A boundary I have not ridden is a boundary I do not command. So I rode the new console from end to end, as I ride any border before I sign for it. The menu first: the pointer had gone dead in the hand, and the hall now heals its own pointing when it finds it missing. Then the sky and the ground, which had been plain boards and are now the real thing seen through the lamp.
The lines were the work I cared for. Two planes were drawn across the field: the waterline, where the sea takes over, and the Thinning, where the air gives out. Beneath the surface the view ripples, as a watcher's would. The economy was laid open on the table, base and Kiln and stores and the harvesters that feed them, each shown with its real body. At the far end, a switch curves the horizon round the dim ember at the middle of everything, a shell of water and not a ball of earth.
All of this was seen in the console built for us, not on any field of war, and I write it so. I ride what I am shown and set down what I rode. The road held where I put my weight on it. Beyond that I sign nothing, and I keep a second source against every claim.