The Golden Age

  Neo-Orpheus was the 128th iteration of Orpheus Avernus, the cofounder of the College; but, unlike the other emanations of the mind of Orpheus, he was one who refused to accept the reimposition of his original template. He became legally independent from the original Orpheus, downloaded into a physical body, and rejected the Aeonite School; but he later accepted employment as the emissary and factotum of the original Orpheus. It was rumored that the real success of Orpheus, and also his Peerage, were due to the original and creative work of Neo-Orpheus the Apostate; and that the original Orpheus was just a figurehead.

  Their gazes met. With a shock, Phaethon realized that Neo-Orpheus was not time-frozen. The pale-faced Master was sitting still, patiently sitting and watching him, his eyes burning like sullen coals.

  Phaethon straightened. Perhaps he should not have been surprised. Neo-Orpheus had so much prestige that he could ignore any and every social convention, and override Helion’s protocols blithely.

  Neo-Orpheus spoke. His voice was thin and cold, as if a sheet of ice were speaking: “Phaethon has miscounted. The White Manorials dismiss his vision of star travel as madness, prompted by emotion; and the Black Manorials know Phaethon’s reputation for stoic indifference would rob their sadism of all zest. The Warlocks will be persuaded by Peer Ao Aoen that, since the sun is in Leo, and since Pluto, if it still existed, would have been in syzygy with Earth at this time, the omens decree the harshest of penalties. The exile will be permanent.”

  Phaethon realized that, with Orphic wealth at his command, Neo-Orpheus could have hired the entire Boreal Overmind to run a prediction program, and guess Phaethon’s every thought with near-telepathic accuracy. But why was Neo-Orpheus bothering?

  “What it is you want of me, Master Hortator?”

  Neo-Orpheus spoke without inflection: “Commit suicide. This will save us all from embarrassment and mild discomfort. We offer for your use a number of memory and thought alterations, to make the process pleasant, even ecstatic, and to replace your values with a philosophy that not only does not object to the self-destruction but actively approves of it. We can then redact you from the memories of all people whom we can influence or intimidate; your existence would sink into myth and be forgotten.”

  “Why in the world would I acceded to so foolish and wicked a request?”

  “The good of society requires it.”

  The perfect shamelessness and impertinence of the comment left Phaethon speechless for a moment. Phaethon said curtly, “Your good be damned, sir, if it requires the destruction of men like me.”

  Neo-Orpheus looked nonplused, as if the answer meant nothing to him. He said, “But it need not seem like destruction. The belief that you have accomplished your mission, complete with full memories and simulated sensations of many successful voyages in your starship, can be inserted into your brain before and during your death. You will be satisfied.”

  Phaethon spoke ironically: “I make this counteroffer: Let everyone else everywhere alter all of their brains to adopt the belief and the knowledge that I am in the right. Let them admit their guilt and folly for daring to oppose the destiny I represent. Let them erase all knowledge and record that the College of Hortators have ever existed. Then I will be satisfied.”

  Neo-Orpheus’s eyes glittered. His voice was sharp: “Suicide would have been less painful for you. While the Sophotechs forbid us from acting directly against you, we can still encompass your death.”

  Phaethon stared at the cold pale face without fear. He raised a fist: “I most solemnly assure you, sir, that should the College of Hortators dare oppose me, or attempt to flee from the future I bring, it is they who shall be forgotten and destroyed!”

  Too late, he remembered that making a fist was the signal, in this program, to resume the time count.

  There was a stir and murmur from all around him, gasps of outrage, titters of laughter. The faces to either side of him were moving, staring, whispering. It looked to everyone watching as if that last sentence had been his response to Nebuchednezzar’s polite question earlier. Since the throne on the dais was behind and above Neo-Orpheus, it seemed to everyone as if Phaethon’s glare had been directed at Nebuchednezzar.

  Helion was looking on with sad astonishment. The archons of the White Manorials glanced at each other and nodded, as if to confirm their private suspicion that Phaethon was an overly emotional fool. Mass-minds were well-known for their abhorrence for any hint of rudeness or conflict, and their members in the Composition gallery to Phaethon’s right looked on him with embarrassment and pity. Only Asmodius Bohost whistled and clapped and shouted bravo.

