Capitol

by Orson Scott Card

  "Good. What do we think now?"

  "He's rich. Richer than you could imagine."

  "I can imagine infinite wealth. Give me credit."

  "He's got connections all over Capitol. He knows everybody, or at least knows the people who know everybody. Right? And all his money is in trusts and investments in dummy corporations that own dummy banks that own dummy industries that own half this damn planet."

  "In other words," Herman said, "he's self-employed."

  "Self-employed, but he ain't sellin', you see. He doesn't need the money. He could lose everything you own in pinochle and still like the guy who won it."

  Herman grimaced, "Grey, you sure have a way of making me feel poor."

  "I'm trying to tell you what you're up against. Because this guy's twenty-seven years old. I mean, he's young!"

  But something didn't fit. "I thought you told me he wasn't on somec."

  "That's the craziest thing, Herman. He isn't. He's never gone under at all."

  "What is he, a religious fanatic?"

  "His only religion seems to be wrecking your life, Mr. Nuber, if I may be so bold. He won't sell. And he won't tell why. And as long as he doesn't go on somec, he doesn't have to sell. It's as simple as that."

  "What have I ever done to him? Why should he want to do this to me?"

  "He said he hoped you wouldn't take it personally."

  Herman shook his head, furious and yet unable to find a reason adequate for his fury-- or an adequate way to express it. The man had to be reachable.

  "You know what I said over the phone?"

  "You'd be the first suspect, if anything happened to him, Herman," Grey warned. "And it wouldn't help a bit. The game would end for the duration of the investigation. Besides, I'm not in that business."

  "Everybody's in that business," Herman said. "At least scare him. At least rough him up."

  Grey shrugged. "I'll try it." He stood up to go.

  "Herman, I suggest you go back into business for a while. Make a little more money, get the feel of it again. Meet some people; try to get the game out of your system. If you don't play Italy this time, you can play it on your next waking."

  Herman didn't answer, and Grey let himself out.

  At three o'clock in the morning, Herman, exhausted, finally slept.

  At about four-thirty, he was wakened by the alarms going off in his flat. He groggily pulled himself out of bed and staggered to the door of his bedroom. Alarms were pro forma-- no one of his class was ever burglarized, at least not while the residents were at home.

  His worries about theft, were soon dispelled, however. The three men who came in all carried small, tight leather bags, filled with something hard. How hard they were Herman wasn't eager to find out.

  "Who are you?"

  They said nothing, just approached him silently, slowly. He realized that he was cut off, both from the front door and the emergency exit. He backed into the bedroom. One of the men reached out a hand, and Herman found himself crushed against the doorjamb.

  "Don't hurt me," he said.

  The first man, taller than the others, tapped Herman's shoulder with his bludgeon. Now Herman knew how hard it was. The tapping continued, getting harder and harder, but the rhythm was steady. Herman stood frozen, unable to move, as the pain gradually increased. And then, suddenly, the man shifted his weight, swung the bludgeon backhand, and Herman's ribs were smashed. The breath left him in a grunt, and pain like great hands tearing apart his insides swept up and down his body.

  The agony was unbearable.

  They were just beginning.

  * * *

  "No doctors, no hospital, nothing. No," Herman said, trying to summon a forceful tone of voice from his battered chest.

  "Herman," Grey said, "your ribs may be broken."

  "They aren't."

  "You're not a doctor."

  "I have the best medical kit in the city, and it said that nothing was broken. Whoever those bastards were last night, they know what they're doing."

  Grey sighed. "I know who those bastards were, Herman."

  Herman looked at Grey in surprise, almost rising from the bed, though the pain stopped him as abruptly as if he were strapped down.

  "They were the men I hired to rough up Abner Doon."

  Herman moaned. "Grey, no, it can't be-- how could he have talked them out of it?"

  "They had an ironclad contract. They've worked for me before. I have no idea how Doon subverted them." Grey looked worried. "He has power where I didn't expect it. They've been offered money before-- a lot of money-- but they always kept their contracts. Except when I hired them to teach Doon a lesson."

