~o~O~o~
New York, New York
July, 2059

Archimedes Kokkoris deliberately slowed down and gave the man who paced by his side an apologetic look. “Sorry. It’s taking me some time to get used to this new exoskeleton. It’s got a lot more power than my last one.”

Brown dismissed the Justice’s concern with a gesture. “Don’t worry on my account. I enjoy walking.”

Kokkoris gave Brown another look and decided he was on the level; there was no indication that the brisk pace had troubled him. He didn’t even look too warm, although his severe black Second Republic suit was ill-suited to July in New York. “Well . . . thanks for indulging me. I’m afraid my mandatory exercise time is about the only opportunity I have these days to have non-work related conversations.”

“I imagine you will miss it, when your term concludes at the end of the year.”

The older man grimaced at the reminder. “I will. And I know I can’t complain; I got one of the longer initial terms on the court. Poor Anita Valdez drew the short straw and only served two years.”

Brown nodded his understanding. It was true that Kokkoris had made a name for himself long before he took the oath as one of the first justices of the Constitutional Court back in ’45 – and even before he’d been one of the primary drafters of the new Constitution. But Brown hadn’t spent five minutes conversing with the judge before he knew he was the sort of person who was simply incapable of stopping. The man lived to work.

Interesting as Kokkoris was in his own right, Brown had not come to do a profile of the jurist, so he returned to his subject. “What can you tell me about your first impression of Cromwell?”

The silver-haired man snorted. “I didn’t trust him, naturally. I assumed he was brilliant, what with the batteries and the solar and all. But everyone knew he’d been working for the damned junta. We figured he was their stooge.”

“Why would they need one? Didn’t three of the Generals serve on the Constitutional Commission?”

“And one of them was the chair,” Kokkoris confirmed. “But they all knew none of the old Defiance members would trust them. Not after they kept stretching the ‘transition’ period, and refusing to get the military off the streets. Not to mention keeping the Empire’s sedition laws!”

“In Strickland’s Commentaries, there’s a suggestion that you worked with Cromwell on the elements of the Fundamental Charter related to privacy and bodily autonomy. Did any of that work change your mind about him?”

The Justice rolled his eyes. “You should know we don’t cite to the Commentaries in our official opinions. Half the members of the Constitutional Court were on the Commission; we know what went on. Bill Strickland was just a jumped-up reporter.”

What was that phrase my dad used to use, Brown thought to himself. Inside baseball? “Well . . . did you work with Cromwell on the Charter?”

“I’m sure I did,” he replied dismissively. “I know Strickland focused a lot on the Charter, but honestly that part wasn’t my primary concern. It wasn’t Cromwell’s, either.”

“Really?” Brown allowed his surprise to show. “That’s about all anyone seems to know about Cromwell’s work on the Commission.”

“He was asked to chair a subcommittee on the privacy issue, so that subcommittee’s report came out under his name. Probably why the public credits him there – and I’m not saying they shouldn’t. But really . . . Cromwell wasn’t a lawyer and he didn’t put much stock in legal guarantees. I remember him saying that lawyers and judges were the ones who made the empire possible by neutering all the protections in the old Constitution.”

“Then why was he put in charge of a subcommittee that focused on individual rights?”

“Who knows? General Monk appointed the chairs. All of ’em. I kind of figured he was trying to fuck with us.” At Brown’s startled expression, the Justice chuckled. “Honestly, don’t believe Strickland. Read his stuff, and you’d swear the debates were all done according to Robert’s Rules, and the whole stinking lot of us were saints and philosophers.”

Kokkoris shook his head, disgusted. “Half of the Commission members were former Defiance commandos, for Chrissake. Throw in a few of Markley’s people, as you might expect. And top it off with a crapload of carrion who’d somehow gotten through all the troubles smelling like frickin’ roses. No-one got killed, at least as far as I know, but the debates weren’t pretty.”

Brown smiled ruefully. “You’re right. I know better than to believe the myths.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t talk like this when I’m on the bench. Mostly, we try to keep it ‘Second Republic civil’.” Kokkoris walked to the edge of the massive sea wall, leaned his forearms on the sturdy railing, and looked out across the water. “But if I’m going to be forced into retirement next year, at least I should be able to stop talking like a frickin’ oracle all the time.”

