John Wright - The Golden Age

The rail did not feel like metal or wood or polystructure or urim. It did not feel like any substance at all;, it was merely a geometrical notion of a flat surface, a sensation of hardness and resistance in the nerves of the palms and fingers. When he dug in his fingernails there was no give; when he pounded with his fist, there was no pain.

Phaethon heard a two-tone chime ring. He turned his head left and right, unable to locate a source. Disconnected from Rhadamanthus, Phaethon did not automatically have the knowledge of what these two chimes meant. The traditions and customs of the aesthetic of this room were unknown to him. He wanted to make the identification gesture, but there was nothing at which to point.

The two notes of music sounded again. Phaethon said, "Activate." And then he said, "Engage function. Open. Go. Go ahead. Come in. Perform. Yes."

One of them must have been the magic word. A three-headed self-image appeared on the other side of the table surface. It was dressed in an old-fashioned housecoat from the middle period of the Fourth Era. The fabric had vertical pipings for recyclers and buoyancy and other household functions. The three heads were monkey, hawk, and snake. This was the Chimera image of the Eleemosynary Composition.

The bird of prey was actually a blue-headed merlin; the monkey head was an ourangoutang; the snake was a black asp. Phaethon was familiar with some Eleemosynary iconography: these particular combination of heads showed that the image was projected from the hospitality branch of the media and publicity subdirectory of the Eleemosynary spaceside op-

erations. In other words, this was the managerial officer or maitre d'hotel of the public box and local area service Phae-thon was using. Other functions of the Eleemosynary mass-mind represented themselves with different combinations of bird, primate and reptile heads.

Phaethon could not restrain a sense of condescension and distaste. The image had not come through a doorway; it had simply appeared. There had not even been a simulated sound of air being displaced by the sudden arrival. He suspected that this was all according to Second Revised Standard Aesthetic, or some other populist, plebeian school.

Phaethon did not introduce himself. "You intrude upon me, sir. What do you wish?"

The creature bowed. "One serves oneself by serving one and all. It is my wish to aid and comfort the one which you are."

"You do not know me."

"One lives; one suffers pain. This is motive sufficient to compel charity. Ask what you will."

Phaethon glared at the Chimera. This was one of—or at least part of one of—the Peers. The Peers were the compatriots of Gannis, and those who benefited from Phaethon's loss of memory. "And why do you presume I need help?"

"There was fist pounding and tooth gnashing. Activity in your thalamus and hypothalamus show neural imbalance and extreme emotional upset."

Phaethon now felt "emotional upset" indeed. The simulation was real enough to allow him to feel the blush of hot anger pulsing in his face. "How dare you monitor my internal brain states without permission?! Have you no concern for privacy?"

The creature pointed at the balcony rail. "The privacy curtain was not in use. Posture of distress and pounding on the rail would have been visible from below, had this been a real scene. Whatever would have been visible from below is presumed to be in public information space."

"And my brain activity?"

"Kirlian auras and chakra-energy broadcasts are visible."

"Not in the real world. No such sense perceptions exist there!"

"Aura-reading sense perceptions are allowed by the Revised Standard Aesthetic. You prefer the Consensus Aesthetic? Apologies are rendered. Had one made one's preferences known, one's needs would have been supplied, and passage into public information space of your private information would have been restricted to what is available through the five traditional senses. The offense was unwitting: would it be preferred if this unfortunate occurrence were removed from all records? All memory of the trespass can be redacted; it will be made as if it had never been."

"You are rather free and easy with your offer, sir, to mutilate your own memories."

"The knowledge that you suffered came through unwitting trespass on your privacy. How can privacy be restored unless that knowledge is abolished? If the event is forgotten by all, if all evidence is erased, then it is as if the unfortunate event had never occurred. But your expression shows you do not agree."

"You disgust me."

"More apologies are tendered. But if the memories are unpleasant, why cherish or preserve them? How can they have a value?"

"Because they are real. Real! Doesn't that mean anything to anyone any more?!" He turned his back on the Chimera and stared out over the balcony. Above him and below him, windows representing activity in the public thoughtspace flashed and glittered. Pictures, icons, dream dramas, ghost archives, and strange scenes lived and pulsed.

To Phaethon's surprise the Chimera answered him: "If our perception of reality is vulnerable to manipulation by our technology, why should we not employ that technology, if it serves our convenience, utility and pleasure? Where is the wrong?"

Phaethon gripped the rail and spoke without turning his head. "Where?! Where is the wrong?! Damn your eyes, where is my wife? Where is Helion? Imagine waking up to find your

father is dead, replaced by a copy of himself. A near copy, almost an exact copy, but a copy nonetheless. How am I supposed to feel? Is it supposed simply not to bother me? Am I supposed to be satisfied with the copy, if the copy is close enough?

"But what if it is not close enough? What then? What if your wife is gone—a woman you always thought was finer and better than anything you could ever wish, a love more perfect than you had dreamed—a happiness beyond hope— gone! Gone! Replaced by a walking mannequin, a doll! And, to add cruelty to cruelty, the doll is hypnotized into believing that she is your wife, truly believing! A perfectly nice girl, a twin sister to your wife, looking like her, talking like her. The girl even wants to be her. But she is not her.

"And what if—what if you find yourself staring at a mirror and wondering how much of yourself has been forgotten. Or how much of yourself is real... ? What if you do not know whether you are dead or alive? I think you will begin to see exactly how much wrong is in all that. Convenience? Utility? Pleasure? I do not feel particularly pleased or well served at the moment."

The chimera answered: "Who, then, is to blame, Phaethon of Rhadamanth? Godlike powers mankind now enjoys; to render good service to others, or to serve one's own selfish ends, as one chooses. But if one will not heed the wishes of others, do not expect to be heeded when one's turn comes to cry out for comfort."

The voice was different. Phaethon looked over his shoulder.

The self-image had changed; the Chimera now had the head of a crowned human man, a bald eagle, a king cobra. This was a different part of the Eleemosynary mass-mind; a part of the central command structure. This was one of the Directorships.

Phaethon straightened and turned. "You are one of the Seven Peers. Gannis said you all wished for me to fail. Is it true? Do you relish my distress? My wife is dead and worse than dead; and I was not even allowed to see a funeral."

The snake head stuck out its tongue, tasting the air; the eagle stared unblinking; but the human head looked grave and sad. "The Eleemosynary Composition wishes ill to none. Your pain causes nothing but grief and sympathy in us. Once, there might have been a way to avoid all this strife. It is even now, perhaps, not to late."

"Not too late ... for what?"

"You and Helion are at odds. You and the relic of Daphne are in pain; she loves you but you want the love of her original self."