Too Like the Lightning (17 page)

I must interrupt to ask, reader: did you spot Carlyle's omission? Nature's God. As it flowed from Jefferson's pen it was the Laws of Nature and Nature's God that entitled a people to separate but equal station among the Powers of the Earth, not Nature alone. Chairman Carlyle was no atheist. What you see here is the beginning of the silence. As the first bombs of the Church War rain down, those who consider themselves neutral are now afraid to mention the divinity.

“What is a people?” the speech continues, the actor's voice resonating through the dome. “It is a group of human beings united by a common bond, not of blood or geography, but of friendship and trust. What is a nation? It is a government formed by a people to protect that common bond with common laws, so its members may enjoy life, liberty, happiness, justice, and all those rights we love. Americans, America is no longer your nation. Your nation is the friends who live and work with you, in Africa, Europe, Asia, Australia, all of the Americas, and all the other corners of this Earth. Your nation is those who went to school with you, who cheered beside you at games, who grew up with you, traded intimacies with you over the internet, and still today break bread with you in your own house, on whatever continent it stands. Your nation is the organization which you chose to protect your family and property, in sickness and in health, as you traveled the globe to find your ideal home.

“Friends, I stand here today with the leaders of these organizations, to tell you that, once again, the time has come to found a new kind of nation, freer than any that has come before. We speak today for the Cousins, for the Olympians, and for Gordian, three groups which have the means to allow a human being, or a family, to live in this world without a country, without citizenship, without obligations to any power you have not chosen to join. For more than a generation we have not just been your travel agents but your banks, your lawyers, your hospitals, your schools. Now let us be your nations. I call on all Americans who do not support this war to renounce your citizenship and trust us—any one of us, you have your pick. Let us protect you and your families in this new, free world. I call on the citizens of all other countries of the world to respect our members, and accept the passports we will issue, just as you would the passports printed by a country which can boast a blotch of territory somewhere on the globe. Join us if you like, or remain loyal to those geographic nations which still merit loyalty, but either way acknowledge us, and in acknowledging us acknowledge the right of all human beings to choose a different nation if the nations of their birth betray their trust.”

Historically, Sofia Kovács took the podium second after Carlyle. No one remembers her speech, the technicalities of how to apply to join these new nongeographic nations, and how they will handle deeds and taxes, legal suits and health care. She is like the big sister packing our backpacks for the camping trip, who tries to make us pay attention as she goes through the items, but we ignore her, entranced already by the wild's call. Only later, when we find we need our bug spray and our lanterns, then we will discover that they are ready in our bags, between our lunch box and our favorite toy. We don't thank her, but she watches us frolic carefree thanks to her good sense, and asks no more.

Today the part of Sofia Kovács was played, not by any actress, but by her modern counterpart Bryar Kosala, Chair of the Cousins. She was costumed for the occasion in a woman's business suit styled after fashions of the turn of the millennium, complete with tight skirt and high heels she could barely walk in, her lush, black Indian hair woven into a stately bun, but even in the androgyny of her everyday Cousins' wrap she would still seem every inch a woman. I think there is no person, myself aside, so hated by the ambitious of this world as Bryar Kosala, since those who fight viciously to grasp the reins of power cannot forgive the fact that she could rise so high and still be nice. Think of Andō struggling make himself the main head of the Mitsubishi hydra, think of Europe's Parliamentary campaigns, of the glitter and furor of Humanist elections. Bryar Kosala just likes helping people, and is good at running things, and when invited to become the world's Mom she said, “Sure.” That is what the Chief Cousin is, the world's Mom, as surely as the Masonic Emperor is Earth's stern Father. Her Hive runs the charities, the orphanages, the nursing homes, the kind Servicer program. Her law is the most forgiving, her newspaper the most sentimental, and, when disaster strikes, she is first to arrive with nurses, soup, and playgrounds. Little wonder that this friendly matriarch, still smiling as she rules the one-point-six billion Members of Earth's second-largest Hive, is the leader whose position in the Seven-Ten lists—high? or low?—the fewest papers could agree on.

