Preparation
The Uber pulls up after a long wait. I’m glad to get in out of the cold but also dread my destination. I’ve just been summoned to appear in the ceremony of transference of consciousness for the elder. He has always been a kindly old man, and I’m sad to see him become someone else.
His clone is thirty years old, and we are unsure what to expect from the outcome. The process is quite erratic. Sometimes the person after the transfer is precisely the same; sometimes, they go crazy; mostly, they end up somewhere in the middle: a new being.
We don’t know how the transference of consciousness works. It is an old ritual that the magus community has passed down for centuries. We only perform the rite for the most revered among us, usually the elder of each sect and sometimes especially revered community members as well. The most important rule is that only the most devoted members may receive it.
Since a small number of transferences go insane, we only perform it for the most faithful believers in the hopes that they will have internalized our beliefs and their loyalty to the depths of their souls. Even if they go crazy, we hope such faithful members will still not betray us. Of course, there is no guarantee of this, which is why we also have special task forces assigned to monitor them for months after the procedure.
There have been horrible cases where someone who was transferred remembered everything and hated us. They acted as if they were fully loyal but secretly recruited members opposing us. They created the Contra Magica Sectam or CMS, now our most dire and sole enemy. No others even know of our existence, but the CMS infiltrates our sects and befriends us, subtly subverting our goals and twisting the Magus Society to their ends.
“You got any plans for Christmas?” The driver says, shocking me out of my reverie. “Oh yeah. Going to be spending time with family and friends. You?” He sighs in response, “Driving, driving, driving. Every day it’s the same, no breaks for old Sergei.” I squirm in my seat. I struggle with people who unload on random strangers, but I also try to maintain my kindness toward him. “I’m sorry to hear that. Life can sometimes be challenging. At least you can have interesting conversations with your passengers.”
“You are right at that!” He exclaims. “Why just the other day, some folk were in here raving about a new form of Wiccan ritual. Some people can’t separate reality and fantasy.” He sighs. I see that he also struggles with empathy but is trying his best, which invigorates me.
“How strange. I’m not particularly eager to disparage the beliefs of others myself. You never know what they have tapped into. It just might be that there are powers of which you and I are unaware.” I reply slyly. “The only power I know of is the city. The movement of people and cars. Human ingenuity. That is real. Anything else is so much make-believe to me.”
I lean back and sit silently for the rest of the trip. It wouldn’t do to get into an argument with the fellow, and I would rather he feel this way regardless. The challenging thing about being a magus is that we can’t discuss it with anyone outside of the circle. My family, friends, and girlfriend think I’m a software engineer, and that’s how it must be. We aren’t lying because we have day jobs that we tell others that we do. I do go to work every day and write software. It’s just that I only spend an hour or so doing this as a consultant. The rest of the time, I perform magus rites.
We arrive at the manor, and I thank the man, wish him happy holidays, and get out. I go in and greet the other members. It’s been years since the last transference, so we’re all on edge. Some of the group work with me as engineers. Others are business people, doctors, plumbers, lawyers, pilots, magicians (what better cover than the truth), and other members of society. I see the elder Iago pacing around the back, chatting with people and fidgeting.
I walk up and greet him. “Good evening, esteemed one.”
“Esteem belongs to all magi. Yet tonight, I feel less so than most.” He replies, his hands shaking, lips quivering. I’ve never seen him like this. He has always been the stable mountain of the sect. Someone who I would turn to when I was discouraged and needed to bolster my faith.
Indeed, the fear of death and non-death grips all. I begin preparing the magic circles. The clone appears to be healthy, except for having no consciousness. It sits there like a mannequin. Even after several transferences, they still creep me out.
Now that’s odd. One of the lines on the elder’s circle is a little off. I call over Herbert, our resident magic language specialist, and point out the issue. “That is a valid way of expressing the ritual, just a little non-standard.” He reassures me. “But, why write it in a non-standard way rather than the normal way for such an important ceremony?” I argue.
He says that delta expressions are all the rage these days and that the inscriptor was probably trying to be clever. I’d rather it be right than clever, but to correct the inscriptor would invite the wrath of a thousand demons, so I drop the matter. The clone circle looks fine, as far as I can tell. I give my assent to the ritual and begin chanting.
