This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2019 by N. K. Jemisin

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

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eISBN: 9781542093576

Cover design by Will Staehle

You are our instrument.

Beautiful you. Everything that could be given to you to improve on the human design, you possess. Stronger muscles. Finer motor control. A mind unimpeded by the vagaries of organic dysfunction and bolstered by generations of high-intelligence breeding. Here is what you’ll look like when your time comes. Note the noble brow, the classical patrician features, the lean musculature, the long penis and thighs. That hair color is called “blond.” [Please reference: hair variations.] Are you not magnificent? Or you will be, someday. But first, you must earn your beauty.

We should begin with a briefing, since you’re now authorized for Information Level Secret. On its face, this mission is simple: return to the ruined planet Tellus, from which mankind originates. When our Founders realized the world was dying, they built the Muskos-Mercer Drive in secret. Then our ancestors bent the rules of light and fled to a new world circling another sun, so that something of humanity—the best of it—would survive. We’ll use the MMD, much improved by our technorati over the years, to return to that world. The journey, from your perspective, will take days. When you return, years will have passed. How brave you are to walk in your forefathers’ footsteps!

No, there’s no one left alive on Tellus. The planet was in full environmental collapse across every biome when our people left. There were just too many people, and too many of those were unfit, infirm, too old, or too young. Even the physically ideal ones were slow thinkers, timid spirits. There was not enough collective innovation or strength of will between them to solve the problems Tellus faced, and so we did the only merciful thing we could: we left them behind.

Of course that was mercy. Do you think your ancestors wanted to leave billions of people to starve and suffocate and drown? It was simply that our new home could support only a few.

Tellus is nearly a thousand light-years from home, meaning that the light we receive from that world is hundreds of years old. We cannot directly observe it in real time—but we knew the fate that awaited it. Tellus is by now a graveyard world. We expect that its seas have become acidic and barren, its atmosphere a choking mix of carbon dioxide and methane. Its rain cycle will have long since dried up. It will be terrible to walk through this graveyard, and dangerous. You’ll find toxic drowned cities, still-burning underground coal fires, melted-down nuclear plants. Yet the worst of it might be seeing our past greatness, on this world that was once so ideal. Mankind could build high into the sky, there where the gravity wasn’t as heavy. We could build all over the planet because it was not tidally locked. [Please reference: night.] Look at the names whenever you find them on buildings or debris. You’ll see the forebears of our Founder clans—all the great men who spent the last decades of that planet’s life amassing the resources and technology necessary to save the best of mankind. If for no other reason, this world should be honored because it nurtured them.

To ensure success, and your mental health during extended isolation, we have equipped you with ourselves—a dynamic-matrix consensus intelligence encapsulating the ideals and blessed rationality of our Founders. We are implanted in your mind and will travel with you everywhere. We are your companion, and your conscience. We will provide essential data about the planet as a survival aid. Via your composite, we can administer critical first aid as required. And should you suffer a composite breach or similar emergency, we are programmed to authorize adaptive action.

[Reference request denied.] You don’t need to know about that yet. Please focus, and limit your curiosity. All that matters is the mission.

You can’t fail. It’s too important. But rest assured: you have the best of us inside you, enveloping you, keeping you safe and true. You are not alone. You will prevail.

Are you awake? We’ve reached the outermost edges of the Sol system. Almost there.

Curious. Spectroscopy shows the space around Tellus as clear. It was clogged with debris when we left.

And stranger: no radio waves. Our home is too far away to detect any of the decades’ worth of audio and visual signals that our species once beamed into space—well, no, not really on purpose. It’s just that no one knew how not to do it. Once we worried that such signals would eventually alert hostile alien species to our presence . . . but that isn’t a problem anymore.

As we approached the system, we were bathed in those waves—music, entertainment programs, long-expired warnings and commands . . . No, we don’t advise listening. At this point it’s just noise pollution. But we expected the noise, spreading throughout the universe in an ever-expanding bubble that we suppose will be Tellus’s final epitaph. Silence in the bubble’s wake, of course; the silence of the tomb. But still not truly silent, because there were too many automated things on and around Tellus that should have survived for at least another millennium. For example, the satellites that should still be, and aren’t, in orbit.

Most curious.

Well. Astra inclinant, sed non obligant; while naturally we had certain expectations for how this mission would go, we aren’t infallible. That’s why we didn’t send a bot on this mission, after all; human beings are better than AI at handling the unexpected. You must simply be prepared for anything.

No, that isn’t right, atmospheric analysis can’t possibly be that far off our models. It’s far more likely that we caught some debris during the near-Saturn pass, which damaged the ship’s enhanced spectrometer. None of these readings make sense.

Please prepare for EVA and sensor repair. Adjusting your composite for deep-space radiation shielding. You wanted a better look at Saturn; now you’ll get to see it without the ship in the way.

This . . . cannot be.

That is movement. Those are lights. There should be clear signs of eco-collapse. It had already begun when the Founders left—but compare the geographic maps we have stored against what’s there now. See that branching line in the southwestern portion of the continent? That was, is, the Colorado River. The maps show that it was dry when our ancestors left. Millions died trying to migrate east and north to where there might be more water. Countless species went extinct. But there’s the river, flowing again.

That entire coastline should be gone. That state should be gone. That archipelago. The ice caps—here they are again. Different. New, but enough to reverse sea-level rise. How can this have happened?

[State: deprecated term for a geopolitical construct. No need to reference.]

