Narrator S: The Ship soars downcurrent along the Mediun, the bright sky above, the ocean of Fold below. Several crew are gathered on the prow deck of the Ship, gazing ahead, downcurrent, with bocnoculars. 

Narrator M: A speck of an islet on the horizon is slowly coming into view, hovering just above the ocean of Fold. 

Narrator X: (Rawfield) “That’s Brocheroug all right,”

M: says Rawfield.

X: (Rawfield) “God, I think it’s been… I think it’s been thirty-two, yeah, years, since I was here last on my last Company tour. When was your last visit, Hustleworth?”

S: (Felix) “Six traversals ago.” says Felix. “I, uh, hear it was pretty different back in the day, but nowadays, well…” 

X: Cleo lowers her borrowed bocnoculars. 

S: (Cleo) “Well, what? What does that mean, exactly?”

(Felix) “You’ll see. Brocheroug is, uh…weird. Let’s just put it that way.” 

X: (Rawfield) “Was, uh, HE, still there?” Rawfield asks. “Six years ago?” 

S: Felix gives Dr. Rawfield a meaningful stare. (Felix) “Yup.” 

X: (Rawfield) “Still…the same?” 

S: (Felix) “Like I said. Weird.” 

M: Cleo gulps.

X: Speaking of weird, the downcurrent horizon of the Mediun toward which the Ship flies is beginning to…tilt, subtly, for lack of a better word, in a way that’s kinda hard to explain.

S: It hasn’t just gone sorta weirdly crooked – there’s something wrong about it overall. 

M: The horizon is a disorienting smear that kind of upsets the stomach to stare at for too long. 

S: Cleo’s kind of getting a headache looking at it through the bocnoculars now. 

X: The uniform light source of the Un sky is also beginning to skew,

S: increasingly brighter now ahead of them than it is behind, almost like an unsettling sunset, which is a very rare and strange sight, not to mention a foreign concept, in a cosmos like this, that has no sun. 

M: Silhouetted against this strange end-of-the-cosmos light just beyond Brocheroug, is a narrow, dark pillar, like a lighthouse, hanging upside-down from one of the many floating pieces of mica that clog the air in this region.

X: With beams of hazy light shining from beyond it, it casts a long, spooky shadow, long enough even to touch the islet of Brocheroug itself. 

S: (Cleo) “Wow. What’s that tower thingy all the way out there?” Cleo asks. 

M: With something like reverence in his voice, Felix answers,

S: (Felix) “The final timehouse, marking the end of the final month of the traversal. It’s the place where time ends.” 

X: And with a devious little smile, he adds,

S: (Felix) “For now.”

M: Dr. Rawfield nods.

X: (Rawfield) “Where time ends, yes, but also where the Delta begins. The beginning of the end of the cosmos.” 

S: The islet of Brocheroug emerges more clearly out of the strange light – a rocky crag with a weatherworn, retro-looking manor-house-like hotel built into its side. 

M: From a distance it looks very grand, but the closer they get, the more it reveals itself to be actually kind of decrepit.

S: Clearly it was once an impressive edifice, but now, its obvious disrepair gives it a slightly sorrowful pitifulness. 

X: The black shard of the Ship glides into an attached unship pier jutting out from the side of the rocky crag of the islet, and comes to an ethereal stop.

S: It’s not hard to find a parking space. Other than an ordinary cargo vessel and an old oar-powered Trust sloop that looks like it hasn’t flown in decades, the pier is abandoned. 

M: Rusty old stairs lead down to a foldmersible jetty rolling on the black fog of the Mediun below, which is notably empty as well, a dark mirror to the Un pier above. 

S: Lowering her bocnoculars, Cleo gazes down into this empty jetty and bites her lip. 

X: Standing at the pier beside the now-docked Ship, awaiting them, is an out-of-fashion and kind of ill-kempt gentleman. 

S: On top of his rumpled shirt, he wears this ornate necklace of what looks like sparkling white pearls, very proudly on display.

[A slightly-out-of-tune yet regal melody.]

M: With an extremely obsequious bow, the man gestures widely, calling up to the crew visible on the prow deck. (Man) “Welcome to the Delagney on the Delta, official lodging and respite of the Timekeepers’ Guild, historic Trust holding and Consectorial Company outpost, and now, wayside rest of the illustrious Ship and the Cosmological Consortium’s crew. We have been expecting you! I am Bertrand Pesto, your devoted hotelier. Please, step right this way.”

S: He makes no move to assist the crew with their luggage, but is sure doing a lot of gesturing, genuflecting, and eagerly coaxing to get the crew indoors. 

X: It takes very little time for the Ship to go into rewind mode, and the crew begin to disembark onto the pier, bringing their things for an evening at the hotel. 

S: Seeing Dr. Rawfield, Mr. Pesto gasps, and lunges into an even deeper bow than the first one. 

M: (Mr. Pesto) “Company Medic Ripley Rawfield, if I’m not mistaken. I never forget a Trustee. It has been decades! How are you?” 

X: (Rawfield) “It’s just ‘Doctor’ Rawfield now, Mr. Pesto. There hasn’t been a Company for a while.”

M: (Mr. Pesto) “That may be regrettably so, but you will always be accorded the respect you deserve here at the Delagney upon the Delta.” 

X: (Rawfield) “Okay, Mr. Pesto.” 

S: Rawfield barely conceals an eye roll, and continues on her way. 

