The Phoenix Exultant Page 14

  “What is the basis for the dispute? Is it the ship?”

  “The Patient Chaoticists are eager to dismantle the ship and distribute the wealth among the starving hosts beyond Neptune; the Silver-Grey urge the ship be used for an expedition to establish colonies at nearby stars. The Patient Chaos plan would bring money into the starved Neptunian economy; whereas to fund an expedition such as the one which Half-Neoptolemous Semi-Diomedes proposes would drain the economy. Didactions from Patient Chaos assert that the present ruination of the economy was caused, in large part, by investments made into Phaethon’s Expeditionary Effort.”

  At that point, he was interrupted by a chime. The wall-panel to the left slid back to reveal the image of the nest-of-snakes face of Antisemris. “Pardon me for interrupting, but, as a major investor who just entrusted you with a good deal of money, I was just wondering why you were wasting my investment chatting with a Neptunian machine about politics. We bought you this messenger so you could read the help-wanted advertisements it carries! And don’t bother to tell me that you were investigating their market needs. All you need to know is what kind of grunt-work of line-checking they need done; its not as if their internal politics affects the kind of short-markets we are looking for!”

  Phaethon said sharply: “Your intrusion is most unwarranted and perhaps illegal. Is this the fashion in which you have chosen to display the fact that you are spying on me? Do not bother to answer. Our mutual association will soon end.”

  “Hah! Climb off your fat pride! Semris and Notor will not deal with you either, once they find out how you spend our money!”

  “I have dealt with Neptunians before, and you have not. They also use their messenger to update their negotiation databases. Because you have rudely chosen to interrupt, rather than to consult with me privately later, the messenger, who overhears all we are saying now, has no doubt classified our needs and our bargaining position. This has limited our options considerably, and prejudiced our future dealings with the Neptunians. If you cannot be polite, sir, then at least be quiet, before you harm your interests and my own more than you have so far done.”

  Antisemris uttered a dozen notes of hissing laughter. “Don’t try to wax me with that polish! Keep talking to your Nepto friend. But I’m not transmitting him back to the embassy. As of this moment, you are cut off from the funds and line to the orbital radio-laser we established.”

  “You have no such authority, not without the concurrence of Semris and Notor. I, of course, need their concurrence to exclude you from all future business dealings, but I do not think I shall have any difficulty convincing them, once they see the end-result of the conversation you so foolishly interrupted.”

  Antisemris writhed, several heads opening their mouths and displaying their fangs. “Ho ho. Go ahead. Finish your little conversation and earn a million grams. Surprise me.”

  Phaethon turned back to the center screen. “Messenger! I assume the major expense to your proposed interstellar expedition is the Neptunian lack of skilled technical personnel.”

  “Correct. The Hortators have forbidden any Inner Planet libraries from selling us the templates or mind-sets we need for terraformers, paraluminal astronomers, high-energy physicists, or Celeritologists. We have no pilot. Furthermore, the ship interfaces were designed for a base neuroform, and are not proper for Neptunian crewmen, who have different neural architecture, thought conventions, and time regulations. The ship’s interfaces would have to be changed, one routine at a time, and in some cases, one line at a time, before the ship would be comfortable for a Neptunian crew. Without a Sophotech, this would require long amounts of tedious effort, which we cannot expend. Therefore, without expert help, we cannot fly the ship at the intended velocities for which she was designed. This, of course, is the major flaw in the proposed plan Diomedes had put forward.”

  “What if I could get you cheap labor to do your interface translation to the Neptunian formats?”

  “With proper interfaces, then Neptunian minds and personae could be stored in the crew segments of the shipmind, and smart-habitats be programmed to sustain any somatic forms the crew would care to manifest. However, the ship’s flight characteristics, mass, and length, will considerably transform (according to external frames of reference) as she approaches light-speed. The external universe (from the ship’s frame of reference) will undergo like transformation. This will affect any objects and particles aboard (such as communications and sensory circuits) that must interact with the external universe, including drive by-products and foreign-object-damage controls. It would require a special branch of tachyceleric study to rediscover the findings of the original designer. That information does not seem to have been stored in the ship’s brain. We cannot provide the information.”

  “I have that information.”

  “Then the formatting can be accomplished and a Neptunian crew be recorded. But such formatting would be a pointless exercise without a trained operator to run the celestial navigation, xeno-terraforming, and high-energy physics routines.”

  “I can pilot the ship. I have test-flown her.”

  “I am required to warn you that, even though I am only a message-tree, and am not capable of independent judgment, this conversation may be reviewed by a living operator at a later time. That operator will condemn falsehoods and irrational statements, and that will serve to negate any bargain made with me.”

  “Why do you call my statement false?”

  “Only one man has ever test-flown that ship.”

  “I am that man.”

  “That man was Phaethon of Rhadamanth, the ship’s designer.”

  “I am Phaethon.”

  There was a choked hiss from Antisemris (whose presence Phaethon had almost forgotten.) Phaethon did not have the aestethic to read snake expressions, and therefore did not know what emotion or sign this knotted jerk was meant to convey. Surprise? Perhaps.

