John Wright - The Golden Age

Much of the material was too long or too complex to be fitted into Phaethon's merely personal thought space; files were being deleted. A little flash of red light accompanied every deletion, as Phaethon had to approve the order each time. There were so many memory files being destroyed, and so many flashes of red light, coming faster and faster, that soon the room seemed as if it were burning around him, as if, without heat or noise, Phaethon were burning his old life. Here were thought works, centuries dormant, for which he would never have use again; memories of youthful tedium, or scenes redundant with other recollections, which afforded him no amusement, instruction, nor even nostalgia to retain; sciences now out-of-date; rough drafts for contemplation forms no longer practiced; the litter and rubbish of a long, long life at Rhadamanthus Mansion. There was no reason at all for tears to sting his eyes. He told himself it was all trash. And the checklist was one he remembered from Venus, from Lakshmi. He had made it before he signed the Agreement. He had made it knowing the Agreement would break. He had guessed this exile might come. He had planned... He had planned on this, on all of this.

But he had planned on an orderly exit, a withdrawal, perhaps after prevailing on his law case against Helion Secundus. With Helion's fortune, with entire income of the Solar Array in his hands, he could have bought the Phoenix Exultant out of hock, paid off his debts, and bought the few remaining supplies he needed, restocked his antihydrogen supplies, and departed.

No wonder the threat of the Hortator's exile had held no terror for him. He had been planning to leave the Golden Oecumene on a journey of centuries, or tens of centuries.

But his plan had been to have himself wait till after the Grand Transcendence in December was concluded, not to open the memory box prematurely, not to fall under the Hortator's boycott. Were he ostracized, Vafnir would not sell him antihydrogen, nor would Gannis sell Chrysadmantium.

He had not planned on being attacked by Xenophon, or by a virus that could have only been concocted by some non-Earth-mind Sophotech, a Sophotech that logic and history said could not possibly exist.

He glanced out the broken window. The image of the Phoenix Exultant hung against the darkness of the night sky, her golden hull like fire in the glare from the nearby giant sun. A dead hull.

Hadn't he had a backup plan? Wasn't there anything to salvage from this mess?

Phaethon raised his eyes from the circle of cubes.

In the background of his personal thoughtspace was a wheel of stars. It had been there every time he had turned on his personal thoughtspace. The fact that he hadn't recognized the background content of his personal area here should have been a clue that it was important.

The wheel of stars: it was impossible to believe he had not recognized it.

He reached out his hand. The galaxy was both smaller and closer than it appeared. He took it in his hand.

Like veins made of light was the umbrella of possible travel routes he had planned through the nearby stars. Where his finger touched a route, images unfolded to the left and right,

showing acceleration and deceleration calculations, estimates of local densities of space, notations of possible sources of volatiles for refueling in-flight, notes on where previous unmanned probes had gone (including summaries of scientifically significant discoveries and observations) and, more important, notes on places where unmanned probes had never gone.

The galaxy lay like a jewel in his hand. The stars were turning slowly, as the map ran through time adjustments for various periods in the projected voyage. Like a path of fire burned the trace of his first planned expedition. Branching world-lines for alternate routes reached out across stars and light-years.

It was beautiful. He would not give it up.

"Previous Phaethon, whoever you were: I remember you; I forgive you; I am you," he whispered. "I hated you for banishing my memory. I could not imagine what could have prompted me to butcher my mind in that way, what could have urged me to accept so much pain. Now I remember. Now I know. And I was right. It was worth the risk."

Somehow he would still save his plan. Somehow he would still save his dream....

Rhadamanthus, in his shape as a butler, cleared his throat. Phaethon looked up from the galaxy he held.

It was Helion.

Helion stood at the threshold of the memory chamber. His face was stern and sad. He was dressed out of period for Victorian England; instead, his self-image wore his snow white ablative armor of solar-station environment. He wore no helmet; Helion's hair shone like spun gold. The activity of Phaethon's deletions made red light flow across the scene like flame; the reflections burned in his armor.

Helion stepped into the chamber. Phaethon's private thoughtscape was excluded; the red flashes vanished, and the galaxy disappeared from his hand. The image of near-Mercury space disappeared from the window next to Phaethon. Instead, the broken window now let in sunlight, warm

summer air, the smell of flowers, the drone of bees, the scents

and sounds of the ordinary daylit world.

"Son," said Helion, "I've come for any last words we might

have with each other."

THE WARLOCK

Phaethon pointed two fingers. This was Helion himself, not a recording, a message persona, or a partial. "What do we have to say to each other, Father? Isn't it too late? Too late for everything?" Bitterness and irony showed on Phaethon's face. "You may be exiled yourself, just for speaking with me."

"Son—I had hoped it would never come to this. You are a fine and brave man, intelligent and upright. The boycotts and shunnings of the Hortators were meant to stop indecencies, deviations from acceptable behavior, acts of negligence and cruelty. They were meant to restrain the worst among us. They surely were not meant for you!" Sorrow was deeply graven on Helion's face. "This destiny is worse than we deserve."

The chamber seemed more real as Helion entered. It was a subtle change, one Phaethon might not normally have noticed. The colors were now brighter, the shadows of finer texture. The sunlight entering the many windows took on a rich and golden hue. Individual dust motes were now visible in the bright sunbeams, as was the wood grain of the polished wainscoting where the light fell, bringing rich glints and highlights from caskets and cabinets on the surrounding shelves.

Not only sense impressions were brighter and sharper in

Helion's presence. Phaethon felt more alert, at ease, and awake. Perhaps the circuits in Phaethon's brain stem and mid-brain had not been receiving very much computer time from Rhadamanthus; certainly the simulated sensations fed into Phaethon's optic nerve had not been of as high a quality as what Helion could afford for himself. Helion had been paying for Phaethon's computer time, but, quite naturally, reserved more time for his own use.

It was as if Helion's wealth and power surrounded him like an aura of light. Phaethon doubted that Helion was even aware of the effect on other people.

"Much of this destiny is of your making, Relic of Helion," said Phaethon bitterly. "I now remember that when they resurrected you, it was your voice who urged the Hortators to condemn my voyage; it was you who tried to kill my beautiful Phoenix Exultant. Why do you hate her so?"

"Perhaps I did dislike your ship at one time. But no longer. You know the reason why ... or do you?" Helion peered at Phaethon.

Phaethon said, "I cannot imagine. Gannis, perhaps, has motives I can guess. He wanted my ship for scrap. He thought it clever both to sell me the hull and foreclose on the lien. The College of Hortators had a deeper and more wicked purpose. The future I propose, one of humanity expanding through the universe, is one whose outcomes even Sophotechs cannot foresee. Even should there always be a core of worlds, centered on Earth, perfectly civilized and perfectly controlled, in my future, there will always be a frontier, a wilderness, a place which no Sophotech controls, a place where danger, adventure, and greatness still has scope. The Hortators' fear of war is mere excuse. It is life they fear, for life is change and turmoil and uncertainty. But you—I cannot believe you share their moral cowardice."