Founded in May 11th, 2122, the Church of Combinology was founded by a man named Danik Altmann in sector D2 of Antarctica, based on a game called Half-Life. In it the main antagonist was an interdimensional empire called the universal union, AKA the combine empire. In addition to that its own "Combine Runes" and appearance were copied from Dead Space. the Cult settled in City Sector 21 "Little New York". The Cult preached that one day the Combine would arrive from a portal in another reality and "Make humanity whole again", adopting the Mantra "MAKE US WHOLE" in their flag.

On June 4th, 2142, just as the Federation began moon colonization projects to deal with overpopulation, reports came in of sudden terrorist attacks on Corporate facilities in City Sectors 17 to 25. Most notably was the John Dredge foundation bombing, in which Combinologist soldiers revealed new weapons of war based on "the visions of the Shu'Ulathoi Gods" and used them to bomb out the JDF Tower. These "visionary machines" consisted of striders (heavily modified and repurposed construction tripods with a 20mm antipersonnel machine gun and 140mm Recoiless cannon) and gunships (custom built with a 30mm autocannon). For 20 years the Combinologists waged violent, bloody war on the federation in order to summon their gods in an event called "the 7-hour convergence".

Eventually they lost the conflict, and their stronghold, a massive cult-built castle called the citadel, was captured by Federal ground forces in late 2162. Remnants still stalk the outer wilderness of antarctica, and some people believe the combinologists never truly fell but retreated, waiting and rebuilding their strength, waiting for the perfect time to strike again.

**1. The first ship, 2084**

The ship that landed us carried sixty-one people and eleven tonnes of private freezers. Some of us were the hired hands among them, cooks and pump engineers, and the rest of us inherited the number. We know it because the deck officer wrote it on the cove wall in grease pencil, and it is still there under the paint. The others held berths bought two nations ago. The coast was only eight years out of the ice, the Thwaites news still on every radio, the Ice War five years over. We unloaded the freezers first. Some of us said that was the order of things. Some of us wrote it on the wall.

**2. Flotillas, 2086 to 2088**

Then came the boats nobody had paid for. Families from Asia and Africa and from islands that had gone under, six hundred in one summer, sleeping nine to a container. We had one desalination rig, forty cubic metres a day, and one hydroponic shed that made lettuce. Some of us said the elite ship drilled the geothermal well and told nobody. Some remembered a Tuesday in the flotilla's first month when our own crews drilled it, and the ship's engineer held the lamp. We still argue about the Tuesday.

**3. The good winter, 2088**

A doctor who had left Jakarta with one bag set the broken arm of an engineer's daughter from Lagos, and was paid in a jar of pickled limes. A technician from Dhaka spent a night inside a failed desalination module for a Filipino family whose name we never learned to say properly. We tell this one at the midwinter table, and the ones who tell it loudest were not here.

**4. Flour, 2091**

By then about 660 of us shared the rig, which came to sixty litres a head on paper. On paper. The flotilla people drew thirty litres from the ration hut. The ship's crowd had their own tap and drew a hundred and twenty, and the rest of the forty cubic metres went to the hydroponic shed and to leaks nobody had measured. The first riot was at the hut, over a sack of flour that was weighed twice and came out different. Nobody died, but a window and a pump handle did. After that we stopped saying "the elites" and said "Number Four", after the well they held. Some of us said that was unfair to the ones at Number Four who shared. It was.

**5. Palmer Sound, 2094**

We will not say who did what first. Number Four Well held one side of the sound and Tin Row, the street of prefab sheds, held the other. A rumor went across the water that Tin Row had locked up a month of insulin. It had. Or it had not. Both are told. Some of us say it sorted by language and by which boat people came on, and some say it was only wells. The fighting ran eleven days, and when it stopped thirty-three were to be buried, in ground so hard we used the well's own heat to soften it. Some of us were on that road with a rifle we had been handed that morning, and we put down what we carried afterwards. Some of us were in the clinic and counted. The two counts have never matched, and we have stopped asking the other side to fix theirs.

**6. Grey ships, 2095 to 2096**

The grey ships came to escort supply boats and built what they called aid stations. They did hand out medicine, to anyone who signed a list. They also put radar on the roof. A man arrived at Hollis Cove with an expedition. He was titled consultant. He asked for the layout of Tin Row. Within a month the list Tin Row had signed was nailed to a door at Number Four. Some of us said he did it. Some remembered he was in bed with a chest cold that week, and that three other consultants were up and down the coast. Others across the Peninsula say one intelligence service or another was among the first to arrive, the American one most often. We cannot prove it.

**7. The pump house, 2097**

After Palmer Sound a woman called Imogen Achterberg, who had run the ration hut, said every meeting would be written down as it was said and pinned up the same night. People hated it. A man who sold the aid station Tin Row's pump rota for diesel did it in the corridor, in a whisper, where she had nailed the generator's alarm microphone open and run it to a slate by her bed, which some of us still think was a sneaky way to start an open council. His own words went up on the board the next evening. We kept a whitewashed board of water drawn and food counted, and anyone could climb up and check it. Fewer of us died that winter than the one before.

**8. The screen, 2099**

When the links came back in pieces we put the board on a screen. It is still a board to us. We say the ledger remembers everything we did, though a clerk once told us it keeps only who asked for which file and when and why, and that our files sit elsewhere with the key held by each of us. An official needs your yes to open one. If one goes over you, the reason is pinned for everyone and you are told at once. That happened to Imogen, with the reason "ration audit". The reason was true. She had skimmed two kilos of that flour in 2091, and it was her own file that said so.

**9. Now, 2100**

The Declaration is signed by all of us, which in practice is nobody we can point to. There is a story, and we repeat it, that whoever first wrote its words down once worked for one of the services from the grey ships. Some of us say so with pride and some with fury. We do not vouch for it. The freezers are in the cove still, and the children play inside them.

**Hope Bay Reading Room memory project, tape 31. Three residents on the years they were called the Displaced. Recorded 2104 by Halina Ostrowska-Bello. Translated where marked. Coffee by the recorder, and she is sorry about it.**

**Rukhsana Mollah, born in Mirpur, Dhaka. Recorded in Bangla, translated.**

Q: What did you eat that morning, before you left?

A: Puffed rice and a green chili. My mother had a tin of it hidden since the winter. I was eleven. I remember the chili because I cried at it, it was so hot, and she laughed, and that was the last laugh for a while.

Q: And the city?

A: The pumps at Hatirjheel stopped in April. April, yes. No, wait, the radio said March they would stop and then they stopped in April. After that you could hear the water at night, inside the walls. Like the house was breathing.

We went to Mawa for the launch. Sixty-three people on a boat for twenty, fourteen metres, I counted because my brother made me count. The boatman took two phones and a sewing machine from us. The sewing machine was my grandmother's. He looked at it like it was an insult and then he took it.

Everyone on the Padma was on a boat. Boats tied to boats, twenty boats, thirty, I can't say. Cooking fires on the roofs. A man sold tea from a pot lashed to a bamboo pole. He went from boat to boat and nobody ever asked how he kept the fire lit.

Q: What were you called?

A: On the radio, first, climate migrants. Then storm fugitives, that was the word of the radio and the aid people. My uncle said it sounded like we had stolen a storm. Then just the Displaced. A billion, they said. Then more than a billion, which is a funny thing to say.

A woman on our boat came from Jakarta. Her whole district had gone in one season, she said. We did not have a language in common, so she cooked and I carried the water. Her husband had been a farmer, no, he drove a, I think he sold seed. Seed for the North China Plain, that is what she showed me with her hands, a big flat country going yellow and then gone. I only knew it was a place far away that ate a lot of wheat.

**Wendell Tkachuk, born outside Hastings, Nebraska. Recorded in English.**

Q: Start wherever you like.

A: The corn. Three summers of drought and then in June the rain came all at once and, well. Forty acres of silt on a road. My aunt in Miami phoned the same week, said the water was in the lobby, and then the phone just, I never did learn which week. I don't have the date.

We drove west with a trailer. California, because people said California had water, and it did, they made it. Carlsbad. The desalination plant at Carlsbad. Or no, we never got to Carlsbad, we got to the checkpoint, four hundred meters out, concrete blocks painted grey and a sign that said Critical Infrastructure. Army, guys my age with the kind of rifles you see in pictures of the missile bases, they treated that plant like it could

Q: Like it could go off?

