The Architect of Aeons

by John C. Wright

  Norbert the Praetor was dressed in his native rustic Rosicrucian garb: a low-crowned, wide-brimmed black hat programmed to tilt its brim toward the sun; anti-flare goggles; tunic, overtunic, pantaloons; tall boots equipped with folding stilts and serpentines for wading bogs and fending off wormlike ground-vermin; and flung over all was a poncho of wisdom cloth able to make itself thick or thin, generate warm or cool air, as the weekly seasons passed, mirrored against unexpected flares, with a collar so absurdly tall that it could be folded up past cheeks and ears and (in case a farmer lost his hat) be tied together above the crown of the head. On the front and back was an image of a four-armed cross issuing from a five-petaled rose.

  Of old, wisdom cloth contained a stepped-down version of the mind of the wearer, able to take control during emergencies, or give encouragement and apothegms to keep a soul loyal to his chosen archetype, or store additional sub-personalities in memory pockets, but Norbert was too chary of the insanity of Tellus to expose even an etiolated version of his mind to the cacophonous neural-electronic environment here.

  Instead the cloak was invested with the personality and dark humor of a brigand, a bard, and a bailiff from his home parish. The three had been triplet brothers: one had executed the other but then drank seawater and died, unable to bear the dishonor cast on him when he heard the mocking ballad the third had written. The boneyard would not accept the body of a man who slew himself in this fashion, nor, so anagnosts averred, would heaven admit his soul. Their whispers in the ears of Norbert reminded him of the weight of his duty on this day, and restrained something of his cocksureness.

  The original Del Azarchel stood by as a witness, trying to appear solemn, but chuckling occasionally.

  The only surgeon to whom all parties could agree was Sgaire, the Great Swan of Malta. Two trees, a white and a black, ripe with medicinal fruit and surgical worm-things of all descriptions, grew up from the soil at his command in the hours between midnight and dawn. The graveyard statues lower down on the hill frowned and turned dark eyes toward these trees, but the Swans had ancient rights when standing on holy ground denied to other races, and no complaint could be lodged. Sgaire was slender of face and slant of eye, which were emerald green in sclera and pupil and luminous iris and never blinked. His hair of neurosensitive strands, which was long as the hair of a woman, was tossing and flowing as if in zero gee. Sgaire stood twice the height of a man, and planted his legs, and turned them white with biosuspension techniques, so he did not grow weary as he waited for the deadly event. His tabard was white, and a great black cross adorned his chest.

  Now the seconds approached Norbert.

  Norbert spoke: “Even at this point, if any reconciliation can be had, the two parties can withdraw without dishonor, without any loss of face. The xenomathematicians confirm that the Cold Equations, which apply throughout the universe, have defined violence to be not within the self-interest, rightly understood, either of the slain or the victorious. It is not a rational behavior.”

  Io, in the voice of Del Azarchel, said, “The matter is private. We have taken steps to contain the violence within the acceptable levels of the Concubine Vector, and strictly charged and forbidden any friends or followers from avenging us. There will be no retaliation.”

  And Cazi, doing a horribly unconvincing impersonation of Montrose’s voice, said, “Well, all y’all, poxy pox and fox in socks! Y’all. That’s right, ya’ll. Pox!”

  Norbert told the systems in his cloak to erase those last words, and insert the more dignified words that Montrose had possessed the foresight to record earlier in that spot in the official record. Naturally, there were nanomachines in the grass and ground and in the air making records of their own, but, naturally, as an Assassin of the Guild, he knew how to hoax and deceive such records that he could not intimidate.

  Norbert said, “The sacerdotes aver that the Supreme Being decreed peace between all rational creatures of whatever intellectual and moral level, both by land and sea, and under the sea, in the core of the Earth, in the core of the sun, or in the interplanetary space warmed by that sun, or the vasty deep of interstellar space beyond that warmth, where men lose their years to pitiless Einstein. I charge you to consider soberly and afresh the causes this quarrel, and to confirm that no peaceful solution, so pleasing to the Divine, is possible.”

