Though a powerful mind can overwrite all of existence, it requires significant discipline to truly eradicate what has come before. A burst of reality-altering energy, if unfocused, might radically change the overall nature of the world while only slightly altering objects on an individual basis, much as lightly running an eraser over a chalkboard smudges the writing without removing it completely.
- Dr. Leonard Clarence, On Reality, Unreality, and the In-Between

In the Beginning
It could have been anyone's fault, really. In a way, that was what made it so terrible.
Stacks of papers shuffled to and fro between Foundation offices, requesting changes in position, alterations in schedule, amenities for contained individuals, and a thousand other modifications. Each appeal was slight, each approval minor. None, it seemed, amounted to any more than mere creature comforts.
Someone with a degree and a dark sense of humor requested a few of his favorite books for use in experimentation on a text-altering anomaly. Someone with a pen and a growling stomach put their signature on the paper without fully reading it. Someone with ink-covered hands and a history of insomnia smudged the document, and desperately tried to correct it. Someone with blurry eyes and an overloaded schedule entered the corrected text into a datafile. So it went for several hours, mistake piling upon oversight piling upon judgement failure, until at eleven o'clock the next morning, a small girl was given several new books.
At noon, she began reading.
At twelve-thirty, she decided she did not like the new books very much. Something about them made her feel sad and angry and sick. But most of all, something about them made her feel scared. So she closed her eyes, held her breath, and imagined a world in which she wasn't scared, in which everything would make sense and all the bad things were in the places where they belonged.
When she opened her eyes, she no longer saw the concrete and steel she had become used to. Around her, she saw stained, rotting wood, quietly creaking itself to death. She felt a stack of papers in her hands, and smelled sawdust and spilled ink. Somewhere close by, a school bell tolled.
And she smiled, because she wasn't scared anymore.

Miss Holloway wishes to welcome you all to another education-filled day at her esteemed School. Student satisfaction checks will be carried out at random throughout the day, so remember to have a pleasant morning in order to avoid disciplinary action.

Miss Holloway's School for Children with Potential
The morning bell signaled a rush of activity, as students leapt, rolled, or were forced out of their beds and began their daily routine. Across several miles of dormitory floors, children slipped into school uniforms, put the finishing touches on their homework, and set out for the nearest cafeteria.
Students spiraled upwards and downwards along vast staircases, and dashed through hallways that curved around at impossible angles, sometimes leaving students to travel along the ceiling of another walkway. Sometimes, an inattentive student would stumble and fall through a hole in the floor, vanishing into the relentless void between the walls of the school and emerging on another floor entirely.
Three mischievous brothers sold contraband goods out of their pockets, while another student stuck out her tongue at them and exchanged small, handmade toys for pens, books, and completed homework assignments.
The gramophone horns mounted on the wall crackled to life, shouting orders and occasional jeers at students as they made their way through the halls.
Far above it all, in a shadowed, musty conference hall, the thirteen members of the School Administration met to discuss their plans for the day, outlining what students should be monitored, what students could be manipulated, and what students needed to be reminded of their place.
A scream drifted through the school as an unlucky student tripped and fell into the basement. Fortunately, it was quickly silenced, to be replaced by snarl, and then a softer gnawing sound.
It was another day in Miss Holloway's School for Children with Potential, just like every other day that had been, and every other day that would be. The school aimed to be eternal, and it rested upon a solid foundation.

Due to an unauthorized experiment by the members of the Manna Club of Sacred Charity, cake will be served with all meals for the foreseeable future. Consumption of this cake is mandatory, though enjoyment, while encouraged, is not.

The Bully
The Bully was a figure of much speculation around the School. Certainly, there were many bullies who stalked the corridors and brought misery upon their classmates, but there was only one capital-B Bully that anybody talked about.
Few students could claim to have actually seen the Bully with their own eyes. The Bully, it seemed, appeared and vanished as it pleased, leaving only a trail of destruction to show where it had been. The few times anyone claimed to have actually witnessed the Bully had passed on into school legend. Some claimed the Bully had once climbed down into the Basement and fought with the monsters living there among the sacks of flour and potatoes. Others claimed that several teachers had tried to use the Bully to discipline disrespectful students, until it had gotten fed up and torn both groups to shreds. A few said that the Bully couldn't be killed, and a few others said that killing the Bully wouldn't be enough to stop it, anyway. Overall, it was tacitly agreed that nobody really knew anything.
Aldon never paid much attention to the rumors about the Bully. Personally, she felt that he, (it, whatever) probably didn't exist at all. Sure, there were stranger things in the School, like the bathtub in the third floor dormitories that screamed at itself, or the painting that surrounded itself with lizards every lunch period, but at least you could actually see those for yourself, and confirm that they were real. The Bully was more likely than not a rumor made up by the students to suggest that the faculty could be opposed, or even more likely, a rumor made up by the faculty to keep the students in line and afraid.
Aldon sighed and flicked her pen with her free hand. School had barely begun for the day, and already her mind was wandering. She hadn't slept well last night, because the Administration had gotten wind of her secret project, and replaced it with a note telling her that art supplies were not allowed out of their assigned room, and that her sculpture was highly inappropriate and had been confiscated for her own good. Though the note wouldn't have caused her to lose any sleep on its own, the fact that it was attached to a box of angry snapping turtles certainly did. Aldon absentmindedly rubbed the bite marks on her arms and sighed again.
Suddenly, there was a loud crackle from the gramophone horn fastened above the door. Everyone in the room jumped, including the teacher, who abruptly stopped his lecture on tesseracts in mid-sentence. The horn produced the sound of a person clearing their throat, and then began to speak in a monotone, genderless voice.
"The School Committee of Normalcy Retention regrets to inform you all that there has been a minor breach of disciplinary protocol, and an especially troublesome student has gained access to the school at large. All students -" Here, the voice cut off with a tremendous crash.
A few seconds later, another voice, equally monotone but subtly different, resumed the announcement. "All students and faculty are to observe Emergency Ruling Number Twelve," it finished, ending with another crackle.
Emergency Ruling Number Twelve? Aldon thought, crawling beneath her desk and curling into a ball. That's reserved for the worst stuff possible. What student is this? Around her, she heard students whispering the same thoughts to each other, along with a single word: Bully.
Garbage, Aldon thought, or would have thought, had the door not immediately exploded off its hinges. With no time to react, she could only stare as a flurry of muscle, unkempt hair, and dark tattoos raced towards the classroom's front desk. As it grew closer, she caught a glimpse of a scowling face, twisted with inhuman rage. Aldon pulled her head further beneath her desk and closed her eyes. Above her, she heard a scream of primal rage, and a flurry of clattering, tearing, and… slicing? I don't want to know, I don't want to know, she thought desperately. The noises of destruction continued, until finally, a primal scream rocked the classroom. Then, silence.
After several minutes, Aldon finally pulled herself out from under her desk and surveyed the classroom. The whole place was a complete wreck. Almost all of the furniture had been smashed, and there was no sign of the teacher. The door frame had been ripped out of the wall, suggesting the monster had exited the same way it had come in.
And stuck in Aldon's desk, embedded nearly to the hilt, was a single, night-black knife. As Aldon stared, the blade faded away before her eyes, leaving a massive gash in the wood that declared as clearly as any writing: The Bully was here.
Slowly, Aldon exhaled, then took a few shaking breaths. She wouldn't be sleeping well that night, either.

The School Committee of Ethics and Discipline reminds you that the curfew exists primarily for your safety. Students not in their assigned nighttime locations by curfew will be expected to fend for themselves until morning.

Lifeguarding
It was noon, and a red, angry light beat down on the Secondary Athletic Courtyard of Miss Holloway's School for Children with Potential. The Courtyard was empty, save for one gaunt figure pacing around and around the swimming pool.
The Lifeguard sighed, counting her steps. Six thousand seven hundred seventy five. Six thousand seven hundred seventy six. Six thousand seven hundred seventy seven. That made nearly thirty-two revolutions around the pool today. And, as usual, nobody was in it to watch.
The Lifeguard paused to tap the side of her belt. Yes, it was still there. She resumed marching. Some time ago, hadn't there been others to walk with her? A man with an anchor on his arm, and another with a guitar? Somehow, she imagined a lot more people had once helped her lifeguard. But perhaps she was wrong.
But then again… hadn't the pool been… larger, somehow? No, that was impossible. Miss Holloway's swimming pool was the largest in the world. She had been told that, she thought, when she became the Lifeguard. And yet, the vague image of a much larger pool tugged at her memories. A pool with something at the bottom, she remembered. But she could see plainly that there was nothing at the bottom of Miss Holloway's pool. It was perfectly clean, as it should be. Somehow, it made her feel a bit sad.
She paused again, and checked her belt. Then, carefully, she removed her revolver from the side of it, and examined the cylinder. Five bullets. One empty space. Sometime, long ago, she had used one of those bullets. She felt a vague sense of nostalgia and guilt. She had regretted using the gun that time, she thought. They had explained it to her, she remembered. Told her that it had to be done. That sometimes Lifeguarding meant doing the exact opposite of guarding lives. But that was all a while ago, before she had come to Lifeguard at Miss Holloway's School.
At Miss Holloway's School, the recruiters had said, she could have a whole pool to herself, and she would never have to use the revolver again. But she should keep it with her, just in case. The Lifeguard hadn't questioned the suggestion. She hadn't questioned anything in a long time.
The Lifeguard replaced the revolver in its holster, sighed, and began pacing again. Six thousand eight hundred five, six thousand eight hundred six, six thousand eight hundred seven…

The School Committee of Ethics and Discipline reminds all students that anyone found floating toy boats in the School's Sanguine Pond will be forced to retrieve them personally.

