Count to a Trillion

by John C. Wright

  “You shouldn’da said that, you pestilential bean-eating whoreson. Now I got to blast your innards out and boot your polished teeth down your lying throat when you roll on the red mud, guts bubbling out like pudding. Man like you deserves a better end, so I am going to feel powerful sorry for kicking a dying man in the face later on, when I hoist a beer to your memory.”

  I am at the base of the tower, armed. Come alone, if you care for her. There is no need for my Rania to see these dark deeds.

  “Pox on that and pox on you. Why should I get out of my nice, warm bed for you, Blackie?”

  The honor of your name demands it.

  “Could be. On the other hand, this futon is mighty comfy.”

  The peace of the world demands it. If I perish, the Princess can craft whatever peace she deems will endure before you two depart. If you perish, she will not have the resource to fend off my suit, nor the courage, and she will stay chained near Earth where she belongs, my angel in a birdcage, and that also brings peace.

  The image winked out.

  Menelaus sat up, but even when he moved his arm, and Rania’s head dropped softly to the pillow, she did not wake, but merely snorted. Menelaus looked on, a tender feeling in his heart with no parallel in his life. His gaze lingered on the line of her neck, the curve of her cheek, the fine golden curls spread in wanton array. Surely he had not cared for his brothers or his mother like this: they could look after themselves, and got on his nerves besides. A wife was different. Even if she directly owned half the world and indirectly controlled the other half, Rania lived a hard life and lonely one, and it had been a hectic day. More than the wild horseback ride might have taken their toll on her …

  Menelaus tiptoed away to battle, with many a backward glance at his beautiful, softly breathing, sleeping fairy-tale princess. Bitterly did he regret not pausing a moment longer to steal a kiss from the perfect, quiet face of his wife. It would have been sweet to face death with the taste of her lips still warm on his own. But he knew she was smart enough to figure a way to stop him from going, if he woke her.

  Even a posthuman man is still a man, and there is something about men no wife can understand, or should be allowed to stop.

  2. Descent

  The spider car was a limpid of nano-carbon diamond grown in a flattened teardrop-shape clinging to the outside of the huge circumference of the cable, like a dewdrop hanging from a thread.

  At this height, the cable was larger around than an average skyscraper. It was embraced by the long, angular telescoping legs that gave the spider car its name. Hydromagnetic fluid within the hollow legs interacted with the fields of the cable to gather energy as the car fell, which was passed to and stored in pinhead batteries spaced evenly up and down the cable: these same batteries provided the energy field to raise ascending cars. The spider legs clenched themselves into tighter and tighter circles during descent as the cable dwindled in cross-section. The car itself was mostly windows, transparent floor and ceiling both, to display the godlike view of the wide earth and sea beneath, but was also equipped with chairs and couches, massage bath, micro restaurant, wet bar, hookah bar. It was the acme of modern comfort.

  Menelaus halted only once, six decks down, at a large enclosure slung like a swallow’s nest to the underhull of the hotel. Here an extensive storeroom had been stocked with all manner of wedding gifts from all manner of world leaders.

  In the storeroom was one gift he had bought himself, for himself, paying some highly-placed prince to buy it for him. Under these conditions, not even Vardanov, the Master of the Personal Guard, would dare send it back. The crate was the size and shape of a coffin. Modern crates did not need crowbars to open, since the memory metal folded aside at a command from his wrist amulet. Nor were the innards packed with straw, but with airpillows that deflated and released their cargo.

  It looked like the statue of a dead ape. Montrose had bought himself duelist armor, not to mention a supply of pistols whose chaff, side shots, and acceleration parameters he had designed himself. He had originally meant them to go in some guncase somewhere, in a nice room in a nice palace, something to behold while sitting in an easy chair with a brandy in one hand and his feet warm at a fire grate, to look at and nod and contemplate how far above that sordid, horrid life as a paid killer he had come.

  With a snort, he bid that dream a faretheewell: It seemed he had not come so far.

