PROLOGUE

I lived long enough to witness the cure for death, the birth of the Bitchun Society, and countless milestones that seemed impossible in my youth: mastering ten languages, composing three symphonies, fulfilling my childhood dream of residing in Disney World, and finally witnessing the end of traditional work. But never did I expect that I would see Keep A-Movin' Dan decide to deadhead until the universe reaches its heat death.

When I first crossed paths with Dan, sometime in the late XXI century, he was in his second or third youthful resurgence. He appeared to be about twenty-five, ruggedly handsome with deep-set lines from a life spent under the sun, his boots well-worn yet still comfortable. I, on the other hand, was entrenched in my Chem thesis, my fourth doctorate, while Dan was on a hiatus from his world-saving escapades, casually unwinding on the Toronto campus and indulging in the occasional core-dump for an overburdened anthropology major.

We met at the Grad Students' Union—known informally as the Gazoo—on a bustling Friday evening in the spring. I was engaged in a slow, frustrating battle for a seat at the bar, inching closer with every shift in the crowd. Dan, however, had one of the few seats, surrounded by a clutter of cigarette butts and empty glasses, clearly settled in for the long haul.

At one point, Dan turned his head and raised a sun-beaten eyebrow at me. "You get any closer, and we might need a pre-nup."

Though I was in my forties, I didn't bristle at being called "son." Looking into Dan's eyes, it was clear that his experiences and insights afforded him the right to address me as such. I stepped back and offered a sheepish apology.

Dan struck a cigarette, releasing a pungent plume that drifted over the bartender's head. "Don't worry about it. I'm probably just a bit too accustomed to my personal space."

It struck me as odd to hear someone speak about personal space in a world where mortality was a thing of the past and the population continued to swell despite the occasional migration and deadheading. "Been jaunting around?" I asked, noting his sharp eyes, which suggested he was no stranger to direct experience.

He chuckled. "Not my style. I'm into the kind of rugged, old-school experiences you can only find on-world. Jaunting's for leisure; I need something more substantial." The clinking of bar glasses provided a counterpoint to his words.

I momentarily conjured a HUD to check his Whuffie score, resizing the window because his score was too vast for my standard display. I tried to maintain composure, but he noticed the upward flick of my eyes and the widening of my gaze. He smirked, his pride evident.

"I try not to let it get to me. Some people get overly appreciative of their own fame," he said, catching my curiosity about his Whuffie history. "Don't bother with that—I'll tell you all about it. You really ought to know."

Dan's next words clicked into place for me. He was a missionary—one of those rare individuals who acted as emissaries from the Bitchun Society to the remote corners of the world where people, for various reasons, still chose to live in suffering and scarcity. It's remarkable how these communities survive more than a generation, resisting nearly a century of propaganda from the Bitchun Society. Missionaries rarely succeed in converting these cultures, but when they do, the Whuffie they accrue is substantial. More often than not, missionaries are refreshed from backups after they vanish from sight for a decade or more. Meeting one in person was a novel experience.

"How many successful missions have you completed?" I asked.

"Figured it out, huh? I've just wrapped up my fifth in twenty years—counter-revolutionaries holed up in the old Cheyenne Mountain NORAD site, still entrenched a generation later." He rubbed his whiskers thoughtfully. "Their parents retreated after their savings evaporated, and they shunned any tech more advanced than a rifle. Plenty of those around."

Dan spun a captivating tale of how he gained the trust of these mountain-dwellers, subtly introducing them to advanced technologies like Free Energy and genetically engineered crops, ultimately leading them toward the Bitchun Society. Over time, they had largely transitioned off-world, exploring new frontiers with unlimited energy and resources, and deadheading through mundane periods of their journey.

"I suppose it would be too shocking for them to stay on-world. They see us as the enemy, despite us not even knowing they exist. They had elaborate plans for when we invaded: suicide devices, traps, fallback points. They cling to their hatred of us, even though we've moved beyond that. Off-world, they can maintain the illusion of living rough." Dan rubbed his calloused chin. "But for me, the real challenge lies here, on-world. Each enclave represents an alternate history of humanity—what if we'd embraced Free Energy but not deadheading? Or adopted deadheading only for the critically ill, not for boredom during long trips? Each scenario is unique and fascinating."

I had a tendency to argue for argument's sake, and I found myself retorting, "Wonderful? Nothing like dying, starving, freezing, or enduring cruelty and ignorance. I can't say I miss that."

Dan snorted. "Do you think a junkie misses sobriety?"

I tapped the bar. "Hello! There are no junkies anymore!"

