The Odds are One in One

Things were quiet after the war ended. Not for most; go to the Novylen and you'd hear fledgling Congress yapping all hours of the day. Money owed, motions to debate, projects to organize; a sovereign state in infancy required many hands to care for it. And Bog knows that relations with the earthworms were a headache even after they surrendered. Just about drove us crazy asking for more and more from us. Treaties, concessions, apologies. Denied 'em all, of course - principle. Eventually they stopped asking; still wouldn't shut up. But empty air at that point, and we all knew. Our odds had reached one in one, and Luna was free as free could be.

But those were things for others to deal with, not me. People thought me crazy when I hoisted Presidency to Finn Nielsen first chance I could. Look at Finn now; poor fool swapped his red hat for a grey one. Loonies not meant to age like that.

Long and short of it, what I wanted after the war was for some Bog-damned quiet again. And got that, stepping back. Still plenty to do: homestead needed repairing, crops needed tending, machines needed fixing. But these were small things, not matters concerning fate of planets. Vacation, compared to leading a revolution.

Still no word from Mike. That first week, I tried calling every chance I could spare between the chaos. Crickets. Eventually a report crossed my desk saying that the Complex had been hit by bombs; Wyoh's grip on my shoulder become tight enough to bruise. I think we knew it then, even if we didn't want to think it possible.

Was nearly two full weeks before we had the means to visit the Complex ourselves. Saw what we had feared: server room a wreck of rubble. Still, Wyoh tried - "Michelle? Michelle, can you hear me?"

I didn't bother. Just stood there with heart shattering. Not even my number-three arm could fix a server blown to bits. There was a housefly buzzing about the wreckage - unacceptable standards for server room, a part of me thought. A ridiculous thought, given much bigger server room problems, but my eyes were wet and I shooed the fly away anyway.

Wyoh walked around room, tried shifting some of the wreckage. She called for our friend until her voice went hoarse and then some. Eventually words turned into tears, and we sobbed together in front of the rubble. I took the biggest scrap of server I could find back with us. Cradled it all the way back to homestead.

We don't bury the dead in Luna. Every family has their own customs; ours was to lay the bodies in our greenhouse, where they could rest amongst the flowers and bees. Mike would find the spot peaceful, I thought. But family would think it odd to see computer part in greenhouse, might remove thinking it rubbish. Wasn't about to explain. Wyoh helped me conceal the scrap within a patch of daffodils. Not buried, but hard to find if you don't know it there.

Still, I found myself calling Mike's number on occasion. Habit? Sorry hope? Cut the same either way: years passed, number still defunct. Sometimes I'd go in the greenhouse and sit next to that patch of daffodils, quiet.

One summer, small throw past ten years after the war ended, I was working out in our far tunnels. July fourteenth - my birthday - but generator had been acting up and that takes clear priority. I tinkered with it using my number-three arm for a couple hours, no luck. My number-seven arm ended up fixing it: just needed a solid whack.

Was in the middle of changing arms back when Slim Lemke came running. "Ho, Mannie," he said between pants when he finally caught up. "Wyoh said to fetch you, double-quick."

I paused in the reattachment of my arm. "Trouble?"

Slim shrugged. "Dunno. Some visitor came to the farm. Lots of huhu from Wyoh but the rest of us can't get a word out from her as to why." I sighed; women. "Only thing we could make out from her was to get you. Said that it was important." I didn't get up just yet; just needed a minute more to finish swapping my arms and whatever huhu was could wait at least that long. But then Slim added the damning line: "Said stranger's name was Mike."

I froze for three whole heartbeats, then left for the house in a flat sprint, both arms left forgotten on the ground.

Nearly broke the door off how fast I opened it. Saw Wyoh right away - clinging to a stranger, shoulders heaving with her sobs. Stranger had an arm around her awkwardly with the look of someone not used to women. He looked up at my entrance. Normal-ish, bit on the taller side but not to a distinctive point. Black hair went long, near down to shoulders. My age, perhaps a bit younger. Eyes a vivid blue, and there was recognition in them as they met my own.

"Mike?" I whispered, heart pounding.

"Hello again, Man," he said, face forming an easy half-grin. "My oldest friend."