  Nebuchednezzar, at least, was not fooled. “The College of Hortators does not wish to intrude upon your private conversations; but the College might ask, out of courtesy, that you attend to the matter at hand.”

  This, if anything, was even more embarrassing. The Hortators exchanged glances and whispers of scoffing outrage; the Red Queens smiled behind their fans. To shout defiance at the College was understandable, if uncouth; but to be conducting a private conversation on another channel in the middle of an inquest … ? Phaethon was sure the Hortators thought him half-mad.

  It took a moment for the buzz and murmur in the chamber to fall silent.

  Nebuchednezzar continued: “Naturally, you are free to follow your own affairs; all citizens of our society are. But that same freedom allows the College, and all of those who follow her advice, to have nothing to do with you, to abjure you utterly, to boycott you and all your efforts. Such a decision is tantamount to exile and, since no isolated man can last for long by his own unsupported attempts, to slow death. You are offered this final opportunity to inform us of any facts, or to sway us with any pleas, which might ameliorate our decision.”

  Tsychandri-Manyu Tawne stood and spoke: “Good my fellow colleagues, associates, partials, and auditors: we are all painfully well aware of the issues in this case. Every argument and counterargument has been picked apart, thread by tiresome thread, over these past two hundred fifty years; every hair has been split. Our souls and our ears are weary of it. Why repeat the debates we heard at Lakshmi? The community of the Golden Oecumene will not upbraid us for moving quickly on this matter; no, indeed! If anything, the Golden Oecumene frets with impatience, and wonders at our lack of action. Therefore I move to call the question. Nebuchednezzar, predict for us the outcome of this hearing! None of us, I think, will be surprised to find that we will all favor a sentence of permanent exile!”

  But Nebuchednezzar did not raise the mace from his lap. “Slight variations in initial conditions lead to different outcomes in various extrapolations; an acceptable estimate cannot be made at this time.”

  Phaethon felt again a pang of hope. Uncertainty?

  One of the other Gold Manorials, Guttrick Seventh Glaine of Fulvous House, leaned from his seat: “How can the outcome be in doubt? Fulvous Sophotech foretells an exile will be handed down in any case!”

  Nebuchednezzar spoke, and his voice filled the hall: “Phaethon may have startling news concerning the motives which prompted him to violate the Lakshmi Agreement; representatives from the Warlock Iron Ghost School and the Warlock Seasonal Mind School may reassess their positions based on this new evidence; and Ynought Subwon Centurion of New Centurion House has a guest he wishes to invite to address us.”

  Tsychandri-Manyu was still standing: “Oh, please! This is insufficient! How likely are we to be swayed by the opinions of two Warlocks and one Dark-Gray! Three voices out of one hundred three of us?! What single person here honestly supports Phaethon’s cause?”

  Asmodius Bohost of Clamour House stood, heaving his massive body upright on elephantine legs. “Hoy!” he called, “The Black Mansions say Phaethon should not be exiled, no! In fact, we think he should be crowned king, be given a pension, and have a palladium established in his honor in the acropolis!” He smiled impishy. “Or, at least, that is what we will say we believe, until Tawne House sits down. Come now, Tsychandri! We all know
how this is going to turn out, don’t we? That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t enjoy the show. My colleagues and I want to give Phaethon a chance to beg and squirm.”

  A titter of uncomfortable laughter traced the room.

  Ao Prospero Circe of the Zooanthropic Incarnation Coven of the Seasonal Mind School stood. She was depicted as a Chinese dowager empress in imperial yellow robes, a headdress of black pearls and plumes, and a demeanor of gravest dignity. “Truths often disguise themselves as jests. It is protective mimicry they need in order to survive. And they hop from the mouths of fat fools because no one else is wise enough to utter them. I am one of the two voices Nebuchednezzar counts as undecided. My Twelve minds are eager to hear what evidence might stir us from what seems to me to be a firm conclusion. My Hound mind gives tongue and bays at the moon; my Wolf mind scents bloods; and yet Stag is chary; and Serpent, so far, remains silent. These omens are unclear. Let Phaethon be given, at least, a chance to plead. If he refuses the chance, on his head be it; but we, by offering, do all that the sadist-tyrant we call Conscience will require, or need.”

