The Last Crucible

by J. D. Moyer

  An alarming situation, if he did not so fully trust in Livia’s reflexes.

  He’d wondered about the old woman during the council meeting. And even earlier, when he’d first noticed the black, lacelike threads beneath her skin. A disease, he’d thought at first, though she’d shown no signs of infirmity. There was something odd about her voice, too – it changed inflection periodically, as if another person were speaking: a different timbre, with different vocal rhythms, habits, and tics. Perhaps the old woman suffered from a multiple-personality disorder. Or maybe she fancied herself an actor, and had a bevy of characters to trot out in response to various conversational cues. Certainly she was interesting, and Maro had already flagged her for inclusion in his project.

  And she was all the more interesting now, lunging for Maro’s throat with clear murderous intent.

  He took a step back, and Livia was there in front of him, stop-thrusting the woman with a brutal stab to the chest, her blade held horizontally so as to slip through Sperancia’s ribs just to the right of her breastbone. The weapon would deliver several thousand milliamps of electricity directly to the woman’s heart, surely enough to stop her cold.

  And yet it didn’t. Sperancia thrust her arm out, palm open, hitting Livia squarely in the face. Livia’s head snapped back and she stumbled away, still holding the blade. Sperancia gasped for air, but she remained standing, staring at Maro with a cold violence that made him shiver.

  For the first time on Earth, he felt a hint of fear.

  Maro’s body was a work of engineering and art. His senses were enhanced, the functions of his organs protected by redundant implants, his muscles powerful and flexible regardless of how little he exercised. But he was mortal. He’d backed up his brain with a deep scan before leaving the Michelangelo, but that was for the benefit of his loved ones, and perhaps for future scholars who might want to converse with an engram of the great senator. Even if the engram possessed limited consciousness while active, it wasn’t him. Making a copy of your thought organ, however complete, was no way to cheat death.

  And yet his curiosity overpowered his fear. “What are you?” he asked.

  Sperancia lunged at him, but Livia had recovered, and partially deflected the blow. Instead of slicing open his neck, the knife grazed his cheek. And then Livia was plunging her golden blade into the old woman’s abdomen, over and over again, with pistonlike efficiency.

  “Stop!” he commanded. He had more questions for the old woman. Sperancia collapsed to the ground, holding her stomach and gasping for air. The threat had passed. “What are you?” he repeated. “And why have you come for me – for us? Do you fear us?” He considered telling the old woman that the Michelangelo could obliterate their entire town if he ordered it. A single tactical warhead, a precision strike from space, and Bosa would be nothing but a smoldering pile of ruins. Or a neutron bomb, killing all life but leaving the buildings intact for historical purposes – that was the more realistic scenario.

  But he had no such intentions. He was a scholar, a researcher. His passion was learning, the accumulation of novel experiences.

  She squinted at him, unafraid and unrepentant. But something was missing from her expression. There was no bitterness in her face, nor any sense of defeat. Despite the fact that she would soon die of blood loss, the old woman had yet to surrender. He started to smile in admiration of her fighting spirit, but a thought stopped him cold. Why had she not yet surrendered?

  “Tell me what you are,” he commanded, more desperately this time. “Perhaps we can still save your life, if you co-operate.” He glanced at Livia. She had retreated to a corner of the tent and was watching the tent opening warily. She’d heard something.

  A young woman pushed through the tent flap. It was Jana, the girl Sperancia had described as her protégée. She was a lanky, awkward-looking young woman, with oddly proportioned features. Though not unpleasing, Maro noted. There was a stolid fearlessness in her expression that impressed him.

  Jana knelt next to Sperancia and offered her comfort. Maro asked Jana the same questions he’d asked Sperancia, but the girl gave him nothing except a boast that Sperancia had murdered Felix. Maro felt a mix of emotions as Livia rushed out of the tent: a streak of jealous vindication at Felix’s probable demise, dread at the prospect of dealing with Livia’s emotional fallout, and a thrill that he had just survived an attack that might have killed all of them. An actual assassination attempt. What a brilliant story it would all make when he recounted the tale to his fellow senators.