M: The crew enter the hotel’s lobby, which, like the exterior and the grounds, has a forlorn dinginess to it, a decayed grandeur of better days gone by.

X: Most of the surfaces around here are dusty or clearly in disrepair. Cracked vases over here in the corner feature skeletons of plants, some dried husks of fancy orchids, indeterminate stems. 

S: Cobwebs cling to a grand chandelier overhead. Once-tufted cushions are now missing their buttons.

M: Even the front desk–

S: the one actually kind of clean surface around here–

M: betrays pits and grooves by the check-in area. Mr. Pesto circles the desk, one hand on its surface like a pivot point, following one such groove, and gets his guests checked in. 

S: He pulls out a binder, several sets of keys, from the rack behind the counter. 

M: (Mr. Pesto) “Fortunately, we have rooms enough for all of you, this being our – ha! – slow season.” 

S: He looks demonstratively around the empty lobby.

M: (Mr. Pesto) “Once a traversal, we always welcome the Timekeepers as they approach the end of their voyage, and, of course, there will always be tourists drawn by the wonders of the Delta – safely observable from our humble islet – but this does not compare to the honor of YOUR visit. The thrill we felt when the Cosmological Consortium made the arrangement for Brocheroug to be the Ship’s final stop before the Delta! Why, it reminds me of the good old days. The Valorous days.”

X: His eyes dart around the group of the assembled crew, his hand absently twizzling a bead of his – what is this – kind of a necklace. 

M: (Mr. Pesto) “For those of you new to the Delagney on the Delta, allow me to introduce you to our amenities. Not only do we offer top-class accommodations, full dining, an interisletary landline, and stunning Deltaside views, but some lesser-known hidden gems as well. In fact, I personally curate what many are calling the best-kept collection of Trust memorabilia outside of the Highest Light, for those who may be interested?” 

S: He pauses invitingly. 

X: Several members of the crew sigh heavily, immediately mumbling some excuses, or, um, maybe, time to go find their rooms suddenly.

S: But a few seem interested, or at least neutral enough to go along with it. Mr. Pesto certainly seems very excited. 

X: Cleo bats her eyelashes innocently, Omelet draped around her shoulders. 

S: (Cleo) “Ooh! Well, that could be interesting! I don’t know much about the Trust, but I love the Un!”

M: Mr. Pesto was about to sourly inform Cleo of the hotel’s no-pet policy, but at this admission of interest, his eyes light up. (Mr. Pesto) “Is that so? You must come right this way! The guided tour is normally available to guests at a small extra charge, but for the Ship, consider it my gift. Anyone else?” 

X: The naturalist raises an eyebrow. (Naturalist) “Oh, I’ve got to see this.” 

S: Mr. Pesto guides the small, lucky tour group through a small lounge and bar to a part of the room roped off from the rest of the space with one of those velvet ropes – showy, but insubstantial. 

M: (Mr. Pesto) “As some of you may already know, this location long served as a Trust holding, providing room and board to the numerous charitable expeditions that the Trust has sent over the years to search for and rescue the unfortunate souls wandering in the Delta.” 

S: He waves a hand vaguely out the window somewhere, toward the lurching, gleaming horizon outside. 

M: (Mr. Pesto) “Unlifts, they called them. In all of history, never has there been an organization so dedicated to rescuing these poor souls abandoned by the rest of the cosmos, and never again may we see its like. It is very tragic, but since the fall of the Trust, nothing else has arisen to take its place as the savior these poor unfortunates need.”

S: Dr. Rawfield sets her jaw grimly. 

X: (Rawfield) “We will of course be keeping our eyes peeled for any Delta inhabitants along our route, and if the Ship proves it can travel the Delta safely, it could mean the beginning of a new wave of Delta aid.” 

M: (Mr. Pesto) “Yes, yes, of course. But as you well know, being a former officer of the Trust’s Company yourself, the glorious legacy of the Trust has set the standard for humanitarian aid cosmos-wide.”

S: (Naturalist) “Hmph!” 

X: A, uh, loud exclamation, somewhere between an incredulous laugh, maybe a cry of outrage? 

S: The naturalist has clapped her hand over her mouth. 

X: Everett exchanges a look with her. 

M: (Mr. Pesto) “Now then, behind these ropes rest artifacts from the golden age of the Trust, including a first edition of the Trustee Handbook.”

X: He gestures to a worn saddle-stitched handbook on a lectern. 

M: (Mr. Pesto) “An official Ledge Group Incendiary Imaging Device plate from the final Loxlee Gala held in 624.”

S: He pats a lacquered plate photograph featuring a group of fancy-looking individuals, almost all of them wearing the same sort of white beads as Mr. Pesto is sporting. 

X: Before he claps his hands with reverence–

M: (Mr. Pesto) “And the crown jewel of our collection – a still-operable banking machine, able to string an abacus of Valor or Caenum. Reproductions available for a modest charge, by request!” 

X: He smiles, proudly lifting his own string of pearly white beads around his neck, and points to an old cabinet in a place of honor along the back wall of his little museum,

S: sort of like a cross between a cabinet and a pipe organ and some kind of incomprehensible machine. Dusty glass reservoirs on either side contain piles of white and black beads, an intricate tangle of machinery laying inert between them. 

X: The Biological Man boggles at his warped funhouse reflection in the cylindrical reservoirs, as Merlin gently attempts to pull him back from the velvet rope with a gentle grasping of his mechanical hands.