  The snaky mass of Antisemris said, “You are the one Unmoiqhotep told us all to worship! You are that Phaethon! The real Phaethon!”

  Phaethon said blankly: “But I told you my name. Surely you knew …”

  “Zs-ss! A lot of my school have memorized ourselves to be Phaethon, or changed our names! When I saw you in that stupid-looking armor, I just thought you were freak-looped, like my brothers and others, or maybe got ostracized because you tried to contact the real Phaethon, or something.”

  Of course. Antisemris must be under a Hortator ban, if not as strict as Phaethon’s, at least something that would keep him out of polite society, and perhaps away from the mentality. Phaethon was still not used to the idea that exiles and outsiders, like himself and Antisemris, could not discover the identities, or confirm the thoughts and intentions of the people with whom they spoke. It must lead to a great deal of confusion and dishonesty. No wonder Antisemris had been so quick to spy, to interrupt, and to accuse.

  Phaethon said, “Does this mean you will help me maintain communication with the Neptunians after all?”

  Antisemris said, “Why not? How can anyone stop us?”

  To the messenger, Phaethon said, “I wish to find employment as pilot aboard the Phoenix Exultant. I believe my qualifications are unique. I also have a large group of workers able to run the standardized routines to translate all interfaces to Neptunian formats. Will the Duma be willing to employ me and my workers?”

  “The question of the ownership of the Phoenix Exultant is not yet settled. This messenger has only limited ability to predict the outcomes of events; yet I would venture that your appearance at this time with such an offer will sway the major lines of thought among the Duma to favor the Silver-Grey plan, and award Diomedes the title. If so, we could hire you and your workers at salaries considerably higher than standard. But could you guarantee the quality of the work? Afloat exiles are notoriously poor workers.”

  “I believe that this is caused by the grim and hopeless character of their circumstances. That character may change if some or all of the Afl
oats transfer their brain-information into Neptunian housings. I would ask your people to bear the expense of this metempsychosis, on the grounds that it is the only way to acquaint workers intimately with the transitions and translations to the Neptunian mental architecture. I would also ask that you bear the expense of transporting me to the present location of the Phoenix Exultant.”

  “I have little doubt but that my principals will favorably receive your offer.”

  “And are you, in fact, an intelligent being?”

  “I have been programmed to reply that I am.”

  “In that case I will turn the retransmission command over to you, and ask you to risk suicide by broadcasting yourself out of my communication buffer and back to your embassy. This way, I will not be held to account under Golden Oecumene law.”

  The emblem of the messenger issued a closing salute and disappeared from the central mirror.

  In the left mirror, Antisemris’ many snake-heads were bobbing, perhaps a sign of good humor. “Well, well. The real Phaethon! Fancy that. It sounds like you’ll be at the helm of your ship in no time. And who can stop you, eh?”

  The wall slid open to the right, and an image of three armored vulture-heads appeared in the mirror there. A harsh battle-cyborg voice issued from the speaker. “Phaethon! This is the remnant of the Bellipotent Composition speaking. I am informed that someone has just read my travel records, no doubt to discover your location. An index check shows the action took place at million-cycle thought speeds, which indicated that the intruder was using Sophotechnology of a high degree of sophistication. A side-thought of mine is even now communicating with the constabulary. A Constable Pursuivant, on their staff, is reviewing the evidence and tells me that the constables can do nothing, on the grounds that the reading of my information was legal. Apparently the movements of former customers whom I transport are not covered by my clause of privacy, and therefore there is a legal loophole which allows former customers to check flight plans and safety records, even those for flights which they did not take.”

  Phaethon said: “I have to warn you that Constable Pursuivant is a fictional character. I was told by the Preceptrix of the local commandry that that name and persona can be loaded by anyone who wishes to donate time to performing public service as a constable. The persona comes complete with memory and training.”

  “I take it that there are no security checks to prevent the persona from being run by any random citizen?”

  Phaethon said: “Why bother?”

  “Point taken. Society is certainly much more peaceful and trusting than when I was young. Does this mean I cannot trust what Pursuivant told me?”

  “I’m not sure. I was visited by a Constable Pursuivant myself. The local Commandry told me that there is no record of such a visit.”

  The vulture-heads said, “And you suspect it is your fictional extra-systemic alien race?”

  “It is the Silent Oecumene.”

  Both Antisemris and the battle-cyborg jerked their heads in surprise. It was a human gesture, despite their inhuman heads, some atavism of their core neural structure. Deep down, they were still both human.

  The three vulture-faces snapped their hooked bills with a clattering sound. “The Silent Oecumene is dead.”

  “Many people say the same about the Bellipotent Composition.”

  “Are you telling me they came back from the dead and jumped out of a black hole just to thumb through my logbooks? If so, why isn’t the constabulary answering questions about what happened? Why haven’t they woken up Atkins out of archive storage?”

  “Atkins is not in storage. I’ve seen him.”

  “Ah! Ach! If Atkins walks the earth once more, battle and death are not far away!”

  Phaethon stared at the red vulture-eyes. Did this creature want a war? The sensation of human sympathy he had for the cyborg faded.

