The machine spoke in a measured, unconcerned tone. “I did nothing to interfere with your reprehensible wishes and desires, either of you. If either of you had loved her more than you hated each other, you would have gone your ways in peace. Am I not the Master of the World? My justice is exact: you condemned yourselves. Neither of you will interfere with the overlordship of the Hyades when, in the future that seems far off to you, but not to me, they condescend to take control of whatever species I design to suit their needs.”
Montrose gasped out, “But—why? Why?”
The machine said calmly: “Do you know why we decided to collaborate with the Hyades? They are not evil. Do you remember the star list? The list appended to the message?”
Montrose remembered. Alpha Centauri, 36 Ophiuchus, Omicron Eridani, 61 Cygni, 70 Ophiuchus, 82 Eridani, Altair, Delta Pavonis, Epsilon Eridani, Epsilon Indi, Eta Cassiopeiae, Gliese 570, Hr 7703, Tau Ceti.
The machine said, “It is their promise. They are moving us to those stars. Whether we like or not. We are colonizing space. Men did not have the will, the forethought, to do it themselves. Men are too stupid, merely half a step above the apes, and no more worthy of escaping extinction, if left to their own devices. So we will not be left to our own devices. The determination is out of our hands. A higher power has decided.”
“Why?”
“No one knows. Who cares? Mankind on a dozen worlds means safety. It means not all our eggs in one basket; not all my back-up selves on one world. Darwin’s random selection will not randomly select to destroy us. Your dream was the dream of star colonization. You should thank me. We could not do it ourselves. It had to be done. The human race lacked the will.”
“You lacked the will, Ximen, you.”
“Obviously not. I am merely willing to make the necessary sacrifices.” There was a click, and the machine version of Del Azarchel was gone.
Montrose hissed. The pain in his limbs was beginning to make itself felt. It was like fire. It was like hellfire. He could feel the wrongness inside his body: organs not touching, flesh curled like paper thrown in a fire, nerves unplugged, bone ends scraping against each other, the whole blood-filled sack of his fragile human body leaking blood and water and air. Puncture wounds.
“Blackie, you vermin. Promise me.”
He was answered by an inarticulate gasp. “Wh—?”
“Promise me that you’ll fight the Hyades. If you live. Stop your damn machine.”
Del Azarchel’s laugh was a hiccup of pain.
“Fight them!”
“No.”
“Ain’t you—human?!”
“Human enough. Because it is all in the math. In the game-theory. Every possible combination of moves and strategies. Every possible use of our resources. Futile. They win every time. Every possible scenario.”
“Never.”
“Man cannot fight higher powers. They are angels, powers, potentates, dominions, dominations authorities, and aeons. They rule the stars.”
“She will free us.”
“But when? After everyone is dead. Who will care? Only her. Only her posthuman mind. It is not like our minds. Doesn’t think like us.”
“I am getting pustulationally a-wearied of calling you a liar, so I recommend you stop lying.” That was too much a speech for Montrose in his condition. He felt lightheaded, and black dots danced before his eyes. The sudden, terrible, fearful knowledge that he was going to die, helpless as a baby, and nothing he could do would stop it, came into his mind like a black fog.
Inside the fog, was Del Azarchel’s voice, still hissing, still out of breath. “Don’t trust her. Don’t love her. My men will bring her back down. You can live! My medics will see to it. Don’t ignite—can’t you see she’s just playing you like an instrument? You think if I die, she’ll turn her ship around and come back for you? She’s not coming back. You’re used up.”
“Call down your men.”
“If we both die, and she does not escape, then it is world peace. My reign to endure forever. The other version of me—almost as good as remaining alive, isn’t it? A shard of my soul, no? If we die, I win.”
With a convulsive movement, Blackie heaved himself forward. There was a thud: Montrose felt a remote jar. Blackie was laying atop him, the two armored bodies together. Only the pistol was no longer in Blackie’s fist, but hung by a lanyard from his wrist. Through the camera, Montrose could see the fingers groping feebly toward the trigger.
“—give up now—you fought bravely—”
“No.”
“—I will spare your life—Surrender, and I won’t shoot you—”
“No.”
“What?” Blackie’s voice over the radio was blurry, confused. “You cannot say no. You can’t. I win. I always win. Stop fooling with me!”
Why did he think he had won?
Then Montrose (his sight now blurred and swirling with pain) noticed the view in his pistol-camera. The blood trail along the road did not lead all the way to Blackie’s present position. He had stopped bleeding.
Impossible. Or—an application of the second youth technology. A cellular memory technology.
Now he knew why Blackie had avoided letting him see his weapon packing. The chaff had been programmed to allow a hit in a non-vital spot, a type of feint Montrose’s bullets could not possibly have anticipated. Of course his shots had followed the path of least resistance: because Del Azarchel the posthuman had organized his cellular structure to heal rapidly from particular shots striking him in particular places. He had moved his heart. He had grown extra sacks for his lungs. His inside was no longer human. The bullets had sought the wrong part of the body to penetrate.
Blackie was not going to die. He was getting better. All he had to do was draw out the duel. His offer to spare Montrose was probably sincere: once his men captured Rania, one of Del Azarchel’s pet courts of law would annul the marriage on some pretext or another.
The rules of the duel, which covered the composition of the weapons and armor, but not the cellular composition of the duelists, had not even been broken, not technically.
Montrose hated Blackie Del Azarchel for the first time in his life, with a perfect, helpless, and unregretful hatred: because the man had outsmarted him.
Blackie had won.
“Surrender and live. I win. I always win.”
“No!” said Montrose through bloodstained teeth. “No, Blackie. You lost. I gave you a chance.”
And he triggered the ignition by voice command through his amulet. “Magic band upon my hand—shoot, shoot, shoot!”
For a long moment, nothing happened, and Montrose had the sick, sinking sensation that perhaps the signal had failed. But then he heard the ping of the command response.
Somewhere, a circuit closed in the insectlike robot that Rania used as a hair ornament, that same insect attached to the wiring of the sniper’s rocket-launcher atop a nearby building. It selected a new target, and pulled the electronic trigger.
The trail of smoke, like a finger, could be seen reaching out in eerie silence, stretching between the crowns of skyscrapers against the dark sky, long before any thunderclap of engine-roar was heard. The rocket itself was invisible in the dark, but its passage was making vast shadows to turn slowly around the tower tops in the glare from its acetylene-bright engine.
Like the finger of a god, this trail of smoke reached leisurely out to the top of the superscraper where the cable was anchored. There was a flash, followed by a series of flashes, and then an eruption.
5. The Fall
It was a moment of light. It came from the tower, bright, for an instant, as the sun. Explosions blossomed all along the gigantic foundational structures.