Then he said: “I’d like to be alone with her.”
The image of the woman representing Eveningstar Sophotech nodded gravely, and, out of politeness to him, instead of vanishing, she turned and walked away. Every detail was correct; her shoes rang on the marble floor, diminishing as she receded, she cast a shadow when she passed through a pool of mauve light, and highlights fled across the twilight blue texture of her silk gown.
It was very realistic; a Silver-Gray Sophotech could not have done better. Phaethon waited while she walked so very slowly away, and his impatience clawed and gnawed him.
Impatient, because his pride was still very strong within him, like a wildfire.
And because it only took a moment to enlarge his vision to embrace several different wavelengths and analytic routines. His private thoughtspace, once summoned, seemed to surround him with floating black icons, superimposed upon the real scene around him, with the spiral wheel of stars hovering in the background, beyond his wife’s coffin. A gesture accessed the records he carried for biomedical manipulations, and compared it to the analysis he had just completed on the medical nanomachinery suspended in the liquids embracing his wife.
The molecule shapes of her medical nanomachinery was standardized; it would be easy to counteract it, and to affect a disconnect. The black lining of his armor could produce the required assemblers in a moment of heat.
Also in his private thoughtspace was an engineering routine, including a simple subprogram to estimate the strengths of structures. A second glance allowed him to analyze the coffin lid and conclude how many foot-pounds of pressure, applied at what angle, were sufficient to break the surface material without allowing any shockwave to travel into the interior.
Phaethon shrugged. Gauntlets of golden admantium grew from his sleeves and embraced his hands. He raised his hand triumphantly, made a fist.
No wonder they were all afraid of him. Here was armor that could allow him to walk into the core of a star without harm. What weapon, what threat, what force could stop him, once he was resolved? The Golden Oecumene had witnessed no real crimes in decades; were there any structures still in place to detect or hinder such things?
The fire left his eyes at that point. His anger and pride evaporated, and his face sagged into expressionless despair. Foolish. He knew how foolish he was being.
He brought his fist down nevertheless. An outside force seized his arm, and made him lay his hand gently on the casket lid, not hurting it.
No, not his arm. The mannequin’s arm. He was merely telepresent in whatever mannequin had been sitting in the chair in the receiving room. The invulnerable armor that he seemed to wear existed only in his eyesight, an illusion created by Eveningstar out of politeness to him. Eveningstar had merely turned off the arm when he ordered it to slam downward.
A silver light, shivering with beams of pleasure, shining over his shoulders, and a sense of dread and sorrow, like a wash of pressure, told him that Eveningstar Sophotech had manifested her representative behind him. Her voice, like a glorious symphony, filled his ears. He could feel the words caressing his neck and cheeks. He could feel the tiny pinpricks, like sparks, in their stern firmness. The luster on the coffin lid was sad and fascinating; the shimmer of light on the golden intricacy of his finger joints was a ballet.
Evidently Eveningstar concluded it was no longer appropriate to be polite to him; his senses were filled with the Red Manorial version of the dreamscape.
The voice from behind him said, “Does Phaethon wish to introduce crime and violence once again into our peaceful civilization? There are many folk who wish to do far worse ills than merely burglary or invasion of privacy. Why should they restrain themselves when it seems that you do not?”
“I don’t want to hear a lecture, Eveningstar.” said Phaethon in a voice of endless weariness.
“Then should I summon the Constables for your arrest?”
“I attempted no crime. I admit I thought about it when I raised my fist. But as I was bringing it down, I realized that I could not succeed, since I was not here physically. The whole structure of the manor-born way of life prevents us from hurting each other; we’re always safe. I suppose you may have me arrested if you like; I don’t really care any more. But kidnap and burglary and invasion are all crimes of specific intent; and I did not have that intent at the time.”
“May we examine your mind to verify what your intent was at the moment you lowered your fist? … I’m sorry, but a silent nod of the head is not a legally sufficient sign of consent.”