The third speech, Olympic Chairman Jean-Pierre Utarutu's, was delivered by an actor, since the Olympian Hive was long since swallowed by the Humanists, and the Humanist President has more important work on Renunciation Day than assuring a bored audience that there will still be sports teams in this brave new world. Historians insist that Utarutu's contribution was as vital as the others', and I believe it, since there were already almost a billion subscribers who trusted the Olympic Transportation Union to clear their flights as they jaunted from continent to continent for the World Cup, or the Winter Games, or work.

In the final speech, the words of the King of Spain were, naturally, read by the King of Spain.

“Friends, all this is not as sudden as it seems. These three are not rash radicals, or business tycoons drunk with their own power. They are taking an inevitable step. The European Union has long recognized that it is absurd to force someone with a father from one country, a mother from another, raised in a third, and working in a fourth to pledge allegiance to one arbitrary geographic nation. More than sixty years ago we instituted floating citizenship, so children of mixed parents would not be compelled to choose between several equal fatherlands. It was not the end of our countries. Almost everyone still prefers to have a homeland to love and return to, and the legal possibility of life without a homeland does not destroy the bonds of culture, language, and history which make a homeland home. What Chairman Carlyle proposes today is nothing more radical than extending that floating citizenship to the world.

“I stand before you today, both as a representative of the European Union, and as the King of Spain. As a representative of the European Union, I am authorized to announce that we too will be offering floating citizenship to any citizen who wants to leave America or any other geographic nation, whether involved in the war or not. Our floating citizenship will be equivalent in every way to what Chairpersons Carlyle, Kovács, and Utarutu are offering through their nongeographic nations. New floating citizens of the European Union may then apply for citizenship in a specific country if they find one whose laws and ideals match their own, or they may remain citizens of the EU only, the same two options that native-born floating citizens enjoy. Those who are frightened of your current countries may think of us as a fourth option, ready to welcome you as the Olympic Committee, the Cousins, and Gordian are.

“Separately, as the King of Spain, and with no directive from the European Union, I wish to express my personal support for Chairman Carlyle and his ideal that citizenship should be voluntary, not forced. To that end, I hereby call on all Spanish citizens—no, on all people who consider Spanish identity an important part of who they are, to show their support for that ideal by renouncing their citizenship, becoming floating citizens of the EU for twenty-four hours, and then reapplying to become Spanish citizens again, this time by choice. What we choose means more than what is handed to us by chance. I will count every citizen who leaves and rejoins my country a more loyal Spaniard, a more sincere Spaniard, a truer Spaniard, than before, and I will stand proud as the king of a people brave enough to leave our fatherland to show support for those endangered by this war, but loyal enough to return again.”

The delivery was perfect. The current king, Isabel Carlos II, has watched the recording of his ancestor so many times that he knows not just the words, but the gestures and the pauses. Later this year Spain will go mad with joy as it celebrates King Isabel Carlos's sixtieth birthday, and his twentieth year on the throne, but I prefer to let you meet him here in this plainer ceremony. He is a calm man, not as moving as the actors, but precise and perfect in his duties, a human man holding himself to the elevated standards of a king. His hair is not quite black, his face mild and subtly Asian due to a Chinese grandmother, and his fine gray suit today is a replica of his ancestor's, those simple suits of the early millennium when opulence was expressed only in the expense of cloth and cut. The king can only attend this ceremony today because of the recent scandal, otherwise he would be at the European Grand Parade, where Europe's second choice, Casimir Perry, has been grudgingly given the seat of honor. But we who could see His Majesty's face knew he was happier here, reciting his ancestor's address, than there delivering a speechwriter's concoction to a hundred thousand voters.

“Ice cream!”

The demand rose from the Servicers around me even before the applause had died. Oh, they discussed the performance, too, the first-timers especially, moved by the event, and by seeing three world leaders dignify it with their attendance. But a person's reflections on the foundations of our world are private, and I will not intrude on yours by offering those of a lowly Servicer.

“Ice cream! Ice cream! Ice cream!”

