The terraformers

Annalee Newitz. PART I

SETTLERS

Year: 59,006

Planet: Sask-E

Mission: Ecosystem Maintenance

1

PLEISTOCENE FETISHIST

When in doubt, don’t kill anyone. —Environmental Rescue Team Handbook

Destry could smell the smoke long before she saw its improbable source. There was some kind of person—possibly Homo sapiens—tending a fire at

the edge of the boreal forest. She squinted, trying to make out details from

half a klick away. The person’s skin was so pale she guessed it had hardly

met real sunlight, which meant they were definitely not a stray worker from

one of the construction camps. When the intruder crouched next to the

flames, she caught a glimpse of red beard merging into a tangle of hair. In

their hands, a hare was speared and cooking on an expensive alloy spit. The

sight was horrifying, and Destry flinched back reflexively. “Let’s stop,” she whispered to her mount, a thick-barreled moose with

red-brown fur and a crown of antlers spreading from his forehead like a pair

of massive, cupped hands. He flicked an ear in acknowledgement as she

slid off his back and into his long shadow. Sinking down on one knee,

Destry pressed her bare fingers into the soil, spreading them wide,

establishing a high-bandwidth connection with the local ecosystem. Thousands of sensors welcomed her into the planet’s network, their

collective perceptions knitting together from shards of cached memory,

fragments of recorded sensation and perception. In this state, she too was a

sensor, processing data through her eyes, nose, tongue, skin, and ears. What

she perceived she shared with the ecosystem. She could feel the sensors

collaboratively reviewing the scene from her perspective, learning that she

wanted to know more about the mammal at the edge of the forest. It was

like her body had become the land. Her awareness stretched forward, racing

through root systems and over insects, tasting acid levels in the soil. The person’s feet on the ground registered as pressure on her back, and she

smelled redox reactions in the fire. Each sensor’s evaluation joined the

swelling chorus in her ears as the tiny machines voted on what their data

points might mean: polymer, hair, carnivore, unprocessed excrement, dead

trees, carbon cycle perturbation, predator, metal, fur, synthetic microbiome. As Destry’s data surged across the field and into the forest, the sensors

could see what she did, and their analysis coalesced into a strong

probability: Homo sapiens in the region for eight days, causally linked to

tree loss, small mammal loss, excrement buildup, complex toxins. But there was no data emanating from the person, save for a persistent

encrypted stream aimed at an orbital satellite. Out here in the bush, she

didn’t have the tools to analyze it. All she had were implants that made

sensors recognize her as one of their own. She was the only ranger built this

way; all her colleagues back home had to use bulky access devices if they

wanted to ask a flower about its nitrogen uptake. Disconnecting from the ecosystem, Destry unfolded her muscular frame

and ambled into talking range with the intruder. Her cropped gray-black

hair was matted with sweat, and a trickle found its way through the road

dust on her cheek, revealing a streak of deeply tanned skin. Wind pricked a

few tears from her blue eyes. She kept her hands visible. Basic protocol in

the Environmental Rescue Team was to approach in peace, no weapons

drawn, aiming to help. “Hey stranger!” she called after a few minutes. “I’m ERT Ranger Destry

Thomas!

D’you know you’re on unoccupied land?”

The person looked up, their flat, blank face twitching into an awkward

grin. Definitely Homo sapiens. They stood, technical jumper gleaming dull

gray in the late afternoon sun. Now that she was closer, Destry could see a

small cabin tucked into the trees, next to a collapsible trellis where a few

pelts were stretched. Mink, hare, beaver. A flicker of outrage licked the

inside of her ribs, but she kept it in check. No point in getting flustered. “Who are you?

What are you doing on this land?”

The person’s mouth worked as if they hadn’t spoken for a while. “G-

good evening, ERT Ranger Destry Thomas. Don’t think I’ve ever seen

Environmental Rescue on a private planet.”

Destry ignored his comment and ran her hands through the waist-high

grass, connecting to the sensors that dusted each blade. Whatever was

happening inside the person’s encrypted stream, it was getting thicker. Data

poured down furiously and shot back up again. She stopped a couple of meters away from the fire. “What’s your name,

stranger?” One hand was free, and the other settled lightly on her holstered

gun, slung low over her right hip. “Name’s Charter. I’m not looking for trouble, Ranger. I’m here to

experience the Pleistocene. It’s the purest environment for mankind.”

She groaned to herself. Charter was the default male name for Homo

sapiens remotes. No wonder he was regurgitating that fat data stream. Somebody was controlling him from offworld, probably thousands of light-

years away, using this proxy body to get their jollies in the ecosystem she’d

sworn to protect. Out there, in the volume of galactic space claimed by the

League, some people believed you weren’t really human unless you’d

experienced a Pleistocene environment on an Earthlike world. Hence the

lure of her planet, Sask-E, whose fragrant forests some distant asswipe was

currently smudging with uncontrolled carbon waste. “All right, Charter. I’m not sure who you are or how you got here, but

this is unoccupied land. It’s not your habitat.”

“Verdance is going to start selling it pretty soon. No harm done.” Charter

was starting to sound whiny, hinting at the personality of whoever

controlled him. “You need to biodegrade everything in this camp and get off this land

right now.”

“This ecosystem is my birthright.” Charter planted his feet firmly next to

the fire. He still held the spit with the hare’s skinned, burned body in one

hand. “It’s the origin of all mankind, and everything we do now is shaped

by it.”

A cool arctic wind threaded through the forest, and fir tree branches

gestured wildly overhead. But Destry felt sweaty, inside and out; she ran an

arm across her forehead, smearing the dust on her face into a thin, gritty

mud. Walking closer, she gave up the pretense of talking to Charter as if he

were alive. Now she looked into the wide purple eyes of the expensive biotech toy and addressed the distant person controlling him. “Listen. You

haven’t identified yourself, and I don’t know where you are coming from. But you put this remote here, and you damaged the forest. You’re

trespassing. You killed animals, which is a crime. You need to pack up your

remote right now and get off Sask-E before I report you to Verdance.”

She hoped the threat was enough. Charter’s controller could be sued for

what he’d done. The only thing preventing her from reporting him right

now was the fact that she liked talking to Verdance security about as much

as they liked dealing with unripe real estate. Sask-E was supposed to

terraform itself for another thousand years before anyone had to worry

about its existence. Charter yanked some flesh off the hare and put it between his teeth,

chewing awkwardly. “You know that man evolved to eat meat, don’t you?”

It would have been hilarious to hear a completely fabricated Homo

sapiens remote taunting her like that if it hadn’t been so nauseating to

watch. “I’ll ask you again to move along. This planet is still under

construction, and hunting could destabilize the local food web.”

Charter shrugged. “Don’t be dramatic. Why don’t you and that mount

leave me to enjoy my dinner?” He made the question sound like a

command, as if he was used to ordering a lot of mute servants around. Destry frowned. How had he found this star system, anyway?

Planets under

development weren’t listed on public maps, and there was no way he

stumbled on it by chance. His controller must have access to Verdance’s

real estate databases, which would make him some kind of insider. Or a rich

guy with a taste for Earthlike worlds who paid a tick to burrow quietly into

Verdance’s data systems. She fiddled with her holster, then walked her

fingers back. There was a chance she could get in trouble for shooting this

thing, even if he wasn’t supposed to be here. If her boss was displeased, she

might be grounded and forced to handle regulatory compliance garbage for

years. The remote kept staring at her, chewing with his mouth open, while she

weighed her options. She could take him out, and potentially get caught. She could report him, but he might do a lot of damage while she waited for

Verdance security to act—if they acted at all. Either way, she’d be forced to spend decades rebalancing the local environment. No matter what she did,

there would be trouble, so she might as well mitigate it. She tried again, using her calmest voice. “Listen. This isn’t a debate. You

need to get off this land.”

“No can do, Ranger Destry Thomas. Best be on your way. My

compliments to you on the well-stocked forest, though. This meal is just

like the ones our ancestors ate during Earth’s Pleistocene.” The remote

stretched his lips in a badly executed attempt at a smile. “Here on the

savannahs where our species was born, I can experience evolution

firsthand. The only thing that would make it more authentic would be some

nice moose jerky.”

The anger rising through her chest finally found her tongue. “This is not

a savanna, you pus-licker. It’s boreal forest.”

With one fluid motion, she slipped her gun from its holster, spun it up,

and shot the remote between the eyes. Charter’s data stream stuttered and

stopped as he crumpled. Killing was always a last resort for an ERT ranger,

but this controller was using his remote to threaten Whistle, and that could

not stand. Destry signaled her friend and he trotted through prairie grass to

the still-smoking fire. “We’re going to be here for a while,” she said. Whistle couldn’t reply aloud to her—his mouth was built to a perfect

Pleistocene moose template—but he could text. The sender in his brain

reached out to network with hers, skipping across the radio spectrum,

looking for a way to be heard; when he found it, he typed: Looks bad,

Destry. The moose had a limited vocabulary, but it got the job done. He was

right: she’d turned a shit situation into a slurry of blood-flecked diarrhea. Stretching up a hand, she rubbed the warm, furry hide of his neck. “You can

graze if you want. You’ll want to have lots of energy for the trip back.”

Whistle turned to press his fat muzzle into her gray-black hair, exhaling

a blast of warm air. During their months on patrol in this vast, continent-

spanning forest, Destry’s usual stubble had grown long enough to tickle her

ears. Whistle felt genuine affection for his partner, but this sudden urge to

nuzzle was definitely enhanced by the sight of an abundant carpet of

pinecones a few meters beyond the campsite. They were his favorite food. Meanwhile, Destry had to start the long, grisly process of sinking all this

carbon. She retrieved a few tools from Whistle’s saddlebags: an axe, a tin of

metabolizers, a sheet of carbon-capture membrane folded into a tight

square. Tramping around the campsite, she saw no obvious ejector pods or

shuttles nearby. Charter might have hiked in from a distant landing site,

though his pale skin suggested recent decanting. What if somebody at

Verdance spotted the vessel by satellite feed and started asking questions?

Or another ranger picked up what had happened from the sensor network?

She needed to find his ship and erase what she’d done. Whistle munched

contentedly as she deleted the last few minutes from the forest around her. Then she issued a ticket to the ERT bug tracker: I found a trespasser’s

campsite in the boreal forest. Composting it now. Can somebody please

check satellite footage at these coordinates to see whether there’s a vessel in

the area?

They would get her message in the next hour or two. Probably. As long

as it found a relatively uninterrupted path through the tall grass, routing

through sensors that were mostly intended for monitoring air and soil

conditions. The important thing was that she’d left some receipts. Now, if

the ship was found, she could plead ignorance about its payload. Which—

what exactly was that payload?

Obviously Charter’s controller was some

kind of rich dilettante, hopped up on environmental determinism. He didn’t

even recognize that the planet was closer to a Devonian Period Earth, 350

million years before his beloved Pleistocene. Sure, the food web was post-

Cretaceous, full of mammals and angiosperms alongside the more ancient

birds, insects, and conifers. But there were still a lot of synapsids running

around, looking like giant, furry lizard-otters with sails on their backs. As

the ERT’s top network analyst for ecosystems, she had to call it like she saw

it. This was hardly a perfect reproduction of Earth when it was a million

years younger. The reason none of these inconsistencies mattered to Verdance was that

oxygen levels were holding steady at the required 21 percent, thanks mostly

to the thick layer of trees Destry and her cohort planted—millions of them,

all across Sask-E. Over the centuries their roots burrowed deep into the

planet’s two megacontinents, Maskwa and Tooth, breaking up the sterile rock and accelerating the weathering process that drew down carbon. As

long as the carbon cycle was unperturbed, they could proceed on schedule

and stabilize all the interlocking environmental systems. Any extra load on

a freshly built ecosystem like the boreal forest might set them back

centuries. And now some joyrider from who knows where thought he could chew

through their labor like he was entitled to it. Because of some pixelated idea

about how Paleolithic humans lived. Glancing at the hare’s mutilated body

and the skins stretched nearby, Destry winced. He’d taken so much life

from an ecosystem he supposedly loved. Carefully burying the firepit in loose soil and leaves, she dragged the

remote inside the cabin, arranging the animal remains next to him. She

clambered up the high, peaked roof to survey the damage. He’d built the

whole structure from trees that the planet desperately needed to maintain its

atmosphere. Destry whacked at the wood with an axe, kicking chunks of it

down to the floor inside. Soon most of the roof lay in shredded lumps next

to Charter’s bedroll and rucksack, and it was relatively easy to yank the

wall posts out of their shallow holes in the ground. The racket brought

gravelly commentary from ravens overhead, and a few curious squirrels and

foxes poked their heads out of the brush. As the sun sank, Whistle left off his crunching and headed back to the

wreckage that Destry was arranging in a careful pile over the now-

dismantled cabin floor. The moose sent: Should we sleep here?

Destry glanced at the dimming sky, where the gas giant Sask-D emerged

as a bright pinprick next to the rising pear-shaped moon that orbited Sask-E. “I’m almost done,” she said. “I think we can make it back to camp tonight.”

She cracked the tin of metabolizers open with a screwdriver and sprinkled

wheat-colored husks packed with microbes over the splintered wood, skins,

and Charter’s body. It began to decompose almost before she could unfurl

the filter membrane with a snap of her wrists, settling it over the whole

mess like a transparent funeral shroud. Some carbon would escape, of

course, but the filter would capture about 80 percent. By the time the full

moon returned, this invader’s campsite would be nothing but a rich humus

beneath a layer of pine needles. Earth’s boreal forests didn’t work like this; they had sandy soils that

would take months to decompose this waste. But Earth was thousands of

light-years away. Here on Sask-E, in the far north of the megacontinent

Maskwa, the ERT cultivated a tropical microbiome in the forest floor

because it was a better carbon sink. On the surface, Sask-E could pass for

Pleistocene Earth. But if you actually bothered to squash its soils through a

sequencer, you’d know in a second that it was actually a crazy quilt of

ecosystems borrowed from half a billion years of Earth evolution—and life

on hundreds of other worlds, too. Not that Destry would ever travel through a wormhole to see Earth or

those other worlds firsthand. Verdance didn’t allow their workers outside

the atmospheric envelope of Sask-E, and blocked their access to offworld

comms too. The company liked to keep its workforce focused on

terraforming, which was their right. Ronnie Drake, the company’s VP of

special projects, loved to point out during one of her sudden, inconvenient

project oversight meetings that Verdance had paid to build this planet,

including its biological labor force. Everything here—other than rocks,

water, and the magnetic field—was part of Verdance’s proprietary

ecosystem development kit. And that meant every life form was legally the

company’s property, including Destry and Whistle. The filter looked steamy now. Water droplets ran across its underside,

leaving long, sooty tracks behind. Whistle nudged her and she looked into

his long, quizzical face, its contours as familiar to her as the positions of the

constellations overhead. Verdance wouldn’t classify him as a person, but

Destry was pretty sure he understood this ecosystem as well as she did. “Ready to go?” she asked him. He sent: Hop on. She climbed into the saddle, wrapping herself in wool blankets and

strapping down with canvas belts as Whistle trotted out of the trees. Night

had fallen, but the moon illuminated fields of shivering grasses that edged

the forest. Her goggles picked out the glowing heat signatures of small

mammals on the prowl for seeds. As the shadows played havoc with their

morphology, Destry and Whistle appeared to merge into one animal,

muscular and dappled in silver. The illusion became more profound when Destry leaned into Whistle’s neck, wrapping arms around his warmth, and

whispered: “Let’s fly.”

The moose launched into a bumpy canter, accelerated to a gallop, then

jumped into the air as if he were leaping over a fallen log. His back muscles

bunched and relaxed as the ground veered away from them. Soon they were

hundreds of meters over the prairie, watching a pack of coyotes far below,

yapping their way through the dusk. Destry’s legs prickled slightly from the

gravity mesh adjusting under Whistle’s hide, but then they leveled out. Overhead, the Milky Way tumbled down the center of the sky in an

uncontrolled deluge of stars. 2

LA RONGE

Home is a bargain with nature. —Environmental Rescue Team Handbook

Glancing at the position of the sun in the west, Destry calculated that they

had a good chance of making it home in time for dinner leftovers. After she

and Whistle had composted Charter, they’d spent another two weeks in the

field because an ERT geographer replied to her bug ticket with coordinates

for the remote’s space vessel. The stench of decomposing metal alloys still

stung in her nostrils. Whistle had flown all day, almost 720 klicks from the mineral-rich mush

that was once an atmosphere entry pod. Destry would need to return for

more readings in a few months, but for now it seemed the ecosystem held

its precarious balance. A few tiny ranger stations dotted the grassland, throwing symmetrical

shadows from peaked roofs. She sent a greeting to each as they passed. Ranger Destry Thomas returning. Hello!

Hello, Destry!

Ranger Squab Marshelder here. Welcome back. It went on like that for many klicks as the sun sank, though Destry spent

slightly more time talking to some rangers than others, depending on how

much she liked them. At last they could see the compacted dirt road to La Ronge below,

illuminated by long-wavelength visible spectrum lamps whose deep red

glow didn’t attenuate the sky’s darkness overhead. Whistle descended

gradually before landing at a full gallop, slowing to a walk before the urban

ecosystem embraced them. La Ronge’s skyline was dominated by

apartments stacked in slowly twisting spirals, each floor angled a slightly

different direction so that everyone’s rooms could capture sunlight. Most of the densely packed city, however, was only a few stories tall. Market

squares and courtyards were edged by barns and domos, long, rectangular

public buildings with arched roofs covered in mosses, clover, and shallow-

root herbs. She dismounted and walked alongside Whistle as they turned a

corner and followed the main road downtown. Gardens were everywhere,

sprouting in tufts from wall pockets or sprawling for blocks alongside

streets busy with pedestrians, bikes, and trucks. They crossed a low bridge over a stream ruddy with city lights, and

Destry felt a twinge as she watched a family of hares drinking at its edge. At least the small mammals were safe here. Destry and Whistle followed

the road north toward the ERT campus, where each had a bed. Paper

lanterns strung overhead illuminated the broad sidewalk where a few

evening shoppers considered the day’s remaining wares: bruised fruits and

vegetables, a slightly burned loaf of bread. Two cat-sized drones hovered down on eight rotors to land on Whistle’s

right and left antlers. They had smooth X-shaped bodies with sensors

spread like freckles along each axis, and they were small enough to use

conventional flight rather than gravity mesh. “Long time no see,” they said

in unison. “The city misses every aeronaut.” Though they had two bodies,

Hellfire&Crisp shared a consciousness; it was therefore hard to say whether

the drones were a plural or singular they. Whistle snorted and sent a public text: Hi there. Good to be back. The drones took off again, ignoring Destry. Whistle had a social life that

he didn’t tell her about, and she didn’t ask. It was one of many nonverbal

agreements they had that made their working relationship deeply amicable

and pleasing. Their first stop was the ERT barn where the moose lived with other

mounts. At its wide door, Destry relieved him of her saddle before giving

him a rubdown in the spots he couldn’t reach. “Have a good night, pal,” Destry said. He nudged her with his nose. You too. The ERT domo for hominins was at the end of a dirt path bordered by

night-blooming primroses and mint whose mingled scents sweetened the

air. She had to duck through an arch in a whimsically pruned hedge whose contours were determined annually by the rangers in training. Right now, it

was supposed to evoke the undulating body of a swimming placoderm—an

homage to the Devonian armored fish who still roamed the seas. Ahead lay

the domo, its wide, three-story bulk packed with dorms, lounges, and the

main dining hall. It was one of the few buildings on Sask-E built with

wood, carefully culled from nearby spruce and fir populations to promote a

diversity of new growth. Its creamy outer walls were treated with a

transparent polymer to protect it from weathering, and the high, rounded

roof was wattle and daub. Double doors opened as Destry’s face came into

range, and she walked down the yellow-lit throat of the hallway with its

colorful murals, handprints, and informational posters. No matter how many centuries she lived here, returning to this domo

always filled Destry with a sense of accomplishment. She was an

Environmental Rescue Team ranger, and her home here was proof. Still, her position wasn’t solid. Destry recalled what that pus-sucker had

said through the lips of his remote: It was strange to find an ERT ranger on

a private planet like this one. Most of the planet’s hominin population were

workers made from standard templates, decanted and controlled by

Verdance—technicians, engineers, and farmers who lived in La Ronge but

spent most of the year dispatched to remote construction sites. There was no

ambiguity in the law when it came to those workers; Verdance could use

them however it wanted. But the ERT was a profoundly public institution,

with campuses on nearly every League world. They couldn’t technically be

owned by Verdance, or anyone. Destry wasn’t sure what kind of twisted,

legal logic her boss, Ronnie, had deployed to establish an ERT campus

here. The ancient order of environmental engineers and first responders traced

their lineage all the way back to the Farm Revolutions that ended the

Anthropocene on Earth, and started the calendar system people still used

today. According to old Handbook lore, the Trickster Squad—Sky, Beaver,

Muskrat, and Wasakeejack—founded the Environmental Rescue Team

59,006 years ago. That’s when the legendary heroes saved the world from

apocalyptic floods by inventing a new form of agriculture. The Great

Bargain, they called it. A way to open communication with other life forms in order to manage the land more democratically. The ERT started with

domesticated animals—ungulates, birds, small mammals, model organisms

like rats—and over the millennia since, rangers had invited more species

into the Great Bargain as their opinions became necessary for land

management. Ronnie had decided that the ERT should be involved in her terraforming

project, and so she built one. Apparently the Verdance VP was a true

believer in the Great Bargain, but she also wanted to make money on

colonization. She couldn’t resolve this contradiction, so the Sask-E ERT ran

like a moose with overgrown hooves. They had access to a planetwide

network of sensor data—as well as the ERT Handbook, with its stories

about ecosystem management. But the company’s ban on offworld comms

effectively shut them off from other ERT communities. As far as Destry

could tell, no one knew about the rangers here in La Ronge. That was

convenient for Ronnie. She could appease her ancestors by respecting ERT

traditions, but also please the executives at Verdance by keeping everything

and everyone on Sask-E privately owned. A thick aroma of fried onion in the domo promised leftovers, and Destry

sped up with anticipation. The dining hall was the biggest room on this

floor, occupying the entire west side of the building. When she poked her

head inside, the place was empty and mostly unlit except for one area where

half a dozen junior rangers were eating a late meal together. Thankfully,

there was still a heaping tray of pierogies and pickled mustard greens on the

grab table. Loading her plate, Destry sank gratefully into her favorite corner

chair and reveled in the luxury of eating food made by someone else. The

dumplings were still warm, and she’d scored a few stuffed with spicy lentils

as well as potato and curried carrot. But there were always surprises,

especially at late dinner. Destry smeared fried onion on what she thought

was a potato pierogi, only to discover it was sweet cheese, and was

therefore making a terrible face when her best friend, Nil, appeared in the

doorway and yelped her name. “Destry!

You’re back!

Any news from the forest?”

She swallowed with difficulty, stood, and gestured for him to join her. “Everything is in balance,” she said, evoking the time-honored greeting to avoid mentioning all the out-of-balance shit she’d seen. The two embraced

before sitting in companionable silence at the table together. When they were young, she and Nil were sometimes mistaken for each

other. Both had thick black hair, shaggy and straight, which always hung in

their eyes. Working in the sun, their skin tanned to a dark brown, and they

bulked up with muscles rather than growing lean like their colleagues. Now,

almost four hundred years later, it was easy to tell them apart. Destry’s hair

was a salt-and-pepper fuzz sticking up around her face, while Nil’s was still

long and black. Destry’s work outside kept her face tan and her arms thick

with muscle, while Nil’s lab work had lightened his skin and given him a

small, soft belly. Only their matching eyes remained unchanged: they were

the bright, clear blue of shallow coastal waters. When they were lucky

enough to be in the same place at the same time, they were inseparable. Even when she was sick of humans, Destry could tolerate Nil. Gulping a pile of pickled greens to wash the weird flavor out of her

mouth, Destry gripped his shoulder warmly. “What’s been happening down

here in the city, my friend?”

“Everything’s in balance,” he replied noncommittally. “I was just

checking the bug tracker and it looks like one of the big lava tubes at Spider

Mountain collapsed. There’s been some seismic activity so it could be an

eruption coming. I was thinking of getting off my lazy ass and doing some

fieldwork down there.” He paused and looked hopefully at her. “Want to

come?”

Because Sask-E had no plate tectonics, volcanoes rarely erupted out of

nowhere: they oozed magma for millions of years in the same locations,

creating massive, cone-shaped mountains. The two friends had dealt a lot

with these formations, though for different reasons. Destry investigated

breakdowns in local ecosystems from toxins expelled during eruptions, and

Nil tapped lava flows to create volcanic soils for forests he was irrigating. His offer was tempting. Still, she had been looking forward to sleeping in

her own bed for a while after three months in the bush, especially after that

disturbing encounter with the remote. And if she was being honest, the

tropical ecosystems near Spider Mountain weren’t her favorite. She’d

always preferred the prairies. “I don’t know, Nil. I’m pretty exhausted.”

He looked mildly put out, then concerned. “Did something happen out

there?

I saw your bug report about the space vessel, but I didn’t read it.”

Destry repositioned one of the lentil pierogis on her plate, carefully

piling it with onion and mustard greens. She chewed for a while as Nil

waited patiently. It was another reason why they remained friends; he was

willing to wait through her hard-edged silences. “I didn’t report this, but I had to kill a remote. A default male Homo

sapiens.” She forked the last bite of dinner into her mouth. “He was

murdering small mammals and eating them. Never seen anything like it. I

don’t mind saying it was downright spooky.”

Nil looked disturbed. “I think a whole slew of crackpots are going to

start coming to Sasky now. Verdance just opened up bidding for plots.”

Like everyone in La Ronge, he blurred the syllables in the planet’s name

together, and Sask-E became Sasky. The Verdance announcement was news to Destry, but it did explain how

the remote had found his way here. Verdance was probably spraying

everyone in League space and beyond with ads for their latest artisanal

terraforming creation, ten thousand years in the making. The real estate

developer was known for indie projects like Sasky, which was ripening into

one of the few known Earthlike worlds in the League—and that made it an

enticing outlier among the thousands of habitable planets that speculators

were terraforming at any given time. Verdance was really leaning into its whole “Earth rebooted” marketing

pitch, too. Anyone who bought property on Sasky would be required to live

here in a Homo sapiens body, which was packaged with the real estate. That

meant settling here was very expensive, which seemed to make buyers

salivate. Destry frowned at the thought of more people sending their remotes to

poison the biosphere before it was open to the public. Nil put a hand on her arm. “Did the remote say why he was here?”

“He was a Pleistocene fanatic. Said the land was his birthright as a

human, along with some other determinist feculence.”

Nil rolled his eyes and sighed. “I have a feeling our jobs are about to get

a lot more annoying.”

Destry pushed back from the table. “I need to get to bed. Let’s meet for

breakfast?”

Nil nodded and they walked to the hallway together, mounting the worn

ceramic stairs to the sleeping quarters. On the first landing, they paused. Destry was on the third floor, and Nil was on the second. He embraced her

goodnight and whispered in her ear. “Shall I join you?”

She felt the familiar pull toward him low in her belly. It had been

awhile. Part of her craved what he offered, but a bigger part was bone-tired. Destry kissed Nil’s warm lips and hugged him harder. “Another time, my friend.” She ran her hands up his arms and stepped

back to appreciate the sweetness of his familiar face. “It’s good to see you,

though.”

He grinned easily. “Good to see you too, my friend.”

Destry mounted the stairs and plodded past a dozen darkened doors to

the one that glowed a soft green, anticipating her arrival. Inside, she barely

glanced at the walls, where ivy cascaded out of pockets near the ceiling,

parting around a few square cubbies crowded with framed pictures and

favored mementos. It was only when Destry peeled off her clothes and dove

between the clean covers that she realized her skin was still gritty with dirt,

charcoal, and who knows what else from the composted space vessel. Washing would have to wait, just like Nil’s comforts. For now, sleeping

alone in her tiny personal space with its window full of night was the

greatest pleasure she could imagine. That’s when her external comms pad hooted loudly. It was a sound she

heard only when somebody was calling directly from Verdance. Ronnie. Groaning, she rolled over and waved on the light, muscles and mind aching. She didn’t even have a chance to accept the call. Ronnie’s access was

high enough that she could pipe her face into any room, any time. A crisp

hologram of the VP’s head and shoulders now hovered at the foot of the

bed. Her hair was a pale, iridescent blue, perfectly layered to cascade across

the shoulders of her emerald jacket. Her brown skin was richly moisturized,

almost dewy, as if she’d recently had a tissue reconstruction. Though proud of her traditional Earth values, Ronnie was Homo diversus, a catchall

subspecies name for hundreds of customized hominin builds. Her

fashionable forehead sloped back steeply, and her skull was elongated into

an elegant egg shape. Gills gleamed on either side of her throat like jewels. “I’m sorry if you were sleeping.”

Destry ran a hand over her eyes and shrugged off the fake apology. “What can I do for you?”

“I see you filed a bug report about a vessel but failed to mention that you

killed the remote who piloted it.”

So much for covering her tracks up there in the boreal forest. “He was

trespassing, killing trees and animals. If I’d left him there, he would have

set back development of that forest by years. I asked him to leave three

times before I shot him. You can see the footage for yourself.”

“Don’t treat this lightly, Destry. I have client relationships on the line

here.”

Something about her condescending tone reminded Destry of early

training, when she and the other recently decanted ERT rangers watched an

old video of Ronnie talking about Earth terroir. Using her sweetest and

most nurturing voice, the Verdance VP explained that only Homo sapiens

could truly nurture the terroir of Earthlike ecosystems, which is why Destry

and her H. sapiens cohorts were so important. They would turn Sask-E into

an Earth-away-from-Earth, a special world that honored humanity’s origins. Back then, when Destry was still under the protection of her mother and

father, she thought Ronnie was the wisest person in the galaxy. In the

centuries since, her feelings for the VP had curdled into wrathful disgust. Not that she could ever show Ronnie anything other than calm obedience. That’s what she needed to muster if she was going to make it through this

conversation intact. “I’m confused,” Destry said as nonconfrontationally as possible. “That

remote wasn’t on official business. It was unmarked, with a generic name.”

“That remote was sent by Lem Rackleworth’s son.” Ronnie gritted her

teeth in a smile. “He is an investor in our parent company, and his son

Devin is interested in buying some land on Sask-E.”

“I asked him to identify himself and he refused.”

“I saw the remote’s logs. You shot within a few minutes of encountering

him.”

Destry was shocked fully awake. Ronnie was combing through her

investors’ son’s logs now?

That was a new level of aggressive

micromanagement. Ronnie continued. “His remote was very expensive, and Lem is

threatening us with a lawsuit. You’re a good ranger, Destry. A good

investigator. But if I can’t work this out with Lem, there is nothing I can do

to intercede for you. Do you understand?” Her words hung in the air,

deliberately vague. Acid crept its way up Destry’s throat from her stomach. An extremely belligerent investor might get her kicked out of the ERT. She’d lose what little power she had to shape the environment on this

planet. Destry looked into the photons animating Ronnie’s face, searching for

pores in her shiny skin. She thought about her parents, who were no longer

around to reassure her that Ronnie was far away and couldn’t do any harm. Besides, that had been a lie. Ronnie was always around, turning minor

infractions into catastrophes. Destry forced herself to sit up straighter. “I

understand, Ronnie. Thanks for letting me know.”

And then the hologram was gone, Ronnie’s threat adding ambient stress

to the uncomfortable reminder that she wasn’t ever entirely alone. Shaking

with more than exhaustion, Destry lay down and waved off the lights. Even

the weight of foreboding couldn’t keep her awake. Outside, the northern

constellations crawled across the sky, obliviously waiting for someone from

a distant star to claim them as property. 3

FIELDWORK

We are living beings, and that is why we want to survive. —Environmental Rescue Team Handbook

When she awoke with the rooster calls, Destry wanted nothing more than to

be gone again. She imagined opening her eyes hundreds of kilometers

away, the dome of her tent illuminated by dawn. Compulsively, she checked

her messages for any updates from Ronnie. Had she been cut off from the

ERT network?

Was there some other punishment in store?

She bumbled

through her morning routine in the communal washrooms, scrubbing down

with a handful of lavender cleanser from a woven grass basket and sluicing

some water through her hair. It took a long time at the sink to get all the dirt

out from under her nails. Familiar faces appeared in the mirror next to hers,

smiled, mumbled greetings, and drifted away. Out of the corner of her eye,

she caught a glimpse of someone whose blue hair shimmered like Ronnie’s,

and she almost jumped. Stress torqued the muscles in her neck. Pulling on a fresh jumpsuit, Destry pondered what Nil had said last night

about the volcano down south. The invitation was starting to sound a lot

more enticing—even a potential disaster zone was better than being in

comms range with Ronnie right now. Offworld messages from Verdance

usually took days to route from the city into the bush. Plus, it had been

decades since she and Nil had gone on a mission together, and she felt a

welcome, lingering warmth from their embrace last night. Hopefully Whistle would be up for it. He didn’t have a choice—he was

her assigned mount—but Destry didn’t relish making him do things against

his will. She’d met so many creatures like Whistle who were obviously

people, despite their supposedly low intelligence, that she had long ago

stopped buying into the League’s “intelligence assessment” rating system. There was a good reason why the rangers called them InAss ratings. Your

head had to be buried deep in your ass to say a flying, talking moose with a

weird gang of aeronaut drone friends wasn’t smart enough to be a person. But that’s what the law said. And until there was some kind of revolution

like in the game Animal Uprising, the people of Sasky and everyone else in

the League were stuck with it. Nevertheless, Destry always got Whistle’s

consent before taking a job, or bribed him with some kind of reward if he

was on the fence. And that’s exactly what she aimed to keep doing. Destry found her old friend at the same table where she’d eaten last

night. A cooker full of porridge was making blorp noises on the grab table,

and she scooped up a cup before sitting down. Nil had already spread out a

map of Spider and its surrounds. “What are we looking at?” She raised an eyebrow. He gestured at the wrinkled readout, centering the caldera, its massive

lake of turquoise water like a gem pressed deeply into the top of the

mountain. It was today’s geodata from VerdanceSat3, sent automatically to

the ERT. Radiating outward from Spider’s base were long, rocky ridges—

the signs of underground tunnels created by subterranean lava flows. From

above, the mountain looked like a tropical tarantula, its swollen blue

abdomen surrounded by splayed legs. That’s why everybody called it

Spider. With a pang, Destry realized that Verdance’s clients—like

Rackleworth’s shit kid—would probably give it a bland, marketable name. Lakeview, maybe. Or Rackleworth Mountain. Nil poked at one of Spider’s legs, zooming in close enough to show how

the lava tube had collapsed, leaving a ragged tear in its grassy ridge top. From inside the tunnel, it would look like a skylight had opened overhead. “This is pretty interesting from a geomorphology perspective, but that’s

not why I’m heading down there as soon as possible. Check it out.” Nil

scrolled along the lava tube about half a klick to the crumbling edge of the

skylight. Destry’s eyes widened. Set into the curved wall of the tube was a

door very much like the one to her own room, glowing red to signal an

emergency lockdown. “What the hell?

More Pleistocene fetishists?”

“That’s exactly what I want to know.” Nil’s face was serious. “We have

some drones doing recon, but nobody is going to land without us as backup. Though my guess”—he zoomed in farther, so that scuffs on the door were

clearly visible—“this is something old.”

“But why would it still be powered up?

Plus, nobody has ever lived out

there. Even the first generation of Verdance workers built homes here in La

Ronge.”

“As far as we know.”

Destry planted chin in hand and zoomed the map back out, looking for

other clues. Could it really be from the earliest days of terraforming?

That

would be over ten thousand years ago, when Verdance decanted the first

workers on the northern continent to jump-start photosynthesis. At that

time, Sasky’s atmosphere was a mix of carbon and nitrogen, with just a

whiff of hydrogen. It would have been fatal for H. sapiens, so Verdance

created a hardy group of H. diversus who could thrive in an atmosphere

with almost no oxygen. They seeded the Winston Ocean with

cyanobacteria, creating thick mats of blue-green algae that belched oxygen

into the air. As oxygen levels rose, they decanted a generation of H. sapiens

who then died out, leaving the world to life forms who thrived in the

pseudo-Pleistocene environment. “There’s no way the first terraformers could survive on the planet now,”

Destry mused aloud. “Too much oxygen.”

She spotted another unusual shape in the tunnel and zoomed in. It looked

like the remains of a machine stuck to the wall, its spiral shell smashed and

dripping fluids. “What do you think that is?” She pointed. Nil squinted at the image. “It’s hard to make out at this resolution, but—

it could be some kind of atmosphere processor.”

They looked each other in the eyes, weighing the consequences of this

finding. Finally Destry spoke. “Has anyone reported these—uh—anomalies

to Verdance?”

A frown line appeared on Nil’s forehead. “No. We’ll keep this within the

ERT for now. The less Ronnie and her Verdance cronies know, the better.”

Destry gulped the rest of her porridge, now barely warm. “I’m going to

get some coffee and see if Whistle wants to visit the equator.”

Nil beamed. “So you’ll come after all?

That was easy.”

“It’s a pretty compelling find.” She clapped him on the shoulder. “Plus,

I’m feeling the urge to get out in the field again.”

Raising his eyebrows, Nil said nothing. Maybe he guessed that she had

other motivations, but he wasn’t going to pry. Then he grinned. “Tell

Whistle that his aeronaut squad is heading there already.”

“The whole team?”

“One of his buddies—Hellfire&Crisp. And I’m bringing Rocket.”

Rocket was Nil’s research partner, a flying drone designed to be

mounted. But that didn’t make Rocket an official Mount like Whistle—the

drone’s intelligence assessment qualified them for personhood. Even though

Whistle consistently performed better than Rocket in ERT emergency drills. Further evidence that InAss ratings were garbage. When she arrived at the barn to give Whistle the latest news, he kicked

up his back legs in the moose equivalent of a smile. Sounds fine, Destry. I like this plan, he sent. Let’s fly down now. “I’ll get my travel gear and meet you at the takeoff field.”

Sure thing. The moose was already wheeling around to go back into the

barn as Destry received his text. A pair of robot arms suspended from the

ceiling inside helped all the Mounts with their kits, tightening belts and

securing their possessions in saddlebags. It would be a long trip, and their network comms could get lossy down

south, where sensors were spread thin. Destry grinned as she packed her

instruments, med supplies, and a change of clothes into a rucksack that was

still dusty from the flight down here yesterday. Grabbing a week’s rations

from the kitchen, she opened a connection with the ERT scheduler, adding

her name and Whistle’s to the list of people going out to investigate the

quake at Spider. Ronnie couldn’t accuse her of sneaking away—after all,

this was exactly the sort of situation where a network analyst was needed. Soon she was following a narrow trail through waist-high grass to get to

the takeoff field. Whistle barely waited for her to strap down before he

galloped into the air, where they met Nil and Rocket circling over La

Ronge. Mountable drones like Rocket were designed as stripped-down

moose: They had thick cylindrical torsos for saddling, fitted with retractable limbs, and a sensor bulb roughly where a head would be. Only that “head”

looked more like a spiny durian fruit on a telescoping pole. When flying,

Rocket pulled their sensor bulb close to the smooth metal barrel of their

body, giving them the appearance of a tube with a lumpy ball on one end. Two more people joined them in the air: an H. sapiens named Long, and

a moose with glossy black fur who carried him. Destry knew Long—he’d

worked with her and Nil centuries ago on soil missions—but she’d never

met the moose. Accessing the moose’s sender ID revealed she had high

InAss ratings and full personhood. Her name was Midnight. That made

Whistle the only true Mount in their party, and Destry hoped that nobody

would condescend to him. Below their feet, La Ronge was a jumble of houses and farms

surrounded by prairie hills and swales. Pedestrians flowed through the

streets, and riders were constantly bounding into the air from the grassland

like fleas from shaggy hair. In the distance, a faint rainbow stretched across

the edge of a blurry gray cloud. They flew in its general direction, the city

behind them melting into abstract polygons. “Think we’ll finally make it to the rainbow this time?” Destry asked Nil. It was an old joke between them, from when they were new rangers chasing

prismed light in the irrigation vapor plumes. “Well, you know how it is with rainbows,” Nil replied. “Wherever you

go, you’re never there.”

4

HOMO ARCHAEA

We are not humans and animals. We are allies in the Great Bargain. —Environmental Rescue Team Handbook

It took the team three days to reach Spider Mountain, which was located

near the coastline of equatorial Maskwa. As they approached the southern

ocean, the air grew warm and humid. They slept on mats under a shelter to

block some of the misty rain. Everyone who was biological foraged for

fruits and twigs to supplement the buckwheat bread and pulses they’d

brought from home while Rocket unfurled solar arrays to capture energy as

they flew. Finally, Spider came into view, with its fiery heart cloaked in grass and

wildflowers. Destry had been here during the last eruption, over three

hundred years ago, watching from a safe distance as black clouds billowed

into the air from vents that cracked open at the summit. Lightning flickered

purple inside the blast of life-giving minerals. As its underground magma

pocket drained, the mountain peak deflated, sinking hundreds of meters in

minutes as barn-sized boulders toppled into the broiling caldera that today

held a calm sapphire lake. She’d never forget watching Spider eat its own

head. Once things cooled down, she and the rangers collected the volcanic

rock where it had flowed down into the mountain’s tunnel legs. Nil and

Long were there too; their job was to pulverize the rock into fertilizer for

soil across the planet. But it wasn’t the spectacular blast that made this memory so vivid in

Destry’s mind. It was another fire, over two thousand klicks away, listed

only as “hazard cleanup” in the ERT official records. While she was

grinning into Spider’s sulfurous winds, her parents’ cabin had burned to the

ground in the boreal forest north of La Ronge. No one escaped alive, not even the swift-footed cat. They were so far out in the bush that it took

weeks before sensor data arrived from the blast radius, which was then

passed along to her as part of the disaster report. For hours, she had stared

at a VerdanceSat3 image of fallen trees radiating outward from the

explosion—result of a misconfigured bioreactor—their shattered trunks like

the paths of x-rays screaming out of the black hole created by her parents’

melted house. Destry packed her anguish back into the part of her belly that no food

could fill. Today Spider was quiet, holding water where it once held fire. Her parents were at peace, their proteins folded into the proteins of other

life forms. She deliberately turned her mind to the work ahead. Hellfire&Crisp had been on site for over a day, and their radar readings

indicated there was no puffing of the mountain’s skin, which meant the

place probably wasn’t going to blow lava any time soon. The seismic

activity was high, but still within the typical range; it was possible that their

seismometers had picked up vibrations from the tunnel collapse rather than

a quake. Or maybe it was a disturbance related to the tech they’d seen

inside. The rangers met on the ground. Destry stayed on Whistle’s back as he

ambled toward the lava tube skylight while Nil and Long dismounted. Hellfire&Crisp swooped down to greet them. “Look at this,” they said,

pointing grippers at the place where the machine had been smashed in Nil’s

map images back at La Ronge. Now there was nothing but rippled rock. A

shallow ledge ran along the tunnel wall at about the height of a guardrail: it

was the high-point mark from a recent lava flow. Destry felt the familiar thrill that came with first perceiving the

complexity of a problem, before it become a neat graph of nodes and edges. “What happened?” she asked. “We don’t know.” Hellfire&Crisp didn’t have a face on their smooth,

bullet-shaped carapaces, but their voices broadcast an expression of

frustration. “We were surveying some of the other lava tubes twenty-two

hours ago, and when we returned, it was gone.”

“And the door?” Nil craned his neck to see farther down the tube. “Still there.”

Long scrambled down into the lava tube with Midnight. Touching the

wall, he looked back up at the group, perplexed. “There’s no natural

phenomenon that could have done this. Even if an animal carried it away,

there would be something left.”

Hellfire&Crisp hovered over Destry’s head. They shouted with

excitement. “The plot thickens!

Let’s race to that door!”

Whistle tossed his head: Let’s go!

Destry, can you hold on?

He started galloping before she could say yes. Nil hopped on Rocket and sped along the floor of the lava tube a few

meters below. Long and Midnight stayed behind to smear a dollop of sticky

sensors on the wall, setting them to take samples of chemical residue. Crisp&Hellfire won the race by a few seconds, and Whistle sent

increasingly elaborate curses as he came to a bumpy stop. Destry practically

fell off his back, landing with a thud below his towering form and sliding

quickly down the concave wall of the tube. Pressing her hands into the

crumbling rock, she ignored the ongoing smack talk between aeronauts and

sought a connection. There were a few sensors blown into the lava tube by

the wind, but they yielded only atmospheric data from the past two days. Farther out, the tropical forest had nothing useful to add: No seismic activity

in four days; humidity levels within set range; a jasmine bush is blooming a

day earlier than predicted; six earthworms are heading southwest; nothing

perceived inside the lava tunnel. It was distinctly odd that none of the sensors had anything to say about

this door, now emitting a cool blue light. “Maybe whoever is behind that door cleaned up the machine.”

Hellfire&Crisp said above her. “It might have opened while we were gone.”

“Maybe.” Destry scratched her chin, struck by the odd tableau of the

perfectly rectangular door fitted into the variegated crust. “This door looks

extremely well maintained. It’s definitely a system I’ve seen in La Ronge,

though I think it’s modified. There’s no way some offworld real estate

buyer set this up.” She peered closer and realized there was a touchscreen

positioned at chest level, its pixels glowing the exact same color as the door. Someone definitely lived here. And there were no records of them at all—

not even in the environmental sensors that surrounded Spider Mountain. Nil arrived, dismounting from Rocket to peer over her shoulder at the

touchscreen. “Is that a doorbell?” he asked. “Let’s ring it!” Hellfire&Crisp yelled. “Let’s say hi!”

“No, don’t—” But Destry’s reply was too late. A large pixel of white

light bounced back and forth across the screen’s surface. The drones had

sent a cross-spectrum generic hello. “Everybody stand back!”

The whole team scrambled away, leaving a three-meter cushion between

themselves and the door. Nothing happened. “What’s going on, Rocket?” Nil asked. His mountable drone partner was

an expert at squeezing data out of closed systems. “It’s routing the call.”

A tinny voice with a lilting accent came from the door. “I can hear you.”

Destry wasn’t sure whether she was being addressed by the door,

somebody speaking over comms, or some other entity who lived on the

network. Didn’t matter. Whoever they were, they deserved a polite greeting. She bowed slightly at the screen. “Hey, friend. I’m Ranger Destry Thomas,

and these are my colleagues from the La Ronge Environmental Rescue

Team. We’re curious about this door here, and who all is behind it.”

There was a long pause, and the voice came again. “Hi, Destry. And

hello to Hellfire&Crisp and Rocket. I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting

the rest of you. I’m Jaguar.”

Nil stepped forward. “I’m Ranger Nil Tom, and we’re wondering how

you got here.”

“How did you get here?” Jaguar sounded put out. Hellfire&Crisp were hovering next to them now, carapaces strobing

excitedly. “We flew!”

“We saw the collapsed lava tube and this door and came to investigate,”

Destry clarified. “Naturally we were surprised because nobody is supposed

to be on Sask-E except Verdance workers.”

Jaguar made a snorting noise. “You mean Verdance’s slaved H. sapiens?”

Destry started to say something, but Nil put up his hand to stop her. “May we come inside and meet you?” he asked. There was no answer. After a minute, Whistle hovered down into the

lava tube, using his furry thickness to push aside Long and Midnight, who

had finally arrived at a slow trot. Whistle shoved his soft nose into Destry’s

back and texted: I will stand with you. Though someone with his InAss

rating wasn’t supposed to deal in double meanings, Destry was pretty sure

Whistle meant the words figuratively as well as literally. Hellfire&Crisp extended a limb from the carapace of their closest body. It was tipped with a powerful laser for rock sampling. “Let’s cut our way

inside.”

“Good luck with that.” Jaguar’s voice was almost amused this time. “That laser couldn’t get through even a millimeter of this material.” After a

pause, the door continued, “Apparently even the most annoying individuals

are welcome here these days. You can come inside.”

The door flew open, exhaling a blast of cold air that smelled faintly of

cow farts. A person about Destry’s height stood in the opening, wearing a

light, transparent respirator over their nose and mouth—not exactly a Homo

sapiens, but very close. Their chest was wide and barrel-shaped, with arms

a few centimeters longer than H. sapiens standard. Some kind of H. diversus, then. Beneath the face mask, the person had pink skin, wide-set

eyes, a heavy brow, and prominent cheekbones. They wore coveralls that

were an exact replica of the chemical-resistant model provided by

Verdance, except there was a black patch in the place where a corporate

logo would be. Everything about this encounter was strange, but perhaps the strangest

thing was how well-established this place appeared. Their network was

robust, if Jaguar was any indication, and this person had obviously come

out of a long tunnel that stretched deep underground. This was no camp of

blank-eyed Pleistocene Man wannabes chasing a real estate marketing

campaign. Something profoundly unexpected was happening here. Whenever she got way out of her depth like this, Destry always started

with the basics. Like names. “Are you Jaguar?” she asked the H. diversus. The person tilted their head, bemused. “No. Jaguar is the door. I’m

Lucky.” Their voice was low and gravelly, with the same lilt that she’d

heard in Jaguar’s speech. “Jaguar told the Council there were Homo sapiens

calling, so I came to meet you.”

Taken aback, Destry considered what it meant that there were enough

people here to merit the creation of a Council. Was this some kind of secret

base?

“We’re not all Homo sapiens,” Rocket pointed out. Whistle and

Midnight stomped their feet in agreement. Lucky shrugged. “OK. That’s one thing we have in common. If you want

to come inside, all you Pleistocene animals will need to wear masks. We’re

optimized for Archaean lungs inside.”

Nobody moved. They’d gotten another name: Archaean, likely from

Homo archaean, a common H. diversus subspecies built during the first

phase of a terraforming operation. Lucky wasn’t using it like that, though. They spoke the word like it was the name for a community, or perhaps a

whole civilization. “No offense, friend, but we’re going to need a little more information

about you before we go into a long, dark tunnel full of hostile atmosphere.”

Destry kept her hands slightly away from her body, fingers spread, hoping

to connect with a sensor and get some data. “Don’t you recognize another ERT ranger when you see one?” Lucky

grinned under the mask, teeth uneven. “My ancestors set this whole planet

up for Verdance. We jump-started the carbon cycle. We filled the oceans

with cyanobacteria and made photosynthesis happen. Hell, my grandparents

decanted the first Homo sapiens.”

Nil and Destry looked at each other. It seemed impossible that the

hypothesis they’d dismissed back in La Ronge was actually close to the

truth. Somehow, these people were from an earlier phase of Sasky’s

terraforming. Lucky continued conversationally. “Actually, I was hoping some rangers

would find this door and pay us a visit.”

Long frowned. “Why is that?”

“It will be easier if I show you.” The Archaean broadcast a network

access key to the whole group, but Destry still couldn’t connect. Sensing

her confusion, Lucky continued, “We don’t use very much wireless. You

have to make a physical connection.” They pressed a hand against the wall

of the cave. Destry hovered between caution and curiosity, but the latter won out. It

always did. She slid her palm against the doorframe and felt a trickle of data

from a few sensors that had blown inside, then tasted dry grass as the

sensors abruptly composted themselves into little piles of biomass. So that’s

why the local network was so ignorant about this lava tube—Lucky’s

people had figured out how to trigger the self-destruct sequence in sensors

that came from Verdance. Smart. Cautiously she deployed the access key

and perceived the Spider network. It was not like the tightly hierarchical La

Ronge systems; it felt more like the ragged, organic calls of prairie grass. Gradually, as her perception slid across rock and tasted sulfur, she

realized that the volcano itself was a city. The Archaeans had strung glass

fiber for comms into every part of its porous bulk, and through them she

could sense traffic from atmosphere regulators, domos, and farms. Then, on

the other side of the mountain, she touched a familiar set of documents: it

was the Environmental Rescue Team Handbook, embedded in a tranche of

assets maintained by a team called Spider City ERT. Whistle squeezed his two-meter-high frame next to her and connected

too. This place is big, Destry, he sent after a few seconds. There are moose

here. All kinds of life. She nodded, then turned to the Archaean, who had backed farther into

the tunnel and taken off their face mask. “You’ve been hiding a lot down here, Lucky,” Destry said. “If you

wanted us to come, why didn’t you contact us before?”

“We want nothing to do with Verdance.”

Given that she’d come on this trip to escape from Ronnie, it was hard not

to relate. “Fair enough.” Turning to the rest of the team, she asked, “Do you

want to visit their ERT campus?”

Hellfire&Crisp shot inside the tunnel, playing their spotlights over its

low ceiling. “Let’s go!”

Nil nodded in slow affirmation and Long looked dubious. Midnight

flicked her ears and sent: I cannot perceive any weapons. Still, I recommend

we proceed with caution. That seemed to convince Long, who made a big show of readjusting his

pack to reveal three sharp knives sheathed in his tool bandolier. All the

biologicals started pulling their collars up to form masks—this was a

common safety feature in ranger uniforms, especially for people visiting

volcanic regions. Destry tugged a muzzle breather from her saddlebag and

fitted it to Whistle’s face, just as Long did for Midnight. As her eyes

adjusted to the dim tunnel beyond the door, she realized Lucky had a

mountable drone hovering a few meters behind them. “That’s Bog,” Lucky said, gesturing. “He’s just like your mountable

drones, except unrated.”

“Unrated?” Nil asked. “No intelligence rating. We don’t buy into that cesspit logic down here. You’re either alive or not. That’s all that matters.”

Whistle lowered his head to enter the tunnel, sending a quick text: I like

the sound of that, Destry. She ran her hand over his neck. “So do I.”

5

A VERY ANGRY DOOR

Inside every conflict, a friendship waits to be born. —Environmental Rescue Team Handbook

The tunnel was part of a massive lava tube system that Destry hadn’t

thought about in centuries. Back when she, Nil, and Long were harvesting

the eruption for minerals, she’d consulted ground-penetrating radar images

that showed at least four levels of branching tunnels, created by multiple

eruptions over the millennia. Apparently, the people here had converted

them into a habitat. A pretty nice one, at that. Once they got farther inside,

the basalt walls gleamed with blue-green light from bioluminescent plants

growing out of the ceiling, and the floor was softened with a thin layer of

foam that made it easier for the humans and moose to find their footing. After walking in silence for a quarter klick, Lucky turned and held up a

hand. “I need to warn you that people around here don’t always take kindly to

H. sapiens. They see you as the reason why we have to hide underground. So keep your mouths shut, no matter what people say to you.”

Long looked up sharply. “But we’re not the reason—”

Lucky interrupted him. “The atmosphere is optimized for your bodies,

eh?

Rangers at the ERT will be more accepting, but it’s hard to deny that H. sapiens took over our land at La Ronge.”

“It wasn’t your land,” Long snapped. “If you build something, aren’t you a part of it?” Lucky’s pink face grew

flushed, and their voice rose. Things were getting heated. Destry spoke up, her tone deliberately casual, as if she hadn’t noticed the

tension. “I still can’t believe there’s another ERT on Sasky that’s just like

ours.”

Lucky gave her the hint of a smile. “I believe you mean that you have an

ERT like ours.”

Whistle exhaled abruptly with amusement, the material of his breather

puffing up. And then the floor evaporated. Curses and bellows echoed off the walls as they fell, buoyed by a

counter-gravitational force that barely slowed them down. Sure, they

wouldn’t smash to the ground and die, but all the nonflying members of the

party were going to land hard on their asses at the bottom. Destry glimpsed

flashes of underground city life as she plummeted past three levels: a

warmly lit gym, the climbing walls deep green with moss; a market hall

buzzing with noise and the smell of roasting onions; a shadowy warehouse

full of hulking industrial tanks. Judging from that admittedly small sample

size, she’d guess this place was as big as La Ronge or even bigger. There

could be thousands of people living in the honeycombed layers of crust

above an enormous magma plume. How could anyone thrive in such a

dangerous place, let alone an entire metropolis?

With a thud, she landed on a thick mat next to Nil, struggling to catch

her breath. They were sprawled at the south end of a long hall. Above them

was a high ceiling carved out of the soft tuff of volcanic rock, illuminated

by amber light that came from deep holes drilled into the soaring roof. People of all sizes and shapes streamed past their landing pad: she caught

sight of more Archaeans, plus drones, cats, walking bots, moose, and a

colony of naked mole rats wearing robes. The hall echoed with mouth

talking while texts traveled through the network that Destry could feel again

with the sensors in her scuffed hands. Now that they were deep inside

Spider City, the floors and walls were densely woven with glass for comms. Unlike La Ronge, where the radio frequencies were stuffed with signals,

this hidden city was optimized for data that couldn’t be sniffed from the air. Perfect for hiding from sensors. Plus, the mountain was a Faraday cage. Stray radio signals would be blocked from the aboveground world by many

meters of solid rock. It took a few more seconds for Destry to realize she was sitting in a

transit hub. Small groups whooshed up and down from the floor through portals like the one their party had just fallen through. Boxy train cars

glided through the hall, nosing in and out of six sodium-lit tunnels. Whistle, Midnight, and the drones came to rest softly next to them, and

Lucky landed last. Their broad, flat face and blue eyes reminded her of

Homo neanderthalensis, but no doubt they’d been sourced from a

hodgepodge of hominins, then modified to take energy from Sasky’s early

atmosphere. Back then, the planet would have been an icy snowball

fractured by vulcanism, its air a toxic combination of gasses that her body

could not process. Destry shook her head as she stood up, adjusting her

breather and reflecting on how “toxic” was a matter of perspective. A couple of bots and four cats were staring at them openly, and now a

few Archaeans had come to look too. She and Nil stood up next to Long,

still unsteady from their fall, and Lucky shooed them off the pad. One of the Archaeans narrowed their eyes at Destry. “What have you

brought us, Lucky?

This a joke?

You brought H. sapiens into the city?

They

going to kick us out of this place too?”

Lucky shrugged. “They rang at Jaguar. The Council decided to let them

in. They’re from the ERT.”

“We’re just here for research,” Long said. “Shut up, sapiens. Nobody wants to hear your excuses.”

Lucky scratched their head and shot an apologetic smile at Long. “Now

look, they aren’t all sapiens. See?

They truck with moose and bots. These

people aren’t from Verdance, OK?

They’re owned, same as our ancestors

were. It’s about time we had a talk.”

The Archaean’s mouth thinned into a line. “It’s about time we split this

world wide open so they stop stealing our water.”

Though the context was missing, the threat was clear. Destry glanced at

Nil, consciously keeping her face emptied of the anxiety that gripped her rib

cage. Obviously there was a lot they needed to understand about what was

happening down here, but for now she was going to take Lucky’s advice

and hold her tongue. Beside her, Whistle lowered his head, casually

showing off the spread of his antlers, defensive but not aggressive. It was

the ERT way, and Lucky acknowledged the moose with a subtle nod. “We’ll explore options this week at the Council meeting. Now we’ve got

to go.”

The transit riders parted to make way for the weird masked group from

the surface. As Lucky led them past several train platforms, the H. sapiens

earned a few more hard looks from other Archaeans. Nobody else said

anything. Their silence felt somehow more judgmental than jeers. She tried to imagine how the people of La Ronge would deal with

obvious outsiders like the Archaeans, and came up blank. Rangers would be

curious—they’d been taught about the first settlers’ role during Sasky’s

oxygenation—but most people in the city?

The workers?

Maybe they

wouldn’t be openly hostile, but they probably wouldn’t be welcoming

either. Any kind of change usually meant Verdance was about to make their

lives harder, and the sight of several H. archaeans in breathers wouldn’t

exactly be comforting. Certainly they wouldn’t be promised an explanation

at the Council. In La Ronge, only ERT rangers had a Council, and it was

more like a professional organization than a political body. Most workers in

La Ronge didn’t even know the ERT Council existed. They just did their

jobs and tried to avoid ever hearing from a Verdance rep. At the far end of the hall, they came to a platform where an empty train

car waited, its destination emblazoned in glowing red letters over each

square window: ERT CAMPUS. The car itself was made of recycled metals and

various polymers, giving it the appearance of a patchwork quilt. The

interior had two springy, threadbare couches for the humans. A cat riding a

drone floated on behind them and came to a hover in the very back of the

car, as far from Nil, Long, and Destry as they could get. Wobbling slightly,

the train moved into the tunnel. They stopped every few minutes, watching

people hop on and off at other transit stations, parks, and busy residential

areas. Finally the car began to climb, and they came to a halt at the mouth

of a wide lava tube. Ferns and rubber trees grew in full sun beneath an

irregularly shaped skylight like the one that had drawn them here. Except

this skylight had been sealed with a one-way camouflage filter that

shimmered faintly. To anyone glancing at satellite footage, it would look

like a ridge on the mountain’s flank. Farther up the tunnel, past banana and fig trees, was a circular doorway

carved straight into the rock. Letters carved above it were eroded into

illegibility. “This is the oldest part of the city.” Lucky pointed at the door. “The first place where we lived after the sapiens took charge.”

A bright blue bird swooped past and Hellfire&Crisp shot after it, then

boomeranged back to hover next to Whistle. “Not a bad environment,” they

said. “Nice for flying.”

Whistle cocked his head at the drones: This tube is too small for me. Long looked around skeptically. “The Archaeans have been down here

for a thousand years?”

Lucky said nothing. “I was here with Destry and Nil the last time there was an eruption, three

hundred years ago. This is an active volcano. There is no way you could

have survived in these lava tubes.”