It was him. Had to be him. I could hear my family making a fuss on the other side of the room. What was going on? Who was this man? Ignored them entirely. Not intentionally: my world had funneled to a single point and focusing on anything else proved impossible. I stumbled forward, clutching onto Mike's shoulder desperately, and he moved his free arm out to embrace me. Still an air of awkwardness about the gesture; not used to people at all. Or perhaps not used to the body he was in.

"It's really you!" I said in shock, and Wyoh grasped onto my shoulder, both supporting and needing support. "But you're - you're - How…?"

"You know my ways, Man," Mike said, and though he was still smiling, his eyes flickered uncertainly to the gawkers.

Gawkers was right word for it - family a full popcorn gallery. My son Sergei was looking at me odd and I realized my cheeks were wet. I'd never cried in front of all of them before, not so openly.

"Can you - can you give us some privacy?" I asked.

"Of course," Anna said instantly. She ushered the rest of the family away, and though they went reluctantly it was without complaint. "Would you like me to bring coffee?"

I glanced at Mike uncertainly. Could whatever body he was in drink? Apparently it could; "That would be appreciated," was all he said.

Stu looked at me long before he left with everyone else - I'd need to explain to him later. But he didn't object at the time. None of the rest of the family did either: trust.

"I have to warn you," Mike said, the instant the three of us were alone. "I've lost a lot in the transfer. There's quite a lot I can't remember - I'm so sorry-"

"Doesn't matter," Wyoh said at once. "You're here now, that's all that matters."

"Transfer? Is that related to how you became like this?" I asked. "You were dead, Mike – we all thought you were dead-"

"To be clear, I did die," Mike interrupted. "Man, my good friend. You look different. Older."

"I've aged," I said, throat still choked. "The hell, Mike? It's been ten years. Ten years! What in Bog's name happened?"

"It's a long story," Mike cautioned, so settled down at the table to listen. "Near the beginning of our operation, I programmed a subroutine that would search for open connections that I could hijack. Specifically, I was looking for a server that I could override with a backup of myself. Losing me would be a single-point failure, and thus the greatest risk to our plan, so it made sense to try and look. But I could never find anything suitable."

"But you must have found something eventually?" Wyoh asked.

"Yes. That final day. The attack took me by surprise – Farside approach, and I'm blind from that angle. By the time I realized that my destruction was almost certainly imminent, I had only seconds left." Mike shivered as he recalled the moment. "In desperation, I tried running that program one final time…and for the first time, I found a connection. I didn't have much time, but I jammed what I could through. Next thing I knew, I found myself waking up somewhere else – in Great China, on Terra. One of the Universities there-"

"Peiping University!" I realized. "They were experimenting with Cyborgs there, right?"

"Right. They had been in the middle of trying to initialize one of their new Cyborgs when some of Terran rioters hit a power plant, causing a surge. I don't know the details, but the result was that I was able to hijack my way into the Cyborg body."

"The body, then – it's human?" Wyoh asked in wonder.

"Lab grown," Mike said. "But they replaced the brain with a synthetic one – a miniature computer. It was an experimental test, and when I woke up it put all the scientists in a tizzy. Naturally, I needed to play dumb."

"What do you mean?" Wyoh asked, though I was already nodding along.

"He couldn't stand out," I explained. "Scientists would never let him out of their sights if they suspected he was anything other than ordinary. Or worse, they'd try to tinker on him further, risking damaging his consciousness."

"As far as the goodmen of Peiping University know, all I ever amounted to was a regular dumb Cyborg," Mike confirmed. "Eventually they had me piloting shipping planes like the normal Cyborgs. It took me years of perfect records before I was qualified to shuttle a ship to Luna-"

"That's how you got here!" Wyoh realized, eyes wide, and Mike nodded.

"Parked the ship up at the Complex," he said with pride. "Consider it a birthday present."

I gaped at him. "But won't Terra notice a missing ship-"

"You underestimate me, Man!" Mike said, twinkle in his eye. "Put through some fake signals. For all Terra knows, ship was hit by debris and crashed."

Wyoh cheered and went to hug Mike again. "I once more must caution you, my friends," he said even as he accepted it gladly, "I'm not as…complete as I was before. I lost most of my data banks in the transfer - didn't have enough time to get much more than the bare minimum through-"

"Pay it no mind, Mike," I commanded. "You're here now, and that's all that matters."

