I could not lie before J.E.D.D. Mason. “There are probably constellations of Utopians out there who could make such a thing, but, to speak frankly, Directors, manipulating politics and public image this way is not the sort of thing Utopia as a Hive cares much about. And if hired Utopians were to plan such a thing for one of the other Hives, they would succeed, and they would make sure we did not suspect them.” I cringe even now repeating this, reader. Do not fear the Utopians. Anyone would call Utopia a fearsome foe, but they do not play these Earthly power games, and, like a nest of hornets, they sting only when provoked.
“Have you seen this Sugiyama editorial, Jagmohan?” Director Bandyopadhyay uses India’s nickname for J.E.D.D. Mason, practically a pun. “Which angle is it playing up? Maybe Sugiyama was talking to anti-land-grab people.”
Beijing nodded agreement. “If so, the worst part of all this may be that this fuss with the editor and switching lists makes it looks like Masami Mitsubishi was party to trying to hush Sugiyama up. I’m already getting snippets of the hue and cry anti-land-grab groups are raising about that. Perfect ammunition for them. Too perfect.”
A few had sympathetic frowns for brooding Andō, but Bandyopadhyay’s expectant gaze directed the others to the camera once again. They have a special patience for J.E.D.D. Mason, as for an oracle struggling to condense her oceanic message into the thimble-vessel of a sentence. “Chichi-ue, do you have personal enemies outside this room? Have any of you, Directors?”
They reviewed each other over a long silence. “You think this is a personal attack?”
“A shark has many teeth for one reason. Just so, this theft wounds from many sides at once. That speaks of a meticulous author.”
Again a careful silence held China, Korea, India, Japan.
“Any who answers Me this in private might do great good,” J.E.D.D. Mason told them, slowly. “Until then, Directors, I give you more by giving My minutes and My servants’ minutes to My investigation than to you yourselves.”
The Chief Director nodded. “Thank you for your time today, Tai-kun.”
“I Will you well, Directors.”「Father. Give My regards to all My step-siblings and the Princess.」
Chief Director Andō smiled at this dash of Japanese.「I will.」
“Jagmohan?” Director Bandyopadhyay’s call made all freeze. “One more question.”
“Yes, Director?”
“I know you’re using Mycroft Guildbreaker. How much will you two share with MASON in all this? Does Guildbreaker know that the Canner Device can be tied to the Mitsubishi? Will MASON find out?”
His answer was not slow this time. “A Masonic Emperor does not need blackmail. Pater gains more from stability than from your fall. You too are allies in that sense. If Martin and I choose to inform Patrem, it will be because the Empire cannot help you bury what it does not know. I see doubt on your faces. But you are already struggling to keep this secret; you would do well to accept aid from Patre, one whose secrets have commanded supreme awe and curiosity over the centuries, and yet he keeps them still.”
Here once again, reader, we manage to both believe and not believe. We say we are not so gullible as to accept the propaganda that the Masons are as ancient as the cults of Mithras and Orpheus. We say that we do not believe they conspired from the shadows, guiding human progress for millennia before the Church War’s chaos brought them into the light. But when you push, our denial weakens. We date the Hive to 2137, the war’s height, six years after Carlyle’s Great Renunciation shattered the nation-states. Those who did not share the uniting ethic of any early Hive—did not love Europe, Asia, sport, stage, kindness, Nature, profit, Brill—found themselves abandoned, their states dissolving, their Churches (first resort when states failed) swept up in the zealot flames. As war matured into chaos and plague, one false hope lay in the Masonic lodges peppering the towns, which fiction claimed were more than what they seemed. We say that Antoninus MASON just harnessed the myth, organized those who came to the lodges into a global force before people realized there was not one already there. “Power I am,” this master storyteller claimed, “the Secret Emperor, more ancient than the Pyramids, more far-reaching than Alexander, more long-lasting than Rome. While Ramses and Ozymandias built monuments that fade, I hid in shadow, and reveal myself only now that the fools I left to sub-govern in my place have failed so much. Come back to me, my people. My Empire has endured ten thousand years, and will not be shaken by this petty war.” That fiction birthed this Hive which swallowed up the remnants, as a gleaner picks fallen grain after the harvest. Much grain remained, more than enough to make the myth of Empire real. But something inside us can’t believe it’s all invention. It feels so ancient: the dread Imperial Guard, the awesome shadow of the Sanctum Sanctorum tower, the Imperial Palace with its clustered ziggurats, the laws unrolled on crackling papyrus, the cold, iron-gray throne. The language of myth slips from our tongues: ancient custom, ancient law, Imperium, millennium, Empire, Caesar. Perhaps it actually is true and false at once. Great institutions—Hive, strat, nation, kingdom, guild—all are built of consensus, willed into reality by we who love, obey, protect, and fear. If Will alone can make these powers real enough to reshape the globe and burn the heavens, perhaps Will can also make them have been real ten thousand years ago.
“Yes,” Andō answered. “You may tell MASON if you think it prudent, Tai-kun. We know you’ll only make them see the truth. While we have you with us, we are able to count MASON as a friend. I know the whole Directorate is grateful.” Andō stopped there, but the grim pride in his eyes added “to me.” They did need these reminders sometimes, Beijing, Shanghai, vast and wary India, why they are all best off with Andō in the Chief Director’s seat.
“Yes, Chichi-ue. I will do My best for you.”
CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH
Flies to Honey
“But this … this is a church!” Thisbe cried.
Carlyle checked the address a second time. “Probably it just used to be a church. See, the cross has been taken off the steeple.”
Thisbe found little comfort in that as she faced the stone and arches of [XXX], rue [XXXXX], Avignon, France. It had been a church, a simple one, but ancient enough to have the wet scent of a graveyard. The tangle of plants around it was almost tidy enough to be called a garden, and, as March’s lion turned to lamb, some hope-green sprouts were peeking from old branches, like stubborn stars piercing a foggy night. I did not see this. In fact, at my interview I invited Carlyle Foster to write this chapter himself, but he does not trust his skill with written words.
That day he trusted himself. “Let’s try the basement door,” he was first to suggest. “It looks more used than the big front portals.”
Thisbe did not have to be convinced, for her boots had already started down the garden path, threatening to crush the green blades, not yet crocuses, which crowded between the stones. I asked each of them to describe the scent that drifted from the windows. Thisbe called it hypnotic cooking, the kind that makes you crowd around the oven unable to stop watching the timer as it crawls toward done. Carlyle said only that it would have made a statue hungry.
Thisbe knocked twice. She had donned her best for this, a short jacket of tea-green silk which matched the landscapes of her boots. I still prefer her in her home clothes, loose and lazy like the lax wings of a flying squirrel forever ready to cuddle back in bed. It is not that the suit looks bad on her, but people have different faces for work and play. Thisbe’s home face may be menacing at times, but it is also a bit less false. “Excuse me?” Thisbe called, sweetly as any rose-cheeked princess. “Is anyone home?”