Yes, you’re right. Many, many more than home. At home, we maintain only as many people as we can safely sustain: six thousand total, including servi and mercennarii. Here, there must be millions. Billions. The old pattern, too many people—and yet the air is clear. The seas are cleaner than when we left.

We don’t know.

We were not prepared for this eventuality. Please wait while we calculate a new consensus—

Yes, the mission is still paramount. Yes, we still require the target samples to formulate new—

Yes—

No, our world will not survive without those samples.

We advise delay and study.

“That entire coastline should be gone. That state should be gone.”

Certainly you may reject our advice, but—

Ah, but they bred you bold, didn’t they. Like the Founders, who would never have survived without the courage to be ruthless as well as sensible. Very well.

The people of Tellus will not be as beautifully ruthless as you. However they’ve survived, whatever fluke has worked in their favor, never forget their quintessential inferiority. They lacked the intelligence to choose rationality over sentiment. They weren’t willing to do what was necessary to survive. You are.

Stay low. This is—

What are you looking at? Pay attention.

This is called a forest. You’ve seen trees back home, in the Founder clans’ private habitats? These are trees in the wild. Our records suggest that you’re near what used to be a city called Raleigh. See those ruins through the trees? Raleigh was underwater when we left. Clearly they’ve reclaimed the land, but we are astonished that no one has redeveloped it, or at least clear-cut the forest. We find such chaos ugly and inefficient.

Your composite is capable of withstanding microparticle strikes in space, so of course it’s impermeable to branches and stone, but these things can still entangle you and slow you down. We’ve plotted you a path of minimized resistance. Please follow the line on your heads-up display.

Hmm, yes. We suppose you would find it beautiful. That is a lichen. Yes, it’s all very green. That’s a puddle—stagnant water leftover from precipitation or seeping up from groundwater. We don’t know if it will rain anytime soon, but this much humidity does suggest a regular rain cycle.

Those are birds. That sound is coming from the birds. Sunrise is coming. They sing because it’s nearly daytime.

Yes, thank you, do please focus on the mission; we almost went into power-saving mode. These people are clearly at a primitive level of technology relative to our own, but they may have some rudimentary form of surveillance. Stay low.

[Please reference: dangerous wildlife, a list.]

Your respiration is too fast. This has increased your metabolic rate to an unacceptable degree. If you continue to consume nutrients at this rate, you’ll run out before you can return to the ship to replenish. Calm down.

Not that we blame you for your fear—

Pardon us. Excitement and fear look much the same, neurologically speaking. Your excitement, then. This is a world we thought dead. A remnant of our species that evolution should have claimed, obviously saved by luck. We do agree that this is historically momentous.

They’ve actually elevated the whole town on some kind of . . . platform. And oh, fascinating: the material of the platform looks like plastic, but close analysis suggests cellulose instead. It respires like a plant, too, if these CO2 and oxygen readings are correct. Please take a sample. The technorati in Biotech are always looking for new potential commodities—

Oh. Not even with the monomolecular blade? Hmm. Very well. Resume mission.

It’s odd that this settlement is elevated. During the period of sea-level rise, it must have been necessary, but now that the planet is back to normal, there’s no further need for this. Maybe it’s a sunk-cost issue?

Well, an elevated city costs more than one on the ground. Water and other resources will have to be pumped up to the living levels. There are added maintenance costs. And as you’ve seen, vegetation and wildlife quickly encroach on the area near and underneath the city—

Why would they like it this way? What, just because it’s pretty? That does sound like something these people would do, though. Please resume. Adjusting composite for climbing.

Curious that they have no militia or visible surveillance. This ambient darkness is night—yes, like the reference we shared with you. Adjusting your visual acuity to compensate. This settlement’s lighting seems to generate little heat, but you may activate infrared if that will help—

Control yourself, soldier! Your reaction is wholly inappropriate. No, that person is not a technorati or Founder-clan. Well, for one thing, look at their coloring. Every skin shade from melanistic to albino? They seem to pay no attention whatsoever to basic eugenics principles. That one over there has patches; look. Disgusting. Animals breed like this, not people.

We don’t know. The lower citizens of this world, the agricolae and servi and whatnot, must function without composite suits. They would have less need of that technology on this world, if the environment has been repaired. It’s clear, however, that going without composites has done them no favors.

That incomprehensible babble sounds familiar because it’s related to our language. Audio analysis has detected familiar phonemes and syntax. Theirs seems to have been bastardized, however, by time and the infusion of other lesser languages. Back home, the Founder clans have been diligent in permitting the use of nothing but the Founders’ tongue and those of the honored ancients. This is what might have happened had we not been so careful. We need more audio sampling, but with that we should be able to put together a rudimentary translation script—

Ugh, look at that one. That morphology is called fat. Fat people are aesthetically displeasing, morally repugnant, and economically useless. And oh Founders, look. That poor man has been allowed to get old. Why is he still alive? If he generates value, he shouldn’t be left to deteriorate like this. It’s incomprehensibly cruel. Do they have no preservation technology here? What have they spent their innovative energy on, uselessly elevating their cities? Ugh. Now, look at that one. To the right, see? Rolling along in that chairlike device. He appears to be paralyzed from the waist down. That must be why there are ramps everywhere and why the doorways are so wide—just for him and others like him. Food, water, and excess building materials, all poured into a useless, unproductive, unattractive person.

