Second groups of signals were being funneled through the noetic unit, through his armor circuitry, and into the ship’s brain. At the same time, the deck seemed to tilt; the gravity increased slightly. The Phoenix Exultant had come about.
Phaethon set a routine to translate those signals. What was Xenophon ordering the ship to do?
The routine could not determine; Xenophon’s thoughts were still opaque. But the volume of thought traffic was now very low. Phaethon could see the amount of brain activity inside the body on which he lay had dropped dramatically. Xenophon had been badly damaged in the fight. His IQ had dropped to about 350 or 400; a little above average, but not by much. Obviously he was calling the undamaged body over to him to mingle his brain substances with the spare neurocircuitry that empty body carried. As soon as the two bodies merged, Xenophon’s intellect would be restored to its near-Sophotech levels.
But what was he telling the ship? Even if Phaethon’s sense array could not decode Xenophon’s thoughts, there had to be a translation matrix decoding those thoughts into a format the ship’s brain could read. Somewhere in the signal traffic Phaethon was seeing, there should be a translator he could find. He sent a subroutine to search. . . .
A moment passed while he waited. The second body, like a rolling lake, picked its was across the snow-coated, steaming deckplates of the hull, over or around cracked curtain pediments, smashed mannequins, melted table bases. It came closer to Phaethon’s inert body.
While he waited, curiosity, or anger, or some peculiar fanatical fascination with problems he could not solve, now prompted Phaethon to review the entire battle in slow motion. His sensory array allowed him to discover the effect that had broken open Atkins’s final defense, popping his pseudo-material shields and abolishing his heavier weapons. . . .
His neutrino detectors and weakly interacting particle sensitives showed disproportional activity at specific moments before and during the battle, including the moment when all of Atkins’s pseudo-material shields and weapons evaporated. Similar signatures were clustered around the noetic unit, the thought ports on Phaethon’s epaulettes, and the central control triggers of the thought box nexi lining the surviving balconies on the bridge.
The hateful voice came again: “I see you have discovered our little secret. Yes; what you observe is an application of a technology known only to the Silent Oecumene. The Silent Oecumene studied the specific effects of near-event-horizon boundary conditions. You are aware that the speed of light limits motion not exactly, but only within the more general boundary imposed by the Heisenberg uncertainty principle? Since the speed of a particle cannot be determined more precisely that the uncertainty limit, there are, statistically, certain particles traveling slightly above or below light-speed at any given moment. This creates the Hawking radiations, which escape black holes, and also produces the multidimensional particulate rotations, from existence to nonexistence and back again, of so-called virtual particles. The Silent Oecumene learned how to focus and control this fundamental effect of nature. It is one of the secrets that close study of a singularity over generations can disclose.
“Overlapping arrays of constructive interference allow me to direct wave potentials of virtual particles into any area within a limited spacetime—the area involved is roughly one light-minute—and have those particles appear, en mass, within any object without passing through the intermediary space. If enough virtual particles are sustained in one place at a given time, a permanent baryonic particle, such as an electron, can be formed out of the base-vacuum state, rotated into existence.
“Hence, electrons can appear within neutral circuits to activate them, controls—such as those in your armor, or in the noetic unit—can be turned on without any outside signal to turn them on. And pseudo-material fields, which require a delicate balance of asymmetrical fundamental particles to maintain, can be collapsed. You understand?”
Phaethon understood that the machine controlling this virtual-particle effect must did not necessarily have to be inside the hull of the Phoenix Exultant, not if the ghost particles could be precipitated inside the hull without passing through the intervening space.
And Xenophon could control it with no necessary equipment on this side, nothing on his person for Phaethon to detect. All that would be necessary would be a receiver to detect how the ghost particles were affected when passing through the specific spacetime area inside Xenophon’s brain. Something like a noetic unit could interpret the particle deflections, correlate them to a stored record of Xenophon’s mental signatures and silhouettes, and act on any commands Xenophon was thinking at the time.
And so this ghost-particle machine could have been outside the hull. Could have been: but it was not. No ship of the Golden Oecumene could keep pace with the Phoenix Exultant. For the machine to be in range and stay in range, Xenophon must have built it himself and smuggled it aboard, or constructed it (as most Neptunian machines were constructed) out of the polymorphetic neurocircuitry that also served them for brain matter, control conduits, and servo-mechanisms, which all Neptunians carried in their bodies.
And if the ghost-particle machinery required an abundant power supply, or needed to be in an area where the continuous discharges of other energies would mask its operation, where else could it have been placed, except? . . .
“Your suppositions are correct. The disruption units we placed along the fuel containers were not meant to sabotage this wonderful ship—the stealth remotes Atkins supplied you, and your own knowledge of demolition, have already told you those disruption units could not have done much damage. They were not intended to break the magnetic containers to release massive amounts of fuel and create an explosion, no: they were meant only to release tiny amounts of fuel, to be picked up and used to power what, in your thoughts, you are calling the ghost-particle machine. The actual ‘machine’ so-called, occupies the entire drive core, and uses the active plasma stream of the Phoenix Exultant engines as an antenna to attract and rotate the virtual particles. . . .”
