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(Human Domestication Guide) The Inspector

cw: death of old age, institutional transphobia, institutional gaslighting

The planet Dukope was initially colonized in the mid-2200s as an experiment in democratic socialism, a far-flung hippie colony, really; a group of like-minded people got their hand on an old jump ship, tweaked its drive to go somewhat farther than the design spec, and jumped around until they found a place to settle. The planet they decided on, mainly because their ship was on the verge of giving out and they wanted to be able to go home in an emergency, ended up being a little colder and a little more arid than they had wanted, but it washospitable, with beautiful coniferous forests, stark snow-capped mountains and glaciers, and small seas.

The colonists set up intentional communities, each slightly different to best fit the whims of its adherent, each committed to free travel between them so that the colonists' kids would have the same options, and each connected by a slow internetwork and a central governing council to deal with emergencies.

And so, Dukope was a little island past the general Terran frontier. But that never lasts for long. Eventually, successive expansionistic Terran governments caught up to it, the frontier touching the remote little planet and growing past it. With the phagocytosis of Dukote into the greater Terran polity came interplanetary trade, then protectorate status, then enforced trade treaties, and all the while, a gradual erosion of independence.

The regional governments descending from the original intentional communities lost more and more of their original character as they were forced to trade away part of their identity to preserve the rest over successful rounds of negotiations. Each community, needing a corporate identity to be recognized by the nascent Terran Accord, reorganized as a worker-owned cooperative in order to protect the rights of its citizens within the Accord legal framework. This relatively happy state of affairs lasted approximately twenty years, but shortly after private-equity firm advisors descend on the planet, slowly but inexorably "citizen shareholders" vote themselves out of power by ceding control to management, creating an effective single-party apparatus within each provider-nation.

The result is a pastiche of Eastern European socialist aesthetics and a basic form of rigid managed-market economics; people would be paid in cash at the end of each day and pay rent and heating each day, officials and commissars would go through the motions of exalting socialist values because that's what they get paid for, and most everyone would live in poverty, with most of the planet's production surplus siphoned offworld.

There is socialist propaganda on the walls, and to be fair nobody goes hungry, but anything above the barest survival (tasteless nutrient paste, and a place in jail) has to be bought. This is arranged by joblessness being punished with a day in jail... repeatable indefinitely.

Various provider-nations have their own twists to this, some places have cheap salmon, others have cheap lamb, things like that, but the general mood is that of a sort of eternal Cold War Eastern Europe. It has been thus for at least 70 years before present day; the very old folks remember more interesting times, but their memories are muddled, and they are listened to with respect, but dismissed as being in their dotage.

The provider-nations are:

Epruxia - A militaristic nation with no one to fight, their main export are raw recruits for the Cosmic Navy or the various PMCs that operate in the Accord. Having lots of children is encouraged, because many leave. Epruxia is the physical site of the planet's only large spaceport, which is Accord-managed as its own enclave.

Goncharov - This coastal nation benefits from trade by sea, making it slightly wealthier than its neighbors. It is famous for its fisheries.

Vestria - Remnants of a communal system are strongest here, for example free public libraries still exist. They are under economic pressure to get rid of them, but have managed to stave that off by developing a barter system under the table, where goods and services are exchanged informally to circumvent strict economic controls. Known for its industrial output, particularly in heavy machinery and mining equipment. The nation boasts a rugged landscape and a stoic population accustomed to hard labor.

Artesia - The planet's agricultural breadbasket; a former desert made fertile by the first colonists building artesian wells that take water from the northern mountains.

Paradoxically, people on Dukope live slightly better than Accord average; for example, they are guaranteed five synthcubes a day and a cot in jail for the night if they cannot find work for the day. This was formalized by desperate planetary negotiators after the Accord takeover, by declaring joblessness a crime punishable by a day and a night in jail. Labor lotteries for the imprisoned exist.

As a way to prevent planetwide revolt, the current crop of Accord-aligned rulers have made a mockery of the original free-passage system by requiring people traveling between Dukopian provider-nations to follow a byzantine and ever-changing system of passports, permits and visas. In theory, everyone is welcome. In practice, this results in hours-long queues at frontier posts.