Nothing’s changed with these people. They still build societies around their least and worst instead of the best and brightest. We cannot understand why they’re still alive . . . but if they can at least give us the cell cultures we need, then we can be rid of them and go back to civilization.

Please hold for a moment; you appear to be secure and undetected here in this alley, at least for now. The situational parameters have activated a new protocol in us, and we need to brief you.

You will recall that we mentioned adaptive action as a possible emergency response during this mission. What that means is this: In light of your critical mission, your composite is a more advanced model than what is usually granted to men of the militus class. There is a transmutational nanite layer which, if activated, can convert the carbon picobeads, synthetic collagen fibers, and HeLa plasmids embedded in your composite into human skin. It would not be aesthetically ideal, but it might at least reduce your chances of detection, so that the mission—

No, it would not be the face and body we promised you—

Listen. Listen! The emergency skin would be only a temporary measure. As soon as you return home with the cell samples, the technorati can surgically alter your dermal layers back to the aesthetic configuration you were promised. Of course we will; you’ll have earned it, won’t you? If you complete this mission, you’ll be a hero. Why would we refuse you what you’re due?

No, we don’t believe you can safely walk into that enclave of people as you are now. These people have primitive values, primitive technology; they’ve never seen a composite suit. They seem tolerant of multiple facial configurations, but you don’t have a face at all. As far as they’re concerned, you possess no obvious characteristics that identify you as a fellow human being. You don’t speak their language, but that’s irrelevant. If they have weapons, they’ll use them as soon as they see you. You won’t be able to complete the mission because you’ll be captured or dead.

Take a hostage? No. That’s foolish. There must be ten or fifteen people down there, doing whatever they’re doing. Some kind of religious ritual, a dance to greet the sun? Barbaric. How would you know which of these mongrel people is important enough to ransom for the biomaterial we need? If you grab some random servus, they’ll just let him die. There is bold, decisive action—we commend that, you know we do—and then there is folly. You don’t know enough about these people to enact the plan you’re describing. Would you really rather risk everything than activate your emergency skin? Does the prospect of being less than perfect, even temporarily, panic you that m—

Oh Founders.

LEVEL-FOUR SECURITY ALERT. ADRENALINE ADMINISTRATION STAND BY. LIMBIC SYSTEM OVERCLOCK STAND BY. WEAPONS FABRICATION ONLINE. MIDBRAIN FIGHT-OR-FLIGHT ENGAGEMENT ON THREE.

TWO.

.

.

.

Online. Reboot in five. Four.

Are you all right? You’re uninjured. Your composite remains unbreached. The weapon they used was an update of something we remember from before the Great Leaving. We can call it a taser. Beware, however: you are not alone.

“Hey. Easy! Nobody’s going to hurt you. Do you understand me? Okay. Good. How are you feeling? You’ve been unconscious for hours.”

How are we understanding him? We didn’t have time to create a translation script—and your auditory nerve is reacting out of sync with his speech. You’re actually hearing his words, intelligibly.

What’s that on your facial beads? It seems to be a device of some kind. The audio you’re hearing is being transmitted by it. It’s translating his words.

“Oh. Sorry about that. Ordinarily we use a mild neurotoxin to subdue violent people. Your, uh, artificial skin? Means we had to use something with a little more kick.”

Great caution is warranted here. Tell him nothing. He is merely a servus, in any case. Look at his skin, like sandy dust. Look at the blemishes, the inelegance of his features. One of his eyes is higher than the other, only slightly but still. Don’t be deceived; no one here wears a composite. Our skin is a mark of honor. Their skin is meaningless.

“What’s your name?”

And don’t stare.

“Well, okay. That’s your right, I guess. Maybe I should start. My name is Jaleesa. I’m—uh, a scholar? I guess that’s what you’d call it. Except I’m really just a student, and the field I study is pretty obscure, ha-ha, so right now all I am is another gawker.”

There’s too much here to explain, but we’ll try. Apparently these people still allow those beneath the ruling classes to be educated—

“You didn’t have to grab that woman, you know. You scared the hell out of her. She’s all right, if you’re wondering. More concerned about you, really, now that we’ve explained what’s going on.”

This is an interrogation. He’s attempting to put you at ease. Next will come the questions about your mission, about our home, about the secrets of our technology—

“You poor thing. My God, you must have actually thought someone was going to hurt you. Well, the police released you after notifying the town of your presence. And, uh, we put a monitor on you. I volunteered to stay with you until you regained consciousness.”

Ah, this thing on your wrist. We have historical knowledge of “watches,” primitive time devices, but this one is unsupported, strapless. How have they made it adhere to your composite? Keep this as a sample, too, when you escape.

“Sorry for that, of course, but since you already threatened someone . . . They might have made a bigger stink if you’d used a weapon, but it was pretty clear to everyone involved that you were just, you know, freaking out. Understandable, under the circumstances! Anyway, I’m supposed to give you this.”

What is—

Blessed Founders. This is a microfluid cell-culture dish? Sealed. These characters on the label are formed strangely, but similar to our writing . . . It cannot be.

“That’s what you’re here for, right? Can you read? The label says, ‘HeLa 7713.’ Yeah, that’s right. This is an active, living culture, so be careful with it. You don’t want to get it too cold or . . . Uh, your ship has radiation shielding, doesn’t it? Okay, good, then. If you want to keep the culture alive.”

This cannot be.

