John Wright - The Golden Age

"Everyone was afraid of you. You had the memory, skills, and personality of a planet killer. And once you learned who and what you were, you were happy to erase your past. Surely you can guess why?"

He knew the reason. "Because it was false." Helion nodded. "No one has been more in love with naked truth than you."

"Is that why I was named Phaethon? To remind me that I had burned the earth?"

Helion shook his head. "You picked that name yourself, after you joined the Consensus Aesthetic. But you adopted a slightly alternate version of the myth. You said that—"

A distant gong note rang. Rhadamanthus said, "Pardon me, Master Helion, but you asked to be interrupted whenever the channels cleared and the Hortators came on-line. They are

arriving now."

Phaethon heard distant sounds: the opening of the main doors, the murmur of voices, and, beyond that the clatter of carriages arriving at the front portico. These fictional noises were provided by the mansion dreamscape to represent the "arrival" of the members of the College of Hortators.

Helion stood. "Out of deference to me, the College has agreed to adopt the Consensus Aesthetic for the official record of the upcoming Inquest. Naturally, everyone's personal sense-filter can reorganize the information in whatever forms they would like, but the core document will record that the meeting took place in my version of Rhadamanthus Mansion. Will you come with me, Phaethon?" He gestured toward the door.

Phaethon took one last look at the memory chamber. The caskets were either open and empty, or displayed as if they had been burnt. The broken window no longer held a view of the glorious starship, the only one of her kind, which was no longer his.

There was nothing for him here.

The two men started down the stairs together. Phaethon saw that Helion's version of the mansion was somewhat larger and more splendid than Phaethon's. The staircase was a wide, sweeping semicircle leading down to an enormous entrance hall paved with white flagstones.

There were windows everywhere, wide and filled with

light.

Phaethon said, "If they remembered my origin, no wonder they were afraid when I bought an invulnerable ship and filled it with antimatter. But couldn't they tell reality from fantasy?"

Phaethon stopped on the stair, and took Helion's arm,

drawing him up short. Helion looked back curiously, and saw the beginning of fear on Phaethon's face.

"Tell me quickly. Does Daphne know? All our lives she called me a heroic character—a character—she didn't fall in love with me because of—because of that?!"

"I doubt she knew. Daphne was born of natural parents, actually womb born, the old-fashioned way, and raised in a Primitivist School that did not even have reincarnation. She ran away from her convent and joined the Warlocks of the Cataleptic Oneiromancer School when she was sixteen. It was not that many centuries ago; I doubt she has ever even heard of Cuprician."

Phaethon breathed a sigh and released Helion's arm.

They continued down the stair and across the bright hall. Their footsteps echoed on the marble.

Then Phaethon asked: "Why did you give up on the dream, Father? You know our sun only has a limited period of time in which to live."

"Longer, thanks to my effort."

"But still limited. We cannot stay in one small solar system forever. It's because you see yourself in my old character, don't you? The colonial warrior who killed the earth. That was a simulated extrapolation of you, wasn't it? And it scared you."

Helion did not answer the question. "Simulation technology is much better now. There is less guesswork involved. ..."

They passed a rank of empty suits of armor, enameled in white. Here were two tall doors of oak, inscribed with an open book crossed with a flail, and, beneath, a grail from which a fountain flowed; this was the emblem of the College of Hortators. This door had not been here before; Helion's version of the mansion now included an Inquest Hall. The murmur of voices came dimly from behind the doors.

"You should not be frightened, Father. The dream to conquer the stars is still a fine and noble one. Despite all, I am still in the right. My dream is right."

Helion stopped and stared at the doors. "Perhaps. But now

that dream is about to die, as are you. Daphne Prime is drowned beyond rescue; Daphne Tercius, who loves you, has no further reason to go on, since she sacrificed her future career in order to come plead with you. And, for myself, just when I have been declared a Peer, and have hopes of becoming a center of attention for the upcoming Transcendence, I find my son is about to be gone. And so my life is ruined too." He smiled sadly. "Who was it who said, 'Endless life breeds endless pain'?"

Phaethon could see Helion was thinking of Hyacinth Sep-timous, his best friend whom he had lost so long ago.

"Ao Enwir. 'On the Sovereignty of Machines.' " Phaethon said. He did not correct the misquote.

Then Phaethon forced a smile. "But I am not about to die, Father. Even if no one will sell me food or water, my armor lining can produce—"

"Orpheus Avernus has dumped your extra lives. You are no longer in the Mentality." "W-what... ?"

"Read the hypertext and fine print of your contract with your bank. They are obligated to delete the stored lives of anyone who falls under Hortator prohibition. It is a standard clause for all contracts with Orpheus; it was Orpheus who first gave the College so much social influence."

Phaethon opened his mouth to protest. Surely the Sopho-techs, infinitely wise, would not simply stand by and let him

die?!

He closed his mouth again. He knew what the Sophotech logic would say. Phaethon had not invented the Noumenal Recording system. Orpheus had. It belonged only to Orpheus, and he was free to dispose of his property in any peaceful and lawful fashion he saw fit. He could not be compelled by force to give his services or his property or his lifework to anyone with whom he did not wish to deal.

And Phaethon had freely signed that contract.

"As of this moment, my son, you are no longer immortal."

A sense of dread began to close in on Phaethon.

"Surely the Hortators have not yet posted an official decree—"

"It does not matter. Your attorney, Monomarchos, signed in your name a confession of judgment, don't you remember? You signed away your right to any appeal. There will be no second Inquiry Hearing; this meeting is merely an announcement."

"If they expect me to simply lie down somewhere and die, they are sadly mistaken!"

"That is exactly what they expect. They are not mistaken."

"There are people who survive exile."

"In fiction stories, perhaps. But even Lundquist in the old song was only exiled for a period of six hundred years. Yours is permanent. You might be able to jury-rig repairs to the nanomachinery in your cells which regenerates your wounds and restores your youth. But nanomachines draw their power from isotopic decay of the large atoms at the base of their spiral chains; no one will sell you life-water to replenish those atoms."

"Life-water is the cheapest nanotechnology our society makes...." Phaethon began.

Helion's voice was flat. "It is not your society anymore. You are alone. No one will sell you a drop of water."

Phaethon closed his eyes and bowed his head.

Helion's face was grave. "And do not ask Daphne to smuggle food or medicine to you; you would only involve her in the same downfall."

"I won't, Father," Phaethon whispered.

Helion stepped forward, taking Phaethon by the shoulders. Phaethon raised his head. Helion said, "I see that you call me 'Father' instead of 'Relic' May I ask why?"

Phaethon shook his head. "Because I don't think any of it matters anymore. Everything is over. I've ruined everyone's lives and destroyed my own dreams ... and now I have nothing and everything is over. We argue, you and I. We argue often. All those arguments are over. We're never going to see each other again, are we?"