Sleepless
part sixteenThere was nothing surprising about the video file after everything Mycroft had learned. That was the funny thing about science: it was often the study about how little mankind understood rather than an exercise in understanding. Looking at the flash drive on his desk, with the initials "J.H.W." inscribed across the top in felt marker, there was very little left with the power to surprise. He was mostly tired. And relieved. That round was over, and the game continued on. Not that every player needed to know how the others had fared in their turns.
"This deeply upsetting," the representative of Spain said, her mouth drawn thin as she tapped her matching nails against her desk.
In all, over twenty representatives had been able to make the call after a video leaked to their inboxes. The Americans were not among them. Feigning sleep, Mycroft surmised. It didn't matter. Their presence was not really necessary at this junction.
Mycroft wove his fingers together in front of him, his face kept ceremonially grave as he lead the discussion further. "I agree. And it would appear he felt much the same. Not long after the video was released, Mr. Chapman was discovered dead in his office from a self inflicted gunshot wound. His guilt in the matter of the murder of one of our civilian test subjects is more than evident, though I hesitate to say that was the focus of his guilt. It is clear from this video that he was engaged in secret negotiations with the Americans over zero-five-seven and the rest of our research materials. I find this extremely suspect given their vocalizations on the subject of the survivors and in tandem with the accusations zero-five-seven had come to Mr. Chapman to discuss--accusations to which the minister offered up the Americans as answer in his own muddled way. From what we know and what we've seen, I think it is fair to request from the Americans that they hand over all documentation they have in regards to the disease and in a gesture of good faith, offer them a full pardon if there is any truth to the accusations that they might have played a part in the creation of the disease in hopes of leaving genocide and hostility in our past."
The German president scowled. "Full pardon? If they are responsible for the death of billions, you would have them answer to no one?"
"I would rather hope for a full cure than fight for justice. The death and killing isn't over if we do not tackle this last obstacle. If this is what it takes to make a nation take responsibility and help save the rest, I would gladly bury it in the past."
It was clear that many of them resented the idea. That was fine. Being the nation that advocated for peace gave him a greater power in negotiations when allies recognized his leadership as benevolent and fair. It made France his partner and granted him favor in Greece. They had, after all, just broadcast to the entire world that within the British government there was conspiracy, murder and mental illness. This was damage control as best Mycroft knew it--the long game played out with virtue trumping wisdom until the latter was required. They could trust him. They could be honest with him. And in that trust was the power to manipulate with the simplest gesture of good council. His strings were out there, attaching to the wrists and chins of those eager to be lead during these troubling times. It would be a slow and long process--not nearly as removed from the center ring as he preferred, but there were puppets in his audience just waiting to be controlled. And he would make them into greater leaders so long as they followed the paths of his strings.
Some would be an easier conquest than others. The Turkish leader was not one to find favor in such limitless forgiveness. "Of course you say that," he said, jabbing firmly at the polished surface of his desk. "Your brother is one of the survivors. You have a vested interest in more scientific research."
"My brother is dead," Mycroft informed them, keeping his face impassive though he slid his fingers from their knot and let them fall beneath the table instead so as not to give the illusion of a complete statue though resignation and a hint of grief were allowable for show. "Zero-five-seven was killed alongside zero-five-eight after a power surge caused a malfunction in the kill switch, triggering his collar as well. I'm sure you've heard of our rather unsettling power issues this afternoon."
"And the remaining four?"
Mycroft let his smile warm slightly. "Safe. They were not near enough the wireless source to be affected."
The Swedish councilman gave a slight bow of his head. "We're sorry for your loss."
"Thank you. However, time marches on." He forced a smile, brows raised to dismiss any semblance of a genuine expression but rather a shrug of better times to come. "I think we would all do well not to be sorry for their loss but instead work to make sure the rest of the survivors are given a better chance at life than they had."
There was a murmur of acceptance, a quiet acquiescence towards the greater good above feelings of vengeful rage. Humble Mycroft. Mournful Mycroft. Mycroft, the man who lead. The strings were out and there were games to play. Round one went to Mycroft, with several players now retired for good. As it should be, really. Everyone had their place. And only after one game ended could another truly begin.