Shabby and Vulgar
All humans die. Socrates is human. Therefore, Socrates dies. Death spares no one. Philosophy on life and death has been pondered since ancient times.
"Remember that you must die. Therefore, seize the day." Memento mori. Carpe diem.
"Talk of Greece and Rome?"
"Ancient history."
To demolish Les Innocents Cemetery, we first had to convince the populace. The Church would follow if the people willed it. Still, a justification was essential...
"What was the response from the Papal States on the perpetual hereditary rights?"
"They'll consider it favorably. But they can't guarantee it for future popes—only the current one—and they asked for realistic compensation."
That was to be expected. No promise lasts a thousand years.
"Then we'll change our demand. No interference in secular policy."
The reason I avoided explicitly demanding cremation was simple: other doctrines might trip up my reforms, even if I didn't know them all. Louis XVI might have been a devout believer, but by this era's standards, I was a heretic by every religion's measure.
"Have the National Intelligence Agency set up a ghost company. Put it in Saint-Germain's name."
Still, better to front with him than do it myself. Let history judge me as it will—I'm living in the now.
June 13, 1779, the king's office.
Surprisingly few wealthy merchants remained in Europe. Those with money had much to lose, so most had been wiped out in the promissory note scandal. Thus, Europe's current rich were mostly green novices who'd struck it big in the public auctions.
France was different. We'd shared intel with loyal bourgeois.
But even loyal bourgeois were Europeans. Order them to pulverize bones or cremate? That could crack their loyalty.
Efficiency-wise, private firms were ideal. But we couldn't risk alienating loyal magnates for a few extra coins, so a state enterprise it was.
I met alone with one National Intelligence Agency operative. His name: Bordeaux. A pseudonym, naturally. He'd handled the Bordeaux region in the last great trade note scam.
"Bordeaux, I thank you for your devotion. Your name will be erased, but your achievements will underpin France's foundations."
"You're too kind, sire. I merely did my duty."
I opened the east window, gazing at Les Innocents Cemetery.
"Do you know I've been thinking about disposing of Les Innocents?"
"Yes, sire. My subordinates reported it."
"Then no need to mince words. Set up a ghost company. This one's not meant to fail. It must become France's bedrock for the future."
"Understood."
Bordeaux replied without hesitation.
"I've alerted the mint; funding won't be an issue."
I handed him pre-drafted papers.
"I don't need it eternal—just make it last a century."
It was the columbarium business plan. Ordinary NIMBY in the 21st century, but in the 18th? Satanic heathen sorcery.
"...I want to know why this business is necessary."
"Good question—thank you."
"Pardon?"
"Nothing."
No suspicion would've unnerved me more.
"Bordeaux, do you believe in Christianity?"
"Yes. Jesuit, once. Now, just a National Intelligence Agency man."
Jesuits. From my crash course in 18th-century Christianity, disbanded two years before my reign.
"Explain why this business disgusts you enough to break agency protocol."
I answered without turning.
"Smashing bodies that must rise again... As a former Christian, I can't."
"And?"
"And... I can't articulate it. Just revulsion."
I approached and patted his shoulder.
"That's called humanity. Instinctive recoil from desecrating corpses."
"Then why pursue it, sire?"
"Money."
Money. How many hearts it had bruised. Money has a strange power, turning men base. Money begets money. The rich crave more. Even without glittering coins or fat banknotes—the mere concept twists all.
Money is greed.
"But that greed enriches life."
At root, it's desiring better than others: more satisfaction, more equality on top, better treatment, adoration. Life's vital force, élan vital. I wanted every French soul free—not slaves, but masters of their fates.
"That's why we need this columbarium."
To shatter the illusion of God, hurl the French people into Frenchness. To ignite hearts content with meager survival, ambitions dormant.
"I... I still don't grasp it. But if Your Majesty commands, I'll launch the columbarium without question."
"What holds you back?"
"I've doubted Christianity seven years now. Resurrection too. But if no rising, what of the dead?"
"They'll manage."
"Pardon? I misheard?"
Literally.
"Carpe diem, memento mori."
Ancient history.
"You're still a Christian."
"Perhaps. But sire—you were devout before ascending the throne, they say. That's why I'm uneasy. No resurrection, no judgment—how do we face death? How are you so detached?"
Hmm.
"I won't die. Even if I do, I'll live in history books."
"That's no answer. What of agents like me?"
"You'll live in France's history."
"Like factory drones, toiling for legacy?"
"Too shabby."
Not even a faint heartbeat—just steel machinery.
"Seen any dramas?"
"Yes. Commedia, you mean?"
"Drama is life, edited for boredom."
Hitchcock meant something else, but close enough.
"So live fiercely. Make the script we submit to God entertaining—for His sake."
To me, Europe seemed too shabby. France, baser still.
The agent left.
"Sire, shaking a National Intelligence Agency man's loyalty endangers France."
"Terray, such a loyalist."
"Wise kings never ignored remonstrance."
"I shine without your oil."
Watching Bordeaux vanish through the agency passage, I asked Terray,
"Terray, if dropped in a world of lies—what would you do?"
"I side with Descartes."
Right. Descartes.
"Me too, it seems."
Dead internet theory. If all users are AI, is the net alive? Apocalyptic stuff.
But Descartes answered: "Cogito, ergo sum." "I think, therefore I am."
Even if communities and the net are AI echo chambers, I am there. The moment I engage a fake digital world of AIs, the premise shatters—the net lives.
I'm my life's protagonist. Precisely: "My life requires me as subject."
Born under freedom's curse, I'll live free. High score preferred, though.
That afternoon, a vacant lot on Paris's outskirts—some baron's or viscount's old land—became a construction site.
Using expensive Lorraine steel rods as framework, they built with advanced reinforced concrete.
Carpenters made square forms; laborers packed them with Sèvres porcelain and cheap clayware.
The workers didn't know what it was for—rumors of a nouveau riche from Bordeaux starting a venture, nothing more.
To them, the structure made no sense, drawing crowds.
With surplus labor and capital, it rose in two weeks. No shoddy work: one decare tall, solid foundation. No rain—concrete set perfectly.
No wiring or pipes like modern builds—just frame and pour.
The building