John Wright - The Golden Age

Nebuchednezzar, at least, was not fooled. "The College of Hortators does not wish to intrude upon your private conversations; but the College might ask, out of courtesy, that you attend to the matter at hand."

This, if anything, was even more embarrassing. The Hor-tators exchanged glances and whispers of scoffing outrage;

the Red Queens smiled behind their fans. To shout defiance at the College was understandable, if uncouth; but to he conducting a private conversation on another channel in the middle of an inquest... ? Phaethon was sure the Hortators thought him half-mad.

It took a moment for the buzz and murmur in the chamber to fall silent.

Nebuchednezzar continued: "Naturally, you are free to follow your own affairs; all citizens of our society are. But that same freedom allows the College, and all of those who follow ; her advice, to have nothing to do with you, to abjure you utterly, to boycott you and all your efforts. Such a decision is tantamount to exile and, since no isolated man can last for long by his own unsupported attempts, to slow death. You are offered this final opportunity to inform us of any facts, or to sway us with any pleas, which might ameliorate our de-cision."

Tsychandri-Manyu Tawne stood and spoke: "Good my fellow colleagues, associates, partials, and auditors: we are all painfully well aware of the issues in this case. Every argument and counterargument has been picked apart, thread by tiresome thread, over these past two hundred fifty years; every hair has been split. Our souls and our ears are weary of it. Why repeat the debates we heard at Lakshmi? The community of the Golden Oecumene will not upbraid us for moving quickly on this matter; no, indeed! If anything, the Golden Oecumene frets with impatience, and wonders at our lack of action. Therefore I move to call the question. Nebuchednezzar, predict for us the outcome of this hearing! None of us, I think, will be surprised to find that we will all favor a sentence of permanent exile!"

But Nebuchednezzar did not raise the mace from his lap. "Slight variations in initial conditions lead to different out-comes in various extrapolations; an acceptable estimate cannot be made at this time."

Phaethon felt again a pang of hope. Uncertainty?

One of the other Gold Manorials, Guttrick Seventh Glaine of Fulvous House, leaned from his seat: "How can the outcome be in doubt? Fulvous Sophotech foretells an exile will be handed down in any case!"

Nebuchednezzar spoke, and his voice filled the hall: "Phae-thon may have startling news concerning the motives which prompted him to violate the Lakshmi Agreement; representatives from the Warlock Iron Ghost School and the Warlock Seasonal Mind School may reassess their positions based on this new evidence; and Ynought Subwon Centurion of New Centurion House has a guest he wishes to invite to address

us."

Tsychandri-Manyu was still standing: "Oh, please! This is insufficient! How likely are we to be swayed by the opinions of two Warlocks and one Dark-Gray! Three voices out of one hundred three of us?! What single person here honestly supports Phaethon's cause?"

Asmodius Bohost of Clamour House stood, heaving his massive body upright on elephantine legs. "Hoy!" he called, "The Black Mansions say Phaethon should not be exiled, no! In fact, we think he should be crowned king, be given a pension, and have a palladium established in his honor in the acropolis!" He smiled impishy. "Or, at least, that is what we will say we believe, until Tawne House sits down. Come now, Tsychandri! We all know how this is going to turn out, don't we? That doesn't mean we shouldn't enjoy the show. My colleagues and I want to give Phaethon a chance to beg and

squirm."

A titter of uncomfortable laughter traced the room.

Ao Prospero Circe of the Zooanthropic Incarnation Coven of the Seasonal Mind School stood. She was depicted as a Chinese dowager empress in imperial yellow robes, a headdress of black pearls and plumes, and a demeanor of gravest dignity. "Truths often disguise themselves as jests. It is protective mimicry they need in order to survive. And they hop from the mouths of fat fools because no one else is wise enough to utter them. I am one of the two voices Nebuchednezzar counts as undecided. My Twelve minds are eager to

hear what evidence might stir us from what seems to me to be a firm conclusion. My Hound mind gives tongue and bays at the moon; my Wolf mind scents bloods; and yet Stag is chary; and Serpent, so far, remains silent. These omens are unclear. Let Phaethon be given, at least, a chance to plead. If he refuses the chance, on his head be it; but we, by offering, do all that the sadist-tyrant we call Conscience will require, or need."

A second-rank lateral-organization program from Harmonious Composition thought-traffic control stood up, dressed as a London clerk. He took his hat in his hands and touched his forelock before his spoke. "Service to all requires that the College recall that her task is not merely to condemn what is worthy of condemnation but also to urge those worthy of hope to virtue. Shouldn't we, before anything else, plead with Phaethon to change his mind?"

There was a general murmur of assent. Nebuchednezzar tapped the head of his mace, as if it were a gavel, to signal the consent of the College. At that signal, the reproduction of Socrates, who was the Master of the College from Myth, now rose to speak.

"You know my understanding of these matters is poor," Socrates said, his voice heavy with irony. "Often in places in the city, in the streets and in the markets, and particularly in the houses of the rich (who are men of important character, to whom the Many pay close attention) we often hear much talk of law and of justice, of what ought to be done and of what ought not to be done. I know little of these matters, for though many people speak of them, often what they say does not agree with each other, nor does one man use these words the same way twice, but changes his mind as he is a young man or an old man, or in the heat of passion, or for some other reason. Justice, as perhaps we all know, consists of every man doing his duty, which is what the state requires of him. Now, Phaethon, you respect your father, do you not?"

Phaethon could not tell if this were a serious question. Was he supposed to answer this? "Without question, Socrates. I love my father, and respect him more than I can say."

"Ah. And this is because he is the one who brought you into this world, and sustained you through infancy, and, in short, did everything he needed to do to give you life, is it

not?"

"But of course, Socrates."

"Then what do you owe the state, who not only brought you into the world, and brought your father and all your ancestors, but also nurtured you, taught you language and letters, grew the food to feed you, spun the cloths to clothe you, and, in short, provided both you and everyone you know with all the gifts they needed, not just to live well; but to live at all? Is the state not more to be respected than your father? Respected and obeyed? Suppose that you were to die and become merely a shadow, or a memory, but that your family and peers, and all the society beside, had the power to make you flesh again. If you have disobeyed the duties society puts on you, why should society extend itself on your behalf? Society only exists at all because men put aside their natural inclinations, and listen to the commands of duty. Will you cry out that it is the duty of society to defend your life, and to sustain it? But why? You, by disobeying, have done everything in your power to undermine and to destroy the very concept of duty. How can you call upon the spirit of duty to defend you, when you have, to the best of your ability, attempted to destroy that spirit?"

Phaethon said sharply: "But I do not call upon you. I do not ask, do not beg, do not plead. Listen to me, Hortators!" Phaethon turned left and right, studying the many faces around him. "What I intend to do requires neither apology nor excuse. You gentlemen claim to be defending a way of life. But what I defend is life itself. Our civilization must expand; without expansion, life is arrested. Trapped in one small star system, we are confined, ignorant, provincial, vulnerable, and alone. Turn your eyes outward! The surrounding stars are barren; I shall plant gardens. The void is empty; I shall raise cities. Sterile rocks and worthless dust clouds tumble through blind orbits. I shall transform atmospheres choked with poison into blue skies fit for men, pour oceans into dry