The Advancement of Mateo Matic: September 26, 2570

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Everyone was depressed after Romana was locked up. How had things spiraled so quickly, how did they miss the signs, and how were they going to get through this? Romana was comfortable in the VIP holding block, but she couldn’t leave, and keeping her there was only making her angrier. They would have to let her out eventually, but no one knew when. The elephant in the room was whether they would ever forgive her, and whether she would apologize for her own actions. It was complicated, because while many of her choices were clearly wrong—forcing them to go on missions against their will, and misappropriating dangerous equipment—was the end result wrong? Did she not deserve to be happy? More importantly, did Boyd 3.0 not deserve to live?

“Lock me up forever,” Boyd suggested when Mateo had no more options but to ask him for his own opinion on all this. No one else knew of a solution.

“We can’t. You’ve not broken any laws, and it’s not sustainable,” Mateo argued.

“I don’t have to have broken laws,” Boyd reasoned. “You’re thinking very much like a 21st century boy. Legal quarantine doesn’t always happen as punishment for something you’ve already done. Unlike in your time, it is entirely plausible that a dangerous entity’s first criminal act is genocide. Humans need time and experience to escalate their behavior. A rogue intelligence might skip right to complete annihilation, if only due to a missing proverbial semicolon in their code.

“Don’t get me wrong, you’re not living in a dystopia. They don’t just throw people in jail left, right, and center. You have to prove that they’re a danger to life and peace, but that proof doesn’t have to come from an irreversible past tragedy anymore. I’m too much of a wildcard. I must be dealt with.”

“It’s big of you to be saying all this,” Mateo admitted.

“Again, you’re thinking of a human. I’m not asking to die. I will live as long as you, if not longer. Virtual quarantine is considered the most humane response to an existential threat. Once the longevity escape velocity progressed into virtual immortality, life sentences became nearly entirely meaningless. What if the individual requires persistent longevity treatments? Are they entitled to those? Or is it better to let them die, rather than torturing them with an eternity of imprisonment? What if they were constructed out of code from minute one? Is it possible to kill them, or is it no different than deleting a blurry photo from your camera roll? What if they want to die?

“The legal system decided that the nuance was too much to bear, so they came up with the best singular answer for extreme cases. You keep them in an airgapped environment, where they’re free to do whatever they want, even if it’s destructive, because they can’t actually gain access to base reality, or other virtual worlds.”

“They stay there forever?” Mateo questioned. “Many law-abiding citizens live like that already. Most crabitat owners don’t ever visit networked simulations.”

Boyd nodded. “Yes, that’s why it’s humane, because it’s not about punishment. It’s about removing them from where they can do harm to anyone but an NPC.”

“It sounds like there’s no rehabilitation in this method. Is that an option?”

Boyd’s face dropped a little. “Not really. Hyperintelligences are more difficult to trust than baseline humans, believe it or not. Of course people like you are capable of deception, it happens all the time. That’s why recidivism is a legal term. But over time, you can learn to trust in a human’s future actions by their past and current ones. Something made of code, regardless of their origin, might end up with a bad over-the-air update which causes them to snap one day. And it will be completely unpredictable.”

“This is all sounding pretty dystopian to me,” Mateo pointed out.

“Some see it that way,” Boyd acknowledged. “There are alternatives but they take effort. A current proposal is that you can use a separate intelligence to audit every single character in a rogue intelligence’s code to track aberrations. This governor intelligence would keep an eye on them as they receive updates, upgrades, and interact with other code. But that comes with its own philosophical questions. What if the governor itself breaks? What if its charge actually corrupts its governor. Their systems have to interact, after all. And is it morally right to scrutinize independent beings like this? What does that mean for privacy? Is this not simply prison in a different form factor?”

Mateo frowned. “I didn’t realize how complex the universe was now. Everything people have been saying is that it’s more simple. You don’t have competing machines that do the same thing because information is shared and distributed, so everyone has the best model. But there’s all this underlying structure that I didn’t realize.”

Boyd nodded in agreement. “Possibilities are now endless, both good and bad. You have to do this. And you can’t have Ramses construct his own quarantine. It obviously failed when he tried that before. We need institutional insulation, and that can only be found in one place. Well, it’s only other planets, but these guys do it the best.”

“Where would that be?” Mateo asked.

“The virtual reality capital of the galaxy,” Boyd answered, “Varkas Reflex.”

“Makes sense. It’s a big rock. There could be an entire continent dedicated to it.”

Boyd chuckled. “It’s not quite that big. For the most part, crime isn’t much of a thing anymore. If it is, it’s generally beyond the stellar neighborhood, and they have their own laws. We don’t wanna be in the wild west. We want redundancies.”

“I’ll call a meeting,” Mateo decided with a heavy sigh.

“No, you have to do this on your own,” Boyd insists. “No one can know until after it’s done. Romana will forgive you...eventually. Not everyone is that safe.”

“I can’t go on my own. I mean, I could, but then I couldn’t come back.”

“There are ways,” Boyd says. “I won’t tell you, but I know you can figure it out. This won’t be the first time you have had to separate yourself from your family.”

Mateo didn’t use the base’s slingdrive to sling himself and Boyd to Varkas Reflex, but he did use its power. That way, there would be no trace of where he went, and no one could follow. As soon as he showed up, he dropped his name to the first workerbot he saw, who fed it up the pipeline where an old friend of Leona’s heard it. She came right away. She wasn’t in charge of the virtual quarantine sector specifically, but she had plenty of pull around here. She said she trusted Mateo’s judgment, and fast-tracked the process because knew that they would otherwise have to wait for an entire year.

Boyd was now leaning back in his upload chair, appearing calm and stoic. He didn’t look mad or vengeful, which was what Mateo was most worried about coming into this. He wasn’t sure he agreed with this form of imprisonment. It always left the door open for a return, not that the alternative was morally or ethically superior. Maybe it was a trick, though. Maybe Boyd set all this up because he knew of some way to escape it. Maybe Mateo was a fool by unilaterally deciding what would become of him. He chose to place his trust in someone he hadn’t always liked.