Phaethon was not interested in the technical details. He merely wanted to know what Xenophon was planning to do, so that he could stop it, stop him, and wreak a bloody and terrible vengeance on Xenophon’s person the moment the opportunity arose.
For the first time (perhaps because his intelligence had dropped to a near-human level), Xenophon sounded confused and uncertain: “I . . . am puzzled. You . . . are not reacting as we had anticipated. You ignore the technical details which I thought would fascinate you. You dismiss my offer to make you the captain of the grand fleet, the armada, of Phoenices Exultant I plan to build once the Silent Oecumene is resurrected. You are not attracted to the future I propose, of machine-free humanity, mortal and uncontrolled, spreading across the stars. Why? I do not understand your resentment.”
It should have been obvious why Phaethon hated Xenophon.
“It is not obvious. I did not kill Diomedes. Atkins, bloodthirsty Atkins, Atkins the paid killer, did the deed! Nor have I stolen your vessel. The Phoenix Exultant, according to your own laws, is mine.”
At that same moment, his search routine had found and triggered the translation matrix compressed within the signal traffic passing between Xenophon and the ship’s mind.
Phaethon saw what the enemy was ordering the Phoenix Exultant to do.
The Phoenix had been ordered to adopt a course that would take her in a great hyperbolic arc, around the sun and out into deep space. Once there, the curve would tighten and the acceleration continue, until, after the third day of acceleration, she would be headed back in-system at 90 percent the speed of light. Units of antimatter fuel and kilometer-long canisters from the Neptunian superships were to be ejected from the hull as she passed through, these missiles containing the astronomical kinetic energy that near-light-speed would impart.
Phaethon was not able to calculate, just from the orbital element information, where the missiles would strike. But the time frame was clear; the attack would take p
lace during the Grand Transcendence, when every sapient mind in the Solar System would be preoccupied, interconnected, dream-drowned, intermingled, and helpless.
He had enough control over his personal sense filter to call up his personal thoughtspace. Again, the images surrounded him (this time, tilted sideways, as he was on his back). A symbol table to his right showed the opened memory casket, an unopened casket still inside. To his left were images of service units and honorary commissions. In front of him were the ship controls.
A targeting globe appeared, showing the orbital elements of Xenophon’s bombing run as a possible-course umbrella imposed on the model of the Solar System. The orbits of planets, major habitats, and energy formulations were depicted as a geometry of colored lines, slashed across by the projected run of the Phoenix.
Along the course, within striking range, were Io and Europa, the Ceres group, Demeter Transfer Station, Earth herself, and Mercury Equilateral. At the far end of the run, the major field generators and close-solar orbital elements of Helion’s Solar Control Array would also be in target range.
Phaethon needed no further information; he recognized instantly what these targets had in common. They were centers of metals production, of communications, of fuel depots, energy control. They were crucial to the healthy functioning of the Golden Oecumene as a whole. He recognized what they were. They were military targets.
The translation matrix also decoded Xenophon’s other commands to the ship mind. These instructions included upgrades to be made to the thought-cast system and communication antennae along the Phoenix Exultant’s prow. With Xenophon’s ghost-particle broadcaster, he should have as little problem jamming basic communication circuits or neutralizing security systems as he had had usurping control of the noetic unit here on the bridge.
Or . . . (Phaethon should have realized it before) . . . with as little problem as he had had feeding false information into the Nebuchadnezzar Sophotech’s reading of Phaeton’s records during the Hortator’s Inquest.
During the bombing run, the Phoenix Exultant, equipped with the ghost-particle broadcaster, should have no difficulty in imposing the Nothing thought virus, the same mind worm that had possessed Xenophon, into the entire Grand Transcendence. During Transcendence, normal barriers between mind and mind were eased, cumbersome security restrictions were relaxed. All minds were One Grand Mind, ready and able to think grand thoughts. . . .
All necks were one neck ready to be lopped off at one stroke.
The Grand Transcendence was the time of greatest weakness, of greatest peace, of least vigilance, which an already weak, peaceful, and unvigilant society enjoyed. And it only occurred once every thousand years. . . .
“Your thinking is not following predicted paths! Your emotional reactions, your degree of aggressiveness and hatred, is not proportional! We had assumed you would be pleased to aid our efforts to restore the Silent Oecumene to her position as the supreme model and central culture for humankind! It is true that we are about to engage in acts of mass murder and mass mind-rape against the Golden Oecumene, destruction and devastation. But your distaste for these things is merely part of the widespread program of thought control imposed upon you by your Sophotechs! It is they who told you that there is an absolute right and wrong, and objective measure of good and evil. Nonsense! If there were such an objective measure, freedom of human thought would be limited, which, by definition, is unthinkable. You merely have an opinion that mass murder and destruction is bad because of your social conditioning. It is irrelevant.
“These things are necessary in order to achieve a greater and long-lasting good; namely, the salvation of the Second Oecumene and the liberation of the human spirit. Unless the Golden Oecumene is severely wounded and weakened, your Sophotechs will maneuver to undo what you and I both dream to do. It is your dream, Phaethon, which causes such bloodshed! Why do you flinch at it now?”
