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Marna and I arrive at the medical bay.

It's packed--standing room only. Everything is a blur of blues and greens, greys and golds. Yet even without identifying clothes and badges, it's easy to differentiate patient from practitioner: About a third of them are running about frantically, devices in hand, shouting to each other in dead languages; the remainders are running about even more frantically, with bits of themselves in hand, shouting to each other in the language of fear.

Security officers or do-gooders are restraining the unhinged until sedatives can be administered. The frenzy of activity builds to a crescendo, and then--

"PLEASE! EVERYONE, CALM DOWN! THERE ARE SUFFICIENT MEDICAL STAFF ONBOARD TO CARE FOR YOU ALL, BUT WE MUST HAVE ORDER! IF IT'S NOT AN EMERGENCY, IT CAN WAIT! WE WILL HELP YOU AS SOON AS WE ARE ABLE!"

The crowd is parted by the voice, repelled by its authority. The mob encircles a tall man of raven fur, wearing his AI brace and synced diagnostic visor. And nothing else, of course, not that he looks to give a damn about that. He takes a moment to appreciate the silence he has commanded, and then begins orchestrating the afflicted like so many children at a crosswalk: Lacerations to this section, bruises to that one; internal injuries here, miscellaneous malaise there. The male medic we'd met rushed in with the poor fellow who'd lost it completely strapped down on a gurney, even though he appeared unconscious. I crane my neck to see the condition of his tail, to no avail. Too many people, with too much to do.

Most of the people are rushed out of the medical bay altogether, not having any medical symptoms or complaints. Apparently a lot of them are just scared. Scared that something went wrong during their transformations, scared that some vital adaptation was missing, scared that they would end up like Ms. Abernathy. Even being told multiple times that the chryisalis will not release you until your systems pass innumerable inspections, I could see why some folks need reassurance. Yet the few among them who are actually hurt are worse off than me, and I decide my minor bruises from the altercation can wait.

"My bet is that's Dr. Kensington," Marna whispers to me as we walk back out of the medical bay. Her statement seems obvious to me, as I recall that name being listed as chief physician, but there was no real way to tell. Not until we get name badges, or discover we can identify each other by some other sense. Visually, we're all fairly indistinct now. All except for the soon-to-be-tailless man, who I suspect would get a few good nicknames out of his episode... and be the colony's first social outcast.

There's a sudden shift in the ship's balance; not enough to destabilize, but a thousand and one pairs of legs (minus those currently reclined, of course) steady themselves in unison, and the communal movement sends a large stomp reverberating through the ship, like the first step in a military march.

The intercom comes to life around us, Anu's insides carrying the disembodied directive.

"Attention, all colonists: This is Operations Commander Yang. Firstly, allow me to welcome you to Erebus. After seven long years, our mission is truly about to begin: To make an alien world our new home.

"Anu has broken through the ice, and we are now settling into the sea. In three minutes, the shutters will be opening and the ship floodlights will be activating, so that we can all watch our descent unfold like the oceanographers of ancient Earth. It is strongly recommended and ordered that all colonists not currently receiving care or administering it report to the great hall for debriefing and instruction on how to utilize your new bodies' abilities--including how to breathe. Anu will be taking on water as we sink, equalizing the pressure and giving us all ample time to practice using our adapted lungs. Remember: You will not drown UNLESS YOU PANIC. It is imperative that we remain as calm as possible during this transition, and no further casualties are suffered.

"If you need another incentive for moving to the great hall, remember that this room has the only rooftop window, and you will want to look through it while you still can. Once the ice above freezes again, the last rays of natural sunlight you may ever see will be gone. That is all."

Marna and I eye each other. It seemed Commander Yang was a straightforward man, someone you could count on to be honest. He could use some work on phrasing things comfortably. We walk in silence towards the great hall, half-expecting another blow-up. But no; the ship's cargo moves quietly, almost solemnly, towards its center.

The great hall is beautiful. Organic columns buttress the walls, and the names of every colonist are inscribed into the mosaic of stars and nebulae over churning seas that wraps around the massive auditorium, each name paired with that of his or her chrysalis AI. Elegant lines trace their way around each duo, connecting rows of names as threy rise toward the room's apex, where all those lines converge around the domed roof and its window to the above. The porthole is bordered by two monikers: Anu in one hemisphere; and Enki, the AI that oversaw the functioning of all chrysalises, in the other. We had been told prior to our long sleep their names' origin: Anu, ancient Mesopotamian god of the heavens; and Enki, god of all waters. Every name is tactile; you could feel your place etched into the ship's hull, into history. The room glows the green of fireflies, and through the roof, natural light spills dramatically down, down through the great hall, down to the floor, where a final name lies alone, directly beneath the light: Zhong Yang. And while everyone else's name is in English, his also has Chinese characters beneath it; probably his name rewritten, or perhaps his official title. No one stands upon it at first, although everyone is crowded close, until so many colonists pack in that finally his seal is overcome, and a lucky few stand directly beneath the fading light.

Marna and I are only about four meters from the center, our place enviable to many, yet insufficient to us. We want to be at the epicenter of the light's cascade, to feel--or at least imagine--the sun's maximum warmth as it kisses our skin. A few push and shove for that ideal spot, but are quickly calmed. The room falls eerily still. It occurs to us that we're at a wake: A wake for all that was. Our old lives, our old families, our old friends, our old places, and even our old sun... they are gone, gone for good. And soon, this sun too would pass into oblivion, likely not seen for generations, when our children's children's children crack the ice a second time.

The light from above dims steadily, inexorably, relentlessly. It's so bright to our adapted eyes that it hurts, but no one complains. Marna and I hold hands as we watch the final rays be swallowed by ice, and Anu is once again dark but for ourselves. Choked sobs slip out around me, grief for memories too strong for fur to muffle. Then the sound of rushing water begins, almost as if the seas were held at bay by our vigil.

Perhaps Anu had been programmed with funerary etiquette.