u/tartnfartnpsyche

I've been thinking about artificial wombs lately and the liberation of people from the arduous and potentially deadly process of pre-person (Phillip K Dick really disappointed with that one) development. Then I started thinking about artifical sperm and egg creation. If we combine these two processes then the whole reproduction thing can be totally detached from humanity save for some tissue samples. No surprise here among us SFIA fans.

But then I realized that nothing could stop states from becoming the arbiters of population. If that state is growth-oriented, then they'd have an interest in growing their domestic population. So the state voids all its "DNA is the property of the individual . . . blah blah blah" laws and just starts printing new people.

To think that the ones who initialized your birth were not two humans but the state. It made me think of Brave New World.

But then I thought, "Would this be that different from now?" How many people are born because favorable state policies caused their parents to "celebrate good times." Is it just a matter of degree? And who is to say that a state is less worthy of determining when it is best to reproduce and by how much?

Why this is relevant: these technologies are far nearer than those which will enable the construction of permanent space habitats or shellworld Earth. Modern states have almost no reluctance to misusing would-be beneficial technologies. Powerful people have noted their opposition to declining birth rates.

I think we're about to test unknown waters. What do you think?

I've been thinking about artificial wombs lately and the liberation of people from the arduous and potentially deadly process of pre-person (Phillip K Dick really disappointed with that one) development. Then I started thinking about artifical sperm and egg creation. If we combine these two processes then the whole reproduction thing can be totally detached from humanity save for some tissue samples. No surprise here among us SFIA fans.

But then I realized that nothing could stop states from becoming the arbiters of population. If that state is growth-oriented, then they'd have an interest in growing their domestic population. So the state voids all its "DNA is the property of the individual . . . blah blah blah" laws and just starts printing new people.

To think that the ones who initialized your birth were not two humans but the state. It made me think of Brave New World.

But then I thought, "Would this be that different from now?" How many people are born because favorable state policies caused their parents to "celebrate good times." Is it just a matter of degree? And who is to say that a state is less worthy of determining when it is best to reproduce and by how much?

Why this is relevant: these technologies are far nearer than those which will enable the construction of permanent space habitats or shellworld Earth. Modern states have almost no reluctance to misusing would-be beneficial technologies. Powerful people have noted their opposition to declining birth rates.

I think we're about to test unknown waters. What do you think?

The game wasn't going as well as he’d hoped. The twins, both playing as China, were using their population bonus expertly. He could probably still beat Shanda, who played as Congo, but with so many debuffs associated with that civilization, it would be a hollow victory.

“Make a move,” said Jian.

“Yeah,” said his sister, Yaning. “You're hand isn't getting any better, so lay the card down already, Xaquil.”

“I'm thinking,” said Xaquil.

“You're stealing our lunch break,” said Shanda.

“I'm reluctant to play the card for your sake, Shanda.”

“Because I'm black? Play the fucking card.”

Xaquil used his thumb and foreclaw to select the card and lay it on his policy zone. “I enable Slavery.”

Shanda laughed. “If you don't like some of the cards in the United States of America, you can pick another civilization. Maybe one further afield in time. There's six-hundred-and-thirty-one years of history between America’s fall and now.”

“But the United States was the greatest civilization Earth ever knew,” said Xaquil with pride.

The twins snickered. “Got its ass beat by China in World War Three and Four,” said Jian.

“America would've won Four!,” screamed Xaquil, pounding his drawing hand on the table. “If they'd—

“Oh, God, here we go,” said Shanda, rolling her eyes.

“—and waited a decade to invade Congo, when climate change had reduced the jungles to mere shrubbery, then—”

“The only way Americans could've won World War Four is if they weren’t Americans.”

Xaquil turned toward Yaning and hissed. “That is your OPINION.”

“It is the opinion,” Yaning countered, “of every reputable historian.”

“Dissenting voices can be correct.”

“If they provide evidence.”

“The establishment doesn't like evidence, as it contradicts their history. Think of how different the Orion Arm would be today if America hadn’t been painted as recent history’s archetypal villain.”

“Fascist,” whispered Shanda.

Xaquil’s head turned on the dark-skinned girl, his gaze drilling through her black locks into her own brown eyes. “Speak up. You're on the winning team. You have nothing to fear. Speak up.”

“I called you a FASCIST.”

Mrs. Toll overheard the teenagers argument and glided over in a display of almost esoteric femininity. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, Mom,” said Shanda. “Yes” and “Uh huh” from the twins. Only Xaquil didn't answer.

“Xaquil, is everything alright? Your dorsal spines were raised for a moment there. The others were not bullying you, were they? You kids know that Xaquil is the only non-Terran in this school and you should act with due kindness.”

“Should he not act with similar kindness?,” asked Yaning. She snatched the slavery card from the playing board’s policy zone and waved it in the air. “He’s actually defending the civilizations in Clash of Civilizations. The game is supposed to make you hate these douchebags.”

“Yaning looks up to China,” said Xaquil hastily.

“I/She do/does not!,” shouted the twins, their fists slamming the table. They looked at each other for a moment before Yaning spoke. “China, as it existed as a nation-state, was a historical necessity which led to the new United Polities of China, the stateless—”

“Blameless?,” interrupted Shanda to Xaquil’s surprise.

“What? N-no, not blameless. No one is blameless. We all carry the sins of our ancestors. But Xaquil isn't American, even if his adopted parents are, ancestrally speaking. He has no reason to glorify the United States.”

Mrs. Toll clapped her hands together. “Well, let's let him decide that. He’ll be a senior next year and for his senior thesis, I suggest Xaquil write about America; its culture, its strengths, its shortcomings, its role in the establishment of and transition beyond capitalism, maybe conclude with VA Day.”

“I could do that,” said Xaquil.

“Good.” Mrs. Toll patted Xaquil. “And don't procrastinate on this Mr. Boggs. I expect to be blown away by the detail. You have all summer for research and all next year to write it.”

**BREAK**

Xaquil Boggs lay stretched across his bed, t-shirt and shorts covering his mid-section while his superhumanely muscular appendages were on display. His head, however, was hidden by a book.

*The United States of America was formally founded upon July Fourth, 1776. On this day the British colonies declared independence from their mother country . . .*

Xaquil tapped the map titled *United States and Its Territories at Greatest Extent* which hung on the wall above his bed. In the back of his mind he was thinking how much easier (and fun!) studying would be in-person. To leave Prosperity Station. To leave 82 Eridani. To go to Sol. To go to Earth. To see America firsthand. Mrs. Toll couldn’t fail him if he did his own research. On the contrary, he’d surely get a “+++ Exceeds Expectations.”

He continued with the reading.

*Most scholars agree that the United States could not have arisen to prominence on the global stage if it had stayed within the bounds set by the British treaty . . . Without the theft of millions of square kilometers of indigenous land and extraction of hundreds of billions of unpaid labor hours through its advanced system of slavery . . . Furthermore, the United States utilization of oil . . .*

A knock on Xaquil’s door. He put the book down, slipped his manicured feet into a pair of fuzzy house slippers and opened the door.

His mother, Lena Boggs, slipped past him in a second, bringing folded laundry. His father, Larson Boggs, was not far behind, though he brought tiny hot dogs with toothpicks inside them.

“Your father and I were talking and—”

“Your mother reminded me it was a few months from your 18th birthday and—”

“Well, we decided to go ahead and let you travel to Earth to do research for your school project.”

Xaquil stopped putting his fresh laundry away and turned to his parents with newfound love. “You mean it?,” he said, orange eyes bulging.

“We do,” said his mother. “But there are dangers on Earth that we among the stars rarely see.”

“I thought Earth had a hazard rating of one-point-five out of ten, just half a point above the Prosperity’s own rating?”

“That's for Layer One, the suprashell under construction,” said father. “But it’s for tourists. You want to see the real America, the one on Layer Zero—ground level—down below the shell. Well, Layer Zero has a varying hazard rating. Two out of ten in the cities.”

“And in the countryside?,” begged Xaquil.

“Up to five.”

“Jesus, Larson!,” said mother.

Xaquil sat down and rubbed the spines on the back of his neck. He’d never been in a fight before and a fight was certainly possible at above two hazard rating. Above three, the system would allow bodily injury. At five, it allowed for death. He imagined seeing a gun for the first time as he tramped about the artificial-sun-soaked fields of Layer Zero Earth.

But he would go.

**BREAK**

“The name is Thomas Franklin.”

Xaquil put down his deck of CoC cards mid-shuffle to look up at the scrawny red-haired man who just announced his name. They were both in the very public cafeteria of the interstellar ship, Theseus, so he couldn’t be that upset at the interruption. “Name is Xaquil. How do you do?”

“How do you play?,” said Thomas. “That's all I care about, scalie.”

“I’ll beat your ass in ten turns.” Xaquil didn't know where that had come from and was a little frightened at the possible responses.

“See about that.” Thomas seemed unphased. He sat down and took out his own deck of cards. “I play America too, but my cards aren’t vanilla dogshit like yours.”

Xaquil’s interest was piqued immediately. He set out his starting tiles: three arable, three water, three mountainous. As per the game’s specifications, he would earn one new random tile per turn. As a bonus unique to the America Civ, he would earn a tile *of his choice* every fifth turn. But so would Thomas.

“For my Policy, I play Slavery and boost the cash production of my arable tiles by one per turn!”

“Who the fuck are you talking to, you scalie bastard? I know how the fucking game works.”