M: (Mr. Pesto) “Through this brilliant system,” Mr. Pesto continues, “the Trust was actually able to incentivize people to be their best selves, to materially reward them for selfless behavior that benefited the entire community.” 

S: (Naturalist) “Not how it worked,”

X: the naturalist scoffs. 

S: Pesto whips his head around, glaring at the interruption.

M: (Mr. Pesto) “I’m sorry, was that a question?”

S: (Naturalist) “Oh, no, no, no. You’ve got, uh, quite the collection of this Trust stuff, Mr. Pesto.” 

M: (Mr. Pesto) “Yes. The Delagney family of hotel locations have long been the preferred lodging of the traveling Trustee, and Delagney upon the Delta is no exception, a Valorously-supported operation spanning generations.”

S: (Naturalist) “You know the Trust’s gone, right?” 

M: (Mr. Pesto) [sputtering] “Do you have an issue with the preservation of history?”

S: (Naturalist) “Not at all. In fact, I think there’s a few aspects of Trust history you’re neglecting to preserve.” 

X: Mr. Pesto stammers. He quakes with inarticulate indignation. 

S: And Dr. Rawfield subtly but firmly shakes her head at the naturalist, mouthing “Don’t bother.”

M: Louder, she says,

X: (Rawfield) “Uh, listen, Mr. Pesto, thanks so much for this tour. Very impressive. But we’d, uh, we’d love to get settled into our rooms, maybe get something to eat?”

M: (Mr. Pesto) “Of course, Offic– ah, Dr. Rawfield. I encourage everyone to check out the display of factory-sealed Loxlee lightbulbs on the way out, and the charcoal portrait of the last Senior Notary of the Trust. I will send word to the cook to prepare for your meal. A group of your size should be comfortably accommodated at our finest table: the Deltaside balcony.”

S: Ah, the hotel’s finest table – a slightly dingy overlook balcony with a huge vista of the eerie Delta sprawling before them, 

X: as now, they dine and chat.  

M: A fitful breeze gusts over the assembly, blowing from the direction of the Delta. 

S: It’s a lot like that charged ozonic breeze before a late summer thunderstorm – uncomfortably hot and jarringly cold by turns, feverish. Captivating, but distinctly not relaxing. 

X: It carries a lot of strange, intermingled, unidentifiable aromas. 

S: Something about it just makes the pulse race. Mr. Pesto appears to be habituated to it, though. 

X: Maybe that’s where his super-jumpy demeanor comes from.

S: He seemingly has no waitstaff, really very little hotel staff in general, so he is providing the service to them himself as they dine and chat.

[Discordant “music”] 

X: He has attempted to set the mood by firing up some kind of rickety antique music box here, which, uh, ha ha, clearly has not been serviced in quite some time. 

S: He’s currently serving them some slightly wilted flower salad, 

M: (Mr. Pesto) “In the Old Trust style,” he explains grandly, serving what look like browned dandelion heads over some shredded iceberg lettuce. 

S: Or something like that.

M: (Mr. Pesto) “Now, I acknowledge that this dinner is not what it could be. I deeply apologize. Our cook is not trained to the same standard as someone of your prestige, Mr. Del Balsaban.” He clearly has recognized Quino and is bowing to him as well.

S: In fact, throughout the entire duration of this meal so far, Mr. Pesto has been openly disparaging of his own current chef and very complimentary towards Quino. Apparently, his reputation as a Highest Light celebrity chef extends even here. 

M: (Mr. Pesto) “You know, there could be a place for you in my kitchen if you were so inclined.”

S: As Quino is trying to think up some polite excuse, Mr. Pesto sees the glimmer of beads under the neckline of Quino’s shirt.  

M: (Mr. Pesto) “Oh! Mr. Del Balsaban! How wonderful it is to see another abacus again! Please, display it with pride here. I’m glad the old ways haven’t entirely been forgotten.” 

S: Finally pushed to his limit by Mr. Pesto’s constant fawning, Quino hooks a finger under his string of beads and yanks it into full view. 

M: Mr. Pesto recoils in barely-concealed disgust to see the alternating black and white beads, pressing a hand to his own ostentatious necklace of uniform white beads. 

X: (Quino) “I’m sorry to tell you, Mister, uh, Pesto, but no one wears their abacus like that in the Highest Light anymore, if they wear one at all. Mr. Pesto, it’s really not for show, it’s just for private reflection. A reminder for me that none of us are perfect, or bad. Just something in between.” 

S: Mr. Pesto clearly does not like that. 

X: His opinion of Quino is no longer so high. 

S: He no longer wants him to work here. 

M: (Mr. Pesto) “I see. What an… interesting reinterpretation of sacred and time-honored tradition. Please excuse me.”

S: And with that, the inimitable Mr. Pesto finally steps away long enough for the crew to have some privacy here on the overlook. 

X: The naturalist lunges instantly to the obnoxious music box, shutting it off, and Quino, wasting no time, clinks his glass. (Quino) “My friends, I’ll say this quickly while he’s gone. This has been an extraordinary expedition, which has taken some, um, unfortunate turns. And so after some considerable further deliberation, my staff and I have officially elected to remove ourselves from the voyage.” 

S: There are sighs of dismay from all around the table, but this isn’t exactly a surprise to anyone. 

