The Golden Transcendence Read online

  Socrates answered without looking up: “The press and clamor of many busy folk along the land lines, still filled with post-Transcendence business, precludes us from sending through messengers our burden. Like donkeys laden, we come, carrying what few fragments of the dream we still recall from our voyage to the higher realm of forms.”

  Neo-Orpheus said, “The Recollections were done in a more haphazard fashion than ever has been before: the gathered totality was distraught. Much was lost. What do you recall?”

  There was a pause as circuits in the high black walls absorbed the memory load from the two Hortators. Without a Sophotech, it could not be indexed or absorbed by Neo-Orpheus, without further slow-rate exchanges needed to orient him to the subject matter. It was the way memory works: nothing comes to mind until one is reminded. So the “speech” of the three Hortators continued.

  Socrates turned, and looked up at him, still smiling slightly. “Tell me: How does a man serve the city best? Should he aspire after high offices, and gain the power to reward his friends and punish his enemies? Every man, even those who have not reflected on it, will say this is the best way to serve. Or should he serve as the city deems best, or as he deems best, or in some other way?”

  Neo-Orpheus was not slow on the uptake. “The prediction is that I will receive a vote of no confidence? The Hortators are kicking me out.” He did not express this as a question. He, too, recalled many of the extrapolations from the Transcendence.

  The memories in the wall circuits filled in details. He remembered the predictions of public disdain, the loss of his constituency, the loss of subscribers, of funding. And with all minds touching in the supreme moment, those people who had been part of that prediction had also affirmed what they saw, making it a promise to each other.

  Emphyrio said in a voice like iron: “All of us.”

  Neo-Orpheus showed no expression.

  Neo-Orpheus stirred, shook himself, said in cold tones: “Foolishness! Without us, men will destroy themselves. We will all turn into machines.”

  Socrates said, “And yet I saw a promise that the institution of the College might not yet be abolished. Phaethon will speak on behalf of the College of Hortators. The sights he saw at Talaimannar, among the many who do not control their appetites, who act without virtue, taught him how wrong it is to attempt the escape of reality. The ugly thoughts of the Nothing Sophotech are known to everyone now.”

  Neo-Orpheus said, “Phaethon? He will speak out on our behalf?”

  Emphyrio said, “Not ours.”

  Neo-Orpheus looked up at the black, blank walls. The knowledge seeped into him. “A New College, then. With a new mandate. Dark-Gray Manorials, I assume. Fans of Atkins. We frowned on self-destruction, addiction, and perversion. They will frown on disloyalty. Nonconformity. The ugly future Helion predicted to the Conclave of Peers comes to pass, but not as he predicted it.”

  Neo-Orpheus looked at Emphyrio. “Well, I suppose I should congratulate you on your emancipation.”

  “You are premature,” said Emphyrio. “My case is still pending.”

  Socrates chimed in, “And neither of us have happy experiences with trials.”

  “It had to happen. All the attention poured into you during the Transcendence, all the minds asking all of us to justify our decisions. Hmph. I told the Hortators not to construct a simulacrum to be in love with truth. Well, Emphyrio! What will you do now that you have lost your office?”

  “Follow Phaethon. How unlike me is he? He is advertising for crewmen.”

  Neo-Orpheus said to Socrates, “And you?”

  Socrates inclined his head. “The utopian idealist is to be replaced in the New College by the figure of Ischomachus, the pragmatic merchant, from the only surviving Socratic dialogue not written by Plato, an obscure dialogue called Economics. There is no more for me. I am a shadow; I drink the hemlock again, and return to suspension.”

  Neo-Orpheus said, almost sadly, “Well, gentlemen, we three shall not meet again, it seems. It is the end of an era.”

  Socrates said softly, “And what of you? What of Great Orpheus, from whom you come?”

  “I am to be dismissed from Hortation; but my principle is still a Peer. Orpheus never changes.”

  Socrates asked, “And who is the happiest of men? Would you say it was Croesus of Lydia? Some called him the wealthiest of men, once.”

  Neo-Orpheus narrowed his eyes. “What? What are you saying?”