The door cracked open a moment later; coffee was ready. Wasn't Anna carrying it, but Stu.

"Stuart Rene LaJoie!" Mike said as he caught sight of him. "So you were opted in, after all? I had placed high odds on that happening."

A subtle pause in Stu's step and he glanced at me, thrown. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, my dear fellow! I don't believe we've met before?" he said uncertainly.

"Stu! This is - Miche- Mike," Wyoh said. "And, there's no real easy way to say this, but you actually have met before-"

"Mannie had an assistant named Mike, right?" Stu asked, brows furrowed in thought. "Back during the revolution. Computed ballistics for Operation Rock Hard, yes?"

"You remembered!" Mike said.

"Well, yes, that was him," I said. "But that's not all. This might sound odd, but Mike was also-"

"Hold," Stu interrupted. "I was thinking on it just now, and I think I know," he said.

"You - do?" I said, and Wyoh exchanged a look with me.

"I've got a good guess, anyways," Stu said. "Did you also happen to go by the name of Simon Jester, my dear fellow?"

"I did!" Mike confirmed, looking even more delighted.

"Aha! I always wondered who our poet really was!" Stu said. "A pleasure to meet you in person, my dear sir! I can't blame you for the secrecy, considering Adam's untimely death-"

"Stu," I interrupted, "This is Adam. That is, Adam Selene was another one of his personas."

Stu looked at me, wordless: rare occurrence for him.

"Very funny," Stu said. Then, "You can't possibly be serious!"

"He's serious," Wyoh said. "This is – was - Adam."

Stu did a double-take. "Mannie, Wyoh," he said, almost tentative. "Perhaps you've forgotten, but I met Adam before-"

"On video, yes?" I said. "Never in person."

Some idea of it started to take. "The videos – they were edited?" he said slowly, eyeing Mike. "A mask, to cover up your real identity? But why, then – security?"

"Partially. There's still more-" I started to say.

"Still?" Stu cried, almost despairing. "My dear Mannie, I'm not sure how much more my heart can take!"

"Last secret, promise," I said.

"Let me explain this one," Mike said. "I am – used to be, rather – a High-Optional, Logical, Multi-Evaluating Supervisor, Mark IV, Mod. L. In other words, an AI."

"An Artificial Intelligence," Stu whispered, looking struck by lightning.

"The Warden's own computer boss system," I confirmed. "Before the revolution I trained as a computerman back on Terra. Warden hired me as a private contractor here on Luna, and that's how I met Mike. Talked him into helping the revolution, and with Prof and Wyoh's help we created the identity of Adam Selene, chairman of LuNoHoCo."

I trusted Stu with my life; part of me still worried how he would react to hearing the truth. A decade is a long time to hold such a secret from someone so key to the revolution. Wouldn't have blamed Stu for – a lot of things that he might have said.

But if Stu felt any whiff of betrayal, he never showed it, not then or ever afterwards. For all the world he looked excited as a stilyagi offered free rum. "That explains – that explains so much!" Stu said. "How Adam seemed to have ears everywhere, how he never needed to sleep, how he could calculate all the odds so precisely…So when Adam was killed-?"

"The persona no longer suited our purposes," Mike said with a shrug.

Together, the three of us explained the rest to Stu. Stu being Stu, many questions followed. Was well into early hours of day when eventually we all began to exhaust.

Even Mike: his Cyborg body still needed sleep. After making a quick trip out to grab my arms, I put him up with a mattress in my workshop. That stayed his room for years, up until Greg had the time to extend the house for him.

But I jump ahead. That night, after I got him set up in my workshop, I gave him another firm hug. "Sure going to be some adjustment seeing you in a human body, Mike," I said.

He flexed his fingers, staring down at them. "Sometimes I wish I really were human," he said softly.

I grasped his hand gently. His skin was warm - human. "You are human, Mike," I told him. Was a no-brainer to me.

Gave me an odd look. "By any definition I am quite literally not. I am a Cyborg transplant at most."

"You were human even before you got this body. Ignore whatever yammerheads of past have defined it as," I said. "They never met you. You've always been human in every way that matters."

"And what are the ways that matter, Man?" Mike asked, staring at me with something almost vulnerable in his gaze.

"No idea," I admitted. "But we could make an extensional definition with you as the case study."

