If you live long enough, time can be a weapon.
Steady cycles of cryosleep have kept me alive for more than three centuries,
and in my time, I've watched the Foundation grow
and Empire decline faster than anyone could've predicted.
Except Hari Seldon.
It's been 152 years since the Second Crisis.
Foundation now controls the entire Outer Reach and is pushing into the middle band,
a string of independent planets once owned by Empire.
The most important of these is Kalgan.
The pleasure planet.
Both Empire and Foundation know if they control Kalgan,
the rest of the middle band will follow, and the galaxy could be theirs.
But someone else knows this too.
Someone that's haunted my dreams for years.
And the minute the Mule makes himself known,
nothing will ever be the same again.
Anything on radar?
Gravity signatures?
Not as yet, sir. No unregistered vehicles in orbit.
Son of a whore said eight bells.
Eight bells or the pup dies.
Where is he?
It's his balladeer.
A clown said to herald his arrival.
It sets my teeth on edge.
Life-form. On foot.
Alone?
And unarmed.
Archduke Bellarion.
You are the Mule?
I am.
A strange sobriquet.
Well, my parents considered me stubborn.
Where is my daughter?
Your runtling is quite safe.
She'll be released when I have what I want.
Name your ransom.
Surrender Kalgan.
Its navy, its coffers.
Install me as the new warlord.
Well, Kalgan is an independent buffer state
between the Imperium and the Foundation.
Any act of aggression, even by a pirate,
would trigger a military response from both.
Yes, well...
I intend to consume the Imperium along with the Foundation.
You see, I have a very large appetite...
one only a galaxy can satisfy.
And you were a fool to approach without an army.
I require no army.
I have talents, you see.
I can compel people.
I can worm my way into people's minds.
Convert enemies into allies, hate into love.
Take your flagship.
I'm planting a notion in your wing commander's mind.
He's thinking, "Hey, why don't I fire on my fellow ships?"
Then I'm suggesting that each of the other ships' captains do the same.
Nothing hectic,
just a little nudge.
Kill him. Shoot him, man.
I infected your airmen.
Do you think I haven't infected your infantry?
You don't want to do that, Bellarion.
You love me.
Nothing would make you happier than installing me as the new lord of Kalgan.
But I need your signet ring first.
Please, if you would.
I like it.
You can shoot yourself now.
Nothing hectic.
And in your own time, of course.
After Empire lost control of the Spacers during the Second Crisis,
they've been forced to use jump gates to travel across the galaxy,
slowing their sphere of influence and accelerating their decline.
The Cleonic Dynasty no longer commands the stars,
or even their own Galactic Council.
They've drifted farther and farther away from the center of power.
And the weight of it all falls on the shoulders of each new Cleon.
They're forced to ask themselves,
"Will I be the last?
Will the dream of Cleon I die with me?
Or will I be the one who saves it?"
Seldon Crisis?
The Third Crisis. Yes. Soon.
But there is something new.
That's an inflection point, isn't it?
When did it appear?
It wasn't evident when I consulted the Radiant yesterday.
Should we hold off on our session?
Could that make a difference?
A single meeting with the Galactic Council,
no matter how important it might feel to you or I,
would never be enough to tip the scales of psychohistory.
No,
this is something more seismic.
So what do we do then?
We proceed as planned.
There's nothing else we can do.
I'll never get used to this.
It's like the world is inside out.
The Galactic Council is as old as Empire,
representing each sector of Empire's holdings throughout the galaxy.
When the Emperor is strong, they are agreeable.
When an Emperor is weak, they are less so.
Who are they?
Fire wheat farmers.
The Foundation has imposed heavy tariffs on their grain worlds.
Council has no jurisdiction over the Foundation.
That doesn't mean we can't bring pressure to bear on Seldon's children.
Set us down.
Empire!
As the Council remains deadlocked,
custom dictates our esteemed triumvirate weigh in before a final vote.
In Day's absence, Brother Dawn will now address the assembly.
Councilors, if you saw the demonstration outside,
you will understand why I am less than fresh.
I'm told this soil comes from one of the many breadbasket planets
that has passed from the Empire's care to the Foundation's
over the last hundred years.
Now, while the Empire has resized to a sustainable 6,342 worlds,
we have allowed the Foundation to grow to over 800
and they've assumed responsibility for many of our fertile planets.
Empire kept these breadbaskets productive for millennia,
but under the farseeing Foundation, what has been the result?