The chant was powerless to call the Censor away from the dais as he waited for Cousin Chair Bryar Kosala to teeter over to him on her mad high heels and plant a light kiss on his cheek. “You said you couldn't make it!”

“I was wrong.” Vivien gave her a practiced squeeze, though they clunked shoulders briefly, since the costume shoes made Chair Kosala eight centimeters taller than the couple was used to. “You were great, again.”

“Really great!” Jung Su-Hyeon Ancelet-Kosala demanded her rightful hug in turn.

Vivien stepped back so he could admire spouse and ba'kid together, especially what the gendered period costume did to Bryar's figure. It was striking, the crisp outline hugging breasts and hips which we usually saw only through the contoured drapery of a Cousin's wrap. The deep blue of the suit fabric enhanced the subtle amber underglow of Kosala's deep Indian skin, and the extra height exaggerated her tall, imperious beauty, the long chin, long nose, and high forehead which make her face commanding and otherworldly, almost stylized, like a mask or statue staring down at you from some lofty other-realm. “I hate speaking in this dome, I can never tell if someone else is talking over me or if it's just the echo.”

“No one was talking,” Vivien assured. “I think most of them were actually listening. Not me, of course.”

She gave her spouse a mock shove, then saw the crowd of Servicers approaching. “Oh, hello there, [Name], [Name], [Name]…” I cannot list my comrades' names here; Chair Kosala herself, as Servicer Program Director, has censored them. “I won't ask if you liked it since you're bound to say you did, but tell me, was my diction clear on ‘tax bracket back taxing'? I always muddle that.”

My comrades were staring at the faces, so often seen on newscasts, now abruptly real.

“I don't remember, Chair Kosala.” I answered, honestly. “If it had been conspicuous, I would remember.”

She did not have a smile for Mycroft Canner. “What is it? You're all staring at Vivien as if something's supposed to happen.”

The least timid of them answered, “The Censor promised us ice cream.”

“What, only ice cream? No hot fudge, or whipped cream, or strawberries? We can't have that.”

Vivien rolled his eyes.

Chair Kosala reached to comb his dreadlocks with her long fingers, not because the locks were actually mussed, but because she still enjoys the feel of them. “Be sparing with the Romanovan budget, dear, not ours. Come on, everyone. Vivien's getting us super-deluxe sundaes!”

Cheers drowned the Censor's joking groan.

“Terry, Kirabo, you come too,” she called the actors over. “Your Majesty, would you care to join us?”

The King of Spain smiled across at us from near the podium. “Thank you, Chair Kosala, but no, I have another obligation. Mycroft,” for privacy's sake he addressed me in Spanish, “¿did La Trémoïlle summon you to their party tonight?”

I replied in Spanish. “Yes, Your Majesty, they did.”

“¿What excuse did they give?”

“A very flimsy one, Your Majesty, not worth repeating.”

Spain frowned. “I spoke to J.E.D.D. Mason about this invasion of the Saneer-Weeksbooth bash'.” Of course, His Majesty did not say “Jed Mason,” but as I approximate Spanish with English, so I substitute the name you recognize for one you would not. “They see more in this than just a prank.”

“Then I believe it,” I answered. “Thank you for broaching the question; someone had to.”

“Yes. Until tonight, Mycroft.”

I bobbed my slouching bow. “Until tonight, Your Majesty.”

Chair Kosala and the Censor watched as Spain graced me with his words, but they would not intrude. As for my fellow Servicers, most here knew me well enough not to be surprised, and the rest would mistake me for a Spaniard.

An aide came now, and offered the Cousin Chair sane shoes in trade for her costume heels. “To the sundae bar!” she cried, and strode down the aisle like Athena before her armies, bodyguards holding the flanks like victories. She usually has at least four guards, though on this crowded day I spotted ten, glad of their numbers as the convicts schooled around their ward.

I did not follow the happy band of princes and paupers, united here by the magic of sugar and cream. Only Su-Hyeon noticed that I lagged behind. “Mycroft, you coming?”