Toledot

Toledot

Post-Self book II

Madison Scott-Clary

Toledot

Departure

Progression

Acceleration

Arrival

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the author

Other books by Madison Scott-Clary

ally

Eigengrau — Poems 2015-2020

Rum and Coke — Three Short Stories from a Furry Convention

Arcana — A Tarot Anthology, ed.

Sawtooth

Restless Town

A Wildness of the Heart

Post-Self

I. Qoheleth

II. Toledot

III. Nevi'im

Learn more at makyo.ink/publications

Copyright © 2020, Madison Scott-Clary. This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License. To view a copy of this license, visit creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, PO Box 1866, Mountain View, CA

ISBN: 978-1-948743-24-2

Toledot

Cover © Iris Jay, 2021 — irisjay.net

First Edition, 2021. All rights reserved.

This book uses the fonts Gentium Book Basic and Linux Biolinum O and was typeset with .

Content Warning: themes of suicide, manipulation, and abuse.

Esau said, I am about to die; of what use is a birthright to me?

Jacob said, Swear to me first.

So he swore to him, and sold his birthright to Jacob.

— Genesis 25:32-33

Departure

Ioan Bălan—2325

The first thing that Ioan did when ey arrived before that low-slung house, there among countless acres of rolling buffalo grass, was laugh.

The prairie was as ey remembered. Grass tickled at eir lower calves even through the socks and slacks; clouds threatened rain as they always did; wind tugged at eir hair in all the very same ways it first had however many years ago now—was it really twenty? And yet the house! Banners were hung about in deepest black, streamers running from pole to pole in a welcoming path, guiding visitors. The house itself was lit about with flames of all sizes: tea-lights scattered among the dandelions, elaborate candelabras set upon tables, braziers set upon tripods, wall sconces set beneath the cantilevered roof. A glow painting the grass beside the house suggested a bonfire out back.

And there, the largest banner of them all, draped from that roof, shouted in stately capitals: HAPPY DEATH DAY.

Still shaking eir head, ey walked up along the streamer-lined path up toward the house. When the threshold was crossed, a chime sounded from within.

Ioan need not have looked hard for Dear; the fox was already sprinting around the corner of the house. Foxes, ey realized, for as it ran, it forked off copies of itself of all sorts: that iridescent fennec ey remembered, yes, but also scampering foxes no larger than a double-handful, a few grinning copies of the Michelle Hadje of its past, and even a shoulder-high lumbering beast with eyes that crackled with a light of their own.

Dear—the real Dear—was easy to pick out, for it was dressed in mourners' garb. A black suit, almost-but-not-quite masculine, with its eyes hidden by a gauzy black, almost-but-not-quite feminine veil.

One by one, the various forks quit, and Dear, Also, The Tree That Was Felled skidded to an unceremonious stop in front of the historian.

Ioan! Mx. Ioan Bălan! It has been too long! I have missed you. The fox held out a paw.

Ioan bypassed this and went straight for the hug. Dear, this is patently ridiculous.

The laughter against eir ear was giddy as the hug was returned. I hold no patent on the ridiculous. It is precisely as ridiculous as it needs to be. Come! Come around back. You are early, and that is perfectly fine, but folks will want to say hi.

Following after the fox and laughing at the way the occasional non-anthropomorphized fennec would blip into being, scamper into the grass with a (frankly rather horrifying) screech, and then disappear, Ioan tried to chat with Dear.

The fox was short on speech after the greeting, eventually hushing em. We will all talk together.

Ioan! Goodness!

Ey smiled. Codrin, you’re looking well.

What similarities the two had borne early on had since started to blur. Codrin had started out, as a matter of absent-mindedness, an identical copy of Ioan. While Dear could fork out all the unexpected shapes it wanted, Ioan had never mastered the art. Time changes much, however, and eir up-tree fork had deviated in style from Ioan’s stolid adherence to form. Codrin’s hair had long-since grown past Ioan’s tousled look, and the curls ey hated so much adopted as an integral part of em. Eir face, too, had changed, adopting a femininity that suited eir features. The warm-colored sarong and tunic ey had last seen em in, however, had been replaced with clothes as funereal as Dear’s.

Matching, Ioan realized. They were a triad now, Codrin, Dear, and Dear’s partner, and ey supposed there was no reason that the three of them shouldn’t match on their so-called death day.

There were hugs all around, and Ioan hid eir secret smile at the uncanny act of embracing one’s own fork, however far they had diverged.

How are you three? Excited?

Nervous is more like it. Dear’s partner laughed. At least, I am. I can’t speak for Codrin, but Dear hasn’t shut up about this for months.

