by J. D. Moyer
“Why did they leave?”
“If I could ask them, I would. But I assume they were curious, like you.”
Filumena, still on the floor, looked up at him with narrowed eyes. “Maybe they were just out of food, and hungry.”
“Curiosity is a form of hunger.”
Back at her domus, just as he was about to leave, she kissed him. “Come to my bed, Maro. I’ve never been with a man. I want you to be my first.”
“Would you have sex with your father’s friends?”
She recoiled, curling her upper lip in disgust. “My father is dead. But no, of course not.”
“Then you shouldn’t share a bed with me. I’m far older.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He kissed her forehead. “And yet, I am.”
“I could have any man in Bosa,” she said spitefully.
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“I won’t give you another chance.”
He left before she could work herself up any further. It was pointless to argue. The girl was used to getting what she wanted and would not be dissuaded unless he physically removed himself. He enjoyed supple young bodies as much as anyone, but he generally avoided sexual relations with the young. Human emotions were so volatile in the first half-century of life; it was rarely worth the effort.
While he waited for Cristo to recover and for Filumena to come to her senses, Maro passed his time in the Library of Alexandria, researching the Crucible. There was no reason to be there physically; he could have run everything through his retinal feed or asked Aina to do the work for him. But it was comforting to be among the millions of texts from every century, the oldest handwritten on vellum parchment or papyrus or even clay tablets.
It took some time to refine the search, weeding out chemistry and metallurgical references. But eventually Maro came across the Crucible Program, a twenty-second-century brain emulation experiment. The idea had initially been to solve the ‘Smooth Transition’ problem, a philosophical identity quandary. Once brain scanning technology had advanced to the molecular level, with each axon and dendrite perfectly mapped, it had become theoretically possible to accurately emulate a human brain. But that capability hadn’t satisfied the desire for human immortality or practical ‘brain backups’ in any way. Even if an accurate brain emulation running on a quantum computer substrate could be instantiated and activated (either in an android body or within a simulated virtual world), that new ‘person’ would have a unique identity from the original, even though possessing all of the original’s memories. The very awareness that they were a copy (and that awareness was unavoidable) created an unbridgeable identity schism, especially in cases where the copy was instantiated while the original was still alive. These living backups, or engrams, had caused endless trouble in terms of legalities, estates, relationships, and with the living trying to grieve the physically dead.
The Crucible Program had attempted to present an alternative path to continuing human consciousness after death. The Crucible technology gradually copied and replaced the functionality of the entire nervous system of a living host via capillary-like carbon-based nanothreads. The threads extended lifespan and conferred other benefits: physical strength, prodigious memory, enhanced intelligence. But eventually, like all human beings, the host died, of natural or other causes.
At that point, the Crucible was ejected from the body, to potentially be consumed by a new host. The original host lived on as an emulation within the quantum core, while the Crucible began the entire process again with the new host.
The hope, beyond achieving immortality, beyond solving Smooth Transition, had been to create a community of minds, a new type of meta-being, multiple minds operating within a single body.
But something had gone wrong. The Crucible program had been terminated for ‘ethical concerns’. Maro tried and failed to find the names and histories of the original participants, but those had been lost to time and entropy. Even the Library of Alexandria had its limits.
Still, he had learned enough. It explained what he had seen with his own eyes. It explained what Cristo had said about Sperancia, that she lived on within Jana. Somehow, this particular Crucible instance had continued its lifecycle, unbroken, for over five hundred years. How many hosts did it contain? Who were they? And what did they want? Did they squabble endlessly about petty things, or were they powerful collaborators working toward a common goal?
The technology intrigued him immensely. What would it be like to live for not only centuries, but potentially for millennia? Maro’s body might easily have another hundred years of life in it, but there were always limits to human biological life. Maro had his engram updated regularly like every other person of importance, but he was under no illusion that it conveyed him immortality, nor any continuation of his personal consciousness after death. Even if his engram, when activated, were to possess subjective awareness, it wouldn’t be him. And the engram would be trapped in a static state or near to it. Engrams could accumulate new memories but were incapable of architectural modulation. True life meant change, constant change, and that appeared to be the promise of the Crucible.
He had to speak with Jana again. What would it be like to be part of such a community? What would it be like to rule one, for surely that was possible as well? Long-term co-operation required some sort of consensus, a basic agreement or acknowledgment of norms. And such agreements could be violated. Real war had no rules. All the great leaders of history had understood that: Genghis Khan, Attila the Hun, and of course Julius Caesar. If Maro were to become a Crucible host, he had little doubt that he would emerge as a conqueror. He would rule with an iron fist. Had that not been the pattern of his life?
Even now, he was close to consolidating his power on the Michelangelo. The worldship did not have an emperor, not yet, but that would change. Only Cassia stood in his way. Well, perhaps not only her, but her most of all, constantly belittling him, harassing him, souring his victories and savoring his defeats. Without Cassia’s power buttressing the populares, the optimates would rule unchecked. And the optimates answered to Maro.
