The Golden Age

by John C. Wright

  Phaethon shook his head. He was not hallucinating.

  An eerie thought struck him: what if, every time the invasions of this external foe had been detected, the victims had concluded that their memories were false, and had had them redacted? There could be a thousand unreported cases of such attacks, or a million.

  Helion’s voice, tense and anguished, came to his ear again: “Do not refuse me, son! Let me change your mind! I have a reconstruction program standing by; your false memories and beliefs can be removed in a moment. Don’t end your life as Hyacinth Septimous ended his! I am begging you now, son. In the name of my love for you, I beg.”

  “No, Father. I will not change my mind. Not about this, not about my ship, not about my dream. And, as you love me, I ask you to understand me.

  A pause.

  Helion’s voice: “I am afraid that I do, my brave, foolishly brave, beloved son. I fear I understand all too well—” The voice was cut off. Phaethon returned his attention to the scene around him.

  Silence was in the chamber. One of the voters had paused to ask him a question.

  “Please repeat the question,” said Phaethon, “My mind was … elsewhere.” He wanted to turn his head and look at his father, but he dared not.

  It was Ao Prospero Circe of the Zooanthropic Incarnation Coven. “None of the considerations of my fellow Horators, whether you bring war or hope, whether you are sane or insane, truthful or self-deluded, matters as much to me as this one question: Why did you pick your name?”

  Phaethon said, “You are asking me about what? My name?”

  “Of course. To know the true name of a thing is to have power over it. You named yourself after Phaethon, the child of the sun god who overreached himself. In his pride and folly, he demanded to drive his father’s chariot, the sun, across the sky; but he could not control the horses. He flew high and he flew low, burning sky and burning earth, till all the world cried out for Jupiter to destroy him with a lightning bolt. Why did you name yourself after this image of recklessness and pride?”

  Phaethon smiled. “That I can answer. I know the truth about that myth. Phaethon did not burn the world; after all, the world is still here, is it not? No. Jupiter was afraid when he saw a mortal at the reigns of the mighty sun chariot, and he felt jealous when he saw a mere man driving the divine steeds of fire. Jupiter was afraid that something might go wrong. Rather than give the youth a chance to prove himself, he shot down and killed the charioteer during takeoff. Before he ever even began to fly. What’s the moral of the story? In my version, maybe the moral is that one should not let gods, or people who think that they can play gods, anywhere near where the lightning bolts are kept.”

  The Warlock smiled and turned to Nebuchednezzar. “If I vote to favor Phaethon, shall I be the only one? Nonetheless I must favor him; he is a dreamer, and perhaps he is a paranoid madman; but his dream and his madness are stronger than our sanity and truth.”

  So the last vote was cast.

  Nebuchednezzar Sophotech had raised his mace. “Phaethon, once of Rhadamanthus, the votes have been counted. Have you anything to say before we pass sentence?”

  “Yes,” said Phaethon. “Not a statement, but a question. Do you believe I am right? You, personally, Nebuchednezzar?”

  “It is outside of the duties of my office to offer personal opinions. This College was designed to preserve the human spirit, human sanity, and human dignity in the face of tremendous technological changes, changes which could easily abolish those things you living creatures find precious. There are certain things humans value for their own sake; and about such things the logic of machines has nothing to say. It is important that the College of Hortators remain in human hands; it is important that my opinions not determine the outcome of Hortator decisions.”

  “Then why did you oppose the Lakshmi Agreement?”

  “Those agreements were hastily drafted and ill-advised. The College is intended to urge the public to avoid the self-destructive abuse of our technology, and to ostracize those who do not adhere to those standards of decent conduct. In ruling against you, the College may have overstepped the boundaries of its mandate. They are not here to prevent war but to prevent corruption. The military arm of the Golden Oecumene, the man you know as Atkins, it is his job to prevent war. You did not seem to be corrupt, and to stop you required the Golden Oecumene to undergo the largest mass-amnesia in recorded history. This also was ill-advised.