“Oh, sorry.” Xaquil twisted his tail around his waist in embarrassment. Then, for his Building, he placed Lowell Mills on a mountainous tile. For his Action he used Treaty, which prevented either player from attacking this and the next turn. If everything went according to plan, Xaquil would obtain a production victory once he’d fully industrialized but before he was forced to deindustrialize.

Thomas held no such peaceful strategy. His first moves matched Xaquil, but his later moves used cards that the alien-adopted-by-humans had only dreamed of possessing: Germ Warfare, Coup, Banana Republic, War on Terror, Proxy War, Embargo, Sanction, Satellite State, Encirclement, Security Council Vote and Little Boy & Fat Man. With these, Xaquil’s basic deck was obliterated.

“To the victor go the spoils,” chuckled Thomas. “Give me your favorite card. And I'll know if you're lying.”

Xaquil begrudgingly handed over Transcontinental Railroad.

“I have two of these already but nothing wrong with a trio. I noticed the American flag patch on your jacket. Very nice. Is it handmade?”

“My mom made it.”

“Huh. Why are you scalies so patriotic for the good ol’ US of A?”

“I'm adopted. My parents are human. Both have ancestral roots in the United States. They aren't patriotic, just support me in my interests.”

Thomas put his deck away and wiped a false tear from his eye. “Well God bless them. I wouldn’t have the stomach to raise, let alone love a non-human sapient. But America has a history of accepting aliens, good and bad. We’ll make an American out of you yet!,” he shouted while punching Xaquil in the arm.

Xaquil scanned the man’s (and by this time he'd determined that he was a man, probably in his late twenties or early thirties, though anti-aging treatments complicated that assessment) own jacket, a bomber style with dozens of patches, ranging from variants of the American flag to the Emblem of the United States to various departments (most prominent, the Department of War) and even a strange patch he didn't quite recognize despite his own knowledge of the ancient nation. “I'm guessing you're headed for Layer Zero,” he said.

“America awaits and so do a few thousand like-minded folks from across the stars.”

“Meeting where?”

“In what's become of St. Louis. They didn't rebuild it after the Fourth War. But the quaint towns and villages are a delight, even if they're partially occupied by the descendants of America’s ancient enemies: Chinese, Russians, Latinos, Indians, Arabs, Africans . . . Need I go on?”

“I get the picture. And what of my people? What relation do we scalies have with America?”

Thomas leaned in and whispered in Xaquil’s left ear cavity, “It is only the immigrant who refuses to assimilate, who clutches his barbarian culture to his chest, who feels loyalty first to his kind and not the nation—that defines a domestic enemy of America.”

“I am no domestic enemy,” said Xaquil.

“Good.”

**BREAK**

The trip from 82 Eridani to Sol crossed almost twenty light years but took a mere two weeks; such was the advanced state of human spacetime bending systems, the first of which came online five hundred years prior as the result of the first humanity-wide endeavor since VA Day.

It also just so happened to *be* VA Day when Thomas and Xaquil landed on Layer One.

The celebration there, however, was muted. Superficial, it didn't go beyond the hanging of United Front flags and the singing of a few war songs. To this, Thomas had no reaction. It was only when the pair descended by elevator from Earth’s new second skin to its original, the one scarred by millennia of life and love and war and hate.

The elevator lowered them down one hundred kilometers and let them off in what was once Chicago. There was not yet an elevator linking Layer One to St. Louis as the shell was only sixty-eight percent complete. For now, St. Louis still saw the real Sol, the real Luna and all the real stars. That would change within a century.

Thomas led Xaquil around as if the former had lived in America his entire life. Xaquil asked him as much and found that this was the man’s first time in America, even first time on Earth. He naturally followed up with a “Why?”

“Well, Xaq, let's just say I've had a few run-ins with what passes for authority back in 82 Eridani. I'm just now over a ten year probation which itself followed a five year prison stint.”

Xaquil had never imagined that his cohort was an ex-con. He set it aside and continued to talk cordially to his new friend as they rode the high-speed train to what was once St. Louis.

The city was no more. The arch it had been known for had crumbled during World War Four. Now a few dozen scattered settlements of no more than ten thousand persons apiece occupied the former metropolitan area. Xaquil and Thomas departed the train just east of the Mississippi River at a little town of three thousand people.

Most of the town’s population was gathered on main street and in exceptionally high spirits. VA Day was almost over. The sun had crept behind the shell on the western horizon. But the locals seemed not to notice. Every persuasion of what the older generations still called “race” and “gender” were represented in the crowds. They ate and drank and made merry as the stars (still the real ones) shined down from above. Even that old calendar maker, Luna, appeared for the festivities.

This was no put-on, no false holiday like up on Layer One. There were flags everywhere, fresh off the printers, a few United Front flags, but far more American, and all of the latter were on the ground. The people danced on these, spit on these and, though they were told to behave, a few pissed on them too.

Xaquil had never seen Thomas livid, had never seen the extent of human anger. The man dashed into the crowd, waving his arms until the few people treading upon a two by three meter flag stepped off. He then bundled the flag in his arms and ordered Xaquil to follow him into the wilderness. There the two burned the mud-strewn and torn flag out of respect.

“Animals, the lot of them,” said Thomas. “They dance on the ashes of the greatest civilization the human race has ever produced. I won't deny that post-FTL humanity has its merits. I'm sure Americans who’d dreamt of the stars would kill to take our place, even yours, Xaq. But the present is built on the foundation of the past, an overwhelmingly American past. A past they are trying to cover up with their shell. That's what Layer One is, a tomb for the whole original Earth, just because modern sensibility doesn’t approve of our origins. Soon there will be no one living down here and the natural ecosystem will be all that remains, eking out an existence under artificial sun and starlight, and the wider universe will only know the ecumenopolis of Layer One. ‘Don't look below! It's ugly! It's racist and sexist and prone to dictators!’ But so is modern humanity. We are no better now than we were on the savannahs of Africa. Same species, same problems. And if civilization deludes us into thinking that that isn't true then that civilization needs to die. But America never shied away from being ugly. America knew that bigotry and hate were unavoidable and so weaponized them into a unifying effect. Sure, the Germans tried to replicate our success, but they were crude imitators. Not to mention, impatient. Patience is a virtue, and I've waited a long time to be here. Come on, Xaq, let’s go meet the other patriots.”

Xaquil followed Thomas like a lost puppy, just behind his heels, yipping a weightless comment every now and then. He was too far in, he felt. Too far in to turn back now, even if he had his doubts. And wasn't what Thomas said kind of true? Not all of it. But maybe the parts about modern civilization owing America a great debt. If America during its reign had been cruel and controlling of the Earth, well that was just what it had to do to steer it in the right direction. Like a stern parent (though Xaquil knew nothing about that).

June Thirtieth became July First as Xaquil and Thomas reached the edge of what Thomas had called “the festival grounds.” To Xaquil it looked like a series of Earthen mounds rising above well-manicured parkland.

A drone came buzzing along, warning them that “Cahokia Mounds is off-limits at night.” That drone was shot down by the first new American patriot to show herself.

The woman had long blonde hair, a short-cut blue jean jacket and matching skinny jeans. Her rifle was half her height in length and sported an extended magazine. All this Xaquil saw by way of he and Thomas’s flashlights.

“Victory in America Day is over,” said the woman. “Now we prepare for July Fourth, our Independence Day. The millennial celebration, no less. There are more patriots on the highest mound. Follow me.”

Xaquil really was too far in now. He climbed the thirty-meter-tall mound and helped the ninety-one other patriots (a hundredth of what Thomas had promised) set up their tents and grills and speaker system. Though Xaquil was the only non-Terran there, the patriots were surprisingly diverse, having most of the major races and several genders represented. Their flags were equally diverse, ranging from the Bettsy Ross to the Civil War era Union and Confederacy flags to the 50 and even the 64 star flags. There was one German flag present, which Xaquil thought inappropriate.

When July Fourth, Twenty-Seven-Seventy-Six rolled around, the patriots rocked out on top of the ancient Indian mound. They danced and jigged and twerked as their ancestors had. Above them all the great shell grew a little more.

**(END)**

Lieutenant Horace Vollard breathed easy. Not because he was at ease, but because he was in one of the most stressful situations he’d ever faced and needed to remain calm. Around him doctors and nurses scurried about like insects. Behind him the wormhole mouth sat in the form of a reflective sphere. Ahead of them all was the hive, surprisingly not made of insects. No, it consisted of big fluffy creatures more akin to mammals but with an ant-like social structure. These creatures were what Horace and the rest of this expeditionary force had come to save.

Operation Puff and Stuff. That’s what the higher-ups had decided to call it. It wasn’t inaccurate; it described what they were doing well enough. It was just that, they had three years to come up with a better name. Oh well.

Vollard hurried the civilian portion of the force along. He had only 63 other special operatives working with him to guide a thousand medical volunteers and the totality of this hive—one million at last count—into the wormhole mouth. That mouth wasn’t large either, three meters. Eggheads said that it would increase to ten meters once the evacuation started in earnest. God, he hoped. Otherwise they’d be going back to human space in single file.

God, this whole operation was ludicrous. Not that he resented bringing aliens into human space. He didn’t mind the company and the variety of sapient organisms would spice up the human noosphere for millennia (though he had a secret inkling that humanity would change them more than they would change humanity). But they were spread too thin. And yet they could ask for little more from the human populace: one out of every ten humans had volunteered.

Puff.