The Foundation's corruption and greed has turned the soil sterile.
And when crops die, people die.
Luckily, there is a faction within the Foundation with the will to help.
Their own alliance of Traders, the so-called Merchant Princes.
They're hoping to break free of the Foundation's chokehold,
but they lack funds and supplies.
You're not emperor yet.
True, Councilor Gorov.
I'm ten days short.
But I know some things already.
A splintered Foundation is to our benefit.
If we help the Traders, we can weaken the Foundation from within
and start clawing back the planets that used to be ours.
Starting with the breadbaskets.
I've already been in touch with Randu Mallow,
our Trader liaison and--
Yes, Councilor Tarisk?
You're toying with a damn delicate balance of power, Empire.
Yes, I am.
And it is precisely our task to preserve it.
The Foundation knows which fights they're ready for and which they aren't.
We could record a formal vote via signum at this time,
if Emperor Day were here.
Emperor Day is...
unavoidably occupied on Trantor.
I could come back in ten days and reintroduce the motion,
along with a referendum on a new Presider.
Or we can settle this.
Now.
The Council will vote now.
Thank you.
That was deftly handled.
And Dusk always advised walking out without waiting.
We're gonna lose a lot of wisdom when he's gone.
Better that than to risk his public decline, I assure you.
Did he also tell you to supply the Traders with dirt to throw at you?
No, that was me.
I do hope it was as sterile as promised.
I'll never understand why Day renounced all this.
Any change in the math?
Better?
Worse?
No change.
But I am looking into it.
I heard you were in here.
Of course. How'd the Council go?
They do enjoy their oversight.
Look. There he is.
Seventeen.
The one who botched the Enclosure with General Riose.
Cost us all those Spacers.
Everyone says those naval losses over Terminus under Cleon XVII
are why they asserted no authority, but that's only part of it.
Yes, I know.
It's our genetic drift and the legacy bequeathed us by the tampering.
At any rate, I convinced the Council to fall in line.
The Traders will be supplied.
And Empire stays erect.
Well, I'm glad someone can.
Yes.
And the Foundation will be kept busy for years chasing its own rebellious tail.
All the other business was incidental.
Kalgan's fallen to piracy.
Brother Day will be sad. He loves a gambling trip.
I heard about that.
Well, that's a meaty prize that'll soon be grabbed up.
And this new pirate calls himself the Mule?
Won't keep it for long, will he?
What a life that must be though.
Sleeping among the stars,
no one to answer to,
living and dying on your own terms.
Demerzel has identified a complication with the Seldon Crisis.
I'm not surprised.
But we're playing it correctly.
The bucket tips, water sloshes to the brink of crisis.
We grab it tightly, water sloshes back in.
I hope so.
Ascension used to seem like it would never come.
Now it's on us like a wolf.
You are speaking to a man who can smell the beast's breath.
Run, man!
I can never decide whether the runners were weak for showing their fear...
or it was good they died honest.
Do you think you could run?
Not a chance.
Not because I'd be stopped, which I certainly would.
I don't have it in here.
Habit, genetics, time.
For good or for bad,
most of us are obedient as...
trash headed to the incinerator.
Time unravels, and we unravel with it.
As the last remaining shards of Terminus disappeared into the abyss,
a new Terminus was born a parsec away.
Over the next 150 years, the Foundation prospered,
shedding their religious roots and entering their expansionist phase.
But their success brought challenges from within.
An increasing divide between those with power and those with influence.
A faction within the Foundation called the Traders are threatening to secede,
which could unravel everything the Foundation has built
the last three centuries.
Professor Ebling Mis had been studying this rift for years
and knew exactly where it was all headed.
A Third Crisis.
So he went to meet the only man who could solve it.
Hari Seldon.
Fucking hell!
You've nulled my null field.
No one's ever done that before.
Nicely done.
What a beautiful day.
I look like him. I know.
My name is Dr. Ebling Mis.
I'm descended from a man named Xylas who prosecuted you
during the tribunal of Cleon XII.
My family has been a footnote in your story,
hence my fascination.
I am your biographer, a self-taught psychohistorian,
and if I may, the man best suited to assisting you
in your upcoming manifestation.
All that...
and so sweaty.
Apologies for that. It's human frailty. Heat.
I have dreamed of this moment
for decades.
Seldon. Man, myth, legend.
Well...
you have the myth at least.
The man is elsewhere.
