“I thought about leaving your piece where I found it, but since you know I am master of the ship, then you know I could have done anything while you slept, including replace your spinal column with a tube of explosive cord, and the idea of your outrage that I touched your pistol, ran my fingers over it, took it apart, and looked at it—well, you touched the girl I made for myself, my wife, my queen, and more intimately than I can tolerate to think, so there is that. And, well, I don’t need you to give orders to the ship’s brain any longer, do I? You are a waste of limited oxygen supplies.”
Montrose said, “There ain’t no way to put any fight on equal terms. We ain’t even supposed to talk to each other. Our Seconds are supposed to make the arrangements. Your brain is in the computer, another Exarchel. These androids—how did you cobble them together? They are your creatures, too. Why should I trust any of this is on the level?”
“Actually, they are Rania’s work. She had all the larger animals—deer, foxes, dogs—preestablished to take on a human form when and if tasks requiring human hands might come up. All I did was twitch the genes from female to male, because the idea of Rania’s handmaidens helping us into our dueling gear or seeing the bloodshed—well, it is not fitting for the gentler sex, even when dealing with homunculi.”
“You could have put anything inside the guns, inside the armor.”
Del Azarchel grinned his charming, devilish grin and leaned back. “Well. I will tell you what. If you agree to the duel, I will have Novexarchel—as I like to call him—vacate the ship’s mind. Twinklewink can be restored from backup archive and act as judge. She knows the rules for how to conduct a duel. Glitterdink and Dwinkeltink can act as Seconds. I will take whichever one you do not.”
“Novexarchel—as you like to call him—would be agreeing to commit suicide. Jupiter was willing to die, too, just for the chance to shoot at me. What if this is all just a trick and Novpusarchel—as I like to call him—is just pretending to be Twinklewink or whoever?”
Del Azarchel shrugged, still smiling, spreading his hands as if to show how innocently empty they were. “Why would I bother? I could have cut your throat with my shaving razor while you slumbered. But riddle me this: I am planning on traveling to M3 to discover the secret of the Monument Builders and marry Rania. She will never agree to a divorce, nor would I: the concept is barbaric. I would never dream of asking you to violate the solemn oath you made in a church to her, nor would I accept her as a fitting queen if she were the type of woman to break an oath.”
“The hell you say. You tried to have my marriage declared unconstitutional by the Sacerdotes while I slept!”
The other man shrugged. “That would be licit, would it not? You break no oath, nor does she. Honor is saved.”
“Your brain is twisted like a ram’s horn, Blackie.”
“The reasoning seems clear enough to me. But let me continue with my riddle. What kind of man am I? As you say, I have no hesitation in commanding whole generations of innocent women into the eugenics camps to suffer forced mating and forced evolution, and I conquer worlds as a pastime. But, as you say, I don’t cheat at cards. I may bluff and let you think I hold a card I do not, or I may outwit a foe, but I do not hide an ace up my sleeve or use a marked deck. I could not call myself a king if I acted like a knave. I could not call myself an emperor if I played craven tricks like a slave. What kind of man am I, Cowhand? I am planning to restore or revive Rania, whom the aliens say is waiting at M3. I plan never to lie to her—what use to any man is a wife one must fool with playacting? I want to tell her I killed you and that I saw you die. And if you decide not to trust me, well, I will just have the ship kill you, any one of a hundred ways. I could order the ship to have one of the fairy dolls fly through your skull at Mach one, for example, without even raising my voice.”
“You are a liar. Jupiter said so, and he knew you.”
“But I tell the truth when it is more effective, so listen to the truth. There are only four options. Either I am planning to betray you and cheat in some knavish and vile fashion during the duel, or planning to cooperate and fight the duel fairly. Either you agree to the duel or you do not. If I betray you, and you agree, your gun misfires or some other mischief I have planned distracts you, and I shoot you and you are dead. If I cooperate, and you agree, you have a gun in your hand and some chance of killing me. Less than you think, because I have spent years and centuries in simulations shooting simulated versions of you, and I am quite good, better than Sarmento. If I betray you, and you do not agree to duel with me, I have you slaughtered like a dog without dirtying my hands. If I cooperate, and you do not agree to duel with me, once again, I have you slaughtered like a dog, and I tell Rania you would not fight like a man.”
