Too Like the Lightning (21 page)

She and Vivien gaped at the Duke between them, who smiled, looking as smug as the sculpture behind him of naked Hephaestion basking in the hungry gaze of Alexander. In fact, since Duke Ganymede himself had been the model for that particular Hephaestion, the likeness was exact.

“You see,” he lectured, “this is why couples should stand together in this room, not apart.”

As the pair stood frozen, Ganymede gave each kisses on both cheeks, then pressed them into one another's arms as if arranging dolls. “Like that, see? Better.”

They held the pose only a moment before balking back. “Ganymede,” Chair Kosala began, “I … we were looking for you.”

“Then it was mutual. Come, there's something waiting for you on the Ruby Walk.” He seized Chair Kosala by the hand, the lace of his cuff mingling with her hanging silks like the leaves and blossoms of wisteria. “Something for your bedroom wall.”

Pure Indian ancestry has made Bryar Kosala's hair as rich and dense a black as any on the planet, almost dense enough to hide behind. “I thought you'd forgotten about that.”

“Dearest Bryar, I never forget anything. Come along, Vivien.” He dragged the Censor by his Graylaw sash. “Bryar's not going use this piece alone.”

Ganymede swept out of the salon with the speechless couple helplessly in tow.

The long main gallery they entered now had a sleek, reflective red carpet, which preserved the tracks of Humanist boots, no two alike, whose custom soles stamped the receiving fibers with the sigils of the many athletes, actors, thinkers, and tricksters who played the celebrity game well enough to walk Ganymede's halls. Humanist boots are a custom nearly two hundred years old, created when the Olympian Hive, which lived for sport, merged with World Stage, which lived for concert and spotlight, to form the ‘Humanists,' united by the passion to excel, achieve, improve, and constantly surpass the past limits of human perfection. I believe there has never been, nor shall be again, a government as stable as the Humanists. Rome grew mighty under Kings, then stifled as they became tyrants, forcing the bloody revolution which birthed the Republic. When that Republic's conquests outgrew the Senate's power to govern, it took a second bloodbath to return to monarchy. How many bloodbaths has France endured? India? China? Florence and Athens, trapped in their constitutions, unable to switch to monarchy when crisis demanded one voice? The Humanists alone have escaped this cycle, trusting voters to choose not only governors, but governments. Humanist elections have no short list of candidates. All may vote for anyone they please, and everyone who receives even a thousandth part of the voting pool receives in turn that portion of the power. Today universally beloved Ganymede commands sixty-three percent of the vote, and so wields sixty-three percent of the powers of government, and adds ‘President' to his list of titles. The other thirty-seven percent of the power is distributed among his rivals: twenty-two and the title of Vice President to the runner-up, six to one Minister of Justice, the final nine to a council of minor celebrities currently dubbed Congress. Fifty years ago, when charisma was less concentrated in one star, the frontrunner had boasted a mere seven percent and the title Speaker, while three percent went to a Vice Speaker, and the remaining ninety to a Senate of more than five hundred names. It was a revolution, reader, a transition from republic to dictatorship in fifty years without a single drop of blood. Detractors call it a cult of charisma, but the Humanists themselves use
aretocracy,
rule by excellence.

«Grand frère!»

Danaë's greeting rang through the halls like fanfare. She rushed to her brother, the sleeves of her kimono rustling like a flightless bird which flaps in its excitement, forgetting for a moment that it is Earth's prisoner. The view through Ganymede's tracker camera was stunning as she threw herself into his arms, rivers of spring blooms flowing across her silks like a florist's window with many more colors than mere rainbow. Danaë rained kisses upon her brother, and the sparkles traded back and forth between their silks made the scene almost blinding. Such scenes are even more powerful in person, seeing the twins' eyes lock, the same gem-deadly blue; their hands intertwine, the same china doll fingers; Danaë's cheek brushing Ganymede's mane, as gold as hers. Danaë's station demanded that her hair be bound modestly back, though the sheer bulk of the coil dared one to imagine what ocean of sunlight would pour down if it were free. Her station also demanded that she not throw herself so enthusiastically upon another man in public, and her husband was not slow to place a firm hand on her shoulder.