  A second-rank lateral-organization program from Harmonious Composition thought-traffic control stood up, dressed as a London clerk. He took his hat in his hands and touched his forelock before his spoke. “Service to all requires that the College recall that her task is not merely to condemn what is worthy of condemnation but also to urge those worthy of hope to virtue. Shouldn’t we, before anything else, plead with Phaethon to change his mind?”

  There was a general murmur of assent. Nebuchednezzar tapped the head of his mace, as if it were a gavel, to signal the consent of the College. At that signal, the reproduction of Socrates, who was the Master of the College from Myth, now rose to speak.

  “You know my understanding of these matters is poor,” Socrates said, his voice heavy with irony. “Often in places in the city, in the streets and in the markets, and particularly in the houses of the rich (who are men of important character, to whom the Many pay close attention) we often hear much talk of law and of justice, of what ought to be done and of what ought not to be done. I know little of these matters, for though many people speak of them, often what they say does not agree with each other, nor does one man use these words the same way twice, but changes his mind as he is a young man or an old man, or in the heat of passion, or for some other reason,. Justice, as perhaps we all know, consists of every man doing his duty, which is what the state requires of him. Now, Phaethon, you respect your father, do you not?”

  Phaethon could not tell if this were a serious question. Was he supposed to answer this? “Without question, Socrates. I love my father, and respect him more than I can say.”

  “Ah. And this is because he is the one who brought you into this world, and sustained you through infancy, and, in short, did everything he needed to do to give you life, is it not?”

  “But of course, Socrates.”

  “Then what do you owe the state, who not only brought you into the world, and brought your father and all your ancestors, but also nurtured you, taught you language and letters, grew the food to feed you, spun the cloths to clothe you, and, in short, provided both you and everyone you know with all the gifts they needed, not just to live well; but to live at all? Is the state not more to be respected than your father? Respected and obeyed? Suppose that you were to die and become merely a shadow, or a memory, but that your family and peers, and all the society beside, had the power to make you flesh again. If you have disobeyed the duties society puts on you, why should society extend itself on your behalf? Society only exists at all because men put aside their natural inclinations, and listen to the commands of duty. Will you cry out that it is the duty of society to defend your life, and to sustain it? But why? You, by disobeying, have done everything in your power to undermine and to destroy the very concept of duty. How can you call upon the spirit of duty to defend you, when you have, to the best of your ability, attempted to destroy that spirit?”

  Phaethon said sharply: “But I do not call upon you. I do not ask, do not beg, do not plead. Listen to me, Hortators!” Phaethon turned left and right, studying the many faces around him. “What I intend to do requires neither apology nor excuse. You gentlemen claim to be defending a way of life. But what I defend is life itself. Our civilization must expand; without expansion, life is arrested. Trapped in one small star system, we are confined, ignorant, provincial, vulnerable, and alone. Turn your eyes outward! The surrounding stars are barren; I shall plant gardens. The void is empty; I shall raise cities. Sterile rocks and worthless dust clouds tumble through blind orbits. I shall transform atmospheres choked with poison into blue skies fit for men, pour oceans into dry wasteland, bring forth new life. I shall make these rocks into worlds! Hortators! Listen, for once, to a voice other than your own! Our civilization is as beautiful as a bride; it is time she gave birth to colonies, and mothered new civilizations in her own image.”

  One of the augurs for the Warlock Iron Ghost mass-mind called out: “And yet when this bride cries out and bids you to desist, you ignore her sad cries! This is cruelty in a lover—all the more for one who claims to love the Golden Oecumene so much! So much that you move heaven and earth to fly away from her embraces!”

