The Last Crucible

by J. D. Moyer

  “You’re a virile beast,” Aina said afterward, grinning widely. “We should do that every day.”

  “Perhaps we will. Now dress me again. Make me look exactly as before.”

  ***

  He rode a Vertragus cybrid to the Curia, shouting at the plebeians to make way even though they were already scurrying off at the first sound of the giant canine’s claws on the paving stones. There was something different about the light today; it was brighter, almost Earth-like in its intensity. Or maybe that was another effect of the Crucible integrating with his optic nerve, enhancing his vision.

  The consorteria was still silent, but Maro was unworried. The old women were irrelevant. If they didn’t engage with him, that was one less problem he had to solve. The main benefit of the Crucible was the potential for extreme longevity and even immortality, and he could practically feel the tendrils lacing through his flesh, strengthening his tissues even as they copied his cellular structure to create a virtual Maro: a faithful, fully integrated copy of his body and brain that would survive for millennia.

  “Make way!” he cried out. “Make way for your future emperor!”

  ***

  All eyes were on Maro as he strode into the Curia. Young Ignatius raised his nose and brushed aside his locks, but there was envy behind his disdain, perhaps even lust. Traian nodded respectfully. Didius, who had seemed lost since Cassia’s disappearance, offered him an ingratiating smile that Maro found both gratifying and repulsive. Had he no enemies left? This was going to be too easy. Maro took his seat, spine erect and chin held high.

  Praetor Ovidius stood. “We now have a quorum. Since the result will affect the remainder of our proceedings, we shall open with the vote. All those in favor of electing Maro Decimus as emperor….”

  It was unanimous. None dared stand against him; his reputation for holding grudges and exacting revenge was well-established. The satisfaction of the moment was marred only by Cassia’s absence. He would have loved to witness her rage and defeat as she looked upon Emperor Decimus for the first time.

  He wasted no time in furthering his agenda. It was the dawn of a new age for the Michelangelo, one that would be historically regarded as expansionist, audaciously creative, a great leap forward for humanity. As he addressed the Senate, laying forth his ambitious plans for building great cities on every continent, for consolidating great works from the other worldships, for exploring and eventually colonizing the star systems recently investigated by the Iarudi, he marveled at the resonance of his own voice, at the ease with which he was able to voluminously project his instrument. He had always perceived the quality of his voice to be a minor weakness, one that he’d been unable to address with surgeries and other physiological modifications. But today was different for some reason. Today he was a great speaker.

  ***

  In the months that followed it was though an invisible hand were guiding the events that surrounded Maro’s life, always tipping the scales in his favor. Livia dropped her new lover and returned to his arms, pledging her faithfulness. The investigation into Cassia’s disappearance faded away; Maro scarcely heard her name again. The Stanford, Liu Hui, and other worldships were all grateful to finally be contacted, and were amenable to Maro’s suggestions that Earth’s great art be consolidated on the Michelangelo, with its superior record of guardianship and preservation. Full artwork visitation rights would be granted, of course (subject to Maro’s discretion, as were all things).

  It occurred to Maro that a normal person’s credulity might be strained by such a string of good luck, but he accepted such fortune as his birthright. He had always believed himself worthy, but only now was reality falling in line with his expectations.

  Some men were born not only luckier, but destined for great fates. That was the thing about probability; true randomness did not appear random. It often appeared to be outrageous, fixed, and cheaty. But if there were unlucky souls in the universe, there had to be fortunate ones as well, as well as many in the middle of the curve.

  Maro was one of the fortunate ones. It was that simple.

  Ancestral Realism was a smashing success. The first templates, created from the amalgamated experiences and recorded reactions of Filumena and Cristo, captured the primitive, pre-technological mindset so successfully that thousands flocked to try them out, eager to shed the more sophisticated aspects of their consciousness and to immerse themselves fully in ancient Rome and other historical world sims. Maro’s status as an Artist rose to new heights; he was acknowledged both as a great cultural preservationist as well as an innovative mind sculptor.

  So many had doubted him, not only his methods but the underlying concept of the project. There is no such thing as primitive consciousness, they had insisted. The human mind has not changed as much as we wish to believe it has, over the ages. The hunter-gatherers who had lived directly below them around Lake Victoria a mere hundred thousand years ago had been just as witty, insightful, and curious as worldship denizens, with just as much capacity for kindness or cruelty.

  Maro had proven those doubters wrong, and vindication tasted sweet.

  Maro was generous toward those who had willingly helped him. He allowed Jana, Filumena, and Cristo to return to Bosa, provided they would help him recruit new volunteers. The three Sardinians were all worn from their respective rigors, tired and hollowed out. But they were whole; they would recover. He filled Cristo’s pockets with Imperial gold coins, minted with his own profile. He sent a medic to assist Filumena’s mother with her afflictions.

  “And what do you want, Jana? You have given me the greatest gift. How can I adequately repay you?”

  “Simply with your forgiveness, Maro. I was wrong to fear you. I was wrong to join Sperancia in attacking you. You were never a threat to Bosa, but I did not understand it then.”

  “You have it, my child. I forgive you completely. You were under the foolish influence of Sperancia and her consorteria.”

