John Wright - The Golden Age

"But he didn't find new work. He merely created the illusion that he was working. He wrote himself false memories telling himself that he was making enough to live on."

Helion stared at the ground for a moment, brooding. He spoke softly. "Then he sold his extra lives, one after another. All seven. A Noumenal backup takes up a lot of expensive computer time.

"Then he sold his structure models. He probably figured that he did not need an imitation of a thalamus or hypothal-amus any longer, since he had no glands and no dreams, probably did not need a structure to mimic the actions of pain and pleasure centers, parasympathetic reactions, sexual responses, and so on.

"Then, to save space, he began selling memory and intelligence. Every time I came on-line to speak with him, he was stupider; he had forgotten more. But he still kept altering his simulation, making himself forget that either he or anyone else had ever been smarter than the slow-witted brute he was now."

Phaethon asked, "Father? You still went to see him ... ?"

Helion wore as stern a look as Phaethon had ever seen on his face. "Of course. He was my best friend."

"What happened.? I assume he ... Did he die?"

"It dragged on and on. Toward the end, both he and the world he had made were colorless cartoons, flat, jerky, and slow. He had been so brilliant once, so high-hearted and fine. Now he was not able even to concentrate long enough to follow a simple multistructural logic-tree when I tried to reason with him. And I tried.

"But he kept telling himself that I was the one who was hallucinating, me, not him, and the reason why he could not understand me was that his thoughts were on so much higher a plane than mine. And whom else could he ask? All the black-and-white puppets he had made around him nodded and agreed with him; he had forgotten there was an outside world.

"I was there when it happened. He became more and more intermittent, and fell below threshold levels. One moment he

was a living soul, closer to me than a brother. The next, he was a recording.

"Even at the end, at the very last moment, he did not know he was about to die. He still thought that he was Helion, healthy, wealthy, well-loved Helion. All the evidences of his sense, all his memories, told him how fortunate and happy his life was. He was not hungry, not in pain. How could he know or guess he was about to die? All our attempts to tell him so were blocked by his sense-filter...."

Helion's face was gray with grief.

Then he said, "And the thought, the horrid thought which ever haunts me is this: What of us, when we think we are happy, healthy, alive? When we think we know who we are?"

It was Phaethon who eventually broke the heavy silence.

"Did you try to pay his bills? It would have kept him alive."

Helion's expression hardened. He folded his hands behind his back and looked down at Phaethon. He spoke in a grim and quiet voice: "I would have done so gladly, had he agreed to shut off his false memories. He would not agree. And I was not going to pay for the illusions which were killing him."

Phaethon glanced longingly at the golden doors. He already had a dozen plans in mind for what to do with his newfound freedoms and powers once he passed the examinations. But his sire was still blocking the way, grave and somber, as if expecting some sort of response. The official count of time was still frozen, and the scene around them was peopled as if with statues.

What reply was his sire expecting? Nothing in Phaethon's life heretofore had been particularly sad or difficult. He had no comment to give, no thoughts about Helion's story. Somewhat at a loss, he said, "Well. It must have been very ... ah ... unpleasant for you."

"Mm. It must have been," said Helion sardonically. His gaze was level and expressionless; a look of disappointment.

Phaethon felt impatience transmuting into anger. "What do you want me to say? I'm not going to shed tears just because

some self-destructive man managed to destroy himself! It won't happen to me."

Helion was very displeased. He spoke in a voice heavy with sarcasm: "No one expects you to shed tears, Phaethon. He wasn't your best friend in the world, the only one who stood by you when everyone else, even your own family, mocked and scorned you. No, you did not even know him. No one weeps over the deaths of strangers, no matter how lingering, horrible, cruel, and grotesque that death is, now do they?"

"You don't think I'm going to end up like your friend, do you? I'd never play games with my memories like that."

"Then why seek out the right to do so?"

"Oh, come now! You cannot expect me to be afraid to live my life! You would not act that way; why do you think I would?!"

"I wouldn't? Perhaps you should not be so sure, my son. Hyacinthus thought he was me when he did it; those were my thoughts, my memories, which guided him. During the Hortator's Inquiry, when I thought I was him, I desperately wanted to be me. I would have walked through fire to be Helion; I would have died a thousand deaths rather than lose my self. It would have destroyed me to lose that case, to lose the right to think my thoughts, or lose the copyrights on my memories. What would I have done if I had lost? Well, I know what he did, and he was another version of me, wasn't he?"

"But it won't happen to me, Father!" said Phaethon, irritated. "I won't ignore the advice of the Sophotechs—"

"You don't see the point of my story. I did listen to the Sophotechs. They could not help. They would not break the law, would not interfere. They care more for their integrity than for human suffering; their logic is deaf to pleas for pity. If the Sophotechs had their way, we would all be Invariants, unemotional and perfect with a cold and dead perfection. The Silver-Gray School is but one way to preserve our human nature from the subtle dangers which menace us from every side."

Phaethon, who thought of Helion as the most traditional of traditionalists, suddenly realized that Helion thought of himself as a rebel, as a radical, as a crusader bent on altering society.

It was a very strange thing to think about one's own father.

Phaethon asked: "Do you think there is something wrong with the Sophotechs? We are Manorials, father! We let Rhad-amanthus control our finances and property, umpire our disputes, teach our children, design our thoughtscapes, and even play matchmaker to find us wives and husbands!"

"Son, the Sophotechs may be sufficient to advise the Parliament on laws and rules. Laws are a matter of logic and common sense. Specially designed human-thinking versions, like Rhadamanthus, can tell us how to fulfill our desires and balance our account books. Those are questions of strategy, of efficient allocation of resources and time. But the Sophotechs, they cannot choose our desires for us. They cannot guide our culture, our values, our tastes. That is a question of the spirit."

"Then what would you have us do? Would you change our laws?"

"Our mores, not our laws. There are many things which are repugnant, deadly to the spirit, and self-destructive, but which law should not forbid. Addiction, self-delusion, self-destruction, slander, perversion, love of ugliness. How can we discourage such things without the use of force? It was in response to this need that the College of Hortators evolved. Peacefully, by means of boycotts, public protests, denouncements, and shunnings, our society can maintain her sanity against the dangers to our spirit, to our humanity, to which such unboundried liberty, and such potent technology, exposes us."

Phaethon suddenly understood why Helion had always supported the College of Hortators, even when they made poor decisions. The Hortators had saved Helion's identity from Hyacinth, and had restored it to him.