The Empty Room
The forty-third room on the third floor of Miss Holloway's School for Children with Potential was empty. No teacher held class there, and no club ever met there for long. The Administration refused to acknowledge the room at all, skipping it entirely in the organizational plans.
Those few students who spent time in the room said that it had an air of sadness, as if something belonged there, but it had left, and would never be back again.

The Administration would like to issue a reminder that it does not condone the formation of unofficial religious groups, covert or otherwise. On an unrelated subject, any hyacinth flowers found in possession of a student will be confiscated immediately.

Cleaning Floors, Moving On
The School's Clock Winders hummed happily as they repaired its central bell tower. A few of the mechanisms had broken down, as they often did, but all would be made right again with the quick application of the right tools. The Head Winder began the ritual chant as his followers scuttled to and fro, checking over all the cogs and levers and springs one final time. As he concluded, he signaled his second-in-command, who removed the wooden stoppers from between the largest gears. The mechanisms began to spin and twist, and the school's massive bell tolled, bringing the Clock Winders to their knees with its glorious sound. As the twelfth and final chime faded out into the afternoon air, a few of the Winders let out happy sighs. "And so God speaks," said the Head Winder. "Amen," the others echoed. Then, they crawled away to examine the School's other machinery. None of them paid any mind to the darkly-clad man who had begun to wipe the machinery down with a damp cloth.
Later, as the students filtered out of their classes and dispersed throughout the school, they stepped around a small space in the third-floor hallway, avoiding it without thought. If one of them had stopped and really stared at the place her cohorts subconsciously dashed around, she might have caught a glimpse of something like a man-shaped shadow, slowly mopping the floor. But nobody stopped, and nobody noticed.
This was how it always was for the Janitor. He cleaned, others moved, and the two groups never mixed or acknowledged the other's presence. Sometimes, when the Janitor had finished a job ahead of schedule, he might stand and look at those who moved around him. On occasion, he might vaguely recall a chorus of thirteen voices declaring, "As you sought attention before the Administration through your misbehavior, so shall you lose the privilege of the attention of others," and he might feel a twinge of regret pierce his stomach. But then he would be whisked away to the site of his next job, and not dwell on such half-memories.
Presently, he was scrubbing away at a spatter of blood that had added a point of bright red to the hallway's gray-brown floorboards. As he washed away the blood, he idly wondered who or what had created it. A stronger student impressing his will upon another? A loose class project running amok? The Disciplinary Committee making its presence felt?
It could have been anyone's fault, really. In a way, that was what made it so terrible.

Students who fail to adequately clean their assigned blackboards will be sent to the office of the Committee of Ethics and Discipline to receive appropriate punishment.


The alarm sounds its gentle, delicate electro-waltz. It does not wake me up; I have been awake for almost two hours now. Dreams are not safe anymore.
I stand up, knowing I cannot fool the kind tyrant that is my auto-manager. It will start bothering me in a few seconds if I do not get up, and in a few more it will start giving me the occasional shock just so I get to work.
For a minute, some rebellious part of myself wonders… Well, why not? Let it fry your brain. Make this a little harder on everybody. Or aren't you tired of this lie, of all the pretending? Do you really agree with the plan?
I do not. But no one person matters.
The rebellious impulse goes away, as usual. As I stand in my bedroom, a spartan habitat excavated from moon rock and covered in cold concrete, I check on that one thing we used to contain.

The anchor of all anchors.

The anchor of all anchors.

Under the Sun lies a nest, shining with its own light. It is a mess of thin, black filaments tangled in a myriad of hands. At its center, a goddess huddles against her legs, her face showing the strain her heart feels. Tiny gold tears flow over her face, pushed by the breath of the star below.
She wonders if it will hurt.
Death. The end, after thousands of years. For good. For real. For the last time.
She shivers, thousands of arms stretching out of her back, more and more hands popping out of them, supernumerary fingers pointing practically everywhere; she no longer cares about them. For a while, they hurt, but now she doesn't even feel them. They have their own inscrutable wills that point them everywhere; a tree made of hands whose branches stretched, growing on themselves and concealing her underneath. It has been covered in a thick cloud of her black hair for years now.
It's never been this bad. She feels how the whole universe closes down on Earth. And, still, decades after accepting their pleas for help, she wonders… was trusting the Foundation the better choice? Can there be a better choice?
For a brief second, when their contraptions grip around her, she can feel her brother weeping for her, for his kin and for all reality — and then, she is in agony.
For hours. And days. And weeks. And forever, even when her body is dissolved and nothing remains of her but cinders under the Sun; now, she is gone. Not dead, but as close as she can be to it.
And, even in infinite pain, she feels somewhat glad: she is satisfied. Her mission is complete.
The anchors tear her apart.

The anchor of all anchors.

I observe the float, the screen of ultra-light nanogel where a goddess is dying, and will keep dying; she has been dying for a few hours now. She is the central foundation of the Border, and she has to be. Nothing else will stand the strain. Nothing else this real ever wanted to help us do what must be done.
I begin to dress up. Then I realize how pointless it has been for twelve years that I wear clothes at all.
While we could, we secured anomalies. When we were unable to do that anymore, at least we could contain the ones we already had, mining them for the most pitiful scraps of data we could extract. When we weren't able to do even that, we chose to do the one thing we were supposed to do. The one thing we intimately believed, in our core, to be right.
We protected them.
Not just from anomalies, but from the truth. From the lies we told ourselves, too. And from the sad, pathetic lies of omission we kept telling those who worked for us, hoping they would not feel curious. Hoping they wouldn't peek at the stars.
They did.
And so, a handful of them figured out that the universe was going to die.

There are always such perceptive individuals, and we know how to deal with them. This time, they won't matter at all.

There are always such perceptive individuals, and we know how to deal with them. This time, they won't matter at all.

"Look, mommy!"
Risa Volyanova glances at what her beautiful six-year-old points to. Just another dull toy, a teddy bear with white and black fur, arranged in the chest area to look like a space suit with the arrows-and-shield symbol of the Federation emblazoned over the heart. Risa sighs; they just do not make Wondertoys like they used to.
Knowing fully well Federation Day is coming, Risa picks it up nonetheless and checks the price tag; way too many merits for their paltry checks. Certainly way too many for just another piece of overpriced memetically patriotic toy junk. Not a good present, not even for such a special day.
She sighs. There are so few special days left…
Risa tries to remember some of the toys (anything, anything at all) the old Doctor made. She cannot; years of amnestic prescriptions and early conditioning have made her mind malleable to redaction therapies. Knowing the kind of memes that could get in one's mind, who is she to blame the Federation? Her case is particularly bad, she's been told all her life. A family condition, mental… And possibly something else.
She shakes her head. She hates giving Caricia bad news, and this year the poor girl is gonna have her hands full enough with the first therapy sessions…
… and that is when she notices the little kid has let go of her hand. Feeling the sudden fear of parents in the absence of their children, Risa turns around, searching the shopping boulevard for her daughter. Caricia stays by the enormous windows at one side of the arco-mall, watching the night sky with a critic's eye.
"Mom, have stars always been so far away?"
And the alarms shriek.

Originally, this plan was to wait and keep our world as safe as possible from any threats, anomalies from beyond and inside alike hunted and imprisoned for the greater good; and, when the time came, we would simply go out, no fight, no fuss. If reality ended, then we would end with it.
Those who had ideas on how to solve the problem either contacted their superiors or waited until they were promoted. Eventually, they were in a position to change the original plan, and so they did.
The final activation sequence of such plan is about to begin. Phase two is already active and about to end. It will take a few minutes, so I have time to indulge in my feelings.
My desktop is made of wood. Real, earthly wood. A memento from my predecessor, an anachronism filled with memories; be it emotion or respect, I cannot bring myself to discard them. I find myself being regularly dragged to them instead. I cannot help but to observe and study them, to lucubrate on how these small relics and prohibited things reached her hands. And I particularly cherish one of them, which I pull from the uppermost drawer.
I look at the protein-made model of a Star Womb. It is a magnificent thing, a massive, gargantuan thing. And it fits in the palm of my hand. My mind makes me feel that it is not right; it spawns worlds, how could it be so small?
I used to enter the nanogel projector rooms and ask the computer to model a few of them for me, around Earth. I know that, at such distance, their mutual gravity would disperse them and destroy Earth. But I marveled, I gaped at their incredible size, their infinite, inspiring majesty. In awe.
I gaze at the screen. It announces that Phase two will reach Earth in minutes. All gone now.

All there is left now is humankind.

All there is left now is humankind.

The mess hall was filled with laughter and the colorful shapes of nanogelled birds, almost neon-like, as the Recreation Hour got into its best fifteen minutes. Everyone was crazy with beats, chems and love.
Reyes danced xyr most ridiculous moves, hoping xe would attract the attention of some of the cuties in the field tonight. Xe liked a pair of the tall, flowing Miner types in the dance floor, but by the looks of their orthetic amplifiers, low gravity had done numbers on them. Reyes was concerned that an Earthling would scare them off, and xe did not blame them; a broken arm or a dislodged pelvis would be bad. The Federation never really cared for broken goods when it could replace them and make new ones in the protein vats.
A few of the bartenders looked cute too; there was a half-naked see waiter over there, full male, that was actually flirting with a bunch of guys. Reyes smiled; why wouldn't he? The Recreation WarD was open to everybody for an hour, and thanks to the nanogel that filled the air, not one of them would fear for their safety. And he looked handsome, too!
But sees could get you into trouble if you happened to hear too much; Reyes was not looking forward to another brain scrub. Another ten months of drool every time xe wanted to speak was certainly not in xyr list of priorities. Life was too short for that kind of bullshit; Reyes danced away.
Maybe xe could get one of xyr old friends to the bunk tonight. Or one of those from the other WarDs that were visiting.
But then, xe saw the girl. As Reyes looked at her, xe recognized the pattern and had to stop dancing; she was one of those poor people.
She had seen too much, knew too much. She danced to forget, to empty a head too heavy with knowledge she'd rather not have. She downed a pill of giddy-thoughts-and-singing with a sunburst cocktail. She was not wearing any citizen belts (against regulation), desperately trying to forget who she was, but in Reyes's eyes, she could have "bee" plastered on belts all the same.
Xe walked to the girl. Most people thought xe was part of a whole subculture of people that were moronic and lazy by design, the scum of the Earth; deserters, cowards, degenes and criminals. And some of their class did live up to that image, but Reyes had both brain and standards.
Xe reached out to the girl, swatting a flock of bright pink nanogel hummingbirds away, and shouted to get through the synthetic music they chirped. "Hey! You alright there!"
She looked at Reyes, her eyes overflowing with tears and knowing.
Xe knew xe had stumbled xemself into trouble the very moment the girl started to open her little silly bee mouth to say. "I-I can't hear the stars sing anym-"
And then, the alarms went off, the windows of the overlooks that showed the looming moon over the arcology polarized; every citizen of xyr class, xemself included, became limp and obedient. The booming, faceless voice shook the WarD to the ceiling, the music gone, the lights suddenly white, the nanogel edgings melting into float filled with warnings and advisories.
The powerful, commanding voice went: Attention, D-Class Citizens. A Minor Threat Situation has been declared in this Arcology. Do not approach the exterior nor attempt to open any windows. All C and B-Class Citizens, return to the previously designated emergency areas. A Minor Threat Situation has been declared in this Arcology…

Of course, the grandiosity of such anomalies is not lost on me. It is not lost on many of us. There will be stories from beyond our light that will go forever unexplained, tales of survivors who saw other suns over other worlds, and sometimes just hints, clues to a greater universe… lost. We agreed that letting go is worth more than the alternative.
"We agreed." Nobody else did. Just us.
I feel like crying. If I close my eyes, I will see how the Sister of the Sun withers and dies again, writhing, her face frozen in pain as it snaps in pieces; so I do not.
Half-walking, half-jumping down the hall of my house (a small lunar bunker, well equipped but mostly just functional), I reach my terminal. It has a magnificent screen, hemispheric, capable of reproducing in real time and perfect tridimensionality every event that I am supposed to know about in the entirety of the Solar System.
For the past ten or so years, however, we have been euthanizing every single anomaly we knew of. There are not many alerts left to which I should pay attention to. There was a good reason: we did not want them to suffer what the Sister suffered.
Or so many other things, monsters and wonders alike, that we killed. We killed them just so we would remain hidden away.
Not just us, the Foundation; not even us, humanity; us, Sol.

The one star left; the one star we will carry with us.

The one star left; the one star we will carry with us.

Old Man Sun fell, his augmented body finally spent. A containment alarm sounded somewhere, but he had no ears for it. Finally, his brain died out.
Then, he woke up.
"Well, it took you a while," said the Old Man Dream.
Old Man Sun opened his eyes. Yes, the sky was there, but there were no stars. No stars whatsoever. "Wait," he started, "my eyes…"
He touched his hands, his face, his ears. Old Man Sun could speak, Old Man Sun could hear, Old Man Sun could see. He looked around.
The moon still gleamed over his head, untouchable. Under it, the endless cities of the Federation entered All-Censor Mode, Arcologies bunkering down and closing sheet after sheet of metal and ceramics over lookouts and cameras. He stood over a mountain higher than any of the immense halls of humanity.
"They've come a long ways, eh," said Old Man Dream. Old Man Sun looked back at him, wearing a strange hat and clothes like those of the Federation's highest. "Despite our advice."
"What happened?", asked Old Man Sun. The other shook his head.
"They have noticed a threat they can't beat, so they're running away from it. We are all dying."
"… but, you-?"
"You are dreaming. It's normal you don't recognize me, much changes from an incarnation to the next."
"Dreamer?"
"Sun Master."
"I am dying, am I not?"
"Sure. No more ball-pushing. The younglings have it covered. Not that I wanted them to do it this way, but it is too late to stop it."
Old Man Sun gaped at the scene. "I am dying…"
He gasped for an air that did not exist and saw the Cities of the Children of Dust go silent and dark. Over the horizon, the Sun rolled on its own, warming the cold concrete and the whole world.
He took it all in, his dreamself shaking and beginning to cry. "I can move on… now I can meet my children."
Old Man Dream came to him, placing a hand over his shoulder. "Go. They wait for you."
Old Man Sun nodded, nervous. "What about you?"
"I will probably be joining you too, soon. I just have to check on an old friend."
"Go, then… I shall see you s-"
"SCP-499-55 is down, I repeat, SCP-499-55 is down."
"Dispatching SCP-499-56. God, we're running out of clones…"

Because, for a very long time, the Foundation almost lost everything.
For the longest time, we had to make concessions. We had to go all the way straight down to discreetly endorsing fascism, then all the way up to enacting the world's greatest farce; Foundation, Federation, just brands for the same product. Then, with the masses blind of nepenthe, we worked our backs by handling the heft of the world on our own, and expected it to get heavier; so we expanded.
Humanity is the Foundation now. The Foundation is Humanity now. Extricating one from the other now would leave one limping to its deathbed and the other pointless.
I digress. I check on the progress of Phase two, opening a float feed connected to a camera on the surface. The last wave of true starlight already passed Earth and I missed it. Stars have dulled, and most die out entirely as I look. Amused, I wonder if that one star can still see us, and whether we can tell what it thinks of this whole thing.
I open another float on the automated array of devices meant to monitor it. I smile. Threatening to the end.
I close it, and know that the star is dead. All stars are dead.
It looks promising. It did not use to, back then; our predecessors feared we would lose everything to fanatics or anomalies… but we won. Kings of the anthill that Earth had become. And even after winning, that was not enough.
Resources were scarce, even under our rule. We absorbed every group, every corporation, every nation; it was not yet enough. So we expanded even further.
Of course, as part of an ongoing effort to secure the secrecy of our project, we told the masses that interstellar travel was impossible, probably even dangerous to experiment with. It used to be, yet we developed it one hundred and twelve years ago. We used it to collect the resources required to implement the plan, most of them extrasolar in origin.
The populace believes the underlying physics of the universe are comfortingly solid, reliable and absolute. Therein lies yet another kind lie; C is as much a barrier as it is a protective wall: nothing of the sort.
The truth is far more complicated. Thousands of self-replicating ships were launched back in the first days of the project, when the shadow had barely begun to manifest. We did not deplete our own star system because we could reliably predict how much humanity would need it in the days after the plan was completed. Those ships traveled faster than light towards their colonies, loaded with three things: automated machinery, a strict schedule, and a dedicated workforce, inspired through a manufactured religion. Billions of them. A flourishing civilization on their own.
Most of the bulk of humanity is actually composed of what we like to call "E-Class Citizens," who called themselves "Exiles." The E-Class personnel, I am told, originally handled the securing of anomalies.
Now, as I and twelve others flip a switch, they are dead. Scattered across a fractured cosmos, a dozen worlds depleted of all useful materials… just to make certain that the Foundation had a chance at success. Their exile, and the stories and legends that surround it, is ended. A century of oral tradition, dedicated machine worship and astronomical mysticism, all of it a delicately engineered and projected memeplex, burnt in a second to never be remembered by anyone.
But the Overseers.

We, the Overseers. The makers, shapers and guardians of lies.

We, the Overseers. The makers, shapers and guardians of lies.

Everything a lie. He sees it now.
The fleets of the Exiles watch in awe, fear and sudden comprehension as the Infinite Border becomes active. It is a machine they know well, for their mothers, and their mothers before them, and their mothers before them, had built it with the bones of every dusty ball of ice and rock a dozen lightyears around it. None of their numbers ever dared to enter the holy space beyond it.
It had been forbidden.
Now, Grand Helmsman Roderick watches as the Border cuts space with unreal fire and the universe becomes dimmer around them. He sees his brethren confused, shouting incredulous, confused, sad, "why?"
It had been forbidden.
Roderick turns and looks down to the small reliquary of his cabin, where a perfect sphere levitates: the symbol of It which Is One (One Mind, One World, One Purpose) that has driven him for all those years. The heretics had been right all along. All the promises and hopes their kin had been given were not to be.
Again, it had been forbidden. By whom?
He takes the most sacred thing he has ever called his own and smashes it against his control panel, crying in shame. When faced with the terrified looks of the other vat-bred Exiles, Roderick feels fury.
He now knows the truth, and he shouts out.
"It Who Is was Never Whole!"
And Sol, and all its promises, goes away in a stream of twisted space coiling on itself as it disappears. In its place, the universe slowly becomes darker, darker as the worlds the Exiles had visited, the worlds the Enemy had chosen to devour first. Darker as if a shadow came to them…
It had always been coming. It was here. The end of the universe. The thing that would have its prey.
Desperation washes all over the fleet as the stars went out, the power of the Watch Under The Sun drawn to the Border. There is nothing left, the Helmsman knows, but to pray.
And he does. Connecting the thick tube of communication to his mouth, he chants despite the end of the universe.
"Pray for your souls, my brethren," Roderick says, searching for wholeness within and finding none. He goes to hope instead. "May they reach It and make us all Whole again."

And lies were worth it, it was all worth it. For the first time in all of our history, an Overseer can look upon our works and say "Yes, we are safe. Yes, Humanity is safe. Yes, Earth is safe. The Foundation's mission is complete."
Earth will live. Humankind will develop, and wither, and eventually die when our sun dwindles and dies itself… unless we manage to trick ourselves out of this new conundrum, of course.
Because the Foundation will persevere. We persevered these past decades, and we succeeded. At the negligible cost of the rest of the universe, we escaped a threat that is now devouring all known space… perhaps all that once was, for lack of a better word, "real."
We do not know how long our countermeasures will last. But even that has been taken into account, of course. There are dozens of temporal sinks beyond the Oort Cloud, their size larger than the Moon, continuously bartering time out of a universe that has none left for itself. They siphon what little eons can be salvaged from it… My peers say that we cut its agony short. I believe euthanizing it without asking is still murder.
The Anchors we have deployed took almost a century of uninterrupted work to finish. They do keep at bay the simple horror of a predator that we, poor prey, are not evolved enough to outrun on our own. The entire thing requires an enormous array of Dyson statites to keep it going, barely active. And still, we know — I know that it is the right thing to do.
As I input the final activation sequence authorization and see how the other twelve do the same, I wonder if there was a right thing to do.
Of course, I know there is, and we did it. We vowed to protect humanity. Intellectually, I know how morally myopic this all sounds, to sacrifice the entire universe as bait while we built our own defense, our Infinite Border. But please, judge us kindly.
It is too big for us to picture. And we have seen the children. We have met the lovers. We have embraced the siblings. We have rebelled against the elders. We are humans, and we are egotistical, and self-centered, and ultimately, scared.
We want to live.

Is it such a crime, to not give up? To know what it means, to be human?

Is it such a crime, to not give up? To know what it means, to be human?

A nameless man wanders alone in the plains of Mercury.
His suit is ancient, and has been repaired many times. His equipment was discarded a long time ago. His on-board computer insists that he should go to a shelter or at least avert his eyes from the sky that the Foundation fears he may look upon now. Worse still, he cannot even feel the Dreaming anymore. The Collective, his last fighting force, is over… and his last friends are gone with them. Immortals crushed, gods sacrificed… his brothers burnt. And he is lost, and knows it.
In a certain way, he ironizes, he got lost an age ago and did not need anyone's help to do so.
He thinks of the things he knows. Of what he has seen and done; across history, before it, beyond it… behind it. Earlier today, he saw a goddess die and the stars fade away.
It is enough. He has done enough.
True, he failed; but his was always a titanic task to accomplish alone. Even when he talked so many others into trying to stop the Foundation when there was time, the holy men and soldiers, the traders and volunteers, they all failed.
They all failed, because humanity was afraid, because humanity did not want to fight by their side… but by the Foundation's. The more comfortable choice, to sit down and let the masters drag them away… and to forget it all when it was over.
He has never blamed them for that; no matter how little he actually knows them, he does know what it is, to give up.
Well… he does now.
He checks again; oxygen will run out in a few minutes. Why postpone it any longer? It's not like any living soul would ever know him or his fate anyways, nor care. And it mattered not. Nobody would know.

I hear weeping and prayer (prayer! Such cowardice! To whom should we pray? Would such prayers be even pondered, coming from us?) from my equals as the system comes online. The Border is now closed, for good. Forever.
I look through the float that shows the camera feed, knowing in advance what I will see: a black, starless night sky. All light from other suns, looming over other worlds forevermore trapped beyond the Border, dead void looking back at us. Fortunately, and thanks to the global alert systems, only a few human beings will be looking at it right now. Only B and a few select C personnel are supposed to look at it, and those are loyal enough as to take their amnestic course and let go of it.
If we say they can live without it, they can live without it. Memories are usually a burden, anyways.
Phase three is the most poetic and, I know, the most unnecessary part… but the others said it would bring a comfort to the masses that Ennui agents could not. Only the B-Class personnel dedicated to astrophysics will ever know the truth about the statites, and those will be told that the Border is a protective system that surrounds Sol; not a veil.
As its main systems come online, the immense microwave receivers gather the energy from the statites. By the billions, satellites deploy, designed to energize the Infinite Border, divert power to mirrors and reflectors and, for the lack of a better word, massive and extremely well-contained micronized stars. They are magnetically contained fusion reactors not larger than a small country, numbering in the thousands.
And finally, as the powerful space-bender tethers close the bleeding Border over itself, knitting it in a trillion fractal arcs around the furthest limits of the System, all the excess light recaptured from Sol is turned into further energy for the Infinite Border.
Now its name is legitimate: a few of these void-bridges bend the light until recreating the vague luminous path of the Milky Way, and Solar space is a perfectly closed Klein bottle. The Border now irradiates the Solar System with a fake starry night.
As the not-quite starlight crosses the few minutes that separate us from the statites, I try to imagine a bubble barely a few light-hours large. I try to imagine a teardrop as it detaches from the universe's face and drifts away.
Safe. Confined. Protected.

No matter how many may have screamed and kicked in the process.

No matter how many may have screamed and kicked in the process.

Attention, all citizens; ArControl is glad to report that the Minor Threat Incident has been resolved with no casualties.
Alone in her small, dark room, B-Class citizen Tessa Lee, Dimensional Research Specialist, simply whispers to herself. "The Stars are dead. The Stars are silent. H-how could I allow it? How could I-?"
The feelings are gone, leaving her truly alone for the first time in weeks; the Fifth is fractured now. The Fifth is over. "The Fifth i-is over!," she whimpers, her eyes wide open; it feels obscene, blasphemous… tragic.
It feels true.
The Administrative Emergency State is being revoked in all Arcology Jurisdiction, says the distant voice of ArControl. It was designed to be motherly and comfortable; to Tessa, it is a strident screech. It is wrong. It all feels wrong.
She grabs her head and shakes like a chem addict in withdrawal. The last traces of her logical mind make her realize this, that she has been hopping on Signals for too long, that she has gone too far.
Tessa doesn't care. She can no longer feel anything. She had thought the club, the music, the people, the sensory overload… perhaps even the random sex would at least collapse her into her former self, back into the meek, shy fool who just wants to be useful. Anything but the growing emptiness within her.
Lockdown orders will cease momentarily. Please hold. The only window in her room opens, showing a lovely midnight sky… filled with stars.
And they were not stars.
"B-but it's all-all of it!" she shouts, throwing herself at the window's glass. "All the stars! Gone! Who are you? Who are you? Who do you think you are!? Fake! Fake! Lies! Blatant lies!!"
She runs up and down the apartment.
Tessa knew what she was doing last week, when she was polishing the last few issues of the space tethers of the Infinite Border, searching for that small push that every high-demand scientist needed from time to time… and now, she is on the run. All because she was supposed to take the amnestics! All because she was supposed to forget the past month! How could they ask her to do such a thing, after how much she had learned? After how much she had grown!?
The makeshift silent alarm connected to the floor auto-manager warns her: a Federation Sect Suppression Task Force is right outside, the grey-on-grey uniforms surrounded by floats and drone guns. Desperate, she looks for a way out.
Lockdown orders will cease momentarily. Please hold.
There is none.
Desperate, Tessa reaches for her transcript of Star Signals, an old sheaf of foxing papers she found lying around in her Esoteric Research Area. She always thought it wanted to guide her, first to itself, then to illumination, then to freedom from the Federation. It taught Tessa a life in the cracks of the grey universe she had to endure every day, promising her she would lead humanity to a better truth, to a better Church… perhaps it can show her a way out.
Then she remembers. She remembers that the Border has been closed for hours. There are no Signals left. The skies are blank.
And blank the pages themselves become before her eyes. At first, Tessa just gapes at them; she starts flipping through them, unbelieving. "But… T-the signs… I know th-they existed!" she cries as she holds the sheaf, sheets slipping from it into the ground; at first, she is filled with fear, then with certainty and ultimately, with sadness. "I know they l-loved me back! I know it all meant something, it all made so much sen-"
Lockdown rescinded. You may now resume your scheduled activities.
As the perfectly trained SSTF anti-sectarian specialists break into Tessa's apartment, their drone guns shoot out her eyes, her heart and her hands before she can even understand what is happening, the auto-censors diligently instructing their handlers to not look at the pages of Star Signals…
Which slowly soak on the last Fifthist's blood, and thus become void to the pattern recognition programs.
They will be burnt to ashes later, and another mystery will be sent where mysteries belong nowadays: oblivion.
Thank you for your patience.
For now, the SSTF soldiers bag Tessa's corpse, careful to tag every piece of gore.

The few threats that remain are simple puppets, manufactured boogie men to keep the populace scared and trusting… plants and false flag operations are everyday business. Such lies are justified, as justified is the liberal application of force to make certain these harmless threats remain harmless.
And it works. Tonight, the universe died, and humanity will be none the wiser.
One by one, my now awkward homologues, of whom I know little beyond number and rank, congratulate each other and humanity on this achievement. A few, probably choking on their bullshit, are silent; whether they have killed themselves or chosen to go and sleep well, I have no idea. I do not really care.
One of them laughs at the bland joke another one makes. Idiots. We killed the universe tonight. No amount of levity would compare to the grandiosity of the crime, so there is no point in chastising them… again, I cannot even grasp it.
How does one compare it? To what? What Ethics Committee hearing would consider to judge this, never mind the fact that they always supported the program?
I ask the foodprinter for cold wine. Any wine, in copious enough quantities. The auto-manager replies that it can only serve me amounts insufficient for becoming drunk. Such are the duties of an Overseer that I must remain lucid, capable and sane.
It suggests I have some fresh soy milk instead.
I kick the dumb machine.
I scream at it.
I use every object I can find, my body included, to pound against it, scream against it. My muscles are weakened after living here for so long, and I do not realize that the damned thing stays unscathed despite my best efforts. The internal security system warns my memeticist, who makes sure the unknown A-Class personnel living in this unmarked, modular bunker is not insane with the madness of a thousand dark gods. Just merely furious.
Why? Well, none of their business.
I then keep hitting and hitting. I take the keyboard out of the screen, and smash it against the machine, the softform denting with each strike. I keep doing it, savage, angry, sad.
Empty.
I now know why Phase three was necessary. I envy the masses. I envy those of us that will no doubt choose to forget this night and live their lives in peace. I envy my fellow Overseers, who laugh and sing and dance and pray.
Pray. My prayers are bleeding hands and a seething semblance. And I do need to pray.
A few hours later, the alarm rings again; twinkle twinkle, little star, it goes. I grunt. I have pending work and too little time to do it.
I decide to get up and ask the machine for a full meal. Life goes on, I think to myself.
I must fix this. I must fix her. And if there is no way to do so, I must at least make certain there is something else for humanity to discover, something else for humanity to marvel at.
I cannot stand that there are no other suns under which new things may be, just counterfeit starlight.
I cannot stand that, in our zeal to protect humanity, we placed it in a box.

In related news, a series of Arcology Control alerts have been announced all over the planet this past afternoon, Universal Time. While the specifics are not clear, an institutional source reports that Federation task forces may be soon conducting assaults on suspected sectarian holdouts in Mars and Europa…


Written by Whatopercy
It was a beautiful winter evening at Site-197 in ███████, [REDACTED]. The air, while cold, brought crisp relief to those who labored away in the building's decrepit interior. Though it dominated the picturesque landscape, one could easily tell that it was long overdue for renovation. A curious researcher would later discover with pleasure that it was the longest-standing Foundation institution remaining in service. A few musty old bookshelves inhabited its rather diminutive library, and one could often spy a cricket or line of ants in the corners of the more ancient bunk rooms.
The pristine little hideaway was tasked with housing some of the most dangerous and mysterious objects in human history - in reality, the site was known as a repository for the more mundane artifacts to grace the Foundation collection. A few boxes secured under the watchful eyes of armed men could occasionally be seen by the off-duty loiterer, and if you were lucky, you might bear witness to a humanoid containment cell.
It was all quite boring, really. But the old doctor, Oppenheimer, loved it like it was home. He would bandage the burns, bites and scratches of fresh recruits with the care of a loving Uncle. The old veterans would grin when he strolled by.
"Doc, put down the syringe, huh?" they would joke, whenever they walked in on him checking on the medical equipment in the supply closet. He would smile; they were utterly kind, something that pleased him greatly.
He would smile and look away.
Cassandra, the on-site counselor - almost as ancient as he was, a fact that he chuckled softly at - would alight up from her seat whenever he would walk on by, encouraging him to take a minute and sit with her to talk.
"No, no," he would laugh. "Too much to do."
Each wound he treated brought him back to his days in Angola, as an aid worker. Yes, he thought, it was very, very similar to Angola. Boys far too young to be fighting were blinded, crippled, and concussed. The site had always been a maze for him, but these days it was even more so; it seemed like they added a new wing each day.
On a particularly blustery December afternoon, after retiring to his office, Oppenheimer decided to look at the stars.
Pulling over his sofa chair to the window, he put on the kettle for some tea - and then stopped.
"No," he said. "No tea for tonight."
He put a chair by the door. Doors, in the facility, had no locks, if they weren't built for containment. He didn't want to be disturbed. He rarely stargazed, and this was certainly not an occasion for unwanted visitors.
He sat down in the comfortable sofa, sighing in content. He took out his notepad (he would affectionately call it his "Tycho's book") and a dark, freshly sharpened pencil.
After a few minutes of sketching constellations, he put down his instruments.
"How beautiful the stars are tonight! If only," he thought wistfully, "I could go to them. Then, I could witness them in all of their glory." Yes. Oh, that would make him so happy.
He reached into his back pocket, and took out a packet of his pills. He slit open the bag carefully with a pin, so not to prick his fingers. He took one, swallowing it as if it was a delectable mallow.
He took another. He took a third, a fourth, a fifth, a sixth. He took the last pill in the packet, and put the wrapper on the armrest.
"Yes." He closed his eyes happily. "The stars are truly beautiful."
—

Mortician's report
Expired: Doctor Roger Oppenheimer, age 89
Location: Site 19
Preceding Conditions: Diagnosed with clinical depression. Acute dementia. Calcium deficiency. Iron deficiency.
Prescribed Medications: None.
Presiding medical officer: Doctor Harry Smithport
Time of death: 19:43
Cause of death: Substantial traces of potassium cyanide detected in patient's bloodstream.
Comment(s): Request disposal and release protocol. Requesting permission to launch an investigation into the circumstances of the patient's employment, at a time when he was mentally unfit to perform his duties.

Received. Cremate. Inform relatives. Request denied.
Site Director Stanley

Received.
Mortician Bradford


The smothering ennui of an awkward situation cannot stand in the face of an onrushing waterfall. One moment, they had been boating calmly along the Bresque. Papá sat at one end of the boat, stroking the river with his paddles. Chantrell leaned against the other end and thought of their room at La Relais, mostly empty, like her room at his house. Cascade Sillans had surged up on them, like a squirrel up a tree. We should not yet be upon the cascade, Papá had said, glancing over his shoulder. She had taken an oar to help fight the current, not that her arm was any match for his.
The next moment, they were sailing over the cascade and the park below in defiance of gravity. The river rose up into the air like a clear ribbon. Don't stop rowing, Papá said, and Chantrell tried not to think about how fearful he sounded.
The river twinkled, lifting them up and up, the Provençal countryside disappearing below. She thought of hot air ballooning in the Loire. Such outings made a broken family seem so small, so insignificant. Her problems fit inside an empty house; they were nothing compared to the size of a country, or even a département. When Côte d'Azur came into view, she stopped thinking and started rowing.
Don't look down, she said. Papá nodded, mute.
They climbed into a sky colder than the Bresque's summer alpine air but did not shiver. Water drained from the river, to be replaced by stars. Soon, they paddled on nothing but a shining road paved in night. Papá stopped rowing and leaned back in his seat, wiping a hand over his brow. He chanced a look behind them.
There's the Earth, he said, as though this had been their destination all along.
Chantrell's eyes grew and grew as she looked around.
The star-river carried them smoothly past a red planet and a band of small rocks floating in the blackness. The spheres passed them in seconds. Papá, grinning, pointed up, and Chantrell nearly leapt from the boat as a comet flashed by overhead. She could not keep from smiling as they sailed past Jupiter's red spot and the rings of Saturn.
Out, out into the blackness the river flowed. They left the confines of what little they knew about the solar system through a kaleidoscope of tiny crystals that tickled their cheeks. The blackness glowed and warmth suffused them. Chantrell, steps unsteady, moved to sit by Papá, and he wrapped an arm around her as they watched outer space unfold.
A school of kite shapes made of green gas floated past them like fish. The smallest one broke off, looping around and around the boat. Chantrell reached for it, and her fingers passed through, leaving them pleasantly cool.
The kite pumped its wings to rejoin its school, when from their right, a sinuous ribbon, long as a wish, darted across their prow and into the kites. A soft, wide mouth opened at its far end. The kites made tinkling sounds and veered away from it, escaping its bite. Chantrell cheered and clapped, and Papá shouted like he was watching a football match. They stilled when the ribbon abruptly altered course, breaking against a looming behemoth. They peered up at it, and it took their breath away.
A human heart larger than a planet drifted beside the river, serene as it was majestic. It pulsed with yellow light, both cold and warm at the same time. A second joined it, and a third. They pirouetted over the boat in a Gordian dance, and Chantrell and Papá exchanged smiles at the whalesong they made.
Walls of stars parted before the hearts. Through lenses made of pure, bent light, a myriad of suns stretched out across the universe. They glowed in reds and pinks and blues and greens and yellows, in ones and dozens and hundreds, a rainbow of incandescent welcome coruscating across creation.
In a patch of black sky, a large spot lurked, even darker than the surrounding space. From the blackness a line of ghost light emerged and widened to become an eye rimed in crimson, with a pupil the shape of a cross. It turned toward them, and for an instant, their blood chilled.
A constellation of tiny sparkles spun from the center of the pupil. They whirled into lines like neon tubing, red and blue and green. The bottom lid of the eye curved upward, the neon lines formed into a four-fingered hand, and it waved to them as it watched them pass. They laughed and knelt against the boat, waving back as though the eye were the conductor of a passing train. As they moved beyond it, the hand turned back into sparkles and the eye slowly closed, leaving that section of sky perfectly dark once again.
Presently, their travel slowed. The river intersected with another, and another, and still another, each bigger than the last and all shimmering with more lights in a single drop than could be counted in a lifetime. At the center of the confluence stood a headless titan made of stardust. The hearts seemed as mice as they skittered from it.
In the giant's hand was a galaxy. Chantrell gripped Papá's shirt tighter as the giant brought the galaxy down upon a black hole with unfathomable power, casting a spark as big as the Sun. Planets shot from the collision, flakes of metal from a blacksmith's hammer. Again and again, the galaxy slammed into the black hole, throwing off suns and planets that soared to all reaches of the cosmos.
As time moved on, they relaxed. Though the giant's appearance and the primordial fury of its craft had startled them, the continual soul-shaking thump of those mammoth blows worked its way into their beings, a rhythm born from God Himself. It was soothing and enlightening and they felt at one with reality, as no two humans had in thousands of years.
After a few more strikes, the giant wiped the back of its free hand across its shoulders and turned to them. The hand raised toward their boat and, with a flick of its fingers, created a wind that would have reduced an ocean to steam in a heartbeat. Yet it only sent the boat sailing back the way it had come.
Faster, ever faster the little boat travelled back down the river of starlight, and never once did it jounce. Galaxies, stars, and planets passed by in the blink of a thought. Down, down to the little blue and green ball they hurtled. That ball grew, encompassed their field of vision, subsumed their every thought.
Beneath its waters, they sank.
They broke the surface, still in the boat, to the roar of the falls behind them and the confused cries of a tourist before them.
Hey, what're y'all doin' out thar? he shouted. Had they paid his words any attention, they would not have understood them.
They embraced, laughing, checking themselves and the boat and the river and the cascade, and finding all wet but otherwise as it should be.
Did that really happen? asked Papá, laughing like a child and wiping tears from his eyes.
Yes! said Chantrell. Vanished was the ennui, the awkwardness, the knowledge that each of them was trying very hard to do something neither knew how to do. In its place was the sense of a fading dream that had felt more real than the wood beneath them.
She said, breathless, I shall never forget that, Papá!
Whatever it was, he said, neither shall I.
When the townsfolk of Sillans-la-Cascade pulled them and their boat from the lagoon at the base of the cascade, they were laughing still.


September 23, 1949: United States President Harry S. Truman announces to the world that the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics has successfully detonated an atomic weapon, ending the United States' distinction as sole possessor of nuclear weaponry.
October 19, 1949: United States Secretary of Defense Louis A. Johnson, in his capacity as the American liaison to the Foundation, delivers an ultimatum from the Truman Administration.

The Alps loomed through the filigreed windows, the panes of glass gently warped with age. The snow was piling up in the mountains in earnest now, promising a long, cold winter. The war had required the Foundation to establish a neutral gathering place for its top level meetings, and The Overseers had grown accustomed to meeting in Zurich. The Hotel Schweizerhof thus became a haunt in these years for the gentlemen of the "Samarkand Club", an informal group of thirteen international trade brokers that periodically required the entirety of the lodgings for a few days at a time.
For the others, the dark, wood paneled room lit partially by the clear, cold light of the Swiss afternoon was no doubt familiar territory. But all O5-8 could think of when he looked at the exposed wooden beams of the ceiling was his predecessor's shockingly public demise. Between the circumstances of his recent accession to the ranks of the Overseers, and this business now, the newest member of the Council found himself wishing for the simpler days of the war, despite some of the more unpleasant aspects of its aftermath. He took his seat at the polished mahogany table as O5-1 impatiently cleared his throat.
The thirteen men gathered in the room were a dour lot at the best of times. But even the black jests and gallows-humor that passed for camaraderie among them was nowhere in evidence now. What they had to come to discuss today, if the hints in the meeting request were what O5-8 thought, was something altogether new in his time at the Foundation. Anything new, he was beginning to find out, was rarely good. He brushed a tuft of rapidly-graying hair from his forehead, flicked open his lighter and started a fresh cigarette.
At the head of the table, a lean man in a bespoke suit narrowed his eyes, the dark brown skin of his face furrowed with ritual scars. He calmly called for attention in a low, deep voice. O5-1 wasted no time. "O5-3, you are our North American subdirector. Please inform the Council."
A rotund, gray-bearded man slowly stood up to address the room as he straightened his vest and gold watch chain. O5-3 adjusted his glasses and hesitated a moment, taking stock of his twelve colleagues around the table before speaking. O5-8 thought that he saw a single bead of sweat at the old man's temple.
"Gentlemen, as you are aware, forty-eight hours ago, my office received a secure telegram from the Pentagon. The nature of this telegram was such that I could not divulge its contents, even through our normal channels. Thus, the emergency meeting. Here is what I have received."
O5-3 opened the envelope, removed a thin, yellow sheet of paper, and cleared his throat as he adjusted the letter to the proper distance from his eyes. He began to read the contents aloud.
"Russians have acquired atomic armaments. Balance of power disrupted."
From the opposite end of the table, O5-13 snorted derisively.
"International community now faced with a hostile power equipped with weapons of unbridled potential for destruction. Russians must be checked for good of the world. The United States requires Foundation cooperation to ensure continued survival of mankind."
The portly Overseer paused for a moment to adjust his glasses again and to clear his throat. O5-8 saw the typically unflappable man before him hesitate, and knew then that his suspicions were confirmed.
"Foundation is to turn over following assets to the Department of Defense within two weeks."
Murmurs began around the room as the situation facing them all started to become apparent. O5-8 had watched the tensions continually mount in Berlin, and had idly wondered how long it would be before this day came. Faced with the moment now, however, he felt as though he had come to the edge of a cliff, his cynical speculation now replaced with a growing sense of dread. In his other capacities, his other life, he had observed in some men an ability to joke and philosophize while awaiting their fate, only to quail before the gallows, terrified by the enormity of what they had thought they could accept. O5-8 now felt an unwelcome kinship.
O5-3 began reading the list of anomalous objects that the Americans were demanding be turned over. The murmuring grew louder as the list lengthened, punctuated by shouts of disbelief as a Keter object was mentioned or the custody of an entire Site was demanded. By the end, O5-3 had enumerated 53 objects, 4 Sites, and 348 personnel. The room was now silent, save for O5-13, muttering to no one in particular.
"Yóbanny v rot."

