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The Phoenix Exultant: The Golden Age, Volume 2

The Phoenix Exultant: The Golden Age, Volume 2
By John C. Wright

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The Phoenix Exultant is a continuation of the story begun in The Golden Age and like it, a grand space opera in the tradition of Jack Vance and Roger Zelazny (with a touch of Cordwainer Smith-style invention).

At the conclusion of the first book, Phaethon of Radamanthus House, was left an exile from his life of power and privilege. Now he embarks upon a quest across the transformed solar system--Jupiter is a second sun, Mars and Venus terraformed, humanity immortal--among humans, intelligent machines, and bizarre life forms, to recover his memory, to regain his place in society and to move that society away from stagnation and toward the stars. And most of all Phaethon's quest is to regain ownership of the magnificent starship, the Phoenix Exultant, the most wonderful ship ever built, and fly her to the stars.

The Phoenix Exultantis an astounding story of super science, a thrilling wonder story that recaptures the verve of SF's golden age writers It is a suitably grand and stirring fulfillment of the promise shown in The Golden Age and confirms John C. Wright as a major new talent in the field. He concludes the Golden Age trilogy in The Golden Transcendence.

Product Details

  • Amazon Sales Rank: #197478 in Books
  • Published on: 2003-10-19
  • Original language: English
  • Number of items: 1
  • Binding: Mass Market Paperback
  • 320 pages

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Editorial Reviews

From Booklist
This is the story of Phaethon, exiled from a life of privilege and questing to reclaim his spacecraft, the Phoenix Exultant. He seeks the city of Talaimannar, impeded greatly by the fact that those who would help him risk exile themselves. Still, the strangest persons, those with no fear of exile, do help. The Old-Woman-of-the-Sea--a mind spread across all life in the sea, and the last remnant of the massmind of the Bellipotent Composition--helps him; and she and other helpers strive to ruffle the smooth waters of the peaceful, stagnating Golden Oecumene. Now, Phaethon believes that beings from another star are set on destroying him the moment he logs onto the Mentality, but the truth is even more sinister. This is the middle of a trilogy, and newcomers may find it hard to get into at first, despite action that starts and stays fast. But take the time, and maybe back up and read The Golden Age [BKL Mr 15 02], for when it grabs, it holds. Regina Schroeder
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved

About the Author
John C. Wright, a journalist and a lawyer turned SF and fantasy writer, lives with his wife and son in Centreville, Virginia.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

I
 
THE CYBORG
 
 
I.
 