X: (Quino) “Brocheroug is where we will say goodbye. After what we have seen and narrowly survived in the heights of the Un and the depths of the Fold, it seems all but guaranteed that the unexplored extremes of the Delta are going to be even deadlier, and we don’t have any desire to go to our deaths or see you go to yours. So, truly, with fondness for all of you, we would like to respectfully invite the rest of you to please… choose to live as well. Please end your expedition here and now. Please do not continue into the Delta.”

[Somber music.]

S: The table is quiet for a moment. Everybody’s just kinda looking at each other. 

M: Everett and Micky exchange a glance.

X: The Biological Man eats an orchid on his plate, blithely oblivious. 

M: If Merlin feels a way about this, he is almost as hard to read as the Granddaughter. 

S: His bocular face is neutral, inexpressively curious. 

M: (Merlin) “Of course, no one will be forced or required to go if they do not want to,” Merlin says. “I am going to the Delta, in full awareness of the risks. What we could stand to discover is worth whatever the danger.” 

X: Kanneken Hartevelt cuts in, (Kanneken) “Quino has a point, though. If the known Delta is a well-documented nightmare, the unknown further extents of it are pretty much guaranteed to be an absolute deathtrap, probably equal to and maybe even far greater than what we’ve seen in the heights and depths. I think this goes beyond risk. This is likely suicide. The Delta is going to kill you and the Ship will be destroyed. Please don’t go.”

S: Yill, one of the gunners, pushes her plate away. She’s kind of lost her appetite. (Yill) “Not one expedition into the extremes of the Delta has ever returned. Let’s be real with ourselves. You’re all gonna find out why, and it’s probably not gonna be good.”

M: (Merlin) “No expedition has ever returned from the uncharted heights or depths, either. And yet here we are. Returned, alive. From both.” 

X: (Botanist) “Tell that to Shanamarian, Bowie, and Amos,” says the botanist. There’s a little bit of a silence after that. That’s quite a whopper.

S: Voro the sous-chef pipes up, (Voro) “Yeah, and have you forgotten yourself, Merlin? I mean, look at you. You and your man, both.” 

X: (Quino) “Look, look, look. Please.” Quino raises his hands, glancing over his shoulder to see where Mr. Pesto went. He’s– they’ve still got a moment, he’s still gone. “I sincerely don’t want this to become a matter of ill will, just concerned friendship, sincerely. You will all do what you will do, and I cannot, of course, make any of you quit, but please consider leaving with us. You have all become friends, and I, for one, hope to enjoy many more dinner parties with all of you for years to come, and I very deeply do not want to return home to the Highest Light just in time to read all of your obituaries in the paper.”

S: (Kanneken) “Which I’LL have to write, need I remind you,”

X: Kanneken adds. 

S: (Kanneken) “Publishing three is sad enough already. I really don’t want to publish even more.”

M: (Merlin) “Instead, what if you expected to write an article about our expedition’s triumphant success? The Ship is going to the Delta, and from the Delta it will return.”

S: Rawfield has been pretty quiet throughout this meal, but she nods now. 

X: (Rawfield) “Any crew going into the Delta, no matter how few, will have a doctor.” 

M: (Hambing) “And a tearrorologist.” 

S: (Felix) “And a timekeeper.”

X: (Mother Artifice) “AND A MOTHER.”

S: Artifice doesn’t elect to speak for the Granddaughter, who remains quiet, gazing emptily across the table at the slanting vista beyond the balcony, the tilting horizon, the stark silhouette of the last timehouse reflecting in their dark eyes. 

X: Everett and Micky have been conferring quietly, and now Micky chimes in.

M: (Micky) “And you’ll have your lifeboat. The Stagecoach is coming.”

X: Everett nods. (Everett) “Somebody’s gotta keep you all up to date on Unsmoke in the Delta. Whether or not we make it back.” Cleo smiles placatingly, feeding Omelet a little piece of this shitty lettuce under the table. 

S: He doesn’t mind. He eats it. (Cleo) “Okay, um… Clearly, we all care about each other and this expedition a great deal after everything we’ve been through together.” 

X: She glances nervously toward the Granddaughter, then toward Artifice, then away. 

S: (Cleo) “We’ve been through some really scary situations. We lost beloved crewmates. So, no, no one should do anything they’re not comfortable with, of course. I’m sure the Consortium will understand. But it’s not like continuing on to the Delta as originally planned spells certain doom!” 

X: Kanneken shakes their head. (Kanneken) “It does. It almost certainly does. You know it does. You’d be crazy not to see that.”

S: (Cleo) “We don’t know what it spells until we go there. I’m sure anyone who chooses to go is going to be extremely careful, and come back with amazing stories, with knowledge that will benefit the entire cosmos for all time. Yes, it might be dangerous. It probably will be dangerous. But…what is this expedition even about? I know our amazing Ship, our amazing crew, can handle it. I wouldn’t be averse to the idea of going myself, if that were possible.” 

M: Her gaze slips out the window to the vaguely nauseating light of the Delta. From here, it is not possible to see down into the foldmersible jetty directly beneath, but she knows it’s still empty. 

S: (Cleo) “C’mon, let’s just… Let’s not spend our time together arguing.”

X: Mr. Pesto appears again, emerging up the balcony stairs, approaching once again to no doubt offer yet more alarming service.

S: Quino shields his gaze with a hand. 

X: (Quino) “Oh god, here he comes again. We can speak about this later. Please, let’s just have one last dinner together and enjoy it as best we can, I beg you. And then we can all render our decisions in the morning. Please, consider it seriously, and no matter what you choose, believe me when I say – and I really, really do mean this – it has been an honor to travel with you all.”