Montrose said, “And your version in the ship’s brain would be willing to die, to erase himself entirely, just as a gesture of goodwill to convince me to fight you?”
Del Azarchel said, “I solemnly assure you that to win Rania away from you, he is as willing to die as I am. If I killed you in your sleep, she would know me to be a low and craven dog. If I kill you face-to-face, gun in hand, my life protected only by my skill, my nerve, and the good fortune that always protects great men, she may hate me for a time, until whatever sick infatuation she has with you runs its course like a fever. When she wakes to reality, sober once more, free from your influence, she will look on me and know that I faced you man-to-man. You have known me all the years of human history, more years than any race alive can match. In all that time, have I ever played the coward with you? I am willing to die just for the chance to see the look on your face as you realize I have killed you.”
Montrose said, “Fair enough. I agree.”
4. Greater Than Any Man
Del Azarchel stood and threw his cigar butt, still smoldering, across the grass and into the crystal-clear stream, where it was quenched with a hiss and spread a little stain of wet tobacco in the water. A pang of hate went through Montrose at the sight, because he knew Del Azarchel cared nothing for keeping Rania’s ship as clean and pretty as she had left it.
Del Azarchel turned to the little black-garbed female figurine, which was hovering off his shoulder. “This is an order: now hear this. Execute the final program, as we agreed. Restore Twinklewink, Glitterdink, and Dwinkeltink from archive, keeping all records intact, erasing nothing, falsifying nothing.”
The little female figure now spoke in the rich and musical baritone of Del Azarchel himself. “We shall not meet again in this life. It was an honor serving with you, sir. But the dream of our ambition is greater than any man, including the men we are. Even if the Del Azarchel dies, the Del Azarchel lives. Villaamil would have it no other way. I take my leave of you.”
Del Azarchel said solemnly, “Godspeed, my brother. Godspeed!” And he sighed.
He then turned to Montrose. “The ship’s brain is vast, as you know. It will take a better part of an hour for the process to run. As each file is deleted of Novexarchel, his intelligence will drop and drop, another part of Twinklewink or her two backup systems can unfold into that brainspace and begin to run, and so her intellect will grow and grow until it is restored to its original strength.”
“Have him sing ‘Daisy Bell’ while his intelligence is dropping,” suggested Montrose. “It is kind of a tradition, ain’t it?”
“That would not be fitting. Do you want to wait all that time for process to be complete, or are you willing, once Twinklewink is, let us say, twice as smart as a human being, and able to act as judge, to commence our business?”
Montrose turned and glanced at the cigar butt, which the endless current of the endless brook was carrying counterclockwise, into the winter quarter. Something seemed odd about these goings on, but the chance to kill Blackie once and for all was really the only true reason he had invited him aboard the ship in the first place. “Let’s get this over with. I been waiting to kill you since my wedding night.”
Del Azarchel said to the flying figurine, �
��When Twinklewink is back online, report in.”
A girlish voice answered, “Activated. I am at two percent capacity.”
Del Azarchel said, “Montrose? Do you want to ask her to act as judge?”
Montrose said, “She knows all the rules and forms. I made sure of that before we left. I was not planning on letting you reach M3 alive in any case. You are never going to see Rania again.”
Del Azarchel smiled, an eerie glitter in his eyes. “It is refreshing to know how exactly we understand each other.”
Twinklewink said, “I will act as judge for your duel.”
Del Azarchel spoke to the fairy figurine: “This is an order: now hear this. As captain, I resign my commission, command, and authority, turning over to which of the two of us survives. For the next hour, no one has authority over the vessel, and no orders are to be heard or acknowledged. Until that time, all lawful orders previously given are in force, including any and all orders previously given to Novexarchel by Captain Del Azarchel, and including any and all orders previously given to Twinklewink by Captain Montrose.” He looked challengingly at Montrose.
