Count to a Trillion

15

Equality of the Sexes

1. No Particular Effect

The only effect, at first, the intelligence augmentation cocktail seemed to have on him was that he required more sleep. Over the next three days in his jail cell, he slept upward of eighteen hours a day. Dreaming seemed to be a waste of time, and so, on the third night, once he was done with the minor corrections and emotional association image-grafts that formed the basic business of the dream-cycle, he used that part of his mind to set up a little imaginary schoolhouse with a blackboard, so he could write out and examine some of the equations and Monument symbols he was curious about. He could program himself to dream certain things, and solve particular kinds of problems, so that the answers would be clearer when he woke. But Montrose was disappointed: if he was on the threshold of a breakthrough into another and richer state of human intelligence, there did not seem to be any real change. He was still the same cranky bastard as when he fell asleep.

Also while asleep he reviewed certain memories, but instead of the confused mixture of chimerical images that haunted normal sleep, he decided to index these memories both by association and time-value, peg each scene to a particular mnemonic, and play them as a set of perfectly sharp eidetic images.

The books he had read in Del Azarchel’s chalet in Alaska he found dull now that he had time to reread them—Montrose was pleased that he could summon up perfectly detailed pictures even of pages he had been flipping past without reading, and, as if looking at a photograph, read them normally. He found his reading speed increased when he invented (since this was a dream, after all) a cartoon character named Cyrano Widget to do the reading for him, and just give him a summary. Cyrano was human from the face down, but had a clear dome for a skull, in which an electronic brain could be seen winking and sparkling furiously.

Cyrano, sitting in the imaginary schoolhouse, shook its absurd cyborg head, and said, “Boss, Blackie Del Azarchel does not know what he is dealing with here.” Onto the blackboard the cyborg chalked an equation. It was a divarication function, showing the change in prices of various goods, the crime rate, and the frequency of the use of certain emotion-laden terms in the popular media. All this raw information had been in Del Azarchel’s books, but he had never put two and two together.

“Boss, look at these graphs, these tendencies. The cost of railgun components does not go up unless someone is buying and building a filthload of them.”

“What’s it mean?”

“War.”

Montrose looked at the graphs in wonder. “But I thought Blackie had the whole world figured out. He said he had a science, called Cliometry, that could forecast political and economic changes. He can’t see a war coming?”

The cartoon character leaned back on his imaginary school desk. “He sees it coming, and he is trying to avoid it.”

“What’s causing the problem?”

“Two problems. One is political. Lowering the price of travel to zero means that whole populations are within elbow-rubbing distance of each other. There are no national boundaries anymore.”

“Isn’t that good for the economy? Lowers the cost of shipping workers to where the work is, right? Free trade, free movement of goods, all that.”

“Right. And it creates cultural friction. The workingmen can sleep in the tropics on warm nights and commute to the arctic where the mines and aquaculture rigs are during the day. Meanwhile the Australians (who now live in the middle of the Great Victoria Gardenlands) don’t want floods of travelers to overturn their few remaining Democratic institutions. The Chinese (who now live in the midst of the Gobi Gardenlands) don’t want floods of travelers overturning their few remaining Confucian institutions.”

“What about the other countries?”

“Bridesmaids. They just follow after the buttocks of one of these brides or the other, holding their trains. India and Iberia, even South Africa and her millions of automated factories, are nothing more than flower girls in this century.”

“You got marrying on the brain, pal. So what’s the second problem?”

“The second is a problem of economics. It’s the same as happened to Spain when the Spanish Empire flooded itself with gold and silver from the New World, mined from the Andes or robbed from the Aztecs. Drove down the price of gold and drove up the price of goods. In this case, the Hermetic came back with contraterrene carbon around 1020 kg—my guess, based on ship performance values.”

Montrose nodded. It was a chunk the size of the Ceres asteroid, and represented the tally of both all the decades of Hermetic star-lifting, and of the decades of Croesus. “Endless wealth. Energy enough to do anything.”

“And what did happen to Spain? She did not invest the money. The Dons used it to buy Arabian stallions and fancy mansions and saddles with silver folderol, and the King of Spain used it to build an Armada. The gold flowed out of Spain to manufacturers in Italy, France, and England. Eventually the price stabilized at a higher level. Spain went broke. The richest country in Europe went broke. Because Spain did not use the wealth to get more wealth.”

“Pox, I hear they melt Antarctica and somehow get the winds to carry all the vapor up to rain in the Gobi Desert, or the Great Victoria Desert in Australia. Earth ain’t broke.”

“You measure bankruptcy by comparing your income to your liabilities. In this case, one of your liabilities, one of your costs, is the cost of mounting a Third Expedition to the Diamond Star, and the return-on-investment time is one hundred years. If you are going to travel even to nearby stars, you have to start thinking on those time scales.”

“Power won’t run out for a hundred years. Blackie knows that.”

“Even so, there are world leaders who are alert enough to think in those time scales. The power might last a century, but even now the globe knows it cannot maintain a free-energy regime. The world, now that it is addicted to free energy, has to be switched to a rationed-energy regime. The question is, when does the switch come? And who does the rationing?”

Cyrano showed him a simple but chilling set of propositions from game-theory. The decision of two prisoners both accused of a crime, when clemency was offered to whomever would first rat out the other, either to trust each other and remain silent or to betray each other was described with a few gamelike rules: if they both trusted, both would break even; if both betrayed, both lost; if one trusted and the other betrayed, the betrayer would win big.

It could be shown mathematically that the winning strategy in a game of repeated moves was to betray only in retaliation to betrayal, and otherwise to trust. But when there was a time limit, a final move, both players had a powerful incentive to betray, because the final move was one that by definition invited no possible retaliation. But each player, knowing the other was under an incentive to betray him on the final move, therefore had an incentive to betray on the penultimate move. Likewise, each player, knowing the other was under an incentive to betray him on the penultimate move, therefore had an incentive to betray on the antepenultimate move; and so on.

This remorseless logic operated for any game of a known and finite number of moves, even if the number of moves was immense.

In this case, even if the switch from a free-energy regime to a rationed-energy regime was not to happen for a hundred years, the incentive to betray future potential rivals before they became rivals operated now.

Montrose was not convinced. “When the switch does come, the free market will adjust. The price goes up as the goods get scarce. So then they go back to burning wood, coal, and oil, like God intended. Big deal.”

“And they go back to the barter system.”

“What?”

“Snow grams edged out other currencies as the store of value. They use certificates representing measured masses of anticarbon for their money.”

Montrose checked the graphs, and checked the math behind them. “So the money gets expensive, too, and the interest rate goes up. Big deal. Why should that cause a war?”