  But now something even more unusual was occurring. The old woman had managed to prop herself up on her hands and knees, and was having some sort of spasm. She vomited something up, perhaps a giant dark blood clot. But the object fell heavily, like a chunk of lead or gold. It was round, the shape of a small bird’s egg, and pure black.

  To Maro’s absolute surprise, Jana picked up the strange object and swallowed it whole.

  She had expected it, somehow. Whatever it was that the old woman had regurgitated, Jana had anticipated the event, acting without hesitation.

  It seemed probable – highly probable – that the black egg was related to Sperancia’s strange powers and odd behaviors. Would these powers now be transferred to the girl? If so, how long would that process take?

  It had been a long time since Maro had been confronted with a phenomenon completely beyond his understanding. He was thrilled.

  Livia returned to the tent, confirming what Jana had told them: Sperancia had murdered Felix. Maro muttered his condolences, aware that his words were insufficient but unable to focus on anything beyond the strange sight he had just witnessed. Livia asked if she should kill the girl, but Maro stopped her; they had too much to learn from the young protégée. He’d let Livia have her revenge eventually. But not now.

  He knelt and took Jana’s face in his hands. “Please explain to me what just happened.”

  He was met with a glob of saliva in his eye. He slapped the girl, reflexively, knocking her down. She touched her bleeding lip.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to strike you so hard,” he said, wiping the spit from his face. “But that was unnecessary. The two of you just tried to murder us, and we have spared you. Show us a modicum of gratitude.”

  Jana stared at him sullenly, as unrepentant and fearless as the old woman.

  “Why don’t you fear me?” he asked. “I think you know I could easily kill you, don’t you? Is that why you attacked us in the first place, because you’re aware of our power?”

  “You’re thieves and pirates, all of you,” Jana accused. “You always have been.”

  “Thieves?” Maro repeated, surprised. What had he stolen? He meant to borrow a few townsfolk for his experiments, but he intended to return them. Whole and unharmed, if all went as planned.

  “You stole all the great works of art from Earth, centuries ago. Sperancia told me everything.”

  “How old are you?” She refused to answer. “How old was she?” he asked, gesturing to Sperancia’s lifeless body. The girl just sat there silently, hand pressed to her bleeding mouth. “The events you refer to occurred centuries ago. And you’ve got it all wrong. We protected Earth’s great works. And we continue to do so. If you come to our ship, you can see the great masters yourself. Even works by our namesake. The ceiling of the Sistine Chapel – we transported the entire edifice, chunk by chunk. Now it is displayed in our Curia, our Senate hall, restored to its original brilliance. Il divino would be proud, could he see it for himself.”

  The girl looked unimpressed. And why would she be? She had no idea who Michelangelo was, or Leonardo da Vinci or Raphael or Caravaggio, or Rembrandt or Van Gogh, or any of the other great painters, sculptors, composers, and authors who had graced civilization with their genius. She was ignorant.

  Though not completely. Sperancia had demonstrated some knowledge of ancient history during their meeti
ng, and if this girl was her protégée, Sperancia had likely tried to teach her.

  “Is there a school in Bosa?” he asked. “Do you use books? Do you print books?”

  “Yes, we have a school. Though you just murdered our teacher.”

  “In self-defense. And I’m willing to overlook the attempt on our lives if you co-operate with us.”

  Jana looked surprised. She’d been expecting an imminent death. And Livia was still ready, clutching the hilt of her dagger with white knuckles.

  He waved dismissively at Jana. “Go, before I change my mind. Say nothing to the other townsfolk.”

  Jana hesitated, looking at Sperancia’s lifeless body.

  “We’ll bury her. Don’t worry – we’ll be respectful.”

  The girl left, shaking visibly. He would interrogate her later, with kindness if he could. He recognized a deep stubbornness in her. Threats would get him nowhere, nor would physical pain. He’d noted the way she’d looked at the blood on her hand when he’d struck her, with curious detachment.

