Begin Reading Table of Contents About the Author Copyright Page Thank you for buying this Tom Doherty Associates ebook To receive special offers, bonus content, and info on new releases and other great reads, sign up for our newsletters Or visit us online at us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup For email updates on the author, click here The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices This e-book is for your personal use only You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way You may not copy, reproduce, or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices Copyright infringement is against the law If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy This book is dedicated to the first human who thought to hollow out a log to make a boat, and his or her successors TOO LIKE THE LIGHTNING A NARRATIVE OF EVENTS of the year 2454 Written by MYCROFT CANNER, at the REQUEST OF CERTAIN PARTIES Published with the permissions of: The Romanova Seven-Hive Council Stability Committee The Five-Hive Committee on Dangerous Literature Ordo Quiritum Imperatorisque Masonicorum The Cousins’ Commission for the Humane Treatment of Servicers The Mitsubishi Executive Directorate His Majesty Isabel Carlos II of Spain And with the consent of all FREE AND UNFREE LIVING PERSONS HEREIN PORTRAYED Qui veritatem desideret, ipse hoc legat Nihil obstat Recommended.–Anonymous CERTIFIED NONPROSELYTORY BY THE FOUR-HIVE COMMISSION ON RELIGION IN LITERATURE RATÉ D PAR LA COMMISSION EUROPÉENNE DES MEDIAS DANGEREUX Gordian Exposure Commission Content Ratings: S3–Explicit but not protracted sexual scenes; references to rape; sex with violence; sexual acts of real and living persons V5–Explicit and protracted scenes of intentional violence; explicit but not protracted scenes of extreme violence; violence praised; historical incidents of global trauma; crimes of violence committed by real and living persons R4–Explicit and protracted treatment of religious themes without intent to convert; religious beliefs of real and living persons O3–Opinions likely to cause offense to selected groups and to the sensibilities of many; subject matter likely to cause distress or offense to the same Ah, my poor Jacques! You are a philosopher But don’t worry: I’ll protect you –Diderot, Jacques the Fatalist and His Master CHAPTER THE FIRST A Prayer to the Reader You will criticize me, reader, for writing in a style six hundred years removed from the events I describe, but you came to me for explanation of those days of transformation which left your world the world it is, and since it was the philosophy of the Eighteenth Century, heavy with optimism and ambition, whose abrupt revival birthed the recent revolution, so it is only in the language of the Enlightenment, rich with opinion and sentiment, that those days can be described You must forgive me my ‘thee’s and ‘thou’s and ‘he’s and ‘she’s, my lack of modern words and modern objectivity It will be hard at first, but whether you are my contemporary still awed by the new order, or an historian gazing back at my Twenty-Fifth Century as remotely as I gaze back on the Eighteenth, you will find yourself more fluent in the language of the past than you imagined; we all are I wondered once why authors of ancient days so often prostrate themselves before their audience, apologize, beg favors, pray to the reader as to an Emperor as they explain their faults and failings; yet, with my work barely begun, I find myself already in need of such obsequies If I am properly to follow the style I have chosen, I must, at the book’s outset, describe myself, my background and qualifications, and tell you by what chance or Providence it is that the answers you seek are in my hands I beg you, gentle reader, master, tyrant, grant me the privilege of silence on this count Those of you who know the name of Mycroft Canner may now set this book aside Those who not, I beg you, let me make you trust me for a few dozen pages, since the tale will give you time enough to hate me in its own right CHAPTER THE SECOND A Boy and His God We begin on the morning of March the twenty-third in the year twenty-four fifty-four Carlyle Foster had risen full of strength that day, for March the twenty-third was the Feast of St Turibius, a day on which men had honored their Creator in ages past, and still today He was not yet thirty, European enough in blood to be almost blond, his hair