The fox looked quite proud of itself. Guilty.

Ioan looked to Codrin, who shrugged. I play the moderate, as always. I’m nervous and excited in equal parts. The nervousness comes from the irreversibility, and the excitement from the inevitability.

Ey has a way with words, as always. I have been unable to be nervous, even about the irreversibility.

A new project, then? Ioan guessed.

It smiled wryly. "You know me well. Yes, I cannot seem to think of anything else. Fewer things in life than we imagine are truly irreversible. Time is the one that everyone thinks of, and whenever they name some other process in life that seems irreversible, it really boils down to the ways in which it is bound by time. Breathing? Digestion? Aging? Death? All time-bound aspects that only bear the semblance of irreversibility.

And yet we have short-circuited so much of that here. We have found ways to take time and set aside some of the constraints that it puts on those processes. Breathing, digestion, and aging are all optional, and death, as we must know, is something that must be chosen. Even then, a true death remains elusive. Perhaps we quit and merge down tree, but is that death? Perhaps all of our instances quit, but even this lacks some of the savor that a true death contains.

You’re declaiming again.

Dear stuck its tongue out at its partner, a gesture that bordered on cute on that vulpine face.

Its partner laughed. It took you a surprisingly short time.

It has already been established that I am excited. Permit me this. After a pause, it continued. "Now, however, we have been permitted the wonder and curiosity that drives so many images of the afterlife. Now, we get as close as ever to knowing that an afterlife exists, and ghosts will speak to us from beyond the heavens."

For a time, Codrin said.

For a time, and even that carries with it the irreversibility of time.

The ideas touched on some subconscious musing that Ioan had carried with emself ever since the choice to remain had been made, and the group settled into a silence broken only by the crackling of logs on the bonfire. Ey didn’t know what the others were thinking, there in the flickering light, but for em, the weight of that decision settled at last on em, and eir thoughts scattered before the implications.

Ey had made eir own irreversible choice, and while ey knew that ey could technically reverse it up until that final point of no return later this evening, ey knew that ey would not.

Ioan?

Ey realized that the triad were staring at them. Ey shook eir head to dispel the rumination. Sorry. Yes?

Where is May Then My Name? Dear’s partner asked.

Here.

Four heads turned to watch the skunk, similar to Dear in so many ways but for species, padded around the corner. She smiled apologetically and bowed. Sorry I am late.

Dear brightened and bounced up to the skunk, part of its own clade, and once she stood straight again, hugged her. My dear, a pleasure as always.

Ioan waited for Dear to release May Then My Name Die With Me before getting eir own hug. After, she looped her arm through eirs, letting em play the escort and settling into a familiar pattern of constant touch.

Glad you could make it, Dear’s partner said.

I would not miss it for the world. Besides, I am one of the honored guests, right?

Codrin smiled. We’ve only invited honored guests.

Of course! And here come more.

For the next hour, the chime of arrival was near constant as guest after guest arrived. Much of the Ode Clade showed, though Ioan noted that some of the more conservative members were absent, grudges remaining even to this day. Michelle Hadje herself, the root instance, was notably absent, and a tug of still-unprocessed emotions pulled at the insides of eir chest.

Ioan had only met her once before, shortly before this whole plan had been set in motion. She was unfailingly kind, though if madness rode the whole of her clade, it seemed to affect her deeper than the rest. She was often taken by long silences, sometimes in the middle of sentences. During these, she lost coherence, her form rippling and changing, waves of skunk rolling down her form, followed by equally tumultuous waves of her human self. These spells would last anywhere from a few seconds to a few minutes, and even after they were quelled and the conversation resumed, afterimages of mephit muzzle and ears would ghost suddenly into place and just as quickly disappear.

After that visit, Ioan had asked Dear about them. Its features darkened and it had averted its gaze. We all have our ways of dealing with loss. She could seek change if she wanted, but…it is complicated.

It was rare for the fox to leave a thought unfinished, but Ioan could not think of a way to ask it to continue.

While every guest was noteworthy in their own way, a few names stood out to em. Dear’s sibling instance, Serene; Sustained And Sustaining, arrived, a deranged grin on her face as she ran directly at Dear and tackled it, the two foxes wrestling briefly on the ground before standing up and dusting themselves off again, both laughing.

I cannot believe you are going to destroy this place, you asshole. I spent weeks on the grass alone!

Dear grinned lopsidedly. It is not yours anymore, however, and I am a sucker for grand gestures.

Some gesture!

Asshole, remember?

