“What if the house batteries are programmed to take over during a power out? The routine may have mutated since this morning.”
She was right. Phaethon was not certain how to deal with machines that were not smarter than he was.
Drusillet sent a shutdown and restart command nonetheless. The wails and screams of the floating houses died off. Echoes floated for a moment above the waves, and then were gone. The crackling roar of distant fires was the loudest noise now in the area.
Darkness fell across the bay. The houses, bright a moment ago, were now no more than red-lit shadows in the night, as dark and powerless as when Phaethon first had seen them.
“Restart.”
“I did. There must be a flaw in the routine.”
Just great. “Well, at least we still have light from the house fires yonder,” said Phaeton.
At that moment, however, the blaze along the north cliffs changed. The mist from the sea closed around the individual houses, forming a web not unlike silk, pumping pure oxygen into the burning houses. Each house and house stump blazed a silent blue-white, and was instantly consumed. The silk webs smothered any further fire in a matter of moments.
Everything was lit with magnesium-white light for an instant. Phaethon saw the angry, sullen faces of many of his workers standing along the pavilion balconies above him. Some stared north with looks of hate in their eyes. But some, with the same expressions, stared down at him.
Then, darkness rolled over the scene, like sudden blindness.
As the light died, Phaethon thought he saw a crawling, writhing movement along the northern cliffs. He cursed his lack of proper eyesight. But he guessed that the silk bags were altering again to new functions and sterilizing the soil so that seeds blown out from the damaged Afloat houses would no longer take root.
“It’s bad,” said Drusillet softly.
“They can’t destroy any of the house-brains we’ve already harvested from the graveyard. Those are clearly our property. But the houses were abandoned. They had as much right to burn them down as we did to loot them.”
“It’s bad. No new house-brains. No new houses.”
“The ones we have will last, with proper periodic cleaning and restructure.”
Drusillet seemed dubious.
Phaethon asked, “How often do you gather up a new house?”
“About once a week …”
“A week?!! Those things can last four hundred years!”
“Afloats use houses pretty roughly.”
“Don’t they maintain their homes, educate the house-minds? Clean them?”
Drusillet looked downcast. “No. Whenever the pantry was bare, or the floor mats got dirty, or the filters were stale, we’d just go chop down a new house. It was an excuse to celebrate.”
Phaethon shook his head in disgust and turned away. Eventually he said: “Well, in any case, I’m just sorry I did not think to file some sort of legal claim of adverse possession over the graveyard. I had forgotten how fast Sophotechs think, how fast they can act …”
He was wondering if the Hortators had actually not known where he was until the moment he revealed his location over the public channel, just now, to Bellipotent. If so, then the Hortators clearly had not sent Constable Pursuivant.
If not the Hortators, then who? The Silent Ones? Some third person Phaethon was overlooking? (And whom had Bellipotent conveyed to the island here?)
Pursuivant probably was not from the Silent Ones. It seemed unlikely that, even with a very sophisticated set of virus entities, the Silent Oecumene’s agents could so blithely infiltrate the local constabulary without some segment of the Earthmind noticing. And, if they were that powerful, they would have no need whatever to be secretive, since they would have already taken over the entire mentality.
Wait. An intuition told him that there was some flaw here in his logic, some obvious aspect to all these events he was sure he was overlooking. How powerful and how sophisticated was Nothing Sophotech?
But Phaethon was not a Warlock; he could not automatically bring his intuitions forward into his consciousness. The thought slipped away when a group of Afloats come up to the foredeck, and began demanding in loud voices that they be paid for the rest of their interrupted shift.
It was dark, and there was a press of bodies, and Phaethon had to squint to make them out.
The group consisted of a small triplicate-mind (whose three bodies looked like thin, big-eyed waifs,) a loud-voiced neomorph in a floating box, and two tattoo-faced basics in torn shirts, one a neuter and the other a hermaphrodite.