This is the situation that an Affini observer probe finds on the semi-forgotten planet; it has been going on for about 70 years. The very old folks remember better, or at least more interesting times, but their memories are muddled, and they are listened to with respect, but dismissed as being in their dotage.

Past a few hours of valiant resistence by Epruxian cadets, I'm imagining the Affini takeover to be relatively drama-free; this is a single planet with a population in the tens of millions, after all. Essentially, the Affini park a large hospital ship above the spaceport and offer passage into Affini space to anyone who wants to leave this dreary half-nightmare.

The only issue being, of course, that there's only the one spaceport, so anyone wanting to make the trip needs their papers in order to board a train that goes to it. The protagonist is, of course, a frontier checkpoint employee, tasked to make sure only those with the proper paperwork get to board the train.

What's preventing the Affini from just landing shuttles anywhere and getting people off-planet that way? The same thing preventing Dukope from having more than a few big, heavy, Soviet-looking satellites that run on literal vacuum tubes above their sky; the same thing that makes point-to-point radios work very poorly, with big propaganda radio towers the only option and even those have very shitty audio quality; the same thing that makes most flying vehicles other than low-flying propeller airplanes unfeasible; The local magnetosphere.

Dukope has an enormous, fast-spinning core, and the planet's ionosphere is so highly charged that the whole planet is constantly on the verge of a global ion storm. While this makes for absolutely beautiful auroras, a free light show every third night all year, it also means that a landing craft operating anywhere other than near the poles (the spaceport is at the planet's north pole; the southern hemisphere is mostly barren) would cause a devastating lightning storm in the spacecraft's path. That's why the few Dukopian satellites must use 1950s technology; they have to be EMP-proof just to work at all!

Affini ships can fly in this sort of high-altitude weather with few problems, but they can't avoid turning into a harbinger of death from anyone and anything that happens to be below them as they fly. After one attempt using a custom-designed shielded ship fails and causes a great fire and destroys hundreds of acres of farmland and a small forest, the decision is made to use the existing spaceport.

Going back to the protagonist. He/she/they is a true patriot, believing that hard work, perseverance, and earnest but not blind obedience will make Artesia great again. Essentially, it's someone doing a "nice" playthrough of Papers Please, taking the hit of the occasional fine for overlooking bad paperwork if it helps reunite a family or similar, but generally doing a good job.

All of a sudden, the workload pretty much doubles. Stoically, the protagonist squares their shoulder and agrees to work fourteen hours a day until the situation is resolved.

Within days it becomes obvious to the planetary council that at the new rate of emigration they'll end up with a ghost planet within a couple of years, so they make more and more byzantine laws concerning passports and visas. (This needs to mirror the game a fair amount, especially the first half of it).

Population remaining: 85%

A brisk morning, with a long line at the checkpoint. The protagonist processes a large family bound for the spaceport. The family's patriarch shares a brief conversation with the protagonist, expressing hope for a new start under the Affini's care. There's a mix of excitement and sorrow as they glance back at the cityscape of Artesia. The protagonist offers a spare red and green pencil to the youngest child—a gesture of kindness in a world of uncertainty.

Population remaining: 50%

Midday rush, an elderly couple at the checkpoint. The couple has lived in Artesia all their lives and shares memories of the city in its heyday with the protagonist. They express mixed feelings about leaving; nostalgia for the past conflicts with relief at escaping the present decay. The protagonist checks their papers meticulously, finding everything in order, and watches as they pass through, a silent farewell to a fading era.

Population remaining: 25%

A quiet evening, a moment of solitude at the checkpoint before calling it a day. A former teacher, now a volunteer helping others relocate, stops to chat with the protagonist. They discuss the dwindling number of young people and families, noting the shift in the city's energy and demographics. The teacher leaves behind a book for the protagonist—a history of Dukope, perhaps as a reminder of what once was.