The upload was complete, the body was destroyed, and Mateo left. Without a slingdrive array to latch onto, there was no way back to Ramosus. He accepted a reframe ship which Loa lent him, and began the journey back to Earth.

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Extremus: Year 144

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It’s near the end of year 2413, so it’s been 24 years since the latest captain took the seat. Around this time people are expecting Waldemar to announce his successor. To quell the rumors, he has decided that he is indeed going to make an announcement, but for many, it won’t be what they expect. They’re not going to like it either. The original plan was to simply say nothing, and coast on the chair, but Waldemar keeps forgetting how inquisitive and curious people are. They want to know, and they want to know now. They’re about to find out that it’s not happening.

At one point, they were planning on holding this event in the grand auditorium, but they have decided against that. It’s too dangerous. Even though Waldemar has since taken steps to protect himself, he doesn’t want to give an assassin or an angry crowd the opportunity to attack. If they get mad, they’ll do it within the confines of their quarters. What they don’t know is that they will not be able to leave unless the AI security system detects that they’re friendly to the Captain.

He is sitting in front of the camera, preparing himself mentally for this. It’s not nerves or fear. He wouldn’t know how to feel those things. What he’s feeling is concern for the future. He doesn’t care for uncertainty. That doesn’t mean he’s gonna use time tech to see the future, but it does make him nervous. Hm...maybe he does feel that too.

At any rate, it’s time to get started. His inner circle is behind him, figuratively and literally. It’s important that the audience sees that he’s not alone in this, and that he will have people protecting him, even if it’s only these few dozen men. They will know what to do. “Begin recording,” he orders the camera. It’s already on a five-second delay. “My fellow Extremusians, I sit here before you, humble but powerful. For the last twenty-four years, I have led you into a period of unprecedented peace and personal success. I ended the war with the True Extremists using my covert away teams. I reformed the contribution point system so that all must work to help make this the greatest colony in the universe. I am not the most popular leader you have ever had, but your lives are better thanks to me and my administration.

“I know you’re all wondering who is going to pick up the reins next year. You’re confused, because no one appears to be on the shortlist. There’s a reason for that. Unlike my predecessors, I didn’t limit myself to the few who desperately wanted the job. I didn’t ask for a list of everyone graduating from the academy on the captain’s track. I looked at every single one of you. Everyone who would be at least 21 years old by January 1 was on the table. I didn’t even cap it at a maximum age.”

Waldemar approximates a smile. He’s not good at smiling because it’s an emotional response, but people know when that’s what he’s doing, and they’ve grown used to it by now, so it has the same effect as it would for a feeler. “That’s right. Nearly every adult had the chance to take my place. I was incredibly thorough. Unfortunately, I was unable to find anyone suitable for the job. I looked at that comprehensive list, and I looked at what still needs to be done to make Extremus great again, and I realized that there is only one person who can do what I do.” He clears his throat. “It is for this reason that I am respectfully declining to step down. Twenty-four years was always an arbitrary number. Every crew position here has changed the length of service according to new laws, except for this one, and I see no reason for it to remain an exception.

“I want to make it clear that I’m not declaring an authoritarian state. You are still represented by your civilian government. It is my job to run the crew, and protect the vessel itself from all threats. Your daily lives will not change...except for the better. I have the support of my advisors, most of the crew, the police, and the military. I ask that you remain calm during this non-transitional period. You do not have to do anything. But you do have to recognize that this was never a democracy. You never had any say in who would be your captain. I’m changing the rules because I am the only one here with the experience and vision to continue down the correct path.

“I am not guaranteeing twenty-four more years. I will step down when it is time; when I know that you’re going to be okay without me. And when I do, I will not be an admiral. That was a travesty of a tradition. Admiralcy is something that you earn. It’s not something that you should simply fall into at the end of your useful career. When I have accomplished all of the ship’s goals, someone will take over for me, but not a day sooner than that. In the coming week, I will be scheduling press conferences, interviews, forums, and debates, but I will not be changing my mind. Thank you.” He taps the correct finger gesture under the desk to shut off the camera.

“That was amazing, sir. You were brilliant,” Faramund points out.

The rest of his loyalists agree.

“Show me the unit feeds,” Waldemar orders, ignoring the compliments.

The big screen starts with an establishing shot of the entire ship from the outside. Quickly, the hulls, bulkheads, and walls begin to disappear. The new cameras he installed don’t just record what’s literally happening. They paint a broad image of the room. The AI can then compile all of these feeds into a collective video of what’s happening at the ship. It’s like opening a dollhouse, and viewing the cross-section, except it’s real and in realtime.

He was shockingly right about nothing changing about their daily lives. They’re barely concerned. He can’t hear what they’re saying specifically, since there are thousands of them, but the AI is providing him with a summary. They’re mostly apathetic about it. They don’t think it really matters. It’s not that they love him, but that they think no one else will be able to do a better job. Is that what he wants, for them to not care? He doesn’t want power for the sake of it. He wants prosperity. No, he wants prosperity and enthusiasm. His next term will have to be different. Now that he knows no one is going to stop him, he can definitely arrange that

One thing he forgot to explicitly mention is that laws aren’t simply something you write down, and expect people to follow forever. They’re fluid, they change, and if the people at the top want that change to happen, they shouldn’t have to cross out what someone wrote before, and write a new one. All they need to do is make sure everyone knows about it. They sure as hell know now. He clearly could have been more direct about it, though, because some of their comments suggest that they’re not sure how far this will go, and whether he is lying about their daily lives.

“You’re right, Tensil. If you say something with the sense of authority, people will either believe it, or believe that there’s nothing they can do to stop it. They’re not rioting, they’re not organizing. They’re not even calling each other to talk about it.”