S: (Cleo) “Oh, Quino.”

M: (Merlin) “With that I do agree. It has indeed been an honor, and I hope, can continue to be.”

X: After dinner and following a somewhat measly dessert, the crew have split off to consider their decisions, some to their overnight staterooms here in the hotel, some back to the Ship. 

S: The Granddaughter is sitting alone on the foldmersible jetty floating on the Mediun just beneath Brocheroug, their black cape pooled around them, a now-cold cup of tea held in their hands.

X: They are gazing into that strange crooked not-sunset in the distance ahead… as Mr. Pesto comes down the rickety stairs from the hotel, wearily lugging a bag of kitchen garbage, 

S: muttering curses under his breath.

M: (Mr. Pesto) “Piece of shit… [indecipherable] …Oh!” 

S: He gives a start when he sees the Granddaughter and immediately snaps into customer service mode.

M: (Mr. Pesto) “Hello, and good evening! Please don’t mind me.”

S: He casually dumps the bag off the jetty. It plummets straight into the Fold and vanishes. 

M: (Mr. Pesto) “May I assist you in any way? Is there anything you require, anything you need?”

S: Dot looks at him. 

M: He looks back.

X: (Dot) “Yes,” the Granddaughter says, slowly, after a moment. “There is.”

[A pensive meloldy.]

S: Mr. Pesto, clasping his hands, leans forward, straining to hear the Granddaughter’s whisper. 

M: (Mr. Pesto) “Oh there is, is there? Perhaps another tea? A biscuit?” 

S: But the Granddaughter shakes their head. 

X: (Dot) “I need to make a decision.”

M: (Mr. Pesto) “Oh yes? About what?”

X: (Dot) “Everything.”

M: (Mr. Pesto) “Everything? Nobody ever wants to listen to an old Trustee anymore, but I’ve always said ‘Valor points the way.’ The Trustee Handbook lends excellent guidance where any deliberation is concerned.”

X: (Dot) “What does the Trustee Handbook say about making the right choice?”

S: Mr. Pesto brightens right up. Oh, he is ready for this. 

M: (Mr. Pesto) “Good god, it says absolutely everything about doing what is right! You must do what is Valorous, what supports your friends and neighbors, what offers your strengths to the betterment of the circumstances for all!” 

X: (Dot) “What if you are… afraid of doing what is Valorous?”

S: Pesto takes a seat on the jetty beside the Granddaughter, squinting into the hazy, distant light of the Delta. 

M: (Mr. Pesto) “Well, then, you already know what you need to do, because doing what is right is almost never what is easy.” 

S: He wipes some sweat from his brow and waves at the crag of Brocheroug, of the hotel, of the whole thing hovering above.

M: (Mr. Pesto) “I’ve run this Delagney for almost forty years, and it’s been hairy as hell. Stressful, and ridiculous, and I’ve wanted to throw myself into the Fold a hundred times over. But I’m damn proud of this place. I’ll have you know I almost turned it down when Delagney himself offered me the position all those years ago. Do you know why?”

X: Dot is pretty sure why, but they let him say it.  

M: (Mr. Pesto) “I was scared. It’s a responsibility. A legacy. A once in a lifetime opportunity. What if I… What if I mismanaged it? Sullied the Delagney name? I could say no and keep pushing papers quietly and let some other sap take the role and regret the choice for the rest of my life. But…” 

X: (Dot) “But the Valorous choice was clear.” 

S: Mr. Pesto smiles at the Granddaughter with what looks like genuine warmth. 

M: (Mr. Pesto) “But the Valorous choice was clear. And yes, of course, I’ve mismanaged the old hotel aplenty. Look at it. What an absolute wreck. Some of which is my fault, plenty of which is not. Some things you just can’t control. I’m proud of it all, anyway.”

X: Mr. Pesto looks at the Granddaughter.

M: The Granddaughter looks at Mr. Pesto. 

S: Both of their eyes, for just a moment, are almost…shiny. What is going on here?

M: (Mr. Pesto) “You don’t stop being scared, but you do the right thing anyway. To quote an old Trust hero of mine who is now almost as irrelevant as me: ‘What great adventure is free from challenge?’” 

S: Dot says nothing. Pesto gets to his feet, dusting himself off. 

M: (Mr. Pesto) “Well, rambling as usual about the Trust, which I know kids like you don’t care at all about. But thank you for bearing with my inane non sequiturs. Anyway. Can I get you anything at all?”  

S: Dot stands as well. 

X: (Dot) “No,” 

S: they say. 

X: (Dot) “Thank you, Mr. Pesto. I now have everything that I require. Your advice has been Valorous.” 

S: Mr. Pesto’s eyes get misty again in earnest. 

M: (Mr. Pesto) “You are most welcome. We do our best.” 

S: Let’s go now to another conversation, panning up along the craggy cliffs of the islet and the weathered facade of the hotel, still within view of that streaked horizon – always – but inside one of the rooms now.

M: Merlin has just been helping the Biological Man brush his teeth and don some Delagney Hotel monogrammed pajamas before getting tucked into bed. 

S: What’s next, a bedtime story? 

X: Merlin watches the Biological Man. The Biological Man, in bed, sighs. 

M: (Merlin) “What is it, Biological Man?”

(Biological Man) “I had a good day. I saw many things.”