  Cazi said, “I am instructed to say that if Jupiter will direct the deceleration beam toward the calculated position of the Hermetic and discharge the same at the aperture and current required, no quarrel will obtain, and honor will be satisfied. Jupiter need only carry out the duty for which he was created, and peace will prevail between the parties.” And for once her voice was entirely solemn, as if for the first time in a year the possibility that Montrose might perish here and now were real to her.

  Io said, “And I was instructed to say, if the other party made such a proffer, that no reconciliation is possible where the wounds of deadly hate have bitten so deep.”

  Norbert said to Io, “Please communicate to your principal this one last time. Urge him to recollect that he is a unique construction, the greatest brain ever devised by Man, holding more intellectual power and more memory than all the human lives on all the planets inhabited by man now and throughout history. If only for that reason, he should not expose himself to danger.”

  Io said, “Jupiter has confessed his myriad eons of sin and been shrived by his confessor, but for the sin of murder he neither seeks nor receives absolution.”

  Cazi blinked. “Jupiter goes to confession?”

  Io shrugged. “Not frequently.”

  Norbert cleared his throat. “Ladies, please attend to this matter. Cazi, does your principal require time and opportunity to ready his soul?”

  Cazi said, “I was instructed to say that he does not hold with all that praying stuff, and that the devil should fear his descent into hell rather than the reverse. He said it more colorfully than that, but that is the gist. He is ready.”

  Io said, “My principal is ready.”

  Norbert said, “Are both parties satisfied that thirty feet of the ancient imperial measure has been paced off correctly, and they stand correctly? Are both parties satisfied that the conditions of sun and clime and weather give neither undue advantage? Return to your principals. If they are ready, have them hold up their left hands. When I raise the baton, they are to see to their countermeasures. When I let go of the baton, and not before, they may raise and aim their pistols, and release their chaff. When the baton strikes ground, and not before, they may fire.”

  The two seconds walked solemnly to where their principals stood, spoke to them briefly, and assisted them to don their helmets and do a final weapons check.

  There was a delay. Jupiter indicated by a sign that he did not trust the weapon of Montrose. Both duelists emptied their chaff chambers, spread a white cloth, opened the breeches, and repacked the weapons, one after the other, with both seconds watching and witnessing.

  This was not a swift process. Time passed.

  Del Azarchel said to Norbert, “You are certain I cannot smoke a cigar during the duel itself?”

  Norbert said, “No.”

  “Popcorn? Eating the bag of popcorn I brought will not disturb anyone.”

  Norbert said, “We are inviting bloodshed to this isolated place, wounds, possibly one death, possibly two. It would be not in keeping with the gravity of what we commit. Your role is to watch your son and the only man in the world who could have been your dearest and most loyal friend murder each other without trickery or treachery. Can you not even do this, my lord?”

  Del Azarchel raised an eyebrow. “Forgive my levity. It is just that this is now the third time Montrose has faced me, or a version of me, with pistol in hand, and someone or something always interferes with trickery or treachery, and it is never me! So I am expecting both men to walk away with nothing done.”

  Norbert said, “But—Rania will not be saved unless Jupiter dies! That was your motive for
arranging this duel!”

  Del Azarchel said, “Perhaps Tau Ceti will have an interstellar-strength braking laser ready in time to arrest her speed.”

  Norbert said, “I have the authority to halt the duel, if it is being held under false pretenses!”

  Del Azarchel smiled. “But what if Tau Ceti is not ready in time? I am swifter and surer with a pistol than Montrose. He cannot beat me in a fair fight. The last duel we held, he fell on his rump.”

  “But you offered this as a sure way to slay Jupiter!”

  “Only one thing would make me hesitate to shoot Montrose, if shooting him means that Rania dies. Do I love her more than I hate him? You agree that this is a significant point.”

  Norbert said, “So this is all a test?”

  “A test to destruction. These strange evolutions from higher to ever higher intelligence levels make me know less and less about myself. Jupiter and I are not the same person anymore, so I am not obligated to connect myself to his suicide circuit and die if he botches the duel. But he is enough like me that valuable information about myself might be gained.”

  “Did you arrange all this, centuries and millennia of madness, merely to put yourself to the trial by combat, and see what kind of man you are? Don’t you know if you love your Princess Rania?”

