The biological hold of the High Frontier stretches out before you, so big you can see the curvature of the hull as a horizon reversed. The ranks of uterus tanks that have stood barren for generations look like glass phials as broad as cathedral columns. Only now they are full: ghostly silhouettes are visible in the milky translucence of the amniotic fluid. You see the symmetrical discs of Chirikti as well as other, human forms: some slender as children, others are hulking masses of sexless muscle.
You cross to the desk in the middle of the hall. A light is blinking. You press it. Around you, the crystal columns stand silent and empty. Sterilized by hard vacuum.
You look deep into one of the empty tubes. Your reflection is distorted to a carnival joke by the curved glass. Prester John’s face stares back at you with bloodied eyes: every blood vessel ruptured by the pressure of the bullet’s backwash as it tore its way up from your jaw. The top of your head is splayed up and out like a crocus. You look into the empty tank and within and without see only death, and you smile.
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