“A fool pulls the leaves. A brute chops the trunk. A sage digs the roots.” Augustus pauses. “Something Lorn au Arcos once said to my father. It’s engraved on the Hall of Blades in New Thebes. Striking training grounds will do nothing except fill the holoNet with pretty explosions. I tire of political plays. Our strategy must change. With every bombing, the Sovereign grows wearier of my administration.”
“You govern Mars,” Leto says. “Not Venus or Earth. Ours is not a placid planet. What does she expect?”
“Results.”
“What do you have in mind, my liege?” Pliny asks.
“I intend to poison the Sons of Ares’s roots. I want suicide bombers, not Grays. Find the ugliest, nastiest Reds on Mars, hold their families hostage, and threaten to kill their sons and daughters if the fathers do not do as we command. Focus the suicide bombers on surface areas with high youth density as well as two choice mines. No women bombers. I want social divide. Women against violence.”
How little life costs here. Just words in the air.
“Urban areas too,” he continues. “Not just Browns and Red miners and agriculturalists. I want dead Blue and Green children in schools or arcades next to Sons of Ares glyphs. Then we’ll see if other Colors still sing that girl’s gorydamn song.”
My heart dips a beat. Eo’s song spread further than she dreamed, reaching the holoNet and ripping across the Solar System, shared over a billion times thanks to anarchist hacker groups. Time and again, I fear I’ll be recognized. Perhaps some Gold will search through the records to find that Eo’s husband’s name was also Darrow. But even I hardly recognize that skeletal, pale boy. And as for names? There are no true records for lowRed names. I had a number designation given to me by some officious Copper administrator. L17L6363. And L17L6363 was hanged from his neck until dead, whereupon his body was stolen by an unknown perpetrator and presumably buried in the deep mines.
“You plan to alienate Red from the other Colors, then alienate the Sons from Red.” Pliny smiles. “My liege, sometimes I wonder why you even need me.”
“Do not patronize me, Pliny. It’s beneath the both of us.”
Pliny bows. “Indeed. Apologies, my liege.”
Augustus looks back to Leto. “You’re squirming like a pup.”
“I worry this will make matters worse.” Leto frowns to himself. “Right now the Sons are a nuisance, yes. But hardly our chief plight. If we do this, we could be pouring fuel on the flames. And worse, we’d be as guilty as the Sons themselves. Terrorists.”
“There is no guilt.” Pliny peers idly at a stream of data on his datapad “Not when you’re the judge.”
Leto isn’t satisfied. “My liege, our imperative to rule exists because we are fit to best guide mankind. We are Plato’s philosopher kings. Our cause is order. We provide stability. The Sons are anarchists. Their cause is chaos. We should use that as our weapon. Not Grays in the night. Bombers amongst children.”
“We should aspire to a higher purpose?” Pliny asks.
“Yes! Perhaps fashion a media campaign against the Sons. Darrow, wouldn’t you agree?”
Again, I do not answer. Not until the ArchGovernor acknowledges my presence. He does not value impudence or impropriety unless it benefits him.
“Idealism,” Pliny sighs. “Admirable in the young, if misguided.”
“Take care in talking down to me, Politico,” Leto growls, scanning Pliny’s smirking face for the absent Peerless scar.
“Your plan should be less brutal, ArchGovernor. That is my point.”
“Brutality.” Augustus lets the word hang in the air. “It is neither evil nor good. It is simply an adjective of a thing, an action in this case. What you must parse is the nature of the action. Is it evil or good to stop terrorists who bomb innocents?”
“Good. I suppose.”
“Then what do our methods matter so long as we harm fewer innocents than they would harm if we continue to allow them to exist?” Augustus folds his long-fingered hands. “But at the core, this is no philosophical issue. It is a political one. The Sons of Ares are not the threat. Not at all. All they are is a weapon for our political enemies, namely the Bellona, to use as an excuse to claim I cannot control Mars.
“The curlyhairs already seek to strip me of the Governorship. As you know, the Sovereign has sole power to remove me from the position, even without a vote from the Senate. If she wishes, she can give Mars to another house—Bellona, our allies the Julii, even a non-Martian house. None of these entities would run Mars as effectively as I. And when Mars is run effectively, all benefit—low and high. I am not a despot. But a father must cuff the ears of his children if they make attempt to set fire to his house; if I must kill a few thousand for the greater good, for helium-3 to flow, and for the citizens of this planet to continue to live in a world untorn by war, then I will.
“Which brings us to Darrow au Andromedus.” Now his cold eyes turn on me, fresh from ordering the deaths of a thousand innocents, and I cannot help but flinch as a dark hate rises inside me. I bow my head in polite deference.
“My liege. You summoned me?”
“I did. And your purpose here shall be brief. You were a gambit when I took you from the Institute and put you in my employ. You know this?”
“Yes.”
“I thought your merit to be sufficient, and I found your rivalry with Cassius au Bellona amusing in a schoolyard way. But the bloodfeud declared between you has become,” he spares a glance at Pliny, “burdensome to my interests, both economically and politically. Substantial revenues have been lost due to tariff increases to the Core, where Bellona supporters lie. Houses waver in their commitment to honoring deals made years ago at the trade table. So, as an act of reconciliation to these aggrieved parties, I have decided to sell your contract to another house.”
I shudder inside.
“My liege …,” I try to interject. This cannot happen. If he strips me of my place, nearly three years of work will have been for nothing. “If I may—”
“You may not.” He opens a drawer and idly tosses a slab of meat to his lion. The lion waits for Augustus to snap his fingers before eating. “The decision was made a month ago. There is no use bandying words with me. I’m not Quicksilver negotiating the price of lithium futures. Pliny …”
“The particulars are rather simple, Darrow. So they shall be easy to grasp.” Pliny hasn’t taken his eyes from me. “The ArchGovernor has been overly kind in giving you the fair warning in case of termination, as stipulated in your contract.”
“My contract says I’m to be given six months’ fair warning.”
“If you’ll recall section eight, subsection C, clause four, you’re to be given six months’ fair warning unless you fail to act in a manner befitting a lancer of the esteemed House Augustus.”
“Is this a joke?” I look to Leto and Augustus.
“Do you see us laughing?” Pliny asks primly. “No? Not even a scoff or chortle?”
“Of all the lancers, I came in second at the Academy! You couldn’t even make it through the Institute.”
“Oh, it’s not that! You did well … enough.”
“Then what?”
“It is your constant presence on HC talk shows.”
“I’ve never gone on the HC! I don’t even watch it!”
“Oh, please. You relish your own celebrity. Even though they mock you, you bathe in the limelight and cloak this house with shame. We know your datapad search histories. We see you preening at yourself on the HC as though it were your personal mirror. The stories run on you and the ArchGovernor’s daughter—”