8:57 a.m. Sunday, August 19. The Santo Domani.
On Sundays, they gathered for the Light. As the star-gazers filed into the ovoid structure, a unit of sentinel AI scanned the barcodes on their wristlets, verifying their mandatory presence.
“Ilana Unknown. Confirmed.”
Inside, the ceiling swelled with fluorescent plasma. The star-gazers slipped on their visors and tipped up their heads, transfixed by the scenes flickering across the screen.
Let us praise the glory of our great nation. Seraphim in petaled plate armor passed out rations to Eastern street children. The triumph of our military, the supremacy of our people. The Chairman stood before a pulpit in a morning coat and silver turban, identifying himself as the source of the sound. He shuffled his papers, squinted through his spectacl
