“I should go work on my endorsement,” I said. “If we need help persuading Vivien, I’ll let you know.”
“I took care of your files with the Servicer Program,” Bryar added in a rush. “You’re on permanent dispatch to the Censor’s office.”
“Thanks, that’s helpful. Good to see you, Bryar. Bye.”
I hung up.
They’re glad Mycroft’s dead. I didn’t want to think that, know that. They’re all glad Mycroft’s dead.
Bryar called back.
“What’s up?” I answered, busying myself with many task boxes so Bryar’s was a little sliver in my lenses.
“I was saying you’re on permanent dispatch to the Censor’s office.”
“I heard. Thanks.”
“So you can keep staying in Vivien’s flat or the Censor’s office, you won’t get in trouble for avoiding the Servicer dorms.”
I felt cold. “Thanks. That’s useful.” My mouth was open but I only formed the question in my mind: Are you trying to separate me from . . .
“You and Su-Hyeon are going to be thorough, right? All Hives and factions with clear uniforms?” Bryar’s voice is scariest when it’s sweetest.
“Yup, we’ll be thorough. Good talking. Thanks. Bye.”
I hung up.
Bryar called back.
I rejected the call and set myself on busy.
Bryar called back with the command override of the Servicer Program Administration, which drove all other data from my lenses and put a red tick on my probation track.
“What?” I snapped.
“New, distinct, differentiable uniforms for all factions on all sides.”
They waited.
I wriggled.
“You can’t make an exception for your ‘Beggar Army,’ [Anonymous]. Or are you going to make me very happy and say you’ve disbanded now that there’s no Beggar King?”
I checked to make sure Su-Hyeon was too deep in calculations to be listening. “We have a uniform,” I whispered.
“Servicers have a uniform. If Mycroft Canner’s militant zealots are seen in combat in Servicer uniforms, the backlash will hit the innocent Servicers, too, every single one.”
“Myrmidons,” I mumbled.
“What?”
“They call themselves—” The word ‘Coward!’ echoed in my mind. Not ‘they.’ “We. We call ourselves Myrmidons.”
Bryar’s glare hurt. “If you bring that uniform to the battlefield, you’ll destroy the Servicer Program. Forever. Do you think people will trust it again after what seems like a rebellion? You’ll drag us back to the age of prisons!” They paused to let the claustrophobic specter of walls and wasted years loom over me before adding, “Or worse. You know how Spartacus ends.”
Harsh words had been hatching in me, but memory erased them, random memories: Hawaii’s wind cooling my tongue after too-hot guava salsa, dawn over Zanzibar’s razor skyline, the wind and sun upon my sweating back, and tears of gratitude on Mycroft Canner’s cheeks. Lose the Servicer Program? I shivered. “We don’t have any other clothes. What do you want us to do, rob clotheslines?”
“I’m handing the Servicer Program over to Red Crystal. Every Servicer will be issued an armband, and every Servicer not already on special duty will be told to report to the nearest center. They’ll be housed, fed, protected, and they’ll be doing invaluable war work, saving lives.”
“That’s . . . a great idea,” I admitted, leaning back.
Bryar’s smile was real but died quickly. “And Red Crystal registration will be compulsory, unless I decide to make an exemption for these militants.”
“Myrmidons,” I corrected for the second time. “Named after Achilles’s soldiers in—”
“I know the Iliad,” Bryar snapped. “Is Achilles the new Beggar King?”
That hurt. “I guess. Yes.”
Bryar breathed deep; I guess it hurt them, too. “Myrmidons, then. But if I decide to let them be a separate force, it has to have a separate uniform, clearly military, so no one will think the Servicers themselves are in rebellion, and no one will mistake my Red Crystal forces for them.”
I hesitated. “It’s not as if you c—”
“Could stop you?” Bryar sucked in a harsh breath. “Of course I can. Possibly no one else on Earth can right now, but you know I can. I have your records, your trackers, every one of you, and the world’s in my debt. How many stranded people am I taking care of right now? You have the numbers.”
I winced. I’d been willfully ignoring how many people were really stranded far from home, pretending the numbers were abstract, like so many digits of pi. “Four billion five hundred million,” I admitted. It was staggering really, nearly half the world on cots and sofas, all those soup kitchens. And Bryar had been ready for it, the hospitals, the socks and soap, an incredible achievement given that they started planning less than 200 days before.
Bryar’s face was triumph. “Every single Hive owes me millions of times over, and trusts me, every army too; my Tiring Guns are saving more lives every day. If I make a public call for help rounding up rebellious Servicers, if I call earth and thunder down on you right now, how much do you imagine your Myrmidons will accomplish in this war?”
Achilles isn’t the only one who thinks of goddesses when they see Bryar in anger. I choked. “Bryar, please, what we’re doing will make it better, we . . . we know how to have a war! Achilles trained us. We’ll bring some sanity to how the war’s conducted, make sure at least one side knows something about morale, and breaking points, and when a battle’s turning into chaos or attrition, and how to tell you’ve lost. We’ll make this a better, probably a faster war! It needs to be a short war, before . . .” The word ‘harbinger’ loomed in my mind, but U-speak might have made them wary. “Please, let us do this! I’m begging you, Bryar! Not as my quasi-parent but as the architect of the peace that will follow this war!”
“As the whole world’s quasi-parent, then.” Bryar paused, and I couldn’t read much from their face, just thoughts all piling on. I bet mine looked the same. “Then you’re going to set this up on my terms.”
“Thank you. Thank you.” I felt foolish, unable to summon other words. “Thank you.”
Their face stayed strict. “You’re going to carry Tiring Guns, all of you that can get your hands on them, and you’re going to have clear military uniforms, not plain Servicer uniforms, differentiated uniforms, so no one will think the Servicer program is turning hostile.”
“No. That’s a bad idea. It’s a great asset to us to move unnoti—”
“You want to be a hypocritical exception to the demand for uniforms that you yourself are initiating?”
I had to grant that one, and Bryar’s furrowed brows permitted no further excuse. “I’m not the commander,” I answered, “but I’ll try.”
“You’ll do better than try. You want me to stay my hand? You’ll do it. I know you don’t have many resources to make uniforms, but you’ve made a trained militia out of trash and sticks, you’ll find a way.”