  Antisemris evidently wanted to be part of the conversation. He said, “You there, bird-head! You people are talking crazy-talk. This is some masquerade prank. The Hortators wouldn’t let this happen.”

  “They are not all-powerful,” replied Bellipotent.

  “Someone read your logs,” Phaethon said, “there must be a record. What did a normal identification show, when you queried the intruder?”

  “The intruder’s query was masked by the masquerade protocol. The intruder logged on under a pseudonym.”

  “What name did they use?”

  “Yours. They called themselves Phaethon of Rhadamanth.”

  Phaethon squinted and frowned. Here was a puzzle. Why his name? “Was that done to allow him access to your records? I had been transported by you, after all.”

  “Not officially. I listed you as a stowaway.”

  “But this loophole in the law would not apply to someone who merely dressed up as a customer, only to someone who actually was a customer. So, unless there is a Deep One hunting for me …”

  “I did have someone I brought to your location. A human form, not a Deep One.”

  “Here? To Talaimannar? Who?”

  But Bellipotent said, “You should not have announced your position. This is not a secure line.”

  Antisemris’ snakes all jerked to one side. His screen went black, to be replaced by a text of white letters on the dark field.

  SORRY, PHAETHON, BUT THEY WERE WILLING TO OFFER ME SIX HUNDRED THOUSAND SECONDS AND LET ME BACK IN, PROVIDED I STOPPED HELPING YOU. I’M NOT TAKING ANY MORE MESSAGES FROM YOU, SO DON’T TRY TO CALL.

  Phaethon could not grasp what was happening. Was Antisemris confessing to helping the Silent Ones? No, absurd. Some sort of super-high-speed conversation must have just taken place between the Hortators and Antisemris, who had been bribed by them to withdraw support from Phaethon. His link to the Neptunians was cut off again …

  At the same time, the windows to Phaethon’s right lit up with flame.

  Then he heard an explosion.

  Phaethon jumped to the windows and stared out.

  Atop the cliffs across the bay, he could see part of the graveyard of houses, where he had just been salvaging, that morning. It was all on fire.

  For a moment, he thought he saw a figure, man-shaped, flying, camouflaged in black armor against the black sky. Then it dropped into the burning graveyard, and, with a flash, buried itself into the cliffside beneath the graveyard.

  While Phaethon was still blinking and trying to decide what it was that he had seen, another explosion trembled through the gaunt seashell silhouettes of the dead and defective houses. Fire gushing from high windows, the tall thin silhouettes began to sway and fall.

  Then, that noise was smothered, as all the houses Phaethon had just brought to life, all the floating houses of the Afloats, in one, huge terrible wail, began to scream.

  7

  THE RESCUE

  1.

  Phaethon ran up the ladder and found himself on the foredeck of the barge.

  Red light from the fire surged along the northern cliff and lit the scene. Above him, through the pavilion floors of crystal, Phaethon saw black shadows stirring and groaning in the gloom. The workers on the night shift had been jacked out of their work. Perhaps the lines had been interrupted; perhaps Antisemris had shut down the server. The sound of screaming houses brought those figures above to their feet (those that had feet), and cries of anger and fear and wonder mingled with the general clamor.

  “Calm! Calm!” Phaethon shouted upward. “It is not our houses burning. Only the empty shells in the graveyard. No one is in danger!”

  Drusillet came forward. She was one of the few who had welcomed Phaethon’s changes and proudly wore the uniform jacket and skirt he had provided. The shawl she wore to cool her head against the tropic heat, originally designed with a thousand micropores to blow cold oxygen-mix, now also boasted several communication points and phone beads. Compared to the mentality, this small network, encompassing the few hundred yards occupied by the Afloat houses, was pathetic. But her beads and phones demonstrated tha
t one person, at least, had ambition enough to take advantage of the links Phaethon had made among the floating houses.

  And it was useful now. “What is the situation?” he asked.

  She shouted her answer over the noise, “It’s the Hortators. They filed a petition to have the abandoned property destroyed as a public nuisance, submitted a plan for the public burning, and got permission to proceed, all in the last half-second. Energy beamed from stations along the ring-city are triggering the fires. There are constables with inhibitors and pseudomatter smother fields patrolling the area to prevent the flames from spreading, and, also, Nebuchednezzer Sophotech invented and manufactured some new type of nanomachine cloud which can control the blaze. That’s the mist you see coming up out of the water. Either Nebuchednezzar finessed Old-Woman-of-the-Sea, or else found some nanomanufacturing cells she doesn’t control.”

  “Are we in any danger?”

  “From fire? No. Our houses are screaming because of their fire alarms. I tried to talk to our houses and shut them up, but I need your command override.”

  “I don’t have an override.”

  “We don’t have a municipal net to coordinate the houseminds. Only the owners have authority to shut off the fire alarm, but most of them don’t know how.”

  “The instructions are written in holographic Standard Aestethic icon code along the rims of the inner walls—”

  “Most of us can’t read.”

  Phaethon controlled a sense of impatience. “Then shut down power and reset.”