Capitol

by Orson Scott Card

  Had there been something remarkable about their marriage, so that she'd never marry again? Or was it simply that she had only trusted one man, and then found that marriage wasn't what she'd wanted-- or sex, either, by extension. Her hurt had poisoned their daughter; her hurt had poisoned Doon. Poor boy, Herman thought. The sins of the fathers. But the divorce, however regrettable, had been inevitable. To save the marriage, Herman would have had to sacrifice the game. And never in history, real or feigned, had there been such a thing of beauty as his Italy. Dissertations had been written on it, and he knew that he was acclaimed by the students of alternate histories as the greatest genius ever to have played. "A match for Napolean, Julius, or Augustus." He remembered that one, and likewise the statement of one professor who had pleaded for an interview until Herman's vanity no longer allowed him to resist: "Herman Nuber, not even America, not even England, not even Byzantium compared to your Italy for stability, for grace, for power." High praise, coming from a man who had specialized in real European history, with the chauvinism of the historian for the era he studied.

  Doon. Abner Doon, And when the lad had proven himself no match for his grandfather's gifts as a builder, what would happen to him?

  Herman found himself, as he dozed at the computer, daydreaming of a reconciliation of some kind. Abner Doon embracing him and saying, Grandfather, you built too well. You built for all time. Forgive my presumption.

  Even Herman's dreams, he realized as he awoke, even my dreams require the surrender of everyone around me. Birniss's image was still on the screen. He erased her, and began to scan Italy.

  The entire empire was being swept by revolution from one end to the other. Even in the homeland on the Italic Peninsula. Herman stared in disbelief. It had only been overnight, and suddenly all the revolutions had come at once.

  It was unprecedented in history. How could the computer have been so mad? It had to be a malfunction. Many empires had faced rebellion, but never, never so general-- never universal revolution. Even the army was in mutiny. And the enemies of Italy were madly plunging over the borders to take advantage of the situation.

  "Grey!" Herman shouted over the phone. "Grey, do you know what hes doing?"

  "How can I help it?" Grey asked nastily. "All the gamesplayers on my staff have been chattering about it all morning."

  "How did he do it?"

  "Look, Herman, you're the games expert. I don't even play, all right? And I've got work to do. Did you meet with him?"

  "Yes."

  "And?"

  "He's my grandson."

  "I wondered if he'd tell you."

  "You knew?"

  "Of course," Grey answered. "And I had his psychologicat profile. Do you think I would have let you meet him alone if I hadn't been sure he had no intention of harming you?"

  "Not harming me? What about those walking turds he had beat me to a pudding last week?"

  "Retaliation, Herman, that's all. He's a good retaliator."

  "You're fired!" Herman shouted, slamming the button on the console that disconnected the conversation. And he watched grimly, hour after hour, as the loyal fragments of Italy's army attempted to cope with the mutiny and revolution and invasion all at once. It was impossible, and by late afternoon, the only pink areas on the globe were in Gaul, Iberia, Italy itself, and a small pocket in Poland.

  The computer reported that Doon's persona, the dictator of Italy, had vanished, and would-be assassins couldn't put him to death. And as Rome itself fell to an invading army from Nigeria and America, he knew that now defeat and destruction were inevitable. Impossible yesterday, inevitable today.

  Still he fought his despair, and sent an urgent message to Grey, forgetting that he had fired him that morning. Grey responded as deferently as ever.

  "Offer to buy Italy," Herman said.

  "Now? The thing's in ruins."

  "I might pull it out. I still might. Surely he's proved his point by now."

  "I'll try," Grey said.

  But by late evening, there was no pink on the board. The other players and the computer's ironclad adherence to the laws of public behavior had left the game no chance of Italy's rebirth. The information appeared on the status lists. "Iran: newly independent; Italy: discontinued; Japan: at war with China and India over the domination of Siberia..." No special notice. Nothing. Italy: discontinued.