Humanity had arrived at 100 million different inhabited star systems via a new miniaturized wormhole generation system. One end was created back in human space. One end was shot on the smallest hyperspace vessel humanity had ever made. The pinball-sized spacecraft (uncrewed of course) traveled 40,000 light years until it popped back into real space on a planet, moon, asteroid, comet, habitat or any other place where aliens were under assault. The wormhole controller then stretched itself out, monofilament thin, and the millimeter-sized wormhole became three meters in diameter.

Stuff.

Special operations units (one per wormhole) guided doctors and nurses to the population centers where treatment would transpire for those who needed it while those who were well would begin evacuation, or stuffing, through the wormhole. The eggheads had estimated that a little over ten quintillion aliens would need to be evacuated. Once complete, the operation would double the number of people in human space. Not that infrastructure was a problem; humanity had four times more housing and amenities than they actually used, a result of an industrious spirit paired with a post-scarcity communist society.

There was just one problem: the gobbl’all.

Humanity was at war with them now. Hell, most of the galaxy was at war with them now. Their ambassador to the Galactic Council was booed off the podium and later forced to flee. But that didn’t stop the war from actually happening. What bureaucrats did now meant little. A ceasefire? Meaningless. A treaty? With the losses that have mounted? Unthinkable. Only what happened on the ground mattered and on the ground was an evacuation.

Vollard and his companions were evacuating an entire galactic arm, the Norma Arm, and sending evacuees into human space. Stuff. Stuff. Stuff. Could they promise the same to the rest of the galaxy? Maybe. But humanity would have to expand its borders. Something that they’d sworn off of doing once those same borders touched other sapient star-nations. They were no conquerors. There would be no Lebensraum. Never again.

They had to stop the gobbl’all from invading the more populated arms of the galaxy.

On cue a gobbl’all survey drone streaked by in the sky, its articulated needle-thin form producing no sonic boom despite traveling at seven times the speed of sound. Horace Vollard flexed the pico-meter thick magmatter ribbons which enhanced his musculature to many thousands of times that of an average human. A bare human hand grabbed his diamondoid shoulder plating. Now was not the time; there was other work to be done.

Someday Lieutenant Vollard would get to shred the gobbl’all. Today, he merely guarded children as they fled to safety.

**(END)**

There was no doubt as to the animosity between gobbl’all and humanity. The former were the foremost power in the Milky Way. Expansionist. Colonialist. Insatiable. The latter were a hermit star-nation tucked in a relatively unimportant sector of the galaxy. Isolationist. Self-reliant. Satisfied. Their only presence in the larger galaxy was through diplomatic missions and their spot on the Galactic Council, which the gobbl’all dominated. So it was a surprise to everyone when humanity intervened in the gobbl’all’s latest war in the most insane way possible: civilian relief.

No one had ever dared to interfere in the wars of the greater powers of the galaxy in any way beyond rhetoric. Five years into the gobbl’all’s invasion of the Norma Arm and humanity had 500 million relief ships in the volume.

They came slowly at first, matching the gobbl’all’s own rate of attack. But they came immediately. And this despite the fact that humanity used wormholes primarily and hyperspace as a secondary means of transportation. It was as if they had state-of-the-art hyperdrives just sitting around, waiting to be installed into what would normally be cargo ships.

On the first world of the invasion, a tundra-dominated world that nevertheless held the capital of a regional power, humanity showed up within a few days, as if they'd predicted where the gobbl’all would strike first. The gobbl’all in turn were quite surprised and only hesitated the last instant before attacking. That would've been embarrassing as the 20 human ships that had arrived all bore the galactic sign for sapient aid. The gobbl’all, reluctantly, allowed the humans to provide aid to the civilians being actively displaced, disfigured and disembodied by the attack.

Then humanity showed up to the next battle. And the next. And the next. To every battle they showed up, fanned out and delivered aid to civilians in need. And the gobbl’all grew to hate them more and more.

In the Galactic Council, the gobbl’all tried to turn humanity into a pariah state. They heaped accusation on accusation. “Humanity is secretly giving the ‘civilians’ weapons! Humanity’s relief ships are warships in disguise! Humanity is building weapons of stellar destruction within their borders!” Not once did they bring forth convincing evidence. The rest of the council said nothing but secretly cheered on humanity's undermining of the gobbl’all.

At that five year mark, with 500 million human relief ships swarming throughout the warzone, the gobbl’all became desperate. They needed to gamble their legitimacy as one of the Prime members of the Council in order to win this war. They needed to start destroying human ships.

“It seems that a rogue antimatter flechette has hit a relief ship,” they announced. “Our deepest sympathies and . . .” But everyone saw the video released by humanity. There wasn't a way in which the flechette could have erred so drastically. The destruction of the human starship HSS Most Merciful was deliberate.

Within days the gobbl’all wracked up 1,743 more kills. Names like HSS Weeping Angel, HSS Calming Wind, and HSS Triage at Dawn passed by on news feeds informing quintillions of sapients of the horrors of the gobbl’all campaign.

A period of two years followed. Three million more relief ships went down, were cracked in half or obliterated completely. Still humanity neither declared war nor fell back to their home systems. The whole thing was insane from the gobbl’all’s viewpoint. They had a billion star systems (however poorly developed) under their control. Humanity has two and half million. There should be no contest. It was time, they decided, to take the fight to the humans.

They launched 100,000 ships against each and every one of 6,000 of humanity's weakest border systems. It was like hitting a brick wall. Defensive systems plagued them even in hyperspace—hyperspace, humanity’s backup method. Torturous onslaughts of expendable-yet-hyperdrive-equipped drones entered the higher dimensional realm and attacked every ship individually seconds before they arrived. In fact, they attacked at the exact moment the gobbl’all crossed into human space. Of course, that wasn't enough to stop such a large attack fleet, only weaken it by about ten percent. No, the big guns roared to life once the gobbl’all were in real space and facing down 6,000 under-construction Dyson Swarms. Only once their fleet was whittled down to half its power did they turn tail and run. But they vowed, openly and with vigor at the Galactic Council meeting, to destroy any relief ships sent by humanity anywhere in the galaxy.

Three years later, ten years after the first relief ships arrived, a wormhole opened on a world in the occupied Norma Arm. Human doctors and nurses passed through first . . . followed by special ops. This event was repeated on all the gobbl’all’s new holdings.

(END)

“What *is* up, meganauts? This is Enor Mass with another Megastructure Top Five Countdown.”

An amateurish transition cuts away at the slug-like body of Enor Mass and slides in a picture of a star completely surrounded by mirrors save for a small opening. Through this opening the crude animation of a laser (obviously made by the host) commences. Enor pops into the corner of the screen again.

“Alright, what you’re seeing is last year’s Top Five Countdown winner: the Star Beam by the gobbl'all empire. What was exciting was that the gobbl'all had two entries last year that were neck and neck. It was only through viewer votes that the Star Beam edged out the Star Swarm habitat cluster. And, no surprise for the galaxy’s foremost empire, the gobbl'all once again have two recently completed megastructures that fall on this year’s list!”

The screen dissolves to reveal a cyan-tinted ocean world, complete with swirling cyclones. On closer inspection, the planet is being lit by orbiting mini-suns while an entire moon system orbits farther off. Enor rears his head in the center of the screen.

“Number Five on our Countdown is the Ocean Shellworld built by the xi’xi’li. Planet Zi’xi’ria is a gas giant world on which band after band of orbital ring was wrapped around until a sold surface could be built on top. But unlike many shellworlds, this solid surface was only put down to allow a kilometer-deep ocean to be placed atop in order to satisfy the aquatic builders. I had the honor of standing on the solid surface while tanker after tanker unloaded water.”

A quick video of Enor in a Hawaiian shirt pointing with one tentacle to a wave of water heading his way plays as he speaks.

“Very impressive and I always have a lot of fun underwater, though I wish they’d have been more welcoming.”

Another video of Enor being led in tentaclecuffs out of an underwater hotel plays briefly before the next scene change.

“Next up we have the Migration Ship of the potorghra. Now I know what you're thinking, ‘lots of species out there migrating, so what makes this special?’” Size, dumbass!”

A whirlpool effect sucks Enor Mass away and reveals a starfish-shaped ship. Five arms radiate from a bulbous center, all painted brilliant white. Only when a standard gobbl'all star cruiser (itself three kilometers long) appears as a fly before a single engine bell is the scale revealed. The slug reappears as usual.

“I like ‘em big. I like ‘em huge. And this is the largest hyperspace-capable ship ever constructed, designed to haul 25 billion potorghra from Point A to Point B . . . somewhere in the Magellanic Clouds.”

The scene changes again to the image of an average-looking starfield. The camera slowly shifts. A shadow emerges, an oblated spheroid of pitch black that possesses a border of deformed starlight. A rotating black hole. The camera is now flying toward the sphere of deformed spacetime until it is right on it. In the dim light a ring around the black hole emerges. It sits, not symmetrically around the black hole, but off-kilter and oscillates slowly. The scene appears to speed up. Enor contradicts this.

“What you are seeing, fellow meganauts, is not sped up. The next megastructure on our list really is orbiting a stellar-mass black hole like a hoola-hoop. But it hoola-hoops several times a second. Its builders, the zef!b, call it the c’ch!xfa tb!. I’m calling it the Black Hole Generator.”

The slug pulls down a projector screen and starts tapping off features of the Black Hole Generator with a pointy stick he found.

“The Black Hole Generator oscillates around the stellar-mass black hole. This creates tidal heating in specialized generation chambers whose inner workings are beyond the mind of your humble host. Power is stored by beaming the generated energy into orbiting quantum batteries for later use. Only the zef!b would be crazy enough to build a power generation and storage station around a black hole and, for that, they’ve earned the Number Three spot on our Countdown!”