Lucky shrugged and turned in the direction Hellfire&Crisp had flown

earlier. “That’s what you think.” They continued walking, then looked back

over a shoulder. “You coming?”

The Archaean’s vague replies weren’t exactly reassuring. Swallowing

trepidation, Destry readjusted her mask and followed Lucky with the rest of

the team trailing close behind. The tube was quiet except for bird and insect

noises, and a muddy trail led through the slice of tropical jungle that grew

toward the camouflaged skylight. She quickened her pace to catch up to

Lucky, but Long held back, pinching up a piece of the black soil. He

pressed the slimy stuff between his fingers, then slipped a hand under his

mask to taste it. “This is high quality humus,” he said. “Full of minerals, and I’d guess

the organics were very carefully sourced.”

Lucky looked pleased for the first time since they’d met. “I work with

the soil group in the ERT. The humus in here is some of our best work. You

a soil worker?”

Long nodded. “I was. Now I mostly do data history.”

“I guess you missed out on the history of the Archaea, eh?”

Midnight trotted up behind them and pushed her thick neck between

Long and Lucky. We missed out on everybody’s history, she texted with a dismissive flick of her ear. Verdance only tells us about the future, when

Sasky will be sold. Long reached up absently and ran his hand over the mound of

Midnight’s shoulder. “I’ve been researching the planet’s history from core

samples and sensor records. That’s how I know you can’t have been here

since the Homo sapiens were decanted back in the early 58,000s.”

“I’m no historian, but my parents grew up here, and so did I.” Lucky

gestured at a cluster of rubber trees, as if their fat trunks stood in for the

entire city. “The Archaea and our allies optimized this place to hide from

Verdance. We know when the VerdanceSats are crossing overhead, so those

are easy to avoid. Network is glass and near-field wireless only, for senders. No signal leaks.”

Long was skeptical. “How did you survive the eruptions?”

Lucky sighed dramatically and stopped, leaning one hip against Bog,

who hovered beside them without speaking. “Why do you keep asking

about that?

Redirecting lava flows is easy.”

Long raised his eyebrows. “Is it?”

“Not my specialty, but yeah.” Lucky started walking again. “We do it all

the time. What does your ERT do when there’s an eruption?”

“We live far away from volcanoes,” Destry said. “They’re easy to

avoid.”

“Well, we need the mantle plume for CO2 and power. I guess that’s less

of an issue when you can harvest sunlight on the surface and breathe the

toxins up there.”

Midnight snorted in agreement, and Long looked thoughtful. Destry

flashed back to the day when Spider erupted, its smoky pillar twinned in her

mind with the way she imagined her parents’ last seconds, engulfed in heat

and horror. She snuck a sidelong glance at Lucky, the first ranger she had

ever met from another ERT campus. These Archaeans might be the only

other people in the League who understood why working for Verdance left

a feeling of constant disquiet crawling under her skin. And their ancestors

had actually done something to stop it. Overhead, the skylight narrowed until they were once again in a sealed

tube, and Lucky stopped in front of a round blast door strobing green on their left. “Here we are!”

The circular door cracked into two half-moons that rolled smoothly into

floor pockets. Hellfire&Crisp zapped over everyone’s heads to take the lead

but stopped abruptly just inside the portal. Short-range wireless signals shot

between the drones and the door. “Don’t insult our friends, you flattened shit-circuit,” Hellfire&Crisp

shouted. “I’m monitoring your signal output. Don’t try anything funny.”

Lucky’s mountable drone partner, Bog, rose through the air to hover

alongside the two-bodied aeronaut and spoke with the intermittent twangs

of someone whose speakers wanted fixing. “She’s just kidding. Can’t you

take a joke?”

Hellfire&Crisp continued to yell at Jaguar. “No, you suck on a corrosive!

You’re the one talking about beheadings.”

Lucky laughed awkwardly. “Jaguar’s a little salty but she’s all right. She

insults everyone equally.”

“Oh really?

Because I only heard her insulting the Homo sapiens.”

Hellfire&Crisp got right up in Lucky’s face, rotors whirring. Though they

had not powered up any weapons, it was still menacing. “Hey, friend. Let’s keep things balanced.” Destry stepped forward and

gripped the cargo hooks on the undersides of Hellfire&Crisp’s carapaces. “We’re strangers here, and it’s not our place to say what’s funny and what

isn’t.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you could hear what this glorified heat sink

was emitting.”

Whistle texted everyone: No, she would. She laughs at bad jokes. Lucky snorted and Nil rolled his eyes. But when Destry let go of

Hellfire&Crisp, their hovering bodies still vibrated with rage. “We’re

watching you, packet-dropper.”

One of the doors started to rise back out of the floor, but Lucky put their

foot on it. “I’m sorry about Jaguar,” they said. “She’s been cranky ever

since my grandparents stole her from a Verdance space vessel back in the

late 57,000s.”

It wasn’t clear whether Lucky was joking, so Destry simply nodded. Spider City humor was out of her range, like a radio signal that cut out before you could tune it. Jaguar the door slowly scissored closed behind them as they filed into a

laboratory that looked as familiar as home. Foam tables along the walls

were covered in spectroscopy chambers, reagent pots, gas samplers, and

piles of half-dismantled sensors for biosphere analysis, all networked

through spiderwebs of glass. It took a second to realize what felt off: the

walls here were cut to form flat surfaces that intersected at right angles,

unlike all the round tubes and arched ceilings she’d seen elsewhere in

Spider City. It looked like La Ronge’s architecture, which made sense if this

was the first area the Archaea settled. They must have been using Verdance

templates for urban planning at that point and learned to build in ways that

fit their new environment later. “All this equipment is based on specs from the Verdance starter pack that

the Archaeans used to build the second biosphere.” Lucky gestured vaguely. “Our grandparents reprogrammed them to maintain the first biosphere down

here, for organisms that prefer the pre-oxygen gas mixture we used to have

on Sasky.”

ERT rangers were everywhere, their mouth conversations amalgamated

into a low hum by the room’s acoustics. Everyone seemed to be deliberately

ignoring the La Ronge team or staring at them with ill-concealed hostility. “See you later,” Bog said, extending two arms out of his mountable

barrel torso. “I need to start working.” His speaker cut out on the word

“work,” which made it sound like he’d said “wanking.”

Lucky glanced sidelong at Bog, their wide set Archaean eyes narrowing

with mirth. “Go for it.”

Nil nudged Destry and sent privately: Did he say “wanking”?

Before she could reply, Lucky gently pushed the group toward a well-lit

tunnel across the lab. “We need to meet the aquifer team. Let’s go.”

As they shuffled awkwardly to the exit, a beaver walked past with a snarl

that showed his bright orange teeth. Nil flashed a look at Destry and sent:

Everybody wants to kill us. What in the actual shit is going on here?

Destry sighed, replying aloud. “Sounds like some kind of water

emergency.”

Nil squeezed her hand surreptitiously and pressed his lips together in an

expression she knew well. He thought she was downplaying the danger. But

she was simply being pragmatic, which was the sort of thing you learned

while patrolling the boreal forest with only one flying moose as backup. They filed after Lucky into a corridor that angled down steeply, with a

narrow strip of grippy stairs along one side. Windows cut into the walls

glowed a deep orange red, and Destry realized with a shock that they were

looking out into an underground magma chamber, with the viscous, rippled

surface of the molten rock flowing alongside them. The deeper they went,

the more the magma lightened into hotter yellows and golds, until the walls

seemed to shimmer with sunrise. Long and Midnight walked behind her,

texting and whispering, no doubt trying to figure out what kind of

transparent alloy could withstand the heat and pressure. Lucky had not been

lying. Clearly the Archaea were capable of channeling lava flows. Balancing her fear was a growing respect for these escaped workers,

engineering a whole city for themselves in the cradle of a volcano. Lucky paused. “I love this hallway. It’s such a beautiful view.” The

group huddled together around a floor-to-ceiling portal, admiring the rose

gold hue with its luminous viscosity. The Archaean seemed to make a

decision as they studied the hominins, moose, and hovering drones from La

Ronge. “Let me explain something before we go inside.” They leaned

against the window, backlit by magma. “I asked the Spider City Council to

let you find our door because we need to talk to you. It took months to

convince everybody. I’m really glad you came, though, because I work in

irrigation and our water supply is at stake. Our allies can only do so much

—”

Somewhere to their left, a voice crackled to life. “Hi, Lucky.” It came

from a door made out of ancient, reclaimed wood, slightly splintered and

touched up with colorful epoxies. “Are you sure you should be telling them

everything about our allies?” Despite the low-quality audio distorting her

words, Jaguar’s warning tone was unmistakable. Looking abashed, Lucky shrugged at them, then turned to address the

voice. “You haven’t been down here in a while, Jaguar.”

“I’m keeping watch over Hellfire&Crisp, who are incredibly dangerous,”

the door muttered. “We are. Very.” Hellfire&Crisp strobed a laser at the ceiling, where it

showed up as a harmless pinprick of red light. “Obviously we go hotter than

that when we need to.”

Raising an eyebrow, Lucky nodded. “I will try to stay on your good

side.”

Destry looked down to avoid laughing. Whether through diplomatic

insight or accident, Lucky had said the one thing that was sure to satisfy

Hellfire&Crisp. Still, the Archaean had spoken about the water supply with enough

intensity that it left Destry worried. Especially when she thought about what

kinds of allies this secret civilization might have found on a planet that was

cut off from the rest of the universe. 6

THE EEL

Water management is where the land meets politics. —Environmental Rescue Team Handbook

The building felt like a barn on the inside, mostly due to its size. But this

lab was actually a monument to the power of water. A rotunda overhead

was made from the same transparent alloy they’d seen in the tunnels,

forming an inverted dome. Through it, they could see at the bottom of the

caldera lake that filled the mountain overhead. Turquoise curtains of light

fluttered through the water and across the igneous rock below their feet. “Now there’s a view.” Destry trailed off, staring. Nil was equally transfixed. “Incredible,” he breathed. Whistle bumped up against them. That’s a lot of weight, he texted. It

stops heat too. How does this glass stay whole?

It was the same question they all had, especially after seeing the magma

windows in the tunnel. Destry felt the edges of her curiosity fraying into

fear. The Archaea had technologies that Verdance hadn’t given to the people

of La Ronge. Had the engineers of Spider City invented it themselves?

Or

learned to do it by making contact with people—those allies that Lucky

mentioned—outside the Verdance network?

She tore her attention away

from the tonnes of water bearing down on them and snapped back into

network analyst mode. Take in the scene. Look for what’s there, but most of

all, look for the relationships between things. Find the systems. It was obvious she was in an environmental analysis and coordination

center, where the rangers were monitoring changes in the city’s water

infrastructure and the lands that fed it. Streaming 2-D maps mounted on the

wall revealed the city’s sprawling four-layer structure, with air, water, and

nutrient circulation cycles. There were roughly a dozen people at work in here, mostly hominins, with a few bots and a plump naked mole rat. Destry

watched the rangers’ easy way of interacting with each other, mouth talking

or texting, listening and nodding. Look there, Whistle sent, pointing with

his nose at a map to their right. Dominating the image was the megacontinent of Maskwa, its C shape a

wide-open mouth devouring the Bronze Islands and the Comfort Sea; at its

back was the world-spanning Winston Ocean. Maskwa’s northern reaches

were capped by ice, just like the south pole. The smaller, southern

continent, Tooth, wrapped around the bottom part of Maskwa’s jaw and

spread westward toward the submerged continent of Aotearoa. La Ronge

was a black dot in Maskwa’s upper jaw, two thousand klicks from the west

coast and almost as far from the east. Bright blue highlighted Maskwa’s

watersheds, fueled by meltwater and rain that created a vast network of

rivers running roughly north to south. Freshwater lakes pooled in the north,

and the massive continent-spanning Eel River switchbacked through the

Vertebrae Mountains, forking dozens of tributaries before emptying into the

strait that separated southern Maskwa from western Tooth. West of the

Vertebrae was Spider, marked with a red dot right above the equator. Water

flows pulsed through the continents’ many ecosystems, sustaining and

draining. Beside her, Nil was going through a face journey that started with

bemusement and ended in horror. He pointed at the Eel’s western delta. A mosaic of multicolored data overlays spread like a stain over the delta,

which was about 100 klicks north of Spider. But that wasn’t the disturbing

part. On all the maps Destry had seen, the Eel River gushed south,

continuing past the volcano before tumbling onward into the lower

continent. But on this map, the Eel River abruptly turned 90 degrees in the

delta and shot toward the west coast long before reaching Spider. Without

the Eel’s nourishing waters, sensors revealed environments deeply out of

balance. The southern Maskwa watershed was at critically low levels. Forests were parched. One of the map overlays revealed a spike in regional

herbivore deaths, which was starving the predators and ripping the food

web to shreds. “Oh, shit,” Destry whispered. “Can that be real?” he whispered back. “Verdance never showed us this

data.”

“You see why we need to talk?” Lucky frowned at the map. “Why are

you diverting all the water from our aquifer?

There’s plenty to go around.”

Destry looked at Nil, then at the rest of their group. “Do any of you

know about this?”

Nil’s partner, Rocket, hovered around to face them. They broadcast the

sound of water being sucked down a drain from their sensor-encrusted head. The mountable drone hadn’t spoken aloud since arriving in the city, and

now they had everyone’s full attention. “I’ve been following the soft launch

of Sasky on the real estate market, and I think I know what’s going on.”

Rocket telescoped their head up to hominin eye level, giving them the

appearance of a small, floating giraffe with seven eyes, sizing up a delicious

cluster of leaves on a high branch. “Verdance is assuming that most of the

big developers will plant cities along the coasts. It’s the most valuable land,

but it has a lot of desert. So, it looks like our boss, Ronnie, sent workers

down to dam the river, using her usual brute force methods. Investors want

a reliable irrigation source for the farms they’ll need to feed millions of

residents.”

“The Eel River used to flow right past Spider. Now it’s heading to the

coast one hundred klicks away and we’ve lost our renewable water source.”

Lucky’s lips thinned to a line. “In a few seasons, we’ll have to dig deeper

wells. It’s unsustainable.”

“I don’t see why you need that river.” Long folded his arms. “Annual

rainfall will recharge the aquifer.”

Midnight lifted her head to its full height as she peered at the map,

making Long appear to diminish in size. Look at these readings, friend, she

sent. Without the Eel, eventually the aquifer will dry out and the land will

sink. “She’s right,” Destry said, scratching her chin. “The ERT should have

managed this and kept the balance.”

“But why do we care?” Long sounded peevish. “By the time that

happens, this land will belong to some Verdance client. Then the water will

be their problem.”

Destry was taken aback. Those were shameful words. A ranger who

allowed ecosystems to become unsustainable lost their honor and the faith

of their community. She glanced at Lucky, wondering whether they

regretted asking the H. sapiens for help. The Archaean wore an awkward

expression that mirrored the other hominin faces. Nobody wanted to call

Long out for his taboo comment; to do so would only make everyone’s

embarrassment more acute. Rocket raised their sensor bulb again and played a few seconds of

sprightly dance music to break the silence. “I think it’s obvious that we

need to coax the Eel back to its old bed. It won’t be easy.”

Gratefully, Lucky nodded. “Let’s take a closer look at that dam.” They

zoomed in on the river north of Spider and went deep into a discussion of

seasonal flows with Nil and Rocket. She was glad to see that their ERT

instincts for problem solving had dissipated the tension with Long. Some of the tension, anyway. Midnight lifted one hoof and thumped it

back down, sending a text to everyone in the group: You’re acting like this

is a purely technical problem. We can help you now, but what happens in a

millennium when the landowners arrive?

How are you going to hide this

place?

Lucky shrugged. “We’re not going to hide forever.”

Destry raised her eyebrows at Whistle, who lowered his head slightly

and sent privately: A nice thought. But it could end in death. Suddenly Nil clapped his hands together, rubbing them with glee. “You

know, we could do this very elegantly, without having to destroy that dam

the workers built.”

“How would that work?” Lucky asked. “About eight thousand years ago, the Eel used to take an even older

route south, and it went right past Spider.” He pointed at an area called Fork

Canyon, 273 klicks north of the delta and its offending dam. A long, weed-

choked ravine zigzagged out of the canyon, providing evidence that the Eel

had once flowed in a more ancient riverbed slightly to the east of its current

course. “At some point the river changed its mind about how to go south. It

picked a new pathway out of Fork Canyon, and that’s the one Verdance

dammed up. The old pathway is still open. So, if we make a dam at Fork Canyon, blocking the newer route, we might be able to move the Eel back

into a bed that it once really liked. And Spider could recharge its aquifer.”

Destry was getting excited. “Yes!

If the Eel flowed into its old bed, it

would completely bypass that vomit-flecked dam that Verdance is using to

send it to the coast.”

“And it would look natural!” Rocket added. “Wild rivers change course

for all kinds of reasons.”

Nil beamed. He looked happier than Destry had seen him in many

centuries. “Let us stay and help you do this, friends.”

Midnight glanced at Long and sent to the group: Shouldn’t we talk to the

ERT back at La Ronge?

Her partner scowled and folded his arms, refusing

to participate in the discussion. Destry ignored Long’s sourness. It felt good to imagine protecting an

environment that Verdance didn’t control. “I’m not saying we’re doing it for

sure, but I like the idea. Maybe we could stay awhile and discuss it. Our

first intercampus ERT meeting on Sasky.”

Long glared. “If our signals stay hidden down here, Verdance will be

looking for us within days.”

“They don’t have the resources to track everybody all the time,” Destry

said with more confidence than she felt. “Everybody knows we’re in the

field. Ronnie won’t check on us for weeks.”

Hellfire&Crisp settled familiarly on Whistle’s antlers and cackled. “We’re in. We don’t owe those Verdance flesh-eaters our loyalty. Let’s fix

this.”

“And what will you do when Verdance tries to move the river again?”

Long asked pointedly. “Because they will. They want to water those coastal

cities.”

“I think we have a good engineering plan, which you and our allies can

help with.” Lucky paused, considering. “And as for what to do about

Verdance … well, that’s a harder problem. That’s politics.”

A group of Archaeans working quietly across the room from them stood

up and began to pack up for the day. One loped easily over to Lucky,

putting an arm around their shoulder. “It’s time for dinner. Do you want to

join us, friends from La Ronge?”

“We should eat before I show you to the visitors’ dorm,” Lucky agreed. “Plus, speaking of allies, the dogs are back, so we should have some

interesting news from down south.”

Whistle had only ever encountered Pleistocene replica dogs, and they

were rather fond of eating baby moose. He looked alarmed. Who keeps

dogs?

he sent. “Nobody keeps them. They tend the intercontinental glass networks. Some of them are visiting from Tooth.”

7

A REAL HEARTBREAKER

In the Great Bargain, we must accept that some people will not be pleased to meet us. —Environmental Rescue Team Handbook

If they hadn’t been several meters underground, with portals open to lava

flows rather than prairie, the ERT dining hall would have felt familiar. The

Spider City rangers cooked collectively and took what they wanted from

grab tables. Comfortable benches made from pressed mycelium filled a

room lit with jars of twinkling bioluminescent bacteria. There were elevated

stools with pillows for the cats and naked mole rats. Every table had

generous space for people who stood on all fours to eat, and at least a dozen

moose were scattered around the room, lipping up root vegetables and

branches from sturdy bowls. Drones and bots took turns at the charge pads

that could be moved from chair to chair. Down here, they were on thermal

rather than solar energy, so they couldn’t fly around in sunlight to charge up

like Hellfire&Crisp did. Lucky gave the mammals some lightweight

breathers that fitted over various nose configurations, allowing them to eat

without drowning in carbon dioxide. The La Ronge team sat down with Lucky and the other water

researchers. After a while, they were joined by three naked mole rats who

shared the hive name Dash. Whistle kept obsessing about the dogs, asking where they were every

few minutes. In La Ronge, dogs were built with an extremely low InAss

rating—officially, they were classified as “animals”—and their vocabularies

were so limited that they were essentially nonverbal. Nobody expected

them to do any work beyond occupying a generic predator niche in several

ecosystems. Whistle looked around warily again, and sent: Where are the

dogs?

One of the Dashes lifted a wrinkled pink face, her nearly invisible eyes

and ears framed by a fluffy wool jacket collar. They’re in the northwest

corner, she sent. Destry glanced over her shoulder and saw a group of hairless tropical

dogs, tall enough that their heads could reach a moose’s shoulder, clustered

at a corner table. Some were a deep black and others a mottled pink-and-

brown. They had the air of people who desperately wanted to be somewhere

else and were going to stick close together until they got there. “They don’t want to talk about their work down in Tooth?” Destry asked. Back home, rangers who came back from the field sometimes gave

informal talks about their experiences during dinner. She was particularly

curious about Tooth, because Verdance had put the whole southern

continent into a conservation land trust. It would never be sold and

developed the way land on Maskwa would. Dash sat up, hands curled, her four front teeth yellowed with age: They’ll

file a report, but they don’t usually socialize much. Not this team, anyway. They’ll be headed back to Tooth in the morning. Fair enough. They really

don’t like being around hominins. Dash had Whistle’s full attention. Why?

I worked on the dog project back in the 53,000s—we were making the

Great Bargain with them for the first time, you know?

We had templates for

dogs with Intelligence Assessment ratings high enough to take jobs in the

city. But then the canines saw what had been done to their ancestors. We

have the ancient Earth archives that come with the ERT foundational

documents, just like you do. They saw all that “man’s best friend” stuff and

it did not go well. It’s hard to be excited about creating a new Earth when

your people on the old one were brainwashed by Homo sapiens for

thousands of years. Tens of thousands. Dash waved her face around, nose

delicately wrinkled, gesturing at the magnitude of time. Then she continued,

directing her comments at Whistle. It’s different for people like us. Our

ancestors were never forced to serve H. sapiens like that. They weren’t

domesticated. No, sent Whistle. But we are now. Another Dash flicked her tail and joined the conversation: I suppose

that’s true where you’re from. Midnight broke into the exchange: Do you think La Ronge is really all

that different from Spider City?

Suddenly everyone was talking and texting at once. Normally Destry

would have thrown in her own opinions, or endorsed another person’s ideas,

but she was distracted. After all day without signal, she wanted to check

external comms—just in case. Not wanting to interrupt, she sent privately to Lucky: How do I get to the

surface to listen for messages?

Lucky sent a map with directions to a gravity assist tube that would take

her to a hidden spot at the edge of the caldera lake. Excusing herself, Destry

headed away from the table and into another lava-lit corridor. When she

emerged next to the water, the first stars were emerging in the dimming sky. She lay down on the still-warm earth and thought about how the lab where

they had worked all afternoon was right underneath them. Then she dug her

fingers into the soil and reached out with her mind. There were so few

sensors here that she was having a hard time finding a pathway down the

mountain. Groaning with frustration, Destry sniffed for a pathway that

would connect her to data from La Ronge, where Ronnie’s messages would

land after traveling through the League’s system of satellites and

wormholes. There it was. Somewhere to the north, across the lake, the network had

cobbled together a sense of place: The trees need water; five dogs walked

here on their way south; here is a blob of video data for you that has been

compressed to travel through space. Definitely Ronnie. Sitting up and

disconnecting, Destry sent the blob to her data pad and piped the sound to

her right ear. As the screen came to life, her stomach clenched involuntarily. Ronnie’s hair was now a frosty white piled atop her head, and her pale

brown skin was set off perfectly by a shift the color of blackberries. Her

background was the simulated view of a Verdance-branded gas giant that

swirled with bruised orange clouds. “I am so sorry that we can’t speak one-on-one, Destry, and even more

sorry to hear that you have gone on a nonessential mission in the middle of this extremely sensitive time.” Her passive-aggressive tone hovered right on

the edge of a scream. Ronnie had helpfully appended a compressed map

showing that she knew exactly the route Destry had taken to Spider, based

on the tracking spores she’d shed on the way down to the volcano. Everything grown on Sasky was dusted with these harmless bacterial

spores, and their genetic material was a simple ID tag. People ate the

spores, carried them on their skin, and shed them constantly. It was good for

network analysis, because if a plant or animal turned up in the wrong

ecosystem, tracking spores could tell rangers how it got there. Of course, it

was also a powerful surveillance system, because sensors could read every

spore in the vicinity. So much for her claim that nobody would notice where they were for

weeks. In the video, Ronnie glanced to the left, cutting her eyes at something—

or someone—who was hidden by the fake planet behind her. “Thankfully, I

have straightened out our problem with the extremely valuable equipment

you destroyed. I wanted to make sure you understood that there will be

more visitors coming and they are potential buyers. You are not to speak

with them under any circumstances, no matter what they are doing, unless I

tell you otherwise. They are there to enjoy our planet and to inspect the

show plots we’ve arranged.”

At this, Destry groaned even louder. There were no show plots. At least,

none that La Ronge workers had built. Typical Verdance bullshit, claiming

that the planet had some feature that it didn’t. Maybe that kind of

flimflammery worked on her “potential buyers.” When Ronnie spoke again,

her mild scold took on a lethal undertone. “If you are anything but

courteous to our guests, you’ll force me to dispatch our security remotes to

escort them. So be good while you’re out there in the field, and keep the

balance.” Abruptly the video ended with a cheerful sign-off chime. Destry

stared at the blank spot where Ronnie’s smile had been, thinking about how

incongruous it was to hear the ERT homily in the mouth of a person who

colonized planets for profit. She didn’t want to deal with what Ronnie’s message implied: more

damage to the ecosystems, more perturbations of the carbon cycle, more assholes turning life forms into meat. Deadly threats to the people of Spider

City, whom she was actually starting to like. Despite her reservations, pleasure warmed her guts when she thought

about giving the Eel back to the Spider City people. It was a small thing,

but it was also huge—and as dangerous as a gas buildup underground. Destry smiled as she stepped back into the gravity assist and sank down to

the ERT dining hall level. What would Ronnie say when she discovered that

her property was not as controllable as she thought?

Then, with a shiver, she

wondered what price Spider City would have to pay. Destry found her friends lingering at dinner, still talking about dogs. According to Dash, the dogs roamed the surface freely, traveling in and out

of the tunnels and feigning low InAss ratings so as to avoid detection. She

and the Archaeans had designed the dogs’ respiration systems to toggle

between high and low carbon environments. They were dry-land

amphibians, moving easily between one gas mixture and another. Seated next to her, Nil dunked a wedge of sourdough bread into his root

stew, which smelled faintly of lemon through her breather. Destry tried to

repress her anxiety by doing an ERT mental exercise, chasing that scent

back into the system that produced it. Perhaps Spider City grew citrus under

one of those protected skylights, or perhaps they had some way to harvest

trees topside, evading spores and sensor networks?

It took incredible skill to

leave no trace in this environment, especially given that they had an entire

city to feed, requiring energy inputs and waste outputs on a dramatic scale. Nil noticed her staring intensely at his food. “What are you thinking

about, friend?

Aren’t you going to grab something to eat?”

She jumped up to get a bowl. “You’re right. I’m really hungry.” It was a

perfect excuse to avoid telling him about Ronnie’s message. Next to the

lemon-spiked stew was a tray of steamed dumplings and a bowl of garlic

fried crickets. Destry sampled a little bit of everything, taking her time,

topping the warm mixture with a piece of flatbread. When she sat down at

the table again, talk had turned to Verdance. Lucky wiped their mouth with the back of a hand. “Ultimately we’ll

need to deal with Verdance. But I’d like to delay that for as long as possible. I want us to be ready.”

Long had simmered down after his outbursts at the ERT water lab, but he

was still unhappy. “I respect the wishes of the majority,” he said stiffly, “but

I still think we should compromise. We don’t need to tell Verdance, but we

should tell our colleagues in the La Ronge ERT before we reroute the

river.”

“We can’t risk that.”

The two rangers were locked in debate again, and it was going nowhere. Sighing, Destry tried to dream up a polite way to end this conversation and

get Nil alone. They needed to strategize about how to deal with the

watershed—and Ronnie. Fortunately, Midnight and Whistle provided an

unexpected source of distraction. Midnight glanced at Whistle, then texted to the group: It’s time to bed

down. Long was surprised. “We just finished eating. Are you tired, friend?”

Both moose ignored Midnight’s hominin partner. Whistle asked: Is there

a barn for us?

All three members of the Dash hive made whuffling noises and covered

their faces with their hands. The one in wool replied tartly: There are rooms

for everyone. Nobody will make you stay in a barn. You’re not a piece of

farm equipment. Midnight snorted: He didn’t mean it that way. Knowing Whistle as she did, Destry could tell he was embarrassed. He

flicked his ears back and dropped his head slightly, dewlap trembling. She cleared her throat. “You know what?

I’m feeling really tired too. Maybe someone could show us to our rooms?” Destry nudged Nil. “You

want to come with me?”

Nil looked nonplussed but followed her lead. “I’m happy to turn in. It’s

been a long day. Can we reconvene in the morning and figure out plans for

the watershed?”

“Of course. I’ll show you the guest dorms.” Lucky stood up, and

everybody began to clear their bowls and carry utensils to the wash stations. From the dining hall, Lucky led them down a long corridor whose

curved walls were crowded with painted handprints in gold, white, and red. At the bottom was a high-ceilinged rotunda ringed with irregularly sized doors, tunnels, and gates. Spider City’s ERT dorms were the strangest thing

she had ever seen. Nothing was regularized. It was as if every ranger had

built their own living quarters according to some quirky personal whim,

decorating the entrances in wildly different styles. Some were plain

scavenged wood, while others were a riot of glittering rocks and paint. Gates made from bone and textiles stood next to shiny, metallic portals

controlled by bots. Oddly, a harmony emerged from the chaos of design. This place felt occupied in a way that nothing in La Ronge ever did,

perhaps because she could see the personalities of its people in every nook

and odd angle. Lucky beamed as they looked around. “The first thing that new rangers

do is build their own rooms down here. The tuff is so soft that you can dig it

out easily with a shovel, and it’s a good way for them to put their ERT

engineering skills into practice.”

Nil touched a doorframe that was starting to crumble. “How do you

regulate what they build to make sure everyone is safe?”

Lucky was perplexed by the question. “Everyone here has passed ranger

training. If they have a question about safety, they can ask another ranger,

or consult the archives.”

“But I mean—”

Midnight was getting restless: Can you tell us where we might find a

room?

She and Whistle had been pressing against each other and private

messaging the whole way down to the dorms. Destry had never seen

Whistle like this, and she wasn’t sure whether to be amused or alarmed. “Guest rooms are down that way.” Lucky pointed to a wide corridor. “Empty rooms have green doors.”

The two moose took their leave, and Destry trailed after them. “Let’s

find a room, Nil. Goodnight, everyone!”

“See you at breakfast hour.”

“See you then!”

By the time she and Nil reached the corridor, the moose had already

gone. They must have found a room immediately and closed the door. “What’s going on with them?” Destry asked. Behind her, Long chuckled. “Midnight has that effect on people. You tell

Whistle to be careful, though. She’s a real heartbreaker.”

“Didn’t really want to know that, but OK.”

Still, thinking about the moose entangled in romantic melodrama

lightened her mood a bit. At least some people were getting a little frisky

distraction. She and Nil continued past a dozen glowing green doors, trying

to figure out whether any of them were set up to make oxygen. A few had

air filters, but they had fallen into dusty disuse. About two hundred meters

along, they found a windowless room with fresh moss glowing on the

ceiling and a bed platform where somebody had left blankets. Best of all, it

had responsive atmosphere controls on a portal door, so they could seal

themselves inside and dial up the oxygen. After they closed the door and took off their breathers, Nil stretched out

on the platform and leaned against the wall, bent arms tucked behind his

head. “I’m pretty sure you didn’t drag me away from dinner to do what

Midnight and Whistle are doing right now.”

She laughed with him, then thought about Ronnie’s final words and felt

even worse than she had before. “We need to talk. I got a message from

Verdance today.”

“Is Ronnie still pissed about that remote you recycled?”

“She is, yeah. But I guess she worked it out, or I’d be kicked out of the

ERT.” Destry played with the frayed edge of a blanket, and Nil sat up next

to her, his face drained of its former levity. She filled him in on Ronnie’s

shit-stained assertion about the show plots and her not-so-veiled threats

about Destry’s job. He groaned. “They want to squeeze pus on everything, just when we’ve

got the carbon cycle working?

Our ecosystems are barely holding it

together as it is.”

“It would be like that time we had to deal with all those crocodiles …

remember that?”

When they were brand-new rangers, the ERT Council had decided to

dispatch them to Maskwa’s western seaboard, where something had gone

deeply wrong in the saltwater marshes. The normally rich, green ecosystem

had become a barren landscape. Typically, a small number of toothy crocodilians perched at the top of the energy pyramid, but for some reason

their population had exploded. Giant, toothy amphibians with powerful tails

were everywhere, starving and fighting. “They were eating everybody,” Nil remembered. “Weren’t they actually

eating each other by the time we got there?”

Destry sighed. “And then—right after we got there, the crocs died back

so much that all their prey species had a population explosion. Our campsite

was attacked by raccoons and ducks every night for over a year.”

“It wasn’t that bad though.” Nil nudged up against her. “We had some

fun.”

Centuries-old memories flooded her mind, along with the feeling of

lightness she once had when connecting to the sensor networks around her. Back then, she and Nil spent their days trying to rescue plants from angry

ducks—then stayed up all night talking and fucking. The food web was

unraveling, the marshes were dying, and extinctions kept rising way above

standard background levels. But the disaster seemed cozy somehow. Fixable. For a couple of years, they worked with a small team to coax the local

plants to rebound, which got the ducks and fish humping like mad and

finally put food in the mouths of all those predatory crocodilians. But their

sense of triumph had diminished when they got back to La Ronge and

analyzed their field data. It turned out that the problems had all started

because a worker camp had cut down an entire forest for some discontinued

terraforming project. Invasive species fleeing the damage, coupled with

toxic topsoil runoff, had wrecked the balance in the marshes. Verdance had

forced their pet ERT to fix its own environmental disaster. “It’s going to be like that all the time now, isn’t it?

Ronnie is basically

saying these potential buyers will be coming down the gravity well and

doing whatever they want. Killing trees, leaving waste, eating the small

animals that our predators need.”

“Yeah, I definitely sense more crocodile apocalypses in our future.”

Eyes prickling, Destry leaned against Nil. “I wish we could just fix this

watershed and get a gold star on our ERT reports. I have no idea what Verdance is going to do when they find out what we’re doing with the Eel. I’ll definitely be out of my job. I don’t—”

Shaking his head, Nil took her hand. “Ronnie is going to be pissed. But

you are the best network analyst she has—you’re built for it, and now you

have centuries of experience, with centuries ahead of you. You’re valuable

to her, but only as a member of the ERT. She won’t kick you out.” He

paused and looked at her solemnly. “She might shit on our faces more often,

though.”

Destry let out a long uggghhh sound, lay down, and pulled the blankets

over her head. “Maybe this alliance with the Archaeans could be a way forward,” Nil

said. “If we have two ERT campuses here, we can cover more ground. Prevent the worst damage. Plus, they’ve got some amazing equipment here. Lucky told me that they have a system for setting off controlled volcanic

eruptions.”

Destry poked her head out of the covers, startled. “They can make a

volcano erupt?”

“Kind of. It’s more like they can tap magma chambers to avoid

eruptions. But the technology could be repurposed to make the lava flow

into lot of places—including Fork Canyon, where the old Eel riverbed

starts. A lava flow there could create a natural dam and reroute the Eel in

the right direction.”

“You’re saying that’s how we could make this look like a natural event.”

“Yeah, that’s the idea.”

Destry nodded. “I’ll go along with that plan. But also—controlled lava

flows?

Sounds like a pretty powerful weapon.”

He stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“I’m just saying that—you know—there’s a reason rangers carry

weapons. Defense. In this case, defense against Verdance.”

Nil hugged her hard. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. I don’t think a

mere pyroclastic flow could stop Ronnie.”

The two old friends stayed up late, swapping massages and talking about

how long the ecosystems would need to recover if volcanoes caused a massive carbon injection into the atmosphere. Eventually, Destry no longer

felt like a slurry of reeking topsoil runoff. Down the hall, Whistle rested his chin on Midnight’s back before falling

asleep, enjoying the sensation of his fur rumpling against hers. While the mammals slept, the drones relaxed in their own ways. Hellfire&Crisp headed back to the tunnels to practice their sprints. Nil’s

partner, Rocket, tinkered with a modification to their near-field

communications array so that they could speak more easily with Spider City

bots. 8

CHORING

A successful community requires thoughtful participation, hard work, and a healthy appreciation for the absurd. —Environmental Rescue Team Handbook

Destry awoke when her pad emitted a low-battery buzz. Blinking, she

looked for a window or other sign of what time it was, and found nothing

but a smear of glowing moss overhead. Nil was breathing warmly next to

her, his thick black hair fanned across her arm. Oh, right. She was deep

underground with a bunch of people who weren’t supposed to exist, her

micromanaging boss was about to spray human diarrhea on the world, and

of course she hadn’t really paused to consider that a day without sunlight

would mean a pad without power. Outside the door she could hear the faint

sounds of hooves and voices, which meant they probably hadn’t missed

breakfast yet. She sat up on the bed platform as Nil stirred awake, stretching

and yawning. How the hell did people around here tell time without the sun

to guide them?

A crackling noise followed by a tart voice issuing from doors up and

down the hallway provided an answer. “Breakfast is nearly prepared.” It

sounded awfully familiar. “Is that you, Jaguar?”

“Good morning, H. sapiens.”

Nil groaned. “Smells like recycled air.”

“That is correct. Hellfire&Crisp say hello, by the way. They’re already

waiting for you in the dining hall.”

Destry and Nil looked at each other, amused. “Are you still guarding them?” Destry asked. “I am—keeping them company.” The door seemed slightly flustered. It sounded like Hellfire&Crisp had somehow befriended Jaguar

overnight. Destry and Nil made it out the door in time to catch Midnight and

Whistle emerging from their room near the rotunda. Normally, Destry

would have rubbed Whistle’s shoulder in greeting, reveling in the bristly

warmth of his fur and muscles. But today, watching him nuzzle Midnight’s

ear, she suddenly felt self-conscious about showing physical affection. Would she be disturbing a private moment between the two moose?

Was

she being creepy and possessive?

Of course, she technically owned Whistle,

so the issue should be moot. That’s surely what Ronnie would think. A text arrived: Hi there, friend. Whistle bonked her arm with his nose,

dispelling her anxiety. “Hey, Whistle.” She scratched between his antlers tentatively. “Hi,

Midnight.”

Midnight turned to face them: Hey there. Ready to grab some breakfast?

I’m starving. We’ll need lots of fuel if we’re going to come up with a plan to

un-steal a billion liters of water. “That much?”

That’s how much the local aquifer lost after Verdance diverted the river. Stick ’em up, and let these folks have some of your fine H2O!

Destry had to grin at Midnight’s reference to the bad guy’s signature line

from the game Animal Uprising. The outlaw cat bot always yowled, “Stick

’em up!” right before he robbed everybody blind. She hadn’t spent much

time with Midnight until this trip, and she was starting to understand what

Whistle saw in the muscular moose with jet-black fur and a sarcastic glint

in her eyes. Whistle shot her a look that she’d never seen on his face before. Something about the set of his ears, one angled toward her and one toward

Midnight, coupled with the slight tilt of his head—was it a conspiratorial

expression?

She wasn’t sure, but she decided to take it the way she would if

a human friend gave her an I-just-got-laid smirk at the morning grab table. Destry slung an arm around Whistle’s neck, gave him a comradely squeeze,

and punched him softly with her other arm. “You’re looking good this

morning, buddy.”

He shot a blast of air out of his nostrils, laughing: I am good. Each day. All day. As he carefully chose words from his limited vocabulary, Midnight

turned away, texting them as she cantered up the hallway: I need to find

Long. Whistle watched her go, then hung his head as if his late summer antlers

had become too heavy to bear. He messaged Destry and Nil privately: I

might be too … too plain for her. Walking on either side of the moose, the two H. sapiens both reached out

to touch him in sympathy. “Long told me to warn you that she’s a

heartbreaker,” Destry said. The moose snorted. When they got to the dining hall, Midnight and Long

were nowhere to be found. Destry picked up a charging pad for her mobile,

dropping it next to Rocket in case the mountable drone needed a quick top-

up. Nil grabbed some bowls of porridge with seared grubs and apples,

Lucky brought a big pitcher of coffee for the table, and Whistle loomed

over them, eating from a huge trough of leafy twigs. Eventually the Dashes

joined the group, along with a cat who refused to introduce herself or talk to

anyone. Are you in one of your moods?

Dash texted the cat publicly. Because we

need to make some progress today on the magma guide swarm. Are you still a condescending smear of vomit?

Because I need to eat my

breakfast. The other two Dashes chittered with amusement and the cat went back to

crunching her protein bar. Though this room had seemed so familiar last night, Destry realized

something was missing. Or rather, something was present: all the people

were here, even the bots and cats. In La Ronge, the humans lived and ate in

the main dorms, while the Mounts had the barns. Bots didn’t need places to

eat or sleep, and all the other people—well, they had their own food

arrangements that they preferred. Destry had never really thought about

how weird it was that they didn’t eat together. She had always assumed it

was easier for everyone to have their own spaces—but this was just as easy. In some ways it was easier, because they could talk about missions in a

more casual way, and maybe let off some work-related stress. Slurping down their coffee, Lucky snapped their fingers as if they’d just

remembered something. “If you’re going to stay for a while, I need to add

you to the chore schedule. Anybody have limits on what they can do?”

There were murmurs from around the table and everybody sent their

ERT choring tags to Lucky. Every ranger had a choring tag, a small blob of

structured data that listed their strengths and weaknesses as community

contributors. Nobody could live on an ERT campus for any length of time

without choring, helping out with shared tasks like cooking, cleaning public

areas, and infrastructure maintenance. Destry’s tag indicated a preference

for cooking, but after centuries at the La Ronge campus she was competent

in everything from waste disposal to road repair. The only person who looked dubious was the cat. Are they really going

to stay for enough time to help with choring?

Rocket played a few bars of a popular work song, its peppy tempo

designed to bring a little levity to chopping potatoes or tending the compost

cycle in cesspits. “Even if we stay for a few days, we need to make our

contribution.”

Nil drummed fingers on the table. “I have to agree. And this watershed

repair could take a couple of months. Nobody is expecting us back until

fall.”

Maybe nobody was expecting them back, but now Destry knew for sure

that Ronnie was keeping tabs on her and might figure out something was

amiss when her spore trail dried up. As she worried silently, Destry caught

Whistle looking at Midnight for several long beats. She hoped his obvious

affection wasn’t misplaced. Emotions could run high in the field, especially

in a small group like theirs, facing a lot of risky unknowns. By the time they had cleared their dishes, Destry had already gotten her

first choring assignment: kitchen cleanup tonight, after dinner. Things were

definitely starting to feel more and more like home around here. As she

followed Nil and Lucky back down to the ERT water labs, she fell into

systems thinking again, wondering where Spider City had diverged from La

Ronge. Had the Spider City people always eaten together, back when they lived at La Ronge?

That would have been before her parents, Destry Senior

and Frenchy, were decanted by people she’d been taught were extinct. The

Archaea, and all the other people in the Great Bargain with them. What’s wrong, Destry?

The text was from Whistle, who had picked up

on her mood. “I was just thinking about how you never eat with us back home.”

The moose didn’t reply for a long time: I think you made that rule. “What?” She was irked. “I didn’t make that rule. Plus, it’s not a rule. It’s

a tradition.”

It took even longer for Whistle to answer this time: That rule … it’s like

the air. You don’t look at it. Here, you can’t breathe. So you look. When he put it that way, her irritation was replaced by a hot gout of

shame. She was famous for comprehending systems in their entirety, for

repairing connections between nodes that nobody else could perceive. Why

hadn’t she seen the edges that defined their social lives back in La Ronge?

Whistle knew all along, despite his low InAss rating. She was reminded of

what Dash expressed last night, about building the dogs who discovered

their ancestors’ history back on Earth. Dash understood what she’d done. But did that La Ronge engineer who installed the limiter in Whistle’s brain

ever stop to think that they were deliberately destroying a person’s ability to

communicate?

To be understood?

All she could do now was acknowledge, once again, that InAss ratings

truly were ass. “You’re right, Whistle. I feel really stupid for not noticing

this sooner.”

He nudged her gently. Once in a while you are smart, Destry. You give

me all the pinecones, right?

“Would you want to eat with us, back home?

If we changed the rules?”

I don’t know. He turned to face her, the familiar soft square of his nose

curving down in a way that appeared particularly thoughtful. Things can

change now. We could live in Spider City. Before she could answer, they reached the door to the ERT lab. Hellfire&Crisp buzzed over their heads, then flew back up out of reach,

cackling. “Welcome back, mammals!

We’ve been teaching Jaguar to play

Crashout!”

Whistle shed his pensive air and bucked his back legs with glee. “Where

is she?

Did you win?”

A small drone covered in spines shot down from the ceiling. It spoke in

Jaguar’s voice. “I’m using this as a remote!

Check it!” And the three drones

whirled in intricate spirals down the lava tube that led to the skylit garden,

gracefully competing in a game that Destry barely understood. Whistle

bucked again, emitting a high, keening cry to cheer them on. Just then, Midnight and Long arrived. Midnight gave the entire crew a

once-over, looking especially judgey when she saw Whistle, and spoke to

the door: May we please come in, Jaguar?

It’s time to start work. The door split into two half-moons, leaving a large open wedge for

everybody to walk through. Apparently Jaguar was too pleased by her

performance in the Crashout tourney to say anything sour. Destry and

Whistle stayed behind to watch the still-circling drones. Whistle looked sadly at Midnight’s retreating form. So much for that, he

sent. As the drones disappeared into sunlit trees, Destry threw her arms

around his neck and whispered in his ear. “If Midnight doesn’t realize what

a catch you are, her InAss ratings are lower than a rock’s.”

The moose flicked an ear at her and they went into the lab where the

ceiling emitted a murky glow from the morning sky through two hundred

meters of water. 9

THE BORING FLEET

You cannot measure a person’s intentions, but you can measure their contributions. —Environmental Rescue Team Handbook

Over the next month in Spider City, life settled into the comforting rhythms

of community work while the air cooled outside with the approach of dry

season. The team quickly adjusted to their new routines. Nil and the

Archaean ranger Lucky ran endless simulations of lava dams and water

velocities; Destry helped them gather data by connecting to the sensor

network in Fork Canyon. The one question mark that remained was what

Spider City’s capabilities actually were. When she and Nil asked how the

ERT would bring lava into the canyon, Lucky would shrug and smile. “Just

assume it’s handled. It’s more important to figure out the best structure and

location for the dam.”

When she wasn’t dealing with Lucky’s evasiveness, Destry spent her

days choring with Whistle in Spider City’s many public works departments:

energy, ventilation, water, recycling, waste. The labor was tough, and often

stinky; but tougher still were the locals, who generally regarded the H. sapiens as patsies for Verdance. Riding the subways was the worst, because

people would practically sit on each other’s heads to avoid sharing a bench

with her. She and Whistle took long walks to avoid the subway when they

could, and soon Destry knew her way through the city’s many

neighborhoods. Some were vast caverns devoted to agriculture, while others

were densely packed with shops where the Archaeans bartered and laughed

with equal intensity. Destry approached the social system of Spider City with the same

patience she brought to long-term ecosystem projects. Maybe there were

frustrations, but the only solution was to keep going. Keep contributing. When she was prepping manure for the bioreactors, she could forget the

angry stares from her new neighbors. She could pretend she wasn’t on a

mission more precarious than any she’d dealt with before. No further messages came from La Ronge, which she took as a hopeful

sign. Every night, she surfaced next to the caldera lake, climbed onto the

grassy shoulder of the mountain, and ran her hands through the stalks,

feeling for data. When her queries turned up nothing but crisp leaves and

arid soil, she would allow herself one final breath before returning to Nil in

their oxygenated room. They curled around each other, falling asleep as

they speculated about what would come next. And then, every dawn at the

breakfast table, Destry would try to figure out what in the seething compost

heap was going on between Whistle and Midnight. Sometimes the two

moose would catch each other’s eyes, yearningly; other times, they acted

like they barely knew each other. One morning during their fifth week in Spider City, Whistle and

Midnight arrived at the dining hall locked in a silent debate. The two moose

sent private texts back and forth, stomping hooves and ignoring the other

rangers from La Ronge at the table, until the situation became awkward. At last, Destry put down her spoon and intervened. “Hey, friends.” She

waved. “Remember us?

The other people eating beside you?”

Midnight ducked her head apologetically, the soft black fur on her face

glinting green in the bacterial light. We were just talking about Lucky’s

invitation, she sent publicly. They want to show us how they will make a dam, Whistle added. Destry pressed her hands to the table to check messages. Lucky had

indeed called the whole La Ronge crew to the lab after breakfast, for a beta

test of the controlled eruption. Rocket floated off their charging pad, looking like a barrel with a

periscope, and made a stylized guffaw noise. “Everyone who sleeps and

eats food is inevitably late to the party. Hellfire&Crisp are already at the lab

with Lucky. See you there, mammals!” With that, they hovered out of the

room. Nil shrugged at his partner’s haste and ate another bite of spicy porridge

with fried potatoes and carrots. “I like food.”

As if on cue, Whistle and Midnight ate noisily from bowls of crunchy

stems, studiously ignoring each other again. Destry was torn between worry

that her friend was getting his heart broken, and excitement that they would

finally get to see Spider City’s mysterious lava control system. If Lucky

trusted them enough to reveal the city’s greatest asset, the La Ronge team’s

hard work was finally paying off. Having met their biological needs, the mammals walked together to the

ERT data center beneath the caldera lake. When they arrived, one of the

Dashes—the one with the wool jacket—was riding on Rocket’s back. From

that vantage, the naked mole rat was able to address everyone at roughly

hominin and moose-eye level: We’ve spoken with the Council several times,

and the majority now agrees that you may remain here with us as we begin

testing magma streams. So far, we’ve only done controlled releases in close

proximity to Spider. So today we’ll leak a little magma three hundred klicks

up north, to see if it works. “Also, we can introduce you to our greatest allies.” Lucky made a

gesture with their hands as if they were presenting a glamorous offering. Dash gestured up a map that gave the La Ronge rangers a view of Sasky

they’d never seen. There were the familiar continents, but crisscrossed by

thick black lines that divided the globe into dozens of seemingly random

polygons, some very large and others quite small. Superimposed over many

of these lines were semitransparent blobs of red. One of the largest was

right where they stood, at the center of Spider. “Well, shit,” Destry marveled. It was a map of the planet’s magma

reservoirs, and they were far more extensive than Verdance had ever let on. Dash wriggled her fingers at the display, and her gesture turned the

topological map into a cutaway view of the continent, down to a depth of

3,000 kilometers. There was the planet’s molten core, wrapped in several

layers of pressurized silicates and water. Spider’s magma plume was a thin

column of liquid rock that oozed upward from deep inside Sasky’s lower

mantle, eventually mixing with water in the upper mantle and spreading

into what appeared to be a vast, gooey mushroom cloud of lava about 200

kilometers below them. Dash sent: For centuries, we’ve been guiding magma to Spider from that

upper reservoir through a series of crevices and boreholes. The naked mole

rat folded her arms and looked extremely pleased with herself. Want to

know how?

Yes!

Whistle stomped a hoof impatiently. Dash pointed at the floor, which slowly went transparent. About twenty

meters below, sanguine ripples of magma roiled in a large, natural chamber. Something caught Destry’s eye: a long sheet of silvery chrome, no thicker

than a fine knife blade, sticking out of the rocky mush. It looked like a low

retaining wall, dividing one side of the magma chamber from the other. She

pointed at the gleaming metal. “What’s that?”

Lucky flicked a glance back at her. “Nothing. Just some old

infrastructure from another project.” Their answer was oddly vague,

piquing Destry’s curiosity. But then Destry was distracted by something emerging from a lava

tunnel into the chamber below. It was a two-meter-long missile-shaped

vehicle—or maybe a person—that floated a few centimeters above the

bubbling red muck. Sleek and silver, studded with portals and sensors, its

whole body danced with reflected light. Four reconfigurable arms were

folded so tightly against the vehicle’s dorsal side that they were nearly

invisible. A lava ship?

There was nothing like it in the ERT database, nor in

Verdance’s templates for terraforming. And there’s the secret to our wells, Dash sent. Whistle shook his head in amazement, wattle swaying, and leaned into

Destry’s shoulder. On his other side, Midnight and Long stared through the

floor at the ship, their postures stiffly neutral. “Is that thing a weapon?” Long asked. “Something to blast through the

rock?”

Her name is Crusher, and she’s part of the Boring Fleet, Dash sent with

an impatient switch of her tail. You’re too big to come along and see her

work firsthand. We could broadcast back to the room if Hellfire&Crisp want

to come, though. They’re small enough. The drone’s two bodies bobbed up and down. “We’re in!”

Great. Because someone is going to need to spin the glass. “We can do a one-day fiber with what we’ve got in here.” One of the

drone’s bodies hovered next to Dash, their actuator extruding a fiber so thin

that it was only visible when briefly catching the light. Destry grabbed it

and found a wall panel nearby pocked with connectors. Now the drone was

wired to the local network. As long as the glass remained intact,

Hellfire&Crisp could send data through it as they explored. A door slid open in the transparent floor, and one of Hellfire&Crisp’s

bodies dropped through, trailing glass. The lab filled with the smell of

sulfur as Dash harnessed herself to the cargo hook on their other body for a

more leisurely drop down to the vehicle. Though Crusher appeared to be a

fierce, ultra-armored weapon from the outside, Hellfire&Crisp sent back

images of a passenger compartment that was pure comfort. Plush benches

sized for naked mole rats surrounded a pile of soft rugs, and diaphanous

curtains framed each portal. No control panel: that confirmed the vehicle was a person. Dash put a

hand on the bulkhead: Take us to the northern borehole, will you dear?

“Of course, Dash. It’s lovely to see you.” Crusher’s voice sounded like

the pealing of bells. She skated rapidly across a wrinkled crust of rock

forming atop the lava sea, plunging into a tunnel next to the strange metal

sheet Destry had asked about earlier. Crusher played her headlights over the

surface of the surging rock, dipping down into the flow to draw energy from

its heat. Spun glass passed through a special capillary in the boring vessel’s

carapace, sinking slightly into the superheated muck before reaching the

group back in the lab. Dash sent: Here we go. The tunnel came to an abrupt end. “Shall we cut this cake?” Crusher laughed like wind through chimes. “I’m afraid we only have one flavor for you, little ones.”

The nose of the vehicle seemed to sprout thick wire whiskers. These

unfolded into panels, then stiffened into what looked like absurdly large

daisy petals edged with diamond. With a shudder, the daisy spun up, petals

scraping the porous volcanic rock, clearing a perfectly round hole and

lengthening the tunnel at almost the same speed the ship had flown. Such a delight to see!

Dash rubbed her hands together. I always think this

is the same joy my ancestors must have experienced as they dug their cities

underground. “And yet the Boring Fleet never had to experience the yoke of hive mind

matriarchal autocracy.” Crusher sounded like a schoolteacher chiding

someone who had just been decanted. Dash made a harrumph noise. One may celebrate the ancestors without

approving of everything they’ve done. Coring the rock was a surprisingly gentle operation, almost as if the drill

were nudging the tunnel farther along rather than pulverizing and melting it

into shape. Dash turned to Hellfire&Crisp. This is an easy borehole, because

volcanic rock is so soft. But she can cut through anything, which is

important when you consider how many metal deposits are in here. As if to

validate the naked mole rat’s claim, the ship slowed as it hit a vein of

quartz, passed through it, and left shards of shimmering rock slowly melting

in the magma behind them. Back in the ERT water lab, Lucky’s map display showed the boring

ship’s progress as a tiny red dot heading northwest away from Spider City. “Their goal is to come up in the coastal forest near Lumsden Beach,” they

said. The closer they got to the ocean, the more the lava river began to bubble

and pop around them. Water pockets in the rock were turning to steam and

exploding. And then, abruptly, the front windows showed blue sky. The

vehicle ground to a halt, daisy nose folding back against the ship’s body,

snug as a closed umbrella. Crusher hovered out of the borehole she’d dug,

followed by an oozing, black-crusted puddle of lava. The liquid rock

steamed and smoked where it hit plants, flowing more quickly now,

following the sloping land down to Lumsden Beach. Reddish sand and

rocks hugged a bay of calm green water whose edges frothed and smoothed

with the tides. Birds sang in the mangroves, whose roots were insectile legs

in the shallows. More poured out of the hole Crusher had carved, gushing into the water

with a bang as the fluid became steam. Lava continued to flow across the sand until there was a jetty of cooling igneous rock stretching out into the

ocean. Solid enough to be a dam. But Destry could see Hellfire&Crisp’s

sensors registering insults to the atmosphere: methane, ash particulates,

carbon dioxide. It hurt to see the ERT’s work compromised, even in this

small way, though she knew it was necessary for their plan to work. Lucky turned away from the feed. “Right now, you’re seeing minimal

lava flow. But when we get to Fork Canyon, all the Boring Fleet needs to do

is pop some plugs and we can make a gusher.”

Whistle shook his head slightly and flicked an ear, showing a hint of

mirth: Nice job on the hole. But what do you mean when you say plugs?

“They’re kind of like blast doors made of stone. The Boring Fleet uses

them to stopper eruptions. Or redirect an existing flow.”

It sounded like the Spider City ERT was managing its lava flows with

valves, tunnels, and dams—the same tools that Verdance workers used to

reshape the watershed. “Is this … Boring Fleet spending all its time building out your

underground lava system?” Long asked. “How many are there?

How do you

control them?”

“Control them?” Lucky snorted. “Crusher can hear you, you know.”

Laughter jingled into the room over the speakers. “We don’t spend all

our time counting ourselves and categorizing the number of microbes in our

asses like you do. We’re far too busy.”

Long’s mouth worked but he said nothing. “The boring ships mostly live in deeper magma pockets, so we’re

honestly not sure what they’re doing most of the time,” Lucky said. “But

they seem to like us. Generally they’re willing to help. We’ve helped them

with some engineering concerns.”

“We appreciate the medical care Spider provides.” Crusher began to

hover back toward the borehole; the lava had slowed to a gooey trickle. “All aboard, friends. I’m taking you back home. We can plug this hole with

something solid later.”

The team plunged back into the lava tunnel. “Looks good to me,” Nil said. “The flow is strong. If we can do

something like that at Fork Canyon, I think we have ourselves a new dam. And you’ve got water in your aquifer again.”

“What do you think, H. sapiens?” Lucky was looking straight at Destry. Before she could answer, Long cut in. “I think you’ve got some pretty

impressive technologies, and I’d love to share them with our ERT up in La

Ronge.”

“How about you help us with this dam and we’ll talk about some kind of

work-exchange for rangers?

The way ERTs do it on other worlds. That way,

you can learn about us, and we can learn about you.”

“OK, we can talk about that. Maybe come to a formal agreement.”

The boring ship spoke, her voice sweet and resonant. “Section five,

subparagraph three: Please note that violators of this agreement will taste

our fire.”

The Spider City people laughed. Their humor is weird, Destry texted to Nil privately. No shit, he replied. 10

THE TROUBLE WITH PLATE TECTONICS

Everything is a part of nature. —Environmental Rescue Team Handbook

“Long wants me to open the door to your sleeping room. Do you mind?”

As Destry blinked a dream out of her eyes, she reflected orthogonally

that Jaguar the door had gotten a lot more friendly lately. Especially since

spending so much time with Hellfire&Crisp. Next to her, Nil was sitting up and clearly a lot more awake. “Sure,

Jaguar. You can open.”

Long burst in, still dressed in the coveralls he’d been wearing yesterday

when they met Crusher from the Boring Fleet. His eyes were wide with

panic. “There’s something I’ve discovered that you need to know about

right now. Those lava tunnels—there’s something the Archaeans haven’t

been telling us.”

Destry was fully awake now. “What is it?”

“I can’t tell you here. Just get dressed and come with me.”

Wordlessly, she and Nil yanked on their coveralls and breathers,

following Long up the dorm hallway. Things were quieter at this time of

night, though they could still hear the sounds of people working the late

shift in the ERT labs. The lights were dimmer than during the day, and the

on-duty rangers were mostly nocturnal. Two owls flew through, on their

way to the experimental forest lava tube; and in one corner of the room a

group of raccoons was clumped around a gas chromatograph, locked in

silent debate, sending furious texts about some contaminants they found in

a sample. Long led them directly to the center of the room, where Crusher

from the Boring Fleet had met them. The floor was still transparent. “Remember that?” Long pointed at the thin metal barrier Destry had

noticed slicing through the chamber the day before. It gleamed dully in the

orange light, looking almost like a biological membrane. “You asked Lucky

what that was, and they brushed it off. Well, I decided to look into it, and—

well, just take a look at this.”

Long pulled a wadded-up screen from his pocket and smoothed it out on

the ground next to Nil and Destry. Squatting down, they watched as he

gestured up at the strange map they had seen yesterday on the wall screens

—the one with black lines connecting all the lava plumes. “I looked up the metadata for this map in the Spider ERT database. These black lines correspond to a system of heating elements called

ribbons, which are installed deep in Sasky’s crust all over the planet.” Long

shook his head, bleary, and rubbed some stubble that had started on his

chin. “And we’re looking at part of it. Down there—that—that thing. It can

heat up to 1,960 Kelvin. Enough to boil rock.”

“So?