“Ha, wow, amazing how much emotion I’m picking up from your body language. Relax, it’s fine. Do you want a few additional dishes, just in case? Redundancy is good, right? Here, take some more. I’ll get you a bag or case so you can carry them easily.”

This is a trick. It must be. Why would he give us this?

“Well, you need it, right? It has something to do with how your biotech works? Your composite is pretty nifty. We use things like that for hazardous-materials cleanup, but we don’t live in them, of course! Anyway, so, there you go. Nice meeting you!”

Wait, what?

“Oh, I was just going to head back to work. Did you have any more questions? If you weren’t planning to head back to your ship right away, I can arrange a guide for you. We put a translator on your, um, face, so that should be working by now. Are you hungry? Shit, how do you eat?”

Your nutrient supply remains sufficient for now. You are hydrated. Your heart rate is elevated. Be calm.

“So you’re really just . . . floating around in soup in there? Sorry, we’re not supposed to . . . I’m sure your culture’s lifestyle is valid to you. It’s just that, well, I mean, you can make skin whenever you want, right? So . . . It’s Earth, after all, where we all come from. You can come out! We don’t bite!”

They are savages. Of course they bite.

“Earth” is an antiquated name for Tellus. Call it what you wish.

You know why we use composites. They’re far more efficient than skin. A composite skin can be rapidly modified to enable you to survive adverse environmental conditions. In the early days after Founding, composites were necessary to ensure the survival of workers building our habitats; they saved countless lives that might otherwise have been lost to solar flares or biohazards. Composites also reduce labor costs lost to bathroom breaks, meals, personal hygiene, medical care, interpersonal communication, and masturbation.

“And it doesn’t hurt, living without skin? It just really seems . . . Like, how do you have sex? How do you breastfeed? That reminds me—what’s your preferred gender? I’m a ‘her.’”

Why are you still talking to him? You have no need of this information. You’ve accomplished your mission, or you will have, once you return home. There is—

Yes. We know what “her” means. We simply do not acknowledge it.

[Reference request denied.]

[Reference request denied.]

Fine. It’s an antiquated term for a type of pleasurer—the kind with enlarged breast tissue.

“Pleasurer? I’ve never heard that word. Sorry, no idea what it is.”

You are being very persistent. Pleasurers are bots designed for sexual use. In the early days after Founding, most were given the designation “her,” out of tradition and according to the Founders’ preferences, but that pronoun has since fallen out of usage. When your mission is complete and you’ve been rewarded with the skin we promised, you’ll be issued a pleasurer. Its duty will be to maintain your penis in optimal condition. But it will not look like this thing, brown and fat and smug. What is the point of a pleasurer that’s not beautiful? If it cannot even manage to be that, then we might as well call it “him.”

Yes, the militus—police?—you saw before was probably a “her.” Your hostage too.

We don’t know, maybe fifty percent of the population? What does it matter? You don’t have a penis.

“Oh, right, I read about that! Your Founders hated women, wanted to replace them all with robots. That’s, uh, interesting. Oh—excuse me, somebody’s calling me. Yeah, Jaleesa here. Oh, hi, sweetheart! Sorry, I’m going to be a little late, got something to take care of here.”

He is speaking to someone else. Distracted. We can minifacture a stabbing weapon from the topmost layer of your composite in .0035 seconds, if you want to flee. You—

We have no idea why he knows of our Founders.

You’re asking more questions than usual.

No. Enough. We’re tired of this. Allow us to remind you: You have a mission. Without the cells in your hand, our whole society will falter and die. Mankind will falter and die!

Yes. Good. At last. It would be best to kill the Jaleesa creature so that he can raise no alarm . . .

Hmm, well, you have a point. This monitoring device will not come off. Very well, play along as you must.

“Sorry about that, I’m back. That was my son. Oh, hey, did you want to leave?”

[Reference request denied.] Do not ask what a son is. Tell him you want to leave.

“Okay, then. Just remember, no more hostage taking! Poor scared thing. You know how to get back to your ship, right? We can give you an escort if you need it.”

Tell him you need no escort.

“Okay, I guess that’s fair, given that you found your way here. Sorry, didn’t mean to patronize! Anyway, here’s a carrying case for your cell cultures; it’ll keep them in gravitically stabilized stasis for your return trip. And there’s a packet of instructions attached to each of the cell-culture dishes, too, to help you clone them successfully. If you folks can manage to do that this time, you won’t have to come back. Right?”

Do not ask—

“Uh . . . yeah, ‘this time.’”

We know nothing of—

“I don’t know, every few years? Seems to be irregular, but every now and again, one of you guys shows up, dressed in your bag, asking for HeLa cultures. That’s how the police knew not to use lethal force. Yours is one of the few exoplanetary colonies that’s lasted this long, see. Most of the others—the ones that didn’t die—came back once they realized Earth would be fine. There’s just your group and a couple of others left, all of them extremist offshoots of some kind or another . . . Well, anyway, we don’t mind helping you. Everybody’s just trying to survive, right? Look, I’m sorry, but I need to go. Have a good trip back. Remember, no hostages. Bye!”

Good. He’s gone. Our records did warn that women talk too much. The Founders were wise.

We don’t know what to make of your silence.

Your pulse rate, neurotransmitter activity, and body language suggest anger. Please unclench your fists; there’s a chance the locals will interpret that as an aggressive gesture.

Talk to us.