  Del Azarchel put his hands behind his back, and clamped his mouth into a narrow line. “These days, I am no longer able to guide history. The Hermetic Millennia during which Jupiter was crafted and born are long, long gone. I was staggered and horrified by the ease with which Sagittarius expelled my entire interstellar empire and my pantheon of planetary gods from his arm of the galaxy. One day I shall rule all these stars, or, if they will not accept my rule, destroy them. If Jupiter has forgotten that dream to look after his selfish concern for his own selfish life, then he deserves to die.”

  Norbert said, “But you are confident Jupiter, if he exactly matches your skill with a pistol, can defeat and kill Montrose!”

  “Your point being…?”

  “If Jupiter loves Rania, he will hesitate or miss, and die. If he is selfish and worthless to you, or if he hates Montrose more than he loves Rania, he will not hesitate, his bullet will fly true, and he will live. So if he is selfish, and therefore deserves to die, he will live; but if a nobler passion slows his gun hand, he dies. Is that not exactly the reverse of justice?”

  Del Azarchel smiled thinly, his eyes making a narrow glimmer in the predawn gloom. “Despite what this seems, I did not arrange this test. I merely made it more uncomplicated for it to happen. They did this to themselves. Of course it is not just. This is Darwin in action. The fittest to survive shall prevail, not the one whom justice says deserves to live. For myself, I want them both dead.”

  Finally the tedious and careful weapons check was done. The pistols were packed and ready, and the bulky and archaic armor fitted in place. The seconds retreated out of the line of fire. Jupiter raised his black hand and opened it, displaying the white palm. Montrose raised his hand more slowly.

  Norbert raised the baton. To the naked eye, there was no difference, but to the three ghosts watching from his coat through electronic systems, the images of the two duelists blurred and vanished.

  Norbert dropped the baton. Two black clouds of chaff erupted from the heavy barrels of the monstrous dueling pistols, hiding both duelists in an expanding smog of twinkling particles. Thin lines of aiming laser flickered out of one cloud mass and into the other, passing rapidly in and out of the visible reaches of the spectrum.

  The baton struck the ground. The explosion of gunfire seemed simultaneous, but Norbert played back the sense impression with several parts of his mind. Neither one had fired prematurely.

  Norbert counted the memory playback. Fifteen shots had been fired: two main bullets, and thirteen escort shots. That meant three escort bullets had not fired.

  Jupiter had discharged his chaff in a cone, as if he expected Montrose to shoot straight without feinting. Montrose had ignited his chaff in a smoke ring, showing he expected Jupiter to fire deceptively, feinting and then correcting.

  The echo of the deafening gunshots slowly faded in the dark air. Io and Cazi stood motionless, their eyes wide. Del Azarchel was grinning. The Swan with a wand gathered a white and dark surgical worm-thing off each of his two trees. The worms gripped the wand in a double spiral.

  The smoke of the chaff was pushed to one side by the wind, but the same wind stirred up the fog, so an eerie combination of black and white swirls hung over the scene. Cazi, in girlish fashion not in keeping with the rangy masculine body she wore, put her hands to her mouth and screamed.

  Montrose was standing, his right arm coated with blood, his shoulder armor broken in pieces. Jupiter had attempted a difficult shot, concentrating fire on the foe’s gun hand in hopes of igniting his powder magazine.

  Jupiter was on two knees and one elbow. His helmet was cracked. Puking noises and a wash of blood and lung matter issued through the cracks in the face slit. There was a gaping hole in his chest armor, and blood poured out in spurts, the sign of a major vein severed. With a stiff, painful movement, Jupiter straightened his left arm, so now he was swaying on his knees. His gun hand still held the heavy pistol. His left fist he now shoved into the entry wound, applying pressure, trying to staunch the flow of blood.

  Norbert called out, “Blood has been shed! Honor is satisfied! Gentlemen, will you withdraw?”

  Montrose said something in curt tones to Cazi. Cazi called across the field, “Have him turn on the braking laser, and he can live! He can always make a backup copy of himself later, once civilization has gathered the energy to do it!”