“Because politics is not driven by free-market rules. Your mother, Mrs. Montrose, told you what rules drive politics. Phobos, doxa, and kerdos. Fear, fame, and gain. I’ll rephrase the question. Both the deserts in China and the deserts in Australia have been turned, by a ridiculous and profligate public works project, into farmlands and fruit-tree groves. Now imagine you are one of them. The newly-fertile croplands opened an internal frontier, allowing both for wages to rise and population. As this century’s breadbasket, you have political clout and world attention, because you control the food supply. Sure, there might be more contraterrene coming in one hundred years, but there might be a delay. Watering the desert is not something you can just turn on again after you turn it off. Five years, or three, or one, is too great a hiatus. If the greenery dies, it will stay dead, and the desert ecology will re-assert itself. The land will no longer support the population figures you currently enjoy. You are China. Australia is your hated rival. Or vice versa. What do you do? You cannot keep melting the glaciers to water the deserts if you run out of antimatter. You have to make sure the antimatter that they might get years from now for their irrigation will come to you instead.”

“Make sure how? By war? Blackie won’t let a war erupt. He can just shoot whoever shoots first, and so no one will dare shoot first. He’s got contraterrene weapons. He’s the only one who does. It is a self-contained system.”

“Spoken like an engineer! But this problem is not an engineering problem. It is political and economic. And the free market cannot adjust. Antimatter is a non-market good, since Blackie has been giving at away free of cost for political gain. He cannot let the price go up.”

“So Blackie rations it.”

“Which means, that in the rivalry between China and Australia, whichever faction has more influence over Del Azarchel will use the world-government and the energy market to destroy the other by lawful means; and when the other has nothing to lose, it will embrace unlawful means, and go to war. Del Azarchel picks the winner. At that point, Del Azarchel opens the fiery gates of heaven, and bombards the loser from space.”

“You saying he can’t maintain control without killing thousands and millions of folk?”

Cyrano pointed at the sudden jag in the graph. “Maybe if Del Azarchel did not interfere, and he let the cost of contraterrene rise—then speculators anticipating the coming lean years would buy up shares now, and this would force other uses to economize. Maybe then we can avoid the coming war. China and Australia could maintain as much cropland as they could afford, and there is not one winner and one loser. It is still a delicate compromise, but it could be done.”

“He must see these same equations. If it can be done, why hasn’t he done it?”

“Because Del Azarchel would be undermining his own authority. The monopoly of the World Power Syndicate would have to be dissolved. Many ships, some in private hands, and not just the Hermetic, would have to be allowed to range the strategic high ground of outer space, or otherwise ownership on paper of antimatter grams in transplutonian orbit is meaningless. That has military implications. Del Azarchel would have to step aside as political leader, because otherwise no investor would believe he would keep his hands to himself, and not simply undo what the market did. Basically, he would have to abdicate, and let the Princess solve the problem.”

“But he is afraid of the Princess. Kept her in slumber all those years. Me, too.” Montrose shook his head. “Even if he steps down, he’s not stepping down, not the other him. That’s why he built the Iron Ghost. And he does not need to send the Hermetic to the Diamond Star, that is what the Bellerophon is for. I am not sure he can dare let us leave.”

“He cannot let you stay. Do you think he can dare let two Posthumans of less than certain loyalty to his regime run around on his world?”

“Then why not let us leave?”

“The Hermetic hangs above the world like a sword. The common people are restless; they know she must sail away, if the wealth of the world is to be maintained in the next century; they know the world will fall into war the moment the sword is removed.”

Montrose looked at the graphs. “I don’t understand this. This does look like people are gearing up for a war. But, damn, it makes no sense! I mean, some areas of the world still vote. There is food enough for everyone, since huge areas of land that were barren are now croplands. And look at how wealthy the world is! There is no money wasted on vast military budgets, and no burning cities, no streams of refugees, no rivers black with war chemicals, no fogs rolling wherever the wind blows. Isn’t it enough?”

“Your mother told you what causes war. It is not the lack of votes, or of food or of money. It is fear, honor, and powerlust. The people are afraid now that the antimatter will run out two generations from now, and they don’t have faith that the Bellerophon will return in time with the wealth the world needs.”

“How can they be worried about something so far away in tomorrow?”

“Because they are well fed, and have the leisure to fret.”

“How do we avoid a war fought with total conversion weapons? I mean, even if Blackie is the only one who has them now, I don’t want him to use them. The burning of New York the Beautiful is enough. Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Jerusalem, Mecca, all enough. Enough! Human history does not need more.”

“I see only two options. Let him marry the Princess, and launch the Third Expedition without you, and she might be able to restore the faith of the people that another lode of endless energy is coming.”

“Pox on that. I’d rather see the world catch fire. What’s the other option?”

“Put the genie back in the bottle. Remove all the antimatter, every gram.”

“That’s impossible. Any third option?”

“You could always ask him to abdicate. Let him at least give up his monopoly on the antimatter. Like you said, have the price rise to meet the market, and have a bidding war rather than a shooting war.”

“I think he’d be afraid for his life if he stepped out of his office. He is not like Washington. He is like Napoleon. Even if they put him in exile on Elba, someone else would just haul him back in front of his cheering armies, and try to put him back in power.”

“Elba? Take him with you. To the stars. And get him to destroy the machine version.”

“But that also might cause a war.”

Cyrano looked pensive. “It is like most things in life. The only way to forestall a war is to risk one. The only way to preserve his world-empire is to give up his imperial crown.”

“I know him. He cannot do that. He won’t risk it. So…”

“So?”

“So, he is just trapped.”

“Well, Boss, so are you. This is a dream, and you are still in a jail cell. Hey, wake up. Three guys are coming to take you to some secret medical cell of Del Azarchel’s, and I think he might prefer you back the way you were, when you were Crewman Fifty-One, crazy but someone he could almost control.”

“Does that mean I am not crazy now? That is good to hear.”

Of course, he was awake when he said that, and there was no one in the room but him.

It was pitch-black in the room, and three men came in (he could tell by the change in the air motions when the cell door silently opened). They were wearing light amplification goggles, because presumably it is easier to deal with a prisoner who is unable to see his handlers.

Montrose was wearing metal wrist-restraints, which was too bad, because he could not think of an easier way to do this. He smashed his hand against the floor hard enough to crack some of his left metacarpal bones, which allowed him to pull one hand free as he flung himself at knee-level across the room, his right fist using the still-locked ring as impromptu brass knuckles.

In his mind’s eye, the men in the dark before him became tripartite fractal patterns of vector motions, with arcs of all his possible limb-movements, masses, and velocities printed in his imagination with crystal clarity. He saw his own constellations of counter-attacks, parries, and strikes. With casual thoroughness, he rotated the two four-dimensional motion-graphs in his mind until he found a way to set the two patterns together in a minimal–maximum configuration.

