John Wright - The Golden Age

Now she became more animated; excitement thrilled in her voice: "Ymmel-Eendu, now that they have made themselves into one person, has been living in his navis body now for forty years, training and preparing, and the rumor channel says he did not step on dry land once in all that period! For years at a time, he would shut off his linear and linguistic brain segments, living among dolphins and cetaceans, an animal of the sea himself, moving from one oceanic dream to

another, so that he attains a mystic communion with sea and wind and wave!

"Then, there is going to be a pancrateon near Mount Washington in the late afternoon, between Bima and Arcedes, and two hundred years of rivalry will be settled. The loser has promised to change sex and serve the victor as a harem slave for a year and a day. A disgusting conceit, I think, but who can fathom the minds of athletes and somatic performers?

"This evening at Hawthorn House, there will be a Ball, and, at midnight, a Stimulus. A codicil discovered in the living will of Mancusioco the Neuropathist directs that he be resurrected for the Millennial Celebration; rumor reports that he has completed his Opus Number Ten, the Unfinished Arrangement. Everyone is eager to discover how he resolves the famous disputed sensation passage; tonight we shall learn! Mancusioco himself will lead us from one altered state of mind to another, through the full cycle of consciousness, and who knows what new expressions of thought, new insights, or new forms might arise from his adroit manipulations of our nervous systems? Will you go, Phaethon? Will you go?"

For a moment he was strongly tempted.

If he wanted not to be bothered with this mystery for an evening, or for a month, or a decade, he could visit a redactor and put the memories related to his discovery today in storage. He could spend a pleasant evening with his wife, something he had not in far too long. He could have a pleasant and untroubled life. All he had to do was ask.

But he wondered if he had done this before. What if, every time he discovered a blank in his memory, he made himself forget that discovery? What if he had done this yesterday? Or every day?

He could have a pleasant life. Just for the asking. Except it would not be his.

Phaethon said: "These celebrations are beginning to pall on me. I would much rather be doing the things which make life worth celebrating. But I am haunted by the thought that my past self, as you say, must have known what he was doing. Suppose I underwent this amnesia merely to get to go to this

Celebration. That would imply that my going was part of his plan. But a plan for what? What could he hope to gain? He must have had absolute faith that I would continue to act in a predictable way...."

"Darling, this is beginning to sound like crazy talk. People don't make plans and schemes that way. Why not just relax, and come with me to the navicular races?"

But Phaethon was not listening. He was recalling something Rhadamanthus had said. The only way a man's actions could be truly predictable could be if he were truly moral. Phaethon imagined some past version of himself, with more than 250 years of memories, willing to commit a type of suicide; to go into storage, to be forgotten, merely on the strength of a hope that the unknowing, amnesia-afflicted future version of himself would have the strength and perseverance, without ever once being asked, to rescue him from oblivion. The image was a chilling one.

Phaethon stood up. "Daphne, my memories have been dismembered. I feel as if I've been mutilated. Perhaps there was a good reason for it. But I'll be damned if I'll live my life without trying to find out just what that reason was. You know more than you are saying. Your casket says you know the reason for my amnesia. It says you benefit from it. What's that reason? What's that benefit?"

"Why try to remember a forgotten crime? Let it rest." "The tag on your memory casket says that I had done nothing; that I was suppressed merely for something I had planned

to do."

"Perhaps that is why you escaped true punishment. Perhaps the crime was not complete. But I have put those memories

aside."

"Yet you know well the benefit you enjoy. What is that

benefit?"

"My life is happy beyond any hope I ever had for happiness." She looked down and would not meet his gaze.

"That is no answer."

"Nonetheless, it is all the answer you shall have from me. Be content."

"You really don't want to tell me the truth?" He paused while she said nothing. He continued: "Do our marriage vows mean so little to you, then? When our friends Asatru and Hellaine got married, all they did was exchange recorded copies of themselves with their intendeds. He edited and adapted the personality of his wife-doll till it suited him; and she did the same to her version of him. Most of our friends are like that. Sferanderik Myriad Ffellows sends his dolls to marry any woman who experiences one of his tasteless love-romance dramas he writes; every schoolgirl has one of him in her harem. I should be offended by such conduct. As if a husband were to make a gigolo for his wife, and she to hire a prostitute for him; and them both to celebrate that as holy matrimony! I am not offended only because the general society has made the whole thing as trivial as exchanging Commencement Mementos. But I thought we were devoted to the Silver-Gray ideal, you and I. To realistic traditions, realistic stimulations, realistic lives. I thought our tradition stood for truth. I thought our marriage stood for love."

She did not answer, but sat, lashes lowered, staring downward.

Daphne spoke very softly, and did not raise her eyes. "But I fear we are not married, my husband."

"W-what?!" This came out in a breathless word, as if Phaethon were struck in the stomach. "But I remember our ceremony. ... Rhadamanthus said no false memories were put in me...."

"They are not false. I am. Here."

Daphne delicately took her diary, a small cloth-bound book patterned with rosy pastels, out from her, skirts and laid it on the table. Like many married couples, the two of them had communion circuits to enable full and direct memory exchanges, so that each could experience and see the other's point of view. The diary was the icon representing this circuit.

She said, "I fear I will be destroyed by your quest for truth. I know you have destroyed others you said you loved. That is part of what you forgot. You are convinced that your forgotten deed was not a crime. And perhaps, in the eyes of the

law, it was not. But there are horrible things which people can do, most horrible, which our laws never punish."

She took out a tiny key and unlocked the little lock on the cover. The cover of the diary turned red. Letters blazed: "WARNING This contains a persona matrix. You will loose your sense of self-identity during the experience, which may have long-term effects on your present personality, persona or consciousness. Are you sure you wish to continue? (Remove key to cancel.)"

She slid the diary across the table to him. "I offer this in the hope that you will refuse, and return it unread. If you trust me, believe me: what is in here destroys our dream of marriage. And if you do not trust me, then how dare you claim you love me?"

He took out his own diary, a slim black volume, unlocked it, and tossed it on the table in front of her. It rattled the china tea service as it fell, and lay in a strip of sunlight, bright on the linen, which the gazebo roof shading the table did not cover. A silver spoon was jarred out from the sugar bowl.

The read-date on the cover showed yesterday's date. He was offering to show her, from his point of view, what had occurred to him.

"A marriage based on untruth is a contradiction in terms." And he picked up her diary. He hesitated, though. Daphne watched him steadily, unblinking, her face utterly