THE END OF BEGINNINGS

THIRTY (Part 1)

The Terrace District: the fourth of seven districts spread across the lonely continent of Atlantis.  It began at the mouth of a steep, jagged canyon that stretched from the stepped end of a wide, boxy valley in the heart of the mainland.  Slim spires built into the canyon walls reached past the platform-lined edges of the upper shelf.  Bridges built like flying buttresses connected the two sides of the vertical borough of the sprawling metropolis.  The long spans of pristine metal offered breathtaking views up and down the length of the canyon, interrupted-only occasionally-by the bulkheads of passing ships descending toward the river harbors below. 
The terraces which gave the district its name were wide, circular platforms jutting out from the tall towers and steep, rocky walls.  The bulk of the terraces were at the northern end of the canyon.  Here, in the shadow of icy, blue-green mountains and a long way from the salty-sweet scent of the vast ocean, the numerous belvederes had become an impressive hub of pioneering agriculture.  A fascinating soup of heated gas venting out of nearby volcanic fissures, the perfect amount of sunlight and temperature from the planet's lazy tilt, and a bountiful supply of nutrient-rich, fresh water from melting glaciers created an atmosphere ideal for steady farming.  The numerous platforms hanging off the canyon were covered in domed nurseries and artificial fields.
There were other things here besides the capacious decks of flowers and produce, of course.  There were research and processing facilities.  There were ornate halls where district residents could theorize and debate with one another on the nature of the nature they were invested in.  But, there were the more casual staples of a community in that elevated place, as well.  Markets, where the excess bounty of any field could be sold to anyone from anywhere interested in buying, were plentiful and varied.  Restaurants of all kinds dotted the domesticated terrain, preparing and serving meals made from the harvested yield of partnering farms.
It was at one of these restaurants that Moros Aurallio found himself.  He was sitting quietly at a table on a vine-covered patio.  His attention was split between the others with him and the scene beyond the restaurant.  Moros certainly wasn't unfamiliar with the unique section of the city.  His mother had been born and raised in the "breadbasket of Atlantis".  He fondly recalled joining her for day trips to the place.  So much was still the same as he remembered it.  But, there were new things, too.  New towers had been constructed, reaching out of the canyon from new places and new terraces on the canyon wall.  Moros admired the way the damp, metal facades glistened in the late afternoon light.  Long rainbows arched across the chasm as the beams of waining sunlight pierced the silky mists hovering amongst the landscape.
"You're not even listening," Ganos said.
Moros' attention snapped back to the small, crystal-top table and the little group sitting around it.  "Huh," he said.
Ganos turned her head to regard him.  She laughed, "Well, obviously you're not.  But I wasn't speaking to you.  Not this time, anyway."
"Oh," said Moros.
"She was referring to me," said Ferrus Ros.  He was part of the troop that had come with Ulref Kem Toleg from Camrial.  "However," he continued, "I believe that statement alone discredits hers."
Ganos furrowed her brow.  "I see," she said to Ferrus.  "You are quite the difficult one to figure out.  Very quiet.  Yet, very direct, as well."
"Because speaking frequently without saying much of anything at all is a beneficial talent?"
"There is nothing wrong with being social," said Ganos with a cute and youthful smugness.  "Holding a proper conversation is a valuable skill to practice and maintain."
Ferrus stared at Ganos.  "Why," he asked after a moment.
Ganos stared back at Ferrus.  She narrowed her eyes once more.  Moros and Hasha watched the tense, silent exchange.  Suddenly, Ganos' expression changed.  Her eyes gleamed with a new and profound realization.  "You're Asgard!"
Ferrus resisted the impulse to roll his eyes.  He didn't stop himself from exhaling loudly.  "Yes," he said slowly.  "You are either surprised or concerned."
"No.  Well..." Ganos started to say.  "You are not what I expected."
Ferrus glanced at the smirking Moros.  The teenager shrugged his shoulders.  "And the emotion of your reaction continues to be an enigma," Ferrus said to Ganos.
"It is just that not many have seen any of your kind for several years," said Ganos.  "The Asgard keep to themselves so much...those that are still in the galaxy, that is.  And..." she continued hesitantly, trying to choose her next words delicately.  Her cheeks had even reddened.  Moros was slightly shocked at the sight.
"...And those Asgard that have been encountered recently have been reported to be very...different-let's say-in appearance."
Ferrus looked at the teenage girl sitting near him for a long moment.  He was letting her words hang over the table.  There was a certain naive obviousness to her statement that he wanted his silence and expression to emphasize. 
Ferrus Ros was different in appearance, especially in comparison to the three youths at the small table.  His skin was more pale than theirs, especially Hasha's.  Next to the young Aganni, Ferrus was practically spectral.  The hue was not really white, however.  A sickness he was successfully managing had begun to shift the pigment in his tight epidermis, from its original olive it had been once upon a time, to a kind of coppery-gray.  The top of his skull was broader and more elongated.  His nose was narrow at the bridge between his oval eyes.  It widened to a more beak-like shape above his flat mouth.  From below his pointed chin, a long neck connected his head to a pair of very square shoulders.  Even under the very Lantean shirt and coat he wore, Ferrus' frame had an undeniable rigidity to it that was not very Lantean at all.
"Well," Ganos finally said after a few more moments of having to hear her own thoughts without any rebuttal, "obviously.  But, I meant...more...so."
"Yes," Ferrus said, leaning back in the metal chair.  "They are that.  The effects of the disorder plaguing our genetics have been made worse by the cloning process the Asgard have fully implemented over the last generation.  In time, my own body will become completely maligned by the abnormality."
"And then you'll be cloned," Moros asked.
"Most likely," Ferrus replied.
"But why?  If the process doesn't eradicate the disease and, instead, only exacerbates it, why go through with the process at all?"
"Because the alternative is death," Ferrus answered.  "Guaranteed, unchangeable death.  However, if my consciousness is transferred into a cloned body, I have the opportunity to continue on.  There is a better chance of finding a way to survive while dying than there is by simply laying down dead."
Ganos blinked.  "I suppose there is truth in that."
"Sick and alive is still alive."
Moros raised his glass of ice water.  "There is definitely truth in that," he said.
Ganos was about to raise her own glass when the cup in Moros' hand suddenly disappeared.  Three sets of shocked eyes watched as it arched high into the air away from the table.  They followed its tumbling path until it bounced off a nearby kiosk and out of sight over the edge of the terrace.  When Moros, Ganos, and Ferrus turned their gazes back to the table, they were met with the smiling face of Hasha.
"Con'sii" he said, beaming and gesturing excitedly with the hand he had used to slap the cup away.
"Con-what," asked Geras.
Moros smiled and laughed a little.  "Cheers."