Serene had arrived with her and Dear’s down-tree instance, That Which Lives Is Forever Praiseworthy. The entire clade, all one hundred of them, had each taken a line from a poem for their names, the shortest of which was What Right Have I, and the longest The Only Time I Know My True Name Is When I Dream, a jumble of syllables often shortened to just True Name. Both were present.

Ioan was surprised by a guest who arrived late in the evening when the champagne and wine were already flowing. Simien Fang, the head of an institute that both Dear and Ioan had worked for at times in the past, made his appearance in classic understated style. He was dressed in all black, but only when viewed head on. He had apparently made an agreement with Dear to allow the occupants of the sim’s vision to be modified such that when viewed out of the corner of the eye, his outfit flashed in a whirlwind of phosphene colors. Not only that, but his normally calm features distorted into a devilish grin, no matter the expression seen directly.

The party rolled on inevitably. Good conversation, good wine, good food, good company.

And riding along with it, a sense of impending change, of anxiety and excitement in unequal measure.

A sudden peal of thunder, louder than any Ioan had ever heard, brought silence in its wake.

It is time! It is time! Please gather around the fire! Excitement filled Dear’s voice, though Ioan thought ey could now detect a hint of nervousness that had not been there before. There is no time for speeches, there is no time for goodbyes! It is time!

The fox forked off several copies, all wide-eyed and feral-grinned, who helped to herd the hundred-and-change guests into a loose ring around the bonfire with shoves and snapping teeth before quitting.

Ioan and May Then My Name took up places about a third of the way around the fire from Dear and its partners, the better to see without flames in the way.

The triad stepped forward, and the circle closed behind them. Each forked in turn, the forks bowed, and disappeared.

The weight of inevitability began to crest as midnight reared its head.

The three within the circle began to sing.

Should old acquaintance be forgot

and never brought to mind?

Something about their posture forbid everyone else from joining in just yet. Their voices were raw, earnest all the same, carrying above the roar and crackle of the fire.

Should old acquaintance be forgot

and auld lang syne?

Ioan realized that ey was crying, that May Then My Name was crying, that many in the circle were crying, and when Dear raised its arms to the sky, all the gathered attendees around the fire began to sing as one.

For auld lang syne, my dear,

for auld lang syne.

We’ll take a cup of kindness yet,

For auld lang–

Before the final note of the song could be sung, Dear gave a jaunty salute, bowed with a flourish, and quit along with its partner and Codrin Bălan.

With a deafening silence, the landscape around them immediately crumbled into voxels, those voxels joined together by powers of two, and with a soft chime, a descending minor triad, all the members of the party were shunted off to wherever they called home.

Ioan stumbled and fell to eir knees on the parquet of eir entryway, May Then My Name standing, defiant against the change in scenery, in air and light and gravity, beside em.

What an asshole, she laughed.

Ioan and the skunk let the intoxication of the night cling to them a while longer while they sat on the balcony of Ioan’s house, overlooking that perpetually lilac-scented yard, and talked. They talked of the party, of the modern house on the prairie, of Dear and the contradiction of formal intensity and playfulness that it seemed to embody, and then they talked of nothing at all as they sat in silence.

It did not seem time yet to snap sobriety into being.

It had taken Ioan several weeks to get used to the skunk’s affectionate nature. When she first moved in as the intensity of the project began to ramp up, it had taken em by surprise. Even the act of her moving in was unexpected and new. Ey had needed to have a series of awkward conversations discussing boundaries and intentions.

Now, it had become comfortable and familiar. May Then My Name was as she should be and Ioan had grown to enjoy that.

As she slouched against eir side on that bench swing and ey settled eir arm around her, ey asked, What’s the story behind your fork? Or your stanza?

Mm?

Well, Dear said that it and Serene were forked when their down-tree instance wanted to explore an interest in instances and sims. Is there something like that which led to…to whatever your down-tree instance forking? Ey supposed that, were ey sober, ey might have better luck dredging up the lines from the stanza. Something about true names and God.

May Then My Name shrugged, shoulder shifting against Ioan’s side. In the early days, I—Michelle, that is—did not have much direction to her forking. Forks were created at need essentially to handle the increased workload. The first ten were created all at once in a burst of activity so that she could take a break.

Were the early days busy?

Very busy. We were one of the founders you know, and there were a lot of details that needed to be seen to before this place became what it is today.

Ioan nodded. Dear said that Michelle had campaigned to include sensoria in the System.

Yes, though that is something of an elision that has become shorthand for experiences rather than thoughts. Her voice was clear, though it still held the careful articulation of one who has realized that they are not sober. "We were not beings of pure thought, there were still experiences, but there was no guarantee that they would be shared. It was chaotic, as you might imagine from a set of unique individuals trying to dream the same dream.