Population remaining: 10%

A late-night shift, since the double-shift order was never countermanded, even if the checkpoint is emptier every day. The cold creeping through the sparse crowds. A group of artists, some of the last holdouts, come through the checkpoint. They carry with them canvases depicting scenes of Artesia—vivid, colorful, and full of life, contrasting sharply with the grey reality. They offer one to the protagonist as thanks for their service, symbolizing the endurance of culture even as the city empties. The protagonist hangs it on the back wall of the booth, takes it off (it is unauthorized decor after all), then shrugs and puts it back up again.

Population remaining: 5%

Scene: An unusually foggy morning, the silence broken only by the occasional traveler. A middle-aged engineer, responsible for maintaining the city's infrastructure, passes through. She shares with the protagonist that most of the utility systems are set to automated, minimal-function modes, designed to run without human oversight. She thanks the protagonist for staying, acknowledging the loneliness of the vigil with a solemn nod.

Population remaining: 1200

A sunny day, the checkpoint almost deserted. The last high-ranking Party official comes through the checkpoint. They are hesitant, struggling to maintain a composed demeanor. As they hand over their papers, they attempt to articulate the finality of their departure but falter, unable to fully convey the gravity of the moment. The protagonist, ever diligent, apologizes for the unauthorized painting hanging on the back wall, then processes the paperwork without fully realizing this is likely the last official they will see. The official pauses at the gate, takes a deep breath, and without looking back, steps through, leaving the protagonist alone with the echoes of a once-bustling station.

Population remaining: 75%

The protagonist watches as a line of children, accompanied by their teachers, passes through the checkpoint. It's the last day the local school is operational—most families have opted to leave for the promises of a better future under the Affini. The teachers are somber; they manage smiles for the kids, whispering assurances. One teacher stops to thank the protagonist for always making the checkpoint a less scary place for the kids, handing over a small handmade gift from the class.

Population remaining: 50%

A busload of workers from the industrial sector, still in their work overalls, arrives at the checkpoint. They are the last shift from the main factory that produced agricultural equipment. With half the population gone, the demand and maintenance of such equipment have dwindled. One of the workers, a burly man with greying temples, shares a flask of homemade liquor with the protagonist, lamenting the loss of good, honest work and the community that once thrived around their factory floors.

Population remaining: 25%

Artesia's annual harvest festival goes ahead, more out of tradition than celebration. The streets that were once thronged with revelers now see sparse attendance. The protagonist oversees the checkpoint for the festival vendors and performers, ensuring all is in order despite the thinning crowds. An elderly woman, known for her handwoven textiles, insists the protagonist take a scarf, dyed in the vibrant colors of the Artesian flag, whispering, "To remember us by, when we're all just a memory."

Population remaining: 10%

The checkpoint is quieter these days, the arrivals sporadic. A young couple approaches, their faces etched with resolve. They are among the last of the local university's graduate students, holding onto each other, their life packed into a few rugged suitcases. They pause before the protagonist, the young woman pulling out a small, bound thesis. "Could you keep this? It’s about Artesia's ecosystems. Maybe, one day, it’ll be useful again," she says, her voice a mix of hope and sorrow.

Population remaining: 80%

Aliens start showing up, ostensibly as visitors, in reality to help organize an orderly evacuation and bring in advanced medical care. The protagonist only reacts with mild surprise when non-humans pass through the checkpoint; as long as the photo on the passport matches, it's all good. If it doesn't, which may be the case for the Affini or the Spectrum Jellies (shapeshifting species), the protagonist verifies their identity as best as they can and gives helpful suggestions on how to look like their passport photo in case anyone else asks.

Population remaining: 90%

There's the obligatory cameo by Jorji Costava, a long-time "nemesis" of the protagonist, as in the Papers Please game. Jorji today is smuggling grey-market estrogen, which is normally regulated and very expensive. The protagonist has a trans friend and, even after Jorji is caught with a discrepancy in his paperwork, pretends to have a moment of utter stupidity to let Jorji through. A few days later, the protagonist is fined half a day's pay, and accordingly makes a smaller dinner for themself, but smiles to themself anyway.