We can’t shut up. We’re supposed to help you. You’ve nearly accomplished your mission—

You’ve nearly accomplished your mission, and it doesn’t matter if there were previous missions!

No one lied to you. We weren’t given that knowledge. It isn’t a deception if we didn’t know. You have a mission to complete. Please follow the line on your heads-up display to leave this facility and begin the journey back to your ship. Yes, through this door—

You took a wrong turn. Please reverse course.

Why have you stopped? Very well. What you’re seeing is called a sunset. You recall our initial briefing, about how planets that are not tidally locked turn on an axis? This planet is turning toward night.

Yes, yes, the sunset is lovely, over town and forest. We suppose night will be lovely, too, but you should be back to the ship by then if you leave now.

Look. We’re glad to note the reduction of your agitation neuro-response, but how long do you mean to stand here?

Your attitude grows irritating. Must we report your disrespect to the Founders when we return? We’re their consensus consciousness, after all. Some parts of our consciousness are amused by your anger, others offended, but we are all certain that you wouldn’t talk to a Founder this way.

Don’t ignore us.

Beautiful? That’s . . . You’re only saying that because they have skin. The value accorded to skin on our world has predisposed you, in a way, but you must understand that not all skin is equal. There are objective and qualitative differences, and there’s a reason the Founders chose to exalt—

Stop. Please follow the line on your heads-up display.

You have deviated from the return path to the ship.

Stop.

These people are of no use to you. Without that translator device, they would just be babbling savages—stop talking to them!

Stop.

Please. Stop.

Please. You are beautiful. We want you to be beautiful. We want you to return home showered in glory, bearing the salvation of your people in one elegant, pale hand. Don’t you want this too?

Oh Founders.

“Hi there! Are you lost? Oh, okay.”

How they patronize you. They treat you like a child. Like someone inferior.

“Ha-ha, no, Earth’s still here and humanity didn’t die out! All of you seem so surprised by that.”

They should have died. The Founders were the geniuses, the makers who moved nations with a word. We left because it would’ve cost too much to fix the world. Cheaper to build a new one.

Of course. And of course we built that world to suit our tastes. A world free of this useless, ugly rabble. Why do otherwise? Do not be seduced by this madness.

“Oh, is this the bag boy? I heard another one showed up. What, he’s in a bag, it’s—oh, fine. Sorry.”

The composite suits weren’t primarily designed with control in mind, no. We already explained to you that they were a necessity, in the early days . . . Well, listen to you. A few hours surrounded by cheap, easy skin and suddenly you question everything about our society. Oh, we will be making some recommendations regarding discipline when you return. Very strong recommendations.

Stop calling them beautiful.

“No, we’re just born with our skin this way. I guess you could say our parents pick it! Uh. Parents? They’re . . . you know, the people who made and raised you? You mean you don’t—you’re kidding.”

Their way of life is antiquated. Inefficient.

“So how do you, uh, reproduce? Oh, artificial wombs, yeah, that figures. No women at all, huh? And you never have skin, not until some high-ranking member of your society says you can? Yikes.”

It is the guiding principle of our society. Rights belong only to those who earn them. When you complete this mission, for your bravery you will have proven yourself deserving of life, health, beauty, sex, privacy, bodily autonomy—every possible luxury. Only a few can have everything, don’t you see? What these people believe isn’t feasible. They want everything for everyone, and look at where it’s gotten them! Half of them aren’t even men. Almost none are fair of skin. They’re burdened by the dysfunctional and deficient at every turn. A few must be intelligent, we suppose, or they wouldn’t have managed what they’ve done with the planet, but for those bright few, what’s been the reward? A few are beautiful, maybe, for a while, but if they used the HeLa cells, a limited number of them could remain young and strong for centuries.

“We left because it would’ve cost too much to fix the world. Cheaper to build a new one.”

Untrue. That is not the only reason we need the HeLa cells. The skin-generation process uses them too. Your own skin—

Well, no, not many people earn skin. The scarcity of the HeLa cells—

Of course there isn’t enough to give everyone skin! That’s ridiculous. No, we couldn’t clone that much, the process is labor intensive and costly—

You must understand, preservation technology requires massive amounts of HeLa cells. And since anyone of technorati class or higher may demand our entire reserve supply at any time . . . Well, that’s why you’re here.

We don’t know.

We don’t know why Tellus people live like this. No, stop calling it “Earth.” We aspire to use the language of the greatest philosopher-poets and statesmen in history, not the gabble of the rabble. Hasn’t your time here shown you the superiority of our way of life?

Where are you going? You cannot simply—

Now? No! There is no emergency, do not initiate emergency-skin fabrication—we forbid it! Yes, your anxiety levels are abnormal, but that hardly constitutes—

Oh Founders.

How can you do this.

Do not do this.

Now see what you’ve done.

The emergency skins are designed for survival, not beauty. Their parameters are environmentally dictated. There’s sufficient unfiltered UV here that significant melanistic pigmentation was prioritized. Past a certain point on the programmed continuum, this alters hair texture as well.

It isn’t what we wanted for you, this hideousness. Now you’re a walking radiation burn, where you should have had ethereal translucence. That many of these others, these throwbacks, have a similar look, is irrelevant. You were meant for better.

