The Phoenix Exultant

'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 Un-moiqhotep 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 Afloats 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 Oecu-mene 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 ran 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.'