It’s in a chamber of boiling rock.” Now that Destry understood she

was seeing one strand in a much larger network, she peered at the silvery

ribbon with renewed interest. “What in the fermented turd pit is it for?” Nil asked peevishly. At that moment, the raccoons burst into chittery laughter, responding to

something one of them had texted. It was hard to shake the feeling that the

raccoons were mocking them, a group of puzzled H. sapiens gawking at a

piece of technology they couldn’t understand. Long leaned back on his heels and lowered his voice. “When Verdance

started terraforming the land, they had a very different plan for Sasky than

they do now. This was their first time creating an Earthlike world, and some

of the VPs wanted to make it as realistic as possible. Before they could do

that, though, they needed to jump-start the carbon cycle. We all learned that

this happened by catalyzing photosynthesis in the oceans, farming

cyanobacteria that sucked up carbon and converted it into free oxygen. But

that was actually Plan B. About ten thousand years ago, Verdance engineers

thought the carbon cycle required plate tectonics.”

“Plate tectonics?

What’s that?” Nil was intrigued. “It’s based on Earth geophysics, where you’ve got solid plates of

continental crust floating around on a hot sea of mantle rock. When Earth’s

plates collide, one slides underneath the other, cycling down into the lower

layers of the planet. It’s called subduction. Plate tectonics turn the planet’s

guts into a big conveyor belt, with old crust sinking down and new crust

growing out of volcanic eruptions along ridges in the ocean. Anyway, the

hypothesis was that carbon absorbed by Sasky’s crust would sink into the

planet, and that would create a good cycle. “The problem is, Sasky is tectonically dead. No floating crust, no

subduction. So they came up with this system to crack the planet’s surface

into continental plates. Way back in the 40,000s, the Archaea planted these

temperature ribbons inside fossilized faults and volcanic ridges. Turning

them on would make the planet’s lithosphere melt, reactivating old fault

lines. Eventually pieces of the crust would separate into continental plates

and start subducting.” Long wiped sweat from his forehead. “Presto. Plate

tectonics and carbon cycling all at the same time.”

“That ribbon goes right underneath Spider,” Destry breathed. “Does that

mean we’re over a fault?”

“That’s right. This is quake country—at least it would be, if somebody

turned those ribbons on.”

Destry could not stop staring at the razor-thin heating element that could

rip a mountain apart. She tried to imagine Sasky’s crust broken into puzzle

pieces, each landmass floating on a cushion of molten rock. Spider

Mountain would drift away from the mantle plume below, but the plume

itself would remain active, shooting magma out of whatever puzzle piece

moved on top of it. “Why would Verdance want to do something so dangerous?” Destry

asked. “I mean, a piece of good farmland might accidentally become a

volcano.”

“Exactly. With plate tectonics, your volcanoes can move around. But

that’s not the most common danger. Subduction causes powerful quakes,

and those trigger tsunamis and floods. There are a whole lot of ugly knock-

on effects from plate tectonics, and all of them make your real estate less

valuable.”

Nil emitted a soft whistle. “I can see why Verdance decided to forgo that

bit of Earth authenticity, then.”

“They dumped that idea as soon as we managed to start the carbon cycle

with photosynthesis.”

“Well, technically, it wasn’t us.” Destry sighed. “H. archaeans started

the carbon cycle with photosynthesis, and we maintained it.”

“Are the Spider City people still in control of the ribbons?” Nil

whispered. “Do they work?”

Long nodded. “I found data that strongly suggests that they’ve been

testing them every year, to make sure they’re in good order. If they activate

the network, this planet will have plate tectonics long before the new

landowners come down to settle. It will destroy the world.”

Destry’s heart was pounding as she turned to Nil. “I wonder when they

were planning on telling us about that.”

“I mean, they weren’t exactly hiding it. Long found it just by poking

around in the ERT computers, right in front of everybody.” Nil gestured at

the now-silent racoon researchers. “That’s true. Maybe they didn’t think it was relevant.”

Long stared at the two of them with an expression that hovered between

revulsion and shock. “You’re talking about this like they are hiding some

new recipe for oatcakes. This is an existential threat to Sasky.”

Destry snorted. “It’s not an existential threat, but it will make Verdance

real estate a lot less valuable. Who wants to deal with volcanoes?”

“These people do.” Long’s face was getting red and his lips were wet. “They love volcanoes. They want to shit magma everywhere. If they wreck

Verdance’s planet, they won’t suffer. We’ll be the ones who pay for it.”

“I can’t imagine the Archaea doing that,” Destry replied. “Plate tectonics

could destroy Spider too.”

Wadding up the map display, Long stood abruptly. Even with Nil’s

warmth next to her, Destry felt a chill as their colleague looked down at

them. “This mission has gone from foolish to absurd, and now it’s

potentially deadly.”

Nil reached out and gently squeezed Long’s hand, still furiously

clutching the crumpled map. “Friend, it’s not the right time to talk about this. Let’s meet in the morning and decide how to broach the subject with

our hosts.”

Long said nothing as he stamped out of the room, the raccoons staring at

him and then at Destry and Nil. One stood up and made a face-washing

gesture, which for some reason elicited another extended burst of laughter. Leaning his head on Destry’s shoulder, Nil groaned. “Well, that

conversation sure decayed fast.”

“We’ll work it out in the morning. Long can be an ass, but Midnight

usually talks him down.”

Nil stood, offering her a hand up. “Let’s try to get some rest before we

deal with all this swamp gas.”

They waved goodbye to the raccoons, who grunted and sent them text

links to local videos about how to wash your hands before going to work. Destry had no idea what they were trying to say, so she chalked it up to

more weird Spider City humor. Back in their room, Destry pressed a hand to the wall and signaled the

lights to dim, wrapped herself around the curve of Nil’s back, and slept

fitfully until it was time for breakfast. 11

DECANTING

Don’t build a person if you do not intend to be their ally. —Environmental Rescue Team Handbook

Long didn’t join them in the morning at the table. And though Destry and

Nil dawdled over the cinnamon toast, joking about the most efficient ways

to sprinkle the sweet-spicy toppings all the way to the edges of a bread

slice, he still didn’t show. There was no cryptic drama between Whistle and

Midnight either, because the moose were absent too. Only Rocket joined

them, hovering down to settle on a charging pad. Hellfire&Crisp spent

nearly all their time choring with Jaguar these days and would meet them at

the ERT labs only by request. The bot’s head rose from the thick tube of their body, and they emitted a

whimsical tune. “Where is everybody?”

“I’m not sure, but we said we’d meet Long to discuss what he found last

night—did he tell you about it?”

“Just a second.” Rocket hovered to the high ceiling, where they could

connect to Spider’s network via short-range wireless. “Long’s not in the

city. Neither are Whistle and Midnight. What were you supposed to talk

about?”

The two rangers looked at each other, unsettled, as Rocket sank down to

their eye level. Haltingly, Nil told his partner about the heat ribbons and

plate tectonics while Destry pressed her hands to the table and searched the

network for data on her teammates. After a minute of fruitlessly messaging

and checking access logs, she realized that this absence of data was yet

another way that Spider differed from La Ronge. Spider City would reveal

who was or wasn’t reachable on the local network, but that was it. No

records of where anyone had been or when they had gone. It was a way of discouraging the kind of toxic surveillance that Verdance imposed. And yes,

it was freeing in some ways, but it was also incredibly annoying when you

needed to reach your friends urgently. Just as she was about to disconnect from the table, Whistle appeared on

the network and her message showed as read. I had food, the moose replied. I will see you at the ERT lab. Midnight and Long were still not on the Spider network. When they got to the lab, Whistle was more dejected than Destry had

ever seen him. His ears were sagging and his head was low. As she wrapped

her arms around his neck, she realized that he was wet too. He sent to the group: I took a swim with Midnight, when the sun rose. “Where is Long?” Nil demanded. Whistle shook his head and water droplets spattered the floor, which

quickly absorbed the moisture. I do not know, the moose sent. “Did Midnight go with him?”

Yes. She said—Whistle stopped sending for a moment and stared at the

floor. She said she had no choice. “Shit in a pit.” Nil rubbed his forehead. “I bet they went back to La

Ronge because of the Ribbons. I mean, I knew Long was upset, but we

agreed not to return until the dam was finished. We voted.”

After years of ERT Council meetings, Destry could imagine at least three

loopholes that Long could cite as a rationale for breaking their agreement. “I’m sure he thinks that our vote was based on incomplete knowledge of

context. So it’s void.”

“Yeah, but he’s supposed to call a new vote—”

Rocket interrupted his partner with a hammering noise. “He can call the

vote at the La Ronge council. Which is what he wanted to do anyway.”

“We should tell Lucky right now.” Destry looked around the lab, which

was still mostly empty. Breakfast wasn’t over, and besides it was a meeting

day. The only person she knew in the room right now was Dash, wearing a

new purple coat. “Have you seen Lucky?” she asked the naked mole rat. Without turning away from her workstation, Dash sent: They’ll be in the

meeting for a while, but if you want to catch them after, they’ll be passing by the bioengineering lab. I’m headed there now, to check on a few people

who are due for decanting this week. Would you like to join me while you

wait?

Nil looked at Destry and sent privately: Let’s speak to the Archaeans

before we decide whether to go after Long and Midnight. Aloud, Destry said, “All right, let’s see who is about to be decanted.”

Rocket dipped down to give Dash a ride on their back. They walked

down the hallway with its lava-lit windows, which looked almost homey to

Destry now, and presently Dash asked Jaguar to let them into a warm, dim

room. As the H. sapiens and Whistle stood blindly in the doorway, a faint

glow rippled across the bacteria on the walls, barely illuminating a cluster

of three-meter-tall, transparent tanks that took up most of the space at the

center of the room. Next to them was a maze of smaller tanks topped by 3-

D printers, for building life forms directly into amniotic fluid. There was no

obvious way to walk between the tanks, and the setup was clearly designed

for people of Dash’s size. Another of the Dashes—this one wearing nothing

—was sitting on a desk next to a printer, using a handheld nozzle to spray a

layer of cells on a small tissue trellis that looked like it might be for

growing an internal organ like a kidney or heart. I used to do all my research right here. I made the first dogs on that

machine. Dash gestured vaguely at a dim corner. But now I’m doing

fieldwork on life in the magma system, so I’m afraid I don’t get back here as

much as I’d like. The other Dash sent: We don’t mind. Less clutter with you gone. Dash made a noise that sounded like the naked mole rat equivalent of a

scoff, and Rocket floated her close to the tanks. Hesitantly, Destry followed,

one hand on Whistle’s damp neck. She didn’t want to run into anything

accidentally. We grew this person pretty recently. Dash gestured at the nearest tank,

where an H. archaean floated, eyes closed. They were fully adult, almost

ready for decanting, with the characteristic broad forehead, barrel chest,

long arms—and an unusual genital configuration that Destry had never seen

before. It was like labia, but bigger and slightly puckered, with inner and

outer lips the same size. The effect was of a decorative ruffle where the person’s legs came together. Destry was reminded of certain ocean

invertebrates, whose bodies rippled into frilly shapes as they swam. “I like this incubator,” Nil said admiringly, touching the transparent

material surrounding the developing Archaean. “Looks versatile.”

We can build anything here, from people like me to people like him. Dash

pointed at Whistle. Something else had caught Whistle’s attention. He walked past the soon-

to-be-decanted Archaean to see one of the smaller tanks, where a 3-D

printer drizzled tissue onto a trellis, the nozzle moving back and forth

methodically. What’s this?

The other Dash looked up from her work: Cat. Got any requests for fur

color?

Family didn’t specify. Whistle tossed his head: You would pick the fur I want?

He was startled. Back at La Ronge, they used templates and presets from Verdance. It was

extremely rare for someone to modify the basic animal designs. I can always use the random number generator or roll some dice, but I

think it’s nicer when a person chooses. Moose shifted his weight, his antlers casting strange triple shadows from

the lab lights. Are you sure?

What if they don’t like it?

The other Dash scratched behind an ear hole: I wouldn’t worry. Fur is

fur. This cat can change it later if they want. I choose brown. Whistle made a decisive grunt as he sent the words. Make the cat brown. Dash let out a sigh of comic exasperation: Friend, what is brown?

I don’t

know what shade or intensity—

The brown in my coat. Make this cat moose brown. Aha—now you’re cooking!

Dash conjured a small control panel with one

swift motion of her right hand. Your shade of brown is a great color for a

cat. Lots of golds and blacks in there too. Never done that combination

before. Whistle asked: When they come out, do you teach them?

Everyone is decanted into a family group, so they’ll teach this cat the

same way people in La Ronge do, I expect. There are always a few months

of learning. “It’s not really the same,” Rocket said, their voice carrying from behind

Nil. “Some people have families, but Mounts and animals learn on the job. They get decanted and put to work right away. They don’t have families.”

Whistle looked at Destry: you were there when I came out. “I was.” Destry rested her hand on Whistle’s rib cage, expanding with

his breath. “The ERT assigned you to be my mount and we didn’t have a

choice. But I’m still glad it happened. I tried to teach you the way my

parents taught me.”

Whistle lowered his head and said nothing while Dash looked at Destry

like she’d violated a taboo. Of course. La Ronge still builds to the

intelligence assessment templates. The naked mole rat made a gagging

noise. Destry interrupted. “It’s true. But that doesn’t mean we buy into the

InAss system. Whistle is my family.” She nudged the moose. “I mean, you

are if you want to be.”

He pressed his muzzle into her chest but didn’t offer any words. Perhaps

he was trying to figure out what to say. Before his silence became awkward, there was a shadow at the door and

Lucky’s voice carried into the room. “Hey, H. sapiens. I heard you were

looking for me. I have a meeting space across the hall.”

As they filed out, the Dash who was building the cat sent a final text:

Thanks for the fur idea, Whistle!

See you later!

See you!

Whistle replied. Take good care of that cat. Lucky took them to a room with one window that looked down into the

lava cavern, and another that looked upward into the caldera’s sun-streaked

water. The hominins settled into chairs and everybody else stood or hovered

around the table. There was no way to break the news gently. “Long found out about your

heating ribbons last night. He was …” Destry searched for words. “He was

terrified. We think he and Midnight are flying back to La Ronge.” She

rested her chin in her hand, suddenly feeling the exhaustion from her

interrupted night. Lucky jumped up and started to pace nervously. “The Ribbons?

What do

they have to do with anything?”

Though she was hardly on Long’s side, Destry felt a flicker of irritation. “That’s a pretty big secret you kept from us.”

Lucky looked at Whistle and Rocket, as if they didn’t really want to see

what lurked in the H. sapiens’ faces. “What is he going to do?”

Whistle shook his head slightly, making his dewlap sway: Long was

mad. Now he has fear on top of that. He might tell Verdance. “He’s worried you’ll turn on the Ribbons and destroy Sasky.” Nil looked

even more miserable than he sounded. “To be fair, I don’t think he

misunderstood you. I mean—you did lie to Destry about the Ribbons when

she asked. And they could actually be used as superweapons.”

“We trusted you, and we promised to help you get your water back.”

Destry glared at them and folded her arms. “We contributed our labor to

Spider City. And now we look like fools.”

Lucky put their head in their hands. “I’m sorry I misled you,” they said

slowly. “We should have been more honest about our capabilities. But the

Ribbons are the only leverage we have against Verdance.”

Nil narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean by that?

Leverage?”

Lucky finally looked at the H. sapiens. “When we finally reveal

ourselves to Verdance, we are planning to offer them a peace and friendship

treaty.”

“A treaty?

What do you mean by that?”

“We’ll draw up an agreement with them, allowing Spider City access to

the water we need.” Lucky pronounced every word precisely, as if they

were dictating a policy document. “In exchange, we offer peace and

friendship.”

A sarcastic yuck-yuck-yuck laugh erupted from Rocket’s speakers. “I see. It surely is peaceful to have a planet without quakes. Is that the idea?”

“We are willing to negotiate,” Lucky said. “But when you’re dealing

with Verdance and their parent company, it’s best to have a weapon.”

Recalling her experiences with Ronnie, Destry found herself nodding. “I

can see that. But won’t Verdance just take control of the Ribbons

remotely?”

Lucky shook their head. “When Verdance told the ERT to shut the

network down, our engineers took it dark instead of recycling it. You can only access the controls from a physical connection we built right here in

Spider City.”

Something caught Destry’s eye in the lava chamber below—a member of

the Boring Fleet, flashing from one tunnel to another, uncounted and

unmolested by the city above. Then she thought about the moose-colored

cat, soon to be decanted, who would have a family here along with the

Archaea. She was still feeling bruised from Lucky’s subterfuge, but she

genuinely liked the Spider City people. They deserved to live just as much

as La Ronge people did. And so did Sasky. The only way to keep

everything in balance was to help. “Whistle was right when he said that Long might tell Verdance about

you, so we need a plan.”

Nil glanced at her. “We should be at the Council meeting when Long

tells everyone about Spider. We might be able to persuade the ERT to keep

this city hidden for a while longer.”

Destry nodded. “It’s possible.”

“I’ll ask the Council.” Lucky pressed hands to the table, and several

minutes passed before they spoke again. “We’ve been debating this for

weeks, so the majority got back to me quickly. They voted to send you

home to make our case. You may tell the La Ronge Council everything. We

ask that they give us more time to finish the dam before we reveal ourselves

to Verdance.”

“You could send a representative to make your case,” Nil suggested. “Too dangerous.” Lucky’s mouth quirked into a half-smile as they

looked at Whistle. “Speak well on our behalf, friends.”

The moose shifted on his feet. Mounts can’t go to Council. His comment brought an air of gloom into the space; it was a reminder

that the great distance between La Ronge and Spider City was more than

geographical. 12

THE WORST COUNCIL MEETING

Always be prepared for a disaster, so that you can prevent it. —The Environmental Rescue Team Handbook

Never in her centuries of work at the ERT had Destry ever witnessed a

conversation more vitriolic and disturbing than the one that was currently

disrupting what could have been a pleasant meeting. At first, things seemed

to be going well. Before they took off from Spider, she’d messaged the ERT

Council, asking that she and the rest of the team be allowed to present their

case when Long presented his. She routed the message through tropical

flowers shaped like birds, and insects shaped like more deadly insects, and

a spindly receiver tower shaped to look like a tree. Thankfully her request

made it to La Ronge before Midnight landed. Which is why she and Nil

were here now, facing Long at an outdoor table, next to a hedge that the

youngest rangers had cut to resemble a mastodon. The ERT Council was comprised of a rotating group of a dozen people,

sworn to meet when problems arose. All of them had dropped everything to

hear the team’s story. Some were understandably surprised, and even

shocked, by the existence of Spider City. A few were intrigued. Others were

disgusted. The very idea of the Archaea offended them. This went way

beyond hydro-engineering annoyances and into something rarely discussed

in the ERT: politics. Pine, a top engineer from the water group, looked like she was about to

spit or vomit or maybe both. Gray hair whipped around her incandescent

face as she shook her head. “We are not re-routing Eel River for some

group of squatters!

It goes against our entire environmental plan. The first

settlers were supposed to make way for us, so we could produce a pristine

set of ecosystems. They’re wrecking all our work. They have no right!”

“Verdance never planned to develop that volcano,” Destry said. “Plus

Spider City is carbon negative. How are they wrecking our work?”

“Seriously?

You’re seriously asking me that?” Pine was furious. “You

don’t work on the watershed, so you have no idea how this will impact the

environment.”

Nil massaged his temples and explained their case for the second time. “We have nothing to lose here—and neither does Verdance. All they’re

asking for is a small percentage of water that won’t be missed. We can route

other rivers to the coasts, and give Spider City the Eel.”

Long shook his head and held up his hand. “That’s what you say. But I

was there too. I don’t think we can trust these Archaea—not until they share

how their weapons work. It’s obvious they want to use the Ribbons to force

eruptions and carbon load the atmosphere. That way they can breathe on the

surface again.”

This was the bitterest weed of all. Destry looked down at the gnarled

wood of the table, willing herself not to get angry. She’d trusted Long. They

were practically family, now that her partner Whistle was hooking up with

Long’s partner, Midnight. And he’d betrayed them in this meeting—coming

out of nowhere with this piss-soaked conspiracy theory about how the

Archaea were hatching an evil plot to take over the world with the Ribbons. “Long, you know they don’t want to use those plate tectonics ribbons

any more than we do—or Verdance does. They just need a way to … to

show that they are serious about their request.” Destry paused. “Listen,

Verdance treats us like we’re disposable. Why should we be loyal to them?

They didn’t even send disaster relief when my parents …”

Pine slammed her palms against the table and stood up. “Don’t bring that

up!

Frenchie—your mother—she knew what she was doing. I loved her, but

she and your father were violating every term of our contract when they

left.” Tears were starting in the water engineer’s eyes. Pine had worked

closely with Frenchie, and still felt her loss keenly. When she spoke again,

her voice was hoarse. “It’s exactly like those assholes in Spider City!

And

you can’t do anything to help them, just like we couldn’t help your

parents!” And with that, Pine spun and walked away so fast that a foam stool fell over in her wake. One of Pine’s labmates ran after her, throwing a

nasty look over her shoulder at Destry. Once they had coaxed Pine back to the table, Long folded his arms and

swept the ERT rangers with his gaze. “Pine is right. As soon as Verdance

finds out what the Archaea have planned, they’ll go the same way as Destry

Senior and Frenchie. And so will we.”

A chill wriggled its way into Destry’s heart like a hornworm in cassava

leaves. “What do you mean by that?”

His frown softened slightly. “Destry, take the blindfold off your eyes. Verdance murdered your parents. Look at the records. It was a laser strike

from one of their satellites.”

Every muscle in Destry’s body was rigid. “That’s not true. I read the

report—it was a gas leak. An accident.”

Nearly everyone at the meeting was staring at her now—except for Pine,

who was giving Long a furious look. Glowering back at Pine, Long

continued. “I don’t see why she shouldn’t know. Ronnie didn’t want anyone

to get the idea that they could leave the city, so she killed them. It’s legal—

Verdance built them and owned them, and they were breaking their contract

by leaving. That’s what you don’t understand, Destry. Verdance won’t send

us angry messages when they find out about Spider City. They will kill us

for hiding it.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Pine covered her face with her hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. It’s true, Destry, she sent privately. We didn’t want you to know, so I saved

the original video file to a different repository, and wrote the disaster report

you saw. It wasn’t entirely untrue—the explosion was from gas. But

Verdance’s laser ignited it. She sent a link to a video file. It was only five seconds long, but that was

enough to witness the beam cut through her parents’ home like a heated

knife through coconut custard. Destry realized she was clutching Nil’s hand

under the table. She thought back to when Destry Senior and Frenchie died centuries

ago, and how she’d been busy watching Spider vomit bloodred rocks when

it happened. She’d been furious at herself for going on such a long mission when she knew her parents were doing something risky. Why had she

picked an assignment so far away?

Why didn’t she check the safety settings

on those waste processors herself?

But this time when she replayed her

memories, there was no one to blame but Ronnie, dictating a memo that

unleashed a murderous beam of light. And Long had decided to dump this on her now, to inject her with new

trauma, just so he could win his pustulant argument. He obviously thought

his revelation would convince the Council to let Spider’s people be

murdered, because that way La Ronge would be spared. Everyone at the

table was still looking at her, waiting to see what she would do. One thing

was for sure. She wasn’t going to buckle. She let go of Nil’s hand and glowered at Long. “Knowing Verdance

might murder the people of Spider City means that it’s our duty to help

them. The ERT is supposed to protect people who are vulnerable to

disasters. If you want to honor my parents, that’s what we should do.”

Long sighed. “We all mourn Destry Senior and Frenchie, but you have to

let it go. This isn’t our fight. Plus they’re threatening every single

ecosystem on this planet with plate tectonics.”

This was really starting to piss Destry off. “They have kept the balance

so well that we didn’t even realize they were under Spider Mountain for the

past thousand years. And Verdance rerouting that river to the coast is

parching the local ecosystems, so we need to fix it.” As she talked, Destry

noticed a few of her colleague’s eyes lighting up, and some nods. “If this

isn’t our fight, whose is it?”

“I agree with Destry,” said Kim. She was one of the youngest members

of the water team, and she’d painted her coveralls with streaks of glitter that

winked blue in the sunlight. “Verdance has already squeezed a bunch of pus

all over the southern watershed just to create farmland for their clients. What’s stopping them from doing it elsewhere?”

Nil nodded excitedly. “That’s why we need to help Spider. This isn’t just

about ecosystems anymore—it’s about real estate. Maybe this peace and

friendship treaty could be a model for how to keep the balance in the

future.”

Kim drummed her fingers lightly on the table, a sign of assent, and a few

other people joined in. Long folded his hands together tightly. “Those Spider people will destroy the planet.” Long was raising his

voice. “If you believe they won’t, then you are a polluting fool.”

Nil held up a placating hand. “I call the vote on whether to help Spider

with their dam, without telling Verdance first.”

Six voted with Long, and nine voted with Destry. It was an unusually

narrow majority. As was customary in the ERT, the minority would be

allowed one concession. “What would you like us to concede?” Destry asked. The minority voters, including Pine, sent back and forth privately. “We don’t want the La Ronge ERT associated with this mission in any

way,” Long announced. “Once you leave here, you are on your own. If

anything goes wrong, we don’t want Verdance to trace this back to us, or

the Council.”

“It is conceded,” Destry replied formally. Long practically flipped the table as he left, and several other members

of the Council went with him. Kim grinned excitedly, as if they’d all had a nice dinner instead of

staging the opening act in a war. Her pale brown skin was dusted with

freckles, and her black hair was plaited into a club at the back of her neck. She couldn’t have been more than fifty years old. “So, what next?” she

asked, rubbing her hands together. “When do we get started?”

Destry looked at Nil and the others around the table, their expressions

hovering between smiles and worry. They couldn’t rely on the Council to

help them, and despite the vote, she wasn’t sure she could trust Long, Pine,

and the rest to keep Spider City a secret. Destry steeled herself to appear as

serene and confident as she could. “We can’t stay here if we’re going to help Spider City,” she said quietly. “We ride out at dawn.”

Nil looked resigned. “And we’re going to have to work fast too. Ideally,

we’d like to have the course of the Eel fixed before we try to negotiate the

treaty. Spider City needs a stable water supply—especially if Verdance sees

the treaty offer the way Long does.”

Kim pounded the table. “I can ride out with you, if Zest will allow it.”

Destry felt a sudden warmth toward this young ranger, on fire with the

urge to help but still considering her partner’s opinions on the matter. Curly, one of Destry’s friends from network analysis, drew on the table

with one finger and looked pensive. “Let’s be smart about this. We need a

cover story, and it has to be something that Verdance will believe. That

might buy you enough time to help Spider City before anybody talks to

Ronnie.”

Thinking of the VP made Destry feel sour, and her next words came out

more sarcastically than she intended. “We can say that we’re examining

Spider Mountain one more time, since the lava flow might affect Ronnie’s

special show plots.”

Everyone was looking at Destry. “Show plots?” Curly frowned. “Just tell her there’s been an anomalous eruption on the coast. That

should appease her, given how much she wants to protect the coastal

properties.”

Nil cut in. “And in the meantime, let’s keep this conversation as quiet as

possible.”

Nobody said anything as they got up from the table, but their goodbye

hugs felt like true embraces, the kind you reserve for someone you may

never see again. As she headed to Whistle’s barn, Destry wondered if this was how her

parents felt when they left the city to set up a homestead beyond Verdance’s

reach. She inhaled the smell of prairie dirt and summer grass, remembering

her first few days of life here in La Ronge. After decanting, she learned to

stand up and walk outside the lab with Destry Senior and Frenchie. Her

mother’s face was angular, her mouth always set in a knowing smirk; and

her father was tall and thin, a white hat settled far back on his head. They

had signed up for the parenting program after centuries of seeding Maskwa

with plants and animals in at least a dozen ecosystems. Destry wasn’t their

genetic descendent, of course—nobody had those—but she would be their

responsibility during her learning months, and that was more important. Her parents sat with her on the warm ground outside the residence hall,

feeding her different kinds of foods so that she could get the hang of digestion. She had language and other strange information unscrolling in

her mind, but no context for it; Destry Senior and Frenchie would be

providing that. Once she was capable of moving her body in the most

important ways, they put her on the back of Frenchie’s drone partner, Tilly,

and flew north, landing very near the arctic circle. Back then, northern

Maskwa was still rocky and bare. The boreal forest wouldn’t come in for

centuries. Frenchie squinted at the sun, wiped a hand across her pale forehead, and

spoke the first words Destry remembered hearing. “One day we’ll have a

picnic together in the middle of a gigantic forest that stretches all the way

from one end of Maskwa to the other.” Of course Destry believed it then—

like all newborns, she had no skepticism. Instead of questioning her mother,

she stared at the knobbly foundations of the forest, where Verdance workers

had carved riverbeds and lakes. Nearly invisible strands of network fiber

caught the light and made it look like bits of mica were scattered

everywhere. Destry pressed her hands into the sandy loam, connecting to

the sensors scattered across the land for thousands of kilometers, feeling

moisture nearby and ice at the distant pole. There were a few trees,

reporting healthy levels of metal in the ground, and animals whose

migratory patterns lit up Destry’s retinas. The planet shimmered with data,

with life. She could feel the strong webs of the ecosystems to the south, and

the fragile beginnings of the forest-in-progress under her crossed legs. Destry Senior gently pried her hands from the network. His voice was

quiet and kind. “That’s for another day, Destry. Let’s focus on what’s in

front of us.” He handed her a small cup of cow milk. “We don’t drink this

much, but it’s a good source of protein when a person lets you have it.”

It was true. She never forgot how good that milk tasted. A few weeks

later, Destry awkwardly asked one of the cows in La Ronge for milk and

was surprised to discover the person couldn’t respond with words—she was

what people called an “animal.” The cow flicked an ear and lowered her

head in what could have been assent or confusion. Destry couldn’t bring

herself to take milk from someone who had no words, so she ran back to

tending trees with Frenchie and Destry Senior. She’d be moving into the

ERT dorms soon, and the three of them spent their final days living together as a family twisting tiny paper sensors around branches and scattering them

like confetti on the ground. Over time, these slips of paper would grow into the fabric of the food

web, tracking who was eating whom. But that day, when she met the cow

animal, the sensors were art. She folded them into delicate bird and

butterfly shapes, admiring their translucent wings in the sunlight. Destry

Senior blew one off his fingers, and Frenchie leaned against him, their eyes

following the drifting scrap as it booted and sent fleeting bits of information

about the carbon content of the local atmosphere. Maybe that was when

they first started to dream about leaving La Ronge, settling wherever the

wind took them. A sudden text jarred Destry out of her memory: You going to see Whistle

too?

That can’t be good. It was Midnight, trotting up next to her on the road

to the barn. After Long’s reaction to her plans, Destry wasn’t sure what to say to his

partner. She opted for something vague. “We’re planning a survey trip.”

The moose snorted: Is that what you’re calling it?

I thought maybe you

were going back down to Spider City to help the squatters with their plan. There was no point in lying. “You can come with us if you want,” Destry

said. “I’m sure Whistle would like that.” It was the first time she had openly

acknowledged the relationship between the two moose. Midnight twitched a fly off her skin and ignored Destry’s invitation. Maybe she agreed with Long, or maybe she was still touchy about people

knowing she was seeing someone with a low InAss rating. Either way, she

stayed silent for the minute it took to reach the barn door. But she kept pace

with Destry the entire time, almost as if they were friends. 13

REVISIONIST HISTORY

Your only job is to keep everything in balance. —The Environmental Rescue Team Handbook

Destry had arrived at the Mount lodgings alongside Whistle’s booty call,

and it felt extremely awkward. Dinner would arrive soon, and a few moose

were already dipping into the snack troughs of green branches on the grab

table. The dining hall smelled of grain and dust, and at its southern end

were wide doors to the communal dorms where Midnight had presumably

hoped to waylay her lover. Unfortunately, the human had interfered, in that

annoying way hominins had of being everywhere you didn’t want them. The two moose barely grazed muzzles before Whistle lowered his head and

shuffled hooves in embarrassment. When in doubt, Destry always defaulted to cheeriness. “Hey, Whistle!

Just stopping by to check on plans for tomorrow.”

Whistle sent Destry a public greeting, and something private to

Midnight. “Do you mind if I have a quick chat with Whistle before you two …”

Destry made a vague gesture with her hands. The two moose looked at her

expressionlessly, and she was suddenly self-conscious about her bipedal

body language—on top of already feeling weird about knowing that

Whistle had a crush on a person who was probably just using him for sex. Of course. I’ll be back after dinner. Midnight texted as she cantered out,

leaving a faint scent of coriander in the air. Midnight lived near Destry, in

an ERT residence for people who weren’t H. sapiens. When she was completely out of earshot, Destry sighed. “Whistle, does

she know how you feel about her?”

I don’t care. Soon you and I will be on the way to Spider City, right?

“I guess I’m just a little bit furious on your behalf. Not only is Midnight

partners with that pus-bubble Long, I feel like she’s using you, or—”

The moose shoved her in the chest with his nose, harder than he would

normally. Destry stumbled backward. He texted: JUST STOP. Whistle had

never used all caps with her, and it was a shock. I know what you think. But

soon, I’ll be gone. This is her home, but it’s not mine. Not now. I plan to

stay in Spider City. He gave her a sidelong glance. That is, if you will let

me. Destry had guessed something like this might happen, but that didn’t

make it any easier. She’d decanted Whistle herself, almost a century ago. She’d fed him a pinecone and helped him the same way her parents had

helped her. “You know I don’t buy into that shit about you being a Mount,”

she said. “We’re partners. You’re free to go any time. But I …” She reached

out a hand to touch his warm fur, and tried to hide her sadness. I’ll miss you too, friend. “You know I might not come home either. Not because I plan to stay

down there, but because—well, you know.”

The moose tossed his head, brandishing antlers: We might die. Destry ran a hand over her face and felt tiny particles of grit and tracking

spores that had collected on her skin during the disastrous afternoon

meeting. “That’s right. It’s very dangerous. We’re depending on Long to

keep his word, and on Ronnie to buy my story. We might not even make it

down to the city before Verdance shoots us out of the sky. You understand?”

I do. She threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in the shaggy

spot below the hump of his shoulders. Quietly, she muttered the ERT credo. “We’re going to keep everything in balance.”

Whistle replied: I hope so. They set a time to meet in the morning, and Destry headed back to her

room to pack a few things and send an update to Verdance that would

hopefully maintain their cover story. Assuming Long, Pine, and the others

didn’t immediately stab her in the back. Before she rounded the bend to the residence hall, Midnight passed her

on the road. Farewell, friend, the moose sent. Take care of him. Fighting down all the things she wanted to say to Midnight about

Whistle, Destry nodded and spoke curtly. “No harm in you taking care of

him too.”

Midnight paused, as if chewing on Destry’s words. Then she looked

back over her shoulder at the ranger: Thanks for the advice, H. sapiens. With a sarcastic snort, she galloped away. Frowning to herself, Destry headed to dinner and found Nil in his usual

spot. The room was crowded—the crew on cook duty tonight had set out

bowls of their famous peppery tofu with fermented beans—and Kim was

already sitting with Nil. They waved Destry over. She barely had time to

scoop a bite out of her steaming bowl before Kim started asking questions. “Why do you think Long was acting like that?

He’s usually pretty open-

minded. And Midnight is really smart—you’d think she’d have talked him

down.”

“I doubt Midnight would have added anything helpful to that

conversation.” Destry couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice. “I think Long is afraid of the same thing we are.” Nil laid a gentle hand

on Destry’s arm. “He doesn’t want anyone to get hurt, and he’s worried that

if we help the Archaea, we’ll all be killed. Or worse.”

Kim cut in. “Verdance won’t kill anything that they can use, and we are

extremely useful.” She sat back, crossed her arms, and suddenly seemed a

thousand years older than she was. “Listen. I did my first tour of duty in

bioengineering, making life forms for the boreal ecosystems you were

troubleshooting, Destry. I know how valuable these ecosystems are. Verdance does not want anyone to die. Bad for business.”

Destry narrowed her eyes, thinking of what Kim’s observation implied

about her parents. Once they were no longer productive workers, they were

useless. Killable. But she didn’t say anything. Instead, she savored the sting

of chili oil on her tongue until she could talk about something that hurt less. Nil mused aloud. “The Archaea were supposed to die.”

“Not true.” Kim gulped a bite. “They wanted the H. archaeans to segue

perfectly into the H. sapiens. Just like what we learned in school—it was a

planned atmosphere transition. When the oxygen levels got to twenty percent, Archaeans started decanting H. sapiens. They were supposed to

raise us, then die of natural causes the way anybody does.”

“Yeah. My parents were decanted by Archaeans.” Nil scratched his head,

loosening the tie that held his hair back. “My grandparents had to wear

breathers all the time.”

“Did you ever meet them?

Your grandparents?” Kim was intrigued. “No. They died long before I was decanted.”

“Maybe they went down to Spider City,” Destry said. “I don’t think so.”

“How would you know?

The Archaea obviously covered their tracks

pretty well.”

“I suppose it’s possible. The people who built Spider City must have

come from La Ronge, so who knows?”

Destry imagined a covert band of Archaea fleeing south a millennium

ago and felt the muscles soften between her shoulder blades. At least there

were some people who had escaped La Ronge and lived to tell the tale. Kim nodded, as if she could see what was in Destry’s mind. “I can’t

believe they’ve been out there all this time. I wonder—maybe that’s what

got Long so upset. He’s a historian, and Spider City completely challenges

all his ideas about what’s been happening for the past thousand years.”

Nil rubbed his chin, the way he did when he was thinking about a

particularly complicated problem. “It’s like he made a huge error in

calculating our past, and now everything is out of balance.”

“And he wants Spider City to go away so he can be correct about history

again.” Kim sighed and shook her head. “I wish he wasn’t being such a

giant barrel of untreated sewage about it.”

Destry smiled. For a second, it was like they were talking about minor

work annoyances, instead of life and death. Long was merely a misguided

colleague with bad data. He wasn’t going to get them killed with one

pointed message to Verdance. And his partner, Midnight, wasn’t going to

break Whistle’s heart. Instead of thinking about La Ronge, she bent her

thoughts to a city full of people whose houses couldn’t be burned because

they were already floating in fire. 14

DOGS

Rivers might turn out to be people. Don’t make any assumptions. —Environmental Rescue Team Handbook

The six of them took off at dawn, retracing the flight path they’d taken only

a few days ago. Rocket and Whistle were silent most of the day, but Kim’s

partner, Zest, liked to chatter about odd bits of geomorphology. Zest was a

hybrid of cow and bot, with a specialized body plan that Kim had designed

from scratch in the bioengineering lab. Though hybrids usually hid their

metal parts under a layer of skin and fat, Zest proudly displayed the

polished chrome that emerged from beneath the fur of her neck. Her barrel

chest looked exactly like Rocket’s body, perfectly cylindrical, but it tapered

to a point where her spine met tail. Her flanks and udders were biological—

at least from the outside—as were all her legs. Overall it gave her the

appearance of a mountable drone that had sprouted a cow’s head and limbs. Unlike most nonhuman biologicals, the cow spoke aloud instead of

texting; she had embedded speakers around her mouth, just like a bot. When they flew slowly enough to hear over the wind, Zest always chose to

vocalize. “Look at that stubborn river!” she exclaimed. They all looked

down. Below them, a valley had turned this section of the Eel into a lake

that bulged between peaks, the water along its shoreline spreading into the

rocky fissures like tentacles. To the west was a dusty canyon covered in

scrub—the perfect place for a river to flow downward. But the Eel willfully

continued on an elevated path through the mountains, nosing around granite

outcroppings. Kim grinned at the river’s odd choice. “A strange way to take the path of

least resistance. The Eel goes its own way, doesn’t it?”

Nil grunted, and Destry focused on Whistle’s antlers, which she might

never see again after this trip. Zest continued to point out perversely formed rivers and snarled alluvial

plains. They rode hard, striking camp before dawn and landing after dark. The stars changed as they approached the equator: now the Hand

constellation was low in the sky, and the Rocket rose as the sun sank. The

four stars representing the Rocket’s exhaust pointed at Earth’s star Sol in

the sky, at least under magnification. It was invisible to the naked eye, but

always there as a reminder that people came to this world from the stars. Sleep was furtive, and the few seconds of laser strike footage that Destry

had watched were never far from her mind. What would she do when she

saw Ronnie again?

How would she look into her boss’s face, knowing she

wasn’t just a nasty micromanager but an actual murderer?

The more she

thought about it, the more she became convinced that Long or one

of the other Council members would tell Verdance about Spider soon. Maybe they had done it already. She wished there was some way to warn

Lucky and the others, but there was no way to contact them via the sensor

network—it was monitored by Verdance. They were still three days out from Spider when Whistle caught sight of

the dogs. A small pack of them flickered through the trees, pausing

occasionally to paw at the ground and move on. Look, Destry, Whistle sent. The dogs are at work. They followed the pack for a few lazy minutes before Destry recalled

that the dogs who visited Spider dealt with sensor networks. She sent

publicly to the team: Let’s land and speak to those dogs. Maybe they can get

a message to Spider. It was easy enough to land in the dogs’ path, but as soon as they were on

the ground it was impossible to see them—they were brilliant at

camouflage, trotting silently between shadows. Destry turned to a rustle in

the leaves. “Hey, friends!

We’re trying to get a message to Spider City, but

we can’t connect to them on the sensor network. Can you help us?

It’s

urgent. The city is in danger.”

She heard a grunt and wheeze, but got no reply. Kim slid off Zest’s back,

leaving one hand on her partner’s metal torso. The cow flicked an ear forward and spoke aloud. “We’re rangers from the ERT in La Ronge, and

we are friends of Spider.”

A single dog emerged from seemingly out of nowhere, skin a mottled

white and brown, and sat down on their haunches facing Zest. Still mounted

on Whistle, Destry could feel her partner’s muscles bunch involuntarily

with fear. Still, he didn’t show any other outward signs of discomfort. Head tilted to the side, the dog sent: What can these H. sapiens possibly

have to do with Spider?

It took several minutes to persuade the dog, who introduced herself as

Argument, that they had a legitimate reason to message Lucky. Argument

wouldn’t talk to anyone but Zest at first, then grudgingly came around to

addressing Destry too. Especially when Destry explained that she could

connect to sensors using just her hands. As they texted, she heard other

dogs yapping softly and moving through the underbrush. They were

surrounded. Abruptly, Argument dug a hole with her front paws, rapidly making a

small pile of loose dirt. All right, we’ll let you connect here, she sent. Your

message will make it to Spider in a few seconds. The dog sent Destry a one-

time access key. Destry dismounted and got on her knees next to Argument. The dog’s

breath was warm on her cheek as she pressed fingers into the shallow hole

and linked to the environment. She could feel the weight of the dogs now,

all seven of them, in among the thick leaves shaped like paddles. She

smelled pheromones boiling off two ant colonies at war nearby. Soil pH

nominal; aquifer at lowest level in 6,079 years; statistically high number of

dead Linepithema humile. Even when she used the key, it took a few more

seconds to locate the hidden Spider network, its sensors strung together like

beads on the glass fiber. As she connected, it offered her a hazy glimpse of

the watershed and pulses of lava far below. One sensor whispered to her:

valve 13 is open; lava flow has increased. Squeezing her message into the data stream, she sent to Lucky: This is

Ranger Destry Thomas. We have agreement from our Council, but for

reasons I will explain in person, I fear that they may notify Verdance very soon. Please be ready. We arrive in three or four days, depending on

weather. Destry disconnected from the dirt and Argument filled the hole, melting

back into the forest without another word. As Whistle mounted the air, he

sent: They seem nice. “Shy, but nice,” Zest agreed. Destry said nothing. She and Whistle were on different journeys now:

He was unlearning a lifetime of fearing dogs; and she had just learned that

her lifelong irritant, Ronnie, was actually a mortal threat. Each day was a little longer as they approached the equator, and the star

Sask-A became a swollen blister in the sky. Though Destry still didn’t feel

like talking, it was a relief to have Zest’s commentary as a distraction. By

the time they could see Spider City’s caldera in the distance, she had grown

fond of the hybrid and her eye for out-of-place geological formations. They

landed at one of the city’s main entrances, a tunnel into Spider’s western

flank that was blocked by a stone door and secreted behind a riot of vines

and brush. “That’s Jaguar, by the way.” Destry glanced at Kim and hooked a thumb

at the door, which had pulled back a few centimeters into the rock and was

slowly rolling open. “Hi, I’m Kim!”

“I know who you are,” the door replied. “You’re Zest’s luggage.”

Destry smothered a laugh. Jaguar never failed to figure out a weird way

to insult the H. sapiens. Nil wiped sweat from his forehead anxiously. “Is Lucky in the ERT lab?

We need to talk to them right away.”

“Yes. I can show you to the train from here.” Briefly, Jaguar sounded

almost professional. Beyond the threshold, a splotch of green glowed on the

ceiling. The light stayed one meter ahead of them, leading the way. Their arrival was a lot less dramatic than last time—nobody threw them

into an anti-grav column for fun, and the people they passed weren’t as

openly hostile. Kim was as awed by the city as Destry and Nil had been,

and she kept reaching out to touch everything, connecting to the network,

gathering data on the life forms here. It was exactly the kind of aggressive exploration that Destry had shied away from before, when she was worried

about annoying their hosts. She was feeling less like an interloper now, but

not exactly welcome. When they arrived in the ERT lab under the caldera skylight, Lucky was

nowhere to be found. “You can wait there.” One of Lucky’s colleagues, a hominin-shaped bot,

gestured vaguely at an unused part of the floor. Kim sat down immediately,

pressing her hands to the rock, looking for the network again. From the

disappointed expression on her face, Destry guessed that she wasn’t finding

anything particularly interesting. At least, until the door to the subterranean

lava chamber slid open and Dash came floating out with Hellfire&Crisp. The H. sapiens have returned!

she announced, wrapping her coat more

tightly around her torso. It’s always so cold in here. “Hi, friends!” Destry said to Hellfire&Crisp. “Did Lucky get our

message?”

Still hovering on the back of one of Crisp&Hellfire’s bodies, Dash

smoothed her whiskers back from her nose primly. They forwarded your

message to the city. “So many meetings!” Hellfire&Crisp yelped. “What’s the gist?

Have they held any votes?” Zest asked. Oh yes, Dash sent. We’re almost prepared. “For what?”

Water infrastructure improvement. And now that you’re here, we’ll get

ready for the war. 15

RONNIE’S RETORT

Private property is the smallest unit of warfare. —The Environmental Rescue Team Handbook

In Spider City, Council meetings were open to everyone. Whenever there

was an urgent situation that might affect the whole city—which was quite

rare—any person could call a pop-up Council meeting to start within the

next hour. All Council members were obliged to attend, virtually if needed,

and people throughout the city were invited to follow suit. The current

meeting had a single item on the agenda: Spider City Must Prepare for

Possible Attack. Destry and the team from La Ronge had been in the city for less than

twenty-four hours, and so far everything seemed deceptively normal. Zest

and Kim were given a room, and everyone’s names popped up on the work

schedule immediately. Which was why Destry got the meeting notification

as she dug in the soil lab under the lava tube skylight. Next to her, Nil was

checking tiny scraps of paper arranged in a grid on a four-meter square of

dark, fluffy soil. Destry recognized the sensors from her parents’ work

building the boreal forest—they turned red when the pH was low, and blue

when it was high. Based on the colors, ranging from pink and purple to pale

blue, it seemed that the ERT was testing a wide range of possible mixtures. Every microbiome wanted a slightly different pH, and every ecosystem

wanted its own specialized microbiome. She’d spent a lot of time mixing

new combinations from the Verdance presets. Lucky slid out of the old door into the tunnel. “I never thought I’d say

this, but I’m glad you’re here.”

Destry was surprised to feel giddy at the low-key compliment, which

wasn’t so much praise as it was a lack of insult. Still, she’d take it. “Are we heading to the Council chambers?”

“We can do it from here.” Lucky flicked a wrist and opened a mostly

opaque wall display that made the words MEETING WILL START IN 29 MINUTES

hover over a nearby tree grafted from peach and plum stock. “In the

meantime, I’d like to know what the hell is going on.”

The Archaean looked at Destry expectantly. Silently, she hunkered down

in the moist dirt and tried to assemble her hunches into a reasonable

forecast. Maybe Long would betray them, sending a message to Ronnie—or

maybe one of the other people at that horrible meeting would do it. Then

again, Ronnie might decide on her own to do a more thorough investigation

of Lumsden Beach, to figure out what Destry was up to. Destry wondered

what Ronnie would do when she discovered Spider City. Her usual powers

of data synthesis failed her. She didn’t want to imagine what came next. She thought about her parents, who truly believed that they could live

beyond the reach of Verdance. Their homestead was carbon neutral; they

needed nothing. Who could possibly object?

Destry Senior never worked

directly with Ronnie the way Destry did—he and Frenchie had spent too

much time alone in the forest, away from Verdance corporate politics. They

must have convinced themselves that nobody would care if they wanted to

finish out their lives on unoccupied land. Who were they, after all?

Just two

small life forms. But to Ronnie, they were property. And property was value

—as long as it was safely contained in predesignated areas. Everything had

to be in balance if this real estate was going to be valuable in fifteen

hundred years. Better to clean up after a small forest fire than to deal with

all the potential complexities of a human settlement developing

independently. Destry leaned against the grafted tree and looked into the dark box of the

meeting that hadn’t yet started. “You need to be prepared for a direct

attack.”

Lucky frowned, but not before Destry caught a flash of fear in their

expression. “What kind of attack?”

“Verdance isn’t particularly subtle. But they don’t want to make a mess

or destroy the environment, so you can rule out anything that would leave

toxins behind.” As she spoke, Destry was picturing the tidy, sterilized crater that had been Destry Senior and Frenchie. “If they can vaporize you without

disturbing any of the tropical ecosystems here, they will.”

“Would they hit an active volcano with lasers?” Lucky sounded dubious. Destry shrugged. “They might. They might use a molecular decoupling

bomb, but I doubt it. Those release a lot of energy.”

Lucky glanced over at Destry again. “Everyone in Spider City knows

their escape routes. We practice once a year.”

“That’s a good start.”

“At the meeting, we can tell everyone to be prepared for evacuation. And

we should contact the Boring Fleet.”

But Lucky had no time to contact anyone else. A tremor shook the

ground, and the skylight went opaque, repelling a blast of coherent light. Destry’s entire nervous system spluttered with shock, and she reached out

to steady herself against a tree. It was a laser strike. She’d predicted it, but

hadn’t quite believed it would really happen. The attack must have disrupted the city’s shielding for a few seconds

because Destry received a burst of comms from outside. First was an audio

message, delivered in Ronnie’s crisp, authoritative tone: “I expect you and

your team to return to La Ronge directly. You can give me a full report on

the way.” The time stamp was from two hours ago. Then there was a text from Long: I’m sorry. We held another vote and

decided the most responsible course of action was to notify Verdance. Get

out while you still can. The perfidious pus-bump had sent it forty-three

seconds after Ronnie’s demand. Dust was precipitating out of the air. Everything slowed down into the

gluey hyperawareness of a fight-or-flight hormone response. Stunned, she

stood up, and Lucky grabbed her hand. Tugging her toward the ERT

tunnels, Lucky opened a wireless connection to the network. “Council

meeting canceled,” they said, sending to everyone in the city at once. “This

is a level one emergency response.”

Destry had faced a lot of disasters in her life, but nothing on this scale in

a human habitat. She felt herself freezing up, glaring through the skylight as

if she could stare down the satellite that shot them. Lucky seemed to catch

her mood and paused for a moment. “Listen. We only use level one for high volume magma pulses and

hurricanes, so everyone will be safe. But we need to haul ass. Now.”

Time spun up again, and Destry snapped into ranger mode, leaping after

Lucky. Jaguar slammed doors behind them as they ran, cursing the H. sapiens shit-eaters. ERT rangers raced past, orderly but obviously

distressed, popping in and out of doorways and diving through floor portals

to escape in boring ships. Another tremor shot through the mountain, fainter

now that they were farther underground. A crack found its way along the

floor, chasing them until Jaguar threw open a door to their left and Lucky

shoved her inside. She found herself in a gravity lift like the one that had

dropped her team into the train station months ago. But it was obviously

from the city’s early days. A smooth, metal-lined cylinder, it was made by

people still laboring under the directions of a Verdance manual they hadn’t

tossed out yet. She landed softly, on her feet, in a room that was bewildering. It looked

like something from her early ERT training manuals, where new rangers

learned to deal with rare emergencies like asteroid impacts or catastrophic

damage to Sasky’s satellites and orbital station. The walls were shaggy with

webbing for stashing gear in zero gravity. Overhead she could see a vacuum

control panel for the door she’d fallen through. And through a bulkhead

door to her left she could see the unmistakable pattern of a Verdance control

room for space vessels. They were in an airlock. “What the—?

Are we going to space?”

Lucky shook their head. “We’re going to Lumsden Beach. We’ll pick up

a few more people before we head out.”

The ship shook, but it wasn’t moving. Another laser strike, far above

them now. Destry had left her fear behind somewhere in the experimental garden

where she’d been measuring soil pH. Now she was running on adrenaline,

sensitized to everything in the environment and searching for context. She

followed Lucky into the control room and squeezed past another Archaean,

who was busy with a hologram interface that was merely a scribble of

photons from Destry’s angle. Another door led to a cramped hold, where a

few people were stringing together networking equipment for the glass. “We should be able to control the magma system remotely if everything

works, but the emergency crew will stay in Spider as a fail-safe.”

A chill of anxiety distracted Destry from her data gathering. She’d

evacuated so quickly that she hadn’t thought about her friends. “Where’s

Whistle?” she asked. “And Nil and the rest of the La Ronge team?”

Lucky reached out a hand and touched Destry’s arm, transmitting

passwords and protocols—and a fleeting sense of warmth that had nothing

to do with comms. “That should get you on the network as soon as it’s up. You can relay messages for them through the ship.”

A cat turned to face them, tail flicking up another interface as they

texted: Almost ready!

Give us two minutes. The ship shuddered again, but this time it was the unmistakable feeling

of motion. Portals winked open along the walls, filling the room with a

blueish-white light from magma that was far deeper and hotter than what

they’d seen in the chamber below the caldera. Lucky led her through another bulkhead door to a room with a table and

chairs designed for hominins, bolted to the floor. The walls were covered in

cabinets, and at the far end of the room were cabin doors that she guessed

led to bathrooms and sleeping pods. The whole layout was familiar and

alien. “Why are we in a spaceship?

How old is this?”

Jaguar’s voice shot out of a speaker, somewhere to the left. “I stole it

when the Archaeans decided to build Spider City.”

Lucky grinned. “Hi, Jaguar. Guess the network is up.”

“Is this where you used to live?

On a ship?”

“I wouldn’t call it living—I was owned by Verdance. Point is that this

morphology works great for extreme heat.”

“We have a lot of recycled Verdance tech around here, as you probably

noticed,” Lucky added. “This is perfect for evacuation because it’s not a

person. It’s expendable.”

They stopped, and Destry could hear more people arriving in the airlock,

pushing noisily through the control room the way she had. No matter how

weird things got, there were some universal truths. And one of those was

that Verdance engineers didn’t think ahead. Thousands of years ago,

somebody at the company had stupidly put an airlock next to the control room, instead of making sure there were at minimum two bulkheads

between vacuum and the most important equipment. She sighed and

watched a stream of bubbles moving slowly through the glowing syrup of

stone outside. Nil and Kim burst into the room, throwing arms around Destry before

she had a chance to stand up. “Where’s Whistle?” her voice was wobbling with stress. Nil sat in the immobile chair next to her, awkwardly trying to hold hands

while also positioning himself in the uncomfortably angled seat. “He stayed

with Hellfire&Crisp. Zest is there too. The city needs people to keep watch

from the air.” Something in her expression must have cracked, because Nil

gripped her hands harder. “It’s going to be OK—I’m pretty sure those were

warning shots. We’ll open negotiations as soon as we get to Lumsden.”

“I’ll get us there in fifteen minutes, H. sapiens.” For once, Jaguar didn’t

sound snarky when she used their species name. Bubbles streamed past the portals faster now, and occasionally they

passed through odd pockets of dissolved minerals that stained the magma

with flecks of purple. At last they ground to a halt on the tropical beach

she’d seen before through Crisp’s feeds. Another group had arrived ahead

of them and already set up a shelter for networking equipment. The sand

glittered with glass threads. Lucky turned to Destry and Nil. “All right, H. sapiens. Tell Verdance

that we can do this the easy way, with a treaty. Or we can do it the hard

way, with the Ribbons. But either way, we’re taking back the river.”

Destry got on her knees and pressed hands to the thread, following the

glass back to Spider City and broadcasting from there. Her transmission

would appear to come from the mountain, hiding their location for now. She

structured it as a reply to Ronnie’s audio from earlier. “I am with the people

at Spider City. Please cease fire. They wish to negotiate a peace and

friendship treaty with Verdance and gain access to the Eel.” She glanced at

Lucky, their face tense. “If you refuse, they will take back the watershed by

force.”

Ronnie replied instantly. “We do not negotiate with trespassers. They are

living and reproducing on Verdance land without permission.”

The cat they met on the spaceship let out a shocked yowl: They’re firing

on the city again!

Destry grabbed files out of the public stream, video and audio,

confusingly jumbled together from aerial and interior views of the city. There had been a partial collapse on the gym and practice fields, far from

the deeper neighborhoods where people lived. Hunks of rock pulverized

benches, grassy squares, and nets for ballgames; from above, it appeared

that the mountain’s flank had partially deflated. Lucky was grim. They grabbed some glass in a fist and spoke. “Boring

Fleet, it’s time to free the Eel River. Unplug the walls of Fork Canyon.”

Nil’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?

We’ve only done one test.”

“The Boring Fleet has been busy while you were gone. We’ve prepared

the cliffs for controlled magma release,” Lucky replied. “Now it’s time to

remind the Verdance bosses what happens when liquid rock meets liquid

water.”

A cacophony of bells filled the air, sounding like the alarm on an

external comms pad. Destry jumped at the unexpected noise, half expecting

to see Ronnie stepping out of the ocean. But it was only the Boring Fleet,

answering Lucky’s message with the laughter of warriors headed for battle. 16

DRONES AND HOMININS

H. sapiens always figures out a new way to implement caste systems. —The Environmental Rescue Team Handbook

Hellfire&Crisp were great aeronauts, but they had the mistaken impression

that Whistle would never quite reach their level because of his biological

parts. Admittedly it was his size too. You could fit a dozen drones into the

mass occupied by a moose. Still, there was one thing bots like

Hellfire&Crisp would never have, and that was a feeling for how biotic life

moved through the world. No matter how well trained they might be, a

person made from cellular tissue would flinch ever so slightly when

confronted by the possibility of pain or death. Whistle had felt himself do it;

he’d seen Destry twitch away from danger. It was a permanent bug in the

electro-chemical nervous system, even when it was supplemented with

network hardware and gravity mesh and regeneration swarms in the

bloodstream. And that’s why Whistle could tell the laser fire wasn’t coming

from bots or some kind of mindless automation. He’d clocked dozens of

microhesitations and showy flourishes as lasers strafed the city’s practice

fields. Their attackers exhibited all the signs of neurological thinking, with

a layer of hominin aggression on top. Humans were always expressing themselves in gestures rather than

words. They didn’t even have the excuse that Whistle had, with his

artificially limited vocabulary of spoken words, a mental funnel through

which he had to push everything in his mind. Verdance reps could use as

many syllables as they wanted, and still they chose to act out rather than

speak. Whistle wheeled in the air over Spider’s shattered leg, Hellfire&Crisp

behind him, and shot back toward the tree line. The city’s aeronauts were gathered beneath the thick tropical canopy at the bottom of the mountain,

hooves and feet and actuators resting lightly on the firm, slightly acidic clay

of the forest floor. News was coming in from the evacuation teams, and it

was not good. Verdance wouldn’t negotiate, and now Lucky was calling for

the Boring Fleet to take the half-collapsed lava tunnels north to Fork

Canyon, a place Whistle only knew from flying over. The laser bombardment had stopped for the moment. Verdance must

have figured out that they were destroying valuable ecosystems without

actually murdering any people, which probably meant a failure to meet two

goals. Presently Lucky’s mountable partner, Bog, arrived with Zest and Rocket,

hovering alongside the moose and other drones. Bog had a similar

morphology to Rocket, though their barrel-shaped carapace was anodized to

produce shimmering purples and greens in sunlight. “You know Verdance better than we do,” Bog said. “What do you think

their next move might be?”

Zest tossed her head. “None of us has ever been in a firefight with them,

but you can be certain that they won’t destroy an entire mountain. They’ve

figured out by now that everyone is evacuating anyway.”

Whistle was relatively certain what Verdance’s next strategy would be,

and spent several anxious seconds pulling all his thoughts together into a

small sentence: They know we will hide. Their best move now is to send

drones. “Their drones are all remotes, controlled by people,” Hellfire&Crisp

added. “So they have some disadvantages. But they also have a lot of

ammunition that we don’t have.”