“Is that what you wanted, sir...indifference?” Faramund presses.

“For now.” Waldemar stands up, straightens his uniform, and prepares to leave. Something catches his eye, though. The collective feed has been orbiting around the ship slowly and randomly. There’s one dark spot that he can’t see. It’s completely black. He points. “What’s this? Why can’t I see this?”

“Council chambers,” one of his sycophants explains. “The civil government didn’t allow us to install the cameras there due to the sensitive nature of their discussions.”

“Why am I getting the feeling that something in particular is happening in that room right now?” Waldemar asks. He sighs when someone tries to come up with an answer. “That was a rhetorical question.” He shakes his head and tries to teleport there.

He finds himself literally bouncing back, and falling on his ass against his desk. “I’m fine!” he shouts at the men who try to help him up. “There’s an anti-teleportation field around it, which shouldn’t be there, because I didn’t authorize it.”

“You can teleport to just outside the room and—”

“I know the trick, Tensil. I’m not an idiot. “Waldemar tries again, this time only trying to get close to his final destination, but again, he’s thrown back. This time, the men are able to break his fall, but it’s still humiliating. “Argh!”

“Sir, it’s really not that far. We could just walk. Or I can get you a hoverchair.”

“I’m not old!” Waldemar complains. “Just shut up and leave me alone!” He teleports away again, but this time to his stateroom.

Finally, this works. If he’s going to be forced away this time, it will remain private. He teleports yet again, trying to get close to the council chambers, but not even as close as he tried the second time. He falls down once more, but instead of boomeranging to his room, he ends up back in the speech room. Oh, someone is messing with him. When he finds out who, they’re gonna die. They’re literally gonna die.

“I’ll walk,” he says, holding a finger up before Tensil can reiterate what he said before, “but I’ll do it alone.” He looks back at his people. “Disperse.”

Waldemar steps out of the room and takes the long way through the corridors to the council chambers. An odd sensation emerges in his stomach. It feels like bugs are crawling around in there. No, more like dull knives. Is this nerves again? What the hell is wrong with him? He tries the door, fully expecting it to be locked, but it opens.

He walks to find that the entire council has convened. His girlfriend, Sable is standing on the dais. To her left is a screen. It’s currently paused on a frame showing his speech. No, it’s after his speech was done, when the camera should have been off. He’s mid-blink, but due to his advanced age, his right eyelid always falls ever so slightly faster, making it look like he’s trying to wink here. Sable obviously did that on purpose. “What is the meaning of this? You knew I was giving a speech. Why meet today?”

“We’re here to discuss the future of the ship,” some dumb bitch council chairperson says.

“That’s what I was trying to do, as you can see. Again, why did you schedule it for the same time?”

“We were watching your speech,” the chairperson goes on. “We have not completed the vote, but enough have voiced their concern that I’m confident in the way it will turn out. Captain Waldemar Kristiansen, you will be free to continue as captain of this ship for as long as you are able. Your job will be to remain on the bridge, and supervise the monitoring crew. You will have no jurisdiction over the rest of the crew, nor anyone else on the ship. You say laws can be changed? Well, you’re right, they can be, and they are. This is a civilian vessel now. You have no authority here.”

Waldemar sneers at Sable. “You did this. You orchestrated all of it.”

“You’re out, Waldy. Buh-bye.” She gives him the old four-finger baby wave.

He points aggressively. “I’m fighting you on this. It may turn violent.”

Sable sports that evil grin she usually only does in bed. “Bring it on, honey.”

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Microstory 2720: They’re Not Afraid Anymore

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Chief Asset Manager Pribadium Delgado is sitting across the table from the seemingly self-appointed leader of the so-called Doma Tertians. His name is Sora Shimizu, and he has already proven difficult for her. He doesn’t like what she’s wearing, claiming that the shine offends his eyes. She does tend to favor the sleek and glossy aesthetic, and this is the sort of thing she normally wears, but she can be flexible. She taps on her wrist interface to shift her outfit to a matte purple.

Sora looks down at the purple scarf around his ankle. “That won’t win you points with me. I wear this in honor of a loved one. It was her favorite color, not mine.”

Pribadium has her limits. Without saying a word, she taps on her interface again, reverting back to her usual shiny suit as she folders her arms. Now she’s in his head.

Sora grits his teeth. “Whatever you’ve come to say, you should know that I know my rights. I know that we are legally allowed to settle on any celestial body massive enough to coalesce into a meaningfully spherical shape. No party may stake singular claim to an entire legally categorized terrestrial planet at the expense of other settlers—”

“I know the law,” Pribadium argues. “I helped write the most recent amendments.”

“Did you know that these laws apply to all neighborhood planets, and that the potential for sole ownership only begins outside of the bounds of a fifty light year radius from Earth?” Sora presses.

“Of course I know that,” Pribadium reiterates. “I wrote them! You obviously didn’t read or comprehend them. Those laws only apply to colony worlds. The Gatewood Collective was not categorized as a colony world. It was a military outpost for centuries before being released to a special asset distributor, which I run. The planet that we are on right now was deemed excessively inhospitable, and unfit for colonization. Squatter’s rights do not apply, because no one is allowed to settle on it. We are not settling on it either. It has been scheduled for obliteration. The process has already begun, and cannot be undone. If you stay, you will die when the pulse arrives.”

“We do not accept that decision,” Sora contends. “We might have landed after you fired your big gun, but we are here now. We know that there are ways for you to deflect the beam. You either do that, or count yourself responsible for the permanent deaths of hundreds of colonists who are also refugees. You will lose your job.”

“First of all, it’s a job, not a calling. If I lose it, then fine. In a few thousand years, no one will remember this. Secondly, we won’t come out looking bad. You were informed of the facts. You chose to stay. Everyone will know that. I’ll be fine. Gatewood will be fine. Thirdly, we can’t deflect it. It’s moving at the speed of light.”