  Emphyrio said, “You are to be poor. Phaethon and Daphne will donate the technology of the portable noetic reader to the New College. This, in order to give the New College the prestige it needs, the prestige you once gave the old College.”

  Neo-Orpheus stood for a while in thought, downcast, features still.

  “I recall now—it returns slowly—the prediction that, without a financial empire to interest him, Orpheus will withdraw into slower and slower computer spaces, and fade. Unless he mends his ways, my father will not be present at the next Transcendence.”

  All three men were silent for a time.

  Emphyrio said, “When I became self-aware, I traveled far, far into the extrapolations, and saw the many futures the Sophotechs foresaw. Because I would be willing to speak the truth to men, even though I am to be reviled for it, I was allowed to keep what I saw, and return. Part of that is what I came here today to say to you.”

  Neo-Orpheus did not look interested, but he said: “Speak your piece, then.”

  Emphyrio took out a tablet from his garb, and held it up. “Here is my prophecy: This New College, at least for a time, is dominated by Dark-Grays and Invariants. A warlike spirit grows.

  “The Bellipotent Composition forms again. Other war heroes, Ban-beck and Carter and Kinnison, Vidar the Silent and Valdemar the Slayer, are recompiled out of archives, or constructed, or born.

  “This New College gathers funds to launch an expedition to follow after the Phoenix Exultant to Cygnus X-1, crewed by militia, and by avatars of the War-mind. This expedition is meant to avenge Phaethon’s death (should that be his fate) or, if he lives, then to protect Phaethon’s new colony there from counterattack. At Cygnus X-1 the New College establishes a shipyard, and an arsenal, and reopens the singularity fountains of the Second Oecumene. With the infinite energy at their command, they are able to construct hulls for a fleet of ships like Phaethon’s, but ships devoted to war.

  “Meanwhile, here, our New College urges censures against, not merely those who destroy their own humanity, but also those who, through lack of fervor or zeal, erode the confidence of the soldier, or who fail to donate to the war chest, or who, by not defending their civilization, threaten (so the New College characterizes it) all humanity with destruction.

  “This New College provokes loud-voiced critics, and schools formed expressly to defeat its goals. The public debate tears at our Golden Oecumene like none before or since; patriots and peace lovers accuse each other of blindness; understanding is lost; both sides mourn the passing of a simpler, finer age.

  “Few understand or remember what I will tell them: the Transcendence said that war is the context within which peace exists; and that peace is not possible without it.”

  Neo-Orpheus said, “Does that mean the Transcendence favored war? Or opposed it?”

  Emphyrio merely shook his head. “I cannot express it more clearly than I have said. The matter is simple, yet complex. None can be blamed who kill attackers in self-defense. The blame lies elsewhere.”

  “Where?”

  “The Transcendence revealed to me that our mission, the mission of all mankind, during these coming ages of horror is to recall one deep truth: recall, and do not forget, that the Lords of the Second Oecumene are men like ourselves, who know pain and the surcease of pain, who know what it is to have a dream, and to lose a dream. This is what I came to say.”

  And he bowed, turned, and walked off through the gathering snow.

  Socrates, leaning on his walking stick, rose to his feet with a sigh. “
Neo-Orpheus, you fear we shall all turn into machines without souls, unless the censures of the College of Hortators restrain us. I fear war shall turn us all into men without souls.”

  A bitter little frown tugged at the corner of the mouth of Neo-Orpheus. “No matter. There have been wars before. Wars pass. I shall remain.”

  “What is your plan, then? For I know even a man as withered as you still keeps a dream of one sort or another in him, my friend.”

  Neo-Orpheus said, “Ha! Orpheus does not live except to continue his life. He has no desire except for more life, and more. But during a war, the Second Oecumene might destroy the infrastructure here in the Inner System. The Sophotech housings where he and I keep our ten thousand backups all might be destroyed. But the portable noetic reader . . . you see? . . . allows an escape.”

  Socrates laughed. “So you will join Phaethon? Even you? He holds you in no esteem. Phaethon will surely charge you half your wealth before he will let you store backup copies of yourself on his ship to scatter through the void.”

  “Wealth well spent. How better to ensure there is always an Orpheus somewhere in the universe?”

