Enough delay. Thou canst not put it off forever, Mycroft. Thou must describe the wearer, not just the suit.
And so I must, master. And so I try.
His is forgotten flesh, statue-still except for the bare minimum of breath and necessary motions: walking, reaching. His eyes move only to search, His lips only to speak, never to smile. He does not fidget as He sits or stands, but lets His limbs lie abandoned, dead as a vehicle whose driver leaves it by the roadside. His skin is light enough to prove that Europe had some part in His ancestry, but has color to it too, though whether it is Mediterranean color or something from farther around the globe’s wide sweep cannot be guessed from His face alone. His long hair is tied back, rich waves whose almost-blackness makes it harder yet to guess which races mixed to birth this body for Him. His clean face is beautiful, as a well-proportioned stag is beautiful. I think His eyes are black, with a little touch of Asia in their shape, but when I try to picture them I remember no color, just their distant deepness as they focus, never on, but past the base matter before them. A room feels cold with Him in it, not because He drains it of heat, but because He seems to make none, so the air is as empty as if you were alone. He is now in His twenty-first year upon this Earth, with a minor’s sash still about His hips, but had you seen Him at seven years or younger, you would still have counted Him graver than His Imperial father.
“¿How long until the next Mars launch?” He asked Cato in Spanish, His voice soft to the point of weakness, as when one talks to one’s self to relieve too long a silence.
“Two days, fifteen hours,” Cato answered automatically, like a child caught mid-daydream by the teacher.
“¿For how many generations has the Saneer-Weeksbooth bash’ been Humanist?”
“I don’t know. Ten, maybe.”
“Thank you. I am J.E.D.D. Mason. The safety of your bash’ and the incomparable service you provide humanity has been entrusted to Me, by order of all seven Hives and the will of the Alliance. I am looking for My dog. ¿May I come in?”
Cato gaped.
The men and officers murmured, and some saluted. The impulse was natural. No insignia of any kind touched J.E.D.D. Mason’s black suit, but patches crowded for space on a cloth band around His right arm: the azure Lady Justice of the Cousins’ Chief Council’s Office, the gold-trimmed red and green trefoil of the Mitsubishi Executive Directorate, the six Olympic-colored swords of the Humanist Attorney General, the Gordian knot of Brill’s Institute, the amphitheater ringed with stars of the European Parliamentary Council, the blue and gold scales of the Polylegal Bench, and Romanova’s Earth-blue circle bisected by a belt of gray which marks a Graylaw Hiveless Tribune. All these patches ringed the main symbol on the armband: a Masonic Square & Compass in black against iron Imperial Gray, the mark of a Familiaris Regni, an intimate of the Emperor. While Martin Guildbreaker’s Familiaris armband is plain, this one had borders, stark white bands at the top and bottom, edged with the blood purple piping which marks out the Porphyrogene, one ‘born the purple,’ a MASON’s child.
“I … guess you’d better come in.” Cato backed into the house, leading J.E.D.D. Mason and His two Tribunary bodyguards through the spartan trophy hall to Mukta’s sanctum. This Guest would not have seemed to glance at the articles and papers framed on the walls He passed, but He would remember every one.
Sniper: <Don’t talk to them, Cato.>
Cato: <¡But it’s Xiao Hei Wang!> The Chinese have their name for J.E.D.D. Mason too.
Sniper: <Don’t talk to them. The President warned me about this.>
Cato: <¿How do I not talk to them? They’re a Bailiff. And a Tribune. ¡They’re in charge of the case! ¡The President and Chair Kosala were on the news saying Xiao Hei Wang’s in charge of the case!>
Cato and our Guest reached the Mukta chamber now, where the drill troops crowded in wonder around this most elusive Prince.
“Tribune Mason!” The highest ranked officer hailed the Visitor in English, and by His most neutral name. “What an unexpected honor having you here in person! You could have just called.”
Only the subtlest motion of His eyes proved that He turned His attention to the speaker. “These bodies have so few senses. How can you be content with less than all?”
Those around the Guest froze in confusion, since His lack of tone made it impossible to guess whether the question was rhetorical.
<well said!> Eureka trumpeted over the public line.
Without moving, the Visitor lowered His eyes to the set-set. “Oklahoma Turner has a new essay on whether computer interfaces are artificial senses or prostheses to the standard five. You will enjoy disagreeing with it.”
Perhaps Eureka smiled here, puckering the film of sensors across their lips like half-shed skin. <that’s a good way to put it. i enjoyed disagreeing when turner argued against there being meaningful data in intuitively sensed recurring number patterns. idiot.>
“Do you draw strong meaning from the recurrent patterns of your habitat, as Brillists do from minds and geologists from stone?”
<heh. strong’s an understatement.>
Only Eureka remembered His next question precisely. “Are both this home’s set-sets Pythagorean?”
“You mean Cartesian,” Cato corrected.
He did not, but would not contradict.
Sniper: <¡Ockham! ¡Get Cato and Eureka out of there! ¡Now! ¡Now! ¡Now!>
Ockham Saneer leapt down the stairwell, as quick as a god appearing at the invocation of his name. He had pajama bottoms and one sock, and had seized his sidearm from the bedside table, but the rest of him was naked, Lesley’s doodles fresh on his chest and lithe bronze back.
Fear and obedience warred with curiosity in Cato, but fear won, and he helped Eureka to the lab’s locked door.
Now Ockham faced the Visitor, his sock and pajamas against the high insignia of every government, but if Ockham hesitated it was the Visitor’s strange gaze that chilled him, not His offices. “I am Ockham Saneer. Whatever your charge from Romanova or any other power, Council Mason, I am in command in my house unless my President orders otherwise.”
“Your devotion sows respect,” J.E.D.D. Mason answered. “I know something of your present small crisis. Would action or inaction on My part be more helpful?”
Ockham took a breath to consider. Meanwhile:
Thisbe: <¡Victory! Our stray Mitsubishi twelve have surrendered to me and Herrera. They’re acting natural, saying they came up here following signs of an intruder. Could be true.>
Sniper: <Fishy. I’ll come to you, Thisbe. Cato, ¿any signs of an intruder near B117?>