We live in a space station

And we're running out of fuel.

The Architect wasn't even looking to build an actual space station in the first place. There was never any real need; most people who ventured off-world found themselves preferring the comforts of giant, sprawling moontropolises built and operated by multi-planetary megacorporations.

If the origins of the Framework appeared to be shrouded in secrecy, it's because the truth was far more boring. A local shipping magnate who had made it big by being in the right place at the right time wanted to leave a legacy other than being a local shipping magnate who had made it big by being in the right place at the right time. He started seeding non-profits and rebranded himself as a patron of the arts and sciences, writing checks and funding grants as a layperson would choose new shoes or a new belt.

So for the first couple of years, the Architect was entirely immersed, completely content covering her small studio apartment with sketches and component lists and meticulously printed 1:200 scale models. The apartment computer tucked underneath the coffee table would hum politely as it churned through thousands of iterations of varying cosmic weather conditions, differing exotic low-g building materials, and a whole gamut of population volatility.

To the casual observer, this whole endeavor might have been written off as yet another entry in the long list of plans for DIY moon domes, hovercraft lean-tos, and converted lunar buggies. To the Architect, building one space station was the least interesting part. Building the Framework to build a thousand space stations was the real challenge.

When simulations were exhausted, the Architect was forced to face what she knew from the beginning: you can't live in a blueprint. You can't stress test a blueprint. You can't tell if arranging the air scrubber and the water cycler like so is going to work just from a blueprint. Everything is a thought experiment until you try it and live it.

The Architect sought an engineer who could scrutinize and start building from the Framework blueprints. Together they tackled the very basics: bootstrap life support, establish safe ingress and egress, set up waste management, and stabilize the food supply. They chose parts based on ease of access and low operating costs. These weren't one-time specifications. If done right, these would be thousand-time specifications. The effort grew. They enlisted scientists, designers, artists, and operators.

Word spread quickly and before they thought they were truly ready—they could have spent another five years building—the Architect and the newly formed Council began to let people into Prototype City.

From prototype to petri dish

The Makers arrived early on. Not everyone bought into the name but it was a convenient term for the disparate band of hobbyists, builders, enthusiasts, writers, poets, artists, and community leaders, many with different motivations but all coming to follow developments of the Framework.

Of course, it would be disingenuous to omit the growing pains of the young station, despite the incredible momentum and influx of folks. Grifters, swindlers, and troublemakers trickled in. As people found their communities and settled in their micro-neighborhoods, there would be politicking and skirmishes and infighting. This is unsolvable by even the most advanced technology.

Anticipating this, the Council had rolled out a fairly standard fleet of Sentry Bots early on to make constant sweeps through the station. The breadbox-sized drones would move deftly among crowds and public spaces. While they were mostly autonomous and programmed to enforce the bylaws, they belonged to the Council Sentry.

The Council Sentry operated out of the beige, windowless, brutalist structure known as the Obelisk. Most people didn't care or think about the looming structure, but those who did concern themselves with the Council considered the building a pretty heavy-handed metaphor for its task and purpose. Few knew the aesthetics were the result of a cost-saving measure, thanks to a nearby salvage yard and a Council member's impeccably good timing.

Time horizon

The exact amount of remaining fuel left to power Prototype City, along with the current usage rate and projected growth rate, are all known. It is, however, unclear when the next infusion will occur. The shipping magnate moved onto other endeavors (space casino) so the Council continues to talk to other deep-pocketed individuals or mega corporations interested in—or wanting to keep tabs on—the promise of the Framework.

Even if fuel were an unlimited resource, the Council is still beholden to a complex mesh of regional and interstational laws, ultimately meaning the possibility of a takeover—friendly or hostile—is never completely out of the question.

There is constant talk about the practical steps for how Prototype City stays sustainable. There are always opportunities in trading with other stations and colonies, and better overall support for commerce. Tourism and sports are possibilities. Makers are working on solutions. The Council is working on solutions.

Meanwhile, much of the general population doesn't really think much of it. In their lifetimes, there have always been, and there will always be, other stations popping into and blinking out of existence. People are here for a good time (or a bad time). They're here for a time.

The future is bright. Some Makers have naturally joined the Council. Others have begun to lead in parts of the Framework and push the boundaries of what's already been built and what can be built. A brand new Obsidian City has broken ground nearby, implementing Framework-compatible parts from scratch.

We live in Prototype City, and we're running out of fuel. But we're working towards a future where we'll have other Framework cities to jump to when the time comes.