Through the wall-size window, I can see a distant nebula: its gases and hypnotic hues make me hold my breath. What a puny word that is, beautiful. Oh how we need a new language to go with our new bodies.

I can also see the dying ball of dirt. Earth, circa 2049, our former home. It looks smudged and sepia.

A fern perched in the window catches my eye. Well, what used to be a fern. I never had a green thumb, even those long years ago when I lived on Earth. This fern is mostly a sad little curve of stick flanked by a few dung-green wisps; it wilts and droops like a defunct old feathery cock. Its photosynthesis is entirely artificial. If it were allowed the 'sun' we’ve got now. Without the absence of adequate ozone layers, it would instantly die. Solar flares irradiate us daily, even as we are protected by STEs¬- 'superior technological environments,' they’re called.