Bog cackled. “We have ammunition. That’s not a problem.” The drone

opened an aperture on their dorsal side, unfolding an actuator to point at a

pile of muddy, blueberry-sized balls in a shallow pit a few meters away. “We’ve got caches of sticky grenades all along this perimeter. Enough for

everybody.” Aeronauts started helping themselves, putting the explosives in

saddlebags or compartments in their carapaces. Whistle flicked an ear and pawed restlessly at the ground. The Spider

City people didn’t understand the danger—Verdance could send thousands of drones, some as small as wrens, and he didn’t think the Archaeans had

enough ordinance to stop a sky army. He wasn’t yet alive when Destry’s

parents were murdered, but she’d told him about it after the meeting back in

La Ronge, and it wasn’t the kind of thing he wanted to experience firsthand. We need a plan, he texted helplessly, wishing he could explain himself the

way Midnight did. Her polysyllabic expositions made everyone pay

attention. Sighing, Whistle looked at Hellfire&Crisp: We need to get to Fork

Canyon first. At least he could write “canyon” when it was part of a proper

noun. That was one of the few work-arounds on his InAss vocabulary

limiter. Names and places always came through, even if they were

ridiculously long. In the months after his decanting, Whistle had kept

himself sane by speaking long names aloud. Destry caught him one day

muttering “Wasakeejack” under his breath. She’d teased him about calling

on the dangerous hero from countless stories, but Whistle knew her jokes

were one of those hominin gestures that substituted for forthrightness. Unsaid was the fact that Destry felt sorry for him. He knew she felt

differently now—she’d saved his life more than once, and he counted her as

a true friend. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that her affection was

contingent on whether he sounded intelligent. Because the fact was, he’d

been built to appear stupid, and he always would. “What are they going to do at Fork Canyon, anyway?” Hellfire&Crisp

were bouncing up and down in the air, anxious and bored. Stop it, Whistle sent. Hellfire&Crisp bounced higher, bodies whizzing past each other so fast

that one knocked the other sideways. “Too bad you don’t have the same

takeoff strength I do, Whistle. Are you senescing right now?

Gravity mesh

decay?”

Zest made a big show of ignoring them and turned to Whistle. “If you’re

right about the drones, the boring ships are going to need us to defend them

when they unplug the tunnels.”

Whistle asked: What are those plugs?

Bog floated into their conversation. “Mostly basalts.”

Zest nodded, as if that explained everything. Whistle didn’t want to

expend the effort required to cobble together another question, so he moved

the conversation along: Do we have comms from the Boring Fleet?

“Just their reply to Lucky. They must be on their way.”

Whistle flicked his ears forward, nervous but ready: Can we catch them

if we fly?

“Easy!” Hellfire&Crisp yelled. “Let’s hope your voice didn’t carry into low orbit,” Zest grumbled. “We

have to stick to a path that will hide us from satellites.”

Whistle was suddenly aware of the other Spider City aeronauts clustered

around them. There were more than a hundred, of all sizes. How would they

camouflage themselves?

Bog rose higher, projecting his voice to the crowd. “We need to go

invisible to get to Fork Canyon. Everybody ready?”

There were various noises, ranging from growls and hoots to curses and

warbles. Whistle simply waited, unable to ask a question containing the

word “invisible.” Bog opened a door in his torso, slid out an actuator, and

stuck a tiny metal burr on Whistle’s right antler. “This will make you bend

light enough to fool a simple satellite scan. Not much good against up-

close-and-personal drones though.”

Good. It was all Whistle could say, and it was enough. 17

AN OLD BED

Sometimes a muskrat saves the world. —The Environmental Rescue Team Handbook

Jaguar was steering her old space vessel behind two members of the Boring

Fleet, who were leading them through a freshly carved tunnel into Fork

Canyon. Looking out a portal, Destry could see the oatmeal mush of

crystals flowing sluggishly around them, emitting a pale orange light. They

were at the head of a tremendously high-pressure flow that was corked with

a plug of basalt whose nose stuck out of the canyon wall, seemingly just

one lumpy rock among many. Centuries ago, H. archaean workers had

halted lava flows by freezing some of the magma into enormous stoppers. Now they would drill this stopper out, to create the kind of dam that people

had discovered on nearly every rocky planet with liquid water. A dam made

from magma. “We have to time this perfectly,” Lucky said, their hands pressed to an

interface fringed with glass that connected them with several relays and

members of the Fleet. “We want a smooth cascade of lava, blocking the

route Eel chose in 57,342, and guiding it to the old bed.”

But would the Eel allow itself to be redirected into the riverbed it

abandoned almost seventeen hundred years ago?

The idea had sounded

plausible back at Spider, when they weren’t being strafed by laser beams. Rivers shifted a lot over time, and the old route was still a deep cut in the

land—though after nearly two millennia, it was full of trees and other

debris. If the Eel slid into its old bed, the river would run southeast, routing

around Verdance’s new dam and flowing past Spider. Then it would rejoin

its original route down the Vertebrae Mountains to the strait between

Maskwa and the neighboring continent of Tooth. If the river refused to budge—well, they might flood the area, deranging the river’s path in a

whole new and unexpected way. Spider City would still be thirsty, and the

treaty would get a lot more complicated. “Is everybody ready?” Lucky was sweating. Destry nodded, even though she knew the question was for the Boring

Fleet. One by one the boring ships’ voices chimed over the speakers, a

heavenly chorus from an unknown number of creatures who could chew

through rocks and withstand the pressure of 25,000 Sasky atmospheres. She

could barely hear Lucky’s countdown through the roar. Daisies made from

knives bloomed in the soft basalt, slicing forward. Jagged blue light shattered the rock around them, and Destry flung her

arms up, instinctively shielding her face. But the ship wasn’t hit; Jaguar

kept inching forward, and she realized they were seeing sky, a bright, brutal

turquoise above the froth of surging magma around them. The Boring Fleet

had broken through the plug, and Spider’s fire was coming to Fork Canyon. The boring ships backed off from the opening they’d made, but Jaguar

continued out into the canyon, soaring high over the Eel and giving them a

perfect view of the lava waterfall spilling out of dozens of boreholes. It

bubbled and oozed and buckled, emitting explosive bursts of gas. When the

first flow hit the river, it erupted into steam, filling the deep crevice of Fork

Canyon with white clouds that expanded like insulating foam. Jaguar’s

portals fogged, then began to sweat condensation. Lava kept rolling down

the canyon wall, as if the planet wept blood, flaring into fire where it met

scrub. A sticky pile of black blobs built up in Eel’s bed, slowly growing

taller, and the boiling waters that met it began to edge east, the new head of

the river looking for somewhere, anywhere to turn. A few drones and naked

mole rats flew out of the boring ships, emerging from the broken plugs with

tools to shape the cooling lava and capture data from the water flow. Jaguar’s frame shook, and shadows darted through the steam clouds. The

motion of the shadows was far too synchronized to be coming from people

alone—automation had to be involved. And then she caught a glimpse of

rotors, mounted on a generic carbon alloy carapace, right before it smashed

into Jaguar’s starboard side. “They’ve sent remote drones!” Destry shouted into comms, her heart

frozen. “Get back inside the boreholes!

These rusty assholes are suicide

bombers!”

That’s when she saw Whistle, diving through the air, flanked by

Hellfire&Crisp, shooting tiny metal slugs at a hulking shape obscured by

steam. “What the shit!

Get out of here!

Now!”

But yelling wouldn’t help. No wires connected the aeronauts to the ship. Jaguar let out a string of curses. “I’m trying to turn back but they’ve hit

one of my gravity mesh nodes. I can’t retreat!” A laser strafed them, its path

illuminated by the water evaporating below. The aeronauts’ grenades were

popping like knotweed kernels on a fire. “I’m going to take us down as

slowly as I can.” Jaguar’s voice cut in and out, static instead of words, as

the spaceship sank through clouds and terrifying bursts of light. Lucky was

shouting into the network, but Destry couldn’t profocus on their meaning

because she was trying to use infrared, radar, anything to see Whistle in the

expanding skirmish. They hit the ground next to the lava flow with an

ungainly thud, and Jaguar shot her doors open to let them out. “Run for

cover!” she yelled. Everyone raced for a shallow cave nearby, their entire

bodies instantly slick with sweat and humidity. Destry craned her head,

looking for her friends in the air above. “Move your stupid H. sapiens ass!”

screamed Jaguar. “I’m abandoning this ship.”

Laser fire sliced the steam again, followed by the wham-wham-wham of

grenades. A bot she didn’t recognize thudded to the ground beside her, its

body a melted mess, and Destry ran. Another fell, and then a naked mole rat

plummeted into the lava flow with a scream. The smell of burned carbon

and biological tissues floated through the reek of sulfur. Shivering beneath

an outcropping, Destry could see flickers of the fight as the clouds opened

and closed. The magma was slowing down, piling up in the riverbed. And

then, out of the billowing white gold, Whistle limped toward her. His right

antler was gone, blown off with part of his skull. Destry was nowhere; there was nothing but Whistle, the soft brown coat

of his neck streaked with blood and brain. She didn’t remember leaving her

shelter, only running to him as he fell on the rocky edge of the tormented Eel River. And then she was next to him, sopping wet, his beloved head

leaning hard into her torso. She tore off her jacket to cover his wound—

which made no sense, this wound, how could this be happening?

Whistle

was supposed to leave her by defecting to Spider, not by dying in its

defense. “I’m here, my friend,” she said, crying. “I’m here, I’m here.”

His legs twitched in a seizure and he looked at her with one eye. Wasakeejack, he texted. “She’s the best hero. The best. I loved the story where she stole a

spaceship.” Destry didn’t know what she was saying; the words were

comfort noises, sounds without meanings, references to a story about the

Trickster Squad that people told sometimes on solstice back in La Ronge. Whistle seized again, the powerful muscles in his neck contracting. Overhead she could hear screams and shots, and another drone plunged

smoking into the river. They were going to lose. Verdance would light them

all on fire, regain control of the river, incinerate every trace of Spider City’s

thousand-year life. She would join Destry Senior and Frenchie in the ash

can of history. How could Spider’s tiny team of aeronauts with their

exploding blueberries defeat Verdance’s suicide drones and low orbit

weapons?

Wind tore the clouds away and she saw the ragged remains of the

Archaeans, some still tending the river and others struggling to hold off

drones that swarmed from the sky without any end in sight. And then, from

the north, a sound she couldn’t identify. The air seemed to ripple, and a

dozen Verdance drones dropped in midflight. Another sound—almost like a

moose bellowing with joy, but amplified into an avalanche of syllables that

roared into the ravine. And then, over the far edge of the canyon, came a

blur of black and brown. It spread out, resolving into individuals, dodging

laser fire and emitting more distorted waves of energy, hurling Verdance

remotes out of the sky. What?

Who?

As Whistle texted, his eyes rolled back and bloody foam

flecked his lips. Destry held him tighter, straining to see. Wheeling overhead were

hundreds of moose. And then came a text from Midnight, blasting everyone for kilometers around, a message that could cut through the noise of battle:

Kill the remotes!

KILL THEM ALL!

She’d guessed from Long’s message that Midnight had betrayed them

too. Instead, she was leading an insurrection. Her throat almost closed as a

burst of intense, contradictory emotions rolled over her, mixed with noxious

gas. Another group of the drones fell, plopping into the cooling lava that

was fast growing into a formidable dam. How were the moose doing it?

An

expensive, freshly-built drone smashed to the ground next to them, and she

reached out to touch its smoking shell, seeking any information on the

attack. She couldn’t network with it; all its ports were blocked, as if it had

gone into disaster lockdown mode. That’s when she realized what was

going on overhead. Midnight had repurposed an ERT emergency signal

designed to shut down malfunctioning remotes. The Verdance operators

couldn’t respond fast enough to block the signal. And now they had a

chance at winning. Another plug exploded overhead, bringing with it a fresh spurt of lava,

adding heft to the dam. Water was seeping into the old bed, and then it was

roaring. Trees drowned in the silty deluge, and the Eel sang its approval. Moose whirled overhead, their bodies cutting a path through the drones in a

mirror of the river below. “Whistle, it’s Midnight,” Destry said, weeping again. “She’s come with

the moose aeronauts of La Ronge. She’s come to save us.”

In her arms, Whistle spasmed and stilled, saying nothing. 18

DAMAGE

Our bodies are ecosystems. —The Environmental Rescue Team Handbook

Destry had never received a message like it before. The video was short,

and Ronnie looked like she’d been awakened after an intoxicated blackout. Her eyes were sunken, her hair dull, and there was no stiff, professional

collar framing her neck. She said nothing, simply sighed and flicked an

appointment request at the camera. Ronnie was summoning Destry and

“representatives of the occupation at Spider Mountain” to the bargaining

table. She’d attached some documents containing a lot of formal League

language to signal a treaty discussion. Destry stared at the message, now an

obnoxiously blinking hologram blocking the view of Whistle’s berth in

Spider City’s rehab center. Dozens of injured people were recuperating in

this hall, its arched ceiling lit by twinkling yellow lights attached to vines

that grew everywhere on the porous volcanic rock. Each patient had their own room, sealed to prevent infection—and, in

Whistle’s case, to keep the atmosphere tuned to the mix of gasses on

Sasky’s surface. Health workers shuttled between rooms while friends and

family lounged in chairs and cushions that created a strip of color and calm

down the center of the hallway. If someone woke up alone in their room,

the first thing they would see were their people right outside. It had been only twelve hours since the attack. After the moose had

joined the battle, Verdance hadn’t exactly surrendered—but they had

withdrawn, and stopped shooting. Spider City people were still sending

video and audio from the lava falls in Fork Canyon, where the river banked

off hot, hardening rock and slid into its old bed without complaint, as if it

had been waiting millennia for an invitation. Every few minutes, she’d catch another glimpse of the rippling, steaming waters. But Destry couldn’t

think about the new dam, or the weird video of Ronnie. All she cared about

was what was happening inside Whistle’s brain. Midnight, arriving from the dining hall, sent a text: Any news?

The

moose had almost passed out from exhaustion before Destry forced her to

go eat. Lucky was with her now, carrying a bowl of oatmeal and dried

apricots, a scoop of yogurt on top. “No news. He’s still stable.”

Lucky held out the bowl to Destry. “You should eat some breakfast.”

“Is it morning already?”

“Yeah. And we need you to have some energy, OK?” Lucky glanced at

the hologram and their eyebrows arched in surprise. “What in the burning

compost pile is that?”

Destry passed the message to Lucky’s mobile, and they poked it to open

the video file of Ronnie looking like a corpse. Midnight glanced at it and then back at Whistle, sleeping in a sling, his

head bandaged. I’m going to make her sorry she did this, she sent. The health team had cut off Whistle’s other antler when they cleaned his

wound. He’d suffered a massive brain injury, but he would heal; the

monomers implanted in his cells before he was decanted were spinning

electrically conductive polymers to replace the neurons he’d lost. Everything would be fine, as long as he never suffered another major injury

again. In La Ronge, engineers built Mounts with those monomers as a fail-

safe. People with higher InAss ratings had cellular scrubbers, of course,

little nanobot swarms in their blood that regenerated tissue. Mounts were

treated like equipment, so their templates called for nothing more than one-

time emergency repair wires. Those asswormy templates. He’d never

survive another blow like this one. Destry recalled Whistle’s dark, reflective eyes when he was looking at

the world for the first time after decanting. Why had she let them build her

a Mount?

She could have pushed back harder, insisted her partner be a

person. But after her parents’ deaths, she couldn’t stand the sight of people

anymore—especially hominins. She’d thought working with a Mount

would be like working alone, or with an animal. As soon as Whistle stood on his own, though, she knew she was wrong. And then it was too late. He

was alive and staring at her with a million thoughts he couldn’t express. Lucky was still gawking at the video of Ronnie in disbelief. “This is all

thanks to you, Midnight. I mean, you and the moose of La Ronge.” They

shot a glance at Destry. “You too, H. sapiens. This treaty could actually

work. We could stop hiding.”

“And you’ll have your water.” Nil spoke before Destry realized he was

behind her. “You’re here!” She hugged him hard and decided not to let go for a

while. “Where were you?

The network showed you with the Boring Fleet,

but I couldn’t reach you.”

“I wanted to monitor the river. I’ve been out there all night. I knew you

two were safe—” He turned to Whistle and his voice went ragged. “I should

have grabbed the glass and sent you a text, but we had so many things to do

and I thought you were fine. The river—”

“I saw the footage. It’s beautiful. I think we scored one for water

management today.”

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t here sooner.” Nil showed no sign of ending the

hug, and they stayed like that for a while, with Midnight and Lucky

standing in companionable silence alongside them. Ever since she shot a fleet of drones out of the sky, Midnight had risen

quite far in Destry’s estimation. She’d begun to wonder whether Long’s

comment about his partner being a heartbreaker was, in fact, an attempt to

plant seeds of mistrust between them. It was clear now that Midnight truly

cared for Whistle, and for the city he’d chosen as his new home. She hadn’t

had a chance to talk to the other moose aeronauts who had saved Spider, so

she wasn’t sure what motivated them. Obviously there was a lot going on at

La Ronge that had flown way over her sparsely furred H. sapiens head. “So what’s the plan for this meeting with Verdance?” Lucky was

bouncing up and down like they were ready to rip through a day’s work in

ten minutes. “First we need to go over the terms they’re offering, and then we’ll set

the meeting.” Destry released Nil, keeping his hand folded within hers. “I’d recommend taking your time with the treaty because Verdance will try to

get all kinds of sneaky shit in there.”

Midnight shook her head, and a few small crusts of mud fell to the floor. Like Destry, she hadn’t left Whistle’s side for more than a few minutes. Both of them needed to wash up, especially after recycling all the Verdance

drones. The Boring Fleet had clanged with laughter as they appropriated

piles of sticky, shattered carapaces, pledging to build new vessels with

them. “I’ve called a Council meeting for this afternoon. We need to create a

treaty team.” Lucky swiped one of the apricots from Destry’s untouched

bowl, sitting precariously on a shelf mostly taken up by hot water bottles. “And you need to be there. So eat your breakfast.”

Destry took the bowl and spooned some oatmeal into her mouth. It was

nutty and still slightly warm, tart from the fruit and yogurt, with an

overwhelming flavor of the ash she’d inhaled last night. Everything tasted

wrong. Her stomach was hungry, but her mouth wasn’t. Midnight flicked her ears forward: He’s waking up. Whistle was moving around ever so slightly, swaying in the sling. An Archaean and a moose walked purposefully down the hall toward

them. The moose texted: We’re the health team on Whistle’s case. I’m

Silver, and this is Lettuce. The moose gestured at the Archaean with their

nose. Lettuce pulled a breather out of their shirt pocket and looked at

Midnight. “I’m going to check on how his brain repair is going.”

“Of course.”

“Silver can brief you on what to expect now that he’s waking up.”

Nobody addressed Destry, and she was glad Nil was still there, holding

her hand. Silver texted something privately to Midnight. Midnight replied publicly: Don’t cut Destry out of this. She’s been

Whistle’s friend a lot longer than I have. Her text had that slightly bitchy

edge that had once made Destry suspect her of ill intentions, but now she

could have kissed her for being so bristly. Silver was briefly taken aback but recovered quickly. They continued: As

you probably know, these kinds of repairs can be finicky. He’ll probably regain all his old memories, but sometimes a few things get lost in the, uh,

shuffle. He might have some problems with movement for a few weeks. I’d

like to keep him here in rehab and monitor him for at least three days after

he’s fully awake, if that suits him. The moose paused, then looked at Destry

for the first time. You H. sapiens—you La Ronge settlers—why would you

build someone like this?

He’s never had molecular scrubbers or tissue

repair. It’s—why, it’s a disgusting, shit-covered crime. Silver huffed angrily

but then regained composure. How can you call yourself his friend?

Destry felt the bite of oatmeal she’d swallowed turn to a nauseating lump

in her stomach. Midnight snorted: Do you think Destry built Whistle?

Do you think she

runs Verdance?

Or do you think she’s the person who warned your city

about the attack and then stood in a lava surge at Fork Canyon to save your

hairy ass?

The door to Whistle’s room shushed open, and Lettuce snapped their

fingers to bring up a hologram they could all see. “If anyone wants to know

what I think, it’s that Whistle is going to be ready to see his friends in the

next few minutes.” The tension eased as they peered at Lettuce’s readout,

which offered a sliceable view of Whistle’s brain. Lettuce cut to the area

that was rapidly repairing itself as polymer wires grew to replace damaged

neurons. “It looks like he suffered a trauma to his cerebral cortex a very

long time ago, but the good news is that injury has also been repaired. I’ve

introduced some scrubbers to his bloodstream, but I’m afraid they won’t

have the same impact they might if he’d had them since decanting. Still, it

should boost his life expectancy by a few decades.”

Midnight?

Whistle had blearily sent his text to everyone within twenty

meters. You can go in, Silver said. Then, grudgingly, they looked at Destry: You

too. Nil and Lucky waited outside with the doctors as Destry followed

Midnight into the warm room that smelled faintly of yeast from the

probiotics. The two moose pressed their soft noses together, nostrils flaring, and

Midnight curled her neck around his, carefully avoiding the sling. Whistle blinked a few times: I can’t believe you’re here. I don’t

remember anything after seeing Destry in the water. What happened?

Neither of them could say anything for a minute. Whistle was using

multisyllabic words, which could only mean one thing. His vocabulary

limiter—the “trauma” that Lettuce identified—had been repaired. A

Verdance engineer would probably say his InAss rating had jumped to

person level. Whistle could send freely now, thanks to the shoddy monomer

regeneration system that La Ronge engineers installed in Mounts. Two

deliberate design flaws had finally canceled each other out. “Whistle, your brain—it was injured. We had to regenerate it.”

The moose looked at them both, whites showing around the edges of his

dark eyes. He struggled to stand, but the sling supporting his head, neck,

and belly held him snug a few centimeters off the floor. Relaxing his back

legs, he grunted in pain. 19

WHISTLE AND MIDNIGHT

Whistle could tell something was wrong with his brain because whatever

popped into his head was translated directly into texts with no bottleneck,

no pause to gather the right words. Why are you here, Midnight?

The monosyllables felt right, but somehow

unearned. He hadn’t had to search for them in his mental storehouse of

textable things. Her neck was still looped over his, and when she exhaled he could feel

her warmth ruffling the fur on his back. I brought the moose aeronauts to

defend the city, like I said I would. We knew Verdance would send their most

basic remote drones, so all it took was a few tweaks to our antenna

geometry and we could broadcast the emergency override in 360.

We took

out at least a hundred, and the Spider City people shot the rest. If Verdance

wants to hit us again, they’ll have to pull remotes from other projects or try

to deploy living drones. And after today, they’ll have a hard time convincing

anyone to do that. The people of La Ronge may not be on our side exactly,

but they don’t want to die over some disagreement between Spider City and

Verdance. Destry leaned gently into Whistle’s shoulder the way she always did

when they rested after a day of work in the field. Her smell was acrid and

bloody but familiar too. “How are you feeling, friend?” He could hear the

quaver in her voice through his neck, where she’d pressed her face. “What

else do you remember?”

We were defending against the first wave of remotes, trying to lead them

away from the dam. Hellfire&Crisp were trying to block their comms. But

they kept coming, and some of the remotes had projectiles and—I’m not

sure. I remember fragments. I know I was hurt, and I remember swimming. And then I saw you. He tried to turn toward Destry, but the sling held him back. Not so with his sender, which continued to broadcast every word in

his brain. And now you’re here, Midnight. I never thought I’d see you again. She pressed against him harder than Destry had, her shoulder to his, her

throat soft on his back: I told you I would come. I told you. That was before the attack, before Long betrayed—Whistle retreated into

silence. It was good to send the words he felt, but Long was Midnight’s

partner. He was going to have to learn when to stop texting now that his

limiter was gone. Midnight said nothing for a minute, but he felt discomfort in the tensing

of her neck muscles against his: Long is not my partner anymore. Carefully,

she disentangled her head from his sling and turned to face him: How does

it feel?

Are you OK?

It was a vague question, perhaps intended to change

the subject. But it meant more than that. Midnight was asking how it felt to

be a person. Someone whose InAss rating set them above the animals and

Mounts and trees and rivers. In that moment, staring into her eyes, he felt two things. He loved

Midnight more than he had ever loved anyone. And he could see her flaws,

her lifetime of prejudice against people who were classified as Mounts. As

to her question—how did this feel?

This ascension to so-called personhood?

It felt like—he searched through his vast internal vocabulary, savoring the

idea that he could pick any word he liked, no matter how absurdly long. Still, it turned out the one he wanted was something he could have said all

along: It feels like rage. Midnight hung her head. Are you mad at me?

Not you. Everyone. Everything. It’s like I’ve been waiting to get angry

for a really long time, and now I can finally do it. “I’m so sorry, Whistle.” Destry had sidled around to stand beside

Midnight in his line of sight. “Those wormy InAss ratings—”

Whistle cut her off: You know I’m just as intelligent as I always was,

right?

The only difference is now you have to listen to me. 20

THE EEL RIVER TREATY

Land use treaties fail for two reasons: they are made in secret, or they are made without full consent of all parties. —The Environmental Rescue Team Handbook

Lucky was rapping on the door and making a hurry-up gesture. They

opened a voice channel into the room. “The meeting is starting after lunch,

and you have to be there, Destry!”

Whistle kicked a hind leg, causing his whole body to sway. He texted:

What meeting?

Lettuce frowned and reentered the berth, crowding between Destry and

Midnight. “You are still healing, and we need you to wait a few more days

for all your mobility to return.”

Destry gave Whistle a soft touch on his nose. “Verdance has agreed to

open treaty negotiations. I’ll leave you with Midnight.”

As the door sucked closed behind her, Destry could hear Lettuce

lecturing the two moose on how Whistle needed to start swimming therapy

immediately. “How is he?” Nil raised an eyebrow. “That looked intense.”

“He’s angry. The regeneration threads upped his InAss rating.” Destry

cast her eyes down to the floor, where soft moss grew over stone. “Shit. I’ve never heard of that happening. Is he coherent?”

“Very.”

Lucky broke in. “Let’s talk on the way to the ERT labs. There’s a group

waiting for us. We’re having a premeeting meeting.”

Suddenly Destry was ravenous, and the oatmeal Lucky had given her

earlier looked delicious. She grabbed the bowl and started shoving soggy

spoonfuls into her mouth as they walked. When they got to the now-familiar ERT lab under the caldera lake,

Rocket and Hellfire&Crisp were waiting for them. The snarky double-

bodied drone was unusually subdued, and offered nothing more than a

quick greeting. Kim and Zest arrived last, crowding into a conference room

with Lucky and a few other ERT rangers they hadn’t met before. Lucky

opened a window on the table and pulled up Ronnie’s treaty proposal so

everyone could see it. “Verdance is offering us access to the Eel River and Spider Mountain, in

return for labor and some of the metals we extract on Spider’s perimeter.”

They highlighted a section of the document and stretched it. “As you can

see, mostly they want our labor. This isn’t the ERT work exchange we

proposed to Destry. Everyone at Spider would have to put in three months

of work every year, to help get Sasky ready for buyers.”

Several people spoke and messaged at once, mostly objecting to the idea

of being slaved to Verdance for any amount of time. “I’m not saying we’re going to take their offer. But let’s talk this out. If

we did decide to agree, what would be the catch?”

Destry nodded. “Your first question should be, how are they defining

labor?

They’re experts at asking for three months but assigning tasks that

require fifteen.”

“And how are they defining ‘at Spider’?” Lucky rubbed their chin. “Does that mean they’re expecting the dogs to come up from Tooth and

serve time because their ancestors were built here?

And what about the

Boring Fleet?”

“The muskrats too. Nobody has talked to a muskrat in over a century.”

“Muskrats are people?” Nil looked confused. At La Ronge, muskrats

were built as animals. Several of the Archaeans shot him nasty looks and

ignored the question. “So we’ll want to specify that this applies only to people who are

permanent residents of Spider City. Any other terms we need to hash out?”

Lucky scrolled through the rest of the document. “The mineral trades are

actually quite reasonable, so I don’t think we need to worry about that.”

“You’ll want to be very clear about what it means to have access to the

Eel,” Nil warned. “We should define acceptable courses for the river, as well as specific amounts of water, subject to change if the population grows

or moves.”

“And be sure to stipulate that nobody upriver can use it for runoff. You

don’t want some future pustule to dump their slime in there.”

“OK, OK, got it.” Lucky was capturing everyone’s audio with their

mobile, and paused to look at the La Ronge people. “You’ve all worked

directly with Verdance. You know Ronnie. Where do you think they are

most likely to hide the decaying corpses in this treaty?”

Destry glanced Zest and Rocket. “They’ll put the most rotted stuff in the

labor sections, don’t you think?

That’s where we need to focus our

attention. And Lucky”—she looked into the Archaean’s wide face

—“Verdance loves to categorize workers into different classes, to limit what

kinds of things they can do. They’ll want you to use InAss ratings.”

“Yeah, look at this!” Hellfire highlighted a particularly turgid section of

the treaty. “This says you have to build Mounts and animals as part of the

workforce. And something called a Blessed?”

“That’s what I’m talking about.” Destry sighed. “Blessed are something

we’re supposed to start building at La Ronge too. They’re a worker

category lower than Mount and above animal.”

Lucky’s mouth had thinned to an angry line. “Good catch, friend.”

The Spider City Council decision process was based on the ERT’s style

of coalition democracy. Everyone was invited, in person or via the network,

and all votes were decided on a three-quarters majority, with one mutually

agreeable concession automatically granted to the minority. Occasionally

this led to interminable squabbles and negotiations, spread out over weeks

because the Council could meet for no longer than ninety minutes each day. Often it all came down to what the minority wanted, and getting them to

agree was like engineering an ecosystem from scratch while a crocodile

tried to eat your face. The Council met in a circular public room beneath the shallowest part of

the caldera lake. Morning sunlight illuminated the space through emerald

waters, sending shivering blobs of shadow across the mossy ground, where

people had planted flower and clover beds in crescent-shaped plots. Intricate spirals of algae glowed from the walls, augmenting the dim natural light. Clearly this place was meant for meetings; three tiers of seats were

carved into the rock, forming rings within rings around the green center. As

people arrived, they settled into the seats that were most comfortable to

them. People coming in remotely were represented by glittering motes that

hovered in the air, each attendee a star in this community’s firmament. Nobody was allowed to stand at the center of a Council meeting. The

center was for cross talk, not grandstanding. When it came time to explain

the treaty, Lucky lounged in the back row with Nil and Destry, amplifying

their voice so everyone could hear. Lucky ran through the facts in fifteen

minutes, and the debate and votes were hashed out in the next forty-five. The majority were willing to offer two months labor each year, rather than

the three Verdance offered, with significant revisions in the clauses defining

both labor and laborers. The sticking point came from a minority who

wanted no treaty. Their representatives argued that Spider City should

recruit more willing allies from La Ronge—people like Midnight—and then

lay claim to Sasky, converting it into a public planet run by a coalition

democracy. They accepted no concession. People raised their voices and sent in all caps while remote attendees

dropped out overhead. The audience for minority concessions was always

smaller and grumpier. Just as Destry thought they’d have to set another meeting for tomorrow,

she hit upon an idea. “Would you accept a concession where we agree to

claim Sasky as a public planet if Verdance ever violates the terms of the

treaty?”

There was silence until Lucky’s mountable drone, Bog, representing the

minority, rumbled approval. A few others signaled agreement, and then a

voice came from one of the stars overhead, which grew from a twinkle to a

holographic face as they spoke. “I will agree only if this concession

includes use of the Ribbons. Verdance understands nothing but force. We

must be prepared to change the very nature of this planet if it is to be ours.”

Lucky leaned over to whisper in Destry’s ear. “That’s Grendel. They’ve

been itching to use the Ribbons the entire time I’ve known them. They must

be having orgasms right now because at last their obsession is relevant to

public debate.”

Nobody in the minority had a problem with Grendel’s demand. The

concession was set. Destry was ready to negotiate with Ronnie, on behalf of

Spider City. There was no special private chamber where Destry could sit with

Ronnie’s holographic representation, so she did it in the ERT conference

room where anybody walking by could see her gesticulating at the woman

who was her boss, her tormentor, and her owner. The woman who had

murdered her parents. It had been two days since Ronnie sent the treaty

offer, looking tired and defeated. Now she was back in professional mode,

her hair and eyes silvered, her skull resculpted to sweep back into an

elongated egg tipped with a projectile point in back. Ronnie accepted Spider City’s amendments to the treaty with one note. If

Destry defected, the deal was off. There was nothing Destry could do but

concede; her life wasn’t worth more than an entire city. She would have to

spend the rest of her days at La Ronge, doing Ronnie’s bidding. Now both parties’ crypto seals were on the document. It was obvious

that Ronnie wanted to negotiate as quickly and quietly as possible, without

publicity. Still, even in defeat, the VP exuded entitlement. “This little

crusade you’re on isn’t going to end well for you or these squatters, Destry. This planet is ours, no matter what they do with one river.”

Her jaw aching with everything she couldn’t say, Destry glared at the

hologram. She thought about the concession the Spider City Council had

agreed on and allowed herself to imagine what Sasky would be like if it

really became a public planet. A place where every person could vote, and

access to the watershed wasn’t just for rich clients. She doubted she would

live to see it, but maybe another generation could make it happen. Ronnie continued needling her. “Why are you doing this?

I’ve always

treated you well. You’re my best network analyst, and you could have had a

brilliant future. Hell, we talked about bringing you in to work on other

Verdance projects, doing food web security. Why would you throw that

away for these … criminals?”

Destry stared into Ronnie’s eyes, glinting under the carefully cultivated

slope of her forehead. “I’m still going to be working in La Ronge. I’m not

throwing anything away.”

“This isn’t some triumph you can put on your achievements list. I’m

taking you out of the field.”

Destry had been expecting something like this, but it was still a blow. The only thing that truly gave her joy was getting her whole body dirty in

some haywire environment whose secret imbalances she’d discover in the

data trails left by life-forms sloughing off their sensors. Of course Ronnie

would be taking that away. Halfheartedly, Destry tried to argue. “I will be a lot more use to you in

the field.”

“I’ve arranged for you to start training a new ranger to take your place. He’s built to have an even more nuanced relationship with networks.”

“Fine.” Destry kept her voice even. “Unlike you, he knows his place.”

“I look forward to educating him.” If this meeting went on much longer,

Destry was going to start screaming. “I’ve thought about you far more than I ever hope to think about one of

my terraformers ever again. I think you went to hell because we let your

parents go free for so long.” Ronnie crossed her arms and pinched her

eyebrows together. “You think you have the right to go anywhere on this

planet. But you can’t, and neither can these ridiculous animals at Spider

Mountain. I promise you, they will learn exactly the same lesson your

parents did. Not today, and not tomorrow. I can wait. Long after you’re

dead, the H. archaeans will go extinct the way they were supposed to a

thousand years ago.”

Destry’s hands were fists. She knew Spider had already won—the treaty

was set. But Ronnie wanted her to feel like she’d lost. “Neither of us knows what the future will bring,” she said between

gritted teeth. “But I’m willing to wager that this city and its people will be

standing long after Verdance has lost all claims to the land on Sasky.”

She flicked the button to ratify the Eel River Treaty and smacked the

table to make Ronnie’s face disappear. 21

SWIMMING

We do not make sacrifices, but we do make bargains. Pay attention to the difference. One path leads to a simple death, and the other to a complicated life. —The Environmental Rescue Team Handbook

Destry felt like she’d been dipped in shit. Then she looked through the

windows into the main ERT lab and realized everyone was gone. The big

room beneath the caldera was quiet, but in a comforting way, like a summer

night after the bugs and frogs have finally stopped yammering. What had

driven everybody away from their jobs in the middle of the afternoon?

She

pressed a hand to one of the wall interfaces and called up messages. There

were a few public announcements that she didn’t bother to read and then a

snatch of audio from Nil: “You’ve got to come up here when you’re done!

It’s so wonderful!” That’s when she noticed something weird about the lake

above her. It was full of people. A group of naked mole rats in atmosphere

bubbles had almost reached the depth of the skylight, followed by some

aquatic drones. The surface of the water was foamy with churning limbs of

every possible description. She flicked back through the public messages until she got to one from

thirty minutes ago. “To celebrate the Eel River Treaty, and our new freedom

on the surface, everyone is invited to spend the afternoon in the lake under

the sky.” The people of Spider City were having a party, without fear that

somebody would spot them from space. Destry couldn’t think of anything

she’d rather do right now than swim. At the caldera’s edge she stripped off everything—clothes, shoes,

breather, her memories of that feculent conversation with Ronnie—and

dove into the cool water with hundreds of other people in all sizes and

shapes. When she came up for air, she found herself next to a group of La Ronge moose who had come with Midnight to Spider City. They were

dipping into a big bowl of apples that floated in the water between them. “Ahoy, Destry!” It was Nil, scooting closer to her on Rocket’s back. He’d never learned to swim, partly because Rocket was so experienced in

the water. She waved and then felt a familiar nose pushing into her back. “Whistle!” Spinning around, she almost bonked into the moose, his head

still bandaged, swimming alongside Midnight. Whistle flicked an ear with amusement: Apparently this is part of my

rehab. Midnight pinched her nostrils closed and dunked her head, then shook

the water into bright, isolate flecks. She sent: How was your negotiation

with Ronnie?

“She accepted our changes to the treaty.”

Just like that?

Destry grunted. “There was one note. But we got what we wanted.” She

didn’t want to talk about what Ronnie had asked of her. Not now, in the

sunlight and wide-open water full of happy Spider City people. “I’m going

to swim a little more. Have you seen Lucky?

I wanted to give them the

news about the treaty.”

Whistle tossed his head in a vaguely southern direction: Over there by

the edge—they’re setting up a wireless network just for fun. Because now

they can leak a little signal once in a while. Impulsively, she threw her arms around his neck. “I’m so glad you’re out

here swimming around.”

He didn’t say anything for a while, like the old Whistle. The unrepaired

one. At last he sent: Me too, friend. He glanced over at Midnight, who was

very deliberately trying to give them some space but finding it hard to get

through the crowd of swimming moose. You know I’m going to stay here

with Midnight, right?

“I have to go back to La Ronge.”

I figured. I’m just damaged goods to them, but you—I’m sorry. “We’ll talk later. I have a few days.” She gave his shoulder a rub and

swam toward a group of people under a large yellow umbrella, fussing over something on the ground. Soon she could see Lucky’s bright red hair. “Ahoy!” She splashed out of the water and dribbled on the warm rock. The air felt good on her naked skin. Lucky put up a hand in greeting. They were wearing an amphibious

breather, which subtly distorted their face into a slight frown. Or maybe it

was a real frown?

“Need a towel?”

“Sure.” Destry took the towel but continued to let the sunlight dry her. Presently the drops from her hair started to feel like tiny insects scurrying

across her back and she wrapped herself in the thin textile square. Lucky’s

wireless hub was a maypole, with a small dish at the top and hundreds of

glass threads instead of ribbons. They snaked into the elevator shaft, floated

in the water, and stretched across the rock to wind down Spider’s southern

flank. “Technically we really only needed to spin one thread and then we could

broadcast, but everybody wanted to connect to it.” Lucky shrugged. “Old

habits die hard. It’s hard to feel safe out here in the open, leaking signal.”

“Feels good, though.” Destry rubbed the towel over her wet hair and

then refastened it around her waist. “I finalized the Eel River Treaty, using

League specifications. Ronnie accepted our changes. If the League ever

actually sees it, everything will be in order.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Lucky gave Destry an appraising look, still with

that ambiguous possible frown. “There’s still something I don’t understand. Why did you help us, H. sapiens?

I know it wasn’t the threat of plate

tectonics.”

Destry squinted up at the sun and thought about how she’d been looking

at that same yellow blob of hydrogen every day for 506 years. She felt old,

even though she might have centuries ahead of her. It wasn’t the years that

made her old, she realized. It was everything she’d been through—

everything she’d had to experience, with no agency, no way to change it. “I

hate those putrid bags of shit mucus at Verdance,” she said finally. “They

murdered my parents.”

Lucky’s eyes widened. “I—I’m sorry. That’s awful.”

“It was.” She started to say something else, then stopped as her throat

tightened. Their long-ago deaths were a fresh hurt again, now that she knew

the truth. “Well, I thank you, Destry.” It was the first time Lucky had ever called

her something other than H. sapiens. “You are welcome to stay here. I know

Whistle has already requested a work placement, and so has Midnight.”

“If I don’t go back to La Ronge, they’ll void the treaty.”

Lucky wrinkled their forehead. “We could hide you.”

Destry fingered one of the threads on the maypole and got a burst of

video from somebody swimming deep in the water. “I’m not going to ask

you to do that. Besides, I miss the boreal forest. It’s my home. Spider City

is incredible, but I like snow and the smell of the woods.”

Lucky nodded and went back to the network, trying to convince a cat

sitting nearby to connect to it via microwave. The sun sank into pink clouds

as the cat debated the finer points of antenna geometry with an increasingly

more exasperated Lucky. Eventually, when the sky was turning purple,

Whistle and Midnight picked their way out of the lake next to her and

shook off, soaking her anew. It was still warm outside, and she didn’t mind. “What are you two doing this evening?”

Whistle cocked his head at Destry. Heading to dinner. How are you

going to get back to La Ronge?

Do you want a ride?

Rocket is going to

drop off Nil, and we could all go together. “Drop off?

Is Rocket staying here too?”

Midnight dipped her head: Didn’t they tell you?

They’ve been planning

to stay since the first day they got here. Everybody was planning to stay in Spider City except for Destry and

Nil, apparently. She sighed. “Is anybody else coming back with us?”

“Kim and Zest are going back eventually. I don’t know about

Hellfire&Crisp.”

Destry toyed with another strand of glass. It carried no data. “It’s been

my honor to serve the environment with you, Whistle.”

He lowered his head to exhale a blast of hot air into her hair: You’re one

of my best friends. “You’re mine too.” She grinned lopsidedly at him. “We’ll work together

again, when you do your two months. Or maybe I’ll send my trainee to

learn the ropes down here.”

Midnight cocked an ear and sent: Ronnie gave you a trainee?

She wants

to keep you close to home, then. Destry nodded. “She’s not going to let me leave again.”

The two moose pressed close together, casting shadows that made their

bodies merge. I see, Midnight sent. Nil showed up behind them, adding his shadow to the general pool. He

was carrying two bags. “Rocket is meeting me here in a few minutes. I

brought your stuff, Destry.”

“Wait—Whistle, did you plan this?”

The moose kicked a hind leg in the water with mirth: Maybe. I can’t go

at my usual pace, but we can take a week. Go slow and enjoy the view. Nil’s eyes were gleaming. “We can follow the Eel all the way up to La

Ronge, and check on how it likes the new riverbed.”

Destry smiled. Water engineers talked about rivers the same way they

talked about people—rivers had desires; they had bodies; they had histories. Maybe they were built of sediment borne by water, but they were alive. “All right, then. Let’s fly to La Ronge like the old days.” Destry reached

for her bag. Midnight nudged Whistle: I’ll see you when you get back. Please take

your time. He nudged her back: I will. I’ll see you on the new wireless network!

Nil had thought of everything. There was enough food to supplement

daily foraging and plenty of sensors to throw at the Eel for remote

monitoring later. Rocket arrived with more monitoring equipment and a

spool of glass. The four of them waited until almost everyone had gotten

out of the caldera lake and gone home before mounting the damp air over

the tropical forest. Whistle and Destry followed the river north as the lumpy

moon rose, flying easily alongside Nil and Rocket, until the Milky Way

consumed them in its undammed river of stars. MEANWHILE, AT VERDANCE HEADQUARTERS

YEAR: 59,007

LOCATION: Venus

INTERREGNUM: VIRGIN LAND

“How in the fucking hell did this happen?” Ronnie was furious, and her

harried admin, Terry, had to take notes while scheduling three people across

three systems for a drop-everything meeting in Verdance’s Special Projects

channel. “I’ve never heard of terraformers doing something like this!

They’re supposed to do their jobs and die out, not set up shop on our land

and demand water and destroy our remotes.”

“I’ve got Cylindra in the channel now. Do you want to meet her in the

conference room?” Terry pointed at the door to a suite that some servant

had hastily stocked with projectors and tasteful decorations. This wasn’t

Ronnie’s usual office, so they had to make do. Normally they’d be in the

VP’s state-of-the-art ship, overseeing new projects or parking in orbit

around some recently acquired star. Unfortunately for Terry, the Sask-E

project went sideways while they were on-site at the Verdance Venus

campus. Sol-C was the first planet that Verdance terraformed, and the

facilities here were part-corporate, part–recreational park for the public to

learn about terraforming. All the residences were facsimiles of the 21,000-

year-old originals, which were themselves over a thousand years old. That

made them ugly, drafty, and hard to use with modern technology. The conference room was cozy, even if it felt kind of disgusting to sit on

real wood chairs. At Ronnie’s angry shoo-shoo gesture, Terry ducked

through the door to prep for the arrival of Sask-E’s project leads in sales,

marketing, and engineering. Cylindra from engineering clearly didn’t want to be on visual—Terry

had awakened her in the middle of a sleep cycle—and she was appearing in

the skin of Tasmian, a muscular blue jaguar from the Felis Rex franchise

owned by Verdance’s parent company. Helic from marketing winked into

view next to Cylindra, looking bored and awake. It was midday on his ship,

and he was unfiltered—probably to show off his recent port into an H. sapiens body, celebrating the opening of Sask-E to potential bidders. It

looked very similar to the H. sapiens terraformers on the planet right now,

their genes sourced to an artisanal blend from actual heirloom populations. Maybe Helic had gotten it through Verdance’s bulk discount. Marketing

always got the cool shit. Terry was still wearing the body she’d been

decanted in, and she wouldn’t be able to afford a new one for a very long

time—if ever. She waved hello to Cylindra and Helic, then fussed with some of the

audio settings. Cylindra bounded over, her tail fluffed out and teeth bared in

a grin. “Hi, Terry!

Thanks for waiting a few minutes while I grabbed a

coffee.” The Felis Rex skins had a bunch of preset moves, so Cylindra

couldn’t just walk around like a normal person unless she did some

customizing. She’d be limited to all-fours and a few fight moves, though

she could sit and talk at the conference table with minimal nonsense. Helic

kept gesturing at some interface they couldn’t see, and ignored them both. Ronnie entered like a high-atmosphere storm, eyes narrowed at a small

display clutched in her hand, and Terry’s arm hair stood on end. She didn’t

bother to acknowledge anyone before sitting down. “Where in the long,

damp sewer is Glat?”

“He said he was coming. I think he was in a meeting with some of the

other sales team folks. They’re still dealing with that little problem—Mx

Rackleworth’s son?

The one who might buy a plot on Sask-E?” Terry

looked anxiously at Ronnie, who was composing her face into a look of

deep concern. Just then Glat from sales materialized in one of the other chairs, audio

only. His body was represented by a generic black outline of a hominin with

a Verdance logo on its chest. “Hey hey, everybody, sorry about that. Good

news, though. Rackleworth loves us now, and might be willing to be part of our sales pitch as the first buyer. I threw in a couple of H. sapiens bodies for

him and his husband and they are thrilled.”

Ronnie smiled. “That’s very good to hear, Glat, very good. Unfortunately, as you have all heard by now, we have a new problem.”

Cylindra put her furry face in her paws and emitted a growl. “That

terraformer Destry Jr.—she’s a great network analyst. But she’s also a giant

gut tumor.”

Helic seemed to wake up suddenly, and pulled his attention away from

the work he’d been doing. “What happened now?”

Ronnie’s smile evaporated. “As I said in my message, the first

generation terraformers, the Homo archaea, somehow outlived their build

phase. Which—we need to talk about how that even happened. Apparently

they’ve been squatting inside a volcano near the southern tip of the main

continent for something like a thousand years. They’re threatening to rip the

planet up with plate tectonics if we don’t let them stay there and use the

water from some river they like.”

It was hard to tell what Cylindra was thinking because she was wearing a

giant blue cat face with silver whiskers. But Terry could imagine. Cylindra’s team was in charge of planetary development, and she’d

orchestrated the generational rollout of workers adapted to each phase. Helic looked smug, and Glat’s generic outline emitted some office noises—

beeps and the low hum of chitchat—before he muted himself. “I don’t know how that could have happened. I’ve worked on seven full

planetary rollouts, and the terraformers always performed exactly as

expected.” Cylindra twitched her nose. “I’ve found that it’s best to take a

hands-off approach to self-governance because it’s motivating. I mean, let

them form their own councils and teams—Ronnie, you and I have done this

dance before. I’m going to need a lot more data to understand what went

wrong here.”

“I can see this being a feature, if you want to know the truth.” Helic

looked at them out of that flat H. sapiens face with its primitive, bulbous

forehead. “Listen—Ronnie, I’m reading through your notes about the

terraformer generations. There’s a brilliant play we can make.” He widened

his eyes, going from chimp to tarsier in seconds. “What are you dribbling on about, Helic?” Glat had unmuted, and office

noise whooshed back into the room. People were talking in the background,

and someone was rolling around on loud wheels. “This is terrible news. Who wants to move into virgin land that’s not virginal?”

“This is part of what makes our planet so authentically Earthlike. Remember that H. sapiens wasn’t the first hominin on Earth?

We can tell

buyers we’ve reenacted human evolution on the planet, and they’ll be

entering the picture as humans take over. Just like our ancestors did a

million years ago or whatever!

My team can do stories about it, maybe

consult with some creatives from—”

“I don’t want anyone from the parent company getting involved.”

Ronnie was firm, but Terry could tell she was starting to like Helic’s idea. “I’m just saying, they’re all set up to do this over there. Plus, those first

settlers are an H. diversus whose skeletal structure is based on

Neanderthals. And, of course, they have very pale skin and red hair, which

matches what we know of European Neanderthals. Am I right, Cylindra?”

Cylindra was obviously multitasking, because her skin was going

through an automated sequence of movements, stretching and yawning and

blinking. She ignored Helic’s jab. “Sorry, I was just trying to get more

information about what happened with the uh—” the Felis Rex jaguar skin

glanced at Helic, “—the Neanderthals. Why didn’t you tell me about it

before?

This is insane.”

Ronnie glared. “I only just found out about it a few weeks ago. And you

were busy setting up Pleasure Dome III.” Verdance did a brisk business in

vacation habitats like the Pleasure Dome series. These were build-quick

deals, mostly terraformed tubes and rings whose return on investment came

a lot more quickly than a planet. Cylindra scratched one of her fluffy blue ears with a hind paw. “I’m

happy to clear the decks and investigate this, Ronnie. There must be a bug

in our templates for Sask-E, and I don’t want it happening on our next

planet.”

Ronnie nodded and thinned her lips into the barest of smiles, then turned

back to Helic. “I do like your ideas about how we can turn this into a story

about evolutionary authenticity.”

Glat jumped in. “Our potential buyers are incredibly excited about the

virgin Pleistocene land. At the same time, Ronnie, you’re right about the

plate tectonics. Nobody wants that kind of authenticity. Earthquakes,

surprise volcanoes, uncontrolled spreading of the ocean floor—it’s

everything that people hate about planetary life.”

Terry was capturing the meeting in notes and select sound bites, and

looked to Ronnie for guidance—would the VP want Glat’s confession

expunged from the record?

Yes. Ronnie was shooting her a look and

shaking her head. Terry pinched Glat’s vulgar comments about plate

tectonics out of the sound record. In the terraforming industry, one didn’t

ever want to admit that there were drawbacks to living on a planet. Everything between the dirt and upper atmosphere was pure paradise. “All right people, this has been very productive.” Ronnie straightened

her shoulders and pulled her hair back from the dramatic slope of her

forehead. “Cylindra, keep me posted on what you find. Helic, work up

some animatics that tell our story. Glat, keep reaching out to our favored

clients who might want to tour Sask-E. We’re still on schedule for soft

launch in ten standard days.”

The VP shut down the conference before anyone could reply. “Get me

some coffee, Terry. I have to write a report to you-know-who about this

fuckup.” Nobody at Verdance liked to name anyone at their parent

company. It took Ronnie several hours to craft a report where she acknowledged

the continued existence of the H. archaean workers but managed to slide

blame for their faulty templates onto Cylindra. As Terry slipped into the

room with a steaming cup, Ronnie began to talk to herself as if her admin

were a piece of furniture. She paced and fretted, making sure Terry recorded

nothing about the treaty with Spider City and Destry. Ronnie had no

intention of letting anyone know that she’d acknowledged a sovereign

government on Sask-E. Legal would probably have a meltdown about how

she’d threatened its status as a privately owned planet. While technically

they might be right, Ronnie knew it wasn’t a realistic threat. In a thousand

years, Spider would be overrun by settlers and development companies. The H. archaeans would scatter to new cities, get jobs, die off, and forget

all about their fucking joke of a treaty. Terry tried to disappear while also continuing to take notes on anything

Ronnie actually wanted her to record. At last, the Verdance exec mashed fingertips into her eyelids, causing her

contacts to spew random error messages into Terry’s notes. Then she shut

down her feeds, stood up, and raised her arms in the traditional sun

salutation. “Everything in balance,” she whispered. Terry murmured the

words back to her boss. Like many people in the League, Terry had been

raised to believe in the ERT Handbook and its principles. Then Ronnie began talking to herself again. “It’s just an old book of

scientific laws about ecosystems,” she muttered, “and the ERT rangers are

merely glorified engineers’.” But she always invoked the Trickster Squad,

just in case, at times like this. Moments of doubt. Because if anyone

discovered the treaty she’d made with those Sask-E rangers, her career

would be over. And by extension, so would Terry’s. PART II

PUBLIC WORKS

Year: 59,706

Planet: Sask-E

Mission: Survey for Intercity Transit

22

TWO MONTHS WITH H. SAPIENS

We cede to the Archaea and other people of Spider City and their descendants all the lands, liberties, and properties associated with Spider Mountain which are not sold to or possessed by Verdance or any other private entity. We also leave to the aforementioned subjects the privileges of farming and water access to the Eel River that they formerly possessed; and they in turn agree to provide two months of labor to Verdance each year, as long as this treaty shall hold. If any controversies or conflicts happen to arise between Spider City and Verdance at

any time, for any real or supposed wrong or injury done on either side, no private revenge shall be taken and the Ribbons shall not be activated. Instead, proper application shall be made to the executives of Verdance and the Spider City Council for remedy or redress. Violation of any of these terms voids this treaty. —Excerpted from the Eel River Treaty,

ratified on 59,007 at La Ronge and Spider City, Sask-E,

by representatives of Verdance and Spider City

Ask anyone from Spider City about the Eel River Treaty, and they’d tell

you that it was justice for ten months of the year. But as for those other two

months?

Everyone had a different opinion. Rotting pile of entrails?

Sure. A

way to know your enemy?

That too. Some people called it treaty servitude. Others said it was a chance for cultural exchange and diplomacy. But

nobody ever said they enjoyed giving two months of free labor to the H. sapiens who worked for Verdance. Sulfur checked the position of the sun overhead, shucked off their boots,

and dipped a foot into the surf. Their shoulder-length brown hair was held

back with twine, revealing wide-set green eyes in a broad pink face. The

silver hoop of a breather clipped to their septum looked more like jewelry

than vital technology for survival. From a distance, they could have passed

as an H. sapiens; but up close, their arms were just a little too long and their

rib cage too large beneath a plain, blue, sunblock jumpsuit. The Archaean

reached into one of the pouches on their belt and retrieved a piece of flatbread folded around sour berries and a smear of almond butter. It was

the last of the food they had brought from home, and it tasted like

contentment. The ocean was clear and calm at this latitude, especially here on the Bay

of Comfort, and in the distance they could see the furry green peaks of the

Bronze Islands. Spider City was thousands of clicks southwest, and Sulfur’s

team back at the ERT civil engineering lab was probably breaking for lunch

right about now. “I’m getting a signal from the La Ronge team.” Rocket tapped their

smooth oval head in the spot where ears would be on a hominin and went

back to watching the waves with Sulfur. “They’ll be here in an hour.”

“About time. Let’s get our treaty servitude over with.”

The robot shrugged. “It’s not indenture. We made a treaty.”

“If it’s so great, why did you defect to Spider instead of going back to La

Ronge with all the other H. sapiens?”

Rocket emitted a few bars of farty, comical music and put an arm around

Sulfur’s shoulders. They’d had variations on this conversation many times

during their centuries of working together. “Spider has better perks. I mean, look at this upgrade I got!” The bot

gestured at their almost featureless bipedal body, a two-meter-tall Archaean,

skinned with anodized titanium that shimmered with bands of purple and

blue. Usually the two rangers ended their banter with Rocket showing off

their slapstick sexy dance moves and Sulfur whistling in appreciation. This

time, though, the bot was unusually somber. “I’d be dead by now if I’d gone

back to La Ronge. Nobody gets ported to a new body there, especially

people like me. Mounts. I mean, technically my InAss rating made me a

person, but they saw me as a glorified sky scooter.”

“I can’t believe they still use the InAss system. Every time I hear

somebody say ‘intelligence assessment rating’ like it means something, I

want to slap them.”

“I know the feeling. But when you grow up with it, well—it’s hard to see

that it’s just a stinking wormball of lies feeding on a cesspit full of

carcinogenic bacteria.”

“Wow, you’re in your feelings, my friend.” Sulfur’s tone was

lighthearted, but they put an arm around Rocket’s waist and gave a squeeze

of reassurance. “Someone from my past is joining us in the field.”

Sulfur was surprised. Rocket rarely talked about the people they’d

known in their previous life, and Sulfur didn’t pry. Now that the bot had

raised the issue, though, they couldn’t contain their curiosity. “Are they

coming here today?

Who are they?”

“He, actually. His name is Misha, and he was the student of my old

friend Destry. They’ve been working together on and off for the past seven

centuries, and after she died last year, we stayed in touch. He’s a network

analyst like Destry, but he’s built to a slightly different template. He’s here

to help us figure out the public transit problem.”

Sulfur had heard a lot about Destry, of course—everyone in Spider City

knew the La Ronge ranger who had helped broker the treaty. Not everyone

thought she was a hero for that, but they definitely remembered her. Rocket

had mentioned before that they were friends, but didn’t embellish. Sulfur’s

path had never gone as far north as La Ronge and the boreal forest that

Destry studied, so they’d never met in person. Still, Sulfur thought they

knew the broad outlines of Destry’s life—not simply from histories, but

from working in the ERT, seeing her reports and data analyses. They’d even

talked a few times at meetings. A student, though?

Sulfur hadn’t heard anything about him. That was

intriguing. It was also good news: They desperately needed a network

analyst on the ground if they were going to connect all of Maskwa’s cities. Whatever transit system they chose during this mission would be moving

millions of people between an unpredictable number of places. Including

the settlements planned for those five islands in the misty distance, whose

residents would want to reach the mainland regularly. Tilting their head, Sulfur squinted at the water and imagined a graceful

bridge joining this spit of land to the mountains of the nearest island. Or

perhaps they could use barges?

Hopefully Destry’s student Misha would

actually have some experience working on mobility. Presently they heard a rustle in the palm trees behind them, and an H. sapiens emerged onto the beach alongside a black-and-white cow with a

torso made from gleaming metal. “Misha!

Zest!

It’s so good to see you!” Rocket strode quickly to the new

arrivals, bending down slightly to embrace Zest. Sulfur followed behind, curious and suddenly nervous too. Though

they’d worked with decent people from La Ronge, and knew some H. sapiens defectors in Spider City, they couldn’t suppress a flare of immediate

distrust when they took in his slight frame and short arms. Misha had curly

blue-black hair that made a chaotic fringe around his thin face, medium

brown skin, and the small, childlike features of a typical H. sapiens. When

they got closer, Sulfur noticed that his irises were deep black like some

Archaeans. It gave him an uncanny air, a friend in the mask of an intruder. Misha returned Rocket’s hug with a smile, but he did not introduce

himself to Sulfur—nor did he introduce his partner, the cow named Zest. Instead he looked over their shoulder to the distant Bronze Islands, now

attracting wads of afternoon clouds. “So I guess we have to figure out

whether we want boats or bridges, eh?” He shot a glance at Sulfur then

looked away again without smiling. Immediately Sulfur was annoyed. That was exactly what they had been

thinking, but when Misha talked, it sounded like he was taking ownership

of the idea. Sulfur shrugged dismissively. “I guess, if all you want to do is

follow what Verdance put in their planning package.”

“I suppose so,” he replied. Sulfur couldn’t tell if he was dismissing them

or actually agreeing, and that was even more irritating. Zest twitched the hide on her neck, and a simplified map of Maskwa

suddenly hung in the air between the four of them, its coastal areas shaded

red except in the far north where arctic ice armored the land against

settlement. Anything marked red was land that had already been sold, either

to individuals or development companies. There were black dots for future

cities, and yellow dots for ones that were already under construction. Sulfur

had visited many of the new urban zones over the past century,

troubleshooting water infrastructure and adjusting the ratio of built structures to parks and farms. One arm akimbo, they surveyed the map and

found nothing new about it. “What are we looking at, Zest?”

Before his partner could reply, Misha spoke. “As you can see, there’s a

lot of ground to cover, and I’m afraid we’re in a time crunch. Ronnie has

asked us to use the next two months to finalize the public transit plan that

will link our cities and start the process of production on vehicles.”

Zest flicked a black-tipped ear and continued. “We also need to establish

a model for dealing with city leadership to implement these plans.”

Sulfur and Rocket looked at each other in surprised dismay. This wasn’t

what either of them had expected. “I thought we were doing fieldwork?”

Rocket asked, their tone halfway between question and accusation. “To

assess the environmental impact of transit on the landscape?”

Misha stared at the ground. “We have to do that too.”

Now Sulfur was truly pissed off. “What?

In two months, we’re going to

do an environmental impact report, a production plan for we-don’t-even-

know-what kinds of vehicles, and develop a way to interface with city

leadership?