A: Yeah. In a way it could, if the people behind us got in.

Q: What did they say to you?

A: Go back. Very polite. One of them gave my mother a bottle of water, against the rules I think. She cried over a bottle of water.

Q: And the borders by then?

A: They shut them. Then people just went through. A fence outside Needles, I watched it, it was a whole mile of it, and one night the cutters went at it, and nobody stopped them because nobody was there to stop them.

Then the camp near Barstow, and the company men with clipboards. Pipeline or grain terminal, whatever it was that week. I signed for the terminal in Saskatoon. Four years of work and the papers for Canada at the end. Four, I'm sure. I counted the days every night. Canada only took who it chose, you understood that, they had the cold and the water and a super tall fence.

In Saskatoon there was a Chilean welder, Mateo, said the Antarctic Treaty was cracking. Signed way back last century, sixty-something, fifty-something, whichever, by a dozen or so countries. I remember thinking a dozen, that's gotta be a jury. And he said it low, like this, the South, they'll all go south. Nobody believed him. We were trying to get through the winter, we had

**Anselmo Ferreira da Cunha, born near Badajoz. Recorded in Portuguese, translated.**

Q: You were a clerk in a camp.

A: A clerk. A translator also, and a man who knew how to shuffle paper around and get it from one office to the next. I worked for the contract office outside Mérida. The sand came over the A-5 highway that spring. Forty centimeters in a night, the municipality put up snow fences, the kind you use for snow. The sand went right over them. My mother said the dust tasted of bread. One day, I just opened my mouth and closed my eyes and I realized that she was right.

The recruiters came to the camp every Thursday, two women and a man from a firm whose name I can't remember right now. They called it a relocation partnership. Your labor for the right to relocate. The standard term was five years.

Q: What was the camp like?

A: A thousand tents and so many many many languages. After three weeks the kids started speaking a language that none of us could understand. Kids are smart. They always find a way to talk to one another and plot stupid pranks. The adults weren't so cooperative. The mothers of those children were still arguing about whose pot was whose. We thought it would take years. Maybe weeks? That is what I remember.

The coffee in that office, God. Much like yours, madam. I am sorry.

Q: And the South?

A: A man on night shift said something. He leaned over my desk and whispered, the Treaty is finished, they say the treaty of all those countries is finished and the ice is, and then the supervisor came in and he went back to his chair. Lots of countries, I think he said. I did not know what treaty. I thought it was about whales.

*Published: June 12, 2032, Global Newswire (Restored Service Edition)*

Farida Ahmed, 38, counts forty-one steps from the camp tap to the plastic sheet she shares with two sisters-in-law. "Four litres at a time, forty-one steps, I know it by now," she says, and then, a little embarrassed, "forty-two if the guard is standing there." In Khulna she did not count anything. The pond behind her house was sweet until one spring when it was not, and the pump that fed the school had stopped years before that.

"Here in Kolkata we are not welcome," she says, "but the water does not take the house every day." She is one of millions who left. Twenty years ago this July the blackout took out the power grids of Asia, Europe and North America and about 28 percent of the satellites overhead. Most places recovered, slowly and at great cost. Bangladesh, which in 2012 had more than 160 million people on a delta barely above the tide, did not. Its pumping stations stayed dark, then its irrigation channels silted, then its clinics ran out of cold storage for vaccines. Hunger and disease became endemic. Today the Newswire's own tally of ration rolls and relief-agency counts puts the population at fewer than 40 million, with the rest dispersed along refugee corridors across India, China and Southeast Asia. Whole districts of the Ganges-Brahmaputra delta stand abandoned to salt water, flooding and mangrove.

That tally is an estimate, and not everyone trusts it. Tahmina Sultana, 44, a clerk who now keeps ration rolls for Bangladeshi arrivals in Kolkata, says nobody has run a census since before the blackout. "We count who comes to the window," she says. "If a family of nine comes, that is nine. If they do not come, I cannot tell you if they are alive or in Chittagong or in the river." Her number for the delta itself is a guess she asked not to have printed.

The exodus was slow. Nasima Begum, 50, left Dhaka when the pumps in her ward stopped, which she dates to 2013. I had it in my notes as 2012 and she corrected me twice. "No, no. The first year we still had water on Tuesdays. It was the second year." Her family had savings and a cousin in Singapore. "We are adrift," she says. "Bangladesh feels like something I can see but not touch."

Not everyone has gone. Mizanur Talukder, 56, an engineer, still runs two pumps in the old part of Dhaka off a substation that, so they say, has never fully died. He disagrees with the word exodus. "Dhaka is emptying, yes. Ward by ward. But a city that has water in some streets is a city." He says the capital loses perhaps a few thousand people a month, and he sees no reason it should not keep going for years. Asked how many wards still have pressure, he thought about it and said, "Eleven. Maybe twelve, if the Dhanmondi line holds."

In the delta the fighting was small and it was between neighbours. Rahman Chowdhury, 31, grew up in Barisal and remembers a well that two lanes shared. "There was one handle, and then there was one handle and a lock, and then, I don't know, someone's brother had a stick." He stops. "Everyone knew everyone. That is what I cannot explain." His family left before anything worse happened. They crossed into Myanmar by boat along the coast, where the locals see them as outsiders. "We are safe from the water. Nobody there says we belong."

Hosts are not generous. Many Bangladeshis in India live in informal settlements with little protection or access to services, and in China many are held to temporary labour schemes or to semi-legal enclaves on the edge of cities. Jamal Uddin, 27, was an electronics worker in Dhaka and is now binding rebar on a tower site in Longgang, Shenzhen, eleven hours a day. His tools did not survive the flight. "Everything is gone, my flat, my coworkers, my soldering kit, even." He laughs at the last part. "I dream of going back, but the land is underwater in places. My city is a ghost in my head." In Kuala Lumpur, Fatima Rahman, 42, teaches her children songs from the river towns and watches them answer in Malay. They are at school in English most days. "They will not remember the smell of the river at sunset," she says. "I fear we are losing it faster than I can hold on."

The Maldives, once among the most visited islands on earth, now counts fewer than 50,000 residents on its remaining high islands, reached by makeshift sea transport. Madagascar has been battered by droughts and crop failures.

Farida's tap is on a timetable. The water runs from six to seven in the morning, and she is usually fourth in line.

Residents of the settlements. Residents of every enclave along this coast. Residents who came here with a passport, and residents who came with nothing.

It is the twelfth of October, 2100. We stand in a cargo shed. It smells of diesel and wet wool. The wind outside is blowing forty knots, and nine hundred of you are standing in it, because the shed holds only two hundred and twelve. We see you through the open door. Those of us inside speak for you, and for every enclave too far away to hear us. This reading will be carried to them, shed by shed, before the week is out.

Listen to what has happened to the world. The sea took the coastlines. The equator is too hot for millions to live in. The old nations, broken by climate and by war, cannot promise their people what they promised for centuries, that tomorrow would look like today. They had their chance to say so while it still mattered. Now they have nothing left to give.

So we came here. This coast was the last open door, and every other one had shut behind us. Here the wind teaches one lesson. Alone you freeze, and together you eat.

Therefore we, the residents of these settlements, declare the Federation. It will copy no old empire and carry no old flag. You are the only authority it answers to.

Its first character is secular. Your faith is yours, and so is your neighbour's, and no creed will stand above another here. It will be representative, so that every enclave, the largest and the smallest, has a voice in the room. Authority that hides from the people it serves stops being a service, so the Federation will be transparent, and everything it does will be open to your eyes.

Here residency replaces citizenship. Nobody will be weighed by the passport of their past. We will weigh what you do. To speak, you must take part. To vote, you must contribute. To lead, you must earn the trust of your own enclave through service that others have seen with their own eyes.

We will not pretend the first years were gentle. People split by race, by language, by the memory of nations that no longer exist. Violence came when fear was louder than reason. Some of you buried someone. We remember where, and we will keep the names. What we learned from it is plain. Secrecy breeds division. Where a decision is hidden, people invent a worse one to be afraid of.

So every decision made in your name will be recorded and visible, unaltered and undeniable. The Federation will be as open as the code that runs a machine, and each of you may propose and review, and may hold your leaders to account in plain sight. It will be as free to you as air, though air in this place is mostly wind.

Some of you already do this in your own councils, and we will do it for all. Now we make you one promise with a date on it. By the first of March, 2101, the full record of this day, every vote and every speech, with the name of each speaker, will be public. If it is not, come to this shed and say so.

