"Can you zoom in?" asked Wyman.

"Sure." With each tap of her finger on the screen, the image expanded while the pixels automatically refocused for crystal clarity.

"It's definitely a cloud mass," said Wyman.

"Nothing I've seen before," returned Schott. "It's so thick that the sensors are picking it up as something solid."

The inside of the cloud continued to flare up as electrical charges continuously burst like the synapsis of a human brain, the light within going off like muzzle flashes in different arrays of colors. There were reds and blues, greens and yellows, beautiful colors that always shifted as the mass constantly reformed and reshaped itself, the cloud always swirling.

"You think it's dangerous?" Wyman asked.

Another shrug from Jim Schott. "Who's to say?"

"Can we forecast its route by trailing its wake?"

Jen Jacoby began to type away. "I can pretty much do anything." After about ten seconds of typing in commands, the image on the screen showed a map of the entire galaxy that stretched as far as the Orion Belt. In the wake of the cloud mass, a trail of particle dust extended from its current position to a point beyond the screen's perimeter, meaning that it came from a corner of the universe well beyond the Milky Way system. But the path was clear. It had traversed space on a perfectly linear course. And it wasn't about to shift from its direction, either.

It was on a collision course with Earth.

"First of all," began Wyman, "how big is this thing?"

Jen zoomed away at least six times on the screen before they could see the mass in its entirety.

"Dimensions," said Wyman. It was a statement, not a question.

Jen's fingers dashed quickly over the console's comm keys. Lines and grids established themselves on the monitor and automatically deduced the size of the mass through triangulation. When the calculations were completed, the sizes were posted on the screen.

"By comparison to most dust forms, this one is relatively small," stated Wyman, as he stood straight and folded his arms across his chest. "But it's big enough to eclipse the planet. Now we need to understand its capabilities. Whether they're harmful or not." And then: "How far away was the Jupiter-Six when it made its pass?"

"About 196,000 kilometers."

Still a distance away, he considered. "Any disruptions to the satellite at all? Anything that could've thrown it off-line, even for a moment, due to the discharge of its electrical impulses?"

"Nothing," she said. "The sensors on the Jupiter-Six picked up releases so minimal that they hardly registered at all."

They stood there watching the cloud move in glacial motions as wisps of vaporous tendrils rose from the main body to lap at the surrounding space as if tasting it, before they retracted back into itself.

"So you think it's safe?" he asked her.

"Like Schott said, who's to say? This is something new to all of us. Something different. I would think it would be easy enough to find out."

"I agree." Wyman said. "How long will it take for a probe from the Jupiter-Six to make contact?"

"I can have it there in eight hours."

"Do it."

"Roger Wilco."

For the next two minutes Jen Jacoby linked up with the Jupiter-Six and entered several commands. One being the launch code for the probe. After everything was established to be in its proper format, she initiated the program. Pressing a finger against the 'ENTER' button, a signal was transmitted to the probe attached to the satellite.

And within less than a second it launched into deep space to intercept the mass.

Chapter Eight.

7.62 Hours after the Launch of the Deep-Space Probe Though it appeared to be traveling at an astronomically slow pace, the cosmic dust was moving at a rate of more than 17,000 miles per hour.

The space probe, capable of traveling at nearly 25,000 miles per hour, raced towards the anomaly with an intercept time of less than four minutes.

The cosmic dust continuously morphed into indefinable shapes mixing colors that created indescribable hues. Lightning flashes went off behind the cloud cover, causing the entire form to ignite with explosions of illumination.

When the probe was two minutes out from penetration, a command signal was sent to the motherboard. The protective cover to the probe's lens peeled back like a cyclopean eye and gave it sight. Then the sensors attuned themselves to analyze the cosmic matter within five hundredths of a second.

As soon as the probe was 10,000 meters out from its impact point, the lens began to fine-tune its vision by catching close-up views of magnificent cloud swirls.

At 5000 meters the probe's analyzing tubes rose from its hull, the sensors ready to dissect components down to parts per billion.

A blink of an eye later, it penetrated the mass.

Chapter Nine.

Eriq Wyman had just finished discussing matters regarding the cloud mass with the Federation Chairman in New DC, when he got the call from the ship's command center. It was Jen Jacoby.

Wyman pressed the communication's button on the left side of his desk. "Yeah, Jen."

"We're in."

"Any anomalous readings?"

"You need to see this."

"Jen, is this thing benign or not?"

"Just get to the comm center."

A click sounded over the system. The communication was severed on her end.

Eriq made his way through a series of winding corridors with low ceilings and pipes that bled steam to alleviate pressure, until he reached the freight elevator that was sizeable enough to transport graveyard goods, such as coffins.

When he arrived at the comm center the tic-tac-toe grid of nine monitors on the wall had been calibrated to act as a single broadcast on one giant screen, rather than having nine transmissions showing up on nine separate screens.

The probe had entered the cloud of cosmic dust and seemed to be gliding through with ease. Massive dust swirls the size of planetary moons moved in slow eddies across its path, the colors spectacular, and celestial staircases of lightning lit up from top to bottom, some crossing in fabulous swordplay as the unit remained unharmed.

It was all mesmerizing to Wyman who entered the comm center without acknowledging his team, who appeared just as enamored as to what was playing out in front of them. Jen sat at the console with her fingers frozen to the holographic keyboard. Jim, as always, stood with his arms crossed defensively across his chest, and Sheena looked as if she was examining the poetic aesthetics of a fine painting.

Gems of light constantly burst as colorful spangles, the explosions shiny and metallic in their flares. Yet the probe's shields seemed to hold.

