employed to shepherd humans, they now patrol our perimeters. They also protect Oonagh, who lives in the mountains.
Beacons too. These are small spheres which roam the atmosphere, monitoring the weather. And broth, a highly nutritious algae grown in lagoons, which we eat. Even our names, which we chose ourselves, are recycled.
But no amount of recycled words would help you understand, so for now you will have to accept the simple truth that at some point, the erta will leave this planet, and our departure will not take the form of rockets hurtling through space, or imaginary portals, or death. We will still exist, just not in any form that you are capable of imagining.
‘THERE ARE SOME who would not leave so easily.’
Caige turned. The words had come from Greye, a large, broad-shouldered erta whose genetic prototype was once common to a harsh swathe of barren land known as Siberia. He has a heavy beard and black eyes, and after Mother he is the council member to whom I am closest.
‘Some who would say our place is here with the Earth.’
‘You refer to the Sundra, I assume?’ said Caige, with a curl of his monstrous lip.
‘Yes.’
Caige’s nostrils flared with an indignant blast.
‘Wastrels. They have no bearing on this or any other discussion.’
‘Caige,’ warned my mother. ‘The Sundra are erta like the rest of us. This decision affects the future of our species, and they have as much say as any of us.’
Benedikt, who had remained quiet, suddenly looked up.
‘Then let them have it. Let them come forward and speak.’
At this, Caige smiled. An unsettling experience.
‘Quite right, my son, quite right. They do not want their say, do they? We never see them, and they never visit the council. They prefer to spend their time cavorting in forests and frolicking in the surf.’
I spotted the mouths of several other council members lift, for Caige’s words amused them. Benedikt’s mouth retained its unwavering line.
‘They have diverged from us,’ Caige continued. ‘Chosen their own path. And that is not surprising. They were underlings after all, bred for work, not high thought.’
The room rustled at this. The word ‘underling’ was not often used.
In the beginning there was Oonagh—now, as you know, a mountain recluse. She bred the ten who formed the High Council, who in turn bred the Hundred, including me. Using the Halls of Gestation, where you were born, we gave rise to a thousand, who gave rise to our final fifth generation: ten thousand erta who executed the plans initiated by the upper ranks. This brings our population to 11,111.
We were born the same. Intelligence, strength, appearance, longevity; nothing separated us but aesthetics and the synaptic configurations required for our roles. I was bred for atmospheric chemistry, my sister for animal husbandry, Benedikt for technology, and everyone else for tasks ranging from polymer extraction to sewage treatment. The diversity of these tasks was, I suppose, what created our unspoken hierarchy, and over five hundred years such hierarchies can become somewhat rigid.
Especially in the mind of someone like Caige.
‘Silence, please,’ said my mother, referring to the crowd’s persistent fidgeting. ‘Despite the questionable choice of words, council member Caige and his son are quite correct. We must transcend, regardless of any… outlying opinion. How long before we are ready to depart?’
There was silence.
‘Benedikt?’ said my mother.
Benedikt broke his reverie and looked up.
‘Our engineers suggest forty years to perfect the technology.’
‘Good. That provides more than enough time to clear our own footprint from the planet. Does anyone have anything to say?’
The room was perfectly silent, save for the ooze of wax from a candle as its wall broke.
‘Excellent. In that case we will inform the population and—’
My mother turned at the rumble from Greye’s throat.
‘Council Member Greye? You have something to add?’
‘Yes, Kai. There is another matter for us to dicuss.’
My mother blinked.
‘And what is that?’
Greye smiled.
‘The question of humanity’s resurrection.’
— THREE —
I HAVE SOME things to tell you, and they are not things that you will want to hear.
When I came into existence—the year would have been 2077 by the Gregorian Calendar—the planet was not how it is now. It was unbalanced. More than that, it was passing a tipping point beyond which complete devastation was a certainty. The myriad forms of life that existed upon its rock, beneath its waves and within its air faced chaos and oblivion. Extinction rates were climbing; even the population of the human race, which, at its zenith, had stood at 9.6 billion, was now less than 1.9 billion.