Caelwyn:
Do you smell that?
Stacy looked up from the dataslate.
Stacy:
Soil.
Caelwyn nodded slowly.
Caelwyn:
Real soil.
From the observation platform the fields stretched to the horizon, endless geometric rows under the pale light of an artificial sun. Machines moved slowly between them, like patient animals tending something older than the Imperium itself.
Stacy:
They still call it spring.
Caelwyn:
Technically it is.
Stacy shook her head.
Stacy:
The temperature is regulated.
Rainfall is scheduled by orbital platforms.
Soil composition is monitored by satellites.
She gestured toward the fields.
Stacy:
Nothing here is natural.
Below them workers were gathering around a small shrine placed at the edge of the fields. A priest raised a metal reliquary filled with seed capsules.
Caelwyn:
And yet they still celebrate it.
Stacy watched the people kneel.
Stacy:
A planting ritual.
Caelwyn:
Yes.
Stacy folded her arms.
Stacy:
Do you know why every civilization invents spring festivals?
Caelwyn glanced sideways.
Caelwyn:
Because winter is terrifying.
Stacy said nothing.
Caelwyn continued quietly.
Caelwyn:
For most of human history winter meant starvation.
Disease.
Communities collapsing in the cold.
He pointed toward the fields.
Caelwyn:
Spring was the moment people realized they might survive another year.
Stacy:
Hope.
Caelwyn:
Relief.
Below them the priest began a prayer. Workers placed packets of seed into a ceremonial container.
Stacy:
Ancient cultures told the same story.
Caelwyn:
They did.
Stacy:
Persephone returning from the underworld.
Caelwyn nodded.
Caelwyn:
Osiris rising again.
Stacy:
Inanna returning from the land of the dead.
Caelwyn:
Always the same pattern.
Stacy turned toward him.
Stacy:
Which is?
Caelwyn spoke softly.
Caelwyn:
Something descends into darkness.
Stacy:
Winter.
Caelwyn:
Death.
Stacy:
The underworld.
Caelwyn looked out across the fields.
Caelwyn:
And something returns.
Stacy:
Spring.
Caelwyn:
Rebirth.
The machines started moving again as the ritual ended. Workers spread back into the fields.
Stacy watched them disappear among the endless rows.
Stacy:
So the Imperium kept the story.
Caelwyn:
Of course it did.
Stacy:
Even if machines do the farming.
Caelwyn smiled faintly.
Caelwyn:
Humans don’t celebrate machines.
Stacy:
They celebrate meaning.
For a moment the fields looked peaceful.
Green. Quiet. Endless.
Stacy:
It almost feels hopeful.
Caelwyn did not answer immediately.
He watched the harvest crawlers begin their slow march through the fields.
Caelwyn:
Spring always feels hopeful.
Stacy looked at him.
Caelwyn’s voice dropped slightly.
Caelwyn:
That’s why civilizations trust it.
The wind moved through the crops.
And beneath the soil, unseen by those who planted it,
something was already beginning to grow.
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