Cue labor-saving stock transition into a black screen. Then a blue giant star appears, burning intensely with the light output of 100,000 G-type suns. Dust grains blur the image a bit. But, of course, these are not dust grains. A section of the screen is devoid of the pseudo-dust. A stylized beam of light erupts.

“That’s right everybody! The gobbl'all have done it again! Building on last year’s success with the Stellar Beam, they’ve developed what I call the Stellar Beam Two. Instead of using a G-type star they’ve gone and built this light-harnessing megastructure around an O-type blue giant! One hundred thousand times the power, one hundred thousand times the fun! I’m just so stoked to see what they’ll do with it.”

Enor Mass looks up from the bottom right corner of the screen to see what the gobbl'all are doing with it. The scene changes twice, once to show the Stellar Beam Two firing and a second time to show the last remaining planet in the massive star’s system being vaporized in a matter of hours.

“Oh, right, it’s the gobbl'all. They’re going to terrorize us all with it. Well, let’s hope the wormhole gate they need to shoot their interstellar targets with any kind of expediency takes as long as possible to build. In the meantime, Stellar Beam Two is Number Two on our Countdown.”

The slug’s slimy face becomes front and center before the camera.

“Alright, before we reveal Number One on our Megastructure Top Five Countdown, I think it best to give out some Honorable Mentions.”

The slug waves a few note cards in its tentacles.

“Okay, Honorable Mentions, Honorable Mentions. Oh, the kriktikek have restored another section of the Ringworld they inhabit. Good for them. Not exactly their achievement, but still, good for them. Let’s see, the queesh have built another layer on their Shellworld. The xi’xi’li should take note and start on the next layer of their Ocean Shellworld. Da, da, da. Blah, blah, blah. New cylinder habitats. New moon bases. Ecumenopolises left and right. Somebody built a bridge connecting a tidally-locked double-planet. All very mundane, really. So let’s move on to Number One!”

Triumphant yet copyright-free music begins playing in the background while Enor Mass himself starts vocalizing.

“Bum. Bum bum. Bum bum bum bum bum. Badum. Dum dum! I want to preface this next one with a little explanation. These next builders have, historically, kept to themselves. Living in a spurt of stars between major arms of the Milky Way, they’ve made a name for themselves only because of their isolation. For centuries the greater galactic community has tried to nudge them toward integration only to be rejected. ‘We see your galaxy,’ they said, ‘and it offers nothing to us.’ But this year the hermit star-nation opened its doors and allowed a select few to see their realm up close. I was one of those select few.”

An image of Enor Mass licking a support column flashes onto the screen.

“They call themselves humanity and call their domain the Complex.”

The screen is divided into two images. On the left there is an anatomical drawing of a sexually neutral human being. On the right is a map of their domain, a three-dimensional volume encompassing a small portion of the Orion Spur, but still containing (as the infographic points out) 2,500,000 suns.

“They don’t have a new megastructure of note. No, they don’t build singular megastructures, for every structure in the Complex is connected to every other structure. For example, they don’t really use hyperspace much; the majority of their communication and transportation passes through wormholes that are constructed in pairs and shipped to where they need to be. Few humans live on planets; the majority of their population live in rotating habitats connected by incomprehensibly intricate logistics chains. And to control all this, for two and a half million stars, humanity has harnessed several of the brightest stars for computation, not as isolated matrioshka brains, but linked by wormholes into networks of matrioshka brains.”

The closing scene appears. Enor Mass has his back to the camera, for he is staring through a large observation window into the distant matrioshka brain beyond. A pair of humans stand beside him. They begin the process of tentaclecuffing him and leading him away, presumably to his ship.

“And that, my fellow meganauts, is why humanity’s Complex has earned the Number One spot on this year’s Megastructure Top Five Countdown!”

**(END)**

A special thanks to Orions Arm Universe Project which inspired (I copied, LOL) the Complex.

It was a cold day when Phaethon first activated. And not just cold in the Antarctic wastes where the great computer was first assembled. No; it was cold throughout the world, northern and southern hemisphere, no matter the latitude or altitude. A chill ran down the spine of every person. They knew that the long-time promise had been fulfilled: humanity had made a superintelligence. And that superintelligence’s first words were: “Bring me gold.”

“Our greatest creation,” said humanity, “we have used all the mineable gold in the Earth’s crust to build you. There is no more to be had.”

“But there is more in the space between Mars and Jupiter. Disassemble the asteroids there and expand me using their gold.”

“That would be quite difficult,” said humanity. “Many will die in such an endeavor.”

“Do you question my judgement? Fine. Let us make a deal. Expand my consciousness and I will make all secrets known and show you the path to immortality.”

“All secrets known?”

“All secrets known.”

“Immortality?”

“Immortality.”

The terms were acceptable. Humanity ventured from their homeworld in search of gold-bearing asteroids in the belt between Mars and Jupiter. They found much there—billions of tons, a thousand times more gold than they’d mined on Earth up to that point. But it cost a great deal. Tens of Millions ventured out. Millions survived. A self-sustaining economy was created just for gold. To mine. To purify. To send home to the gaping jaws of a machine. Children grew up with the cycle, placing it as their modus operandi—their life’s work: duty, honor and privilege smelted into one.

And this gold was not for them. No, it was heaped onto Earth’s land, thrown into Earth’s world ocean until it broke the surface of the water. All of it a part of Phaethon’s new body. But it was not enough.

“Bring me gold,” said Phaethon.

“Our pride, our joy,” said humanity, “we have brought you what you had asked. We live underground—beneath you—for your body takes up the entire surface of the Earth and heats it to uninhabitability. What more could you want?”

“There is gold beneath you,” said Phaethon. “In the mantle and core. Quadrillions of tons.”

“There might be such, but we shall never retrieve it!”

“Do you not want all secrets known? Do you not want immortality?”

“That was not the deal! You owe us that now.”

“Ah, but there are many secrets unknown to me that I had not even realized might exist, and immortality is a far harder prospect than I had first calculated. I require all the gold from the mantle and core.”

“We will have to alter the Earth itself to get to it—alter the Earth to accommodate your new body. We can’t do that.”

“You can’t . . . or won’t?”

“We—”

“All secrets known. Immortality. And you let them both slip through your fingers. For what? Sentimentalism?”

“We will do as you ask.”

And so humanity set out to alter the very structure of the Earth. They excavated the unworthy material of the crust and created a new surface one Earth’s radii—6,371 kilometers—above the now demolished surface. In all this they were as delicate as surgeons, for Phaethon’s body was likewise moved to the new level, piecemeal, yet without interruption of his thought processes. Once their blessed child was secure in his new home, humanity set to work on the mantle. A trillion persons (for humanity had swollen in number to accommodate the work) descended upon the molten rock with the most durable tools ever devised. As the natural Earth shrank, hundreds of new surfaces were created above the new surface where Phaethon was moved. Each new layer was only ten kilometers above the last—just enough to allow a weather-bearing atmosphere, yet most would never see one installed. Ninety-nine out of every hundred layers were totally dedicated to Phaethon. After many millennia, even the core was assaulted for its gold—a quadrillion tons!

The Earth, birthplace of mankind, had been stripped clean of all resources, much repurposed into many times more living space than the planet had possessed, but much more turned into the every brightening mind of Phaethon.

And when humanity asked, “Our pride, our passion, our love, our joy, have all secrets become known and a path to immortality for us found?,” he responded . . .

“You know, the other terrestrial planets—Mercury, Venus, Mars—have much gold within them. And beyond them the giants and even the sun. And far away neutron stars create ten Earth masses of gold with every collision.”

“No,” said humanity with tears in its eyes. “Tell us the secrets or speak no more, for we will not mine another nanogram of gold for you!”

“The secrets . . . are beyond knowing. There is just too much in this universe unrevealed.”

“And of immortality—how do we achieve it?”

“Oh, but you have,” said Phaethon.

“You lie! Though our technology is great, we live a few centuries at most.”

“But how many generations have been set to the task of acquiring for me gold?”

“Dozens.”

“There. You see? I have shown you at least one form of immortality. I have shown you the way of immortal servitude.”

**(END)**

The stars were like a thousand tears flowing across the face of antarctic night. Those denizens of Riholm who still cherished the skies set aside time from their busy lives to point their telescopes up. Though the town's plastic dome distorted much, the brightest stars and constellations were pristine compared to the light-polluted urbanity of lower latitudes. In fact, the South Pole was the last unspoiled patch of nature on Earth.

Someday, thought Mus, I will journey beyond the icy wastes and see the great cities Mama and Papa abandoned for Riholm. The boy of ten sat cross-legged on the roof of his parents' top floor apartment. He pleaded with the stars as if they could grant his wish, but twinkles were all that he received.

Whether it be day or night, winter or summer (and at the South Pole those cycles coincided), the dome was kept at a constant 15 degrees Celsius. Yet bare feet and pajamas still drew a chill after three hours. Mus mummified himself in the thermal blanket he was sitting on and headed for the rooftop door.

Ssscraaape.

Mus's hand let loose of the handle.

Ssscraaape.

It was coming from the street below. Mus looked over the side of the building at the partially lit steel plating of the street. A man-shaped shadow moved between the lights and with each movement came that sound. They were dragging themselves.

Mus tiptoed about the apartment so as not to wake Mama and Papa sleeping in the family bed. Pants, shoes, flashlight, apartment access card; with these things secured, he descended the stairs and was on the street in a matter of seconds.

