La Edad De Oro (84 page)

This was a mind virus developed by the Red Manorials. Phaethon now knew why Daphne had come here to drown herself. No other mansion could allow one to destroy so thoroughly one’s own sense of reality. Even if she were to wake up again, she would still be lost. The living provision specifically prohibited the unrequested removal of that mind virus.

“Why won’t you let me save her?”

“If you may do so without violence, proceed. But her life is her own, to live or to destroy howsoever she sees fit.”

“Why did she… do this…? Why did she…” And he could not force the words aloud. Why did she leave me ? Why did she betray me? Why didn’t she love me as she should have done?

“You knew the answer at one time and have made yourself forget it. Phaethon has instructed us, at Lakshmi, not to answer that question. Those instructions are still in force.”

Phaethon’s head had bowed forward till his forehead was resting against the cool glassy surface of the coffin. All he had to do was call Rhadamanthus and order the memory box to open. This horrible uncertainty, this battle with ghosts, would be over. He would suffer the Hortator’s exile. But if Daphne, his Daphne, the woman who made his life into a heroic adventure, the woman who gave his life meaning, if she were gone, what use would the rest of his life do him?

Then he straightened up. He must refuse to surrender to despair. He would find a way. His pride was still running high.

“I am involved in a law case which requires that I prove my identity. I intend to subpoena her as a witness. No matter what her right to her privacy, she must answer a lawful subpoena.”

“Phaethon may certainly apply for such a subpoena. If it is submitted to us, we will release her. However, we have run two thousand extrapolations of the outcome of such a request before the Curia, and all of them agree that you will not prevail.”

“You cannot know that.”

“Phaethon may hold to delusive hope if he wishes; we criticize nothing which gives you pleasure, provided the pleasure is true and lasting. But such hope will not last. The determinations of the Curia have been made as predictable as justice and policy permit, so that reasonable men will know to what standard to arrange their conduct. Determining the outcome of Curia decisions therefore is no different from determining the outcome of a game of tic-tac-toe or of chess; it may seem mysterious to Phaethon, but not to us. The Judges will conduct a Noetic examination and will see you intend the subpoena process only to invade the rights of your wife; her testimony will have no bearing whatever on the question of your identity, Helion’s inheritance, or any of the other issues in the case.”

Phaethon drew a breath and tried again. “I have a communion circuit giving me the right to examine her mental activities. I ask that you open the channel to allow me to exercise this right; the right cannot be used while she is involved in a far dream…”

When that argument failed, he tried another. And another and another.

Two hours later, his voice hoarse, Phaethon was standing with his cheek pressed against the glassy surface of the case, overwhelmed with weariness. His hands were clutching the corners of the casket.

“…her living will is not valid because… it is based on the false premise that I… had done something to shock or offend her… whether or not she left a provision for reawakening, since she would want to be woken at this point, were she to know I’m here…”

In the third hour he tried simply begging, screaming, pleading threatening, bargaining, bribing. In the fourth hour he sat mute, unable to move or think. In the fifth hour, he convinced himself that there was a secret password or hidden command that Daphne had not told to Eveningstar, which would unlock the casket and end the dream in which she was trapped. He whispered every word of love or of endearment or apology he could imagine to her cold, still, silent face.

He talked about their past life together; about how they met; he asked her if she remembered their marriage ceremony; if she remembered their first honeymoon in the Antarctic Wintergardens, or their anniversary in the reconstructed version of Third Era Paris, or the time he had accidentally collapsed the pseudo-matter holding up the east wing of their nuptial house in reality, so that it no longer matched the version of their house in Mentality. He asked her about her pet horses, and her latest drama she was writing, and about her hopes for the future.

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 molecular shapes of her medical nanomachinery were 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 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.”

“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.”