The Last Plutarch

by Tom O'Donnell

  “His eyes are blue,” Vilindrio said.

  Gregorio–a tall, black-bearded Plutarch–cleared his throat and spoke in a rich, deep voice.

  “The Marker is not attached to eye-color.”

  There were as few geneticists as there were Artificers. Before his election to the Circle, Gregorio had been one of them.

  “But I thought–” Vilindrio began.

  “Eye-color correlates with the Marker, but the genes aren’t directly connected,” Gregorio said. “Blue eyes are dominant over silver, yes. Without two Plutarch parents, the silver is lost. The same is supposed to go for the Marker, but…”

  “But what?” Abraxas asked.

  “I’ve been giving the matter some thought. A scenario has occurred to me. Consider. The Marker was designed by the first Plutarchs soon after the end of the civilized world. Its purpose is obvious.”

  “To keep the Fog in the hands of those who won’t misuse it,” Abraxas said.

  “Exactly. The Marker is a genetic signature. Brain implants check for it before executing commands. This way, even if a Plebian were given an implant, it would do them no good. The powers of the Fog are kept safe from their ignoble nature. Things didn’t start out so neatly packaged, however. Before the Marker was designed, our ancestors already had other custom genes–some superficial. Silver eyes, for instance. As a result, the Marker correlates with those qualities. When silver eyes became emblematic of Plutarch superiority, the color was made mandatory for newborns, making the correlation one-to-one. Still, there is no direct genetic link between them.

  “The Marker itself is a combination of two modified, preexisting genes. One of the genes affects an enzyme in the male’s sperm, which is used to catalyze its counterpart in the female’s egg. Only then is the inherited Marker put into an ‘active’ state. If the father isn’t a Plutarch, the modified enzyme won’t be present in the sperm, and if the mother isn’t a Plutarch, the target gene won’t be waiting in the egg. Either way, the Marker will be considered ‘dormant.’ No implant will recognize it, and the modified gene will not be inheritable. This way, it can’t pass beyond a single generation of Plutarch-Plebian interbreeding.”

  “This is all fascinating, Gregorio, but what does it have to do with–”

  “The changes in the male’s enzyme are not overly complex. Because it’s a preexisting structure, it still has to function in the fertilization process, and sometimes even small genetic modifications can have unforeseen interactions. Now here is my thought. If there was a lucky mutation in a male Plutarch’s sperm, or if the Marker’s early designs weren’t so strict on inheritability restraints, the modified enzyme could have passed on in stable form through that Plutarch’s direct male-line descendants–even if they were half-Plebian. If one of those half-Plebian descendants then mated with a female Plutarch, they could produce an offspring with Plebian characteristics and an active Marker.”

  In the ensuing silence, Vilindrio raised a finger.

  “I think we could all name several Plutarchs who are, shall we say, a bit careless about where they sow their seeds? But they have one thing in common–they’re men. You’re saying the mother would have to be a Plutarch?”

  “To my thinking, yes. The enzyme’s inheritability could be made stable among bastardized males with only a small change. It would be much harder for a female to carry the stable mutation through her eggs. The reasons are complex, but the male-line would be more susceptible to an aberration.”

  Abraxas looked around the table. He knew what they were thinking. There were plenty of half-Plutarch children in the streets below. Certain unnamed Plutarchs must have had a dozen each. The subject was taboo, but the act was considered, if anything, edifying for the Plebian stock. Yet those children had all been sired in moments of lust by men like Gallatius. What Plutarch woman would ever carry a half-breed to term, knowing the child could never be raised in the clouds? There was no such woman.

  Well, not anymore…

  “Perhaps we’re over-thinking things. Perhaps it was only a bug in the Godhand’s programming. We’ll have to test the Plebian’s blood for the Marker to be sure,” Abraxas said.

  “I’ll need a new sample. I’d like to run a full analysis as soon as possible. Where is the Plebian now?” Gregorio asked.

  “An isotube in the holding area,” Abraxas said.

  “Perfect. Shall we adjourn?”

  “Just a moment. By now every Plebian in Panchaea knows what happened at the Triumph. What do we tell the masses?” Afrika asked.