Brown joined him at the railing, watching the army of AI-directed drones that were engaged in the process of restoring the Statue of Liberty to its original color. “I can do without the patina of respectability,” he agreed. “So, yes, I’d very much like to know what Cromwell’s real focus was at the convention.”

“Power,” the judge said shortly. “Part of why I figured I couldn’t trust him – because he was focused on exactly what I was focused on. And what I assumed the damned junta was focused on.”

“Can you be more specific?”

Wind came off the water, rifling the older man’s hair. “He wanted to fight about how the Constitution would dole out power. Where actual control was located. I thought, at first, he was looking to find ways to preserve the junta’s real authority, while re-creating something that just looked like a republic.”

“So . . . he was trying to keep power centralized?”

The judge shook his head. “No. I just wanted to dilute executive authority; Cromwell wanted to break it to pieces. He was fanatical on the subject. That’s how we ended up with a CEO head of state, and separately elected EVP’s for Defense, Foreign Affairs, and Domestic Policy.”

Brown’s eyebrow lifted. “The ‘Kokkoris Compromise.’”

“Strickland again,” Kokkoris scoffed. “Yeah, it was my committee; I chaired it, and I whipped the votes for the final text. But Cromwell was the one who laid it all out, neat as a system engineer’s schematic. And Anita Valdez, who chaired the committee on the judiciary . . . she told me Cromwell was the one who had the idea to split the old Supreme Court’s jurisdiction up as well. Thank God!”

“You don’t want your court to have more power?”

“Christ, no! We’ve got enough to do, dealing with constitutional claims. Setting up separate federal courts of last resort for civil and criminal matters was brilliant. And, thank God, Anita had the sense to give Congress the power to create more if needed. Once we got rid of the stupid idea of having two senators for every state, regardless of population, lots of states wanted to merge, or swap territories. You can’t imagine how hard those bastards are working on the Court of Boundaries Adjudication!”

“So . . . Cromwell wasn’t a stooge after all?”

The justice shrugged his shoulders. “Prob’ly not. I wouldn’t put it past him, though. I was the chief strategist for the Defiance Movement for ten years – and that MoFo could think circles around me.”

Brown gave him a skeptical look. “How does any of his work tie in with the idea that the junta would secretly keep control of the real power?”

“It doesn’t,” Kokkoris admitted. “But I may have misread the junta’s intentions – not that they didn’t give me plenty of reasons to distrust them! They did manage to keep the military formally under the Head of State as Commander in Chief during times of war, and that may have been their primary objective.”

Brown took a minute to think about that before formulating his next question. “It sounds like you didn’t think much of Mr. Cromwell.”

This time, the judge was silent for a stretch of time, weighing his feelings. Finally, he sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s irrational of me, I suppose. But I could never figure him out. Cromwell. I couldn’t see his angle. Some of the old-line plutocrats were on the Commission, you know? The guys who somehow survived the end of the First Republic, and the Empire, and the junta. Cromwell was as rich as any of those clowns, but he wasn’t after money. I couldn’t figure out what he was after.”

“I take it you’re ruling out good old fashioned patriotism?” Brown asked, his voice dry.

“A stinking rich patriot?” Kokkoris snorted. “You’ll want me to believe in honest politicians, next.”

~o~O~o~
Boston, New England
Later that day

The bullet train managed the trip from Penn Station to the gleaming new NE Central in just over an hour, so Brown had plenty of time to catch a MagCar to Brigham & Women’s. A hospital cafeteria would not have been his first choice for an interview, but it was all Dr. Elsa Cromwell could manage, short of a holocall. Where possible, Brown preferred to do interviews in person.

Like Oskar, Elsa was a mix of both parents — short, slight, and fine-boned like her father, but with her mother’s angular features and lighter coloring. Her eyes were large and direct. “Mr. Brown,” she said, extending her hand in a businesslike way. “I’m sorry I couldn’t meet you in a less institutional setting. It’s all I can do to get time off for the funeral next week.” Her voice was clear and her English unaccented.

Brown gave her hand a formal shake. “Doctor Cromwell. A pleasure.”

