The Golden Age

by John C. Wright

  These acts of generosity and kindness made Phaethon wonder. Maybe Helion had been right after all. The Hortators were people of conscience and goodwill. Perhaps they could not let Phaethon off scot-free, not and save their reputations. But having heard Diomedes speak, surely they would impose only a light, symbolic sentence.

  Gannis rose and spoke. “Members of the College. We now see the danger Phaethon poses is greater than we supposed. Not only is there threat of interstellar war but now there is unrest among the more distant parts of the Oecumene. We all know how difficult it is for Sophotechs to police these cold and far-off Neptunians. We all secretly suspect to what horrid uses, torture-dreams and child prostitution and worse, the Cold Dukes put this so-called “privacy” they are so in love with. With the power to reshape thought and memory according to whatever perverted whim might strike one’s fancy, only the grossest imagination can conceive what the Neptunian Eremites might do in the lonely darkness of their distant, icy fortresses. We must use all means at our disposal to ensure not only that Phaethon is cast out to starve and die, but that he also finds no way to communicate with these disgusting allies of his, these Neptunian people he has so stirred up and disturbed with his strange preachings!”

  One of the Eleemosynary Composition spoke: “This would not be hard to arrange. Superlongrange orbital communication lasers are owned by only two or three efforts, and by some magnates in the ring-cities. Most have signed Hortation agreements.”

  Tsychandri-Manyu spoke: “Gannis of Jupiter is and are correct. We must do more than merely ostracize Phaethon; we must take steps to make sure he cannot find help from those who do not heed our wise advice; Neptunians, deviants, mind-drakes, and the like. I recommend a total ban on any form of communication or use of Mentality whatsoever, so that no one will be able to even send him a telephone call, unless they string up the wires themselves. No one shall write him a letter, unless they carry it themselves.”

  Asmodious Bohost said, “And grow the tree and pulp the paper and raise the goose to pluck the quill to sharpen for a pen!”

  One of the Eleemosynary Composition stood: “Phaethon’s body is stored aboard a segment of the ring-city we own. The water, and air, and the cubic space there belongs to us. He shall not be allowed to purchase any of this.”

  Neo-Orpheus observed: “With Sophotechs to advise us, we will be able to anticipate and outmaneuver any attempt Phaethon makes to circumvent our restrictions.”

  Tau Continuous Albion of the White Manorial School said: “The Phoenix Exultant is still in sub-Mercurial space; even if Phaethon, by some trick, should come to have legal ownership of it again, who will ferry him to it? Who will transmit the signal for him to call it back to Earth? He cannot get to Mercury by flapping his arms.”

  Tsychandri-Manyu Tawne rose to his feet. “I once again will call the question. Is there anyone who sees further need for discussion?”

  Helion rose to his feet.

  “Wait.”

  The chamber fell silent.

  20

  THE EXILE

  1.

  From the corner of his eye, Phaethon saw Gannis lean forward with great interest as Helion rose to speak. Members of the Eleemosynary Composition all wore the same expression of alert caution, staring at Helion. Ao Aoen, although he was not a member of the College, had been given a seat in the visitor’s bench near the rear of the Warlock’s section, and the light from the windows behind him glinted on the serpent scales of his cloak and threw his hooded face into shadow; but something in the set of his shoulders betrayed his tension.

  Would Helion speak to favor Phaethon? If so, the Peers might well exclude Helion from their number, and undo, at one stroke, all the work Helion, for uncounted years, had done to raise himself to that high eminence.

  Phaethon thought: Please, don’t do it, Father.

  And then his own anxiety made him smile. Phaethon’s own prospects seemed so very much dimmer than even the worst that could happen to Helion. It was ironic, to say the least, that he should worry for Helion at this point. Nonetheless he did.

  But those worries were needless. Helion did not say anything controversial or extraordinary. He said merely, “Masters and gentlemen of the College. I introduce a guest who has significant information to impart.”

  Footsteps were heard approaching the chamber doors. Phaethon cocked his ear. There was something strange about the sound, something he could not quite define. Perhaps it was that the echoes and acoustics surrounding the noise seemed particularly clear and distinct.