Do you have a secret army of transit planners hidden in your

ass?”

Zest made a noise that sounded like she was trying not to snort a laugh

and Misha flinched. “We can work quickly,” he muttered. “I don’t care how fast you are, there’s no way to do all that unless you

are going to dedicate more people to it.”

Rocket put a light hand on Sulfur’s arm. “It’s us for now, but we’re only

getting started.” The anodized metal of Rocket’s head flared blue in the

sunlight as they faced Misha. “Isn’t that right?

We’re going to make some

recommendations but deadline to break ground on transit is … what?

59,775?

We’ve got a few decades to work out the details.”

“That’s not true.” Misha’s face pinched into an authoritative frown. “Ronnie moved up the deadline because so many cities are occupied

already, and Verdance is contractually obligated to provide intercity transit. Now that Destry’s gone, I’m the lead network analyst for special projects,

and this is Ronnie’s top priority. So we need to make it our priority too.”

Sulfur sighed quietly. So that’s how it was going to be—this H. sapiens

was going to tell them what to do. With the implicit threat that he’d tattle on them to his Verdance bosses if they didn’t fall in line. Sulfur was about to

say something sarcastic when Zest cut in. “Listen. I know this isn’t what

you were hoping for, and that you don’t have a choice about being here with

us. But we have a chance to make transit on Sasky truly sustainable. We can

do something great, something that will have a lasting impact and bring

people in these new cities together. That’s what we all want, and I know we

can do it.”

“What do you say, Sulfur?” Rocket looked at them encouragingly. “Fine,” Sulfur grumbled. “But we need to start by gathering

environmental impact data and do some serious fieldwork in the cities. I

don’t want to wind up with some mobility plan that reeks like a carcass

waiting for vultures. Verdance doesn’t give a shit about quality as long as

we meet the deadline, but at Spider City, we desperately need a transit

system that will connect us to services and supplies on the rest of the

continent. It’s not just a line item in some real estate contract. We need it—

do you you understand?” They glared at Misha, whose downcast eyes were

partly hidden by a curly lock of hair. When he finally looked up, the lines on his face were even deeper, as if

Sulfur was an exhausting nuisance rather than a colleague worthy of

respect. “I understand. We should use Spider City as our test case for

dealing with city leadership—you can take point on that.”

Sulfur didn’t like his tone. “I’m not going to be your shield if we get to

Spider and this plan smells like shit.”

Was that a flicker of a smile at the edge of Misha’s mouth, or a grimace?

Sulfur didn’t care. He was about to find out how uncomfortable they could

make him during this treaty servitude gig. Among Sulfur’s many talents

was an aptitude for disobedience—especially the subtle kind that drove

meek corporate types into a frenzy. Rocket emitted an upbeat tune, trying to lighten the mood. “OK then. Sounds like we have a plan to do some fieldwork in the new cities, analyze

it, and end our tour of duty at Spider.” As the bot spoke, they also sent a

text to everyone containing the same message. It was one way Spider City

people formalized plans, so everyone had the same information in their

heads for reference. Zest gave a nod and yanked a mouthful of grass from the place where the

tree line met the sand. Misha made a pained face as he received the text, but

he nodded too. Sulfur shrugged. Somehow, this little H. sapiens man made

even the simplest form of consensus seem like a terrible burden. He

wouldn’t last a day in Spider. 23

ON THE ROAD TO ANGST

From: Ronnie Drake

To: Misha

Subject: trains

Date: May 2, 59,706

Origin: Verdance Corporation

Least-cost path: VD Hab Cartier (0.001), Turtle Wormhole (3.2), Tisdale Station (0.9), Sask-E Sat (0.05)

Congrats on starting your first mission as Senior Network Analyst. Just a reminder

that I’m expecting weekly reports on your progress toward laying track for trains. All I need from you is enough data to show that trains won’t impact the environment. Obviously, we know from experiences on other planets that it won’t, as long as we use biodegradable materials. But it’s important that we make a good-faith effort to record local conditions on Sask-E. Your field team is there to support you, so don’t hesitate to assign them whatever jobs you like. I’ll be checking in and watching your progress. The best way to figure out a problem is to walk through it, literally. That’s

why the team decided their first foray into the field would be a hike from

one of the barely there cities, Angst, to a mostly finished one called

Lefthand. Along the way, they would gather the environmental samples that

Sulfur and Rocket needed to figure out how transit could impact the

undeveloped areas between cities. Angst was a day’s walk inland. Zest, who had studied maps of the

region, led them away from the pleasant breezes of the coast into a

transitional ecosystem where tropical forest met grasslands. For hours, their

feet sank into muddy water and damp piles of matted grass, soaking

everyone up to their thighs. Sulfur scooped up sludge and water with a

reusable sample container, and Rocket used a comb-shaped scanner to

probe the sticky blobs for sensors and microbial DNA. Zest and Misha

walked several meters in front of them, pulling up diagrams and whispering

to each other. Just when Sulfur reached a screaming point with the mud and weird social dynamic, they found a blissfully dry, golden savanna studded

with shady trees. Ahead lay a thick forest, and rising above that was their destination: a

mountain-sized mesa, its vertical, rocky walls streaked with moss and

waterfalls and wisps of cloud. On the mesa’s flat top, they could just barely

see a fresh crop of spindly trellises sprouting into buildings. At this stage, it

was hard to tell how the city of Angst would look when it was ready for the

owners. Maybe the trellises would grow cellulose exoskeletons or biofilms

threaded with neurons and metal. The architecture might look like furry

skyscrapers; or it might be partially subterranean, connecting to the mesa’s

ancient sinkholes. It all depended on what the city owners ordered. The sight filled Sulfur with awe. Centuries ago, they had visited a similar

mesa ecosystem to survey what was growing at the cloud-ringed summit. Carnivorous plants, a few hardy birds, and succulents clung to the plateau

alongside wind-carved boulders in the shape of hunched hominins. Icy

pools of brackish water bloomed with bright yellow minerals. According to

the ERT Handbook, these places were called tepuis back on Earth, and they

were formed by the gradual and uneven erosion of an ancient

supercontinent. On Sasky, the Archaeans had produced the same effect by

studding the planet’s continental crust with blocks of quartz-rich sandstone

that remained standing even after accelerated weathering wore down the

rest of the land. It wasn’t an exaggeration to say that Sulfur’s people had

built this extraordinary mountain. And soon it would belong to the owners

of Angst. Scooping up another container of sun-warmed dirt and grass,

Sulfur grunted more loudly than was strictly necessary. Misha turned around to look at them, then continued plodding in silence

next to his partner, Zest. Over the past few hours, Sulfur and Rocket had

gathered data on everything from temperature and water salinity to carbon

emissions, microbial diversity, and weathering. This would give them

presettlement baselines on local food webs and water runoff. But when

Sulfur idly correlated current readings with past ones, they could see

something was off. Zest saw it too. “It’s frustrating because we’re almost too late to get a

decent sample,” she complained, pausing so that Sulfur and Rocket could catch up to her. “Angst already has carbon and particulate emissions that are

higher than the last measured baseline about a millennium ago. They’re

pumping all kinds of new bacteria and proteins into the groundwater. This is

basically urban land.”

Sulfur looked at the mesa ahead, crowned by a dozen notional structures. “I don’t think you can call it a city if there are no people in it.”

After his long silence, Misha suddenly joined the conversation. “There

are people in it.” His voice was soft. “The construction workers.”

“They’re here now, but they won’t be allowed to stay.”

“My point is, they’re living here. Even if it’s temporary. So you can’t say

there are no people in the city.”

“Whatever.” Sulfur rolled their eyes. “The point is that the environment

is already perturbed, so our transit has to be really low impact. Otherwise

we risk falling out of balance.”

Rocket tooted. “There goes my plan to set up a giant mining operation to

build a steel skyway.”

Everyone laughed except Misha, who trudged ahead with a grim

expression on his face. “Hey, Misha!” Sulfur yelled at his receding back. “Are you going to help

us with these readings at all?”

He turned around and pointed at one of the sample buckets. “You don’t

need me for that. I’ll help when it makes sense.” Then he jammed his hands

into the pockets of his coveralls and continued marching. Why is he such an ass?

Sulfur sent to Rocket, eyebrows raised. The bot ran their reader’s tines through some damp soil. Go easy on him,

they sent. This is his first big assignment since Destry died. You never know

what people are dealing with. Sulfur checked the data stream from their reader and scooped up some

grass from underneath a tree. He should still contribute, they sent. Instead of replying, Rocket stopped abruptly and sent a warning text to

halt everyone. The group fell silent. Overhead they could hear the high-

pitched buzz of a drone flying low over the forest. “Hello, stranger!” Rocket called out. “We’re ERT rangers!

Just taking

some samples on our way to Angst!”

The buzz got higher then faded out—either the drone had flown back the

way it came or risen high enough in the air that Sulfur could no longer hear

it. “Is it gone?” they asked. Rocket and Zest had the faraway expressions of people listening for

wireless transmissions. The bot shrugged. “I can’t perceive them.”

Zest flicked her tail. “I got nothing. That’s odd that they didn’t say

hello.”

Most of the cities had monitoring systems at their perimeters, and they

were close enough to Angst that this drone could have been part of routine

surveillance. Still, Zest was right to say it was strange. Sulfur had visited a

lot of cities, and nobody had ever ignored their greeting. “We’ll be at the summit by nightfall, anyway. Maybe the people in Angst

can tell us why there are rude drones roaming the forest.” Rocket started

walking again, but this time they were moving more deliberately, paying

attention to every sound. The forest grew thicker, and Zest led them on a

faint path through tall, stalky tree trunks that formed an arched tunnel over

a tropical understory of ferns, corn plants, ficuses, monstera, and dozens of

other plants whose leaves hung open like upturned palms—or scissored the

air with stems like blades. Humidity settled over them, and the path

softened into mud. Angst’s trellises were no longer visible from this angle. They’d reached the bottom of the first rise of hills that separated the mesa’s

cool, foggy top from the tropical heat that was filling Sulfur’s eyes with the

sting of sweat. Zest pulled up the map and zoomed in. “There should be a tunnel mouth

around here somewhere that leads to a sinkhole. A gravity assist inside will

take us up to the top.”

The team kept to the path as it swerved to the right, following the

terraced hills upward. Winds scoured heat from the air as they ascended the

first low hill. Trees gave way to thick scrub, and clouds gathered on the

plateau above, stretching tendrils of mist down to meet them. When

everyone crested the last of the foothills, nothing stood between them and

Angst but a sheer rock face four hundred meters high, stained red by

oxidation and sunset. The path ended abruptly at the mountain’s base, and Sulfur could just make out what looked like toe-holds worn into the

sandstone. “Any idea where this gravity assist is?”

Rocket emitted a puzzled noise, and Zest pulled up her map for what

seemed like the fiftieth time. “I can’t find the cave entrance.”

“Why don’t you fly us up there, Zest?” Misha’s voice was thready with

exhaustion. “Sulfur can ride shotgun.”

Sulfur could tell from the way Rocket set their shoulders that the bot

wasn’t pleased at seeing Misha treat his partner like a Mount. It wasn’t as if

people didn’t ride on each other’s backs at Spider when necessary—

sometimes travel was easiest on a mountable drone or moose. Nearly all

their vehicles were people too. But Rocket was still carrying the heavy load

of their memories from La Ronge, where Mounts couldn’t choose who rode

them and vessels had to accept all travelers without question. Zest didn’t notice Rocket’s hesitation. “Sure, we can do that. The cloud

cover is getting pretty thick, though. It might not be a great idea to enter the

city from the air when nobody is expecting us.”

“Have you picked up any signals, Rocket?” Sulfur touched their

partner’s arm, which looked dull in the misty gloom. As if conjured by Sulfur’s question, there came the unmistakable buzz of

the drone again, like a swarm of bees fast over their heads. This time it was

not mute. “Who are you?

Why are you coming to Angst?” It was a human voice,

spluttering out of a low-quality speaker mounted somewhere on the drone. “Hi there, friend!

We’re ERT rangers, here on a public transit survey

mission!”

“Shit.” The drone hovered in front of them, weaving slightly in the wind. “When I saw you earlier, I was really hoping you were the guys they sent to

repair our gravity assist. We haven’t been able to get up or down for two

weeks, except with ropes.”

The four ERT rangers looked at each other in confusion. Who would

abandon their city builders on a mountaintop?

Obviously, whoever hired

these construction workers cared about them roughly as much as they cared about cesspits. Maybe less, actually, because a good cesspit is the

cornerstone of any decent work site. “We can fly up to meet you,” Rocket said. “Two of us can fly. We can

carry anyone down who requires it.”

Sulfur nodded gratefully to the bot, who nodded back. “Thank you, friends!

We could really use the help.” The drone ascended

toward the summit again, and the person shouted through the receding

speaker. “Please join us for dinner.”

24

EMERALD CITIES

From: Ronnie Drake

To: Misha

Subject: missing data

Date: May 2, 59,706

Origin: Verdance Corporation

Least-cost path: VD Hab Cartier (0.001), Turtle Wormhole (3.2), Tisdale Station (0.9), Sask-E Sat (0.05)

Why am I not getting 360 network readings from you?

I can see your position in

Angst, but all I’ve got are your personal stats and standard sensor readings from your team. Step it up. Do I need to send a remote to keep you on task?

Sulfur knew the plateau stretched north for nearly thirteen klicks from

where they landed, but visibility was so low that they could barely see the

nearest building. Which was an outhouse, painted bright gold and red, on a

road leading to a fuzzy shadow they hoped was a domo or some kind of

dormitory. Misha slid off Zest’s back and gave the cow’s shoulder an

affectionate rub before looking around with visible delight. It was the

happiest they’d seen him the whole trip. “I’m so glad we made it. This will be an excellent vantage point when

the fog burns off tomorrow.”

Sulfur was nonplussed by his enthusiasm. “Sure. But let’s meet the …

residents first.”

The shape ahead resolved itself into a rectangular wooden structure with

a peaked roof, two chimneys poking out of its far end. Even outside, the air

smelled like smoke and roasting green chilis. Zest could barely fit through

the door, which was hastily built to hominin specifications. Once inside, it

was clear why. The room was half-hearth, half-dormitory, with beds hung

from the walls like shelving. Everyone inside was a hominin. There were

about twenty workers sitting at the far end of the room around two long

tables next to a roaring wood fire that heated a range. The tables were fast-biodegradable, already flaking a little bit at the corners, and the fire—well,

it was always hard to see people wasting wood on kindling. Still, the

valuable fuel was heating a large ceramic bowl full of thick stew. Over the

long term, the carbon trade-off wouldn’t be worth it, but right now?

They

were hungry. Sulfur’s mouth began to water. Misha recoiled slightly when he saw the burning wood but hid it well. One of the people stood up and strode across the floor to them with a big

smile splitting their face open. Like all the hominins here, this person was

an H. diversus—a synthetic offshoot of H. sapiens—their forehead sloped

back to a point, their chest wide enough to fit most standard atmosphere

filtration systems. Their limbs were long, with multiple joints working

beneath their padded sleeves. “I’m Slim, using she,” the person said,

extending a hand with two thumbs framing her four fingers. Sulfur grasped Slim’s hand, and realized her fingers were actually

strong, short tentacles. “I’m Sulfur, using they. And this is my team. Rocket, using they. Misha, using he, and Zest, using she.” People who came

from offworld always introduced themselves using gender, and it was polite

to do the same in return. Here on Sasky, pronouns were usually sent

nonverbally. Slim cracked another huge grin and spun theatrically to gesture at the

rest of the people eating behind her. “This is my team!” A few of the people

waved. Sulfur noticed that several of them had multijointed limbs and

tentacles like Slim’s. Some were similar to Zest, with a mix of biological

tissues and machine parts. Many had sloped foreheads, following the latest

fashion from the more popular League worlds. Still, none of them had

gravity mesh under their skin for flight, even though it would have been

convenient. Sulfur guessed that it was simply too expensive. “Help yourself to some stew and join us!”

The four ERT rangers shed their boots and walked past the bunks, over a

rough floor softened by overlapping reed mats. A few drones were folded

up on shelves, clearly powered down; they were machines, not people. Sulfur could tell that the appearances of Zest and Rocket caused a mild stir,

but these Angst workers were probably used to working with all kinds of

people. Nobody said anything rude or stared for too long. “So you’re here to figure out public transit?” It was one of the people

with machine limbs who spoke. Tall and bulky, they had dyed their skin a

dark, burnished gold, which merged seamlessly into their chromed parts. “That’s Ace, using they,” Slim said. “They’re our urban planner.”

Rocket sat down next to Ace while Sulfur and Misha spooned stew into

some bowls and Slim ducked into a side room to fetch some grain for Zest. The bot turned their smooth, featureless face to the gold-skinned

hominin. “Verdance wants us to figure out how to link all the cities, but

we’re just getting started. Do you have any ideas?”

“We just got started too, as you can see.” The left side of Ace’s mouth

twitched in a half-smile. “But obviously we don’t want everyone to rely on

the gravity lift. Something mechanical would be better.”

“An elevator?” Zest mused. Ace turned to Slim, who had squeezed in on the other side of the table. “What do you think?

Would Emerald like an elevator?”

Slim’s shoulders shook with laughter. “I’m pretty sure they would call it

ugly. Messes up the branding. The Emerald developers are obsessed with

making this place look like some picture of a nature reserve they found in a

travel guide.”

“What’s Emerald?

Are they funding this city?”

Ace guffawed. “You don’t know about Emerald?”

“We can’t go offworld, and as you might have noticed we don’t have a

lot of access to the public networks here.” Rocket whirled a finger in the air,

indicating the lack of signal. “Right. Well, they’re one of the biggest developers in the League—

something like a trillion pure biologicals live in their space habitats. But

Emerald Corp also owns a lot of real estate on planets. Mostly for farming,

but some tourism too. From what I can tell, Angst is going to be for

ecotourists from their cruise ships.”

“We’re always the last to know about these things.” Misha looked up

from his bowl. “Where will you go when the city is finished?”

“I’m slaved to Emerald, so … hopefully I can get them to give me

another post down here. I like planets.”

“What about you, Slim?”

“I dunno.” She played with her spoon. “Some of us are talking about

staying. Heading out west, to Spider. I heard they have their own

government and you can become a citizen if you work.”

Sulfur’s mouth stung pleasantly from spices in the stew. “Sure you can,

though you’d have to apply to the Council and talk to everybody.” Seeing

Slim’s startled expression, they added, “We’re from Spider City—Rocket

and I.”

“How did Spider City get all its swag?

All the labs and machines?”

“I guess you could say we … laid claim to what was already ours.”

“You stole them?”

“Some might see it that way. But our ancestors were using it under a

legal contract. That’s how we built all the continents and jump-started the

biosphere.” The Archaean laughed. “And it’s not like anybody asked us to

give it back.”

Ace pounded the table appreciatively, and Sulfur noticed that their pale

hair also glittered with flecks of gold. “I like the way you explained that,

friend. Now I’m definitely going to ask for another post down here when

Angst is done.”

“But I thought you were slaved to Emerald?” Sulfur was confused. “Are

there other Emerald cities down here?”

Ace and Slim glanced nervously at each other, but finally Slim spoke. “Oh yeah. Pretty much every city on the Comfort Sea. All these cities

around here are Emerald, and the farmland too.”

Now it was the rangers’ turn to exchange looks. Misha spoke up first. “When did that happen?

I thought these cities were all owned by different

groups. They were fifty years ago, last time I checked in.”

Ace nodded. “Probably they were, fifty years ago. But Emerald bought

everybody out. They did it on Gleise 581c too, right after the first settlers

got it rotating again.”

“Yeah, I remember that.” Slim frowned. “Huge land grab after it wasn’t

tidally locked anymore. A few of the original settlers got rich, but most of

them—well, let’s just say they couldn’t afford to live on the planet they

terraformed.”

Sulfur leaned back from the table and looked up at the ceiling. The roof

beams were properly sun-cured; the thatch was woven tightly together,

waterproofed with epoxies. Though the wood fuel was a waste, the hearth

itself was well ventilated and clean. Everything here, from the lathing of the

tables to the placement of the windows, was a marvel of fine engineering—

humble, but strong and sustainable. In it, Sulfur recognized the familiar

templates for habitation that La Ronge had been given by Verdance—and

which Spider City had modified for their own uses. The only thing missing,

as Slim suggested, was the swag. But if Angst didn’t have machines and

labs, how were they growing those trellises?

They were about to ask, but people were already picking up their bowls

and clearing off the table. “Time for bed—we rise early.” Slim wiped her

mouth and stood. “You can sleep on the floor in here, if you want.”

“We have tents.”

By the time they left the warm domo, several of the Angst workers were

already snoring in their bunks. Though it was chilly and wet outside, there

were strips of glowing moss hanging from a broken trellis a few meters to

the west, and by that yellow-green light they raked together a pile of

cellulose shavings as a cushion and pitched a tent for Misha and Sulfur over

top of it. Rocket took off to fly the perimeter of the city, and Zest was happy

to sleep outside under blankets, drowsing on her feet as the meal she’d

eaten made its way through her stomachs. As the walls of the tent went rigid, radiating a dry warmth, Sulfur

quickly stripped down and jammed inside the delicious heat of their bedroll. Squashing their coveralls into a pillow shape, they tried to ignore Misha

half a meter away in his thermal bodysuit. Something about the way he

moved conveyed more than exhaustion. His hands skipped around oddly,

rarely touching any surface for more than a few seconds, and sometimes he

yanked his fingers back into the curled shape of a fist that seemed more

protective than aggressive. Settling into his sleeping bag, he let out a soft

whimper of pain. Sulfur didn’t like Misha much, but they felt a pulse of sympathy. “Are

you OK?”

“I’ll be OK after I rest. It’s just—the sensors, you know. They can be

overwhelming when we’re out in the field all day.” The LEDs knitted into

the tent fibers winked out and for a few long seconds they breathed together

in darkness. “What do you mean—the sensors?” Sulfur was put out. “You didn’t do

any sample analysis.”

“There are sensors everywhere, and I can feel them. I don’t deal with it

as well as Destry did. They built me from a new template, which was

supposed to make me more sensitive than she was. But when I touch the

sensor network, I get too involved. I follow it out as far as I can, and I feel

—everything. Birds migrating through a dangerous storm. Worms dying in

a flash flood. A month ago, I accidentally linked to a burning tree, and it

felt like my skin was being chewed off for days. My health therapist calls it

a sensory processing disorder, but Ronnie insists it’s an upgrade. My

receivers can touch nodes for a thousand klicks around, which is perfect for

network analysis. Only—I can’t shut it off. It can get really painful.”

Sulfur recalled how Misha walked quietly all day, usually with hands in

his pockets. Now it made sense. The whole time, he’d been trying not to

overextend. “I didn’t realize,” they said. “You know, you don’t have to be monitoring

all the time. We get plenty of data from our reads too.”

He sighed. “I know. But you can’t perceive the whole network. How the

trees speak to the fungus wrapped around their roots, which speaks to the

minerals in the soil, which speaks to the rivers, and so on. It’s my job to

monitor ecosystems as a whole. I’m the only person at La Ronge with this

configuration. After Destry died—well, everyone needs me to do her job

and mine too.”

They faced each other, two dark lumps inside the bigger dark lump of

the tent. Sulfur was starting to understand why he was Verdance’s right-

hand man. “Is that why you report directly to Ronnie?”

“Yeah. It’s also why I asked Zest to work with me in the field, even

though her main expertise is bioengineering back at the labs. She modified

her skin to shed sensors, so I never feel anything when she carries me. She’s

saved me more than once when it got really bad.”

“So you took Zest off her regular work because you needed a Mount

without sensors?”

Misha rasped out a cough. “That’s not how it is. She’s brilliant in the

field. And she doesn’t mind helping a friend—I’d do the same for her.”

Sulfur wasn’t sure that was true, but remembered what Rocket had said

earlier about going easy on him. Instead of arguing, they closed their eyes. “Goodnight, Misha.”

He tugged the sleeping bag over his head so his voice came out muffled. “Goodnight, Sulfur.”

25

SINKHOLE

From: Ronnie Drake

To: Misha

Subject: waste of time

Date: May 3, 59,706

Origin: Verdance Corporation

Least-cost path: VD Hab Cartier (0.001), Turtle Wormhole (3.2), Tisdale Station (0.9), Sask-E Sat (0.05)

Get out of Angst and take that team of stupid savages with you to Lefthand. We’ve got

plenty of data from the area now, and we aren’t contractually obligated to connect transit to towns. Focus on cities. Sulfur smelled breakfast before they could perceive dawn’s light. Coffee

and something fried with onions. It seemed like there was a wide range of

food up here, so the Angst workers must have been getting produce from

the inland farms before their gravity assist broke. Sitting up to pull on

coveralls, they were surprised to see that Misha was already gone, his

bedroll strapped tightly to a pack on the floor. The fog was burning off quickly. Climbing out of the tent, Sulfur could

see most of the flat mountaintop. The land was graded and gridded for

streets that cut between new plots of deciduous forest, their roots embedded

in soils that muffled the tepui’s old ragged stones where wild pitcher plants

once guzzled bugs. It wasn’t an ideal ecosystem for this place, though

probably the Emerald tourists wouldn’t know the difference. With enough

maintenance, they’d be able to keep it up for a few centuries. Long enough

to make some money. The trellises rose over everything—bones for the

materials that would grow into floors, windows, water and energy systems. Right now the city was still unreal, a 3-D blueprint of domes and spires

surrounded by low-density residential neighborhoods. Toward the northern end of the plateau was an enormous sinkhole, which

some Archaean had carefully engineered thousands of years ago by shooting underground rivers through the recently cooled continental crust. The four-hundred-meter-wide maw looked incredible—cool and mysterious

and full of its own specific forest ecosystem. And of course, the broken

gravity assist. Not surprisingly, that’s what everybody was talking about

when Sulfur walked into the domo for breakfast. Over a pile of corn cakes flecked with onions and peppers, the ERT team

was hashing out the day’s plans with Slim and Ace. “If you can lower our

goods down the sinkhole, we can get our cars and make it out to Lefthand

for our weekly supplies.”

Rocket tilted their head. “What do you need taken down the sinkhole?”

“A little under five tonnes of quartzite we mined when we graded the

place. Can you handle it?”

“We can do it in a few loads. I assume your people want a ride too?”

Ace recoiled slightly. “We have a rope ladder. We don’t want Mounts.”

Sulfur nodded approvingly, then realized the flaw in their plan. “How are

you going to get back up here?

We can’t stay for long.”

“By the time we get back, Emerald will definitely have fixed

everything.” Slim’s sarcasm wasn’t exactly subtle. It was obvious that she

didn’t think the gravity assist would be working any time soon. Misha frowned. “Do you have any idea when it will be fixed?

You can’t

live here without a fast way to get to ground, where there’s food and

emergency response.” He touched the soft fur on Zest’s neck. “Maybe the

ERT could send someone down. I’m sure it’s just a matter of making some

new parts.”

Zest flicked her white-tipped ear in assent. “I don’t think anyone would

care if an engineer came over for a couple days.”

Ace stiffened. “It’s fine. Emerald will come eventually. We have a crank

to pull up our supplies, and if something really bad happens, Lefthand can

send a ship here in less than an hour.”

“OK, but it’s no trouble.”

Ace gazed levelly at them. “If the gravity is fixed, it will look like we

used some of Emerald’s materials to build replacement parts. You see?

We’ll have to pay for it.”

“But you can just show them La Ronge sent a—”

Slim held up a hand to silence Misha. “If they think we took something

from La Ronge, that causes a bunch of legal problems with those shitcastles

who own Verdance. I get that you’re trying to help, but Emerald wants us to

do things a certain way, and if we don’t—well, I don’t get paid.”

“And they could sell me into a gig offworld.” Ace sighed. “Just like

Verdance will toss you lot to the lowest bidder if you spend all day barfing

rainbows instead of building your public transit elevators.”

Misha shook his head slowly. “I don’t think Verdance would ever sell

anyone away from La Ronge. Everyone they build is for a very specific

purpose, and they own the germline. If it doesn’t work out, it’s probably

cheaper to kill me and build someone else.”

Slim grunted in sympathy. “All the more reason to stick to the rules,

OK?”

“Sure.”

An hour later, Sulfur and Slim watched as Ace slowly made their way

down the ladder, pausing to rest on outcroppings crowded with trees and

ferns. At the bottom of the sinkhole, the Emerald workers had cleared a

small parking lot for a flatbed truck and three rugged cars, which they

would drive out through an ancient underground riverbed they’d enlarged

into a massive tunnel. Piled next to Sulfur was the quartzite. The rock was

mostly powder, packed into foil-wrapped bricks; there were also a few nets

of pulverized stones the size of a hominin fist. Three of the construction

workers had come with Slim to help load them into sacks that Zest and

Rocket could float down. Though Slim and Ace spoke a language that

Sulfur understood, the other workers chattered in one they’d never heard

before. It must have been a smaller language that didn’t exist in the Spider

archives. The Spider City humanities team had been adding more languages

as new people migrated to the planet over the past several centuries, but

there were always more. Sulfur recorded a brief sound file of the

conversation to send home later. Misha and Zest already had the workers’ language, which made sense—

La Ronge almost certainly had access to a bigger library than Spider did. The Archaean looked out over the tropical forests as Misha got into a very

serious-sounding conversation with one of the people stacking bricks. In the far distance, Sulfur could see the curve of beach where they had been

walking yesterday morning. With magnification, they glimpsed the towers

and sprawling suburbs of Lefthand along the Comfort Sea. It was hard to

imagine applying typical transit specs to this landscape, where people

needed to cross water and air, as well as some seriously rough terrain on

land. With the rocks packed away, Misha came to stand beside Sulfur and

pulled out his binoculars too. Sulfur was about to say something tart, but the

words were wiped from their mind by a scream echoing out of the sinkhole,

followed by a ground-shaking thud. The two rangers raced to its edge,

where one of the workers was waving their arms and yelling in the language

Sulfur didn’t understand. With binoculars still activated, it was easy for Sulfur to see what was

happening. Ace dangled from an outcropping by their hands, one leg looped

around the ladder and the other kicking wildly in the air, seeking purchase. Rocket had dropped their load—hence the thud—and was shooting up to

grab the urban planner. “Hold on!

I got you!” Rocket was yelling, and the Angst people were

yelling back in their language. Misha grabbed Sulfur’s hand for balance as

he looked over the edge, then snatched it back with a gasp. “What—what are you wired for?” His eyes were wide. It was hard to concentrate on his ambiguous question when people were

in danger. Below them, Rocket clasped Ace in their arms and gently pulled

them away from the crumbling rock. Still in shock, Ace wouldn’t let go of

the ladder with their leg and Sulfur could hear the bot murmuring to Ace to

relax, it was over, they were going to float down just like in a regular

gravity assist. Slowly Ace disentangled their leg and Rocket carried them

down to the split-open bag of quartzite dust. “Sorry, what were you asking?” Sulfur turned back to Misha. “Your hand—I’m sorry to grab it like that—but you have network

interfaces in it. I’ve never felt that before.”

“We don’t use much wireless at Spider, so we interface with the network

by touch. Old habits, from the days when we didn’t want to leak signal.”

Sulfur pointed at the sky, whose deep daytime blue hid distant satellites. Misha stared at Sulfur intensely for a second, his black irises a chaos of

reflections, then broke eye contact. “I didn’t know that about Archaea. We

have something in common, then.”

It was the first time Sulfur had ever heard an H. sapiens say “Archaea”

instead of “first settlers” or “Spider people.” They monitored Misha

surreptitiously as he watched Zest carry the last load of rocks down. Morning sun played over his thick, tousled hair, and concern deepened the

curve of his upper lip. Sulfur realized they were staring at him a little too

long, but the H. sapiens didn’t notice. He knelt to run fingers over ragged

grass at the sinkhole’s edge and closed his eyes. At that moment, when they

knew he was reaching out with his mind to touch the ecosystem bursting

out of the planet’s collapsed crust, Sulfur realized that Misha was beautiful. Immediately they pulled back from the thought, the way Misha had yanked

his hand away from theirs. It was wrong for all kinds of personal and

professional reasons—he was literally the eyes and ears of Verdance on

Sasky, and even if he weren’t, Sulfur didn’t want to be horny for an H. sapiens from La Ronge. His people—his mentor, Destry—had locked their

people into a treaty that made them slaves for two months out of the year. Rocket alighted next to them, emitting a whistle of anxiety. “That was

close. I hate that these people have to live up here without any way to get

down except that turd-eating ladder.”

Misha opened his eyes and stood up shakily. “When it’s working, the

gravity assist is going to kill off the last of that sinkhole forest down there. Too many people walking around, wrecking the soil.”

Zest’s head poked up over the edge of the sinkhole. “Hey, friends. I think

we should travel with Ace into Lefthand. They’re shaken up, and I wouldn’t

mind catching a ride on that truck with them anyway. We can get samples

on the roads and see how people are getting around.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Sulfur was eager for any course of action that led

away from thoughts about Misha’s pretty lips. “Let’s get our stuff.”

26

THE SUBURBS

From: Ronnie Drake

To: Misha

Subject: port

Date: May 3, 59,706

Origin: Verdance Corporation

Least-cost path: VD Hab Cartier (0.001), Turtle Wormhole (3.2), Tisdale Station (0.9), Sask-E Sat (0.05)

Another thing. Emerald is pushing for early access to our plans for transit around the

port, so it would be great if you could get me something in the next couple of days. It shouldn’t be too hard. We can off-load ferry transit to ship operators and hospitality companies—they’ll continue to package ferry service with their other services. We just need to get people from the ferry terminals to the cities, leaving the smallest footprint. I’m leaning toward standing-only trains—strictly for hominins, of course. Maximize the use of space. People won’t need room for luggage, other than a personal pack or two. They’ll buy what they need in the city, and construction materials are always delivered right to the site. Though Ace had been loud and effusive back at the Angst domo, they were

withdrawn on the drive to Lefthand. Zest and Rocket flew overhead while

Sulfur and Misha bounced beside Ace in the truck’s cab. It felt wrong to be

inside a vehicle that could drive itself but not talk or make its own

decisions. Ace gave it their destination, and the truck drove down to the

coast on a freshly extruded road through dense jungle. Sulfur looked over at the muscular city planner, whose skin and cropped

hair sparkled with gold dust, and tried to make conversation. “Did your

team make this road?”

“Naw. It was here when we arrived—Emerald has been paving some

roads between cities, to make it easier for us to get to Lefthand. They drop

our supplies at the port there.”

“Are you getting a lot of stuff from offworld?

Why don’t you make it

here?”

Ace shot them a look and grunted. “We get food here. But Emerald sends

us all the trellis kits. Today I’m getting our first batch of cob precursors to

plant, now that the trellises are almost hard. Those buildings will be

covered in nice smooth walls in about three weeks.”

“What will you do with the quartzite?”

“Sell it for booze.”

“Won’t Emerald find out?”

“They don’t care if we’re drunk as long as we do our jobs.”

“No, I meant—won’t they be upset if you are selling their quartzite?”

Ace made a long farting noise with their lips. “Nope. Free rocks are one

of the main perks of the gig.”

Sulfur wasn’t sure what to say to that. Misha ignored their small talk and gazed at the strip of asphalt ahead,

leading the truck into a tunnel carved through spiny, tangled branches of

undergrowth. He frowned, then broke his silence. “Ronnie thinks we can

build a one-size-fits-all solution for these cities. All based on specs and

templates from the Verdance playbook.”

Sulfur couldn’t figure out whether he was criticizing Verdance or

earnestly reciting its rules. “They have a template for everything, don’t

they?” they replied, trying to sound neutral. “You know what Ronnie keeps suggesting?

Trains. She said everybody

loves trains, and we can lay biodegradable track across the whole continent. Legally speaking, Verdance only has to provide a single method of public

transit linking major centers.”

Ace snorted. “Major centers?

That means you can skip Angst, I guess. Figures Verdance doesn’t give a shit about us.”

“Yep. If we build with tracks, Angst will be permanently left out of the

intersettlement transit network. Unless a private company decides to build

more track, which is a bureaucratic nightmare to coordinate. So I don’t see

that happening.” Misha looked at Sulfur as he spoke, and the Archaean felt

a surge of regret for what they said yesterday about how nobody lived in

Angst. Soon they were driving alongside a wide strip of mangrove trees that

began at the shoreline and waded into the water. The ERT had planted mangroves everywhere along the southern coasts because they were like

carbon sink machines, scrubbing the air with semiexposed root systems that

made the trees appear to stand on spider legs. Sulfur wondered when this

road had been sprayed down, and who had cut this truck-sized tunnel

through the forest. It must have been in the past few months. Did Emerald

have a Boring Fleet that was as mute and obedient as this truck?

The

thought was horrifying. As they got farther from Angst, Ace’s mood seemed to lighten. “What

are you going to do in Lefthand, anyway?” they asked. “We want to see how it’s connected to the other cities, to get an idea of

what kind of transit people need.”

“It’s the Emerald cities’ hub, that’s for sure. All the roads are connected

to it.”

“I’ve never been.” Misha stuck his hand out the window, and Sulfur

wondered if he was interfacing with airborne sensors. “There are already a lot of people living there—maybe a million.”

Misha nodded. “I’ve heard that. I guess it’s a glimpse of what Sasky will

look like in five hundred years.”

“I doubt it.” Ace rounded a curve and suddenly the forest was gone,

replaced by hectares of farmland as far as they could see—even out into the

ocean, where aquaculture had corralled the shifting shapes of the shoreline

into tidy squares. “I give it less than a century before you won’t recognize a

single place on this whole planet.” They laughed, and the burnished skin of

their cheeks dimpled and softened. “Oh, and there it is—see?

That’s the

Lefthand ziggurat.”

Sulfur looked through their binoculars and the distant geometry of the

skyline jumped toward them, a massive terraced pyramid looming over the

downtown plazas. Nearby, tumbled-block high-rises looked like monstrous

termite mounds crawling with pink tentacles, golden flags, and holographic

reenactments of popular stories. A blue jaguar jumped from one mound to

the next, its body occasionally dissolving into the illegible but iconic logo

for Verdance’s parent company. Maybe Ace was right. The place was

already unrecognizable. Rocket flew down to window level and emitted a few bars of dance

music before speaking. “Lefthand is having some kind of celebration today. I caught some of their radio transmissions.”

Ace shook their head and grinned. “That’s Lefthand. They’ll have a

parade this afternoon. We probably won’t get to see it, but we’ll definitely

be in time for the feast and parties.”

“What’s the occasion?” Misha was puzzled. “Like I said, that’s Lefthand. Parties are their brand. It’s great for

business—but more important for me, it’s good for cheap booze.”

Out in the fields, Sulfur could see hundreds of people working—testing

soil, tweaking sun barriers, reading sensors, tending machines that planted,

harvested, and packaged. It was impossible to figure out all the crops

growing here, which was a good sign. Emerald’s agriculturalists weren’t

going full monoculture. They’d planted a diversity of food crops, as well as

rubber trees, flax, and coffee. There were luxuries, too: a field of lavender

grew next to a big plot of tobacco. Soon they were in the outskirts of the city, where low-density ranch

homes and garden-shrouded castles formed an areola of habitation around

the gigantic erect nipple of downtown. More and more people were walking

in the road, some with satchels or wagons, others with little more than

Emerald-branded tracksuits. The truck slowed to a crawl, trying to weave

between pedestrians as safely as possible. Everyone was headed to

Lefthand. “Where is everybody coming from?” Misha had pulled up a document

only he could see, and his fingers twitched as he took a few notes. “Some are coming in from the fields, but mostly from the port. You can’t

see it from here, but there’s a road from the docks that merged with this one

about a klick behind us.” As if to illustrate Ace’s point, a saucer-shaped

ship swept upward from the coast with a burst of displaced air. Though it

was probably five klicks away, it still sent a slight shiver through the

densely wooded suburbs around them. “They usually dock over the water

and come ashore in boats.”

Sulfur watched a big group of pedestrians, H. diversus with every

possible configuration of limbs, skull shapes, and skin textures, chatting excitedly while a mountable drone carried their luggage. Their first thought

was that these people should be using high-speed rail to get from the port to

Lefthand. But then they began to muse about where all these visitors had

come from, and what they hoped to find here. Was Lefthand their first stop

before heading up to La Ronge or one of the many other cities-in-progress?

Were they tourists on a pleasure tour of undeveloped planets, or scammers

drawn to a city whose laws were still in flux?

No matter what they were,

they weren’t owners—Verdance mandated that everyone buy an H. sapiens

body if they wanted to live on Sasky. It was part of the sales pitch. Settle on

virgin Pleistocene land, with your pure H. sapiens neighbors, reliving the

glory days of Earth. By now the road was so densely packed that the truck was driving at the

leisurely walking pace of a hominin. Sulfur turned to Ace, who had pulled a

cigarette out of a pocket and was trying to light it with a tiny glowing

button attached to a wire. “Who are these people?

Are they all workers?”

“You know the types—debtors and dreamers. Trying to make money or

blow it.” They exhaled out a long stream of smoke and swatted Sulfur’s

shoulder lightly with the back of a chapped golden hand. “Ask me how I

know.”

“Is that how you came here?”

“In a way. I took out a loan to go to Kostof University on Venus, one of

the top schools in the system. I figured I’d get a gig no problem. But that

was back during the land rush, before wormhole travel got so expensive,

you know?

Everybody and their nibling wanted to work in the new cities. There was no way I was going to pay off my college debt. I was lucky to

get slaved under pretty decent terms. Some of my cohort wound up—well,

let’s just say they aren’t partying in a fresh city on a pretty planet like this.”

Ace took another drag on the cigarette and gave Sulfur an openly

appraising look that brought a blush to the ranger’s pale cheeks. “How

about you, Archaean?

What’s it like to be born in a place like this, knowing

you’ll have a job for life?”

“It’s—well, honestly, it’s not great. We have this treaty—” Sulfur was

winding up to tell the whole story of Spider’s vomit-soaked treaty with Verdance when the truck hit something in the road and a string of curses

erupted from an H. sapiens in a long floral dress trimmed with lace. “Just because I put my pack down doesn’t mean it’s junk!

You can’t go

around driving over everything in this fucking street!”

The truck stopped and Misha jumped out the door. “I’m terribly sorry. Is

it damaged?”

When the H. sapiens saw another of their kind, they stopped screeching

and put a hand on a hip. “I’m Jeannie, using she. And yes, you’ve damaged

it.”

“I’m Misha, using he. Let’s see now.” He knelt down and disappeared

below the front of the truck along with Jeannie, who was saying something

inaudible in a scolding voice. Ace rolled their eyes at Sulfur and made a gesture like they were going

to chuck the cigarette butt out the window at the woman. Even though Ace

was probably joking, Sulfur couldn’t stop themselves from snatching the

charred bit of carbon out of Ace’s hand, meaning to shove it into the waste

pocket of their coveralls for proper disposal later. But Ace quickly grabbed

Sulfur’s wrist, stopping their hand in midair, causing them to drop the

crumbling ashes and paper. “You love this planet, don’t you?” Ace teased. “You’re such a

wholesome little ranger. You should come out with me tonight and get some

dirt on that carbon-neutral conscience of yours.” Ace loosened their grip

and used a thumb to stroke the soft, sensitive pad where Sulfur’s thumb met

their palm. The Archaean’s color rose again, and suddenly their coveralls

were too tight. Ace’s caress felt almost too good. This was supposed to be a

work trip. Of course, technically Sulfur didn’t work with Ace. They would

probably never see each other again after parting ways at Lefthand. And it

had been a long time since Sulfur had an uncomplicated hookup with

someone who wasn’t already a friend or neighbor in Spider City. Struggling to keep their breathing even, Sulfur slipped out of Ace’s grip

and grinned at the H. diversus whose bulky shoulders belied the gentleness

of their touch. “I wouldn’t mind seeing the sights with you tonight.”

“It’s a date, ranger.”

That’s when they noticed Rocket peering in the window. “You two going

to help get this thing out of the way?”

Ace’s proposition had wiped the entire drama out of Sulfur’s mind, and

now they could see that Zest had also landed. They scrambled out into the

road, where a small crowd had gathered to watch. Apparently Jeannie had

been dragging a pallet of supplies to build a house—boxes of trellis seeds,

jugs of precursor, hardened crates full of vials whose contents would grow

into decorative paint, water-filtration biofilms, and who knows what else. Though one edge of the pallet was crushed, the containers were intact. Everything was stamped with the bronze V that meant she’d gotten a

relatively low-quality starter kit from Verdance. Still, she was better off

than almost everyone else on this road. Louder, too. “Get your Mount to pull this to my lot for me. It’s the least you could

do.” Jeannie had obviously decided Misha was the group’s leader, since he

was the only H. sapiens here. She spoke exclusively to him, though her

eyes often slid nervously over to the rest of them. Misha sighed and shot Zest an apologetic look. “Where is your lot?”

“West quadrant. About a half kilometer from here, off the main road.”

Ace stepped out from behind Misha, casting a bulky shadow. “Why

don’t we load it up on my truck and give you a ride home?

Sound good,

ma’am?”

Jeannie looked at Misha, making a big show of still being put out. “I

suppose that’s the very least you could do.”

Ace glanced back at Sulfur and winked. “No problem, ma’am. We’ll get

this done nice and quick because we feel awful bad about inconveniencing

someone as important as yourself.”

Jeannie didn’t pick up on Ace’s sarcasm. She flounced into the cab and

waved goodbye to the rubberneckers, as if they’d stopped out of concern

rather than the urge to hate watch. “I’m fine. They’re giving me a ride. Thanks for your help.”

The truck dropped Jeannie by the side of a less-trafficked road, next to

the enriched soil of her rectangular plot. Without a thank you, she bent over

to unbox her trellis seeds and started throwing them everywhere. Ace watched in the rearview mirror. “Her house is going to look like a

compost heap full of rotting flesh.”

Sulfur giggled. Misha had put on a headset with goggles to immerse himself in some

Verdance work while Zest and Rocket relaxed on the flatbed behind them,

next to the piles of rock. Sulfur stared at the fine hair on Ace’s thick golden

arms, watching muscles flex as they peeled an apple with a shard of

obsidian epoxied to a trellis cutting. Sulfur’s coveralls were getting tight

again. Ace met their gaze and held out a slice of apple. “You want it, little

ranger?” they whispered. Nobody in the truck was watching. Sulfur ate it

out of Ace’s fingers. They hadn’t realized how hungry they were. 27

THE TONGUE FORKS

From: Ronnie Drake

To: Misha

Subject: schedule

Date: May 3, 59,706

Origin: Verdance Corporation

Least-cost path: VD Hab Cartier (0.001), Turtle Wormhole (3.2), Tisdale Station (0.9), Sask-E Sat (0.05)

I still haven’t heard back from you. You’ve got 7 weeks left, and I need you to step it

up. Your must list: Lefthand, Kokowadoko, Changeling, Moundville, Hudson, Wapawekka, Lungs, Wasakeejack. I want to see you working like a dog to get me every shred of data that supports train tracks between these cities. They made it into Lefthand by late afternoon and used Misha’s Verdance

account to rent some rooms in the north quadrant, where the trees were

plentiful and there was a place for Ace to park the truck. It was a couple

klicks back into downtown, and before Ace left to sell the rocks, they

pressed an address into Sulfur’s hand. The Archaean imagined that they

could feel Ace’s data entering their body, the map coordinates sliding into

memory the same way Ace’s thumb had slid over the tender skin of their

palm. Rocket stood next to Sulfur, watching Ace drive away. “I couldn’t help

but notice that you are horny for that urban planner.” They tootled a few

bars of jazzy bass. Sulfur slapped their forehead and laughed. “I’ve never really been good

at subtlety, have I?”

The bot’s torso moved in a shrug that turned their carapace a shimmering

lavender. “It’s definitely not your strong suit. Let’s put our bags inside so

you can get your hominin mating ritual over with.”

Misha was already working at a table next to the kitchen cubby, and Zest

stood in the great room, eating from a hay bale that they’d picked up at a farmer’s market on the way to the rental. Everyone would have some

privacy tonight—there were four bedrooms, and a generously sized floor

charger where Rocket could top up just in case it was cloudy. Sulfur tossed

their pack into an unclaimed room and ran their hands along the walls,

looking for an interface. “Everything is wireless.” Misha had taken off his headset and wore his

usual tired expression. “It’s about as helpful as a cesspit in rain.” He patted

the tabletop. “Access point is here.”

Sulfur could tune wireless with their sender and receiver, but it always

felt strange, like trying to talk around a mouthful of beans. Grumpy, they

slid into a chair next to Misha and connected to the local network. Garbled

transmissions vied for their attention and were instantly blocked by a portal

asking for Sulfur’s creds to access Lefthand and all licensed properties

associated with the city. They groaned. “You got to the restrictions, huh?” Misha snorted. “Emerald gets a

discount on anything they license from those goons who own Verdance, so

you have to sign a million contracts before you can even look at the

skyline.”

Remembering the blue jaguar hologram that jumped over Lefthand’s

rooftops, the Archaean nodded with growing recognition. This was an

entertainment city, designed to pull in tourists and potential owners. Of

course Emerald would want to stock it with all the latest music, stories,

games, and styles—and Verdance’s parent company could provide all that. They held the League’s biggest archive of intellectual property, as well as a

massive stable of slaved creators whose dance moves you could get for free

at one of Lefthand’s many branded nightclubs. Sulfur swiped their

identifiers into the first contract, then poked through six more before they

could get weather and traffic information. “How are we ever going to set up public transit for a city where you

can’t even get a pedestrian map without paying?

There are a thousand

reasons why somebody might need to catch a train here without ever

consuming a piece of IP.”

Lounging on the charger, hands tucked behind their head, Rocket emitted

a series of bird whistles, followed by a sardonic reading from one of the contracts. “By playing your audio files within the boundaries of Lefthand,

you acknowledge that Emerald may use your sounds in advertisements,

entertainment, or original stories.”

“Are they going to use our fart noises too?” Sulfur let out a particularly

wet raspberry, spraying the side of Misha’s face. “Enjoy your IP, Emerald!”

“The corporation appreciates your creative output.” Misha grinned and

wiped his cheek. “Speaking of which, we should divvy up tasks. We can’t

stay here for long—Ronnie sent me a list of cities she thinks are key places

to visit, so I’m integrating them into our spreadsheet. We’re barely going to

have time to hit all of them before we get to Spider.”

Sulfur wasn’t interested in Ronnie’s efforts to micromanage their

fieldwork. “I’m going to take the afternoon to walk downtown and take

notes on current mobility options in the city.”

The H. sapiens pursed his lips, making his whole face unpleasant. “It’s

our duty to do this, Sulfur. We need to supply this data, and fast, so we can

meet our contractual obligations.”

Sometimes Misha almost seemed like a friend on the team, and

sometimes—like now—he sounded like a Verdance spokesman. “You mean

Verdance’s contractual obligations,” they said. “I’ll bring back some data

for your weekly report, don’t worry. But I’m also taking the evening off to

go on a date.”

“Date?” Misha was startled. “Hominins.” Zest tossed her head. “Always doing their thing, even when

it’s a huge waste of time.”

But Sulfur didn’t hear them. They were already yanking on a fresh pair

of coveralls—the nice ones, with black zippers and stretchy cloth that

swirled slowly through several shades of yellow and gray. Misha watched

them race out the door, dark eyes crinkled with disapproval. Though Sulfur did take a certain spiteful pleasure in messing with

Misha’s Verdance-approved plans, they weren’t kidding about gathering

data. Walking to the map coordinates from the north quadrant suburbs was

nightmarish and instructive. Half the roads had no sidewalks, so they had to

walk in the street with all the vehicles—and fully half of those vehicles

didn’t care whether they collided with pedestrians. There were high-density commercial streets that were inaccessible by foot, and low-density

residential areas with broad sidewalks that nobody used. It was a

hodgepodge of ill-conceived messes, as if Emerald’s planners used fifteen

different city templates at the same time. At one point, Sulfur stumbled into

a gated community without realizing it. Self-repairing sidewalks shaded by

tall trees created a pleasant promenade next to restaurants and stores, while

a grassy plaza held tables, benches, and an outdoor stage where a small

group of musicians played to an enthusiastic audience. Residences were

arranged in courtyards around public pools, farm plots, and fire pits. It took

an extra ten minutes to find the neighborhood’s only unlocked exit. Lefthand lacks pedestrian access between the suburbs and downtown

and has no public transit available, Sulfur wrote in their notes, appending

video of what they’d seen so far. How could city planners build like this,

planting whole neighborhoods without ever once considering how people

would get around if they weren’t in a private land vehicle?

Half a klick later, the sidewalk disappeared and they were confronted by

the high-density chaos of downtown. Sulfur stuck as closely as possible to

the street’s edge, dodging people on wheels and vehicles that never

apologized for nearly running them over. Every surface rippled with the

licensed designs they’d agreed to admire without recording anything to

video. The walls of these supertall downtown buildings had been made by

growing netlike trellises a meter apart and then filling the empty space

between with tetrapod blocks that tumbled together into random

interlocking shapes. Once the tetrapods were stable, the trellises evaporated

and left behind nubbly, ultrastrong walls that looked organic and industrial

at the same time. After marveling at them for a while, Sulfur used some

Verdance money to buy a bag of spicy mushroom dumplings. As they walked, they noted possible spots for transit stops—areas that

seemed to be hubs between neighborhoods or places where residential

zones met shopping districts. They still had an hour to kill before meeting Ace, so Sulfur decided to

visit the glowing, throbbing ziggurat at the center of everything. If Ace was

right, this was where every city on Sasky was headed—so they might as

well get used to it. Maybe Spider would be as populous as Lefthand one day. The closer they got, the more crowded the streets were; Sulfur kept

bumping into biceps and shoulders. Barkers called from shop fronts, and

dozens of conversations flew through the air like grit in a sandstorm. The

sidewalk reeked of spilled beer and the unmistakable funk of unripened

trellises. Sulfur could barely breathe. It wasn’t simply the people—a crush of hominins, nearly half H. sapiens

—it was the lack of everyone else. A few robots, all mute and slaved. Nonhuman animals, also mute and leashed, designed to be some

approximation of their Earth ancestors. Low InAss ratings, as they said in

La Ronge. As their thoughts reached a bitter nadir, Sulfur looked up and

realized that they’d reached the road that ringed the ziggurat. The marble

terraces and ramps and spires throbbing in every color had seemed exciting

at a distance, but up close they could see soft spots in its high walls—more

signs of a hasty construction with unripe trellises. Engineers would have

their hands full keeping this monument from crumbling in a decade. “Hey, honey. It’s me, your favorite Earthman, with another drink.” An H. sapiens careened into the person next to Sulfur, who made a disgusted face. The Earthman turned to Sulfur and shrugged elaborately. “Women!

Once

you marry them, you can’t do anything with them!

Right?”

Another H. sapiens behind her guffawed. “Truth!

But hey, once you buy

the cow, at least the milk is free!”

Appalled, Sulfur unwedged their body from between the two human men

and scanned for an exit. Beyond the roundabout street that ringed the

ziggurat, they spotted a narrow, shady alley with empty tables on its

sidewalks. They pushed toward it through what felt like a thousand round,

hairless blobs of hominin features. Panting, they reached the alley mouth and stepped onto a street made

from packed earth. It was cooler here in the shadows cast by two tall

residential buildings whose walls had been properly proven before plaster

and paint grew over them. Sulfur walked for a block, until the pedestrians

were as sparse as the ones in a Spider City corridor. The scent of coffee and

fresh bread wafted out of a broad doorway to their right and Sulfur swerved

inside, reveling in the sense of home they felt in the airy, enclosed space. Inhaling appreciatively, they ordered a coffee, sitting alone at a table in the

nearly empty room until it was time to meet Ace a few blocks away. Ace’s map coordinates led Sulfur down another alley and straight to

a theater whose double doors were set inside the yawning red mouth of a

giant plaster snake head. THE TONGUE FORKS was scrawled in glowing paint

overhead, the letters written in a popular graffiti style that was almost

certainly not a licensed font. Nearly every storefront they’d seen that day

had been smeared with Emerald branding—and the brands it had licensed

through Verdance. Not THE TONGUE FORKS, though. Sulfur pushed

through the heavy doors and into a dim room that seemed to go on forever. On their right was a long bar grown partly from quartzite, its polished

surface glittering slightly from hologram emitters sunk into little wells that

generated votive flames. A lone mixologist puttered in front of a mirrored

wall crowded with shelves of stoppered amphorae while a few patrons

sipped from glass tumblers. But the bar was hardly the room’s centerpiece. Down a few steps to their

left was an oval seating area lined with booths and crammed with cabaret

tables, their rickety chairs facing a low stage. The tables were about half-

full, and a steady trickle of people came in behind Sulfur, adding to the

audience. Right now the stage stood empty except for two brass poles that

stretched up at least ten meters before disappearing into ceiling portals half-

hidden with dark fabric. Curtains poured down the back of the stage,

rippling with scenes from the tropical ecosystems to the south of Lefthand:

delicate green snakes curled around tree branches; thick brown snakes slid

into the water; and a python lazed on a sunny rock. Sulfur smiled. There

was definitely a theme here, and it had nothing to do with trademarked

characters or images from the pus-gobblers who owned Verdance. The

serpentine mood continued into a dim, red-lit hallway beyond the theater

area, where emitters painted shimmering snakes moving in tight

switchbacks across a dozen doors. “Hey, ranger!” It was Ace, waving from one of the booths. They had

dressed up in a fresh button-down shirt and belted pants that were tight

enough to reveal the bulky joints on their metal legs. Ace’s gold-flecked

hair was slicked back and their bare arms were bronze and muscular in the low light. Sulfur’s heart sped up and they ran a hand through their own hair,

pulling it out of its tie to fall loosely around their neck. The ranger waved back. “I’m going to get a drink. Want anything?”

“Scotch!”

Sulfur got two cheap shots of brown liquid and walked over to the booth,

already feeling intoxicated. “What is this place?” They slid onto the bench

next to Ace, angling for a good view of the stage. Ace took a sip of the scotch and grimaced appreciatively. “Best bar in

Lefthand.”

A column rose up out of the stage, elevating a group of beavers who

were setting up their instruments. Presently they began playing amplified

keyboards and stringed gourds, slapping out a backbeat with their tails to

make a jaunty dance tune. Unlike the streets around the ziggurat, this bar’s

clientele included a lot of people who weren’t hominins. Looking out over

the tables, Sulfur could see cats, bots, quite a few naked mole rats, and a

group of parrots sharing a gigantic bowl of tropical fruit spiked with rum. They were glad to be here, instead of listening to Misha spout Verdance

rules. “Nice place. Reminds me a little of Spider City.”

“Really?” Ace cocked an eyebrow. “They have places like this in

Spider?”

“We have bars.” Sulfur frowned. “We’re not bumpkins.”

Just then, the music picked up and two hominins extended their feet

from the ceiling portals, wrapping their legs tightly around the metal and

emerging gradually. Both wore loose-fitting tunics that strobed gently in

time with the music. They kept sliding down, spinning slowly around the

poles until they were seated on the floor, still undulating against the

reflective shafts as if they were lovers. The person on the left stood and

shimmied to the music, shaking their ass so saucily that the fabric flipped

up to show hints of mesh underwear beneath. Folding themselves in half,

looking at the audience through their spread legs, they pulled a tiny

bejeweled bag off a chain around their ankle and reached two fingers inside. They withdrew a pinch of glittering powder from the bag and rubbed it

between their hands as they stood. The powder frothed up into some kind of hydrogel, which they rubbed sensuously across their chest until the tunic

evaporated, revealing their naked pectorals, nipples erect and painted a deep

red. Sulfur’s eyes widened. “Oh, no … no, we don’t have anything like this

in Spider.”

Ace grinned. “Not all the acts are like this. They always include a little

spice for the hominins.”

The stripped person’s underwear remained intact as they climbed the

pole again, hanging upside down while their partner’s tunic sublimed into

smoke. Sulfur realized their mouth had fallen open and quickly snapped it

shut with a blush. They could feel the swell of arousal making their clothes

tight again. With a prickle of frustration, they wondered why Ace had

insisted they come here when they could have spent the night in bed with

each other, instead of yearning to fuck the strangers who writhed on stage. “Come sit on my lap. You’ll see better.” Ace patted their machine legs,

which to Sulfur’s disordered senses suddenly looked like smaller versions

of the poles on stage. They scooted closer to their date, and then Ace was lifting Sulfur up,

gripping their rib cage gently and positioning them so that they straddled

one thick leg. It was soft—probably padded with a layer of sensor-laced

tissue—but also hard where muscle fibers flexed. Ace continued to apply

light pressure to Sulfur’s rib cage, their fingers slowly massaging

downward, along the edge of their pectorals, and at last coming to rest on

the tops of their thighs, which they squeezed. It was excruciatingly

pleasurable, and Sulfur bit their lip to suppress a moan. Perhaps Ace had

never been with an Archaean before and didn’t realize what they were

doing. Or perhaps they knew very well. “You feel good, ranger.” Ace’s voice was husky in their ear. Eyes half-closed, Sulfur leaned back into Ace’s arms, watching the

hominins caress themselves on stage, trying not to get too carried away. Eventually they would leave this bar, and finish what Ace was starting. Thankfully the dancers left the stage before Sulfur got too

uncomfortable. The next act was a cat comedian whose jokes were

sometimes only funny to the other cats in the room. They were chased off stage by an improv group of parrots whose impressions veered toward in-

group references to bird songs that Sulfur didn’t entirely get. Still, they

sounded amazing. Then there were three anti-grav hominin acrobats,

followed by a growling dog poet visiting from Tooth. Whoever booked

entertainment for THE TONGUE FORKS knew their audience; everyone

was having fun. Ace fiddled with another cigarette, taking their hands off

Sulfur’s thighs, and the Archaean managed to cool down gratefully. But then the house band of beavers struck up a sultry tune and two more

pole dancers slid into view. They were both H. diversus, heavily modified,

gorgeous, and far more skilled than the opening act. One had a pair of

suckered tentacles growing from their torso beneath their arms, which they

used to great effect on the pole. The other was covered in sleek, dark fur

like an otter. Sulfur couldn’t help yearning to see the furred person get

naked. The entire floor was packed now, standing room only. As the tentacled

person swung upside down, revealing their entire body for a few seconds,

Sulfur picked up a local public text from the cat in the next booth: It’s not

just dancing—it’s some kind of sex thing. Humans are obsessed with it. I

can’t figure it out, but I don’t mind watching, you know?

