by John Barnes
Then we talked for a while of old times, and about the need for Mother to hang in there and keep getting psypyx copies made because when peaceful trade was established with Union colonies—as was almost certain within a few stanyears—their better psypyx technology would probably allow her to get a new body at last.
Mostly, though, the conversation wasn’t about anything even that important. We talked about recipes, and families we have known, and where the time goes, and all the things you do on a long visit. I told them to give my love to my copy.
So this is the end of this fourth chronicle of my adventures since the springer threw all the human worlds together. In a little while I will stroll to my death, and I have elected to be beheaded, in my full trobador regalia, exactly what I wore for my last concert (though of course without Laprada there, the damned tapi will probably never hang straight.)
This journal entry is as far as I, the original, will go; the copy will have to finish it. I am the original, the one who will walk to death.
Fate always has other plans, and the best death speeches tend to be delivered too soon, even if only by a little.
It’s still me, the original. I had thought that I was done, and was just sitting back and relishing the thundering melodrama of “the one who will walk to death,” and thinking about seeing if I could start writing a song before my last meal, since that would surely add to the pathos if the copy then had to finish it.
But then the springer in my cell glowed gray, and Raimbaut stepped in. We embraced, and he held me with his strong young-man’s arms for a long moment before he found the ability to speak again. “Laprada couldn’t bear to come,” he said. “She says that killing poets to educate stupid people is the sort of nonsense that only a democracy can come up with, and she wants no part of it.”
“She has a point,” I agreed, “and tell her from me that she is not to tolerate stupidity any more than she has to.”
“I will, from me,” I said.
It was Raimbaut’s voice but my intonation. I stared. “They are going to be sending me on detached duty a long way away, constantly, for a few stanyears,” Raimbaut said, “which is how Margaret is keeping this all hidden. Several of us thought it would be good to get you back into the game as soon as possible, so I’m wearing the psypyx you recorded this morning. I’ll be falling asleep soon, so we should get the talking done. But … Giraut, meet Giraut.”
I shook hands with Raimbaut’s body, and looked into my own expression in his eye. At least I finally had company likely to fully appreciate the humor of the situation. I said, “Don’t you love the media slogan for the coverage—’see his death, live!’? What fun language is!”
Raimbaut’s face laughed and said, “I hadn’t thought of that yet, but that’s a great joke.” Then the expression changed subtly. “Giraut, could you please be a tiny bit more serious?” Raimbaut pleaded. “I feel as if you’re performing for your copy.”
“Of course I am. If we are not our own audiences, who will be? And half the trouble in the world is caused by people who don’t care enough to give themselves a truly good show. But for now—well, the world is giving me death. I owe it to you, and to myself, and to everyone, to stroll to it, like a trobador, with nothing to do but sing about how fine spring is, how good it is to be in love, and how briefly we are here—just the things we trobadori have been singing about since the beginning, m’es vis.”
We talked of old times—strange how when the times are over, really over, we so want to talk of them—but Raimbaut had just had the psypyx implanted that day, and he was fading fast. I shook hands with him just before he stumbled and almost fell; the person that stood up was entirely my copy. I shook copy-of-Giraut’s hand, as well. “Something I want to prepare you for,” he said. “Since it touches both our enseingnamen e gens. Earth authorities have declared that since Giraut Leones is now an Ixist saint, there will be an amnesty, and for the day of your execution, they will ignore any public sign or evidence of anyone’s membership in a forbidden cult. Which means, I suppose, that besides the Ixists, the Thugs and the Moloch-worshippers are free to wander about in whatever silly clothes they want.
“Anyway, the Ixists will be showing up at the procession from the prison to the block, lining the route as if it’s a parade. And they are going to be throwing roses. I think you should plan what you are going to do when you catch one.”
“Kiss it and toss it to a pretty girl, obviously,” I said. “It’s what they’ll expect.”
PRIOR 2. Oh, be quiet, you medieval gnome, and let them dance.
PRIOR 1. I’m not interfering. I’ve done my bit. Hooray, hooray, the messenger’s come, now I’m blowing off. I don’t like it here.
PRIOR 2. The twentieth century. Oh, dear, the world has gotten so terribly, terribly old.