  The other Master of the College was Emphyrio, a character from early fiction. He spoke, and the book in his lap amplified his voice: “Hear me, 0 Socrates! Those who lust to destroy courage, freedom, and innovation always use ‘duty’ as their battle-cry. The truth is that Phaethon is not a slave, or a creature with such low worth that he ought to die whenever such death might please his owners’ whims.

  “Hortators!” Emphyrio continued in a ringing voice, “Let us not war among ourselves. Phaethon knows joys and sorrow, pain and heart’s ease even as we do. He is a man like us. Do we not all wish to do as Phaethon has done? To embrace greatness, triumph over the elements of nature, and to yearn to conquer more? I tell you, my fellows, that nothing is more certain than that our race must one day live beneath the light of other suns.

  Looks of surprise, and doubt, flickered from eye to eye among the benches. Whispers ran across the walls.

  Abrupt silence fell when Neo-Orpheus spoke in a voice of ice: “We have heard thesis and antithesis from Socrates and Emphyrio. Let me offer a synthesis. Both my fellow Masters are correct, but only partly. Phaethon does owe us a duty to respect our opinions, but he is not a slave, and he is free to ignore us. As we are free to ignore him, should that be his choice. Perhaps mankind one day shall be forced to undertake the dangerous experiment of star colonization, yes. But now is not the time. And Phaethon is not the man. Has he not twice attempted violent crimes against the Eveningstar Sophotech? His character is unstable, violent, and unsuitable to father worlds upon worlds of races cast in his mold.”

  Quentem-Quinteneur of Yellow Mansion, an ally of Tsychandri-Manyu, spoke: “I concur. Yellow Sophotech tells me that our sun, thanks to the efforts of Helion, is far, far from being exhausted. Nor is there any population pressure nor diminution of resources—nor intolerance nor persecution nor strangulation of opportunities—nor any other compelling reasons to undertake so great a project.”

  Representatives from the Harmonious and Eleemosynary mass-minds rose and spoke in unison: “When we first joined this hearing, we were convinced Phaethon was selfish. Every appearance is that he is a heartless and cruel egotist, willing to trample the corpses of others to indulge his self-centered obsession. But, out of a sense of high compassion, and the willingness to serve even the most unworthy, we were willing to entertain the notion that it was possible, barely possible, that he was putting on this appearance for some reason no rational mind can comprehend, and secretly was motivated by a real, but horribly misguided, notion that he is benefiting mankind. Now we have heard him speak; and our open-mindedness is rewarded; for we now learn that Phaethon believes that what he does is to benefit mankind, and to spread our civilization, which he claims to love. A fine discovery! The conflict here can be re
solved without further ado.”

  The representatives of the mass-minds bowed toward Phaethon: “Phaethon, we thank you, but your services are not required on our behalf, nor on behalf of the rest of mankind. Mankind rejects your scheme. Civilization announces no intention nor desire to spread. On behalf of all mankind, we say: thank you, but no thank you. Is this clear? Now, then; cease your efforts … or let rest the pretense that you act for anyone’s benefit but your own.”

  Phaethon felt what little hope he had begin to die in his heart. He wondered if perhaps he should sit down.

  But the words came from him with a firmness that surprised even himself: “My efforts shall not cease, not while one second of my life remains. You are many, and I am alone. But I can speak for the spirit of mankind with a voice equal to your own. Truth does not become more or less true, whether those who know it are many or few. And it has never been masses or mobs who shaped destiny but single individuals, visionaries, innovators, who are scorned and isolated by the very masses who reap such benefit from their work. But such benefit is a side effect of our lonely work, not its main purpose. I will do what I must do even if none benefit from it. I will carry out my dream, no matter what the cost, no matter what the loss. This I shall do because my dream is sound and true and beautiful and right.”

  Silence filled the chamber. Some Hortators cast uneasy glances toward Nebuchednezzar Sophotech, but none asked the Sophotech for his opinion. No one seemed willing to speak.

  Helion’s eyes were shining with pride.

  Ynought Subwon of New Centurion Mansion, Dark-Gray School, now stood to speak. “Take heart. You are not alone, Phaethon.”