“Mushi Mojave.”

“A relation of the late lamented Apollo. My condolences.”

The vizor, at least, showed no flinch. “Thank you.”

“You’re the one Cornel brought here to represent Utopia at Mycroft Canner’s trial, aren’t you? I didn’t recognize you with your coat switched on.” Her eye followed the simulated ants trailing their odysseys across her floor. “Apollo’s only been dead a few months. Did you Utopians really have so much invested in one person that you surrender now without trying anything else?”

Mushi did not move. “Is one of your demands for our surrender that we reveal what other strategies we have tried against you? If so, I am instructed to demand equivalent information in return.”

She stroked her cheek with a rosy nail. “You’re determined to play soldier to the end, aren’t you?”

“I am not playing,” the Utopian replied. “Since you built your empire by exploiting play, I’m sure you realize that. What are your terms?”

The poise and softness fell from Madame’s face all at once, like a storm’s last sheet of rain. “Fine. No playing. First, no resistance to my current or future conquests, or my Son’s.”

Utopia: “Agreed.” Mushi sealed the bargain with a nod. “For your part, you will not try to dissolve or weaken Utopia, or encourage attacks against us, be they physical, legal, economic, propagandistic, or intellectual.”

Madame: “I hope you’re not expecting me to actively protect you.”

Utopia: “No, just that you agree not to attack us yourself, not to cause your conquests to attack us, and not to feed the general ill will against us; it is already strong enough.”

That last touch made her smile. “True. Agreed, then. Second term, I want all your resources at my disposal.”

Mushi’s response was instant. “We will not divert resources from Mars.”

Madame sniffed. “I meant your people, not your money, the teams you hire out for contract work. When I ask for something I want your best, and promptly.”

Utopia: “You want to hire us without payment?”

Madame: “Without payment, without waiting, without questions, without objections, without receiving less than your best people, best artists, writers, designers, accountants, teachers, doctors, architects, the best of every field, whenever I ask, and with appropriate discretion. What you do for me is not to be shared or repeated.”

Three breaths passed as silent debate flickered from Mushi’s vizor across the constellations which cocoon Utopia’s earthly empire. “We will complete specific quests. We will not proactively pursue your goals.”

A slow laugh percolated in Madame’s throat. “I don’t trust anyone I did not raise myself to understand my goals. It’s your arts I want, not your people. I may ask you to make a gun for me, but it will be my own creatures who pull the trigger.”

“Utopia does not accept commissions to build lethal weapons,” Mushi answered quickly.

Madame: “It was just a metaphor.”

Utopia: “Utopia does not make anything that can be adapted into a Harbinger.”

Madame: “A what?”

Utopia: “Nukes, CMWs, bioweapons, chainbombs, positron cannons, armed satellites…”