Then he was sitting on his face on the cold, padded floor of the corridor outside with the first guard’s baton in his hand. He had landed atop it. From the heft of it, he could feel that one end of the baton was opened like a switch-blade, and hissing with a sinister electronic sort of hiss, fortunately not touching the conductive fabric of his gown (which was designed to assist shock weapons). But the blade was jammed into the floor-panels, and he could not pull it free. Montrose was bruised along his forearm, his knuckles were bleeding, and he felt like his foot was broken.

He heard groans. There was a flare of electricity—in the absolute dark it looked dazzlingly bright. In the flash of light, he could see his first opponent face-down on the floor, a gloved hand crooked at a horrible angle: it looked as if Montrose had broken his fingers. The look of surprise on his face was greater than the look of pain.

Unfortunately, he only saw one other opponent. This second man was off-balance, stumbling, but had projected an electric wire from his baton whose live head (glancing off a metal boot stud) was making the momentary flare of light.

It was too good an opportunity to miss. Montrose spat, and the spittle passed through the live spark and struck the bare leg of that second man above his boot where his insulating legging had ripped free. The string of liquid was just enough to make a circuit. The man jerked in a spasm. Montrose knew he would not be awake long enough to actually see the man fall.

(Montrose contemplated the shock on the toppling man’s lower face. It was clear enough that these guys did not know how Montrose knew they were fakes. To them it must seem miraculous, bizarre, unexpected. That was sort of disorienting to Montrose: were things so obvious to him, so opaque to them? The noises they had made while approaching the door did not match the standard noises, the pauses, the click of thumb keys, the sleeve-rustle as salutes were exchanged, of real guards. How could they be surprised? They were like children trying to fool a grown-up.)

Since he did not see the third man, and since he did not have enough time to twist and bring the baton under him up to parry, all he could do was jerk his head forward, hoping the blow from behind would do less damage if the relative velocity were less.

He had two last thoughts. First, Del Azarchel’s men, despite their orders, would not dare take him anywhere else but the prison infirmary. Once there, there would be too many official records, too many witnesses, for a second abduction attempt. By the time Del Azarchel organized his next moves, Princess Rania’s attorney should have him freed. Second, he wondered what Dr. Kyi would have said, had he known how reckless Montrose was being with the brain they both so admired.

Then, a blunt impact to the base of his skull scattered his consciousness, just as if he had been of ordinary intelligence. It seemed somehow unfair.

2. Recovery

Montrose seemed to have more time to think things over, but his experience in the fight told him his nerve cells were not firing any faster than a normal man’s. It was a question of more efficient neural organization, not a fundamental change on the cellular level. A man’s brain is not that different from an ape’s, from a chemical and biological point of view: for that matter, a Winchester rifle was built along the same lines as a harquebus.

Montrose was in a bed, or a bath—it was a gelatin of smart material that partly encased him, a simplified form of an open biosuspension capsule, leaving his head, shoulders, and hands free. There were no intravenous needles, no diapers or catheters, since the jelly was able both to force nutrients into his membranes through his skin, and carry away waste. He was almost eating solid food again: just that morning the nurse had spoon-fed him a poached egg and bread soaked in milk. He kept it down without nausea or vomiting, and he was as proud of that accomplishment as any in his life.

Sunlight slanted through window of alternating dark and pale stripes, which he had deduced to be military glass, something that would deflect bullets and diffuse directed energy. He could not see, but he could hear traffic outside the window.

The traffic was horse-drawn carts and electric ground-effects vehicles—even the passage of one hundred years had not returned petroleum production to pre-Jihad levels. Montrose calculated the logic loop involved, and could not find an answer. Even with the drop in motor cars after the post-Jihad petroleum shortages, one would not expect new roads not to be built. Then he factored in two other variables: first, the cost of energy was so miniscule that the inefficiencies of hover vehicles versus wheeled vehicles meant nothing; and second, the chance of bombardment from orbit (roads, rails, and aerodromes made large and tempting targets) was so great, and so recent, that no market and no public pressure was present. The depthtrain carriages were cheaper, and the Hermeticists might not want public roads controlled by local municipalities.

He also knew he was in a private clinic, so when the door opened and Princess Rania glided in, he was not surprised.

Unlike Del Azarchel, she had no retinue with her. From the echoes of footfalls outside, he knew she had an extensive staff of neurologists and specialists on retainer, not to mention (for he heard the jingle of a weapon harness) soldiers and spies.

When he looked at her face, something clicked into place. He said, “You do not actually want there to be a war, do you? You are expecting Del Azarchel to step down. He won’t.”

She was dressed in a peach morning suit of conservative cut. It was so old-fashioned that it looked almost normal to him. However, she also wore a coronet and a sash of royalty. It made her look like a Beauty Queen. But of course—even with his new high-powered brain, Montrose found he could be surprised by little things—she was not a Beauty Queen, but a Queen Queen, the very thing beauty contest winners were using as a symbol, she was in truth.

Rania opened her mouth and squawked at him. He knew it was some sort of high-speed communication code, with thousands of items of information compressed into her voicewaves, but it meant nothing to him. She cocked her head to one side. He could see she was surprised, perhaps disappointed.

“State-related memory,” she said. She meant that his memory of the time aboard ship had not returned to him, no doubt because even with his newly-enhanced brain, the change from insane Posthuman to sane Posthuman had created a mnemonic lapse. The same reason why, in humans, a waking man cannot recall a dream well, or a man when happy finds his sad memories slipping aside, or why a tone of voice or childhood street will bring up recollections that written reminders might not, in this case did not allow Montrose to remember his days as Crewman Fifty-One. The two of them had agreed upon some high-density vocal code language, and she had been hoping he’d recall it.

Montrose looked carefully around the room—he realized he was doing that thing with his eyes, the sudden vibration movements to gather in additional information he had found so disturbing to look at back in his sleepwalker days—but he did not see any bugging devices. Perhaps a laser focused on the window could pick up air-vibrations, but he had been assuming the striations in the glass (for he had stared at them for some time, seeing the molecular patterns implied in the macroscopic texture) was proof against that type of eavesdropping.

Montrose drew in a surprised breath. He realized that Rania was fully expecting Man Del Azarchel to have augmented his own intelligence by now. The working copy of Ghost Del Azarchel could reproduce and solve everything Montrose had solved for himself. There could be multiple copies of Ghost Del Azarchel by now, Xypotechs of immense intellectual power and range and reach and imagination—and that meant minds equal to Rania’s, able to deduce new techniques or technologies for spying.

And it meant she was still afraid of him. Why?

“Even if we spoke in a secret language,” said Montrose, “Blackie could puzzle it out, sooner or later.”

