The man leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He nods a few times, almost to himself. “The workers’ minds are seemingly wiped. They know their names and their friendships with others, but they don’t know why they’re here. They’ve forgotten the uprising, their time in Federation prisons. They barely know themselves, but they’re making their own decisions now, even with a chip still in their heads, and that would scare the Federation shitless.” He barks out a laugh. “Look at me, talking like I wasn’t employed by them. I was just as guilty. Funny, how these people are suddenly my only hope. They’ve been looking to me for answers, asking me what happened. I told them there’d been a war outside, that we’re the only survivors and we’re waiting for it to be safe to leave. It’s been safe since the Federation left, of course—it’s not like they nuked us—but I needed some time to figure out what to say.”

A pause.

“I’ve caught them praying a lot. They have no memories, yet they sit on their bunks with their hands clasped together, whispering to unseen powers, and it’s given me an idea . . .” He rubs his mouth, sighs through his fingers. “I think I’ll tell them that our gods left us; that they flew into the sky and might one day come back. Those Federation bastards don’t deserve getting turned into immortal legends, but I need these people hopeful. If they know there’s no chance that we’ll be saved, if they don’t have hope, we’re doomed. I’m in this with them now. We’re all we have.” He nods, the idea solidifying. “I’ll tell them what I have to, and that story will become our history. Right now, for us to survive, having hope is more important than knowing the truth.”

He clasps his hands. “I’ll put some supporting references at the end of these logs in case anyone ever finds them.” Then he looks up, eyes boring into me as he says, “This is General David Amory of the Federation’s Department of Energy, signing off from Planet CIX-b.”

The man—Amory—reaches forward, and the window goes blank.

I’ve barely blinked before a new visual appears: a hand holding something silver and curved, the size of a thumb. With sickening realization, I recognize it as one of the General’s stars on his chain. A sign of the gods touched.

“This is the cerebral chip that failed during geostorms and then caused amnesia in the chipped workers in the following days,” Amory’s voice says. “It’s a model FLU5.1, as you can see here.” His hand pries the star open to expose a green board and copper wires, where tiny Old World symbols are etched into the green.