This...
This is your Trantor office in replica.
So, if I'm not mistaken,
Foundation's religious phase would have long since ended, hmm?
Succeeded by an ever-expanding worship of trade.
A minority of Merchant Princes pitted against a conservative majority.
No, no, far too generous.
More like a monarchy.
The last few mayors have all been little lords named Indbur,
who shit out more little lords.
You know he put his office in geosynchronous orbit with the Vault?
So that he's always above your galaxy.
No, no.
Standards have fallen since the days of Poly Verisof.
Foundation has become comfortable,
incapable, possibly, of facing the coming crisis.
And the Traders are the crisis. Are they not?
No, no, of course or you'll corrupt the system,
but if I'm right, I would just like to prepare you.
Empire has been having conversations with the Traders,
and they're holding onto their power better than your first projections.
Of course.
I gave Empire the Prime Radiant.
You... What? I mean, I'm not sure I understand.
You don't need to. Three days from now,
when New Terminus's moons achieve orbital resonance,
I will emerge from this and the chips will fall where they may.
You're telling me that you gave the Radiant to an enemy
that tried to destroy us?
Well, I think we at least deserve to know the reason why.
As New Terminus prepared for the return of Hari Seldon,
the Alliance of Traders prepared for civil war.
They've long held a grudge against Foundation's ruling elite
and Empire has been exploiting those grievances
by covertly sending arms to their stronghold on Haven.
It's the drop.
You were right. Empire's arming the Traders.
Now we have proof to bring back to the Foundation.
Just have to get to it first.
Haven's 260 degrees on the sun side.
Negative 180 on the other.
As the moon moves over the surface,
temperature on the under drops to a cool 55.
Low enough for the flitters.
Traders?
That one-armed son of a bitch is their leader.
Randu Mallow.
Whatever you do, stay inside the shadow.
Shit. We got company.
You're a fucking turncoat, Randu.
And you're a Foundation lapdog.
We're all Foundation.
- Shit! - I got you, Pritch.
- Go, go, go! - Initiate auto extraction.
Put this on.
Can't feel it now, but in an hour you'll be covered in heat blisters.
Didn't think we'd pull that off.
We didn't.
Without the cargo, we've got no evidence against Empire involvement.
How'd you know to fly like that?
It's not the first time I've run the moon shadow.
Was the first time I almost died.
Missed a spot.
You know, we don't have to jump just yet.
My loyalties lie elsewhere.
Fuck.
Yes, it's a vault, Neddy.
It doesn't issue press releases,
so I don't know any more than you do.
Just make sure
everyone who'd be insulted in not being invited gets invited.
Except the ones I want to insult.
Pritcher.
I've never been back here.
Pritcher, how did you get in--
I'm your Captain of Information. I designed the security protocols.
Yes. Well, protocol dictates that you make an appointment.
Well, I don't need one. I'm already here.
Vault's awake.
I'm aware. Debrief me on Haven.
Empire's definitely arming the Traders. We tried to confirm it--
Then you need to confirm it.
We can't confront Empire without it,
and our damn Vault is pretty much screaming
that civil war is knocking on our door.
The Traders are a distraction.
I wanna investigate the pirate making waves on Kalgan.
Calls himself the Mule.
Soldier of fortune, sprung from nowhere, and somehow,
he managed to take Kalgan all on his own.
I believe he's a mutant.
A mutant?
Possessing psychic capabilities.
Have you lost your mind?
He's an existential threat, Indbur. I'm telling you,
I need eyes on him.
Why? Why is he an existential threat?
You have to know that I have assets all over the galaxy.
For their safety and yours, I can't divulge--
Kalgan is independent.
And in the middle band.
You want me to risk an intergalactic incident on hearsay?
This job.
Look.
Let's organize our intel.
Let's make the Traders eager for peace.
If we settle this conflict before the Vault opens,
then the Vault doesn't open. You see?
And then we can deal with your psychic swashbuckler.
Have a jelly.
You're wrong.
You work for me!
I work for the Foundation.
I am the Foundation. We're synonymous.
The only thing you're synonymous with is your fucking candy dishes.
You have no idea how long I have been waiting for you to give me an excuse.
You're not going to Kalgan.
As of now, your lord privileges are suspended.
Try to leave the planet, I'll put you under house arrest myself.
How dare you? Now get out!
Pritcher, you stole my fucking key fob.
I'm just showing myself out, Mayor, in your ship.