She sat down on the edge of the gelatin slab that served him for a bed. With soft fingers she ran a slender hand through his hair, across his brow. “I would ask you how you are feeling,” she said. Meaning that the medical read-outs probably told her more about him than he knew himself. The implication was that she wanted to know when he would be well enough to be moved, presumably to a safer location, where they could talk freely.

Montrose let out a laugh. “I ain’t made of glass, missy!” and he started to climb free of the gel. It hardened around his limbs, and he thought he could calculate a system of muscular stresses to pull free. The gelatin was long-chain molecules that contracted or expanded under electrical current, and the computer-switching system controlling the current was operating by a certain set of reflex patterns. All he had to do was …

Rania reached around his skull, and applied a tiny amount of pressure with her finger to one of the bruises on his skull. “Ow!” he complained.

“Not made of glass, but still fractured,” she said, raising an eyebrow, and giving him a coy little pout. “Now you keep still.” Or she would call the anesthesiologist and have him sedated. Montrose was disappointed that having a more integrated nervous system did not give him immunity to chemicals injected into his bloodstream.

He settled back down. “Ha! Give a gal a crown, a starship, a few armies, infinite wealth, and she starts thinking she can give orders.”

“I am also your chief physician, Crewman.” She wore what could only be called a “Dr. Kyi” sort of look.

“Aw, be fair! I had to get my skull broke in order to get away from Blackie! They were going to cart me off!” To some secret location.

A quirk of her eyebrow said, louder than words: And you did not trust I would find you?

“You may be bright,” he said. But you do not know how bright Ghost Del Azarchel is. (He did not say that aloud, but the implication was clear to both of them.)

Why? Again, it was not words, just a change in her pupil dilation, but he knew what she meant.

“The first time I heard Ghost Del Azarchel speak, he said he wanted you and me to get together. He said it in the clear, nice and slow, in English, so that Man Del Azarchel’s pick-ups would hear. He told me you were going to slip me an invitation to your New Year’s Party.”

“Because of the number of people around,” she said, in answer to an unspoken question, “and he could not use the excuse of ‘Earthsickness’ to force me back into another decade or so of biosuspension. The last year of the old century was too important, symbolically—”

“Oh pox!” said Montrose, alarmed. “You were going to announce your engagement!” No wonder Del Azarchel had been mad. He looked at her suspiciously. His accusation was clear: Del Azarchel is too smart to fool himself, unless you helped him—you led him on, didn’t you?

She looked aloof, and her sea-green eyes seemed more stormy and mysterious than ever. “I appealed to his better nature; he answered with a baser nature. Do you think women were created just to watch men kill each other, and wear the widow’s veil, and weep beneath it? Women use the weapons nature gives us.” She said that aloud.

Partly in words, partly in expressions, he answered, “You mean what Del Azarchel gave you—he was one of your primary designers.”

Rania smiled cryptically, a smile not altogether pleasant. “Both Shelly’s Frankenstein and Shaw’s Pygmalion were in the ship’s library. Wasn’t that warning enough about infatuation with your own handiwork?” She shook her head sadly. “If you are going to play at God, divine love rather than romantic love might be in order—if he were willing to sacrifice himself, he would get everything he desired.”

“Ghost Del Azarchel is not infatuated with you,” said Montrose. “Because Man Del Azarchel walking in on us—you are too smart to let that happen. If you didn’t arrange that ‘coincidence’—”

She shook her head. Not I.

“Then he did. The ghost, I mean. But why would the Ghost Blackie first send me to find you, then save me from Man Blackie, feed me caviar and books, but then trip us both up?”

“Did he tell you which books to read?”

He opened his mouth to say No, but, looking back with crystal clear thoughts into his confused half-sleepy fog of what had back then been his brain, he realized that the voice from the chalet walls had dropped a word here and there, which, even when consciously forgotten, had drawn his attention toward certain shelves.

Which meant—what? What had the Iron Ghost been up to?

“Did he tell you how to open the gun case?” she said lightly.

Montrose nodded. “But I don’t see where this is leading.”

Rania raised both eyebrows, slightly narrowing her eyes. (Menelaus thought she looked remarkably pretty when she did that, and he wondered what he could say to provoke that expression again.) She said, “Even the hawk cannot see his own eye color, not without some reflection.” One limit of intelligence augmentation is that we seem not to know ourselves any more clearly.

Montrose looked puzzled: Ghost Del Azarchel wanted me to hate this world? But why?

Rania stood up, smoothed her skirt. She obviously thought that last question was one he could answer with no further hint from her. Instead, she said, “My theory that you would regain your old memories has not been confirmed. Sad, for we have no time to spare for a courtship.”

“Wait a minute, lady! I ain’t asked you yet!”

“Again you demote me!” she tsk-tsked. “A bedridden man is in no condition to kneel. How can we not wed? Are we not the Adam and Eve of a new humanity?”

He saw the look in her eyes, haunted with memory. Long ago they met, they spoke, they fell in love—Rania had to heal him, she not knowing if the superintelligent yet sane version of him would recall the wild promises he made once the superintelligent yet insane version of him was cured.

“Our smarts won’t breed true,” he said. “Unless you plan to inject our whelps with a brain-needle.”

She curled a wisp of blond hair around her forefinger, gave it an admiring look, and had one of her little dragonfly-shaped vanity machines tuck it back under her coronet. “We can call our first daughter Madelina. I’ve always liked the name.”

He remembered that her hair had been altered by RNA-substitution engineering. She also expected Menelaus to discover the genetic flaw in her own construction, and thus she was implying that she had altered her body to be able to receive and adapt to corrections and a genetic level rapidly. She had a system in place, a chemical network of totipotent cells drawn from her own matrix, floating in her bloodstream, already prepared.

At the door, she turned, looking back over her shoulder. The doorframe made her seem a portrait, and the light behind her touched her cheek just where Menelaus wanted to touch it, and turned her hair to golden flame. “Did Del Azarchel show you his statue of the last Ape?”

“Baker’s Dozen. Very sad-looking.”

She nodded. “The same artist made one with an angrier pose—it looms in the Round Table chamber of the Hermetic Conclave.”

“I’ve seen it.”

Rania gave him a skeptical look before she strode with her graceful lioness step out the door.

By that look, he realized that he had not seen it, or, at least, not understood its meaning. But Blackie had told him in so many words. The horse was a stupid creature, but useful to its masters: and so it stayed alive when disaster struck. That was just how life worked. The ape was a superior creature, but not useful.

Montrose discovered that primitive emotions like shock, surprise, and even hate had not disappeared from his nervous system; because two implications fitted into place in his mind.

