EPILOGUE

The Artiplanet caught a gravity assist off Jupiter, bound for a graceful exit from the solar system. Behind it, the Sun was growling, building to a display that would destroy many of its longtime companions. Aboard the Artiplanet was a world in a jar, alive and, thus far, well. Earth’s day was over, but her people lived on.

Inside the jar it was the early morning of January 1, 2000, and a new millennium dawned. Demarco woke without a hangover and, as was his habit, turned on the bedside lamp to read a while before snatching a few more winks. In her hotel room, Milk curled up to her partner’s spine and followed her deeper into sleep. Evelyn, newly returned from the bathroom, spooned with her husband and warmed her chilled feet on his shins. Brooklyn’s phone was silent. His many clients had weathered the so-called Y2K bug unscathed. In a year, the country would be torn by an election, dangling chads and a third-party candidate, but for now it rested.

Outside the jar, Andromeda, the de facto captain of the Artiplanet, was deep in her own sleep cycle. She’d worked long and hard to make sure humanity had a happy-for-now ending. In the evening, she’d attend The Tragedy of the Missing Fastener, a new three-act play by the Builder Theatre Troupe.

Maddy and her crew had stayed up late practicing loud punk rock. They’d wake in the afternoon to prepare for their maiden flight aboard the Victory, newly rechristened the Bikini Kill. It would be a short flight, just across the hanger deck to a more permanent parking spot, but it still counted. Until a more challenging mission appeared, they’d make repairs, modernize, and drill.

The mad scientist who called himself Caliban rarely slept anymore. The problem of saving humanity solved, he was no longer interested in its fate. With the resources of the Designed and the Artiplanet at his fingertips, there were new avenues and possibilities to explore.

A soft chime sounded from the console beside him. The nanobots remaining inside the corpse, which he’d intercepted en route to the recycler, had only needed a little encouragement to reproduce, and vital signs were looking good

“Good morning, specialist!” Caliban said. “What’s the last thing you remember?”