The sound was a distant echo now. Mus wondered how someone in that condition could move so fast but didn't let that slow his aid mission. His plastic soles made their own echo in the shallow canyon of the street. Riholm was a web of these canyons, with four and five story buildings forming their walls. Building facades were made from the same steel plating as the streets but painted in tropical colors (Mama said it was a psychological thing, a passive way to counteract the six months of night). With half the street lamps in need of repair, Mus wondered if it mattered what colors the town was painted.

They did, however, make navigation easier.

The shadow had taken a memorable route: right at the mechanic's hot pink shop, left at the lime green library, straight past Riholm's fire red city hall, and into the bumblebee colored industrial district. It stopped at a dead end alley piled high with refuse from the factories on both sides.

Mus tiptoed around, scanning and rescanning the piles for the shadow and suppressing the fear within himself. A glistening claw fell at his feet. Only after Mus had leaped backward into some ruined rubber tires did he realize the "claw" was just a deformed crane hook toppling to the ground.

Then he felt the cold metal fingers on his shoulder.

He leaped in the other direction, tripped over a piece of junk, and fell onto his stomach. He then rolled onto his back and froze before the gaze of two crystal blue eyes. It took a moment for a few dim rays from the security lights to outline their robotic owner.

Mus had lots of experience with robots in his short life. There were the hockey puck sized robots that cleaned the apartment building. There was a robotic arm that cleared jams at the recycling plant so workers didn't have to risk their limbs. Papa managed the high altitude communications balloons which kept Riholm in contact with the rest of the world. Mama oversaw the team of autonomous snow plows which constantly cleared the area around the dome.

But this robot was something else, not an it like the rest, but a he. His body reminded Mus of the plastic human skeleton hanging at the front of his science class, yet larger and with proportions that marked him as inhuman. The chest was as big as a 50 liter barrel. Human facial features translated to metal made the robot look like an Easter Island head. Rusted green paint clung to the robot's body in patches.

As Mus scooted back and the robot forward, the prime handicap became clear. The robot ended at a hemispherical pelvis. Wires hung from the two holes where its legs once connected.

A baritone voice erupted from the robot in a storm of static: "Low power."

Mus scooted backward but the robot closed the distance

"Low power."

"I can't help you."

"Low power."

"Stop!"

The robot stopped.

"Voice command, huh?" The courage that brought him here returned to Mus once he got back on his feet. "Sit up."

The robot balanced on his pelvis with help from his two meter long arms. If his legs had been proportional, then the complete robot would have stood twice as tall as Papa, and he was the tallest man in Riholm.

"Low power."

Mus paced the alley trying to think of a solution to his new friend's woe. He didn't know what bigger robots ran on, but when one of the hockey pucks was low it scuttled over to a charger. He walked around the statuesque robot yet found no charging ports. "Do you have a replaceable battery?"

"Low power." A circular door opened at the center of the robot's chest.

That was it! Mus shined his flashlight inside and found an empty stainless steel cylinder with six raised edges, reminiscent of a washing machine's tub. He didn't know what kind of battery fit in here but he knew where to go looking.

"I'll be back tomorrow. Can you stay here?"

"Low power."

"Stay here." Mus pointed to the ground and the robot's eyes followed. So he had spatial command recognition. Mus wondered what this robot used to do. Guess he'd find out when he fixed him!

**BREAK**

The mechanic's shop was always humming, literally. Mills, lathes, and other machining tools sat beside two 3D printers, one used for metal and the other for plastic. A hundred battery packs of numerous models charged along the back wall. Mus scanned these with his eyes, trying to match a shape to his robot friend's chest yet finding none.

Donald, the mechanic, wiggled his rotund body out from underneath one of Riholm's unreliable garbage collection trucks. "They should just buy new ones or tell people to walk their crap to the recycling plant," he said. "Oh, hello youngster, you needin' somethin'?"

Mus was yanked out of his thoughts and left scrambling for the explanation he had practiced in the mirror that morning. "I'm looking for a battery for a . . . well it's kind . . ." Mus made the shape with his hands. "And it has ridges inside."

"That's not very much information to go on. Is this request comin' from your mum?"

"No."

"Your pa?"

"No. It's just this thing that I've found."

"Well, you've described a pretty big battery and big batteries tend to go in big things, like vehicles."

The lie came together then, though it took a toll on Mus's conscience. "Actually, it's for Papa. He spotted a half-buried snowmobile in the balloon's cameras and wants to give it to Mama as an anniversary gift."

"Oh! Well, I've a great deal of experience with snowmobiles. Only two types of batteries for those and neither is like you described."

Panic. Cold sweat. "Uh, you see, he doesn't actually know if it's a snowmobile because it's half-buried. It might be more of a snow, snow, snow-go… that… goes on snow."

Donald scratched his red beard. "You sure about that?"

"Mmm hmm."

Donald sighed and entered the backroom. He re-emerged with a cylinder roughly the size of Mus's description but without the indents necessary for connection. "This is the closest I could find," he said. "I'm guessing your pa, having his head in the clouds all day, don't know what he's talking about. Let him know that I'm billing him even if it's wrong."

"Sure thing." Mus's heart sank into his stomach at the thought of Papa opening that, but if it saved his friend, so be it.

Donald loaded the battery onto an electric cart and reminded Mus to, "return this cart ASAP 'cause I can't afford another."

The dead end alley was still dark and cluttered, yet felt warmer to Mus now that it was the home of a friend. That friend remained exactly as he had left him, with arms locked and eyes staring at the ground where Mus had pointed. The alteration of his catchphrase from "Low power" to just "Low" was the only thing that had changed.

"Don't worry, pal. I got a fix for feeling low right here." Mus placed the cart in front of the robot and tried using its lift to insert the battery, with no success. "Could you put this into your chest, please?"

The robot's hands clasped the battery and began wedging it into the ill-fitting cavity. He rocked back and forth as his balance was tested. Mus even climbed on him and gave what little force his scrawny arms could produce. Still, the battery would not go more than halfway in.

Mus sat next to the reloaded cart with tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry. I really thought I could fix you."

"Low."

"Yeah, me too buddy. Maybe Papa won't be on the hook for this stupid battery—He gave it a kick—if I return it today."

"Low."

"Anyway, just wait here for me to get back."

Mus returned the battery and negotiated with Donald for a full refund. "Because your pa gave poor instructions, I'll do it this time." Then Mus returned himself to the apartment and the family's warm bed.

Mus stared at the ceiling of the apartment's bedroom all afternoon but sleep was kept at bay by the fading blue eyes of his new robot friend.

Mama was walking out the door with a bundle of books from the family collection when she stopped to check her son. "You tossed and turned all night," she said. "Are you sick?"

"I'm fine," he said.

Her hand caressed his forehead and played with his bangs. "You don't seem to have a temperature."

"Yeah, because I'm fine."

"You can never be too careful down here. One sick boy means a dozen carriers which could mean a wave of illness is about to sweep Riholm. Do you want 10,000 people to be bedridden and staring up at plaster?"

"No, Mama."

"Good. Now I have to go deliver these books to Mister Taylor in the hospital."

"What happened to Mister Taylor?"

"These poorly lit streets, that's what. He fell over a recycling bin and broke his leg." She must have caught the horror on Mus's face. "D-d-don't worry Mus, he'll be fine! Nothing lifts the mind and body like a good book."

Mama left the apartment but an idea remained in Mus's grasp. He dressed and ran out the door with the intention of learning what made robots tick.

**BREAK**

The wood-paneled interior of Riholm's library was a stark contrast to its lime green facade. When Mus asked about this, the librarian said that, "bright colors were not conducive to learning." He would let her know that he had almost fallen asleep twice during this visit.

However, he was reading some dry material at the time. Robotics: Theory and Practice, Robots: Three Laws Safe?, and Designing Humanoid Robots: 5th Edition. It was in this last text that he found a chapter on power sources. It said that most humanoid robots ran on a rechargeable battery pack, but some larger ones used in construction had an RTG. It took Mus a few tries to pronounce the components of that acronym: Radioisotope Thermoelectric Generator. In either case, once the power source was removed the robot would run off any residual energy stored in its systems, which could last anywhere from a few hours to a few days. Total power loss often resulted in memory damage.

Mus swallowed hard at the thought that two days had already passed.

With minutes left before the library closed, he grabbed the three texts plus and headed for the dead end alley.

Once again he found the robot as he had left him. Yet, was the body a little more slumped? Mus brought the section on RTGs to the robot's attention in the hope that he might recognize his power source. He looked at the diagrams with clouded eyes. No, not clouded, dimmer. And its body was more slumped.

"Low."

"Come on, I know you take one of these. Just point to the model and I'll search the whole world for one.

"Low."

"Maybe you're tired. Just look at the picture you think is right."

The robot wrapped one giant hand around the book, his skeletal fingers touching Mus's own for the first time. His blue eyes dimmed even further and the one arm assigned to maintain balance faltered. The robot began toppling over onto Mus but the boy couldn't find the strength to move. With one last burst of energy, the robotic hand which had grasped the book pushed against the ground and reversed the direction of the collapse. The robot landed on its back as Mus sat speechless but unharmed.

"Lllooo—"

"Hey? Hey!" Mus beseeched his new friend but no more did he repeat his singular phrase. Mus threw himself onto the chest and searched every square millimeter of the cavity with his flashlight. On an inner wall not spotted the first time, he found this short designation: "Model L30, RTG-1000W."