The basics, rather than wearing Phaethon’s uniforms, had doused their upper bodies in smart-paint, so that peacock tails of ever-changing colors blushed across their flesh as tiny cells in the paint flexed to cool their skins, or perhaps (Phaethon thought it more likely) released chemicals into their pores. The perfume from the paint was really quite powerful. Phaethon stepped fastidiously back, holding a scrap of his suit-lining over his nose like a handkerchief.
“I can do nothing for you,” he said. “I cannot pay you with seconds of money I do not have. The clients for whom you were working have not yet paid me; nor can they, till we find a black line around whatever block Antisemris put up when he closed up his service.”
The three bodies of the triplicate-mind all spoke at once, a spate of interrupted words, and Phaethon regretted yet again that he had no sense-filter to reshape the words into a linear format. “Your problem!” one of them was saying, “We did our part!” The second was saying: “No money? What about that big expense account they gave you to call Neptune?” And the third was archly mentioning that the Hortators had not bothered them until Phaethon’s ambitions and high ideals had stirred up the wrath of the Hortators against them.
“We want Ironjoy back!” called one of the basics.
And the other called Phaethon a traitor.
But the neomorph in the floating coffin had a loudspeaker set to drown everyone else out. “On days when we got cut out of the Big Mind, or the services failed, or the lines were cut, it was good old Ironjoy that would declare a time-off party, wasn’t it? He’d have dreams by the fistful, and he had a lot of fists, too, and he’s pass out wire-points like they were candy. We’d have fluid and beer and happy-jack. For animal parties, we’d have beast-minds jacked in, to shut all those cortex-thoughts away, and just let our underselves and midbrains come out to romp and play. For sex parties, we’d all link through the thought-shop into some of the rich, ripe, sims and wet dreams Ironjoy keeps on file, not just tame plunging, but real orgies of dirt, with all suppressed naughty underthoughts read out by the sneak file and blasted back at double sensation! Aye, those were right days! There was fun! There was life! What’ve we got now, eh? A man named after Phaethon, the rich man’s son, the man who thinks he owns the Sun! And what’s he going to do for us, to help us survive our last few hours and years alive? Summon parties? Let us drink and stick and dream and jack and joy? No how! No how! He’ll dress us up and drive us on and pound and preach and box us in till everything is either his or ours! No more sharing! No more playing fair! What say you all? You want to party? Or you want to listen to a Phaethon look-alike rich man’s darling son stand up and preach?”
More and more people had come crowding up on the deck, and filled the stairs, and pushed forward, calling and gesticulating.
And the crowd shouted, “Party! Par—tee! Par—tee!”
Phaethon raised a hand and tried to shout back. “Are you mad? Go home! Rest! We will need to work double shift tomorrow, to make up for what we lost today. Otherwise, how will you eat tomorrow?”
Oshenkyo jumped down from one of the pavilions above and landed neatly atop the hull of the floating coffin. He crouched and put his mouth to the speaking hole, so that his voice was amplified as well. “Big Snoot Gold got plenty to eat, beneath that fancy suit. We all know it! Yummy black, hundred matrix, rich as cream, able to become whatever thing you dream! It’s ours, not his; we ne
eds it more!”
Oshenyko wanted Phaethon’s black nanomachine lining. A murmur through the crowds showed they all wanted some of it, too.
Phaethon’s armor also had amplifiers:
“Idiots! Think about tomorrow! Think about a million tomorrows! I’ve invited the Neptunians to come and grant you your endless lives again!”
“Tomorrow isn’t coming!” shouted the neomorph.
The crowd took up the call. “Tomorrow isn’t coming! Tomorrow isn’t coming!” And they surged forward to grapple Phaethon’s armor.
“Not for you, it isn’t,” said Phaethon grimly. And he shut his faceplate and made a calculation and sent a low-voltage charge of electricity through the armor’s hull. All the hands who were grappling him locked and froze, and everyone pressing forward, each person touching each other in the crowd, passed the charge among them. A noise arose like one Phaethon had never heard before, a gasp of breathless and convulsive agony squeezed from a hundred straining lungs at once.
When he cut the current, everyone dropped to the deck, groaning, twitching. After the press and roar of the crowd, the sudden silence was overwhelming.