He lit another cigarette. "But you understand what a junkie is, right? Junkies don't miss sobriety because they don't remember the sharpness of life, the contrast of pain that makes joy more profound. We can't recall the struggle to earn our keep, the anxiety of scarcity, or the thrill of taking risks and having them pay off."

Dan had a point. Here I was, in the midst of my second or third adulthood, already contemplating change. He was right, but I wasn't ready to concede. "Maybe so. But I take risks in conversations, in love… And what about the deadheads? Two people I know just went deadheading for ten thousand years! Tell me that's not taking a risk!"

"That's half-hearted suicide," Dan replied. "With the way things are, they might be switched off before reanimation. It's getting crowded here, you know."

I scoffed and wiped sweat from my forehead with a napkin—summer nights at the Gazoo were sweltering. "Just like the world was too crowded a century ago, before Free Energy. We'll address the overcrowding again when the time comes. I'll still be here in ten thousand years, but I'll do it the long way."

Dan considered this thoughtfully, his expression contemplative rather than searching for facts to support a counterargument. "If I'm still here in ten thousand years, I'd probably be mad. Ten thousand years ago, people were living with goats. Do you really think we'll still be recognizably human in a hundred centuries? As for me, I'm not interested in becoming a post-person. One day, I'll decide I've seen enough, and that will be my final day."

I sensed where he was heading and prepared my response, but I should have listened more closely. "Why not just deadhead for a few centuries, see if anything piques your interest, and if not, return to sleep for a while? Why opt for something so final?"

Dan made a show of thinking it over, making me feel like a glib and thoughtless interlocutor. "Perhaps it's because nothing else is. I've always known that someday, I would stop moving, stop seeking, and simply be done. There will come a day when I have nothing left to do but stop."

---

On campus, he was known as Keep-A-Movin' Dan. His cowboy demeanor and unconventional lifestyle earned him this moniker, and he quickly dominated every conversation I had for the next six months. I monitored his Whuffie periodically and noticed it steadily climbing as he accrued esteem from everyone he encountered.

Meanwhile, I had squandered most of my Whuffie—dissipated the savings from my symphonies and my first three theses—by immersing myself in the hedonistic delights of the Gazoo, monopolizing library terminals, and incessantly hounding professors. I had depleted the reservoir of respect that others had once shown me. All, that is, except Dan. For reasons unknown, he continuously treated me to regular beers, meals, and movie outings.

I began to feel a peculiar sense of importance—not everyone could boast a companion as extraordinary as Keep-A-Movin' Dan, the legendary missionary who ventured to the world's last bastions untouched by the Bitchun Society. I can't definitively pinpoint why he chose to spend time with me. He mentioned once or twice that he admired my symphonies and had read my Ergonomics thesis on applying theme-park crowd-control techniques to urban environments, appreciating my insights. However, I suspect it was more about our mutual enjoyment in sparring with each other.

I would regale him with visions of the future's vast expanse, of the inevitable encounter with alien intelligences, and the boundless frontiers awaiting us. He would counter that deadheading was a telling sign of a depleted personal well of introspection and creativity; that without struggle, true victory remained elusive.

This debate was one we could engage in endlessly without ever reaching a resolution. I'd manage to coax him into conceding that Whuffie captured the true essence of money: in bygone days, if you were poor but respected, you could avoid starvation; conversely, if you were wealthy but despised, no amount of money could buy you security and peace. By quantifying the core of what money truly represented—your personal capital with friends and neighbors—you gained a more accurate measure of success.

In turn, Dan would subtly steer the conversation towards acknowledging that while the potential for encountering alien civilizations with diverse and astonishing ways existed, the present world exhibited a somewhat dispiriting uniformity.

On a pleasant spring day, I defended my thesis before two corporeal examiners and one professor whose body was undergoing maintenance, participating via speakerphone from the computer where it was temporarily residing. They were all impressed. I received my degree and ventured into the fragrant, flower-scented streets in search of Dan.

To my dismay, he had already left. The Anthropology major he had been regaling with his war stories informed me that they had concluded their session that morning, and Dan had departed for the walled city of Tijuana. He intended to engage with the descendants of a US Marine platoon who had seceded from the Bitchun Society.

So, in Dan's honor, I boarded a flight to Disney World.

I chose to endure the journey in real-time, occupying the minuscule cabin reserved for those of us who stubbornly declined to be frozen and stacked like firewood for the two-hour flight. I was the sole passenger traveling in real-time, but a flight attendant dutifully served me a urine-sample-sized orange juice and a rubbery, pungent cheese omelet. As the autopilot navigated through turbulence, I gazed out at the endless expanse of clouds, contemplating when I might next encounter Dan.