Ascending by James Alan Gardner

my sugar, my sucrose-based carbohydrate, suppose I had a way that your brain would never get Tired? Would that interest you? Hmm?”
    Temptations
    I stared at him speechless for several heartbeats. More out of reflex than conviction, I said, “My brain never will get Tired, you foolish beast. I am not such a one as succumbs to mind-numbing ennui.”
    “Unlike your mother?” the Pollisand asked. “And the hundred generations before her? They all swore they wouldn’t turn into mental rutabagas, but now they’re cluttering up a thousand glass towers.”
    He stomped his foot and suddenly the world changed. There was no garden, no lava, no scarlet-ash sky; we were back in Oarville with mute snow swirling through the air.
    The Pollisand and I stood atop the Tower of Ancestors where I had suffered my great fall. Some distance off, near the edge of the roof, the small figure of Starbiter gave a surprised yelp, then bounced speedily toward us. Within seconds, she was pressed fearfully against my leg, clearly disturbed by the sudden change of scenery.
    I knelt and gave her a reassuring pat. A tiny amount of goo came off onto my hand, but I could not feel it—this was still a simulation, giving me sight and sound but not touch. Continuing to stroke the worried Starbiter, I glared at the Pollisand. “Why are we here?”
    “Just a visual demonstration, lass.” He stomped his foot again, and the city changed. Instead of the many different buildings it had held before, now it was filled with Ancestral Towers exactly like the one beneath my feet: tens of thousands of them, shining brightly but somehow not illuminating the cavern around us.
    “Oar,” the Pollisand said, “this is your world and your people. Damned near comatose—as good as dead. Only a few dozen of your species haven’t gone zombie; and how soon before they give in? How soon before you do?”
    He lifted one foot and waved it casually at the vista: tower after tower, stretching back as far as I could see, much farther than the actual wall of the cavern. “Up till now,” he said, “there’s only been one way to keep your gray cells from turning to zucchini—throw yourself over and go KER - SPLAT . Smash your body to mush before your brain mushes out on its own. You’ve taken the high dive once, Oar; it’s still there for you. Cast your cares to the wind and die a decent death. This time I promise I won’t sew you back together. Nor will angels appear to bear you up safely.”
    I stared at him. “Why would I imagine angels should appear? That is a most absurd notion.”
    The Pollisand gave an ostentatious sigh. “Classical allusions are just lost on you, aren’t they? I suppose there’s no point my even suggesting you turn stones into bread.”
    “You may suggest such a thing, but I cannot do it. Can you? I would be most happy if you did, for I have not eaten in quite some time. But if you do bake bread from stones, make sure it is good bread—not the horrid opaque substance Explorers are so proud of cooking.”
    “Okay,” the Pollisand muttered to himself, “scratch the three-temptations scenario. Didn’t work the last time I tried it either. On to Plan B.”
    He stomped his foot more forcefully than ever, and in the blink of an eye, we were back where we started: in the garden, surrounded by steaming lava. Starbiter bleated with excitement and bounced off to bother the wildlife. Meanwhile, the Pollisand kicked the heads off a couple flowers and ground the blooms under his heel. “All right,” he said. “We were talking business. Deals .” He gave the plants one more whack, then turned back to me. “I was proposing you could avoid rampaging senility, if only you play ball with me.”
    “What sort of ball do you wish to play?”
    “It was only a metaphor, damn it!” The Pollisand squashed another patch of flowers, leaving his foot red with their juices. “I’m suggesting a simple agreement. An exchange of favors. My favor is I’ll