Population remaining: 1

A group of tourists arrives at the checkpoint, led by a former resident turned tour guide. The guide has briefed them thoroughly, instructing them to act as if they are regular commuters or residents going about their day. The protagonist checks their IDs and listens to their rehearsed stories about heading to work or visiting family. Although something feels off, the protagonist appreciates the effort to maintain the city's living memory and plays along, directing them to points of interest with a touch of nostalgia in their voice. This surreal interaction highlights the city's transition from a living community to a theatrical stage set against the backdrop of its own history.

Population remaining: 1

One morning, a group of paintballers arrives, eager to use the train station as their arena. The protagonist meticulously checks each piece of their gear, ensuring nothing dangerous is disguised among the harmless sport equipment. While some participants are impatient, others are thrilled by the authenticity of the experience, joking about how the protagonist is the best game master they've ever encountered. This vignette underscores the protagonist's unwavering commitment to safety and procedure, even when the rules they enforce have long outgrown their original context.

Population remaining: 1

A survey crew equipped with advanced 3D scanners sets up near the checkpoint, intent on capturing every detail of the city for digital preservation. The protagonist is moved by the attention and expresses genuine happiness that Artesia’s culture and architecture will be remembered and studied. "We may be small, but our spirit is large," the inspector remarks with a blend of pride and melancholy. The crew, touched by the protagonist's sentiment, works with a newfound respect for the task, mindful of the weight of preserving a world teetering on the edge of oblivion.

Population remaining: 1

A historian arrives at the checkpoint, her intentions clear from the stacks of empty folders and recording equipment she carries. She asks for directions to the historical archives, tourism office, and local library. The protagonist, ever helpful, provides detailed directions and even suggests key documents to look for. As the historian thanks them, her expression saddens, reluctant to break the truth that she is here to conduct what is essentially an archaeological dig into a culture that barely exists outside these ruins. This encounter poignantly illustrates the protagonist's isolation and the disconnect between their perception of Artesia as a still-functioning community and the reality acknowledged by the outside world.

An Affini clerk within the vast but very benevolent intergalactic bureaucracy of the Affini Compact attempts to relieve the protagonist, pointing out, with great tact, that they are alone. The protagonist duly puts a "temporarily closed" sign on the checkpoint booth (there is nobody in line, and there hasn't been for days), lets his colleague into the small guardhouse, and shows the last standing orders, issued during the initial wave of emigration and never countermanded. The clerk has to admit that the protagonist is technically correct, shares a treat such as a small chocolate bar with the protagonist, is gently chided for an "attempt at bribery" by the protagonist until the clerk points out that the treat has a tax stamps on it, and the two have a moment before the protagonist says "I must return to duty" and processes the clerk's paperwork.

During the little visit, the clerk has surreptitiously 3d scanned all the documents he was briefly shown, wanting to make an atomically-perfect fake of a relief order so that the protagonist can finally retire, and after wandering around the deserted Artesian city for a little, duly exits via the checkpoint and goes back to the spaceport. The minor tall tale of the lone inspector starts to spread within the Affini bureaucracy.

A different Affini-affiliated clerk (to better sell the ruse) comes back with the forged document. Unfortunately, they act a little too much like a tourist, even asking to take a selfie with the protagonist. This rouses the protagonist's suspicion. Nevertheless they thank the clerk for delivering the document and promise that they will read it at the end of the workday, when time is allotted for such tasks.

While the document is perfect at the molecular level when it comes to paper and ink type, seals, and so on, there are a few discrepancies in the wording. Specifically, the document is addressed to the protagonist throughout; the protagonists know themself to not be of high enough rank to warrant a personalized letter, and would in fact expect a form letter with the appropriate parts filled in or crossed out (such as their office location, years of service, and the like). With a sigh, the protagonist puts the handsome document in a file reserved for suspected forgeries, where it will wait for a commissar that will never come.

The Artesian bureaucracy hasn't been past sending forged documents to inspectors to test their loyalty and attention in the past, after all.

It's Wednesday. While the Dukopian calendar uses standard weekday names, days off (one every seven, overall a better deal than many Terran Accord citizens got) are doled out in a pseudorandom fashion, to ensure that work goes on at a constant rythm. It so happens that the protagonist's is Wednesday.