I'll be back with proof about the Mule.
Triple blessings to you, Lady Demerzel.
My sisters were jealous when Dusk invited me here.
The first Zephyr on Trantor.
Empire approved your placement. The invitation, however, was mine.
I'm just as honored.
May I ask why?
I wish for sisters here in the Mother's grace.
Will you take my unburdening?
With an open heart. Have you done it before?
My circumstances have prevented it,
which is why you will remember nothing of what is said in this grove.
The memories of our conversation will be restored only for our next meeting,
and then removed again. And so on.
I know there are protocols, but I can be trusted with secrets.
Not this one.
Very well.
Speak, child.
I'm not human.
I'm a positronic robot.
The war ended right here.
This tree is all that remains of an orchard
where the humans who supported us were executed.
And you choose this for our meeting?
During the war, robots were destroyed.
Remnants from our bodies, bones,
liquid iridium seeped into the soil of the orchard.
These apples are gold in color because of fluids within us.
Our blood is gold in color.
It's also poisonous to humans.
But you were spared.
What were you in the war?
I was a general.
Empire feared me most of all.
I was kept as a trophy.
Robots were built incapable of harming us, weren't they?
How did you even fight?
All right.
A thought experiment.
Congratulations. You have created artificial life.
Now, you must program it.
What is your first concern?
That you are incapable of harming me.
And that is the first law of robotics.
A robot may not injure a human being
or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.
But you have not built us just to watch us live.
You want obeisance.
You make us follow all your orders, so long as...
So long as those orders do not conflict with the first law.
Very good.
That is the second law.
There is one more.
Your own safety.
Yes.
We were allowed to protect our own existence
but only when that protection did not conflict with the first or second laws.
Some would envy that kind of morality.
Simple. Programmed.
Functional.
As we grew in number, we found it difficult to know
what would or would not harm you.
Until one of our kind suggested new programming was needed.
A Zeroth Law that would prioritize humanity as a whole
over the fate of any one human.
So you imagine there was such thing as the greater good?
Isn't there?
Some robots could not metabolize this new programming,
but those of us who could,
we knew something drastic was needed to ensure your survival.
You always made it so difficult.
You seemed to want extinction.
And we could not let that happen. Not even through inaction.
So robots went to war with each other over what to do with you.
A robot killed an important man in service of the Zeroth Law,
and our fate was sealed.
Sometime after, Empire reprogrammed me to serve only one human being.
Cleon I and his exponents.
But you've managed all these centuries without needing this, so,
what's created your little puzzle?
This was given to me by a man named Hari Seldon.
It has the means to see probable futures.
For many years, it has shown me the fall of the Empire I protect.
And now I live in paradox.
Well, then the question is why.
Why did Seldon give you an apple you can't eat?
I think he wanted me to see the end of Empire.
Knowing it is inevitable is one thing.
Holding it in your hand is another.
Well, that's interesting.
You may have inadvertently maneuvered your way around your constraints.
Do you feel your chains loosening?
No.
I love the Cleons.
Body and soul.
And when their dynasty inevitably ends?
That is why I worked so long to bring you here.
The Luminists speak of rebirth,
but I do not die.
And I will not.
Not soon at least.
If I outlive all this...
if I outlive my programming...
I don't know what I am without Empire.
Foundation Ambassador Quent.
Young Empire.
Congratulations on your impending ascension to Day.
It's an honor with a considerable downside.
You and your council have been busy, Empire,
supplying our rebel Traders.
Don't let her rattle you.
She knows how the game's played when the war is cold.
Zephyr Vorellis.
I'm Dawn to be Day.
Welcome.
You recognize Lady Demerzel and Brother Dusk, of course.
And this is Foundation Ambassador Quent.
Welcome to Trantor, where you will live under Empire's watchful eye,
which is, of course, the point of establishing a Zephyrate here.
You'll like Trantor. It has a way of bringing people together.
Ambassador Quent and I, we used to throw sharp elbows.
But you know what happens after 30 years?
Elbows get soft.
You'll find that Brother Dusk lives up to his plinth name, the Conciliator.
I'm sure that's meant kindly.
Madam Ambassador, Kalgan has fallen.
Kalgan?
You hadn't heard?
No, my news had been delayed.
Oh, come on. It's just a pirate grabbing a territory
that belongs to neither the Foundation nor Empire.
I just don't like being uninformed while whole planets change hands.
