Floating Hotel

by Grace Curtis

“All aboard the Grand Abeona! Customers queue here!”

There is a level of wealth above wealth, a level of luxury that surpasses the common idea of luxury, which is all about holograms and loudspeakers and moving images, gilded statues and subservient bots. There is an idea that rises beyond those ideas. It is called “class.”

They ducked through a door marked STAFF ONLY, into the back passageway. It was in these hidden byways that the Abeona started to look like an actual ship—close walls, pockmarked rubber flooring, warning signs on display, a smell of breath and stale food waste clinging like a fine film to every open surface. The atmosphere was that of a military base under attack, a steady and purposeful chaos: a swaying trolley of croissants rushed one way, while in the opposite direction a bellhop ran,

And now this message. This thing. These lines she could turn over in her mind like a fine-carved miniature. Alone in the lobby, she murmured to herself. “Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you . . .”

on target. They tried to change her

For generations we have wondered at our so-called “Perpetual Emperor,” speculating at the genetical blessing, or perhaps DIVINITY, that has kept the great man alive since this present age began. Wonder no longer, reader. Here is the truth: he has died over a dozen times. At a certain age the original Emperor created a clone of himself to carry on the regency. From that clone was created another, and then another, and then another, each with the same features and clothes and education. Through this grotesque process we have maintained what those in power have the gall to call “STABILITY.”

We are far from where we started. We cannot go where we wish to go. So this goes where we cannot. Greetings from across the valley.