by Garon Whited
“A human for food, or food for a human?”
“An important distinction,” I agreed. “Food for a human. Daytime food.”
“At once, my lord.”
Apocalyptica, Monday, November 3rd, Year 11
I spent my morning with a Diogephone and a scrying spell. It occurred to me I could mount a remote camera—including a micro-gate—in the ceiling of the sand-table room in Karvalen. If I could connect the camera to the sand table’s simplified controls, Diogenes could watch the world, or most of it. We might not need to send stealth surveillance drones into Karvalen.
I worked on some preliminaries and asked Diogenes about the weather balloon.
“I did send through a weather balloon for atmosphere research, didn’t I?”
“No, Professor. You asked for plans, but you have not reviewed them.”
I growled something—probably at myself.
“Remind me after the war, please.”
“Reminder set.”
Mary, wearing a thick, white bathrobe, came into the magic-charged workroom, still toweling her hair. I noticed she decided to be blonde again, a shade so pale as to be nearly white. She sat down next to my workbench and watched for a bit.
“Have I mentioned how much I appreciate knowing you’ve got my back?”
“I vaguely recall something along those lines. It’s my pleasure.”
“No, I’m serious,” she insisted. “I don’t thank you enough for all you do for me. I don’t know anyone else who would jump into the line of fire for me like you do.”
“I take hits better than you do. Although, for the record, I’d rather your perfect streak was unbroken.”
“Me too, but if I don’t take risks, there’s no point.”
“I know. It’s the way you are, and I’m delighted with the way you are. And, knowing the way you are and taking note of this line of conversation, what do you want me to back you up on? A particularly dangerous heist?”
“Maybe later. You’re making something for Diogenes,” she observed, changing the subject, “but I’m not sure what the spells do.”
So I explained. She frowned.
“Why does Diogenes need to use the sand table in Karvalen? Is it a proof of concept?”
“No. Well, yes, it is, sort of. A remote camera with a built-in micro-gate for data transmission? We have that. What I’m working on is a sort of remote control for the sand table so Diogenes can manipulate it. It’s not complex—six directions, one for each of the compass points, and a zoom in, zoom out—but I haven’t perfected it. I want him to keep an eye on the outer continent, mostly to the south. There’s a war on.
“As a secondary effect,” I added, “the continuous micro-gate will stabilize the potential time-slippage. Now would be a bad time to have Karvalen skip ahead a year while I’m not looking.”
“Good point. If you don’t mind my asking, how is he going to report what he sees to Seldar? I assume he would report to Seldar. Is there a way for him to send messages? Oh, wait—Bob’s shift-box. He can send reports through to him.”
“It’s Firebrand’s shift-box, and no, that’s not how. Although, come to think of it, I’m not sure how many combatants Bob has sent to Lissette. He is, technically, Duke of Vathula and the Eastrange. I’ll have to ask.”
“Okay. So how does Diogenes communicate to the Karvalens? Karvalenites? Karvalonians?”
“He communicates with me. I’m not going to sit quietly while Lissette sends our son into a war zone.”
“I can understand that.”
“And how do you feel about spying on religious fanatics?”
“Depends,” she shrugged. “Does their religion do anything for its fanatics?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m against it on principle.”
“Understood.” I stood up and stretched. “Have I mentioned I hate being a king?”
“Once, maybe. Why do you keep doing the royal bit?”
“I don’t.”
“You’re defending the country against foreign powers.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t count.”
“It doesn’t?” she asked, cocking her head.
“Look, I’m not a king. I just pretend to be one, now and again. I make a good symbol—well, an evil symbol—but an effective symbol. That’s all.”
“And cruise missile.”
“Okay, I do pretty well as a cruise missile, too,” I agreed. Mary took my arm and half-hugged me.
“I know. For a being of immense power and scope, you’re hideously insecure.”
“I am? I mean, I am, but how do you mean it?”
“You don’t want to rule anyone because you’re afraid of doing it badly. You’re afraid of being a full-time father because you believe you’ll screw up the kids. You were even afraid to admit you care about me—mostly, I think, because you were afraid it would all end badly.”
“There were a couple of times it almost did.”
“Yes, but I caught on too quick for you. You’re afraid of all sorts of commitments because you think you’re scum.”
“Well, now, hold on,” I protested. “I’m not sure scum is—”
“Scum,” she repeated. “Low-class. A dirtbag. A deadbeat. You have a terribly low opinion of yourself and it makes you afraid to fail. That’s why you have a wife you never see, a son you never visit, a hundred more kids you can’t acknowledge, and red-haired descendants you only occasionally waste an hour on. You’re a deadbeat dad a hundred times over—not because you’re a bad father, but because you’re a coward.”
“I’ve admitted to being a coward on many occasions.”
“Yes, but your fear cripples you. You could do so many grand things! Between you and Diogenes, you can terraform worlds, eradicate disease, re-engineer the human genome—even what it means to be human. I’m pretty sure you could turn off a sun or build a new one, given time. Am I wrong?”
