? How? ?
Perhaps His Majesty had already guessed what forces Kraye had gathered, Madame’s castaways, hundreds, burning for vengeance, happy to be aimed like bullets at the clients and allies of she who had destroyed their loves and lives. But if he knew, the King knew too that there is a time for details, and a time for action. ? Deloucé, call the stock exchange, make sure it’s shut down. Czerwinski, call the Mayor’s office and get a report on what emergency action they’ve taken. Southcot, go through the list of building staff and confirm who is physically here, who is missing, and who is dead. Tiburon, tune in to the three emergency broadcast channels, Brussels’s, Papadelias’s, and Romanova’s, and keep us updated. ? His Majesty paused, spotting tremors in many hands. ? I am asking you to exceed your duties, not your capacities. This crisis is a horror beyond what anyone should have to face, but it is not beyond what the human race has faced in the past, and overcome. We are not weaker than our ancestors. We will do this. ? Spain hesitated, but accepted as the Deputy Council offered him the Prime Minister’s chair. ? I know it is an unendurable task, Navarro, but I must ask you go through the Parliamentary and Consiliar Rosters name by name a second time. In crisis there is a tendency to declare the missing dead before it is known with certainty. There must be some who slipped through Kraye’s net. ?
? Yes, of course, I … ? She winced. ? I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but you ought to know, among the confirmed dead, Crown Prince Leonor Valentín … they were standing right by Perry in the video, you can see … they … It was quick. ?
In ancient days the treasons of dynasties could so harden a monarch that he might watch his child put to the sword without so much as a moist eye; not anymore. ? Yes. ? Spain tried to hide his face. ? Yes, I saw. ?
Navarro said it hurt more even than the sight of flames, seeing the King’s cheeks wet with tears. ? Is … ? she began, ? how is … your other … ?
? Epicuro Mason is recovering. ?
The news heartened all, as shade salves the laborer’s sun-seared shoulders.
? I can’t tell you how glad we are to have you here, Your Majesty. I mean, to have you back. This never would have happened if you were still Prime Minister. ?
? We don’t know that, ? His Majesty replied.
She was afraid to contradict the King, but the room’s silence urged her on with its panorama of agreeing faces. ? Maybe not, Your Majesty, but we do know your family was the biggest restraint on O.S. all these decades. You, Epicuro Mason, your predecessors, you’re the only ones who tried to keep us off this path. If Europe had an Emperor like the Masons do— ?
Spain stopped her there. ?I failed to prevent this as much as anyone. It is no credit to me if I’m the one Kraye chose to pick up the pieces.?
*
“The Utopian is here, Madame.”
“Ah, welcome. I had begun to wonder if your Hive was boycotting my little establishment.”
Madame elected to receive this visitor in her nursery, vivid with painted animals and red damask. Madame’s intimates testify that she became even more beautiful during the years of Jehovah’s childhood than she was before His birth, rich-voiced, bright-eyed. If so, it was the idea of motherhood more than the act that changed her, for with three nurses, eight servants, ten bodyguards, five tutors selected by His fathers, and four more chosen for the Boy by her, she spent barely enough time with the Child to train Him to recognize her as the Matriarch to whom He owed French and obedience.
“Sit, friend,” she invited. “Sit.”
“I prefer to stand.” The Utopian faced her squarely, hands clasped behind as a silent promise that no beasts or wonders would pounce forth from the sleeves. “I have a message for you. We surrender.”
“What?”
“We know what you are doing here. Your conquest of the other Hives has progressed beyond their ability to counter. We have no desire to destroy ourselves fighting back alone. I am here to negotiate terms.”
Madame tapped her chair arm with the day’s fan, albino peacock feathers streaked with poppy red to match her gown. “That’s a very cold way of describing the situation.”
“You are a self-made siren. You’ll understand why I ward myself.”
She blinked at the compliment. “What is your name?”
“Mushi Mojave.”
“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.”