  Then came a rattle of the latch, the noise of hinges, and the double doors behind Phaethon opened. The texture of the light on the polished wood floor around the doors changed as reflections from the antechamber fell into the hall. A man stood in the doorframe.

  He had a narrow, ascetic face, and piercing gray eyes, which gave him a look of fiercely alert intelligence.

  Every detail of the image was perfect. One could see the individual strands in his fabric of his Inverness cape; one could see the way each particular hair above his ears was disarrayed from the small weight of his deerstalker cap; one could see the freckles on the backs of his hands; the tiny flakes of dirt dotting the heel of his left boot. Sound and sight, texture, color, and presence, all were perfect.

  As he stepped up to the table where Phaethon stood, Phaethon noticed more detail. A light odor of tobacco touched the tweed fabric of his cape. One of the threads on his coat buttons did not match the thread of the rest. The stubble on the left of his jaw was slightly rougher than on the right, as if he had shaved with a razor that morning, perhaps favoring the cheek that faced his window.

  The amount of detail was remarkable. Phaethon saw the Hortators on their benches to either side whispering and staring, trying to guess who or what was represented by this enormously expensive and detailed self-image.

  The gray-eyed man doffed his deerstalker cap and greeting the College with a curt nod. He spoke with a dry and slightly nasal accent: “Members of the College, greetings. My name is Harrier Sophotech.”

  Of course. No human-run self-image could be so thorough in its detail.

  Harrier continued: “You may not have heard of me. I was created fifteen minutes ago, your time, to investigate some certain irregularities surrounding Phaethon’s decision to open his memory casket. I should mention that this decision of Phaethon’s was entirely unexpected, even by the Orient Sophotech Overmind-group, who was running a predictive model of Phaethon’s behavior at the time.”

  Another rustle of wonder went through the chamber. Even Nebuchednezzar seemed surprised. The Orient Overmind was one of the Ennead, the nine community superintellects that the Sophotechs cooperated and melded themselves to create. Why would a mind placed so high in the Earthmind hierarchy be concerned?

  Harrier said: “Only a tremendous shock, or some perceived threat to his life or the lives of his loved ones, could, in our opinion, have urged Phaethon to act so far out of character. We suspect foul play.”

  Again, there was a murmur and stir in the chamber, this one louder than the first. Emphyrio spoke, and the book in his lap amplified his voice: “You refer to true crime, violence urged by passion, not merely to fraud or juvenile pranksmanship?”

  Harrier said, “Evidence is scant, but the hints are shocking, sir. We suspect attempted murder, corruption, and mind rape.”

  Audible gasps of astonishment and fear came from several points in the chamber. Helion was scrutinizing Phaethon as if he had never seen him before.

  Neo-Orpheus asked: “When you say ‘we,’ do you mean you are part of the Constabulary?”

  Harrier smiled slightly to himself. “No, sir. Sophotechs prefer not to join the police, military, or governmental functions. However, I have been working closely with the Commissioner of Constables on this case, purely in an advisory capacity. Think of me as a consulting detective.”

  Tsychandri-Manyu Tawne of Tawne House spoke: “With respect, my dear sir, this is all very int
eresting, but … what has this to do with us?”

  Harrier raised an eyebrow and stared at Tsychandri-Manyu with steel-gray eyes. “You Hortators are so famous for your public spirit, I was sure you would be eager to cooperate in this matter.”

  Helion touched Agamemnon XIV, Archon of Minos House, on the shoulder. Agamemnon stood. “Dignitaries and notables of the College! We have not yet asked Phaethon why he opened the forbidden casket. Our determination can neither be informed nor fair without this datum.”

  Tsychandri-Manyu made a noise of disgust. “Come, now! This is irrelevance!” But he looked to his left and his right as he spoke, and saw the faces around him. Something in the mood of the chamber was changing. Tsychandri-Manyu had the instincts of a politician; he knew when not to go against the mood of the group. He sat down.

