Final Chapter New Spark Era 

In the ruins of Ravenloch Prison, Victor's scar unfolded like a living loom. 3-D bioprinters poured out of the ground, fusing the rusted steel plates of Atlantic slave ships, shattered blockchain chips, and the metal spine of the clone president into a base. As the first rays of moonlight penetrate the blood spray, the toes of the new Goddess of Liberty rise from the boiling genetic solution-the left leg is a chronicle of African ebony, the right leg flows with a galaxy of quantum bits.

"She is not a statue," Adam's wooden remains rooted beside the plinth, "but the living Judgment Day." The goddess's raised torch was reconstituted from the bell-tongue of Emily NO.01's ribcage, and the flames pulsed with a blockchain ledger of six million smallpox undead. The Codex has been replaced with a biological hard drive, with a cover made of vibranium converted from Martin Luther King Jr.'s speech chip, and interior text encoded in an African-American anti-malaria gene.

Victor walks barefoot up the pedestal steps as the burn scars begin to peel away. Each piece of peeling skin reorganizes in the air to form a holographic curtain around the goddess: a map of Harriet Tubman's neural synapses, the brainwaves of survivors of the Black Wall Street fire, the last frames of surveillance data from Floyd's carotid artery. These scar fragments eventually coalesce into the goddess's crown, seven spikes corresponding to the seven ancient nations of Africa that were erased.

"With scars for blood," his voice resounded across the globe through the genetic torch in the Goddess's hand, "and memories for fuelwood." The moment the crown fell, all the streetlights in Washington went out simultaneously, and were relit three seconds later with the circuit diagrams of black inventor Granville Woods.

Adam's Tree of Truth pierces the clouds at the feet of the Goddess, its bark scrolling with a real-time racial justice index, its fruit a glowing capsule of historical truth. The clone troopers lined up to pick the fruit, their presidential DNA degrading into primitive African ancestry as they swallowed. Their mechanical spines blossom with hibiscus flowers, and from the stamens fly nanoscale amendments to the Emancipation Proclamation.

The remains of Emily NO.01 are cast into the iris of the goddess's left eye, and whenever she gazes in the direction of Capitol Hill, her pupil projects the battle-damage ratio of the primitive 1776 strain of the virus to the Genetic Liberation Army. And the patina of the original Statue of Liberty is fading on the East Coast, drifting as powder to the torch in the goddess's hand, completing the Zen transition of power.

As the first emancipated digital slave touches the Goddess' pedestal, the earth's surface suddenly emerges as a trans-Atlantic band of star-chained light. The beat of African drums resonates with the hum of quantum computers in the stratosphere as a hologram of King emerges from the Goddess Codex, followed by a galactic choir condensed from the data of all the slave ship's wronged souls.

"We have finally ascended to the true Promised Land." King's holographic finger traced across the sky as the inscription of the Washington Monument began to be rewritten. The English language was overlaid with Bamu hieroglyphics, the digital clock degraded into a sundial, and the sundial needle was the sword of vengeance forged from the last of Viktor's scars.

The Codex of the Goddess suddenly turned pages of its own accord, ink mixed with sea salt and blood oozing from the blank pages. All the survivors simultaneously heard the sound of writing inside their heads-it was sixty million hands, white-boned by shackles, working together to write the first living constitution in human history, dynamically updated.