“I swear it.”
A large penguin dressed in a top hat from which a black mourning-scarf floated waddled from the receiving chamber into the hall. The Red Manorial protocol surrounded the Rhadamanthus image with such an atmosphere of undignified humor that it hurt Phaethon’s eyes. He recoiled. But Rhadamanthus had to be on-line to conduct the Noetic reading.
Since Rhadamanthus was present, Phaethon adjusted his sense-filter to route through him. Phaethon blinked, and suddenly the scene was no longer throbbing and trembling with melancholic emotional overtones. Objects were bright and crisp and clear, even in the dim lighting; everything was sharp and well-defined, down to the trace of dust motes floating in the sunlight. Phaethon had frankly forgotten how clear and regular everything looked when viewed through Silver-Gray senses.
Eveningstar—now a woman again—looked at the penguin inquiringly. The penguin said: “Phaethon is telling the truth.”
She said, “Will you share your data with me so that I may make an extrapolative model of Phaethon’s mind. If, in my judgment, his grief and passion will prompt him to attempt criminal actions in the future, we shall certainly proceed by calling the Constabulary; but if this is a momentary aberration, an outcome of chaos mathematics, we will let the matter rest.”
The penguin stroked its yellow bill with one fin, looking thoughtfully toward Phaethon. “Naturally, I can do so only with the young master’s permission.”
Phaethon said, “Cease this charade. I know your systems can interact much more swiftly than the time it would take to speak those words aloud in front of me. And yes, you have my permission; I have nothing to hide.”
The Eveningstar representative nodded and vanished. Perhaps it was another small sign of impoliteness to show her displeasure, if displeasure, or indeed, any human emotion could be attributed to minds such as Eveningstar’s. Or perhaps this was how she interpreted his request to “stop this charade.”
Rhadamanthus said, “Eveningstar asked me to tell you that she will not be charging you with a crime to the Constabulary. She and I have discussed the matter at some length, and we both agree that you were acting quite out of character. I told her you were operating under the influence of an Eleemosynary self-consideration software routine which you found in a public casket, and that you had intoxicated yourself with vainglory.” Rhadamanthus cocked one goggle eye at him. “And she could not overlook that this was just the type of direct emotional self-manipulation which Silver-Gray standards forbid. I told her you would probably not take such ill-considered actions again. But Eveningstar is going to expect some sort of apology or reparation from you. I assured her that you were a gentleman, and would live up to what was expected of you.”
The condescension of it all rankled Phaethon. He had his back to the casket, facing Rhadamanthus, and he was glad his wife could not see this scene. “You Sophotechs treat us like children.”
“No. We treat you like adults. Children can be forgiven without penalty, because they know no better.”
“If I’m penniless, I can pay no reparations.”
“Money does not enter into it, my dear Phaethon. She is asking for a gesture to show you are contrite, something unpleasant enough that you will feel a relief of your guilt and embarrassment.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Why should you refuse? Young master, do you think you acted correctly?”
“I did not do anything wrong.”
&nb
sp; “Hm.” The penguin rolled its goggle eyes, and slapped its webbed feet once or twice on the green marble floor. “You did not do anything illegal, that is true. Not by a nice and precise reading of the letter of the law. But not everything which is wrong is illegal.”
That phrase sobered Phaethon. He felt the last of whatever excess pride he had wished upon himself slip away. “Eveningstar is trying to keep me out of trouble with the Hortators, isn’t she?”
The penguin nodded gravely. “Despite how large and varied the Oecumene population is, it would be an easy matter for the College of Hortators to post in the Middle Dreaming a memory, available to anyone who glanced at you, the way you let your anger get the better of you, the contempt you showed for civilized law, the foolishness of trying to use an Eveningstar-built mannequin to damage Eveningstar property. Most of the Oecumene schools are quite zealous in their support for Hortator-called boycotts.”
“But why would she want to help me?”