He opened the door onto a crowded boulevard of matter-shops, drama-spaces, reliquaries, shared-form communion theaters, colloquy-salons, and flower parks. n elaborate hydrosculpture of falls and aerial brooks spread from a central fountain works throughout the area, with running water held aloft by subatomic reorientations of its surface tension, so that arches and bows of shining transparency rose or fell, splashed or surged with careless indifference to the reality of gravity. Light, scattered from tall windows lining the concourse or from banners of advertisements or from high panels opening up into the regional mentality, was caught and made into rainbows by the high-flowing waters. Petals from floating water lilies drifted down across the scene.
Beneath all this beauty was a crass ugliness. More than three-quarters of the people were present as mannequins. This was evidently a place meant for manorials, cryptics, or other schools that relied heavily on telepresentation. Since Phaethon no longer had access to any kind of sense-filter, all these folk, no matter how splendid of dress or elegant of comportment they might have appeared to an observer in the Surface Dreaming, looked to him like so many ranks and ranks of gray, dull, and faceless mannequins.
There may have been beautiful music sweeping the area; excluded from the mentality, Phaethon was deaf to it. Here and there were hospice boxes or staging pools, ready to send out dreams or partials, calls, messages, or any form of telepresentation. All channels were closed to Phaethon, and he was mute. There were dragon-signs burning like fire in the air, displaying messages of unknown import. Phaethon could not read the subtext or hypertext; Phaethon was illiterate. There may have been thought-guides in the Middle Dreaming to allow him to remember, as if he had always known, where to find the public transport he sought. Mnemonic assistance gone; Phaethon was an amnesiac. There may have been ornament and pageantry in the dream-stages gathered in the air around him, lovely beyond description, or signs and maps to show Phaethon where, in this wide concourse, might be the way or the road he sought. But Phaethon was blind.
Here and there among the mannequins, the face of a realist or vivarianist showed. Their eyes turned dull when they lit on Phaethon, and their gazes slid past him without seeing. All sense-filters were tuned to exclude him. The world was blind to him as well.
He expected the banners overhead to swoop down on him when he looked up. But no. They floated on by, shouting with lights and garish displays. Even the advertisements ignored him.
No matter. Phaethon tried to keep his thoughts only on the next steps immediately before him. How to find out where he was? How to find Talaimannar? How to go from here to there? Once there, how to find out why Harrier Sophotech recommended that place?
He had to ask someone for help, or directions.
Phaethon stepped behind a stand of bushes; there was a flow of water from the fountain works overhead, forming a rippling, translucent ceiling. Was anyone watching? He assumed not.
He doffed his armor and covered it with the cape of nanomaterial, which he then programmed to look like a hooded cloak. Phaethon himself merely drew out some of the nanomaterial from the black skin-garment he wore, and drew circles around his eyes, to solidify into a black domino mask. And that was that: Both of them were now in disguise. He hoped it was enough to fool at least a casual inspection. He programmed the suit to follow him at a fixed distance, avoiding obstacles; to “heel” as Daphne would have said.
He stepped out again into the concourse, followed by the bulky, cloaked form of his armor, looming three paces behind him. He went downstairs and found a pondside esplanade that had fewer mannequins walking along it. He saw real faces; faces made of flesh or metal, or cobra scales, or polystructural material, or energy surfaces. They were laughing and talking, signaling and depicting. The air seemed charged with a carnival excitement. Many people skipped or danced as they strolled, moved by music Phaethon could not hear. Others dived over the side of the esplanade, to glide among the buildings and statues in the pond.
He did not know what particular event was being celebrated. It was rare to see so many folk together. Whatever bunting or decoration swam in the dreamspace here, which might have given him a clue as to the nature of the occasion, was, of course, invisible to him.
People smiled and nodded at him as they walked by, full of good cheer. “Merry Millennium! May you live a thousand years!”
He had not realized how much he had missed, and was going to miss, the sight of friendly human faces. Phaethon smiled back, waving, and calling out, “And a thousand years to you!”
Phaethon reminded himself that he had to be careful. Theoretically, the masquerade protocol would not protect him, since he was no longer part of the celebration, no longer part of the community. But how many people would even try to read his identity if they saw him wearing a mask during a masquerade? Most people, Phaethon guessed, would not.
The rule from the Hortators was that no one was to give him aid, comfort, food or drink, or shelter, sell him goods or services, or buy from him, or donate charity to him. This rule did not (in theory) actually prohibit speaking to him, or looking at him and smiling, although that was the way it surely would be practiced.
If Phaethon tried to buy something from a passerby, Aurelian was obligated to warn him that he was about to be contaminated with exile. But as long as Phaethon did not try to win from the passersby either food or drink or comfort or shelter or charity, Aurelian would no doubt stand mute. Sophotechs had a long, long tradition of failing to volunteer any information that had not been specifically asked.
It was hard. A couple walking hand in hand were passing out wedding-album projections of their future children. Phaethon smiled but declined to take one. A young girl (or someone dressed as one), skipping and licking a floating balloon-pastry offered him a bite; Phaethon patted her on the head, but did not touch her pastry. When a laughing wine-juggler, surrounded by musical firecrackers, and balancing on a ball, rolled by and tried to thrust a glass of champaign into Phaethon’s hand, Phaethon was not able to refuse except by jerking his hand away.
The juggler frowned, wondering at Phaethon’s lack of courtesy, and raised two fingers as if to try to find out who Phaethon really was. But the juggler was distracted when a slender, naked gynomorph, fluttering with a hundred stimulation scarves, jumped up in drunken passion to embrace him. Singing a carol to Aphrodite, the two rolled off together, while the juggler’s bottles and goblets fell this way and that.
Phaethon let the throng carry him down the esplanade.
The pressure of the crowd eased when Phaethon came to a line of windows, two hundred feet tall or more, which looked out upon a balcony larger than a boulevard. Out onto the balcony they all went together. Phaethon climbed up a pedestal holding a statue of Orpheus in his pose as Father of the Second Immortality. The stone hands held up a symbol in the shape of a snake swallowing its own tail. Phaethon put his foot in the stone coils of the serpent and pulled himself high, looking left and right above the heads of the crowd.
Several lesser towers and small skyscrapers grew up from the railing of the balcony, like little corals fringing the topless super-tower of the space elevator.
Beyond the balcony, the metropolis spread out from the mountain-base of the space elevator in three concentric circles. Innermost and oldest, the

Customer Reviews

Extraordinary bridge for an extraordinary trilogy.5
I abstained from writing reviews on any volumes of this trilogy until and unless I finished them all. I just recently completed the final volume of The Golden Age Trilogy, and am happy to report that each book is a wonderful read in its own right.

For me, the first was a mind-bending introduction into a world so strange, so fascinating, it took an entire volume to get me comfortable with the basic attributes of the environment. This book, the second volume in the trilogy was a real treat to read. I was already comfortable with the "user interface" of GA, and the plot unfolded with less strain. The third book, Golden Transcendence is the most remarkable of them all.

But back to Phoenix Exultant. I won't spoil any of the developments this book offers (warning: some reviews below do), and it's difficult (having read all 3) to parse out what is now a blended understanding, but some general impressions:

This was a much more exciting read than the first book. Phaethons transition from immortal to mortal, his struggle for survival, and the effects such turmoil had on his basic belief system was at times mindblowing. The effects environment has in changing or reinforcing a mans basic virtue is always interesting, but when that man is thousands of years old, well, infinitely more so.

It was also intriguing to explore the basic history, tendencies, and roles each major character (and neuroform) play in this colorful and highly detailed future. In particular, the relationship between Daphne (Phaethons wife), their present, and VERY interesting past.

