The Phoenix Exultant

by John C. Wright

  Phaethon had brought up a legal document of some sort out of her ring, and so (not unlike Alberich in the fairy tales, driving the unwilling dark elves to their tasks in the underworld, tormenting them with a threat of the all-powerful ring) she stepped, ring hand held high, one air lock at a time, up from the outer station into the inner, driving empty androids and surprised semiandroids from her path. Up the stairs and ladders she climbed, from full gravity to half-gravity, opening locks and silencing guards with a queenly scowl and a gesture from the ring.

  But (not unlike Alberich being snared by Loge) eventually they reached Vafnir’s seneschal and henchman, a polite young three-headed man named Sigluvafnir, who admitted in bland tones that Phaethon had every right to be here, but that Daphne did not, and could Phaethon please wait while Vafnir constructed suitable accommodations to receive him for an interview? All business would be conducted with dispatch; Phaethon would be thanked for his patience. Sigluvafnir smiled with all three mouths and looked innocent.

  The magic in her ring could not deal with the diabolic cunning of polite agreement. The two of them were standing in a waiting area in an empty hall, alone. Underfoot, a transparent hull gave a view of the grand stars wheeling by, passing from station east to station west, a silent, moving carpet of constellations. The station rotated about once every twenty minutes, and half of a “station day” (if it could be called that) passed by while the two of them pretended studiously to have nothing important to say to each other.

  They both stared down below their feet. Perhaps an uncertain shyness was between them, or, perhaps, it was more interesting to look at the moving lights of tugs and assistance-boats, the glints of solar fields, the flowery shine from the sails of distant antimatter generators, than to look at the barren bulkheads of the wide, up-curving hallway in which they stood.

  It was Daphne who broke the silence. “Once Vafnir has his lien paid off, who else will have any claim over your ship?”

  Phaethon spoke in an absentminded tone. “At that point, only Neoptolemous. Xenophon and Diomedes combined their funds and personalities to create Neoptolemous, who purchased Wheel-of-Life’s interest.”

  “Don’t you own half the ship by now? Gannis’s debt was canceled.”

  Phaethon said briefly, “The moment I opened my memory casket, the Phoenix Exultant was seized by the Bankruptcy Court. She is actually in receivership, ‘owned’ by the Curia officers to be used for the benefit of the combination of all my creditors. Gannis dropped out of the combine. Which is good, because he would have gotten the ship dismantled for scrap.”

  “Is it too late to get the ship back?”

  “No. If I came up with a huge fortune, I could pay off Neoptolemous. He has a lien, but he does not own the Phoenix Exultant, so he could not refuse to take the money.”

  “Oh.”

  Silence endured for a while.

  Daphne hated the fact that Phaethon was wearing his helmet. She could not see his face, and could make no guess as to his expression.

  She pointed at a small cluster of lights in the distance. “There’s not much traffic here, is there?”

  “No. Everyone is at some port where they will have long-range communication. The world-minds of Earth and Venus, Demeter and Circumjovia, the Outer and the Inner stations, the Mind-combines of the Cities in Space, of the Nonecliptic Supersails, the constructions who live in the concentrated ray issuing from the North Pole of the Sun, everyone, is going to be linked into the Grand Transcendence. Aurelian has arranged that no one need be isolated during that time, no one need be in space and far away from sufficient mental broadcast facilities. All the traffic is going still. How far away is the Transcendence? Ten days? Less?”

  “Thirteen days. Tomorrow is the Twelfth Night Feast, when we all … when they all dress up as members of another sex or phylum.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s OK. I wasn’t expecting any Twelfth Night gifts anyway.” Twelfth Night gifts were only, by custom, meant to be somatic or choreographic packages, such as lords leaping, or ballet choreographs.

  Phaethon knew Daphne preferred the Twelfth Night gifts above the other gifts of the other nights in the Penultimate Fortnight, because the many fine training routines, steeplechases, races, leaps, and cabriolets she had received for her horses last millennium, during Argentorium’s reign, were among the finest performances her stock could show.

