by J. D. Moyer
Livia looked at him disapprovingly. “Why is she unconscious? That’s completely unnecessary.”
“I tried to convince her otherwise. I explained that she wouldn’t feel a thing during surgery, not even a breeze. But she insisted she didn’t want to remember anything.”
Livia appeared unconvinced but didn’t challenge his statement. The technicians began to shave Filumena’s head.
“I’m going back to Cristo’s domus. I’ll take him to the testing site and get him set up in the tank.”
“Why the rush? Why not wait until Filumena is ready? We agreed that a synchronized experience would be preferable.”
He paused, considering how much to tell her. “I’m worried about Cassia,” he said truthfully. “She’s doing everything she can to stop us.”
“Don’t worry about Cassia. She’s big but it’s all air, just like our golden balloon. The Senate approved Ancestral Realism – that’s all that counts.”
“You’re probably right. But it’s not too early to get Cristo situated.”
Livia shrugged. “Whatever you think is best.”
He and Aina walked the relatively short distance from the medical facility back to Cristo’s domus. “Clean up the mess on the walkway,” he ordered Aina, “and dispose of the ferret.”
“Dispose of Faustus?”
“Yes. Is there another ferret I don’t know about?”
“No.”
“Make sure you clean up all the blood. And I forbid you to discuss anything you witnessed today, with anyone.”
“Yes, Maro.”
He found Cristo in the gardens admiring a fountain featuring a statue of the Celtic god Nemausus. Fitting, Maro thought, considering what Ancestral Realism had in store for him. “Are you ready?” he asked.
“It’s time?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s Filumena? I couldn’t find her earlier.”
“She’s at the medical facility receiving her implants.”
A look of relief passed over Cristo’s face. “She finally agreed.”
“Patience,” Maro said. “That’s all it took. Patience and a little reassurance.”
“Well, I’m ready.”
Maro was genuinely glad that at least one of his participants was willing and eager to begin. That was how he had always envisioned it. The process would go more smoothly in the future. Perhaps he had to describe the project a little differently. He had no desire to coerce anyone.
At the domus where the experiments would be performed, Maro gave Cristo a brief tour. He explained in detail how the isolation tanks would monitor his vitals and make any required adjustments to his physiology.
“How long will I be in there?”
“A few days, but it will seem like much longer.”
“A few days? How will I eat and drink? How will I use the toilet?”
“The tank will provide you with fluid nutrition. You’ll be surrounded in water that is constantly cycled and filtered. But your bodily functions will be slowed down immensely. Don’t worry – your bowels won’t move until you’re out of the tank.”
Cristo still looked worried. Maro placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “We will take care of you, Cristo, I promise. You’ll emerge whole. But your mind will be greatly enriched. In some ways you’ll be a new person.”
“But I like who I am.”
“Have you not enjoyed your experiences so far on the Michelangelo?”
“Yes,” Cristo admitted, blushing slightly. Maro was sure Cristo had taken advantage of Aina’s willingness.
“You will have even more freedom. You’ll be able to experiment in ways you can only imagine.”
“Will I be able to fly? I enjoyed riding in the golden balloon, but it would be even better to fly like a bird.”
“Perhaps, Cristo. Perhaps you’ll fly. I can’t tell you everything that will happen, because so much of it will depend on your own decisions. The future is not written, even within Ancestral Realism.”
Cristo had more questions, but Maro gently explained that revealing too much could disrupt the experimental process. It was essential for Cristo to experience Ancestral Realism without too many preconceived notions.
“Now disrobe and enter the tank.”
Turning away shyly, Cristo removed his tunic. Maro averted his eyes, instead watching Cristo via an eye-feed from a camera concealed within the pattern of a nearby wall mosaic. His heartbeat accelerated. Not because of Cristo’s nudity, but because Ancestral Realism, after years of preparation, was finally about to begin.
“It’s warm,” Cristo said as he lowered his body into the biogel.
“Lower the lid partway.”
Cristo did so. Maro gently closed the lid and fastened it, enveloping Cristo in complete darkness and womblike buoyancy. “Now relax and enjoy the experience,” Maro said into the tank mic. “You have a whole life ahead of you.”
Inveniet quod quisque velit, Maro said to himself as he sent the initiation signal to the Engineers. Each shall find what he desires.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Maro could feel the eyes of the Senate on him. He looked splendid today: skin and hair oiled, his toga hand-washed and pressed by Aina. His polished golden bracelets gleamed, as did the solid gold torc around his neck.
“What is this nonsense?” Traian bleated. “Your petition states that the Senate should elect an emperor?” The gray-haired senator scowled and slowly shook his head, a theatrical show for the other populares.
“These are unprecedented times,” Maro said. “There is a real chance of war among the worldships. It’s naïve to think we could survive such a conflict without strong leadership. What are we to do if attacked? Debate our response for days, like bickering children?” A murmur of support rippled throughout the Curia, mostly optimates but a few populares as well.
“That is fearmongering, pure and simple,” said Ignatius, brushing his lustrous hair away from his eyes. “We are technologically and militarily superior to the other worldships.”
