John Wright - The Phoenix Exultant

"Did I correctly hear Ironjoy say you had a Cerebelline neuroform? You express yourself in linear fashion, like a basic, not like a global."

She suddenly looked shy and sad. "Sub-Cerebelline. Think of a mass-mind with a split personality. As long as my other personalities don't come to the forefront, as long as I don't weave myself back into a global whole, I think and act like you lonely people. Just one mind, one point of view, all alone. It's what I have to do to keep my children safe."

Phaethon was curious, but saw she would not say more on that topic. Instead, he asked her about her work: "How does Devolkushend, when he hires you, escape falling under the Hortators' opprobrium?"

"Oh, he's a Nevernext. They hate the Hortators. Nevernexts, deviants, freaks, they still cut deals with us. And a lot of things are done on the sly, or through schools with high privacy restrictions. Especially now during the masquerade. Some of us dress up and sneak off to go look at the real people..." Her face took on a look of wistful longing. Phaethon pictured her in masquerade, in the rain, peering up at a window or balcony for a distant glimpse of a grown child who might no longer know her. It was a pathetic picture, disturbing. Was it accurate? He did not know.

She said: "The Hortators aren't the constables, after all, and they can't get a warrant to read someone's mind."

Oshenkyo stood up suddenly and tossed the twig he had been toying with away into the brush with an abrupt motion. "Ironjoy's top man around here, for sure. Makes sure we all get along, all get some work, some grub, some dream-stuff so we can stand to make it to another sunset. He got good stuff in his shop, good dreams, bad dreams, new thoughts, new selves. You play around, you jack in new stuff, maybe one day you find yourself a persona who can stand living here without no hope. Turn yourself into Mr. Right. But we're all good friends here. We share and share alike. You got some good stuff on your back; maybe you got some good stuff in your head. Why not help us out, eh?"

Phaethon said, "I may be able to help you out a great deal. Ironjoy's monopoly seems to be hindering any capital formation. Your 'share and share alike policies,' as you call them, certainly would discourage the type of long-term investment we would all welcome. From what you say, the Hortators are much weaker here than I imagined. Among the deviants and Nevernexts there may be enough markets for us, enough work to be had, that, with some new policies, new leadership, and hard work, some real growth and prosperity could be brought to this little community. And perhaps even a type of immortality could be regained; I knew that Neptunian neurocircuits, in their zero temperatures, suffer very little degradation over the centuries."

Oshenkyo was grinning; clearly the idea appealed to him. He touched his new ear thoughtfully.

Drusillet said in a hushed tone: "What kind of thoughtspace do you carry? What level of integrator is installed in that suit of yours? Do you have enough to carry out the same functions Ironjoy's shop-mind can carry out?"

"Perhaps if I don't have what I need, I could build it out of raw materials."

Drusillet said in a voice of slow astonishment, "Build? What do you mean, build? Only machines build things. Men don't build things, not now-a-days men."

"I build things. And I am very old-fashioned, in my own way."

"How?"

"With determination, will, and foresight. With my brain. With the circuits in my suit. There is plenty of carbon in the environment. I can design and grow circuits and small ecologies."

He saw their looks of astonishment. He smiled, "Well, I am an engineer, after all."

"Engineer," murmured Oshenkyo. Then: "Hey, engineer, my house grows my cakes and lamps all squirley. Maybe you can fix?"

"I'll certainly take a look at it. The house-mind probably operates from a modular set of neural base-formats. Any part of a working house could be used as a formatting seed to restart the program."

Drusillet said, "Engineer, what about finding assignments? If you and Ironjoy can both run a search, we'll find twice the jobs! Can you do it?"

"Perhaps. The Hortators allow me access to the mentality; even if I do not log on myself, I can access my account through a remote, or even through a script board. It's not impossible. Tell me what might be required. What is the priority and actions-per-second of the search engine Ironjoy uses to find your assignments? In which part of the mentality is he stationed? How does he negotiate the antiviral buffers without hiring a Cerebelline to certify him?"

Drusillet's enthusiasm vanished. She spoke with a twitch of worry. "Ironjoy may not like it, not if too much changes too fast."

"I will explain how it is in everyone's long-term best interest. You people act rationally to further your own interests, do you not?" Phaethon asked. Although, it occurred to him that, if no one here could afford a noetic inspection of each other's thoughts, no one would have any motive to keep their motives pure. Ironjoy theoretically could maintain a whole host of evil impulses and hypocrisies.

Oshenkyo said, "Sure. We all swell people."

Drusillet spoke with less conviction. "Oh, yes, we're rational. The Hortators are just wicked to exile me here. I didn't do anything wrong."

"Then why would Ironjoy object?"

She said in a sad voice: "We're a very tight-knit group, you see? We all swap our things. We all share. There isn't anyone else for us, not for anyone else, no one."

Oshenkyo stepped backward, looked off in the distance. He spoke in a casual voice: "She means don't squirt yellow on Ironjoy. Got to lick up to him, see? He take care of us." He sniffed, and said sidelong to Drusillet: "Besides, I got me someone. What about Jasmyne Xi?"

Phaethon turned Oshenkyo a curious glance. "Jasmyne Xi Meridian?"

Oshenkyo nodded. "My share-wife. She sees me on the sly, not even the Hortators know. Soon, maybe tomorrow, she use her big-snoff influence and get me out of this. Coming by to see me. Good day then, eh?"

Drusillet merely gave Oshenkyo a look, perhaps of pity, perhaps of contempt.

Phaethon knew Jasmyne Xi Meridian of Median House, Red Manorial Scholum; she and Daphne had once had friends in common. She was generally agreed to be among the most beautiful and glamorous of women on Earth. She had made several fortunes as a productress, fashion archetype, a writer of jewelry, apparel, and allure-software. She was paid to be seen in public using certain beauty products, attending certain functions, and for forming certain favorable opinions reported through noetic channels. It was impossible to imagine that a famous figure like Jasmyne Xi would receive a low-class ill-spoken outcast like Oshenkyo, much less marry him.

"If you are wealthy enough to afford pseudomnesias and deep-structure dreams," said Phaethon, "you could afford to pool your resources, and buy several search-models, and perhaps a few acres of nanomanufacturing for your own. The Nevernexts make a study of advanced bioformations and somarics; the Neptunians have an advanced science of minimalist nanoengineering. They are remote, but contact with them may not be impossible. Their resources are more scarce than your own; they must have advanced software you could profit by."

Drusillet stepped in close, and whispered, "Oshenkyo isn't buying dreams. It's the beauty ads. Oshenkyo is addicted to the ads."

Phaethon spread his fingers in the communication-failure gesture, to show he did not understand.

She whispered: "Jasmyne's lips cosmetics and erotic-formation commercials sometimes have little dreams as free samples. You see? Don't trust Oshenkyo. He's not going to help you set up a new thought-shop or compete with Ironjoy. He's a liar and a destructionst, a weaponeer, a nihilist; that's why the Hortators shunned him."