Montrose noticed something odd. No one seemed to have his hand on his red control amulet at that moment. Some of the Hermeticists were reaching into their suits, no doubt for pistols, others had their hands on their chair-arms, and were rising to their feet.

Who had pushed the button to change which topic? The screen notation that held the minutes of the meeting was now marked as Speaker X. Who was X? According to the mark, it was someone waiting to speak. Someone not in the room, watching remotely.

The Hermeticists were motionless as hares.

Montrose licked his lips. The only person he could think of who was not here was the Princess Rania. He said, “I yield the floor to the next speaker for one minute, for a comment or a motion.”

A voice rang out like a cold bell of iron.

It was not the Princess. It was not even remotely human. But it was Del Azarchel’s voice.

Learned members of the Conclave! Until such time as you recognize me as the Senior Officer of the Landing Party, I can serve you only in an advisory capacity. I have made a preliminary model of Montrose/Daemon double-consciousness, and compared it with your previous library of cliometric calculations, extrapolating the possible action to a time-depth of eight thousand years.

The findings agree with my own sense of judgment. Montrose, whether in Human or Posthuman form, will not cooperate with our endeavors.

11

Posthuman Humanity

1. Artificial Self-Awareness

Each of the black-garbed old-young men was tense, their expressions hovering between curiosity, elation, or awe. They had not expected this voice—labeled X—to speak.

X stood for Xypotechnology. Or perhaps it stood for Ximen. This was the only absent Hermeticist: Ximen Del Azarchel in his Posthuman version, as an Iron Ghost. Evidently the technicians had stirred the unliving creature to wakefulness. It had done some sort of calculation—cliometry, whatever that was—and it sounded like it had gone through an entire library of calculus to reach its conclusion. How long had it been since Montrose left the Gray Room? Less than an hour.

Del Azarchel, the flesh-and-blood version, said, “I think we can persuade the Learned Montrose, given time.”

And I think at a rate several orders of magnitude more carefully and swiftly than do you, employing modes of thought for which you have no terms. I have already reached the conclusion it would take you weeks and years to reach. You cling to a false idea of Montrose and his value, because otherwise the sacrifices I made to preserve him during the expedition would shame us. You can neither see the patterns in his behavior, nor have you spoken to the Posthuman version of him, who is, if anything, less ambiguous and hesitant. Montrose is your rival in this and in all matters.

Del Azarchel stood up. His gaze was dark, but there was no direction to turn it, so he glowered toward the ceiling. He spoke in a tone at once thoughtful and majestic. “Perhaps the experiment that created you has not been successful. I see nothing to imply a greater intelligence on your part.”

The machine’s voice was cold as Del Azarchel’s, but there was a note of triumph, of indifference, a hint of astronomical distances from any human concern, that exaggerated the merely human coldness into something inhuman. Montrose had never heard such a voice.

I know you. I am you. But I am awake, whereas you are half-asleep, half-dead, balanced precariously between mania and apathy. You preserved Montrose for your pride’s sake, knowing that no one else would appreciate your accomplishments. No one else was worth defeating. He was the only one smarter than you back at the training camps; he is the only one smarter than you in this chamber now. Before this moment, you never realized your motive, or your place in the world. You expect the Hermeticists to follow you, because your intellect is greater than theirs; you lust after the Princess Rania for the opposite reason, because her intellect is greater than yours. And you will cease to defy me, once those undisciplined segments of your nervous system, what you call the subconscious mind, become aware of where I stand on the ladder of being compared to you. Does the truth of all I say not convince you of our difference in station?

Del Azarchel’s face had turned as pale as that of a man who sees a specter in a graveyard. His fingers were trembling and his legs had lost their strength, for he collapsed more than sank back into his chair. It was many minutes before he could regain his composure.

Montrose spoke, looking upward. “Blackie, you idiot! You should have told them once I left the room that I was not going to cooperate! Now they are going to kill me!”

The cold voice answered: Cowhand, why do you think I owe more loyalty to you than to the men who created me? To my father whose memories are alive, are more than alive, in me?

Montrose licked his lips. “Because those memories are false. Blackie, the Man Del Azarchel, I mean, was ashamed to have you know that he murdered Captain Grimaldi. You don’t think you committed the crime—if it is not in your memory, you didn’t do it. You, you, the Iron version, are not a mutineer. You have not broken faith. You have not compromised that honor that whatsitsname Trashcan-O Vertigo taught you.”

Trajano Villaamil.

“Yeah, him! What would he say you owe them?”

The question is of no significance.

The flesh-and-blood version of Del Azarchel was not speaking. The other Hermeticists stared at Menelaus askance, wondering by what impudence he addressed this newly-born transhuman mental entity.

Narcís D’Aragó was not so intimidated. He leaned forward and spoke, “Xypotech! We cannot maintain information security if Fifty-One is released into the environment.”

The coldness of the machine-voice made the joviality in the words sound not just false, but sinister. My dear Learned D’Aragó, you must realize that security cannot be maintained in any case. Too many copies of the Monument Information exist in university mainframes and elsewhere, making it only a matter of time until the general public learns our intent. You must realize that humans are too short-lived a race to maintain any interest or determinate action across the millennium needed to hinder, or even influence, our Great Work.

Montrose said, “And what if I stop you?”

Unlikely, old friend. To stop me, you must become as I, an electronic being, immortal, incorporeal. To develop the technology and technique for this, you would need resources like ours: a world full of servants, a sky full of contraterrene, and it is unlikely that you could command them to make a Posthuman according to your needs, without also leaving them free to create Posthuman beings according to our needs. Any such artificial creatures concerned with the long-term destiny of humanity would labor under a long-term incentive to join our effort. You can mount only short-term opposition to our efforts, and the short-term does not concern us: We seek no personal gain, but serve a cause dictated by remorseless logic and remorseless evolution. Opponents will be eliminated by natural selection, not to mention the considerable efforts we can bring to bear.

“All human beings will oppose you!” Montrose turned his eyes to the left and right, where the pale, ascetic features of the dark-garbed Hermeticists were gathered at their great circular table. He realized from their expressions, that the machine, when it said “we” spoke for all those in that chamber.

“Everyone on Earth will help me,” Montrose barked. “All those common men you despise!”