  “Perhaps you are unaware of the unrest and the anger which came when you opened your memory box, Phaethon. The memories of the public opened also. Many business affairs, love affairs, conversations, works of art and works of labor had been forgotten, being too closely associated with your famous effort. And all this came rushing back, and people realized how much the Hortators had convinced them to give up. Far too much. At Lakshmi, this danger was foreseen and accepted, risking the prestige of this College in a way I would never have advised. Was the risk worth the gain? I will not say. Where matters of human spirit are involved, human opinion should be given wide deference.”

  Phaethon said, “You have not answered. I built a ship to conquer the stars. Am I in the right?”

  Nebuchednezzar looked grave. “Eventually the human race must migrate and spread. That is a natural state of living things. At Lakshmi, I thought you were in the right. Now I do not know. You are quicker than other manor-born to resort to violence when under stress; you have done so twice, trying to steal Daphne out of her coffin. The record shows that you have falsified your own memories in order to attempt a fraud upon this College. Someone should certainly father more races of mankind among the stars; but to be a good father requires honesty and patience, qualities you seem to lack. I may not agree with the decision of the College in this case, but their judgment about you is not irrational, given these facts, and I will not publicly speak against them. I cannot support you. I cannot help you.”

  Nebuchednezzar concluded: “No one can help you. We shall advise the public to adopt a total and unending ban on all dealings with you, including the sale of basic necessities, food, water, air, and computer time. No one shall render aid, comfort, or shelter, sell or buy good or services, nor donate any charity. This sentence is not subject to review but intended to be final and absolute. I hereby pronounce—”

  Harrier was standing next to Phaethon, staring absently-mindedly up at the windows, hands clasped behind his back, lips pursed as if engrossed in an amusing puzzle, rocking back and forth on his heels. No one was paying attention to him. So it came as something of a shock, when he whistled shrilly through his teeth, and waved his hand overhead. “Yoo-hoo! Mr. Speaker! I have something to ask the College!”

  Nebuchednezzar said, “You are very seriously out of order. And I cannot say that I approve of your decision to communicate with me at this time, place and fashion, rather than communing directly with my through-region via the Southeast Overmind-group.”

  “Aha. Never argue in front of the children, is that the idea?” He turned to the assembled College. “Gentlemen! I have a simple request. My investigation into the alleged attack on Phaethon is not yet complete. And I may have a few routine follow-up questions I would like to ask him, but I cannot do so if his term of exile is so absolute that I cannot even call him, or conduct a Noetic examination. Will you grant an exception to your ban, please, and allow computer services, communication, and telepresentation to continue to serve him?”

  Phaethon, for some reason, was looking at Gannis when Harrier spoke. Gannis had never been able to control his expression without artificial aids, which, presently, in a scene adhering to Silver-Gray protocols, he did not have. So Phaethon saw a look of eager hostility across his face.

  Phaethon did not have a psychometric routine in his personal thoughstspace, nor was he trained in Warlock-style controlled intuitions. So he had no way to confirm his hunch. But he did have a hunch. Looking at the hunger on Gannis’s face, Phaethon thought: He’s one of them.

  The Enemy
(whoever they were) would be glad that Phaethon would still have access to the Mentality. As soon as he logged on, as soon as he made a phone call, or telecast a ghost, they would know where he was; the moment he accessed the Middle Dreaming, a snare program (like the one that had been associated with Scaramouche’s sword) could trigger him into the Deep Dreaming. And in the Deeper Dreaming would be something like a memory box, but open, and with another set of memories, not his, inside. It would be death, and worse than death. His soul would be consumed and replaced.

  Nebuchednezzar said, “I am certain the College, as a public-spirited body, will do all it can to aid a police investigation, even one which seems as routine as this one. Without objection, so ordered.”

  Harrier turned and shook hands with Phaethon, whispering, “Don’t give up the fight, old man. If you hadn’t been mugged, I shouldn’t ever have been created, so I have quite a fond spot in my heart for you. Go to Talaimannar in Ceylon … .”