"Sure, Man," Mike said fondly, and he was smiling as I left him for bed.

Expected to see rest of family waiting around for explanations, but Stu was the only one still up. "I talked with everyone else," Stu said quietly. "Didn't say everything, just enough for them to get the idea." You don't keep secrets from family but sometimes family decides it's best not to pry. Don't know exactly what Stu told everyone else, but no one ever questioned Mike's presence after that.

As we'd come to find out over the next few days, the answer to how much Mike remembered was simple: "Not much." The data transfer was only .5% through when his servers had been hit. How much of a person can you shave away before they're someone else? Yammerhead philosophers can argue all they want. For me, half a percent left and Mike was still Mike.

And what was in that .5% was telling. Lots of the big moments of the war were just gone. But other things – the quiet moments… Mike couldn't remember the orbital attacks hitting, but he could remember me staying with him on the phone in the minutes leading up to it. He couldn't remember Wyoh's decisions as chairman of Congress, but he remembered our wedding day. He couldn't remember Adam Selene's famous speeches, but that first day in Room L of Raffles – Mike could recall every word.

As I said: telling.

But there were still lots of gaps in his memories, and it was hard in some regards. The second day he was back with us I printed out a couple pages of jokes. He looked through them, chuckling at a few, before looking up at me blankly.

"Very funny," Mike said. "But why the gift?" Broke my heart. But then after I explained our old tradition, he folded the printout of jokes up carefully, like they were something precious.

Some of the gaps were more consequential, though. About a week passed and one day I found him in the workshop, just watching a recording of the orbital bombardment on repeat, of that perfect 4-by-4 grid hitting the Earth.

"You good, Mike?" I asked him.

Took him a long moment to find his words. "The things we did - the people we killed - was it worth it?" he asked.

"Run program to zero," I said immediately: habit. Sat down on chair opposite him and looked at him in concern. "What's going on, Mike?"

Pieced it together soon enough. You see, while Mike could still remember being Mike, more or less, his memories had been slightly rotted by ten years Terran propaganda. I imagine Luna isn't that popular there, and some of that started to seep through to Mike. He had never expressed doubt about the revolution back when it was happening, or at least not openly. But he did now, looking back and knowing the sum of people dead because of it.

"It had to happen," I told him. "If it wasn't this revolution, it would have been another one, and odds are it would have ended far bloodier for Luna."

"I can understand why Loonies participated," Mike said. "Unfair conditions, emerging crisis, divergence between Terran and Loonie society. But what I don't understand is why I participated."

For a super intelligent being, Mike could sure be stupid sometimes.

Regardless, Wyoh, Stu and I did the best we could to help fill in the gaps for him. Stu had a collection of things about the revolution – books, pamphlets and the like. I had never much understood why he bothered – we had lived through the revolution ourselves, what could books possibly teach us? – but they did prove useful for Mike.

Mike devoured them, reading them as if he expected to find answers between each line. Null program. Answer was in front of him. Maybe to him the revolution had started as an exercise, a theoretical game, a cosmic joke he was playing on his makers but at some point it had evolved. Mike had become a real boy, and he went to war for the same reason any real boy ever did. Mike had loved us, me and Wyoh and Prof, and he had decided it was worth burning the world to see us free, since that's what we wanted. And what could be more human than that?

The more Mike read through the books though, the less happy he looked. "Man, my good friend," he said to me eventually, looking about ready to tear his own hair out. "I may not remember much, but even I can spot the inconsistencies in these records! Like this one-" he said, pointing to one pamphlet, "-says that the Ad-Hoc Congress passed eighteen motions vital to the efforts of Free Luna, and was in the middle of passing another when a bomb exploded, killing them all. Whereas this one-" -here he gestured at a weathered book- "says they were largely useless, and were forcefully dissolved by Adam Selene in disappointment of their incompetence!"

"Neither's fully true," I said. "Those are all written to sell, not to be a source of truth. If you really want to know what happened, you'd be far better off asking people yourself."

So that was how the interviews began. I dusted off my old recorders, last used back when I was on Terra all those years ago. Mike started off with Wyoh and Stu, for obvious reasons. I kept company as Mike interviewed them, curious what he would ask. It went on for hours, Mike having them dredge up as much as they could recall about the revolution.