  “We’ll have to go along with the fiction that he’s earned a place in the clouds. He never actually has to be seen. We can work out the details later.”

  “And what about the man himself?” Afrika asked.

  Abraxas blew out a breath.

  “You know what must be done. He can’t return to the Plebians, yet he has no place in the clouds. It’s unfortunate, but he’ll have to be disposed of–for the good of Panchaea.”

  As the Circle broke up, Abraxas and Gregorio descended into the holding area in the bottom level of the White Palace. Plutarchs were sometimes detained there. More serious crimes called for exile, but that was rare. Usually the offender’s Fog-access was restricted and they spent time in the holding area. There was no need to guard them, as it was impossible to leave without using the Fog. The same area was sometimes used to punish Plebian servants, though instead of roaming free, the Plebians were placed in isotubes. Abraxas led Gregorio to a row of three such prison-cylinders standing against the wall.

  “This one,” he said, indicating the one on the right.

  Gregorio prepared a syringe and opened a window into the isotube. His brow came down.

  “This one?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Abraxas said.

  “You’re mistaken.”

  “What? No, I’m quite sure.”

  Gregorio opened the window wider. The Plutarchs stared blankly.

  “Impossible,” Abraxas said.

  American Adams was gone.

  CHAPTER 14

  Meric gasped. The world had turned black. He reached out … and felt a wall. He was encased in a tiny cylindrical chamber. Panic took him. There’d been a strange look in Abraxas’s eyes. Trajan’s laughter sounded in his head. All his doubts and fears erupted. He pushed against the walls, turning frantically.

  But the Godhand judged me worthy…

  Trajan’s voice, like a true demon’s, interceded:

  Machines don’t care where their programs come from.

  The Plutarchs couldn’t possibly mean him harm. He’d served them loyally all his life. This was just part of the process. Soon the room would dissolve. He’d find himself in a floating palace. Yes. Any minute now. He took measured breaths.

  “Hello? What’s happening?” he asked the darkness.

  Time began to break. Had it only been minutes since the ceremony? Was this because of Meliai? Did they think he’d gone over to Trajan’s side? That didn’t make sense. Twice, the room shifted. Meric fell into the wall. Was the cylinder still rising through the Fog? It seemed to have stopped. Now he’d be set free. Now he’d understand…

  *

  When the light came, he thought he was hallucinating. How long had he been in the dark? Was he dreaming? All his reference points were gone. He’d waited … and waited … until his mind had turned inward. He’d wept. He’d pounded on the walls. He’d begged to be let go. When he couldn’t hold it, he’d urinated. Later, the floor was dry. Had he imagined it? Impossible. Nothing he did yielded any response.

  Then came the light. A square the size of his head opened in the wall. Meric squinted. The light framed a woman’s face. Details came into focus. A vague hint of recognition touched him. She looked to be in her late twenties, pretty with pale hair and silver eyes. A Plutarch. Yet no Plutarch had ever looked so sad and worried. The woman’s breath let go in a rush. A tear escaped one eye.

  “Ionius, Is it really you?” she whispered.

&n
bsp; Meric licked his lips. If he said the wrong words, would he be left in the dark again?

  “There’s been some kind a mistake. My name is American Adams,” he said, making the Sign of Fealty.

  “American. Yes. Of course. Forgive me, I … I’m sorry for crying, it’s just–oh, Ionius! I always prayed I might see you again.”

  She finished in a rush, reaching through the opening to touch his cheek. Meric flinched, startled. He opened his mouth and closed it again. Once, he would’ve cherished a touch from a Plutarch. Now it only left him bewildered.

  “You don’t remember me, I know. How could you? You were just a baby. A sweet, smiling babe who laughed and squeezed my finger. But you were such a good boy. You never cried–unless Father came to see you.”

  She looked away briefly, frightened.

  “I don’t understand,” Meric said.

  “I know, and there’s little time to explain. My name is Lillian. I’m your sister.”

  Meric blinked.

  “Your half-sister, technically, but I never saw it that way,” Lillian said.

