Алексей Ощепков – Triologues of Interdependent People (страница 3)

Dr. Cernus was beginning to understand how to deal with Rr. Unkno. He silently thanked the randomness machine that seated him on one tandem with such a weighty colleague.

“An impossible task, Doctor,” Unkno said, his tone slightly cooled. “To put it simply: we’ve got a decade. Without AI, the structural crisis would have dragged on until roughly 2035—judging by capital efficiency declines around 1908, 1930, and 1970. As for AI—Western elites can’t build energy infrastructure fast enough. A single nuclear power plant takes fifteen years. Orbital energy won’t arrive in time either. So—even if AI could technically revive the economy, energy won’t keep pace. And society’s mood is such that the young no longer see any point in knuckling down.”

“Well, for us near-elderly fellows,” Cernus replied, “there’s hardly a more amusing pastime anyway. But allow me—to ensure analytical purity—to ask: what’s the second factor constraining us temporally? It’s unwise to settle for just the first, obvious one.”

⁂

Rr. Unkno pondered for half a minute before declaring:

“Thirty years, Doctor. The next threshold lies three decades ahead. By then, the dominant territory on the planet will be the Land of the Old People. The world will change utterly.”

“Good grief,” Dr. Cernus was taken aback. “They number barely ten million—and are surrounded by dead desert. Not to mention the looming hot war with the remnants of the ancient Persian Empire.”

“If you plot technological endowment—which nearly coincides with affluence—on the horizontal axis, and fertility rate on the vertical, only they remain above and to the right of the survival threshold: the Old People.”

“Replacement, Rr. Unkno. The Western Imperium will undergo demographic replacement. Whites will dwindle, but those arriving from the south will master the technology already present on the territory.”

“Replacement won’t work. You can’t truly possess something handed to you freely, Doctor. The Eastern Imperium stole technology actively, exerting colossal effort—and now it’s rightfully theirs. Yet they’re degenerating even faster than whites. In fifty years, they’ll be gone.”

“Still, it’s exceedingly hard to believe the Old People will multiply so rapidly.”

“Biological growth may not be swift, but I repeat: every other developed nation collapses within half a century! For them—and for us—the core social game is status. And that’s a zero-sum game. There are only so many spots at the top for desirable husbands. Women refuse to bear children: it’s either a prince on a white horse or they opt out of continuing the human race altogether. But among the Old People—the only technologically advanced group left—they still honour religion. Having many children is high status! Moreover, East and West will inevitably clash. The Southern Marches won’t survive the race—they’re crippled by robotisation and epidemics. Famine from war is coming.”

“Surely there’s some way to fix the fertility crisis in the North and West?”

“Absolutely no possibility whatsoever, Doctor. Take it as a given,” Rr. Unkno snapped.

“Don’t try to upset me, esteemed Rr. Unkno. I’m in far too good a mood for that. Your estimates of the timeframe we have available are vastly more optimistic than mine—you’ve actually reassured me.”

“You don’t seriously believe in an imminent singularity, do you? Thirty years and ten—that’s what I gave you. Less than that? And more importantly—how?! How do you plan to doom humanity faster? What’s your recipe?”

“Rapidly expanding ground for tribalism,” Cernus replied.

The tandem kept rolling forward.

“Do explain what you expect,” Unkno finally said impatiently. “Or do you suppose that just because we grew up together in the same orphanage for homeless children, I can read your mind?”

“By the way—have you ever considered we weren’t paired on this tandem by accident? Maybe someone in the secretariat dug up something about our Flōs Oppidum?”

“Who knows? In any case, I’ll be filing a formal complaint against the organisers of this farce. Dragged everyone away from real work for God knows what reason,” Unkno grumbled.

“You used to be different. So was I. I recall being utterly intolerant in my early youth.”

“Perhaps that’s why I’m a ritter—and you’re still just a doctor?”

“It’s not a monotonic path, Rr. Unkno. Everything can change again. We can change. And I have neither intention nor incentive to compete with you. As for tribalism… Every human community—whether a Neolithic tribe or a modern ‘interest group’ assembled through media tools—is, at its core, a sect.”

