activities. I ask that you open the channel to allow me to exercise this right; the right cannot be used while she is involved in a far dream ...'
When that argument failed, he tried another. And another and another.
Two hours later, his voice hoarse, Phaethon was standing with his cheek pressed against the glassy surface of the case, overwhelmed with weariness. His hands were clutching the corners of the casket.
'... her living will is not valid because ... it is based on the false premise that I... had done something to shock or offend her ... whether or not she left a provision for reawakening, since she would want to be woken at this point, were she to know I'm here ...'
In the third hour he tried simply begging, screaming, pleading threatening, bargaining, bribing. In the fourth hour he sat mute, unable to move or think. In the fifth hour, he convinced himself that there was a secret password or hidden command that Daphne had not told to Eveningstar, which would unlock the casket and end the dream in which she was trapped. He whispered every word of love or of endearment or apology he could imagine to her cold, still, silent face.
He talked about their past life together; about how they met; he asked her if she remembered their marriage ceremony; if she remembered their first honeymoon in the Antarctic Wintergardens, or their anniversary in the reconstructed version of Third Era Paris, or the time he had accidentally collapsed the pseudo-matter holding up the east wing of their nuptial house in reality, so that it no longer matched the version of their house in Mentality. He asked her about her pet horses, and her latest drama she was writing, and about her hopes for the future.
Then he said: 'I'd like to be alone with her.'
The image of the woman representing Eveningstar Sopho-tech nodded gravely, and, out of politeness to him, instead of vanishing, she turned and walked away. Every detail was correct; her shoes rang on the marble floor, diminishing as she receded, she cast a shadow when she passed through a pool
of mauve light, and highlights fled across the twilight blue texture of her silk gown.
It was very realistic; a Silver-Gray Sophotech could not have done better. Phaethon waited while she walked so very slowly away, and his impatience clawed and gnawed him.
Impatient, because his pride was still very strong within him, like a wildfire.
And because it only took a moment to enlarge his vision to embrace several different wavelengths and analytic routines. His private thoughtspace, once summoned, seemed to surround him with floating black icons, superimposed upon the real scene around him, with the spiral wheel of stars hovering in the background, beyond his wife's coffin. A gesture accessed the records he carried for biomedical manipulations, and compared it to the analysis he had just completed on the medical nanomachinery suspended in the liquids embracing his wife.
The molecular shapes of her medical nanomachinery were standardized; it would be easy to counteract it, and to affect a disconnect. The black lining of his armor could produce the required assemblers in a moment of heat.
Also in his private thoughtspace was an engineering routine, including a simple subprogram to estimate the strengths of structures. A second glance allowed him to analyze the coffin lid and conclude how many foot-pounds of pressure, applied at what angle, were sufficient to break the surface material without allowing any Shockwave to travel into the interior.
Phaethon shrugged. Gauntlets of golden admantium grew from his sleeves and embraced his hands. He raised his hand triumphantly, made a fist.
No wonder they were all afraid of him. Here was armor that could allow him to walk into the core of a star without harm. What weapon, what threat, what force could stop him, once he was resolved? The Golden Oecumene had witnessed no real crimes in decades; were there any structures still in place to detect or hinder such things?
The fire left his eyes at that point. His anger and pride
evaporated, and his face sagged into expressionless despair. Foolish. He knew how foolish he was being.
He brought his fist down nevertheless. An outside force seized his arm, and made him lay his hand gently on the casket lid, not hurting it.
No, not his arm. The mannequin's arm. He was merely telepresent in whatever mannequin had been sitting in the chair in the receiving room. The invulnerable armor that he seemed to wear existed only in his eyesight, an illusion created by Eveningstar out of politeness to him. Eveningstar had merely turned off the arm when he ordered it to slam downward.
A silver light, shivering with beams of pleasure, shining over his shoulders, and a sense of dread and sorrow, like a wash of pressure, told him that Eveningstar Sophotech had manifested her representative behind him. Her voice, like a glorious symphony, filled his ears. He could feel the words caressing his neck and cheeks. He could feel the tiny pinpricks, like sparks, in their stern firmness. The luster on the coffin lid was sad and fascinating; the shimmer of light on the golden intricacy of his finger joints was a ballet.
Evidently Eveningstar concluded it was no longer appropriate to be polite to him; his senses were filled with the Red Manorial version of the dreamscape.
The voice from behind him said, 'Does Phaethon wish to introduce crime and violence once again into our peaceful civilization? There are many folk who wish to do far worse ills than merely burglary or invasion of privacy. Why should they restrain themselves when it seems that you do not?'
'I don't want to hear a lecture, Eveningstar.' said Phaethon in a voice of endless weariness.
'Then should I summon the Constables for your arrest?' 'I attempted no crime. I admit I thought about it when raised my fist. But as I was bringing it down, I realized that I could not succeed, since I was not here physically. The whole structure of the manor-born way of life prevents us from hurting each other; we're always safe. I suppose you may have me arrested if you like; I don't really care any more.
But kidnap and burglary and invasion are all crimes of specific intent; and I did not have that intent at the time.'
'May we examine your mind to verify what your intent was at the moment you lowered your fist? ... I'm sorry, but a silent nod of the head is not a legally sufficient sign of consent.'
'I swear it.'