(Merlin) “You did. It WAS a big day, and it’s possible that there will be many big days coming soon.”

(Biological Man) “It feels nice to lay down after a big day.”

(Merlin) “Yes! It feels especially profound after a long day of exertions. Rest is important.” 

(Biological Man) “I like rest.” 

S: Merlin putters around the room for a moment, folding a shirt, hanging a waistcoat, thinking about what to say, how to possibly ask: what do you WANT, Biological Man? Do YOU want to come with, to this next dangerous destination? But while he’s thinking about that, he hears the gentle rhythmic breathing of the Biological Man as he falls asleep.

M: Merlin steps out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him, and takes a seat in the adjoining parlor, folding his backwardly-bending bocular legs beneath himself on an off-white chaise.

X: Mother Artifice looks up from a book in his lap, sitting across from him on a couch.

S: The book is “The Glorious Days of the Incredible Trust.”

X: (Mother Artifice) “IS HE SLUMBERING SUCCESSFULLY, MERLIN?”

M: (Merlin) “I believe so. I heard him nod off.”

X:  (Mother Artifice) “SPLENDID. THEN THAT ACCOUNTS FOR HIM, BUT WHAT ABOUT YOURSELF, MERLIN? HOW YOU ARE DOING?”

M: (Merlin) “I am fine, Artifice. I feel fine. Maybe even more alert than I have felt in a long time.”

X: (Mother Artifice) “AND IS THAT IS A SENSATION YOU ARE COMFORTABLE WITH?”

M: (Merlin) “Well, it’s a bit of a double-edged sword, isn’t it? I’m no longer parked behind a podium in a lecture hall or cooped up in a research outpost, I’m gazing at the end of the cosmos with eyes I built, not those I was born with. By contrast, it’s a jolt, but moment-to-moment I’m finding a sense of wonder and awe that I haven’t felt in years. Whomst can say if comfort is really that important in the grand scheme of things?”

X: (Mother Artifice) “WHOMST INDEED. YOUR PERSONAL NEEDS, OF COURSE, FOR YOUR OWN WELL-BEING, ARE IMPORTANT FOR YOU TO DECIDE FOR YOURSELF IN TIME.” 

M: (Merlin) “Here is a puzzle, though. Can the Biological Man make his own choice, other than the choice I made for him? I know that, if asked if he wants to come along with me, he’ll just say ‘Yes, Merlin,’ and that would be the end of it. But I don’t know that he can fully grasp the concepts of risk and reward the way you or I can.”

X: (Mother Artifice) “YET YOU PURPORT AN ABILITY TO MAKE INFORMED CHOICE USING THE BODY YOU CURRENTLY INHABIT, AND THAT HE ONCE DID. SHOULD WE NOT EXPECT THE SAME OF HIM?”

M: (Merlin) “Perhaps. Yet, the alternative is to leave him and my former body somewhere out of my reach and care.”

X: (Mother Artifice) “YES INDEED, MERLIN, THE QUESTION OF CONSENT IS A CHALLENGING ONE HERE. IT IS ALL VERY INTERSECTIONAL.”

S: At that moment the bedroom door opens, interrupting the conversation, and the Biological Man stands there in his PJs. Merlin and Mother Artifice both turn to look.

M: (Biological Man) “I have a response for this inquiry. I can do the things a person can.”

S: He regards them both somberly for a moment, before closing the door again. 

M: (Merlin) “Well. I guess that’s good enough for now.” 

[A shift in scene.]

S: Most people are turning in for the night now – “night” being a relative term, of course. The light never changes here, as nice as that would be. 

X: Having finally calmed Omelet down just enough for him to fall asleep in this weird new place, Cleo slips out of her hotel room wearing her own silken pajamas–

S: not the nasty old Delagney Hotel ones–

X: and goes to look for the hotel’s charming proprietor. 

M: He is at the front desk, rolling silverware, smoking, looking as aggrieved as ever. 

X: He hurriedly stubs out his cigarette at Cleo’s approach. He nearly drops it on the carpet, which is already covered with cigarette burns. 

S: (Cleo) “Mr. Pesto, there you are. Um, could I trouble you for the use of Brocheroug’s interisletary landline? I need to place a call into the Fold.” 

X: Mr. Pesto grimaces joylessly. 

M: (Mr. Pesto) “Oh, of course, miss. Long distance calls incur rather awful operational costs for the hotel, I’m afraid, so you’ll find it is a coin-operated booth.”

S: Cleo continues to smile at him expectantly, and Mr. Pesto’s livid grin gradually widens in response.

M: (Mr. Pesto) “But, of course, for the esteemed Ship, this premium amenity shall be on the house, naturally. Right this way.”

X: Mr. Pesto stiffly leads Cleo across the threadbare carpet of the hotel foyer to this dingy annex over here containing a wood-paneled sort of a kind of a phone booth. 

S: He pats down his waistcoat, locating and then withdrawing a scuffed master token which he resentfully pops into the booth’s omnicurrency coin slot.

M: (Mr. Pesto) “Please keep your call to under ten minutes if at all possible, Miss Guilemoth, and return the token to me when you are done, if you would be so kind.”

X: And he steps away. 

S: The rattly door of the phone booth thuds shut, and Cleo is alone in the musty-smelling enclosure, with its peeling wallpaper and its warped floorboards.

M: A single antique Loxlee-brand lightbulb buzzes overhead, brightening and dimming by turns, its lampshade filled with dust and dead flies.