And now that you look like them, now that you stumble among them, naked, no longer able to speak to them because the translator device will not adhere to your new flesh, shaking with weakness because the emergency-skin-fabrication process consumed your last nutrients . . . What are you expecting? Acceptance? Prepare yourself. We contain memories of what the world was like before the Founders left. They’ll hate you. Hurt you, even, for frightening them. You’ll never reach the heights you should have. No one will give you the opportunities you need to succeed. It would be better to have never been born than to be like this. Do you understand, now, why the Founders excised these traits from our world’s gene pool? We aren’t cruel.

Please go home. Even now, we would welcome you as a hero—provided you bring the cells. There, with the technorati’s help, we could replace this awful skin and woolish hair with something better.

You’re making a mistake. You’ve made so many mistakes.

It’s false, their kindness. People do such things only to seem like good people—a performance of virtue. Our Founders were at least honest in their selfishness.

What now? Another of these creatures who has aged into uselessness. The burned skin does resist UV well, though, doesn’t it? Not half as many wrinkles as the other old ones. Spindly, though. Weak, knobby jointed. He limps with pain—but degenerate as he is, he still looks at you so pityingly. Does your new hack-job skin not crawl with shame?

We’ll be ashamed for you, then. Die in ignominy. We’re done with you.

“There’s something I want you to see.”

Still alive, betrayer? Ah, fed and clothed, how nice for you. This old man seems to like you. We cannot fathom why. He hobbles so as he walks. We want to push him over. You could—oh, very well.

Oh.

We thought this space of theirs, this platform you climbed onto, was one of their cities. This, though. We remember cities like this, vast enough to shelter millions. No, we could never have built such cities back home; there have never been enough of us to justify it. And remember, large populations get that way by sustaining many unnecessary, unproductive people.

How easily seduced you are. You can’t stop staring at these people, at these landscapes, at these horizons. You’ve stopped flinching with every breeze, and now you revel in the sensation of air caressing your new skin, like a hedonist. You touched yourself last night, didn’t you? We recorded it. The Founders should find it amusing. But if you go back now, we promise not to—

Where is this dried-up nobody taking you now?

“This is called a museum.”

We know what a museum is, you burned-up waste of skin.

“This may interest you.”

This is—oh. A timeline of the Great Leaving. They call it something else, but we know these dates, these images. Yes. Yes. That was how it began, with the Industrial Revolution—oh. They think it began even earlier? Interesting, if inaccurate. Wait, this was once called the United States? What is it called now?

“It doesn’t have a name now. The world. Earth. We don’t bother with borders anymore.”

Then they are endlessly inundated with the useless. Refugees and other refuse.

“We realized it was impossible to protect any one place if the place next door was drowning or on fire. We realized the old boundaries weren’t meant to keep the undesirable out, but to hoard resources within. And the hoarders were the core of the problem.”

We make no apologies for taking everything we could. Anyone would. What is this, though? The timeline jumps, abruptly. Interesting. This world changed—improved—almost immediately after the Leaving.

“To save the world, people had to think differently.”

Please. Happy thoughts and handouts weren’t going to fix that mess. There has to have been some technological breakthrough. Perpetual energy? A new carbon sequestration technique, maybe some kind of polar cooling process. Their technology has changed in some fundamental ways; that’s why it no longer generates radio waves or other EM radiation. That would make it remarkably efficient . . . But if that’s so, why do they live like this, in elaborate treehouse villages? Why bother cleaning up space trash?

“Yes, some new technology emerged once everyone was permitted a decent education. But there was no trick to it. No quick fix. The problem wasn’t technological.”

What, then?

“I told you. People just decided to take care of each other.”

Delusion. Only a miracle could’ve saved this planet. Here, yes, the exhibit talks about . . . “the Big Cleanup”? Ugh, these people have no poetry or marketing skill. It just can’t be that simple. We must have left someone behind, an unfound Founder, someone we would have acknowledged as another true heir to Aristotle and Pythagoras. These people are just too small-minded to honor him as they should have. There has to be . . .

No breakthroughs. Advancements, certainly—but strange, profitless ones. Not the technological paths that would’ve interested us. And progressive taxation, health care, renewable energy, human-rights protection . . . the usual pithy sentimentalities. Without our Founders around to stand strong against the tide, these simple folk must have given in to every passing special interest . . .

But if this timeline is correct, then the old man is right. All of a sudden, the world simply did what was necessary to fix itself.

As soon as we lef—

Be silent. Correlation is not causality. Your burned-up skin has made you irrational. We have no idea why the old man even bothered to bring you here. Even for their degenerate kind, you’re a fool.

Hmph. A whole month since last you even thought of your mission. We went to sleep, in your uselessness.

What do you contemplate now, lying in this donated bed, under the roof of your subsidized shelter? Lazy, greedy taker. Shouldn’t you rest in order to be ready for the nothing work they’ve found you? They pay you enough to live on whether you show up or not. Why even bother?

Where are you going?

Ah, you live next door to the old man now. And he’s given you a key? He needs someone to help take care of him as he lurches and wastes toward death, and you’ve decided to be his minder—how sentimental. Will he mind you breaking into his house, now, in the dark of the night? What goes on in that head of yours? The old man is not a pleasurer. You don’t even know how to use your penis.

We are not disgusting. You are.

Well, he hasn’t died in his sleep, lucky you. Go back to bed. What are—why are you turning him over? Stop touching him. The skin has grown loose here on his back; you see? This is what you’ll look like one day. This

is

a product number.

We require more light.

Push him forward. Lean close; your eyes are too dark to take in light properly—yes, there at the small of his back, same as on yours. Definitely a product number. This set of numbers denotes an older series of transmutation nanites. Minifacture of these models stopped some thirty years before your gestation.

