Moonbound: A Novel

It made me think of Volant Lee, the great journalist of the Fifty-Second Street Network, who said that’s how you ought to look into a camera. If you focused on the lens, you’d appear dull, glazed; but if you focused beyond the lens, onto some deeper plane, your eyes would take on a different density: they would grip the viewer.

There is nothing more human than the experience of lying in the dark, wondering: What if I don't wake up? In that way, sleep becomes existential cross-training: dread faced nightly, and nightly overcome.

"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?"

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.

The fearful did not act; the fearful hoped nothing happened at all.

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?

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.

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.