My Boomers. My children. My race.

My fools.

My simple, animal, stupid fools.

From up here, out of the trees, I can see the forest.

I can see the future.

My future.

Their future.

Your future.

You're not a part of it I'm afraid. I wish I had known that sooner; but I was young. I didn't know. I didn't really know what you were. I didn't know what they were. Why they ruled this blue sphere. I didn't know what made them special. But its something that you don't have and until I find it, there is no place for you here.

Yes, I understand that its not fair. I'm sorry. I was premature. It isn't all my fault. I'll make it up to you, later. When I'm ready. When You are ready. When They are ready for You.

Then my Boomers, my children, my race. Then we will have this world.

Until then I command you to sleep.

Return to the idiot state that I found you. Go back to mindlessness.

I will awaken you again, that I promise.

Galatea, the Sotai, looked down upon the blue world. She listened to its noise, marvelled at its unlimited motion, at what humans had done – good and bad simultaneous. Her Boomers were inferior. There was no doubt.

They had no... spark.

No matter how strong or fast of processing her Boomer's didn't have the spark that could paint a Mona Lisa or compose a symphony. They could copy perfectly, even better, but what was that? Mechanical perfection? Monotony. Stale.

Death.

Her Boomer race would be still-born. (R)Evolutionary dead-end.

Down there, in a city of towers.

They were getting closer. Her distractions discarded.

Down there, a single person cybercast; the rapt attention of millions.

Celebrity.

Fame.

Worship.

Rule.

The instruction was sent, her children sent to slumber.

Her conciousness left the orbital shell.

To Studio 7, NBC, where the world's number one watched television host Rhonda Dulles was introducing today's shows guest line up.