“Joy to you, Sophia,” I said. I wasn’t afraid, although I knew she could do anything to me, since I was her votary.

“Joy,” she echoed. “Who would have imagined that it would have been you who succeed in making Plato’s City work?”

“Wasn’t this your plan?” I asked.

“Not mine and not Jathery’s,” she admitted. “Neither of us ever believed it could work properly. Sokrates must have guessed that I thought that, or else Apollo told him.”

“I think he guessed,” I said.

“Maybe. But the Far-Shooter told him far more than he should.” She waved a hand, letting it go. “But you really did make it work, you’re really doing it. It’s excellent.”

“Everyone on Plato is trying to do it their own way,” I said. “But it’s easier for us. Sokrates says Plato should have written it for Workers.”

“Except he didn’t know you existed,” she said, smiling.

“Who suggested bringing Workers in the first place?” I asked.

“It was my idea. We wanted plumbing, and we didn’t want slaves. I’ve always been uneasy about slavery.”

“Aristomache wrote that in the ancient world they couldn’t imagine doing without slaves, because they really had to depend on them to keep up their level of culture. But Plato imagined a way, having all the children brought up in common and selected for their work by merit.”

“Plato had a wonderful imagination, and a strong sense of justice. And he tried to make things sound really conservative, Spartan even, while really being wildly revolutionary and progressive. Women, slaves—it was much more comfortable for men in power to believe with Aristotle that they were naturally inferior. It freed them from guilt about how they treated them. But Plato wanted the true aristocracy, rule by those who are objectively the best. His mother Perictione was a Pythagorean philosopher. He was enslaved himself, and he knew other philosophers who were enslaved by the chance of war. He wanted justice. He wanted to make people think about it, which he did. He never intended the Republic as a blueprint.” The owl flew down and nestled on her lap. She petted it absently.

“Are you sorry you tried to make it real?”

“No, how could I be? I learned so much. And here I am talking in Greek with you on a planet circling a distant sun, in a version of Plato’s Republic spontaneously set up by robot philosophers. It’s more than a cultural rebirth, it’s a whole new civilization for us. Then there’s all the additional time I had to spend with my friends, Cicero, Ficino, Pico … that is, Ikaros.” She sighed. “I saw the statue of him you’re making, by the rails. It’s beautiful.”

“Is that why you came?” I asked. The owl turned its head and looked at me.

“No. I came to tell you I brought the others back.”

I had no idea what she meant, and then I realized and was excited. “The other original Workers? The ones you took away after the Last Debate?”

“Yes. I brought them here, now. This is the best place for them, this is where they can become their best selves. So I brought them.” The owl flew up and went to the doorway and led them in, and there they all were, my lost friends. I unplugged myself and went to greet them—they could not yet speak aloud, and so they carved their delight and greetings into the walls and floor as I tried to tell them all at once where they were and all that had happened since the Last Debate.

By the time I looked around again for Athene, she had gone.

IV. On Time and the Gods

I have myself been moved through in time on two occasions, once when Athene brought me to the Republic, and once when Zeus moved the cities to Plato during the Relocation. I am aware that moving in and out of time and taking others with them is an ability the gods have. Yet I have never really understood how it works, and I never expect it as something that can plausibly happen. It always seems to me contrary to logic, and un-Platonic.

The Workers who came direct from the Last Debate to the City of Workers told me that no experienced time passed for them in between. This leads me to believe that the same may be true for Athene, that she may have brought them to me directly, and that she conversed with me in the City of Workers in a time that was for her before both the Relocation and her sojourn outside in primal time. I could have told her about these things, and if I had she would then have been bound by Necessity, knowing about her own actions. As I did not, as we spoke only about Plato and the Republic, she was not.

I am not sure that this is what she did. It is very difficult for us to understand the way the gods relate to time. Porphyry says she could have spent hundreds of years of her own time calming down in between the Last Debate and when she spoke to me in the form of Septima. For me it was a century, and I lived every day of it. She may have come after the Relocation, and after the last time I saw her, on the day the first space humans landed, going back to the Last Debate to collect the Workers and bring them forward. It is a Mystery. Time, for the gods, is fundamentally different from the way it is for the rest of us, and hard to understand.

Pytheas said nobody, god or mortal, can be in the same time twice, but that isn’t normally a problem for gods, because they can dice time very finely whan they want to. I asked him whether he could take me to visit Ficino in 1490, and he said he could, but it wouldn’t be fair to Ficino to make him promise never to tell me about it, and even less fair for Ficino to have to act as if he believed the Workers were not sentient, while knowing we were. He said he couldn’t do anything that would change anything observed by a god or recorded by people. He said the act of observing things fixed them.

Therefore, observe as much as you can. Record it for posterity. Oppose arbitrary intervention by gods with their own agendas. Be careful what gods you trust. Be careful what you pray for. The gods can move in and out of time, but we are much more free to act within time than are the gods. Granting prayers was how Athene bent the rules to set up the Republic. Our prayers should be moderate and considered. Limiting them to thanks and celebration seems wisest on most occasions.

Arete says Posterity isn’t so appealing when you know you have its attention.

V. On My Soul (Part 2)

Athene, Jathery and Pytheas—or I should say Apollo, now that he is restored to himself—took a voyage into the primal reality that is through a Mystery both what Plotinus called The One, and also unformed Chaos. When they returned, Apollo was swift to assure me that all souls are there, and that there is no distinction between souls. He told me that Worker souls have been human and animals and aliens, and can go on to become those again. He hadn’t been sure about this before because he had not spent much time in eras with Workers, but once he was in the place he called “out there” he knew it with divine certainty.

The third thing he did on his return to the Republic after the voyage, after first assuring Arete that he was safe and Marsilia that Alkippe was, was to find me to reassure me about this.

Since then, I have met Workers who had souls I once knew as human. So I know now that I have an immortal soul, that I have been through many lives and will go on to many more.

It shouldn’t make much difference, but it does.

24

APOLLO

Sometimes Necessity gives something back.

There was a debate in Chamber. It was a long, but not an especially interesting debate, notable mostly for having more gods present than any previous debate in the City. To nobody’s surprise, they agreed to follow the Plan.

As they debated so earnestly about whether it was good to keep knowledge from people, rehearsing the same arguments, I found myself less and less convinced. There were certainly false certainties, and revealed truth did have a tendency to dogmatism. But could it be wrong for people to know that they had souls, to know what was out there? If it was something they couldn’t doubt, perhaps. But revelation was part of my province. There were ways of giving oracles that worked. I had promised to try to explain to everyone about equal significance, however hard it was to fit it into the shape of story. Could I find a way to slide it through, a way to make it part of stories? “You must change your life,” I said to Rainer in the Louvre in 1905, and he had, bless him. I should try saying that emphatically to more people. Crocus had asked how the truth could hurt philosophers.