First, he knew why Ghost Del Azarchel had manipulated him into a fierce disgust for this world and this age. Rania planned to depart, taking the Hermetic with her. And what better way to make sure Montrose also went along, away into the dangers of outer space? Montrose would be out of harm’s way, which meant that the sense of honor that Del Azarchel lived by (both versions of Del Azarchel) would be satisfied. Montrose reminded himself that the machine version of Del Azarchel had no memory of being a murderer or a mutineer. Ghost Del Azarchel might honestly want to save Montrose from bloodshed at the hands of Man Del Azarchel.

Even with the confident prediction that Montrose would be unable to interfere in the long term plans of the Hermeticists, that prediction became more likely the longer Montrose was away from Earth.

Second, and more important, Montrose realized that Blackie was not creating a new race to supplant Mankind in order to fight off the Armada from Hyades when it came. That had been Montrose’s idea, his alone. Blackie had not said a thing about fighting.

Everything in Ximen Del Azarchel’s personality, everything in the way he talked (Why had Montrose not seen it before? How could he have missed it?) betrayed that Blackie was a man who valued life more than liberty, safety to freedom. He esteemed hierarchy, rule, order, and dominion and eschewed that wildness that comes of exploring the wilderness, including the wilderness of stars. The dream of world peace, of an utter end to war, Blackie thought he was close to achieving it, and settling Mankind forever into a peace without end. He thought the world needed rulership, not democracy, not men settling their own messes; the world needed a Caesar. An eternal, iron Caesar.

But Ximen Del Azarchel was not merely a power-hungry dictator. No. He was something far more dangerous: a man with an ideal. Even a selfless ideal.

Why had his mind been able to survive the mind war in the virtual world, when all the Hermeticists made copies of their minds and pitted them, like Gladiators in the Coliseum, against each other? Montrose did not know, but he knew that someone fighting for something greater than himself took more daring risks, and could draw allies and followers to him. No … there must be more than that. The other Hermeticists also had ideals, at least, of a twisted sort. There was something more beneath Del Azarchel’s drive. But what?

Montrose set aside that question for later. At the moment, he meditated on one thing: the plans that the Hermeticists were making for the remotest future, eight thousand years from now when the alien machines arrive to claim the Earth as their property—the Hermeticists did, just as they said, intend to force human evolution to its next step. But the Hermeticists did not mean to fight to survive. They meant to collaborate; to cooperate; to surrender. A live horse is better than a dead ape.

The design for the next human race was meant to be creatures smart enough to be useful to the Hyades, but docile enough not to create any problems.

The asymptote was not meant to produce superhuman free men, but superhuman slaves.

All that talk of a golden future was a lie. Servitude was all that the destiny of Mankind held, and the transhuman race beyond humanity was to be held in subhuman subjugation.

Montrose raised his hands out of the gelatin and clutched his head. It was his best friend that was planning to sell Mankind and the children of men to the Hyades. Del Azarchel, of all people!

The hatred in his heart seemed sharper, purer, clearer than the muddy emotions he had known back when he was a merely human. He missed those days already.

The nurses came in, called by the monitors, or else by the gulping hiccups of Montrose’s sobs. He wanted to turn over, to turn his face away, but the bed of gel would not permit it.

It is embarrassing when superhumans cry.

3. Prenuptial Considerations

Before he even was fully recovered, Montrose found himself introduced to the Rulers and Sovereigns and Magnates of the world. He met Pnumatics dressed like peacocks, Psychics dressed like spacers in wigs, elected Bishops wielding political power, and elected Administrators from those cities or parishes with Republican forms of government dressed in simple drabs—and not a man jack of them he much cared for. He did not like the ceremony, the courtesy, the courtliness, the fawning. His Lone Star State spirit rankled at the inequality.

His disliking did not change when he was elevated to the highest ranks of this ranked society. But three things changed immediately.

First, it was to be a Morganitic marriage, meaning neither he nor his heirs would inherit his wife’s royal titles and noble rights; but she ennobled him and enfeoffed him with lands and rents in a recently-acquired county in Gascony, quite beautiful now that the bacteriological infection from the last war was dying off, the fungi dotting the hedges and trees like leprosy was vanishing, and both grapevines and vintners were returning to the wilderness area. Antiquarians were felling stalks of yeasty growth and burning spore-fields to uncover the abandoned relics the previous generations had mummified before evacuation: a miraculous number of cathedrals, famous houses, and fortresses were intact. Montrose congratulated himself on being from the same province as Cyrano de Bergerac. His title was Count of Armagnac.

Second, he was also given a red bracelet, heavy as a manacle, to wear on his wrist, and Rania’s servants told him he could not appear in public save in the black shipsuit to which he, as a man of outer space, alone was entitled. He kicked up a row and was a little surprised when he got kicked back.

A man named Vardanov, her security officer, was a dark-skinned Slav from Azania: one of those people from the “Old Order” who had been bribed into supporting the Concordat with a title and a heraldic escutcheon. The blond man kept his skin tuned as dark as ivory, and had used the recently-released RNA-spoofing techniques of the Hermeticists to add three feet and a hundred pounds of muscle to his frame. He dressed, like all the court soldiers of this ridiculous time period, in the peaked helmet and metal breastplate of a Spanish Conquistador. He was polite enough to remove his helmet and tuck it in his elbow, and give Montrose a stiff bow, before calling him a fool. The two stood in a small solarium of Montrose’s delightful little mansion in Gascony, looking out on the trellises of vines.

“Come again?” said Montrose, doubting his ears.

Vardanov had a melancholy face and large, sad eyes, so it was hard to tell how angry he was. He spoke in a thick, slow voice, like the voice of a thoughtful elephant. Menelaus could not place the accent: perhaps a combination of Russian and Dutch. “Fool!” he said again, “and why is it you are making my job more difficult, yes?”

The windows opaqued, putting the little richly-furnished chamber into twilight. The dark window also prevented anyone outside from looking in. The man’s big hand dropped casually to the hilt of his bayonet, which was sheathed in his web-belt.

Montrose resolved the man’s stance into a fractal pattern of vector motions, position of limbs and their kinetic values, and compared it with his own. Oddly, there did not seem to be a solution. With his greater mass and reach, if the two of them fought, Montrose (barring unforeseen factors entering the field) would lose.

So stepping forward and breaking the guy’s nose was, at the moment, not an optimal strategy.

Montrose decided that a diplomatic response was needed. “So why should I give a pair of donkey’s swollen black testicles what the hell your job is, or how difficult it is?”

Well, that was diplomatic for him. These things should be judged on a sliding scale.

The man showed no anger on his face, although with his new and heightened perceptions, Montrose could analyze the man’s blush response and microscopic pupil dilations. Here was a creature whose unsleeping anger, frustration, and paranoia, kept him in dangerous psychological balance by a sense of honor, an iron self-control.