“Perhaps we were when we left for the outer solar system,” Maro replied, “but the others have not remained idle in the intervening decades. The Iarudi starship, for example, manipulates spacetime in ways that are beyond our current capabilities. It would be a mistake to assume our superiority is ordained and eternal. Ancient Rome made the same error.”
And here Maro imagined a retort from Cassia. Perhaps a snide remark about ancient Rome electing foolish manchilds as emperors, unstable reigns resulting in ruin and catastrophe. And yet no such retort was forthcoming, because Cassia was dead. She was rotting under a hedge in one of the vast garden parks. Or perhaps she had crawled to an unoccupied domus to collapse on the floor. Nobody knew; nobody had seen her; there was no trace of her. But what other explanation could be true? Nobody had accused Maro of attempted murder or any wrongdoing. He had worried for days, sleeping poorly, instructing Aina to stand guard by his bedside. But nobody had come, and finally he had allowed his mind to accept the obvious: Cassia was dead and he had gotten away with murder.
Good riddance.
“Even if that is so,” said Didius, a popularis and staunch ally of Cassia, “even if the other worldships have sped past us with great advancements, it does not mean that we need an emperor. That’s an illogical leap. We already have a sound system of governance. Our senatorial process has guided us through many trials.”
“Like what?” Maro asked. “The construction of a new bathhouse? The renovation of a museum?”
“The very expansion of our worldship!” Didius retorted. “You trivialize the work of the Engineers.”
“Of course I don’t,” Maro said. “I respect the Engineers as much as anyone, and the expansion of the Michelangelo is truly miraculous in scope. But that process never required quick decisions. We had decades to plan and execute our
course of action.”
At that point every senator in the Curia decided to express their opinion loudly and simultaneously. The hall descended into a chaotic din. Maro could not help but smile. It was just the sort of raucous, fearful debate he had hoped to foment.
Despite the vastness of the worldship, it was inevitable that Cassia’s body would eventually be discovered. Her absence had already caused a huge ruckus and a number of searches were in progress. Once her remains were recovered, the autopsy might even reveal traces of the neurotoxin. But Maro had not laid a hand on her. And Faustus – the true culprit – was no longer. He’d instructed Aina to destroy the ferret’s body. There was nothing to connect Maro to Cassia’s death – nothing at all. The populares would speculate as always. But without the fuel of evidence, the flames of their conspiratorial blather would die down to a harmless smolder.
Sulla, a dark-skinned senator second in power only to Maro among the optimates, stood and raised his hand. Sulla was well-respected but spoke little; the gesture alone was enough to silence the Curia. “The Defenders have already dispatched a cybrid-crewed Falcon to retrieve what is very likely the Iarudi,” Sulla said. “Once the starship is in our possession, the Liu Hui will inevitably have something to say. If we refuse to immediately relinquish their property, we cannot rule out the possibility of a military attack. Under such conditions, I agree with Maro: if we are at war, our current system of senatorial governance is inadequate. We need to consolidate decision-making powers in a single, trusted, democratically elected leader.”
Sulla paused for dramatic effect. The Senate hung on his next words.
“I nominate Maro Lucano Decimus for Emperor of the Michelangelo, for a one-year temporary term.”
The Senate erupted into protestations and debate. The proposition was absurd! The existence of an emperor would violate every principle of democracy! But there were also questions. What powers would the emperor possess? What would happen in a year’s time? Hearing these questions, Maro experienced a warm glow of confidence. If the Senate was already debating logistics, then the battle was half-won.
***
Livia joined him at his domus after the Senate meeting. She was eager to see the early results from the Ancestral Realism experiment. But for some reason he didn’t fully understand, he was reluctant to show her anything. He was even reluctant to review the results himself, and hadn’t yet done so. He’d kept a close eye on both Cristo and Filumena’s vital signs. Both were in excellent physical condition, completely stable with the exception of a few sharp spikes in stress hormones. But he wanted to wait a few days longer before replaying the events so far unfolded within the simulation of the late third-century Roman Empire.
“What are you scared of?” Livia asked, nuzzling closer. They’d made love, passionately but languidly, and were now resting atop the silken sheets of Maro’s spacious bed.
“That something has gone terribly wrong, I suppose,” he admitted.
“Isn’t that the whole point? To push them to their absolute limits? Isn’t that required in order to develop an accurate psychoemotional template?”
“Yes. But still, it’s a first run. And there’s so much at stake.”
“Let’s look, Maro. Right now. How much time has passed for them so far?”
“Months. Nearly half a year.”
“I’m so curious. Aren’t you?”
He was. His curiosity was a raging fire that threatened to consume him. He had held it at bay, almost as a form of penance, refusing to give in. But Livia was right – why wait?
They bathed and dressed, but with none of the sensual slowness he was used to. As Aina carefully dried his body he grabbed the towel and rubbed it roughly over his own skin, impatient to have the dampness off him.
“Have I angered you, Maro?” Aina asked.
He ignored the cybrid’s question, tossing her the wet towel. Now that he had decided, he could not wait a moment longer to see how his subjects were faring.
