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The Ivory Madonna stands at her desk in precisely the same way an opera diva stands on stage for her solo. She is built like a Valkyrie, but with the delicate hands and face of an antebellum southern belle. Her hair is ebony, her skin porcelain, and her eyes the color of the Earth seen from deep space. She is no longer young, but her rounded face is free of wrinkles and she carries herself confidently, with none of the hesitation of the elderly. She wears shades of orange and gold, a Cetairé original that is tight where it shows off her ample assets, flowing where it is kinder to conceal. She stands, as is her wont when working, barefoot on the plush pile of earthen-colored carpet. Her desk surrounds her, a fat crescent moon of a surface littered with flatscreens and touchpads. When she sits in her intricately-carved wooden chair, the desk lowers itself so that her work is always at her fingertips. Beyond her, a bank of monitors mutter to themselves; with the touch of a single key, she can raise the volume on any of them. Some are tuned to major news networks. One keeps perpetual vigil on proceedings on the floor of the United Nations General Assembly; others watch the U. S. Senate, the House of Representatives, and the Chamber of Ministers. Public transcripts of Umoja's Board of Directors flow in color-coded script across the face of another. A chime interrupts the Ivory Madonna. "Yes?" "Senator Purcell to see you, Ma'am." "Mute screens." She takes her seat, rotates to face a holo pickup. "Link." Senator Purcell, a wizened, silver-haired white woman, appears in cold light. Faintly visible behind her is her own office, with the Capitol steps and the distant Washington Monument framed in the windowthe same view that appears from every Congressional window. It is generated by a Congressional computer, based on years of recorded images from the same vantage point. "Charlotte," the Ivory Madonna says, "It's so good to see you." "Thank you for making time to see me, Miranda. On such short notice, you know." Senator Purcell, in the classic phrase of a one-time aide, has a voice like a rattlesnake being scraped across a chalkboard. "We're both busy women, so I'll come right to the point." "Of course." "I'm sure you've seen SB 156." When the Ivory Madonna makes no answer, the Senator prompts, "The Navajo Relief Act." At a moment's notice, the Ivory Madonna can call the text of the Act up on any of her flatscreens. She has been studying it all morning. But she simply gives a blank, ingenuous look accompanied by a slight wrinkle of her forehead. "I believe I've glanced at it, yes." "The Act passed the Senate yesterday. The House will vote on a similar bill next week. It is expected to pass." Senator Purcell narrows her eyes. "And I suppose that the Populist Party is none too happy?" "How can we be? That twenty billion dollars should stay at home to help Americans." The Ivory Madonna spreads her hands. "What is one to do?" "I understand that Minister Somavara will introduce a version of SB 156 later this week in the Chamber of Ministers. We aretrying to gauge the climate of opinion among the Ministers." "You want me to vote against it." "My Party would be grateful, yes, but I certainly don't want you to base your decision on that fact. Surely, though, you don't have manyerconstituents among the Navajo. Would it be in the best interests of those you represent, to send money to another country, when there is still so much to be done here?" The Ivory Madonna, her expression never wavering, counts to six. "My interest group is fat people, Senator. You can say it without offending me. FAT. And yes, there are fat Navajo. As well as everyone else." "The Disabilities appropriation is coming up, and it would be a terrible shame if" "Choose your words carefully, Madame Senator." ". . . If the Disabilities budget had to be cut, to compensate for unwise expenditures in foreign aid." "A shame indeed. But it seems to me," the Ivory Madonna says, in a voice perfectly polite but unmistakably chilly, "that I have in the past relied on support from Senate Populists, only to be left with egg on my face. The 2039 civil rights law springs to mind." "This time I can assure you -- " "Can you?" Their eyes meet, and for a long moment neither speaks. Finally, the Senator lowers her eyes. "I don't need, or expect, an answer today. Tell me what form you would like our assurance to take, and I will do my best to assure. Take your time, please." She looks up. "We're quite serious about this, Miranda. I don't want any misunderstandings to come between us." "I will call you. Goodbye." The Ivory Madonna touches her bare right toe to a specific spot on her chair's leg, and the Senator is cut off. "I'm getting too old for this," the Ivory Madonna mutters. She turns to her desk, punches up a record of the last few Senate roll-call votes, and