  “I’m more worried about trespassing laws,” she said. “Vafnir probably has to throw me out into space, but probably cannot sell me the services of his accelerator rings. I’ll just be drifting on the slow orbit to nowhere, I guess, until and unless you can come back for me. I wonder how long the life support will hold out. The little canister will be lonely without you.”

  “Maybe something will happen.” He was not going to say aloud that he hoped the Nothing Sophotech would be found and destroyed before the week was up. Once there was no more need for secrecy, Atkins could testify to the Hortators that Phaethon’s Inquest had been tampered with, that Phaethon’s exile was invalid, and that therefore Daphne’s was also.”

  She turned to him. “Darling, if you don’t make it back, I’ll be exiled for life. And my life probably won’t last that long.”

  He turned toward her. She truly wished she could see his face. “Daphne, I …”

  She stepped toward him, “Yes … ?”

  He raised his hands as if he were about to embrace her. “This voyage we’ve had together; it has made me realize that … Well, you and I … We …”

  She stepped even closer. “Yes … ?”

  But at that moment, a golden light shone up from underfoot, dazzlingly bright.

  The station had turned to face nearer the Sun. In the dark field, where every other boat and tug was no more than a dot of light, the Phoenix Exultant, gigantic, splendid, one hundred kilometers long, blazing like a triangle of gold, burning as brightly as the blade of a spear, was clearly visible, even at this distance, to any naked eye which could tolerate the reflected glare from the all-too-nearby Sun.

  The miles of hull near the point of the prow were entirely streamlined. Just behind the heavy shielding of the prow, about four kilometers or so, were the flattened blisters of the broadcast houses, antennae, and receivers for innumerable detectors and sensors. They looked small and decorative, like the scales on the neck of a cobra, but some of those radar houses were a kilometer in length.

  Behind them, along the spine of the great ship, were other streamlined streaks, betraying the presence of truly gigantic mass-drivers, launch ports, radio-lasers.

  The amidships were burnished plates, smooth and unmarred. These could be altered, raised and lowered, to change the cross section and therefore the performance characteristic of the Phoenix Exultant at near-light speed. When the great ship was traveling slowly enough, these plates could be spread and opened like the petals of a rose or the sails of a clipper ship, and erect ramscoop fields to gather interstellar gas into the ten thousand titan-sized nuclear furnaces that lined the middle kilometers of the ship. This raw material could be used to produce fuel in flight. The Phoenix Exultant carried factories for the nucleogenesis of antimatter, in volume and output as large as any dozen of the antimatter-production facilities orbiting near Mercury Equilateral.

  At rest, when the interstellar gas was too tenuous to gather, the port and starboard armor could open like the gills of a shark, and the Phoenix Exultant could plunge into the outer layers of a star, diving through photosphere and corona, and gather cubic acres of plasma into holding cells for the refueling process.

  Aft were the engines and drives. Those exhaust ports could have swallowed the whole space station in which they stood. These engines could drive that ship at speeds nothing but light itself could outpace. There were no other engines like those of the Phoenix Exultant. None had ever been built before.

  There was no ship like her.

  And yet the ship was cold, the drives were silent, there was no gleam
of lamp or light anywhere on her, except the reflected light of the Mercurial sun, caught on certain plates and panels, blazing from her golden hull.

  Daphne had her hands before her face. The image of the streamlined triangle of golden admantium was burned green behind her closed eyes. She blinked her eyes clear.

  She asked, “What were you saying, darling?” (Something about the two of us, something damn important!)

  Phaethon was staring down between his feet. “Hm? That’s odd. Look at that ship in the distance.” He pointed, as if he expected her unaided eyes to match the visual amplification and tracking systems rebuilt into his nervous system and armor.

  “Something about us, dear … ?”

  He looked up. “I’m sorry. What?”

  “Oh, nothing, darling.” (OK. Fine. Be that way. Any day now, I’m going off with Atkins, and you can crawl up next to your frozen wifesicle for comfort.) “What was it you were gawking at? I cannot believe you’d be staring at another ship at a time like this! What would your golden Phoenix-bride say if she knew?”

