I: “I know the one you mean, Nepos. The Gyges Device, called Canner Device by many.”
We spoke Latin, reader, or rather its gentled grandchild, Masonic neo-Latin, stripped of irregulars, but close enough to its imperial progenitor to invoke grand capitals and ancient marbles. I always cringe when I must translate Hive or strat tongues into common English for you, but it is worse with Martin, knowing that he thinks so differently in the two tongues, and cringes himself when he sees his words, conceived in the Imperial tongue, mangled by the vulgar. I will translate, to help you understand, but I have begged permission to leave in Latin words whose English sense is intolerably wrong. Take for example Nepos, this title of honor which marks Martin as the student, servant, intimate, and protégé of his Emperor, trusted even to sign laws and contracts in the Emperor’s name. To render Nepos as ‘Nephew’ for you would be one part translation, three parts lie.
Martin: “I believe the device might have been used in this Black Sakura theft.”
I: “I saw your scan of the folded paper.”
Martin: “What can you tell me about the device? Could it have penetrated the Saneer-Weeksbooth bash’ defenses?”
I: “Are you asking me on behalf of Romanova and the law? Or privately?”
A pause proved that Martin understood the weight of my question. “Privately.”
I: “It was never in my hands, Nepos. I only ever had the packaging, I just pretended that I had the device to confuse the police. Please keep it private. The Inspector General doesn’t know, but yesterday Princesse Danaë forced it out of me in front of Chief Director Andō. I tried to resist, I swear! They’re sure to use it against me. If Papadelias finds out they’ll be all over me. It could wreck my parole! Worse! I don’t know what to do. I’m sorry, I should have come straight to you!”
Martin: “Calm, Mycroft, calm. The Chief Director is a friend. They don’t want you locked up any more than I do.”
I: “But the Princesse…”
Martin: “Is also a friend. Relax. I’ll speak to them both about this, if you like.”
I: “You will?” The promise washed the tension from me, like a welcome summer rain.
Martin: “I shall. But what I need now is for you to focus and tell me what you know about this Gyges Device. Do you know who has it? Or who made it? Reports from the original scandal blame organized crime, but when I read the report the Mitsubishi Police sent in to Romanova I found it … not without omissions.”
The clever insult in his Latin understatement (which my poor translation butchers) cheered me enough to smile. “I investigated at the time. I believe there never was any yakuza-run secret research center, like the report claims. I believe the device was produced in secret but funded and authorized by someone within the Japanese Mitsubishi leadership, and stolen from them by traitors within the same. But I have no proof. And also, Nepos, if the Chief Director and the Princesse are friendly now, they will not be friendly long if we start poking at this. If it was the Japanese bloc leadership which authorized research into tricking the tracker system, Andō would not want anyone to know, especially not Caesar.”
Martin: “You say powers within the Mitsubishi faction. Not Andō themself?”
I: “Not Andō, Nepos. I am certain of that. It was probably Andō’s predecessor. But you know the Mitsubishi, that wouldn’t lessen the demand that the current Japanese Director ‘take responsibility’ in the grimmest sense, and there is a pit of vipers waiting for Andō to stumble on the tightrope.”
Martin: “You faked having the device. Do you know enough about it to determine with certainty whether it was really used in this theft, or whether this is a hoax like yours?”
I: “No, Nepos, I have no idea how the device really worked. Just that it affected trackers, swapping signals to make people hard to trace.”
Martin: “I see.”
I: “Chief Director Andō ordered me to try to track down the thieves from thirteen years ago, through the contacts I originally bought the packaging from.”
Martin: “Yes, good idea. Report what you find to me. But not today. It’s Independence Day. Give yourself a day to breathe, and work tomorrow.”
I: “I … yes, Nepos. Thank you. You enjoy it too.”
I ended the call and turned with a smile to Su-Hyeon and Toshi, who had waited with me on the steps just outside the main gate of the Censors’ office, as deaf to my Latin as I am to dolphin song.
Su-Hyeon whistled in his impatience. “Mycroft, how many more messages do you have?”
“Only one more.”
The last was text, in French: «Mycroft, we hear a certain thoughtless soul dragged you away from the Marseilles spill this morning before you received your breakfast. France owes you a meal; attend my party tonight. —La Trémoïlle.»
The Humanist President’s order was consonant with Martin’s, so I determined to obey.
“Sorry that took so long,” I apologized. “Shall we get back to work?”
“No.” The Censor himself intercepted us as we tried to remount his steps. He was much changed from an hour before, relaxed and energized by having mastered the data, as a musician is relaxed and energized by having instrument in hand. “The numbers are as good as we’re going to get until we know more about how Black Sakura is going to go about announcing Masami’s involvement.”
Toshi winced.
Su-Hyeon frowned. “You just want to make it to the speeches on time, don’t you?”
The Censor clapped his deputy on the shoulder. “So do you. Toshi, you coming?”
She hesitated, tilting her face away until her dark frizz, fiery like a corona in the sunlight, hid her expression. “I’ll go home to Tōgenkyō if you don’t mind. My sibs always play basketball the afternoon before the party, and I’d like to be there for Masami today.”
The Censor’s smile was all warmth. “Of course. Give them my best. Tell them not to worry too much. It shouldn’t be hard to spin things right. I’ll make some private calls.”
“Thank you.”
Vivien nodded in promise, then raced down the steps like a schoolchild at recess. Su-Hyeon and the Censor’s Guards followed with no less energy. “Come along, Mycroft!”
Will you join us too, reader? You may object that you know the festival already, but have you ever really seen the speeches live in person? Or do you, like many, prefer your beach retreats and family dinners, and skip the history lecture? Thomas Carlyle and our other luminaries are like old candles, and can still shed new light if you pause to light them. And it will be good to glimpse the lights of our age one last time, before they fade like starlight as the sun glare of an elder era dawns once more.
We walked together along the Via Sacra, past the Rostra and the Senate House, empty for once, then around the Capitoline Hill to the teeming street which separates the Forum from the Pantheon. The stores were all flags, as if Athena had covered the city with her weavings, every strat from the Irish to the Dog Show Society adding its colors to the sea. Vendors’ carts, bright balloons, candies, sausages, and paper lanterns lined the thronging street. Even the statues dressed for the holiday, vandals decking them with garlands and bedsheets, stuffing their hands with flowers and empty liquor bottles. Such defacement would have been criminal in old Rome, whose statues represented gods, but Romanova’s human heroes have a sense of humor. Everyone we passed had smiles for the Censor, and good wishes, some drunk enough to be almost rude, but nothing could dim his smile, not even the teens who half-drenched him with a splash from one of his own fountains. “Hey, Ancelet! Happy Renunciation Day!”