overgrown down to his shoulders, and his body gaunt as if he was too occupied with life to feed himself He wore practical shoes and a Cousin’s loose but comfortable wrap, gray-green that morning, but the only clothing item given any care was his long sensayer’s scarf of age-grayed wool, which he believed had once belonged to the great Sensayers’ Conclave reformer Fisher G Gurai—one of many lies in which Carlyle daily wrapped himself Following his parishioner’s instructions, Carlyle bade the car touch down, not on the high drawbridgelike walkway which led to the main door of the shimmering glass bash’house, but by the narrow maintenance stairs beside it These slanted their way down into the little man-made canyon which separated this row of bash’houses from the next, like a deep, dry moat The bottom was choked with wildflowers and seed-heavy grasses, tousled by the foraging of countless birds, and here, in the shadow of the bridge, lay Thisbe’s door, too unimportant even for a bell He knocked “Who is it?” she called from within “Carlyle Foster.” “Who?” “Carlyle Foster I’m your new sensayer We have an appointment.” “Oh, right, I…” Thisbe’s words limped half-muted through the door “I called to cancel We’ve had a security thing … problem … breach.” “I didn’t get any message.” “Now isn’t a good time!” Carlyle’s smile was gentle as a mother’s whose child hides behind her knees on the first day of kindergarten “I knew your previous sensayer very well We’re all saddened by their loss.” “Yes Very tragic, they … Shhhh! Will you hold still?” “Are you all right in there?” “Fine! Fine.” Perhaps the sensayer could make out traces of other voices through the door now, soft but fierce, or perhaps he heard nothing, but sensed the lie in her voice “Do you need help?” he asked “No! No Come back later I…” More voices rose now, clearer, voices of men, soft as whispers but urgent as screams “Pointer! Stay with me! Stay with me! Breathe!” “Too late, Major.” “He’s dead.” The door could not hope to stifle mourning, a small child’s sobs, piercing as a spear Carlyle sprang to action, no longer a sensayer but a human being ready to help another in distress He pounded the door with hands unused to forming fists, and tried the lock which he knew would not succumb to his unpracticed strength Those who deny Providence may blame the dog within, which, in its frenzy, probably passed close enough to activate the door I know what Carlyle saw as the door opened Thisbe first, barefoot and in yesterday’s clothes, scribbling madly on a scrap of paper on the haste-cleared tabletop, with the remnants of work and breakfast scattered on the floor Eleven men stood on that table, battered men, strong, hard-boned and hard-faced as if reared in a harder age, and each five centimeters tall They wore tiny army uniforms of green or sand brown, not the elegance of old Europe but the utility of the World Wars, all grunge and daily wear Three of them were bleeding, paint-bright red pooling on the tabletop, as appalling as a pet mouse’s wound, when each lost drop would be half a liter to you One was not merely bleeding Have you never watched a death, reader? In slow cases like blood loss it is not so much a moment as a stretch of ambiguity—one breath leaves and you wait uncertain for the next: was that the last? One more? Two more? A final twitch? It takes so long for cheeks to slacken and the stink of relaxing bowels to escape the clothes that you can’t be certain Death has visited until the moment is well past Not so here Before Carlyle’s eyes the last breath left the soldier, and with it softness and color, the red of blood, the peach of skin, all faded to green as the tiny corpse reverted into a plastic toy soldier, complete with stand Cowering beneath the table, our protagonist sobbed and screamed Bridger’s is not the name that brought you to me Just as the most persuasive tongue could never convince the learned crowds of 1700 that the young wordsmith calling himself Voltaire would overshadow all the royal dynasties of Europe, so I shall never convince you, reader, that this boy, not the heads of state whom I shall introduce in time, but Bridger, the thirteen-year-old hugging his knees here beneath Thisbe’s table, he made the future in which you now live “Ready!” Thisbe rolled her drawing up into a tube and thrust it down for the boy to take Might she have hesitated, I wonder, had she realized that an intruder watched? “Bridger, it’s