BLUE ROUNDED THE CORNER of the Gingerbread House just as the Nano-Ts were finishing up, having devoured everything but Corbin’s entrails, and covered her mouth before turning and bolting for safety, which she hastily decided might be found amidst the new construction—the Art Deco pavilions and tubular, futuristic corridors of the expansion, which had been underway before the Flashback.
The Shambhala, meanwhile, was burning—burning and flickering, for the power was starting to fail. She marveled at how quickly it was becoming a lost place, a dead place. Indeed, save for the roaring and thrashing of the branded dinosaur and the smilodon, a forlorn silence had begun to settle in that said one thing very clearly: her ambition to unify it into some sort of feminist utopia had been folly of the