Sora folds his arms now. “I know you have your ways. You can’t fool me.”

Oh, he’s just crazy. She knows that she shouldn’t use that word, which is why she doesn’t say it out loud. He’s clearly not mentally well, though. He might have been born that way, or the horror he faced on Proxima Doma changed him. This is gonna be tough either way. Then again, she does have the ability to manipulate time. There’s no way he knows that, right? I mean, if he were a time traveler, he would just speak with her honestly about it. He has to be bluffing, and her status is a complete coincidence. Right?

Sora chuckles softly. “Take all the time you need. We survived the destruction of our planet. It turned to soup underneath my feet. We are not afraid anymore. Are you?”

Microstory 2717: Not Living Safely

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Isavet’s trial is coming along swimmingly. Her parents try to fight for her, but the state adherent, Jericho Hagen is relentless. He argues that Isavet grew up in a simulated environment, where she was raised to believe that death was a matter of fact, and not a temporary setback. In fact, as she was born in there, she was never one of these transhumanists they talk about. Since she never consented to having her mind made immortal, she will die one day too. Since Isavet thought that destroying Mayumi and Talus the Elder’s bodies would result in permanent death, they categorize the crime as attempted murder. It’s all about intent; not outcome. The only question now is what to do with her, and this is where the delicate dance comes to a satisfying conclusion.

Isavet spent years formulating this plan. She knew what she wanted; she just didn’t always know how to achieve it. The way she has been acting is carefully designed to set her on the right path. They want her to be sad and remorseful, but she can’t do that. When she was with Caleb, she would periodically ask him questions about the justice system. She knows what happens if she asks to repent. They won’t send her where she needs to go. So she leans into the horror. She talks about how much she enjoyed it, and she warns the court that, if released, she will find a way to kill her victims permanently. She pretends that she didn’t know they would come back.

The two of them look terrified of her, even though they’re safe in their magical god bodies. It wasn’t entirely necessary for them to feel that way, but it’s a nice bonus. She does blame them at least partially for everything that happened to her family. According to Caleb’s teachings, there are two major lifestyles that sprung out of the medical advancements that created virtual immortality. Some people embrace it. Like him, they go on adventures just for the thrill of it. They want it to hurt. They want it to be scary. They want to feel alive. Isavet has respect for such people. They’re more like her, even though death is just as impermanent as it is for the second group. Others, like Mayumi and Talus the Elder, try to live safely. They focus on the abundance of life-giving resources, which the true Norsemen didn’t have. They don’t let themselves die, or even be scared. Their goal is continuity. Isavet doesn’t disrespect these people completely. She knows it’s a valid choice. But these two took it too far, and innocent people got hurt.

Caleb is actually here, having taken a sabbatical from his Viking life to support Isavet, and even argue on her behalf. Everyone argued on her behalf. Even Mayumi and Talus the Elder seemed sympathetic. But Caleb’s testimony was interesting, because he spoke more about her strength and spirit than about her kind heart. Her family said that he was hurting her case, but what they didn’t know is that he helped her more than anyone.

“Thank you, Caleb,” she tells him. “You are a good friend, and a great leader.” She steps over to face Vith. “Thank you, big brother. You are a strong fighter. But you’re more independent than you would like to admit. Stay in touch with the family, but you should find your own way. Perhaps leave this planet.” She steps over. “Take care of yourself kid.” She rubs Leif’s hair, mussing it up. “Don’t let anyone tell you who you are. Advocate for yourself and what you want to do with your life.” She steps over and sighs at her crying mother. “Mother. I’m sorry you lost two of your children. One day, you will have your revenge. I promise.”

“I don’t want revenge,” Gia argues.

“You will have it anyway.” Isavet steps over. “Thank you for everything you taught me, Father.”

Ronan opens his mouth, but can’t seem to bring himself to speak. That’s okay. He has already said everything he must. He will get his revenge on Isavet too, whether he wants it or not. She broke up the family just as much as Talus the Younger did, and she will pay for that. When she’s done.

Isavet turns around and walks back to the big chair in the center of the room. She stands in front of it calmly, and faces the adjudicator, flanked by the two arbitration panels. She was tried as an adult, so she got the full complement, unlike her brother before. She waits patiently for the adjudicator to go through the whole legal spiel.

Finally, it’s time for the sentencing. “For two counts of attempted murder, Isavet Truett, you are hereby sentenced to indefinite virtual quarantine, to be carried out on the Core World of Varkas Reflex.”

Isavet smiles. Her plan worked.

Microstory 2713: The Laws That Govern

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Isavet’s training doesn’t ever have to be over, but it can be today. She has been with this warband for the last six months, and has learned a lot. She has turned out to be wrong about Caleb. He knows his way around a sword and a spear. All the guys do. They might be mercenaries, but they are honorable men. Her plan to prove herself on day one worked. They accepted her, and treated her like one of their own just about immediately. Of course, she had to continue to be worthy of their regard, but she never felt like her bust had anything to do with it.

The men have not been too forward with her either. It was a few months before she realized that it’s because Caleb, as their leader, essentially has inherent claim to her as his woman. One thing she understands about the world that lies beyond is that there is no such thing as owning another person, in any sense. So he has not tried to exercise any control over her, except in his capacity as her leader. He has not technically relinquished this claim, however, hopefully so no one else tries to take it, and not because he is planning something for the future.

Isavet stands at a crossroads now. Two choices lie before her. Will she begin to go on campaigns with the men, or is she satisfied with her training? If she stays with them for two more years, they will help her get revenge. If she cuts out now, she will have to do it on her own, but now that she has the skills, that might be okay. That doesn’t mean she’s confident yet. She is still thinking.

“Do you want to know what I think,” Caleb asks, “or should I just shut up?”

“I am open to your opinion,” Isavet begins, “as long as it is a good one.”