  He raised his hand and pointed to the motto inscribed over the doors there. It was the only decoration, the only mark, on the otherwise dull, blank walls.

  The motto read: I Am the Enemy of Death. I Do Not Intend to Die.

  Neo-Orpheus bowed, turned, and reentered his dark house.

  Socrates sat on the stair with a sigh. With a wave of his hand he called closer the spiderlike remotes that were meant to dispose of the flesh he wore, once it was empty.

  He muttered, “Some do not fear it, my friend.”

  Out from beneath his cloak, he took up a wooden drinking bowl, and raised it to his lips.

  7.

  Gannis was waking up in terror.

  In the artificial moon, made of adamantium gold, was a large amphitheater; here was a round table, also of adamantium, with a hundred golden thrones on which a hundred versions of himself were kept. Some groaned, some wept; others were still in partial Transcendence, eyes glassy, or were stepping down from mind-to-mind, but were not yet restored to normal consciousness.

  Through high windows in midair shone the scene from outside the Gannis planetoid: the bright new sun of Jupiter, surrounded by a ring brighter than any star, and this ring cut the window from side to side like a rainbow of pure fire. Usually the image cheered him: this rainbow (as he called it) that had led to the pot of gold for Gannis. This was the equatorial supercollider.

  The sight did not cheer him now.

  One of him woke, and saw the confused faces on the thrones to either side of him. The one next to him asked: “Self! Is there any better news from the later sections of the Transcendence? I fell out of the communion two hours ago; the Gannis there has been out for several days. Have the gathered minds of all mindkind changed their minds?”

  The newly-woken Gannis answered: “The judgment is harsh. Our fellow men will not understand. But we did no wrong! The cheating was legal! It was legal!”

  A Gannis who had been out of Transcendence for several days called from across the expanse of the table: “Orders are already being canceled! Commercialists are withdrawing their advertisements! Patrons are being reprogrammed—and this is from the early risers, just mass-minds and mansion houses, mostly! The Gannis Fifty-group will not answer when we ask for extrapolations of the loss; the accountancy program crashed itself rather than answer.”

  One of the Gannises from halfway across the table answered, “Brothers! Other selves! It cannot be so bad! I was involved with a mass-mind entangled with the Bellipotent Composition before I woke. They will be making a war fleet of ships like the Phoenix—they need our metal! Surely, surely all is not lost. . . .”

  Another Gannis opened his eyes. His face still was shining with the peace and supreme confidence of a transhuman. He was perhaps only partly awake; perhaps he did not know what he was saying, for the words boomed out without any hesitation, and he smiled, despite the gloomy word: “I was with the Orient Overmind-group. I remember the high thoughts: listen!

  “We, Gannis, are guilty of no conspiracy against Phaethon. We are not, and never have been, a confidant of Scaramouche or Xenophon. Rejoice, O Gannis, to know our reputations cleansed of all suspicion!

  “We, Gannis, have arranged our affairs to profit by Phaethon’s eventual bankruptcy and failure. There is no illegality in this; sharp business practice, perhaps; unkindness, maybe. Wrongdoing? Possibly not.”

  Several of the Gannises who had been out of the Transcendence for hours or days now started timidly to smile at each other: but those who were more recently connected, or who still had intermittent sub-connections, did not smile. Their faces were drawn and pale.

  “And yet . . .”

  Now all the faces of all the Gannises at the great round table grew pale.

  “And yet, we shall lose business partners, friends. Several of our wives and counterwives will divorce us. Why? Because, during the Transcendence, the inner soul of Gannis was examined . . . and found wanting.

  “No, we had not known anything was amiss with Phaethon, but we had suspected.

  “When, during Phaethon’s Inquest, the Hortator’s records falsely showed Phaethon redacting himself, Gannis knew that this was wildly out of character for Phaethon; yet we said nothing.

  “Likewise, earlier, when Phaethon’s loans had exceeded all reasonable limit, and his bankruptcy seemed certain, again, Gannis said nothing, made no move to help Phaethon, our alleged partner. Instead, we maneuvered to benefit by his fall.

