Rulers

Rulers Ch. 1 A nondescript white man sat in a chair in the middle of a bare concrete room, naked, breathing heavily. His well-defined chest heaved with each breath as he gulped air before his eyes grew sharp. He stood up immediately and looked around the room, seeing nothing, no doorways, no exits. Then the wall in front of him came to life, displaying a man and a woman wearing expressions of concern. He could see their bodies from the elbows up, sitting behind a table that he understood wasn’t on the other side of the screen. He knew what the screen was, and understood they were nowhere nearby. “Hello,” said the woman. She wore what looked like a wetsuit. Her hair was close-cropped. She was white, in her 30s, attractive, with a hard gaze that she was attempting to soften with a smile. She wore a white patch on her right temple. “Hello,” he said. “Do you know your name?” she asked. “I am Spartacus,” he said. “And what year is it?” asked the man on-screen. He was wearing a similar-looking wetsuit, in shades of gray instead of the yellow and black color blocks of the woman’s. He was also white, 30s, attractive, with hard eyes. He did not smile. “The year is 2044.” “Where are you?” the woman asked. “I am on Devon Island,” Spartacus said. “I suppose I am in my headquarters, or maybe a kind of waiting room.” “Good,” said the man. “So the upload took.”

Spartacus looked at the screen, impassive. “So you know what you are here for,” the man added. “You know that your survival is unlikely, and even if you do survive you still won’t be free to go wherever you choose. Do you consent?” “Sir,” Spartacus said. “I was a soldier, then a gladiator, then a general. My survival was always unlikely, and I was never free. A man must accept his fate or be destroyed by it. I accept.”

“Good,” said the woman. “Then we can start.” The first day was spent getting used to this new body. It could do all of the things the old body could do, although it had no weapons to wield. Although he felt like it was the same body, he knew intellectually that this wasn’t true, and the memories that were telling him it was true were equally fake — implanted, supplied, intended to overcome the dysmorphia that would complicate his training. And he knew that his training had to be well spent. He didn’t have much time. On the second day, he saw the woman on his screen. She said, “This is where we talk about your predicament, and your goal. Ask me anything.” Spartacus didn’t hesitate. “Am I the first?”

The woman said, “You are the first, although you weren’t the first chosen.”