Fénix Exultante (65 page)

“Pointless. Consider the possibilities. First, that I had actually disbursed the fund, but both I and the countinghouse memory-records have since been edited. Second, that the Phaethon memory-record was tampered with during the moment it took him to transfer it from his public thoughtspace to the Hortator reading circuit. Third, that the record was altered and replaced during the actual moment Nebuchednezzar Sophotech was publicly reading it. Or, fourth, that Phaethon’s memories had been damaged or altered against his will. The first three possibilities are impossible to our present level of technology, and the Hortators would not be convinced. The third possibility can be proven if and only if Phaethon submits to a noetic examination, which, at the time, he was not willing to do. Had I spoken up at the time, it would not have affected the outcome.”

“Not affected the outcome?! But you know he’s innocent!”

“No. I know that he did not purchase with Helion’s money the pseudomnesia program that falsified the memories, allegedly his, which the Hortators reviewed. He may have gotten money from another source, for example. Or they may not have been his memories, as he claims. There are other possibilities. Nonetheless, I am confident that Phaethon did not deliberately falsify his own memories, because that is out of character for him. But my consultation with Eveningstar Sophotech convinces me that no such attack as he describes or remembers ever took place on the steps of the Eveningstar mausoleum.”

“Then his memory of that attack, and any other false thoughts, were put into his head before that point. When?”

“Not when he was operating his sense-filter through me. I have my suspicions, but the circuit Aurelian gave you should settle the matter. I had consulted very carefully with two partial versions of Phaethon I keep in my decision directory. One version believes, as Phaethon does, that we are under attack by an ‘external enemy.’ The other thinks he is merely the victim of some cruel prank or brain-rape. Both versions confirmed that I was right not to speak up at the Hortators’ meeting. Both versions agree that our chances of apprehending the brain-rapist, no matter who or what they are, are greater if they do not know we suspect. And both versions have an ulterior motive of which the real Phaethon is unaware, for they hope to demean the prestige of the Hortators in the eyes of the public, and they also agree that my silence aids that effort. Remember, the Transcendence is less than a month away. Major decisions concerning how all society will be structured, including the role of the Hortators and the role of individual freedom, the future of star-travel and the future of man, will be determined at that time.”

“Then I have got to be back before the month is up.”

“Don’t fool yourself, Miss Daphne. No one has ever returned from exile of this kind before. The risk you are taking is very real.”

She said defensively: “Ealger Gastwane Twelfth Half-Out came back.”

“A redaction case, and he was only shunned, under a parole, not ostracized.”

She shut off the private line and spoke aloud, voice bluff and hearty and betraying no fear. “So, then! Anyone else to see me? Any more gifts, advice, good-byes?”

“Your parents want to talk to you.”

“My what?”

“Mr. Yewen None Stark, human base unmodified, uncomposed, with puritan gland-and-reaction censors, Stark Realism School, Era 10033, and his wife, Mrs. Ute None Stark, base…”

“I know who they are!” Daphne blazed. Then, in a small, sad voice: “They called? They don’t use phones or ghosts…”

“They walked. They are both waiting in the field beyond the groves. You understand that they will not step onto any property owned by Eveningstar Mansion.”

“But—” and now her voice was very small indeed. “Don’t they know I’m just the doll? The copy? Their real daughter is Daphne Prime.”

“As to that, I cannot say what they believe. However, Mrs. Stark was overheard to say that any harlot who sold her mind into dreamland, was no true daughter of theirs. Perhaps you have the qualities or the strength of character they regard as proper for the woman they wanted their daughter to be. You will have to talk with them to find out.”

Daphne winced. She really was not looking forward to seeing her parents. It had been an ugly scene when she ran away to join the Warlocks. (And the knowledge that that scene had happened to Daphne Prime, and not to her, meant nothing. Implanted or not, the memories were a part of her.)

“OK. I’ll see them. But—”

“Yes?”

“One last question…?”

“Actually, this is your third last question.”

“Is Phaethon correct? Are there external enemies? Invaders? Another civilization? An evil Sophotech?”

