“Temporary uniforms in forty-eight hours,” Su-Hyeon was summarizing when I zoned back in, “and we’ll circulate a generic model military law code based on the one you proposed, though we will make some changes of our own to match it better to the language of Alliance law.”
“Agreed.”
“And if we can’t reach Sniper?” Su-Hyeon asked it in the tone they use for ‘check’ in chess, and that made me realize this was where it fell apart. Four hours. We had direct lines to MASON, Vivien, Spain, Faust, but to reach Sniper’s faction all we could do was shout into the airwaves, or drop a note outside a lifedoll store and hope.
Dominic cursed in their throat at the name of the ‘blasphemer.’ “Sniper will agree. Hiveguard benefits. Right now some who wear the bull’s-eye mean it as a pledge to . . . attack . . . Advisor Mason.” Dominic made a wry face here, struggling to force out any other name but Maître for the Prince. “But others wear it only to proclaim their support for the bloody means by which O.S. bought the long peace. Uniforms will sort this chaos, organize the militants, and keep the peaceful sympathizers out of the path of armies. That is a good.”
It was a good, I thought as I watched silent Dominic through the mask of their regrown skin. That made it click. J.E.D.D. Mason would want these uniforms. Dominic realized that. The Good and honest Prince, who had made Themself the Target of a billion snipers just to give us sides worth dying for, They would want everyone who took up arms to feel the flush of pride and confidence that Dominic and Heloïse feel every morning when they don the habits of their offices. Even distant Martin, crawling across callous wastes, has that. And more. The Prince would want every death to have intentionality, each shot fired with purpose and at one acting with purpose, not the muddled waste of street carnage and friendly fire. I could almost hear it in my mind in Their dead voice: “If deaths must be, let them be _____.” What adjective would it have been? What language? Something more honest than ‘good,’ less pretentious than ‘just,’ the opposite of ‘pointless’ but not pretending death could ever be ‘alright.’ ‘Examined,’ maybe? ‘Willed’? A tingle washed through me. So few prayers are in the Prince’s power to grant, but here was one I pray myself: if I’m shot, let me be shot for what I fight for, not for some mistake. Dominic had planned this, then, conceived the uniforms, or at least encouraged them, as a gift for their Kind Master. Meeting that wish in Dominic’s proud eyes made all my worry over earthly betrayals fade like fog. Dominic is a strange, cruel, predatory being, yet often—and only for J.E.D.D. Mason—good.
“Then, so long as we get the other leaders to agree within four hours, you’ll hold off,” Su-Hyeon pressed, “even if we have no response from Sniper or the other Hiveguard leaders?”
The Chinese Directors debated among themselves, while Korea’s new Director Kim Gyeong-Ju cracked a joke in Korean that made Im-Jin and Su-Hyeon snort. I felt alone, and sensed a tense aloneness also in the frowning and innocent Greenpeace Director Bandyopadhyay, still in office thanks to their utter ignorance of O.S. I must remember that frown, that solitude. Su-Hyeon speaks good Hindi, and, if the Mitsubishi do prove enemies, driving a wedge between the Greenpeace and China might . . . This is hard. I’m used to helping Vivien spot rifts and heal them, I hate feeling the instinct to exploit rifts grow in me.
Murmur congealed into nods. “Agreed.”
We wasted little time on final courtesies, and Su-Hyeon brought up the task tree now, so I could see the whole plan which would culminate (hopefully) in a Triumviral Order, followed by my Anonymous endorsement and pre-planned positive responses from the Hives. Im-Jin would call Faust first, then Senator Ouroboros Wyrdspell, Im-Jin’s suggestion, the most “reliably extant” Utopian they know. Carmen would petition MASON, then call the King of Spain, though Europe was complying anyway. I expected my first call to be to Vivien, or the Prince (though Dominic reserved that pleasure for themself ). I was surprised to find Task Number One was joining Su-Hyeon on a call to Bryar Kosala. I didn’t realize why Bryar was the most important to convince.
“Su-Hyeon! [Anonymous]! It’s great to see you both!” Bryar’s smile in my lenses made me feel hugged, as if the sofa at my back were suddenly a little snugglier. They were in a bright room, backlit by broad windows, which gave Bryar’s hair a red halo effect, and I saw drapes in fuchsia and marigold at one end of the room, and a fluffy white cat curled up on a high stack of Red Crystal crates.
“How are you?” Su-Hyeon asked.
“I couldn’t be better looked after.” The glow in Bryar’s cheeks made it feel true. “Mumbai’s keeping things calm and flowing, everyone’s giving me everything I need, and my ba’sibs Mohana and Ganges have their bash’ here, do you remember them?”
“Is Mohana the one with the turtle hat?” I guessed fastest.
“Yup. I’m staying with them, and there’s a stunning view over the harbor.” Bryar tilted our view so we could see the water through the window, and a slice of city, washed out in the extreme morning light of whatever time it was in India. “I have my own little harbor boat to get around, as well as the bicycle.”
“I love those harbor boats!” Su-Hyeon’s enthusiasm shook the mound of DNA kits enough for one to plop down, almost in my beans.
I had to ask, “Do you have guards?”
“Yes, plenty, and tons of help too. This whole block and several around it have turned into a Cousin headquarters, half the ships in the harbor have signed up to help distribute our Tiring Guns, and you wouldn’t believe how active Red Crystal is here.”
“I believe it,” Su-Hyeon answered. “It’ll double again this week if the numbers hold.”
“Great!”
“That’s worldwide, not Mumbai, Mumbai registration’s already over the bell, unless there’s change in Singapore, or Manila, or Masonic road sprawl out of Caedeculmin gets close to Ahmedabad . . .” Su-Hyeon has a special little wince for when they realize they’ve dragged the conversation down the statistics rabbit hole. “Glad you’re well.”
Bryar gave their most indulgent smile. “And [Anonymous], I was so relieved when I heard you were there with Su-Hyeon to look after you. Su-Hyeon, don’t forget [Anonymous] needs you to log food and hours regularly.”
I smiled, but, in that moment, the purple Censor’s Office jacket on my shoulders felt more than a little like a dog collar. “Bryar, it’s great catching up, but we didn’t flag this urgent just to chat.”
Su-Hyeon’s smile tried to ease my jitters as I realized we’d wasted a minute on hellos and hats. “It’s alright, I budgeted time for this.”
I frowned my disagreement, but that’s Su-Hyeon’s way sometimes, tiny indulgences for morale’s sake, like our fruit salad. It was fruit from the decorative trees around the Alliance meeting rooms, our fifth straight day of that fruit, and it would have been most efficient to just throw it in a pile in HQ again (as so many lazy patrons do, so Servicers learn to get excited when lunch is not mostly bruised surplus fruit). But Su-Hyeon had asked someone to make us all fruit salad, investing precious minutes in disguising necessity with fun. It worked, too: the desk shift seemed a little less dog-tired today. Just so, I think Su-Hyeon had rationed this minute as a mental band-aid for all three of us, a quasi-family chat before the storm.