Moonbound: A Novel

The truth is that I was driven by the question carved into my heart; the question I had almost, but not quite, given up; the great question of the Anth: What happens next?

I crept through the boy’s blood, drunk on ATP. After the lean years in the tomb, I had forgotten how good energy could taste.

Ariel was a mapmaker; it was his great pastime. His map was not on paper, for there was no paper. Instead, he had discovered a hidden menu inside the Stromatolite, one that permitted the creation of custom terrain in the style of the game: a malleable 3D landscape rendered in sketchy monochrome.

"You are long-lived!" exclaimed Durga.

"Our health is matched to the duration of our interests," said Agassiz. "Isn't that how it should be?"

This was a bummer so colossal that it was definitely, inarguably, easily the worst thing that had ever happened, in the whole history of Earth.

I was engineered by the Anth to nestle into a human mind. In the past, this nestling had been a careful, delicate process. After long entombment, I was not careful. I scrambled to establish my position.

The knights busied themselves with emotional warfare, and also the occasional hunt, in which they went out bellowing with the hounds, tracking an elusive golden elk. Ariel understood that the appeal was the long, merry hike; they’d be despondent if they ever caught the creature.

In the street, the villagers wore technical outerwear; their parkas were dotted with bits of reflective tape that sizzled in the sun.

In death, Altissa cradled her sword Regret Minimization. Their swords all had stupid names. If I had been Altissa’s memory, the sword had been her ambition. Regret Minimization was cunning and spiteful, with hilt and blade flawless matte white. No dirt would ever adhere; the sword was just as vain as the operators.

The great question of the Anth: What happens next?