John Wright - The Golden Age

"I don't think he despises you, sir," said Rhadamanthus. "If anything, he is grateful that you allowed him to exercise

his skills."

Phaethon pressed his aching temples with his fingertips. "What did you say the third stage of grief was? Bargaining? The Eveningstar Sophotech did not press charges—she was delighted to have been the victim of the only half-successful attempt at violent crime in three centuries; the Red Manorials loved the drama, I suppose; all they wanted was a copy of my memories during the fight."

Phaethon remembered now the notoriety that had surrounded him. It was not just for the violence he had attempted. (As long as human passions were still legally permitted to exist in the human nervous system, there would always be violent impulses. Many people attempted crimes. There were six or seven attempts every century.) Phaethon's notoriety sprang from his position in society. Other men who gave in to moments of rage were usually primitivists or emancipated partials, people without resources, whom the Consta-

bles, guided by Sophotechs, easily could stop before they hurt anything.

But Phaethon was manor-born, who were considered the elite; and the Silver-Gray, in many ways, were the elite of the elite. The manorials had Sophotechs present in their minds, able to anticipate their thoughts, able to defuse violent problems long before they ever arose. No manor-born had ever committed a violent crime. Phaethon was the first.

In his armor, Phaethon could shut off all contact with the Sophotechs; his thoughts could not be monitored; his violent impulses could not be hindered by a police override. In his armor, Phaethon could act independently of any social restrictions. He was in his own private world; a small world, true, but it was all his own.

"The Red Manorials, perhaps, forgave me. But the Curia was not so amused. The penalty they imposed was forty-five minutes of direct stimulation of the pain center of my brain..." (Phaethon winced at the memory) "...but the Court suspended fifteen minutes from my sentence because I agreed to erase the rescue persona. Afterwards, the Curia ordered me to experience the memories and lives of the Constables I had humiliated, so that all their anger and frustration and pain happened to me. The fight did not seem so glorious any longer...

"That punishment I was glad to suffer; I knew I was in the wrong. The Curia and Eveningstar did not bargain, no. But the College of Hortators did.

"It was a devil's bargain. They found me during a moment of weakness. I destroyed my memory. Was I trying to commit suicide?"

"And what about now, young sir? Have you reached the state of resignation and acceptance?"

Phaethon straightened, wiped his face, squared his shoulders. He drew a deep breath. "I will never be resigned. Perhaps everything is not lost yet. Unless ..." Phaethon looked troubled. "Am I just fooling myself again? A recurrence of the denial part of the grief cycle?"

"You know I cannot take a Noetic reading of you at this

time. I do not know the state of your mind. You must avoid giving into fear or despair ... but you also must avoid giving in to false hopes."

"Very well, then. Maybe there are steps I can still take. Put a call in to that girl who is impersonating Daphne. She seems like a good person. Ask her if—"

"I am sorry sir, but she is no longer receiving your calls, nor am I allowed to transmit them." "What... ?!"

"None of the major telecommunication or telepresentation services will accept your patronage hereafter. Daphne Tercius has left instructions with her seneschal to refuse your calls, lest she be accused of aiding or comforting you, and therefore fall under the same prohibition under which you now fall." It took a moment for the implications of that to sink in. Phaethon closed his eyes in an expression of pain. "I thought that I would have some time to prepare, or that there would be some ceremony, or leavetaking."

"Normally there would be such, and all the participants in the boycott would exclude you at once. But things are in confusion."

"Confusion ... ?"

"You must recall that every other memory casket sealed by the Lakshmi Agreement, all across the planet, has opened up. Large sections of the memories of billions of people are returning to them; many are still confounded. All the channels are crowded with signals, young sir. Everyone is sending messages and questions to their friends and comensals; you have stirred the clamor of the world, I'm afraid."

Phaethon made a fist, but, insubstantial to his present scene on the Phoenix Exultant bridge, had nothing to strike, not even to make a dramatic gesture. "Scaramouche or Xenophon or Nothing or whoever is behind this is using the confusion to hide more evidence and release more viruses, no doubt. More evidence is being erased or falsified. And they must have predicted this would happen once I opened the memory box. But why? We are all taught that Earthmind is wise enough to foresee and counteract all dangers of this type be-

fore they arise. Their plan must be premised on the idea that that is not the case. They must have a Sophotech as wise as Earthmind, but not part of the Golden Oecumene Mentality. How else could they have done this? Is there no one we can warn?"

Rhadamanthus's voice: "I feel I should caution you, young sir, that no evidence exists that any attack of any kind has taken place. I am not presently capable of determining whether or not you are experiencing a hallucination or pseu-domnesia."

Phaethon said, "If the Hortators have not officially decreed their boycott of me in effect as yet, can you give me an indication of which efforts, merchant combines, or services will still accept my patronage?"

"Obviously the Eleemosynary Composition has not yet excluded you from the Hospice thoughtspace. Helion is continuing to pay the transaction costs and computer time for you connections with me, and for my conversation with you. The Eleemosynary Composition has left a message, to be given you should you inquire, to the effect that the previous agreement you had discussed has lapsed, and the offer withdrawn. Helion would like to have one last word outside before he shuts you out of my system. You might want to take this opportunity to have anything stored in my mansion-mind recorded into your own private thoughtspace; take any books or memories or proprietary information, alternate personalities, records, or anything else that is yours."

The image of the Phoenix Exultant bridge began to slip away. It flowed like water, out of the broken, window of the memory chamber. Phaethon's hands tried to grasp the corner of the nearest control mirror, the arms of the thronelike captain's chair. His chair. But his insubstantial fingers passed through the images and could not grasp them.

He seemed to stand in the chamber of memory, but his private thoughtspace, reacting to a command he had placed in it, long ago, at Lakshmi, had turned on. Cubes appeared in a circle around him. The two scenes were superimposed;

the cube icons seemed to float in midair among the shelves and sunlight of the memory chamber.

One of the cubes, a master program, near Phaethon's head, had a window floating in its upright face, showing the checklist of Phaeton's properties that he had planned to remove from the mansion memory.

Whatever sorrow had been on Phaethon's face was gone. His expression was stern, without being grim; it was not free from pain, but it was free from any acceptance of pain. His face might have been that of an ancient statue from the monument of a king.

He nodded to the checklist and raised a finger in the "run program" gesture.

Lesser memory caskets to the left and right of Phaethon, as if of their own accord, opened, and the cube icons flashed green colors to signal they were absorbing the information. The cubes turned black when they were full.