham said it. ‘I am the twelfth O.S., I don’t intend to be the last.’”
Papadelias: “Heh. I didn’t expect to actually guess the name right. O.S. it is, then. Twelve generations of murder, Foster. You can end it.”
Foster: “You’re sure you’ll get their bosses this way?”
Papadelias: “Nothing’s certain in this world, Foster, but this is as close as we’re going to come.”
Foster: “Fine. You’re right, if it has to end, it should end with the right people going down. It should end with the truth.”
File transfer initiated 03:56 UT 03/28/2454
Papadelias: “Thanks.”
Foster: “Don’t thank me.”
Papadelias: “As you like. I’ll make sure no one finds out it was you.”
Foster: “No, let them know. Let everybody know.”