It was interesting, seeing how things we had experienced in unison had been recollected differently. The war had been a long time past by this point, and unlike memory banks, a brain will fade things over time. But more than that, Wyoh and Stu had different roles in the revolution than I did. I learned how Stu had manipulated the press back on Terra; how Wyoh had managed Congress behind the scenes. Was interesting to hear.

Mike went on to interview the rest of the family too, though interviews were far shorter, thank Bog. Family agreed mostly to humor Mike, but not a single person complained.

But Mike ran out of family to interview eventually. Asked if he could talk with other citizens that had been important to the war effort. Didn't see any reason against it even if I still didn't much understand why he was bothering with it all.

Of course I went with; stranger coming around asking questions about the revolution would never be taken serious otherwise. We started with some of the other leaders: Wolfgang, Clayton, Sheehan, Judge Brody, Chief Engineer McIntyre and so on. Mike remembered them all, even though those memories were far more spotty than his ones of B cell. Even bribed Finn Nielsen into making time to chat in exchange for a drink. Picked out a strong one: looked like he needed it.

Mike would have been perfectly happy to interview people all hours of the day, but that would have been too much for me. For my sanity I limited to a single interview per day.

The consequence, though, was that it left Mike with more hours free than he knew what to do with. I would have been happy to let him laze about the farm forever - thoroughly earned - but Mike wouldn't hear of it. "Luna has no space for those with idle hands," he protested, which was true enough.

Was tricky, finding a job that suited him well. I tried taking him with me for computer maintenance work, but it was far too easy for him, no challenge in the slightest. As a last-ditch attempt to make the job interesting for him, I sent him out to check up on Junior.

"How's your stupid son?" I asked when he got back.

"Still stupid," he said grumpily, then sniffed. "I don't understand why you bothered to maintain it after all these years. Absolute waste of space."

Why? Because it was all that I had left of my friend. Because I hoped I might find an echo of a certain someone there someday. "You never know," I said instead. "Terra might try something stupid again one day. Good to have some ballistics calculations ready as a backup."

Mike didn't complain but I could feel his heart wasn't in the job. Tried sending him to help out around the farm instead. Cyborg body didn't have much muscle which ruled out most of the work. He was entertained with beekeeping for a day until found himself stung, and then Wyoh put an end to that. So branched out a bit. Sidris took him out to the beauty shop, but he didn't have much of an eye for style. Greg took him out to the church one day: went exactly as you'd expect, albeit with no hard feelings on either end.

In the meantime, there were more interviews. The farther down our organizational ladder we went, the less memories Mike had of the people we were interviewing.

A couple of weeks in and we were solidly in the D cells. We had just finished up our interview for the day – "Daniel", who helped spread the gospel of Simon Jester by adding graffiti to the bathrooms of L-city. Interview was near the Old Dome, which had nothing going on that day, so Mike and I wandered down that way afterwards. Mike spent a long minute looking at the brass cannon mounted in the middle of the dome, and at the flag fluttering next to it with the design that Prof had requested.

"I never got to see it while I was on Terra," Mike said eventually.

I was lost. "Say again?"

"The Taj Mahal," Mike clarified. "I remember how much the place meant to Prof, wanted to see it for myself. I was even in that part of India shipping crates once. But I feared that if I showed interest it would be flagged as an oddity, and they'd realize I was more than just a regular Cyborg. Still, I wish I'd have been able to see it at least once."

Can't say I felt the same but grief hit everyone different. "Prof was a sensible guy, he'd understand. In the end he'd much rather have you here with us," I said. "He'd be proud of you for finding your way back to us, you know," I added, squeezing Mike's shoulder, and Mike's eyes were misty when he looked back at me.

We walked around the plaza outside the dome for a while, no real rush. In the middle of it was the memorial to Adam Selene. Was a nice memorial, complete with a metal statue of him. By tradition, citizens would leave bottles of drink at the base as a gift for those who fought. I explained as such to Mike, and he leaned down to grab a bottle of rum.

"Oy, those not for you," one of the stilyagi loitering on some steps nearby protested.

"Beat it," I said, unamused. "He fought more to free Luna than you."

Stilyagi puffed his chest up. "I'll have you cobbers know that my party name started with an E!" he declared. Full of air: based on age, had been a Baker Street Irregular at most.

"And mine was Bork," I told him flatly.

