The Addressee: Again that deeper pause, as thoughts unfathomably vast, beyond both space and time, contort themselves into mere syllables. “I wish to restore to you that familiar company which understands your thoughts and language as no other can, and so reaches through the darkness of miscommunication which isolates every human soul; your shortest name for this concept is bash’. I wish too to give you Truth, and the means to share what Truth you have with Earth now and Posterity beyond. These things I freely give. It proves again your Author’s love of symmetry that you have the means to give the same to Me.”

O.S.: “You mean… Mycroft?”

The Addressee: “My translator and historian. I do not need Mycroft to kill you and Tully Mardi Mojave; many could do that. I need Mycroft for Myself.”

O.S.: “Bad luck it’s you that has to die.”

The Addressee: “Luck?”

O.S.: “Bad luck it’s you they picked to make tyrant of the world. It should’ve been a selfish dick like Andō or Perry, or someone horrible like Dominic, so no one would regret seeing their head blown off. Even President Ganymede chose to play the game, so it’s fair they’ve gone down in flames. You didn’t choose this. You should be in the Sensayers’ Conclave writing weird philosophy, not in the Senate, and not in my gun sights. It’s stupid luck it’s you that has to die.”

The Addressee: “There is no luck, nor Fortune, only Providence.”

O.S.: “You think you were chosen for the greater good?”

The Addressee: “There is a Purpose; that is not the same as Good.”

O.S.: “What purpose?”

The Addressee: “It seems I have not given enough attention to that question. I thank you, My adversary, for reminding Me. You are wise. I grieve that you too will so likely die in this.”

Thus, while had I slept and the world cooled, these two had met mind to mind, and poisoned the clean title of adversary with the taint of affection. I got the transcript later from Martin, who watches our Master more closely than ever now, not spying secretly, but watching with the full consent of He Who is watched. But for that night, as Martin helped me from the recovery bed, I still believed my ransom had been painless.

“Shall we walk a bit, Mycroft?” Martin invited gently.

“Thank you, Nepos.”