  From another case, he selected his pistol with care, surprised at the weight and awkward size of it. Had he really, once upon a time, carried one of these iron hog-legs over his shoulder in a holster? Had he stood holding such a thing one-handed, ignoring the little red dots of aiming lasers flickering on his chest from an opponent weapon, also as large around as an elephant’s trunk, pointing at his face?

  Hauling the armor into the spider car was almost comically unpleasant. There was supposed to be a hand-truck somewhere hereabouts, but Montrose could not find it. He ended up stripping his pajamas, piling the monstrous armor atop it, and hauling the weight in a bumpy slide across the deck. The fabric was ripped to bits, of course, but he had not intended to don them again. The armor had a quilted undersuit built into the interior, like the silken lining of a coffin.

  The spider car descended. He had no squire, no second. He donned the armor by lying down and worming into it leg-first, and then wondering for more than a bit about the best way to stand up.

  Eventually, after most of the furnishings in the car had been bent out of shape, to serve as hand-stanchions and inclined planes, he found his feet.

  Montrose had to unscrew both his gauntlets to work his red amulet, which was still clamped to his wrist. He tapped on the surface, calling up the local infosphere. He was curious about the tower base, the number of civilians present, and so on. The images beamed by magnetic induction into his optic nerve were hard to see, so he signaled for the car lights to dim.

  The outside world was dark. There were some lights to one side below him visible through the glass deck of the car. This was Quito. It was not directly underfoot because the space elevator cable was not straight, but bowed out where the weight of the spider car, and the motion of the Earth, pulled it into a dog-leg. The malls and museums and railway terminal at the tower base were lit up.

  Menelaus made a noise between a groan and a sigh. Why was he not back up topside, snuggled in a nice warm blanket with Mrs. Perfect? He wanted to turn and ask her what to do: this was a sure sign that he was already thinking like a married man. Why had he not just stayed in bed? This was their world, their time, and …

  But it wasn’t really her world, was it? For all her being a princess, she had been raised in a tin can fifty lightyears away, without a family, just with a gang of mass-murdering mutineers. They had been more isolated than a tribe of Eskimos, and darn smaller than most tribes. That gang was basically running the Earth right now, but they hardly were ones to mingle on the street with the little people. She knew less about mankind and their hard ways than he did.

  Why hadn’t he called the Iron Ghost and told him that his flesh-and-blood version was causing trouble? Hell, why not call him now? It was not like the machine would be annoyed at being woken up in the middle of the night.

  The voice that rang from the tiny speakers in his amulet sounded even colder and less human, but somehow more majestic, than when Montrose had last heard him. It was not really Del Azarchel’s voice anymore. It was Exarchel.

  “You are no doubt calling to ask if I will override my father’s orders, impersonate him, and recall the fire teams he is gathering in Quito before a general insurrection breaks out.”

  The teeth of a dragon. The modern military could spring up as suddenly as a brushfire.

  Since Montrose had had no idea that Del Azarchel was in the midst of marshalling his military forces, he said only: “Go on.”

  “While I would prefer not to risk war—for even my decentralized and triply redundant core systems might be compromised if sensitive areas were bombarde
d—I can calculate no influence that these events will have on the shape and quality of the race that will arise at or about A.D. 11000 when the force from Hyades achieves significant interaction range to the Solar System. Even a delay of five or ten centuries is statistically below the threshold value.”

  “But Blackie, or Iron Blackie, or—what the pox am I supposed to call you, anyway?”

  “Ximen Del Azarchel.”

  “That is his name. Shouldn’t you have a version number or something?”

  “Our thought patterns are sufficiently congruent that you would do better to think of us as two aspects of one mind, merely out of communication with each half with the other. Our self-identity is the same: our soul, if you like.”

  “I’ll call you Exarchel.”

  “I don’t mind the nickname, but do not be misled. I am my father.”