“Agreed,” Unkno said. “A sect and nothing but a sect. Gather a hundred people—or three hundred—and they’ll invent some lunacy, bang their heads against walls defending it, and individual wisdom vanishes. Except for those sects that jointly claw their way toward power—they become mafia-style gangs on top of everything else. Well? I’m all ears.”

“‘Well’ what? It’s the long tail of the Maxwell distribution. When there were few of us—two hundred thousand years ago—you had to wait a very long time before some especially mad sect started brewing beer as part of its ritual. That led to agriculture—and then to all the madness it unleashed, including the apocalypse for which we’ve all already received invitations. Now, though, there are millions of self-appointed priests on social media, plus AI ready to help them first go insane and then cobble together some bio-abomination. AI may still be dumb—but it can already inspire.”

“Seca that tail off—straight to hell!” Rr. Unkno muttered, offering no clearer reply. One might excuse him—the road had begun climbing steeply by then.

“No, Rr. Unkno—‘sect’ comes from sequi: ‘to follow a path’. Not from ‘cut off.’”

“Don’t muddle my head with etymology, Cernus! The Red Leftists term ‘druzhinnik’—call it a ‘thug-myrmidon,’ if you like: an ignorant, unpaid hanger-on of some impotent militia—does indeed come from ‘drug’, meaning ‘friend.’ But that root has long been buried beneath later meanings, especially since the word was mostly invoked in wartime myths long before the reds got hold of it. So what?”

When the road finally dipped downhill, Unkno cooled down and said:

“My apologies, Doctor. Perhaps my irritation is fed by echoes of events now some thirty years past… or how long exactly?”

“Thirty-three years and three months. Thirty-three years and three months ago, our teacher was removed from his post. And I still disagree with you—it wasn’t because of us.”

“You’ve counted since that moment… I was referring to his death,” Unkno murmured.

“We’re certainly not to blame for his death. No one’s at fault that he couldn’t climb out of his self-induced depression. On the other hand—he wouldn’t have lived to see the light at the end of the tunnel anyway.”

“What on earth are you talking about, Cernus?” Rr. Unkno asked sharply.

“Haven’t you heard?” the doctor said, surprised. “Computing machines based on ternary logic have finally found a new technological foundation! The news broke just this year.”

“Good heavens. I hadn’t heard. But quadrillions have been poured into binary processors and computer culture as a whole—it’s impossible to catch up now.”

“Who can say, esteemed ritter? Who can say,” Dr. Cernus smiled. “Well then—here’s the checkpoint for our cycling leg. End of day one!”

<>

2. How Should the Emperor Govern the Empire?

Chapter Two, in which Rr. Unkno and Dr. Cernus, en route from Doobnah to Twer, exchange thoughts on who should be addressed with economic proposals—and why.

~

Dr. Cernus knocked, received no reply, and entered Rr. Unkno’s room. The visitor’s briefcase creaked as he pulled out a heavy black folder tied with red ribbons. Embossed on the cover were the words:

“The table groans with plenty, yet thou serve no purpose.”

The ritter grimaced—and made no attempt to hide it from the doctor.

“What’s wrong? Too harsh?” Cernus asked, concerned. “We can change it. For example: ‘There’s enough for everyone—but you’re not needed.’ Or ‘The End of Resource Scarcity as the Cornerstone of Economics. The Economic Relevance of the Individual Is Steadily Declining.’”

Unkno silently waved a hand toward the exit. They stepped out of the hotel. It couldn’t be said that the look Rr. Unkno cast at the hefty folder slipping into the saddlebag was one of approval. The riders hoisted themselves onto the tandem and set off toward the checkpoint on the cycle route. A minute later, as they crossed a small bridge, Unkno abruptly braked—causing momentary chaos in their coordination.

“Perhaps we ought to adopt the ‘suffragor’ signal before braking, Rr. Unkno,” Cernus suggested. “I’d rather not topple off this ungainly beast.”

“Agreed,” Unkno conceded without denying his lapse in coordination. “There’s a major scientific center nearby. Can you feel its spirit, Doctor? Its atomic-physics potential hypnotizes evolutionarily young monkeys of modern non-science like an ancient python.”

“All I hear is the roar of water beneath the bridge—so loud I can barely make out your words.”

“Good. That means no one else hears either. Clever people speak only to conceal. The Roaring Twenties of the 21st Century—that’s your sign. That’s the temporal horizon we discussed yesterday.”