This was back in the early days, you understand, before the System had become a dumping ground for the world’s excess population. She smiled, far off. We were all starry-eyed dreamers, you know, and so were the engineers phys-side. Hard problems remain hard, however, and it kept getting deprioritized. Michelle and the rest of the founders provided arguments for the means by which we have consensual sensoria, as well as additional sensorium tools such as the messages.

Ioan relished the long-faded impulse to bristle at this. The Ode clade was notorious for their fondness for sensorium messages, those sensations and images that barged in on one’s own senses. Ey still found them unnerving. Ey said, Just how much of the early System did your clade influence?

May Then My Name’s laugh was quiet and muffled beside em. I am sure we have lost track. The first lines of each stanza quickly picked up interests of their own—even then they were rarely in communication—and each picked up a project of their own, and whenever a new project would come along, they would have to generate enough reputation to fork again. Everything was much more expensive back then, and we would sometimes have to pool our resources.

What was your stanza’s project?

She waved a paw vaguely. We lost the idea that the whole stanza would be working on similar projects after a while, so they are not as tightly connected any more. Early forks were much more likely to share similar interests, if only because the individuation had not set in as strongly. The first line of mine, though, The Only Time I Know My True Name Is When I Dream—True Name, you met her briefly tonight—was heavy in the politics of the early System and its relations to phys-side.

Ioan blinked, startled. I had no idea. I’m guessing that’s back when it was a bigger deal?

Very much so, yes.

I thought there wasn’t much political interaction after Secession, though.

She shrugged noncommittally, then rested her head back on Ioan’s shoulder. The alcohol of the night still dogged em.

And the reason for your fork?

To feel.

To feel?

To feel. True Name kept spinning off instances to work on such concrete things, I think she forgot how to feel. Emotions became distant out of habit. Touch became a distraction. I was to become her anchor. We would merge every few months after that, though it has been a long time since we last did so. She says that we will merge once this project is finished.

You haven’t diverged too far? Ioan asked.

She would like us not to, the skunk murmured. That is why I am acting as coordinator. It is a familiar role.

Ioan nodded. Close enough to politics, I suppose.

Another moment of silence. Ey permitted some of the drunkenness from the evening to drift away, allowing thoughts to come more clearly. May Then My Name relaxed further against eir side, and ey suspected she was not far away from sleep. Tomorrow, eir work would begin to pick up in earnest, so ey was tempted to let her sleep, but a question nagged at em.

May?

I like it when you call me that, she mumbled.

It’s a good name. Ioan smiled. I had a question, though. How much do you remember from back then?

She sat bolt upright, wrenching at eir shoulder. What did you say? Sorry.

Ey reclaimed eir arm, rubbing at the shoulder. It’s okay. How much do you remember from the early days of the System? Around the time you uploaded, I mean.

You, my dear, are a fucking genius. She was on her feet within a second, pacing back and forth in front of the bench swing. She paused mid-pace to lean down and bump her nose against Ioan’s forehead; her form of a kiss. Fucking genius.

Given that she appeared to have sobered up, Ioan allowed emself to do the same. What do you mean? ey asked.

I want to modify the project scope. Can I tell you a secret? She was speaking quickly now.

Yes, of course.

I want to modify the project and add in an early history of the System, of Secession. Do you think you would be up for adding that in?

Ioan frowned. If can I fork for it, I suppose.

May Then My Name laughed. You are talking to an Odist, of course you can fucking fork.

Alright, alright. What’s your secret, then?

I want to write an early history of the System to parallel the current. They are eerily similar, you know, but it has been two hundred years. We are well past history, and doubtless there are histories already written. I remember the secession, I remember uploading, I remember getting lost, I remember everything. Yes, I remember. Of course I do. All the great and terrible things that we did. We could write a history, but that is all already there. There are paper trails and journals and everything phys-side already knows about us, but–

Ioan’s eyes went wide as ey picked up on her idea. You want to turn it into a story.

She clapped and bounced excitedly on her feet. "Yes! Yes, a mythology. I know I have mentioned them before, and we had talked about incorporating that aspect with Dear and Codrin. The history is important, and perhaps you can write that too, but now is not the time for only history. Now is the time for–"

Stories.

In a decidedly Dear-like move, the skunk forked several times over, crowding the balcony before the bench swing with copies of herself, all of which had the same expression of glee. They quit quickly, and May Then My Name leaned forward to give Ioan a handful more of those nose-dot kisses. You get it!