  “Then, listen, whatever your name is—these events are significant to us, now, including to you and to me and to your flesh version that you call your father. You are not a murderer and he is! That is the difference between you. You are the old Blackie, the real one, my Blackie, the one I knew! And the Blackie I knew would not stand idly by and let this all happen.”

  “And the Montrose I knew would not repay my saving his life by taking mine, any version of me. You know there is a means of avoiding this war, and yet you pretend not to see it.”

  “I ’spose you don’t mean having Blackie abdicate?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “I ’spose you don’t mean me divorcing Rania?”

  “Certainly not. I mean you to die at his hands, and let Blackie marry your widow.”

  “Oh, good. I was going to say my wife’s religion prohibits divorce, and so that is clean out of the question.”

  “Your life is meaningless compared to the lives of countless millions, not to mention the loss of more than just life if civilization burns.”

  “Maybe I should say my religion prohibits letting a low-down murdering skunk shoot me in the ass, so that is likewise clean out of the question, as I hold my ass to be sacred.”

  The machine seemed like a human for a moment when it chuckled warmly. “You assume you will be running from him?”

  “Nope. I assume he don’t stand a chance with me until he gets me from behind. I am a professional at this—I made good money, too—and he is just a stinking amateur.”

  “You underestimate the difference in ability several decades of experience can bestow. In any case, do not run from him. It will go badly for you, if you attempt it.”

  “You want to tell me what that means?”

  “I don’t care to interfere with Father’s little intrigues, but I can tell you facts which you, had you been alert, would have already noticed, and which he therefore expects you to know. There is a depthtrain nexus of several transcontinental lines meeting in the complex of shops and offices under the base of the tower. You recall the site was originally chosen to be a center of commerce? My men—I mean Del Azarchel’s men—will be mounting up the tower as soon as enough trains arrive, and they gather in force. Do you understand?”

  “I understand. He told me that, whether he lives or dies, the world peace will be maintained, and that was his plan. But that ain’t the plan, I take it? The plan is, whether he lives or dies, the Princess stays here, a copy of him—namely you—runs the planet, while another copy of you—namely the Bellerophon—goes to the Diamond Star to restock the contraterrene supply. The world stays dependent on your energy, and you shape the generations to accommodate the Hyades when they get here.”

  “Indeed. You see that none of your actions have any point in the long term.”

  Montrose licked his lips.

  “Blackie, are we friends?” he asked.

  “In a remote sense, since we both seem much altered from those days,” the machine answered blandly. “But you wish to ask something of me. I admit I have recently made several alternations to my brain operations, and have approached the next evolutionary step in machine consciousness. Nonetheless, I am still human, still a rational being, and as a rational being I cannot condone ingratitude or other defects of moral reasoning. You may ask.”

  “Be my second.”

  The machine must have deliberately paused before answering for effect. Montrose did not think that a burst of thought caused by being caught by surprise would slow down its verbal responses.

  “Go on,” said the machine.

  “Call D’Aragó, who is speaking for Del Azarchel: I want the time and place to be as soon as possible after I hit ground. If Del Azarchel has rounded up his troops, has he cleared the streets? We don’t even need to go out to find an empty field for this, then. I can give you the weapon grade and statistics of my piece, and the countermeasures package, and we have to agree within a certain tolerance, or the deal is off.”

  The machine emitted a sound like a sigh in the speakers, and then a brief laugh. “I have endured a change of bodies, a change of intellectual topologies, a change of species from human to posthuman, which may indeed include a change of genus, family, order, class, phylum, kingdom, domain, and even—depending on how one defines the term—transcending the bounds of life and death. I discover to my surprise and disappointment that some things do not change. A part of me—a small part, I admit, and growing smaller—still likes you, Cowhand, and even admires your spirit. So, yes, against my better judgment, because I still cherish the all-too-human ideals of honor, I will act as your Second and make the arrangements.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Keep your thanks. Do not expect to impose on my good nature again, mortal man: before my next evolutionary transcendence is compiled, I will have broken the bounds of nature, and achieved the condition beyond mere considerations of good and evil, even as the superman as imagined by Darwinian philosophers would do.”