***
On the eve of Cristo’s first scenario, the true beginning of the Ancestral Realism experiment, Maro went to visit Cristo and Filumena. He strolled through the lavish Gardens of Lucullus, Faustus riding on his shoulder. The ferret nuzzled his neck, begging for head scratches, which Maro happily provided. He loved Faustus, perhaps more than any person. And Maro basked in the animal’s simple, unconditional love in return.
He found Cristo bored, restless, and talkative. He’d hoped the pair from Bosa would have spent more time together, but apparently Filumena wanted nothing to do with Cristo. That wasn’t ideal for the experiment, but nor was it prohibitive. The scenarios existed for gathering data; how the participants interacted within them was of secondary importance. Perhaps the stressors would trigger some appreciation for each other, or even spark a kind of love.
“Someone is with her,” Cristo said of Filumena. “A visitor. I caught a glimpse of her in the hallway.”
That was impossible. Visitors were forbidden unless explicitly approved by Maro or Livia. “Who?” Sensing Maro’s distress, Faustus chittered angrily.
“I don’t know. She was very tall. And her ass was as wide as a house.”
No.
Maro ran to Filumena’s domus, passing through the connecting arched marble walkway in a few strides. Faustus dug his claws into Maro’s shoulder, hanging on tight.
Filumena was sitting on the edge of her bed. Cassia sat next to her, her long, thick arm draped across the subject’s shoulder like a python. Next to the giant senator the Bosa girl looked like a child.
“Hello, Maro,” Cassia said, smiling to reveal her shining black teeth. “Filumena and I were having a little talk. She’s told me she misses home. Her mother is sick.”
“I’m wel
l aware. After the experiment we’ll bring Filumena’s mother to the Michelangelo for treatment.”
Cassia’s lips turned down in a facetious pout. “But her mother needs comfort right now. If Filumena wants to go home, we should arrange that immediately.”
Filumena looked at him with hurt in her eyes, now aware of his lie that the next ship would not depart ‘for weeks’.
“Why are you here, Cassia? I didn’t authorize it, and neither did Livia.”
“I am here legally, via emergency motion. You have fewer friends in the Senate than you suppose.”
If that was true then there would be hell to pay. But right now Maro needed to tread carefully. “I am touched at your concern for Filumena. But may we have a private word? Would you step into the walkway with me, for just a minute or two?”
Cassia was caught off guard but quickly recovered. “Of course.” The senator rose to her full height of eight Roman feet. The bed creaked with the release of her weight. A large indentation remained in the absence of Cassia’s buttocks and thighs, a shallow valley of gravitationally warped space, into which Filumena perceptibly slid. Cassia squared her shoulders and strode in Maro’s direction, daring him not to move. But he stepped aside deferentially and followed her to the arched marble walkway.
Out of Filumena’s sight, Cassia dropped her fake smile. “I’m sending her home. You can’t keep her here against her will. Your proposal, which the Senate approved, states very clearly that participation in your experiment is voluntary.”
“She’s still making up her mind. And it’s unethical for you to exert your influence either way.”
“Unethical?” Cassia repeated. “Can you hear yourself speak, Maro Decimus? Have you no more self-awareness than a turnip? Or less, perhaps. The bacteria feasting on the excrement in my bowels is a higher form of consciousness than you, Senator. Your willingness to abuse innocents, your eagerness to traumatize naïve minds in your sick, self-titillating quest for new masturbatory material, it sickens me.”
“You obviously have no understanding of what I am trying to achieve,” Maro replied calmly. “If you think Ancestral Realism has anything to do with sexual gratification, you are as stupid as you are ugly. I have no interest in Filumena sexually – you can ask her yourself.”
“And yet you want to be inside of her, don’t you? Inside of her mind? You are so incapable of genuine human connection or empathy that you seek to engineer it with some kind of voyeuristic workaround.”
Maro exhaled through his nostrils, losing patience. “I don’t know if you’re willfully misconstruing my project, or if you’re just inherently incapable of understanding it. What I’m doing is akin to preserving a lost language or restoring a damaged antiquity. It is as essential to our mission as any work we do. Perhaps the most essential. And yet it is subtle and ephemeral, so you don’t get it.”
Cassia shook her head, synchronously waving a fat finger in his face for emphasis. “I understand it perfectly. I understand you perfectly.”
At that moment Maro experienced the briefest flash of doubt. What if Cassia was right? What if he had deluded himself as to the importance of his work?
No, that was the voice of weakness and despair. The significance of his work was a question for future scholars and historians. He would not cut off his own foot in the last steps of the race.
“Epitíthemai,” he said quietly. He had trained Faustus in Greek, not Latin, so as not to accidentally trigger an attack. The ferret leapt at Cassia’s neck and sunk its modified hollow incisors into her right carotid artery.
She grabbed the animal, crushing its spine with her immense hand, and flung it against the marble wall. Faustus fell limply, dead before impact. That saddened Maro, but he had known this day might come.
The damage was done. Maro’s revenge already exacted. Cassia would be dead within minutes, writhing in pain as she asphyxiated, her lungs paralyzed by the nerve toxin Faustus had injected into her bloodstream.