I worked with Dear, you nut. Of course I get stories. Ey laughed, reaching up to grab her around the waist and haul her back onto the swing beside em.

How different she was than Dear. Individuation is born in the decades and centuries, though. Ey would never have thought to be so physical with the fox, but as she laughed and slumped back against eir side, ey realized ey had long since fallen into the habit of physicality, of touch. Of, ey realized, feeling, just as she’d said.

Douglas Hadje—2325

When Douglas Hadje pressed his hands against the sides of the L5 System, he always imagined that he could sense his aunt along with however many ‘great’s preceded that title, sense all of those years separating him from her, and he pressed his hands against the outside of the System every chance he could get. If he was sure that he was alone—and he often was—he would press his forehead to the glassy, diamondoid cylinder and wish, hope, dream that he could say even one word to her. His people, humanity, now nearly two centuries distant from the founding of the System, forever felt on the verge of true speciation, of mutual incomprehensibility, from those within. Did they still think the same? Did they still feel the same? Their hopes were doubtless different, but were their dreams?

But always his hands were separated from the structure by that thin layer of skinsuit, and always his helmet was in the way of the carbon shell, and always he was at least one reality away from them.

He would spend his five minutes there, connected and not by touch, thinking of this or that, thinking of nothing at all, and then he would climb away from the cylinder down the ladder, down the dozen or so meters to the ceiling of his home, climb through the airlock, and perhaps go lay down.

Others knew of this. They had to. All movement outside the habitat portion of the station was tightly controlled. Everything was on video, recorded directly from his eyes through his exo. All audio was recorded.

But he never spoke, and he always closed his eyes. For some unknown reason, he was permitted this small dalliance.

The System sat stationary at the Earth-Moon L5 point, a stable orbit with relation to the earth and moon such that it only very rarely required any correction to its position. Once a day, as the point rotated beyond Earth from the point of view of the sun and more briefly by the moon, it fell into darkness, but other than that, it was bathed in sunlight unmoderated by atmosphere. It rotated at a stately pace in relation to the moon and Earth such that its vast solar collector was always pointed toward the sun.

The station itself comprised three main parts. At the core of the station was the diamondoid cylinder, fifty meters in diameter and five hundred meters in length. The solar collector was attached to the sunward end of the cylinder, spreading out in a series of one hundred sixty thousand replaceable panels, one meter square each, held in a lattice of carbon fiber struts. Surrounding the cylinder was a torus, two hundred meters in diameter and as long as core cylinder itself, such that it was forever hidden from the sun by the solar collectors. Seventy-seven acres, of living space, working space, factories, and arable land, all lit by bundles of doped fiber optic cables which collected and distributed the light from space and cast it down from the ceiling. The entire contraption rotated nearly three times per minute, fast enough that they had an approximation of Earth’s gravity.

That is where Douglas lived along with about twenty others.

To fund such a project, the torus had originally operated as a tourist destination. Many of the living spaces consisted of repurposed hotel rooms. It had long since ceased to serve in that capacity as humanity’s curiosity for space dwindled and spaceflight from Earth once again began to rise in price.

To build such a project, the area had been cleared of much of the Trojan asteroids that had collected there, either used for raw materials or slung out into space into eccentric orbits that would keep them from impacting Earth or winding up once again captured in the same Lagrange point. Even still, one of the many jobs was to monitor the area for newly captured rocks and divert or collect them as needed. The material could be used for new solar panels, or perhaps the two five-thousand kilometer long launch arms sprouting on opposing sides of the torus, the Hall Effect Engines that kept the rotation of the station constant as the arms had been extruded from its surface, or of course the two new cylindrical launch vehicles at the tips of those arms that had, over the last two decades, been constructed as half-scale duplicates of the core.

Little of this mattered to Douglas.

He was, he was forever told, a people person. He was an administrator, a boss, a manager. It was his job to direct and guide and herd people into doing what was required for this twenty-year project. He was forever told that he had the empathy and skills to lead, though he forever doubted it.

He simply cared about this with a fervor that was dimmed only by the idea that, somewhere within the mirror-box that was the System cylinder, his distant ancestor dwelt.

Douglas was the launch director. He was the director. He was high enough on the food chain that he had ungated access to the textual communication line that connected the phys-side world to the sys-side world. He was the director, and he knew that, if he wished, all he need do was pull up the program, type up a letter, run it past security, click ‘send’, and Michelle, his generations-gone aunt, would somehow receive it.

And yet he never did.

He didn’t know why. He asked himself again and again what it was that kept him from reaching out to her. Was it that speciation? Was it the confounding societal differences? Was it that unfathomable distance between the physical and the dream? He did not know, he did not know.