frowns. The three-way power struggle between Democratic, Populist, and Christian Parties is becoming lopsided, and in the Populists' favor. President Archer is losing her coalition. "Attention," she says, to warn her office computer that orders follow. "Schedule a midmorning meeting, no later than next Friday, for the Chamber Nonpartisan Caucus. Three hours, at least." "Working." While she waits for the computer to consult with all the other office computers involved, there is more work to do. There is always more work to do. The Ivory Madonna co-ordinates Nexus interests and activities for a quarter of North America; even with a team of talented assistants to handle the routine work, every passing hour brings new information, new questions, new problems. Just keeping track of them all is a full-time affair. "Reminder," the computer says. She lifts her head from the flatscreen she's reading. "Go ahead." "The Chamber Nonpartisan Committee will meet at nine o'clock next Thursday." "Thank you." Miranda shifts her attention to a daily news summary; after listening for a moment, she taps the screen in a request for elaboration. Umojan Minister Marc Hoister, addressing Bastille Day crowds in Abidjan, has been harping on his usual theme of Mars. With the exception of a small North American settlement, Mars -- scattered colonies amounting to all of a quarter-million people, if that -- is shared between Umoja and the Three Chinas. As near as the Ivory Madonna can tell, Marc Hoister hates to share anything, and is always after Umojan citizens to emigrate. She delves deeper into the story, examining emigration rates and trends. Perhaps Hoister's speeches are having some effect: African emigration to Mars has doubled from last yearwhile the Chinese figures are steady. The computer again speaks up. "Reminder." "Go ahead." "Two o'clock Nexus North America conference in fifteen minutes. Your notes are retrieved." "Thank you." The Ivory Madonna closes the flatscreens before her and takes a quick trip to the bathroom. While there, the peers in the mirror, brushes a few strands of hair back into place, and dons her mask. Creamy white, that mask, with two rouge circles on its cheeks and a mouth like the Mona Lisa's smile. Drake's starburst is traced in light blue on its forehead. Video transmitters behind the eyes allow her unobstructed vision. The Ivory Madonna has worn this mask, or one like it, for the past thirty-odd years. Her identity is an open secret -- certainly all the other high-level Nexus operatives know that the Ivory Madonna and Minister Miranda Maris are one in the same, and most of Capitol Hill is also aware. But she is long over any feeling of absurdity, and continues to wear it for the sake of propriety, if nothing else. The other Nexus old-timers also wear their masks or distorters, and use the pseudonyms that once protected them from national and international police. Some are in danger still, from unenlightened governments, or from those who think they have a score to settle with the Nexus. She knows who most of them are, her compatriots in crime and dedication. A few she has known all her life, some she has only met during electronic conferences. Some are friends, some opponents. All are exceptional. She takes her seat, and the conference begins. Masks materialize around her, imaginary faces looking out of neutral grey backgrounds. One by one, clockwise around the circle, they state their names. Each is already identified by a printed banner that floats below their image. Their voices, the Ivory Madonna assumes, are computer-processed like her own; they sound nothing like they do in real life. "D.Löwenger, San Francisco, Northwest." "Jakob.B.Sen, Chicago, North." "L.A.Verne, New York, Northeast." "Ivory.Madonna, Washington, Southeast." "CHEN1, Mexico City, South." "Roger.Adelhardt, Los Angeles, Southwest." "C.H.LAD, United Nations, sitting in." "Kuch.TA, Manila, sitting in." "Tsutomu, Lagos, sitting in." "We are nine," says CHEN1. As the representative of the largest city in their region, CHEN1 guides the conference. "What business is there?" For twenty minutes, the usual nonsense is discussed. An offshore break in the Bering data cable is determined to be natural, not the result of sabotage. Language riots in a Montreal suburb are being investigated by a joint United Nations/Nexus team, by request of Quebec's U.N. ambassador. Various other threats to world peace are examined, then tabled. Finally, the nonsense is done, and Roger.Adelhardt says, "Ivory Madonna, would you please report on the Navajo situation?" "Gladly. Things are under control." Kuch.TA clears his/her throat. "I hate to confess that I haven't been keeping up with all the reports from other areas. What is the situation?" The Ivory Madonna does not need to look at her notes. "A few days ago, Roger received word of a Dekoa outbreak in Dinétah -- the Navajo Nation. He consulted with the rest