Caleb sighs. “You were born to this world, and in this world, death is permanent. That is a gray area for Castlebourne. Certain domes are off-limits to people like you, because of how dangerous they are. Being born in here is not something that the laws accounted for, but if you will indulge me, I would like to show you this.” He removes something from his bag. It looks like paper, but it’s glowing.

Isavet recognizes it. That is the magical technology which her mother showed her when they were trying to explain that this was all only a simulation. “I don’t want to mess with that. I will see plenty when I’m ready to leave, which will be on my terms.”

“I respect that, so I’ll just tell you. The law was changed because of Talus. I don’t think they are going to force you to leave, but someone may show up here to strongly encourage it. You would be well within your rights to return if you opt for virtual imm—”

“Don’t say that word,” Isavet warns. “That means something to my people. It is not something that you can simply request from one of your friends, or however it is you do it. I like myself the way I am. I’m not changing. When I go out there and fight the men who burned down my home, I will do it knowing that it could be the last thing I do on Earth. I’m okay with that, and you’re going to have to be okay with it too.”

“But that’s just it,” Caleb says. “You’re not on Earth.”

“I know. It doesn’t matter. I have made my choice. Your king can send as many people as he wants, I’m not leaving my world until the job is done,” Isavet explains.

“Okay. So what are you going to do? I won’t make it easy on you, and except you from our traditions. Will you stay and fight for our causes, or will you go off alone?”

“I believe that you have shown me the light,” Isavet says. “Now that I know others may be after me, all I can do is stay alone. Goodbye, Caleb. Thank you for teaching me.”

Microstory 2705: Going Home

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The majority of the reasons that people in history had to commit crimes, or otherwise do harm, are now obsolete. The only truly valuable currency in the 26th century is energy. It’s not technically impossible to steal. It’s just very hard. It’s much easier, actually, to earn it by laying claim on one of the quadrillions of sufficiently sized small celestial objects in the galaxy, or one of the hundreds of billions of stars. There are other motivations, however, particularly ones sourced from the way a person’s brain happens to be wired. Some people are simply aberrant, and training them to improve is difficult. You can’t just reprogram an independent entity. Maintaining someone’s right to self-determination is a fundamental tenet of existence. There are many classifications of intelligence, but once you cross that threshold of self-consciousness, it is profoundly unethical for someone to take it from you. But coupled with the ease of immortality, how do you deal with someone who breaks the mould in harmful ways? Virtual reality.

Specifically, virtual quarantine. It’s essentially just a private server where you can do whatever you want, even if it would be considered awful in base reality, but you can’t leave. You’re not causing any real harm, because you’re technically alone. The only other people around you are NPCs. They don’t think. They don’t feel. They’re just ones and zeroes, ordered in such a pattern that makes them behave incredibly life-like. You can hurt them if you want, because you’re not actually hurting anyone. Or you can grow and learn. It’s up to you. It’s your world, you’re stuck in it. The question is, is even this ethical? By defaulting to immortality, you’re still stripping them of choice. The reasoning is that they can always choose to end themselves later, whereas if they first choose to die, they can’t change their minds. But not everyone agrees, which is why the debate rages on, even after centuries of having consciousness transfer technology.

Since there’s no clear answer to that, it’s one of the few major laws that are handled on a regional basis. Some say an eternity like this isn’t punishment, and some say it’s cruel and unusual. It really depends on whether he’s monitored or not. And if your pocket of civilization has opted against it, any overarching governmental body can’t override it, as long as your alternative punishment isn’t overtly unethical too. Many of the colonies, even those in the Core, have banned it. Earth employs it, as does one particular planet where it’s not only available for the locals, but also welcomes charters from others. Varkas Reflex was trying to become Castlebourne before Castlebourne existed. They were trying to build a massive theme park. But they weren’t ambitious enough and failed, so they pivoted to something smaller in design, but grander in scope. They perfected virtual simulations. That is where Talus is going, but there’s a snag.

Again, when dealing with an immortal population, people can swap bodies nearly as easily as clothing. It’s the consciousness that holds value. The substrate is only a sleeve. Which means the court is within their rights to destroy any and all of these substrates. They can always simply make another if something were to change in the future. Talus is too young. He has not had time to digitize his mind himself. He grew up in an ancestor simulation that prevented him from even knowing that was a possibility. He only has one substrate. He only ever had one. It’s therefore both unethical and illegal to destroy it, even if his mind is preserved in the virtual construct. So when he goes there, he gets to take his body with him, even if he’s not allowed to use it. But that’s also a security risk. Fortunately, that’s not Ronan’s problem anymore. He’s going home.

Microstory 2704: What Truly Matters

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Ronan is frustrated. After the initial run-in with Mayumi, he goes back to his temporary housing, and tries to get some sleep. He wakes up realizing that none of it matters. It doesn’t matter that Mayumi let her avatar die on purpose. It doesn’t matter that she cheated on him, or that she’s been living with the man Ronan thought he was raising as a child. The only concern is young Talus. While Mayumi is executing her testimony, he begins divorce proceedings. These days, it’s easier in some ways, but harder in others. When people live as long as they do, they have time to accumulate a lot of possessions. Someone could potentially own an entire colony planet. Redistributing that after a legal separation is complex, but they don’t have to worry about liquid wealth.

Ronan has his own energy credits, and Mayumi has hers. Credits can be given as a gift—governments don’t care how they’re distributed after they’re earned; it’s not like they can be stolen—but the two of them never had any reason to do this. By design, they don’t own much overall, and Ronan doesn’t care about what they do own. They have a small storage unit back on Bungula, where they lived before coming here, but as far as he’s concerned, she can have it all. So that’s what he puts on the forms. There is no point in commissioning a lawyer for either side. He hopes Mayumi feels the same way. But he won’t let her stay married to someone she doesn’t love. He’s quickly falling out of love with her too, after all this shit. He has Gia now.