—Tony Kushner, Angels in America
ALSO BY JOHN BARNES FROM TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES
Orbital Resonance
A Million Open Doors
Mother of Storms
Kaleidoscope Century
One for the Morning Glory
Earth Made of Glass
Apostrophes and Apocalypses
Finity
Candle
The Return (with Buzz Aldrin)
The Merchants of Souls
The Sky So Big and Black
Gaudeamus
ART AND ASSASSINATION
There are no more than a dozen occupations—political agent and artist are two—in which everything you do becomes part of your job. They are the only tolerable things to do with your time as far as I’m concerned.
A song is not a tool for changing a human heart in the way that a wrench is a tool for changing a bolt, but it was the tool I had, and I was the tool the OSP had.
As the assassin raised the maser, and my eye was just catching an odd motion, Raimbaut leapt a row and slapped the back of the man’s head, throwing his aim off.
I dropped to the floor.
Acknowledgment and a Word about the Usual Autobiographical Note
My habit of dropping bits of autobiography into the acknowledgments has had one effect that needs immediate correction, since it has resulted in something silly which touches the reputation of an innocent person. The fact that I went through a painful second divorce two years after the publication of Earth Made of Glass (which depicts, among other things, a painful divorce) has led to confusion resulting in a frequent online, and increasingly frequent in print, assertion that Earth Made of Glass is somehow “about” that divorce. This is improbable, at the least since, I don’t seem to have the foresight to plan till the end of the week, and for Earth Made of Glass to have been about my second divorce would require about four years of foresight: Earth Made of Glass was substantially complete in late August of 1996 (from an outline written in 1995), given a final revision in the spring of 1997, and first published in April 1998. The events that led to my real-world divorce did not occur until the spring and summer of 2000 (the divorce was final in May 2001).
Nor do the facts of either my first or second divorce much resemble those of Giraut’s, nor does either of my ex-wives much resemble the fictional Margaret. (For one thing, they’re both very attractive, and for another thing, neither of them is a ruthless killer, as my continued presence attests.)
It is probably charitable of many readers and reviewers to assume that I was expressing or venting something I needed to bring out rather than exploring something ugly for its own sake in Earth Made of Glass and The Merchants of Souls, but in fairness to everyone, particularly to my ex-wives, I must admit that the books were written to explore something ugly, and some things of great beauty, for their own sake. The ugliness in those books is there because I was interested in that flavor of ugliness; I have since moved on to other flavors.
Now, on to the more pleasant duty of acknowledgment. I’d like to thank:
William D. Paden, whom I have never met, but whose An Introduction to Old Occitan has been invaluable in the la
ter books of this series. (Alas, it was published in 1998, after the series was already well underway, so some errors from earlier books remain.) I have very deliberately simplified Occitan and tried to use mainly words with numerous Romance-language cognates, to give a flavor without bogging the story; let me recommend Paden if, having tried the flavor, you want the full and delicious meal. Any errors are of course mine.
Stephen L. Gillett, whom I have met, several times in fact, and whose World-Building: A Writer’s Guide to Constructing Star Systems and Life-supporting Planets has helped me to avoid many errors and at least make any remaining errors (which are of course mine) more interesting. If any of you are working on a science fiction novel (and to judge by my mail, all of you are), this is a book you must have and know.
Stanley Schmidt, editor of Analog Science Fiction & Fact, who published three excerpts from this book and whose comments helped a great deal in its final revision, assisting me in chopping about 15,000 quite unnecessary words out of it.
Jes Tate, who assembled and cataloged much of the heap of photocopies that passes for my research library.
Patrick Nielsen Hayden, who was patient while waiting for a book that was finally delivered twenty-three months past deadline.
Liz Gorinsky, who was efficient and diplomatic in coping with all the mess that caused.
Bob and Sarah Schwager, for causing me to write STET fewer times than I can remember on any book.
Ashley and Carolyn Grayson, my agents, who always acted as if this book was about to be delivered at any moment, particularly when talking to me.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE ARMIES OF MEMORY
Copyright © 2006 by John Barnes
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
Portions of this novel appeared in somewhat different form in Analog Science Fiction & Fact.
The epigraph from Angels in America is used by the gracious permission of Tony Kushner.
Edited by Patrick Nielsen Hayden
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
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New York, NY 10010
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Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
eISBN 9781429910507
First eBook Edition : February 2011
First Edition: April 2006
First Mass Market Edition: April 2007