Michael’s hand caressed the stone’s surface, feeling for subtle imperfections. His eyes studied the grain, the texture, the way the light played on it. He tapped on the marble with the butt of his chisel, listening. A hollow sound meant hidden fractures, an invisible weakness that could devastate the sculpture. But to his content a solid ‘thud’ came back.

  Good, he thought.

  But then when he tapped on a different part of the stone, another sound came back—a soft, almost melodic ring. Michael froze. Then tapped again.

  This block of marble won’t do. There’s a weakness inside.

  He closed his eyes and concentrated. In an instant the block disappeared. And another in its place materialised.

  This block of marble was pure, almost translucent in the sunlight from the windows. The grain was fine, the surface free of dark veins or impurities. It was large enough to contain the full movement of Apollo reaching for Daphne.

  “What are you doing?” Leila asked from behind. “Did you just program this block into the sim?”

  “That’s one way of looking it.” And stood back to bring the entire block into his field of vision. “I willed it with my mind. Isn’t that what you do?”

  “Well, yes, but I will basic things. Like a blanket last night when I was cold. But if you are so trained by now to will huge blocks of marble with all the variations, you can just will the statue itself and we can go home.”

  Michael smiled. “But that would be cheating!”

  Leila smiled back. It was a long shot but worth a try. The dossier she studied of Michael left no room for doubt. His training and subsequent work on AA allowed him to process immense amounts of data in real-time. He was an expert on quantum computing. And from there, it was a slippery slope to simulating complex systems.

  “Tell me,” she said, “Are you not afraid of the day that you won’t pass the Turing Test?”

  Michael leaned on his block of marble and thought about it. The question warranted a cigarette. So he lit one with powdery hands. “Have I become indistinguishable to you from a heap of data?”

  “Here—“ he passed her a claw chisel, and pulled out his arm—“cut me to see if I bleed or just glitch.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just been so long. Five years is along time to be connected. Aren’t you afraid the interface at some point will no longer need the original hardware?”

  “You mean my brain? You tell me. You are running on the same system, no?”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “Yes. But my neural link is more advanced and the activation just recent. My consciousness was projected into your simulation at quantum speed instantaneously. Though we are in the same sim, it is arguable that my experiences and emotions here are rendered more perfectly than yours.”

  “Isn’t that what all the girls say?” He joked. And then came close to her and looked into her eyes: “Where is your neural implant if I may ask?”

  “It’s here,” and she touched the base of her neck.

  And Michael glided his fingers down her swan like neck until he felt a small hard bump.

  “Did it hurt?”

  “Just a little. Like a sharp twitch. But the consciousness projection was flawless.”

  “Of course. I designed it to be flawless. Tiny quantum sensors track every synapse, electrical impulse, and neural oscillation, allowing two-way data streaming. And the feedback loop stabilisation?”

  “Excellent,” she replied and clasped the chisel tighter in her hand to demonstrate— “Realistic physics, texture and weight. Immediately.”

  “But—“ she whispered. “We developed backup AI mapping of the brain into the digital space.”

  “So you don’t need your brain then. Assuming its been fully replicated,” he mocked.

  “Well, if it’s just the same—I’d like to keep my brain.” She smiled. “Now enough with all this tech talk. We’ve established we’re both projected consciousnesses, can we get on with the program?”

  “Indeed!” And Michael squashed his cigarette out.

  ***

  The next few days Michael consecrated to creating small rough moquettes. Miniature Daphnes caught in mid-transformation, her fingers reaching up, already feathered into leaves. A dozen models he fashioned from terra cotta, some discarded, some he broke in anger. With dozens and dozens of sketches of the said statue scattered around the room.

  Once he arrived at the perfect miniature model he shaped the final life size clay model which dominated the center of the workshop. It took two weeks to make it, its delicate folds and flowing limbs shaped with wires, his hard fingers, and sculpting tools. And finally over all this, Michael cast plaster molds which he then transferred to the marble block, still standing and waiting its turn.

  “I now know why you chose this sculpture,” Leila said one bored day as she dangled her foot from the couch in the workshop.

  But Michael could not hear her. Using heavy iron-point chisels and hammers he was hacking away pounds of marble, following the plaster marks.

  Leila jumped out of her cushioned seat and marched to the pillar. She put her hand on his mallet and Michael nearly squashed her fingers.

  “What are you doing!” He screamed. Sweat forming above his brow.

  “The statue. I know.” She repeated.

  “What do you know?”

  “Maybe you can will us a nice restaurant on the beach to go to? I fancy a margarita…” she mocked.

  “Are you insane?”

  “No. You’re the one stuck in a sim for over five years. And I’m bored waiting for Apollo and Daphne to emerge.”

  “We have a deal! We are not going to a restaurant on the beach, because A, we don’t need to eat in the sim if you haven’t noticed. And B, I can’t expand the sim anymore it will consume too much computational resources and destabilise the system.”

  “It’s sad,” Leila circled the marble block beginning to take shape. “Apollo chased Daphne, and so she decided to cast away her beauty and transform herself into a tree…”

  Michael pushed back his stool and it fell with a thud. He was tired and sweaty, even for a projected consciousnesses. His arms, hands and fingers bruised from chiseling. He wanted to scream at Leila and project all his frustrations on her.

  But as she sat back down on the couch, she looked small and vulnerable. And he realised her sacrifice to come here into the sim. So all he managed to say was:

  “But even transformed, Apollo loved the tree nevertheless, because underneath the bark he could still feel Daphne’s heart beating…”

  ***