Count to a Trillion (48 page)

“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, and 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.

First, he called the top of the buried antennae leading to Pellucid, and checked on growth rates. The Van Neumann machine was doubling its mass every forty days, and the fail-safe built into its design had worked the one occasion that a volcanic eruption had carried some of the material to the surface: compared to the temperature and pressure beneath the mantle of the Earth, the surface world was an icy near-vacuum, and so when several pounds of modified diamond crystal had floated to the surface of a lava flow, it had broken down into black carboniferous dust.

The machine had a processing volume entirely out of proportion with the software he had been able to download: it was like a library of ten thousand acres, with only one shelf occupied by a few reference books. It was smart enough, however, to prioritize non-rhythmic changes in its environment, to which it was more sensitive than Montrose’s design specifications could account for.

He looked at the data first as graphs, then as hieroglyphs, then imagined as a polydimensional matrix in his mind’s eye. He laughed when he realized what these data were. The high energy of the passing vactrains, shooting like so many magnetically-accelerated bullets through the tangle of Brachistochrone curves below the mantle of the Earth, set up a resonance effect and echo, which the Pellucid crystals could pick up. The crystals were hearing the electromagnetic rumblings of passing trains. These echoes were of different nuances of pitch and consistency, and Pellucid had automatically filed them according to a system of phenotypes.

Pellucid also flagged the shipments that did not match a soothing system of patterns. Montrose realized he was looking at the military movements of the recent weeks, days, hours, and minutes. A simple set of calculations in his head, checked against calculations run through his amulet, and he found he had quite by accident stumbled across a fairly clear estimate of where the world’s soldiers were, were their gear was being collected, and so on.

But there were two groups of migration-patterns, and they had peaked at different times.

The older group consisted, not of one or two, but many unscheduled stops that had been made at the base of the tower over the last few weeks, and these did not fit the much more recent motion-pattern of Del Azarchel’s troopers. They were round trips to depots in Florida and Astrograd and various seaports, including many stops at Monaco.

Montrose turned the information over and over in his mind until, as if on its own, the pieces clicked into place. With his amulet, and Rania’s security overrides and her password lists, he was able to call up an image of the tower’s blueprints and wiring schematics, but also able to open loading invoices, personnel lists, duty rosters, and, in short, Montrose mapped out where any of those unscheduled trains from several weeks ago, passing through Quito, had deposited their cargoes.

He halted the spider car when it reached the cable stanchion. He was at the bottom of the tether proper, about a half-mile above the ground. Here, at the top of the superscraper that formed the tower’s massive base, there was a small platform, windows pressurized due to altitude, and a bank of elevators leading farther down. He rode a freight elevator down only a few score feet, and stepped out onto a catwalk, and the clash of his metal feet sent sharp echoes reflecting from distant bulkheads.

This highest floor was not an observation deck or restaurant (those things were reserved for even higher altitudes). This vast cylindrical space was a warehouse: balcony upon balcony reached down hundreds of feet, beyond the range of sight. Loading platforms were protruding like metal tongues into the air of this central well, for dangling cranes like freakish chandeliers to load freight into spider cars considerably bigger than the luxury-passenger car he had been using.

He checked the manifest whose image his amulet shined into the back of his eyeballs, rippling through the scores of imaginary pages at once. He deduced a framework based on a statistical distribution and superimposed in his mind’s eye the warehouse space before him. Immediately he saw which crates did not fit the pattern: the tall, dark, sealed canisters grouped (by no coincidence) about the main load-bearing members.

Explosives. He did not need to open the crates to see; he could tell by the cables connecting them to junction boxes. The crates had Princess Rania’s personal seal on them. If Exarchel had a system to monitor unscheduled and unregistered depthtrain movements, he knew of this. But perhaps he did not.

Montrose grimaced. No need to fight the duel after all. Rania had prepared all this in advance. Even the orbital mechanics of the
Hermetic
now made sense: it would require a relatively short burn for that great vessel to reach a higher orbit.

He went back to the combination of landing deck and loading dock and into the spider car. The status light showed an upward-accelerating strand was ready to provide the energy to pull him aloft.

The strand was one of the many that formed the cable bundle of the tether. All he had to do was engage the clutch, to tighten the spider legs adhering to that strand while loosening the magnetic grip from the stationary strands.