The Last Plutarch

by Tom O'Donnell

  Just the man he’d been waiting for–Abraxas.

  CHAPTER 27

  “Stop this madness.”

  Abraxas’s voice echoed through the dome. The pressure difference sent a surge of Fog flooding in through the open doors. Meric caught the gray gust and shoved it back out. Azog closed the doors behind Abraxas. The Consul of the Circle was armed with a beam weapon. He walked slowly and proudly into the room, ignoring the savages and the dead Plutarchs, staring at Meric. He saw the red button, the datadrive. His step faltered.

  “What in God’s name are you doing?” he asked.

  Meric gave a bitter laugh.

  “Funny you should ask that. You, who have done so much in God’s name. The lies, the manipulation, the repression of my people–all in God’s name, all so you could keep us under your thumb.”

  “All I have done, I have done for the good of Panchaea. For the good of our species. Can you say the same? If there was a God, it’s what He would have wanted. If you could see past your hatred, you would know that. Instead, you only prove the controls are necessary. It’s the Plebian part of you that brings you to this low state, to this desperate ploy, whatever its purpose. Do you even know what you’re doing? Unless you’ve suddenly become an Artificer, that datadrive belonged to Trajan.”

  Meric gave a curt nod.

  “I know exactly what I’m doing. And yes, it belonged to Trajan. You want details? Tell the Plutarchs on the levels below to back off. No one else enters this room. No Fog either. If I’m attacked, I’ll be forced to act, and things will end very badly.”

  Abraxas’s gaze was ice and steel. Meric thought of the marble statues in the Bathhouses.

  “I could burn you down where you stand, Fog or no Fog,” the Plutarch said, shifting the beamer in his hand.

  “Not before I press this button,” Meric said.

  Abraxas hesitated. He gave the barest nod. His eyes went unfocused a moment as he communicated through his implant.

  “No one will interrupt us. Now tell me your purpose,” Abraxas said.

  “Gladly. But first, I know Trajan wasn’t killed in the clearing. Is he still alive?”

  Abraxas blinked.

  “He’s alive,” he said.

  Meric concealed a measure of relief.

  “In Red Oak, there was a computer. You thought it contained the location of Ozymand. Trajan told you about it–under torture. Am I right?” Meric asked.

  “Torture is a tool for animals, brutal and ineffective. All we did was leave him in the dark and encourage hallucinations. Soon he was talking to ghosts. He spoke of the bunker, as you say.”

  “You had a lot of innocent people killed to reach that machine. But I’m guessing you don’t know how badly you failed. The location of Ozymand was in that computer–yet so was something else. Something even more important.”

  Abraxas’s eyes narrowed.

  “Speak plainly.”

  “The satellites that triggered the Smiting–you know they’re still in orbit,” Meric said.

  “Trajan himself discovered as much three decades ago. So what?” Abraxas asked.

  “Their orbits should’ve decayed long ago, but they’re powered by the sun, and they’re self-correcting. The fact that they never fell means they’re still operational. All these years–centuries–they’ve been circling, waiting.”

  “Again, a thing I knew decades ago. My patience grows thin.”

  “Piss on your patience. You’re not in charge anymore–you just don’t know it yet. I’m trying to explain why, and all you have to do is open your fogging ears. The satellites. You know where they are, but you’ve never used them. Why?” Meric asked.

  “Use them? Where in the Wildlands would we use them? The satellites can’t hurt trees. They kill electronics. More to the point, they create a residual–”

  “That’s not why you never used them. You could’ve tested them on one of those ‘pockets’ the Priests are always scouting for. You didn’t even do that much. When you first learned about the satellites, I’ll bet you were glad they still worked. In theory, someone could use them against you, but that was a remote possibility. You were glad because you thought there might still be other Fog-cities out there. Places like Ozymand. With leaders like Ozymandias. If such a place ever threatened you, you could use the satellites to wipe it out. There was only one problem–the access codes. You don’t have them. You can’t control the satellites. That’s why you never tested them. The codes were lost with the people who created them. The same people who created secret, subterranean, emergency military bunkers … Do you see where I’m going with this? Can you guess now what Trajan found beneath Red Oak?”

  Abraxas had gone utterly still, silver eyes burning into Meric.

  “You’re lying,” he said quietly.

