The others waited for MASON’s next move, all silent except for Spain, who hiccupped with soft sobs, neither joy nor sadness, but commingling passions too multiform to have a name.

“Let them be a Familiaris Candidus, then,” Caesar offered, “the office I created for Apollo Mojave. With a Familiaris Candidus the Hive retains the authority to override my justice should it prove too harsh. While the child remains a Minor, Romanova’s Third Law will guard them from my Capital Power,” he nodded to the Censor, “and, once they pass the exam, veto will rest in the leader of whichever Hive they choose.” He nodded to the others: Andō, Faust, the bright Duke-Consul, Prime Minister Spain. “You already control five Hives, Madame, and neither the Cousins nor Utopia will tolerate death.”

“That is a good solution…” The blushing mother smiled slightly, her fingernails playing across the creases of the Emperor’s palm. “I know the depths of your affection for me, Caesar, but I can’t help wondering why you would give this gift so freely, if not to have my child in your power.”

MASON’s shoulders twitched, a gesture Faust claims was common in years closer to the harsh Masonic testing which robbed Cornel of his foot and younger self. “All that I have I will share with our child,” he answered, hollow-voiced. “You have less reason to attack what you can freely exploit. I ask no more.”

“But will you love him?”

MASON is hard to blindside. “Love?”

“You can’t expect me to trust my child to a father who will not love him. It wouldn’t be healthy, not to mention proper.” Madame laughed brightly as she placed her right hand palm over Caesar’s left against the hot skin of her belly. “Will you love him?”

A hush; as centuries are too rough a measure for the passing of an age, so seconds cannot track the tides of emotion which flowed across Caesar’s face, eroding away his masks of stone and iron and baring something human. “We both know I will have little choice.”

“In that case, Caesar, you have made me the happiest woman in the world.”

* * *

«Hilliard Wolfe?»

«Confirmed dead at Parliament.»

«Fisher Yilmaz?»

«Confirmed dead at Parliament.»

«Aster Zinc?»

«Dead in their bedroom.»

«This can’t be happening.»

«Have we heard back about Peckory Ingrams yet?»

«Dead in their home, Papadelias just confirmed it. Clubbed with a shovel.»

«That’s it for the current Commissioners. What about the Justices?»

«That’s no good, Perry called them into the session too.»

«This can’t be happening.»

«Did they all attend?»

«We may as well go through them. Cooper Aubrey?»

«Confirmed dead at Parliament.»

«Sol De Léon?»

«Confirmed dead at Parliament.»

«Lindy Gaylord?»

«This can’t be happening.»

«Would you stop saying that!» The others could only take it so many times without snapping. «Get a grip, Czerwinski! You’re not helping!»