John Wright - The Phoenix Exultant

In the left mirror, Antisemris' many snake-heads were bobbing, perhaps a sign of good humor. "Well, well. The real Phaethon! Fancy that. It sounds like you'll be at the helm of your ship in no time. And who can stop you, eh?"

The wall slid open to the right, and an image of three armored vulture-heads appeared in the mirror there. A harsh battle-cyborg voice issued from the speaker. "Phaethon! This is the remnant of the Bellipotent Composition speaking. I am informed that someone has just read my travel records, no doubt to discover your location. An index check shows the action took place at million-cycle thought speeds, which indicated that the intruder was using Sophotechnology of a high degree of sophistication. A side-thought of mine is even now communicating with the constabulary. A Constable Pursuivant, on their staff, is reviewing the evidence and tells me that the constables can do nothing, on the grounds that the reading of my information was legal. Apparently the movements of former customers whom I transport are not covered by my clause of privacy, and therefore there is a legal loophole which allows former customers to check flight plans and safety records, even those for flights which they did not take."

Phaethon said: "I have to warn you that Constable Pursuivant is a fictional character. I was told by the Preceptrix of the local commandry that that name and persona can be loaded by anyone who wishes to donate time to performing public service as a constable. The persona comes complete with memory and training."

"I take it that there are no security checks to prevent the persona from being ran by any random citizen?"

Phaethon said: "Why bother?"

"Point taken. Society is certainly much more peaceful and trusting than when I was young. Does this mean I cannot trust what Pursuivant told me?"

"I'm not sure. I was visited by a Constable Pursuivant myself. The local Commandry told me that there is no record of such a visit."

The vulture-heads said, "And you suspect it is your fictional extra-systemic alien race?"

"It is the Silent Oecumene."

Both Antisemris and the battle-cyborg jerked their heads in surprise. It was a human gesture, despite their inhuman heads, some atavism of their core neural structure. Deep down, they were still both human.

The three vulture-faces snapped their hooked bills with a clattering sound. "The Silent Oecumene is dead."

"Many people say the same about the Bellipotent Composition."

"Are you telling me they came back from the dead and jumped out of a black hole just to thumb through my logbooks? If so, why isn't the constabulary answering questions about what happened? Why haven't they woken up Atkins out of archive storage?"

"Atkins is not in storage. I've seen him."

"Ah! Ach! If Atkins walks the earth once more, battle and death are not far away!"

Phaethon stared at the red vulture-eyes. Did this creature want a war? The sensation of human sympathy he had for the cyborg faded.

Antisemris evidently wanted to be part of the conversation. He said, "You there, bird-head! You people are talking crazy-talk. This is some masquerade prank. The Hortators wouldn't let this happen."

"They are not all-powerful," replied Bellipotent.

"Someone read your logs," Phaethon said, "there must be a record. What did a normal identification show, when you queried the intruder?"

"The intruder's query was masked by the masquerade protocol. The intruder logged on under a pseudonym."

"What name did they use?"

"Yours. They called themselves Phaethon of Rhadamanth."

Phaethon squinted and frowned. Here was a puzzle. Why his name? "Was that done to allow him access to your records? I had been transported by you, after all."

"Not officially. I listed you as a stowaway."

"But this loophole in the law would not apply to someone who merely dressed up as a customer, only to someone who actually was a customer. So, unless there is a Deep One hunting for me ..."

"I did have someone I brought to your location. A human form, not a Deep One."

"Here? To Talaimannar? Who?"

But Bellipotent said, "You should not have announced your position. This is not a secure line."

Antisemris' snakes all jerked to one side. His screen went black, to be replaced by a text of white letters on the dark field.

SORRY, PHAETHON, BUT THEY WERE WILLING TO OFFER ME SIX HUNDRED THOUSAND SECONDS AND LET ME BACK IN, PROVIDED I STOPPED HELPING YOU. I'M NOT TAKING ANY MORE MESSAGES FROM YOU, SO DON'T TRY TO CALL.

Phaethon could not grasp what was happening. Was Antisemris confessing to helping the Silent Ones? No, absurd. Some sort of super-high-speed conversation must have just taken place between the Hortators and Antisemris, who had been bribed by them to withdraw support from Phaethon. His link to the Neptunians was cut off again ...

At the same time, the windows to Phaethon's right lit up with flame.

Then he heard an explosion.

Phaethon jumped to the windows and stared out.

Atop the cliffs across the bay, he could see part of the graveyard of houses, where he had just been salvaging, that morning. It was all on fire.

For a moment, he thought he saw a figure, man-shaped, flying, camouflaged in black armor against the black sky. Then it dropped into the burning graveyard, and, with a flash, buried itself into the cliffside beneath the graveyard.

While Phaethon was still blinking and trying to decide what it was that he had seen, another explosion trembled through the gaunt seashell silhouettes of the dead and defective houses. Fire gushing from high windows, the tall thin silhouettes began to sway and fall.

Then, that noise was smothered, as all the houses Phaethon had just brought to life, all the floating houses of the Afloats, in one huge, terrible wail, began to scream.

Phaethon ran up the ladder and found himself on the fore-deck of the barge.

Red light from the fire surged along the northern cliff and lit the scene. Above him, through the pavilion floors of crystal, Phaethon saw black shadows stirring and groaning in the gloom. The workers on the night shift had been jacked out of their work. Perhaps the lines had been interrupted; perhaps Antisemris had shut down the server. The sound of screaming houses brought those figures above to their feet (those that had feet), and cries of anger and fear and wonder mingled with the general clamor.

"Calm! Calm!" Phaethon shouted upward. "It is not our houses burning. Only the empty shells in the graveyard. No one is in danger!"

Drusillet came forward. She was one of the few who had welcomed Phaethon's changes and proudly wore the uniform jacket and skirt he had provided. The shawl she wore to cool her head against the tropic heat, originally designed with a thousand micropores to blow cold oxygen-mix, now also boasted several communication points and phone beads. Compared to the mentality, this small network, encompassing the few hundred yards occupied by the Afloat houses, was pathetic. But her beads and phones demonstrated that one person, at least, had ambition enough to take advantage of the links Phaethon had made among the floating houses.

And it was useful now. "What is the situation?" he asked.

She shouted her answer over the noise, "It's the Hortators. They filed a petition to have the abandoned property destroyed as a public nuisance, submitted a plan for the public burning, and got permission to proceed, all in the last half-second. Energy beamed from stations along the ring-city are triggering the fires. There are constables with inhibitors and pseudo-matter smother fields patrolling the area to prevent the flames from spreading, and, also, Nebuchednezzer Sophotech invented and manufactured some new type of nanomachine cloud which can control the blaze. That's the mist you see coming up out of the water. Either Nebuchadnezzar finessed Old-Woman-of-the-Sea, or else found some nanomanufactur-ing cells she doesn't control."