​The sound of the "Great Thaw" was not a gentle trickle. It was a deep, rhythmic booming that lived in the very bones of the mountain. As the sun finally gained enough strength to melt the high mountain caps, the underground river that fed the Southern Hub began to roar. But the water wasn't flowing freely. A massive "Ice-Jam"—a jagged wall of frozen slush, uprooted trees, and boulders—had wedged itself into the narrow throat of the lower canyon. The river was backing up fast, and the icy grey water was already beginning to seep into the storage tunnels where the last of the winter grain was kept.​Julian stood on a slippery rock ledge, the spray from the churning water soaking his fur coat until it weighed a hundred pounds. He looked down into the dark, foaming mess. If that jam didn't break, the lower Hub would be under three feet of freezing water by nightfall. The grain would rot, the fires would be doused, and the "Human Era" would drown in its own backyard. He didn't have a "The

​The trek to the North was a journey through a graveyard of steel. As Julian led his small group higher into the jagged peaks, the air grew thin and smelled of old, wet iron. They reached the "Data-Fortress" at midday. It was a massive, windowless cube of black concrete that sat on a cliff like a tombstone. Surrounding it was a sea of tents made of grey plastic and scrap cloth. Hundreds of people sat in the mud, their faces hollow and their eyes fixed on the giant, dark screens of the fortress wall. They weren't planting, they weren't building, and they weren't talking. They were waiting.​In the center of the camp, on a platform made of rusted cooling fans, stood the Prophet. He was dressed in a robe made of copper wiring and silver foil that shimmered in the weak sunlight. He didn't look like a warrior; he looked like a man who had spent too much time in the dark. He held a glowing "Logic-Wand"—a piece of old tech that flickered with a dying, blue light.​"BEHOLD!" the Prophet shrie