Mark was eight when he found out about his super power.

He could always, and without much trouble, make anyone cry. He could find that hidden weak spot, the precise location of the thermal exhaust port and the exact kind of missile that would fly into it.

His earliest memory was from preschool, when a girl had rushed in ahead of Mark and taken the puzzle he wanted to play with. He knew he should never hit anyone or scream, but he knew exactly what she was most afraid of. This girl's parents had just moved to East Boston, so he'd told her, "you're so selfish, nobody likes you. They only play with you because they have to." She burst into tears and ran to hide in the closet, and Mark got his puzzle.

Mark targeted bullies, mean girls, and kids who wouldn't do their fair share of group projects. "You're dad lost his job because he acted like that." "Now I can see why your parents split up." Several times he'd gotten the actual police to show up and take the malefactor away.

He got excellent grades for himself, and was admitted to an Ivy League school by engineering a social media scandal much more impressive than his test scores. A bigger challenge was finding a job that would give Mark the income he wanted without damaging his internet reputation, but soon he hollowed out the HR and marketing departments of a civil engineering company, to great public fanfare.

The Covid pandemic gave Mark the opportunity to go freelance and global. When Earth joined the Convention of Sophonts, he was well-placed to transition into politics and get himself into the embassy.

Because weak spots weren't just personal; they could be organizational. There were vulnerabilities in a person's friends, family, colleagues, and superiors. Mark could fire a missile into person A, which would goad them into attacking person B. He could bring someone's whole society crashing down around them.

His life had not prepared Mark for frustration or disappointment. Evil people simply crumbled before him, and good people gave him things. His world was a just place.

Now, though, injustice loomed. The UN mission should be the pinnacle of human government, but so far it all seemed like pointless Mickey Mouse bullshit. And now the Consul had directly attacked him.

Mark's ancestors would have overthrown the conference table. They would have thrown rocks or drawn swords, howling threat and defiance. Mark kept himself under a firmer hand than that. His fingers, kept in full view on the table, did not even clench. Faster than conscious thought, Mark reshaped the brutal fist of primate aggression into the slender stiletto of office politics.

"We must give something to our sibling back on Earth," Mark said with the appearance of pleading. "Even if we didn't owe it to them to fulfill our mission – " that was for the ambassador, "– there are still people back on Earth who would tear down everything we've built." He met Ahmed's gaze, calling up the wording of one of her own speeches. "People killing each other, exploding themselves. They'll pull the world down while we're here and not minding them."

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Minding, thought Qani. She told herself that her children needed no minding. Or at least, she couldn't give it to them. They were adults now, and wouldn't obey their mother no matter what planet they lived on. The only four people in the world who didn't listen to the expert opinion of Qani Mohamed Ahmed.

Not that "listen" meant "agree." In too many cases, it meant "hate." Qani was powerful, and power attracted enemies. "People exploding themselves," the American boy had said. Had he seen a suicide bombing? Had he watched the sweat bead on the assassin's brow and his hand reach for the button before the sniper bullet knocked him down? A stupid risk, her oldest son had said, and yet where were his bodyguards? Did he think he was safe in Dubai? Was he living so dangerously because he wanted to shame his mother, to make him travel back to his side?

What if somebody killed her children?

Qani did not cry. She bared her teeth as she had trained herself to do. Even as she imagined herself holding her dead son's hand, Qani's fingers twitched as if over prayer beads, and a prayer ran through her mind. She would do what she could, until her time came.

"My point exactly," she said, and only realized later that Mark had tried to attack her.

"I'm sorry," Yoshida said to Mark, "but I don't understand your point."

Mark broke eye-contact with Ahmed and smiled at the roomba-wrangler. "I mean if we show the best of what our species has to offer, of what we are," he slapped his chest, hard enough to hurt. Good.

But Chadwell was rolling his eyes again, the arrogant asshole.

"That will do good for the nonhumans and the humans back on Earth," Mark said, feigning off-handedness. "There are still Convention-skeptics."

Which of course sounded like "EU-skeptics," which conjured before the inner eye of Said Chadwell images of his enemies. Said didn't just disagree with the bigoted isolationists; he hated them. But he could never say so. They could never know. His enemies were in his own party.

Said knew he needed allies. Here, more than anywhere. He refocused on Cafarelli the American. Had this boy's parents been immigrants, too? More likely his grandparents or great-grandparents. Still, he wasn't a bad sort.

Said nodded. "It's a point."

Li and Ahmed wondered if they should oppose the idea because he supported it. But Li decided that this was all his idea after all – a way to put to use his connections in the entertainment industry. Qani Ahmed had her own connections and, reminded of her son, was feeling well-inclined toward Mark.

Nelly Steiner had no idea what was going on. "Do you think you can get money to pay for better tech if we charge admission to opera performances or something?"

With the aid of long practice, Mark concealed his frustration. What was this, a college club? He was better than this. He had his hands firmly on the emotional levers of every human being on the planet. All nine of them! (Ten, now, since Koen had just flipped through). The only way to get more power would be some sort of in with some nonhumans, but that was proving difficult.

"Yes," said Ambassador Li. He was squinching. "Chinese opera. Mark, please contact the Quotidians and arrange a meeting."

Mark, who had no idea how to contact the Quotidians or arrange a meeting with them said, "yes, sir!"

Laura would be back at the embassy any time now. She would know what to do.