“Well, no. Turning off a star would involve destroying it, probably by—”
“Stop!” she commanded, slapping a hand over my mouth. “I do not want to know! It bothers me intensely that you know how just off the top of your head!”
“Urph hmph?”
“My hand? Oh.” She lowered her hand and narrowed her eyes at me. “Promise me you will never tell me how you plan to cause generalized destruction in any area larger than a city block.”
“Why a city block?”
“I can do that with conventional explosives. Anything bigger is more than I want to think about. You handle strategic bombing. I’ll handle things on the tactical level.”
“Fair enough.”
“Back to my point. You can do so much, so many things, things people—some people—have a hard time even comprehending. The only thing stopping you is your fear.”
I sighed and hugged her more fully while I thought about what I wanted to say. I didn’t want to say anything, but Mary has always been important to me. She needed to understand. Come to that, maybe I needed to understand.
“Yes,” I agreed, finally, “but I think it’s a bit more specific than that.”
“Oh?”
“You’re absolutely right about me being afraid. I won’t bother to deny it. It’s not just being afraid I’ll be a lousy king or a lousy father or whatever. It’s about being afraid for someone.”
“I don’t get it.”
“If you weren’t as patient as a rock—no comparisons to the mountain, please—would you still be with me?”
“Hmm.”
“Honestly,” I encouraged.
“Honestly? Probably not. I can’t say for certain. You have tried my patience more than once, and badly. If I were less patient,” she added, looking thoughtful, “I can’t say for sure, but I might have left you.”
“If that happened, who would feel worse? You, for leaving, or me, for losing you?”
“That’s hard to say.”
“Because it’s a trick question. You would feel bad for leaving—angry, upset, dis
appointed, all that. I would feel bad for making you feel that way. I’d also hope you would someday want to come back. And I wouldn’t stop you from going. I would also feel relieved you were finally free to find someone better for yourself.”
Mary half-pulled away and searched my face. Her eyes scanned my features, hunting for something.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with you,” she said, “and I’m not sure even one of Diogenes’ brain implants could fix it. Are you serious?”
“Am I smiling? It’s usually pretty obvious when I’m smiling.”
“You are serious!”
“Not deliberately. Not if I have a choice.”
“Let me get this straight,” she said, pulling away and placing a hand on my chest. “You’re telling me you—wait, wait, wait. So many things suddenly make… okay. Okay. Answer me this. Are you a man or a monster?”
“Monster. I also have human bits, if that helps.”
“Someone once told me there is no villain who thinks of himself as the bad guy. Everybody does what they do because they think it’s the right thing. How about you?”
“Oh, I don’t do the right thing. I’m not sure I know what the right thing is anymore, if I ever did. I’m not sure there is a ‘right thing’ in the larger picture of eternity. All I can do is try not to do too much harm.”
“Back up. What do you mean, ‘anymore’?”
“I used to think I could tell right from wrong. Thing is… here, let’s move into the sitting room and sit.” I ushered her out the door and continued.
“My perspective on life in general is more of a long-term thing than it used to be. I’m coming to grips with immortality, see? It’s shot down my ability to have confidence in anything I do.”
“How so?”
“We’ve got post-atomic survivors out in little communities, right? Rescuing them was a good thing, adding to a positive karma balance. Fine and dandy. But what about tomorrow? Or next year? The Lunites, Loonies, Moon-men, whatever, they may be planning to come back to Earth someday. Now there are people on Earth who can argue about it. Who’s to say there won’t be an artificial meteor shower to eliminate the competition?” I held the hatch door for her and followed her into a sitting room.
“You wouldn’t let it happen.”
“What if I’m not there? What if Diogenes catches a nasty virus and shuts down?”
“That cannot happen,” Diogenes interjected, as Mary and I sat down on a loveseat.
“I’m using it as a generic example for something that prevents you from helping.”
“Understood. Please continue.”
“Thank you. So, now we’ve rescued a bunch of post-apocalyptic survivors, set them up to rebuild their civilization, and left them happy, reasonably content, and unquestioned masters of the world. Yay! And now they’re dead. Whoops! My mistake. Sorry about the irate neighbors.”
Mary rolled her eyes.
“It would hardly be your fault.”
“No? I haul them away, give them hope, and someone bombs them into oblivion? Sure, they lived longer. Sure, they were happy for a while. But who raised up their hopes before the big smash?”
“You, my dear sir, have a guilt complex bigger than Cybertron!”
“You mean Denver?”
“No, I’m talking about the original!”
“Possibly. All I know is, while you may be right about me being afraid, it’s fear of how I’ve failed people. I’ll go face-first into a house full of gangsters and tommy-guns for you, no problem. What I’m worried about isn’t me. It’s about letting you down. It’s not courage that makes me look brave. It’s fear of being a disappointment.”
“So that’s why you hate being a god!”
“Please. Religious figure.”
I don’t mind her thinking of me as a god.
You shut up.
“You’re concerned about disappointing all your—I mean, you don’t want to disappoint all those people who think of you as a god,” Mary corrected.
“If it makes them happy and feeds the Other Guy, I’m okay with it. But I don’t want to be involved if I don’t have to be.”