S: Cleo takes a deep breath and lifts the receiver to her ear. 

X: (Operator) “Interisletary Network, how may I direct your call?” 

S: (Cleo) “Hello, operator! Uh, Guilemoth Hall, please?” 

X: (Operator) “One moment, please.” A delay. A click.

S: Then, finally, a prim male voice, extremely muffled and crackly and distorted by all the incomprehensible miles of interisletary cable that are carrying the sound of his voice.

M: (Voice) “You have reached Guilemoth Hall, the residence of the Guilemoths, on the islet of Guilemoth, seat of the Ebonreef Barony. Majordomo Morel speaking.” 

S: (Cleo) “Hi, Morel! It’s me, Cleo!”

M: (Morel) “Cleo?”

S: (Cleo) “Cleophee! I’m just calling to speak to Father, or Papa, or any of my moms, or whoever’s around, really. I guess technically I need to report to Aunt Nixie, but I’m sure she’s busy.”

M: (Morel) “Ah, Miss Cleophee. I’m afraid the family is currently hosting a rather large soirée. If the matter is not urgent, may I take a message?” 

S: Cleo smiles determinedly. (Cleo) “Morel, the matter IS urgent. The Ship has just reached Brocheroug, which is kind of like, um, like a major milestone? Plus, it’s where I’m supposed to get off and come home, but the weird thing is, there’s no foldmersible waiting for me?” 

M: (Morel) “Very well. Please wait. I will attempt to procure one of your parents or other relations as available.”

S: (Cleo) “Thanks, Morel.” 

X: Cleo dusts off the rickety stool in the corner of the phone booth, and takes a perch. 

M: She hears distant echoes of conversation punctuated by bursts of shrill laughter, the tinkling of an aquaharp, the tap of heeled footsteps on marble. 

S: She can picture it in her mind, the foyer of Guilemoth Hall where the interisletary landline is installed, the parquet flooring inlaid with pure Ebonreef coral fragments, the grand staircase, the huge windows overlooking the fountains and mushroom gardens of the main courtyard. 

X: She can picture the Ebonreef itself, glowing in the dark Fold sky, casting its eternal aurora of soft rainbow colors over the twilight realm of Guilemoth and all the other islets nestled in its embrace.

S: She waits patiently, trying unsuccessfully to smooth down a curl of peeling wallpaper. At least five minutes pass.

M: And then, 

X: (Man) “All right. Phee-Phee? Hello? Did I hear that right, is that you, are you still there?”

S: (Cleo) “Oh, yes! Yes, of course I’m still here! Papa, is that you?”

X: (Papa) “Blegh! By the reef, this lag– Can you hear me?”

S: (Cleo) “Yes, I can hear you!”

X: (Papa) “This lag is awful! Where are you, jellybean? Can I call you back later? We’re in the middle of a–”

S: (Cleo) “Um, well, it would– it would really be best if we could just talk now? I’m at Brocheroug, and, as I’m sure you recall, this is as far as I’m going with the expedition. But, um, it seems like the fold–”

X: (Papa) “Brochewhat?”

S: (Cleo): “It– hang on, it seems like–”  

X: (Papa) “I didn’t catch what you said. Where are you?” 

S: (Cleo) “Brocheroug?” 

X: (Papa) “Oh, what fun!” 

S: (Cleo): “Um, it seems like the foldmersible that was supposed to take me home–” 

X: (Papa) “Ah, Brocheroug! Is it– That’s fun– Is it really as tacky as they say? I hear the owner  is quite a wacky fish. But listen, Phee-Phee, it’s not really a good time to chit-chat. Sylvan’s gone invisible again and he keeps pushing Ainsley into the pool. I really gotta call you back.”

M: Cleo massages her temple. If she was at home right now, she would know exactly how to soothe and flatter Sylvan during one of his invisible fits,

S: and how to keep Ainsley from retaliating, but right now she doesn’t have time to coach her Papa over the phone. (Cleo) “Wow! Yes, yes, what a rascal. But, um, did you hear what I said about the foldmersible, Papa?”

X: (Papa) “What? What about a foldmersible?” 

M: There is a long pause.

S: (Cleo) “…The foldmersible that was prearranged to be waiting here to take me home? To Ebonreef?” 

X: (Papa) “Haha, oh, stop it, you! You’re hilarious. Tell her I’ll be right there.”

M: He seems to be shouting to someone in another room.

X: (Papa) “Oh, Phee-Phee. Well, how am I supposed to know about that, jellybean? You know that planning and logistics and all that sort of thing are much more your mother’s wheelhouse, so she’s probably the one–”

S: (Cleo) “Haha, hang on, hang on, um. Okay, is– Is the foldmersible just, like, late? Or…did you forget to send it?” 

X: (Papa) “Phee-Phee, I didn’t forget anything. I know you must be cranky – listen – from being cooped up in that old piece of rock for weeks on end, but please don’t take it out on me.”

S: (Cleo) “Of course, of course, Papa. I’m not saying it’s your fault, I’m just trying to find out what the plan is for getting me home. And I’m not cranky, actually! This Ship is amazing–”

X: (Papa) “Good, good, ‘cause it’s not my fault! I can’t do everything in this family, you know.”

S: (Cleo): “Uh… So should I talk to Mother, then? Or Mum, or Mama, or Mimi, or Father? Or whoever made the travel arrangements–?” 