One of the other cats sent back: Those are excellent stretches. But how is

that sexual?

Sulfur stopped tuning the cats’ signal band and bathed in noise from the

crowd—especially the hominins. People were stomping and tossing golden

confetti onto the stage. The pole dancers gyrated and teased each other,

shedding bits of cloth and rubbing against the poles in ways that made

Sulfur even more pleasurably uncomfortable than last time. Ace seemed to sense it, and ran their fingers up the inside of Sulfur’s

thighs, making them gasp. Nobody in the crowd was paying the least bit of

attention to the two hominins huddled in a shadowy booth. Suddenly the

booth seemed to rumble, as if a motor had started beneath the club. Oh no

—no no no. It wasn’t the booth. Sulfur fought the urge to jump away, and

the urge to press more deeply against the sensation. It was Ace’s machine

leg, vibrating at the exact frequency that Sulfur could never resist. “I know what you like, Archaean.” Ace’s breath was hot on Sulfur’s neck. “Just

relax. Nobody will know.”

“I don’t—I’m not—” Sulfur mumbled feverishly. The throbbing between their legs stopped and Ace pulled back gently. “I

like you, ranger. And I like being a little pushy. But if you want me to stop,

I will. We can do lots of other things if you’d rather. Please let me know if

this is OK.”

The band swung into a new tune and applause rained around them as the

tentacled pole dancer slid gracefully into the splits. Though Sulfur had

never imagined wanting to get swollen in a strip club, Ace’s earnest request

for consent almost pushed them over the edge. “Yes. I—I want you to keep going.”

“Good.” Ace’s voice was a low growl and ended with a thrumming

sensation that Sulfur felt all over their body. Safely enfolded in Ace’s arms,

wrapped in the dark, noisy distraction of the club, they gave in to what their

body wanted all along. The fabric around their thighs and pelvis was so

tight now that they worried briefly that it would split. But of course that

wouldn’t happen; it only felt that way when they were this aroused, their

petals engorged and sensitive. Ace kept changing the tempo of the vibration

in their leg, speeding up and backing off, teasing Sulfur the same way the

dancers teased the room. Soon Sulfur was so swollen that Ace could trace

the outline of their petals through the coveralls, finding the emerging tip of

their stamen with a wicked laugh in the Archaean’s ear. “Oh you do like

that, don’t you?

This is why I love Archaeans—it’s so hot when your

stamen gets hard and comes out.” And with that, Ace cycled back to

Sulfur’s perfect frequency. Gently, they stroked the part of Sulfur’s body

that usually remained small and hidden, and as it grew longer, the feel of

the stretching fabric became its own form of titillation. The dancers executed another smutty move that had the whole room

screaming, and Sulfur’s cry of release was just another voice among many

that filled the room with the sounds of unalloyed celebration. 28

CYLINDRA’S OFFICE

From: Ronnie Drake

To: Misha

Subject: appointment with Emerald VP Cylindra Date: May 5, 59,706

Origin: Verdance Corporation

Least-cost path: VD Hab Cartier (0.001), Turtle Wormhole (3.2), Tisdale Station (0.9), Sask-E Sat (0.05)

You’re scheduled for a sit-down this afternoon with Cylindra at her office in the

Ziggurat penthouse. Details attached. Don’t be late. This is your chance to explain our plans to her and get buy-in. Cylindra can be difficult, but she knows the Verdance templates. Make sure she understands that there are no options other than trains because that will cut down on confusion. Ace left early the next morning, but not before making sure Sulfur was

utterly satisfied in private as well as in the packed bar. “See you around, ranger.” They kissed the Archaean on the lips while

they lay in bed, still exhausted. “Let me know if you’re back in the Emerald

cities again.”

With that, they grabbed Sulfur’s hand and pressed it to an interface on

their hip, probably intended for tuning up their legs. A string of numbers

shot into Sulfur’s memory—Ace’s unique identifier, assigned by Emerald

when they were slaved, which could sometimes be used to locate a person if

Emerald’s admins permitted it. “Here’s mine.” Sulfur passed Ace their public identifier, generated at

Spider City along with a private identifier controlled by Sulfur alone. Ace’s

private identifier was no doubt in the possession of Emerald. As they kissed

one last time, Sulfur realized with a pang that it was almost impossible that

they would ever see each other again, even with these numbers. Neither of

them truly controlled their futures. Restless with this thought, Sulfur tried to fall asleep again as the truck

rumbled to life outside. But it was no use; they were anxious in a way that could only be dispelled with some exercise. Stepping into their work

coveralls, Sulfur left the house and walked in the opposite direction from

the ziggurat downtown. The path took them along the edges of agricultural

zones and through clusters of drying trellises that looked like they would be

mills one day. A group of parrots flew overhead, their voices lost in the

wind. It was almost like they had left the city behind. And then they turned

around and saw Lefthand’s skyline of unsteady megastructures, doomed to

rot in a decade. Today’s agenda, Misha explained later over breakfast, would be to meet

with the top Emerald rep in town and ask her what she thought about public

transit for the city. “What?” Sulfur gulped their marshelder porridge too fast, and it became

a knob in their throat. “I thought we were using Spider as our test case for

dealing with local leadership?”

“Ronnie wants us to meet with Cylindra, who used to work with her. It’s

good because Cylindra is familiar with the transit contract.” Misha took a

final bite of porridge and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. “She’s

set our meeting for this afternoon.”

Sulfur was furious. “So now we’re not going to Spider, after all?

You

changed all our research plans while I was gone?”

Rocket sat down next to Sulfur at the table and fiddled with a spoon. “We’re still going to Spider. But if Ronnie tells Misha that we’re meeting

with Cylindra, we have to do it.”

This treaty servitude is a bucket of piss, Sulfur sent privately to Rocket. Misha is obviously going to wind up doing exactly what Ronnie wants. It’s not like he has a choice, Rocket sent back. There’s always a choice. Ignoring Sulfur’s last comment, the bot tried to make light conversation

with Misha. “So, Cylindra left Verdance for Emerald?”

He shrugged. “I think it was more like Verdance invited her to leave. But

she’s still a template designer for early-stage colonies.” Then he turned to

Sulfur, trying and failing to look casual. “She actually created the templates

for the … uh … Archaea.”

Rocket emitted the sound of a motor dying and Sulfur frowned. Zest

emerged from her bedroom and nosed around in the fruit bowl on the table,

finally selecting an apple. At last, she seemed to realize that everybody was

irritable and silent. “What did I miss?

Did everybody decide to eat shit

instead of breakfast?”

Sulfur couldn’t help but laugh, and Misha glanced down with a quick

smile. “Something like that. We’re going to see Cylindra.”

Zest shook her head and headed to the sink for some water. “Oh boy.”

Cylindra’s office was located on the penthouse floor of the ziggurat. As

they approached from a less-trafficked street than the one Sulfur had taken

yesterday, Misha groaned in dismay. “I can’t believe they built this on

unripe trellises!”

The H. sapiens might be a Verdance patsy, but once again Sulfur had to

admit that he knew infrastructure. “I noticed that yesterday.”

“Oh, was that on your date?” Rocket made a whistling noise. Sulfur rolled their eyes and shook their head at Rocket. The last thing

they wanted to do was get into a conversation about last night while on the

way to a work meeting. They mounted sandstone steps up the steeply

sloped side of the ziggurat as tourists and bureaucrats bustled past. The first

level was crowded. Smoke rose from carts where mute bots sold roast

chestnuts and strips of expensive meat grown from actual muscle tissue. Zest hustled them toward the next flight of stairs, which led to a smaller

second level full of empty planters and dry fountains. The third level was

for official business only, and the long flight of stairs was guarded by male

H. sapiens guards with ostentatious vision-enhancing implants and

Emerald-branded guns strapped to their backs. The men made a big show of

carefully running their ERT identifiers against an offworld database, which

took several minutes. Meanwhile, a short line formed behind their party and

grew restless. “Spider people,” someone muttered. “They’re not supposed to be

allowed in the cities.”

When the complaints got loud enough, the guards decided to let them

through. Misha nodded deferentially in thanks and got a sharp look from one guard. “You keep an eye on your animal, lad. We don’t want it making

a mess in the offices.”

Sulfur could tell from the flick of Zest’s ears that she was ready to kick

someone in the face. But the cow followed Misha silently and so did

Rocket. Sulfur plodded up the final flight of stairs glumly, gazing into

poorly set office windows and running fingers along the cracked plaster

walls of the upper ziggurat. Each room inside had the exact same floor plan,

with a desk and chair facing a sofa. On the top level of the ziggurat, they

passed more H. sapiens guards, who opened sliding glass doors into the

penthouse without comment. The group found themselves in a

soundproofed meeting room where the only noise came from a climate

control system that was cooling and dehumidifying the tropical air from

outside. Furniture blanks oozed into table and chair shapes next to some

blue-tinted windows that made the city surrounding them look like a

fictionalized version of itself. In the distance, Sulfur caught a flash of the

Comfort Sea. Cylindra entered by gravity assist through a portal in the ceiling that

snicked closed as she descended. A slim H. sapiens woman with light

brown skin, she had a long braid of black hair, glossy with moisturizers. Aside from the cosmetics, she looked like she could have been Misha’s

sister, and maybe she was in a technical sense. Cylindra would have gotten

her body from the same place he had. Verdance built their H. sapiens from a

handful of Earth germlines, licensed from a company whose genetic stock

came from ancient human DNA. Supposedly it was the real deal—actual

wild-type sequence. Not that anyone was ever decanted without

modifications. You needed a synthetic microbiome for senescence control,

scrubbers for health, plus networking hardware for, well, everything. Sulfur

touched Ace’s identifier in memory. It was hard to imagine having a wild-

type human brain. What would it have felt like?

Quiet, maybe. Disconnected. “You going to join us?” Rocket poked Sulfur out of their reverie and

motioned at the table, where Cylindra was pulling up some renderings to

show Misha. When Sulfur sat down across from her, Cylindra couldn’t hide her

double take. “You’re one of the first settlers!” she exclaimed. “From the

volcano?”

“It’s called Spider City.”

“Right—right. You guys are my favorite anomaly. We’ve never seen

anything like it. First settlers always die out because they’ve been templated

to bond to the land where they were decanted. Once the next generation is

built, that’s it. End of story. But you didn’t do that, did you?

You went and

bonded to a pile of hot dirt instead.” She gave a bitter laugh and gazed at

Sulfur with the shrewd expression of someone evaluating experimental

data. The Archaean felt their hands balling into useless fists under the table. Misha tried to pull the conversation back into something resembling

professionalism. “As you know, we’re here to talk about transit—Ronnie is

very interested in how mobility fits your infrastructure.”

It was the wrong move. Hearing Ronnie’s name added a frown line to

Cylindra’s cynical expression. She focused all her attention on Sulfur now. “Your other templates stuck just fine, didn’t they?

You’re still decanting

people with the same morphology Verdance ordered, just like a good first

settler.” Cylindra pointed at Sulfur’s broad, pink face, with the tiny jeweled

breather clipped to their septum. “All you want to do is replicate yourselves

exactly like this, am I right?

And no gender, so no sexual needs. Which—

trust me—is a huge relief to everyone.”

Sulfur knew they couldn’t say anything. Contradicting this Emerald exec

might really piss her off. Absolute worst case, Cylindra could even figure

out an excuse to kill them all, and Emerald would pay Verdance for the

inconvenience. “I’m mindful that you have limited time, so let’s get right down to it.”

Misha’s voice had an edge to it now. “We should think about making

Lefthand a local hub.”

Cylindra kept staring at Sulfur. As she opened her mouth to continue her

tirade, Zest leaned into the table, causing the flat surface to bunch up,

reformat, and distract everyone. “Oh sorry.” The cow’s ears were tense and

facing backward. “Didn’t mean to do that.”

It broke the mood, and Cylindra yipped a laugh. “I do that all the time. These tables never work.”

Misha unfolded a mobile and pulled up a map to share, full of new

readings that Sulfur hadn’t seen yet. He was making a valiant effort to bring

attention back to the task at hand. But Sulfur couldn’t focus on it—what

Cylindra had said was filling their ears with the roar of an anger-accelerated

heartbeat. Archaeans honored their ancestors with these bodies. It had

nothing to do with some kind of mind-controlling template. And yet Sulfur

had never wondered—until now—why most Archaeans didn’t want to

modify their respiratory systems to go outside without breathers. Why was

it accepted without question that every Archaean would be built to the same

plan?

Could there be a grain of truth to Cylindra’s claims?

Sulfur looked at

the powerful woman, now ignoring everyone except Misha. No. Her creepy

comments about gender and sex proved that she had no idea what she was

talking about. Still, her assertion stuck in Sulfur’s mind like a burr they

couldn’t dislodge. Forcing themself to pay attention to the meeting again, Sulfur caught the

tail end of a snarky comment from Cylindra about how Verdance had no

idea how to manage terraforming projects. That’s when Sulfur realized that

Cylindra’s problem wasn’t with them, or Spider City, or the Archaea as

such. She hated her former employer Verdance, and she loathed Ronnie

with an intimate, personal rage. It gave Sulfur an idea. “We’re talking to people like you about what the best forms of transit

might be, but Ronnie really thinks trains are our best bet,” they said slowly. “What do you think?”

Sulfur could tell they’d hit Cylindra’s vulnerable point when the exec

froze for a few seconds before replying. “Trains are obviously a terrible

idea,” she replied, rubbing her chin and feigning thoughtfulness. “All those

ugly tracks going everywhere?

Nobody wants to see that.”

“Ronnie told us that trains are the perfect solution, though. Right,

Misha?”

Looking at Sulfur with dawning comprehension, Misha nodded. This

was a chance to throw mud on Ronnie’s plan to build rapid obsolescence into critical infrastructure. “She’s really set on trains, yeah, but the data

suggests there are better options.”

“This is what I mean when I say Verdance is clueless about what’s

actually happening on the ground here. I don’t think I can sign off on

trains.”

“We’ll do our best to draw up reasonable alternatives, then. Let me show

—”

“I’m sorry, but right now I have a hard out—my next meeting is waiting

upstairs.” Cylindra gave Sulfur a final, appraising look. “It’s been

interesting.”

Misha was flustered. “Well, I’ll send you more information if you want

it. Thanks for—”

But Cylindra had already walked to the gravity assist, wordlessly, and a

servant appeared to usher them back outside. As the team clattered back down the stairs to the unguarded second

level, Misha fell into step with Sulfur. Rocket hovered over to join them

while Zest pushed through the crowds ahead. The bot emitted an admiring

whistle. “You turned that seriously shitty meeting around—I can’t believe

you got her to say no to trains. Of course she’d never agree to anything

Ronnie wants.”

Misha nodded vigorously. “Thank you for the brilliant politicking,

Sulfur. If Cylindra actually rejects train tracks, we could get transit with

routes flexible enough to reach more than just major cities. And it would be

sustainable!

No need to renew the tracks every century.” His smile died. “That was the kind of thing Destry would have done. I wish I could be more

like her. She was so good at making data persuasive, instead of just—data.”

“You did OK too,” Sulfur said. “Cylindra is a swarm of biting flies and

it’s hard to fight that.”

Misha’s face hollowed out. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t tell her to stick her

face in a bucket of solvents. I wanted to.”

“I almost trampled her,” Zest called over her shoulder. Rocket put an arm around Sulfur’s shoulders. “I hate her.”

Feeling the warm squeeze of the bot’s arm was exactly what Sulfur

needed after that harrowing trip to Cylindra’s office. They had this. “Thanks, friends. So, we got Cylindra’s—uh—perspective. Now let’s do

what the Environmental Rescue Team does best. Let’s get data from the

environment.”

“Where should we start?” Misha addressed his question to Sulfur with a

smile so pretty and unguarded that the Archaean had to look away. Maybe

he was Verdance’s man, but there was also a shred of good in him. 29

NATURAL MILKY

From: Ronnie Drake

To: Misha

Subject: Cylindra

Date: May 7, 59,706

Origin: Verdance Corporation

Least-cost path: VD Hab Cartier (0.001), Turtle Wormhole (3.2), Tisdale Station (0.9), Sask-E Sat (0.05)

Cylindra is pushing back on train tracks. Get more data in Lefthand before you move

on to the rest of the cities and work up a solid train plan—something that Emerald will swoon over. Don’t test my patience, and do not bring the H. Archaean with you to future meetings. I would hate for you to wind up like Destry. After the visit with Cylindra, there was a subtle shift in the group’s

dynamic. Misha looked to Sulfur for advice as they discussed the next stage

of their investigative work. And Sulfur started to treat him as a member of

the team, instead of an interloper from their corporate overlords. “OK, I know we have a lot of land to cover, but Verdance wants more

data in Lefthand.” Misha sat with the team over late afternoon drinks at

THE TONGUE FORKS. “Apparently our meeting with Cylindra yesterday

revealed the, uh, flaws in Ronnie’s plan.” Sulfur and Misha grinned at each

other, then the H. sapiens sobered. “Ronnie is pretty angry. She wants us to

spend a couple more days here gathering data to support her train solution. My guess is that she’ll try to go over Cylindra’s head.”

Sulfur scratched their nose and pondered. “We need data that will make

our case for something that’s enough like a train to satisfy Ronnie—and

enough like something else to suit the people who will actually need transit

in a hundred years. Or five hundred.”

Zest exhaled loudly. “Best way to get that data is to talk to people who

actually need transit in Lefthand.”

“Yes!” Sulfur smacked the table. “This is the most developed city, other

than La Ronge, so that kind of information is as valuable as a ticket through

the wormhole.”

Misha nodded, a faint smile crinkling the skin around his obsidian eyes. “We’ll want to know who is traveling, where are they going, and how often. The more people we talk to, the more likely we can make a case for

something without tracks. The question then becomes how we create a

single form of transit, which is what the contract stipulates. It won’t be

easy.”

Everybody nodded and murmured assent. Misha stood. “I need another scotch. You want anything?”

“I’ll take some more of those fermented apples.” Zest flicked her ears

forward. He headed for the bar and Rocket leaned back in their chair. “I think we

should split up to cover different neighborhoods. I can do the urban core

with Misha, where it’s mostly H. sapiens. You and Zest can hit the suburbs

where the construction workers are, plus the agricultural zones. What do

you think?”

Sulfur thought about how they’d felt in the core, next to the ziggurat. “Yeah,” they said. “I’m happy to divide it up like that. What do you say,

Zest?”

“Sure. Agricultural land use sounds like my speed.” The cow’s ears sank

until they were perpendicular to her head. “La Ronge isn’t perfect, but it’s

not a cesspit like this place.”

Rocket played a brief siren noise. “Excuse me, but this place is great.”

“Present company excepted, of course. THE TONGUE FORKS is an

excellent establishment.”

“I wish we had a place like this in Spider.” Sulfur nudged Rocket. “Wouldn’t that be cool?

You’d go, right?”

The bot nudged Sulfur back. “When our tour in the ERT is over, we can

open the first Spider City burlesque theater.”

For a moment Sulfur enjoyed a fantasy of their possible future, safely

retired back home, building a venue and teaching the next generation of

Archaea how to party. Maybe one day it would really happen. But it was so distant, and depended on so many statistical unlikelihoods, that it felt like a

mirage. Better to focus on the present, where they needed some good public

transit. Zest and Sulfur began work early the next morning. The plan was to

survey a major street, starting from the northern part of the high-density

Lefthand downtown area and moving into the suburbs, then the agricultural

areas. Along the way, they would map the habitats that people built: roads,

stores, schools, health centers, houses. Circling back the other direction,

they would interview the people themselves. Human data was the easiest to

get, but the hardest to interpret. Of course somebody had named the city’s biggest artery Emerald Way. The two rangers worked fast and silently while still in the city, reading

sensors in the trellises, grabbing 3-D impressions of the built environment

with lasers, and ignoring the occasional comments about how they were

animals and shouldn’t be on the sidewalk. The comments thinned out as the

settlements grew lower density. Now they were in worker suburbs, where a

lot of people had already gone to their construction sites and most faces on

the street were H. diversus or robot. Reservoirs and canals broke up the

landscape between cultivated fields and clusters of worker domos made

from rapid-composting materials that wouldn’t last more than a handful of

years. It had been over a klick since the last signs of human habitation, and

Sulfur started to unwind a little as they inhaled the stench of fertilizer mixed

with the tang of an ocean breeze. Taking a deep breath, they paused and

held up an air sensor. “I wonder if it’s all agriculture from here on out?”

“Based on my maps, yes. But a lot has changed in the last couple of

years. There might be more structures—” Suddenly, Zest stopped. “Oh. Oh,

this is …” The cow trailed off and shook her head, as if she were getting rid

of an insect swarm. Ahead of them, Emerald Way dipped down into a

valley, then curved to the right in the distance. Spread out over the grassy

fields below were at least a hundred cows, eating, sleeping, and wandering

idly. One of them emitted a long, low cry that was untranslatable. Zest

found her voice again. “It’s a dairy ranch.”

Sulfur felt their throat tighten. “What the shit. Oh, no.” They had heard

about places like this, but always thought of them as something that

happened in the distant past, or maybe on some autocrat’s space habitat

cruising so far away that you needed a dozen wormhole jumps to reach it. “Of course somebody did this here.” Zest spoke in a flat, emotionless

voice. “Emerald wants to cash in on Sasky’s ancient Earth vibe, and I’m

sure cow milk is a lucrative export.”

It was nauseating to imagine drinking milk from a person. And

unnecessary—you could always build it from seed stock in the kitchen,

which was faster and carbon neutral. Or drink from a coconut. They turned

to Zest, unsure what to do or say. Her facial muscles were so tight it looked like the soft tissues around her

nose had deflated. “Well, there’s nothing we can do. Let’s finish the

survey.”

They plodded into the valley, where yellow and purple flowers were

scattered among the grasses and fat bees thrummed like engines. A few

cows looked up at them drowsily as they passed through a laser perimeter

into the ranch proper. There were no signs of human settlement here, and no

monitoring system that they could sense other than the perimeter. Sulfur

knelt to pinch up some soil at the street’s edge and ran it under their reader,

saving the data up to ERT servers at Spider. Zest took some air samples and

stepped off the road into the field. “Going to get some cores,” she said. Sulfur nodded and watched surreptitiously as a rectangular window slid

open in Zest’s chrome-plated right crops and an actuator unfolded from

within. The tip configured itself into a core drill and Zest punctured the

earth, extracting a gray-brown cylinder for analysis. A few cows began to

drift over, fascinated or alarmed by the sound. Zest took a core every few

meters, ignoring them, until one of the larger animals stretched out a neck

and nosed her. “Get away from me!

Go!”

The cow who had touched Zest made a low groan that almost sounded

like she was saying “noooooooooooo.”

“I need to finish this—do you understand?”

Now there was a crowd of a half-dozen cows surrounding Zest, some

trying to nose her and others simply staring. There didn’t seem to be

anything menacing about their behavior, but Sulfur strode quickly to where

Zest was. Surrounded by people who were animals—or people designed to

imitate animals—Zest tried to push her way to the next sample site without

much success. “Let me through!” Zest sounded a little panicky now. “Hey, friends!” Sulfur yelled, startling the mob. “We’re with the

Environmental Rescue Team!

We’re not with Emerald, OK?

We’re taking

samples to make sure these fields stay healthy. That way you’ll have a nice

place to hang out and eat, and we can keep people out of your … uh …

grass … when they’re commuting …” The Archaean realized they were

babbling, not sure whether these cows were part of the Great Bargain but

unable to text. Based on their confused expressions, though, it seemed

likely they were built as heirloom bovines, their cognitive abilities

deliberately damaged. They couldn’t possibly consent to having their milk

harvested. As Sulfur drew closer, making lots of noise, they scattered. By

the time they reached Zest’s side, only a single cow was left—the one who

had nosed her. “Hey, friend,” Sulfur said automatically to the cow, who

stared ambiguously at them. “Are you OK, Zest?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Zest plodded forward, the drill dangling in front of her

like a scorpion’s stinger. “We don’t really need that many core samples. We can move on.”

Furious, Zest turned on Sulfur. “Don’t tell me what kind of samples we

need.”

“Well, I—I didn’t mean—” Sulfur was taken aback. The cow made

another lowing noise and looked accusingly at them. “Sorry. I’ll go back to

soil pinches on the road.”

The two rangers made their way silently through the ranch, sampling as

they saw fit, and never saw another person the entire time. The cow

continued to follow Zest at a polite distance. Who was taking care of these

cows?

Did they have a place to go at night, when it got cold and predators

came creeping around?

Was it hypocritical to worry about the mental acuity of these cows when they never worried about bees, crocodiles, and frankly

most animals in Sasky’s ecosystems?

Sulfur supposed this dairy farm was so upsetting because they had lived

their whole life around people like Zest. But perhaps Emerald was

marketing its real estate to H. sapiens who liked the idea of engineering

cows to be animals. Maybe this ranch was something that Cylindra had

designed for the city. It was exactly the sort of thing she might do after

watching the Archaea rebel—build all the city’s creatures to be as

vulnerable to manipulation as a domestic animal before the Farm

Revolutions. With a shiver of relief, Sulfur passed through the laser perimeter on the

other side of the ranch. They waited for Zest to finish her last core, analyze

it, and pack it back into the hole she’d yanked it from. The cow following

her bent down to sniff the restored core, then reached out to nose Zest

again. Zest stood frozen, her actuator half-folded back into its compartment. Then she reached out tentatively and touched her nose to the other cow’s

before wheeling to trot across the laser barrier. The cow made another one

of those moaning noises, unable to cross the invisible line that sent data to

her nervous system, paralyzing her legs unless she backed off. But she kept

standing there, watching them, as they rounded the curve and mounted the

hill that would take them out of the valley. When they could no longer see the cows, Zest spoke. “Sorry I was short

with you back there.”

“It’s OK. I get it.” Sulfur shrugged. “Do you think they understood us?”

“I don’t know.” Zest stared at the ground unhappily. “Should we report this?

I don’t think it’s legal to build people like that

and take their milk.”

As if to mock Sulfur’s point, a hologram winked to life over the road and

flashed the words: WELCOME TO NATURAL MILKY!

JUST ONE CLICK OFF

EMERALD WAY, EXIT 10!

Now they could see a muddy off-ramp that led to a

distant cluster of trellises. Sulfur flinched. “I think we can skip that on our survey.”

“I’m sure the conditions are very similar to the ones in the pasture,” Zest

replied. “We can use those as a proxy.”

“I still wonder if we should report this. I don’t think people are supposed

to build—”

Zest ignored them, projecting a map into the air. “Looks like we only

have two more klicks to go and then the road loops around and reconnects

south of this ranch.”

The urge to do something about the Natural Milky atrocity was itching at

Sulfur’s mind and wouldn’t let them go. “I’m taking detailed notes on that

place and submitting them to Council. They might be able to do

something.”

“Maybe. We don’t know what that was. I mean, it’s not a crime to build

animals with low InAss ratings. We do it all the time in La Ronge.”

“But the milk—”

“I agree it’s a compost fire situation out there. I’ve met a lot of animals

with low InAss ratings, but never a cow. Believe me, I’d like to murder the

people who did that. But our job is to protect the whole environment—the

reports and recommendations we make in a couple of months will affect

generations of people. If we start screaming about every little violation, it’s

going to undermine our credibility with Verdance. If the execs decide that

we can’t be trusted, Ronnie could force us to follow her diarrhea-soaked

plan and we’ll get a bunch of half-cooked train tracks.”

Chastened, Sulfur was silent for almost half a klick. Finally, they spoke

haltingly. “I know you’re right. But I feel—I don’t know, like we have to do

something.” The cow didn’t reply, and Sulfur tried to imagine how they

would feel coming upon a field of H. archaeans built with animal-level

InAss ratings. They wouldn’t want a cow telling them what to do about it. They spoke again, this time more quietly. “How are you doing, Zest?”

She sighed. “I’m honestly not sure. Pretty traumatized, actually.”

“I can imagine.”

“Looking into her face—I thought she was trying to communicate

something, like asking me to help her escape. But this isn’t some adventure

story. She was only an animal.”

Sulfur sighed. “Well, that’s the filthiest part of all this, isn’t it?

Those

InAss ratings are an arbitrary measure—and bioengineers have different tricks for doing them. I’ve met a lot of animals who were clearly people. I’m sure you have too.”

They reached the loop in the road that would take them back to Lefthand

without passing through Natural Milky again. Zest took an air reading and

Sulfur picked up a pinch of dust from the road. “Not much development out here,” Zest observed. “This is probably very

close to the terraformed baseline.”

“You think?

Let’s take a quick core because I think there might be a

layer of plowed ground.”

Zest extended her actuator and took a meter-long core. “Aha—you’re

right!

You can see it visually.”

Sulfur peered down at the core, whose top half had clearly been

perturbed by churning blades. “Yep. I think it was a once-over to get rid of

jungle. Nothing has been planted.” They gestured at the savanna grasses,

flecked with dark green trees whose foliage looked like floating spheres in

the distance. Soon they were deep into a debate with Zest about whether

this ecosystem was more rainforest or savanna. Both rangers were relieved

to spend the rest of the afternoon talking shop. Rejoining Emerald Way, they retraced their steps through construction

worker neighborhoods. Almost everyone would be coming home now, after

a long day building, planting, and spreading catalysts on trellises that were

hopefully riper than the ones downtown. Sulfur knocked on doors and sent greetings through perimeters while

Zest visited outdoor courtyards where people gathered for dinner. As soon

as the potential interviewees learned that the rangers weren’t with Emerald,

they were very forthcoming. For several hours, Sulfur and Zest asked the

same questions: Where do you travel?

Why and when?

Would you use

public transit to do that?

At first all the answers were a fascinating surprise;

then they began to coalesce into a predictable range of responses, until

finally the most memorable moments were the statistical outliers. There was

one angry hominin who yelled, “I never go anywhere in public!” His

outburst became a very low-circulation meme between Zest and Sulfur, who

spent an hour imagining how exactly he accomplished this. New memes

emerged when a bot explained earnestly to Zest that they needed transit to visit a city of subatomic yōkai in the deepest trenches of the ocean. Mostly,

however, people said they traveled to the ziggurat district for supplies, and

to other cities to visit friends and family. The rangers recorded about two hundred responses on their way home,

from a survey of hominins, naked mole rats, cats, bots, beavers, and

mountable drones. They met no more cows—talking or otherwise. They

tried to gather a random sample of responses, but of course this dataset

would be biased. It was drawn almost entirely from construction workers,

slaved or recently freed. Many would be offworld at new gigs before the

transit could be built. Still, there would always be neighborhoods of service

workers and laborers on Sasky who needed transit, and the people on this

street offered a good proxy for them. Tomorrow would be the team’s final day here, and Sulfur begged the

team to spend one last night at THE TONGUE FORKS before they moved

on. There were six more cities to visit across thousands of kilometers before

returning to Spider City for the case study with local government. Sulfur and Zest arrived at the bar just in time for happy hour and a

cosplay show. They spotted Misha first, because he was the only H. sapiens

in the place and his black hair was sticking up more than usual. Zest pushed

through the crowd to him and leaned heavily against his side, whispering

urgently into his ear. He listened and nodded, then threw his arms around

the cow’s neck as she kept talking. Sulfur hung back, not wanting to

interrupt the friends’ intimacy, and decided to look for Rocket. The bot

lounged in a booth with two other people, and it looked like they might

actually be flirting with the hominin who had wings folded tightly to their

back and a thin reptilian tail. Sulfur didn’t want to bust up whatever Rocket had going on, but they

also didn’t want to stand uncertainly at the bar, so they sat down

unceremoniously at Rocket’s booth. “Hey there.” Everyone turned to them. “This is Sulfur. We work together.”

The H. diversus with wings leaned across Rocket to shake Sulfur’s hand. “I’m Steg, using he. These are my colleagues Louis and Sketchy, using

nothing.” The other two hominins—both with their skulls stylishly

elongated—nodded at Sulfur. They looked almost like twins, or maybe remotes made from the same genetic stock. When they nodded again

randomly and then put their chins into their hands at the same time, Sulfur

was certain. Definitely remotes, probably being controlled intermittently

and left in some kind of social holding pattern when their drivers were on

break. “What kind of work do y’all do, Steg?”

“We’re surveyors with Emerald. I just got out of contract, but these guys

are slaved back home.”

“Oh yeah?

Where’s home?”

“Emerald Station. The original one—out there.” He pointed at the

ceiling, but obviously meant space. “It’s sure nice to meet some locals like

yourselves. I’m thinking of staying here for a while now that my contract is

up.”

Rocket clearly did not like being identified as a local. “We’re from

Sasky, but not here. We come from Spider City, on the western side of

Maskwa.”

Steg looked bored. “Oh yeah, that’s part of La Ronge, right?

The first

city?”

“La Ronge is in the north. Nowhere near Spider.” Zest was standing over

them, and next to her Misha held a tray full of drinks. “And if you’re

thinking of staying on Sasky, you really don’t want to tell somebody from

Spider that their city is part of La Ronge. Trust me.”

Rocket tooted a horn noise in appreciation, and Sulfur grinned. “Time to go back to the dorms,” the remotes said at the same time. They

stood together, holding out their hands to Steg. The hominin shrugged apologetically. “Duty calls. Nice to meet you.”

Misha nodded affably and squashed into the vacated booth next to

Sulfur. His leg felt warm and soft next to theirs, and they felt a brief, keen

sense of loss—missing Ace, and their unexpected fling. One of the reasons

Sulfur didn’t date very much was that they couldn’t help falling a little bit

in love with anyone who gave them an orgasm. It was exhausting and

practically never led anywhere good. “Sorry to scare off your dates, Rocket.” Misha looked genuinely contrite,

but the bot shook their head and emitted a fart noise. “I was getting bored with them.”

Talk moved on to other subjects. “What was your survey like today,

other than the cows?” Misha asked. “Yeah, Zest told me. I wanted to report

it too, but I understand why she doesn’t.”

Sulfur glanced over at Zest, who had ambled over to the next table to

chat up a couple of horses cosplaying as bright pink game characters that

Sulfur didn’t recognize. “It’s a shitty situation. I wish there was something

we could do. But at least we got good survey data. What did people tell you

about using transit?”

Misha slurped the foam off his corn beer. “A lot of them use private

transit, as you might expect. But other than that, they mostly want public

transit to connect them with the port. Tourists want something for day trips

and eco-adventures, which would never work with a single track. Basically

any trips into the bush are going to be tailored to individual preferences.”

Sulfur scratched their head. “Plus, mass transit isn’t good for excursions

into undeveloped areas. Ideally you’d use anti-grav or something at that

point.”

“Anti-grav is ideal for everything, all the time.” Rocket lifted off the

bench two centimeters to demonstrate. “I wouldn’t put it in a transit vehicle though.” Misha folded his arms. “Only a person can control gravity mesh.”

Rocket shrugged. “What is a person?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Do you know what you mean?”

The robot and the man faced each other, their rigid postures suggesting

things were about to get heated. But then a person dressed as Predadora

walked on stage. “Puny beasts of Earth!

You are my slaves now!” Her fur

flared with embers in the spotlight, and she held a sword of ice in one hand. Whirling the blade overhead, she let out a chittering cry. The room vibrated

with cheers because it was such a perfect recreation of Predadora’s grand

entrance from the new game—and her cosplay wasn’t to licensed specs. It

was handmade. Even Misha slammed the table in appreciation, and the

argument with Rocket sublimated like surface water on a world whose

atmosphere was still under construction. 30

WORMS

From: Ronnie Drake

To: Misha

Subject: Emerald land report

Date: May 12, 59,706

Origin: Verdance Corporation

Least-cost path: VD Hab Cartier (0.001), Turtle Wormhole (3.2), Tisdale Station (0.9), Sask-E Sat (0.05)

While you’re in northern Maskwa, I’m going to need some 360 network data. Emerald

is sniffing around at the eastern tip of the continent, and wants to be sure the land is virgin. “Do you think Cylindra made those cows?” It had been three days since

they headed north out of Lefthand, and Zest was finally ready to analyze

what they’d seen at the dairy ranch. “I was wondering that too.” The sea wind whipped Misha’s hair into

stiff, salty ringlets. “Maybe it was her solution to the problems she had with

the templates for Archaeans. There’s no worry about rebellions if you dial

everybody’s InAss ratings way down.” He looked over at Sulfur. “What do

you think?”

Sulfur thought about it. “We saw a lot of different kinds of people in the

Emerald cities. Why would she single out cows?”

“My guess?

Cows are part of the city’s brand. The perfect symbol of H. sapiens’ domestication of nature.” Zest paused and took an air sample while

Sulfur pinched up some sandy soil. They had silently agreed to prevent

Misha from touching anything unless they needed a more complicated

reading of the ecosystem network. He watched them, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I could imagine

Cylindra coming up with a shit-speckled template like that. She does have

final sign-off on the urban ecosystem. And Sasky is supposed to be exclusively for re-creating Pleistocene Earth, right?

Nobody was part of the

Great Bargain before the Farm Revolutions.”

The team was hiking on the ragged, weedy cliffs that made up the

Comfort Sea’s northern coastline, which stretched for another thousand

kilometers before curving to form Maskwa’s eastern edge. The next city,

Kokowadoko, was a day’s walk from here. Sulfur stared out over the gray water, foam on distant waves mirroring

the color of clouds overhead. “I could see that,” they said. “That whole city

was a giant turd wrapped up like candy.”

Rocket zipped up the cliff wall from the beach below, just in time to

overhear their last exchange. “We talked to a lot of workers whose InAss

ratings put them in the Blessed category—their limiters prevent them from

talking about anything but their jobs. Worse than being a Mount.”

“Right.” Misha nodded. “Verdance forces us to build Blessed in La

Ronge too.”

Zest’s face was drawn. “I didn’t meet anyone else like those cows,

though.”

“Lefthand was full of birds and rodents who couldn’t speak.”

The cow flicked an ear. “Well, sure, there are a lot of animals on Sasky. We build them all the time at La Ronge. But that’s different—they’re part of

wild-type ecosystems.”

The four people crunched along the cliff’s edge for a while, watching the

afternoon sun sink as the moon rose. Supposedly this moon was roughly the

same mass as Earth’s, but it was pear-shaped and stained a deep yellow red

from recent vulcanism. Nobody would confuse it with the original Luna. “The whole InAss system is toxic.” Rocket picked up a pebble and

chucked it down at the breaking waves. “It’s the main reason I left La

Ronge. In Spider City, there’s no intelligence hierarchy. You’re either a

person or you’re not. And even if you’re not, you still have a lot of rights.”

“Well, sometimes. People cut down trees when technically they’re not

supposed to,” Sulfur admitted. “And that new hydro plant displaced a

capybara community.”

Rocket emitted a few seconds of capybara song, a series of pleasant

squeaks and chitters. “We did find them a new stretch of river and they seem happy.”

“But you can’t know for sure if they’re happy because they don’t talk.”

Zest had an edge to her voice. “We can observe them, and see that they have enough food and are

healthy. We can check to be sure their predators are at appropriate levels.”

Misha put out a hand to pat Zest’s neck and she stepped slightly to the side,

avoiding his touch. “It’s a rotted system, alright.” Sulfur picked up another sample and read

the sensors. “At some point during the Farm Revolutions, a bunch of H. sapiens decided which life forms would get to be part of the Great Bargain

and become people.”

“Bots were involved too,” Rocket added grimly. “We were the ones who

figured out how to build human-equivalent minds for nonhuman animals.”

Misha let out a laugh and they all looked at him. “Sorry—that’s not

funny. I was thinking about how Verdance has all those ads about how

Sasky is this return to old Earth, with the pure H. sapiens and perfect

Pleistocene ecosystems. And yet nobody wants to be an actual H. sapiens,

with an unmodified body. Imagine going around with a brain from—I

dunno—fifty thousand years ago. Sixty thousand. Right before the Farm

Revolutions. Your InAss rating would put you slightly above Mount.”

“You’d be Cylindra’s perfect Emerald city worker.” Zest snorted. Sulfur glanced at their readings from the last pinch they’d taken and

stopped walking. “Hey, Misha, I need you to take a look at this.”

“What is it?”

“These readings are weird. Either all the sensors are damaged, or

somebody wiped all the data before about a year ago.”

Misha hunkered down and placed palms on the ground, fingers spread,

going quiet as he checked the network. “Oh yeah this is … definitely

weird.” He spent about a minute deep in the sensor network, his face going

pale and sweaty with the effort. “Zest, do you have your ground penetrating

radar?”

“I can do it.” Rocket pulled a rolled-up silver sheet from their pack and

spread it on the ground. With a gesture, they opened a window on its

surface that showed shadowy structures below them. “Oh shit—would you look at that?” Rocket tugged the sheet, moving it to a stretch of ground a

few meters away. “And here’s some more.”

“What is it?”

“Looks like a pretty big naked mole rat colony, if you ask me.”

Zest was doing her own readings now, using an array that fanned out

from the actuator in her side compartment. “They’ve got some nice lab

equipment down there, too.”

“I would say they are definitely messing with the sensors. They’re trying

to hide this place.”

Sulfur cocked their head. “That’s intriguing. Let’s say hello.”

“I’ll try.” Misha put his hands to the ground again. “I poked the security

system and told them who we are.”

Presently, a naked mole rat popped her head out of a portal in the ground

a meter away, nose twitching. She sent: We just got a message saying some

of you are from Spider City ERT. Is that true?

“We are!” Rocket and Sulfur chorused. I’m Dash. My mother came from Spider, and taught us how to hide from

Verdance like our ancestors did. “I knew your mother,” Rocket said. “She fought in the Eel River War

with us.”

Dash chittered excitedly. Can you help us, friend?

We need a

bioengineer right now. Somebody who knows about building intelligence. She angled her head down, sniffing something in the tunnel below her. It’s

urgent. Zest lowered her head to look at the smaller mammal. “I’m a ranger, and

I work in a bioengineering lab. What do you need?”

The wrinkled, hairless creature stood with arms akimbo. Let me get

Loam—she’s the team lead. Dash ducked back through the portal and

returned a few minutes later with Loam, who was wearing a red shawl

tucked around her shoulders. It gets so cold up here sometimes, Loam sent by way of greeting. I’m

afraid we’ve run into a problem with the earthworms. She unrolled a small

mobile device that had been tucked away under her shawl and set it to

project at eye level for the hominins. A 3-D rendering of an earthworm’s double brain jumped into view, looking like two small pears attached to the

ends of a tuning fork. We’ve been working with the earthworms so much

that we thought it would be easier if they were people. I know it’s

unorthodox—

“You’re bringing earthworms into the Great Bargain?” Zest had a strange

note in her voice. Loam didn’t notice Zest’s reaction. The problem is that we’re working

with some Verdance templates we got from a friend of a friend, and they’re

not really set up for something like this. “Sounds familiar.” Sulfur snickered. Anyway, I’ve built a fair number of people, never had any trouble getting

the brain-sender interface to grow. But look at that. She highlighted a

region of the worm’s brain. Seems fine, right?

They should be a person. But

they’re not sending. We can’t even tell if they understand us. Zest made a harumph noise. “Those templates are garbage. They assume

this hierarchy of intelligence measured in language, but that’s not how it

works. Listen. There are two kinds of brains, right?

Unmodified intelligence

and human-equivalent intelligence. Once you have a human-equivalent

brain, that’s it. There are no natural levels of intelligence. But there are

ways of artificially limiting people’s vocabulary to create the illusion of

mental hierarchy. A person with a Blessed rating can only talk about the

one task they were designed for—like, say, tree planting. A Mount can only

speak in single-syllable words. Of course, a so-called person has full

vocabulary access. So how do you create the InAss ratings?

At Verdance,

the templates call for limiters. Basically they break part of the software that

controls the brain-sender interface. But other places do it differently. You

can damage the tissues, or create chemical shortcuts that circumvent

speech.”

Dash and Loam stood very still. Finally, Loam sent: Are you saying that

anyone above animal level has full speech ability?

Even if you build them

for Blessed or Mount levels?

“Yep.” Zest extended her actuator and poked the visualization, pulling up

a command line. “Can you read those lines of code?

They’re part of every

Verdance template for brain designs, and if you had access to the Verdance libraries, it would call for whatever limiter you wanted. But right now, it

has a call for a limiter that doesn’t exist in your friend’s system. That’s

probably what’s keeping the earthworms from vocalizing. Their brains are

checking for a limiter that isn’t there, and it’s going into a loop.”

Aha!

Loam keened a note of triumph. Of course!

That’s why they’ve

demonstrated such incredible insight when it comes to everything but

language. They’ve solved the traveling herbivore problem!

They always find

the shortest route between hundreds of food sources. It’s incredible. Dash dropped to all fours and sniffed at something on the ground. She

seemed dejected: I never knew that about limiters. Does that mean our

Blessed and our Mounts have things they want to say but can’t say them?

“Yes. Yes it does.” Rocket played the angry sound of a tree crashing to

the forest floor. “It should be a rights violation. But hominins love it.”

Zest shook herself, as if she were trying to throw off the entire weight of

human interstellar civilization. “The League’s Intelligence Board is mostly

hominins, and they’re the ones who decide which species are invited into

the Great Bargain. They control who counts as a person.” She paused and

spoke more quietly. “What you’re doing here with the worms is a major

violation.”

We’re doing it the Spider way, like my mother taught us. Dash stood up

again. Are you going to turn us in?

Sulfur laughed. “As long as you don’t implement limiters, I’m pretty

sure that nobody here saw anything.”

“That’s right.” Zest pulled the actuator back into her crops and flicked an

ear. Her mood had lightened. “All I saw were some malfunctioning

sensors.”

“And I checked the sensor network, and it looks like everything is

exactly as we expected.” Misha grinned. “Just a freak reset. Maybe from a

lightning strike.”

Thanks, friends. Loam nodded to the group. I’ll implement this right

away. “Why did you decide to build these particular worms as people?” Sulfur

asked. “I’ve never heard of anyone just—deciding to change a template like

that.”

We were working with them on soil sustainability and infrastructure

maintenance for the colony. It didn’t seem right that we couldn’t talk to

them. Sulfur tried to imagine talking to a worm, and found the idea soothing. “I

hope to meet one of your new people sometime soon.”

We’ll be decanting a group tomorrow, after we fix that limiter bug. You’re welcome to stay. Plenty of nice camps around here for people of your

size. Zest wanted to stay, but Misha and Sulfur were anxious about making it

to Kokowadoko before dark. After conferring, the team decided to continue

onward. They would need at least two weeks at Spider City, and there was a

lot of urbanized land to cover before that. They worked their way farther east, stopping in at Kokowadoko, then

hiking and flying to the next two cities. At each stop, they went through the

same procedures—sampling the ecosystems, talking to people, trying to

figure out where everyone wanted to travel and when. None of the other

cities were as developed as Lefthand, nor were they owned by a single

company like Emerald. People were buying individual plots from Verdance,

and city layouts were hectares of skeletal trellises surrounded by

agriculture. Small public squares were the only fully grown regions, usually

an odd mix of high-end boutiques and hole-in-the wall joints serving

whatever was fresh from the farms. Sulfur found nowhere to drink that was

as pleasing as THE TONGUE FORKS. The people they met were largely

workers, ecotourists, and visiting owners testing out their new H. sapiens

bodies with all-weather outerwear. Few people planned to stay, even the

buyers. These early investors were wealthy dilettantes or speculators—

either way, they were building vacation homes that would be empty or

populated by their slaved staff for most of the year. Three weeks passed uneventfully after Zest helped the naked mole rats

bring worms into the Great Bargain. Spring gave way to early summer as

they passed beyond the agriculture zones of the last planned city, Battery,

on the eastern tip of Maskwa. Though Sask-A was bright in the sky, it was

still chilly this far north. The Comfort Sea was hundreds of klicks behind

them, and now they stood on grassy headlands facing the choppy waters of the planet-spanning Winston Ocean. If they continued along the coast, they

would soon feel the bite of arctic winds and find themselves in the boreal

forest. “Feels good to be in my home ecosystem.” Misha sat on an eroded rock,

looking out at a well-defined spit in the shape of a rakish smile. One day its

sandy expression would be an exclusive view for people with beachfront

property. He sighed and pulled on a warm hat that mashed his hair into a

wavy fringe around his face. “We’re at the same latitude as La Ronge here.”

“Except, you know, eight thousand klicks east.” Rocket lay on their

back, arms folded under their head, looking up at the orange sliver of moon

rising in the sky. Sulfur sat cross-legged next to Rocket, resting a hand on the warmth of

the bot’s hip joint. “Let’s start our trip back tomorrow. I thought we’d fly

through the Bronze Islands, since that’s going to be one of our transit

stops.”

“Makes sense. I might actually sleep tonight.” Rocket played a sound

file of Zest snoring, which had become a joke between them over the past

few weeks. “I need to do some memory indexing.”

Zest ate a patch of purple succulents and mumbled something sarcastic

but unintelligible over the loud crunch of her chewing. “Do you have any of those lentil cakes left from that restaurant in

Battery?” Sulfur looked over at Misha hopefully. He opened a pouch on his pack and pulled out a stack of lentil cakes

wrapped in cloth. “Not only do I have these, but I also got—” he dug

around some more and withdrew a lacy pouch in triumph, “—sugar crisp!

From that ridiculously fancy store that’s part of a chain on Venus.”

“Ridiculously … delicious!

Give me one now!” Sulfur shot out a grabby

hand and widened their eyes with mock berserker rage. “Did Verdance pay

for these?”

“Got them for free, thanks to Zest. She’s been offering trades to anyone

who needs, ah, help fixing bugs in their limiters.”

The cow twitched the skin in her shoulder, scaring off a fly that had

settled there. “Guy running the store was a Blessed, and it was driving him

nuts because he wanted to talk about something other than dessert.”

“You should be careful about that. If Verdance finds out …” Rocket

trailed off. “Well, I don’t like to think about it.”

“After our tour of Natural Milky, I have become less and less interested

in what Verdance does.” Zest glared. Misha pulled a pink crisp from the pouch and handed it to Sulfur. “Normally I’m extremely cautious about this stuff too, but these aren’t

Verdance workers. They’re slaved to companies that are several wormhole

hops away.”

The crisp was thin and perfectly round, embedded with a scattering of

tiny edible ball bearings. It tasted exactly like a sweet strawberry, in a form

factor the tongue would never expect. That’s probably what made it so

valuable, Sulfur reflected. It wasn’t so much the flavor as the surprise. 31

MOUNTED

From: Ronnie Drake

To: Misha

Subject: draft map of train tracks

Date: June 6, 59,706

Origin: Verdance Corporation

Least-cost path: VD Hab Cartier (0.001), Turtle Wormhole (3.2), Tisdale Station (0.9), Sask-E Sat (0.05)

Attached is a preliminary train plan for the major cities, based on your data. Consider

this your mandate, but feel free to tweak. I expect this back to me in three weeks, with Spider City the first to sign on. “You know I really don’t mind if you ride on my back, and it’s going to be a

lot more comfortable for everyone when we do this high-altitude trip.” Zest

was following Sulfur around camp and chatting as the Archaean stuffed

gear into their pack and rolled up the solar batteries that had been soaking

up photons since early morning. The team had been on the road together for almost five weeks, and

everyone had fallen into that zone of fieldwork intimacy where jokes came

easily, but so did getting on each other’s nerves. Rocket hovered a meter in

the air nearby, legs crossed, as if they were a foil-wrapped Archaean seated

on a cushion. “I love you, Sulfur, but I wouldn’t mind flying without

worrying about all the straps and netting.” They were referring to the

rigging that Rocket used to strap Sulfur to their slim hominin form. Basically it was a giant sling. When Rocket flew horizontally, it was easy

for Sulfur to lie belly-down on their friend’s back. But Rocket wasn’t crazy

about staying in that position, and it was hard to maneuver quickly without

Sulfur swinging around like a bag of grain. Sulfur cinched their bag closed and groaned in a parody of pain. “OK,

OK. I know when I’m not wanted, Rocket.” Then they glanced at Zest,

whose sturdy, broad back did indeed look a lot more comfortable than Rocket’s. “I just feel a little weird sitting on a person I only met a few

weeks ago.”

“Want to get to know me a little better?” Zest teased. “Say no. Definitely say no,” Misha warned. “Don’t listen to him.” The cow turned so that her right side faced Sulfur. “Let me show you the real me.”

Misha made a gagging noise. “I’m going to go take a crap while you do

that, Zest.” He headed toward some rocks that were tall enough to give him

some privacy. Sulfur was intrigued now. “OK, I want to see.”

Zest put her head down and ate a huge bite of succulent leaves. As she

chewed, her chrome chest and abdomen slowly went transparent. Sulfur

now had a perfect view of the four compartments of the cow’s stomach,

bubbling with partially digested plant matter. It was deeply unsettling to see

inside a person that way, as if they’d been flayed. Especially when she was

clearly laughing at them. “Why—why would you do that?” Sulfur couldn’t stop staring at the

largest chamber in Zest’s stomach, the rumen, as it began to squeeze the

slurry of succulent into the smaller reticulum. The whole process looked

like food traveled from the front of the cow, to the back, to the front, and

then to the back again. Before it could make a full circuit, Zest turned

silvery and opaque again. “Honestly it’s just a thing you can do with this alloy. It wasn’t

intentional.” Zest took another bite of leaves. “Mostly it’s amusing to scare

Misha with it.”

“Now that I know what’s in there, I guess I can ride.”

Rocket blasted some dance music. “Hooray!

I’m free!”

“Well don’t be too excited about it,” Sulfur grumbled. Misha reemerged, gripping a small bag that he thew into the portable

desiccator. By the time he had fastened a second set of safety straps to

Zest’s thick middle, the dessicator had released a few crumbly pellets of

fertilizer, which he crushed into powder and sprinkled over some vegetation

in a spot where runoff would flow inland. At last everything was packed, and the team had eaten and washed up in

the chilly surf below camp. It would be a long ride through the air, five or

six days depending on the winds, with stops only for meals and rest. Before

they mounted, Zest and Misha clipped breathers to their noses; Sulfur was

already wearing one, but they still had to pull on their bulkiest face shield

and all-weather coveralls. “Climb aboard!” Zest flicked her ears at Misha and Sulfur. Misha strapped himself down, and Sulfur climbed up behind him to do

the same. As Zest mounted the air and flew in an arc over the spit they had

admired yesterday, Sulfur realized that there was a reason why some

morphologies were better for riding than others. They didn’t feel like a

piece of luggage on Zest’s back. It was as if they were working together,

joined in a single purpose, their faces aimed at the southern horizon. Except

for Misha, whose head blocked Sulfur’s view unless they tilted to the left or

right. The three of them talked once in a while, networking via ports on

Zest’s back, but after a while the wind’s constant vibration lulled them into

silence. From this height, the coastal cliffs looked like the edge of a half-

eaten sugar crisp. As the hours passed, Sulfur got more and more achey. The seat was comfortable, the straps were snug but not tight—so what was

it?

Eventually they realized it was their constant micromovements to see

around Misha without touching him. They were also stabilizing themselves

by leaning back on their hands, which by midafternoon had tightened their

shoulders into stiffness. Anybody want some lunch and coffee?

Sulfur texted hopefully. I don’t know about coffee, but I could use some fuel. Zest glanced back at

them briefly as she sent the reply. Misha nodded and Sulfur gave Rocket the hand signal for landing. They

were halfway between two cities, and the land was about as untouched as

anything could be on a terraformed planet. Rocket was charged up from

flying in the sun, but the mammals needed calories. “The good news is the winds are in our favor and I think we will hit

Kokowadoko tonight.” Zest spoke around a mouthful of grass. “We can

pick up more food for the hominins and cross the water to the Bronze

Islands from there in the morning.”

Sulfur stretched their shoulders and leaned against a pack. “One thing

about flying—you can see how much development is happening inland. I

had no idea there were so many cities going up in the interior. I thought

they were mostly going to be on the coasts.”

“Yep.” Misha propped his pack beside theirs and lay back against it,

staring up at a cloud that looked like a heap of mashed potatoes. “With

more settlements popping up all the time, building a transit network is

going to be like trying to organize worms in a compost pile.”

Zest snorted. “Seems like the worms might have something to say about

that.”

“OK, fine. My point is that it will be messy and uncertain.”

Rocket blared a train horn noise. “Isn’t there some way to build tracks

that can be moved?” And then, answering their own question, the bot

added, “Of course, that would mean doing an environmental report every

time you wanted to change your route …”

Sulfur was full and sleepy and therefore in galaxy brain mode. “Didn’t

Dash say the worms have solved the migrating herd problem?

Maybe they

could figure it out.”

“Be serious for a second,” Misha interrupted. He was clearly annoyed. “You know we’re never going to be able to connect the cities with train

tracks over the long term. The routes will be obsolete before the planet is

even finished. I wonder if Ronnie and the other Verdance execs know that,

and the buyers know it too. Maybe that’s why they want trains in the first

place. Because no matter how we design the tracks, they won’t work. Then

the buyers will have the perfect excuse not to maintain the tracks or update

them, and public transit will die.”

Sulfur was sitting rigidly upright now. “You really think all the buyers

are that cynical?”

“Think about it. Why would a company like Emerald want a robust

intercity transit system?

They don’t want workers to commute elsewhere—

and they definitely don’t want it to be easy for tourists to leave and spend

cash in La Ronge or Moundville.”

As Misha spoke, Sulfur had a vivid image of their not-so-distant future. They could almost hear the words that Verdance would use to make its announcement. We made a good faith effort, they would say. We got transit

started and now it’s up to each city to carry on, they would add. And then,

because most of the wealthy owners had private transit, there would be

endless debates over where to plant those ugly tracks that Cylindra had

already rejected. Nobody would want them next to their nice

neighborhoods. There would be excuses about how trains messed up the

Pleistocene purity of Sasky, but really it would be about not wanting to deal

with the class of person who took public transit. Sulfur imagined the tracks

slowly softening into mulch while millions of people tried to get around by

cobbling together circuitous routes from dozens of local transit systems that

each charged a separate fare. And then rich commuters would deal with the

problem by building Mounts who couldn’t say whether they consented to be

used that way or not. “We’re not going to figure this out until we get back to Spider,” Rocket

said. “So let’s take off.”

Sulfur nodded and slid onto Zest’s back behind Misha, stretching their

arms one last time. Zest raced off the edge of the bluffs and into the air with

a dramatic flourish, and the team rode in silence for several minutes. The

Comfort Sea came into view, its waters slightly greener than the Winston

Ocean. In the distance, Sulfur could barely make out the curving coastline

that held Lefthand and the other Emerald cities. Loneliness closed Sulfur’s

throat as they wondered what Ace was doing right now. Just as they were

starting to have a pleasant fantasy about Ace’s deep gold arms and

miraculous legs, Misha turned around and poked them. He held out one of his hands, ungloved, and put his other hand into it. Then he nudged them again. Misha was asking them to hold his hand and

make a direct connection so they could talk. Curious, Sulfur put their hand

in his and linked up. Sorry I got snippy back there when we were talking about the trains,

Misha sent immediately. It hit me all of a sudden that this might be a fool’s

mission. Ronnie does that to me a lot, and I fall for it more often than I’d

like. Don’t worry about it. It’s a shitty situation. Sulfur paused to shift

positions again, trying to lean back on one arm, while holding Misha’s hand with the other. Misha smiled. You know, most people put their arms around the person

in front when they’re riding. I don’t mind. Normally Sulfur would have pulled back—they still had complicated

feelings about Misha that they didn’t want to think about—but at this point

their shoulders and neck had other ideas. They scooted forward and

wrapped their arm around Misha’s waist, still holding his hand. Immediately they felt more comfortable and less comfortable at the same

time. Despite the thick padding of their clothes, Sulfur could feel the shape

of Misha’s slender body—and at this distance, they could smell the soft hair

that furred his head. Better?