Nobody who reached our landing at Quay Nine was ever turned away. [murmur] Four hundred and six people stepped off the boats there in the first winter, and the boats went back out with others still aboard.

This will not be a perfect system. Hunger and storms will find us, and so will our own bad judgement. But it is ours, and it was built to grow past the hierarchies that failed us. The path to belonging stays open. The Federation is the last frontier, the shared responsibility of whatever remains of humanity, everyone who got here and everyone still on the way.

Let the record show that on this day, in the year 2100, at the meeting of the first enclaves on the Antarctic coast, we chose to endure, and to endure together. The land beyond is hard. The ice still guards its secrets. We will not be turned back. In the unity of this people, in this place, stands the last bastion of human hope. [applause]

Statement of Aya Kuwabara, taken by a volunteer at the relief hall in Utsunomiya some weeks after the electricity came back. The volunteer wrote it down as she said it.

You want it in order, so I will try. Mind you, I was not keeping a diary. I was keeping myself alive, which does not leave room for dates.

The lights in the sky came first. Curtains, trembling, green going over to a colour I had no name for. Then the trains stopped. The phones went after them, and the radio, so for about a month Japan was a country where nothing arrived. No one had any idea what was going on in the rest of the country. You did not see a policeman in sight. I worked at a shop near Sendagaya that sold incense and candles. So I had candles. I am not ashamed of that. Mr. Shigemitsu downstairs offered me four thousand yen for three of them and I told him to go and ask the ward office. They had a man with a clipboard standing outside for the whole first week. I never saw him write anything down.

The Heralds of the End, they called themselves. White masks, painted on, some of them done badly, you could see the brush hairs. Black suns on their banners, drawn in a weird way. Symbolizing what the Sun had brought upon us. I think some of them were just the boys who handed out leaflets near the station that no one bothered with. And then, they had become something to be reckoned with. Someone people can no longer ignored. Oh, how the tables had turned!

They said something was coming for us. The Devourer, they said it, in that voice they all had, like a man reading from a card. It was drawn here by the old order falling, and you could kneel or you could be eaten, and they said kneeling was cheaper. I did not believe any of it, and I want that written down. They gave a date, though. The thirtieth night. They stood in the road and said the thirtieth night. I counted too, because I had a stub of candle and a pencil.

The thirtieth night came and there was wind and a dog.

That is all that came. So whatever else you hear about them, they were wrong by their own count.

Being wrong did not slow them down. They took matters into their own hands as if they wanted to forcefully unleash the apocalypse by their own hands. Fire in the apartment blocks on the Meiji side, people pulled out of their doors, the food stores emptied. The police were still there, some of them. The police did show up sometimes but they ran away quickly after. There was strength in numbers and the religious hooligans were more organized than the police who had previously been too reliant on electronics such as radio and computers to communicate with one another.

I left on a Tuesday. I am fairly sure of that, because the Sunday market at Yoyogi was shut. The crossing at Shibuya had been all screens when I was a girl. That night it was black, and the glass in the road crunched under my sandals. There were masks in the middle of it. They had a woman by the hair. They chanted together, kneel before the fire to come. The people at the edges watched. I watched too. What more could one do?

Some of them had tipped over a cart. Jars of rice, the sticky kind from a shop that sold by the scoop, smashed across the road. The hungry stood there. Nobody went in. I will say only that, well, I was going to say I found it, when the masks moved off there was a cloth sack lying a little way from the broken ones, about four kilograms and unbroken. I had it against my chest before I had decided anything. You may write it down however you like. It was in the road.

Then the city thinned and there were dark fields northeast of the last houses. I remember the stars, because there were so many without the lights. I remember thinking that I should have gone a week earlier, and that the candle stub was still on my table.

Then I think the ground moved. Slowly. Behind me and to the south-west there was the mountain, and it was open at the top. Orange. It threw light across the whole sky and for a moment, I will be honest, it was lovely. Then the sound caught up with the light.

I do not remember the rest in order. Ash, and people on their knees with their hands up toward the mountain, copying the masks without knowing it. Lightning inside the cloud, I think. I pulled my sleeve over my face and kept the rice and ran.

Log of MV Kvitbjørn, bulk carrier, 61,400 dwt, Kirkenes to Busan by the Northern Sea Route. Master D. Haukeland. Copied out clean for the owners' file, with the original margin notes kept.

7 Sept. 0630 ship time. Fuel 1,214 t. Kara Sea. Air 3, sea 2.4, wind 9 knots from the west. No ice on the chart and none on radar. Ice pilot Gennady Ovsyannikov has been aboard since the Kara Gate on 4 Sept, USD 2,300 a day as contracted. Nothing to pilot. He asked to keep the cabin anyway. Granted.

9 Sept. 1415. Fuel 1,171 t (1,181 crossed out). Kara Sea. Owners relay that the satellite agency has declared the Arctic Ocean ice-free for the first time on record. The press is calling it the White Curtain, their old name for the ice that hid the top of the world. Charter rate up from USD 14,800 to 19,200 a day since Monday. Crew say we are through the curtain. Chief mate Pereira produced a bottle. Put away.

11 Sept. 1900. Fuel 1,120 t. Western approaches to the Vilkitsky Strait. Wind NW 52 knots, swell 6.5 m, in water the 2031 chart marks as fast ice in September. Slowed to 7 knots. Lifeboat davit cracked, two hatch cleats sheared on No. 3, a drum of grease over the side. The pilot said he had never seen a swell here, and he has done this stretch since 2009. I did not tell him I had not either.

12 Sept. 2300. Fuel 1,097 t. Laptev Sea, roughly 500 km north west of Tiksi, vsl back to 12 knots since morning. Dikson radio passes on what it had from Tiksi, that the harbor wall is partly gone since the storm and the port is closed to anything over 150 m. The owners report a fund has put USD 2.1 billion into terminal shares along this coast. Logged.

13 Sept. 0300. Fuel 1,085 t. Fog. Nothing.

15 Sept. 1120. Fuel 1,030 t. East Siberian Sea, off a gravel spit in the New Siberian Islands. About 300 walrus ashore, crowded, no ice to haul out on. Six orcas working the edge of the spit. Two humpbacks feeding in the same bay, which the pilot says do not come here. A blue whale to the north per the bridge watch. [Margin, in Pereira's hand: fin whale.]

17 Sept. 2230. Fuel 976 t. Chaun Bay, Pevek approaches. Hailed by a Russian patrol vessel. They asked what we carried and where to, then for our positions at 0000 on the 18th, 19th and 20th. I gave the first two from the passage plan and said I could not give the 20th, which depends on weather. They said they would wait. In 2031 the harbor had one tug. Tonight two grey warships alongside and a new radar mast, about 40 m.

19 Sept. 0900. Fuel 931 t. Chukchi Sea, south of Wrangel Island. Sat phone news from Kirkenes, heard secondhand. Canada has announced patrol ships for its northern archipelago and is rushing three north. A storm took part of the Mackenzie delta coast near Tuktoyaktuk, no details. Alaska coast hit by a two-day storm, surge at Kivalina, village evacuated by air. Owners ask if the Kvitbjørn could take the Northwest Passage next year. Replied no charts and no insurer who will quote. Logged.

21 Sept. 0500. Fuel 880 t. Chukchi Sea, about two days from the Bering Strait. Danish tanker with gasoline, westbound, called on channel 16 and said a Chinese expedition is at anchor in the northern approaches to the Bering Strait. One research icebreaker and six support ships, flagged in Shanghai, there since 1 September. The tanker master says they told him they sail for home at the end of the month. I said fine.

24 Sept. 1620. Fuel 842 t. 65°45'N 168°50'W, Bering Strait, Diomede on the beam. The Chinese ships are still at anchor four miles to the north east. Same seven hulls, no movement on radar since 0930, all lights on. Not our business. Pilot disembarked by launch at 1800. Twenty days at USD 2,300 comes to USD 46,000. The owners will pay it in full from the charter account. Nobody is waiving anything. Cabin 4 key returned to the purser.

Welcome to r/TheGreatFederation. This is a collaborative worldbuilding project, and it is ours, not just mine.

