Carnival

Purged of such details as the fact that Michelangelo had not been acting alone, of course. His patron would see to that, too.

And the evidence would be shared among the Governors, forwarded via shipping and mail packets to the farthest outposts of the Coalition, so that the Governors could return a consensus regarding whether they would carry out the Assessment. It would take about four months out and four months back for the verdict to be returned.

An inevitable verdict. But the forms would be observed. And the Governors would swallow the poison pill of Kii’s virus with the evidence upon which they would return Michelangelo’s sentence. Which would be Assessment. That, he already knew.

And that, moreover, was the poetry that had convinced Kii, finally, to do as Michelangelo said.

“It’s a death sentence,” Vincent said.

“Yes,” Kii said. “But it is elegant.”

Michelangelo nodded, at peace and whole in his heart. That was, after all, the plan. The only pain came in hurting Vincent. But Vincent would recover. He had always been the stronger one.

“It’s nothing I can’t do as well, with a better chance of surviving.”

“Vincent,” Michelangelo said patiently, “you’re Katherinessen. Won’t put you before the Governors. They’ll ship you home with a discharge and pretend you never left Ur.”

“Angelo–”

Vincent’s voice cracked. Michelangelo couldn’t stand it. He shook his head. “Let me be the fucking hero just once, you son of a bitch,” he said, and kissed him on the mouth.

And Vincent, eyes closed, kissed him back, and murmured, “Kill or be killed,” against his lips.

Michelangelo repeated the same words, and if they meant martyrdom rather than bravado now, they were still a benediction, of sorts.

That first leg of the journey was a little less than two months, and Vincent was both grateful and grieved that Michelangelo did not spend thistrip in cryo. They had that, at least, and it had a kind of end‑of‑the‑world sweetness that alternately tore and honeyed him.

The results of the New Amazonian election caught up with them at Cristalia, via a fast packet bot, and they weren’t surprised to hear that the new head of the security directorate was Lesa Pretoria.

Between her and Prime Minister Kyoto, Vincent doubted if he’d ever have to make good on his promise to take Julian back to Ur.

At Cristalia, Vincent and Angelo parted ways.

Vincent tendered his resignation through the mail packet that would reach Old Earth on the same ship that Angelo would and boarded the Pequodtoward Ur. Michelangelo’s ship was named the Argo. They didn’t laugh about it.

Vincent’s family was surprised to see him, except for his mother, who was pleased. Captain Katherine Lexasdaughter was finally showing her age, her hair thi

But not as scheduled.

Vincent suggested she wait, eight months or ten, to see if it would even be necessary to start a war. And she listened.

Katherine always listened. And she made other people listen, too. So it happened that once the Governors ceased issuing their dictums, there was no need to bring revolution to Old Earth.

Old Earth managed very well on its own.

Vincent had never tracked incoming ships before, but now he did, waiting for any scrap of news, though the trial received only moderate coverage–and none at all once the fighting started and the Cabinet was dissolved. The Governors would never return Angelo’s sentence. They’d be gone before the mail could get back to Old Earth.

That didn’t matter: it would be obvious to anyone with a calendar and a brain where the virus had originated. Vincent knew the Coalition.

Someone would do the work himself.

Vincent was consumed–possessed–by the need to know the date, the exact time of Michelangelo’s execution. As if in knowing, he could fix the sun in the sky, control the death, contain it, crystallize it. As if he could ownit.

Ridiculous, when he didn’t even stand under the same sun.

He knew how it would be. He would observe the a

And then Vincent, eventually, would be dead as well, and there would be nothing left of Michelangelo Osiris Leary Kusanagi‑Jones, except a string of dead men’s names.

And Kii. Kii would remember him. And Kii, or some propagation of Kii, might someday make its way home to New Amazonia, and the Consent would reclaim its prodigal.

They might not change. They might never accept change. It was not in the ethos of the Dragons, other than the explorer‑caste, essential and ignored.

But they could appreciate poetry. And the story would have an ending, after all.

Epilogue

IT CAME, UNBELIEVABLY, ON THERMOPAPER. A DNA‑CODED diplomatic packet, read‑to‑destroy, for Vincent Katherinessen, Old Earth Colonial Coalition Diplomatic Corps, Lt. Col., Ret.

Hard copy.

He’d never held one before.

He licked his thumb and pressed it against the catch.

The message within was brief:

With one thing and another, Rome fell before they decided to waste the bullet. Coming the long way round, but I’m coming. Hope you weren’t kidding about introducing me to your mom.

Would you believe it?

All those years, all those worlds, and we were wrong.