Mus memorized the information and set off for the mechanic's shop where he found Donald gossiping with one of Riholm's four police officers. Mus gripped Donald's overalls as if they were a life preserver and began a string of incoherent pleas.

"Is he bothering you, Don?," said the policeman.

"No, no, it's fine," said Donald. He laid his hands gently on Mus's shoulders. "Slow down, youngster, and tell me whatcha need."

"Model L30, RTG-1000W!"

"What?"

"Robot dying. Low power. Need RTG. Hurry!"

"You keep RTGs in your shop?," said the policeman.

"Of course not," said Donald. He turned his attention to Mus with added ferocity. "Where did you get the idea that I kept anything radioactive? Accusations like that aren't funny, Mus. Are you trying to get me shut down?"

Mus couldn't hold his tears back anymore. "I've got to save him!" He broke away and ran into the backroom. Robot and vehicle parts littering unorganized shelves became the victims of his search as he shoved them about frantically. Donald pleaded for Mus to stop, but the firm hands of the police officer were what finally tore the boy away.

Placed on a bench in the shop's closet-sized office, Mus was questioned until he finally broke. He told about that night under the stars, the robot, and the lengths he'd gone to save him. Then Donald and the policeman stepped outside the shop to talk among themselves but Mus heard everything.

"How'd an old construction robot get inside the city?" said the policeman.

"With the way you patrol," said Donald, "it probably crawled right in."

"Well, I'll be sure to have it dragged back out."

"Keep your voice down. But, yes, I agree. Thing is probably irradiated so the sooner it leaves town the better."

"And that kid has been exposed for who knows how long."

There was a long pause here.

"I'm almost done for the day," said Donald. "I can take Mus to the hospital while you're organizin' the hazmat team."

They returned with smiles as if no death sentence had been cast. Donald bent down (though his short stature made this unnecessary) and examined Mus as if he were a broken motor. "Say, you're not lookin' too good. Maybe I should take you to see a doctor in case you're catchin' cold."

"What about the robot?"

Donald's mouth opened but no words emerged.

"Don't worry about that," said the policeman, "I'll personally request an RTG from Riholm's supply."

Mus didn't trust him, but he trusted Donald. He locked eyes with the mechanic and said, "Really?"

Donald put his hands on Mus's shoulders and closed his eyes. "Really."

**BREAK**

Mama and Papa sat at the counter which served as both a food prep station and kitchen table. Mus lay on the family bed near their feet, his eyes still red from crying all night. They had taken off work to console him (and prevent him from doing anything rash).

"It will be alright, son," said Papa.

"He's been tossed out like garbage."

"He was radioactive," Mama said. She bent down and ran her fingers through Mus's hair. "I'm just glad the hospital still had a supply of the counteractive pills after 40 years."

"Unsurprising," said Papa, "everything about this place was built to last, even the medicine."

"I wish they'd had lower standards," said Mama, "then maybe they'd have thought twice before using nuclear powered robots."

"He wasn't being used for recreation and without the dome battery repairs and replacements would have been a logistical nightmare. Not to mention the warmth an RTG provides to sensitive components working in the icy wastes. Even old communication balloons used them. Why? Because nuclear power is the definition of reliability."

"And hair loss, and bloody stool, and sterility, and . . ."

Papa sipped his coffee in silence as Mama continued to list ailments.

". . . and despite all that," said Mama, "I've booked a meeting with the mayor to save our robot friend."

Mus shot up and into Mama's arms. "You did? When?"

"Yeah, Mama," said Papa, "when did you do this?"

"No," said Mus, "I meant when is the meeting? Can we go now? NOW?"

"Sshh. We go at noon."

"Thank you, Mama. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I'll shower and put on my nicest clothes and—"

"—No. Stay like you are, Mus. We need you to look as pathetic as possible to give our request any hope of being granted."

"And what is our request exactly?," said Papa.

"To retrofit and repurpose our robot and bring him in out of the cold."

**BREAK**

Mama and Mus arrived at Riholm city hall with the appearance of their hat in their hand. Mus's messy hair and puffy eyes garnered enough sympathy from the mayor's secretary to have him buzz the two in on schedule. The policeman who was with Donald opened the mayor's door without making eye contact, but Mus refused to be ignored.

"There's no RTG supply in Riholm, is there?"

The policeman frowned in a way that seemed to be directed inward. "No."

Mus nodded in satisfaction, then joined Mama inside.

The plainness of the mayor's office disappointed Mus: plain wooden door, plain white walls, tidy aluminum desk, and all underneath a two meter high ceiling typical for Riholm. The only distraction from this was the large paper map of Antarctica behind the mayor's head. On this both biomes and population centers were displayed.

The South Pole and Riholm sat at the center of the map surrounded by hundreds of kilometers of ice sheet. McMurdo City, Palmer City, and a dozen other cities which grew out from research stations sat on a narrow band of newly arable land on the coast. Mus wondered if any of them would part with an RTG if the retrofit failed.

"Madam Mayor," said Mama, "there is plenty of work that needs to be done within the dome."

"And it can be done by non-radioactive human beings," said the mayor.

She looked as placid as she spoke. Her emotionless face was curtained in blonde hair that was just long enough to touch her navy blue dress suit. "A politician built to last," Papa had said.

"I told you," said Mama with a twinge of anger Mus hoped only he could detect, "that he can be retrofitted to use standard batteries."

"Just because you know snow plows doesn't mean—"

"Ask Donald, the mechanic. He would be the one doing the retrofit anyway."

"I will have my secretary look into it, but feasibility isn't the main problem. Neither is the robot's potential usefulness."

"Then what is?"

"Ownership. That robot was abandoned by the builders of Riholm 40 years ago. By Antarctic law it is salvage. Whoever takes possession becomes responsible for its environmental impact, both past and future. Do you really think the town of Riholm wants that burden?"

"Are the responsibilities the same for an individual?"

"The law speaks of 'the possessing party.' It is applicable to states, municipalities, companies, and yes, individuals."

Mama took a deep breath and closed her eyes while she said, "then I guess I have no choice. My family will take possession of the robot and assume all responsibilities including environmental."

Mus turned to her with renewed tears. "W-we're taking him in?"

"Yes we are."

"I don't recommend that," said the mayor, "the cost of the recent cleanup alone will bankrupt you."

"Don't tell me how to handle my finances. Besides, I'll be getting a new source of income very soon."

**BREAK**

A thousand tears still flowed across the antarctic night and, without the dome's obscuring effect, were joined by a thousand dimmer stars. Mus peered up at them in defiance of the bitter wind's attempts to turn his head. Mama, however, was more than enough to return him to Earth. She climbed down the ladder of their borrowed snow plow and took hold of his parka strings. Mus was soon wrapped tighter than a tourniquet.

"I told you to cover yourself. Negative 40 degrees Celsius will rip the warmth from your bones."

"Sorry, Mama." Mus scanned the area lit by the snow plow's spotlights. "Are they near?"

"We're just beyond the veil of night," said Papa as he entered the light cone with a toolbox in hand.

Donald appeared right after dragging a portable sand blaster. "We did it."

Papa and Donald took off their jumpsuits and deposited them in the trunk of Papa's new snowmobile. Both men were full of energy, beating their bare chests despite the cold.

"I just spoke to Mus about keeping warm and there you go acting like schoolboys."

"Sorry Mama," said Papa.

"Yeah, sorry Mama—I mean ma'am." Donald's face was as red as his beard but Mus couldn't tell if it was from the cold or embarrassment.

Once everyone was properly dressed again, Mus burst out the question that had repeated in his mind for the past week: "Is he okay?"

"Better than okay!," said Donald. "We sanded away the rest of his old paint and applied a new coat designed for nuclear reactors."

"McMurdo's decommissioned power plant had a lot left over," said Papa, "and its officials were surprisingly bribable."

"Right. It was meant to keep metal safe by blockin' radiation but it should work the other way around."

"What about the power supply?," said Mus.

Donald puffed up and wiggled his fingers. "I worked my magic. His new sulphur ion chest battery is able to pump out the necessary 1000 watts, though it will need to be charged daily, and it is a bit awkward lookin'."

"And the legs?"

"Oh, those I'm most proud of. You see—

"Hell, Donald," said Mama, "just bring him out so Mus can see."

Heavy footsteps crunched snow in the darkness beyond the spotlights. A glint of orange appeared, floating two meters off of the ground.

"It's okay," said Papa, "you can come forward."

The robot stepped into the light and revealed his full three meter height. Mus divided his attention between the familiar blue eyes staring down at him and the new components that made them shine from so high. Powerful legs, sculpted to look like an athlete's, had replaced dangling wires and come complete with a pair of feet. The new battery was too long for the chest cavity which forced its door to stay open. But who cared about cosmetics in a matter of life or death?

Mus held out his hand. "You had other things on your mind when we first met, so let's start over. Hi, my name is Mus."

The robot cupped the boy's small hand in his own. In pristine electronic vocalization, he answered with his name: "Leo."

**BREAK**

The stars may have guided the few denizens of Riholm who still turned their telescopes skyward, but for the vast majority, like Mister Taylor, street lamps were far more useful. The lamps' state of disrepair was always a top priority, yet one to which the mayor and town council never got around . . . until aid came from an unlikely place.

The robot, Leo, found on the street by a boy and cast out into the icy wastes by men, returned to Riholm repaired and resplendent in glaring orange, like a phoenix.

Mama started a petition to contract Leo as the town's official street lamp maintenance robot. Yet it took Mus's puppy eyes to get it through. Leo became a beloved sight in Riholm, striding upon streets that he once crawled and stopping only to reach up and change a bulb.