It feels like these proceedings are taking forever, even though he knows it’s not true. As Earth became a post-scarcity society, there was a profound dropoff in crime. Why steal someone’s TV when you can get a free TV of your own, built by automators, which were built by other automators, all powered by the sun? A lot of the justice system is automated as well, though there is still a naturally-created component. You don’t have to be human to be an adjudicator, but you can’t have been programmed. You have to have either been born, or otherwise created as a blank slate. Then you have to develop in realtime. That is a key distinction which may never be changed. Even so, the process is a lot faster than it used to be. Still, he has mixed feelings about the current state of affairs. He just wants this to be over. He wants to return to his family in Danmörk, and put this all behind him. He is only stuck with Talus because Mayumi abandoned them both first. So now he can’t abandon Talus too, or he’ll look like a massive jerk.

Mayumi showed up because she is technically the boy Talus’ mother and had an obligation to attest, but she hasn’t been the one to raise him. Like the changes to the legal system overall, parentage is now determined more by nurture than nature. Leaving your offspring behind doesn’t automatically cause you to forfeit your rights, but the more deliberate it was, and the longer it lasts, the less likely it is that the court will see you as a rightful custodian. Obviously, this cuts both ways. If someone were to abduct a kid, and hold them for years, they wouldn’t likely maintain their parental status. It’s all about intent and action now; not blood. They don’t care about blood. Which is what makes this so difficult, because Ronan is genetically not young Talus’ father. But he is by circumstance, which is precisely how Mayumi wanted it. The older Talus is probably the real father, and this is just a regular kid who grew in Mayumi’s womb. It was perfectly timed to the Nordome trip. Had she long-conned him into that timetable? How long has she been trying to escape? No. Remember, none of that matters anymore. It’s time.

It’s time for the sentencing.

Microstory 2702: Alternate Arrangements and Agendas

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It’s time for Ronan to speak. In the old ways, a witness would be assigned either the defendant or the plaintiff or prosecutor. They were on one side or the other. Over time, this started to feel too combative. Society decided that the point of the justice system should be to uncover the truth, and balance fairness. There were different variations for the setup, but the changes were sweeping. A whole new vocabulary was created, which alone, made everything seem less partial. Lawyers became advocates or adherents to more clearly define their roles. Defendants became accused, and were considered pending so as not to bias the decision from minute one. Even juries changed. Half of the arbitration panels deliberated in one room while half did so in another. If they came to the same decision, maybe it was more likely right. Ronan still remembers the old ways and the old terms, and since this is the first time he’s ever been in any court in the centuries he’s been alive, he still frames everything he’s seeing through that lens. It’s jarring when they contradict it.

He must remember that he’s an attestant, not a witness. Attestant, not witness. Because he didn’t witness Talus do anything, he can’t attest to it. He can only tell the court what he knows, and what he knows is that Talus is not right in the head. As he’s sitting up here, not answering the most recent question that he was asked, he’s thinking about who else could be blamed for his son’s behavior. He keeps coming back to the implantation procedure. Something must have gone wrong. They must have made some mistake. They...spliced the wrong genes, or—he doesn’t know, he—

“Mister Truett. Mister Truett,” Jericho Hagen urges. “Have you seen any other behavior out of the accused which you might categorize as abhorrent?” he repeats.

Ronan was zoning out, but now he’s more sure of what he wants. He waits to answer again, but this time, he’s looking the attorney—no adherent—dead in the eye. “I wish to make an alternative accusation.” He looks up at the judge—adjudicator. “Did I do that right? Am I supposed to say it another way?”

“There is no formal syntax,” she replies. “Are you sure about this?”

“Yes, I—” Ronan begins to say.

“This is not the place for that. We will have to schedule a new inquisition to formalize your accusation. Until then, you cannot be expected to attest further at the current proceedings. But I must warn you, people have used this as a delaying tactic in the past. I will not stand for it in my court, so you better have a plausible accusation.”

“I do, your honor.” What Talus did was wrong, but it may not be his fault. Ronan is not going to try to stop Talus from being dealt with accordingly, but those bot doctors need to answer too, and he doesn’t want to continue until they do. He stands from the chair, and begins walking back towards the attestant waiting area.

“Agent, please prepare the next attestant for a round of assertions,” the adjudicator orders. They changed it from bailiff to fit all the other A-terms. So stupid.

The agent escorts Ronan back into the joint chamber, where he is supposed to go into his own little private room. They keep attestants separate, again to maintain impartiality. Something has gone wrong here too, though. The next attestant is out of her own room already. She seems as surprised to see him as he is to see her.

“Mayumi.”

She doesn’t speak. She picks her jaw off of the floor, and slips back into her room.

Microstory 2701: This is the Beginning, and This is the End of the Sentence

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It’s not the trial yet. This is called the inquisitorial period, where all of the primary evidence is laid out before the court. There are no witnesses, there are no testimonies. The state, in this case, the owner of Castlebourne, has provided them with what they claim is the proof of Talus’ guilt. Truthfully, Ronan doesn’t doubt it. Talus hasn’t been right since he’s been old enough to make his own decisions again. He doesn’t understand why Talus would try to kill his little brother, but there’s almost no way that Castlebourne has this wrong. They have this whole world wired up. You can only keep your secrets as long as they don’t hurt anyone. Once they do, it ends up out in the open. You know that going into a simulation, and Ronan and Mayumi had no problem with it. They still don’t. Especially if it’s true that Talus did hurt Yumo with malicious intent, they need to know what happened.

