Awakening “Not till we are lost … do we begin to understand ourselves.” — Henry David Thoreau “THE FRONTIER SETTLEMENT on Precept,” Poincaré was saying, “then the liner on the Sagan IV run. That’s more than twenty thousand dead, Raf.” They sat on the sun-filled terrace, breakfast before them. Grazia was sailplaning over the ocean, a small white bird in a perfectly clear blue sky. “They’ve dropped it in my lap,” Poincaré said. “What do you think we should do?” “Ask our military antiquarians.” “I’m one of them — so are you, to a degree.” “Well?” “I say go after the ship with a small force, hunt him down, keep a larger force on call to come running when we’ve found him.” “What’s your problem then?” Kurbi asked. “I want you with me. I thought that much was obvious. Raf, you have a feel for Herculean civilization. I don’t want this to be a completion of genocide. I think you can help me save whatever may be worth saving.” “I’d say that was a charitable way of thinking about it, considering all the carnage the Herculean has caused.