  Agamemnon spoke, pretending to answer Tsychandri-Manyu, but actually addressing the chamber, “Is it? Is it irrelevant? I think the question is central. Did some crime or violent event compel Phaethon’s action? Consider: If you were an amnesiac, and had suffered the only murder attempt in many centuries, surely you would conclude that the crime was motivated by something, or explained by something, in your forgotten past. Who among us, if horror and emergency loomed, would not avail ourselves of every memory, every piece of information, we might suspect would be useful to avert disaster? Come, notables of the College! If Phaethon opened that box to learn the secret of some attack—some real attack—then both prudence and duty required him to open it! We cannot, we can never, punish a man for doing what duty requires; that would make a mockery of this whole College. Do not forget what a tenuous hold on power we Hortators have! One wrong decision, one notorious act of folly, and the public respect which forms the foundation of everything we are, will erode to nothing! Have we not more than endangered the public faith in us once already in this matter?”

  Agamemnon continued: “The members of my constituency—we all know what sticklers for points of law and tradition the Silver-Grays are—would not support a boycott to punish Phaethon for doing what any reasonable man in his circumstances would have been forced to do! Do you realize we are talking about the possibility that someone has attempted a murder in our society? A murder! A deliberate attempt of one intelligent being to end the self-awareness of another! Gentlemen, if this suspicion turns out to be correct, then all other matters pale in comparison. I should like to call for a vote on the matter: if Phaethon was actually attacked, isn’t his reaction justifiable?”

  But Gannis (who was perhaps less alert a politician than Tsychandri-Manyu) leaned forward, squinting and peering across the chamber. “Is that Helion I see speaking? It looks like Agamemnon, but it sounds like someone else. We all hold Helion in the greatest respect, at the moment, and we hope, in the coming months, to honor him further. It would be a shame if the purity of his motives came into question!”

  Helion did not rise from his seat, but spoke in ringing tones: “I make my fellow Peer the offer that, should he care to question my motives, I will be happy to put a copy of my mind on the public channels for anyone to inspect, provided his mind, and his motives are posted likewise. Then we can all decide who has the purer motive.”

  A murmur of laughter came from the benches. Gannis subsided, a look of discomfort and worry on his face, muttering, “Eh … no, of course, I was merely speaking theoretically …”

  Nebuchednezzar held up the mace and announced his voting results: “Notables and dignitaries of the College, my estimates show that the public would be outraged if Phaethon were punished for accessing his memories, if (note well), if he had been indeed attacked, and if he had reasonable cause to suspect that his memory would help him explain that attack, or to defend himself or others against future attacks. Several hundred thousand individuals would volunteer to help find and expose the criminal, and millions more would volunteer time and antigrams to the effort. Many of those who are watching these proceedings now have already made promises of contributions. On the other hand, the public fervor would turn with equal vehemence against Phaethon should this turn out to be a false alarm. The same strength of character which makes the Golden Oecumene utterly intolerant of violence makes Her equally harsh against those who attempt to manipulate that righteousness to their own ends.”

  Emphyrio said, “If Phaethon suffered senseless attack by a criminal, ordinary prudence would require that he examine all his memories, sealed or unsealed, to discover the cause of the attack. We cannot condemn him for this.”

  Socrates said, “Which is more important, to be just, or to appear just? Keeping the memories sealed, as he promised to do, would have maintained Phaethon’s appearance of justice. But the criminal who threatened him could threaten others, and therefore it would not have been just to attempt to remain in ignorance about so important a matter.”

  Viridimagus Solitarie of the Green Mansion School offered: “But the very idea of a murder in a society with our traditions and our way of life—the notion is inconceivable!”

  Ullr Selfson-First Lifrathsir of the Nordic Pagan School was an ex-Warlock basic who made his fortune arranging alternate-history scenarios for parahistorians, including the rather gruesome and hideous Dark Tyrant Earthmind World. He, more than anyone, knew how fragile the peace and prosperity of the Golden Oecumene were; his nightmare scenario had been extrapolated from very few historical changes. “It is not inconceivable. If the Neptunians are willing to send Diomedes Partial on the mission which—but for our charity—would have been suicidal, then they may be willing to risk, or threaten, other lives. Perhaps the attack was merely meant to shock Phaethon into opening his buried memories. Frankly, I would have done the same if I were Phaethon. I would like to ask Phaethon if his memories gave him any clue as to the identity and nature of the attacker?”