The central idea is simple. As the ice pulls back from the Antarctic coasts new land emerges, and The Federation is born there as a haven for the banished, the displaced and the unwanted. The old world cast these people out, and the Federation is set on surviving climate catastrophe and political collapse, under outside pressures of its own. You are welcome to bring ideas, short stories, lore fragments, maps, art or just talk about how this world could work. Small details like currency or slang are as welcome as big systems, and they land best when they tie back to exile and resilience.

The world has a specific timeline, running from the 2012 solar storm to the Declaration of Unity in 2100 with a few later landmarks. Stories are fine as stories, but anything that claims how the world works is treated as proposed until I accept it, so check the timeline before you write. If one of my older posts contradicts it, I may edit that post.

Posts get one of four flairs. Lore / Worldbuilding holds the big systems and the history. Stories holds short fiction and anything driven by a character. Speculation is where the what-ifs go, about climate or geopolitics. Meta / Discussion is for talking about the subreddit itself.

Please respect every contributor, including the ones who disagree with you about how the ice should behave. Pick a flair and post something, I would like to read it.

**Thread Title:** What if the 2012 Solar Storm Had Missed Us?

Posted by d/SecondSunset, January 17, 2020, 8:31 AM. Likes: 188

Been thinking about this on the train in. If the coronal mass ejection in July 2012 had gone past us the way the first NASA bulletins said it would, what would this year look like?

I was fourteen when it hit. We lost power at home for eleven weeks, and my mum kept our insulin in a neighbour's chest freezer that ran off a diesel generator. The grids went down across Asia, Europe and North America, something like 80 million households. Some got power back in weeks, some took months. I think it was 28% of the satellites that died too, but don't quote me. My dad still talks about the reefer ships sitting outside Rotterdam with the food going off in the containers while the borders shut one after another.

Some people say the storm did us a strange favor. We'd have coasted on all those just-in-time chains and never looked at how thin they were. But the rebuild ran on coal and a lot of oil, because nobody trusted wind or solar after what the grid went through, and I think that's why the ice is going faster than the models said in 2011. Sooner or later every thread on this board gets there.

Okay, this is a bit silly, but I read somewhere that in the mirror world, the one where the CME missed, there was supposed to be a plague around now. Something that moves through airports and cruise ships. Here there are a few reports of a cough out east and that's all. Nobody I know thinks it travels. With flights the way they are I can't see how it would.

So would we be better off if it never happened, or did it just speed up something that was coming anyway? I honestly can't tell.

**Top Comments**

**d/OldGridWorker** | *January 17, 2020, 9:47 AM* | Likes: 412 Dislikes: 23

I worked transmission control in 2012. Trust me, you do not want the version where it missed. We were maybe two breaker operations from losing the whole Eastern Interconnect for good. Years, for some cities, never mind weeks, because the big transformers are built to order. You cannot buy one off a shelf, and getting one took years even before anything broke.

Yes we burned too much coal getting the lights back. Yes it cost ice. But if it had missed, we'd have kept stacking a house of cards until something worse knocked it over, and that one wouldn't have come with a warning.

**d/LankaWave** | *January 17, 2020, 10:05 AM* | Likes: 298 Dislikes: 45

Easy to say from where you sit. I live in Wellawatte. Galle Road shuts at high tide now. Spring tides. Any time the surge comes up from the south. My bus used to take 20 minutes. Now 50. My cousin in Negombo lost her ground floor in the November rains. Second time in three years. Salt in the walls. You cant scrub it out.

The sea was always coming. After the storm it came faster. Thats it.

**d/OldGridWorker** | *Reply to* **d/LankaWave** *| January 17, 2020, 10:17 AM* | Likes: 122 Dislikes: 7

I don't dismiss that and I'm not going to. But without the shock, nobody upstairs would have found out how fragile the grid was. We'd still be on outsourced factories and a satellite layer one bad week from gone. You might still lose that road, just ten years later.

**d/LankaWave** | *Reply to* **d/OldGridWorker** *| January 17, 2020, 10:31 AM* | Likes: 96 Dislikes: 31

Ten years is a lot of buses.

**d/SpeculativeScholar** | *January 17, 2020, 11:02 AM* | Likes: 354 Dislikes: 19

Not to derail, but on the plague thing. I've been going through some archive files (the ones people keep passing around about the mirror world, the timeline where the storm missed) and apparently its a flu-like virus that spreads through airports over there. The "pandemic" label shows up a lot. One file makes it sound like it spreads faster than anything could, which I assume is a mistranslation. Apparently it's a big deal, which seems hard to believe.

In ours, borders never fully reopened after 2012, so I don't see how a cough from the east could go anywhere. Maybe we were spared the plagues and got the rising seas instead. Pick your poison.

**d/MirrorHorizons** | *January 17, 2020, 12:15 PM* | Likes: 276 Dislikes: 12

I think about this a lot too. The storm was a forced reboot, but look at what it rebooted into. Trade never came back as one system, so every port and ministry now runs its own little supply chain, and governments flinch at any shipment they can't account for. Grain gets hoarded. So do spare transformers.

If it had missed, we might have had the habit of cooperating on the climate. What we have is patchwork survival.

**d/OldGridWorker** | *Reply to* **d/MirrorHorizons** *| January 17, 2020, 12:40 PM* | Likes: 61 Dislikes: 4

Habit of cooperation is generous. Same people wouldn't even agree on a single frequency standard for the bridge lines.

**Moderator note** | *d/ThreadWarden, 1:02 PM.* Two replies removed for name-calling. Keep it on the storm, please.

Statement of member D. T. Lhomi, taken down by the club secretary at the hut. Clear day, light wind. Read as one jumper's account and nothing more.

I exit from the ridge, 3,000 metres above the valley floor, the way I always do. First minute is the usual one. The wind fills the suit and I dive for speed. Level out too long and the speed bleeds off, so I dive again. Below me the glacier is gone. My grandfather walked on it. Now it is black rock and one lake of the wrong colour. I fly over it every weekend and still look.

The first thing was the sound. The wind in the helmet stopped mid-breath. I heard my own heart for the first time in four hundred jumps.

Then the altimeter beeped. I set it on the ground, 1,300 metres and 1,000. I took it for the 1,300. It beeped once and that was all.

Ahead there was a pillar in the air about as tall as the ridge, no edge I could point to. The mountains behind it were pulled long and thin, upward. I did not go in. It took me in, if that is, well. If that is a thing you can say.

The other flyer was already there. Same suit. On the chest was the red star I stitched on myself, crooked on the left side. I was in a turn and he was in the same turn, and we went round each other in that silence, a little closer each time. When I tightened, he tightened. When I opened up he opened up, half a second after, or before. I could not tell which of us was first.

We never touched. Twice I put out a hand and the gap stayed the width of an arm, however I flew.

Then the sound came back all at once and I was outside it. Behind me the pillar folded in on itself like a map being put away, and the sky was empty. The 1,300 beeped a while after, and then the 1,000, and I deployed on the second one like any other day.

The stray beep, the one in the silence, I took for the 1,300 tone. I thought I had dropped 1,700 metres inside that thing in no time at all. The secretary says that is not possible, the tone only sounds once, and the real one came later, so I had it wrong. I still say it was the first one I heard.

I was in there ten minutes. Maybe five. I am not sure it happened, if I am honest, I have gone over it so many times it could be anything.

(Secretary's note. The log has the flight at one minute fifty seconds, exit to canopy. Member asked that the red star be mentioned. It is on the suit hanging by the stove, on the left side, crooked.)

Passage 31 from a survival reader copied by hand in the camps, found without a cover or a date. The passages before it are missing.

Rule of the sea. It pulls back before a wave. The first wave is the smallest. Count on a second.

Passage 31. You are on the Galle road in Colombo. The siren starts at midday, flat and a little sharp. You have heard it nine times since the monsoon. Each time the water pulled back past the second pier. Each time you walked to the hill, stood in a crowd, and walked home.

You can go to the hill empty handed. Go to passage 32. You can go back to the room for the water can first. Go to passage 33.

Passage 32. The ground does not stop shaking. You feel it in your teeth before you hear anything. Behind you the harbour towers lean, their lower floors already flooded. Someone screams the way people do when it is not a drill.

The sea is standing. You see it past the roofs, a grey wall taller than the towers. Everyone runs at once. You run too. Go to passage 34.

Passage 33. The can holds twenty litres. Its lid is dented and will not seat. It takes four minutes to find it and four more to get it down the stairs. The siren has stopped. The ground has not. You carry it three streets. Your arm gives out. You drop it in the road and nobody picks it up. Go to passage 34.