“I doubt that there can be such a thing as an evil Sophotech. Humans are capable of evil because they are capable of illogic. They can ignore their true motives, they can justify their crimes with specious reasons. A Sophotech built to be capable of such thinking would have to be unaware of its own core consciousness, hindered from self-examination, unwilling to pursue a thought to its logical conclusions, and so on. This would severely limit its capacities.”

“And invaders?”

“Harrier Sophotech is examining the possibility. I am aware of no supporting evidence; but then again, it’s not my area. If external invaders were responsible for the brain-rape of Phaethon, then this would be an act of war, and the matter would be in the hands of Shadow Administers or the Parliament; and it would be out of our hands. We are not part of your government.”

“And—”

“Yes…?”

Daphne asked softly: “Do you think I will make it back, Rhadamanthus? You must have calculated every possible outcome of what will happen, haven’t you?”

Rhadamanthus spoke in a voice more remote and cold than she had ever heard him use before. “Overconfidence would be a mistake at this time, Miss Daphne.”

And the ring on her finger called out, in a cheerful, chipper voice: “Be brave!”

Daphne hiked the reservation for several days, sleeping nights in a tent of mothwing fiber, which permitted slow- or fast-moving air to pass, so that the night breeze blew on her only as she wished. Her stove was the size of her palm, and the infrared output was adjustable, so that she could gather twigs and make a campfire, igniting it with a directed-energy discharge from the stove cell, just like (so she imagined) primitive hunter-gatherers did back in the Era of the First Mental Structure. For food, she plucked leaves from trees, confident that the specialized microbes in her stomach could break down the cellulose, and she adjusted her sense-filter to make the taste of whatever she fancied. She had breakfast spikes designed to be buried overnight, to suck up soil chemicals and combine them (as plants did, albeit more swiftly) into proteins and carbohydrates; but Daphne was saving her limited supply.

Once she caught a trout with a spear she made (with some prompting from her librarian’s ring) practically all by herself. She was clumsy at the hand-eye motions needed, so she let her little ring take over her gross and fine-motor functions during the hunt. The ring also had to advise her how to scale the fish, which was a tedious business, as the nanite paste she used to remove the bones and scales had to be programmed manually, and told which parts of the fish to convert, and which to leave for her to eat. The palm stove changed shape, gathered up the fish, and cooked it for her without being asked.

Daphne munched on the spicy golden flakes of fish, feeling like a cavegirl at the dawn of time.

On she marched, day after day. Some of the trees had changed colors. Leaves of brilliant red and gold whirled and rode the fresh-scented autumn air. She had not noticed the turning seasons before; it came as a shock. And yet it was getting late in September.

Daphne was deep into the area where no advanced technology was permitted, when, to her delight, she came across a wild stallion in a high mountain valley. The magnificent maverick stood among the pines and wiry grasses, snorting, mistrustful, arrogant, trotting disdainfully upslope whenever Daphne attempted to close the distance. Then he would pause, crop a leisurely mouthful of grass, and wait for her to get close again before he trotted lightly away.

But Daphne had put a backdoor command in all her designs. Once she got close enough, she shouted the secret word, and the magnificent tawny bay drooped his ears, lost his disdain, and came gamboling up to her, obedient, tame, and ready.

She really should not have used any of her precious nanomaterial to make a saddle, bit, and bridle, and she really should not have burned part of the brick into sugar for the horse to nibble on. Of course, at that point, it did not take all that much more to synthesize proper riding boots, breeches, and a jacket. But maybe she did use a little too much. More than a little too much.

It only took a very little more to make a hat.

But now she was mounted. Ahorse, she made much better time.

Daphne had been expecting desert. Her knowledge of the Rocky Mountains came from historical romances and Victorian “penny-dreadful” Westerns, none of which were set in any post-Fifth-Era Reclamation periods. She was disappointed. The pyramids were still in Aegypt, weren’t they? Why not preserve the Painted Desert Sand Sculpture from the late Fourth Era?

Instead, as she approached her destination, she saw, framed between tall trees, a valley far below, green with redwood and pseudoredwood. In the distance, the gleam of water betrayed the presence of Heavenfall Lake, in the crater formed when an early orbital city had disintegrated in some forgotten dark age between the Third and Fourth Eras.