time Bridger?” Imagine another new voice here, at home in crisis, commanding without awe, a grandfather’s voice, stronger, a veteran’s voice Carlyle had never heard such a voice before, child of peace and plenty as he was He had never heard it, nor have his parents, nor his parents’ parents in these three centuries of peace “Act, sir, now, or grief will swallow up your chance to help the others.” Bridger reached from beneath the table and touched the paper with his child’s fingers, too wide and short, like a clay man not yet perfected by his sculptor In that instant, without sound or light or any puff of melodrama’s smoke, the paper tube transformed to glass, the doodles to a label, and a purple scribble to the pigment of a liquid bubbling within Thisbe popped the cork, which had been no more than cross-hatching moments before, and poured the potion over the tiny soldiers As the fluid washed over the injured, their wounds peeled away like old paint, leaving the soldiers clean and healed Guildbreaker: “Tens of thousands At first I asked the Romanovan Censor if they could some calculations for me, but they were too busy Their deputy Jung Su-Hyeon Ancelet Kosala was also too busy, and Toshi Mitsubishi is biased, so I asked Mycroft Canner.” Papadelias: “Naturally.” Guildbreaker: “Mycroft was also too busy, so I asked Jung Su-Hyeon to recommend someone else who could calculations on this scale They said I should hire a Cartesian set-set.” Papadelias: “Cartesian specifically?” Guildbreaker: “Cartesian specifically They’re capable of following dynamic charts with up to fortyfive variables at once, so they can the work of ten Censors, at least as far as reading data goes.” Papadelias: “That’s the same kind of set-set Eureka Weeksbooth and Sidney Koons are, right?” Guildbreaker: “Yes I hired one as the Censor recommended, and that set-set is also how I found the political connections of the car crash victims The connections are so indirect that, on my own I would only have spotted a handful of them, but the set-set found them in a flash All they needed was a computer system with software for tracking the relationships between all people in the world Five such computers exist to my knowledge: the computers in the Romanovan Censor’s office, the Tracker System, the Transit Computers in the Saneer-Weeksbooth bash’, the identical computers at the Salekhard backup site, and the Utopian Transit System computers, which are what I used for the purpose.” Two minutes of reading in silence Papadelias: “From this report, the victims tend to be, how should one put this…” Guildbreaker: “Unpromising individuals.” Papadelias: “I was going to say ‘losers,’ but that’ll People with few friends, low-impact hobbies, and jobs which don’t generate much that’s used by anyone else—no artists, researchers, teachers, great industrialists, corporate leaders, athletes, or anything.” Guildbreaker: “Yes.” Papadelias: “And all the victims are either Masons, Cousins, Brillists, or Hiveless No Humanists, no Mitsubishi, no Europeans, and, of course, no Utopians, since the Utopians have their separate transit system.” Guildbreaker: “Humanists, Mitsubishi, and Europeans have died in crashes on occasion, but Cato did not have episodes before those crashes, and less than two point five percent of their deaths were influential, just as in the case of beestings or elevator crashes And they die in crashes substantially less often than Masons, Cousins, or Brillists.” Papadelias: “How did no one notice that before?” Guildbreaker: “Perhaps because there are many more Masons and Cousins anyway Or perhaps because the entire press and media of the whole world is united in a conspiracy to conceal this Or something in between.” Papadelias: “Heh And one of them has the gall to go by ‘Sniper.’” Guildbreaker: “You see it, don’t you?” Papadelias: “It’s too much I expected a small conspiracy, a couple murders, not dozens over years, thirty-five using the cars themselves, as many by other means, but Cato knew … No wonder the others wouldn’t let Cato quit and become a Utopian.” Guildbreaker: “Yes Yes, that was what led me to this, actually.” Papadelias: “Oh?” Guildbreaker: “Cato said, quote: ‘The Utopians aren’t dirty like the rest of us.’ From the point of view of someone who runs the cars, the thing which most distinguishes Utopians from everyone else is that they have their own separate system Utopians can’t be killed in crashes, and you won’t find any Utopian names in the lists of people killed by other means either.” Papadelias: “Of course not Anything that kills a Utopian they investigate until they solve it If I were an assassin I’d never touch them.” Guildbreaker: “Exactly Utopians don’t profit from the system and they aren’t targeted by it They’re untouched, ‘clean’ from Cato’s perspective, while the rest of the world…” Papadelias: “While the rest of the world has been held together by shoestrings and assassination for the past seven years.” Guildbreaker: “For the record, Commissioner General, would you please explain out loud the conclusion that you’ve come to, so a third party can compare it to my independently derived conclusion which I recorded just before I came?” Papadelias: “Relax, Guildbreaker I know you’re a Mason, but there are limits to how methodical you have to be.” Guildbreaker: “For the record.” Papadelias: “Fine Since coming of age, the current generation of Saneer-Weeksbooth bash has been carrying out a series of systematic assassinations The two Cartesian set-sets, Eureka Weeksbooth and Sidney Koons, can use the Transit System computers to figure out how to influence events by identifying low-profile people to assassinate, whose deaths won’t seem suspicious but will have the desired impact This bash’, or someone controlling it, has been using these assassinations to manipulate world politics for at least seven years They’ve conspicuously avoided killing any Humanists, Mitsubishi, or Europeans, either because those Hives are backing them, or just because the bash’ are Humanists, they have old ties with the Mitsubishi manifest in the ancestry of Sniper, Cato, and Eureka, and … no, I have no theory about Europe at the moment The assassins know they can’t kill too many people in crashes or the sudden increase will look suspicious, so members of the bash’ had to develop other ways to kill, culminating in the unfortunate Cato Weeksbooth, who’s been using their scientific expertise for murder, and feels so guilty about it that they come close to attempting suicide every time Twelve times a year for seven years makes at least eighty murders, is that about right?” Guildbreaker: “My set-set is still looking at earlier years.” Papadelias: “It’s hard not to see it when you look All it took was someone to point us at the SaneerWeeksbooth bash’ and connect it with Sugiyama through Black Sakura Someone wants this exposed.” Guildbreaker: “Yes, that’s very worrying I still have no clue who, or why Do you?” Papadelias: “Only hunches It’s best not to share hunches.” Guildbreaker: “May I ask a couple more details?” Papadelias: “Fire away.” Guildbreaker: “How you account for the suicide deaths? The recording of the phone call to Aki Sugiyama proves O’Beirne was talking about wanting to kill themself, whether or not that was what actually made the car crash, and the autopsy of Esmerald Revere left no doubt that that was suicide If you review the list of supposed victims, more than thirty percent of those who didn’t die in crashes are suicides.” Papadelias: “Suicide is the most common cause of death Any smart killer tries to make their murders look like suicides.” Guildbreaker: “Would you guess this conspiracy involves every member of the Saneer-Weeksbooth bash’ or just some of them?” Papadelias: “No telling yet, but my gut says all They must know Cato is the weak link; if they’ve involved Cato they’ll have involved everyone Plus, every member of that bash’ is insane to some degree Being a mass murderer will that to you So will murdering your own ba’pas when they find out.” Guildbreaker: “Then you agree the rafting accident was no accident?” Papadelias: “I investigated that myself when it happened There was no evidence of foul play, but it always smelled fishy to me Now we know why This system couldn’t work if the parents were against it, if nothing else the older set-sets would have figured it out sooner or later.” Guildbreaker: “Do you think the bash’ calls the hits themselves, or are they working for someone?” Papadelias: “It would be wonderful, wouldn’t it, if they were calling the hits themselves? Then we could jail them and have an end of it But Ganymede sure did look worried talking to Sniper at the party And it’s been people at the top, not in the bash’, above the bash’, working so hard to keep me off the case Hive leaders involved in eighty assassinations over seven years will make Mycroft’s rampage look