  “Look into your own souls, Gannis. We now see the motive hidden, for a time, from us, from all of us. But now we know it. The Transcendence knows it. All of us know it; all mankind; friends, peers, colleges, colleagues, artists, thinkers, media, partials, competitors. All.”

  Silence hung in the chamber.

  No Gannis in the chamber met the eye of the Gannis to either side of him. Each knew the unspoken thought.

  Fear had led him. Fear of competition from Helion.

  Gannis had struggled and taken risks to achieve his high status: he wanted to rest from the struggle, and enjoy his rewards. Having established a lucrative business empire, Gannis had wanted that empire to be maintained without further effort, to be protected from Helion’s challenge to his business interests, to be protected from reality.

  One of the members of Gannis who had been lying slumped on the golden tabletop now stirred and raised his head, and said, “Brothers, other selves; we are not as bad as all that! Recall how, last Transcendence, Gannis had been lauded! Under Argentorium, the gathered minds praised us! We were known then to be daring, innovative, a benefactor of mankind. . . .”

  His voice trailed off.

  A Gannis who had just come out of Transcendence said bitterly, “I did not realize how much I had changed. How fearful I had grown. Grown? Shrunk. My soul is small, these days.”

  Another Gannis, one of the earliest ones awake, now opened his mouth to object. He was about to say that everyone, after all, was miserable and fearful and deceptive and afraid. All businessmen did business this way. Everyone did it, right?

  The early Gannis closed his mouth. Everyone in the chamber knew what he had been about to say. They all looked at him skeptically.

  They all had just seen the souls of all mankind. And they knew, now, that everyone did not do business that way. Not everyone was afraid, sneaky, dishonest. It was amazing how few people were. What a horrible thing to find out!

  That Gannis, the early one, slouched in his throne, and said no more.

  There was a stir in the chamber.

  The main Gannis on the central throne opened his eyes and raised his hand. The other awake Gannis-segments tried to orient with him, and grew dazed by the information overload. By this, they knew this was not the normal over-Gannis talking.

  This was the Transcendence itself, or a remnant of it, some segment of the gathered minds of al
l civilization still interlinked, now speaking through him.

  It said:

  “Your daughter is fated to die.”

  8.

  His own personal problems forgotten, the Gannis group around the table called on the stored energies and computer space of the Gannis planetoid. Recklessly, without proper preparation, they linked up to the still-partly-Transcended Gannis Overmind.

  A fortune in computer time was burned away in a moment. Gannis hardly noticed.

  A little sub-Transcendence, consisting only of Gannis, of his associates and colleagues, and of the few millions interlinked through the overmind, now took place in Jupiter space.

  This little Transcendence predicted (or decided) that the Never-First leader called Unmoiqhotep, also called Ungannis of Io, who conspired with Xenophon of Farbeyond and the Nothing Machine to make war upon the Golden Oecumene, would be sought and caught, convicted of treason and attempted mass murder, and killed, erased with no possibility of resurrection.

  It had been she, in her guise as the tentacled rugose cone, who had accosted Phaethon outside the Curia House. With the help of Scaramouche (who was riding her back in the form of a polyp) she had shown Phaethon the thought card to infect him with the mind virus which, later, made him hallucinate the attack by Scaramouche outside the Red Manorial Mausoleum.

  Ungannis had therefore been party to the attempt to seize control of the Phoenix Exultant and to use her as a warship. Ungannis had contemplated, with glee, the coming destruction of Mercury Equilateral, the solar north polar civilization, the orbital Sophotechs near Earth, and the Transcendence itself.

  For that, she would be chased, caught, and killed.

  Most of the drama of Ungannis’s futile attempt to escape had already been played out during a half second of Transcendence time (during which, the union of all minds had been disgusted that they need be distracted by the unpleasant necessity to attend to this distasteful matter).

  The remainder was fated (so ran the prediction) to be concluded during the Fourth Month after, the Month of Fading Recollections. At that time, Temer and Intrepid and Sanspeur Lacedaimon of the Dark-Gray (all wardens from the late Sixth Era, and Chiefs-Advocate for the Constabulary), would find the last of the self-replicating information storages where her noumenal self was hidden.