“With all due respect, Your Excellency,” Vardanov said in his sad, slow voice, “my duty is to protect the person of Her Serene Highness. Do you understand that this is a matter of warfare on a personal level, yes? Yes. Supreme excellence in war, it is to destroy the enemy will to fight, not in striking his body.”

Montrose was impressed, not just because the man could quote Sun Tsu on the art of war, but because it occurred to him that Vardanov had done exactly that to him. When he did not see a feasible max-min vector-solution for an engagement, Montrose hadn’t struck a blow.

Vardanov said, “It falls to me to say what all know, and no one will say: you are an embarrassment to Her Serene Highness. Yes? Yes.” He nodded, as if happy to hear himself agreeing with himself. “In other years, other places, this means nothing. Alone in barn, you are a braying jackass, and no one hears your voice, no one is disturbed. But here! But now! You are in palace. It is time of tumult, maybe war. Esprit de corps is weighty thing, yes? Yes. The mystique, the awe, the love, the fear commoners behold Her Serene Highness, this is Her Highness’s first line of the defense. They say you have done something to that brain of yours, yes, to make you more than man. You can see without me to explain of it, yes?”

“Explain it anyway.” Montrose casually put his hands behind his back.

Vardanov gave a massive, slow shrug, and spread his hands. He casually dropped his hand behind a vase standing on a pillar near the door, which meant Montrose could not see if he had drawn a weapon from his wrist-holster. Since Montrose was reaching up his own sleeve for the hilt of the ceramic knife he kept in a forearm sheath, he decided not to draw it.

Vardanov spoke while shrugging. “Two things. One.” He held up a think forefinger. (Montrose recognized the trick involved and kept his attention on the other hand, the one hidden behind the vase.) “While you wear the uniform of the great starship Hermetic, you are protected by the weapons of the Hermetic, and the common people are in awe of fire from heaven. In the eyes of the law, no one can arrest you, no one can take and question you, because you are not of this Earth.”

“What’s two?”

Vardanov held up two fingers, but this time pointed them at Montrose. “The great and the small alike are unhappy that you, not Nobilissimus Del Azarchel, have taken the hand of the Star Maiden, yes? Oh, yes. But if you are star-man…” He shrugged. “Then discontent, it is not so much.”

“They can go jack themselves. What do I care?”

“You care for her? Then you care for her people, for they are hers and she is theirs. To be royalty is to keep the people happy, to keep all parts of the world in balance, nobles and merchants, military and clergy, workers and shopkeepers. Royalty is mystique in the mind of people. It is magic. To be a princess, it is to stare at the snake and force the snake not to strike. Yes? Yes. Do not break the spell.”

Montrose scowled. “I don’t cotton to wearing that damn suit. Traitors wear it. I ain’t one of them.”

“Cotton is what?”

“I mean I don’t take to it.”

“Is not for you to take, yes? Copernicus changed the world. After him, Man was not center of all things. You, you are still in world before Copernicus. You think the sun revolves around you. No? No. You revolve around sun. She is the sun; you are not the only one who orbits her. You have married all of her. Whole solar system, not just sunshine.”

And the tall man’s eyes narrowed with pleasure, because he saw that he had won.

After that, Montrose took to wearing the black silk shipsuit in public, and the red metal armband of the Hermeticists.

4. Rich as Croesus

The third thing that changed was his wealth. Before the marriage, Montrose was vested with a healthy share of Rania’s stock in the World Power Syndicate.

Like most men of modest means, Menelaus had assumed the difference between rich and poor in this time was merely something like the difference between Mr. Josiah Palmer back in his hometown, a respectably well-off rancher, and Chickenbone Jim, who had to beg at the Meeting House door to buy a coat. It was nothing like that. The difference was far deeper than he had imagined.

Except for a few paupers who heated their cottages with wood they chopped themselves, or some eccentric branch of the neo-Amish that used no modern technology and burned only petroleum, the entire economy hung by the contraterrene, both power source and currency. The whole economy was owned by the World Power Syndicate. It was wealth almost beyond measure.

He was not able merely to buy stuff. He could buy policies, loyalties, public opinion, and princes; he could buy a chunk of history, and force things to go his way. Beyond a certain critical mass, wealth became so concentrated that it exerted a warp on society like the gravity of a neutron star: whole sectors of the economy unrelated to you were thrown off their courses.

The sheer number of people, a sizeable percent of the world’s population, that had bought into Del Azarchel’s way of doing things, his way of thinking, merely because they had been bought by this kind of dealing, was staggering. Menelaus now had that kind of wealth; the kind that could topple thrones.

The first thing he bought was indeed an aspect of the future Menelaus wanted brought under his control. The second thing he bought was a stallion.

For this first thing, he purchased suspended-animation companies and cartels: huge companies like Endymion and tiny ones like Welsh Bart’s Sleepaway.

Not one or two. All of them.

Hold-outs he sued, on the grounds that he should have been granted a patent for the discoveries, based on his work, that made long-term biosuspension possible. He had to buy legislators and guilds to make the laws allow for retroactive patents; and then he had to buy political parties, judges, and arbitrators, and fund monasteries to get canon law on his side. He had to fund election campaigns in Democratic parishes and buy mansions and museums as bribes for princes in monarchic parishes.

The slumbering population was roughly eighty-five percent medical patients, enduring biosuspension in hope of cures to be developed in later years; ten percent were loyal spouses wanting to stay of the same age; the remainder were those who slumbered for reasons legal or illegal, rational or quixotic, to outwait the death of a hated relative or the downfall of a hated regime.

It was effortless. He did not even need to dress for the meeting of the stockholders. The meeting was conducted over the newly-revised world communication net, in an entirely fictional boardroom equipped with cartoon tables and props, and his projected image was dressed in a somber knee-length suit of dark gray, while he in real life was rocking in a hammock wearing loose Chinese pajamas. His lawyers (and he had hired so many he had already forgotten their names) were a buzzing whisper in his right ear. His intellectual property manager, an Australian named Sweetwater, whispered in his left ear, keeping him abreast of changes in the news channels, and his publicity-value, as the markets and newsfeeds reacted to the moment-by-moment changes in the meeting. For himself, he merely read off a prompter the speech his staff had prepared.

There were some procedural maneuvers raised to hinder him, so he logged off and turned his image over to his double (a young lady from Perth, who could do a passable impersonation of his word-patterns and wireframe mannerisms) to run him during the boring parts of the meeting while he ate his dinner. Once those delays ran their course, the votes were counted. It was no contest. It was like Josiah Palmer bidding against Chickenbone Jim at an auction. He was now the sole owner of every facility on Earth that used his method for biosuspension.