  “What now?” Livia asked.

  He checked on Felix, who was indeed dead, his throat opened violently all the way to the spine.

  “What made the old woman so strong?” he asked. “Some kind of enhancement?”

  “She’s flesh and blood,” Livia said, “though it was hard to pierce her skin. It was stiff and dense, like a wire mesh.”

  “Some sort of cyborg?”

  “I’ll examine her corpse. If we bring it back to the shuttle, I can conduct a full analysis.”

  Maro nodded. Livia was choosing not to react to Felix’s death immediately, and that was fine with him. “Bag both bodies and store them in the gondola.” They had no refrigeration; vacuum bags would have to do for preservation.

  Hearing Livia’s effortful grunts as she worked, he considered helping. But no, his time was better spent contemplating tomorrow’s work. Ancestral Realism was his project, his in-progress masterpiece. That was why they were here. It was unfortunate they’d lost Felix. He’d underestimated Sperancia, and possibly Jana as well. The people of Bosa were more varied and complex than he’d anticipated. He’d failed to look beneath the surface.

  He would not make that mistake again, he thought, taking a deep breath. The air had a ferric tang from the lingering mist of Felix’s blood. He forgave himself for failing to anticipate the women who had just tried to murder him. In time, he would understand their minds – minds that were the closest living link to the consciousness of his dead ancestors.

  History was still alive here in Bosa, and he would have a piece of it.

  Chapter Eight

  Maro squeezed Livia’s hand as they approached the town square. The morning light was brilliant, palpable, giving the townscape the intensity of a Dutch Golden Age painting. Many of Bosa’s buildings were painted in colorful pastels – recently from the looks of it. A jarring variety of smells assaulted his sinuses: the sea, baking bread, roasting pork, fresh thyme. He wished he could record the aromas in the same way his visual and auditory sensations were recorded. There must be a way; he would ask the Engineers.

  Maro and Livia had ostensibly come to say goodbye, but their real purpose was recruitment. Now was the time to gather commitments. Maybe they would be greeted with spears and knives, but Maro guessed that Sperancia and Jana had acted alone. Maro and Livia had lain awake for the remainder of the night but no one else had come.

  They’d brought the last of the confections: bittersweet candies; dense chocolate cake decorated with gold leaf; silky custards. The desserts had survived the voyage remarkably well in a simple liquid-nitrogen-cooled box. They distributed the last of their other gifts, too: small toys and trinkets. All were constructed with simple materials and no electronics; anything more complex might be socially disruptive. Cultural preservation was of the utmost importance. Encouraging technological progress would not serve the interests of Ancestral Realism.

  “Greetings, people of Bosa!” Maro said in a rich baritone. More than two dozen had gathered, including all of the town elders, save Sperancia. Jana was missing too. “You’ve had the night to consider our offer. Who will join us on the Michelangelo for a short tour?”

  Murmurs rippled through the crowd but no one stepped forward. Which was as he’d expected. These people were cautious and careful, slow to change. That was one reason they had survived.

  “We thank you for your offer,” said Gregoriu, the mayor, “but must we decide today? You must realize, from our perspective, this is all happening extremely quickly.”

  An old man thrust his chin at them. “We don’t trust you. Why should we? And where is the other one – there were three of you.”

  “Shut up, Iginu,” said a portly, rosy-cheeked man. Micheli – one of the council members. “Don’t be rude to our guests.” Micheli approached, holding something behind his back. Maro could not help but flinch even though Livia was right there at his side. But the barkeep produced a slender dark bottle. “Please accept this mirto, our local drink. The recipe has been in my family for generations.”

  Maro took the gift and smiled. “Thank you, Micheli. Surely you must be curious to taste other liqueurs? And our wines and whiskies? Maybe you will visit us.”

  Micheli looked down. “Perhaps.”