Phaethon looked up at a floating constable-wasp. “Once again, you did not help me. Are only those who have wealth and power in this society afforded protection?”
“Apologies. The crowd was only exercising its right of free speech and free assembly, until the moment they laid hands on you. We were gathering units to respond, when you attacked them.”
“Attacked? I call it self-defense.”
“Perhaps. I notice that not everyone in the crowd was actually touching you; some of them may have been trying to pull people off you. The magistrate has not yet made a ruling. But none of your victims have yet filed a complaint. They all seem to be incapacitated. We will take them to a holding area till they are ready to face trial and punishment.”
And with that, dozens of large machines, like flying crabs, swooped down and began picking up the stunned Afloats and spiriting them away.
“Stop! Were are you taking my workforce! I’m going to need them before tomorrow to finish our projects!”
A constable-wasp near his ear said, “For many years, the Afloats, even though they were shunned exiles, never crossed the line to crime. Now, thanks to you, they have. The Golden Oecumene will tolerate no violence. Your other plans will have to wait.”
Half the Afloats were gone. The busy flying machines swooped and plucked up more. Soon they were all gone, and the decks were bare.
“When will they be returned to me?”
“I am not obligated to answer that, sir, although I have heard a rumor to the effect that the Hortators are willing to rent them cheap dwellings in Kisumu, near a delirium farm run by Red Eveningstar castoffs. I hear that there is a wide field of pleasure coffins piled up and left to rot among the parks and jungles nearby, with a thousand old dreamsheets and smart-drugs and personality-alterants just lying out on the grass. Some of the Afloats may volunteer to return here for a life of deprivation, hard reality, and hard work. Maybe.”
“Then the Hortators have won, haven’t they?” whispered Phaethon.
The constable-wasp said, “As to that, sir, I should not venture any personal opinions while in the course of my official duties. But, officially, I should warn you against being so quick to take matters so violently into your own hands. Isn’t that what got you here in the first place? Good-bye for now. We may be back in the morning, if any of your victims wishes to lodge a complaint.”
And then the swarm of constables, which had been constantly overhead ever since Phaethon had arrived, they were also gone.
2.
Below, Phaethon stood facing the mirrors. He attempted Semris and Antisemris first; but their seneschals had been programmed to reject his calls unanswered and unacknowledged.
Then he called Unmoiqhotep, the Cacophile who had so praised him and so adored Phaethon outside the Curia House in the ring-city, just after his hearing. Antisemris (who was also a Cacophile) might help Phaethon if Unmoiqhotep asked.
Phaethon tricked his way past Unmoiqhotep’s seneschal by hiding his identity in masquerade. (No Hortator warning appeared to warn Unmoiqhotep’s house to reject the call because the Hortators were not able to penetrate the masquerade.) The house accepted to pay for the charges of the call when he announced he wanted to speak “about Phaethon.” But when Unmoiqhotep’s partial came on-line, the creature reviled Phaethon in no uncertain terms as a fool and a traitor.
“Why do you call him a traitor?” Phaethon asked. (He was getting particularly sick of having that charge leveled against him.)
The partial, like his master, was a bloated fungus, cone-shaped, drooping with nonstandard claws and tentacles. “Phaethon betrayed us! He has failed! We who represent the shining future, we who soar to exulted heights, we who take as implacable foes the dross of the older generation (the already-dead generation, as I like to call them), we have no time in our all-important crusade to trifle with failures! Phaethon has no money now! There is nothing he can do for us!”
Do for us? This reminded Phaethon of the beggar phrase the poor Afloats used to greet any newcomers. How odd to hear it come from the mouths of wealthy men’s sons.
Phaethon said: “But there is something you can do for him. If Phaethon had money enough to rent an orbital communications laser, he could contact the Neptunians. They may be willing to hire him as a pilot for the Phoenix Exultant. Instead of being dismantled for scrap, the starship could be sent out to the stars, there to create new worlds.”
