John Wright - The Phoenix Exultant

"Did you plan this? All this?" And she wanted to ask: Is this whole thing some sort of drama you'd cooked up, one with a happy ending?

But he said sharply: "Don't get your hopes up! I'm afraid this is all quite real and quite dangerous. However"-now his face softened into a smile-"allow me to give you a gift."

He presented her with a flat, gold-bound case, larger than a memory casket, about ten inches by six. It was bordered by scrollwork, woven with wiring and sensitive reader-heads; one whole side was occupied with a complex mosaic of thought-ports.

Daphne was breathless with delight. "Is this-is this-oh, please tell me that this is what I think it is!"

"It is for Phaethon."

"But I thought this circuitry had to be housed in complexes larger than the Great Pyramid of Cheops!"

"A new technology in miniaturization. The thought-reaction circuits are coded as information into the spin values of static lased neutrinos held in an absolute-zero temperature matrix, rather than in the entangled states of bulky electrons. It was going to be presented at the Festival of Innovation next week. Orient Group said it would be OK to spoil the surprise and give you one beforehand. They know how you hate surprises."

Tears of gratitude came to her eyes. Why had they waited so long? Why had they told her they would do nothing? "Oh, thank you, thank you," she whispered.

Everything would be all right.

Aurelian said, "Socrates and Neo-Orpheus from the College of Hortators wish to see you. To try and talk you out of this."

"Can they stop me?"

He smiled. "It is not a crime to think about committing crimes. The same principle applies to Hortators and their edicts. They will do nothing until and unless you speak to Phaethon, or help him. Preparing to help him is not forbidden."

"In simulation, can they convince any of my models or par-tials of me to change my mind?"

"No."

"Then I don't want to talk to them."

"Very good." And then he said: "Remember our agreement. I'll be ready whenever you give the signal."

And she put the gold case carefully in her pack next to the dark silver memory casket Eveningstar had given her.

Rhadamanthus was the last in line. This time, he looked like a human being, a portly Englishman with wide muttonchop whiskers. "Someone whom you asked me never to mention again..."

"Helion. I don't want to see him."

"... Wants to project a televection to you."

"He wants to get a message to Phaethon without actually breaking the Hortator's edict, doesn't he? Well, tell him that if he wants to talk to Phaethon, he can walk into exile with me to do it. But I don't want to see him."

Rhadamanthus nodded. His present was a solid walking stick, some advice on how to operate her new body, and a word or two on foot protection. He reprogrammed the substance of her boots to make them fit more snugly.

"One last question."

"Ask away," he said.

"Are you really sure? Absolutely sure that Phaethon is honest? That he did not falsify his memories?" she asked.

"I'm sure." Rhadamanthus switched to a private line and sent the words, like a whisper, directly into her sense-filter: "Whoever falsified the evidence at the inquest made a mistake. According to the record the Hortators reviewed, Phaethon went on-line and purchased a pseudomnesia program, allegedly, in order to add a false memory that he had been attacked on the steps of Eveningstar mausoleum. But how did he purchase it? Phaethon had no funds. All his purchases are drawn from Helion's account and overseen by me. Neither I nor my accountancy routine have any memory of disbursing those funds. The public record of the on-line thought-shop does show that the pseudomnesia routine was purchased, at the time given, by someone in masquerade. But whoever that someone was, they could not have known what only you, and I, and Helion knew, that Phaethon was entirely broke; and no outside analysis of Phaethon's spending patterns, no matter how cleverly done, would have revealed Phaethon's poverty. Even an inspection of Phaethon's personal billfold file would not tell you where he was getting his credit from."

She "whispered" back over the secure channel: "Then why didn't you tell the Hortators?"

"Pointless. Consider the possibilities. First, that I had actually disbursed the fund, but both I and the countinghouse memory-records have since been edited. Second, that the Phaethon memory-record was tampered with during the moment it took him to transfer it from his public thoughtspace to the Hortator reading circuit. Third, that the record was altered and replaced during the actual moment Nebuchednezzar Sophotech was publicly reading it. Or, fourth, that Phaethon's memories had been damaged or altered against his will. The first three possibilities are impossible to our present level of technology, and the Hortators would not be convinced. The third possibility can be proven if and only if Phaethon submits to a noetic examination, which, at the time, he was not willing to do. Had I spoken up at the time, it would not have affected the outcome."

"Not affected the outcome?! But you know he's innocent!"

"No. I know that he did not purchase with Helion's money the pseudomnesia program that falsified the memories, allegedly his, which the Hortators reviewed. He may have gotten money from another source, for example. Or they may not have been his memories, as he claims. There are other possibilities. Nonetheless, I am confident that Phaethon did not deliberately falsify his own memories, because that is out of character for him. But my consultation with Eveningstar Sophotech convinces me that no such attack as he describes or remembers ever took place on the steps of the Eveningstar mausoleum."

"Then his memory of that attack, and any other false thoughts, were put into his head before that point. When?"

"Not when he was operating his sense-filter through me. I have my suspicions, but the circuit Aurelian gave you should settle the matter. I had consulted very carefully with two partial versions of Phaethon I keep in my decision directory. One version believes, as Phaethon does, that we are under attack by an 'external enemy.' The other thinks he is merely the victim of some cruel prank or brain-rape. Both versions confirmed that I was right not to speak up at the Hortators' meeting. Both versions agree that our chances of apprehending the brain-rapist, no matter who or what they are, are greater if they do not know we suspect. And both versions have an ulterior motive of which the real Phaethon is unaware, for they hope to demean the prestige of the Hortators in the eyes of the public, and they also agree that my silence aids that effort. Remember, the Transcendence is less than a month away. Major decisions concerning how all society will be structured, including the role of the Hortators and the role of individual freedom, the future of star-travel and the future of man, will be determined at that time."

"Then I have got to be back before the month is up."

"Don't fool yourself, Miss Daphne. No one has ever returned from exile of this kind before. The risk you are taking is very real."

She said defensively: "Ealger Gastwane Twelfth Half-Out came back."

"A redaction case, and he was only shunned, under a parole, not ostracized."

She shut off the private line and spoke aloud, voice bluff and hearty and betraying no fear. "So, then! Anyone else to see me? Any more gifts, advice, good-byes?"

"Your parents want to talk to you."

"My what?"

"Mr. Yewen None Stark, human base unmodified, uncom-oposed, with puritan gland-and-reaction censors, Stark Realism School, Era 10033, and his wife, Mrs. Ute None Stark, base..."

"I know who they are!" Daphne blazed. Then, in a small, sad voice: "They called? They don't use phones or ghosts ..."