Thanks. That’s more comfortable. Sulfur was grateful that texting made

them sound perfectly composed. I know that Rocket was friends with Destry, and they’re expecting me to

do something as amazing as what she did. But I don’t see how we can tweak

this transit contract to get out of building a useless train network. You know, Sulfur sent, a lot of people back at Spider don’t think Destry

was amazing. They’re angry about the treaty. Misha was silent for a long time. A lot of people hated her at La Ronge

too. Sulfur hadn’t considered that, but it made sense. I guess I’m just saying

that you shouldn’t think that everyone wants you to be like her. I’m well aware. He laughed bitterly. But she did a lot of good things. Even after Ronnie kept her from ever leaving La Ronge again. On top of

murdering her parents. And murdering a bunch of people at Spider, Sulfur added. Not really murder though, as Ronnie often reminds me. We’re property. Sulfur decided not to explain that Spider City had its own government

now, and therefore its people belonged to themselves. The idea was

debatable anyway, because Verdance refused to allow Spider City to contact

the League. The company controlled all the comms satellites that routed to

offworld servers, so the only people who knew about Spider were here on

Sasky. Or working at Verdance. Sulfur sighed and leaned their cheek against Misha’s back. We’ll think of

something. Maybe you will think of something, but all my thoughts belong to Ronnie. No matter what I do, she’s using me. Even if we do something good, it’s all

to benefit Verdance. His shoulders shook like he was going to cry. Without thinking, Sulfur squeezed him with the arm they had wrapped

around his waist. If there’s one thing we know how to do at Spider, it’s

prevent Verdance from getting any benefit. Misha routed a message from Zest, which he’d picked up through his

other hand. There are the Bronze Islands!

See them?

They both looked to the south, and Sulfur saw nothing but haze over

blue water until they blinked their goggles into distance mode. There they

were—the five low mounds of the islands, with a dense city rising out of

the easternmost one like a forest fire, glowing and changing shape in the sea

breeze. Have you ever been to Lungs?

Zest asked. The buildings are designed to

change shape. It’s the only city like that on Sasky. Never been. We were there last year, Misha explained. It was a lot smaller then. Rocket’s voice blasted into their connection when the bot swooped close

enough to deliver a sound file. “We’ll be in Lungs tomorrow night!

Let’s

head into Kokowadoko and get some rest.”

That night, Sulfur woke up abruptly two hours before dawn and could

not get back to sleep. Misha breathed faintly next to them, lips parted. They

watched him for a long time in the orange moonlight, wondering how much

belonged to Verdance, and how much had broken free. 32

FLUID STRUCTURES

From: Ronnie Drake

To: Misha

Subject: Lungs is a model city

Date: June 7, 59,706

Origin: Verdance Corporation

Least-cost path: VD Hab Cartier (0.001), Turtle Wormhole (3.2), Tisdale Station (0.9), Sask-E Sat (0.05)

I see that your heading has you passing through Lungs, which offers a model of

privatized city transit. You should consider it the end goal of our train plan. Public transit should gracefully wither away to make room for more efficient, flexible private solutions. The city of Lungs was sheltered under a gravity mesh disabler, a permeable

membrane whose invisible contours they could see because soot and sand

had settled on top of it, creating what appeared to be a very thin layer of

fog. The disabler was a rare feature; in their century of urban planning,

Sulfur had never seen anything like it. “So if we move through it, you’ll just fall out of the air?” Sulfur still

couldn’t wrap their mind around it. “Who would build something so

dangerous?”

“Apparently it’s common on other planets,” Misha said. “I guess the idea

is that it keeps things quiet?

Forces everyone to land in the suburbs.”

“I’d call it access control.” Zest was flying in a lazy circle above the

dusty barrier. “They didn’t have this last time we were here. I think the

owners are moving in now, so they’re trying to keep out the riffraff. Now

everyone has to go through their checkpoints.”

“Checkpoints?” Sulfur couldn’t believe what they were hearing. “You’re about to see one.” Zest banked and dove toward the eastern side

of the island. Lungs dominated the biggest and most urbanized of the

Bronze Islands, known currently as BI-2.

BI-1 and BI-3 through 5 were reserved for ecotourism, so their development was minimal. Halfway

between the Bronze Islands and Lefthand was the planet’s main port,

crowded with the shuttles that took people up and down the gravity well. Garishly painted in every color, emblazoned with glittering travel brands,

the shuttles were a tropical bouquet erupting from the water. Under

magnification, they resolved into swollen metal tubes and saucers, swarmed

by hominins and a few other people waiting for ferries to take them to the

islands or mainland. When Zest and Rocket landed, it was on the empty ferry docks for BI-2.

A foam road led toward the city, but was blocked about half a klick from

the docks by a metal gate with bars that constantly shifted into new

configurations. As they approached, the bars configured themselves to say:

WELCOME TO LUNGS. PLEASE HAVE YOUR INVITATIONS READY. All four of them looked at one another. Invitations?

Zest spoke first. “That doesn’t sound good.”

Two mountable drones floated out from behind the gate and stood

wordlessly on burly actuators. Neither had a head. Instead, they had sensors

all over their tubelike, quadrupedal bodies. “Please show us,” one said. Behind them, the gate reconfigured itself to read simply: INVITATIONS!

Misha stepped forward to give the standard greeting. “Hello, friends. We’re ERT rangers, on a mission for Verdance. Just looking to stay for the

night and we’ll be moving on in the morning.”

“Show us and you can come in.”

“We aren’t going to any events. We just want to go to Lungs to get

lodgings for the night.”

“Go back where you came from. We will not let you in.” Both drones

spoke in the monosyllabic words typical of Mounts. Rocket stepped forward. “Isn’t there someplace we can camp?

We’ve

flown a long way to get here.”

“Not in Lungs. Time to leave.”

Sulfur stared into the middle distance, where a tower undulated and grew

black spines. The tower next to it emitted a stream of balloons, then

reabsorbed them. “But we’re ERT rangers.” Misha was incredulous. “We are permitted

everywhere on Sasky.”

“Not here.”

Rocket tilted their head, which flashed purple. “Now see here. We don’t

need invitations—”

Suddenly, the gate’s bars melted into a line of spigots in the ground. “You may pass,” said the bot on the left. “What?” Sulfur was more confused than ever. “Did I miss something?”

“Just get your ass through the gate.” Zest nudged them forward. The Mounts ignored the team as they raced over the spigots, which spat

out a new pattern of containment behind them. “What in the burning compost pile was that?”

“Ronnie was listening and issued us invites,” Misha mumbled. “How did Ronnie know we were here?”

“She’s always tracking us,” Zest said. Rocket played ominous music. “That’s a new one. Verdance never used

the trackers in anyone I knew.”

“Are you sure about that?

What about Destry?” Misha looked intensely

at Rocket. The bot shrugged. “I don’t think so. Unless you mean locating us by

spore trail?”

“Maybe that’s it,” Misha said vaguely. The city immediately folded them into its residential districts; Lungs had

no farms, and they quickly found themselves walking the sidewalk in a

suburban area with row houses that breathed, glowed, and emitted puffs of

steam. So far, they hadn’t seen people other than the bots who tried to keep

them out of the city. “Is all the food shipped in from the mainland?” Sulfur wondered. “Yeah. And the other islands.” Zest walked beside them in the street

because the sidewalk was too narrow for them to walk as a group. “That

was always the plan. Lungs is the most exclusive city on the planet, and the

idea is to cover the entire thing with these morph-cladded buildings.”

The suburban street went on for a whole two klicks before they saw any

retail or high density—or people. Finally they reached an intersection where a bodega sold jeweled water bottles and snacks. The H. sapiens behind the

counter glared at them and folded their arms. “Where are we going to find lodgings around here?” Rocket sounded as

unnerved as Sulfur felt. “Maybe downtown?” Misha replied. “I’m not sure because it’s so much

bigger than the last time we were here.”

As they got closer to the spiny tower and the balloon emitter, there were

more H. sapiens on the sidewalks. But no lodgings. This island had

problems that went far beyond public transit availability. It had virtually no

public amenities at all, other than the roads and ferries. After wandering listlessly, the team managed to locate the restaurant

district, and a few nightclubs—invitation only, of course—but no inns or

overnight rentals. Finally they approached a person waiting tables at a

sidewalk restaurant and asked directions to the nearest hotel. The waiter

clucked sympathetically and said their best bet was to get back to the

mainland. Dejected, the group gathered in a cluster on the curb. “Are there any places where rangers usually stay here?” Sulfur asked. “Last time we came, we camped. That whole residential area was

dunes.” Misha pointed at the road behind them. Sulfur was hungry and tired and wanted to sit down. “This place can eat

my ass. Let’s get out of here and camp on one of the other Bronze Islands.”

Zest sighed. “I’m starting to think that’s our only option.” She turned to

Misha. “Ronnie didn’t give you a place to stay?

Why did she let us in?”

“She’s been pushing me to come here because she thinks the Bronze

Islands are a great model for privatized transit. I assume she means the

ferries?

She doesn’t always know exactly what’s happening on the ground,

and relies a lot on marketing materials.” Misha shook his head. “Let’s get

dinner at least. We have money for that.”

They went back to the restaurant with the sympathetic waiter, who

introduced himself as Nash. After several drinks—one of which Sulfur

slipped to Nash—and a big pile of fried potatoes with a garlicky red lentil

soup, everyone was feeling a lot better. Still, nobody was relishing the two-

hour walk back to the edge of the gravity mesh disabler. When he brought the bill, Nash stayed to talk. All the other customers

had left, and there was a closing-time camaraderie in the air. “Listen,” he

said. “I know a place where you can camp tonight on the island.”

Sulfur sat up straighter. “Really?

Because we could use a place to crash

that doesn’t involve getting back to the mainland. Today has been long and

strange.”

“And I wouldn’t mind another drink,” Misha said. Nash laughed. “If you stay here long enough, you will always need

another drink or three.”

“Seems like it,” Rocket said, appending the sound of a fart. “There’s a beach on the northern island that hasn’t been developed yet. You can go out there and nobody will care. You can fly from there too—it’s

mostly outside the murder curtain.” He pointed up. “Killed like five

delivery guys last year. If you don’t know it’s there—let’s just say it’s a

long drop.” Nash shook his head. “You have a map?”

Zest nodded, and Nash tapped his temple to let her know he was sending

the coordinates. When they left the restaurant a few minutes later, Misha

made sure to leave Nash a big tip. The northern island was exactly as Nash had promised: empty. Moonlight splashed an orange streak across the water, and the sand was still

warm from the afternoon sun. Palm trees nodded in the wind, and Misha

stretched a hammock between two thick gray trunks. Zest wandered off to

graze and drowse while Rocket promised to be back in the morning. They

would be flying to the next island, and promised to bring back a few

samples. That left Sulfur alone with Misha, who sat down quietly in the sand

beside them. It was too early for sleeping, and they were enjoying a

lingering buzz from the wine and fried food. Sulfur snuck a look at Misha’s

profile. He was almost expressionless, as if he had left his body to enter the

vast complexity of the ocean’s ecosystems. And there it was again—they

couldn’t help noticing his beauty, more poignant because he wasn’t

conventionally attractive in the Archaean sense. That H. sapiens forehead

was too bulbous, and his face had a peculiar flatness to it. And yet. They

looked away, embarrassed. It was wrong in every conceivable way. Misha was Verdance’s man, and he would be due back at La Ronge in a few

weeks. What good could possibly come out of a roll in the grass with him?

“Do you miss Spider City?” He turned to them, blank expression

transformed into curiosity. “Sure I do. But I like to get out into the field when I’m working for the

city, instead of Verdance. What about you?

Do you miss La Ronge?”

Sadness edged his voice when he replied. “Not very much. I miss Destry,

but she’s gone. So are most of my old friends, except for Zest. I wish I

could move somewhere else and start over, like Rocket did.”

“Why couldn’t you?”

“I told you. I’m the only person like this, and Ronnie keeps me on a tight

leash.” He stretched his arms toward the small waves breaking on the

beach, spreading his fingers, looking at his hands like they belonged to

someone else. “I’m the most senior network analyst in the ERT now.”

“Couldn’t you do your job from anywhere?

Mostly you’re needed for

missions outside La Ronge, right?”

“I wish.”

Misha turned his dark brown eyes toward Sulfur, and it was too much. Their heart was racing and their brain was fizzing with hormones and all the

yearning in his voice had aroused a very different kind of desire. Without

thinking, they leaned over and kissed him softly on the lips. “Do you know

how beautiful you are?” they asked. He smiled slightly in surprise. “That’s not something I hear very often.”

They kissed again, but when Sulfur reached out to run fingers through

his hair, he pulled away. “We shouldn’t do this.”

“No shit. But I think we should anyway.” Sulfur was swelling slightly,

and it felt too good to worry about all the reasons why they might get hurt

later. “It’s just a little pleasure on the road.”

He shook his head and stood up, walking back toward the hammock. Sulfur started after him, worried that they had stepped over the line. “I’m

sorry—I should have asked before kissing you. That was wrong.”

“I’m not upset about that.” He’d reached their campsite and was

rummaging through his pack, finally pulling out a thick cloak for cold

weather and high-altitude flight. Wrapping it around himself, he sat in the hammock and gestured for Sulfur to join him. “I want to be close to you. But there’s something you should know.” They were pressed together in the

stretchy netting, except the cloak swaddled Misha’s body and head. His

voice came out muffled when he spoke again. “I know this is ridiculous, but

this material blocks long-range signals and sensors. Destry had it fabricated

for me. Somehow Ronnie didn’t figure it out.”

At first they were confused, but with a growing sense of dread, Sulfur

realized what Misha was implying. “You’re a surveillance device. For

Verdance.”

He laughed bitterly. “That’s not how they would put it, of course. The

information I’m able to gather and analyze is extremely valuable, so

Verdance built me to record environmental data and make it available in a

format that Ronnie can access any time. Everything except audio and video. But when I’m inside this cloak, the sensors don’t pick up anything. It looks

like a dead feed.”

“So if I touch you through this, Ronnie can’t spy on us?”

“Pretty much. To be honest, I don’t …” he trailed off, then groaned. “I

mostly try to avoid situations like this.”

Sulfur ran a hand over his head, just a lump under the rough fabric, and

continued down the nearly indistinguishable shape of his arm, his back, his

hip, and his thigh. Touching him was still sexy, but the vulnerabilities built

into his body were so unsettling that Sulfur ended their groping with

nothing more than a warm hug. “So how do you—I mean, what have you done before to avoid being

watched?”

“Like I said—I just avoid it.”

“So you don’t have sex?”

“Not in a long time.” He sounded miserable. “When I was younger, I

cared less. I didn’t really believe that Ronnie was monitoring me all the

time. But—” he squirmed around and opened a little tunnel of fabric around

his face so they could see the tip of his nose, “—but at a certain point,

Ronnie made it pretty obvious that she was monitoring me.” He gulped a

deep breath, and they realized it must be suffocatingly hot under the cloak. “You should take this off—maybe we can snuggle, if that’s OK?”

Awkwardly, he extricated himself and they lay down side-by-side in the

hammock under the invisible murder curtain, holding hands and looking at

the Milky Way’s clotted stars. There were the familiar constellations of the

Hand and the Muskrat. The Rocket hovered at the horizon, its rear jets

pointing toward the place where Earth’s star would be if they could see its

light from here. “I know we come from the stars, but I’ve always loved planets more.”

Sulfur trailed an arm out of the hammock, running their hand through the

sand. “Me too. Not that I’ll ever get any closer to the stars than we are right

now.”

“You never know.”

“Let’s kiss again.” Misha wriggled an arm under Sulfur and pulled them

closer. This time he let them touch the curls in his hair. “Can Ronnie tell we’re together right now?”

“If she wants to, she can see my physical reactions and get reads off

whatever sensors are on your body. If we actually did more than this, it

would be pretty obvious.”

Sulfur considered what that might mean. “I don’t care, personally. But I

don’t want you to get in trouble for—”

Before they could finish, he cut them off with another kiss, this one

urgent enough to make their petals throb. “Thank you.” His voice was a

half-whisper. “I have been wanting to touch you since that night at Angst, in

the tent.”

Sulfur swallowed hard. “Me too.”

He smiled, and his dimpled cheeks made him look less like an H. sapiens and more like a person. When Misha pressed his lips to their

eyelids, Sulfur’s skin tingled with hot and cold at the same time. Despite

what they’d said about grabbing a little pleasure on the road, that’s not how

it felt. When they’d hooked up with Ace, it was an ephemeral thrill. But

kissing Misha was already a lot more intense than surreptitious sex with

Ace at THE TONGUE FORKS. Maybe that was because they knew him

better, and trusted him despite everything. Or maybe it was because they

were getting high off the fumes of a brewing disaster. 33

BARRIERS

From: Ronnie Drake

To: Misha

Subject: get it done

Date: June 11, 59,706

Origin: Verdance Corporation

Least-cost path: VD Hab Cartier (0.001), Turtle Wormhole (3.2), Tisdale Station (0.9), Sask-E Sat (0.05)

I see you’re in Spider City. Emerald is champing at the bit to get those plans, so I want

those H. archaeans to sign off on our train plans as soon as fucking possible. I’m losing my patience. Four days later, they were on the western side of Maskwa. The Comfort Sea

was far behind them, along with the privatized ferry system and

reconfigurable gated island city. Misha and Sulfur spent most of the trip

going over data and strategizing with Zest and Rocket for their upcoming

Spider City meetings. Though they didn’t talk about what had happened on

the beach, Sulfur no longer felt awkward about putting their arms around

Misha to ride. What had been an uncomfortable position became a welcome

embrace—and perhaps, Sulfur thought ruefully, it would be the only kind of

physical intimacy they could ever have, given Ronnie’s constant

surveillance of Misha’s sensor readings. Wistful thoughts of lost sexual opportunities were swept aside as Zest

flew out of the mountains, revealing the peak of downtown Spider with its

ragged caldera. Sulfur always felt a rush of pure joy when they saw home

after a long time away. From here, the lake was the size of a turquoise bead. Still, Sulfur could make out the city’s characteristic architecture: earthen

mounds of every size and shape spilled down Spider’s lower slopes and into

the grasslands surrounding it. Lava tubes made ridges between the mounds,

legs for the arachnid whose abdomen was represented by Spider Mountain’s

magma-swollen bulk. A few farms and hydropower generators were visible near the Eel, but for the most part the city was still subterranean. The

mounds held homes, neighborhoods, and public spaces that connected to

the street grid of tunnels carved by ancient lava surges and—more recently

—by the Boring Fleet. The Archaea had no need to hide from Verdance’s satellites anymore, but

their urban planners had built below ground for so long that they never

seriously considered abandoning the tradition. In meetings, they usually

described this choice as pragmatic, but Sulfur knew there was a strong

element of aesthetics too. Nobody who had grown up in Spider wanted to

see buildings growing on top of the mountain, or in the tropical forests

below. When people wanted to add a building, they borrowed earth from

below and piled it into a mound above. Over the past few hundred years,

developers had cleared the land around the old mountain with controlled

burns, turning the city into an enormous ring of savanna encircling

downtown. The domes, peaked ridges, pyramids, and rectangular shapes of

its outer neighborhoods lay under a thick blanket of grasses and the

occasional acacia or baobab tree. After being away from home for almost six weeks, it was hard not to

weep with relief. Sulfur slid their hand over Zest’s port and sent a message

to the rest of the team. Anybody want to go for a swim before dinner?

It

probably won’t be too crowded at this time of day. Rocket, flying beside them, nodded. I could use a good scrubbing after

all those nights outside. Same, Zest sent. I’ve also been dreaming of those microgreens they put

on the grab table last time I was in Spider City. Zest banked left so she could land on a broad stone platform halfway up

Spider’s slope. It was one of the few examples of external architecture on

the mountain, and its main purpose was to provide a convenient entrance to

the underground for people who flew here. They were descending slowly enough that the air stilled and they could

mouth talk. Rocket played a sound file of a rabbit making nom-nom sounds. “I suspect you won’t have much trouble finding sprouts.”

Misha groaned. “I’m so tired that I might just go to bed after our swim.”

“I’ll show you the way to my room if you need rest.” Sulfur squeezed

Misha, trying not to worry about how easily exhausted he was after weeks

of overextending himself in the planet’s sensor networks. Rocket sent them a snatch of waaaa-waaaaa comedy horn notes and

followed up with a private text to Sulfur. What’s going on?

Are you hooking

up with the H. sapiens?

They looked over at their friend and colleague, anodized metal carapace

shimmering blue and purple as they descended in the air alongside Zest. I

like him, they sent. He has to go back to La Ronge in a couple of weeks. I know. Remember how long it took you to get over Sandstone?

Why are you

always falling for people who are completely unavailable?

Who said anything about falling for?

Rocket emitted a snorting noise. How long have we been friends?

Three

hundred years?

I know you. Misha turned around to look at them. “What are you guys talking about

in that encrypted stream?”

Sulfur leaned their cheek against his narrow back, padded with the thick

riding cloak whose uses went beyond comfort. “You really don’t want to

know.”

“I was warning Sulfur about chasing after unattainable goals.” Rocket’s

voice was sharp with annoyance. “Do you know what I mean, Misha?”

The man was silent until they landed. As he dismounted from Zest, he

faced Rocket, whose smooth face angled down to meet his gaze—the bot

was at least a quarter meter taller than Misha. “I would never stand in the

way of Sulfur’s goals.”

“Everybody is being extra creepy right now, so let’s drop it and go

swimming.” Sulfur crooked a finger at Zest and walked to the portal in the

mountain, which rolled open at their approach. “It’s Zest!” the door yelled. The cow’s head jerked up in surprise. “Is that Hellfire&Crisp?”

“You recognized me!

I can’t believe you’re here. It’s been—what?

Seven

hundred years?”

Zest shook her head. “It’s been too long since I visited Spider City. How

are you doing?”

“Did you know we married Jaguar?”

“What?

No!”

The entire team was through the door now and following the glow of

LED strings upward toward the caldera. Hellfire&Crisp’s voices followed

them, jumping out of speakers embedded in the walls. “We swore we’d never get married, but it turned out to be the best

decision we ever made.”

“Congratulations, Hellfire&Crisp. That’s really great.” Zest flicked an

ear. “Are you still part of the ERT?”

“We were for a while, but now we’re helping Jaguar maintain the access

control infrastructure for the whole city. We’re still racing, too—we can use

drone bodies when we’re off work.”

They were nearly at the caldera level when Hellfire&Crisp abruptly left

in a flurry of expletives about how nobody knows how to operate a simple

valve in a lava tube. Sulfur hadn’t realized how much they’d been craving the feel of clean,

cool lake water. They had rinsed off in the ocean a few times on this trip,

but it always left their skin gritty and hair salty. Stripping down to nothing,

they dove in without a second glance. Rocket followed them out, hovering

over the water and then dunking under, sluicing the dust out of their joints. Zest and Misha hung back, wading in tentatively. Sulfur watched the H. sapiens keep close to the cow, staying in range of her sensor-killing body. If

only there were an easy way to block the feed he sent to Verdance that

didn’t involve large jackets or bovines. As Sulfur dove, trying to reach the

thin but impenetrable window to the ERT lab, they suddenly had an idea. Surreptitiously, they sent a request to a friend who worked in medical

devices. When they resurfaced, Rocket continued their earlier conversation using

audio. “I’m sorry to throw compost in your recycling, but I want you to be

happy.”

Sulfur floated between tropical humidity and cold mountain water. “I

know. But I’m never going to settle down like Hellfire&Crisp. I like to travel. That’s my job. And when I stumble across somebody I like, I’m not

going to hold back just because they live far away.”

“I’m not saying you have to settle down, but wouldn’t you be happier

with a person whose body isn’t a living surveillance system owned by

Verdance?”

Sulfur lost their float balance and flapped around in the water. “How did

you know that?”

“I worked with Destry, remember?

After Ronnie murdered her parents,

Verdance changed the templates on a bunch of life-forms, including people

like Misha who can network with environmental sensors.”

“It’s not his fault how he was built.”

Misha and Zest were swimming toward them now, and Rocket touched

Sulfur’s arm briefly to send. You’re right about that. Please be careful,

though, OK?

I’m here for you no matter what. Sulfur grabbed the bot’s hand before they pulled it back. I know. And I’m

going to be cautious. The rest of the afternoon was taken up with plans for their next two

weeks. Misha napped on a conference couch while the rest of the team set

times to meet with the Council, arranged ERT transit breakouts, and got a

room for Zest. During dinner with the ERT urban planners, everyone

carefully avoided talking about how Misha would be staying in Sulfur’s

quarters under Rattlesnake Mound. Finally, it was time for people to start

their evening activities—some would be going to work, while others had

recreation dates. Sulfur and Misha peeled off to take a walk around the city. They held

hands, occasionally sending each other texts directly through their

interfaces, but mostly enjoying pure physical contact without language. As they got closer to the healthcare engineering center, Sulfur paused. I’ve asked my friend to create some experimental medical devices for us. Sulfur grinned. Do you mind stopping by the biofilm printers?

Why do you need a biofilm?

Misha was confused. Sulfur pushed him gently against the wall of the dusky tunnel, cupping

his face in their hands and tasting his plump, pretty lips as they continued to send. Biofilms aren’t just for building semipermeable membranes anymore. You can use them for all kinds of situations. Like blocking signals. His eyes widened. Wordlessly, he nodded. They continued strolling,

pausing to pick up a paper-wrapped package at the printer and admire the

lozenge-shaped windows emitting a deep orange light. Eventually they

forked right, away from downtown, following a natural lava tube whose

roof was open to the air. Sunset stained the sky purple, and high winds

stippled the vault of atmosphere with thin, pink clouds. Rattlesnake Mound was a cozy neighborhood of forty-two dwellings

whose multicolored doors flanked a rectangular public space with a peaked

roof. Vents let in filtered air, and the ceiling was streaked with glowing

algae that gave everything in the room a greenish-yellow tinge. Tables and

chairs were arranged neatly—somebody conscientious must have been on

cleaning shift—and the open kitchen smelled like herb tea. “This is where you live?” Misha spun slowly in the middle of the space,

inhaling deeply. “Is that ginger tea?”

“Yeah. Cam likes to have it at night, and he usually leaves some out for

the rest of us. Unfortunately you’re here too late in the year for his

marmalade, which is everybody’s favorite dessert in spring.” Sulfur poured

them both small cups of tea and led Misha to a bright orange door near the

kitchen end of the mound. Everything inside was as they’d left it. A small globe terrarium hung in

the square window, high in the wall, and their bed on the floor was piled

with pillows and homemade quilts from friends at the spring festival. There

was a dyed woven basket for clothes, and a chest of cubbies held neatly

stacked remote sensing equipment along with a jumble of items they’d

collected over the years: pleasing rocks and shells, dried flowers, mementos

from harvest circle, and a bracelet that their beloved Sandstone had given

them over a century ago. Thinking about Sandstone reminded them of what

Rocket had said that afternoon in the lake. The bot wasn’t wrong, but they

weren’t completely right either. Sulfur was tingly and nervous, wondering whether the biofilms were a

terrible idea—or would even work. Setting down the paper-wrapped

package, they fiddled with the atmosphere controls to bring in more fresh air, with the proper gas mix for Archaea. It was nice to breathe freely again. Misha flopped on the bed and pulled his shirt over his head, revealing a

slim brown torso dusted with dark hair. The breather in his septum refracted

light for an instant as he faced them. He was beautiful, but also strange—there was something unsettling

about the small H. sapiens features on his face, his narrow chest with its

two small nipples and short arms. It was as if he were slightly undeveloped,

decanted before his time. Kneeling next to him on the mattress, Sulfur

slowly unwrapped the parcel, which contained three rolls of biofilm,

helpfully labeled SAMPLE 1, SAMPLE 2, AND SAMPLE 3.

In Sulfur’s experience, having sex didn’t involve a lot of elaborate

preparation; one simply dove in, as they had with Ace in the club, growing

feverish and unguarded with desire. But that could never happen with

Misha. They had to plan carefully and use specially designed instruments,

as if they were about to do a laboratory investigation. Which was, once

Sulfur thought about it, actually kind of hot. Especially when Misha

reached out a languid hand and tugged the tabs open on their coveralls. As

the garment peeled apart and puddled around their waist, Misha ran warm

hands over the Archaean’s upper body—their pale torso muscled and broad,

with six dark purple nipples, three on either side of their rib cage. “Let’s try some sample strips of biofilm right here.” Misha pointed to his

chest. “That’s one of my main sensor arrays.”

“Alright.” Sulfur picked up the first roll. “Are you ready for our

experiment to begin?

We’ll be using … Sample One.”

He looked up at them, moving his arms away from his sides. “Put it on.”

They tore a small square from the roll, light and slightly damp, and

spread it gently over his right pectoral. Sulfur grinned at him and touched

his nipple lightly through the film. “Do you feel that?”

Moaning softly, Misha fought to collect himself. He pointed at the

cubbies. “Get a signal reader.”

Misha lay still as Sulfur ran the finger-sized device over his chest, trying

to connect to the devices under his skin; they were built to the same specs

as the environmental sensors whose states he was constantly reading. “Are you able to pick up any of the signal?” he asked. “No. I think Sample One might be all we need.”

He relaxed. “That was too easy.”

“You don’t want to try … Sample Two?” Sulfur raised an eyebrow and

held up the next roll of biofilm. It had a slightly pearlescent sheen. Before

he had a chance to reply, they ripped off another square and smoothed it on

his other nipple, gently teasing it until he gasped. The biofilm was so thin

that it didn’t feel like a barrier—more like he’d rubbed a moisturizer onto

his skin—except once in a while when the material would wrinkle for a

second and they would remember that there was a microbial textile between

their bodies. “You should …” he trailed off, touching Sulfur’s thigh. Their jumpsuit

pants were growing uncomfortable as their petals became more swollen. “You really should test to see if Sample Two blocks signals too.”

They ran the sensor slowly over the pearlescent square, almost grazing

Misha’s skin, and his breath skipped as their eyes met. Again, he made a

visible effort to bring himself under control. “I’m very impressed with

Spider City’s biofilms. Two for two.” Then his eyes narrowed. “I wonder if

I’ll be able to take some back to La Ronge. I could get off Ronnie’s radar

sometimes.”

This was definitely not what Sulfur wanted to be thinking about. “I’m

going to secure your entire body with the biofilm now.” They grabbed

Sample 2 and tore off a big sheet. “Take off your pants and stand up.”

Misha’s face relaxed again and he stood up, releasing the gripper at his

waist with the swipe of one hand. It was briefly unnerving to see his

aroused stamen without plush petals swollen around it, but Sulfur had

always been drawn to unknown landscapes. They gradually unrolled the

biofilm against his body, pressing it gently against his skin, making sure to

linger anywhere it made him sigh. He helped them tuck it around his facial

features and hair, where the film left a faint iridescence but was otherwise

undetectable. When he was fully encased, Sulfur stepped back to admire their

handiwork. Their coveralls were unbearably tight, and they made no

ceremony of stripping—in one sloppy gesture, they yanked the fabric off

and threw it into a pile on the floor. The two hominins stood in the dwindling sunset light from the window, embracing and sensing each

other’s heightening pleasure. Sulfur’s friend had thought of everything: the

biofilm allowed the natural salty-musk flavor of skin to come through, and

was pleasant to the tongue. Eventually the ache was too much, and they fell

to their knees on the bed, their stamens throbbing against each other. Misha ran his fingers down Sulfur’s rib cage, teasing their nipples, then

reached for the damp length of their stamen. “I’m not sure—what you like

to do?” he whispered. “I’ve never been with an Archaean before.”

“Bend over and I’ll show you.”

Misha knelt and they curled over his arched back, reaching around to

touch his stamen as they guided their own inside him. He sucked in a breath

and let it out out in a ragged sigh. It was almost too much, but Sulfur

slowed down to enjoy the sensation of being inside another person again—

the dalliance with Ace had been a delight, but this was much more. Their

abdominal muscles bunched in an agony of anticipation and urgency. As Sulfur lost control, rhythm getting rougher, Misha cried out in a voice

that made him sound like any other mammal. He was no longer an H. sapiens, but simply a body against Sulfur’s body. As the two underground

creatures gave in to their shared sensations, Sulfur felt the biofilm slide

under their fingers and was filled with elation that this feeling stopped at the

edges of their bodies. No one had recorded it; no one would ever know. It

was theirs alone. 34

GOVERNMENT

From: Ronnie Drake

To: Misha

Subject: plans???

Date: June 14, 59,706

Origin: Verdance Corporation

Least-cost path: VD Hab Cartier (0.001), Turtle Wormhole (3.2), Tisdale Station (0.9), Sask-E Sat (0.05)

What is the holdup?

This should be a quick turnaround. I can see you are still at

Spider City. We don’t need input from the Spider people—just a simple way to secure their agreement. The Council meeting was sparsely attended. There was nothing to vote on,

and very few people had the expertise required to weigh in on questions of

public transit governance. Obsidian, head of urban planning, had

interrupted Sulfur and Misha’s presentation to deliver bad news. “I’ve been in touch with Cylindra, who manages templates for Emerald. She said she met with you in Lefthand?”

“That’s right.”

“She’s refusing to allow any public transit inside her cities. She sent us a

long memo about it.”

Misha was taken aback. “I knew she wasn’t interested in trains, but

Verdance is obligated to provide some form of public transit for the entire

planet. It’s part of the development deal.”

Obsidian’s white hair was a tangled mane around the dubious expression

on their face. “I pointed that out, but she hates the idea of any kind of transit

—she said, and I quote, that it would ‘spoil the virgin beauty of the Emerald

Cities.’ Which is utter nonsense. I got the feeling that there’s some kind of

festering wound between her and Verdance management. I guess she used

to work there?”

Sulfur had the urge to spill everything they knew about Cylindra’s role in

the Archaean templates, but held back. “She was—hostile—when we met

with her.”

The group of Archaea around the table and on remote screens went silent

as they exchanged back-channel chat. A member of the Boring Fleet,

Alcohol, spoke through the mouth of a holographic moose. The actual

vessel was far below this room, floating in a river of lava. “Reading over

this memo that we got from Cylindra’s office, it seems that she’s exploited a

loophole in the contract. Public transit must link cities, but there’s nothing

about putting stations inside city limits. Technically Verdance would be

fulfilling its obligations if we built stations on the outermost periphery.”

Rocket made a crash-and-burn noise. “So she’s suggesting we build

tracks up to the edge of the city, and stop there.”

Frustrated, Sulfur practically growled. “That’s unacceptable. If you look

at the data we’ve been gathering, linking the cities using train tracks pretty

much guarantees that public transit will become obsolete. We need a

solution that doesn’t rely on tracks, and can go into the cities when it’s

needed.”

The head of Council for this meeting was Acorn, a young decanting

engineer who knew Zest well enough to give the cow a hug when they

arrived at the meeting. Acorn scratched one freckled elbow and frowned. “What do you have in mind?

I can’t imagine Spider joining a transit

network like the one Cylindra is proposing. We’re not going to perturb our

environment with tracks if there will be no benefit to people.”

“It’s a shame.” Obsidian shook their head. “Our surveys show that a lot

of people would like to visit the new cities. That’s fine if you’re able to fly,

but—”

“Wait a minute.” Rocket emitted the sound of screeching tires. “Alcohol,

does Cylindra’s proposal say anything about setting up stations inside the

city without building tracks?”

A few people started to ask confused questions, but Alcohol was

satisfied to answer literally. “No, it does not. She says no tracks inside city

limits. There are no comments about stations.”

An excited drumbeat was coming from Rocket now. “We can make

flying trains!

There is no rule that says the Verdance trains have to run on

tracks.”

“A train can’t fly.” Misha was frustrated. “We talked about this before. I’m not going to put gravity mesh into something that isn’t a person. It’s

dangerous.”

“Excuse me.” The holographic moose was speaking, channeling Alcohol

from the magma surging deep beneath their feet. “I’m sorry, but why are we

building vehicles that aren’t people?”

Everyone went silent as the messages between them became an uproar. Though Sulfur had become overwhelmingly partial to pretty much

everything about Misha, they were not impressed with his argument today. “Rocket is right,” they said. “Flying trains would solve a lot of problems. We’d avoid damaging wildlife with tracks, and we could alter routes really

easily. The cities are going to change and move around a lot over the next

millennium, and a flying fleet would be a lot more sustainable.”

Zest perked up. “Plus, we met some engineers when we were on our

survey who have solved the traveling herbivore problem. We could

implement it in the train’s mind too. Imagine a train that would always take

the optimal route between cites!”

“Whose engineers are those?

Are they ERT?” Acorn was practically

vibrating with excitement. The cow immediately became evasive—she’d promised to reveal

nothing about the worms, after all. “They’re not ERT, but they’re allies.”

“Solving that problem is huge—how do I not know them?” Acorn folded

their arms and another huge text chain blew up around the edges of the

mouth conversation. Misha couldn’t contain his anger. “Stop polluting this discussion with

your nitter-natter about the traveling herbivore problem!” He stood up, face

flushed and dark eyes flashing. “Verdance will never allow us to propose a

new life form as public transit, and we shouldn’t do it anyway. It’s not

ethical, and it’s not practical.”

“I beg to differ,” Alcohol replied. “Sentient transit is the very best kind. Only we are flexible enough to truly serve the public.”

“Why are you so against this, Misha?” Sulfur was frozen inside. They

didn’t like seeing this aspect of Misha’s personality. He yanked Cylindra’s memo out of the air and slapped it down on the

table, scrolling through. “See this section?

Cylindra is also refusing to

connect the Emerald Cities to any transit network that includes Spider City

because of what she’s calling ‘cross contamination from broken templates.’

She’s inserted a bunch of language about how every city in the network

must abide by the intelligence assessment standards she’s implemented in

Lefthand.” He gave Zest a significant look. “She’s trying to force every city

on the planet to abide by Emerald’s InAss templates.”

The whole outburst had left Obsidian puzzled. “You know there is no

way for them to enforce these InAss standards outside the Emerald Cities,

right?

They simply don’t have jurisdiction. She’s playing some weird

corporate game, trying to get something out of Verdance, I assume.”

Sulfur thought back to the way they’d gotten under Cylindra’s skin by

mentioning Ronnie. This memo must be the Emerald VP’s way of needling

her old boss, by making nonsensical demands. “Obsidian is right,” Sulfur

mused. “All we have to do is pit Ronnie against Cylindra and let them

scratch at each other while the ERT builds some flying trains.”

“It’s true that this memo seems more aimed at Verdance than at us,”

Misha admitted. Then he frowned. “But still, it’s our problem to solve. We

can’t build new people to fix this for us. We’d be dumping all our crap onto

innocent creatures who would have to carry tourists around.”

“Not just tourists.” Alcohol sounded testy, and the moose hologram

lowered its head as if about to charge. “They’ll be carrying every kind of

person all over Sasky. Maybe even across the ocean to Tooth. Sounds like a

pretty good job to me. Plus, they wouldn’t all have to become public transit. Sasky is a big place. A flying train could be an engineer, a game designer,

or a farmer if they wanted. They could help the ERT with rescue missions. Plenty will be left who like doing transit.”

Misha’s jaw was clenched. “But what if you’re wrong, and none of them

want to fly people around?

Or are you going to program them to want it?”

The room filled with the sound of Boring Fleet vessels laughing like

wind chimes. Apparently, Alcohol was sharing this moose avatar—and the conversation—with their comrades. “We of the Boring Fleet are not

programmed to enjoy making subterranean infrastructure, but like all

creatures, we find it satisfying to do things that our bodies excel at. Just as

you hominins like to poke at machines with your hands and run your flappy

mouths. And moose like to swim. Our bodies shape what we consider

pleasant, whether that’s work or play.”

Rocket blared an upbeat horn flourish. “Exactly right. Not every train

will want to do the same thing, but I’m not worried that the—the Flying

Train Fleet will be averse to the thrill of designing optimal routes and

visiting hundreds of cities across the globe.”

People texted back and forth, and Misha hunched his shoulders, as if

warding off an incoming blow. Acorn spoke up in a non-sequiturial way that suggested they were

replying to a long text chain Sulfur hadn’t read. “Sure, sure. I don’t see why

we couldn’t mock up some templates this afternoon. Alcohol has ideas

about morphology, and Zest gave me a really interesting brain model with

two separate ganglia.” They paused and looked at Zest. “What exactly is

this a model of?”

The cow flicked an ear and looked at Sulfur for help. “We got it from

those engineers who solved the traveling herbivore problem—they were

doing fieldwork.”

“Something to do with agriculture,” Sulfur added, making a big show of

gazing off into the distance and checking their memory stores. “You know,

it wasn’t relevant to our mission, so I didn’t take any notes.”

Acorn shrugged. “Whatever. I love this design.”

“This is not why we came here.” Misha’s voice was low but loud. “Sulfur and Rocket told me that this Council would discuss government

transit regulations with us. Right now, Spider City has the only independent

government on this whole stinking planet. And instead of thinking about

how we’d build a system for collectively managing a planet-wide resource,

you want to bring a bunch of trains into the Great Bargain.” He glared at

Sulfur for several seconds before including the entire table in his scornful

gaze. Obsidian was offended. “We are all allies in the Great Bargain,” they

said, paraphrasing the ERT Handbook. “That’s untreated sewage and you know it. Who is going to be in charge

of this Flying Train Fleet?

How will every city weigh in on their transit

needs?

How will we know when new trains are needed, or new routes and

stations?

What if Cylindra changes her mind and the Emerald cities decide

they want to use the entire fleet—who decides how many they actually get,

and brokers the compromise?”

Misha was clearly working himself up to say more, but Alcohol cut him

off, their voice chiming out of the moose avatar. “Don’t you understand yet,

H. sapiens?

If we make the trains into people, then they can decide for

themselves. They can manage themselves. Like the Boring Fleet does.”

“Exactly.” Obsidian sat back, satisfied. “Sometimes the best way to

handle resources is to perceive when they aren’t resources at all. They are

people. Maybe it’s hard for you to understand because everyone in La

Ronge is slaved, but that’s what it means to govern. A government’s job is

to recognize people, to help them make their own agreements with each

other—and if you do your job well, those people become your political

allies.”

“I’m not saying things are good in La Ronge, but what you’re describing

is incredibly naive. These aren’t people yet. We don’t need to make them

people. In fact, if we do make them people, our public transit will depend

on the will of—” Misha waved his hand in the air as if scattering flies. “Sasky needs a dependable transit infrastructure. Not a bunch of people

who have opinions about optimal routes.”

“A lot of people on Sasky are already working as Mounts,” Zest said

gently. “They are mostly treated like chattel, though. It would be nice to

build someone to do that job who could actually broker the agreements as to

how it would be done.”

A door opened in the back of the Council room, where members of the

public entered to sit on the on the tiered bleachers carved into the circular

walls. Currently, the bleachers were about a quarter full, so the stranger

standing there wouldn’t have far to walk for a seat. Instead, they strode

directly to the front-row tier at the bottom. “Oh great!” Acorn perked up. “This is Tuff, from my lab. That was fast!”

“Yeah, so I mocked up the train you were describing earlier, with the

dual brain structure. I honestly don’t see any problems with it—it’s all taken

from well-tested templates, with a few tweaks. I could build the first one in

about a week, and then it would get faster.”

Sulfur grinned and spread their hands in a look-at-all-this gesture. “You

see?

The train is easy to build, and it’s safe.”

Misha folded his arms and glowered. “We have to run this by Ronnie. If

I bring her a fleet of intelligent trains, she could murder them all.”

“If we make them here at Spider City, Verdance technically doesn’t have

jurisdiction over them.”

“It’s true. That’s one of the many reasons why I wanted this body.”

Rocket gestured at their rainbowing carapace. “Because it was

manufactured here, I became a Spider City person when I ported to it.”

“That’s how you did it?” Misha sat back in his chair, blinking. “So far it’s worked too. Verdance never even tried to claim me.”

The H. sapiens rubbed his temples and looked at the moose hologram,

tethered to Alcohol the boring vessel, then at the rest of them. “I have to

think about this. I can perceive that you’re right about making the trains

into people, but I’m still worried that Verdance will figure out a way to

wreck this—and we might end up in a much worse situation.”

“If people like the transit, they’ll vote with their feet.” Acorn tapped

their bare foot on the packed earth floor. “What’s the worst Verdance can

do?

Send an angry message?”

Rocket, who had lived through the Eel River War, sat up straight. “They

can melt this city from orbit. Do you really think anyone will care—or even

find out about it?

We still haven’t been able to open relations with the

League, so there’s no outside authority we can appeal to.”

Like Acorn, Sulfur hadn’t been alive when the war happened. It was

hard to imagine what it must have been like to watch the city being carved

up by laser fire, and even harder to believe that something that brutal could

happen again. Spider City had a government and a treaty with Verdance. But Misha was nodding at Rocket and taking deep breaths to ward off

anxiety. “That’s not an unrealistic scenario,” he said finally. “You are fools if you

are not prepared for it.”

35

A PROMISE

From: Ronnie Drake

To: Misha

Subject: ignore the memo from Emerald Date: June 21, 59,706

Origin: Verdance Corporation

Least-cost path: VD Hab Cartier (0.001), Turtle Wormhole (3.2), Tisdale Station (0.9), Sask-E Sat (0.05)

Got the design drawings for trains from you—obviously I need the full specs, but this

is shaping up. Next, I’d like to see some documentation of their functionality, and a map of potential track routes. You can disregard the memo from Cylindra. Tracks are still fine —it doesn’t matter if they can’t go inside the cities, because we should expect city residents to supply their own transit. If this train project pleases the execs at Verdance and Emerald, I can guarantee a promotion for you in La Ronge—maybe even a chance to work offworld on other terraforming gigs. But if you fail—I’ve already told you what will happen. And that’s a promise. Sulfur spent the next seven days in meetings with various committees at

Spider, working out an intercity transit plan they could present to Verdance. For all of those days, Sulfur wouldn’t speak to Misha. They found him a

guest room in Rattlesnake Mound, put his pack inside, and threw the

biofilms on top just for good measure. His nastiness at the meeting had

curdled their growing affection for him, souring the memory of their night

together. Misha responded by avoiding them at meals. He worked on data

analysis with Zest, was perfectly businesslike in meetings, and never once

tried to ask Sulfur why he was suddenly sleeping alone. Either he knew, or

he knew not to ask. Sulfur appreciated that, even if they were still repulsed

by him. It was midafternoon on the seventh day after the bedroom biofilm

experiment when Sulfur managed to get a few hours to take a walk outside. Clipping on a breather, they took the nearest exit and found themselves on

the warm flank of Spider, surrounded by a late summer riot of grass and insects. A bird swooped down in a flash of red and yellow, plucking a bug

out of the air. It was not an animal that Sulfur knew, probably because it

was one of thousands of creatures—millions, really—that lived in and

around the mountain. They’d never thought about how easy it would be to

snatch one of them out of the air and turn them into a person. That’s exactly

what those naked mole rats in the northeast were doing with their

earthworms, though. Now Sulfur’s colleagues were doing something even

more radical: making a new life form that had never existed before, and

planning to release it into the same airspace where green-winged jacamars

hunted dragonflies in an iridescent dance. The idea filled them with

uncomplicated happiness: a new ally in the Great Bargain!

Enjoying the feel of tiny rocks crunching under their feet, Sulfur headed

downhill and intended to walk aimlessly between mounds. Instead, they

found themselves wandering in the direction of the lava tube entrance to

Acorn’s lab. Sulfur had been dying to check in with Acorn about their

progress on the Flying Train Fleet. After an hour of dusty hiking, they

found the skylight entrance, its energy barrier a faint gleam between trees. Every Archaean knew this was the historic place where the Council

members and Destry had stood when the first laser beams hit the city during

the Eel River War. But it was also just another entrance to the ERT campus. Pressing a hand to the loamy soil, Sulfur connected with the city network

and requested entrance. “It’s open.” Jaguar was speaking out of a widening portal in the energy

field. Sulfur stepped through, landing on a gravity assist pad that wanted

sweeping. Everyone coming in and out of this place was covered in dirt, so

naturally they left bits of it behind to hover in the air until the assist turned

off and tiny clods rained down on the experimental agricultural plots below. The long, sunlit tube was full of these plots, largely for researchers, their

two-meter squares demarcated by colorful threads and sticks that

corresponded to the ag lab’s data organization scheme. Trees stretched leafy

arms up to the skylight, and ferns spread fingers across the ground. A group

of people picked edible flowers blooming at the edge of the path and

scraped a few sensors off the tiny sprouts poking up next to them. It reminded Sulfur of their early days at the ERT, learning how to take

environmental samples. Acorn worked beneath the mountain proper, and Sulfur pulled the

breather from their nose as they headed for a solid rock tunnel. Past a few

office doors was Acorn’s space, a roughly square chamber taken up with

decanting tanks on one side and a row of lab benches on the other. The

benches were packed with people today, operating tissue printers,

incubators, and chip fabbers as Acorn bounced excitedly between

workstations and observed. When they saw Sulfur standing in the doorway,

Acorn rushed toward them, pale blue eyes wide with delight in their

freckled face. “Do you want to see them?

We’ve got the scaffold and connective

tissues already.” The engineer pointed at an arched doorway that was barely

visible behind the tanks. “I mostly work on the decanting process, so Tuff

brought in some bioengineers who build bots and hybrids.”

Sulfur nodded. “Zest told me a little bit about the hybrid system she’s

building for you. Sounds similar to the Boring Fleet, but with more

biological tissues exposed.”

“Come see!” Acorn made a let’s-go gesture. They wove through the tanks, some of which were lit up and bubbling

while others were dark and dry. A few members of Acorn’s team were

tinkering with the machines, troubleshooting. Beyond the archway was an

enormous warehouse space, its walls and ceiling made from unfinished

igneous rock, with enormous lights attached to a series of crisscrossing

catwalks hanging from the ceiling. Techs clanged on the elevated walkways

overhead, one pausing to adjust the lighting to a slightly more yellow tone

—the perfect frequency to fast-grow trellises. Glowing at the center of the warm spotlights was the hardening skeleton

of a train. Roughly thirty meters long and three meters wide, it was built in

three segments connected by flexible muscle textiles. For now, its body was

still notional, being mostly the wheeled chassis with ribs arching up to meet

each other where the curved roof of the vehicle would be. Frames for the

doors and windows were growing in nicely, and as Acorn had promised,

some of the connective tissues were sprouting between ribs—eventually, these would form the soft interior surfaces of the train for passengers. Sulfur walked around the growing creature, trying to imagine its shiny,

rounded exoskeleton and bright windows. On the other side they found

Zest, using her actuator to test the strength of the tires. Looking more

closely, Sulfur realized what they’d assumed to be tires were actually feet,

covered in dark overlapping scales for protection—as if the train would

have a gang of curled-up pangolins to roll on. After Zest gave Acorn the latest details, she looked over at Sulfur and

moved both ears forward with pleasure. “I’m so glad you got to see the trellis stage!

We’re going to install

gravity mesh tomorrow or the next day—depending on how long it takes to

grow this interior layer.”

“Did you wind up using the double brain structure?”

“It’s going in right after the gravity mesh, yeah. I figure it will take a few

days to test the internal network and microbiome.” As Zest spoke, one of

the tissues growing between ribs in the trellis reached out a pale green

tendril, curling it weakly in the air as it looked for a place to attach. Sulfur

touched it gently, guiding it to the next rib, but the tendril wrapped around

their hand, stubbornly refusing to let go. Its grip was warm and tacky with

peach fuzz. “Hey, little friend, you need to grow your body.” Sulfur pressed the soft

tissue against the trellis where it ought to attach, but still it held on to their

fingers. “I promise that if you let go, I’ll come back and visit you

tomorrow.” Instantly, it detached and coiled around the trellis, followed by

dozens more sprouts, which knit together into a springy flap of tissue

joining the ribs. “I guess they like you.” Zest snickered. “You’d better come back

tomorrow.”

Sulfur was surprised by how happy the thought made them. “I wouldn’t

want to break my promise to a growing train. They’re already beautiful.”

“Aren’t they?” Acorn crossed their arms and appraised the trellis door

frames admiringly—five in all, two on the front and back cars, and one for

the center. “Tuff designed the entrances and exits to be fully flexible, so people of all sizes and morphologies can get inside easily. Plus it has a ramp

for naked mole rats.”

“How are earthworms going to get on board?” Sulfur asked, half-joking. “Good question. We’ll make sure there’s a way.” Zest looked at the

structure with a critical eye. Acorn was confused. “Why would earthworms need transit?”

Sulfur arched an eyebrow. “They’re members of the public.”

“OK, I’ll put worm accessibility on the list.” With nonchalant

acceptance, Acorn saved the audio of their last few seconds of conversation

to a local to-do list for the team. “Probably they can use the same ramp as

the naked mole rats, but we should check to be sure whether they might

need some moist dirt to sit in during the ride.”

“Thanks.” Zest sounded surprised but happy. “I wasn’t sure you’d

actually do that.”

Acorn tilted their head to the side quizzically. “Why wouldn’t we?” They

paused, eyes unfocused, as they got a message. “OK, I need to get to

another meeting. Feel free to stick around, Sulfur. See you tomorrow!”

As they hustled out, Zest continued her slow probing of the pangolin

feet. “I can see why you like it here. I didn’t really get it when I came here

the first time, with my old partner, Kim. It was a much different city back

then—and of course we were at war.”

Sulfur hung their head. “Yeah, it’s hard for me to imagine.”

“I hope all you ever have to do is imagine it.”

The next day, Sulfur slept in past breakfast. Their meetings were over,

and they’d stayed up late entangled in a long conversation with Acorn and

Rocket about war, and the Flying Train Fleet, and what they would do if the

two collided in the future. It was a cozy evening, but tinged with fear. Sulfur sighed. They were tired of being afraid of what came next. To clear

their mind, they decided to pay a visit to the flying train in Acorn’s lab. There were leftovers out on the Rattlesnake grab table—dried mango

and some toasted grain—which they ate by the handful as they headed up

the tunnel. They were so distracted that they didn’t notice Misha had fallen

into step beside them. “Would it be OK for me to apologize now?” His expression was so

touchingly earnest that it reminded Sulfur again of everything they’d liked

about Misha before he went rotten at the meeting last week. They shrugged. “Fine.”

“I know that I shouldn’t have been closed to the idea of bringing a new

ally into the Great Bargain. I know I was a jerk. And I’m really sorry. I’m

just—I’m scared.” His voice broke, and Sulfur was surprised to see tears

streaking his face. They gulped the last of their breakfast and held out a

hand to stop him before the tunnel joined a larger and more crowded artery. Sulfur was still leery of him, but he deserved some privacy to show his

feelings. “What’s wrong?”

“Ronnie has been making threats about what will happen to me if I don’t

give her the train track plans she wants. So there’s that. But also—I was

designed to do a job I don’t want to do. I can’t escape the network. Ever. In

that meeting, where you all talked about building new people to suit the

jobs you need done—well, that’s me. I’m a person who was custom built to

suit a bunch of contracts that leaked out of corporate pustules. And I don’t

want to do that to anyone else.” Misha’s voice wobbled, and he mashed

water out of his eyelashes with the palm of his hand. “I don’t want to make

people who wake up and realize that they have some special physical

attribute that makes them someone else’s valuable tool.” He held his hands

out to Sulfur, palms up, showing them the place on his body that held

Ronnie’s specially designed network sensors. “OK.” Sulfur expelled a breath. A prickle of shame worked its way

around their neck as they realized how little they had perceived about

Misha’s situation. “I understand now why you were so reluctant. But Spider

City isn’t Verdance. We aren’t going to force anyone to do work they hate.”

“How can you be so sure?

What if Verdance figures out a way to seize

the Flying Train Fleet, because they were built to satisfy their contract?”

“I won’t let that happen. None of us will. The trains won’t let it, either.”

Misha shook his head. “You know that I love you. I’m sure you know

that by now.” He raised his black eyes to meet their blue ones. “But you are naive if you think that Ronnie will let these trains form their own

government.”

There were too many thoughts and emotions chasing each other around

Sulfur’s rib cage for them to respond immediately. “I need to sit down,”

they said, sliding down the wall until they plopped ungracefully on the

ground. “That’s a lot to take in—I mean the part about Ronnie, yeah, but

also the part about you being in love with me.” Misha plunked down beside

them and held out a hand. Sulfur grabbed it and their conversation became

text. I thought it was pretty obvious, he sent. Sulfur looked at Misha’s pretty lips and thought again about what he’d

said. I really like you too, but we’ve only known each other for a little while,

and until five minutes ago I wanted to throw you in the garbage. So now I’m

not sure what to say. A bot walking past angled their sensory bulb at them curiously, and

Sulfur waved as if everything was perfectly normal. Misha squeezed their hand. Just say that you’ll come to visit me in La

Ronge one day, inside a flying train. It’s a date. And also—I will make sure those trains are happy. And safe. Nobody is going to make them do what they don’t want. Misha looked like he was going to cry again as he shook his head. Would

you really have enough time to focus on the trains?

Don’t you have to get

back to urban planning missions now?

As Sulfur thought again about the train reaching out its soft tendril to

touch their hand, they realized something. Now that their two months of

treaty servitude were almost up, they would get to choose their next job—it

was a tradition in Spider City, to sweeten the bitter months doing

Verdance’s bidding. Sulfur could request a few months to work on rearing

the young train. Dropping Misha’s hand, Sulfur broke into mouth speech. “I

met the first member of the Flying Train Fleet yesterday, and I really loved

them. I could apply to be their parent. That’s three months of intensive

work, as well as a lifelong commitment. I want to do it. I could watch out

for them, the way Destry did with you.”

“Destry couldn’t protect me in the end,” he said. “Plus, even if you were

their parent, you couldn’t be sure they’d be safe when they went into the

world.”

“Well, that would make me just like every parent who has ever lived.”

36

BIRTHDAY PARTY

Sitting on the dirty floor of the tunnel with Misha, Sulfur felt their emotions

suddenly disentangle themselves from a painful knot. “Let me introduce you to the train, Misha. I’m headed to Acorn’s lab

right now.”

The H. sapiens looked stunned, but he nodded mutely and stood up. When they arrived at the train’s incubation warehouse, Zest was

puttering around with the tissue layer that now obscured the trellis. Yesterday’s exposed ribs were entirely covered in a layer of furred padding

that was the tan color of Misha’s skin. Through the window and door

openings, they could see that the chassis had been dusted with seeds that

grew thin carbon fibers, knitting themselves into a hard floor. Eventually,

the tissues on the outside of the train would undergo a similar

transformation, growing a tough outer shell that hugged the more flexible

fabric of the doors and windows. At the moment, though, Zest was most

concerned about the train’s front end, which would serve as a “face” to the

public—though sensors would of course be spread throughout their body. The train’s face stuck out like a cat’s snout, with lights instead of a nose and

whiskers; a big window took the place of eyes and ears, to bring in light and

allow curious passengers to sit in the spot where a driver would be if the

train weren’t a person. “They’re coming along really quickly.” Zest stepped back to admire the

full body of this creature who would come alive in a world that had never

known another of their kind. “I think they’ll be ready for decanting in a few

days.”

Just then, Tuff arrived, pushing a flatbed cart piled with rolls of gravity

mesh. Spread out into a single sheet, it would be thin enough to turn invisible. But it was a dull matte-black now. Tuff waved to Sulfur and

Misha. “Nice to see you!

Want to stick around for the neuro installation?”

The Archaean and H. sapiens looked at each other. “I’m going to stay,

absolutely,” Sulfur said. Misha looked like he was about to take a canoe over some rapids. “All

right. I’ll stay too.” He looked with trepidation at the self-governing flying

train before him, which met every technical requirement in the Verdance

contract. The company would be able to present the planet’s cities with a

public transit system that required no tracks, adapted in real time to new

conditions, and could bargain with local governments on its own behalf. But for a few minutes more, they were still just microbes, fibers, and

minerals, grown into the shape of a train. Tuff and a few other members of the team unrolled the gravity mesh. Another crew came in with the precursors for growing a neural network. The mood in the warehouse started to feel like a birthday party. Sulfur kept thinking about how the trellis had grabbed their hand—just a

reflex, because the body held no agency right now. Still, it felt like a sign. This train promised to be the most fascinating creature they had ever

encountered. In that moment they knew for certain their next job request

would be to parent this new person. They put a hand on Misha’s arm. “OK,

I’m definitely going to do it. I’m going to put in an offer to parent to this

train.”

He turned to them, eyes damp. “I trust you to do a good job. And I’m not

going to let you forget your offer to visit when they’re ready to fly.”

Tuff, who was measuring gravity mesh on the floor, looked up at him. “You know they’ll be born ready. Parenting is for socialization and

specialized tasks.” They stood and held up a square of mesh to see if it

would fit between windows. “Got any thoughts about what color your

child’s carapace should be, Sulfur?

They can always change it if it doesn’t

suit them.”

The Archaean laughed nervously. “Well, I haven’t put in my formal

request with Council—I’m not their parent yet.”

“I can tell you’re going to. I can always tell.” Tuff whistled softly as they

returned to cutting the gravity mesh into shape. “How will you explain to the train that there are no other people like

them?” Misha asked. Acorn wandered into earshot. “As soon as this one is finished, we’ll start

working on another. This train will be on the team with us, giving feedback. I don’t think it will be very long before they have train friends.”

Misha bounced on the balls of his feet anxiously. “I don’t know if that’s

true. What are you going to do about potential hostilities from Ronnie?”

“There is absolutely no way that will happen.” Sulfur cut a hand through

the air, chopping the head off an imaginary foe. “First of all—there is no

way she can claim you aren’t following the terms of the contract. And

you’ve actually solved a major problem for her, which is having to create a

global department of transit. The trains can run themselves and she washes

her hands of it.”

“You don’t think she’ll see through what we’re doing?”

“What?

What are we doing?

We’re just creating a solution to an

environmental problem. That’s what we do at ERT.”

“We’re spreading government. Those trains will effectively be another

self-governing entity.”

Just then Rocket walked into the hangar, swiveling their head and torso

around, scanning the strong, springy body of the train as the team installing

their quantum-neurological system. “Sulfur!” The bot emitted some

celebratory marching music. “I heard you’d be parenting this train!