“Eveningstar is aware, as I am, that the Earthmind spoke to you directly, and showed that She favored your case. Eveningstar has more latitude of freedom than have I; she does not need to guard Helion’s interests, for example. Therefore Eveningstar was free to consult with one of the Ennead, one of the Nine overminds, which the Sophotech community has constructed to construct the Earthmind. The overmind she consulted deduced the reasons why Nebuchednezzar Sophotech was unwilling to advise or assist the College of Hortators when they drafted the Lakshmi Agreement. Humans have relied on Sophotechs and mass-minds for so long to do their legal work that the practice of the lawyer’s art is somewhat atrophied. The Lakshmi Agreement contains a crucial error. Because of this error, the overmind deduces that you would succeed in your goals, which are also goals the Earthmind favors, provided you do not open the box of ancient memories. Monomarchos has arranged the outcome of the law case to your satisfaction. The faction opposing you, including the Hortators, do not possess a crucial piece of information concerning Helion’s memory and disposition; this fact will lead to a condition which you will, once you recover your memory, consider a satisfactory victory.”
“Victory … ?” The word was bitter in his mouth. He turned and stared down at the crystal coffin.
Then he said: “Was this part of my plan? Did I know—the version of me before I forgot so much—did I speak to her before she did this … ?”
The penguin said, “You already have sufficient evidence to deduce that you did not know what Daphne Prime intended till it was too late. Her fear that you would be exiled drove her to this suicide. Your grief over the loss was one of the factors which prompted you to agree to the Lakshmi bargain. Young master, when I say you will have a victory, I did not mean that you would necessarily win Daphne Prime back.”
Phaethon stood with his head bowed, brooding. Some part of his mind not stained with grief noted that this was another clue. Whatever it was he had done, it must be something which would tempt his wife to such despair that she would destroy her life beyond repair. What he knew of Daphne Prime told him it could not have been a small matter.
Then he said, “Can you manipulate the stock market in the fashion the Eleemosynary described, to force Eveningstar to bankrupt Daphne’s account and expel her from her dreamworld?”
“I could not presently do such a thing for you. You do not have the resources.”
“What if I win the law case and I turn all of Helion’s wealth over to that task?”
“There are several possible outcomes. The most likely is that you will trigger a general stock market collapse, ruining your own fortune in the process, to ruin Eveningstar and release Daphne. At that point, I predict that she will wake briefly, ignore your entreaties, and return into a less expensive dream delusion. But naturally, my ability to predict human action is based largely on speculation.”
Phaethon tapped his armored fist, very lightly, against the glassy surface of the coffin. It made a sharp clicking noise. Daphne’s face was only two inches away, and he could not reach it.
“Would that cause a general economic collapse?”
“It depends on what you define as collapse, young master. It will be a depression. In less than two hundred years, the economy should return to nearly its old level.”
“But everything would be entirely legal?”
“The law would have no cause to complain, young master.”
Phaethon stared down at the motionless figure of his wife. He opened his fist to touch the unyielding surface with his gloves’ metal fingertips. A hard expression settled onto his face. “Then all I need do is be patient … .”
“I should warn you, though, sir, that certain repercussions might result … .”
Phaethon straightened. His tone was brusque. “That will be all, thank you, Rhadamanthus.”
“Does the young master wish to hear what might happen if—”
“I believe I said that will be all.”
The penguin bowed and waddled back toward the receiving chamber.
Phaethon, after one last lingering glance at his wife, turned to leave. He did not want to download directly back to the Eleemosynary public casket, nor did he care to return to the receiving chamber, where, from the clumsy noises of flippers on carpet, Phaethon could tell Rhadamanthus was still pretending it had a presence. (Pretending, because the clarity of his sense-filter showed him that Rhadamanthus was still on-line.)
But there was a large door leading outside at the other side of the hall; and an internal register showed that this mannequin had an extended range, and could easily leave the building, if Phaethon so wished.