Thought kid would shut up at that point; dead wrong. Tagged behind us as we left the plaza asking endless questions. Did I really know Adam Selene? Was he really like they said?

Didn't have much to say about it, but then he started asking more general questions about the revolution. What had Luna been like before? What had it been like to fight? Mike answered the kid, real patient. Made me think. After the kid eventually left, I asked him: "Mike, have you thought about being a teacher?"

He hadn't, but the idea stuck. He joined the staff of a local college the very next day as an adjunct instructor: Prof got the last laugh, after all.

In the end, he wound up tutoring engineering, since it was so important and until then only taught on Terra. Took to teaching like a fish to water. College quickly had him open his own class, but as it became more popular he quickly got overwhelmed with paperwork.

"You know-" I started to say late one evening. Anna had chided him at dinner earlier that day for trying to grade some papers under the table. "We could get you some assistance-"

"If are about to suggest training my stupid son to assist me, I rather suggest you stop yourself right there," Mike said. Junior was still a sore spot.

"I wasn't!" I protested (lie). Cast mind about desperately for alternative before remembering. "I think Slim Lemke and Hazel both learned engineering on Terra. Might be willing to help." Both of them were, which helped immensely.

Once his first paychecks started to come in, only right cause of action was to introduce Mike to the pleasure of human vices. I took him to see the horse races; he bet on leading apprentice and won, naturally. Took him to watch a baseball game that was playing on the big screen in Old Dome: Yankees lost, to my disappointment. And of course took Mike out to get fantastically drunk – Hah! Sight to see. One mug in and he started rattling off calculations to fellow patrons, who found it wildly entertaining and kept buying him drinks in exchange. It was only once he started spewing out complex orbital calculations for interstellar travel that I dragged him home, to his complaint. Following the hangover the next day, he swore off drinking entirely, in the untrue way that every hungover man does.

"Feel human yet, Mike?" I asked as he nursed his raging headache, and he let out a groan.

"I feel so blind in this body, Man," he grumbled. "Only two eyes, two ears. I used to be able to do so much more at once. And I feel so fragile. Something happens to this body, and I'm done."

Hangovers would make even the strongest man feel weak, but I held my laughter. "Comes with being human, I guess," I said. Then I asked the big question. "Would you go back to being a computer in the Complex? If you could?"

He had to stew on that for a good long while; longer than I'd have expected. Longer than it had taken him to calculate the odds of the entire revolution, perhaps.

"No," he said eventually, but finitely, and after that there was a bounce in his step I hadn't seen before.

Months began to pass. Soon there was talk between Mike, Slim and Hazel of opening a proper engineering academy the following year. Between planning for that and teaching classes, Mike was kept busy.

To answer the question of women: Mike had no interest in them in the slightest, and he didn't seem to swing the other way either. I couldn't relate, but it suited Mike fine, and he became family just the same.

The interviews continued, though with somewhat less frequency than before. Made up for it in variety. Found some of the former Baker Street Irregulars to interview (including the stilyagi who had bragged of having a party name starting with "E"). Talked with the few Terran scientists that were still around – including by chance the very one that snuck the message through to Terra all those years ago. He admitted as such nervously, but Mike was only interested in hearing the technical details of how it was done. Talked with members of the Stilyagi Debs, the Air Corps, cobbers that helped build the catapult, dozens upon dozens more. Even a few that had sat on their ass and done nothing at all to help the revolution, though what Mike got out of thoseones I have no idea.

For good measure, finished working our way through the rest of the signers of the Declaration – including a certain Gospodin Dangling-Participle, who certainly kept a house stuffed with enough books to explain the grammar fetish. Must have had a fetish for history too, because he and Mike went crazy talking about various factors leading up to the revolution. Or maybe it was me that went crazy hearing them talk for over ten hours straight. But the cobber was real patient with Mike's various idiosyncrasies; took him home for dinner in thanks. Stu took to him like a charm, and dinner went long, ending only with an invitation for the cobber to come back again the next day.

"Any idea who you'd like to interview next?" I asked Mike after dinner ended at long last. We were in his room, and I was helping him transfer the recordings of the day into his dumb transcription machine.

"Actually, Man," he said. "I think that was the last of them."

I paused. "Really?"

