The Hall of Heroes was a grand name for a grand place. Each intelligence, each collective of those who could, amongst one another or through some means, produce offspring and who could invent and change and learn, were all present, each bringing with them but one, free-standing sculpture of an icon by which they would like to be judged. Some thought it was a silly concept, but when soft, stirring music played in the intentionally dim hall, beneath the meeting chambers, in the otherwise silent passages, carpeted all in a velveteen softness, with great veined stone columns, the effect was as it was intended. Red and black and white and blue, and the other deep, constant colors of the heroes shone all about, and banners and little proclamations and all manner of artifacts hung or were displayed proudly behind polymer blends, transparent so that passers-by could take notice, for here was the celebration of that holy thing that has been termed the individual.
Of course, by biological or robotic fact, not all present were individuals, but they were one unit, one doer, regardless. Tyrants and liberators stood proud, gazing off far above or into the eyes of those who lived long or not long after them, while warriors and scholars prepared for their battles, forever, in eyes and faces sculpted from all manner of the elements. Colossus in gold, small crystal images of yet smaller folk, and images that flickered under their own power. From plant stalks to depleted sources of radioactivity and to light, they stood proud.
Each had brought forth, so First Man had brough forth. They had brought a woman. She stood, nearly taking a knee had not her back leg been fully extended. Crafted epically in bronze, in a pose with one arm extended and with a fierce face to match a hurricane, but with eyes soft with smiles, she, in this form, would have paled next to the real thing. Reaching, as First Man did, ever upward, she stood, motionless and yet moving with the willpower of those she represented. Bare feet and hands, bareheaded and with antique garments, she stood, commanding the respect of those who passed, reminding them that tomorrow always came, standing on an etched star beneath.
The music played low in the gentle light, and beneath it she basked, as she had and as she would as long as First Man did at her side.
© Copyright 2016 Miss Trevize. All rights reserved.
Poem / Poetry
Miscellaneous / Science Fiction
Article / Non-Fiction
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