Impatiently, he strode across the hall, metal boots ringing on the floor. He threw the doors wide.
It was a beautiful scene. The light was dim, like the light of sunset, but the shadows came from overhead. Phaethon had not noticed that the real sun had set long ago. The light now came from the blazing point of Jupiter, rising to the zenith, a time called Jovian Noon. In the shade of many tall cypress trees rose marble obelisks made soft by dappled shadows. Bees and other servant-insects made by Eveningstar were droning in the scented air, and gathered honey, aphrodisiacs, and pleasure drugs in a series of hives beyond a hedge to the left. To the right rose a slope. In the pasture several horses were grazing. Beyond the slope rose the handsome scarlet-and-white towers of a nearby Eveningstar Nympharium. Flying banners from other tower tops showed the emblems, of the Eveningstar’s sister mansions of the Red School: the doves, roses, and hearts of Phosphorous House, Hesperides House, and Meridian Mansion. Beyond the towers, to the north, above tumbling white clouds, gleamed a faint silver rainbow of the ring-city. Near the ring, a scattering of lights from power satellites or Jovian ships glinted like gems in the twilight false-noon. It was a beautiful scene.
Bringing his eyes down, Phaethon recognized one of the horse breeds gamboling on the hillside in the distance. It was one of his wife’s designs.
Phaethon closed his eyes in pain. “There was a time when I called this a paradise! It is fair to look at; but it is Hell.”
There was a footfall behind him. A voice of sinister glee spoke softly: “You are not alone in your assessment, great Phaethon. The princes of dark Neptune will be so happy to hear how you finally agree!”
Phaethon turned. A man stood on the stair behind him, dressed in doublet and hose, shoulder puffed with comical flounces. He wore a white three-cornered hat. His nose and chin were extended six inches from his face, almost touching, and his cheekbones were outrageously pronounced. The round cheeks and the red nose were tipped with red. The eyes were two slits, filled with menacing black glitter. In one hand he held a rapier from which ribbons and white rose petals dripped.
Phaethon had seen this costume before. It was a brother to the Harlequin costume Phaethon had been wearing once: both were characters from Second-Era French comic opera.
The figure bowed low enough to sweep his hat plumes across the stair. He spoke in a tone of manic cheer. “Scaramouche, at your service!?
??
16
THE MASQUERADER
“Welcome to reality unmasked,” smiled the figure, his eyes dancing. His voice was a soft, slow lilt of song, as if he relished every word. “Welcome, good Phaethon, to Hell.”
Phaethon took a step backward down the stair, to put an extra pace of distance between himself and this odd figure.
Scaramouche was speaking. “The projections of our Sophotech indicated that you would come in person; I am sorry that we were mistaken. And watching Rhadamanthus’s signal actions did not lead us to you—till now. Come! My real body is in a pit not far away. You have, I doubt not, many questions; we shall make answer.”
Phaethon said, “Outside a grove of Saturn-trees, when I turned off my sense-filter, a Neptunian eremite, huge, cold, and monstrous, appeared in my view.”
“It is good to see what others would hide!” said the grinning figure with an odd and almost boneless sideways nod of his head. “But time steals life while you dilly-dally and delay. Come! Away!”
Phaethon said, “The Neptunian, he spoke as you do now, claiming to be friend and comrade-in-arms forced out of my memory. But then he fled as Marshal Atkins approached, but he threw a fragment of himself back down to Earth as he exited the atmosphere. Am I to assume you are that fragment, now in this shape? You are from Neptune?”
“Your blindness is passing; your mind more ready to receive our truths. Come! Do you finally wish to know what it was you forgot at Lakshmi?”
“Of course; but I wish to know who and what you are. Atkins’s machines said your technology could not possibly have been produced by any group within the Golden Oecumene. Do you claim to be from another star? But there are no colonies beyond the Oecumene; nothing but a few scattered robot probes. I assume that this is some masquerade trick, some jest at my expense by jealous nincompoops. Who are you?”