“Hello, Ganymede. Thank you for inviting us again.” Chief Director Hotaka Andō Mitsubishi's voice was cheerless as old stone. His suit this evening was spectacular itself, a rich blue like deep water, whose winter pattern of fine spirals was halfway through transforming into the ripples of a rain-spattered spring pond, koi and turtles appearing through the blue as if rising to feed.

“The pleasure is ours.” The Duke crushed the orchid-fragile knot of Danaë's obi as he held her tight.

Director Andō pulled harder at his wife. “Come, Danaë, let's let your brother breathe.”

Smooth as a dancer, Danaë peeled one arm off of her brother and netted her husband in its grasp, forcing the pair to sandwich her in one affectionate embrace. The photographers went mad.

“I saw the ice sculptures out front!” She shouted in her joy. “I can't believe that horse's tiny legs are strong enough to support its whole body, and Lady Godiva on top, and so much hair!”

Ganymede let his head rest on his sister's shoulder as she held him. “That's nothing. Wait until you see out back. The whole hedge maze is iced so you can skate the entire course, and it's lit so the colors change each time you move, like skating on the Northern Lights.”

“Oh, we must have a race!” She gave her twin and husband each a fresh kiss before letting go. “Wouldn't that be marvelous? I bet I can make it through the whole maze faster than either of you!”

The gentlemen exchanged a chuckle.

“Come, come, let's race!” Her eyes pleaded with her husband's. “It would be such fun, and we can invite the others! His Majesty, Bryar and Vivien, the Emperor, and Felix—can dear Felix skate?”

Ganymede peeled himself away just enough to tap the front of her obi, which bound her belly as tightly as a corset. “And just how do you propose to skate in that?”

“Easy, I'll see which one of you is faster, then I'll hold your coattails and have you tow me through. Then at the last second I'll distract you and pull ahead to victory!”

“And how will you distract us?”

Smiling Danaë threw both arms around her husband and locked him in a kiss, while at the same time her left foot snagged Ganymede by the ankle and toppled him forward. With both still stunned, she flitted aside quick as a hummingbird, and let her brother fall into her husband's arms.

His Majesty Isabel Carlos II laughed.

Danaë had blinded the others as the King of Spain arrived. There are few people in this world whom Ganymede does not hate, but the Duke reserves a special hatred for the King. Isabel Carlos II is not the offender, nor is any Spanish king, nor any Spaniard. Ganymede's fellow Frenchmen birthed the grudge. No line so noble as his cannot boast royal blood, and with wealth, fame, and his golden presence, Ganymede is worthier than many past pretenders to France's throne. But there is no throne for Ganymede. France killed its king in our very own Eighteenth Century, and what few kings it has tried on since it discarded, like a grown man no longer comfortable in childhood's clothes. If he tried, Ganymede might convince as many to call him ‘Your Majesty' as now say ‘Your Grace,' but what would it mean when every member of the French nation-strat is more loyal to the Marseillaise than to the memory of Charlemagne? The Duke knows he cannot tame France to monarchy once more. That, I think, is why he lets the world call him by the celebrity nickname ‘Duke Ganymede' rather than his preferred title ‘Prince de la Trémoïlle'; Prince has enough of Machiavelli's stink to make a free man balk. And even if he could win France, she spread her contagious liberty to Europe, too. King Ganymede I of France would be as voiceless in the European Parliament as the Queens of England and Belgium are, or the Japanese Emperor among the Mitsubishi. Not so Spain. While the French Monarchy lay dead these six centuries, the Kings of Spain have been peacemakers and powerbrokers, kindled democracy from the ashes of tyranny, shared the podium with Thomas Carlyle, and caught the dying words of Mycroft MASON. Isabel Carlos II would have but to offer his name on the ballot for every European strat from Swedes to New Zealanders to rally to make him Prime Minister again, while if Ganymede sought power in Europe he would have to fight for it tooth and nail like a mere Casimir Perry. I cannot say whether President Ganymede actually feels himself entitled to a crown, but it is certainly the presence of the King of Spain which forced the Duke to choose the Humanists, not Europe, as his kingdom, and La Trimouille, not Paris, as his capital. That he will never forgive.

“Your Majesty.” Danaë bowed stiffly, as a Mitsubishi ought. “Which of these two do you think would be faster at ice skating?”