  “That’s your area of expertise. I lost my taste for it about the time you sealed me in that cylinder and left me to rot. Are you going to ask me about the red button now?”

  Abraxas said nothing.

  “Of course not. You’re too proud to ask. That’s why you do what you do–not for Panchaea, not for humankind. For pride. You’re as much an automaton as the Godhand, you just beat a different drum. Beneath Red Oak, Trajan found the access codes. What he no longer had was the orbital data. Not something one thinks to bring into exile, I suppose. He knew he’d have to come back here to get the exact coordinates. And he knew he’d need a precise, high-powered transmitter to communicate with the satellites.”

  Meric glanced meaningfully at the ceiling. Outside, the Lance of God rose from the top of the dome.

  An ancient radio tower, a relic from Panchaea’s early days, Diodorus had said. Trajan’s program will run the moment the datadrive is slotted. It will pull the updated coordinates for the nearest satellite and use the Lance to transmit the access code. It will aim the fogging thing right at Panchaea.

  “Trajan made it easy,” Meric went on. “No complex interfacing. The satellite is already aimed at us. The codes are already transmitted. All I have to do is press this button … and the Fog dies.”

  Abraxas was rigid.

  “You’re bluffing,” he said.

  “Would I risk all this for a bluff? Still, maybe Trajan was bluffing. Maybe the program doesn’t work. How would I know? Like you said, I’m no Artificer. There’s really only one way to find out…”

  Meric’s hand rose.

  “Don’t!” Abraxas snapped, hands tensing on the beamer.

  Meric smiled.

  “Are you suicidal? The White Palace is more than a hundred meters above the ground. If what you say is true, we’ll all die when you press that button,” Abraxas said.

  “You think Trajan didn’t consider that? Atomblades don’t fall apart in the Wildlands–which means fogbots don’t loosen their grips when they stop functioning. Without instructions, they just stay as they are. The floating palaces are built to be light and durable, and they’re held up by millions of vertically-oriented strands of Fog, invisible to the naked eye. From my understanding, it takes power to keep things balanced, for the strands to keep shifting and reforming, but we won’t plunge to our deaths the moment the Fog stops working. Maybe a slow descent as the threads break down, maybe more of a crash, I’m not exactly sure, but I wager we’ll survive.”

  “And your family and friends? How long will they survive? If they’re not crushed by falling buildings, they’ll die in the Wildlands. Would you sacrifice them as well?” Abraxas asked.

  “You dare speak of my family? You killed my womb-mother and exiled my father. You turned my mother and brother into paupers. I’d worry more about your own kind. Plebians have grown dependent on the Fog–but not as much as Plutarchs. Who grows the food? Who fights with their own hands? We do. The skills you have will disappear with the Fog–but ours were built for an older world. As for the tribes, I’ll barter a peace with them. Things aren’t what they were in the years after the Smiting. There’s plenty of game, plenty of resources. The tribes are s
tarting to see that. In a generation or two, they’ll be the ones restarting the world. Not you. You think you’re preserving civilization, but all you’re doing is standing in the way, clinging to the embers of a dying fire. Civilization will start again–and it will be better off without you.”

  Abraxas glanced away, eyes flicking over the savages. Stalling, Meric thought. Stirring his passions to keep him talking. Given enough time, the Plutarchs would find a way to neutralize the threat.

  “If you’re thinking of cutting the power to the transmitter, you might as well hit this button yourself,” Meric said.

  Abraxas’s eyebrows twitched up.

  “Trajan’s program uploads a piece of code to the satellite. If we lose contact with it, the satellite will fire automatically. So stop playing for time.”

  “Do you know how I know you’re bluffing?” Abraxas asked.

  “Enlighten me.”

  “As wrong as he was, Trajan always did what he thought was best for Panchaea. He would never destroy the city–not even at the cost of his life.”

  “You’re probably right. But Trajan knew the threat had to be real or you wouldn’t take him seriously–I imagine he deemed the risk acceptable. Maybe he even had some secret failsafe. You’re neglecting an obvious fact. I’m not Trajan,” Meric said.

  They stared at each other.

  “What do you want?” Abraxas asked.

  “Equality,” Meric said.