of us, and we decided on a partial suspension of the interdict, to permit a relief and sterilization effort. L.A. Verne contacted Doctor Heavitree of Medecins sans Frontieres, who agreed to spearhead the relief portion. C.H.LAD cleared the sterilization portion with U.N. authorities. And I sent my operative Damien Nshogoza to take command of our interdict." Roger.Adelhardt adds, "My operative on the scene, H.Orlamus, had been injured a week before, and was unavailable for heavy duty." Over steepled fingertips clothed with white silk gloves, Kuch.TA asks, "And where does the operation stand at the moment?" "Sterilization was accomplished overnight. Damien is restoring the interdict as we speak. MsF should be clearing out by tomorrow morning." "And how much has this cost?" Now she must glance at her notes. "Between our expenses, MsF, and U.N. money, just about half a million rands. The U.N. is going to bill Dinétah for a portion of that." C.H.LAD leans forward, filling his space; the illusion is that he/she has suddenly grown twice as large. "It has come to my attention that Dinétah intends to make a formal complaint to the United Nations. They claim that our interdict contributed to the, hmm, disease outbreak." "Preposterous," Sen growls. C.H.LAD turns to the Ivory Madonna. "Is it? With communications operating, would the outbreak have become known sooner?" The Ivory Madonna is grateful that her mask remains serenely impassive. "Short of going back in time and running the experiment, there is no way to answer that question." "Then we'd better come up with an answer, hmmm? Because the world is going to be asking. We lefthow many hundreds?" "One hundred thirty-two reported casualties," she supplies. "We left one hundred thirty-two people to face Dekoa without any way to summon medical assistance -- " Roger.Adelhardt is on his feet, stabbing a bony finger in C.H.LAD's direction. "That's not true! We left internal communications alone. That's always the policy, and you know it." On his heels, D.Löwenger shouts, "For God's sake, they're anti-technological. By their own choice." C.H.LAD ignores both of them, and bulldozes on, "without any way to summon medical assistance, we spent half a million rands of the world's money on an epidemic that possibly could have been caught much sooner, and we rendered a few thousand square kilometers of farmland as lifeless as the surface of Mercury." He/she glares. "Don't argue with me, I'm only telling you what Dinétah is certain to say before the General Assembly. And how is the Nexus going to answer, hmmm?" "Not our responsibility," L.A.Verne grunts. "Nexus interdict is nothing new. We've imposed thirty-eight of them over the last thirty-two years. The U.N. knows what an interdict means. And they know how to lift one, if they want to: repeal censure of the interdicted nation." She snarls, "We put our lives on the line because U.N. peacekeeping forces won't, and instead of thanks we get condemned for it. I am beyond sick and tired of the Nexus taking the blame every time the U.N. makes a bad decision." "I'm not convinced that this was a bad decision," CHEN1 says. "Regardless," C.H.LAD answers, as if speaking to a particularly dull kindergarten, "we all know better than to expect that the U.N. will accept any blame in this situation. All I want to know, is how we intend to answer Dinétah's fairly serious charges." "How about this?" For what seems the ten-thousandth time, the Ivory Madonna steps in to be the peacemaker. "Let's all consult with our P.R. people -- might as well bring the other areas in on this, too, it's going to be worldwide. And we'll get back with ideas insay, ten hours?" She looks around the masked faces. "Does that suit?" The others, some still grumbling, agree, and the meeting comes to an end. Images dissolve like bathwater swirling down the drain, and the Ivory Madonna is left alone in her suddenly-quiet office. She sits for quite a while, staring at the blank, grey wall and reviewing the meeting in her head. Then she touches keys on her desk, and re-runs the whole meeting at zip-speed. Odd, she thinksTsutomu of Lagos was present for the whole meeting, as he has been for the last half-dozen -- yet not once did he/she say a word. She freezes on Tsutomu's image, and absently strokes her hair as she ponders. It is half past eight in the evening in Lagos. Why would Tsutomu ruin a perfectly good evening, just to sit in on a meeting to which he/she did not contribute? Tsutomu's chosen mask was a traditional Ibo monkey mask, a grotesque parody of a face with beady eyes and a mouth forever frozen in a sullen smirk. Looking at it now, the Ivory Madonna feels a little shiver. Ridiculous! She shakes off the feeling, kills the image, and reaches for her phone. There is a lot to do. DIVERTISSEMENT 02 Amendment XXXII (approved by Constitutional Convention of 2023)
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