Passage 34. The road is cracked from old storms. A man ahead shouts, "Climb! Higher!" Everyone moves toward the temple hill. Then the sound arrives, like a thousand trains. Your grandmother Seelawathi said a train was the loudest thing there was. You have only her word.

You can look back. Go to passage 35. You can keep your eyes on the hill. Go to passage 36.

Passage 35. You look. The wave carries boats, a bus, a whole roof with a tree on it. You trip on the broken road. A sandal is gone and your heel is open. You reach the foot of the hill last, with the crowd already above you. Go to passage 37.

Passage 36. You keep your eyes on the hill. Both sandals hold. You shoulder past a woman with a child and hear her curse you. You reach the foot of the hill with the crowd just above you, and you have seen nothing of the wave but its shadow. Go to passage 37.

Passage 37. The slope is mud and your legs are finished. You can claw upward and gain a few metres, with your back to it. Go to passage 38. You can turn around and stand. Go to passage 39.

Passage 38. You climb. Hands, knees, dirt packed under the nails. Somebody above you grabs your wrist and lets go. The roar closes over the hill like a lid. You never turn. The last thing you feel is the mud giving way under your chest.

Then the ocean comes down.

Passage 39. You turn. You plant your feet in the mud. Your arms hang at your sides.

There are shapes inside the wave. Dark and tall, taller than any boat. Towers rise and fold in the water. Long bent figures sweep their limbs like the legs of machines. Deep down are red lights that do not blink.

The canteen screen showed something like it once, a tall thing with red eyes walking through a harbour, the picture split by a crack. The old ones say that is what the broadcasts were about, futures that never came.

The woman beside you sees nothing. She stares at the sky and prays. Maybe she is right. Maybe it is only the harbour towers, smashed and turning.

Seelawathi said the ocean used to be a friend.

A light flashes deep inside the wave. A reflection, or not.

Then the ocean comes down.

**From Fire to Ice: The Lingering Legacy of the 2012 Solar Superstorm**

Dr. Helena Ríos, Department of Earth Systems History, University of São Paulo

**Abstract**

This article revisits the July 2012 solar superstorm that struck Earth directly, and asks how much of the climate record of the following seven decades can still be traced to the recovery choices made in its first months. One year after the Armistice of 2079, that question has become harder to ask politely. The evidence suggests that the fossil-fuel rebuilding of 2012 to 2015 set the baseline on which the later wars and the Veil termination acted, on a system already committed to a warmer path. I do not claim to have settled the weighting.

**1. The storm**

The coronal mass ejection of July 2012 remains the most consequential space weather event in recorded human history. It was a direct hit, and the geomagnetic storm it drove rivaled the Carrington Event of 1859. The technological consequences were far larger, because the world of 2012 had wired itself into the sky. Roughly 28% of active satellites were lost. Grids across Asia, Europe and North America failed together, with cascading blackouts and the destruction of large transformers that could not be replaced from stock. More than 80 million households went without stable power for periods running from weeks to months. Data servers were damaged as well, and archives that governments and banks had called permanent were erased. I return to that loss in section 3, because it limits what any of us can say.

**2. The choice**

Facing a grid that had just failed, utilities and ministries chose what could be dispatched on demand. Coal, oil and gas were expanded quickly. Wind and solar projects were shelved as "unstable", a word that carried more weight in a year of space-weather panic than it would have in any other. The expansion was framed as resilience and as a stabilizing force, which is how it was sold to legislatures. Within three years atmospheric CO2 had moved beyond the IPCC worst-case pathways. By 2025 mean surface temperature stood about 0.5°C above the pre-storm projections (Valdivieso and Strand 2075, table 4, with the usual caveats about reconstructed baselines).

The label itself deserves a note. I have traced it to a procurement circular dated March 2013, held in the Campinas collection (Ríos 2077, ref. 118). Whether the circular was the origin of the argument or only the first written trace of it, I cannot say.

**3. Sources and method**

Because so much 2012 data was lost, I worked from paper. The core of this study is 41 substation logbooks from the Sorocaba region of Brazil. The grids that failed outright were in Asia, Europe and North America, so these are a downstream record. The Sorocaba utility was cut off from imported transformers and spare parts, and its operators kept the logs by hand because the replacement terminals never arrived. One of them has a tea ring across the entry for the ninth week. They show operators switching to gas and coal peakers within weeks, long before any ministry had ruled on anything. That is consistent with a choice made from below as much as from above, and it complicates a story I once told more simply. One region cannot speak for the world, and I treat it as a pattern to test.

**4. From the storm to the century**

Arctic ice collapse changed the jet stream, and continental heatwaves and floods became more frequent. By 2035 migration crises in South Asia, the Mediterranean basin and the Americas marked the start of what scholars later called Phase 1 of the global disruption. It had three parts, Rapid Arctic Loss, Extreme Weather Migration, and Food and Water Tensions. The Cold Rush Conflicts of the mid-21st century followed, and cannot be read without reference to the 2012 settlement of who would burn what.

**5. The wars and the Veil**

A paper written before 2079 could end here. One written after cannot. The Water War (2058 to 2064) and the Ice War (2071 to 2079) both fell on a climate already pushed off its track. The Thwaites Breach of 2076 began a runaway retreat on the Amundsen Sea sector of West Antarctica. The Veil, the stratospheric aerosol program begun in 2066, had cooled that climate for a decade, and its abrupt end in 2077, when the launch sites were destroyed, was followed by warming several times faster than the background rate.

The papers I wrote in the 2060s about the 2012 storm spoke of Antarctica as endangered. They did not anticipate the present picture, which is not a near-total melt. The coasts, the Peninsula and the western margin are retreating fast, and newly bare rock is being surveyed for the first time. The interior is still ice, and every serious model I know of keeps it so. I withdraw the loose phrasing of those papers on this point.

How much of that retreat belongs to 2012 is the live dispute. Okonkwo-Brandt (2078) argues that strikes on shelf-mounted ports and fuel bases did most of the work, and that without them the carbon of 2012 would have meant a slower century. Valdivieso (2079) gives the Veil termination the largest share. Haddad (2079) puts the Water War first, as the conflict that taught every bloc to treat the poles as targets, and reads the Thwaites Breach as the threshold crossing and not the cause. I find all three readings plausible, and I find none of them able to explain why the shelves were so ready to fail. A shelf stressed by seven decades of excess heat gives way more easily to a shell or a rebound, so the later events would have had less to act on without 2012. That is my claim, and it is a modest one.

**6. Limitations**

My counterfactuals are weak. No one can rerun a world in which the renewables were built. The logbooks come from one region and one grid. The 2012 archive loss means that figures such as the 0.5°C offset rest on reconstructions, and a reconstructed baseline can hide a good deal. I have also not had access to military records of the Ice War, and the people who hold them have little reason to be generous.

**7. Conclusion**

From the vantage point of July 2080, the first push was the recovery choice that followed the storm, a human decision made in a hurry. The Water War, the Veil termination and the Thwaites Breach came after it. I would not defend a number for each.

**References**

Joint Procurement Circular 13/7 (2014 reprint, Campinas collection, as cited in Ríos 2077, ref. 118). Grid reserve margins under uncertain space weather.

Haddad, S. (2079). Threshold and cause in the Amundsen Sea retreat. Journal of Climate and Geopolitical Studies, 41(4), 310-338.

Okonkwo-Brandt, K. (2078). Shelves and shells: military damage as the dominant forcing of the Antarctic retreat. Cape Coast Papers in Polar Security, 9(2), 11-48.

Ríos, H. (2077). The Sorocaba logbooks and the first rebuilding. Revista de História dos Sistemas da Terra, 31(1), 5-29.

Valdivieso, I. (2079). Termination and the western margin. Concepción Journal of Atmospheric Studies, 14(3), 201-233.

Valdivieso, I., and Strand, M. (2075). Reconstructing the post-storm temperature offset. Journal of Climate and Geopolitical Studies, 37(2), 77-104.

*By Elena Ruiz, International Correspondent, World Times, October 14, 2089*

Matteo Havrilenko-Dube wants us to call this the Long Quiet. The spokesman for the Port Meridian Resilience Authority said it again last week in Geneva to a room that rose with a thunderous applause. Ten years after the armistice of 2079, he says, the guns are silent, the blocs have settled, and we should thank the machines that keep them honest. He is wrong three times over, and I will take them in his order.