The image of the Cacophile flopped its tendrils first one way, then the other. “What has that to do with us? Phaethon wants to fly to the stars. He wants to make worlds. I want to find a new wire-point to jolt my pleasure centers, maybe with an overload pornographic pseudomnesia to give it background. Are his dreams any better than mine?”
Phaethon reminded himself that he was here begging for money. He attempted to remain polite. “With all due respect, sir, may I point out that if you help him now, Phaethon, when he achieves his dream, can create such worlds as will be pleasing to you, and your lifelong dream of escaping from the domination of the elder generation will be achieved as well. But if you, instead, burn your brain cells with a wire-point, this serves neither you, nor him.”
The partial dripped liquid from three orifices. “But what does all your blather and bother do for us right now? Right this instant? Phaethon is no longer in fashion among us now. After he is dead, perhaps then we will exalt him as a martyr, slain by the cruelty of the elder generation. Yes! There is something for us! But Phaethon alive, still striving after his sick, insane dream? Still hoping to accomplish it? No, oh no. He would be our worst enemy if he succeeded at his attempt, against such odds. Isn’t it obvious why? Because he would make the rest of us look so bad.”
Phaethon felt mildly sick with astonishment. The Cacophiles had no intention of ever “escaping” from the “domination” of the older generation. All their moral posturing was merely excuse to disguise their lust to own what they had not earned. To fly to other worlds, and there make lives and civilizations for themselves, would require the kind of work and effort which the Cacophiles disdained.
And what about their alleged gratitude for Phaethon, the high honor and esteem in which they had promised to hold him? But gratitude and honor required hard work as well.
Phaethon signed off with polite words.
That left Notor-Kotok. But the squat little cylindrical cyberform was of as little help.
“I have not, at this time, money or currency enough to rent an orbital communications laser, or any device of similar function, capable of reaching that Neptunian station (to the best of my knowledge) presently nearest, nor of reaching any other relay or service able to convey a message thereto. This statement is based on an estimation that the money involved would be ‘enormous,’ and by enormous, I mean, sufficient to buy separately each part and service which the ‘legitimate’ serv
ices (by which I mean those who adhere to Hortator standards) presently appear to have decided not to traffick with us, as we are now.”
(Phaethon hated speaking to Invariants, or to people, like Notor, who followed Invariant speech conventions. He dearly wished he had his sense-filter back again, so that he could program it to edit out all the cautious disclaimers and lawyerly redundancy with which Invariants peppered their speech.)
Phaethon said: “Could some of your deviants be willing to lend me money on credit? I cannot raise any capital now that my workforce is under arrest.”
In a complex speech, Notor explained something Phaethon already knew. Most deviants are deviant because they are poor. Most poor are poor because they lack the self-discipline necessary to forgo immediate gratification. They were not the kind of people able to lend money and wait for a return.
Phaethon asked: “What if the return on investment is not simply immense, but infinite?”
“Define your terms.”
“Infinite means infinite. It does not matter how much money I need to borrow, or what the rate of interest is. I will gladly promise to repay one hundred times what I borrow, or one thousand. Have you forgotten the Silent Oecuemene? If any of their energy-producing structures are still intact, or can be restored, then I can make Cygnus X-1 my first port of call. From their singularity fountainheads, whatever amount of energy I need to repay my creditors can be gathered.”
“I am receiving a signal from other sections of my brainwork. Wait. We calculate that no one will be willing to risk any money on your venture, no matter what the rate of return. Several deviant money houses, those who I might have suspected would lend to you nonetheless, have already been purchased, within the last few seconds, by Nebuchednezzar Sophotech …”
Someone was listening in on this channel, perhaps, or Nebuchednezzar was alert enough to calculate Phaethon’s next maneuver, and, at lightning speed, had already moved to thwart him.
Notor explained: “Also, my service provider, who maintains these connections I presently use to speak with you, has signaled me and told me that, unless I no longer speak with you, the Eleemosynary Composition will dump shares of communications stock to artificially drive down the prices, and ruin his business. He is not willing to risk it, and threatens to suspend service if I do not eschew you.”