like a slow news day.” Guildbreaker: “Do you think Mycroft knew about this? They spend time with the Saneer-Weeksbooth bash’ A lot of time Mycroft doesn’t have spare time to spend.” Papadelias: “Maybe we shouldn’t have switched desks after all.” Guildbreaker: “Mycroft’s murders were thirteen years ago We don’t know yet if this goes back that far, but the kids would have been awfully young But the Mardi murders were the most politically influential deaths in centuries.” Papadelias: “No, I don’t … Mycroft was the mind behind … maybe But the Mardis’ deaths were too early, and too conspicuous to fit the profile And they didn’t exactly benefit the Humanists, or any Hive.” Guildbreaker: “Not all the deaths benefited Humanists There are deaths here which benefited Masons, Cousins, or Gordian, many with more general benefits, to end a crisis, calm things down, anti-Mitsubishi land riots, Nurturists, all our hot spots.” Papadelias: “Yes That sounds like something a lone bash’ might plot Especially if the set-sets can see these things coming Though possibly your definition of benefit is too strict All Hives benefit when the world is stable and the economy is strong Given how incestuous politics is today, a death that helps the Masons short-term may be a long-term good for everyone Ganymede recognizes that, Andō recognizes that, MASON recognizes that.” Guildbreaker: “Yes Commissioner General, I’ve been thinking … in a larger sense, this … assassination system … it’s arguably a good thing for the world The vaguer economic influences aside, some of these murders provably saved hundreds of lives, thousands in some cases Cumulatively many thousands Thousands at the cost of dozens We’re not talking about a secret underbelly of mass murder here, we’re talking about a secret underbelly of killing one to save ten thousand.” Papadelias: “Mm Nurturism and the Mitsubishi land grab are the most volatile issues in our world right now, and a good third of these hits seem to have been designed to calm those down If they hadn’t, I wonder what those set-sets see in their numbers What would’ve happened?” ADDENDUM of Martin Guildbreaker, 05/21/2454: I feel compelled to edit myself here It is strange rereading this history as an editor, with the fuller context adding layers to the facts But nothing has changed more than this moment I gave a different answer then, which I pass over here, a useless, reasonable, Mycroft might say rose-tinted answer But now, as I reread, I hear a different answer, not in my voice, in Tully Mardi’s, prefaced by Mycroft’s desperate, silent plea: “Don’t say it! Saladin, don’t let them say it!” War Papadelias: “You thought hard, didn’t you, before bringing this to me?” Guildbreaker: “Yes, it was hard But I don’t have the right to make this judgment call alone My mandate is to smooth over minor transgressions whose exposure would more harm than good, but ‘minor transgressions’ is generally restricted to crimes which have not resulted in a death This has resulted in at least eighty, even if it’s saved many thousands at the same time.” Papadelias: “I almost hope we won’t be able to find enough evidence Because if we make this public we’re going to be the ones who started the fire.” Guildbreaker: “Then you agree we don’t have enough evidence yet?” Papadelias: “Not nearly enough This is circumstantial, statistics, probabilities You can see it, I can see it, but no panel would convict with just this, not with charges on this scale Eighty murders If we’re going to nail the assassins we’re either going to need a confession, or to catch them redhanded.” Guildbreaker: “That’s another reason I came to you Working together we should have a better shot.” Papadelias: “Has anyone besides us seen the evidence you just showed me?” Guildbreaker: “Only my hired set-set, though they’ve been carefully isolated, and they don’t know why we are researching this They don’t know know the cars were more important than the beestings.” Papadelias: “No one else? Not Mycroft Canner?” Guildbreaker: “No, Mycroft has been busy with the Seven-Ten list Dominic Seneschal is currently pursuing the investigation independently; I don’t know whether or not they have discovered what I have.” Papadelias: “Anyone else?” Guildbreaker: “I have no reason to believe that the Porphyrogene cannot read my mind.” Papadelias: “I get the feeling it was hard for you to put that so bluntly I’ll return the favor and not ask.” Guildbreaker: “Thank you.” Papadelias: “Guildbreaker, is there any chance J.E.D.D Mason is in on this? They have their fingers deep in every pie I’ve met them often enough to know they’re incomprehensible to us mere mortals, but if anyone could tell it would be you.” Guildbreaker: “It’s absolutely impossible for Dominus to be involved.” Papadelias: “How can you be sure?” Guildbreaker: “The Porphyrogene is incapable of willing or permitting death I can’t explain precisely why, but you know how, before vat-meat, strict Buddhists didn’t eat meat because you never know if any given chicken might be a reincarnation of your dead grandparent? This is infinitely stronger than that, literally infinitely Why you think Mycroft Canner can’t kill anymore?” Papadelias: “Can’t and won’t are very different things, Mason.” Guildbreaker: “I know I said ‘can’t’ and I meant it.” Papadelias: “Well, then, whatever impossible thing your J.E.D.D Mason did to Mycroft Canner, let’s hope they can it to ten billion more people before this news breaks Eighty-five murders, it’ll be worse than the Set-Set Riots.” Guildbreaker: “No, not ten billion people Seven Seven is enough.” HERE ENDS Too Like the Lightning, THE FIRST HALF OF Mycroft Canner’s History C ONTINUED IN THE SECOND HALF, Seven Surrenders AUTHOR’S Note AND Acknowledgments ADA PALMER I wanted it so much So much sometimes it felt like I couldn’t breathe Sometimes I would cry, not because I was sad, but because it hurt, physical pain from the intensity of wanting something so much I’m a good student of philosophy, I know my Stoics, Cynics, their advice, that, when a desire is so intense it hurts you, the healthy path is to detach, unwant it, let it go The healthy thing for the self But there are a lot of reasons one can want to be an author: acclaim, wealth, self-respect, finding a community, the finite immortality of name in print, so many more But I wanted it to add my voice to the Great Conversation, to reply to Diderot, Voltaire, Osamu Tezuka, and Alfred Bester, so people would read my books and think new things, and make new things from those thoughts, my little contribution to the path which flows from Gilgamesh and Homer to the stars And that isn’t just for me It’s for you Which means it was the right choice to hang on to the desire, even when it hurt so much And it was worth it But it took a lot of friends to help me through It took the teachers who oversaw the long apprenticeship that is learning to write: Martin Beadle, Katherine Haas, Peter Markus, Olive Moochler, Mary Shoemaker, Hal Holiday, Gabriel Asfar, James Hankins, and Alan Charles Kors It took advisors who lent their expertise for my world-building: Irina Greenman, Weiyi Guo, Sumana Harihareswara, Yoon Ha Lee, Mary Anne Mohanraj, Johanna Ransmeier, and Sabrina Vourvoulias It took friends who read the manuscript and told me that it really was good enough, when I needed so badly to hear that: John Burgess, Anneke Cassista, Valerie Cooke, Gina Dunn, Greer Gilman, Matt Granoff, Betsy Isaacson, Walter Isaacson, Ashleigh LaPorta, Michael Mellas, Lindsey Nilsen, Brent O’Connell, Priscilla Painton, Luke Somers, Warren Tusk, Milton Weatherhead, Alexa Weingarden, and Ruth Wejksnora It took the friends who helped me launch this firstborn into the world at last: Lila Garrott, Teresa Nielsen Hayden, and Jo Walton It took Lauren Schiller, who, for sixteen years and counting, has listened to me blither incoherent shards of plot when I can’t stand to be the only person in the world who knows It took Jonathan Sneed, who is taking us to Mars now, stepping-stone by stepping-stone, and Carl Engle-Laird, who changed what friendship means for me, and is a real Utopian It took my parents, the potent booster rocket of their untiring support It took my mother Laura Higgins Palmer’s creativity and industry, my father Doug Palmer’s deep love of the fruits of imagination that I love It took my agent, Amy Boggs, and my editor, Patrick Nielsen Hayden, who were excited to find a work about utopia, progress, about the future’s growing pains, but not the cataclysm of dystopia that has so dominated recent conversations It took Tor, and all the people there who have dedicated their lives to helping the conversation continue: Miriam Weinberg, Irene Gallo, Diana Griffin, my excellent cover artist Victor Mosquera, my indulgent and meticulous copy editor Liana Krissoff, and the brilliant book designer Heather Saunders, who turned my