Ancelet laughed, his dreadlocks falling back across his shoulders like willow whips in breeze. I was glad to see he could still laugh. “That really is the idea behind it,” he explained. “J.E.D.D. Mason wants the human race to have the truth. Most everyone else, including me, wants some controlled version of the truth out there, since you know there will be many pointed lies, most pointed against us. We must fight them with something. If you prefer, Ockham, I will send Mycroft away and summon a Humanist bodyguard, but you or I or both will wind up repeating all this information to Mycroft later on, and, since I’m new to having Humanist guards, there are none yet that I trust as much as I trust Mycroft”—he paused—“or you.”

“Prospero.” The name sounded dead on Ockham’s lips.

“What?”

“Prospero. My name, my middle name, is Prospero. I am no longer O.S., so I should not be addressed as Ockham.”

It hurt hearing him say it, as it would hurt hearing a deposed king say he no longer merits “Majesty.”

Prospero Saneer let his eyes close, consulting with the darkness before breaking the seal on secrets he has carried since he was old enough to know what secrets were. “O.S. is that organ which acts when the Humanist Hive is best served by taking human life,” he answered. “Its charter, which I can recite for you if you wish, recommends but does not formally restrict it to targeting those whose connections to Humanist interests are obscure enough that no investigation may be reasonably expected to uncover our motive. The deaths should, if possible, be brought about by means subtle enough that no investigation could reasonably suspect foul play either. The Six-Hive Transit System and its computers have been our main means of both selecting and killing targets, but other methods are employed when needed. The hereditary Saneer-Weeksbooth bash’ is entrusted with both the Transit Network and the assassination system. We are O.S., though the title O.S. is also used for the system’s single leader. As Ockham Saneer I was the twelfth O.S., and now Ojiro Sniper is thirteenth.”

“That organ which acts…” Ancelet repeated, a hint of French tinting his vowels as he translated the phrase in his mind. “Interesting terminology. Who chooses the targets?”

“You do, Member President. Or, you would, in simpler times.”

The new president’s black brows narrowed. “Who chose before me?”