  “Have they spoken to you yet?”

  “Not yet. I don’t blame them for fearing me, but I have no thoughts of retribution. As long as they gracefully accept my authority….”

  It worried him, a little, that he had not been welcomed or even contacted by Sperancia and the others. Was the Crucible working correctly? There was no one he could ask; he’d willingly gone down this road alone.

  But the worry did not consume him. Everything else was going splendidly, and he was fully occupied with his duties as emperor.

  There was work to be done. The future he imagined would not manifest by desire alone.

  ***

  A year passed. No one challenged his power. His plans proceeded according to schedule. The reign of Emperor Decimus was unfolding in all its expected glory and splendor.

  And yet a few things gnawed at him, gremlins in the periphery of his mind that sapped his happiness.

  The Crucible had failed, never integrating with his nervous system. Sperancia and the others had not contacted him because they could not, he eventually realized. Perhaps the technology conflicted with his other implants. Perhaps his brain was just unusual, exceptional. Eventually he would see a medic, get the damn thing removed. It had been a mistake to ingest it.

  But there were always other matters to attend to, and since the Crucible wasn’t actually hurting him in any way, he felt no urgency.

  The other thing that bothered him was harder to describe. His life had taken on a subtle sense of confinement, the source of which he could not pinpoint. He was free in every way he could imagine. He had status, power, every privilege. He was widely respected, admired, and adored. And yet he felt limited. He spent time in his luxurious domus, in the Curia, at the baths, in the Michelangelo’s many parks and museums.

  But when he formed the intention to go somewhere new, somewhere he had never visited, his heart was struck with inexplicable fear and dread. Invariably he would retrea
t from his plans, choosing instead the tried and true. This was not only true of places, but of people as well. Everyone he associated with, he already knew.

  He was trapped in a prison of the familiar, and for the life of him he could not explain it.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Filumema squinted as light flooded into the open isolation tank. Her mind was full of worries. Ida was ill and there were many chores to attend to: feeding the chickens, buying food at the market, preparing a meal to be ready for when Corius returned from tending the vineyards.

  “Filumena, can you hear me?”

  A familiar, pale face looked down at her. An old friend from many years ago.

  “Where am I?”

  “In an isolation tank, on a worldship, orbiting Earth. You’re safe.”

  Safe. That was a lie. She hadn’t been safe since that fateful day in Nemausus, in the baths, when everything had been taken from her. There were always dangers lurking: men with spears, disease, starvation.

  “Who are you?”

  The pale face looked crestfallen. “You don’t recognize me? It’s Jana. Jana Manca, from Bosa. We grew up together. We’ve been friends since we were little.”

  Another person appeared on the other side of the tank, a woman of great size, with dark skin and green hair. “Don’t worry, Jana, her memory will return. She’s disoriented. From her perspective, it’s been many years since she’s seen you. Even though she’s only been in the tank for two weeks, she’s lived a good portion of a lifetime in Maro’s simulation.”

  Maro. Who was that? The name filled her with rage.

  “My name is Cassia,” said the green-haired woman. “As Jana said, you’re safe now. Let’s get you out of this tank and cleaned up.”

  Filumena’s limbs were too weak to support her own weight, but Cassia lifted her from the tank as easily as a mother would lift an infant from its crib.

  ***

  After Filumena had bathed, eaten, and slept, she regained some strength. Her muscles were not atrophied, just weak from lack of use. In time she would be strong again, and her hair – which was now just stubble on her scalp – would grow back.

  Though she was beginning to understand what had happened to her, her Gallic life still seemed the realer one. But she also remembered Jana and her life in Bosa.

  She breakfasted with Jana and Cassia. Aina served them dates, bread, and soft cheese, then joined their table. The cheese tasted strange – perhaps not made from real milk – but the fruit was delicious.

  “My mother,” Filumena asked, “is she still alive?”

  Jana nodded. “She’s fine. Everyone is still alive, except for Sperancia. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

  It came back to her: Maro and Livia in Bosa, Sperancia’s murder, her own flight with Cristo. What fools they had been.

  “Cristo – where is he?”

  “Receiving medical care. He’ll be fine, but he’s still disassociated. Now that he’s awake and out of the tank, he believes he’s dreaming.”

  “Maybe it would help him to see me. I knew Cristo there, briefly. We met in the vineyard and recognized each other from before.”

  Jana looked to Cassia, who nodded. “It’s a good idea. I’ll arrange it.”

  “Where is Maro?” Filumena asked, her throat tightening.

  The other three women shared a look.

  “What is it? Tell me. Is he dead? Imprisoned? He must be brought to justice. He tricked me – forced me to live an entire life I didn’t ask for….”

  “He’s not dead,” Jana said.

  “Though it could be said that he’s in prison, in a way,” Aina added cheerfully.

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s someone we need you to meet,” said Jana. “If we just told you, you wouldn’t believe us. But don’t be alarmed. All is not as it seems.”

  “Jana, please join us now,” Cassia called out. This was confusing to Filumena considering that Jana was sitting right across from her, albeit with a strange expression.