  "I wonder," Herman said, "if he learned anything."

  "I wonder," Grey added, more to the point, "if you did."

  The days passed, and soon Herman was able to hobble back into the room where the computer screen dominated one wall, where the holo of the world of Europe 1914d rotated slowly. Whatever Doon's motive was, Herman saw countless proofs of the fact that Doon knew nothing about playing International Games. He didn't even learn from his own mistakes. The forcible occupation of Guiana was followed by a pointless attack on Afghanistan, which had already been a client state, driving several other client states to the enemy alliance. But Herman's rage finally faded, and he glumly watched as the position of Italy worsened.

  Italy's enemies weren't particularly brilliant. They could have been defeated-- could still be defeated, if only Herman could get to play.

  It was when a revolution flared in England that Herman closed his eyes, hoping Grey would drop dead.

  "Forget the game. Buy Italy next time. Doon's got to go under somec sometime."

  Herman didn't open his eyes, and Grey went away.

  Herman began to rage again.

  From the beginning of the game, Herman had established a carefully benign dictatorship as the government of the Italian Empire, with local autonomy on, many matters. It was not oppressive. It was guaranteed to eliminate any chance of revolution. Any rebellions were ruthlessly suppressed, while territories that didn't rebel were lavishly rewarded. It had been years since Herman had had to worry about the internal politics of Italy.

  But when the English revolution began, Herman began to scan Doon's activities in the internal affairs of the empire. Doon had pointlessly changed things, taxing the populace, emphasizing the difference between the rich and poor, the powerful and the weak. He had also oppressed local nationalities, compelling them to learn Italian, and the computer had brought the inevitable result-- resentment, rebellion, and at last revolution.

  What was Doon doing? Surely he could see the result of his actions. Surely he could tell that he was doing everything-- or at least something-- wrong. Surely he would realize he was out of his class in this game, and sell Italy while he still could. Surely--

  "Grey," Herman said over the phone, "this Doon. Is he stupid?"

  "If he is, it's the best-kept secret on Capitol."

  "His game is too stupid to believed. Totally stupid. He's doing everything wrong. Anything that could be done right, he's done the opposite. Does that sound like him to you?"

  "Doon's built up a financial empire from nothing to the largest I've ever heard of on Capitol, and done it in only eleven years since his majority," Grey answered. "That doesn't sound like him."

  "Which means that either he's not playing the game himself--"

  "No, he's playing, that's the law and the computer says he's following it--"

  "Or he's deliberately playing to lose."

  Grey's shrug was almost audible. "Why would anybody do that?"

  "I want to meet him."

  "He'll never come."

  "On some neutral ground, someplace that neither of us controls."

  "Herman, you don't know this man. If you don't control the ground, he does-- or will, by the time meeting takes place. There is no neutral ground."

  "I want to meet him, Grey. I want to find out what the hell he's doi
ng with my empire."

  And Herman went back to watching as the revolution in England was put down brutally. Brutally, but not thoroughly. The computer showed armed bands still roaming in Wales and the Scottish highlands, and urban guerrillas still alive in London, Manchester, and Liverpool. Doon could see that information, too. But he chose to ignore it. And chose to ignore the revolutionary movement gaining force in Germany, the brigands harassing the farmers in Mesopotamia, the Chinese encroachments in Siberia.

  Asinine.

  And the fabric of a well-wrought empire began to come apart.

  The telephone sent its gentle buzz into the flexible speaker in his pillow, and Herman awoke. Not even opening his eyes, he said into the pillow, "I'm asleep, drop dead."

  "This is Grey."

  "You're fired, Grey."

  "Doon says he'll meet with you."

  "Call my secretary for an appointment."

  "But he says he'll only meet with you if you can come to the C24b tube station within thirty minutes."

  "That isn't even in my sector," Herman complained.

  "So he isn't trying to make it easy for you."

