Prosaic Sunday. Opening paragraphs from Chapter 168, downstream from the current episode.

The elevated maroli had theories about the nature of their existence, the most common a notion they were dead persons, lingering overlong in the between-life for whatever reason, and bored by it.

Virgil the maroli thought it was as good an explanation as any, made credible by occasional encounters in his dreams with those who wanted a message sent to the linear temporal reality.

Leaned into a corner of Francine Suraksin Harrison’s quarters, sound asleep, tentacles twitching, Virgil’s dream self coasted across a field sown with a grain he did not recognize; tall like wheat, plump like oats.

There, under midday skies, loitered a female of the Anye Raji Limar persuasion, a ‘fox in a dress’ as the furry folk would say, who gave her name as Oran of Pa’an.

He replied, “We call it Madhya State these days.”

The lady made a toothy smile. “Are you my friend Sevin Yudhvan, or someone else?”

Virgil rotated his capsule left and right. “I am called Virgil Caine.”

“Do all the sainted maroli have last names in your time?”

He found the lady hard to look at, exacerbated by a brilliant light source positioned behind her head, as though to intentionally blind him if he stared.

“No. Some take surnames from patrons or the work life, but it’s not common.” He wiggled a tentacle at her. “We are sainted, are we?”

She stooped to inhale the aroma of nature’s bounty. “Do you know who the AptakArin were?”

Virgil performed the maroli nod. “Amil Leyta’s angels in bottles. Disembodied entities, discovered after he invented the Soul Camera, guiding spirits to and from the between-life.”

Oran of Pa’an met his gaze with beatific serenity. “The magic number is one-hundred-thirty-nine.”