They sat at a table by a large solar window. At 3:30 in the afternoon, the cafeteria was largely deserted and no one else was close. Elsa said, “I didn’t know what to think, when Clara told me she wanted to have a True Speaker give Dad’s eulogy. I’ve wanted to watch your remarks at Chief Elder Markley’s funeral, but I confess I haven’t found the time.”

Brown waved that away. “There is no need; I know you’re busy.”

“I thought Med School was time-consuming,” she said ruefully. “What comes after is worse.”

“Then let me get right to it. What can you tell me about your father?” As usual, Brown started with big, open-ended questions. Sometimes they elicited surprising responses.

“Dad was one of the most important people of this twenty-first century.” She gave a small laugh which sounded incongruous. “It’s kind of hard to summarize someone like that.”

“You were the last of the children to move out, yes?”

She nodded. “I was. The privilege of being the baby, I suppose.”

“So, you had some time alone with him, yes?”

“I did . . . but, in retrospect, I didn’t really appreciate it like I should have. We tended to talk about my studies a lot, and that might have been my doing. I wish I’d tried to get him to talk more about his own life. Though honestly, he never seemed to want to.”

“Any idea why?”

“A guess, only.” She looked at her hands, then back at him. “All of his significant discoveries happened when he was in Germany, when I was a little girl. I think working for the American junta in the early 40’s really bothered him. At the time, he wouldn’t say anything about that, just to protect us. But I could sense it, you know? Like he was very intense — very eager to get out from under their thumbs, I guess.”

“But he didn’t talk about it later? After the Constitutional Commission, when the Second Republic took over?”

“No. He seemed relieved, of course. Very relieved. But it was almost like he’d run out of juice or something. He didn’t go back to lab work. Not ever. He stayed at the Brownstone in the city, or out at the Westchester house before I went to college, and just did charity work. It felt like a hobby, though. Talking to my siblings, he was a complete workhorse back in Germany when we were kids.”

“You don’t remember any of that?”

“I was six when he was captured. I barely remember him at all from before we were all flown to New York after Mama died. I kind of wish . . . .” Her voice tapered off.

“You wish?” Brown prompted gently.

Her nervous laugh was back. “It’s silly. Don’t mind me. But I grew up knowing that my father was the Quentin Cromwell. The great inventor who shook the world. I worshipped him, you know? We all did, really. But I guess I felt a little cheated, because I never saw that part of him. By the time I was old enough to notice, he was done with all that.”

~o~O~o~
New York, New York
The next day

The MagCar smoothly stopped in front of the nondescript brownstone that Quentin Cromwell had purchased almost twenty years before. Brown paid no attention to the ’car’s silent departure, once he stepped out and onto the sidewalk.

He’d never been in the neighborhood, though of course he’d seen holos of the building. Like most late-Nineteenth Century structures, it was heavy, substantial, and decorated in a way that subsequent generations could ill afford. That would say nothing, he knew, about how the interior would look. Even eccentrics preferred more modern amenities.

The woman he had come to meet lived on the fourth floor, and he was unsurprised to find that a standard lift had been installed into the foyer. It was more discrete than most, however, and did not detract from the older look of the building.

The door to her apartment looked like oak but wasn’t, since it sported a standard holo in the middle which glowed to life when he approached. “Please inform Ms. Bentham that Mr. Brown is here,” he announced politely.

The holo projected the image of a middle-aged woman in a simple black tunic dress. “Good afternoon, Mr. Brown. Please come in.” The door opened automatically and he entered.

“I’m back here,” a woman’s voice called. “Sorry – you caught me with my hands full!”

Following the sound of the woman’s voice, he walked down a short hallway, which opened out into a large, well-lit space with a living room at one end and a kitchen at the other. Delany Bentham was in the kitchen, her hands covered in flour.

“I’m so sorry – I’ll have this lot in the oven in just a moment.”

It was rare to see anyone bake anymore, but Brown did, so he watched with interest. Once she had put whatever she was making into the oven, she washed her hands in a fastidious manner, then removed the apron which covered her simple leggings and v-necked t-shirt. The door holo’s image, naturally, had been pre-recorded. Judging by her appearance, the recording was a few years old.

“Won’t you sit down? Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea?”

“Some water, perhaps.” Caffein, like alcohol, was forbidden to the New Apostles, but Brown didn’t want to appear stand-offish.