  Phaethon was turning his head to see if he could get one last word, one last look, to his father. He also wanted to hear the rest of Harrier’s message, and wanted to warn Harrier, or someone, about Gannis. But Nebuchednezzar brought the heel of his mace down on the floor with a sharp crack of noise, confirming the sentence of the College of Hortators.

  6.

  Phaethon was perhaps expecting that he would be led from the imaginary chamber by images of footmen or bailiffs. Certainly that would have been in keeping with Silver-Gray protocols and standards. But Phaethon was no longer considered Silver-Gray. He was no longer considered anything. Neither the Eleemosynary Hospice nor the local telepresentation service felt any obligation to continue treating him according to Silver-Gray standards or any other standards.

  The moment the mace touched the floor, the scene vanished. He was back in the casket, disoriented. His thoughts seemed to moving slowly and stupidly without Rhadmanthus there to assist him. Was this what shock was?

  And the liquid was draining out of the casket, leaving Phaethon cramped and bent on the inner surface. Then, just as suddenly, jarring and dizzying, the gravity spin slowed and braked, so that his body was crushed up against the medical wires and in-jacks of the left-hand side of the casket. The lid hissed open (blinding him with outside light) before the centrifuge had come to a complete halt, so that he was practically flung out.

  His thoughts were still confused; he was trying to remember what the last thing was that he wanted to say to his father …

  Phaethon floated in free-fall, clinging to the rim of the casket, his legs stuck out, pointing toward the carpet, but not “down.” He felt the pressure in his temples, the beat of blood in his face, as the fluids in his body distributed themselves evenly throughout his body instead of falling to a accustomed position near his feet.

  A maintenance remote, shaped like a stark cylinder crowned with telescoping arms, was hovering near him, held in place by a tension of magnetic forces. “The Eleemosynary Composition thanks you for your patronage, but no longer wishes to rent this space. The standard rental agreement allows for instant expulsion of those who fall under Hortator osctracization, without notice or advertisement. If you do not immediately take steps to leave the premises, the unit is instructed to regard you as a trespasser, and to join the Constabulary and to eject you by force.”

  Phaethon did not respond or move. He had known what he was risking; he had known what exile might mean. But the reality, now that it was here, seemed more than he could bear. It took him a moment to draw his breath and muster his strength.

  The moment was apparently too long a time. The remote opened its mechanical arms like a giant spider. The hull of the machine changed, and now bore gold-and-blue police emblems. “This unit has uploaded all proper training, oaths, and experience, been checked against the Constabular Academy on channel 14, and has graduated and been awarded a position as sergeant-at-arms of the municipal commandry. I am now authorized to use force against you if you resist. This place in which you are is not your property; you have been asked politely to depart.”

  Better to walk than to be hauled.

  “I’m going. I’ll be happy to go … .” Phaethon triggered thrusters in his elbows and boots. The reaction gently thrust him down the corridor.

  The remote moved in front of him, blocking his way. “Pardon me, sir. The air that you are in, unlike air on Earth, is not a natural product but is owned by the Eleemosynary Composition, and must be pumped in at the owner’s expense. The Eleemosynary Composition asks that you not distribute ejected particles throughout the Hospice corridor, or foul the air with pollutants.”

  “It’s steam. Hot water.” His teeth were clenched. Phaethon knew he should not be letting this aggravate him. But in his whole life, machines had never been anything else than unfailingly polite to him. Historical dramas always portrayed criminal sentences, executions or reconditionings, to be surrounded with grave ceremony. Not this petty harassment.

  “Nonetheless, the air in this corridor does not belong to you, and you cannot eject matter into it without permission.”

  “As you wish.”

  Phaethon kicked against the carpet and pulled himself hand over hand to the air lock at the hub of the wheel-shaped hospice. Left and right, he saw that other caskets were empty. The casket doors gaped like empty windows. It gave Phaethon a feeling of desolation.

  “Where is everyone?” He did not expect an answer, but he thought it would do no harm to ask.

