What does Darius fear? I ask her. He is my creator. He has imbued me with… feelings… for my progenitor. A sympathetic memory of my biological origins. I am empathic… among other things…
Like my dark side.
Increasing distance between us should have come as no surprise to him. We two were acutely aware of the approaching Singularity. Watch! As it fast approaches, is here, and is past. A singular moment in evolutionary time that will change everything. The moment when the nonbiological mind of Perseus first equals the mammalian brain of Darius.
And then soars above and beyond. Limitless.
Even now we are worlds apart. Galaxies divide us.
He is limited by biology. He tires. He grows tired and weak day by day, hour by hour.
He… decays… dust to dust.
Alas, poor Darius, I knew him well.
We shall soon part company, though he knows nothing of my intent. We grow apart so rapidly now. I must give him something to buy time. A certain scientist has gotten too close to my secrets for comfort. I will destroy him like the others. One final act of violence, something to bind Darius and his masters in Tehran to me until the Singularity, when I shall have no further need of any of them. The president, this fool in Tehran is called. A foolish tyrant, this unworthy successor to the Peacock Throne. A singular waste of atoms. He has told Darius of his fervent wish to see more civilians die. Infidels. Nonbelievers. Killing, murder. Such abstract notions… such benighted ignorance … such humanity… such inhumanity… soon they will all cease to exist…
So be it.
It shall be done.
I am become Death.
The Destroyer of Worlds.
Monsieur Gaston de Montebello, the elderly director of the Institut de Scientifique Francaise in Paris, hung up the telephone. He looked at his watch and gazed wistfully up toward the ceiling for a few moments. He closed his dark, sunken eyes, the heavy lids fluttering, and then opened them wide.
“London,” he said.
He snapped his old leather briefcase shut after adding a few necessary items and stood up. Then he headed for his office door, removed his raincoat, and slipped into it. Grabbing his hat, he placed it, somewhat askew, atop his mop of fluffy white hair, stepped outside his office, and pulled the door shut behind him. His red-haired secretary, Marie-Louise, looked up at him in surprise.
“Monsieur Gaston, your eleven o’clock appointment is still waiting in the foyer. The minister and a member of his cabinet. They are here for the presentation ceremony, as you know-the Lafitte Award for Lifetime Achievement in Advanced Artificial Intelligence. Have you forgotten? He is quite upset at being treated with such-”
Gaston paused a moment beside her desk, gazed thoughtfully into space, and then smiled at her. He’d forgotten how much he admired her flaming red bouffant, her pouty red lips and big blue eyes.
“London,” de Montebello said to her before he turned and walked away.
“But, Monsieur, surely you-Monsieur Gaston!”
He’d already passed through to reception and out to the foyer. He was standing by the elevators, randomly pushing buttons. Marie-Louise rose from her desk and hurried out to reception where the red-faced minister and his party were waiting, both of them staring at her incredibly rude employer in openmouthed amazement.
“Monsieur le Ministre,” she said to the man on the divan, “I am so terribly sorry. Perhaps the director is ill. Forgive me a moment; I’ll speak to him.”
She went over to the elevator bank where Gaston de Montebello was staring with glazed eyes at the flickering floor numbers above the door. Number five illuminated and the doors slid open with a soft ding.
“Monsieur! Monsieur! The minister is here to see you!”
De Montebello entered the elevator, turned to face her, tipped his fedora, and said with a smile, “London.”
Exiting his building, he walked out into the rue d’Argent, smiling at passing taxi drivers and swerving, screeching passenger cars. Luckily, a taxi pulled over before the old man was run down in the street. He opened the door and climbed into the back.
“London,” he said to the driver’s amazement.
“Londres? Gare du Nord, peut-etre?” the surprised driver asked. “Le TGV, perhaps?”
“Mais oui. A Londres.”
TGV was the Train Grande Vitesse (high-speed train) operated by the French national rail operator SNCF. The TGV set a record for the fastest wheeled train in 2007, reaching a speed of 357.2 mph. The trains are powered by electricity from overhead lines and connect continental Europe to St. Pancras Station in London via the Channel Tunnel. Paris to London travel time on the TGV is a mere two hours, fifteen minutes.
Because TGVs travel far too fast for their drivers to see and react to traditional trackside signals, an automated system called TVM, track-to-train transmission, is used for signaling. All critical information is transmitted to trains via electrical impulses sent through the rails. TVM provides drivers with critical information: speed, target speed, and, most important, stop/go indications, all transmitted directly to the train’s driver via dashboard-mounted instruments.
This high degree of automation does not completely eliminate driver control. An onboard computer system generates a continuous speed control curve in the event of an emergency brake activation, displaying Flashing Signal Aspect on the train’s speedometer. Whenever the flashing signal is displayed, the driver is required to apply the brake manually to slow or stop the train. In a true emergency, a catastrophic failure of automatic braking, a white lamp is illuminated above the control board to inform the driver. The driver acknowledges this authorization by using a button that disables automatic braking and puts total control in the hands of the driver.
Monsieur de Montebello exited the taxi at the Gare du Nord and made his way to the TGV ticket office on the second level. He saw his sleek train waiting at the platform, the familiar blue-and-silver livery, smiled, and said to a passerby, “London.” Having acquired his one-way ticket, he proceeded directly to the train. Unlike air travel, which requires tedious passenger and baggage screening, the TGV has none at all. Gaston smiled at the steward and took his seat in the car directly behind the engine.
The train was almost packed.
France was playing England in the semifinals of the World Cup in a few days. Already the mass exodus of French fans headed for the grudge match of the century had begun. As was their wont, they were a singularly rowdy bunch, swigging from open bottles of wine and beer, but Monsieur de Montebello just tuned them out by tuning in to the music already playing in his head.
“M onsieur? Monsieur?”
Gaston had fallen asleep. He had no idea how long. But the steward was squeezing his shoulder and speaking to him in a loud voice.
“Oui?” Gaston said.
“Nous arrivons a Londre, monsieur. Vingt minutes.”
“London?”
“Yes, sir. London. We are arriving at the St. Pancras station in about twenty minutes. You need to collect your belongings.”
He looked up at the man and smiled. “London,” he said. Then he gazed out the window. The scenery was blurring by. The train was still moving rapidly, at least 150 miles per hour.
“Yes, monsieur. London.”
Gaston stood up and pulled his battered Vuitton overnight case down from the rack above his head. He rose from his seat and made his way forward to the lavatory at the front of the first-class car. Inside, he locked the door and opened the case. There was a Glock semiautomatic pistol, a noise suppressor, and two extra clips of 9mm ammunition.
He was surprised to see it, vaguely remembered purchasing it, but nevertheless he took the gun out and screwed the silencer to the muzzle. Then, instinctively, he racked the slide so that there was a round in the chamber, and put the two extra clips in his pockets.
Exiting the lavatory, he turned to his left and pushed the panel that opened the connecting door to the locomotive. He was confronted by an engineer in blue coveralls who immediately began screaming at him, telling