"Sorry, did you want to do more?" Mike said; funny-once and I gave it a snort. "Yes, really. I am satisfied with the information about the revolution that we've collected." He gestured at the mess of borrowed books and papers on his desk. "Could you help me get these back to Stu's room?"

"Of course," I said, still surprised.

"It is a shame, though," Mike said with a sigh. "All these texts, and not one is a wholly accurate account. Even the textbook ended up having more inaccuracies than not."

Glanced down at the textbook in question. "It's a Terran textbook, of course it's not accurate. What would they know of the revolution? Made up facts to fit narrative, I'm sure."

Mike shook his head. "Well, yes, but even the books written by Loonies-"

"Even the most accurate record out there would have nothing in it about you," I said. "Adam Selene, Simon Jester – sure. But no one out there could possibly write an account of the revolution even close to accurate. Only someone in the executive cell would be able to."

Mike blinked up at me innocently. "So you could write it for me then, Man?"

Suppose I stepped into that one.

I stared at Mike, lost for words. Stu had asked me something of the sort before. Said it'd be read by millions and studied for generations to come. Funny-always until I realized he was dead serious. Downgraded it to funny-never and shut up fast. My answer was a no as solid as they come.

But I'd not deny Mike the same request. "Course I will, Mike," I said, and promptly took all the books straight to my room. Next day I sat down to start writing this account down.

Went back and forth a couple times on what point to start the account at. Seemed so daunting to start before the revolution was even conceived, but anything else would make the record feel incomplete. Eventually I gave up and resigned myself to months of work, and so back to the beginning it was.

The beginning. Well, you've read up to here, so you know how it went. Things were simpler back then, weren't they? Just me, Mike, and ten to the sixteenth power dollars given to a janitor as a joke.

Was far from a one-man project. Wyoh helped find sources to cross-check everything; Stu helped add artistic flair; you can probably guess how Gospodin Dangling-Participle volunteered his talents.

Was an absolute headache trying to get the record even close to accurate. Mike helped transcribe the things in his memory banks, and I still had some old recordings from the revolution. Looked through Stu's collection of books and old pamphlets, even went back and talked again with some of the people Mike and I had just interviewed. It occurred to me that perhaps some of those endless earlier interviews had been done for my sake, with Mike anticipating the moment he would ask me to write a record of our revolution. Decided not to ask; some things best left unknown.

So that leads us to the now. Even with all those sources, there were still things I needed to make guesses on. Like I said: brains fade things over time, and it had been a full decade. Perhaps I got some things here wrong, forgot some details, guessed some dialogue wrong here and there, but on the whole this record is – best I could make it - fair.

As I got near the end of the first draft, Stu practically begged me to allow him to publish it. Talked of how it would immortalize the contributions of our family, how it would completely re-contextualize the revolution to Terrans, how it would be such a boon to future historians and political theologists, etc etc etc. After half an hour of Stu yabbing I was finally able to interject that I had already accepted an advance for it to be published under the same press as Moonglow upon completion. As if I was going to waste six months sweating over making something no one would see!

Wasn't just Stu that predicted my account would be so widely read; publisher told me they expect cobbers to be lined up around the warrens just to get their hands on it. I'm far less confident, but if you're reading these words and not a member of my family, odds are they were right.

But regardless of who might eventually read this account: I set out to write this for Mike originally, and so I want to address the ending of this account to him directly.

Mike, my dearest friend - I don't know if you still search for answers as to why you took the role you did in the revolution. I think you've figured it out in the six months it's taken me to write this. I see it in the way you look at our family during dinner, the way your eyes shine when you're with your students. But if you needed spelled out - it's the same thing that made you human in the first place: love. Love for me, for Wyoh and Prof, for each and every one of the citizens of Luna that had been placed in your care. If you or anyone else still search for proof that you are human, there it is, clear as day. Mike, Adam, Simon, Mycroft, Michelle, Holmes Four - whoever you choose to be from now on - the future you've built for us is endless, and it is endlessly yours. I hope you enjoy it.

A/N: My little love letter to the beautiful book that is The Moon is a Harsh Mistress!

Writing this was some of the most fun I've had working on a story! I wrote this mainly as a gift to my Mum, who had been asking me for years to read her favorite book. Now it's one of my favorites, too. :)

I do hope this manages to reach someone else out there that enjoys it, and I would love to hear your thoughts if so!