5. Nova and Yorvel

He was disappointed that the future people, having gone to the trouble of resurrecting the long-dead airs and fashions of knighthood, did not actually dress up in metal longjohns and whack at each other with meat-cleavers, as they ought. None of the “sirs” he met acted anything like the knights in the stories he’d read in childhood: not a one of them was fit to drive the Paynim out of Spain or go fetch the Holy Grail.

But they did have nice horses, many of these Aristos. That art they kept alive. He did a lot of riding during the days after his recovery from the infirmary, and argued with his doctors in the meanwhile. He named his beast Res Ipsa Nova, in honor of a sorrel from a hundred years ago.

He made few friends. The difference in intelligence gradient was too great: he could make more than an ordinary number of the normal humans, the Hylics, to like him, because it was easy to think of what to say to set them at ease.

One friend he did make, a friendship where brains just didn’t matter, was with one of Rania’s men, a chubby smiling little horse groom named Yorvel. His first name was Jesus, but Menelaus thought it sounded too much like swearing to call him that, and he couldn’t manage to pronounce it Hey Zeus, which also sounded like swearing, but in a different religion, so he called him by his last name.

They talked about horses, particularly the biologically augmented new breeds and neo-equines. The groom knew his stuff and more, had hands-on experience no books held. Menelaus found out it did not matter how smart you were on the uptake; if a dumb teacher knows more than you, it still pays to listen and learn.

6. Chessplaying Machine

There was not much anyone else to talk to, aside from Rania, and she was busy playing some planetary chessgame with princes and parliaments with Del Azarchel and his Hermeticists. The terms of the game were simple in the basics: she was trying to pressure him into abdication, as this was the only way to defuse the growing threat of war. And he was playing brinksmanship. Whether he was confident that he, or the human race, or both, could survive a world war with antimatter weapons was another matter, but he acted as if he were.

Now, it was not that Montrose, freshly-minted posthuman with a fine new brain and all, could not follow the intricate moves and feints of the game, and read the lies and half-truths and half-lies and threats that splashed all over the text files and documentaries of the infosphere—it was that politics bored him.

The Psychics (or, as they were also called, the “Psychoi”) actually were smarter, by fifty to one hundred points on the standard intelligence quotient scale, than the Hylics—because, despite what Del Azarchel had said, certain intelligence augmentation methods and processes, based on Montrose’s work, had been tried over the last fifteen decades. The results were cautious, and the intellectuals were not outside what was possible for humans. Montrose could have interesting conversations with them, as an adult with a bright child, especially about matters concerning Monument translation and the eventual destiny of Mankind, the threat of the Hyades Armada, and what it would mean when that force arrived.

As predicted, no Hylics had anything interesting to say on the matter. Those who were angry with Del Azarchel for inviting this attack talked as if the Armada would land within the next fifty to one hundred years. To them it was an almost religious image, an Armageddon, a Twilight of the Gods, a prophecy that merely floated somewhere in the distant yet-to-be, not a real event to occur at a real yet remote date.

Montrose realized with dismay that he had fallen into the habit of dismissing ordinary humans as “Hylics”—an Hermeticist term of contempt. On the one hand, it was simply a fact that he was smarter now than normal people. On the other hand, a superior intellect did not seem to change his personality, or make him a saint, or even a sage. It did not improve his bad temper, or even change his bad grammar.

Heck, if anything, greater intelligence put him under greater temptation to do greater evil. He saw how easy it would be to treat people like puppets: thinking back, he did not much like the way he had bought up the Endymion corporations. It was necessary for his plans, to be sure, but the people squeezed out of their companies and stocks had plans, too, didn’t they?

A bad man was much more a threat to the world than a bad dog; and a bad titan was worse than a bad man. Maybe his extra smarts would help he see and avoid the extra temptation the smarts brought with them.

At least the Hylics (or—he brought himself up short—the normal, decent people) who thought the coming of the Hyades Armada merely a prophecy thought on it. The average man would more likely complain about a stone in his shoe than some unthinkably remote eventuality destined for some unrecognizable descendant race of Mankind—assuming any lived so long.

The Psychoi would discuss the matter intelligently. But these metal-haired intellectuals made him nervous. They were smart enough that they could fool his reading of their tells and body language, and some of them worked for Del Azarchel—who was in hiding somewhere, no doubt experimenting on his own brain, trying to bring himself up to Montrose’s level.

The Del Azarchel who appeared on the library file-casts, and made speeches over the radio, was an electronic image, of course. The Xypotech, Ghost Del Azarchel, was now Master of the World, and no one outside his immediate circle knew it.

7. Picnic with the Princess

“Why not tell everyone?” Montrose asked Rania one noon at their picnic. The two of them had ridden out to a sunny glade in the park north of Beausoliel in Monaco. They were “alone” except for a squad from the Corps des Sapeurs-Pompiers in camouflage armor, and a flotilla of two-man rotor-craft gunships shaped like freakish four-leaf clovers floating silently overhead, their cannons like scorpion tails. The troopers were visible only as blurry man-shaped bubbles if the leaves and branches behind them shook in the wind. Montrose did not mind the aircraft: with their four huge hoop-shaped lifting ducts, they looked properly futuristic to him.

“In due time,” she answered, allowing herself a small smile. Rania had noticed the switch over from Man Del Azarchel to Ghost Del Azarchel based on the playing style of their planetary chessgame. Ghost Del Azarchel did not sweat the small stuff: he played for the long-range endgame.

That small smile told him she planned to stir public opinion against the machine. A general church council had been called to debate the matter of artificial intelligence, and its theological and legal implications. Also, Frankenstein themes were appearing in several plays, operas, and interactives on New Bollywood channels, and in smart books, dumb books, and a Parisian musical play. She would play the information that the world government was no longer in human hands as a trump card.

“How is your work coming?” she asked.

Montrose’s latest project, at the moment, was a drawerful of Van Neumann diamonds. These were carbon crystals containing self-replicating software, each “bearded diamond” edged with nano-tube hairs able to pull carbon out of a surrounding environment, and build another of itself, and then link and talk to it. Each diamond sensed pressure differentials on its super-hard refractory skin, and could determine which direction to grow.

As the diamonds grew, the software would build an ever-more complex computer mind, and the upper limits on its growth depended on its mass-to-surface ratio. Its smallest possible shape was a sphere of a few miles wide, but if it grew with a convoluted coral growth according to a fractal pattern, there was no upper limit. A simple calculation showed that this self-replicating machine should, in theory, produce a larger Xypotech logic crystal that the entire production capacity of every nation Del Azarchel could bring to bear. At the moment, Montrose had no idea what software or artificial mind could be stored in the emulation such a robust logic crystal could maintain.