If you're like me, you'll sail through this book and enjoy every minute of it. Trust that as good as the first two volumes are, John Wright saved the best for last.

Enjoy

Christian Hunter
Santa Barbara, California


An elaborate bridge between start and finish5
John C. Wright has done it again with a fantastic follow-up to "The Golden Age", which set the stage for a sweeping space opera pitting an adventerous soul against a complacent and stagnating society.

"The Phoenix Exultant" begins with our hero, Phaethon, in exile. He finds relative safety in a Seussian town peopled by the dregs and outcasts of the Golden Oecumene. Phaethon is trying to reclaim his ship, from which the book takes its title, but to do so he must first overcome the vice and lethargy of those around him, skirt the terms of his exile, and battle agents of his unknown enemy.

One of Mr. Wright's strengths is his ability to craft an amazing array of fascinating characters, and he certainly delivers again in this book. We learn quite a bit more about Phaethon's wife, Daphne. Or rather, it is a close copy of Daphne, which sets the stage for interesting complications in the love story. Some reviewers found the Daphne subplot too corny, but I felt it charming. Other interesting characters include, but are not limited to, Old-Woman-Of-The-Sea, the Bellipotent Composition, and the soldier Atkins, who sees a little action. There are many more characters, and Mr. Wright helpfully includes a lengthy list of "dramatis personae" at the beginning of the tale to help readers keep track.

The book also continues the philosophic and moral themes begun in the first volume. Phaethon, a man of ability, intelligence and ambition opposed in the first book by society's elite for threatening the peaceful order of civilization, is challenged in this story by the lowest rung of humanity, people who prefer to lose themselves to drugs or computer stimulation rather than to engage in productive and satisfying work. Phaethon also grapples with fundamental questions when he realizes whom he is fighting and comes to understand that they stand for everything anathema to his understanding of a rational and sane universe. Those looking for something meaty in their space opera will find plenty to gnaw on here.

As in the first book, there is plenty of imaginative technology kicking about Mr. Wright's future. He avoids the temptation to flaunt fundamental physics like the Second Law of Thermodynamics and the Special Theory of Relativity, but delights in speculating about the far-out possibilities offered by quantum weirdness and computing on a planetary scale. Practically each page has something weird and wonderful that would be worthy of a short story in its own right.

Finally, the writing is simply great. These novels have more in common with classic literature and plays than with the gritty, journalistic/pulp style that marks much science fiction today. It has been a long time since I've had the pleasure of simply savoring dialogue and turns of phrase in a science fiction book.

If there's anything negative to say about "The Phoenix Exultant" it is that it is wedged between two stronger tales (the sequel is "The Golden Trascendence", which I read before writing this review). The first book concluded by saying Phaethon's tale would be wrapped up in "The Phoenix Exultant", so it appears Mr. Wright may have had too much material for one sequel. This proved to be a good thing since the trilogy definitely stands as is, but the second volume perhaps suffered slightly by being made into a bridge between the firmer shores of the first and third books.

Nonetheless, I wholeheartedly recommend this book for those who liked the first one.

Jack Vance meets Olaf Stapledon5
Having read all three volumes in this trilogy now, I can say that this is truly a masterpiece. John C. Wright manages to update Jack Vance into the nanotech/deity-computer age. His future universe is remarkably well-imagined, an all the more difficult feat since it takes place thousands of years in the future. But rather than create a "Dying Earth" going-forward-means-backwards milieu, as did Jack Vance and Gene Wolfe, Wright aggressively imagines a high tech (and, unlike Gene Wolfe, explicit rather than implicit) future. Godlike AIs, mass-minds, augmented humans, and many other creations populate this remarkable universe.

In these volumes, Wright shows himself a master of dialogue (here is where he most often resembles Vance), although he is occasionally somewhat too twee (the conversations between Daphne and Phaethon). He shows himself a master of plot, with a number of unexpected plot twists. And, as alluded to above, he shows himself a master of invention.

Strangely, the three volumes resemble the three Matrix movies in their nature. The first volume, The Golden Age, is by far the best, for the simple reason that the reader is immersed for the first time in this wonderfully realized world (just as in the Matrix). The Matrix Reloaded did not have the newness of the first movie, but compensated for it by dangling mysteries in front of the viewer and by dazzling pyrotechnics and action. This is largely the case for the second volume of Wright's trilogy, The Phoenix Exultant. We are familiar with Phaethon's world, so it is comfortable rather than new and exciting, but the plot itself drives us along. The third volume, the recently released The Golden Transcendence, is the least satisfying of the three, just as the third Matrix movie is the least satisfying, as what mysteries are revealed are not quite as interesting as we might have hoped. But it nonetheless is still a winner by any standards. Together, they represent a remarkable achievement.

So, get this if you love good science fiction, but also especially if you like:

1) Jack Vance
2) Gene Wolfe
3) Iain M. Banks
4) Walter Jon Williams' Aristoi
5) literate high tech space opera
6) far far future romance

These are, truly, very good books (and deserved to have better proofreading by Tor).