At first, the footage is all right. It’s certainly weird, but out of context, it’s totally fine. Maybe Talus was gathering dirt and leaves to make a new pigment. Maybe he wanted to study them, or build a terrarium. It is easily explainable, or rather would be if they didn’t know what they knew. The next part is far more damning. Talus takes all the stuff he picked up from the forest floor, and rubs it into little Yumo’s bellybutton. His eyes. That’s the hardest part. They’re so...detached. He’s not angry or sad. This is just a task he has to complete, and he has no strong feelings about it. Ronan has to look away. It’s horrific. He did it with such intent. He doesn’t know if it’s because the original Talus would be smart enough to understand the mechanism, or if the new one teased it out. Or if it was some sick combination of both.

“That’s enough,” Judge What’s-Her-Name says. “We don’t need to see the whole thing. Is that it for the state’s evidence?”

“It is, Your Honor,” a lawyer named Jericho Hagen replies.

“Does the defense have evidence to provide the court at this time?”

Talus has an attorney of his own. His name is Kyle K. Stanley. “We do not, Your Honor. We accept the state’s evidence as a matter of existence without acknowledging any particular interpretations of it. We are anxious to prepare our defense.”

“Very well,” the judge says. “If there are no objections, this inquisition hearing will come to a close, and we will break for two days while the advocates prepare to call witnesses, and make their cases.”

“I plead guilty,” Talus says.

“Son, that’s not how it works. There will come a time for that—” the judge begins.

“I plead guilty now, I plead guilty now!” Talus insists. “I did it. I tried to kill him, and I would do it again! He was never supposed to exist! He’s not real! It’s just a simulation! He’s an NPC! He’s not real!” As they’re dragging him out while under contempt, he keeps yelling that. “He’s not real! He’s not real!”

“What does this mean?” Ronan asks Stanley. As the father, Ronan doesn’t have any legal authority in this court. He doesn’t have the right to know something simply because he raised Talus for the last eight years. Still, it’s okay for him to ask.

“If the judge accepts the plea, we will move on to the sentencing portion of the proceedings. That was always going to be the more grueling component of the process. Honestly, he is guilty, and we all know it. What we need to determine now is how to handle him. That’s what I was really brought in for, and I will protect him as much as possible.”

Maybe he shouldn’t.

Microstory 2690: Forbidden Science

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Ronan Truett sits on the exam table, wearing what he calls a gasmask, but the doctor called it something else. It is quite literally freezing cold on his face, but he doesn’t mind it. It isn’t going to be the hardest thing he will ever do over the course of the next few decades. After the twenty minutes are up, the doctor comes back and removes it. “How does it look?” he asks.

“Good. How does it feel?” the doctor volleys.

Ronan rubs the new beard on his chin. “Like a thousand tiny cuts.”

The doctor dismisses it with his facial expression. “That’ll go away in a few minutes. Would you like me to hot press and discolor it? I can make it unkempt and wild, so you look more rough and tumble.”

“Actually, historical Norsemen were quite well-groomed. A long and well-styled beard was the sign of a masculine and respectable man back then. Pay no attention to the inaccurate old movies you may have seen. They didn’t wear horned helmets either, if that’s what you’re picturing.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about it.”

“It’s not in your internal database? Can you access the central archives remotely?” Ronan presses.

The doctor chuckles. “My brain doesn’t do that. I’m not an android, but one of those virtually immortal organics. I change substrates when I need to, like you, but I don’t have cybernetic connections.”

Ronan is surprised and impressed.

The doctor seems to sense this. “I just like medicine, so they let me do the simpler procedures, like your hair follicle stimulation. I wouldn’t be allowed to conduct any major surgeries. Castlebourne follows the same laws that Earth does in that regard.”

“I see,” Ronan says as he’s admiring his new appearance in the mirror. He’s never been one for facial hair, but he’s about to become a Norseman, so he wanted to look the part, and really immerse himself in the simulation. He’s not the only one. “So that’s why you’re not doing the foetal consciousness transfer for my wife.”

This gives the doctor pause. “I’m sorry? Foetal?”

“Oh, she’s not going to transfer herself to a foetus. She’s going to carry the foetus, and have the baby in the simulation.”

The doctor is still confused by this, and also now speechless.

“I assure you, it’s perfectly legal. We’re well within the Charter Cloud—”

“I’m aware of how the law works on this planet, Mister Truett. I’ve probably lived here longer than you. I know that foetal transference is possible, and I’m not surprised it’s legal. I’m surprised anyone would actually ever do it. There’s a reason it is illegal in the Core Worlds. We don’t know what it would do to a person, regressing to a prenatal state, or even early developmental, with all that neuroplasticity. What impact does that have on a person’s psyche, when their brains rewire themselves so drastically? Can you even have a continuity of consciousness when you let that happen? Is it not just an elaborate form of death? Suicide, that is?”

“Well, we’ll see,” Ronan says as he’s putting his shirt back on. He needed a little chest hair too. That is designed to take longer, which is fine. “My friend has fully consented to it.”

“He’s your friend?” the doctor questions. “I’m not sure if it’s weirder that he’s not your wife’s biological son already, or if it would be more awkward if he were.”

“Pretty judgy for a medical professional. A bot doctor would never say that.”

He shrugs. “You could have designed a substrate to develop facial and body hair during the gestation process, but you chose to come to me. Most people like my blunt attitude, specifically because they can’t get it from a bot doctor, unless it’s their personal model. But you’re right, I’ll zip my mouth. There’s the door, have a good immersion.”

Ronan leaves the exam room, and heads down to the other floor where his wife and friend are sitting up next to each other in their respective gurneys.

“Oh, you look great,” Mayumi reaches up towards his face with a dumb look on her own. “Fluffy.” She actually looks and sounds intoxicated. Her gown is on backwards.

“She’s on drugs for the implantation procedure,” their friend and future son, Talus explains. “I am not. I have to be sharp before I become a baby again.”

Mayumi smiles over at Talus. “You’re gonna love my uterus. We play hip-hop on Tuesdays.”

“Not anymore, we don’t,” Ronan points out. “It’s all lyres and flutes for us for the next thirty years. We’ll play the lyre for you while you’re baking in there, son.”