Instead, he worked. He oversaw the construction of the Launch Vehicle Systems, those two smaller cylinders that would be, in a few days, released from either end of the launch arms at incredible tangential velocity. He worked with the sys-side launch coordinator to ensure that everything was working appropriately, that the micro-Ansible connection between the main System and the launch vessels was appropriately transferring entire identities.

Who this coordinator was, this confusingly-named May Then My Name Die With Me, he had no idea.

He needn’t even message Michelle directly. He had May Then My Name Die With Me, perhaps she would know her. He could ask her. She could mediate.

And still, he never did.

Director Hadje,

The launch is tomorrow and communications are looking good. A status report will follow, but before I get to that, I would like to open a dialog with you surrounding topics beyond the launch itself. Please ensure that this is both acceptable by the hierarchy of superiors that doubtless read our communications and yourself, as they are of a somewhat more personal nature. As my role of launch coordinator slowly dwindles, I have been asked by both my clade and a historian sys-side to collect information through extant lines of communication, a sort of oral history of the events leading up to, surrounding, and immediately after the launch.

Thank you,

May Then My Name Die With Me of the Ode Clade

2325-01-20—systime 201+20 1303

Status Report

Micro-Ansible transmission:

Outbound functionality: five-by-five (go)

Inbound functionality: five-by-five (go)

Transmission status:

Personalities transferred: 2,593,190,433 / 100% (go)

Individuals by clade transferred: 1,123,384,222 / 100% (go)

Personalities remaining to be transferred: 0 / 0% (go)

Individuals by clade remaining to be transferred: 0 / 0% (go)

Personalities transferred leaving no immediate forks (pct): 3.8%

Individuals by clade transferred leaving no immediate forks (pct): 0.00000018%

Social makeup of transfers: 84% dispersionista / 10% tracker / 6% tasker

Social makeup of L5 System: 23% dispersionista / 38% tracker / 39% tasker

Transfers irrevocably lost: 8 (go)

System status:

Castor:

Stability: 100% (go)

Clock offset: 0ns (go)

Clock skew: 0ns/ns (go)

Clock jitter: 0ns/ns/ns (go)

Entanglement: 100% (go)

Fork reliability: 17 nines (go)

Merge reliability: 23 nines (go)

Pollux:

Stability: 100% (go)

Clock offset: 0ns (go)

Clock skew: 0ns/ns (go)

Clock jitter: 0ns/ns/ns (go)

Entanglement: 100% (go)

Fork reliability: 18 nines (go)

Merge reliability: 21 nines (go)

Disposition: go for launch

Notes: the level of transfers irrevocably lost is disappointing but cannot be helped. Still, it is far below the loss from the Earth-L5 Ansible, which, as a matter of course, implies the loss of a clade rather than a personality. One clade was lost irrevocably, but, at the risk of sounding crass, they knew they were signing up for this, and it is always a risk for taskers. That one loss represents 0.005% of the total transfer loss, and is vanishingly small in the grand scheme of things, though I am sure it is of no consolation to their friends. Congratulations, as always, for another step closer to launch.

Attachment: history questionnaire #1

As mentioned, I am working with a historian—or rather, three forks of the same historian—to compile a history of the launch. Due to a certain incorrigible tricksiness, this will take the form of a mythology; something romantic to be passed down through the years. To this end, data collection is ramping up in the form of countless interviews. I have, of course, all the status reports a girl could ever want for the basic facts, all of the trials and tribulations over the last two decades, but that is only a small portion of a mythology. Should you and your superiors agree, I would like to begin the process of collecting testimonies from those phys-side.

Concrete questions

How long have you been working as phys-side launch director?

What is involved with your role as phys-side launch director?

How long have you been working with the System phys-side?

What led you to pursue a career working with the System?

What led you to remain phys-side rather than uploading, yourself? Will you upload in the future? Why or why not?

What led you to pursue your position as launch director rather than remaining in your previous position?

Please provide a biography of yourself to whatever level of detail you feel comfortable.

Please provide a physical description of yourself to whatever level of detail you feel comfortable.

Do you have any hobbies?

On the System

How do you feel about what you know of the founding of the System?

If you were suddenly removed from your position as director, what would you choose to do as a career in its stead?

If you were suddenly removed from your location in the extra-System station and returned to Earth, how would you feel and what would you expect?

If the System shut down and all personalities irrevocably lost, how would you feel?

Gestalt

If you were told that, one year from now, you would die painlessly, what would you do? Would this change if you knew that your death would be painful? Would this change, in either case, if your death was seven days from now?

If everyone but you disappeared, what would you do?

