The Censor—who, through long acquaintance, permits me to call him Vivien—smiled to find on hand another who understood the burden of putting up with me. Do not misapprehend, reader: all that is wrong in this scene is indeed my fault. Violence, abuse, even unfreedom is abhorrent to our good Censor, who keeps violence’s great adversary, our Patriarch Voltaire, forever with him, as a bust in his private office, and a model in his heart. If you see violence here, it is not Vivien’s violence, rather I infect those around me with a shadow of my own.
“I’m sorry.” I let myself be hurried to the car, smiling reassurance at my fellows. “I’ll be fine. See you later, everyone. Make sure you don’t miss the speeches!”
“They won’t but we might, thanks to you.” The Censor released me to a guard, who helped me strip off my muck smock. “It’s not just my time you wasted. I had to call around looking for you, interrupting I don’t know how many meetings.”
I winced. “I’m sorry you had to take the time to fetch me.” I stepped up onto the first step of the waiting car, and paused to let its hoses rinse the refuse from my feet.
“Have you heard what’s happened?”
“The Black Sakura Seven-Ten list manuscript was stolen, then recovered.”
“Exactly.” He made the car run its rinse cycle twice for him, to get the last muck off his cuffs. “Now the seventh-most-popular list shoots up to number one in everyone’s attention, and all our calculations go out the window.” He turned to the system console. “Romanova, Censor’s office.”
We started on our calculations, even as the car accelerated. Riding in one of Mukta’s children, the hop from Marseille to Romanova is so brief that we did not even achieve full acceleration, and Vivien set the screens to window mode, to let us savor the beauties of the capital with which, after sixteen years in office, he is still so much in love. The colored banners of the day’s festivities flooded the streets, lively but almost wrong, like paint caught in the cracks of an old statue, once colored but nobler in its naked white. The cheerful gold and blue of the Alliance flag were everywhere, but Renunciation Day also brought out Hive pride, and the festoons and streamers color-coded the populations that clustered on our new Rome’s artificial hills: Mitsubishi red, green and white up on the Quirinal, Gordian red, black and gold on the Caelian, European blue and gold mingling with Cousin white and azure in the valleys, Masonic gray and purple on the Esquiline, while across the Tibernov river the bright Olympic rainbow made the Humanist district even more exuberant. On such a day one can really see that Romanova is Earth’s most Hive-mixed city, even more than Sydney or Hyderabad, since here the ratio of the seven Hives is fixed, not only in the city’s charter, but the Alliance’s. When the death of Chairman Carlyle made it no longer possible to put off picking a world capital, three issues faced the committee: the design, the distribution of the real estate which would soon be the most desirable on Earth, and who would pay. Spreading the cost equally would hit the poor Hives hard, especially the Cousins and Olympians, who then sheltered most of Earth’s surviving poor, but divvying by wealth would take the lion’s share from tiny, patent-rich Utopia, which could then reasonably demand the biggest slice of the land all powers coveted. The project languished ten years in committee before the Masons made their offer: we shall shoulder the whole cost of building the city ourselves, and divvy the property among the Hives by population. All we ask is that you let us choose the city plan. All welcomed the end of deadlock, so, for a mere few hundred billion euros, the Hive of myths and empires made the world capital be their copy of Rome. Has any government ever invested so wisely in propaganda?
“The Six-Hive Transit System welcomes you to Romanova.” The car’s voice greeted us in its recorded ritual. “Visitors are required to adhere to a minimum of Gray Hiveless Law, and to follow Romanovan special regulations regarding concealed weapons, public gatherings, and graffiti. For a list of local regulations not included in your customary law code, select ‘law.’ ” To most, it is a formula familiar enough to bore, but it still lit the Censor’s face as brightly as a mother’s welcome.
“Took you long enough!”
We were met at the steps of the Censor’s Office by his ba’kid, apprentice, and Chief Deputy, Jung Su-Hyeon Ancelet-Kosala, as the public prefers to order his names. Seeing Su-Hyeon now, his short black ponytail half fallen out, his gray and purple uniform veined with the wrinkles of a night spent sleeping at his desk, it felt even more surreal remembering his name on the stolen Seven-Ten list. It was true that this Deputy Censor walked the corridors of power in his master’s wake, but it is as hard to imagine Su-Hyeon as a world-straddling titan as to imagine a snowy wading crane battling eagles. Su-Hyeon is absolutely tiny in that special way that only Asia’s women can be tiny, as if childhood refused to leave, and kept the frame so light you fear it might blow away like grass upon a breeze, or snap like porcelain. Indeed, Su-Hyeon’s delicacy makes it hard for me to stick to ‘he,’ and there is just enough flesh on the bone beneath his tightly tailored uniform to confirm those are a woman’s hips and chest, but ‘he’ will be easier for you, reader, since that way apprentice will match master. Su-Hyeon had a smile for Vivien, but a righteous frown for me.
A second frown waited on the other face which welcomed us, the Censor’s most promising new analyst, Toshi Mitsubishi. She is another of the adopted brood of Chief Director Andō and Princesse Danaë. Africa and Europe are cofactors in her ancestry, visible in her rich, medium-brown skin and afro-textured hair, which she wears in a thousand little twists like tongues of flame, but Japan dominates her syntax, her posture, her reflexive half-bow as we arrive, and she wears a Japanese nation-strat bracelet. The month before this I had been honored with a slice of cake from the celebrations when Toshi passed her Adulthood Competency Exam, and, at the time, I felt some smugness in having guessed correctly that, despite the honorable Mitsubishi surname, she would exchange her minor’s sash for Graylaw Hiveless. She could have worked for the Censor even as a Mitsubishi Member, but the gray sash is almost a uniform in the office, required by superstition more than rule, as if these public servants would somehow make the numbers lie if they chose to bind themselves to any other law.
“Where on Earth was Mycroft?” Toshi asked at once.
“Halfway down a sewer.”
I apologized to Su-Hyeon with a wince, to Toshi with a bow.
“How much have you done since I last called?” Vivien charged up the steps, already stripping the tracker from his ear as he passed the sanctum’s bronze-faced gates.
“A lot, actually. The last list just came in.” Su-Hyeon followed the Censor into the vestibule and tossed his tracker to the guards.
“Excellent. We made some progress in the car as well.”
I held still as the Censor deactivated and removed my tracker, while his guards confirmed permissions with the police. Tracker free, and shedding even the Censor’s robot escort, we passed the inner doors together, and let the Censor’s sanctum seal us in. Perhaps, reader, you have never been off the network for any length of time, except on portions of the long trip to the Moon. There are now few places so secure that they forbid trackers. The unfamiliar cold of having nothing in that ear makes that inner chamber feel more special than other seats of government, as a buried temple reached by slithering down the archaeologist’s tunnel feels more pregnant with the past than ruins which stand in sunlight. The extreme sensitivity of the Censor’s data excuses the ritual, but it is still a ritual, no more nor less necessary than the bath one took before entering this building’s predecessor in the real Rome, where it had marked the cremation spot of the Divine Julius.