The Eternal Present, mechanized and bound by ropes of chains of silken cordite, clashes with the Hungry Past, a hollow beast of smashed ribs and desiccated hide, and Neo-Baku is mineral’d. Foundations founder, and towers slide into the slipping shallows, swallowed by salty saliva.
Extermines forces exterminate the Santa Mors, the Crucifying Insurrectors slaughter Soldered Legionnaires, glycerin rats and stannic leeches grow fat. Bodies litter the streets and byways, filling the canals of the Drowned City and choking the halls of the far-flung auto-mines. Death rules, and Life shrinks, as it did during the Great Downturn when the atoms were smashed.
Wicked rust scrapes along yielding flesh, viscous oil chokes lungs as mechano-meat is pierced, and all about the Final Continent, earth is set to blaze as man once more offers up himself in ritual murder. A shake-down, a shift to the lateral, and, at the end of the death-rattle, after the final choking gasp, once the spark has dimmed and the ghost has vacated – no change. None.