How do you feel about being alone for extended periods of time?

Do you remember your dreams?

On history

How long wilt Thou forget me, O Lord? Forever? How long wilt Thou hide Thy face from me?

When you become intoxicated—whether via substance use or some natural process, such as sleep deprivation—which of the following applies to you?

Ape drunk: he leaps and sings and hollers and danceth for the heavens.

Lion drunk: he flings the pots about the house, calls his hostess whore, breaks the glass windows with his dagger, and is apt to quarrel with any man that speaks to him.

Swine drunk: heavy, lumpish, and sleepy, and cries for a little more drink and a few more clothes.

Sheep drunk: wise in his own conceit when he cannot bring forth a right word.

Maudlin drunk: when a fellow will weep for kindness in the midst of his ale and kiss you, saying, By God, Captain, I love thee; go thy ways, thou dost not think so often of me as I do of thee. If I would, if it pleased God, I could not love thee so well as I do.—and then puts his finger in his eye and cries.

Martin drunk: when a man is drunk and drinks himself sober ere he stir.

Goat drunk: when in his drunkenness, he hath no mind but on lechery.

Fox drunk: when he is crafty drunk as many of the Dutchmen be.

While walking along in desert sand, you suddenly look down and see a tortoise crawling toward you. You reach down and flip it over onto its back. The tortoise lies there, its belly baking in the hot sun, beating its legs, trying to turn itself over, but it cannot do so without your help. You are not helping. Why?

Two by two, two by two, and twice more. We always think in binaries, in black and white. We remember history two by two. We consider the present two by two. We think of the future twice over, and twice again. I have looked back on history and seen ceaseless progress or steps backward. I look back a hundred years and see illness and failure, and I look at today and see

?

Oh, but to whom do I speak these words?

To whom do I plead my case?

From whence do I call out?

What right have I?

No ranks of angels will answer to dreamers,

No unknowable spaces echo my words.

Before whom do I kneel, contrite?

Behind whom do I await my judgment?

Beside whom do I face death?

And why wait I for an answer?

Please take your time, and remember that the launch takes precedence over your answers.

In friendship,

May Then My Name Die With Me of the Ode Clade

May Then My Name Die With Me,

Thank you for the updated status report. I am looking forward to the launch, and will provide you the best textual description that I am able as it happens from phys-side. I will attempt to provide real-time updates, though the exigencies of the situation will take precedence. Congratulations on making it this far, and thank you for all of your help. Status report follows.

While we were largely baffled by the nature of your questions, the launch commission and myself have accepted the task of aiding you and your companion in your history/mythology project. Answers(?) will follow in a separate message.

Thank you,

Douglas Hadje, MSf, PhD

Launch director

2325-01-20—systime 201+20 1515

Digital signatures:

Douglas Hadje

Launch commission:

de

Jonathan Finnes

Thomas Nash

Woo Hye-won

Hasnaa

Status Report

Station-side status:

Systems check: Complete (go)

Staff: 100% (go)

Gravity compensation: 100% (go)

Tiedowns: 100% (go)

Expected rotational impact: Nominal (go)

Rotational compensation engines: Nominal (go)

Power storage: 98% (go)

Power consumption: 86% (go)

Panel efficiency: 5 nines (go)

Launch arm status:

Castor:

Launch strut integrity: 100% (go)

Launch arm integrity: 100% (go)

Launch arm path: Clear (go)

Launch arm cameras: 100% (go)

Launch vehicle path: Clear to 1.8AU, 5 nines confidence (go)

Capacitor charge: 6 nines, on track to 100% (go)

Speed: 100% (go)

Expected acceleration: Nominal (go)

Expected jerk: Nominal (go)

Pollux:

Launch strut integrity: 100% (go)

Launch arm integrity: 100% (go)

Launch arm path: Clear (go)

Launch arm cameras: 100% (go)

Launch vehicle path: Clear to 1.2AU, 5 nines confidence (go)

Capacitor charge: 6 nines, on track to 100% (go)

Speed: 100% (go)

Expected acceleration: Nominal (go)

Expected jerk: Nominal (go)

Launch vehicle status:

Castor:

System surface integrity: 100% (go)

System interior integrity: 100% (go)

Sabot integrity: 100% (go)

Sabot ejection system: Tests pass (go)

RTG power rate: Steady (go)

RTG temperature: Nominal (go)

RTG pre-launch heat sink: Nominal (go)

RTG post-launch heat-sink: Tests pass (go)

RTG post-launch heat-sink deployment mechanism: Tests pass (go)

Solar sail integrity: 100% (go)