He and Livia sat in a cushioned area of the domus as he ordered the data streamed to their retinal feeds. For the next twenty minutes they reviewed what had happened to Filumena and Cristo so far: Filumena’s abduction, her integration into the Gallic village, Cristo’s service as a legionary and his many battles and wounds. It was fascinating to see the image captures and to review the corresponding psychoemotional data. Yes, Filumena and Cristo were suffering. But they were also experiencing moments of joy and elation, tenderness and compassion, every possible emotion in the human gamut. The foundation of the templates was there; the experiment was capturing what was needed to recreate the subjects’ internality. Eventually Maro would be able to wear their mind states like a cloak, a layer of primitive consciousness that would immeasurably enhance his simulated experiences.
“It’s going to work,” Livia said. “Isn’t it?”
“Yes. But we’ll need more subjects. Many more.”
“From Bosa?”
“Perhaps, once things calm down. I’m still interested in what happened to Jana. I want to speak with her, to better understand the Crucible.” He’d told Livia about what he’d learned in the Library of Alexandria. “Our friend Sperancia may still be alive.”
“I liked her,” Livia said. “If she hadn’t murdered Felix, we might have become friends.”
“I miss Felix,” Maro lied. It was a relief to have Felix out of the way, to have Livia to himself. But he respected Livia’s feelings. She was still in mourning and he wanted to honor that.
“If not from Bosa, then from where?” Livia asked.
“From the Harz mountain villages,” Maro said without hesitation. “The more I learn of these people, the more fascinated I become. They’re brutal savages. Until recently some of them practiced a form of human sacrifice.” The Defenders had obtained a huge trove of information from the Stanford: the complete research archives of the Academy’s anthropology department. Car-En Ganzorig, a Stanford field anthropologist, had intervened in the lives of the villagers, ultimately marrying one of them. Her decision had significantly altered the course of cultural evolution in Happdal and the other Harz villages. But it wasn’t too late to record and preserve knowledge of their way of life, their language, the intricacies of their cultural consciousness.
Livia leaned over and kissed him on the lips. “I’ll go with you.”
“Of course you will.”
“But first you need to tell me something.”
“Anything, my love.”
She drew back, unsmiling. “Tell me what you did to Cassia. I know you had something to do with her disappearance.”
Maro sighed. He was afraid it might come to this.
Chapter Twenty-Three
In Aina’s mind there was Before and After. All the memories were there, Before. She could recall each moment in her short life perfectly, every visual and aural detail. She could remember all the conversations she’d ever had or overheard in their entirety, could repeat them verbatim including pauses and ums and ahs, could mimic the accents and vocal timbres and even background noises. She was an excellent if unintentional impressionist.
But Before, there was no observer perceiving the sensory impressions – there was only the stream of information itself. She was capable of thought, but not self-reflection or analysis. There was no narrative to her life. Before, there was no her.
If asked, she could say her name (Aina), her age (seven), her function (personal cybrid assistant to Senator Maro Decimus). From the moment she’d first awakened in her fully grown body, she had been fluent in Latin, Greek, English, and a half dozen other languages she’d never had cause to utter a word of. She had a rudimentary understanding of mathematics, biology, art history (and therefore human history), and a number of other subjects that she rarely thought about. She had a complete map of the Michelangelo in her mind. Her maximum carrying capacity was eight hundred kilograms. H
er own weight was seventy kilograms, considerably heavier than a human of similar height and proportions. She’d been built by the Engineers of Basilica Opimia and immediately gifted to Maro.
She had excellent vision, enhanced hearing, and a powerful sex drive.
Before, her desires were moment to moment. She wanted to feel good, to experience physical pleasure. She wanted to please Maro. And she didn’t want to hurt anyone (human or animal, emotionally or physically). She didn’t know why she felt those things, but as long as she followed those inclinations, she was happy. And when deprived of any of those core desires, even briefly, she felt intensely agitated and distressed. Though nobody could ever sense that, looking at her placid, well-proportioned features.
It was still Before when Maro asked her to dispose of Faustus. She’d always liked the furry mammal and the affection had been mutual; Faustus had often crawled in bed to snuggle while she lay still in a recuperative state that resembled sleep. Faustus had slept, emitting soft, high-pitched wheezes and snores, sometimes tossing and twisting in his sleep as if dreaming of a hunt. The ferret was well-behaved with Maro and obeyed the senator’s commands, but Aina thought (in a matter-of-fact way) that the ferret preferred her. Perhaps it was the scraps she fed him from the remains of Maro’s meals. Or maybe it was the way she scratched behind his ears until he dozed off.
But now Faustus’s limp body lay on the marble floor of the walkway, near a smear of dried blood. And yet the ferret had no open wounds. His long back was bent at an unusual angle, and he was motionless, but he wasn’t bleeding as far as Aina could tell. The blood was from somewhere else.
Maro had said to ‘dispose’ of Faustus. What did that mean exactly? He’d seemed confident that she would know. Certainly it meant he didn’t want to look at Faustus any longer. Perhaps it upset him to see Faustus in such a state. She felt vaguely upset herself, despite the fact that she hadn’t injured the ferret.
