La Edad De Oro (98 page)

Asmodius Bohost wondered in a loud and brassy voice: “I note how easy it is to call the price of a single death so small… unless, of course, it happens to be one’s own.”

Tsychandri-Manyu Tawne spoke with heavy dignity: “When a single life is extinguished, that is as gross a tragedy as if the entire universe should end; for has not everything, from the point of view of him who dies, indeed come to an end?”

Gannis spoke in tones of haughty scorn, “No one’s life can be sacrificed merely to serve the use and pleasure of the whole. We are not a society of cannibals!”

Diomedes asked, “No one’s life…? Not one…?”

Gannis: “Not even a single, solitary individual!”

Diomedes nodded his helmet of shadows toward Gannis. “I am most glad to hear you say this. I assume this doctrine applies to Phaethon as well? He is the individual, more single and more solitary than any of the rest of you, whom I would not see sacrificed.”

Nebuchednezzar turned to Gannis, and said, “Gannis Hundred-mind, I am required to warn you that you must abstain from the upcoming vote on this matter. These proceedings are being broadcast to your constituents back in the Jovian system; if you should vote for Phaethon’s exile, few Jovians would support you, regarding your motive as hypocrisy. The Jovians, you must recall, still regard themselves as an individualistic and pioneer-spirited society, and many of your supporters back home have ties to Neptunian and Saturnine space efforts. Everything Diomedes said will convince them.”

Gannis sat down, but did not seem ill-humored. “I will not vote, but I will still speak against what Phaethon proposes. And, no matter who supports him, without my metal, his ship will not be built.”

Diomedes said, “The Phoenix Exultant will be built. Perhaps smaller than designed, or perhaps with thinner armor, but you, Gannis, shall not stand in the way of Phaethon and his dream. Nothing shall stop him…”

And there was a note of triumph in his voice. “Nothing shall stop him.”

But, even as he said this, his image began freezing, and then moving, freezing, and then moving, and his voice hissed into garble. The image of Diomedes collapsed, and was replaced by a flat two-dimensional window, with silent lines of text running across it, repeating Diomedes’s last words.

“…Nothing shall stop him… Mr. Asmodius! I would be more than happy to take you up on your offer. But I fear I no longer have a foot to stand upon. My name shall be changed as your pleasure and whim shall direct. I cannot afford dignity; I cannot afford to keep my name…”

Phaethon, who had been most eager to ask Diomedes about the identity and history of Xenophon, now saw he would have no chance. And no chance for a personal word with his friend. One of the Eleemosynary Composition stood and spread his palms, the gesture to indicate that he was opening additional channels out of his own stock, or contributing computer time.

The window icon representing Diomedes winked out. The Eleemosynary Composition said, “We are transmitting the partial of Diomedes back to his point of origin in Neptunian space. The drain on our resources is significant.” Helion said, “I will contribute a dozen seconds.” Gannis nodded, and held up four fingers. The other Hortators murmured agreement, and each contributed time or energy. The hundred people there could easily afford to return Diomedes Partial to his parent-mind, and some members of the White and Red Manors added software and customized routines as parting gifts, so that the partial would return with more wealth than was spent to send him here.

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.

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 interesting, 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?”