Still in Victor Hugo’s spell, I choked a moment, thinking of what parents do for children. For how many generations have we had no soldiers anymore, no patriots, no proselytes, no causes to die for? Only our children.
“Absolutely,” I answered. “Bridger’s safety comes first. I know Thisbe agrees. It won’t be long until it’s safe again, and we can see Thisbe all we want, but so long as Thisbe’s being examined by the police we can’t risk it, and so long as there are people searching around the bash’house we have to be ready to run.”
Hands almost man-sized clutched my shirt. “But you’ll still be here, right, Mycroft? You can come?”
I was so glad to say the words, “Of course.” I stroked his hair. “No one can follow me.” For that power, still mine, I thanked the distant makers of the Gyges Device.
“Okay, I’ll do my best to pack.” He gave his strongest smile. “How bad will it be if they catch me?”
Only the Major could face that question with a chuckle. “Not as bad as Croucher says. We have a plan. Our Mycroft Canner knows a lot of powerful people, people who can intervene and protect us if need be. Canner, have you picked one yet? Which would be best to go to? The Censor, Vivien Ancelet? He’s got resources enough but no ambition, and he’s Hiveless so it would keep Bridger out of the hands of any one Hive.”
I closed my eyes, using Bridger’s warmth to steel myself. “When that time comes, it will be J.E.D.D. Mason.”
“I knew it!” Thisbe’s voice burst through the plastic sheeting, and the witch herself an instant after. “You do know J.E.D.D. Mason, I knew you did! You wouldn’t admit it, but I could tell, the way you look at your feet whenever you hear that name. Tell me everything you know about them, Mycroft, and I mean everything, right now!”
She was in her house robe, her boots half-unclasped, with a pale and harried Carlyle Foster trembling in her wake.
“What’s happened?” the Major asked at once.
Since Thisbe’s broken explanation will not satisfy you, reader, I shall loop back now, and give my best account of the encounter of that morning, which, like an eclipse, was always coming, yet still makes us quake inside when we see the cosmic clockwork plunge day into night.
CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH
Thou Canst Not Put It Off Forever, Mycroft
I was not there, but those who were testify that it began as a peaceful morning, sleepy after the holiday. The sky was a vivid overcast, white as a canvas against which the endless flocks of Cielo de Pájaros soared tauntingly: you claim, humans, to have mastered the skies, but you race through them on your busy way, while we, we play.
Cato’s voice when he calls from his room is usually too soft even to be called a whisper. “¿Is it safe?” Like good Humanists, they would have spoken Spanish here at home, which I approximate.
Eureka lay, as ever, sprawled on the floor in the shadow of the Mukta prototype, ancestress of the lifeblood of our world. <yes, cato, it’s safe, no scary sensayers today.>
“¿What about Cardie?”
<upstairs asleep.>
“¿Ockham?”
<ockham and lesley went to bed too. even the twins are out, and sidney’s upstairs on the exerciser. it’s just me and thisbe here this morning, nobody dangerous.>
“¿Does Thisbe have their boots on?”
<no. they’re on the sofa, drinking tea.>
Envision Cato Weeksbooth sticking his toe out first, as if testing the water, then, feeling no burn, he sweeps into the hall. He is majestic in his way, the white lab coat billowing like a cape, his black hair full as a lion’s mane, though wild and stiff as if frazzled by electrocution. He is not a Mad Scientist. Heartless reality does not grant humans the lifespan necessary to master every specialty of science, so no one genius in his secret lab can really bring robots, mutants, and clones into the world at his mad whim—it takes a team, masses of funds, and decades. But one man can love all sciences, even if he cannot wield them, and he can inspire children with the model of the mad genius, even if he cannot live it. Doctor Cato Weeksbooth is a Mad Science Teacher, who spends what hours are not required by the Mukta system at his dear museum plunged in the ecstasy of Show and Tell. He has just enough of every discipline at his command to answer almost all the children’s questions, and what he does not know he urges them to grow up and discover for themselves. “I’m going to the museum.”
“You’re on duty here in two hours.” Thisbe spends her empty mornings on the sofa by the window, staring at the sky over her chamomile.
“Screw that.”
“I’m not covering for you. I just had the night shift, I’m going to bed.”
“Let Cardie cover it. They owe me after last night.”
“Fair enough.”
<i saw the video. you looked like you were going to piss your pants.>
“I did piss my pants. ¿Where are my boots?”
“There.” Thisbe pointed. “Mycroft cleaned them.”
They stood in the corner, Cato’s own design, Griffincloth, which, when active, shows in an ever-changing cycle the bones, blood vessels, skeleton, or heat signature of feet, sometimes human, sometimes beast feet, or robotic feet, elastic hinges bending as the tendons would. What schoolbook could be better?
Thisbe claims that Cato smiled, but Eureka, blind within the computer’s embrace, cannot corroborate. “¿When was Mycroft here?” he asked.
“They just left. They say they’ll be around to help as much as possible until the threat is past.”
“¿Then those two crazy sensayers are coming back?”
Thisbe slurped her aromatic tea. “The two aren’t connected. Mycroft says Dominic Seneschal is a threat but Carlyle Foster is an ally.”
“¿And you believe that?”
“Yes. Carlyle’s a good one. Lesley and I were so impressed we invited Carlyle to come back today to meet with whichever of the twins we can catch, or you. You must have a session, Cato, it would do you good.”
Cato must be careful latching his boots, to keep the cuffs of his hospital scrubs from catching in their seal. “No thanks.”
<we can’t fake this for you, cato. you have to see a sensayer, or your shrink will put you back on clinic watch.>
Eureka recalls being startled as their brother stomped the floor in his rage. “¿How can all of you be over Esmerald already? ¡Eighteen years means something to me!”
No one can recall what the women said here; perhaps nothing.
“Anyway, I don’t think we should let Mycroft Canner be our judge of sensayers.”
Thisbe came to my defense. “¿You want to know what Mycroft really said? They said that, if one believed in Providence, one might believe Carlyle was sent here to help prepare us for the coming dangers.”
Cato answered as you would have, reader. “Mycroft shouldn’t talk that way. Neither should you.”
<thiz, ¿how much danger does mcrft thnk w’re in?> Eureka resorts to shorthand when spooked by questions their computer cannot answer.
“A great deal. Mycroft won’t admit it, but I think they’ve met this Dominic Seneschal before. They’re the worst kind of secret-sniffer, dangerous as they come, trust me. But Mycroft also doesn’t think Dominic’s behind this. Dominic’s a side effect, not the author. There’s no way to tell yet who’s targeting us, but whoever it is has significant resources and malevolent intent.”
“¿Malevolent intent? That’s a good phrase to hear first thing in the morning.” See Sniper stumbling down the stairs now, eyes vacant as a zombie’s. This time of day he would probably have mustered the baggy shirt and moplike straw brown wig he wore at home to keep visitors and low-ranked guards from recognizing him, but he was not yet awake enough to achieve pants. “Morning, Thisbe. Morning, Eureka. Morning, murderer. ¿Did you enjoy the party last night?”