An unanswered question was what environment to put them into, or how to construct the feeding whiskers so that things human beings needed, like oxygen, would be left alone. He could think of nowhere on Earth safe to unleash a Van Neumann machine. The nightmare hazard of Van Neumann replication growing out of control had been known and feared so long before the technology was possible, that a complete, if imaginary, vocabulary existed to describe the various forms of threat.

But he thought she was referring to his other project.

“I have several very promising lines of inquiry,” he said, “and I just translated a section from the Omicron Segment which seems to be a direct run-down of the mathematics of self-correction in multicentric medium-knit self-referencing systems of holographic memory. In other words, since part of you was made right, I think I can reverse-engineer the rest of the instructions on how to make you, and get a set of morphic intermediaries. I can fix you without changing you, if you see what I mean. I want to test it on an emulation first, an Iron Ghost of you.”

“And create a rival for your affection? I would be unhappy as a machine, so she would be unhappy if I made her like me, and if I made a version of me that was so different from me that I would not be unhappy as a machine, I suspect it would hardly be me. I would not bring a child into so dangerous a world: if the Hermeticists made a copy, they would download her into their grotesque gladiatorial games.”

“Why do they do that?”

“Because the human conscience is not infinitely malleable. Despite what you’ve heard, neural tissue changes, or changes in environment or background can only alter the human conscience somewhat. It snaps back: the conscience reacts, and exacts revenge. Not everyone lives by the same rules, but everyone lives by the same spirit.”

“What the pox does that mean? Spirit?”

“In this case, a myth about evolutionary superiority is the tale the Hermeticists told themselves on the ship to soothe their consciences—that the Iberians are superior to the Indians. You see? The ship was awash with blood clouds, and engineering was damaged in the fighting. Corpses were floating everywhere. The slaughterhouse smell could not be cleaned from the ventilation, which was not designed to scrub such volumes. The human mind has only a finite possible set of neurolinguistic responses to deal with death, murder, gnawing guilt.”

“They said that they were the preferred darlings of evolution,” he guessed, grimacing.

She nodded, looking as if she felt ashamed for the men who raised her. “The fact that the noble Kshatriya and peaceful Brahmins died proved that they were never fit to survive: so runs the myth. That myth means the Hermeticists must kill themselves in proxy in their mental wars in dataspace. Such is the Hermetic spirit.”

Something in her poise and expression seemed odd to him. “There is something else.”

Her sea-gray gaze was upon him, glancing from the corners of her eyes, beneath heavily lashed lids. She said nothing.

“They’re fighting over you, aren’t they? In their electronic gladiatorial games. They are all in love with you, not just Del Azarchel. Well…? You don’t seem to be in any hurry to deny it.”

“What do you remember?”

“Nothing. It ain’t coming back to me. But I can picture it in my head. Since you was the only girl, with your girly scent and dancing eyes and your pheromones clogging the ship’s ventilation system, there you must have been, all bobbing around in zero gee, round and curving and giggly. For a while you were a sacralicious fourteen-year-old, then a coltish seventeen-year-old; just a curious, impish, playful, coy, smarter-than-all-get-out cute little package. Next you were a superintelligent, glittering nineteen-year-old, and the only one really fun to talk with, since you made each of them feel special. I seen you got that gift about you. Also, aboard the submarine-like conditions, the nineteen-year-old had to press up too close to them to see the view screens and work the controls and so on. And of course aboard the ship they are either half-nude to save on mass, or wear nothing but ultraskintight web suits which show off a girl’s extremely well-formed buttocks, and, in the cold, I’m thinking your nipples would…”

She hit him with a slab of ham before he could say more. “Men are disgusting creatures! Who in their right mind would design women to be attracted to them!”

But by that point, he had taken a handful of potato salad to her face in counterattack, and then there was nothing to do but settle the matter by wrestling.

“You better let me up,” she said. Her bottom lip was sticking out as she tried to huff and puff and blow a curl of her hair up out of her eyes. She was nonchalantly watching the lack of success with the stubborn hair strand, not looking at his blazing pale eyes, even though his face was inches from her face, his lips inches from her lips. “You’ll make my protectors nervous. Lèse majesté is a still a crime in these hey-ah parts, pardnah.”

“You trying to make fun of the way I talk?”

“Not trying.”

“What’s that crime again with the French name?”

“Lèse majesté. It is the crime of violating majesty.”

“I add it to the list of crimes I’m saving for our honeymoon.”

“Let me up. Let go of my wrists.”

“Say ‘please.’”

“You issue unlikely commands. Remember who is smarter between us.”

“I remember your belly being ticklish.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“A girl will only say that when she secretly wants you to dare. I keep this feather in my hatband just for times like this. Oh, now she struggles! Say, missy, writhe around and toss your hair some, and I am sure you can break free. I bet you could bite my nose if you tried harder. Sure. I feel my grip weakening. Writhe more and arch your back.”

He folded her wrists atop each other, so he could pin them with one hand. With the other, he drew the feather, and it twitched with playful menace in his fingers.

“It’s an ugly hat,” she pouted.

“Oh, you’ll pay for that comment, girl. This hat has sentimental value. It means I don’t need to comb my hair so often, and that means a lot to me.”

“And I am not a girl. I am a celestial maiden: the first exosolar posthuman chimera created from alien gene codes. Practically an angel!”

“No argument there.”

“What else do I have to do so you don’t think of me as a girl?”

“You’re still a girl. Human nature snaps back and exacts revenge. Not everyone lives by the same rules, but everyone lives by the same spirit.”

By then she was giggling too hard to catch her breath, and as predicted, her troopers came forward at a quickstep, railgun lances ready, to see what was causing the shrieks.

After explanations and apologies, they were left alone again, and he was lying on his back, and she was using his armpit as a pillow, and they both looked up at the high blue sky, and sought fractal patterns similar to Monument segments among the clouds.

She sighed, “I truly and deeply hope, my scarecrow of a suitor, that you do have a cure for the flaw in my design. I feel there are things buried, enjambed, structurally encoded in the Monument that are waiting inside me to wake. A destiny. I was meant for something. Do you believe in evolution?”

“I believe it exists,” he said. “I don’t believe that whatever comes next is any better than what comes before. It is non-directed, random, cruel.”

“I was not evolved, though. I was made. My makers followed instructions even they did not understand, from minds not human, not limited to human thoughts. It was directed. Perhaps it is not random, which means that I alone of all Mankind have a destiny and a purpose. Perhaps it is not cruel.”

She sighed and looked sadly at the clouds.

“Cure me, my scarecrow. Drive away the dark wings that beset me, I pray you. I am so tired of not being smart enough. I am weary of my own stupidity.”

He could not think of anything to say to that odd comment, so he turned and closed his arms and kissed her.