  “I’m sorry, but you have me confused with someone else. My mother is the Matron Alidia Adams. My father died fighting in the Wildlands. I’ve never had a sister–but don’t go, I beg you! I don’t belong here. Will you help me?”

  Lillian licked her lips and drew a breath.

  “Help, yes, but I’m not mistaken. Your Triumph was the mistake. Oh, you earned it, I’m sure. But no one knew the water would change like that. Everyone’s talking about it. Some say it was just a trick, a mistake, but I think … I think the Godhand found the Marker in you. The same genetic signature that gives us access to the Fog. Do you understand what I’m saying, American?”

  “Meric.”

  “What?”

  “People call me Meric. And the Godhand … thinks I’m a Plutarch?” Meric asked.

  “For all intents and purposes, you are a Plutarch.”

  Meric would’ve laughed if the speech hadn’t been delivered by a Plutarch. Instead, it only served to further disconnect him from reality. His oldest, deepest desire–to be a Plutarch, to join the demigods of the Fog–was being dangled in front of him. But it was an impossibility. Why would she say such a thing? Even the suggestion was heretical.

  “Don’t you understand? You’ve got the wrong person,” Meric said.

  “I wish for your sake that was true. I haven’t seen you since you were a child, but the moment I saw your picture on the datanet, I felt in my heart it was you. I knew, Meric. And seeing you now, I have no doubts. We have the same mother. The same Plutarch mother. You have the same cheekbones, the same lips. Her name was Judith. I wish she could’ve been here to see you. Maybe not like this but … yes, even like this,” Lillian said.

  I’m hallucinating again.

  Meric’s eyes travelled around the inside of his tiny prison.

  “I know it’s a lot to take in, Meric. I’m sorry, but there are you things you need to know, and time is short. Our mother was a Plutarch, yes. Your father was not. Normally, that wouldn’t mean much. Men like Jalabar, Helicus, Gallatius–they sow their seeds where they will. No one raises a hand against them, and their children never even know. But you’re different. Maybe your father was more than half-Plutarch himself–I don’t know. One day our mother saw him below. She took him as her lover. Perhaps Father would’ve abided a pillow-slave, perhaps he would’ve pretended not to notice, but Mother cared too much. She was in love. She must’ve been, because when she became pregnant, she told my father you were his. She lied.

  “Once you were born, however, there was no hiding the truth. We tried. We covered your blue eyes with silver lenses. Mother kept you out of sight, told people you were sick. I was only ten, but I spent every day watching over you, worrying about you. I’d always wanted a baby brother. Children are rare in the floating palaces. Population controls are strict. I’d never expected to be a sister–yet there you were,” Lillian said, smiling through her tears.

  “This doesn’t make any sense,” Meric said.

  “Search your heart, Meric, you must know it’s true. You must.”

  Things seemed to be receding. What was that ringing sound? Meric’s thoughts waded through mud. He pressed his hands to the curve of the wall–was the chamber shrinking?

  “Why in God’s name are you telling me this?” Meric asked.

  Lillian glanced away. She pursed her lips a moment, fighting back fresh tears.

  “Father woke me one morning and said you had died in the night. Everyone knew you were a sickly baby, no one was surprised–but I knew the sickness had only been part of Mother’s lie. Then he said mother was gone too. She had taken her life in a fit of grief and madness. I lost you both in a single day. I never believed Father’s story. I saw Mother’s body, but not yours. In my heart I always felt you were somewhere safe. And I was right. I was right, Meric. She must’ve hidden you with a Plebian family.

  “I’m sorry you have to hear it this way, I am, but we have no more time to waste. The Circle will want to test your blood. The White Palace holds data on Plutarch bloodlines. Father will know exactly whose child you are. He’ll never let you get away a second time. You’ll be executed. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose my baby-brother twice. Give me your arm.”

  Meric stared at her.

  “Your arm. Quickly!” Lillian said.

  He put his right arm forward. Lillian gripped his wrist.

  “Make a fist,” she said.

  Lillian jabbed a needle into his vein and pushed down, injecting a silver-gray liquid.

  “What did you do?” Meric asked, pulling back.

  “Given you the key to your freedom, Meric. It’s the only way. It’ll take a few hours for the implant to configure itself.”