Chapter Seventeen
“I’m so happy to see you.” Tem embraced Maggie tightly, overwhelmed with relief. She’d parked the hovershuttle right in front of the longhouse, either oblivious to how much attention that would attract among the villagers, or not caring.
Maggie squirmed out of his embrace. “What the hell happened?”
“My aunt Katja stole the hovershuttle. I think she was going to Bosa, and we should follow her. I’m worried about what she might do there—”
“Tem, slow down.”
“You don’t understand. She wants to kill Sperancia. Katja thinks she’s a gast. A body thief. I’ll explain, but it will take time. I’ll tell you on the way.”
“Lydia and Ingrid are already there.”
“What?”
“They’re in Bosa now. Some things have happened, but Katja didn’t cause any trouble.”
“She didn’t?”
“No. I tracked your hovershuttle to Bosa. I tried to talk to your aunt but she hung up on me. I didn’t know it was her at the time, but we decided to check on the Bosa folk just in case. Mostly, they’re fine.”
“Mostly?”
“There’s been some interference from the Michelangelo. Two people are dead, one from the Michelangelo, one from Bosa.”
“What happened?”
A crowd had gathered, watching and listening from a respectful distance, but Farmor Elke stepped forward. “And who is this?” she asked in Norse, regarding Maggie both curiously and critically.
“Who’s this?” Maggie asked in English, frowning slightly.
“My grandmother. Esper’s mother.”
“She looks like you,” Elke said. Tem didn’t think he and Maggie looked much alike beyond both being of mixed European and Asian ancestry.
“What did she say?” Maggie asked. “Tell her I’m happy to meet her. I’m Maggie,” she said, extending her hand to Elke.
Elke looked at Maggie’s hand as if it were a dead fish.
“Farmor,” Tem said in Norse. “Maggie is a good friend of mine. Please show her some respect.”
Elke grasped Maggie’s forearm. “Just a friend? Or another one of your lovers? She looks like she needs to eat some meat. I’ll set an extra place.”
“Farmor, please….”
“What did she say?” Maggie asked again.
“She says she’s happy to meet you, and she invited you for dinner. But I’d like to leave for Bosa immediately if that’s okay with you.”
“Please tell her I’d love to stay for dinner,” Maggie said.
Tem nodded, accepting his fate, and made the appropriate translations.
Dinner was venison boiled with onions, carrots, and potatoes. It was simple fare but Maggie oohed and aahed as if a gourmet chef had personally prepared the meal to her preferences. Though Maggie spoke no Norse and Elke spoke little English, the two got along well. Maggie was a quick study and soon knew the Norse word for everything in the room. Within an hour, Maggie had a better rapport with his grandmother than his own mother had ever achieved.
The stakes were different, he realized. His grandmother didn’t resent Maggie because there was nothing Maggie could steal. And Elke, noticing Tem’s and Maggie’s affection for each other, realized there was something Maggie could give: great-grandchildren.
“Don’t worry, grandson,” Elke whispered in Norse. “I won’t say anything about Saga. Though everyone in Happdal knows. You should have been more discreet.”
Tem grimaced. He planned to confess everything, but now wasn’t the time.
“Did you enable the hovershuttle security measures?” he asked Maggie.
“Of course, dummy,” Maggie answered, poking him. She’d moved the vehicle to a distant pasture while Elke and Tem had prepared the meal. “It wasn’t exactly difficult. You just talk to it.”
“I know. I’m an idiot. I just didn’t think th
ere would be any need.”
“You underestimated your aunt.”
“You’re right.”
“It’s okay,” she said, patting his shoulder. “You were raised in a primitive culture where men often underestimate women. You Happdal men think your balls give you magical powers when all they do is make your muscles and bones a bit bigger.”
Tem chuckled, which prompted Elke to ask for a translation. She laughed uproariously when he provided one.
“I like her,” Elke said, refilling Maggie’s stein with öl. “Keep this one.”
“I will if I can.”
After dinner the three of them visited Trond’s house, where Maggie made an equally good impression on Tem’s uncle and his family. Lissa served thick slices of hazelnut honey cake slathered with whipped buttercream. Maggie practiced the Norse vocabulary she had just learned from Elke, much to the delight of Mette, Erica, and Gunborg, who shrieked with laughter at every mispronounced word. Sigurd and Baldr both found occasion to thump Tem on the back and grin at him knowingly.
“Tem, I think I’m drunk,” Maggie confessed. She’d consumed a stein and a half of Elke’s öl, and Lissa’s hazelnut cake had come with a strong cup of cider.
“You’re definitely drunk.”
“I know you wanted to leave tonight, but if we get in the hovershuttle I might vomit.”
“We’ll leave first thing in the morning – it’s fine.”
Trond offered the guestroom in his large house, but Tem declined. They said good night and made their way to Katja’s cabin. Tem wanted to ask what had happened in Bosa, and his pending confession weighed heavily. But with Maggie holding his arm tightly for support, stumbling every other step, he chose to stay silent. It felt good to be close to her again. He regretted not inviting her to Happdal in the first place.
“See, your family loves me,” she said in between hiccups.
Tem nodded and pulled her closer.