She went to the cupboard, stretched to get two ceramic cups from a high shelf, rinsed them carefully then filled both with ice water. She brought the cups to the table that separated the kitchen from the living room, indicated a seat, and took the one across from it.

Having observed what looked almost like a ceremony, Brown looked carefully at the cup which she’d given him – an almost translucent porcelain with flowing blue and honey-colored glaze. The two cups clearly formed a set, though each was hand-made and distinct.

Brown had no appreciation for the late First Republic’s craft works, being more in tune with the Second Republic’s utilitarian aesthetic. Nonetheless, the cups seemed important to the woman in some way “These seem special. Are they antique?”

“Maybe? I don’t know, really. They were a present from Mr. Cromwell, years ago. A ‘housewarming gift,’ he called it.”

“They’re beautiful,” he said politely.

“Yes. I only use them for special occasions, like when Mr. Cromwell would check in on me. I’m always afraid I’ll break one, and God knows where he found them.”

Brown settled in. “How well did you know him?”

“Not well. I don’t think any of us did. He told me I could call him ‘Quentin,’ but it never felt right to me.”

“Why not?”

“He rescued me, Mr. Brown. Saved my life, took me off the streets. Gave me a place to live . . . even set me up with an apprenticeship. Got medical care for the first time since I was ten. All that, and he didn’t know me from Adam.” She smiled sadly. “Or Eve. Anyway. Someone like that . . . how I am I going to call him by his first name?”

Brown filed that bit of information away and took a different tack. “He’s been living here exclusively for the past eight years, and off-and-on for more than a decade before that. Why are so few people in the building willing to speak with me about him?”

“Are they?” She took a sip of water, her movements thoughtful. Then she set the cup down gently. “I’m not really surprised. Look, we’re a bunch of strays here. People Mr. Cromwell saved, over the years. He helped us all, and he was a very private man. We've always respected that. People would come around, now and then. You know, influencers, newpress, those types. Looking for information. Gossip, I guess. We kind of closed ranks against that sort of thing.”

“But you decided to talk with me now?”

“When you said you would be speaking at his funeral, I thought this was something people should know about him. I mean, I hope you don’t make the details public or anything . . . we’re pretty private people, too. But the fact that Quentin Cromwell was really committed to helping people – even people that society pushed to the margins – that’s something the world should know.”

Brown decided to probe a little. “Cromwell’s generosity is well known.”

“That’s the big stuff.” Delany waved it away. “I’m not talking about that. Lots of rich people give money to charity. Especially once the Second Republic got set up and they started going after the oligarchs!” Her snort of derision made plain her opinion of the men who raped the old republic and got rich during the empire and junta years.

Brown nodded his agreement. He knew some of the old plutocrats – the survivors, anyway – and he shared Delany’s opinion of them.

Her eyes grew distant. “Mr. Cromwell, though . . . I mean, we were people to him. He didn’t just give money to some shelter. He found us . . . each of us. He lived here, with us. And he’d stop in, now and then, to see how we were doing. Always polite, asking about our lives. And if we needed help with something, he was always there.”

“Did you ever wonder why?”

“Wonder? Sure.” She smiled briefly. “But you don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. I think it was just because he thought bigotry was so irrational . . . so inhumane . . . that he couldn’t bear it.”

Brown raised an eyebrow. “Bigotry?”

Delany grimaced. “Yeah. Just because the new Constitution protects people like me, doesn’t mean the old prejudices are dead. The Empire’s banned groups may all be legal now, but . . . that doesn’t mean we’re accepted everywhere. Not even in New York.”

Brown digested that in silence for a moment. Since Delany obviously wasn’t one of the racial or ethnic groups that had been targeted during the Empire period, Brown concluded she must be one of what had been labeled the ‘deviants.’ Those whose sexual or gender preferences were not condoned by most western religious denominations, very much including his own. “I see.”

Delany Bentham looked across the table at her guest, weighing his words. Their tone. Studying the nuances of expression and body language with a sensitivity born of hard necessity and refined through years of living in an unforgiving world. “I’m sorry,” she said, rising slowly. “This was a mistake. Good afternoon, Mr. Brown.”