  Io stepped into the line of fire, rushing to aid Jupiter. She beckoned toward the Great Swan Sgaire, who thawed his legs and stepped forward. Both were halted by a sudden cry from Jupiter.

  “I do not agree!” shouted the kneeling figure. “I have one bullet left. Clear the field!”

  Io, looking troubled, called out, “But my lord! To die for such a frivolous reason! He is a lesser being, a mere animal!”

  “Better to die than to admit defeat to an animal! Praetor Norbert! I demand the field be cleared! I fire again!”

  Montrose waved Cazi back out of the way. Only Io was standing between the two men. Montrose said to Jupiter, “I’ve got two bullets left, you poxy dumb damn machine! One to parry your bullet and one to kill you. Our chaff is thinned out, and your armor is cracked. You are dead if you do not drop your pistol. I will extend you gentle right, and allow you to withdraw.”

  Jupiter cried out, “Never! We fire again!”

  Montrose spoke to Cazi. She turned and called, “Judge of honor! My principal demands that the duelist communicate to Jupiter himself, and let the planet decide his fate. This is suicidal. Planet Jupiter should not be forced to destroy himself because his dueling puppet malfunctioned!”

  Jupiter said, “Not so! We all agreed the decision was mine!” And he coughed up more blood, which seeped through the cracks in his faceplate, and dripped to the grass.

  Cazi shouted, “You were hit in the head and cannot think straight!”

  Norbert said to Cazi, “I cannot call for the hour delay needed to send a signal to Jupiter and back after one party has been wounded. He would bleed severely, giving your principal the advantage.”

  Io said in a voice of great reluctance, “My principal agrees that he could be placed in biosuspension, so that he does not bleed further, provided his body is returned to the exact condition it is in now, wounds and all, to continue if the Power of Jupiter so agrees.”

  Montrose said, “I don’t want to shoot a bleeding man on his knees! Blackie, talk to your crazy machine!”

  Del Azarchel raised his hands. “And spoil the show? I am merely here to see that no one cheats.”

  Cazi said, “Wait a minute! I think Jupiter is cheating! He has a hole wider than a church door and deeper than a well in him! How come he can still talk and keep himself upright? That is not a real
human body like we agreed! He lowered his pain threshold!”

  Sgaire stepped over to the kneeling Jupiter with long strides. He spoke for the first time, his voice like an oboe. “I attest the body is human, and the nervous system is within the defined parameters.”

  Del Azarchel called out from the sidelines, “I am just a damned bit tougher than you imagine, Cowhand.”

  Sgaire said, “I also object. It is a violation of my Hippocratic Oath to slumber a wound and then to revisit that same wound on a patient.”

  “Overruled,” said Norbert. “You are in violation of your oath by agreeing to be here at all, Swan. We are all conspirators in death. Jupiter! Communicate with the seat of your soul back on the planet. No one will move. However, by that time, the sun will be risen, giving Montrose an untoward advantage, because you are facing east.”

  “Advantage or no, I will fight on,” said Jupiter in a voice of ringing pride.

  It was the last thing he said. The Swan paralyzed both duelists, and suspended their life processes, and an hour went by. No one moved, except that Del Azarchel brought out a small paper bag from under his cloak and ate the white puffs of corn it held.

  There was nothing said aloud. A scroll some thirty yards high came floating over their position. In the middle of the scroll was no writing, but an image of the planet Jupiter, looking strangely nude without its rings and moons, which had withdrawn to a safe distance. The bands of cloud in the upper atmosphere were whirling and writhing. Some of the swirls to either side of the Great Red Spot formed themselves into the Monument curls and sine waves, spelling out an angry and abrupt sign for assent. The duel would continue.

  “Madness,” whispered Cazi. “He’s gone insane. How can he go insane if he is so smart?”

  Del Azarchel, hearing her, said, “His passions grew to godlike stature as his intellect grew. The loves and hates of higher beings are incomprehensible to us.”

  “No,” said Cazi. “No, they are not. That is what is so horrible. Fear in a man or a dog or an angel is all the same fear, or love, or hate, or rage.”