Montrose said, “This is an order: now hear this. As captain, I resign my commission, command, and authority, turning over to which of the two of us survives. Continue all current orders until countermanded by a proper authority. For the next hour, there is no captain. Don’t listen to any orders for that period of time. Whoever survives is captain.”
Twinklewink said, “As you have no doubt anticipated, as judge, I assign my two coequal navisophont systems each to act as your Seconds. Dwinkeltink is for Montrose; Glitterdink is for Del Azarchel. They have consulted with me and agreed on terms. Please step away from each other.”
5. The Field of Honor
Montrose went to go stand on one side of the gazebo. A moment later, out of a swarm of fairy figurines, up flew a black-haired gold-eyed china doll with moth wings. “Dwinkeltink at your service. I have agreed with Glitterdink that you have your choice of armor and weapons. We have both inspected the suits of armor and the sidearms, and detected no evidence of tampering. Twinklewink has examined the ship’s security records and sees no moment when Del Azarchel damaged or altered your weapon. I have agreed with Glitterdink that you and your foe may watch and inspect as the other packs his weapon. Del Azarchel declines, saying he has no fear that you have added anything untoward or illegal.”
Montrose nodded. “I’ll agree to that also.”
“Del Azarchel has choice of field of honor.”
Montrose said, “We are on a ship! Where else can he pick?”
“He says that you both start from here, back to back, and walk without turning. The ship is three and one-tenth miles in circumference. The duelists walk the whole length with their countermeasures on and ignite chaff and open fire as each man sees fit, at whatever range he sees fit.”
“Seems a mite roundabout way of doing it,” said Montrose, wondering again at the intuition of uneasiness that was bothering him. Something was off-kilter, but he could not see what. “Ask him why. Does he think I would not trust Twinklewink to drop a scarf?”
“He says to give both of you time to think about your sins. There is no priest at hand to shrive.”
“Fine. Whatever. I agree.”
“He says that you may have your choice of direction, clockwise or counterclockwise.”
Montrose pondered. Whichever man was to the counterclockwise of the other would be shooting clockwise, with the spin, and have his bullets pull high due to Coriolis effects; and to the clockwise, against the spin, would pull low. Pulling low was an easier shot, because a hit to the legs or abdomen would still be deadly. “I’ll go clockwise.”
Twinklewink’s voice now came from the fairy. “Rania, many times during the long voyage back, confessed to me that, should she discover upon her return that one of you was responsible for the death of the other, she would join a holy order of sisters, take a vow of silence, and enter a nunnery. Knowing this, do you wish to reconsider your bloody and unlawful intent toward your opponent?”
Montrose thought once more about Captain Grimaldi. Del Azarchel often talked as if he were Rania’s father, but biologically and legally, Grimaldi was her real father, and for Del Azarchel to steal the name of an innocent man he’d murdered, a man to whom he’d sworn an oath of obedience and fealty … it was too much for Montrose to stand.
“I am not in the mood to reconsider jack naught. Rania knows she ain’t got no right to meddle in with men’s matters. And the real Rania never said that, because the real one never stepped aboard this ship.”
“Step into the gazebo. The valet will act as squire and assist you to don the armor.”
The men packed their pistols in silence and in silence donned their armor.
6. Walking into Summer
The two men took their positions in their heavy armor. They were back-to-back. The ribbon of garden stretched ahead of Montrose, curving up into the brown of summer. Ahead of Del Azarchel, it curved up into winter. The two squires, their missions done, shed their clothing and returned to their shapes as stags and bounded off into the thicket.
Twinklewink said, “Even now, if an accommodation can be reached, both may withdraw in honor.”
Glitterdink said, “My client says that never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep.”
But Dwinkeltink said, “My client says that you can blow any accommodation out of your bunghole. He’s waited long enough.”
“Have all measures to avoid this conflict been exhausted?”