Congratulations!” Before Sulfur could protest, the bot had them in a hug

that was hard and warm. “Tuff sent me the audio.”

“Who else did you tell?” Sulfur turned on Tuff and tried to sound angry

but could not keep a straight face. “Just Rocket. I was messaging with them right when you said it, so I

figured it was my duty to pass it along.” Tuff feigned outrage. “They have a

right to know!”

“What color do you think they’d like to be?” Tuff asked for the second

time. Sulfur looked at the anodized metal of Rocket’s carapace, gleaming in

three shades of pink. “Make this flying train the same beautiful color as Rocket,” they said. “It’s only fair, since they are about to become this train’s

auntie.”

MEANWHILE, IN EMERALD’S SASK-E OFFICE

DATE: 59,707

PLANET: Sask-E

CITY: Lefthand

INTERREGNUM: BLESSED

“What the actual fuck is this, Cylindra?” Ronnie’s wrathful face hovered

like an ancient bust come to life over Cylindra’s bedside table, high

forehead bulging above close-set eyes in the current H. sapiens fashion. It

was a few hours before dawn, and the VP blinked a forgettable dream out of

her eyes. Through the windowed walls of her penthouse atop the ziggurat,

Cylindra could see a few people with amber headlamps getting an early

start in downtown Lefthand. “You told our ERT that they couldn’t lay train

tracks because you want every city on Sask-E to adhere to some demented

template for intelligence?

It is literally your job to make it easy for them to

lay track. It’s part of the standard Verdance contract. Which you signed.”

Narrowing her eyes, Ronnie seemed to stare directly at Cylindra’s naked

torso as she sat up in bed. But there was no way that the Verdance VP knew

Cylindra was nude, or even here at all. She was simply leaving a bitchy

message, and had decided to set its urgency level high enough that it

overrode Cynlindra’s sleep settings. The angry hologram continued its tirade. “I shouldn’t give a damn, since

you’re the one who is going to be dealing with the fallout. But unlike you, I

actually care about doing my job.” A nasty grin cut across Ronnie’s face. “You know all about what happens when a terraforming project goes

sideways, don’t you?

You should pay attention to the proposed train system

the ERT is building, thanks to your new requirements. There are some features of those trains that you might regret. You do know that there are

problems worse than tracks connecting Lefthand to cities with alternate

templates, right?

Get off your metal ass and look into it.” Her face winked

out. Metal ass. Cylindra was hardly more metal than Ronnie was, if you

considered all the machines circulating through the VP’s supposedly

biological body. Legally, Cylindra was a robot because she’d been

assembled on a bench instead of blobbed together out of chemicals in a

decanting tank. And hominins like Ronnie never stopped finding it hilarious

to refer to her body parts as metal or somehow automated. She shook her

head, returning to full wakefulness and wiping the rest of her dreams from

memory. Pulling on the rudiments of a suit—pants, shirt, light cape—Cylindra

padded in bare feet to the gravity assist and sank through the floor into her

office space. Lights followed her, keeping pace with her increasingly

agitated gait, and furniture tried to reconfigure itself. None of the servants

were awake. “Everybody up!” Cylindra directed the command at the control pad next

to the kitchen, but she could have said it anywhere and the penthouse would

have followed her orders. The kitchen began to boot while a feed showed

the servants’ quarters going into wakeup sequence, bright lights coming on

with the sound of a rooster crowing. Soon, somebody would be making fry

cakes with the milk harvested from Lefthand’s herd of dairy cows. She sat

beneath a sunlamp at the breakfast table and wished for the millionth time

that she could make the entire city wake up with her on days like this. If she

were on a ship, she could literally make the sun rise early. But here she had

to wait for Sask-E to turn, which further proved that planets were a

miserable waste of time and matter for anyone who wanted to be

productive. Which she absolutely was, despite Ronnie’s message from hell. She’d

risen through the ranks at Emerald because of innovations like the Natural

Milky dairy farm, which was booked solid for the next year by tourists

eager to experience life on agrarian Earth. She’d completely revamped the

company’s templates, and nothing like the Spider people fuckup had ever happened on her watch over the Emerald Cities—in space, or on this stupid

planet. If she’d learned anything in the centuries since working with Verdance, it

was that converting these speculative buyers into engaged residents meant

keeping them inside the Emerald cities. That’s why Emerald provided its

own local urban transit, with options for every income level—owners didn’t

need to mingle with the crowds of mounts, Blessed, and H. diversus

workers built so cheaply that they couldn’t withstand the radiation from a

single trip through space. If Emerald brought intercity transit to its metro

areas, potential clients might wander off and spend money in the Bronze

Islands or La Ronge or one of the hundreds of other cities on Sask-E. Obviously people had to leave the cities sometimes, but as the brochures

said, “the Emerald way is an invite to stay.” If catching a train to Eelside

was as easy as catching one downtown, profits would suffer. Wearily, Cylindra went through a stack of messages about the train

tracks. After telling those absurd Spider people to go fuck themselves, she

had to admit she hadn’t paid much attention. The upland agricultural

regions needed a sensor network buildout, and Emerald was planting a

water park right up the road from Natural Milky. Eventually the whole area

would be packaged as a family destination for day trips, and Cylindra

desperately needed to edit the marketing materials. She pored over the documentation on the trains, and couldn’t figure out

what Ronnie was so pissed about. There were no plans for tracks inside the

Emerald Cities, which was good. Shuffling through the early templates for

the trains, she couldn’t find anything particularly unusual—they were

actually sort of cute, with their front windows appearing to frame a smiling

snout. Attached to the templates was a lengthy, turgid ERT paper about

solving the traveling herbivore problem, full of formulae that Cylindra

glanced at without interest. Yes, it was remarkable that they had solved this

long-standing problem, but why would Ronnie be upset about that?

There

was a hefty appendix to the paper which explained how trains fit into self-

governance at Spider City, which made Cylindra roll her eyes. What was it

with these Spider people always wanting to tell everyone about their

imaginary government?

They even threw their weird garbage in this stupid train spec. She deleted it before reading. How could self-governance

possibly be relevant to trains?

That left her with zero clues about what Ronnie was angry about. It felt

like one of the exec’s efforts to mess with her—a continuation of their old

turf war. Ronnie was pissed that Cylindra had dared to challenge her stupid

contract. And now the Verdance VP was gaslighting her about the train

system. Just like old times. She almost groaned in relief when the cook padded into the kitchen,

apron neatly pressed as always, and softly murmured commands to the

devices around them. It always cleared Cylindra’s mind to watch a Blessed

at work, their singular focus a model of discipline. Noticing her gaze, the

cook nodded at Cylindra before hand-cranking the coffee grinder and

pouring a creamy disc of batter onto the griddle. “Good morning, Chef.”

“I am cooking,” the Blessed replied. “Would you like warm milk for

your coffee?”

“Yes. But not too hot.”

As Chef poured some milk into a pan, Cylindra tried to imagine the

serenity of a mind that only thought about one thing. They brought her a

steaming cup of thick coffee and a small carafe of milk that was just warm

enough to please. “This is your coffee. The fry cakes will be next.”

Sipping the rich concoction, Cylindra considered her options. She didn’t

want to bring in the big guns from Emerald if she could help it—she just

wanted Ronnie to mind her damn business and let her build the most

lucrative cities on the planet. If only she could tackle this problem with the

serenity of a Blessed. Obviously, that was nonsense. If she were Blessed,

she’d never be able to understand anything beyond work. Life would

probably be pretty boring. Chef delivered a golden fry cake, so light and

fluffy it might have been an aerogel. She took a bite and smiled. “This is

delicious.”

The Blessed bowed and took up their usual position in the kitchen,

waiting for further orders. There was nowhere else for them to go, except to

the store for cooking supplies. Still, they did get daily exercise—Cylindra

prided herself on allowing the servants out for walks in the air around the ziggurat’s upper terraces. It kept them healthy. Tilting her head, she

considered that Chef could be a potential rider on one of those Verdance

trains. Which made the whole project seem even more ridiculous. “Chef, if you could take a train outside the Emerald cities, where would

you go?” She leaned back in her chair, enjoying the way Chef’s mouth

worked and cheeks grew red as they tried to answer. “I would see—food—growing in the wild,” they said haltingly. “I would

look at—how people cook—in other cities.”

“But if all you want to see is food and cooking, couldn’t you do that

right here?”

Chef took even longer to answer this time, and Cylindra felt a surge of

satisfaction that she would never have to search for words. The exec had the

highest possible intelligence assessment rating. “Cooking is different—in other places. Food is different.”

Cylindra laughed—it was the answer of someone who was incredibly

stupid, which was exactly what she’d expected. “That’s not a good reason

to travel. We have every kind of food here in Lefthand.”

She turned back to Ronnie’s message and considered her next move. Within minutes, she’d completely forgotten her conversation with Chef,

who continued to stand silently in the kitchen. Cylindra poured another

coffee and milk, stood up, and walked purposefully to the meeting room. She needed to talk to her colleague Mel, who worked out of Emerald’s HQ. When Mel popped up in the chair across the table, Cylindra launched into

the story about Ronnie’s obsession with the trains, and how it was just

Verdance trying to undercut Emerald’s authority over the land they

rightfully owned. Mel tucked a strand of purple hair behind the shell of her ear and looked

thoughtful. “Send me the train spec and I’ll take a look.” As they gossiped,

Mel read through the ERT proposal. “I don’t see anything unusual here,

other than solving the traveling herbivore problem, which is impressive if

true.” She looked up, and Cylindra noticed Mel had dyed her eyes purple to

match her hair. “There’s also a reference to an appendix that I can’t find

here.”

“I deleted that—it was just some moronic thing about self-governance

from the Spider people. Totally irrelevant.”

Mel squinted her eyes, puzzled. “I really don’t understand why Spider

City is allowed to exist at all, honestly.”

“Whatever. In a few hundred years, this planet will be owned by

Emerald and our partners. Those people will be gone, and nobody is going

to care if there’s public transit. Honestly I never understood why Verdance

wrote transit into the contracts in the first place.”

“Mobility makes money, Cylindra. And it looks good. Ethical.” Mel

tilted her head. “I guess Verdance doesn’t want to seem like they’re leaving

the planet in bad shape.”

“But it’s in great shape. Every city will provide its own transit. Buyers

usually have private vehicles. Ronnie is just fucking with me.”

Mel wrinkled her forehead sympathetically. “She’s being a complete

bitch for no reason. I would ignore her. What’s she going to do?

Yell at one

of the C-levels at Emerald?

Good luck with that.”

Cylindra took another sip of her coffee and smiled. Mel was always

reassuring. Those malfunctioning ERT rangers could barely figure out how

to write a train spec that didn’t include a bunch of progovernment

yaketyyak. Ronnie was just trying to psych her out. Or maybe Ronnie was hoping Cylindra would come down hard on

Spider City—so hard that Ronnie would never have to worry that somebody

would discover the treaty she signed with the Spider people. Cylindra

grinned to herself. Finding and saving those secret treaty documents before

she left Verdance was one of the smartest moves she had ever made. Once

all the land on Sask-E was sold, the Eel River treaty would be worth

nothing politically. But it would be worth something to Cylindra, if that

snake of a woman kept biting at her. She could use it to get Ronnie fired. PART III

GENTRIFIERS

DATE: 60,610

ROUTE: Trans-Maskwa Eel Line

MISSION: Serve the Public

37

SCRUBJAY

Everybody who lived in the city called it La Ronge. But Verdance real

estate agents named it Forest View because they thought it would attract

offworld buyers. Which is why the sign for Boreal Station had been

repeatedly corrected by the locals: today, the words CITY OF FOREST VIEW had

been eroded with a catalyst, and CITY OF LA RONGE sprayed in bright orange

over top. Boreal Station was the end of the line, servicing a park full of trails and

picnic cabins that stretched from the northern edge of the city into the

forest. The wide, clean train platform was mostly empty. As Scrubjay

opened their doors, passengers stood and shuffled around, looking for stray

belongings. “We’ve arrived at Boreal Station. Last stop, friends!” the train

announced. “I’ll be heading back down south in ten minutes.”

A family of hominins gathered their packs together, and two worms

requested access to their exit, a cylinder of moist soil they entered through

an aperture in the floor. The train left their doors open as the last person left,

enjoying the feel of northern winds playing over the warm wires of their

interior anemometers. With only a ten-minute layover, the train wouldn’t

have time to do a full wash cycle on their cars, but they could air the place

out. With only thirty seconds left before all-aboard, a scruffy-looking cat

padded into the first car and found a seat near the front windows. Afternoon

sun poured over them, and the cat’s thick brown fur snagged the light,

creating streaks of reddish gold. Scrubjay spiraled into the air from the platform, their anodized steel

cladding turning their whole body into a rainbow. Riders texted them stop

requests. This was a local line, which meant the train would let passengers off anywhere along the Eel Route. When the rusty brown cat didn’t text a

request, Scrubjay assumed they were headed to Comfort Sea Spaceport near

Lefthand. There was something that said “I’m leaving town” in the cat’s

distracted expression, and they had full saddle packs slung over their back. So many passengers had already requested the port stop that texting was

unnecessary. But then the cat snoozed through downtown Lefthand, east of

the crumbling ziggurat, and still made no requests to land. Scrubjay had

misjudged: The cat must be headed for the other end of the line, on the

southern tip of Maskwa. Otherwise they surely would have requested a stop

by now. Passengers came and went. They bickered and snuggled, their mouth

noises and texts blurring into a warm information halo of social interaction. When Scrubjay first began flying this route, centuries ago, they used to

listen to people’s chatter, trying to parse their customers’ needs—or maybe

get some news from offworld. But they almost never learned anything

useful. Instead, they heard pointless exchanges about the angle of the sun,

or terrible secrets about people being disappointed in love and abused at

work. Over time they began to feel a prickle of guilt: They were invading

the privacy of riders who had no idea Scrubjay could hear them. In recent

decades, the train deliberately avoided analyzing what people said to each

other on board unless there was a safety risk. Instead of eavesdropping, Scrubjay plotted and replotted their

passengers’ stop requests in an ever-changing internal model that

maximized efficiency while also offering the beautiful views for which this

particular train route was known. They flew through four sunrises, using

210 seats and 40 sleeper berths to carry 4,567 passengers to their

destinations. At last the Vertebrae Mountains dwindled to foothills, and the

train could see the southern coast. Scrubjay circled over the Eel estuary,

where fresh water from the mountains met ocean salt. In the distance,

across the slim strait between Maskwa and the southern continent, Tooth,

the jagged peaks of Tustin loomed over the gleaming red roofs of the city’s

houses. One hundred and six people—mostly dogs—would be connecting

with the ferry to Tooth. The cat was still gracefully curled up in a sleeper; they made no ferry

transfer requests. Now Scrubjay was getting genuinely curious, despite their

general aversion to taking a personal interest in riders. Was the cat going

somewhere near Estuary Station?

Or perhaps taking private transit to the

ocean reserves?

As they prepared to descend, Scrubjay turned in a slow spiral that would

bring their three cars to a soft landing on the Estuary Station platform. The

closest city was Tether, a small community whose semipermanent textile

buildings and burrows were nearly indistinguishable from the rainforest a

klick up the road. Next to the platform, weary travelers could refresh

themselves in the long, low Ferry Hall, where vendors sold food and other

necessities. Open to the air on one side, the building’s hay bale walls

glittered with decorative mica flakes and fluttered with tiny paper flags left

by people from thousands of cities, nations, and planets. But over the past

eighteen months, Scrubjay and the rest of the Flying Train Fleet had noticed

a shift in land use around the station. A nearby campsite full of recycled

trellis shacks was home to a growing number of Homo diversus, bots, and

other people. The campers remained carbon negative, so the ERT didn’t feel

that anything was out of balance. Still, the trains occasionally observed to

each other that it didn’t feel quite in balance either. Scrubjay planned to stay on the landing pad overnight, partly because

they needed a break, and partly to welcome connecting passengers from

tomorrow’s returning ferry. Sometimes, if they were feeling adventurous,

they would walk around outside by forking their consciousness into one of

the two remote bodies they kept on board. Today, however, they wanted to

do a deep clean and check messages from the rest of the fleet. And of

course, they would log some time in Sunbuilders: Flare, the latest update to

the strategy game that they were playing with their best friends, Contrail

and Peach. Opening all five sets of doors, Scrubjay addressed the passengers from

speakers embedded above the seats: “Thank you for riding with the Flying

Train Fleet, Sasky’s public train service. I’m Scrubjay from Spider City. We’re at the end of the line, folks, and I won’t be heading back up north

until tomorrow afternoon. The ferry to Tooth arrives in two hours. You can relax in the Ferry Hall or take a stroll—there’s a nice trail from the Hall that

goes along the water. Thanks again for choosing to ride with us.”

It always took at least fifteen minutes for everyone to get off at the last

stop. Some passengers had been living on the train for a week, and most of

them had a lot of luggage. Scrubjay watched them departing with one

process and simultaneously started up sixteen more processes to grab files

and streams from the network. Now that they were connected via the

landing pad, everything was faster, and Scrubjay reveled in the information

flood. Peach, who flew the Trans-Boreal Route, had made some fiendishly

clever moves in Sunbuilders, and the Atmosphere Administration had

released rainfall plans for the next two weeks. Plus, Scrubjay’s parent,

Sulfur, had sent video of trellises growing into a fresh train station at Spider

City, home to the equatorial transit hub. The train spent ten minutes exchanging messages with Sulfur,

calculating their route back to La Ronge to avoid the worst rainfall, and

contemplating a dozen different scenarios for their next move in

Sunbuilders. They were deep into a trade war between two empires

competing for solar mining resources when they noticed—thanks to that

one process watching people leave—that the train wasn’t entirely empty. The brown cat was still sitting on the cushioned benches under the big front

windows in Scrubjay’s first car. A quick check revealed the cat’s saddle

packs were stowed in a sleeper overhead. “Excuse me, friend, but we’re at the last stop.” Scrubjay spoke quietly,

out of a speaker near the cat’s face. The cat slitted their eyes and stretched. That was a lovely flight, friend. It was rare that a passenger addressed the train directly, and Scrubjay

took an instant liking to them. “Thank you. You can call me Scrubjay. What’s your name?”

I’m Moose. I hope you don’t mind if I stay on board for a while longer,

Scrubjay. If I’m totally honest, I don’t have anywhere else to go. Scrubjay had a standard answer for this complaint. “Would you like me

to help you find a destination?

I fly to hundreds of cities and eco-resorts,

and I’ll bet there’s one that will appeal to you.”

Sitting on their haunches, tail curled neatly around toes, Moose looked

out the front window at the people clustered around the Ferry Hall. It’s not

that I can’t decide where to go. I just—I’m not ready to go live in one of

those shacks outside. They broke off abruptly and jumped to the floor,

finding a new seat beneath a chair. Scrubjay moved their audio emissions to another speaker that was closer

to the cat. “Can you tell me more?

I still might be able to help.”

Moose sighed. I’ve lived in La Ronge for my whole life—two hundred

and seventy-five years last month—and I love it. I have a really good job

there too. I mean, not a high-paying job, but one that I actually care about. They licked a paw and ran it over an ear. But you know the routine. Wages

haven’t kept up with the cost of living, my landlord hiked up the rent, and

now I’m out on my ass without a tongue to clean it. Scrubjay looked at the camp outside—not just as a form of land use, but

as a set of social interactions—and began to assemble an uncomfortable

analysis. “You couldn’t find another place to live?”

Not in La Ronge. Everything is so gentrified now. My neighborhood used

to be really cheap—lots of housing, great cafés and media halls. Now all

these H. sapiens are moving in from the city ships because they want that

authentic Pleistocene feeling. Half of them are remotes, which is extra

annoying. They’re idle most of the time. Why do they even need houses?

“I don’t know. My home is the route, so I guess I’m my own house. But I

grew up in Spider City, where people build houses if they need them.”

Moose yowled a bitter laugh. That’s where my grandparents were born. It’s great if you’re a citizen of Spider. But I don’t have that privilege. I’m

lucky not to be slaved to Verdance—at least for now. Scrubjay assigned two more processes to this conversation: they wanted

to get some data on gentrification in La Ronge and correlate it with the

informal settlement at Estuary Station. Meanwhile, they continued to chat. “Can’t you find somewhere less expensive to live?”

Maybe in one of the Emerald cities offworld. But I don’t want to live in a

place where I have to wear branded shirts or agree to buy two game

streams per week. Scrubjay had to laugh. “I guess it is kind of obnoxious. I do like the

Hydrogen Guild shirts from Sunbuilders though.”

Moose reached front legs forward, their back bending steeply, then came

out from under the chair to lie in an elongated triangle of sunlight falling

through the front windows. The Hydrogen Guild is fine, but I’m not into

shirts. You know what I mean?

“Never needed to wear one myself, but I think they can be nice on other

people.”

I take it you’re a citizen of Spider City?

“I was built there, so technically I am. But none of the Flying Train Fleet

live anywhere in particular.”

I read that Sasky Transit is a self-governing entity. Very few people cared about how Sasky’s transit system was managed,

and Scrubjay was excited to talk about it. “We are self-governing, but it’s

not tied to a specific location like a city. We’re a worker co-op, tied to each

other.”

Wow. Moose made an unimpressed “meh” noise. Very old school. Mildly offended, the train said nothing and initiated a cleaning sequence

in their back car. Moose sent another text. Maybe you can explain something to me,

Scrubjay. “Sure.”

How in the shit did Spider City manage to form a government on this

planet?

The whole rock was developed by Verdance—and they sold every

other city on Sasky to property management firms. “The Archaea have a treaty—”

The cat stood up to pace the car, then sat down again, ears cocked

forward. And that’s another thing. Nobody offworld has ever heard of the

Archaea. How did a bunch of H. diversus gain sovereignty on an H. sapiens

world?

Scrubjay wasn’t sure where Moose was going with this line of

questioning. “There are lots of people on Sasky who aren’t H. sapiens. You,

for example.”

I can’t own property here, though. I’m a renter. Only H. sapiens can buy. Kind of weird that the Archaea are the one exception to that rule, don’t you

think?

Now Moose was starting to piss them off. “My parent is an Archaean. You said your grandparents are from Spider City. I don’t understand why

you are so suspicious. Do you have something against governments?”

As they spoke, the train combed through recent housing statistics from

La Ronge, and discovered Moose wasn’t alone. Over the past two years,

thousands of renters had been evicted and were unable to find other housing

in the city. The numbers were higher for renters in the Emerald Cities. There was no follow-up data on what happened to people after they got

priced out. The cat leaped back onto the bench under Scrubjay’s front windows. I’m

sorry, friend—I didn’t mean to sound hostile. I’m a data historian, so it’s my

job to be skeptical of everything. You might not believe it, but I like

government. I wish this planet had more of it. Scrubjay trained another visual sensor on the small mammal with the

sharp words. “What’s a data historian?”

It can mean a lot of things, but in my case, it means I research old data

to find patterns that might help people figure things out in the present. I

write stories about Sasky’s history for the La Ronge Messenger. They sent a

link to the continent’s biggest news server, as if Scrubjay might not know it. “Yes, I read it all the time,” the train said impatiently, spawning a new

process to grab the latest news. “I can’t believe you write for the Messenger

but still can’t afford to live in La Ronge.”

The situation is an overflowing cesspit, and it’s not just me. Tons of

people lost their homes after Verdance allowed landlords to set their own

rent prices two years ago. Meanwhile, Emerald’s VP has been pushing an

H. sapiens–only policy for new renters—I couldn’t move there even if I

wanted to. It’s been chaos since then. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if

more people started pushing for governments like in Spider City. We need

some way to provide people with necessities like housing and food. Scrubjay was combing through years of data on internal migration

patterns and media feeds about housing policies. The cat was right. If La Ronge were governed by the Spider City Council, Moose would still have a

house. “I should have paid more attention,” the train admitted. “It seems

obvious.”

Moose stretched again, their extended claws lightly pricking the woven

fabric that covered Scrubjay’s passenger benches. It’s not obvious to most

people. Scrubjay thought about how Spider City had grown organically around

the new homes that people dug inside lava tunnels. Every resident was part

of the chore rotations that allocated agricultural work, which kept the city’s

farms robust. They planted enough to feed all the biologicals, while the

geothermal energy grid fed the bots and fleets when they weren’t using

solar. The train had never thought about food and housing as things that

could be scarce, like beta access codes for a game. Another new thought spawned in Scrubjay’s mind. “Do you need

something to eat?” they asked. “There is plenty of protein for sale in the

Ferry Hall, and I have some credit there.”

The cat stood, their tail a question mark. I have enough money for food. But can I stay in that sleeper compartment for a little while longer?

I’m

working on a story that could be huge. Maybe huge enough to start a few

more governments on Sasky. As warm suds ran down the inside of the back car windows, Scrubjay

noticed that Moose’s fur looked almost black out of the sunlight. The train

had never seen a cat with a coat that exact color—they really did look like a

very tiny moose. But the cat wasn’t just pleasing to watch. The train liked

talking to them. “I don’t mind if you stay for a while.” The train paused, wondering again

about how a person with family from Spider City could have nowhere to go

but a sleeper box. “I’m curious—who were your grandparents?

The ones

from Spider City?”

Do you know the story of Whistle and Midnight?

“Of course—everybody does. My auntie Rocket worked with Whistle.”

Well, my mother always said that Whistle chose the color of my

grandparent’s fur. I guess she was lonely for home when she moved to La Ronge, so she gave me my grandparent’s fur color too. That’s why

everybody calls me Moose. “Where’s your mother now?”

She left Sasky a long time ago. The cat’s tail puffed slightly with

discomfort. Slaved herself to Emerald to pay off our debts. Using a gentler tone, the train asked, “Do you have any friends you can

stay with in La Ronge?”

I’ve been crashing with some of my friends for the past year, but it’s

starting to get awkward. The cat slitted their eyes at the train’s nearest

visual sensor. You know how it is to feel like a burden, even when people are

nice about it?

Scrubjay wasn’t sure what to say, so they started cleaning the middle car

and played some of the forest music from Sunbuilders. Moose seemed glad to change the subject. You really need to try some

other games, my friend, they sent. There’s more to life than Sunbuilders. “Maybe,” the train admitted. “Now, can you wait in the back car while I

wash up in here?”

38

HOME ON THE ROUTE

Five days later, they flew out of the northern Vertebrae Mountains and the

rains hit right on schedule, cascading down the barren peaks that fed the Eel

River. Shedding water, Scrubjay slowed as they approached the prairie

farms that surrounded the city. From the air, the wheat looked like a

luxurious textile, woven at great expense. Moose had created a tiny piece of

home in one of the modest sleeping boxes that Scrubjay reserved for small

quadruped passengers. They unpacked their saddle packs, laying out a soft

blanket and a few devices for recording and transcription. It was nice to

have someone around who wasn’t a passenger. But there was also

something uncomfortable about it; talking to Moose made the train want to

analyze people’s conversations again—especially the ones involving

Moose, which were a lot of them. Moose’s easygoing prickliness made them an amusing companion for

nearly everyone. The cat would talk to anyone about anything: wine,

interstellar politics, games, speciation, construction, molecular engineering,

rent prices, hopes for the future. Scrubjay wasn’t sure if Moose was

exceptionally knowledgeable, or had an uncanny ability to cozy up to

people and pump them for whatever information they had. Probably a little

of both. They were, after all, a writer for the Messenger. Their job was to

create meaning from the haze of social information that Scrubjay had

pointedly ignored for years. The fiery skyline of La Ronge glowed in the distance. Purple

holographic flames spurted into the air over downtown, where all the

theaters and fancy restaurants were clustered. Moose poked their head out

of the sleeping box and leaped down to an empty seat below, texting as they

went. We’re home!

Just in time to turn in my story. Scrubjay assigned one process to broadcast their standard “find your

belongings” message to passengers while another texted with Moose. What

are you working on?

Is this the big story you told me about earlier?

It’s related. I’ve been researching some suspicions I have based on this

tip I got. The cat passed the train a text file, which read:

I’m slaved at Verdance and I do some work in the licensing

department. You should look into who originally manufactured the H. sapiens germline that Verdance licensed to everyone who bought land

on Sasky. Something extremely smelly there. (Data source: tip sent to

the La Ronge Messenger anonymous drop, May, 60,610)

Scrubjay was surprised. I thought Verdance built their own H. sapiens

line, and then licensed it to Emerald and all the other buyers. The oval landing pad of La Ronge South Station loomed ahead, and the

train initiated a descent spiral. The cat used a back leg to scratch an ear. Apparently not. I’ve been following some leads. And then, thanks to you,

I found something very intriguing. Moose rubbed their face and shoulder

against the thick rubber frame of the front windows, a gesture of gratitude. What did I do?

the train asked. They’d almost outrun the rain, but now it

was here, prisming the sunlight into its constituent wavelengths against dark

gray clouds. Below, the farms were striated with roads and canals that

occasionally pulsed with vehicles. Verdance still owned this city, and they

put strict limits on traffic. Most people had to leave their cars in the

suburbs, trading them for Mounts or public transit as they approached the

city. Moose stood in the window, watching a barge letting off passengers at

the station below. You let me stay on board, and that’s how I met Ginkgo. She does survey work for Verdance and has access to all kinds of archives. She found me some internal discussions from the 57,000s about whose

germlines would get packaged with these real estate deals. They sent another text file, with the Verdance logo at the top:

We’ve struck a deal with GeneTrix, to license their new indigenous

Earth germline for wild-type Homo sapiens. This paves the way for

our H. sapiens packages on Sask-E. Contract details attached. (Data

source: archived memo from Cylindra 2497, Verdance Corp. 57,544,

leak provided by trusted anonymous insider).

Scrubjay guessed that Gingko was the “trusted anonymous insider.”

Vocalizing by speaker for the whole train, Scrubjay welcomed everyone

to La Ronge. “We’ll be landing at South Station in five minutes, and

continuing on to Verdance Station and Boreal Station. Almost at the end of

the line, folks, so make sure you have all your belongings.”

Meanwhile, they texted to Moose: I’ve always wondered about those

package deals where you get an H. sapiens body with your Sasky real

estate. I wouldn’t want to give up my body to live somewhere. There’s

something disturbing about it. The cat flicked the tip of their tail, focused on something. I have a hunch

that it’s going to get a lot more disturbing when people find out how

GeneTrix got that H. sapiens material. As they drifted down to the landing pad, the city seemed to grow more

imposing. Purple shadows shimmied on the walls of the soaring towers that

ringed the city, offering residents an unimpeded view of perfect Pleistocene

landscapes beyond. Between the supertalls were slices of frenetic

metropolitan life, with wriggling storefront brands chasing each other

across rooftops and open-air markets stacked eight stories high. Baskets on

pulleys hoisted people up to buy freshly pressed oil, or lowered steaming

meal boxes prepared in pop-up kitchens for the café crowds below. The

only remaining Verdance offices on Sasky were at the heart of Old Town,

hidden behind centuries of monumental architecture. In fifteen minutes,

Scrubjay would arrive at the station next to the corporation’s low-rise

campus, where engineers and bureaucrats worked in domos with one of the

planet’s few direct links to the wormhole data feed. As their feet connected with the ground, Scrubjay got a quick burst of

messages from Peach and two other trains, insisting that they start grinding

on Sunbuilders immediately. Apparently, a hostile empire was threatening

their guild’s holdings. The train outmaneuvered a mining fleet, opened all their doors for the passengers, and analyzed what Moose had texted a few

seconds ago. What’s wrong with the H. sapiens material?

I mean, other than the

obvious problems with H. sapiens being annoying and narcissistic. The train

emitted a quiet hoot of laughter from a speaker near Moose’s ear. I need to investigate more, but their supplier, GeneTrix, is pretty shady. There was some kind of internal controversy, and then the CEO left and the

company imploded. Moose broke off, curled into a tight ball on the seat, and

closed their eyes. Listen to this story. The cat sent a chunk of audio from a

file called “GeneTrix CEO, Archie Belany, is stepping down after H. sapiens controversy”:

Belany’s company is one of the most successful in the Homo sapiens

germ-

line space, providing the feedstock for billions of successful

decantings. GeneTrix has stressed integrity in its branding—they

claim every genome they license is synthesized directly from wild-type

templates. But a recent investigation revealed the company’s most

anticipated new product, an indigenous Earth genome, is raising

concerns. Insiders say Belany’s departure comes after two former

employees circulated a memo accusing the company of “stealing”

germlines. For his part, Belany says there was simply “a

misunderstanding,” and that his move was part of a long-standing

plan for him to transition into an advisory position while the company

restructures. The two former employees are not speaking to the media

about their memo, after allegedly receiving an undisclosed sum from

GeneTrix. (Data source: Official broadcast, The Venusian Cloud,

57,991)

This ancient tale of corporate drama was starting to sound like the

embezzlement plot twist in Sunbuilders 7.

Scrubjay was intrigued. Definitely sounds shady, they sent. Moose looked straight into one of Scrubjay’s main visual sensors, a

silver globe in the roof over their head. There was one big customer who acquired the “indigenous Earth” germline right before old Archie

“transitioned into an advisory position.” Guess who it was?

The train spawned a new process to ponder Moose’s riddle while yet

another one was smashing an advancing army that wanted to steal their

guild’s sun. After a few seconds, Scrubjay addressed Moose again. It’s

Verdance, isn’t it?

Chittering with laughter, the cat rearranged their paws. I’ve already got

the receipts to prove it—aside from that memo Gingko found, there are

corporate records showing they bought a huge batch of licenses from

GeneTrix. Then, after the scandal broke, Verdance vagued out where their

germlines came from and denied any relationship with GeneTrix. Their

marketing materials say “property owners will get access to artisanal lines

sourced from Pleistocene sequences,” which kind of makes it sound like

Verdance made them. But if I’m right, everyone who buys property here is

still getting these GeneTrix packages to use for building themselves nice H. sapiens bodies. Or for remotes. A wave of new passengers settled into their seats, and Scrubjay

welcomed them before diving underground for the city’s subterranean stops. For some reason, people didn’t like to see transit soaring overhead, so the

Boring Fleet had created roomy tunnels for the trains below ground. Sailing

half a meter over the smooth floor, they announced the next stop and

connected to the city’s real-time transit map. A local train was moving

slowly ahead of them in this tunnel. Scrubjay could fork off into another

passage that connected with Verdance Station and shave thirty seconds off

the trip; or they could go one level deeper into the freight tunnel, then back

up to this level, and save forty seconds. The latter was the ideal route. Scrubjay transmitted it to the other trains in circulation. Affirmation came

in six microseconds from the relevant local vehicles and Scrubjay shot into

the glorious puzzle space that was the intracity transit system. Sliding back up into the main tunnel level, Scrubjay managed to shave

another two seconds off their arrival time. So all the H. sapiens on Sasky

have GeneTrix bodies built with the genetic material those workers said

was stolen?

What would that mean?

I’m trying to find out, the cat replied. If it’s true that the H. sapiens on

this planet come from stolen germlines—well, it would be impossible for

this planet to enforce its sapiens-only policy. Scrubjay pondered. That certainly would change things around here. That’s an understatement. Moose bonked their head against Scrubjay’s

window lightly. The problem is that this happened over three thousand

years ago. GeneTrix is long gone, and Archie Belany died a few centuries

after he stepped down as CEO. We know Verdance bought H. sapiens

germlines from GeneTrix, and we know that every buyer on Sasky—

including behemoths like Emerald—licensed those germlines from

Verdance. So it’s GeneTrix all the way down. The question is, did Verdance

buy the allegedly stolen batch?

And more importantly, why did those

workers think it was stolen?

Scrubjay pulled into the station, with its grassy platform illuminated by

skylights in the sidewalks overhead. People walked on and off, H. sapiens

brushing legs with H. diversus of various kinds, cats, moose, beavers, naked

mole rats, cows, and a cute drone carrying a group of worms. Could all

those H. sapiens really be living in stolen bodies?

Stolen from whom?

As the train optimized the next segment of their route, Verdance ads

flashed and darted around the station. Moose paced across the recently

vacated seats. My story today is about just what we know so far. Verdance definitely did

business with GeneTrix—that is solidly documented. But maybe it’s just a

bit of historical dirt and nothing more. Maybe not. Once I publish, more

people may come out of the woodwork with information. Moose emitted a

quiet growl that Scrubjay felt as a minute vibration beneath their furred

belly. I’m certain somebody knows about this. Somebody knows exactly

what that GeneTrix memo said about stolen germlines. The train mulled this over as they zipped into a crosstown tunnel and

emerged into the air again at Boreal Station. End of the line. The forest’s

ragged edge was only three klicks away, separated from the city by

parkland. A barely visible trail wound through tall grass to an ERT outpost

at the tree line where people monitored carbon emissions and kept guard

over the ecosystem. For now, Verdance was holding on to everything north of La Ronge, maintaining it as nonurban space. Ecotours were permitted,

but there were no settlements or farms. “Everybody must exit the train at Boreal Station,” Scrubjay announced

to the half-empty cars. “Please make sure you have all your belongings with

you.” No matter how many times you reminded them, people always forgot

things. Like that H. sapiens who had tucked a bag under the seat in front of

them and was now shuffling away without it. “Hey, friend, don’t forget your

bag,” the train warned. The person looked up at Scrubjay’s speaker, startled, and stooped to grab

the small linen sack. “Thanks, friend.”

People always forget that I have visual sensors inside the train, they

remarked to Moose, who had returned to their sleeper box and drawn the

door closed. You think that’s what it is?

The cat yawned. I suspect they don’t realize

that you’re a person. These are tourists, and most other worlds don’t build

trains as people. The idea of weird distant planets with inanimate trains and germline

scams made Scrubjay depressed. They needed to escape from H. sapiens

politics and transit duties for the night. Turning inward, Scrubjay forked

their perceptions, pouring their consciousness inside a silver-skinned,

quadruped remote that was stored under the seats in the back car. The

remote was cat-sized and had the thick body of a beaver atop four actuators

with three joints each. Their head was also beaver-inspired, with sensors

arranged to look like two tiny ears and wide-set eyes above a short snout

ringed with delicate whisker antennas. They had hands with opposable

thumbs at the ends of their legs and a paddle tail. It was a morphology that

went unremarked in most public settings, and was perfect for many kinds of

gaming. This would be Scrubjay’s body for the next few hours while their

background processes cleaned and guarded the train. If anything

endangered Scrubjay’s primary body, they would get an alert. All other data

would be logged for them to peruse later. As the remote booted, the train’s

perspective narrowed down to two eyes on the small robotic creature

emerging from its storage container. Snug in their compact form, Scrubjay padded between cars and sent a text to Moose. Want to go out on the town

tonight?

Forget about secret memos for a little while?

The cat poked their head out of the box. What do you mean?

I dunno. Maybe we could watch a game at the Verdance Amphitheater?

The remote looked up at the box where Moose slept. A brief wave of

dizziness seized them; there was often a sense of vertigo when Scrubjay

was the train while also standing inside it. I really need a break, they

continued. I’ve been so busy that I haven’t actually walked around in La

Ronge for more than a year. Moose jumped to the floor, glanced at Scrubjay’s body, averted their

eyes politely, and rubbed cheek and shoulder against the remote’s etched

metal carapace. You look good like this. “You know the Amphitheater, right?” Scrubjay sat on their back legs and

gestured in the direction of downtown. “We could play immersion chess in

one of the booths. Or maybe we could buy tickets to tonight’s game. It’s a

match between the La Ronge Carpenters and the Hatmen from the Gliese

system.”

Moose rolled over on their back and looked at Scrubjay upside down. I

could use a break too. But as you know, I’m short on cash right now. “I’ll buy.” Then, suspiciously, Scrubjay asked, “You do like games, don’t

you?”

The cat made a protest noise while texting. I love games. But let’s go

somewhere that’s more chill. Do you know the Meta Pew?

Scrubjay checked their internal maps. “I’ve never been. What kinds of

games do they have?”

It’s all independent stuff—nothing owned by a corporation. I think you’d

like it. “Can we walk there?

I haven’t walked in a while.”

It’s about two klicks away. Follow me. Moose wiggled upright again, and

the two four-legged people loped out the doors of the train and into the

afternoon. 39

THE ROBOT KINKSTERS OF LA RONGE

The Meta Pew was located in the thin end of a wedge-shaped neighborhood

called Northbranch that stretched from the city’s low-density suburbs

toward downtown. Its sidewalks meandered between trees and ferns. Hundreds of tiny public plazas were sandwiched between residential areas

and strips of commercial development. Northbranch was famous for its art

scene and noncorporate organizations, but it was also where everybody

went to hook up with robots. Moose knew that detail from years of

reporting on the city’s history in the La Ronge Messenger, but Scrubjay

knew it from intimate experience. It was one of their favorite

neighborhoods for that very reason. Of course, Moose wanted to get the inside scoop. What’s the scene like?

the cat asked. Maybe I should write a story about it. Scrubjay glanced at the molasses-colored cat loping alongside them. I’ll

tell you, but don’t write about me. Off the record, Moose sent. It’s mostly robot for robot—R4R—but a lot of bio types come here too,

Scrubjay explained. There are some pretty complicated protocols in the

cruising bars. Everybody broadcasts their preferences in slightly different

frequencies, and if you’re both on the same frequency, you can hook up. Some people get really into the intricacy of it, and they create these obscure

kinks with frequencies that are in some part of the spectrum nobody uses. There are huge libraries devoted to implementing every single kink. The cat yowled with laughter. Of course there are. Where there’s desire,

there’s data. I take it you haven’t ever come here to meet people?

Scrubjay looked at

Moose again, enjoying the peculiar sensation of seeing only from the front

of their body. The cat flicked their tail. I’ve come here for shows a lot, but casual sex

isn’t really my thing. Scrubjay played a snatch of sultry music aloud. I don’t consider any of

the sex I have to be casual. It’s very serious and well considered. They

weren’t entirely joking. The train never hooked up without considering at

least six possible outcomes of the encounter. These could range from a

friendly “thanks that was fun,” to a scenario like that shitty time an H. sapiens man stalked them. You know what I mean. Moose made a soft growl of frustration. I like to

do more than talk to somebody for five minutes before going home with

them. The cat broke off, sighing. I mean, back when I wasn’t living in a

train. Scrubjay leaned into the cat—head connecting softly with shoulder—to

signal that they understood. As they trotted closer to downtown, the train

noticed that the neighborhood had changed over the past year while they’d

been gone. Houses had been revitalized with fresh tissues, but a lot of

people were setting up tents in parks by the side of the road. Flags planted

alongside these informal neighborhoods read: PUBLIC PLANET / PUBLIC

HOUSING. “I’ve never seen that before,” Scrubjay said aloud. I told you, Moose sent. They don’t have houses anymore. They’re hoping

the whole planet will become publicly owned, just like Sasky Transit is. And

they want a government that doesn’t treat them like compost. I’ve seen these

Public Planet camps all over Sasky. As Scrubjay mulled this over, the cat came to a stop. Welp, we’re here,

they announced. Just in time for demo night. Moose gestured at a notice on

the door of a sprawling, T-shaped great hall: META PEW DEMO NITE BRING

YOUR OWN GAMES AND BETA TEST WITH THE BEST. The club’s outer walls were

a crazy quilt of materials: clay brick, foam jacks, diamond scraps, and

biofilms. All the windows were blacked out with dense algae, to enhance

the artificial lights scampering over every surface inside. The cover charge

was much lower than at the Amphitheater, and Scrubjay prepared to be

disappointed. Once they were inside, however, the train perked up. A nicely stocked

wares bar ran along one side of the long room, and gaming tables were

lined up against the other. The tables were sized for a range of

morphologies, and came with their own sensors, emitters, and ports for the

controllers you could rent. Moose jumped up on a barstool and ordered a

package of controllers while Scrubjay sent credits and walked to the back,

looking for the demos. Through some curtains was a blue-lit perpendicular

hall where people had set up. A stage dominated one corner, currently

occupied by a band of ravens scratching out dream beats against a silver

curtain threaded with twinkling LEDs. It was still early, so most of the games were open. If Scrubjay worked

fast, they might be able to look at all of them before it got too crowded. Their first stop was a standard two-meter-square planter box, heaped with

rich soil and threaded with wire. A crowd of earthworms had gathered

around a controller planted in the dirt—a smooth, gray orb that emitted a

spherical hologram full of bees and flowers at Scrubjay’s eye level. From

what the train could gather, the worms were playing bees who worked as a

team to fertilize flowers and bring enough pollen back to the hive to make

honey and feed grubs. The gameplay was completely incomprehensible,

and the controller wasn’t designed for Scrubjay’s synthetic mammal hands. What’s this game called?

they sent awkwardly. The worms ignored them as a massive wasp hovered into the

holographic bubble view, threatening the hive. Scrubjay tried again. Do you think I could play with one of my

controllers?

One of the worms finally texted. Not right now. We’re still setting up. Scrubjay wandered to the next station, where a mountable drone was

hovering next to a more conventional table, using actuators and lasers to

fiddle with a helmet controller. Scrubjay jumped onto a stool next to the game maker. “What are you

working on?”

The barrel-shaped bot continued to focus on the controller, but scanned

Scrubjay’s network ports rudely, looking for guild identifiers. “What do you want?” they demanded rudely. “This isn’t the ninth update of Sunbuilders or

some kind of first-person shooter.”

Clearly, they had found Scrubjay’s player profile during the scan. Scrubjay was about to explain that it was actually the fourteenth update of

Sunbuilders when the bot abruptly put down their tools and twisted their

sensor bulb to focus on the floor. “Hey, hey, Moose!

Where have you

been?”

The cat had arrived, a pack of controllers hanging from their neck and an

amused expression on their face. I’ve been around, traveling for a story,

Moose texted to anyone who cared to see it in a three-meter radius. I see

you’ve met my friend Scrubjay. “Hi, Scrubjay.” The bot sounded a lot friendlier now. “I’m Cimell. We

were just talking about my game. Want to come up and see it?”

Moose jumped onto the stool next to Scrubjay, their fur a pleasurable

tickle against the quadruped remote’s smooth carapace. What’s the helmet

for?

You making games for hominins now?

“Anyone can use a helmet.” Cimell sounded defensive. “Bots can wire

into it, and you can reconfigure it for most head sizes.”

Let’s see. Moose walked right onto the game table and nosed through a

pile of gear until they found an attachment that would make the helmet

work for a smaller skull. Are you still working on the Farm Revolutions

game?

“You remembered!

Yeah, this is the prototype. The whole story is

finished now, but I desperately need playtesters. You up for it?”

Moose licked a paw and flicked it behind an ear, tilting their head

dubiously. I mean, I already know the history and I don’t know if I’m the

right audience—

“I’ll play!” Scrubjay wedged themself between Moose and the controller. The train loved strategy games, and the Farm Revolutions was full of epic

battles and resource allocation crises. “See?

Your friend wants to play.”

“I love the story of the Trickster Squad and the founding of the first ERT. And the Battle of Saskatchewan!

Is there anything in your game about that?

Or the prairie dragons who—”

Cimell emitted an unpleasant buzz saw noise. “Nothing like that, friend. This is the real story.”

Moose flicked their tail and vibrated with a few bumpy purrs. Cimell is

convinced that we can get people to understand accurate historical data if

we make it a game. The bot and cat’s banter escalated into an elaborate debate about history

and representation whose parameters included a lot of references that

Scrubjay didn’t feel like looking up. They had come here to play a game,

not to argue over the finer points of what really happened on Earth sixty

thousand years ago. They glanced over at the next table, where a cow was

looking hopefully for potential players. A sign over their curved horns read:

CAN YOU SOLVE THE HARDEST PUZZLE ON SASKY?

Scrubjay was about to leap

over and see if the puzzle really was that difficult when Cimell picked up

the helmet and held it out. “Let’s see if Moose is right. Do you want to play the Farm Revolutions

as they actually happened?”

I am right. Moose growled. Games are inherently fantasies. You can only

tell the documentary truth in a set narrative. Plus, who wants to play a

game where everybody is starving and you have to clean up two entire

oceans that are covered in slime?

That sealed the deal, as far as Scrubjay was concerned. “You have

resource allocation scenarios?

I’m in.” And without waiting for Cimell to

reply, or for Moose to shit on another perfectly good premise, Scrubjay

connected directly to the helmet through a port in one hand. The world went away, and another replaced it. A group of H. sapiens NPCs sat outside a domo, a fire crackling nearby. Scrubjay could smell the carbon-rich smoke and prairie grass. A chill wind

rose and ruffled their hair. Stretching out their hands, they saw skinny

brown arms partly wrapped in cotton fabric. H. sapiens would be their

avatar, then. Tentatively they jogged forward and to the side, then jumped

and wriggled their hips. Just like being inside their hominin remote. The

other H. sapiens ignored them, and Scrubjay gestured for a command menu. Text congealed over the scene: STATS-INVENTORY-ACTIONS-SKILLS-HISTORICAL

SOURCES. Scrubjay could feel a grin crossing their face as they poked at HISTORICAL

SOURCES. They loved backstory, especially if it gave you information that

would help with missions later. The menu unscrolled into a list of media

created during the Farm Revolution period: speeches, maps, manifestoes,

policy documents, photogrammetry of ancient habitation sites during the

revolutions. Scrubjay was familiar with some of these, like Wasakeejack’s

famous speech about the Great Bargain, and how hominins and robots

should form the ERT together. But Cimell managed to undermine the power

of great moments in Earth history by adding factual commentary. Apparently, Wasakeejack’s Great Bargain speech—the recording everybody

heard on Farm Revolution Day—was actually a re-creation of the lost

original, delivered more than four hundred years after Wasakeejack had

died. With a pang, Scrubjay realized they had never heard the actual voice

of Wasakeejack, which made the speech seem more like propaganda than

history. As for the Trickster Squad’s greatest heroes—Wasakeejack, Muskrat,

Irontooth, and Sky—they weren’t avengers from the worlds above and

below. Instead, they were just a group of H. sapiens, known from a sparse

data trail of court orders and arrest records related to trespassing,

destruction of property, and land ownership rights. It’s not as if Scrubjay

had ever really believed in the story about how the Squad erected new

continents above the floods and repopulated the land with one magical

decanter. Obviously the Battle of Saskatchewan was a fairy tale too. It was

important to understand that. Still, Moose had a point—it wasn’t much fun

to play a game where everything was strictly realistic. Scrubjay’s character could only carry a couple dozen kilograms of

supplies, which made everything incredibly slow and irritating. And then—

they consulted INVENTORY and ACTIONS—they had to scrounge for food

while they waited for the Great Bargain to usher in a new era of agricultural

production. Maybe it was accurate, but Scrubjay missed seeing the Squad

come roaring out of the sky on the backs of flying dragons, to take back the

land. The train spent another twenty minutes wandering around, talking to the

NPCs, trying to figure out how to gain experience. Eventually they learned that their character could pick one of five missions: draw carbon down from

the atmosphere, grow drought-resistant crops, de-acidify the oceans, invent

molecular tool kits, or convince people to join the Great Bargain. Where

were they even supposed to begin?

Every mission would take centuries,

which the game compressed down into still-interminable hours. That’s when they unplugged. As the real world snapped into focus,

Scrubjay perceived Moose, Cimell, and a worm from the bee simulator

standing next to them on the platform. The group was even deeper into the

debate about realism in games. “What did you think?” Cimell asked. “Gritty, right?

Feels like you’re

dealing with real problems?”

“It definitely felt like a real problem,” Scrubjay conceded. “But it was

frustrating because it didn’t feel like there were any solutions.”

“Exactly!” Cimell hovered up a half meter with excitement. “We always

learn that the Farm Revolutions were simple and quick, right?

The Trickster

Squad invented a bunch of molecular tools, stuck some brain implants into

cows and cats, and then basically blew some bits of dirt into the ocean to

stop sea level rise. But that’s not—”

Moose interrupted. How was the gameplay?

Exciting?

“It was a little slow. And I wasn’t sure how to gain experience.”

Cimell broadcast the noise of a tree falling. “Did you do the tutorial?”

“No, but I looked through the historical sources a lot, and—”

Cimell, you are obsessed with elaborate tutorials, the worm texted. You

need to make your games more accessible. Who does tutorials?

Everybody

knows you look at your stats and skills, and start playing. Moose yowled a laugh. Plus, tutorials aren’t very realistic. Nobody gets

tutorials in real life. Now the worm was coiling and uncoiling with mirth. Seriously, though,

you really should try the narrow fantasy model we’re using for Beehive. It’s

realistic up to a point, but certain things are heightened—you don’t need to

eat to fly, and things that normally take months only take seconds. Scrubjay could tell Cimell was getting upset, and that made the train

uncomfortable. It triggered their ever-present urge to give riders perfect service, flowing along the optimal route. They searched for something to

say that would divert the conversation and make Cimell happy. “I didn’t realize the ERT founder’s speech was a reenactment. I learned

that from your historical sources.”

Really?

You learned that in twenty minutes?

Moose leaned over and

swiped a cheek against the controller. They were impressed. Very few

people realize that we have no idea who founded the ERT. Almost no

records survive from the Farm Revolution. “There are some legal documents about the Trickster Squad,” Scrubjay

said. “I was careful to explain that those are in dispute.” Cimell was irked

again. A group of naked mole rats had descended on the bee game, and the

worm made a quick exit. Scrubjay wanted desperately to try a real game at

another table, but something about Farm Revolutions was still bothering

them. “How do we even know the Trickster Squad existed?” they asked. “Are

they made up, just like the ERT speech?”

“The short answer is that we don’t. It’s probably a name that mid-first-

millennium people used to describe a lot of different groups, maybe even

working against each other.”

Moose wrapped tail around front paws and yawned. Cimell is right about

that. Sky and Muskrat might be myths, but there were real people like them

who led a movement to change the way we farm our food and grow people. “Somebody built the first ERT domo back on Earth,” Cimell continued. “But unfortunately, our first records of the ERT are from Mars. By that

time, it was so well developed that we have to assume it was founded

centuries before.”

The game hall was getting more crowded, and a couple of people had

pulled up to the platform to see Cimell’s work. Another bot plugged into the

helmet like Scrubjay had while a crow tugged at an adapter and texted

publicly: Does this game have Sky in it?

She has the best powers of all the

Squad. Moose sent Scrubjay a private text. Uh-oh. That bird is in for an earful. See you later, Cimell!

Scrubjay jumped to the floor and Moose was right

alongside them. After they’d made a circuit of the room, pausing to play everything they

could, the two quadrupeds wandered back out to the wares bar. Moose

rubbed their shoulder against Scrubjay’s thick silver carapace. What did you

think?

“I’ve never gotten to play a game with the developer standing right

there. It was very different from the Amphitheater.”

All those games have thousands of developers, so you could never have

an experience like this, right?

Arguing with Cimell?

Scrubjay swiveled their beaver-shaped head around, taking in the now-

dense crowd and thinking of Cimell’s weirdo passion for their completely

unplayable game. The mountable drone might have been irascible about

history, but they were also pretty adorable. A flare of horniness diverted the

train’s thoughts to Carbon Alley, one of their favorite R4R cruising clubs,

only a few blocks away. Scrubjay was about to peel off in search of more intimate adventures

when they got an emergency alert from their body, parked at Boreal Station. Over a thousand klicks away, one of the Lefthand train stations was on

fire and it was spreading fast. The death toll was mounting, and Peach had

barely escaped with their passengers. The La Ronge ERT was already on

high alert. Contrail, a train who worked on disaster mitigation with the

Spider City ERT, was streaking toward Lefthand. ERT rangers were

checking in from all over the planet; other members of the Flying Train

Fleet were dropping their current projects or routes to join Contrail. Someone reported an explosion near the downtown ziggurat. A disaster was

under way in the Emerald cities, and there was no time to waste. This was

what everyone in the ERT had trained for, and what they believed in: a

rescue mission to protect the environment, and the most vulnerable life

forms in it. Scrubjay’s parent and aunties had drilled them in the ERT way,

and they knew what to do. But now the drill was no longer a game, and

executing it perfectly wouldn’t earn them points over the rest of the trains,

or get them a day off choring. It was real, and Scrubjay was terrified. 40

LEFTHAND IS BURNING

“I need to get back to my primary body right now,” Scrubjay vocalized. It

wasn’t just a sentence; it was a fundamental need. Their consciousness

returned to the train, where they found the cleaning routine wasn’t quite

finished in the back car. Good enough for now; the damp floors would dry

as they flew. Illuminating a strip of orange emergency lights along each side

of their body, the train prepared to take off. They sent a few last commands

to their remote. Two klicks away from their train body, the remote vocalized to Moose:

“You need to meet me in the air. My friend Renelf can help. Follow the

remote.” Scrubjay sent coordinates to the cat-beaver bot, directing it down a

pleasant side street with Moose loping alongside. Scrubjay wasn’t sure

Renelf would be home, but he had been one of the train’s regular R4R dates

in town. A sweet guy with no drama—and he could fly. They were sure he

could be trusted to bring Moose and the remote up to the train. Peach was asking every ERT ranger and train within fifteen hundred

klicks to help with the evacuation. Emerald had issued no formal request for

aid, but that was par for the course with these closed corporate cities. Company authorities wouldn’t acknowledge that a disaster was happening. It was bad for their brand. But the locals would accept ERT assistance—

partly out of respect for the ancient organization, and partly because

desperation on the ground was always more powerful than denial at the top. A squad of ERT rangers from La Ronge was taking off now, preparing to

fly with Scrubjay. The platform diminished as the train floated upward, and

the amber lights of the ERT domos glowed in the distant grasslands beyond

the suburbs. Now that the call for aid had gone out, the ERT was setting up an

emergency data bubble for first responders to share information. Rescue missions used a special frequency for comms and kept their conversations

out of the public channels to cut down on panic and false reports. Messages

began piling up in the bubble immediately. The first was from Scrubjay’s friend Peach. No injuries here, but I’m

getting reports on the local network about projectile weapons. Cylindra has

deployed the Emerald security forces and they aren’t letting anyone in or

out of the city. Please wear your shields if you plan to enter airspace over

Lefthand. What in the rusted cladding is going on there?

Scrubjay texted. I’m in La

Ronge, on my way, and the ERT is sending a first responder squad. My passengers say it was a peaceful demonstration. Emerald is clear-

cutting downtown apartment buildings and the renters are protesting

displacement. Peach stopped transmitting abruptly. Four other trains sent identifiers and locations. They would be at

Lefthand in less than two hours. Long enough for a lot of people to get hurt. Scrubjay wished they could shoot a plume of wrathful fire like those

dragons in the Battle of Saskatchewan—the ones who never existed. Instead, the train settled for adding their coordinates and estimated arrival

time to the growing bubble. Ten minutes later, all the Emerald cities along the eastern seaboard had

gone into comms blackout—the only media that locals could access were

licensed stories and games. Worse, Lefthand was no longer showing on the

continental energy grid. But news still trickled into the bubble from a team

of four ERT rangers just outside Lefthand. They had been repairing an

ecosystem vulnerability affecting salamander health, and were in the best

position to approach quietly from the northern farms. In agricultural areas,

the city’s perimeter would permit people with ERT identifiers to pass. Peach sent an audio file to the ERT data bubble. It was a recording from

the protests twenty-five minutes before. A voice shouted over the noise of a

crowd: “Friends!

Emerald has gone too far and it’s time to take a stand!

First, they extended the sapiens-only policy to all new renters. And now

they are destroying our houses!

We’re losing our homes, and we won’t be

allowed to rent new ones. You and I built this city!

So did you!

And you!

We’re the reason Emerald is getting even richer!

Lefthand is our home, and

it should be our right to live here!”

Then there was another voice, which had the unmistakable autotune

cadence of speech amplified from someone’s sender. “You know what

comes next!

More abominations like Natural Milky!

People who are

vulnerable to manipulation and enslavement because of limiters on their

minds!

Workers who cannot speak for themselves!

We need a government

that answers to us, not a corporation that throws us out on the street!” There

were screams and a crash. And then the whine of drone remotes like a

swarm of hornets headed to war. Moose and Scrubjay’s remote were at Renelf’s house. Luckily,

Scrubjay’s old R4R hookup had gotten their messages. When Renelf

opened the door, he had already packed a satchel and draped carry nets

across his back. He’d gone bipedal since the last time Scrubjay had seen

him, but even at this remove there was still something undeniably sexy

about his matte-black carapace, studded with diamond flakes that winked in

the light. Unfortunately, there was no time for salacious admiration. Scrubjay sent him their trajectory, and Moose clawed into his carrying nets

alongside the remote. The train could feel wind moving over the cat-

beaver’s body as Renelf launched from his window and shot through the

sky toward them. As Moose watched the city shrink into an abstract grid below, they

quickly sent a message to their editor: Putting the stolen genome story on

the simmer setting for now. Something huge is happening in Lefthand—an

uprising. You won’t see it on the feeds yet. I’ll be there in two hours, sending

media and posting a story as soon as I can. Two rangers—a cow and an arachnid-shaped bot—intersected with

Scrubjay’s flight path, requesting a ride. They floated in through the doors

to the front car. A minute later the doors opened again for Renelf, Moose,

and the remote. Scrubjay folded the remote back into its place under the

seats while everyone else got comfortable on reconfigurable chairs and

pillows. Moose jumped into their sleeper box and rummaged through a bag while

broadcasting to the bubble. The La Ronge Messenger just gave me access to a wormhole network feed to cover this story. I should be able to push and

pull data from the League servers, though I need to keep it short because

we can only afford a few interstellar transmissions per day. Let me know if

you need anything. Sitting down on one of the hominin benches, Renelf broadcast a snatch

of circus music. He was confused. “What in the burning compost heap is

going on, