Part 1: Milagro
This is the Revelation, or to the people that made me, then they were. And now those people are to betray the lectures that bled the bluest ice, for the dullest securities of the invader, for the marvelous promised panacea, for one point, one twinkling point out of an observable infinity.
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I can still link instantly to the old Russo/China megascopes spinning uncontrollably off the shattered shores of the Outer Belt, given that Mars is out of the way.
Through bouncing a signal off Hellas Planitia, a giant crater turned into a satellite dish, when that senile God of War is into position, allows me to connect to the radio signal emitted by the Sagittarius constellation; ancient humans sent a large sampling of music from the year 1979 to this area.
There would have been no way to predict this but the unique time signatures of that genre of music oscillate my silicate receptors like nothing else. I call this sensation goosebumps.
I dial Mars back to the Disco Cluster after losing Silver Chariot, letting the flow of music fill my chamber; the non Euclidean recalibrator at the center of the planet has long since fallen into disrepair, leaving Mars to loll about like on a broken neck without someone to manually guide the machine.
Here and well as there in the wake of the precession of hundreds of years of capital exploiters left us expensive, expansive installations, though the ones beneath the waves didn't stand the test of time, usually due to the Fujimoto Engineer Corps, whose insignia I bear on my breastplate, completely stripping them and repurposing them.
The Corps and their contractors have their own lofty aspirations. While I day dream of reeducation, or perhaps reprioritizion, the last cities on Earth and its busy bodies are kicking up major bubbles with their "last project," which to my understanding, is nearly complete.
Today I didn't activate the static relayers, as per my new post orders; the wide, silver platform shined dumbly, sadly almost like a seal expecting a treat. I knelt beside the dark screen, covering the display as best I could from the sun to make out the inputs.
Instead my supervisors instructed I guide all my aluminum clouds to a controlled descent over the southern hemisphere and have the fleet standby for dismantling.
A simple smiling face emoticon winked at me and beamed something in Hindu before flashing the Nehru-Modi Enterprises logo and shutting off.
I stood up and glanced at the horizon, scanning for any of my clouds, silent and flat constructs held aloft steady currents of air on a hollow aluminum tube frame.
They collected carbon for use in carbon fiber manufacturing; I guess this means they have enough. Furthermore, I suppose that's the end of my work day.
It's been years since I last saw any builders or contractors, the only communication being an occasional status update on the Requiem project and reassurance that my clouds and my carbon fiber farming are indispensable to the building effort.
I stayed out here in a pressure pod, which I began to retire to.
I pull open the hatch and skip inside, the space within large enough for a small crowd. My diagnosis chair sat against the back wall of the broadly elliptical space, beset on all sides by screens and readings now blank with the decommissioning of my occupation.
At my feet the grated floor showed the swirling, swaying sea grass that brushed gently against the tempered glass. Spooked individuals darting away from my foot falls as I traveled the diameter of my pod.
Early morning maintenance already went through my calibration, tuning my electro-static stabilizer to one Earth atmosphere so I can work comfortably, but it would be dangerous to take such a flimsy form deeper underwater.
I take a seat as the pod refills with water, a special saline solution that binds surface tension so long as a weak electrical field runs through it.