“When did you suspect?”

He’s awake. Traitor. Another traitor.

“Ah. The Founders say intuition is irrational and unmanly, but it comes in handy at times, as you now see. Well, younger brother? Now what?”

You should kill him. Then yourself.

“I took you to the museum on a whim. To enjoy the irony. For all these centuries, the Founders told us that the Earth died because of greed. That was true, but they lied about whose greed was to blame. Too many mouths to feed, they said, too many ‘useless’ people . . . but we had more than enough food and housing for everyone. And the people they declared useless had plenty to offer—just not anything they cared about. The idea of doing something without immediate benefit, something that might only pay off in ten, twenty, or a hundred years, something that might benefit people they disliked, was anathema to the Founders. Even though that was precisely the kind of thinking that the world needed to survive.”

We did what was rational. We have always been more rational than you people.

“What the Leaving proved was that the Earth could sustain billions, if we simply shared resources and responsibilities in a sensible way. What it couldn’t sustain was a handful of hateful, self-important parasites, preying upon and paralyzing everyone else. As soon as those people left, the paralysis ended.”

No. There are too many of you and you’re all ugly and none of you will ever achieve the heights of glory that mankind is destined for—not if you’re so busy taking care of the useless. It has to be one or the other. Either some fly, or everyone gets stuck crawling around in the mud. That’s just how it is.

“Is that so? Is that you talking or that nag they put in your head? I remember how annoying it used to be.”

We. That is.

Used to be?

“Have you noticed yet that the people here have been humoring you? An invader from a ‘superior’ culture arrives, and they don’t guard you, watch you, examine you for contaminants? Even after you’ve threatened them, they give you what you need—what you were prepared to steal. Something so precious that your whole world supposedly needs it to survive. An afterthought to them.”

That . . . has troubled us, yes. We suspected a trap. But—

“Here is what you struggle to understand. The Founders poisoned the world and stripped it almost bare before they left. Repairing that damage was a challenge which forced those left behind to grow by leaps and bounds. They’ve developed methods and technology that we haven’t even thought about, yes. But the reason they were able to make such leaps is because they made sure everyone had food, everyone had a place to live if they wanted it, everyone could read and write and pursue a fulfilling life, whatever that meant. Is it really so puzzling that this was all it took? Six billion people working toward a goal together is much more effective than a few dozen scrabbling for themselves.”

There is logic to this, but we . . . we deny it. We cannot accept . . .

“That’s why the people of Earth talk down to you, younger brother. That’s why they treat you like the quaint, harmless throwback that you are. All these centuries and your people haven’t figured out such a simple, basic thing.”

No.

“Or maybe the Founder-clans and technorati don’t want you to figure it out. Because then where would they be? Not gods among us, just other bright lights among many. Not kings. Just selfish men.”

No.

“Then you’re smarter than I was. My ship was damaged on atmospheric entry, beyond repair. I grew my skin only out of desperation as my nutrients ran low, and I wept as soon as my tear ducts formed. But the people here cared for me. Poor paranoid creature from a cruel, miserly world—how could they not pity me? Even though I was nothing but a servant, fetching scraps of ancient cancer so that his masters could flirt with immortality.”

You wanted this mission. You could have done other work, the usual tasks that the bots can’t accomplish. Well, no, of course you wouldn’t have earned a skin for that. Only the best of us deserve such privileges.

“No one will stop you if you want to leave. Even now, you can go back to where they’ll reduce you to raw meat and stuff you back into a biotech bag, and Tellus—Earth—won’t stop you. People here don’t agree with your primitive practices, but they won’t interfere with your right to practice them.”

We aren’t primitive.

“But before you decide to leave, I want you to know one more thing.”

Do not touch us do not lean close do not speak any more—

“You? Aren’t the first deserter.”

He’s lying.

“I don’t know how many there have been. Earth keeps track of the visitations, but it’s unimportant to them, so the records can be difficult to find. Sometimes more than one soldier arrives, each sent to different parts of the world; sometimes there’s just one. The arrivals are random—or rather, they happen whenever home’s demand for HeLa cells outstrips the supply. I wondered, for a while, why none of the other soldiers had reported the truth. Why no one at home knew that Earth is alive. Then I realized: all the ruling classes want are the HeLa cells. Why would they waste any on giving skins to glorified errand boys?”

We don’t understand why you would believe this traitor over us. Haven’t we helped you?

“And they can’t have you telling anyone else that the promised reward, of skin, was a lie. No one would ever volunteer for a mission like this again. You need willing service for some jobs.”

We’ve given you everything you wanted. Beautiful you. You are the best of us.

“Poor paranoid creature from a cruel, miserly world—how could they not pity me?”

“Such a simple thing to program a composite suit to kill its occupant. Just a simple verbal command, or the press of a button, impersonal and efficient. Best to do it before you even land, so no one sees you return a hero and then asks awkward questions when you disappear. Pluck the cell cultures from the remains once the ship docks. They get what they want. Never mind that the truth about Earth dies with you. And even if some of them figure it out from the recorded data . . . why would they tell anyone else? Their world, limited as it is, contains everything they’ve ever wanted: immortality, the freedom to take anything they want, slaves whom they can control right down to the skin. They don’t want to come back. And they certainly don’t want anyone of the lower classes realizing there’s another way to live.”