Solar sail deployment mechanism: Tests pass (go)

Solar panel integrity: 100% (go)

Solar panel deployment/retraction mechanism: Tests pass (go)

Attitude jet functionality: 100% (go)

Raw material capacity: 100% (go)

Raw material manipulator functionality: 100% (go)

Raw material manufactory functionality: 100% (go)

Dreamer Module functionality: 100% (go)

Pollux:

System surface integrity: 100% (go)

System interior integrity: 100% (go)

Sabot integrity: 100% (go)

Sabot ejection system: Tests pass (go)

RTG power rate: Steady (go)

RTG temperature: Nominal (go)

RTG pre-launch heat sink: Nominal (go)

RTG post-launch heat-sink: Tests pass (go)

RTG post-launch heat-sink deployment mechanism: Tests pass (go)

Solar sail integrity: 100% (go)

Solar sail deployment mechanism: Tests pass (go)

Solar panel integrity: 100% (go)

Solar panel deployment/retraction mechanism: Tests pass (go)

Attitude jet functionality: 100% (go)

Raw material capacity: 100% (go)

Raw material manipulator functionality: 100% (go)

Raw material manufactory functionality: 100% (go)

Dreamer Module functionality: 100% (go)

Disposition: go for launch

Notes: We are 1% away from desired power consumption reduction on the station. While this is within tolerances, we are expecting that, with the shutdown of the glass furnace at 2330, we will hit our mark of 15% station-wide power reduction. Congratulations!

Message stream

Phys-side: The launch vehicles in their sabots are settled into their creches and the doors are shut. Everyone’s excited, but I’m pleased at the calm efficiency of the control tower I’m in (Pollux). We are 1deg offset spinward from the launch arm, so we should be able to see the launch well enough, but the arm appears to disappear into nothingness below us after about 100m, so the show won’t be great past then. We’ll all be watching the cameras. Even those won’t be very exciting, given the speed the LVs will be going. Models suggest that we might feel a jerk and fluctuation in gravity, that will be quickly compensated by the engines.

Phys-side: Given your apparent interest in the subjective aspects of the launch, I have to say that I wish there was a big red button I could hit to trigger the launch. Wouldn’t that be satisfying? I picture it like one of the keyboards, where there’s some sort of spring in there, and a satisfying click as the button snaps down that last bit and makes some physical electric contact. Everything’s done on a timer, however, and the chances of any manual intervention being required are essentially zero. Everyone in the tower here is in place to take in data and give reports. I didn’t receive permission to pass those on directly, however, so you’re left with them being filtered through yours truly.

Phys-side: One minute.

Phys-side: Thirty seconds.

Phys-side: Ten seconds. Godspeed.

Sys-side: Godspeed, you dumb bastards.

Phys-side: 3

Phys-side: 1

Phys-side: Launch looks good.

Phys-side: Watching the struts flex and jolt with the release of mass is quite beautiful.

Phys-side: They weren’t kidding about the jerk. Two of them, actually, as the engines fired a half second after the jerk reached the torus. We’ve got two injuries down here—bumps and bruises. Reports from the torus indicate that damage was minimal. Some sloshing from the hydroponics, but that’s easy to clean up. One of the furnaces will need some care. Worst bit of damage, however, is that the solar array suffered a cascading failure: one panel broke loose and tumbled end-over-end across a few hundred others. Power’s still nominal, though. We’ll get it fixed.

Phys-side: Did you feel anything up there?

Sys-side: Har har. No, nothing up here. I, like you, wish that we had, though. If there had been some sudden jolt or a flicker of the lights, I think that perhaps this launch would have felt more real. I suspect that my cocladist, Dear, Also, The Tree That Was Felled, would have simulated an earthquake at the exact moment of launch, destroying its home in the process, but alas, it was one of those hopeless romantics who transferred entirely to the LVs without leaving a fork. I will have Ioan (my pet historian) ask it if it did so from the LVs. I would not be surprised.

Phys-side: Your clade sounds fascinating. I don’t understand a single bit of it.

Sys-side: I will tell you a story one day.

Sys-side: How do you feel with 20 years of work gone in an instant?

Phys-side: I’m still processing that. Numb? Giddy? Can I be both at the same time?

Sys-side: I see no reason why not. Why numb? Why giddy?

Phys-side: Numb because there was nothing to see. Not even a flash. The LVs were here, and then they were gone. I’ll never see them again. Giddy because it worked. Telemetry is good, speed is nominal, entanglement is nominal, radio communication is nominal, though the rate at which message times are increasing is surprising, though I knew that this would happen. How neat is that?

Sys-side: Very neat.