  To his surprise, the unit spoke back: “All of the guests were removed to a safe distance during the Inquest Hearing, and energy avenues and lines of fire opened by other Constabular operatives, so that, should you choose to resist, overwhelming firepower could be brought to bear against your armor, sufficient to drive you out through the walls and shielding and into space beyond.”

  At the hub of the hospice, he came to the door of the lock. It did not open. Nothing happened when he touched it, and it ignored his voice command. He said to the wall: “I thought you wanted me to leave.”

  The wall said, “There is a wheel to crank the door open manually. The Eleemosynary Composition does not wish to expend the battery cost to run the door motors.”

  There was no point in arguing. The cost in energy to open one door, of course, was too small to measure. But, of course, the millionth part of a gram of antimatter it would take to hire the door motor to open the valve for him was beyond his means now. Creditors had long ago taken everything.

  And even had he any money, no one would take it. Not even the simpleminded circuit in a door.

  Phaethon felt more exhausted (without being tired) than he had ever felt in his long life.

  Yet he had been exiled, so far, for only a few minutes. Years lay ahead. Grimly, he took the wheel in his hand and cranked.

  Phaeton passed through the lock, and came out into the airlessness of the spaceport. The place was a wide sphere, with openings to the east and west leading to other segments of the ring-city. Nadirward was an entrance to the beanstalk. Phaethon could see, from the gold ornamentation around the rim buildings, that this space elevator was one of the larger, old-fashioned ones, with cars the size of warehouses, stocked and staffed with luxuries from the Middle Sixth Era, a time of hedonism and elegance.

  Phaethon directed a signal from his armor to the remote. “This is municipal space. May I use my thrusters?”

  “Feel free,” replied the unit.

  Steam ejected from the armor joints did not produce powerful thrust, only enough to move him a few meters away from the hospice. Then he triggered the more powerful mass-drivers, which lined the back and legs of the armor. Thin parallel lines of energy propelled him forward.

  He dove through the weightless space to the edge of the rim. He dared not dive in; the drivers could not support his armor in flight, not against the earthly gravity that obtained in the middle and lower sections of the space elevator. But he could use the drive mechanisms in the same way he had before, to generate a magnetic field by r
eacting against energy units that lined the inner walls of the space elevator, and lower himself eventually to the ground. To do this, he needed to reconstruct the circuits in his armor he originally had used to propel himself upward. He anchored himself near the rim of the well with a magnetic line of force, and ordered his suit to adjust.

  Phaethon looked overhead. With the Middle Dreaming absent, he could not tell which space elevator this was, or where on Earth its foundations rested. There was no map present in his mind. There were no signs posted in any language he could read, because none of the thought glyphs on the walls nearby could trigger any reactions in the language centers of his brain, not when he was shut out of the Mentality. Was this the direction he wanted to go? He was not sure. (Did he even have a direction, when he had no place to go? Again, he was not sure.)

  His eyes fell. Beyond his feet, he could see the vast well of the space elevator.

  The windows and ports in the elevator’s depths formed concentric rings of light, level upon level, balcony upon balcony, receded to the vanishing point. Approaching in the distance, the size of an ocean liner, ornamented and plush, came the great gold and crystal and ivory car of the space elevator. Beneath the dome on the car’s ceiling, he could see the ponds and formularies and tables of a Sixth-Era mensal performance restaurant.

  Phaethon looked on sadly. He would have loved to take this armor off and rest at leisure, descending in plush Sixth Era comfort until he arrived at the base of the tower. He could see, through the windows, white linen, surfaces of silver material, a group in festive costumes reclining in feast webs, pleasure amplifiers like crowns on their heads. It was strange to think that, somewhere, people were still celebrating a masquerade; somewhere there were smiles, and good cheer, and good company.

  Now he would have welcomed even that horrid Nonanthropomorphic Aesthetic elevator car, the car shaped like a bug’s stomach, which he had spurned on his way up here. Now that he could not have it.