  “Please. Inequality is in the nature of the world. Are lions equal to dogs? Is gold equal to tin? Could anyone but you have made it up here? Plebians and Plutarchs will never be equal.”

  “You think a few gene tweaks and wealthy ancestors can set us that far apart?” Meric asked, shaking his head. “I was devastated when I realized Trajan had been telling the truth, but Plebians aren’t the only ones who grow up living a lie … and you’re still stalling. You know that’s not the kind of equality I meant. We’re talking about power. Equal power. Equal opportunity. We want to run our own lives. We want access to the Fog.”

  “We? Who is ‘we?’ Look around, Meric. You’re not one of these savages. Nor are you one of the ignoramuses toiling in the fields below, never questioning the order of things, never wondering why the world is the way it is. If anything, you’re already a Plutarch. Accept it. Join with us. Isn’t that what you really want? A place in the clouds? You’ve proven yourself capable–more motivated than most of the fools in the Circle in recent years. I’m willing to forgive your past misdeeds. You can even bring your family up to live with you. What do you say?”

  “Sure, I’ll just walk away from this button and put my life in your hands. Maybe you can torture me this time before you stuff me in the dark.”

  Abraxas sighed.

  “How do you see this ending?” the Plutarch asked.

  “Simple. You have a number of Fog-implants locked away in emergency storage. Lillian told me about them–you remember, the daughter you had exiled? Take the implants out of storage. Remove the genetic signature. I’ll pick a hundred Plebians to give them to. We’ll go from there.”

  Abraxas paced slowly.

  “That would take days. You plan to stand there the whole time, your blade at the city’s throat?”

  “No. I plan to pass the blade to my friends,” Meric said, glancing at Azog. “We’ll guard the trigger in shifts until enough Plebians have implants. I’ll oversee the procedure. Then I’ll remove the datadrive, the program will deactivate … and we’ll start an era together.”

  “One that would no doubt lead to Panchaea’s destruction. Just as global Fog-access led to the downfall of the old world,” Abraxas said.

  “I don’t know what led to the downfall of the old world. I don’t think you do either. You just use the idea to justify Plutarch power. Should some people be kept from the Fog? Of course. Some people aren’t fit for any society. But some of those people are Plutarchs. Birth is not a valid qualifier. And this isn’t a debate. This is me, as you said, with my blade at Panchaea’s throat.”

  Abraxas stopped his pacing, his back to Meric. He stared up at the bust of a dead Plutarch.

  “What of Trajan?” he asked.

  “He’s to be freed,” Meric said.

  Abraxas turned to look at him.

  “And what of his daughter?”

  Heartbeats passed.

  “His what?” Meric asked.

  “You never mentioned her in your interviews. Yet you called her name in the darkness. After your escape, I played back the audio feeds from your isolation tube. Lillian disabled it when she came to see you, but not before you’d cried for a girl named ‘Meliai.’ The same girl Trajan spoke of; the girl who tried to negotiate for her father and sprung the trap on Gallatius. I hear she beat you unconscious when she thought her father was dead, but things have changed since then, haven’t they? Our scouts are not as skilled as yours, but we are not so blind as you might think.”

  “What does it matter? Meliai is far from here,” Meric said.

  “Is she? Bring her up,” Abraxas said–but he wasn’t talking to Meric. Meric looked at Azog and the others. The muscled savage shifted nervously, clenching his spiked hammer. Meric remembered something Gallatius had said.

  Abraxas will get his way in the end. And his tricks aren’t so nice as mine.

  “What are you playing at? More laserpainter holos?” Meric asked.

  “The time for games is over,” Abraxas said.

  Meliai was at camp with the others. The Bloodrat dart should’ve knocked her out for most of an hour, long enough for Meric and the others to move on Panchaea. She’d have had no chance to catch up…

  But she would’ve been furious, and she was extremely willful. Meric’s group had scouted ahead to make sure there were no surprises in the clearing; it had taken time. If Meliai hadn’t absorbed the full dart, if she’d hurried after them with her typical single-minded purpose, she might’ve only been minutes behind…

  How long had they spent in the dome?

  Meric spat.

  “More Plutarch lies,” he said, though his voice quavered.

  Abraxas narrowed his eyes and cocked his head slightly.