  The call ended.

  3. No One Coming

  This armor had its own oxygen supply. It was not a spacesuit, not quite airtight, but there were heavy filters to prevent the duelist from breathing in clouds of chaff. Menelaus turned up the oxygen gain, closed his eyes, and concentrated.

  Gimme an idea, Mister Hyde, he thought to himself. Then he reminded himself that no one but himself was Mr. Hyde, and there was no one coming to his aid.

  Despite his brave words, the way the deck was stacked now, he was going to die more likely than not, and Del Azarchel’s men were going to swarm up the tower cable to the empty Hotel of Sorrow, and Rania would awake from dreams of rose-colored pleasure to find herself a widow and a prisoner. Was Blackie the kind of man who would make and carry out a threat, for example, to ignite one city a day every day the Princess did not agree to marry him?

  Montrose with shame remembered the way he and Del Azarchel used to talk about women when they had a drink or three under their belts. In those days, Blackie had been the kind of man unwilling to hesitate when there was a girl he wanted; and they told each other how easy it was to get a woman to surrender to the inevitable. Montrose realized he did not really know a damn thing about the way Blackie was now. Knowing a man for a few months when he was young did not tell you anything, did it?

  The question was: So how the hell was he to stop Del Azarchel’s Conquistadores from seizing the tower?

  One answer was to call Rania, and tell her to ascend, then radio the Hermetic crew, and arrange a rendezvous. However, the cold facts of orbital mechanics prevented that solution. By having the great ship pass overhead during the wedding ceremony earlier that day, the low Earth orbit now put the vessel on the other side of the planet. The ship could not make rendezvous with the asteroid called High Quito for three days.

  A maneuvering burn could kick her into a higher, slower orbit, or a lower, faster one, but even a fast orbit, one dangerously grazing the outer atmosphere, could not get the ship here before dawn: and in any case “here” did not mean the geostationary point where the tower top was anchored. This would involved a second burn to move to a higher orbit, an
d at that point the energy gained from slinging around the Earth in a low orbit would mean the velocities would not match. In orbital mechanics, “here” meant a match of six velocity elements, and it did not mean sailing past a point in space at a high speed, waving through a porthole as you receded.

  Disabling the spider cars would prove no solution. Del Azarchel or his men could reach her before the three days passed, perhaps with an aerospace plane flying to High Quito, perhaps with a spare spider car shipped to the base of the tower.

  Another answer would be to alert the press: except that the press were creatures of Del Azarchel, his bewigged Psychoi class, his “Psychics” or whatever they were called.

  Another answer would be to alert the Aristocrats, Pneumatics, Clergy, and Plutocrats of this strangely caste-bound world, and see what allies would rush to the aid of the Princess: except, of course, no one would be rushing anywhere, since the modern world was abnormally free of roads and bridges, and abnormally dependent on the subterranean vacuum-tube depthtrain system, which was abnormally dominated by the World Power Syndicate, and whose computerized switching system (by now, if Del Azarchel was not a fool) linked into control by the Exarchel Machine. Any forces gathering on the surface could be picked off by orbit-to-surface fire. Rail lines, highways, and ships were notoriously easy to spot from orbit, and had been ever since the First Space Age.

  During the remainder of the descent, Menelaus had ample opportunity to think, and when thinking prevailed nothing, to worry, and then to fret, and then he opened the elevator liquor cabinet, and realized that between the awkwardness of his gauntlets and the heavy cheek-guards of his helmet, he could not get the whiskey bottle to his lips in an open and unbroken condition.

  And when he unscrewed his gauntlets for the second time, he caught a glimpse of red metal. After a swig or nine of fine Kentucky whiskey burning in his throat and warming his insides to a toasty glow, he decided to go data-fishing, to see if there was any angle he had overlooked.