  Herman groaned and got out of bed, dressed in a suit that looked far from natty as he sagged out of the flat and into the corridors. The tubes were running a half-schedule at that time of morning, and Herman stumbled into one and followed the route that let him to station C24b. It was even less crowded than Herman's own area, and there on the platform waited an unprepossessing young man, only a little taller than Herman himself. He was alone.

  "Doon?" Herman asked.

  "Grandfather," the young man answered. Herman looked at him blankly. Grandfather?

  "Not possible."

  "Abner Doon, colt, out of filly Sylvaii, daughter of Herman Nuber and Birniss Humbol. An admirable pedigree, don't you think?"

  Herman was appalled. After all these solitary years, to discover that his young tormentor was a relative-- "Dammit, boy, I have no family. What is this, vengeance for a divorce a hundred years ago? I paid your grandmother well. If you're telling the truth."

  But Doon only smiled. "Actually, Grandfather, I don't give a damn about your liaison and lack of it with my grandmother. I don't like her anyway, and we haven't spoken in years. She says I'm too much like you. And so now when she comes out of somec, she doesn't even look me up. I visit her just to be annoying."

  "A trait you seem to specialize in."

  "You find a long-lost grandchild, and already you're trying to cause division in the family. What an ugly way of dealing with family crises."

  And Doon turned on his heel. Since they hadn't yet discussed the game, Herman had no choice but to follow. "Listen, boy," Herman said as he trotted doggedly behind the younger man's brisk walk, "I don't know what your purpose is with my game, but you certainly don't need any money. And you're certainly not going to win any bets, not the way you're playing."

  Doon smiled over his shoulder and went on walking down the corridors. "It rather depends, doesn't it, on whit I'm betting on."

  "You mean you're betting that you'll lose? The way you're playing, you'd never get any takers."

  "No, Grandfather. As a matter of fact, I'm holding bets made months ago. Bets that Italy would be destroyed and utterly gone from Europe 1914d within two months of your waking."

  "Uttedy destroyed!" Herman laughed. "Not a chance of that, boy. I built too well, even for a games moron like you."

  Doon touched a door and it slid open.

  "Come in, Grandfather."

  "Not a chance, Doon. What kind of fool do you take me for?"

  "A rather small one, actually," Doon said, and Herman followed the younger man's gaze to the two men standing behind him.

  "Whore did they come from?" Herman asked stupidly.

  "They're my friends. They're coming to this party with us. I like to keep myself surrounded by friends."

  Herman followed Doon inside.

  The setting was austere, functional, almost middle-class in its plainness. But the walls were lined with real wood-- Herman recognized it at a glance-- and the computer that overwhelmed the small front room was the most expensive, most self-contained model available.

  "Grandfather," Doon said, "contrary to what you think, I brought you here tonight because, for all that you've been a remarkably bad parent and grandparent, I feel some residual desire for you not to hate me."

  "You lose," Herman replied. The two thugs grinned moronically at him.

  "You haven't had much connection with the real world lately," Doon commented.

  "More than I wanted."

  "Instead you've devoted your life and your fortune building up an empire on a shadow world that exists only in the computer."

  "My Lord, boy, you sound like a clergyman."

  "Mother wanted me to be a minister," Doon said. "She was always pathetically hunting for her father-- you, if you recall-- but this time a father who'd not desert her. Sadly, sadly, Grandfather, she finally found that surrogate parent in God."

  "At least I thought I'd bequeath a child of mine some good sense," Herman said in disgust.

  "You've bequeathed more than you know."

  The world of Europe 1914d appeared on the holo. Italy was pinkly dominant.

  "It's beautiful," Doon said, and Herman was surprised by the honest admiration in his voice.

  "Nice of you to notice," Herman replied.

  "No one but you could have built it."

  "I know."

  "How long do you think it would take to destroy it?"

  Herman laughed. "Don't you know your history, boy? Rome was falling from the end of the republic on, and it took fifteen hundred years for the last remnant to fall. England's power was fading from the' eventeenth century on, but nobody noticed because it kept gathering real estate. It stayed independent for another four hundred years. Empires don't fall easily, boy."