  Filumena tensed when she saw him. It was Maro, though instead of his usual tunic he wore simple black trousers and a short-sleeved shirt. His hair was tousled, his chin and cheeks covered with dark stubble.

  “Hello, Filumena. I know I look like Maro, but I’m not. It’s me, Jana.”

  Filumena looked to the Jana that she recognized, expecting protest or denial, but her childhood friend confirmed what Maro had said with a curt nod.

  “How is that possible?” Filumena asked.

  “Did Sperancia ever explain to you exactly how she became maghiarja?” the original Jana asked.

  “Not exactly. But I knew she was maghiarja because of the Crucible, which had been passed down for generations, woman to woman. You were to be next.”

  “And I was, even though the Crucible ceremony never occurred. I became maghiarja and Sperancia lived within me. I spoke to her. It was such a relief to converse with her again after she had died. But the Crucible is no longer inside of me. It’s in Maro’s body now.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Maro ingested the Crucible core willingly, thinking it would bring him immortality. He planned to enslave the previous hosts and use the Crucible’s powers to serve his own selfish ends. But we set a trap.”

  “What kind of trap?”

  “Maro awoke within a simulated world created by Itria, one of the previous hosts. Just as you believed your life in ancient Rome was real, Maro now believes that he is Emperor Decimus, ruling over all the ringships and Earth itself.”

  “Fortunately, Maro was never elected emperor,” Cassia added. “And never will be.”

  Filumena couldn’t help but laugh. “Maro is trapped…in his own fantasy?”

  “Fitting, isn’t it?” said Aina.

  It was fitting. But it was also much kinder than what Filumena had been subjected to. She’s lost a finger. She’d seen friends die. She’d entirely forgotten who she’d been, who she really was.

  “But how can this also be Jana?” Filumena asked, gesturing at Maro-who-was-not-Maro.

  “Call me Maro, if you like. I will be pretending to be him, so I might as well get used to responding to his name.”

  “The Crucible made a fully functioning simulacrum of my body and brain,” Jana said. “That copy of me, which resides in the core along with Sperancia, Itria, and the others, has taken control of Maro’s body. It sees through his optic nerve, sends signals through his spinal cord to control his muscles, and so on. The core bypasses Maro’s brain entirely. His brain is entirely occupied with the simulation.”

  “So there really are two of you?” Filumena asked, looking at Jana and then at Jana-Maro. “Isn’t that strange?”

  Both nodded. “Profoundly,” Jana-Maro said. “Perhaps odder for me, since I recognize myself when I look at her. But I was never that attached to that body. I never felt comfortable in my own skin.”

  Jana sighed. “You got the better deal. I’m still stuck with it.”

  “Nonsense,” Cassia said. “You’re not stuck with anything. We can modify your body in whatever way you like. I’m a living example. It’s trivial.”

  “I want to go home,” Filumena said. “When can I return to Bosa?”

  Jana looked crestfallen at this question, as did Jana-Maro. “I was hoping you would stay for a while,” Jana said.

  “We can arrange a shuttle within the next few days, but you need to gain some strength first.”

  “After I see Cristo, I’d like to return home as soon as possible,” Filumena insisted.

  “And you will,” Aina said, smiling brightly. “You are free now. As am I, as it happens!”

  ***

  Jana and Cassia accompanied Filumena to visit Cristo, who had left the medical facility and was residing at a simple domus. Aina had volunteered
to care for him and to make sure he didn’t wander off.

  To Filumena’s relief, Jana-Maro had not joined them. Filumena accepted that Maro was somewhere else, his mind trapped in a virtual prison, but her body reacted the same way to Jana-Maro as if it were Maro himself, with fear and loathing. She had once been physically attracted to that body, but that was before he had traumatized her, imprisoning her in a hostile world without warning or consent. It wasn’t fair to that version of Jana that Filumena felt that way, but she couldn’t help it. Maybe in time her feelings would change.

  “Cristo is fine, physically,” Cassia explained. “Somewhat weak, like yourself, but he’s recovering. In fact he’s developed quite an appetite. But he’s acting as if the world isn’t real.”

  “How so?”

  “You will see for yourself.”

  Several spiderlike robot gardeners scurried away as they approached. Cristo was reclined on a hammock drinking wine from a goblet, a silver platter of grapes and cured meats balanced across his stomach. He looked well. His skin had a youthful glow and all the battle scars and wrinkles had of course vanished, though his face looked puffy, as if he had gorged himself on food and drink. His hair, like her own, was extremely short.

  “Aina, would you be so kind as to bring me another plate of fruit?”

  The cybrid emerged from the domus looking perturbed. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said to Cassia. “I don’t know what to do with him. He won’t stop eating.”

  “Let him eat,” Cassia said. “It will be worse if you deprive him. He’s traumatized—”

  “I’m not traumatized,” Cristo interrupted. “I’m hungry. For years I lived on coarse bread with bits of rock in it. Now I’m having a wonderful dream where I can eat and drink as much as I like. Why not enjoy it while I can?”

  Filumena took Cristo’s hand and kissed his forehead. “I’m so glad to see you. You’re not dreaming – the other world wasn’t real. We weren’t really in ancient Rome.”