"Report," said Wyman.

Jen read from a comm-top screen to her right. "So far," she began, "we have readings of presolar grains, carbonaceous chondrites, silicon carbide, aluminum oxide, spinel, and graphite. Simple stardust properties. However, given the cloud's thickness, it's also showing elements of amorphous silicate, polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons, and polyformaldehyde."

"And the radiative readings?"

"Normal."

"So it's benign."

"And beautiful," added Sheena.

"And the lightning strikes," he continued, "are likely caused when water condensation and ice particles meet, building up large electrical fields. I'm classifying this as benign. I'll let the Federation know." He tapped Jen on the shoulder. "Send the probe back to Jupiter-Six."

"Roger Wilco."

Then: "All right, people. Show's over. There's lots of preparation to be done before the president gets here. So let's get to it."

Whereas Jen continued to man the keyboard and communication center, and Schott went to commit himself to tasks of engineering, Eriq and Sheena took the elevator to the Observatory on the highest level of the mausoleum.

The ceiling of the Observatory level was made entirely of impenetrable glass, a bubble acting as a lens to deep space where the spirals of distant galaxies and constellations could be seen. The Observatory landing was an illustrious garden with serpentine walkways, a koi pond, a waterfall, and grass and flowers that bloomed after a photosynthesis feeding from high-intensity lamps.

In the central area lay several sarcophagi laid out in ten rows of ten. It was an exclusive area that was set aside for the most coveted citizens of the Federation, most notably the political elite. In the fifth row sat a lidless sarcophagus that bore the ornamental carvings of Roman centurions on its sides, a symbolic link to civilizations once considered great empires such as Rome and the United States, with the latter falling into ruin and becoming a former shell of itself as the Fields of Elysium-a Federation that now flew under the banner of a new flag with the red, white, and blue nothing but a vague memory to most.

Sheena pointed to the stone etchings. "It's what the governor wanted," she told him. "It was in her Will of Wishes. She wanted to remember the things and the ways of what used to be."

He smiled. "Impressive," he said. "It's very nice."

Using an automated carver, Sheena had programmed the desired photo into its memory. The carver then became airborne and flew around the sarcophagus using beams, and it designed the programmed images into the hard synthetic stone.

The final result was always a perfect facsimile of what was taken from the photo.

He then went to the tomb and rested his hands along the edges, and looked into its depths. It was the best that money could buy, he thought. Whereas people like the Wasteland savages died on the dirt where they last stood, their bodies, if not completely consumed, were left to rot because there were no birds or scavengers to pick their bones clean.

A hand landed softly upon his shoulder. "Penny for your thoughts?"

He feigned a smile, turned to her, and took her into his embrace. "It's nice up here, isn't it?"

She leaned into him so that the side of her head rested against his chest. His heartbeat was strong. "You're lost again," she told him softly. "You seem preoccupied."

He looked back into the sarcophagus. Then he remembered the bodies rolling into a mass grave, one of many after President Michelin decreed a new order to terminate everybody beyond Elysium walls in the name of security, the order itself creating roving death squads of which he was once a part.

"Terrible memories," he returned.

She looked at him, cupped her hands around the back of his head, and drew his face close to give him a kiss. When she pulled back, she said, "It's beautiful here. So you're not allowed to have terrible memories."

He exhaled and sighed through his nose. Smiled. This time genuinely, and pulled her so close that he could smell the hint of shampoo in her hair. "You're absolutely right," he told her. "I'll be good from here on in."

They both gazed skyward. Beyond the glass of the mausoleum's roof was a canvas of countless stars and faraway galaxies. Stars glittered like gold, and cosmic dust clouds wafted lazily in brightly lit colors of green and purple.

It was a spectacular view.

And, pun intended, one to die for.

"It's going to be a great service," he stated softly. So softly, in fact, that it almost sounded like a whisper.

But he would be wrong.

The service would not be a great one at all.

But it would be one to remember.

Chapter Ten.

New Miami After a closed-coffin wake was held for Governor Anderson, preparations were made to have her remains boarded on Air Force Six, where it would lift off from New Miami and make its trajectory to the northerly position of Mausoleum 2069.

As soon as President Michelin made his appearance, he made his routine statements of sorrow, then exited the hall, claiming that pressing matters needed to be addressed; an obvious lie, but one that had always been successful.

When he reached the suite of his hotel he removed the top half of his leisure suit, draped it over the back of a chair, and sat on the couch where he lifted his feet and rested them on the coffee table as if it were a hassock.

He then let his head fall back until it lay against the top of the couch. "I cannot wait for this madness to be over with," he said. "That bitch, even in death, is driving me crazy."

John Eldridge took a step forward. "Yeah, maybe. But you have to admit, this is all ironic, don't you think?"

Michelin smiled. "You've got that right," he said. "As much as she hated me and my policies, she's going to put me right over the top. All I have to do is continue to play the champion. The rest will fall into place." He raised his head to engage Eldridge. "When are we leaving?"

"The day after tomorrow," he answered.

"I know that. I meant what time?"

"Oh. Sorry. We leave New Miami at nine o'clock, dock Mausoleum Twenty Sixty-Nine by nine-thirty, have the ceremony no later than ten-thirty, you say your little eulogy-what, ten minutes maybe? The Priest will then have his say, maybe another fifteen minutes, and then we're gone by eleven, give or take ten or fifteen minutes. We'll be back in New Miami by lunchtime."

"Good. Make sure it's a good restaurant. I want this to be a moment of celebration."