  Grimly Herman played back all the information he could find in the computer. How had Doon done it? It was impossible. But for hours as he pored over the information the computer gave him, Herman began to see the endless machinations that Doon had set in motion, always postponing revolution here, advancing it there, antagonizing here, soothing there, so that when the full revolution erupted it was universal; so that when Italy's defeat was obvious, there was no lingering desire to have some fragment of it remain. He had gauged the hatred better than the computer itself; he had destroyed more thoroughly than any man had ever built. And in his bitterness at the wrecking of his creation, Herman still had to recognize a kind of majesty in what Doon had done. But it was a satanic majesty, a regal power to destroy.

  "A mighty hunter before the Lord," said Doon, and Herman whirled to see Doon standing in his living room.

  "How did you get in here," Herman stammered.

  "I have connections," Doon said, smiling. "I knew you'd never let me in, and I had to see you."

  "You've seen me," Herman said, and turned away.

  "It went faster than I thought it would," Doon said.

  "Glad to know something could surprise you."

  Doon might have said more, but at that point Herman's self-control, overstrained that day, broke down. He didn't weep, but he did grip the console of the computer far too tightly, as if afraid that when he let go the centrifugal force of Capitol's rotation would throw him into space.

  Grey and two doctors came at Doon's anonymous call, and the doctors pried Herman's fingers away hvm the console and led him to bed. A sedative and some instructions to Grey, and they left again. It was only mild-- too much in one day, that's all. He'd feel much better when he woke up.

  * * *

  Herman felt much better when he woke up. He had slept dreamlessly-- the sedatives did their work well. The false sunlight streamed through his expensive artificial window, which seemed to open on the countryside outside Florence, though of course in reality nothing but another flat much like his own was on the other side of that wall. Herman looked at the sunlight and wondered if the illusion was good. He had been born on Capitol-- he had no idea whether sunlight really streamed into windows that way.

  Under the dazzling light, Abner Doon sat on a chair, asleep. Seeing him brought a flood of feelings back to Herman-- but he retained his control, and the vestiges of the drugs made him oddly calm about things, after all. He watched his grandson's sleeping face and wondered how so much hatred could be hidden there.

  Doon awoke. He looked immediately at his grandfather, saw that he was awake, and smiled gently. But he said nothing. Just stood and carried his chair closer to Herman's bed. Herman watched him silently, and wondered what was going to happen. But the drug kept saying, "I don't care what happens," and Herman didn't care what was going to happen.

  "Is it all discharged?" he asked softly, and Doon only smiled more broadly.

  "You're so young," Doon said. And then, so quickly that Herman had no time (and the drug gave him no inclination) to resist, the younger man reached out and touched Herman's forehead lightly. The hand was dry, and it traced the faint lines that had begun to cleave the skin. "You're so young."

  Am I? Herman thought, as he rarely did, of how old he was in real time. He had gone on somec-- what, seventy years ago? At his average rate of one out of four, that meant it had been only seventeen years of subjective time since he had first been able to use the sleeping drug, the gift of eternal life. Seventeen years. And all of them devoted to building Italy. And yet.

  And yet those seventeen years hadn't even been half the time he had liv
ed. Subjectively, he wasn't forty yet. Subjectively, he could start again. Subjectively, there was more than enough time for him to make an empire that even Doon couldn't break down.

  "But I can't, can I?" Herman asked, unaware that his question arose from private thoughts.

  Yet Doon understood. "I've learned everything you know about building, Grandfather," he said. "But you'll never understand what I've learned about tearing down."

  Herman smiled wanly, the only kind of smile available to him under the drug. "It's a field of study I largely ignored."

  "And yet it's the only one with eternal results. Build well, and eventually your beautiful creation, Grandfather, with or without my help, eventually it will fall. But destroy thoroughly, destroy effectively, and what was wrecked will never be rebuilt. Never."

  And the drug took Herman's fury and hatred and turned it into regret and gentle grief. Tears spun from his eyelashes as he blinked.

  "Italy was beautiful," he said.

  Doon only nodded.