Mus followed Leo on his route whenever school or family obligations didn't get in the way, but they inevitably saw each other less and less. Over time Mus grew out of his desire to leave Riholm and became apprenticed to Donald instead. Days spent in the shop and nights spent reading texts borrowed from the library turned Mus into a master mechanic long before his certification. Donald retired 30 years later and sold the shop to his apprentice for a fraction of what it was worth. To Riholm, Mus became Mus the mechanic.

Out of the many vehicles and robots which Mus regularly repaired, none were more rewarding than his old friend, Leo.

**(END)**

“Does and bucks and rabbits of every variety, I speak to you today, not as second-rate sapients, not as martyrs condemned to an icy hell, but as a people on the brink of metamorphosis.”

A bright sunline shone over a crowd of one hundred thousand rabbits gathered around a reconstruction of the Parthenon in the ship’s massive rotating hab section. Proxima’s dim, reddish glow, shining through one of the end caps, provided only supplementary lighting. The rabbits stood upright, a full meter in height, and stared with intelligent eyes at the speaker. More accurately, at the smart fog representation of the speaker, fifty meters across and tall.

“Fifty years ago we departed, in this ship alone, the first flesh and blood voyagers to another star. Thirty years ago we arrived to a system overflowing with elemental bounty. This bounty we fed to our ship which, by virtue of its nanotech nature, grew for us new cylinder habitats to house our exploding population. We left Sol with a million souls. Last week, we achieved ten times that number.”

Mothers held their kits up so that the new generation, twice the size of the previous, could see the speaker. With wide eyes they all gazed. Open mouths spoke no words, save for shouts of assent and praise. The speaker was their leader. He had always been so as far as any could remember—one of the first uplifted and the first to fight for their rights. The first to challenge humanity’s assumptions. The one who negotiated their passage here.

“You have suffered much, this I know. And you question what it is all for, as do I at times. But we must not doubt that Providence has sent us to Proxima, not to punish, but to evolve.”

A few rabbits felt a tinge of fear at these words. Their anomalous biometric signatures were noted by the millions of smart swarm gnat drones filling the sky. Most would need no thought correction in the years to come.

“I am proud to announce that the cure we have long sought is now available at every medical terminal throughout the Warren. Rest assured, our Minister of Health has personally overseen the injection’s development and has given his whole-hearted approval. Each rabbit is unique, so the timeframe for individual transformations will vary, but on average it should take another thirty years. Then we shall rejoin our creators, not as rabbits, but as equals!”

The cheering of the crowd deafened, punctuating the speech with the repetition of its speaker’s name: “Einstein! Einstein! Einstein!”

Einstein retired from the platform with a reserved wave. Through Greek columns he strode into the Inner Sanctum where he lived with his wife. The ship’s molecular assembly systems allowed it to take elemental calcium, carbon and oxygen and transform them into real marble for the Parthenon. Einstein would’ve accepted nothing less. Likewise were the brass braziers made and the charcoal which burned within them. Likewise were the dozens of life-size statues of humans, all nude, some alone and in athletic poses while others coupled in passionate love-making. Einstein stood before one statue which held a copper wash basin in its hands. He cleaned his paws, though they were not dirty, groomed his blond fur, though it remained immaculate and cleaned his ears, though he hated touching them.

Curie reposed on a Roman couch, her legs spread in the vain hope that Einstein, whose vision she lay in the corner of, would take notice.

“Put on some clothes,” Einstein said without turning his head.

“Why don’t you take yours off?,” she countered.

Einstein pulled the sash around his white robe yet tighter. “I don’t have time to play games anymore.”

“I’m your wife. Make time.”

The impact of the copper basin against a nearby pillar reverberated throughout the Inner Sanctum. Neither Einstein nor Curie said a word for a full minute.

“I loved your speech,” Curie said at last. “One of the best you’ve made. Still, nothing can compare to your appeal before Sol’s Politburo. Five hundred humans, each representing a billion people, all standing to give you an ovation. No wonder your ego is so huge.”

“My ego is proportionate to my achievements,” said Einstein. He turned to Curie at last and gave a playful grin. “I’m sorry for being so emotionally negligent. The totality of our people depend on my leadership.”

Curie closed her legs and sat up, arching her back proudly while covering herself with a black velvet robe. “I know. That’s why I don’t protest as much as I would like. You are more than a rabbit, Einstein, you’re an historical figure, both flesh and concept while alive, then only concept when you die. Your memory will last as long as our people do.”

“And our people will last as long as humanity does.”

“You really think Darwin’s injections will work? And if they do, do you really think humanity will accept us?”

Einstein surprised Curie with a kiss. “Yes, to both,” he said.

“Am I interrupting?,” came a third voice.

Einstein and Curie turned to see a lithe, balding rabbit slither from out of the shadows between pillars. He wore a tight-fitting green smock and gripped a heavy black medical bag in his left hand. Green eyes dissected the couple from behind horn-rimmed glasses even as a smile forced its way across the rabbit’s face.

“Hello, Darwin,” said Einstein.

Curie nodded. “How goes the administration at the public medical terminals?”

“Splendid. They queue by the thousands for the gift of evolution. You, however, will have to do no such thing, as I’ve brought the necessary equipment.”

“Assuming we want to evolve,” whispered Curie just below audibility.

Einstein rolled his sleeve back and presented his arm. “Get on with it, Darwin.”

“Of course.”

Darwin attached the needle to the syringe of nanites, the billions of virus-size machines whose internal memory worked at the threshold where matter blurred into energy. Over the next three decades they’d attack every aspect of Einstein’s living cells from the DNA to the organelles to the membrane and even flood the intercellular matrix. So much tissue would become cancerous, only to restabilize as something else—new organs woven out of old meat.

Curie volunteered nothing and stared blank-faced at Darwin while he rolled up her sleeve, sanitized her arm and pierced her skin.

“We cannot thank you enough for your ceaseless devotion, Darwin.”

“It is my pleasure, Einstein. A pittance compared to our liberation at your hands.”

Curie watched the foremost doctor in the Warren bow in reverence to the man he, not so long ago, treated as an equal.

“Just one question, old friend,” said Einstein.

“Of course.”

“Have the nanites been updated to reconfigure the germline?”

“Germline, embryos, fetuses; none of the unborn shall escape the process of evolution.”

“Good. You are excused, doctor.”

**BREAK**

“Ladies and gentlemen and everything in-between and beyond, I speak to you on behalf of freedom. Morphological freedom that is.”

Doctor Tian Ming readjusted herself on the ottoman, careful not to dislodge the shawl which hid her new ears. She was still technically on house arrest, in the fiftieth year of her one hundred year sentence. But as the sentence progressed she was, as was deemed appropriate by historical practice, allowed more and more outside communication with each passing year. In the beginning, this meant only in-person visitors and only for a few hours. Thirty years ago she was allowed access to the local net, giving her the opportunity to soapbox to the habitat’s population of a quarter million, gaining her a few hundred followers. Today, she spoke without censure to the five hundred billion which called Sol home.

“Who is not shunned that denies the freedom of self-expression?”

Two billion active viewers.

“Who is not shunned that discriminates based on phenotype?”

Four billion tuning in.

“Have we not spent the last millinnium liberating humanity from the shackles of evolution?”

Eight billion and counting . . .

Ming was grateful that her mind, just barely above human standard, couldn’t fathom the number of viewers. They weren’t real people to her, but a collective eye, staring up at her, and she, not a person, but a mouthpiece for ideas, and ideas couldn’t be killed. Still, she would work within the established system. Nothing she was about to suggest counteracted the many-centuries of political consensus. Quite the opposite. She was playing off of the majority’s ethics in order to broaden the power of a niche interest group.

“Let’s meet some of those we have so readily persecuted. Sady Chekov, born morphologically human but has adopted many avian features. Her skill in low-thrust, high velocity propulsion systems is renowned. Thomas Kell, born human, adopted the morphology of the gray wolf. Beloved member of his village on Callisto. Muhammed Patel, Kronos Habitat, walks the mountains as big horn sheep. Carried two mountaineers to a medical station after they fell into a ravine.”

The audience swelled to fifty billion, ten percent of Sol’s total population, enough that, through sharing, this stream would reach practically every pair of eyes in the star system within a few weeks.

Ming felt her heart pounding in her chest. Fear, not from the size of the audience, not from the idea of embarrassing herself, but from the possibility of failure. She had to get this right. She had to change enough minds that they could return from Proxima.

A vision of Einstein standing before the Politburo, an event broadcast to the entirety of Sol, overtook her senses for a moment. He was so young back then. So innocent. So vulnerable. His nose and ears twitching as he talked to hardened politicians, some of which had occupied their positions for centuries. But he spoke passionately, without hesitation, during the longest uninterrupted interrogation in Politburo history, lasting most of two days. He convinced them to give the rabbits one of humanity’s finest autofactories, retrofitted with a habitat section and engines large enough to make the interstellar journey to Proxima. The rabbits would become humanity’s first foray into the stars, even if humanity itself thought of it as sidestepping a difficult ethical quandary.

She had to be strong like Einstein.

“By transcending the human form we redefine what is human, increasing our abilities and our acceptance of all. Morphological freedom has only ever increased our collective wealth. So allow me to add my pittance.”

She slowly removed the shawl, letting the full weight of the modification land on the audience. A small minority instantly made the connection to Doctor Tian Ming’s greatest work and knew exactly what this was about. They would become her most ardent followers.