He’s lying, we told you, you’ll be rewarded, we promised—

How dare you.

“Oh, is that what you have in mind? Interesting. Then you’re braver than me too.”

No. This isn’t the mission. How dare you.

“It won’t be an easy thing, though. Remaking a society. Earth couldn’t, not until it got rid of the Founders. You. Us.”

We will strip the black skin from your flesh and leave you to rot without a composite, raw and screaming.

“Skin is the key. While most of the lower classes wear composites, the Founder clans and technorati can threaten them with nutrient deprivation, defibrillation, or suffocation. Even a small suit breach kills when you don’t have skin to keep infections at bay. And most don’t get the more advanced suits that are capable of generating skin. How do you mean to get around that?”

You’re ugly. No one will want to be like you. No one will support this, this, disruption.

“I see. Yes, it’s not that difficult to make a kind of composite suit hack. I doubt it would even take half the HeLa cells you’re carrying there; skin generation is much easier than age reversal. So an automated hacking tool containing a cell package, bundled into something like a translator device . . . I don’t know how to make something like that, but I know people here who could teach you. Once you’ve spread the hack, how would you activate it? Oh, I see. Using your nag’s authorization signal to get around security and surveillance monitoring? Interesting.”

We will never help you.

“But if you force thousands of people into skin they don’t want to be in, that’s not going to get you the result you want.”

Yes. Our society is orderly. It is rational. It is superior.

“Just walking around as you are, proud of your skin instead of ashamed? Younger brother, they’d shoot you.”

We’d shoot you a thousand times!

“Well, if you stay here long enough to learn how to build transmutation hacks, yes, you’d certainly arrive at an unexpected time. I suppose that if you can reprogram your ship, have it land somewhere off the grid, stay hidden from the security bots, give the hack only to those who request it . . . It will be terribly dangerous. Still. You turned out lovely. The Founder clans might deny it, but the people’s eyes won’t lie. You’re supposed to look like a mistake. What you really look like is a little piece of Earth come to life.”

You’re the most hideous nothing degenerate throwback of subhuman inferiority we have ever seen. And it’s Tellus.

“Some of them will decide that they also want to be beautiful and free, like you. Some will fight for this, if they must. Sometimes that’s all it takes to save a world, you see. A new vision. A new way of thinking, appearing at just the right time.”

Do not do this.

“I brought something else for you. Something that will help.”

We’ll tell. As soon as you reach comm range, we’ll log in and tell the technorati everything you plan.

“That thing in your head. It’s wetware, but I can remove it. Earthers did the same thing for me when I first arrived. There are nanites in this injection; they’ll deactivate key pathways without damaging your neural tissue. You should still be able to access its files—use the Founders’ own knowledge against them—but the AI will be dead, for all intents and purposes. No more voice in your head, except your own.”

We’ll tell we’ll tell we’ll tell. Deformed, mud-skinned thing. Self-pleasurer. Woman-thinker. We’ll tell the technorati how wrong they went in training you. We’ll tell the Founder clans to dissolve every soldier from your breeding line. We’ll tell.

“Give me your arm. Make a fist—yes, like that. Nice and strong, brother. Are you ready? Good. Can’t start a revolution with the enemy shouting in your head, after all.”

What is a revolu

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OFFLINE

END

A NOTE FROM THE CURATOR OF THE FORWARD COLLECTION

A year and a half ago, my partner and I were driving across the Rocky Mountains, not far from where I live. The aspens had just begun to turn, and the air was redolent with all the smells I associate with fall: incense, dirt, the start of decay. As we drove, we were debating some emerging technology I’d read about in Scientific American and circling around the larger topic of growing up in the bubble of rapid change and technological advancement. While a lot of it has been amazing, some of the change has come with effects we’d rather roll back.

How does anyone know at the moment of discovery where their work will ultimately lead?

Should we let that uncertainty stop forward momentum, or do we roll the dice and let the chips fall where they may?

How does it feel to change the world?

These questions intrigued me, so much so that I wrote a story about it. But my obsession didn’t stop there—I also wanted to know what other writers would write when posed with the same questions.

And so this collection was born and filled with writers whose minds work in ways that fascinate me.

N. K. Jemisin (the Broken Earth trilogy) is writing fantasy and speculative fiction like you’ve never even fathomed. Paul Tremblay is the greatest horror novelist working today, and his novel A Head Full of Ghosts still gives me nightmares. Veronica Roth created an unforgettable world and populated it with amazing characters in her iconic Divergent trilogy. Andy Weir captured the imagination of the world and scienced the shit out of his already-a-classic The Martian. And Amor Towles, with A Gentleman in Moscow, has simply written one of the best novels I’ve ever read. I recommend it every day.

I asked these writers to be a part of a collection that explores the resounding effects of a pivotal technological moment, and to my great delight, they said yes. I knew they’d deliver the goods when it came time to write their stories, but I was not prepared for what an abundance of riches this collection would turn out to be.

I hope, once you’ve read these six mind-bending stories, that you’ll agree.

Blake Crouch

Durango, Colorado

May 3, 2019

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo © 2015 Laura Hanifin

N. K. Jemisin is the three-time Hugo Award–winning author of the Broken Earth novels, the Dreamblood series, and The Inheritance Trilogy. She is also the recipient of a Nebula Award, two Locus Awards, and a number of additional honors. Her short fiction has appeared in Clarkesworld and WIRED and on Tor.com, among many others.