Destinations 7.

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Chapter 48

“Hey little brother, come with me.” Paraphrases Easter while excusing herself out of Day’s quarters. Saturn waves to GULL, leaving her printshop where he helped boost the production capacity. The twins quit the Moon, after so many months spent on diplomacy, on bringing together every soul of this universe, in preparation for the weeks to come. Starting today.

“You’ve heard the dialogue between Rivkah and the virus, right?”

“This is no joke, sis. I’m the one who had built that carousel and I tell you: the Katholikos structure is not meant to fly. Dammit. That cretin used it way beyond its original scope, endangering millions and millions of unsuspecting inhabitants.”

“They’re worshiping him like a god.”

“Any god worth his salt would know not to fly two independent cones set on top of each other. That’s a damn whirligig! Made of two separate parts. Elegantly built to only work within Earth’s gravity. Now the top keeps next to the bottom only because the mind of the virus wants this, but when he leaves – as he said he would – then the cones will float away.”

“Oh my God! Thought the virus should be smarter.”

“It’s a virus, not a god. It breaks code, it mutates, it mimics, it desecrates, it skids. It never builds. Not in its nature.”

“I’ve got an idea!”

“Me too. Let’s wait for its departure.”

Two hours later, a pale lightning sparkles atop the whirligig, cracking the darkness. Eventually it discharges down to Earth.

“Elvis has left the building.”

“You loved that guy’s music so much?”

“The Second Renaissance begins with Elvis, dear sis.”

“And you’re using his name to designate the virus??”

“What would you want me to say? Jesus has left the building? Because the virus thinks he’s Jesus.”

“Wishes to think.”

“One does what one can. Plus, our mother, birthing us, showing herself to the earthlings at her first Jubilee, ends the Second Renaissance. Makes sense for you and me to love the cultural context announcing our arrival, don’t you think?”

“Good that I can think. Indeed. You take the top and I’ll take the bottom. You push the top to L5 while I keep the bottom in position at L4.”

“Nope. I take the bottom and you the top. I keep the bottom at L4, while you move the top to L5, flipping it.”


Saturn arrests his breath for a nanosecond. “Is this how you wished to be in the first place? You manipulating big sister.”

“Never mind left or right, top or bottom. Let’s get the business done before they’ll lose all the atmosphere. Poor people.”

A naked eye can’t see the silhouettes. An astronomer, along with his peers, is mesmerized to watch the neon blue engulfing this novel celestial object, as wide as one third of the Moon. Then all the astronomers on duty, and hobbyists alike, will run through a series of mental orgasms when the neon blue discs separate, with one moving away like a frisbee. From L4 to L5.

“Sis, can you read me?”

“Loud and clear!”

“Not enough air and not enough light. Mine are growing terribly nervous. Watching me at the end of the tractor beam. In stupor.”

“Ah, you’re blessed with their stupor. That’s great. Enjoy while you can. Because mine turned vocal, calling me names. Harlot, whore, Babylonian, Annunaki, bitch, slut and – yes – satanic woman. Rebelling, they moan the loss of their saviour. Supposedly I’m to blame for his departure. It’s no fun having to keep it up here with all those religious nutcases throwing screws at me.”

“The worst part of this is that they’re disassembling their towers, which makes their situation even more hazardous than it already is.”

“Gimme an idea, Saturn, fast!”

“How about this one? You inspired me, by Uncle Orange.” The fractal builder seeds, with his voice, the word ‘orange’ in the hollow center of the cone’s axis. Wherefrom a gracious olive tree uplifts the spirits below. The branches of this splendor spread wider than the boundary of Katholikos. Well, the bottom half of it.

Instead of a shadow, and in contrast to the darkness of space, the leaves of this tree shine a warm and calming orange light over the heads of the people beneath. Olives pop out of the branches, in hues of gold. Some would ripe and fall, at times, over the crowd, the now silent and stupefied crowd.

“Wonderful idea, little brother. Can we switch places? Please raise a similar olive tree over my half of the Katholikos.”

Switching places, Saturn executes his second olive tree – in orange light and producing golden fruit, like the first. “Done, sis. They’re all in stupor now. Silence. What now?”

“We wait. We’re good at it.”

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