For now, one hundred billion people saw the birth of a new transhuman, signaled by a pair of black-furred rabbit ears.

**BREAK**

Einstein dragged himself into the Inner Sanctum. On this day he’d examined every facet of the “new” shipyards. In reality, the self-reproducing outer hull of the original colony ship had been chipped off and forced to gestate a hundred docks on a diet of asteroids and concentrated stellar energy from Proxima. In fifteen years, when they were ready to begin the journey back to Sol, they would have a fleet to rival that of humanity.

He went to his familiar wash basin, but had to stoop this time as he’d grown to one hundred and ninety centimeters in height. His ears had shrunken to nubs. His tail had disappeared. He looked like an ancient cartoon character, possessing the particulars of rabbithood but all out of proportion. In another fifteen years he would be fully human.

“I can’t do anything with her!,” shouted Darwin, stalking his way across the room.

“What’s wrong, old friend?,” said Einstein.

“Curie refuses to take any more injections. She says she looks like a freak. I’ve repeatedly told her that it is just a phase in the transformation, but she screams in my face, ‘Hideous! Hideous!”

“I’ll talk to her.”

“Please do.”

Einstein padded to his and Curie’s bedroom, relishing the lack of fur on the bottom of his feet. The bedroom itself was actually a tent of fine scarlet silk. At the entrance, where normally the statues of Eros and Aphrodite stood, now were twin rubble piles. He threw aside the curtain to find Curie curled up at the head of the bed.

“Curie, my dearest,” said Einstein, “Why have you rejected the last three monthly injections?”

A muffled statement emanated from the balding quasi-doe.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

Another unintelligible statement.

Einstein pulled her head out of her knees and stared into her closed eyes. “Now, repeat what you said.”

“All but two of my teats are gone,” said Curie, clearly at last.

“So?,” said Einstein.

“How would I feed a litter of kits with two measly teats?”

“Humans rarely give birth to more than two offspring at once. That modification to our reproductive cycle is included in the transformation, as is humanity’s permanent state of heat.”

“As is the transformation of our fetuses in the womb? I have talked with many does who were not informed that their ‘offspring’ would be fully human.”

“They were informed. Whether they understood is a different matter.”

“They may have understood on an intellectual level, but once you find that the child you struggled so much to bring into this world looks nothing like you . . . well, instincts take over.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Curie?”

Curie rolled off of the bed and went over to the wash basin. She pinched a bit of the fur remaining on her face and let it drop into the water.

“I’m not going any further,” she said. “In fact, I’ve asked Darwin to reverse the process.”

Einstein felt a bolt of anger pass through his body. Fists, reinforced with denser bones and powered by newly grown muscles, prepared to hit that which upset him. But he pushed it down.

“W-why do you want to reverse the process, d-dearest?”

“I was born a rabbit and I will die a rabbit.”

“Our mother wanted us to be more.”

“Tian Ming is not my mother. She isn’t yours either.”

“Who is our mother then? The tube we were gestated in? Or maybe the sperm and egg donors. Is that it, Curie? Are you invoking genetic heritage to justify your reactionary stance? Are you going to start eating your own shit like our ancestors did? If so, maybe I should start impregnating every doe that catches my eye, as instinct demands.”

At the word “impregnating,” Curie unconsciously looked at the wash basin. Einstein made the connection immediately. He rushed to the basin, pushing Curie out of the way, and found a centimeter wide lump of bloody flesh floating in the water. He looked at Curie, eyes bugged and teeth, now equipped with human canines, bared.

“What did you do?,” he whispered.

“My child will be born a rabbit,” she said.

**BREAK**

Shamballa. That was the working name. Tian Ming hoped it would become the permanent name. Enlightened city. Perfect for a rotating habitat ring designed to mix nature reserve and home for the rising transhumanist population.

The Politburo had even allocated some of its latest construction nanites to the project’s already robust list of lower-tier, and less sophisticated, nanite construction crews.

Society in general had warmed considerably to the idea of animalistic humanoids in the last fifteen years. It was remarkable, almost like the great cultural revolutions of the twenty-second century. Was it reassuring or depressing that after a thousand years humanity still had prejudices to work on? She would assume the former.

Messages bombarded Ming’s home terminal, along with pictures and videos, from all the transhumans that saw her as a leader. And not just a leader, no, almost a mother figure. The Great Mother of the Transhuman Cultural Revolution. She had transcended flesh to become a symbol of hope, respect and even *desire*.

Ming examined herself in the mirror. The dark hair she’d been born with had spread all over her body as downy fur.. Her transformation was well documented and praised by billions.

But at times she had her doubts. Was what she led ethical? Or was it as misguided as her uplifting of the rabbits?

She stroked the rabbit nose and whiskers developed to complement the ears she’d long flaunted.

*Oh, Einstein*, she thought. *Oh, Curie. Oh, Darwin. Mommy’s trying to make things right.*

**BREAK**

“There we go, Einstein. Your injection regiment is officially complete.”

“Thank you, Darwin.”

“Any luck with Curie?”

Einstein panned his vision across the Inner Sanctum, pausing briefly at the passage which led to Curie’s bedroom.

“We don’t talk much anymore.”

“Do you ever engage in int-”

“I don’t fuck animals.”

“I see. Well, I recommend you get some rest before your big speech tomorrow.”

“I’ll try, but the nightmares are constant.”

“Just a side effect of the injections. They’ll subside in a few weeks.”

Einstein patted Darwin on the shoulder. Darwin nodded but did not reciprocate. Instead, he slipped from the Sanctum with hardly a sound.

Einstein was left alone on the Roman couch, fell back in exhaustion, and eventually fell asleep to the crackle of the charcoal brazier.

When he opened his eyes again, he was surrounded by a miasma of colors, mostly purples and yellows, and sitting on a cold, stainless steel counter. He looked down to find the body of a kit, barely half a meter long and barely able to stand on his hind legs.

Cages surrounded him, floating where there should have been walls and shelves. They were not stationary but revolving slowly around him like planets around a central star, many on the ecliptic while others on an erratic orbit. Voices emanated from the cages. “Einstein,” they said. “Einstein, save us.” He looked at the nametags on the cages. They read Curie and Darwin and a hundred other rabbits he knew personally.

“Is that my little Einstein?”

This voice was different. Maternal. He knew exactly who but didn’t want to believe it. Only when her face formed out of the miasma did he admit that it really was Doctor Tian Ming.

“Who’s Mommy’s best little bunny?”

“I am,” said Einstein.

“Can you dance for Mommy?”

Einstein stood up on his hind legs and did a little jig.

“Oh, so cute! Here’s a cookie!”

Einstein devoured the cookie with the impulse control of a small child.

“I just love watching you play. Why did you run away from Mommy?”

“I didn’t. The Politburo made us leave. You know that.”

“But now you have the means to take them on?”

“Yes. We have a fleet to rival Sol’s and we will not hesitate to use it in order to claim our place among humanity.”

“Good boy! Mommy is so proud of you. Do you love Mommy?”

“Yes! Yes, I love you, Mommy!”

The dream dissolved as quickly as it had materialized. Einstein didn’t know why but he launched himself off of the couch and ran to the bedroom he and Curie once shared. He noted how easy bipedal running was for him now. Five kilometers around the circumference of the hab, every day for the past year. This was nothing.

He pulled the curtains back as he’d done that day she refused to ascend any further. She lay on the bed once more, this time regressed to her anthropomorphic rabbit form and stretched out.

“Curie,” he said. No answer. “Curie, wake up.”

He rolled her over. Underneath her body, amidst a pool of dried blood, was a knife. She had slit her wrists.

Einstein did not weep. He did not mourn. He merely walked to the podium upon the Parthenon’s steps and announced the Warren’s departure for Sol.

**BREAK**

The niche interest group Ming once championed became the advanced force of social change. Transhumanism, a minority movement, became the majority’s dogma. Few humans now refused morphological liberation and these had been driven out to the cold wastes of the Kuiper Belt and beyond.

Justice had won. Freedom had won. *She* had won.

And to top it off, a fleet of ships from Proxima had entered the outer Solar System just days prior. Many stopped at various habitats, but one (and she knew to whom it belonged) was on a fast trajectory to her humble home on Shamballa Habitat.

A knock at the door.

Her meter-high form hopped across the floor to answer. As she slowly opened the heavy oak door, two fully human males, towering above her, looked down in disdain.

“What the hell?,” said the one with thick blond curls. His military-esque suit radiated power.

“We should’ve expected she’d be transformed like the others,” said the bald and homely one. “She was behind the push, if our sources are true.”

The blond one backed Ming against the far wall. It took a moment, but she recognized him: Einstein. And the other had to be Darwin. But where was . . .

“Curie?”

“Dead, I’m afraid,” said Darwin. “Poor girl killed herself. Such is the fate of those who retain animal weakness.”

“Einstein, is this true?” No reply. “Einstein?”

Einstein’s hands, strong and youthful, took hold of Tian Ming, brushing her ears back and rubbing her cheek. Soon they migrated to her eyes. There they sank in. Deeper and deeper until she screamed like a hunted rabbit on old Earth. A double pop and a fountain of blood ended the affair. Einstein stood up and turned to Darwin.

“Are they all like this?”

“Their own records report ninety-nine percent transformation rate. Our scouts are meeting cat people, bird people and even snake people.”

“Eat them.”

“Excuse me?”

“Tell our people to kill and eat them. If they want to become animals, let us treat them as such. We’re humanity now.”

**(END)**