  Of course he wouldn’t, though Maro didn’t give a shit. It was younger blood he was after, men and women in their prime. Maro dramatically pulled a leather purse from his robes. He opened the drawstring and poured a handful of small but heavy gold coins into his palm. The coins were minted in the style of Roman aurei, each worth twenty-five silver denarii. Ancient Rome was in fashion on the Michelangelo, and had been for several decades. The Senate, the use of Latin, Roman names, even the renaming of the current political factions as the optimates and populares, it was all a giant role play. But it was also life and death, Maro’s personal ad in vita, and what gave meaning to the existence of the worldship itself. Life was culture, culture was life. Civilization was history, history was civilization.

  “Those of you who volunteer will be away from your families and your livelihoods. It is only fair to compensate you. Five gold coins to each volunteer now, and another twenty when your visit is complete.” He dropped the coins into his other palm, a tiny waterfall of gold, observing the crowd as he did so. A young man with dark eyes and high cheekbones watched him closely. “What is your name?” Maro asked.

  “Cristo.”

  “Come hold these coins for me. If you decide not to join us, you can give them back.”

  Cristo looked at the old man who had spoken earlier, who gave a quick shake of his head. But the admonition had the opposite effect; Cristo set his jaw and stepped forward, hand outstretched. Maro smiled and dropped five gold aurei into Cristo’s open palm, one by one, with the satisfying clunking sounds that only precious metals produced. He closed the young man’s fingers over the coins and patted his shoulder. “Welcome, Cristo,” he said quietly, so only the boy could hear. “Adventure awaits you on the Michelangelo, and delights beyond your most depraved imaginings. And you will be a rich man when you return – very rich.”

  Maro turned back to the crowd. “Now, while you further consider our offer, will you be so kind as to feed us? The smell of fresh bread is driving me wild!”

  His words had the desired effect: the people of Bosa were shocked into an awareness of their hospitality obligations. Several tables were brought out along with many chairs, and within an hour they were served a simple but delicious meal. First came dark barley bread and a variety of pungent sheep and goat milk cheeses. Next salads of sweet, ripe tomatoes with fresh herbs and bitter olive oil. The main course was platters of roasted fish seasoned with salt, lemon, onion, and peppercorns, along with steamed mussels with garlic, white wine, and butter. Finally came an assortment of desserts, including honeyed orange peels and a sweet almond flour pastry. The only thing missin
g was coffee, though there was a delicious piney herb tea.

  As Maro had expected, the people of Bosa warmed to them over the course of the feast. That was the thing about generosity: whoever was receiving it went up in the estimation of those bestowing it. It was a cheap psychological trick based on the avoidance of cognitive dissonance, but Maro happily used it. The Sardinians were a simple people and would not see through his ploy.

  Most of them, anyway. He kept an eye out for Jana, but the murderous bitch was still in hiding. Perhaps it had been a mistake to let her go. But they hadn’t had the means to imprison her, and killing her wasn’t an option. At least not until he understood what had happened after Sperancia had died. What was the nature of the black egg Jana had consumed?

  It was a joy and a relief to eat real food. Their travel rations had been meager: a staple of nutrition powder rehydrated with runoff water formulated from their excess balloon gases. It wasn’t bad for an engineered food replacement, but it wasn’t real food. Felix had complained about their ‘sludge meals’ incessantly. Maro had drunk his meals stoically, all the while fantasizing about dining with the chefs of his favorite restaurants. The Bosa fare, though simple, was delicious: real food grown from actual dirt from the light of a real sun.

  If this was what the past tasted like, it was glorious.

  A young woman approached Livia, an attractive girl with long, brown hair, kind eyes, and supple, tan skin. He’d noticed her on the first day. And she’d flirted with him, smiling and gazing at his bare chest. But now she was ignoring him, focusing entirely on Livia. “What would we be doing, exactly, on your ship?” she asked.

  “Whatever you wanted to do,” Livia told her. “You could meet other young people. You could visit our museums, attend plays and concerts. You could learn to draw and paint, or play a musical instrument, or study mathematics. And I promise that your teachers would be geniuses, absolutely brilliant.”