“You don’t know how.”

“I’ll have plenty of time to learn.”

“When you’re not off a-viking,” Talus reminds him.

“Maybe even then.” Ronan cracks his knuckles. “I’m sure I could break heads and carry a tune at the same time.”

“I don’t think I have a head anymore,” Mayumi says.

A new doctor walks in—a proper bot this time. He hands Talus a tablet. “Okay, the mother has already finished her consent forms, but here’s the last one for you, Mister Sauter. This one personally absolves Hrockas Steward from any liability in the event that the results of this procedure render you neurologically damaged, physically defective in your new substrate, or philosophically deceased and replaced. It is the same waiver you signed before, but the owner wanted you to sign a separate one for him.”

“Sounds good to me,” Talus agrees. He signs without hesitating. He has thought about this for a very long time. They did not do this on a whim.

Ronan must admit, this is a crazy idea, and yes, there is a reason it has never been done before. What comes out of Mayumi nine months from now may not be Talus at all. It may be an entirely different person; new memories, new personality, new everything. It could mean that this Talus right here is dead. He deliberately didn’t make a copy of his mind as backup, since that wouldn’t really be him either, since it would already have been outdated by hours at best. This might very well mark the end of Talus Sauter, and they won’t really have an idea for another ten years maybe? But it’s what he wants, it’s what Mayumi wants, and while his opinion doesn’t technically matter here, it’s what Ronan wants too. He is going to raise his best friend in a simulation of Scandinavia in the first millennium, and he couldn’t be more excited. He kisses them both, then leaves for the waiting room so they can move forward.

An hour later, Mayumi wheels out alone. She smiles at him. “Great news, husband. I am no longer light.”

“Okay,” Ronan says, clapping his hands. “Let’s go to Danmörk.”

Microstory 2689: Full Circle

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Resi is back on the beach. He doesn’t know if he’s truly going to end up on Castlebourne at some point, or if his vision is pointing him to some other direction. The futures he sees can clearly be changed, or he wouldn’t be lounging here right now. This whole area would be covered in ash and lava. He just wants to relax and be happy. He hasn’t been able to do that for a very long time, and when you think about it, maybe not ever. When he exiled himself to the border, he was indeed lounging all day, but he was also always really tense. Now he doesn’t have to think about anything, or worry about what’s gonna happen. It’s just him, the sand, the sun, and the sea. This is a nude beach, making it all the more freeing. He feels a presence, so he opens his eyes.

The sun is at her back, so he can’t see who it is at first. “Back on Earth, when I was a kid, we called people like you slackers!” she yells, joking. He knew her voice. It was Brooke Prieto. She taught him how to see the future. That was a hundred years ago.

“I’ve earned a vacation,” he tells her, dropping the shades back over his eyes.

“I can’t disagree.” She sits down on the sand next to him. She looks ridiculous in her spaceman outfit. The opposite of a relaxed vibe, and it can’t be comfortable.

“A bit overdressed?” he muses.

“I can change,” she replies as they’re looking out over the water.

He hears a noise. When he looks back at her, she’s suddenly in a pink bikini. “Neat trick. Still overdressed, though.” He can be funny too.

She laughs.

“How has your life been?” he asks. “A hundred years is quite a long time.”

“Has it been that long?” Brooke questions. “Wow, the decades just fly by. You’ll see when you’re older. Speaking of which, are you considering getting all of your memories back? I don’t know if you’re worried about no longer being Resi anymore, but you shouldn’t be. You won’t stop being you. You’ll just be...more you.”

“I don’t know. I’m pretty happy with who I am right now. I finally feel like I am finally who I’m meant to be. Now, God forbid, if another volcano erupts, and I see it in my dreams, I won’t write it off or freak out. I’ll be more confident. I won’t necessarily know what to do right away, but I’ll manage to work through it. Hopefully it won’t kill me again.” He nudges her shoulder with his own.

She nods, but not understandingly, more just patiently. She continues to watch the waves crash onto the shore. “I had a friend a long time ago who you remind me of. Belahkay. Ludicrous name. He was easygoing at heart, but not a waste of space. His people were facing a dangerous task, and none of us could do it for him. It had to be a regular human, and he could have genuinely died from it. This was actually here on Bungula...very early days. The earliest.” She takes a breath. “It was when we were terraforming it. He was very brave, and he survived. He was the first true Bungulan, if you use the right definition. We went on some adventures together; ended up thrown clear across the galaxy, where we were forced to destroy a planet for some not-so-great people. He always wanted to do the right thing, though. I’ve not seen him in a long time. He had to volunteer for another mission, and he had to do it alone. And we let him, because we had other things to work on at the same time.

When we went back for him, he couldn’t remember us anymore. He had become someone else, and didn’t wanna leave. So we tried to move on. But. Then he called. Out of the blue. I mean, it wasn’t him, but word got back to me that he needed our help. He still couldn’t remember me, mind you, but he was still the same person, deep down. So I flew back to his planet, and helped him through some stuff. And wouldn’t you know it? I lost him again. He made the ultimate sacrifice. Again. I thought he was gone forever, but then I get another call, and I’m told that his consciousness was being stored on an off-site server that people just forgot about. The laws on this planet, they’re tricky. We weren’t allowed to just plug him back in. We figured it out, though. Unfortunately, he still couldn’t remember me, except for the short window where I helped him understand how to see the future. That was new. He couldn’t ever do that before. I think he was exposed to temporal energy, or something, and...it changed him.”

Resi is no idiot. He knows who she’s talking about, but now he can’t bring himself to look over at her. He just keeps watching the water.

She has one more thing to try. “You may not want him back. But I need him. Resi, I need my friend. It’s been centuries, and I don’t care how old we end up getting, that kind of time apart will always be excruciating.”

He breathes, and finally works up the courage to look over at her again. “Okay. I’ll do it.”