~o~O~o~
The Lodgings, New York, New York
Later that evening

Brown sat in a simple chair in his basic hotel room, looking out at New York City’s skyline. It was no longer the unrivaled capital of world finance that it had once been, and New York’s population didn’t even rank in the top twenty-five. But some of its magic survived the decadence of the Empire and the heavy-handed fumbling of the generals, ignorant of markets and economics. Perhaps more remarkably, the glitter remained visible even through the righteous austerity of the still-young Second Republic.

It was amazing to think that all the skyscrapers were not only self-powered these days, they exported excess electricity. The photovoltaic cells built into all of the exteriors generated a staggering amount of energy every day.

Cromwell again.

His personal AIPA gave a distinctive ping and he suppressed a groan. He had received three contacts from newsies today following his afternoon meeting. The first he’d given a terse “no comment;” the others had gone to his voicemail. But someone had discovered that he would be serving as a Truth Speaker for Quentin Cromwell, and that information quickly found its way onto the interweb. “AIPA, block all media contacts.”

Her pleasant voice responded, “Blocking. But the current contact is from Elder Paul Cabot, Congregation of New Apostles.”

“Project, please.”

“Projecting.”

Using an open channel to interface with the hotel AI, his AIPA projected an image about two meters from where he sat. In person, Cabot was distinguished by a large head, sharp cheekbones, and sky-blue eyes; the scale of the hologram eliminated the first while exaggerating the last.

Brown leaned forward, attentive and respectful. “Elder Cabot! What can I do for you?”

“Good evening, Brother John. I hope I’m not disturbing you?”

“Not at all.”

“Good, good. . . . Brother, I was wondering whether you could confirm the news we’re seeing on the interweb today. Have you been commissioned to speak at Quentin Cromwell’s funeral?”

“I have, Elder,” Brown confirmed. Nothing in his oath or his contract made that information confidential.

“I see.”

“Is there a problem, Elder?”

“Not at all. In fact, I think it could be a great opportunity.”

Brown stiffened. “Opportunity, Elder?”

“Yes.” Cabot hesitated. He had observed the change in Brown’s demeanor, and wasn’t sure how best to proceed. “May I speak openly, Brother?”

“Of course,” Brown said, cautious, but still respectful.

“Quentin Cromwell was well known as an opponent of the Empire and a champion of the new constitution. Having you speak at his funeral – especially when you also were chosen to speak at Chief Elder Markley’s funeral – can only help remind the public that the traditional doctrines of the Congregation are in no way linked to the Empire or Tash’s whole, sordid movement.”

Brown thought the logic somewhat tenuous. Still, he couldn’t control what conclusions people might draw from the simple fact that he’d spoken at both funerals, so he simply inclined his head.

Cabot waited, apparently expecting a more substantive response. When Brown remained silent, he elaborated. “It could be important internally, as well.”

“Internally.” Brown managed to keep his distaste from showing, though his voice was flat.

This time, Cabot missed the signal. “Yes. As you know, Brother, we haven’t been able to fill the vacancy left by Elder Zebediah. There is division within the Council of Elders. Many who hold traditional views, such as I do, have pressed for your appointment. Others, however–”

Brown held up a hand and interrupted. “My apologies, Elder Cabot. I know of these divisions, as do all of the Faithful. They grieve me. But these are matters committed to the Council alone, and like all simple Brothers and Sisters, I must be content to trust that you will be guided by the divine spirit.”

Cabot stared at the man’s image as it hovered over his holodesk, trying to judge his sincerity. The strength of his convictions. Finally, he said, “I understand, and I appreciate your words. But I do believe, and strongly, that if your Truth Speech for Quentin Cromwell is as well-received as your earlier work, it will do good things for the image of the Congregation, and help us to overcome any resistance to your . . . advancement.”

Brown rose to his feet. Fortunately, the AIPA adjusted to his new position. His voice was tight, but he managed to keep it respectful. “Elder . . . As always, I will do my best to honor my oath.”

“We can ask no more than that,” the Elder said piously. “I look forward to seeing your efforts – I imagine the whole world will be watching.” With that, he ended the call.

Brown paced back and forth, trying to restore his equilibrium. After half an hour, he had to admit that he was no closer to doing so, and he did the only thing that would ever work.

“AIPA, query if Sarah is available.”