M: (Unidentified speaker) “Florian, there you are! What in the reef are you doing in here? You’re missing all the fun!”

X: (Papa): “Yes, yes, I’ll be right there, it’s just little Phee-Phee feeling a little homesick. Aren’t you, jellybean, little bit homesick? Look, even if we sent a ship right this very minute, it would still take quite some time to get there. Tell you what – why don’t you just order up a little bit of room service, take a little nap, and uh, I’m sure it’ll all work itself out. Find someone pretty to pass the time with. That shouldn’t be too hard for you, will it? And listen, really, would staying a little bit longer be the worst thing? Can you hear me?”

S: (Cleo) “Yes. Yeah.”

X: (Papa) “Yes, good! Well, think of it like a vacation. Brocheroug’s supposed to be nice. And what I wouldn’t give for a vacation, Phee-Phee. You have no idea what Lorelai’s been putting me through…”

[Birds. Wind. A change of scene and time.]

M: In the light of the next morning, 

S: which admittedly is not very different from the light of the previous night, 

M: Quino and the others who have decided to quit are making their negotiations with the captain of the lone supply ship,

X: that one other functioning vessel parked in the dock. 

S: Passage to the next-nearest populated islet is gonna take a while. And from there, passage back to Midst will take longer still – much, much longer than their entire journey thus far. But what other options do they have? These are the problems you must contend with when you decide to abandon the fastest vessel known to humankind. 

X: Strained, bittersweet farewells are taking place at the dock just outside the dark shard of the Ship.

S: Complicated feelings on all sides. 

M: Wishes of: farewell, best of luck, we sincerely hope you don’t die, that you make it back, and we look forward to celebrating with you, hopefully soon!

S: But please don’t go!

M: That’s the vibe. 

X: The Ship is looming almost somehow just a little bit more ominously than usual, its pre-launch warmup nearly complete,

S: the bocular wrangling being Shug Ruggles’ final contribution before departing, having gravely announced his own intention to quit. 

M: The naturalist and botanist have finished offloading organic samples, plants, bacteria cultures, photo plates, and other scientific specimens from the journey. Can’t have those going down with the Ship if it, y’know, never returns.

X: Everett, here on the dock outside the Ship, is just now finishing up the final official headcount from those yet-unannounced in their decision. (Everett) “Okay, well that just leaves… Yill, Dune? What’s the word?” 

S: The gunners shake their heads, emotional but firm. 

X: (Everett) “Very well. Yared?”

M: She looks to the botanist, who shakes her head regretfully as well. (Yared) “I can’t take it anymore. Sorry.” 

X: (Everett) “Understood. Your choice is your choice. What about you, Tzila?”

M: The naturalist nods. 

S: (Tzila) “No way I can sit this out.” 

X: (Everett) “Attagirl. Midst represent.” 

M: Everett turns slowly to the last person not yet accounted for. 

X: (Everett) “And, uh… Last but not least. How about you?” 

S: The Granddaughter looks back at Everett, not wavering, as apparently unflappable as ever.

X: (Dot) “Yes, I am remaining aboard.”

S: Everett nods. 

X: (Everett) “Okay.” 

S: Micky squeezes her hand. 

X: (Everett) “All right. That’s…seven, eight, nine of us in total. Plus, uh, Biological Man. And I don’t know, maybe we should count the Foldlight as part of this crew now? I don’t fuckin’ know. Let’s do this thing. You ready?” 

M: (Hambing) “All aboard!”

X: yells Hambing, always down for adventure, sproinging towards the ramp of the Ship.

S: (Cleo) “Wait!”

X: comes a voice. 

M: They turn to see Cleophee trotting across the yard from the hotel with her little overnight bag, Omelet bounding after her like a long yellow noodle. 

X: Cleo breathlessly comes to a halt on the dock before the others. She is not smiling, for once. She looks strangely serious.

S: (Cleo) “I’m staying with the expedition.” 

X: Everett raises an eyebrow. (Everett) “Since when? What about your foldmersible?” 

S: (Cleo) “It’s… it’s running late, but it doesn’t matter anyway! I’m not going home yet.”

M: (Merlin) “Are you sure, Cleophee? It will be dangerous. Isn’t your family expecting you home?” 

S: (Cleo) “Yeah, that, that was the original plan. But last night I spoke with Aunt– I mean, the Baron– and we came to the decision that this expedition is too important to abandon. As representative of my barony, I must see it through to the end. I know there are risks, but my family supports me, and they support this mission. Ebonreef is with you,”

M: Cleophee lies, avoiding Dot’s eyes.

X: (Quino) “Well, it’s settled then. Every last one of you is coming to the Highest Light for dinner at my house when you return,”

S: Quino calls, blinking back some tears. 

X: (Quino) “Journey’s mercies to you all.”

M: (Mr. Pesto) “I couldn’t agree more! Hear, hear!” calls Mr. Pesto, arriving on the dock for one last greeting, one last farewell, and at his obnoxious insistence, Kanneken Hartevelt takes one last photo of all assembled… plus Mr. Pesto. 

S: You just KNOW this is going to be a new addition to the museum, even though it has nothing to do with the Trust.

X: And with a few more lingering hugs, existential well-wishes, and more than a couple of possibly–

M: but hopefully not–

X: last words, the Ship takes on its extremely limited remaining crew, and launches downcurrent, toward the silhouette of the final timehouse. 

S: The end of time.

M: The beginning of the Delta.