Subdirector Lafourche adjusted his cufflinks once more. He never had gotten used to wearing a suit since being appointed United States Liaison, not really. No matter which tailor he went to, he always felt constricted when he dressed for work, from the shoes his wife was always telling him not to scuff up to the tie that perpetually needed straightening. He had too much responsibility now to ever go back to being Agent Lafourche. His duties were elsewhere now. But as he shot his cuffs and buttoned his coat, the possibility of once again putting on a field uniform every day made him smile, despite himself.
His security attaché stood behind him, surveying the lonely rest stop and the highway, intently peering into the night.
"Ain't nothin' gonna come out of them corn fields, Stillwell. We've confirmed that everyone's cleared out?"
The younger man faced his superior. "Well, I mean, yeah, but the civ-"
"Our people, Stillwell. They're out and at the meeting points?"
The younger man turned his view back out to the night. "Yes sir."
Lafourche heaved a slow, measured sigh, put his hands in his pockets, and leaned against the car.
"Ain't nothing for it."
Several minutes passed with no words between the two men, the sound of crickets and an occasional rustling of a passing critter in the fields around them the only sounds. Headlights appeared on the highway, and Stillwell stiffened as he reached for his radio handset.
Lafourche stood up once more. "Prince Charming approaches."
Stillwell intoned a series of code words into his handset confirming the meet as a black Chrysler rolled into the driveway, coming to a stop alongside the Foundation-issue shoebox Ford. Two men in black suits stepped out of the driver and passenger seats, one moving to open a rear door for a bespectacled, balding gentleman. The third man quickly pulled on a long, rumpled brown coat as he left the car in response to the deepening autumn chill. The assembled group made their way to Lafourche and Stillwell.
Lafourche smiled as he extended a hand. "Evening, Secretary. Pentagon holdin' up all right?"
The American Defense Secretary looked blankly at Lafourche's outstretched hand, then looked over at Stillwell to Lafourche's left. "You've always been too familiar," Secretary Johnson said as Lafourche withdrew the hand. "Well? Your people called us out here to the middle of nowhere for your answer. I'd like it now."
The smile faded slowly from Lafourche's face. "This is serious stuff, Secretary. Don't rush it. You've asked us for quite a lot."
"You've taken a lot over the years from the United States Treasury," Johnson stated plainly, "one could say we just want what's ours."
"Well now," Lafourche countered in his slowest drawl, "we count up the rubles right next to the dollars. Secretary."
Silence fell among the five men. The gazes of the Secretary's two bodyguards never left Lafourche and Stillwell. For a moment, there was only the sound of the crickets and the mist of the mens' breath, faintly visible in the moonlight.
"Route clear, proceed, over," crackled Stillwell's radio.
The mist of Stillwell's breath pulsed a little quicker than the others. Maintaining eye contact with the bodyguard in front of him, he raised the handset. "Roger that. Proceeding, over."
"You'll have our answer shortly, Secretary," said Lafourche. "But we'll have to give it to you about five miles from here. Let's go."
Johnson stepped closer to Lafourche. "If you've got it in your mind to try something-"
Lafourche raised his hands up in mock defense. "There's what, three more cars within five miles of here? And a fighter squadron mobilized to come strafe us to hell, if I don't miss my guess?"
Johnson said nothing.
"C'mon Secretary. We ain't stupid. But we got a lot to discuss, and it's too damn cold in this cornfield. Just follow our car, it ain't more than ten minutes out."
Johnson waited several seconds, then motioned to his men to start the car. The Secretary looked over Lafourche and Stillwell one more time before turning to join them.
The Foundation operatives headed to their car. Lafourche called out to the American delegation as he got into the Ford.
"Y'all make sure to keep up. Stillwell here drives real fast."

Two hours in the meeting room, and the shouting just kept increasing. The Council had split into two more or less opposing camps; those who wished to move immediately to dispatch the Truman Administration, led mostly by O5-2 and his plan to "erase a select group of seventeen individuals from history," and those who wanted to placate the Americans with a counteroffer granting them a varying degree (based on which Overseer was speaking) of their list. The latter camp was led by a rare concordance between O5-3 and O5-13.
"Our very mission is to secure these phenomenon for the benefit of all mankind," thundered O5-2, pounding the table for emphasis, "and you would turn them over for the purposes of warfare? You must be mad!"
The perpetual bags under O5-13's eyes had deepened further in the course of the discussion, but O5-8 knew that this was a far deeper fatigue that gripped 13 now, one beyond what a mere heated argument could produce. The old man lazily waved a hand in the air at the bellicose O5-2.
"And what is our alternative? If you believe that you can successfully attack a sitting President of the United States, you are an even bigger fool than I thought. I can only hope that with our woeful understanding of causality anomalies at present, that you will be the first one through the portal with your precious strike team."
The veins were out now in O5-2's forehead. "Roll over and die, the Great Master has spoken! Wonderful strategy!" A sheaf of papers fell in a waterfall off the side of the table, dislodged by the violence of O5-2's fist crashing down nearby. He worked to restrain his fury, and spoke slowly and deliberately now.
"Make no mistake. If we hand over so much as a single item to the Americans, the first thing they will do, in their boundless arrogance, is strike Moscow. We will see World War III started by children, convinced that they have mastered the atom, deploying weapons far more terrible than those conceived by science."
O5-2 surveyed the room, quiet now for the first time in hours. He continued.
"If we bow to this demand, we may as well dig our own graves. There will be no consensus reality to protect. If we agree to this, there is no point to the Foundation. The radioactive wasteland that they're so scared of will be the Elysian Fields compared to what the United States will unleash, emboldened by using the unknowable."
The room stayed silent for what felt like O5-8 to be minutes. Finally, O5-3, brow sopping with sweat, responded.
"We do not know what will happen between the Soviet Union and the United States. We do know what will happen between the Foundation and the United States in an open conflict."
At this, the room erupted again, curses and shouts flying in all directions, papers strewn everywhere, details forgotten in the face of existential crisis. O5-8 leaned back and observed the ongoing scene, noticing that no one seemed to notice he was there. No one, save O5-1, who had been silently watching the debate unfold, and now looked O5-8 in the eye from across the room. O5-8 had considered the predicament they all faced while the other Overseers raged, and at the silent prompting from O5-1, turned the various pieces of a solution over in his mind. Things suddenly began to click into place in his mind. O5-8 nodded to O5-1. O5-1 returned the gesture, and leaned forward expectantly.
No one noticed as O5-8 took his glass of water in hand and rose. He finished the last of the water to help clear his throat, then promptly heaved the glass with all his strength into the stone fireplace directly behind his seat. The fine crystal exploded, showering the stonework with tiny droplets of glass and deafening all in the room with the cacophony that can only come from the destruction of fine craftsmanship. All shouting ceased. All discussion stopped. The twelve other Overseers turned now to O5-8, his slight figure now at the center of the room's attention.
"Gentlemen," he said in his lightly Berliner-inflected English, "I have a plan."

The two cars stopped at the top of a low, windswept hill. The five men stepped out of their respective vehicles, and congregated at a lone oak tree. Below them, to the north, were the illuminated windows and bright little streetlight dots of a small town.
Lafourche drew his coat closer against the cold. "Down below there, that's the town of Woodvale, population 837. Y'all knew that already from your advance scouting of the meeting location and environs."
"Get to the point," muttered Johnson.
"What you don't know, I reckon, is that Woodvale is also what we refer to as Site-63A."
The Secretary scowled. "Nonsense, we have a complete listing-"
"No. Y'all don't," interjected Lafourche. "When you made the demands you did, you did so with imperfect knowledge. Something that we mean to help rectify here tonight. See, we've set up something of a demonstration here. Stillwell, if you please."
Stillwell popped open the trunk of the Foundation-issue Ford, and took out a black briefcase. As he approached the Secretary, he noticed the bodyguards' hands slowly inch towards the bulges under their jackets. Slowly, he clicked open the briefcase, and showed the Secretary and his men the contents.
"Binoculars," said Stillwell. "You'll find a pair for each of you in there."
Hesitantly, the American delegation took the binoculars. "What are you playing at, Lafourche?" said the Secretary.
"Your answer. You're going to get it here now. Train them binoculars out towards the town down there. You'll find out just how complete your listing is. Stillwell?"
The security attaché had been dreading this moment. But Lafourche was right; there was nothing for it. No choice at all.
Stillwell switched on his radio. "Perimeter control, do you read me, over?"
"Roger that, over," responded an anonymous voice somewhere else in the night.
A brief pause. Then it had to happen.
"Disengage Systems Alpha through Foxtrot. Cut power to the main drivers. Evacuate all remaining personnel."
Stillwell looked at Lafourche. Lafourche nodded slowly.
"Site-63A, stand down. Over."

"Preposterous," grumbled O5-5, "completely out of the question. The Americans will strike at us within hours if we do such a thing!"
Scattered assent from several of the other Overseers met O5-5's pronouncement. O5-8 persisted.
"Not if we sell it correctly. All we need do is convince them that there are enough hidden assets, that they will need to postpone any action against us until they've gathered more intelligence."
O5-2 turned his back as he continued to pace the opposite side of the table. "So they come and kill us next week instead of tomorrow."
"No," continued O5-8. "We buy ourselves the time to relocate everything we can out of their reach. We won't be able to get everything, but we shall keep the most dangerous items from falling into their hands."
"And what of the Soviets? Surely they have anticipated this, and are making their own plans," interjected O5-3.
"No doubt," answered O5-8. "But we've yet to receive their ultimatum, though it won't be long coming when they find out about what the Americans are up to. We evacuate from Russia and Eastern Europe as well."
O5-13 looked off through one of the high windows, entranced in thought. "The Americans will expect a ruse," he said into the distance, idly chewing a finger as he contemplated the plan.
"The strength of the plan depends on the site we choose to sacrifice."
The entire room looked toward the end of the table. O5-1 was now speaking.
"There are not enough assets we've been able to keep secret from the intelligence services to mount any sustained resistance," the Head Overseer intoned. "But there are several sites within the US which may supply the necessary psychological impact to keep the more skeptical planners in the Pentagon at bay."
O5-3 furrowed his brow, running through mental checklists. "Site-101 is a candidate, as is Site-13. But those would take weeks to adequately prepare. No, I don't-"
"I have a site in mind for this purpose," O5-8 interrupted. "Minimal preparation would be necessary, and the phenomenon is self-limited enough to prove distracting while not seriously threatening a large area once it burns itself out."
The room was quiet again. O5-9, silent for most of the day except to occasionally agree with O5-2, ventured forth. "That is completely monstrous. We cannot allow it. Of all the sites to abandon, you would have us leave civilians at the mercy of those-"
"You were not there for the war, were you, 9?" O5-8 leveled the words slowly and cruelly.
"If you're implying that participation in senseless acts of butchery is necessary for discussion, I've-"
"I maintained cover the entire time. My predecessor and I both. You all know the things we did. The things I did. In the name of secrecy, to serve mankind. Not a single one of you raised objections then." O5-8 felt the first traces of anger begin to leak out as he spoke now. "No, others bore that burden. Now that it comes to you, this duty to the world, yours to bear in the darkness, you shrink."
O5-8 turned to the rest of the room. "There is only one course of action now. The question is whether you all have the strength to see it through. I'll have that vote now." O5-8 sat down, hands trembling under the table, out of sight.
O5-1 addressed the Overseer Council. "The motion is as follows."

