Episode 14
The Man in the Black Armor
In the garden, Phaethon felt offended.
A soldier? It was preposterous. There still were some crimes these days; computer frauds, time thefts. Usually by very young rogues, not yet octogenarians. They were always eventually caught, and public outrage was always severe. Such matters were handled by the Hortators, or, in rare occasions when no one answered the call to give themselves up, by the Subscription Constabulary.
But Constables were always unfailingly polite and deferential. Phaethon had not been aware that it was even possible for someone to read one of Phaethon’s masked files (and the name file had, in fact, been masked) without permission. Perhaps a Constable had that right, but only after due notice and service of a warrant. This man he was certainly not a Constable!
Phaethon said as much. “You may ask, Mister Whatever-you-are, but I need not answer. You have no right. And, dammit! Could you at least have the decency to manifest your image properly, without jarring my scene to bits!”
The floating window blinked out, and the armored shape appeared next to Phaethon. The grass blades did seem to bend under the black metal boots, and a moon shadow did fall, in proper perspective, across the lawn; but that was about the only concession to manorial notions of propriety this man gave. The highlights and reflections within the armored breastplate were all wrong, and the vision tracking and correction was crude, since the image wavered if Phaethon turned his head too quickly.
The helmet disassembled into a cloud of fingernail-sized scales, which spread and opened, and hovered motionless around the man’s head like a black halo. The face underneath was unremarkable, except in its uncomeliness. Phaethon couldn’t remember in face symbology what lines around thin lips, or crow’s-feet at the corners of the eyes were supposed to represent. Wisdom? Grimness? Determination? But he had a crew cut, and an even, unblinking gaze that spoke of ten millennia of military tradition. The face looked much like old archive pictures of Atkins.
One of the black spheres not far from Phaethon sent a signal: “Subject Phaethon shows no present contamination. Examination of communication logs and thought-buffers fails to show any data packages received, except for low-level, speech-linear communication. Insufficient to hide any organism construction or self-aware memory data systems.”
“What?!!” exclaimed Phaethon. “Have you been going through my files and logs without a warrant? Without a word? You didn’t even ask—!”
The man in black armor spoke to Phaethon. His tone was serious and brisk: “Sir, we didn’t know whether you had been compromised or not. But you’re clean. I’d like you to keep this quiet. The opposition may have constructions, by now, in all our public channels, and I don’t want to give him—or them—any hints about where the investigation is. But don’t worry. This is probably just another false alarm, or a drill. That’s all I ever do nowadays anyway. So there’s really no need for concern. You are free to go.” And he turned to look toward where the black spheres where congregating.
Phaethon stared at him blankly. Were these lines from a play or something? “I think this really has gone on far enough. Tell me what’s going on.”
The man spoke without turning around. “Sir, that’s no concern of yours right now. If I need more cooperation from you, of if we need to do some follow-up examination, you’ll be contacted. Thank you for your cooperation.”
“What is all this?!! You can’t talk to me that way! Do you know who I am?!”
The man turned. There was a slight twitch in the tense lines around the soldier’s mouth. It looked as if he were trying not to smile. “Ah—sir, the Service doesn’t allow me to play tricks with my memory. I just don’t have that luxury, I guess, sir. I’m, ah, sure at least one of us remembers who you are, there, sir. Ahem. But for now …” And the trace of humor vanished as if it had never been. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I’m required to secure the area.”
“I beg your pardon—!” Phaethon spoke in an outraged tone.
They were interrupted by a fanfare of silver-voiced trumpets.