  “Do you really not know? Was she not part of your plan? I thought you must’ve assigned her some secret task. She crossed the clearing underwater. Used a breathing tube to stay in the river all the way to the bars under the outer wall–which have been inveterated since your escape, incidentally. Are you saying you didn’t put her up to it?” Abraxas asked.

  Meric just stared at him.

  “A surprise to us both then,” Abraxas said, evincing a rare smile. “She made it all the way to the perimeter-wall. Up close, there’s a two-meter gap the turrets can’t swivel low enough to cover. She threw a weighted rope over and scaled the wall in full armor. Imagine! The gall of that woman. Fortunately, when it was apparent we were under some sort of attack, I sent men to check our perimeter for incoming savages. Legionnaires captured her even as I arrived here. What she was hoping to accomplish, I can’t begin to fathom. Hoping to join you, perhaps–and now she will.”

  Meric had a sudden urge to hit the button, and to hell with the consequences. To hell with the Fog and the old world and the Plutarchs and their lies. Let God sort it out–which would be appropriate, given their claims to holiness. But he hesitated. Panchaea was his home, and maybe the only city of its kind still in existence. Despite his bravado, could he really bring about its end? Would the Plebians adapt as he thought–or would there be war with the savages? Was it better to live with truth and hardship, or security and lies?

  “Ah, here’s our guest now,” Abraxas said.

  A fat, smug, balding Plutarch entered, pushing Meliai ahead of him. Her helmet was off, her lip bloody, a chain connecting her neck and wrists. She moved like a caged tigress. Meric met her eyes. His heart sank. He felt a stab of anger–first at her for her bullheaded attempt to follow them, and then at himself for not realizing she would do it. Meliai was a step ahead, her att
ention on Meric, when Abraxas took an atomblade from the second Plutarch and thrust it almost casually through her lower back.

  Meric screamed. Something broke inside him. Meliai gasped, eyes and mouth going wide, back arching. The point emerged beneath the ribs. Meric grasped for the Fog to kill the Plutarchs–but he’d already forced too much of it out of the room. He could reach outside the dome and pull some back in, but the attempt would be clumsy and obvious.

  Abraxas pulled the blade free. Meliai staggered and fell to her knees. Rivulets of blood ran down her armor. She pressed a gauntleted hand to the wound.

  “I’d say she has about twenty minutes. Maybe less. Of course, you can save her–in a Bathhouse,” Abraxas said.

  He let that sink in. The “holy water” in the Bathhouses was another magic of the ancients. It wasn’t exactly Fog, but it would die like Fog. If Meric triggered the satellites, Meliai would bleed to death. The button was now a death sentence.

  “New terms,” Abraxas said. “Walk away–or watch her die.”

  “Meric, stay there…” Meliai said, shaking her head.

  Meric stared at her, rigid.

  “Yes, stay there, think it over–just don’t take too long,” Abraxas said.

  “Heal her. Bring her to the Bathhouse,” Meric said.

  “That would sort of defeat the purpose of stabbing her,” Abraxas said, frowning.

  “You fool. Do you think I want to kill Panchaea? What choice have you left me? You’ll kill us both if I walk away,” Meric said.

  “Wrong, Meric. Don’t you see? You blame me for the way Panchaean society is structured, but it’s all part of a system put into place before my time. When have I lied to you, personally? I always do what’s best for Panchaea. There is nothing I respect more than ability. You escaped from the Fog–now you control the Fog. You proved you have Plutarch blood. You survived in the Wildlands. You turned your enemies into allies. Who else could’ve done that? I underestimated you. And I won’t do it again.

  “The Circle has grown weak. Bloodlines in the clouds are not what they once were. Everywhere there is indolence and self-indulgence. In this very room, you defeated three Fog-duelers at once! Do you think I blame you for their deaths? Of course not–they were men of low ability, and you culled them from the stock. We have become victims of our own success, Meric. Eliminating adversity has its price on generations of children. Still, I cannot give implants to the masses. It would be certain disaster–for Plebians as well. Have you ever been in a drunken brawl? Imagine a drunken brawl with the Fog. There would be murder and chaos across the city, much of it without deep intention. But you–you, Meric, have shown your true worth. Ask yourself: if that datadrive suddenly didn’t exist, what would be best for Panchaea in this moment? Would I benefit more from your death–or your alliance?”