“Home base indicates that Sarah Brown is home and presently supervising the children’s after-dinner clean-up.”

“Initiate call.”

“Initiating.”

A moment later, Sarah’s image was projected in front of him. She absently pushed a stray hair behind her left ear and smiled. “Hello, John. Ellie and Noah are just finishing up the dishes. Want to say hello?”

“I’d love to.”

She said, “AIPA, zoom out,” and the image adjusted to include the sink and his two children, looking somewhat wet for their efforts.

“Hi Daddy,” they sang in unison.

“How was school today?”

Ellie described what sounded like a complicated interaction with two of her friends and a teacher involving a project that they wanted to substantially modify. Noah needed a bit of prodding, but eventually offered that he liked math. A lot.

“Well, listen,” John said. “Can you two get the dishes dried and put away without Mom supervising you? I mean, it’s a big ask.”

They looked at each other, giggled, and promised that they would.

“Great. I need to talk to Mom for a couple minutes, but I won’t keep her long. Good night, you two.”

“Night?” scoffed Ellie. “It’s not bedtime yet!”

“It’s a bit later where I am. I’ll talk to you soon.”

They said their goodbyes, then Sarah walked down to her study and closed the door. “What is it, John? You look troubled.”

He settled into a chair. “Rough day, I’m afraid.”

“I imagine. I got the interweb alert when the news leaked about Cromwell’s funeral.”

“That was only part of it. I got a call later from Elder Cabot.”

“Cabot, the arch-conservative? Baby blue eyes, big ol’ head?”

He gave her a tired smile. “Same man. But don’t be nasty, dear. He’s genuinely pious.”

“I know. But he does take himself so very seriously!”

“That, I’ll grant you.”

She cocked her head. “Let me guess – he thinks you’ll knock it out of the park and so convince the general public that Truth Speakers, and by association the Congregation, are no threat to the Second Republic or its social compact.”

“Thus obviating the need for us to change our doctrines to make them more socially acceptable,” he said, finishing her thought. “That’s about it alright. Oh, and to give me an incentive not to bollux the whole thing up–”

It was her turn to finish his thought. “He dangled the possibility of you being appointed to the Council vacancy.”

“That’s it, in a nutshell.”

“John,” she said gently, “I know it pains you to see them being political. But it’s always been this way, and always will be.”

“I know, love. But where is God, in that equation? Have they left any room for him, at all?”

Sarah looked at her husband’s troubled face, and wished with all her might that she could just hold him for a while. Truly be with him, and give him the comfort of her presence. But she could, at least, give him back some of the assurance he had so often given her. Softly and firmly, she said, “God is God; no man may keep him out. He will govern their councils, whether they want it or not.”

John let that thought settle, and when it had, he smiled. “I knew I had to call you.”

“I’m good value, that way.”

“You are.”

“Now . . . what else is bothering you? Don’t tell me that’s all; I know you better.”

He chuckled. “You’re right . . . . I got shown the door today by a perfectly decent person. One of Cromwell’s tenants, in that big apartment building where he lived.”

“She didn’t want to talk about him?”

“No; she was perfectly happy to talk about him. Thought he was a wonderful man. She didn’t want to talk to me. She said something about how she and some of the other tenants were members of groups that had been prescribed by the Empire. She looked about as Caucasian as you or I, so . . . .”

Sarah nodded, understanding. “One of the sex- or gender- nonconformists. Did you say something?”

“No. I mean, I said ‘I see,’ or something to that effect. But she looked at me like she was seeing right through to my heart, then decided it had been a mistake to agree to meet.”

“I can see why that left you unsettled.” Sarah’s voice was careful.

“The Congregation accepted all of the legal protections in the Constitution of ’45. We make no effort to compel others to accept our views on social issues.” Brown frowned, knowing that he sounded defensive.

“But we still teach that such ways of life are immoral. Naturally, people will feel that judgment.”

“I know.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose – a bad habit when he was tired. “Of course, at the time, I had the strongest sense that she was the one doing the judging.”

Sarah’s lips curved into a mischievous smile. “Judge not, lest you be judged?”

“Indeed.” Brown looked at his wife, as grateful for the blessing she was in his life as he had been when she agreed to marry him. “I love you.”

Sarah blew him a kiss and signed off.

– To be continued.

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