“So you have fear, guilt, and anxiety instead of courage, certainty, and confidence.”
“Anything sounds stupid when you use that tone of voice.”
“And you think of yourself as a monster.”
“But a good-natured one,” I added. “Think of Fred, but with fangs and without the agoraphobia.”
Mary sat quietly and stared at me. I waited for a reasonable time.
“What?” I asked. “This surprises you?”
It surprises me, said my altar ego.
You should know how I think.
I do. Mostly. Sort of. We aren’t the same, you know. I’m your clone, not actually you, and my life has been extremely different from yours.
No kidding.
My point is, I’m surprised because I understand what you’re saying. I’m not sure it applies to me as much as it does to you, since it requires a fair amount of ego and arrogance to play the part of a god. Some, at least. I’m going to have to think about this.
“Sweetheart,” Mary said, settling back against the arm of the loveseat, “I’m surprised at you pretty much every time we have a heart-to-heart talk. I’m not sure if you’re the most interesting man I’ve ever met, or the most screwed-up.”
“I’m pretty sure I can do both.”
“No doubt. All right. I’m not sure how this changes my view of you, or even if it does. I think it helps me understand you a little better.”
“I hope that’s a good thing.”
“Do you seriously live your life with nothing but the hope you don’t cause too much trouble? I mean, that’s what it sounds like to me. Are you sure you don’t want to establish a thousand-year Empire of Karvalen, bring the world into a unified whole, lay down laws and traditions for the good of human dignity, and usher in a golden age of prosperity and peace?”
“I could blindly go forth and do whatever I think is right. Being cautious about wielding great power isn’t a bad thing, is it?”
“Definitely not,” she agreed. “But with a little help, you could make Karvalen a much better place, couldn’t you?”
“A thousand years from now, when the Empire collapses, and they sink into a barbarian age, they won’t be able to feed the population, so there will be starvation, banditry, marauding, murder, mayhem, and generalized not-goodishness. Books will burn for warmth, people unused to living outside a city will die in the countryside, little kings and princes will establish their personal fiefdoms, and slavery will again run rampant. The Empire you envision will be shattered into smaller kingdoms, scattered villages, and ruined cities when everyone turns on each other. Historians will look back on the golden age and curse it for making people soft and weak and corrupt, thus allowing the age of the barbarians to come—assuming there are any historians.”
“Holy shit. You have no faith in humanity, do you?”
“Sure I do. I have no doubt people want what’s best for them and usually for their children. The vast majority don’t think beyond that, though.”
“I… huh. I’m not sure how to respond.”
“Look. I found a quote while I was researching politics—I once had the idea I should be prepared if I needed to be King, so I read a lot, okay?—and the quote was by John Adams, I think. I don’t recall it exactly, but… Diogenes? What did John Adams say about his studies of war and politics?”
“I must study politics and war,” Diogenes quoted, “that my sons may have liberty to study mathematics and philosophy. My sons ought to study mathematics and philosophy, geography, natural history, naval architecture, navigation, commerce, and agriculture, in order to give their children a right to study painting, poetry, music, architecture, statuary, tapestry, and porcelain.”
“Thank you. And, as I read that, it came to me that you have a cycle, here. It’s kind of the rise and fall of civilizations all summed up. A nation
comes into being through war and politics. It expands and grows into mathematics and philosophy. Finally it reaches the level of poetry and porcelain. Then one of two things happens. It either dies, or it has to study war and politics again. Vitality, maturity, decadence, and rebirth, I guess. There’s human civilization in a nutshell.”
“I knew you were a pessimist, but I never thought of you as a cynic,” Mary admitted.
“I gave Diogenes his name for a reason.”
“He’s not a cynic.”
“No, but it will be nice if he can find an honest man.”
“I don’t think it’ll be a problem,” Mary murmured. More loudly, she went on, “I don’t think I like your philosophy.”
“That’s fair. I don’t.”
“Has it occurred to you that you do lots of good things, as well as lots of bad things?”
“Sure. Neither of them last forever.”
“Forget forever!” Mary snapped. “You’re obsessed with forever. You keep thinking like an immortal—fine, as far as it goes, but you’re forgetting to think like a person.”
“How so?”
“You try to stay out of… of big things. Kingdoms, empires, religion… things with far-reaching consequences. What’s that analogy you like so much? About dropping pebbles in the pond. You don’t want to drop buildings in the pond, but you’re fine with pebbles.”
“I worry about those, too. For all I know, I give a bum enough money to afford a meal and he buys cut drugs, shoots up, and dies.”
“Will you stop, already? You don’t know. You can’t know. You can effect great changes and you have a deep sense of responsibility. That’s good. But you can’t accept infinite responsibility without infinite knowledge. If someone accepts a gift you give them, it’s their responsibility to use it well—not yours!”
“Hmm.”
“If I give you a new sword, am I responsible for any deaths you cause with it?”
“Am I worthy of a sword?” I countered. “You’re the one choosing me for the burden of responsibility.”
Mary rolled her eyes and groaned.
“My point, you lunkhead, is you do your best to do a permanently good thing and sometimes you fail. Any thoughts on why?”