  Nausicaa of Aeceus Mansion spoke: “At Lakshmi, the College examined what would and would not be subject to amnesia. I recall that nothing but information about the proposed starship was covered. This may be another clue pointing to the Neptunians; we all know their great interest in the Phoenix Exultant.”

  Casper Halfhuman Tinkersmith of the Parliament of Ghosts stood. He was a writer of educational matrixes famous for his cool logic when he was in his human body, and for his unusually vivid passion and drive when he was downloaded into an electrophotonic matrix. He was dressed now like a planter from the Carolinas, in a white coat and straw skimmer. “Brethren! Must we circle these issues endlessly before someone asks the core question? If Phaethon suffered such an outrage, why wasn’t that the first thing from his lips when this meeting opened? It is not Phaethon but Harrier, yes, Harrier, who says Phaethon was attacked. Why is Phaethon mute?”

  Phaethon, ever since Harrier had entered the room, had been listening with a sinking heart. Sinking, because he knew he should not tell anything to the Hortators that might be overheard by the enemy—Scaramouche or whomever it was that Atkins was investigating. On the other hand, Rhadamanthus (whose intelligence Phaethon acknowledged as exceeding his own by four orders of magnitude) had expressly advised Phaethon to go ahead and reveal the information. The enemy, after all, surely knew that Phaethon knew of the attack. And revealing the details of that attack would not necessarily reveal anything about Phaethon’s earlier meeting with Atkins.

  Yet Rhadamanthus himself may have been corrupted by the attacking virus civilization when he gave that advice … .

  If so, then would testifying that he suffered an attack somehow benefit, or be part of the plan of, the enemy? And, if so, what was the enemy’s plan? Such a plan must have something to do with the Phoenix Exultant. Something … but what?

  Phaethon grimaced in bitter humor. Perhaps he had been raised too closely to machine-minds for his own good. He had relied so often on minds swifter than his own to solve all puzzles and conundrums; and his mind perhaps was not swift enough to unravel this convoluted enigma, not while he stood here on trial.

  And then there was a question of due proportion and degr
ee. Suppose he were willing to sacrifice his career or his life to protect the Golden Oecumene from disaster; every man of ordinary decency, throughout the ages, made such sacrifices for their homelands and their ideals. But did warning the enemy of Atkins’s investigation—did that constitute a disaster for the Oecumene or only an inconvenience for Atkins? Suffering exile and death for one’s homeland was one thing; suffering exile and death for Atkins’s convenience was another.

  What finally decided him was this: Phaethon did not know how important secrecy was. But he knew how important the Phoenix Exultant was.

  Phaethon spoke:

  “I did not speak before because Atkins asked me not to. But now that Harrier has spoken, no good is served by me any longer keeping silent. There is an enemy among us, perhaps watching us this very moment. I suspect it is an enemy from another star.”

  Phaethon in a few brief words, told about the attack by Scaramouche on the steps of the Eveningstar Mausoleum, about how an unmaker virus had been introduced into his surrounding thoughtspace, overwhelming Eleemosynary defenses, and attempting to spread throughout the Mentality.

  Deep silence hung in the chamber. Phaethon could see the looks of skepticism and disbelief growing on the faces around him as he spoke. A look of hope was dying in Helion’s eyes; Gannis was smiling openly.

  Messilina Secondus Eveningstar of Eveningstar Mansion offered: “We have many monitors and nanomachines throughout the area, ecochemical watch circuits in the air and soil, including monitors watching the horses near our mausoleum. There was no Neptunian; there was no second mannequin brought out of our waiting room; Phaethon was alone.”

  A high-level information supervisor from the Eleemosynary Composition stood. “Service to all requires a deep sharing of information. We have examined the logs and records surrounding the moments Phaethon describes. He did snap his helmet shut inside one of our public boxes, breaking the connections and doing minor damage to our jacks and lines. Nothing else of his testimony is reflected in our memories or records.”