  And as the tears now began to flow smoothly onto the pillow, Herman whimpered, "Why'd you do it, boy?"

  "It was practice."

  "Practice for what?"

  "Saving the human race."

  The drug permitted Herman to smile a little at that. "Quite a warm-up, boy. What can you dystroy now, after Italy?"

  Doon said nothing. He just walked to the window and looked through it.

  "Do you know what's going on outside your window?"

  Herman mumbled, "No."

  "Peasants are pressing olives. And bringing food to Florence. A lovely scene, Grandfather. Very pastoral."

  "Does that mean it's spring? Or autumn?"

  "Who remembers?" Doon asked. "Who cares? The seasons are what we say they are on every world in the Empire, and on Capitol we care nothing for seasons at all. We've mastered everything, haven't we? The Empire is powerful, and even the attempts of the enemy to attack us are only the annoyance of mosquitoes."

  The word mosquito meant nothing to Herman, but he was too weary to ask.

  "Grandfather, the Empire is stable. Not as perfect as Italy, perhaps, but strong and stable and with somec keeping the elite alive for centuries, what force could possibly topple the Empire?"

  Herman struggled to think. He had never thought of the Empire as being a nation, like those in the International Games. The Empire was-- was reality. Nothing would ever hurt it. "Nothing can hurt the Empire," Herman said.

  "I can," Doon said.

  "You're insane," Herman answered.

  "Probably," Doon said, and then the conversation lagged and the drug decided that Herman would sleep. He slept.

  * * *

  "I want to see Doon," Herman told Grey.

  "I would have thought," Grey answered mildly, "that you'd seen enough of him last month."

  "I want to see him."

  "Herman, this is becoming an obsession. The doctors say I can't let you do anything to upset yourself. If you'll just behave reasonably for a few months, we can get you back on somec and I can give you back fifty percent of your power of attorney."

  "I don't like being considered insane."

  "It's just a technicality. It's keeping you alive, you know."

  "Grey, all I've done is try to warn--"

  "Don't start that. The doctors are monitoring this call. Herman, this Empire isn't interested in your pathetic theories about Doon--"

  "He said it himself!"

  "Abner Doon destroyed Italy. It was ugly, it was cruel, it was pointless, but it was legal. Now to fantasize that he's also out to destroy the Empire--"

  "It's not a fantasy!" Herman roared.

  "Herman, the doctors said I have to call it a fantasy to help you see reality."

  "He's going to wreck the Empire! He can do it!"

  "That kind of talk is treason, Herman. Stop talking like that and we can get you declared legally sane again. But if you say things like that when you're responsible for yourself, you can be executed very quickly by Mother's Little Boys."

  "Grey, whether I'm sane or not, I want to talk to Doon!"

  "Herman, drop it. Forget it. It was just a game. He was your grandson. He was hurt, he tried to hurt you back. But don't let it damage you like this."

  "Grey, tell the doctors I want to talk to Doon!"

  Grey sighed. "I'll tell them on one condition."

  "What's that?"

  "That if they give you one meeting with Doon, you'll never ask for another."

  "I promise. I only want one meeting."

  "Then I'll do my best."

  Grey switched off the phone, and Herman disconnected his end. The telephone now would only connect him to Grey's office. He could make no other calls. He couldn't open the door. And his computer would no longer let him watch the broadcast games.

  It was only an hour before Grey was back on the phone.

  "Well?" Herman asked eagerly.

  "They said yes."

  "Connect me then!" Herman demanded.

  "I already tried. Impossible."

  "How can it be impossible? He'll talk to me! I know he will!"

  "He's under somec, Herman. He went under only a few days after he wrecked-- after the game. He won't be awake for three years."

  And with a whimper Herman disconnected the phone again.

