I leaned over the parapet, noticing anew the manacle that made my wrist tug at Papa’s. “If Mushi ever needs an example of what their ants can’t do, it’s this. The people look like ants from here, but ants just make more ants, plus things for ants to live in, but here we make glory. Can ants do that?”

Apollo joined me, the heaviness of his Griffincloth making my thermal skin itch as it brushed my hand. “They look like ants to me, working away. Where are the loafers? Window-shoppers? Grouchy old people? Locals waffling between two restaurants, or waiting for a friend?” He pointed to three Utopians on a nearby landing, unpacking two gryphonloads of sound system. “Everybody here is here on business. It’s all still an experiment. ‘Permanencia, un acto de sacrificio.’ With the rest of Earth so comfortable, no one really wants to make a home somewhere so harsh, so cold, so far. Even Antarctica is too far. Tell me, Mycroft, how many people today would sacrifice their hundred fifty years of life breaking this ice if they couldn’t jaunt home in a heartbeat? How many in three centuries will sacrifice theirs breaking red rocks on our harsh new world?”

«Mycroft?» Papa called from behind me, soft syllables with a sob’s edge hidden in them. «Go rest, alright? Please? For me? Tell MASON I said you need it.»

«Let it be.» Achilles laid his godlike hand gently on Papa’s shoulder. «I know it’s hard seeing him like this, but he can’t stop working, not him, not until Fate decides it’s done.»

CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH

Filial Piety

Written August 15–16, 2454

Event of May 3

Burgos

Nature is strange, reader, so strange that, within her improbable vastness, snow can touch August, sharks intoxicated by fresh water can grow briefly tame, poisons can sometimes cure, mad bees can forget what bees are and betray their queens, frozen frogs can sleep a hundred years and wake again, and, once in the lifespan of our species, Madame can shed sincere tears. «You look so grown up.»