The amber light turned green, blinking furiously. The missile was launched. He waited for a response—any response—but there was none forthcoming. Not from the console, not from the screens, not from those watching, not even from his own emotional center. It was as if nothing had happened.

Because, he thought, nothing had. A missile was launched, a target was obliterated, and nothing was changed. Nothing would ever change again because there was nothing left. He shook his head in despair. He was just so tired of it all, so sick and tired. None of it made any difference, did it? What was the point of anything that he did or didn’t do? He was just passing time until it ran out and he died.

He was just waiting for the inevitable.

Perlo’s soft whisper brushed his ear. Try another.

He was surprised to discover that he liked the idea. He liked it a lot. Why not? Matter of fact, why just one?

He flipped them all.

THE BOY WHO WAS THE GYPSY MORPH slept within the mists, encapsulated and sheltered in the way of the storybook princesses of old. He had no need of food or drink, and the passing of time meant nothing to him. Still, he was neither comatose nor unaware. Though he slept, he was hard at work fulfilling his destiny.