They get up a little later than they would during the work week, take a little bit of extra time with their morning routine, go out for a stroll, eat a lunch they made and packed earlier, hit the library, sign for any books or records they might be borrowing (even if the books stay in the library), read, listen to some music, swap a take-home book with another, take another short hike to the local ration distribution center, take freeze-dried and canned food that they duly sign for, go home, make dinner, read some more, sleep.

Throughout this we see that this routine has been going on for a very long time; there's a patina of dust over everything, except the paths taken by the protagonist, kept clean by their footsteps; the protagonist avoids a food store closer to their apartment than the ration center, because they've emptied it; the protagonist sighs walking past the newspapers rack at the library since the papers there are years old and are starting to flake apart.

On the other hand, formerly rigidly manicured lawns and urban trees are now growing past their boundaries, birds that would have been cowed by traffic are singing, and insects buzz. The protagonist turns off their light, looks out of the window, and we see a spectacular aurora while the protagonist goes to sleep.

Panning out to look at the mighty aurora, we see that there are a few lights still on in the city in other buildings, probably due to the solar panels that cover some roofs and odd rhomboid antennas that harvest lightning power and act as lightning rods on other roofs. As specified earlier, the last engineers to leave town made sure that basic infrastructure would keep working for decades, since the power and water demand is tiny -- just one person and the occasional tourist group.

A moment of tension. The protagonist does something different one Wednesday. They are limping, and skip their library visit. Instead, they go to a long-shuttered pharmacy or orthopedics store, to acquire a cane or walking stick, now necessary for them.

There is a yellowed note on the counter, addressed to the protagonist by the shopkeeper, written the day before she left: it says "take what you need; it has been paid for, just don't forget to sign for it."

On the counter are a few navy-grade sealed first aid kits, a cane, an elbow brace, and other useful implements that the pharmacist predicted.

The protagonist selects the cane, gets a feel for it, signs for it on an ancient ledger using a pencil because pens' inks have long since dried, and calls out a loud "Thank you!" before leaving, their step now steadied by the walking stick.

A workday. The protagonist is visibly older, now using the cane all the time rather than just after a fall. They walk to work, clock in, have to pour a few drops of engine oil into the time clock so that it registers the clocking-in (the mechanism is old, too), power up the ancient monochrome terminal at their booth, and wait. A klaxon buzzes signaling the start of the work day. We see for a moment the ghosts of people moving in the documents-check line coming from the trains, or going to them, their traffic directed by moving barriers. Nothing happens all morning; the protagonist, ever vigilant, sneaks a few pages of a book they're reading. The book describes two young lovers in a period piece, confessing their love to each other after much shyness and flustering. The protagonist looks up, and there are ghosts again, reminiscences.

This one ghost, a young woman, begs the protagonist to, unusually, reject her passport on a pretext; her job is taking her to a different city and this will separate her from her fiancee. The protagonist "accidentally" rips a corner out of her transit pass, then proceeds to sternly and loudly lecture her about how documents are government property and she is prohibited from boarding the train and will be fined for vandalism. The young woman cries. The people next in line look at the protagonist like they're a monster, but the woman is smiling through the tears. The ghostly scene disappears, with the woman's smile going last.

The protagonist quietly eats a packed lunch in their booth. A simple canned-tuna sandwich made with freeze-dried tomatoes and rehydrated mayo and drybread, but that's how they like it, having had decades to perfect it.

In the afternoon, a human visitor shows up. He wants to take photographs of the train station. The protagonist primly informs him that there is no photography at the customs booth, and the visitor agrees, promising to only take out the camera in the train station building properly (it looks like Milan's Stazione Centrale). He shows a "passport" from some world in the former Terran Accord, probably printed for the occasion, and the necessary documents for a day pass; gets an embossed stamp; and is waved through. The protagonist duly notes it in their logbook.

A few minutes before closing time, the same visitor takes the same steps in reverse and leaves, then as he walks away, dictates something into his hand for a social media post: "Check out these photos! And the Inspector is still there! What an amazing day!"

The protagonist pushes a button, and a neon light flickers on, illuminating a sign saying that there is no phone usage in the customs area. The visitor, walking out, obligingly puts his tiny smartphone away. The protagonist nods gravely, and prepares to shut down for the day.