  “Can you see? That dot in the distance.”

  (Of course I cannot see it, you dunderhead.) “What in particular is so very interesting?” (I cannot imagine anything at all so interesting that you’re daring to intrude it into what might very possibly be our last few moments together!)

  “I’m looking at a radar identifier that flies the heraldry of the Winged Chariot of Fire.”

  (I take it back. That is interesting. A little.) “Winged Chariot of Fire is Helion’s private yacht.”

  “She’s docking with the Vulcan, his sun-diver bathysphere. Look. Fuel cells from the station are lining up to meet him. More cells are being sent out.”

  (What in the hell is Helion doing here?) “What in the world is Helion doing here?” (I betcha don’t know either, do you, darling … ?)

  “I don’t know.”

  (Knew it.) “It’s only thirteen days till the Grand Transcendence. Why isn’t he on Earth, with the Peers, preparing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  (You said that already, darling. Now then, what about kissing me good-bye … ? And how do I bring the topic up without spooking him away … ?) Daphne stepped closer to Phaethon. “You know, darling, I thought things would get less confused, less dangerous, once I rescued you. But now everything is worse than ever … !”

  He began to step toward her and began to raise his hands, as if, perhaps, to embrace and comfort her, when, at that same moment, Sigluvafnir stepped back into the room. “To the exile calling himself Phaethon, Vafnir will, under protest, and only for the purpose of clearing up certain legal matters, agree to see you now.”

  Phaethon turned to Daphne. “I fear this is good-bye. I may not get a chance to see you before I am sent to my ship. I mean … the ship that once was mine. There is much in my heart I wish to say …”

  Sigluvafnir: “Hoy! We have no more time to waste! If you wish to see Vafnir, now is now, and later is too late!”

  “We must make some arrangement as to what is to become of you. Put your canister into a microconsumption orbit and keep the beacon burning. I’ll send an attendant ship from the Phoenix, if I can. I still hope Rhadamanthus or your Eveningstar can do something, though I am not sure what.”

  Daphne smiled. “I know where I’m going. I’ll be fine. Go off to your battle and kill your black monster without worrying about me. Because I just realized that I have, shall we say, certain legal matters of my own to clear up. There is something you need from Helion; and I think I know how to get it.”

  Phaethon’s posture showed surprise. He knew Daphne had conceived a hate for Helion. Now she wanted to talk to him … ? “He will not receive you.”

  “Oh, he’ll see me, all right. I know how to take care of that!” She smiled. “The Grand Transcendence is still thirteen days away, isn’t it? That means the Masquerade is still in force.”

  Sigluvafnir issued one last warning. There was no further time for words.

  Phaethon put out his hand.

  (Shake hands?!! If you try to shake hands with me, I’ll rip your arm out of your socket and beat you to death with it.)

  He said, “Good luck.”

  Daphne smiled. (You’re lucky you’re wearing invulnerable armor, you stinking sack of medical waste. Otherwise, you’d be suffering multiple contusions delivered by a bleeding ex-limb!) She demurely put her little hand into the palm of his gauntlet. “You are most kind to be concerned about me, sir. I am ever so very grateful for what attention you can spare me from your other concerns.”

  Phaethon pulled on her hand to draw her quickly and securely into his arms. Even through her suit, his hard embrace drove the breath from her, and she melted to him, pressing as closely as the suit-fabric allowed. “I’ll come back for you,” his voice burned in her ears.

  Then he departed.

  Daphne stood looking after him, love shining in her eyes, forgetful of all else.

  5.

  There hung Phaethon, resplendent in his armor, hovering in weightlessness within the axial visitor’s dodecahedron at the dead center of the Mercury Equilateral Station. Wide, white expanses of pentagonal hull surrounded him. One of the dodecahedrons was tuned to a window. In the window, like a golden blade against a velvet black background, loomed an image of the Phoenix Exultant.

  His ship.