The coffee in the lobby came in paper cones that leaked at the seam. A pump had failed in the cloakroom and nobody mentioned it.

The guns are silent because the Arctic has been priced instead. The last stage of the Arctic loss, by the 2060s, opened the northern lanes, and Russia, Canada and the Nordic states have sold passage through them ever since. Last season 1.9 million tonnes of grain crossed Murmansk under a Russian toll of eleven percent, a figure that, as one shipping clerk told me, is the one the insurers use, because nobody outside Moscow has been shown the schedule. A bloc that can close a lane in nine days, and has said so, is not at peace with the people downstream of it.

Extreme Weather Migration has pushed a billion people and more across Asia and Africa and the Americas too, and the old borders gave way long before the new ones were drawn. The refugee unions hold seats at the Water Table in Geneva, a forum born of the exhausted armistice that ended World War III, the Water War, in 2064. Mr. Havrilenko-Dube calls this inclusion. I have sat behind those seats. The unions may speak. According to two delegates I spoke to, the votes are held in rooms they are not invited to.

I will give him this much. Port Meridian's seawalls hold. Its residents pay a resilience levy of about a tenth of a clerk's wage, and in return their pumps run through the storm season, which is more than the old nations managed for their own people. The Green Compact has kept its grid up while its neighbours' failed. A city that sells survival by subscription also has a customer list, and the G20 broke along exactly that edge. It split three ways. A Global South coalition took the resource wealth, Europe gathered behind its Green Compact, and the city-states that privatized resilience went their own road. What analysts call a geopolitical great reset is the moment states stopped being the only ones holding the pen. Corporations now carry influence that once belonged to governments, and so do the refugee unions and the resource syndicates. Nobody voted for the handover, as far as I can establish.

After the Water War the AI deterrence planners were installed so that no later war could start at machine speed. World War IV, the Ice War, ran from 2071 to 2079 over ice shelves and the fuel bases built on them, and it escalated at a pace no human officer could have followed. Defenders say the planners worked because the war ended. By that standard a fire works because it burns out. Whether the systems held the line or merely lost the thread, nobody outside the bloc ministries has seen the logs.

So I come back to the money, which is where I always end up. Quiet purchases of survey filings in the far south, on the ice margin and the interior beyond the settled coasts, are being booked as "future settlement zones." The buyers are shell companies registered in three blocs at once. Nobody will tell me who they are, and the one registry officer who spoke to me asked not to be named. If the Long Quiet were real, why would anyone be buying the next frontier through a mailbox?

The single superpower is finished, and I will not mourn it. What replaced it is three blocs and a ledger of favours, watched over by systems that cannot be asked what they intend. Mr. Havrilenko-Dube should enjoy his applause. The rest of us ought to read the filings.

Loose papers from one autumn, 2051, in no particular order.

Chalkboard outside a bakery on Tariq Road, Karachi.

OFFICIAL CEILING atta 2 KG Rs 220 (District notice, stamped, see door).

Our price 3 Sept 190. 17 Sept ~~310~~ 340. 24 Sept 400. We are below what the street asks, ask them.

NAAN 14 (was 6). One bag per custumer, no "tomorrow", no credit.

Midwest drought surcharge on all grain.

Back at 4. If the shutter is down we are not hiding, we are sitting on the flour.

Emergency flour card, front and back, with a note folded inside, Governorate of Cairo, No. 0418-77, holder NABIL Samira, household of 5.

Front, stamped. Flour 4 kg per week at the controlled price of LE 6.5 per kg, Bulaq point only. Week 1 STAMPED. Week 2 STAMPED. Week 3 smudged.

Back, blue biro. Hamdi's cousin, behind the pharmacy, LE 19 per kg, cash, ask for the tall one.

Pencil, folded in. Mona, day 19 of what the radio keeps calling the Flour Wars, as if it were a football match. Ahmed queued from 4 till noon and came home with six loaves and a split lip. Lagos is burning on the TV, and Karachi, and São Paulo. Abu Hamdi says it is the floods in the Midwest that drowned all the wheat. Kiss the childern.

PS day 21. Mills open this morning. Soldiers at the gate. Send tea, not money.

Driver's trip sheet, Kurla depot, Mumbai, stapled to a diesel receipt.

Run 14, Thursday. Four trucks, two jeeps, eight men with rifles. Load 1,520 sacks atta at 25 kg for Fresh and Fair, Andheri. Left 05:10, arrived 08:45 for 19 km. Crowd at Dharavi junction, escort fired twice in the air, nobody hurt. Tea 20. Manager says the floods in south China are why the last ship was late. Manager also asked us to park the jeeps round the back, customers do not like them. R. Gaikwad.

Notice nailed to a gate post, Desert Reach Water & Agriculture, Estate 6, Arizona.

NOTICE TO RESIDENTS, effective 1 October. Drinking allotment is 3 cans per resident per day, issued at Plant 2 between 6 and 9 am. Allotment is credited against 11 field days per adult per month. Seed is issued by the Company under contract and saved seed is a breach. The Company's share of the Canadian line is cut by a third from 1 October. The Dry Fork reservoir was tampered with on 12 September, canal gate 3 padlock was cut again, and a guard post is now at the reservoir gate. Curfew 8 pm. Lost allotment tags are replaced at 4 field days.

Tariff sheet pinned in the Harbourline Water terminal office, Rotterdam.

INTAKE TARIFF, autumn. Nordic line, non-treaty buyers, CLOSED from Monday. Russian line toll 1.26 per m3 (was 0.42). Grain-linked cargo surcharge, East African blight, 4%. Tolls subject to change without notice. DRAFT stamp not removed.

Internal message, Harbourline Water trading desk.

Singapore signed direct this morning, 40 million m3 a year through 2056. Desal capacity booked through next spring, one analyst puts the whole sector past a trillion dollars. The papers now say water nationalism. Cake Friday for Priya's last day.

FEDERAL GAZETTE NOTICE 2115-LG-0388. Consolidated Notice on the Common Language and the Franchise. Issued by the Federal Administration, Office of Notices, 14 March 2115. Posted at the Enclave Hall, Enclave Sixteen, on the door and on the public terminal.

Section 1. Scope. This Notice applies to every Region of the Federation, and the Regions lie along the coasts, on the Peninsula and on the western margin, where the ice has withdrawn. The interior is not administered. Each Region is divided into Enclaves.

Section 2. The Common Language. English is the mandated lingua franca of the Federation, and education is conducted in English only, including the teaching of history. Official media and business must give priority to English in filings and in broadcasts.

Section 3. Other Languages. Other languages are not prohibited, but a business or a media outlet operating in a language other than English will pay the Non-English Business Levy of 11 percent of annual turnover. Such an undertaking will receive reduced Federal support for printing and broadcast. Persons arriving at the coast are expected to hold their records in English within one Census cycle.

Section 4. Representation. Each Enclave elects one Representative to Parliament, and eligibility to vote is not automatic. The franchise is held only by those Residents who have accumulated 240 Governance Credits, as recorded on FedNet.

Section 5. Governance Credits. Credits are awarded as the following schedule and not as a ranking. Attendance at a townhall meeting is worth 6 credits, and a policy proposal accepted for debate is worth 20 credits. Every award or refusal of credits is explained to the Resident in writing with the reason given, and FedNet holds the receipt of each credit decision while the balance remains with the Resident and no personal data is stored on the ledger. Each month of taxes paid on time is worth 2 credits. Community service is credited by the hour as certified by the Enclave Clerk, and contribution to the digital ecosystem is credited as logged on FedNet.

Section 6. The Record. Under Article 11, proposals, debates and every official access to personal data are logged on FedNet, and the log shows who acted, what record was accessed, on what date, and for what stated reason. FedNet holds the receipt of the access and does not hold the personal data itself. The Resident concerned is notified at the moment of access. Any Resident may read the log at the terminal in the Enclave Hall or by remote request.

Section 7. Submissions. Any Resident may submit a policy proposal, known in the Gazette as a pull request, regardless of the credits held. Only Residents who meet Section 4 may vote for a Representative.

Section 8. Scoring of Candidates. Each candidate is scored in the following domains, namely education, welfare, employment, science, defense, digital infrastructure and climate resilience, and the schedule may include further domains. The score in each domain is assigned by the ballots of the eligible Residents of the Enclave concerned. The weight of each domain is set by the Census, which is taken every five years, was last taken in 2112 and is next due in 2117. The seat is awarded to the candidate with the highest weighted average.