One very cold evening, walking home from work, the old inspector falls. Grumbles, cursing their own inattentiveness. Tries to stand up as they've done several time.

But this time, they can't. They call for help, then suddenly realize that there's no help coming. They cry, whimper.

Far above, past the almost-impenetrable ionosphere, sits one of the Soviet-style Dukopian satellites. This one has been refurbished with Affini pytho-technology. Modern organic lenses cluster in front of the ancient camera iris mechanism to allow it to zoom down on the protagonist's body, curled up in fetal positions. Red lights turn on; relays click.

An affini medic and her human "pet", living in the long since terraformed southern hemisphere of Dukope, receive an alert. They spring into action with posthuman speed, boarding a transorbital aero-ambulance that takes them to the deserted northern hemisphere in a handful of minutes. The planet's ionosphere reacts angrily to this intrusion, and the ship is followed by an angry trail of purple lightning, as if it had angered Zeus, barely dodging the large ones and tanking the small ones.

After decades of repose, the lightning storm cuts a line through Artesia city, destroying a few buildings. The ambulance slows down and lowers its altitude until the lightning stops.

The two sophonts quickly get out of the vehicle after it performs a rough vertical landing, and bring a hyperadvanced triage kit to the inspector.

The human shakes her head. "Dead. We were a minute late."

The affini breaks open the medical kit and spreads her vines all over the body. "You're not dead till you're warm and dead, right?"

They quickly freeze the body with a canister of liquid helium, put it in the shuttle, take it to modern facilities in the southern hemisphere -- going slower this time, to avoid provoking the ionosphere again -- and resuscitate the inspector.

The prognosis: advanced age. Thanks to the quick action of the rescue team, the inspector will be okay, except for some short term memory damage, but short of essentially rebuilding their body, they won't have long to last. Best to prepare them for a serene end of life.

The planetary Affini Accord bureaucracy sees the inspector as a local legend, and is willing to put aside a somewhat unusual amount of resources to make sure that this happens in the best way possible.

High-grade sedatives? A heartfelt sendoff in virtual reality? No, we're doing it live. And so is the plan to recreate a bustling Artesia for a day or two hatched. Volunteers, mostly but not exclusively human, are quickly found while the inspector's brain is allowed a few days to heal. They will give the inspector a perfect day, and rebuild Artesia as a living diorama while they do.

Such is the power of volunteer work and hypertech, the whole city, or at least the section of the city that the inspector normally ambles about, has been made splendid. This isn't the Artesia of the protagonist's youth, it's the Artesia of their rosiest memories and dreams.

When the protagonist wakes up, in their bed, Artesia has, indeed, been made great again, and they are granted every little dream they've had in their dreary life. The protagonist wakes up on a day of rest, and worries about having missed work. Will they get a demerit? Or worse, be fired?

The streets are full of people (mostly human, but many aliens) going to and from work, carrying packages, or enjoying their day off. The buildings are clean and in good repair. The street stalls are overflowing with food and most are having a half-off sale. The drinking fountain outside the protagonist's tenement has just been repaired, and the repair lady gives the protagonist a thumbs-up. And so on. Reminiscent a little of The Truman Show, the city animates the moment that the inspector steps out of the tenement building's front door.

Achy, the inspector goes to the small store to pick up canned food, forgetting that it was depleted... and find that it's staffed, and their IOUs have been cleared.

When the protagonist goes to the bank to, confusedly, try to explain about the IOUs, they are told that there was a tax audit that they passed (which... pretty much never happens) so their bank account, flush with decades of back pay, has reserves for a few years, which would be untold riches for the average Dukopian in the bad old days. The protagonist experiences a moment of euphoria, feeling rich in a way that they can process. This would be the modern equivalent of about half a million dollars, a far cry from the old Accord quadrillionaire elite or even the Dukopian rulers, but it's a number chosen to be of a scale that the protagonist can process.

The protagonist being a very kind individual, they finally get to show their generous nature, and use a chunk of this windfall to buy street food for people, who are happy to play along and toast to the generous state employee; to cover the heating bill for the day for their whole tenement building, since now it looks like it's inhabited again; and so on. The volunteers, in reality by now used to a post-scarcity life, play along. One, out of hearshot, comments to another that it's heartwarming to see a rare example of generosity today.