  * * *

  It took five years of therapy-- five years without somec-- for Herman at last to admit that his fear of Doon was abnormal, and that actually Doon had never hinted that he meant to wreck the Empire. Of course Herman had said that from the beginning, as soon as he realized that was what the doctors wanted to hear. But the machines enforced truth, and it was not until the machines told the doctors that Herman was not lying when he said those things that the doctors at last pronounced him cured and Grey's staff (Grey was under somec at the time) released fifty percent of Herman's power of attorney to him. Herman promptly signed it all back and went under somec, trying to snatch back the years of somec sleep that had been taken from him while the doctors cured him of his ridiculous delusions.

  For nearly a century, Doon's and Herman's wakings failed to coincide. At first Herman hadn't tried to look Doon up-- the cure had taken from him, for a while at least, any curiosity about his grandson. Then he had learned to look back on the strange episode that had so changed his life without fear or anger; and he had pored over the records of the famous game. Many books had been written on it-- The Rise and Fall of Nuber's Italy was over two thousand views long. And as he philosophically studied the structure he had built and the way it had fallen, the desire grew in him to meet his opponent and grandson. Not again, because the doctors had convinced Herman utterly of the truth that he hadn't seen Doon at all after the battle.

  But when Herman tried to look up Abner Doon's waking schedule at the sleeproom, he was informed that Doon's wakings were a matter of state security. That meant only one thing-- Doon was sleeping longer than the absolute maximum of ten years and waking less than the absolute minimum of two months. It meant he was in a power group inaccessible even to most government officials. And it increased Herman's desire to see him.

  It was not until Herman had reached the subjective age of seventy that he finally succeeded. Centuries of Empire history had passed, and Herman followed them carefully. He read everything he could get into his computer on history-- Empire and otherwise. He wasn't sure what he was looking for; but he was sure that he had never found it. And then one day his inquiry at the sleeproom brought him the information that Abner Doon was awake. They wouldn't tell him how long Doon had been awake or how soon he would sleep again, but it was enough. Herman sent the message, and to his surprise, a message returned that Doon would see him. That Doon would even come to him.

  Herman fretted for hours, wondering now what it was he had wanted to see Doon for. There was no filial feeling, Herman decided. Family was nothing to him. It was the wish of a great player to meet the man who had defeated him, that's all. Napolean's wish, just before his
death, to talk to Wellington. Hitler's mad craving to speak to Roosevelt. Julius's dying passion to converse, for just a moment as the blood poured from him, with Brutus.

  What's in the mind of the man who destroyed you? That was the question that had nagged at Herman's mind for years, and he wondered, now, if he would find the answer. And yet this would be his only chance. Herman's five years of therapy had cost him dearly, and he could see-- as so few others could-- his mortality waiting around the corner. Somec only postponed, it did not end.

  "Grandfather," said a gentle voice, and Herman woke abruptly. When had he fallen asleep? No matter. Before him stood the short, now rather portly man that he recognized as his grandson. It was shocking to see how young Doon was, though. Hardly older than when they had locked horns so many, many years ago.

  "My legendary opponent," said Herman, extending his hand.

  Doon took the offered fingers, but instead of gripping them, he spread the old man's hand on his. "Even somec takes its toll, doesn't it?" he asked, and the sadness in his eyes told Herman that, after all, someone else understood the death that somec so cleverly carried within its life-preserving promise.

  "Why did you want to see me?" Doon asked.

  And heavy, slow, inexplicable tears rolled out of Herman's aging eyes. "I don't know," he said. "I just wanted to know how you were doing."

  "I'm doing well," Doon said. "My department has colonized dozens of worlds in the last few centuries. The enemy's on the run-- we're going to outpopulate him if he doesn't do the same. The Empire's growing."

  "I'm so glad. Glad the Empire's growing. Building on empire's such a lovely thing." Pointlessly he added, "I built an empire once."

  "I know," Doon said. "I destroyed it."

  "Oh yes, yes," Herman said. "That's why I wanted to see you."

  Doon nodded and waited for the question.

  "I wondered. I wanted to know why you chose me. Why you decided to do it. I can't remember why, you know. My memory isn't all it was."

  Doon smiled and held the old man's hand. "No one's memory is, Grandfather. I chose you because you were the greatest. I chose you because you were the highest mountain I could climb."