  "What would you say about an empire failing in a week?"

  "That it wasn't a well-built empire, then."

  "What about yours, Grandfather?"

  "Stop calling me that."

  "How well have you built?"

  Herman glared at Doon. "No one has ever built better."

  "Napoleon?"

  "His empire didn't outlive him."

  "And yours will outlive you?"

  "Even a total incompetent could keep it intact."

  Doon laughed. "But we're not talking about a total incompetent, Grandfather. We're talking about your own grandson, who has everything you ever had, only more of it."

  Herman stood up. "This meeting is pointless. I have no family. I lost custody of my daughter because I didn't want her. I don't know, and I certainly don't want her offspring. I'll be under somec in a few months, and when I wake up I'll take Italy, whatever damage you've done to it, and build it back."

  Doon laughed. "But Herman. Once a country has ceased to exist, it can't be brought back into the game. When I'm through with Italy, it'll be a computer standard country, and you won't be able to buy it."

  "Look, boy," Herman said coldly, "do you plan to keep me here against my will?"

  "Youre the one who asked for a meeting."

  "I regret it."

  "Seven days, Grandfather, and Italy will be gone."

  "Inconceivable."

  "I actually plan to do it in four days, but something might go wrong."

  "Of all criminals, the worst are those who see beauty only as an opportunity for destruction."

  "Good-bye, Grandfather."

  But at the door, Herman turned to Doon and pleaded, "Why are you doing this? Why don't you stop?"

  "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder."

  "Can't you wait until next time? Can't you let me have Italy for this waking?"

  Doon only smiled. "Grandfather, I know how you play. If you had Italy this waking, you'd take over the world, wouldn't you? And then the game would end."

  "Of course."

  "That's why I have to destroy Italy now-- while
I still can."

  "Why Italy? Why not go ruin somebody else's empire?"

  "Because, Grandfather, it's no challenge to destroy the weak."

  Herman left, and the door slid shut behind him. He went back to the tube, and it took him to his home station. At home, the holo of the globe was still dominated by pink. Herman stopped and looked at it, and even as bg watched, a large section of Siberia changed colors. He no longer raged at Doon's incompetence. The boy was obviously compensating for a miserably religious childhood, which he blamed on his grandfather. But no amount of talent the boy might have could possibly dismember Italy. The computer was too rigidly realistic. Once the computer-simulated populace of Italy realized what Doon's character, the dictator, was doing, the unchanging laws of interaction between government and governed would oust him. He would be compelled to sell, and Herman could buy. And rebuild all the damage.

  England rebelled again, and Herman went to bed.

  But he woke gasping, and remembered that in his dream he had been crying. Why? But even as he tried to remember, the dream slipped from his mind's grasp, and he could only remember that it had something to do with his former wife.

  He went to the computer and cleared it of the game. Birniss Humbol. The computer summoned her picture to the screen, and Herman looked as she went through a sequence of facial expressions. She was beautiful then, and the computer awakened memories.

  A courtship that had been oddly chaste-- perhaps religion was already in Birniss's blood, only to surface fully in her daughter. Their wedding night had been their first intercourse, and Herman laughed at how it had been-- Birniss, worldly and wise, so strangely timid as she confessed her unpreparedness to her husband. And Herman, tender and careful, leading her through the mysteries. And at the end, her asking him, "Is that all?"

  "It'll be better later," he had said, more than a little hurt.

  "It wasn't half as bad as I expected," she answered. "Do it again."

  They had done everything together. Everything, that is, but the game. And it was a crucial time for Italy. He began going to bed later and later, talking to her less, and even then talking of nothing but Italy and the affairs of his small but beautiful world.

  There was no other man when she divorced him, and to satisfy a whim of curiosity he looked up her name in the vital statistics bank. He wasn't surprised when the computer told him that she had never remarried, though she hadn't kept his name.