A cottage not far from her overlooked this magnificent view. It rose between a rock garden and a victory garden. Here and there throughout this high meadow were some objects she recognized: a stone lantern atop a post stood alone in the grass. Farther away a track of beaten dirt surrounded a target, a quintain, and, farther yet in the distance, a long low roof, held on the heads of armed telamons, protected a fencing strip. Farther away, she was delighted to see the corner of a barn and paddock. Yet something in the quiet of the place told her the barn was long deserted.

Near at hand, the cottage itself was very small, simple, sparse, and clean, made of well-sanded beams of pale wood, paneled in rice paper and brown ceramic sheet. The roof was shingled in hand-grown solar-collection crystal, dark azure in hue. The eaves of the shingles had been meticulously trimmed, as if by a master of the handicraft, and each shingle was rigidly identical in size and shape, except, of course, the gable piece.

A man slid open the screen of the cabin and stepped out upon the sanded deck. He wore a tunic and split-legged skirts of dark fabric, printed with a simple white-bamboo-leaf pattern. A wide sash circled his waist, in which were thrust two sheaths, holding a sword and a knife of a design Daphne did not recognize. The weapons were slender, slightly curved, and lacked any guard or crosspiece.

The man’s hair was shaved close to his skull. His face was calm, bony-cheeked, large-nosed. Grim muscle ringed his mouth. His eyes were like the eyes of an eagle.

She rode forward.

He saluted her with a gesture she did not recognize, raising a fist but closing his left palm atop it.

“Ma’am?”

There was no Middle Dreaming here to prompt her. How was she supposed to return that salute?

She fell back on Silver-Grey decorum, touching her riding crop to the brim of her silk hat. Then she smiled her most winning smile, tossed her head, and called out in a gay voice: “My name’s Daphne. Do you have a living pool? I’ve ridden a long way to see you, and I smell like a horse!”

The ring on her rein hand called out, “Hi there! Hi there!”

“Can I help you; ma’am?” His voice was stiff and neutral, as if helping anyone was the furthest thing in the world from his mind.

Daphne subsided and put her smile away. There was no point in trying to be cheery, it seemed. “I’m looking for Marshal Atkins Vingt-et-une General-Issue, Self-Composed, Military Hierarchy Staff Command.”

“I’m Atkins.”

“You look smaller in real life.”

A slight increase of tension in his cheeks was his only change in expression. Amusement? Wry impatience? Daphne could not tell. Perhaps he was trying to restrain himself from pointing out that she was mounted.

All he said was: “May I help you?”

“Well. Yes! My husband thinks we are being invaded from outer space.”

“Is that so.”

“Yes, it is so!”

There was a moment of silence.

Atkins stood looking at her.

Daphne said: “That he believes it. That part is so. I don’t know if I believe it.”

More silence.

“I’m sure that is all very interesting, ma’am,” he said in a tone of voice that indicated he wasn’t. “But what may I do for you? Why are you here?”

“Well, aren’t you the Army? The Marines? The Horse Guard and the Queen’s Own and the Order of the Knights Templar and the Light Brigade and the musketeers and the cavalry and all the battleships of His Majesty’s Royal Navy all wrapped up in one?”

Now he did smile, and it was like seeing a glacier crack. “I’m what’s left of them, I suppose, ma’am.”

“Well, then! Whom do I see about declaring war on someone?”

Now he did laugh. It was brief, but it was actually a laugh.

“I can’t really help you there, ma’am. But maybe I can offer you a cup of cha. Come in.”

He called the lovely little cottage in which he lived his “quarters.”

“Ma’am, you must know that there is really nothing I can do for you.”

“You can get me some tea, Marshal.”

“Mm. Fair enough.”

There was a pool of life water beneath the polished wooden floor. He slid a panel aside, stooped, and grew two fragile bowls of shell, which he dipped in the fluid once again. The heat of the nanoconstruction warmed the tea, and the unused organics were disguised as mint steam and wafted from the bowls.

Daphne looked at the bare pale walls. An old-fashioned dreaming coat of woven gold and green hung on pegs on one wall. It was stiff, as if brittle with disuse. It faced a standing screen inscribed with bright red dragon signs. The four glyphs read: Honor, Courage, Fortitude, Obedience. There was thought circuitry woven in the red letters, Daphne saw, and she guessed (to her disbelief) their purpose.