  “Implant…?”

  The implant provides an interface between my brain and the Fog.

  Trajan’s words.

  “No!” Meric shouted.

  “Shh. You want to get yourself killed? A few hours, Meric. I have to seal you in now. Don’t worry, you won’t suffocate. The tube filters air and body fluids. Someone will come for you,” Lillian said.

  The opening in the wall began to meld shut.

  “Wait!” Meric said.

  “I can’t. I love you, baby-brother. Don’t forget me.”

  In the darkness, Meric screamed.

  *

  His world was collapsing. At first, he’d wanted to be a Plutarch for their godlike powers, the way they walked on air, the things they could do with the Fog. But as he’d grown, he’d revered them as angelic beings, noble benefactors, the highest expression of humankind. They had qualities others lacked. They’d been chosen by God.

  Except they hadn’t.

  Everything was wrong. He tried to curl into a fetal position and abandon the world, but the floor was too small to even lie down. He slumped against the wall, knees folded up, listening to his breath in the darkness. Time lost meaning.

  A strangeness set in…

  He tasted fruit. A ringing sound came and went. A stabbing pain shot through his body from head to toe, startling him and leaving him jumpy. Slowly, he began to feel the curve of the wall, even where his body wasn’t touching it. Soft needles tickled his brain. Like a numb limb regaining blood-flow, the little room–and the shape of things beyond it–seeped into his awareness. Even the air acquired a vague, fluffy feeling. There was only one explanation…

  “Dear holy Godsblood,” Meric whispered.

  The Fog. He was feeling the Fog. The sensation was still coming into focus; the limb was still half-numb. Even then, it was unbelievable, too vast a change to comprehend. Like being born. And if he could feel it, could he move it? Could he–

  The world was flooded with light as the front of the cylinder melted away. He felt it go, felt it join the fluff in the air–but the act was not of his doing. He hadn’t yet made any attempt to flex his new muscle. Someone had come for him. He stumbled forward and fell to his h
ands and knees. He shielded his eyes. Everything was bright and blurry.

  “Are you–” Meric began.

  A sharp slap stung his face.

  “You’re mine for the next hour. You’ll use your tongue when I tell you to, and how I tell you to,” a woman said.

  “Oh my, Issenian, I never knew you took such a firm hand with your playthings. I’d always thought you were a bit soft. All that talk about Plebian rights. Perhaps you’d like to put me in a collar sometime,” a man said. The cynical smile dripped from his voice.

  “Mmm, you should be so lucky,” the woman said.

  Issenian?

  Meric blinked up at the two figures. Golden-haired Issenian, who had given Hadric a silver cloak a lifetime ago, stood stunning in a white net-like bodysuit, revealing everything and nothing. The smirking blonde man beside her was dressed in black. The three of them were in a windowless white room. Two more prison-cylinders stood in a row with his. It was impossible to tell if anyone was inside. As he looked up, Issenian slapped him again.

  “You will not look at me until I feel you deserve it. You will address me as ‘Mistress,’ and thank me when I hit you. Well?” she prompted.

  “Thank … thank you, Mistress,” Meric said, bewildered.

  The blonde man laughed.

  “I had no idea this side of you existed. How delightfully absurd,” he said.

  “We can’t all be so brazenly open with our debaucheries, Helicus. Some of us enjoy secrets,” Issenian said.

  “Oh, Issenian, I’m far too old to care about hiding things. What is life without decadence? What is wealth without extravagance? He’s looking at you again.”

  Issenian struck Meric a third time. Despite his boast, Helicus looked no more than thirty.

  “I didn’t hear you,” Issenian said.

  “Thank you, Mistress,” Meric grumbled. Rage broke through his shock and confusion, his sense of unreality. He clung to it, nurtured it.

  “Good dog. Listen well and you may earn a treat.”

  A solid metallic collar congealed around Meric’s throat. He could feel it form from the Fog. He sensed how the mass came together, how it locked into shape with a mental click. He didn’t have to look up to perceive the chain that took shape, linking the collar to Issenian’s hand. She pulled Meric to his feet.