  Out of deference to Silver-Grey aesthetic conventions, or, actually, out of mockery, one of the other pentagons was designated as “floor” and the one opposite it was “overhead.” This “overhead” panel was blazing with direct light, rather than the indirect lighting all space tradition required. In fact, it was ablaze with the direct light of the Mercury-orbit Sun, so that Phaethon had to adjust his vision centers.

  More mockery: Victorian furniture, chairs and settees on which no one in microgravity could sit, were bolted to the “floor” panel atop an expensive rug. Antimacassars, spinning slowly, sailed above the chairs. A tea service floated nearby, with a ball of scalding tea, held together mostly by its own surface tension but with moonlets of little teadrops all around it, surrounding the silver teapot. Tumbling china cups had drifted in each direction on the ventilation currents. Fortunately, the sugar bowl had held lumps, not powder.

  The other bulkheads were established in a nonstandard aesthetic. Objects of unknown use, like strange half-melted candles, rotating glassworks, or webs of laser-light, shimmered in the bulkheads, extending arms or mists toward the center of the chamber.

  In the center of the dodecahedron, not far from Phaethon, roared a turning cylinder of flame and pulsing energy. It was Vafnir. The beam of fire extended from one side of the huge chamber to the other.

  Two other entities, smaller, dwarfed by Vafnir, were in the room: a dull olive-drab sphere in the Objective Aesthetic, representing the attorneys from the Bankruptcy Court; and a calitrop of black metal, with magnetic jets and manipulator gloves at each axis, surrounding brain housing into which Neo-Orpheus, or perhaps one of his partials, had downloaded, here to represent the College of Hortators.

  In one hand Phaethon held up a credit ring. The circuit in the stone had memorized the numbers and locations of millions of seconds of time currency. He pointed it at the olive-drab sphere. A ray from the ring made a circuit with a point in the sphere; the currency exchange was recorded.

  Within the ring also had been recorded the contracts and agreement between himself and the Neptunians, now the true owners of the starship, showing that he acted as their representative in this matter, and was accredited both as the pilot and agent of the Phoenix Exultant, and directed, after repairs and final checks were complete, to transport the vessel, with himself at the helm, to the Neptunian Embassy at Jovian Trailing Trojan.

  His armor detected a rapid exchange of signals between Vafnir, Neo-Orpheus, and the Bankruptcy Attorneys, a huge volume of information compressed into a few short bursts. He could have tapped into their lines and eavesdropped on the conversation, perhaps. But he kne
w the gist of it. Vafnir furiously and Neo-Orpheus coldly were attempting to find some loophole, some delay, some chink in the iron plate of Phaethon’s original contract with Vafnir. But that contract did not contain the normal escape clause permitting one party to be excused of his duties should the other party fall under Hortator ban. Two hundred years ago, when this contract first had been drafted, Phaethon, planning to depart from the Golden Oecumene, had foreseen no need for such a clause, and insisted on its exclusion.

  “Now, then,” Phaethon said aloud, “one of you is officially required, by law, to inform me that my debt to Vafnir has been settled, and that he shall perform his remaining duties under the contract. Fortunately, Vafnir’s warehouses and orbital factories are already at hand directly abeam of the Phoenix Exultant; some of the smaller factories, as I recall, are actually inside the hull, for ease of construction. It should require a hundred hours, or less, to load the remaining fuel aboard, and to fit into place the hull-metal segments which you began to dismantle. I demand that the Phoenix Exultant be restored to the condition specified, cleaned and polished with no sign of tool-marks, neglect, or debris. Now, which of you is going to embrace a life of exile by telling me these things? Or, better yet, which of you is going to be arrested by the constables for failing to tell me?”

  The speaker on Neo-Orpheus’s housing whined to life. “The Hortator exile does not obtain against those who, by law, are compelled to treat with you, nor for comments strictly limited to legal business. Only gratuitous comments are forbidden.”

  Phaethon regarded the calitrop without friendliness. “That itself was a gratuitous comment. Thank you for joining me in exile.”