The cold stars spun to the ancient rhythm, the august march of an everlasting symphony. They are old, the stars, and their memory is long.

I'm not encouraged by the silence. I can think of no benign reason for it. I'm afraid we may expect something closer to Christopher Columbus's arrival in the Americas than a scene from Close Encounters, and we all know how that turned out for the Native Americans.

You're mortal, and only a mortal can afford to be romantic. When we conquered death, we murdered love.

Memories can bring comfort to the old and infirm, but memories can also be implacable foes, a malicious army of temporal ghosts forever pillaging the long-sought-after peace of our twilight years.

I don't care what the stars say about how small we are. One, even the smallest, weakest, most insignificant one, matters.

And if humanity is the last war, then I am the battlefield.

Do you know how to tell who the enemy is, Cassie?