Continuation of the story of the delivery of the white cocoon:
Lunch in Litus
Gots had promised Amós the banquet after the delivery of the cocoon where Koee Nahin lay, in Litus, the capital of Arcadia. Two enemy nations, united by a sham, protocolary truce, the kind that exists only for official photographs and diplomatic statements. The lunch would serve the usual ritual: elegant bravado, veiled insults, the eternal measuring of power.
Amós liked this kind of meeting. He listened. Let the other person talk too much. Offend himself. He destabilized without ever losing control.
The table had been set for two. Refined tableware, silverware aligned with surgical precision, tall glasses, discreet flowers at the center. Lights too bright, almost aggressive, hiding any shadow in the room — except in the souls sitting there. The dirty calling the unwashed dirty.
Gots indicated Amós’s seat with a brief gesture. The waiter appeared in silence, served the appetizer and an old, expensive Arcadian wine.
Amós examined the silverware carefully, as if evaluating a weapon. Then he raised his hand.
— A little less wine.
Gots frowned.
— Don’t trust it? It’s good wine. Made in Arcadia.
Amós swirled the glass, watching the liquid.
— The worst poison is the one you enjoy.
Gots’s gaze hardened. He hated Amós. He hated Ceres. Sometimes he imagined the man on fire, consumed by his own ideology.
— Ceres, then... — he said with disdain. — What is it, after all?
— The cure for hunger and poverty — Amós replied, bringing the glass closer to his nose. — And, consequently, the simplest way to annihilate any rival. It’s no secret.
The wine had an intense aroma. Blood of the gods, Amós thought. Of eloquence. Of truth.
— You have left-wing movements in your country — Amós continued. — Want to get rid of them? Do as Prometheus did. Steal the fire, manipulate it. Turn poverty into a weapon. As we do.
— I’m disgusted by leftists — Gots spat — and by Ceresians too.
Amós took a small sip.
— Your problem is that hatred has become an ideology. A cancer. The true path to accidental peace is trade. Look at Ceres: we have solid agreements. If you rise against us, you rise against yourselves.
The bravado hung in the air. Metaphors of hatred, each one drooling his own poison. Amós liked it. Rubbing the Mother’s ideology in other people’s faces was a quiet pleasure.
— We have nuclear weapons — Gots said with a crooked smile.
— I can’t say we don’t — Amós replied. — But I prefer to say we don’t.
He smiled. Gots clenched his jaw.
— I am a man of ambitions — Gots said. — I prefer freedom. Even if it costs all of humanity. Better that than living under your ideology.
Amós looked at him calmly.
— Ambitious and selfish. You destroy humanity’s chance of not starving to death out of sheer irresponsibility... and you still call that freedom. Beautiful, coming from someone like you.
The waiter returned, serving an exquisite plate of meat. Tender, juicy, perfectly seared.
Both grabbed their silverware with excessive force — as if holding a nuclear weapon. Diplomatic gestures, rehearsed, while the words continued to be sharp.
Amós cut off a piece and looked at it.
— You know what’s funny, Gots? You hate Ceres, you hate our Mother... but you have no idea where this meat comes from. Ceres laboratories and Oplan farms. While you eat, you ingest our ideology. It feeds you... and devours you.
Gots swallowed with hatred. The meat seemed to resist beneath his teeth. The expensive porcelain plate became a torture table.
— It’s easy to talk about our Mother on a full stomach — Amós continued. — You talk about freedom surrounded by possessions, jewels, wealth. Gold, silver, perhaps diamonds kept at home. In Ceres, our jewels are made of lead.
He touched his own brooch.
— Lead is what we are. We know that metals and precious stones only have value to you. We have another kind of wealth: reliability. That is worth more, Gots.
Silence returned. Both chewed slowly, staring at each other.
— You send modified dogs into our lands — Amós said. — A young man killed one of them as if it were a rag doll. He split open the creature’s hard skull. Extremely strong. That same young man killed ten of your men. And a girl killed three. Children.
Gots restrained himself like a trained dog. He gripped the silverware, drank more wine.
— They are strong — Amós continued. — They eat our Mother’s food.
Amós commented on the taste of the meat and raised his glass.
— To Mother Ceres.
— Who would have thought — Gots growled. — Children killing Arcadian men.
— According to protocol, the bodies were returned — Amós replied. — Well treated. Given baths. Sanitized. Made clean and fragrant for burial.
Amós looked at the silverware again. A discreet mark engraved in the metal: Made in Ceres.
— We don’t have salaries — he said. — We have quality of life. Six-hour workdays, shifts, leisure, sports, reading. No burnout.
— Sophisticated cages — Gots retorted.
— Yes — Amós replied. — And calling this place a pigsty would be an insult to pigs. They have a purpose.
Amós stood, wiping his mouth with the napkin.
— Thank you, Gots.
— Already? We still have dessert.
— I already had mine.
— You Ceresians are dogs.
Amós smiled, already with his back turned.
— Lead dogs. Mother Ceres’s dogs. She feeds us, educates us... and devours us.
He left without looking back. The conversation had been good. Both poisoned, hatred under control.
The Mother had won.
And Arcadia could set the table for its own shame.