request for period typography into pure text art But, above all, it took the communities whose firebrand discourses of hope and future-building make me so excited to offer more fuel for their flames: the small communities of my science fiction and fantasy clubs, Double Star at Bryn Mawr, HRSFA at Harvard, the whole little intellectual utopia of Simon’s Rock College; and, beyond them, it took the vast, diasporic community of readers who see us among the stars I received my hard-fought “Yes” at the 2013 San Antonio Worldcon, and I remember staggering back to our Cushing Library booth in the Dealer’s Room so overwhelmed that I could barely choke out the syllables to explain to my colleague Todd Samuelson why I was sobbing And the pain ended But the intensity didn’t It transformed into something different, an acceleration instead of an exhaustion, just as overwhelming but so positive: it became gratitude Because I wanted it so much, and I got it So my work has just begun I look forward to the next part of the Conversation—the part we have together Thank you About the Author ADA PALMER is a professor in the history department at the University of Chicago, specializing in the Renaissance and the history of ideas Her first nonfiction book, Reading Lucretius in the Renaissance, was published in 2014 by Harvard University Press She is also a composer of folkand Renaissance-tinged a cappella music, most of which she performs with the group Sassafrass Her personal site is at adapalmer.com, and she writes about history for a popular audience at exurbe.com Or sign up for email updates here Thank you for buying this Tom Doherty Associates ebook To receive special offers, bonus content, and info on new releases and other great reads, sign up for our newsletters Or visit us online at us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup For email updates on the author, click here Contents Title Page Copyright Notice Dedication Permissions Epigraph A Prayer to the Reader A Boy and His God The Most Important People in the World A Thing Long Thought Extinct Aristotle’s House Rome Was Not Built in a Day … Canis Domini A Place of Honor Every Soul That Ever Died 10 The Sun Awaits His Rival 11 Enter Sniper 12 Neither Earth nor Atom, But … 13 … Perhaps the Stars 14 The Interlude of the Interview with Retired Black Sakura Reporter Tsuneo Sugiyama, as Related by Martin Guildbreaker 15 If They Catch Me 16 Thou Canst Not Put It Off Forever, Mycroft 17 Tocqueville’s Valet 18 The Tenth Director 19 Flies to Honey 20 A Monster in the House 21 That Which Is Caesar’s 22 Mycroft Is Mycroft 23 Pontifex Maxima 24 Sometimes Even I Am Very Lonely 25 Madame’s 26 Madame D’Arouet 27 The Interlude in Which Martin Guildbreaker Pursues the Question of Dr Cato Weeksbooth 28 The Enemy 29 Julia, I’ve Found God! 30 DEO EREXIT SADE 31 Dominant Predator 32 That There Are Two 33 Martin Guildbreaker’s Last Interlude: “The Utopians Aren’t Dirty like the Rest of Us” Author’s Note and Acknowledgments About the Author Copyright This is a work of fiction All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously TOO LIKE THE LIGHTNING Copyright © 2016 by Ada Palmer All rights reserved Cover art by Victor Mosquera Edited by Patrick Nielsen Hayden A Tor Book Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC 175 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10010 www.tor-forge.com Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request ISBN 978-0-7653-7800-2 (hardcover) ISBN 978-1-4688-5874-9 (e-book) e-ISBN 9781468858749 Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com First Edition: May 2016 Mycroft’s translation: Nisi aliquid grave suspicaretur Dominicus non abesset Mycroft’s translation: Pro certo non Non nullius momentis est hic fur, sed fidus est Dominic Certe, nocte laborare non debes Etiamnunc situm praeterire potes ... not beyond them.” Humanist: “They have a separate system They’re the only ones.” Mason: “Do you think they’d reap a profit if they shut you down and then let the other Hives rent out their cars?”... Humanist: “They wouldn’t.” Mason: “Rent their cars?” “They don’t have the capacity to put that many extra cars in the sky, they don’t have the reserves we They’d be overrun.” At Ockham’s signal the. .. looked down over the next tiers of the sloping city to the crashing blue of the Pacific The western sunlight through the window cast a halo around the room’s famed centerpiece: the pudgy pointed