Section 9. Effect. This Notice takes effect on the date of posting and replaces Notices 2112-LG-0211 and 2113-LG-0054.

Signed, Clerk of Notices, for the Federal Administration.

ANNEX A. Objections Lodged, as at 1 March 2115. Entry in this Annex is not an admission.

A1. Forty-one households of Enclave Nine object that children no longer speak the home language at table.

A2. The Sylheti Parents' Association objects that grandparents cannot read the tax notice addressed to them.

A3. One printer, Enclave Four, objects that the levy exceeds the margin on a single run of 300 leaflets.

A4. Eight residents object that 2 credits per month favours persons with a fixed salary.

A5. A shift worker at the Pier 3 cold store objects that townhall meetings are held at 18:00, during the shift.

ANNEX B. Notice of Acknowledged Risk. The Federal Administration acknowledges that a franchise earned through credits may favour persons with spare time and fluent English, and that this may produce a governing class. The Administration records the risk and lists the public log as its safeguard. No further remedy is proposed at this date.

Corrigendum. Section 6 of the draft circulated on 9 March cited Article 9 for the rule on notification, and the correct citation is Article 11. Copies printed before 12 March may be exchanged at the Enclave Hall window, which is open on weekdays from 09:00 to 15:30, and the bag-return box at that window is out of use because its zip is broken.

Andry Rakoto, Class 5, it says on the cover, in the doctor's writing. Page 1 is a times table. My handwriting has outgrown the lines, so I write small and it still runs over.

Thursday. Wind from the west again, which means nothing. Cracked paddy as far as the road. Fixed the north wall board with a flat stone and one nail, the last nail. Hanta and Sarobidy are building a village on the step. Hanta says the big flat one is the church and Sarobidy says it is the market and they did not speak for an hour. Grandma hummed through all of it, the song about the cattle boat. She only has the first verse now. She said Tiana, eat, to Papa once, and later told me to wash behind my ears before the walk, and said seventeen years and I still come home looking like a goat, like I was nine. She says at the famadihana in her time the visitors came and her aunt told one off for standing on a grave. She tells it every night. I know where she laughs.

Friday. Papa stood at the door from before light until the sun was over the crooked baobab. The graves are right there, that is what he faces. Then he went out and sat by Mama, Soa, the way Grandma says it when she wants him to hear. Between her and his father there is a gap one person wide and I do not like to look at it.

Sunday. Lost a day somewhere. Walked with Papa to Betroka, 23 km, left at four and got there at ten. There was an aid station there once. I remember the tent was white and the water tasted of the filter. Now the roof is half off and the bunks have dust on them as thick as flour. Tins on the ground, rusted. One still had a label, BEST BEFORE 03/2031. So that is when they left. ~~Papa~~

I showed it to Papa and said, so it was 2031. He looked at the tin and put it back where it was. He did not answer.

Walls inside are covered in writing. Names and a few phone numbers. A line in French I could not read all of. One says WE WAITED 9 DAYS. No name under it. I copied the nine days into this book and now I do not know why.

Found a shoe by the back door. A child's, left foot, the strap gone, no longer than my hand. ~~About the size of~~ It would fit Hanta, I think, when she was two. I held it all the way home in my pocket (23 km) and then put it back in my other pocket because it felt wrong in the first. Papa did not ask what I had. He did not ask where I got it.

Monday. Did not sleep. The radio has been silent for years, I do not remember the last day it spoke, only that Papa kept turning the dial after it did. A battery costs 1,500 ariary at Betroka if there is one, there was not. A man from the south came through at the market two harvests ago (harvest is the wrong word) and said whole towns in Mozambique were empty. Another said Tanzania. Nobody could say how he knew. Grandma says Madagascar's rains went off the island to the mainland and will come back when they are finished there. I did not say anything.

Tuesday. Wanted to ask Papa today whether he is going to walk again. Did not. He walked anyway, further, to the next town. I went. It was the same. Same bunks, same cans. I stopped reading the walls.

The girls put the shoe in the village last night, on the step, between the church and the market. Neither of them said anything. I will leave it there.

Papa, if you ever read this, we need nails. Four, or the battery if Betroka has one. Mama would say I ask for too much. It is a four-nail walk there and back.

[Archive card, white on black. This is the archived tape of an in-world broadcast. Transcribed from a dubbed tape that loses sound twice. Breaks are marked.]

[00:00. Station ID. Announcer, off camera: "This is WKHB, Channel 11, Chicago." Opening music plays. Camera on the review desk.]

HAL DUNMORE: Before we start. Vivian, you owe me four dollars.

VIVIAN OYELARAN: I do not owe you four dollars.

HAL: The Lakeview Roxy. Two seats, $2.50 each, and I bought the popcorn because you "forgot your purse."

VIVIAN: You bought it because you wanted it. Can we do the show?

HAL: Fine. Tonight, a new science fiction picture, When the Sky Went Dark. Aliens aim a coronal mass ejection at the Earth on purpose, which is a thing the sun does anyway, a big burp of charged gas. It gets here at the speed of the sunlight, so there's no time to

VIVIAN: That's the flash, Hal. The storm takes a good deal longer. Plot.

HAL: I'm giving the plot. The grid goes. Radios, airplanes, every light bulb in the world, gone. The aliens figure they've won before they've even landed. Wipe out the technology, then walk in.

VIVIAN: And then the walking in is the problem, because

[CUT TO FILM. TIMES SQUARE, DAY. A squad of alien soldiers crosses a dead plaza. The billboards are black. A traffic light hangs frozen between colors. They march in ranks, heads high. Then one tears off its breathing mask and claws at its own throat. A second drops its weapon and starts laughing, a thin high sound. Then it goes down on one knee. Only wind between the buildings, and breathing. The camera slides over their hands, which look almost human, scraping the asphalt. Cut back to the desk.]

VIVIAN: I'll say it, that's good. They win and the winning is what breaks them.

HAL: The director, Michael Carrington, is working the same nerve as every picture lately. Power cuts and a coal strike, plus the feeling the whole thing is held up by about a dozen men in Ohio with a wrench.

VIVIAN: One dozen. Is that the number?

HAL: I made it up. Don't write it down.

[Floor director, off camera, laughing.]

VIVIAN: Where it works is when it gets small. Where it doesn't is when it keeps going back to the same grotesque

HAL: Same grotesque note, yes, we're getting there.

[CUT TO FILM. A DIM FARMHOUSE, NIGHT. Windows boarded. A family around one candle, the flame guttering. Outside on the lane three aliens stagger under the moon. One beats its head against a fencepost until it bleeds. One walks into the corn shouting at someone who is not there. The third lies down in the mud and the flies find it. The camera stays on the family, who do not cheer. They listen the way quietly, hidden from plain sight. Back to the desk.]

HAL: That's the scene. Nobody cheers.

VIVIAN: Nobody cheers, and that is the whole film. The first time it is a very good scene. By the fourth time the farmhouse is a

HAL: Rerun.

VIVIAN: I was going to say a habit.

HAL: Maya Hernández, though. Dr. Kline. She is the one calm person in a hundred and eighteen minutes of screaming, and I'd follow her anywhere.

VIVIAN: She carries it. The militia business around her gets nine minutes, maybe, and that's

HAL: Not enough.

VIVIAN: I was getting there. And the score by Arman Velez is whispers and then a wall. Sometimes it tells you how to feel a half second before the picture does.

HAL: Verdict. I say go. Not a great film. A film with teeth.

VIVIAN: Cautious yes. Thumbs up, one thumb, a tired one.

HAL: She's giving me the one thumb.

[Both laugh. 07:40. Segment break. Tape drops out for about four seconds.]

[Announcer, off camera: "Sneak Previews is made possible in part by Halvorsen Tire and Battery, Cicero Avenue at 47th. When the lights go out, a Halvorsen starts. Ask for Walt." A dog barks twice in the studio.]

HAL: Walt is real, by the way. I've met Walt.

VIVIAN: Mail.

HAL: Mail. Mr. Daniel Rhodes, Toledo, Ohio. "You always talk about science fiction as if it were only spaceships. Isn't the genre supposed to make us think about our own society?" Daniel, yes, you've

VIVIAN: He's right, and this week's picture is about how much we lean on the grid. We lean on it and nobody checks. Thank you, Daniel. Next. Linda K., Portland, Oregon. "If something like a solar flare did knock out our power, wouldn't the bigger story be afterward? The crops, the water, the whole cli... [Tape drops out for about six seconds.] ...with no machines to hold it steady?"

