The seasons cycled in the world above, but in the mountain's heart, time flowed differently. New Alexandria grew downward and outward, a reverse skyscraper delving into ancient rock. They carved not just living spaces, but wonders: the Library Vault with walls of polished obsidian that reflected light in complex patterns; the Skywell, a vertical shaft lined with mirrors that brought daylight five hundred meters underground; the Heartstone Chamber where they gathered for council, its ceiling studded with bioluminescent fungi they'd genetically altered to glow with soft, circadian-rhythmed light.
Aris stood before that council now, one year after Lin's arrival. Before her on a stone table lay the first draft of what they were calling the "Charter of Duration."
"Article One," she read aloud. "The Aeon Compact recognizes that with extended lifespan comes extended responsibility. Therefore, no member shall use their abilities to dominate, control, or harm baseline humanity, except in direct self-defense."
The council chamber held thirty representatives—not just the original founders, but new arrivals who had found their way through the thaw. A woman from the Patagonian enclave. Two brothers who had walked from Kazakhstan. A former U.S. Marine who'd deserted when ordered to "contain" his own transformed sister.
"Article Two," Aris continued. "The Compact shall be governed by a Council of Circles, recognizing that wisdom grows with time but must be tempered by the perspective of recent experience."
Kael watched from his seat—not at the head of the table, but among the others. He had refused any title beyond "Founder." Leadership, he argued, should be a function, not an identity. Now, as he listened, he felt the strange duality of his existence. The memories of Madrid—his mother's cooking, the smell of diesel and orange blossoms, the weight of a normal workday—felt both recent and impossibly distant, like someone else's life remembered in perfect detail.
"Article Three," Aris read. "Recognizing our unique biological nature, the Compact shall pursue self-sufficiency in all things: food production, energy, technology, and defense. We shall accept aid but never dependence."
Lin, sitting beside Kael, leaned close. "They're building a nation," she whispered. "Not just a refuge."
"Is that wise?" Kael murmured back.
"Is there choice?" she countered.
The debate lasted hours. The Patagonian woman, Sofia, argued for more aggressive outreach: "We should be rescuing our kind, not hiding! There are detention camps now—they call them 'Sanctuaries.' Children taken from parents!"
The ex-Marine, Carter, countered with grim pragmatism: "Every rescue mission risks exposing us. We're not invincible. Lin's data shows they're developing armor-piercing rounds that can breach our skin. Sonic weapons that disrupt our cellular cohesion."
"We adapt," Erika said simply. "That's what we do."
Aris tapped the table, calling for order. "The question isn't whether we help. It's how. Which brings us to Article Four: The Compact shall establish safe passage routes and sanctuary protocols, but shall not engage in offensive operations against baseline governments."
More debate. More amendments. Kael watched, and in the rhythm of it—the careful wording, the weighing of ethics against survival—he saw something taking shape. Not just laws, but a new way of thinking. A long-view philosophy.
After the session, Kael walked with Aris through the Agricultural Rings—tiered gardens where genetically modified crops grew under full-spectrum lights, their photosynthesis enhanced by tweaks Lin and Aris had introduced.
"You're quiet," Aris noted.
"Thinking about time," Kael said. "These laws we're writing... they need to work not just now, but in a century. In three centuries. How do you legislate for perspectives we can't even imagine?"
"You build in flexibility. And you trust the people who will come after." Aris stopped before a vine heavy with what looked like grapes but were protein-rich nodules. "We're not just building a city, Kael. We're building a culture. One that can handle eternity."
"And if we're wrong? If we build something that becomes tyrannical? We'll be here to see it."
"Then we'll fix it," she said, her voice fierce. "That's the point. We have time to correct mistakes. Unlike them."
The "them" hung between them—baseline humanity, rushing through their brief lives, making irreversible decisions in the panic of mortality.