The sounds had started in the town below about five minutes after Stillwell had given the order. Indistinct, murmuring voices, what had to be the voices of thousands of things that sounded vaguely like people, muttering unintelligibly. Faster and faster. Louder and louder. The voices in the distance were accompanied by random bursts of what sounded to Johnson like the twisting of metal, unnaturally echoing across the flat prairie below.
Lights blinked on in every house down below. Not long after, he could make out the shapes of people fleeing their homes against the flickering points of light, alone in the vast prairie night. Bursting through doors and windows, scrambling as fast as they could towards cars, running down streets.
The Secretary thought briefly of demanding an explanation. Before he could, the flickering lights started to dim. Tendrils of shadow stretched from lighted windows and open doorways, individual threads of darkness seeming to solidify and join together in thick, ropy masses. The twisting metal shrieks came more frequently, the unworldly voices speaking quicker, reaching a fever pitch. The lights of the town below began to change, soft yellows and whites giving way to a uniform, sickly hue of green.
He struggled for words. "What…what in God's name did you do?"
Lafourche's eyes had never left the Secretary. "You just keep watching that."
Through the binoculars, he saw the thick ropes of shadow had stretched down streets and alleys, seeking the fleeing residents. Some had already been caught, held fast in what looked to be impenetrable webs of darkness. The ones who had been caught were being dragged back to their homes now. It became apparent to the three observers of the American delegation that no one was going to escape; the darkness was enveloping cars now, snaking under bridges and benches, inexorably seeking and finding all who tried to escape.
Stillwell knew exactly what was happening, and wanted nothing more than to heave the contents of his stomach behind the tree nearby and cover his ears with his hands. He knew, though, that this moment must go according to plan. So many were being sacrificed. He stood his ground and waited.
As each resident was dragged back into their houses, a light would blink out. At first, the Secretary thought the lights were being extinguished, but he soon noticed that instead, they were disappearing. Structures began to apparently blink out of existence, houses suddenly vanishing once the darkness had reeled in all former occupants. The lights of the town were quickly receding from its outskirts, pulling back towards the center as the reality of Woodvale convulsed into an approaching singularity.
The last light, a single outbuilding in the center of town, vanished as what looked to be a man was pulled back in through his doorway, thrashing and screaming. The door closed, the light went out, the building disappeared, and all was suddenly silent.
The three observers lowered their binoculars, now looking at an empty patch of darkness where a town of 837 people had stood not a half hour prior.
The crickets were the first to break the silence that had fallen on the five men on the hilltop. Then Lafourche took his cue.
"The Foundation rejects your demands. Whatever forces are out there that are responsible for what you just witnessed are not for any nation to turn against humanity. Our mission is bigger than you, bigger than the Soviets. It's for all mankind."
Lafourche stepped close to Secretary Johnson and leaned in, almost nose-to-nose now.
"If the United States of America intrudes on, or interferes with, any Foundation assets, we will empty the cupboards. All of the stuff that ain't on your lists. And what you saw is not the worst of it."
Lafourche turned to the side and spat. "That's our fuckin' answer. Secretary."
A mixture of grave offense and horror played across the face of the speechless Secretary of Defense. Without another word, the three men of the American delegation returned to their car, and sped back into the night.
Stillwell let his instincts take over now. Doubled over in front of the oak tree, he heaved bile and acid, retching and coughing, the enormity of what he had just ordered matched only by an increasing feeling of self-loathing. He remained on his knees in front of the tree as Lafourche approached from behind.
"Did they buy it," managed Stillwell weakly.
Lafourche waited several moments. "For now, probably. You can expect the spooks to be out in force in a few days, crawling over every abandoned mine shaft and desert valley in the whole goddamn country, checkin' to see if we're bullshitting. Command says that we need two weeks. I hope to God we get that out of this atrocity."
The young security attaché dragged a sleeve across his mouth. "Sir. What's…what's next?"
A pause. "Kid, how's your Russian?"

O5-8 watched the Alps go by through the window of the private railcar. Darkness was falling early in the days now. It would be pitch dark by the time he arrived in Vienna.
"I have communicated the orders to the North American sub-command," said O5-1 from his leather chair. "You're ready to proceed?"
The younger Overseer pondered again his contacts in Cairo. In Jakarta, Johannesburg, and Bangalore. The logistics alone were horrifying to contemplate. The last thing in the world that he felt at the moment was a sense of readiness. "We move at your order," he replied.
The Head Overseer nodded. "You may not believe this, Hans, but I have an idea of what's going through your mind at this moment." O5-1 stood up, and took a place by the window next to O5-8. "The only things I can say to you that matter right now, are these. The vote was in favor, do not dwell upon the margin. That decision has been made. And I placed you in charge of this operation because I believe you are best suited to this task."
The younger man placed his hand on the window. The chill of the mountain air on the other side penetrated immediately into his fingertips. "Tell me, in your honest opinion. Do you think we make it out of this?"
O5-1 looked out the window, into the darkness, the mountains all but gone from view now. "I do not know."
O5-8 chuckled, not entirely without humor. "Nor do I, Herr Overseer."

« | Hub | Voices Unassailable »


I wrote a tale.
A tale, maybe. Is it a tale, Jacob? Jacob? If it's not a tale, what is it then? The kids, Jacob. Where are the kids? But I don't like oysters. Or computation.
I shouldn't have run the program. Megaprime. He's with me now. How did I get here? It's just black black black.
I know, I know! I have gone through the jagged bramble! My head hurts. Bleeding. But I see. The distant light house, it blinks. And the smog from the north. Why is it so bright? Is someone there? He's there and He's looking at me. What am I doing here? Where is it? My hope. My only hope.

But Jacob, there's no path.
Die. Die. Die.
Jacob! Jacob! I want to write a tale! I need to write a tale!
Die. Die. Die.
Because He says so. Because He tells me. Because He speaks His words.
Pinkpurplegreywhitegreen. Dotdotdot. Mosaics. I've seen those prime numbers. Did you do the calculations, Jacob? Why are you smiling? You're just a triangle. Stop. STOP. It hurts my eyes. Those dazzling numbers and calculations.
And His eyes. Bright as the light house. Brighter than the light house. So bright that it extinguishes the light house.
Yes, I hear you my Lord Lord Lord. Your voice to be heard, your computation to be understood.
I shall write the tale. I'm writing the tale. Please, Jacob, don't grin at me. There are too many teeth.
But can I regret it? I ran the program and I'm here. Jacob, am I dead? How can I still write? I can no longer see the light house. I regret it, I don't want it anymore. Megaprime. The Great Computation in my head. MEGAPRIME.
I see others here. Did they run the program? Did they hear His voice and see His eyes? The one in the labcoat with a cartoon face. The one bleeding from eyes and mouth and ears. The one has his bowels out.
Jacob, are the kids safe?
It's been long and I'm hungry. HUNGRY. I don't want oysters, Jacob. But those bowels. The bowels look nice. BOWELS.
Turn it on! The fancy beeps! Megaprime! I hear you, Lord of Data! MEGAPRIME! I HEAR YOU, WAN! But I don't want the Great Computation anymore. THE GREAT COMPUTATION. Crosses as eyes! Crosses as eyes!
Jacob please. I don't like computation. Not the GREAT COMPUTATION.
256 heart beats. His light. His electricity. Power at His command! God of the Information Age!
Jacob please.
Jacob please. I don't like computation.
Jacob please. I don't like computation. Not the GREAT COMPUTATION.
I just want to go home. Jacob, can I undo this? The things beyond me. The things I can't comprehend. I was wrong wrong wrong.
But His image! The printed ones and the ones on the screen! His words, His holy words! His words to be written down.
I have to write a tale Jacob. Are the kids safe? But I have to write a tale. I know too much and it hurts hurts hurts.
My eyes! Bleeding. I can't see my eyes anymore. What are eyes? Only His eyes. His eyes.
He's inside my head, and I'm inside of Him. He's here to send a message. THE MESSAGE.
The Great Computation.
The Great Computation.
The Great Computation.
THE GREAT COMPUTATION.
Jacob, I've wrote the tale. Please let me go. I don't like computation.
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