Xenophon must not mean to kill him. Otherwise, why would he still be trying to convince him to join? Was there still something this horrid creature wanted or needed from Phaethon?
“We still need your skills and expertise to run this ship, and to run the armor which controls this ship. We are going to make a more cooperative version of you, merely by editing and rearranging certain of your thoughts and memories. If you cooperate, more of your memory and personality will stay intact. The more vehemently you resist, of course, the more thoughts you think that are disloyal to me and my purposes, then obviously, the more of your thoughts will have to be expunged. Be reasonable, be pliant. It is safer to agree. Don’t your Sophotechs always urge you to be rational and safe?”
Actually, they never did. This Silent One was a fool. He knew nothing about the Golden Oecumene, knew nothing about how Phaethon thought, and did not seem to realize that Phaethon could not be redacted by the noetic unit unless he was taken out of his armor.
And once he was taken out of his armor, his arms and legs would be free, and he could quickly and efficiently kill Xenophon.
“How amusing. You? An untrained man from a completely peaceful society, without any pistol or energy weapons, think you can kill me in my Neptunian body? I have given you every opportunity for surrender! You have proven yourself a useless pet of the machines after all!”
Phaethon spoke aloud: “No. It is I who call on you to surrender. I suspect that you will not. I merely make the offer so that my conscience will be clean, later.”
Xenophon deigned not to reply.
Efficiency, if nothing else, should dictate that Xenophon kill Phaethon now, immediately, before taking him out of his armor. But perhaps he could not. No weapon could penetrate the Chrysadamantium plates; even the ghost-particle machine had to wait until the thought ports in the shoulderboards were opened before seizing control of the suit’s circuitry. And even that control of the armor’s command channels was insufficient: the protective feedbacks were hardwired into the nanomachine lining core. The armor simply could not understand or accept any orders that would harm the wearer.
“You overestimate your technology, Phaethon! Your Golden Oecumene has many advances, perhaps, but you are curiously lacking in the one science in which the Silent Ones excel: thought worms, mind viruses, psychic corruption. Even Sophotechs, pure and supreme among intellects, were no more than slaves and toys and playthings after our mental warfare science had done its work. You think your simpleminded suit could withstand me, if it were my purpose to make it do my will? But, no: my purpose is to corrupt, not your suit’s mind but yours. And despair shall be my ally. Despair makes men weak, vulnerable to redaction, and self-hatred makes men unable to resist mental reconditioning. My circuits are ready: your memories and skills will soon be at the service of the Silent Oecumene. But first, despair requires hope. You must be allowed to struggle for a moment before you are absorbed.”
And, with that, the armor opened.
2.
The golden plates slid aside, and Phaethon tried to get up.
But the pool of Neptunian body substance in which he lay gave him no time to move. It merely swirled up around him, a thousand strands like clinging snakes, and engulfed him. The blue material surrounded him, cocooned him, immobilized his limbs, pressed against his face, intruding in his mouth and eyes. It hardened; even Phaethon’s strength could not budge it, lacking any leverage. He was trapped like a fly in amber.
Filaments of neurocircuitry swam forward out of the blue mirk, webbed his skull, and sought the contact points to invade his brainspace.
His personal thoughtspace flickered into and then out of existence again. In the corner of one imaginary eye, he saw the last memory casket, the one with the figure of the winged sword, open, and he felt the wild, drugged, dreamlike sensation that massive memory downloading created, a blur of activity in his cortex and midbrain.
It was a preliminary to all mental surgery to open all unopened memories, so that the restructured mind, after redaction, would not have any old memory chains to lead back to its former p
ersonality. . . .
A sarcastic voice appeared in his sense filter. Apparently the Silent One was not pleased with whatever level of hope or rage still burned in Phaethon’s mind. “Here is the thought virus which consumed the Silent Oecumene. After it consumes you, as it has done me, you will regard me as your most generous savior. Why do you still resist? You cannot move. In a moment you will be unable even to think. What has happened to the dire revenge you vowed, Phaethon? How did you imagine you could defeat me?”
But at that same moment, the second mass of Neptunian body met, melted with, and combined with the first mass. Phaethon saw the brain activity double and redouble as the creature’s intelligence climbed back to normal levels.
The surge of activity around him paused. He could see, floating in the blue material, the main brain group, with the nerve trunk, like a tentacle, leading to the skullcap gripping him. He could detect the neurological changes and endocrinal nerve reactions of fear, panic, and shock.
“Wait. There has been an error. Your face. You are not Phaethon. All is wrong. . . . You . . .”
Memory came. The cells of his outer skin, each and every one of them, contained a nanomachine energy weapon in the cell membrane. They were activated by a command sent through his endocrine system. . . .
Fire lined his body for an instant of pain. A positronic charge was released through his skin by billions of molecule-sized fullerine antiparticle containers. The sections of Neptunian material in contact with his skin ignited, positrons canceling electrons in a clenched spasm of furious radiation.
At the same time, a weapon made of his own neural tissue, invisible and camouflaged (hidden in the centers of his brain otherwise used for creative thought), sent a charge of nerve agent back along the skullcap gripping him, destroying cells and disorganizing consciousness.