A rainbow archaeopteryx scanned the winded sensayers with a buzzing light, omnichrome and piercing, then settled on one Utopian’s shoulder. “No other weapons found.”

The guard stood firm. “Me paenitet, Porphyrogene, sed auctoritas tua IMPERIUM MASONICUM non rescindit. (Apologies, Highness, but your orders don’t override MASON’s AUTHORITY.)”

Static flashed just then, the wall of coats around Jehovah turning to harsh white blankness as, across the rolling surface of the Earth, all the worlds Utopia dreamed of turned to emptiness. Four seconds, five, six Utopia mourned someone, and we all froze, and breathed, and thought of our mortality.

“You’ve ruined this, Gilliard.” Julia brushed grass from her crumpled robe. “Working with Jehovah, we could have calmed things down.”

“You mean we could have handed the Conclave over to them.” Gilliard Gerber wriggled in the dragons’ grip. “TM’s already ‘helped’ the Hives enough to plant themself and their lunatics deep in all seven, and now you want to give them Romanova!”

Julia spun, catching every eye in turn. “We need to keep this incident from getting out. The public needs stable sensayers right now. A disaster like this could be the last straw.”

The lead guard frowned. “If MASON consents.”

Julia had no time for fools. “This isn’t MASON’s jurisdiction.”

“I don’t care. Jehovah is my son.”

The voice came from above. None of us had noticed a second car’s arrival, but none could fail to spot the swarm of glittering defensive robots which schooled out around the Emperor as he descended from it. His personal guards followed, one with a freshly bloodied nose, and, if I know Cornel MASON at all, I know which fist it was which struck the guard who had dared tell Caesar it was too dangerous for him to come in person to retrieve his Son. MASON’s guards are all Familiares, and their lives are in his hands as much as his in theirs.

“MASON…” Even Julia took some seconds to blink away the shock. “If I call Papadelias—”

“Then it will be Papadelias I bully over this, instead of you.” Caesar had no more time for Julia. “Vulneratus esne, fili? (Are you injured, son?)” He waited. “Fili?”

Silence always lingers over Jehovah when He sees Utopia mourn, deep silence, as when, in childhood, He would demand a father who could not come just then, or grope for a book beyond His arm’s reach, or ask to meet an author long dead: our mortality stings humans hard, but impotence stings Gods hard too. “Incolumis, pater,” he answered at last. “De mortalité Mea Par Meus εὖ admonuit. (Unharmed, father. My Peer reminded Me of My mortality skillfully.)”