Spain smiled his modest smile. “If you mean to win, Princesse, you should ride the coattails of the one who built the maze.”

“Of course!” She turned bright eyes on Ganymede. “
Grand frère,
will you introduce me to your gardener?”

He cuffed her gently on the forehead. “Cheater.”

All laughed together, and the twins exchanged fast French. In fact, between the English and flirtation, you must imagine French fluttering back and forth between the pair all evening, birdsong sibling chatter too quick for even Spain to catch.

“Oh, good evening, Chair Bryar, I didn't see you there.” The King nodded his respects. “And the Honorable Censor. How are you both?”

Chair Kosala had retreated into the crowd to avoid the glitter, but stepped forward now, dragging Vivien with her. “We're very well, Your Majesty.”

Ganymede stepped in. “We're about to view a new piece these two might take home with them.” He offered the King a smile as sweet as the sugar coating around poison. “Would Your Majesty care to join us?”

There is always a hesitation when His Majesty addresses Ganymede, as if he considers each time which style of address to use. “Why certainly, La Trémoïlle. Lead on.”

Lead Ganymede did, each step printing his own graceful signature into the carpet surface, an elaborately framed linear rendition of his coat of arms, three eaglets surrounding a chevron. “Hopefully the bookies didn't swarm any of you too terribly as you arrived. They're out in full force.”

“I know, begging for hints about the lists, as if we knew anything.” Danaë hung on her husband's shoulder. “The children practically had to beat them off of us. Vivien, I imagine it was worse for you?”

“Oh, unbelievable!” Chair Kosala answered for her spouse. “The way they swarmed, it was as if they thought they could absorb the lists from Vivien by osmosis!”

Danaë hid her reaction behind her sleeve. “I hope they'll flutter off when the official odds are set tonight.
Grand frère,
how long until the announcement?”

“Twenty-one minutes. And here we are. Is that not the most tender thing?”

It was an oil piece, Cupid and Psyche. Most artists choose to depict the moment of their final reunion on Olympus, or the earlier moment of betrayal, when curiosity drives the girl to break her vow not to try to see this mystery lover who comes to her only in darkness. But this artist did not show triumph or betrayal, but an earlier moment, when the lovers were still nestled in each other's trusting arms, with yet no taste of sorrow. Psyche's eyes were gently closed, while Cupid's were covered by what might have been a slim, dark mask, but in context was the blindfold which artists sometimes have Love wear. The painting was also, quite intentionally, hung in the center of the villa's largest open gallery, where hundreds gathered to see and be seen—the perfect hunting ground for Sniper.

The King of Spain was first to recover enough to speak. “A new artist?”

“Fairly new, yes,” the Duke answered. “Up-and-coming new Ganymedist, Hooper Abbey.”

It is odd to hear Ganymede talk of Ganymedists, but there is no excuse to call the school by any other name. It was thirty-two years ago that Lister Dalal, one of the younger New Aesthetes of the Johannesburg Campus, fell into the spell of this golden-haired exemplar of exquisite youth, then only twelve years old. At first Dalal kept Ganymede to himself, producing portrait after best-selling portrait, but as other artists begged for access to his mystery model, he realized this blossoming Adonis could become the center of his own school, hijacking the Art-for-Pleasure rhetoric of his teachers, but focusing on the idealized figure, Ganymede's idealized figure. The Duke's galleries—like most great galleries now—hold a hundred portraits which strive to capture facets of his maturing body in oil and pigment, chalk and crayon, bronze and stone. How could he fail to become Earth's most successful art dealer when half the art world was already in love with him?

“It's a bit much,” was the King's judgment, frowning at the halo the dim light cast on Psyche's rosy nipples, erect in her excitement.

“And a bit dark,” Andō added.

Danaë—of whom a few modest, clothed portraits hang among her brother's on the walls—shot each of them a pout. “But it's wonderful! So tactile! You can just feel the texture of those sheets, and the wings, the feathers tickling Psyche's thigh. What do you think, Bryar?”

Chair Kosala had no chance to answer, for the room went suddenly dark, as the shattering of glass and the screams of startled innocents announced the arrival of Ganymede's quarry.