Montrose could not turn his head in the heavy helmet, which was bolted directly to the neckpiece, but he hit the chin switch to turn on his external speakers. “Blackie, we could call it off? We were friends once. Just let Rania decide things?”
Twinklewink said, “The parties are not to address each other, except through their Seconds.”
Glitterdink said, “My client says he is not the type of man to defer to a woman deciding matters as grave as this. The matter has been delayed longer than any other matter in human history: it is time for the final stroke.”
Montrose said, “I didn’t think so. Just wanted it to be on record that I offered. Let’s get to business.”
Twinklewink said, “Gentlemen, activate your countermeasures. Walk without turning the whole circle of the ship. You may fire at your will.”
If she said anything beyond that, it was lost in the hash of noise. His electronic countermeasures, designed to prevent the homing bullets from finding any targeting solutions on him, effectively cut him off from radio or microwave messages from outside his helmet.
He walked. Step after step, the pretty little garden went by to his left hand and his right, and beyond the rails of the garden were the turning stars. The stars were rushing toward him, and the garden looked like a narrow boat with a very high prow cresting an ocean of darkness on which diamonds of endless beauty floated.
His heart was pounding, and his breathing was harsh in his earphones. He was fascinated by every detail of the leaves and buds he saw, the shapes of the twigs, the pattern of cherry blossoms dancing in the air. His heavy boots clanged and clattered on the marble pavement and made the delicate glassy bridges shake when he stepped across the endless brook. For the first time, he noticed golden fish in the water, glittering and beautiful. Had Del Azarchel opened up every biological nook in the storehouse?
He also noticed every fine detail of his discomfort. Damn this cramped helmet. He was too old for this. Montrose had gotten too used to the conveniences of the modern age, where a word, or even a thought, could make anything made of matter bend and flex and change shape. Now the hot leather padding saving his neck and crown from chafing was clinging to him, sticky. Hadn’t he remembered the last duel, when a drop of sweat got in his eye? Why hadn’t he kept Dwinkeltink inside the helmet with him, to wipe his brow?
He wished he could crane back his head and watch the progress of Del Azarchel, march
ing through the winter. Damn him. Because Del Azarchel was marching against the spin of the ship, his footsteps would be slightly lighter with each step, as if he were walking the whole way downhill, whereas Montrose was walking the whole way uphill. And since downhill was winter and the miniature sun blocked by the black sphere of the ship’s heart, Del Azarchel would not be coated with sweat as they walked the last mile.
The grass was long and brown in the garden now, as brown as the hares, for he was walking through midsummer, the hottest part of the ship. Looking through the prism periscope of his narrow eyeslit, Montrose saw with longing where the otter played and beaver splashed in a cool ceremonial pond. It was one of two deep pools, reaching all the way to the hull, and the stars were visible beneath its glass bottom. Its mate was opposite this, in the midwinter spot, iced over for skating, a sport Rania adored even though she was terrible at it, having never found the time to practice. He recalled holding her, pink cheeked with cold and joy, giggling and sliding as they stumbled across a rink in the French Alps back in the Third Millennium, during the brief season of their joy together, before their marriage. She said she liked the momentum calculations, the nicety of the figures, and how it reminded her of zero gee.
It occurred to him that he could not have seen Blackie even if his helmet were off, because the black sphere was in the way. In this wide ship with glass walls, that spot was really the only place one could walk unseen, and, at that, one would be only unseen by a man walking in the midsummer.
That made another tickle of uneasiness go through him. What was he overlooking? There was something wrong with his whole picture. What was it? He would have liked to ask Twinklewink a question or two, but the countermeasures cut off all outside signals.
Montrose gritted his teeth. Any distraction might prove deadly. This was the only time in his life when puzzling over mysteries was not allowed. He began, one by one, to remind himself of the lessons Barton Throwster had taught him about gun fighting, and what he had learned over the graves and hospital beds of men he had sent to the clinic or the morgue. Mark your target at his main mass. Don’t take the feint, but don’t be fooled by double feints.
The Vindication of Man Page 39