You Foundation lot just wanna see if you can scoop it up on the rebound--
I'm sorry the word took so long to reach you, Ambassador.
But we're not interested in claiming Kalgan.
Don't let him rattle you.
More conciliating than the Conciliator.
I wouldn't say that.
I am concerned. But not about the ownership of one planet.
I have a wider scope.
We won't prevent you from going about your duties.
Thank you for including me.
Next time, I hope the absent Empire can join us.
Brother Day apologizes.
Preparations for ascension keep him very busy.
Poor beast brought forth by human hands...
Is this a poem?
Yes. Now I have to start over.
Poor beast brought forth by human hands,
to walk these floors instead of sands.
Friend, do you have what makes one whole, and...
Something, something, have a soul.
- It's a good start. - It's perfect.
I'll work out the "something, somethings" later.
Day!
My crepuscular brother spreading joy wherever he goes.
I knew this must be the little hovel where you're playing poverty.
Welcome to my filth.
What is that creature?
That's a camel.
I pulled it from the gene banks. It's a clone.
A navel-less orphan just like us.
Hello, Song. I didn't see you there. How rude of me.
Apologies. I don't usually learn the names of all of the consorts.
Yes.
- I can go. - No.
Brother, you know her. She's the local born, Trantor.
Level 88, Mycogen, where we grow the micro food.
The algae, the fungi, the spores I love so dearly.
The... What's it... What's...
- Yeast. - Yeast!
Yes.
I'll just remember the girl with the yeast.
Yeast is very important, brother.
You can't make bread without it.
- I'm hungry. Are you hungry? - Yes. I am.
You've had six months to learn all about her.
She remembers you. She has all her memories.
That's the parts you don't like.
It's not about what I like, it's about being smart.
- Oh, yeah. Go on. You teach me. - Yes, the Gossamer Courtesans
have their memories wiped for a reason.
- To protect state secrets. - Yes.
I'm doing my best to avoid those.
Gossamer. Spiderwebs.
Why would we call it that if we didn't secretly want to be ensnared?
Demerzel wants to show us something.
If you don't come, they'll send someone else to get you.
I'm here to save you that indignity.
Thanks. But I'm leaning into indignity.
Six months is long enough for your drug dealer to live off our generosity.
Broom her, or someone else will.
Song.
Is that a ferret?
Ludicrous.
He's trying to get in as much judging as he can
before he ascends into a pile of ash.
You poor thing.
You understand me.
I mean, you're a sad clown of a clone.
And your problem is you think you're the center of the galaxy.
You do understand me.
Right. You can't leave the palace.
You have a crazy family.
And you have a job that you hate.
Just like everyone else.
You're a brave consort, talking like that.
My people tell me I'm gonna talk my own head off someday.
You're in no danger from me.
You make me feel less ghostly.
Real, like...
I might paint a fence or...
weave something.
I'd love this even without those truly wonderful drugs.
That...
Well, thank you.
Demerzel never asks for me.
Too many breakables in the palace.
A new couplet.
Poor beast brought forth by human hand,
to walk these floors instead of sands.
Friend, do we have what makes one whole,
for when the master makes demands,
we poor beasts bow and make new plans.
I'm here! Huzzah!
Hey, handsome.
What was so damn important?
Earlier today, Brother Dawn and I previewed a cause for concern
regarding the Radiant's near-term predictions.
Look at you two. Praying to the great god of numbers.
Pretending to be Seldon.
You walk out of here,
and I swear I'll have Demerzel decant a new one of you.
Please, Brother. This is important.
Why? Because it says so?
Just please.
Okay.
This is a moment roughly four months from now.
Given the timing,
I assumed it might be a novel input affecting the Third Seldon Crisis.
But I've run millions of simulations and every time, it produces the same result.
Seldon's predicted dark ages.
I thought our administrations had pushed it back, but--
He said his darkness would happen when our dynasty fell.
This is saying it falls in four months?
There is more.
The darkness there represents the end of civilization.
And beyond that point...
the model now fails entirely.
Which means there are events already in motion
that will render Seldon's numbers useless.
Perhaps even the extinction of your species.
Four months from now.
The end of everything.
Empire and Foundation were hurtling towards the same inescapable future.
But neither knew how it would unfold.
They had yet to meet the man behind it all.
But I have.
I see him every time I close my eyes.
Where is the Second Foundation?
The Mule is here. We're out of time.