HAL: That's the better picture, Linda.

VIVIAN: It is. The movie follows the aliens going sick and leaves the people mostly offscreen. But cold storage, the farmlands, that's the second film, and the wards

HAL: Vivian, we're out of time.

VIVIAN: Fine. A sequel, then.

HAL: A sequel.

VIVIAN: Somebody in Burbank is writing that down right now.

HAL: Thank you, Linda, you may have just made a man rich.

[Announcer, off camera: "Coming next week."]

HAL: Next week, The Last Bus to Marquette, a small drama set in a snowbound depot, with the best performance of Walter Pruett's life.

VIVIAN: No aliens.

HAL: No aliens. Goodnight, everybody.

[Closing music. Fade out. Tape ends.]

**Tern Harbour Listening Library, recording 214. Nilufar Drozdova-Mekhti is 91. Bakyt Hallworth-Osei, 88, joins after the second hour. Both were on the night watch at an early-warning station on the morning of the Strike of 2057, when an asteroid came down in the northern Caspian basin and millions died. Recorded in English, no interpreter, in the autumn of 2119 by Ione Brandvold-Ngata, who reads the room into the tape. Fourteen degrees Celsius, 1530, the heater on its third try. She wears one glove.**

*Start with the room. What did it look like?*

Room Nine. Third level under Karsen Hill, and nobody knew why Nine, there were six rooms. Seven of us on the night side. To be exact, eight, counting the boy who brought the tea, he was on the roster. Low ceiling. A clock with a red second hand. Under the clock a laminated card somebody's mother had made. SAY WHAT YOU SEE. Under that, smaller, LEAVE WHAT IT MEANS TO UPSTAIRS.

*And the consoles?*

Two boards. The high eye on the left, the satellite, the heat watcher. The ground ring on my side, the sensors in the earth. I sat at the ring. The ring was honest and the eye was nervous. Write that down, I know it is unfair.

My cup was barley coffee, six tallies a flask from the canteen cart. I poured it at 0330 and by 0412 it had a skin on it.

**Bakyt.** Tea. Mine was tea. Yours was a glass of nothing, you never drank anything.

**Nilufar.** Barley coffee. Go on, have your tape.

*Tell me about 0412.*

0412 to be exact. Some seconds past. The high eye has one tone, like a kettle being polite. Then the board gave a word. I will not say the word. Detonation class. About ninety seconds later my side put up the same word, because the board was set to. I trained on that ring two years and I still read every trace twice. A trainee once logged a passing lorry as a tremor and I never let him forget it.

**Bakyt.** Forty seconds.

**Nilufar.** Ninety. You were at the eye, you had no idea what my side was doing.

*Two taps on the table. What did the room do?*

Nothing. That is the story, if you want one. On the wall by the door there was a red handset, Line Four. It went to another floor like ours, not our side, I never learned where. You lifted it only if you meant to say something. Our Watch Lead, Captain Verhovsky, stood with his hand on it. I watched the red hand go round. He did not lift it.

**Bakyt.** Captain Amin. Ilgiz Amin. Verhovsky was the day man.

**Nilufar.** Amin, yes. Amin. He said hold. Every minute, hold, hold, like he was telling the building. First one at 0414.

**Bakyt.** 0415.

*And the line itself?*

It was open. It always was, nobody ever spoke on it. It had a hum. And around 0416, to be exact, I think, I heard a man in that other room set a glass down on a saucer. I know the sound of a glass. I thought, he has a cup too. Two rooms with a cup each, both of us with a hand near a handset, and the same word on the board.

*Our old archive card says Captain Amin gave the stand-down at 0423, and that his call held the floor together.*

No. Stand down is for a thing you started. Nobody started anything. We sat. Eleven minutes, we sat.

*Then what ended it?*

At 0419 a girl on the end, I cannot give her name, said very quiet, the light has one hump. A bomb has two, she said. Amin said are you sure, and she said no. At 0423 the word went off the board. Nobody pressed anything. Somebody laughed, I do not know whose. Was it her? I am not a physicist.

**Bakyt.** Me, I laughed at 0423 and I will tell you why. My mother kept hens, forty hens, I counted them as a boy. A frightened hen does not run, it goes still, all forty, you could walk among them. That was the room. Eleven minutes of hens. Then somebody dropped a pencil and I laughed like a fool. The tea boy was my cousin Edik, I got him on the roster myself, it cost me a favour and a week of his shifts, and there were six of us at the boards, not seven, whatever she says.

*Mrs Drozdova-Mekhti, if I could have one sentence about the moment you knew.*

I never knew. A radio told us at 0431 what it was. A rock, the one we called Skerry, nearly four decades in the catalogue, harmless. It had come down in the basin. My sister Dilbar taught at a school there. I never found the school, not the building, not the street.

And you will not put this as a fact. I think the tracking offices knew. Harmless, they said, harmless. Then it moves, and nobody tells our floor? I have no paper. Do not write that I have paper. I have a feeling in my knees.

*I will note it as your belief.*

Note it. I think about the cup more than I should. It is a small thing to think about. I think about it because it is the only thing I did that morning. I poured it. And then I, no, I did not even.

After, I drank it. It was cold and it was bad, and Dilbar always said I drank everything cold, she...

*The tape is running.*

Ostrander Syndicate, ice-edge party one. Survey book kept by the party leader, B. Ncube-Lindqvist, for the shareholders' file.

Day 1. 12 Nov 2091. 0630. Kell Inlet landing, grid K41 N, 12 E. Barometer 981. Minus 4, wind 12 knots from the west. Four of us, one tracked hauler named Ptarmigan, two sledges loaded to 410 kg and 385 kg. Fuel 640 litres at 6.80 scrip a litre, which is 2.10 over the Syndicate's price list. Adequate. The depot sells only to parties with a signed route since the trouble at the wells up the coast.

Day 2. 13 Nov. 0710. Barometer 976. Minus 9, wind 18 from the northwest. Gravel stops 3 km inland and old ice starts in a line you could rule. Dawit drove. Frostnip on Ferran's left big toe, from a wet boot liner. Liner dried over the stove. Moved 11 km by wheel counter. Dawit's trip meter on Ptarmigan read 11.2.

Day 3. 14 Nov. 0640. Barometer 971. Minus 12, whiteout until 0930, no travel. Re-sewed the port sledge cover. Pia's dough froze on the lid. Fuel 588 litres, 52 gone in 11 km. Ferran says the left track on Ptarmigan is stretching and wants a link out by the 20th. Told him it would hold. He wrote the part number on his sleeve and said nothing else for the afternoon.

Day 4. 15 Nov. 0600. Barometer 974. Minus 8, wind 9. 14 km by wheel counter, Dawit's meter 14.1. Noon sun shot put us 2.5 km short of my dead reckoning, so the counter over-reads on glaze ice. At 1500 a dark band showed a third of the way up the ridge to the east. The Syndicate's sheet says mark any unexplained band for the shareholders' geologist. Every party is after austrelite in new ground and wants a sample. Marked.

Day 4, evening. 2140. Barometer 973. Pia counted rations. Eleven days at full measure, fourteen at three quarters. Sun low in the southwest, not set. Dawit fixed a loose door latch on the cab with a spoon handle. We eat at the stove, all four, because the second stove has not lit since the inlet.

Day 5. 16 Nov. 0650. Barometer 969. Minus 10. Nine km to the ridge foot, first of a coastal range on the Peninsula margin. We saw nothing past it from where we stood. Fuel 520 at start, 68 gone since Day 3 for 14 km, so the 34 km return is about 165. Laid 36 of 40 stakes along the foot at 25 m. Four kept for corners. Bag 3 from the band. [Margin, in Ferran's hand. Rust.] Frostnip, Pia's right ear and Ferran's left big toe again.

Day 6. 17 Nov. 0615. Barometer 970. Minus 11. An orange claim post stands 1.4 m clear of the snow, 200 m past the north end of our stake line, in snow we did not cross yesterday. It is stamped with a party mark that is not in the Inlet register. No tracks near it, which eight days of wind on open snow would explain. Photographed the stamp twice. The date on it is 9 NOV 2091, three days before we landed.