Vivien reached out, as if fighting the urge to offer her a warming hug, but he and Toshi are not quite that familiar. “I don’t think your ba’pa will necessarily fall.”
Toshi shook herself, the springy twists of her hair dancing like windswept grasses. “We won’t know without running it.”
We each took a wall and made the numbers dance. It is tedious work, even with the computers’ aid, a thousand judgment calls as we tried to extrapolate the consequences of this crisis of confidence. We didn’t only factor in obvious things, like investment trends or youths choosing their Hives this year, but subtle things too, the ratio of rice to wheat consumption, exports to the Great African Reservation, apartment rental prices, the million strands which weave through the world economy, and which we search for snarls in the weft. There was a reason Chairman Carlyle named his corporation Gordian. It wasn’t, as so many think today, a symbol of that yet unconquered mystery, the brain. It was the sword which hacked the knot that Carlyle cared about, a sword he turned on clients’ economic snarls. When those prophets men call economists predicted revolution or collapse in some weak corner of the globe where a subscriber had investments, Carlyle’s Gordian would fly in Mukta’s children and evacuate everything: factories, goods, workers, families, capital in all its forms all snatched to safety in a day, like good fruit from a rotting tree. As the tremors of the Church War grew, Gordian carried out the affluent of every nation, leaving governments and poor to slit each other’s throats. But Mukta worked as a sword back then only because those snarls were geographic. In our world all powers are global powers, and all snarls global snarls. That is why, while Thomas Carlyle could snip out the shape of a new world like topiary from the overgrowth of nations, today our Censor—with the same data at his disposal—laughs at those who put him on their Seven-Ten lists: Vivien Ancelet, the world’s accountant, maker of Senators but slave of numbers, helpless as the astronomer who watches the universe’s pool balls act out their predetermined dance.
“Run it again,” he ordered the instant we had our answers. “Su-Hyeon, you’re blurring the differences between different Hiveless too much; Whitelaws side with Cousins as often as with Graylaws, factor that in. Toshi, you’re underestimating the pro-Mitsubishi pull of the Indian ethnic strats in the Humanists and Gordian. Mycroft, quit pretending Europe is mucking about without a government; Casimir Perry may be unpopular with Greeks and Spaniards, but they have plenty of supporters: Poles, Georgians, Filipinos, South Africans, tons of EU strats. Deal with it.”
It takes Su-Hyeon or me twelve minutes to run the numbers once. Toshi, whose dark fingers play spreadsheets as fluently as harp-strings, can manage it in eight. The Censor would demand twenty-one revisions before Su-Hyeon couldn’t take it anymore. “I did factor in the increase in Humanists visiting the Moon this time! Cells HH26 and HN56, are you blind?”
Vivien stayed stern. “That doesn’t account for the possibility of third-time visits. Run it again.”
“Third-time visits drop out in the margin of error. I’ve had the same answer the last five times you had me rerun this. If you don’t like my numbers then give me a different starting factor.”
Toshi leapt to Su-Hyeon’s defense. “I agree. We’re all coming up with two-year projections of Mitsubishi population down 0.62 percent, land holdings up 0.88 percent and income down 0.62 percent no matter what we try.” Fear not, reader. I do not give these numbers because I expect you to remember them or understand, but only to demystify that cave of mysteries which is the Censor’s office. It is not some clandestine shrine where secret judgments determine the fate of men. It is simply the world’s most high-security calculator.
“Run it again.”
“There’s no point. The Mitsubishi are losing another Senator this year and the Masons are gaining two no matter how we cut this up.”
“It’s a holiday! You don’t want to be here all day any more than we do.”
The Censor’s voice took on that granite timbre he usually reserves for announcing Senatorial evictions. “Run it again factoring in Chief Director Andō being publically accused of personally manipulating the Black Sakura Seven-Ten list.”
It was better not to make them wait. “I’ve run those numbers already.” I summoned my chart, glad I could at least help Toshi and Su-Hyeon toward the freedom to enjoy the afternoon.
Su-Hyeon released a low whistle.
“That can’t be right.” Toshi was staring. “Mitsubishi population down 1.89 percent, land holdings up 1.51 percent, income down 2.12 percent? That’s too extreme. Rome wasn’t built in a day, Mycroft, it’s not going to fall apart in a day either.”
“It’s correct.” I scrolled the details past her.
“It can’t be … that many Graylaw Hiveless becoming Masons?” I watched Toshi’s eyes dance as she did the quick math in her head at thrice my speed. “Six … eight, eight … up by…”
“Show me the totals, Mycroft,” the Censor ordered. “Where it’s going?”
Again, reader, do not wrestle with the numbers. Do not even read the chart unless you are an economic historian reconstructing this precarious time. Think instead of Vivien Ancelet, studying the data as a doctor listens to a child’s breath, or views an ultrasound and sees disaster where the others see only blobs. His hands clench, tendons stand erect. If you cannot imagine numbers have such power to move a man, imagine instead one of his historical counterparts: you are the tutor who has sensed something strange about this youth Caligula; you are the native who sees a second set of white sails on the horizon following the first; you are the hound who feels the tremors of the tsunami about to crash on Crete and erase the Minoan people, but you know no one will heed you, even if you bark.
My stomach growled, not a little burble but a roar worthy of my hard morning’s shoveling.
“Vivien, have you been forgetting to feed Mycroft again?” Toshi gave me the sort of frown reserved for pets. “How long since you ate, Mycroft?”
I looked to the floor. “I ate yesterday.”
“Bad Mycroft. You have to say something when we forget to feed you!”
The Censor forced a smirk. “Toshi, Su-Hyeon, how about you two go get lunch for all four of us?”
“We can send out for—”
“Stretch your legs.” He gave Su-Hyeon’s shoulder a warm, ba’paternal squeeze. “Walk down to Chiwe’s or Trois Piqûres, enjoy the day a bit, and you can check if we have any messages outside. Mycroft and I will run a few variants while you’re gone. If we’re efficient we can be out of here in an hour or two.”
They could not refuse a command so heaped with temptations.
The Censor waited for the door to seal behind them, making the air of the room feel bottled once more. “How’d you learn to fake a stomach growl like that?”
“From the other Servicers. It’s a useful trick, sir.” The antiquarian address slipped out easily, now that we were alone.
The Censor tolerates my bad habits. «I’ve seen these numbers before.»
His French made me jump, dark and aggressive. «Yes, you have,» I answered.
«Population 33 percent Masons, 67 percent other Hives; land holdings 67 percent Mitsubishi, 33 percent other Hives; income 29 percent Utopians, 71 percent other Hives. 33-67; 67-33; 29-71. I’ve seen these numbers before.»
«Yes.»
«Twice, in fact. They were in your letter thirteen years ago, doodled in the margin with no explanation. These precise numbers.»
«I wrote that letter sixteen years ago. You just saw it thirteen years ago.»
My correction made him raise his voice. «They were Kohaku Mardi’s last message. Written in Kohaku’s own blood, those exact numbers, not the killer’s name, not a farewell to their bash’ or me, just 33-67; 67-33; 29-71.» He rose, turned toward me. Suddenly his hands seemed large. «You tried to smear it out.»