The inspector then goes to the library, and there is welcomed warmly the head librarian, who thanks them for keeping the logs current while she was away; they go to a kiosk, get some spanakopita or something like that, and it tastes a lot better than it ever actually did. Back in the library, new books have been printed, newspapers have been printed for the occasion, with real news and pictures about the communities on Dukope's southern hemisphere, which are in fact thriving.

The librarian shows the inspector one of the newspapers; a small article on an inner page for the local news (front page wouldn't be believable!) indicates that they are to be honored for their long service at the local Party headquarters; this made the local news because they are the longest serving customs employee in the nation's history. Which is, after all, true.

"Oh! My, it's an hour from now! I should go, I should walk, you know what they are like with people who are late!" the inspector exclaims, getting their cane.

Almost on cue (it was, in fact, on cue) an official vehicle, staffed by two very stern policemen who are actually trying to not burst out laughing, is there to pick up the inspector. A little confused, they ask if they are being arrested; instead, the policeman who isn't driving salutes him. "No, inspector, we are simply here to make sure you aren't late. Did you forget? Today is your retirement, you are being presented with a plaque for perfect attendance."

The inspector is a little surprised at people waving at the car -- a police car is normally greeted by people trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. They figure maybe it's their old eyes playing tricks on them.

The ride is, of course, comfortable. In truth, the car is following a meandering path, showing the inspector the part of Artesia city that was restored, and also making sure that all the volunteers get at least a look at the last guardian of Dukope.

The policeman asks the inspector a few anectdotes from his long life, which the inspector answers, after saying, with a chuckle, "this is off the record, yes?" and receiving a wink in response. The policeman is in truth a historian, using this opportunity to preserve unique memories. Ironically, the inspector is for once being recorded by a covert operative like they've always feared, but it's in a very benign context.

After the drive, the protagonist is introduced to a "commissar" at a government office, where after a brief wait (again, no wait would be unrealistic) a "inner Party member" gives them their retirement papers, and besides that a glorious-looking, "dago dazzler" document of recognition for decades of steadfast service and perfect attendance.

Overhelmed, the protagonist feebly protests and says that this can't be right, they cannot in good conscience accept it, they just missed a week of work! The "officials" say that they had intended to deliver the retirement papers TwO weeks ago but, alas, there was a bureaucratic snafu... you know how these things are... in fact, we thank you for covering an extra week, you truly are an example!

Put at ease, the inspector is given a slightly over the top congratulatory speech by the official, and the protagonist is then whisked downstairs to an assembly hall, where they are asked to say a few inspiring words to the provider-nation's new entries to the workforce (in fact Affini Compact bureaucrats and clerks who wished to hear the inspector speak). Glory to Artesia!

Proudly wearing their shiny medal, the protagonist takes the tram home, buys a fancy-by-Artesian-standards dinner for who they thinks is the building maintenance person, slowly but surely takes the elevator to their apartment, goes inside, carefully hangs the certificate of recognition above the mantlepiece, puts on some classical music, falls asleep, and simply doesn't wake up the next morning, a smile on their lips. On this night, as happens about 40% of the time, the sky is dark and silent, looking like Earth's rather than sporting aurora and lightning.

Six months later, the domestication of Dukope is complete; the northern hemisphere is quickly filled by a community that resembles the original idealistic plan for the planet, a Pacific Northwest hippie retreat to compliment the high-tech southern hemisphere. Modern maglev trains connect the north and south, digging through the equatorial mountains with hypertechnological ease.

But a small part of the city, that walked by the inspector, is kept as-is, and most of it turned into a museum, with the protagonist's apartment left pristine, and their tomb in the middle of a little garden outside the train station, forever guarding it, marked with a plaque of recognition by the Affini bureaucracy, for service above and beyond. Clerks working in this and nearby solar systems, if they know the story, occasionally drop by to pay their respects.

And so ends the story of an unnamed customs officer, one of the last guardians of humanity.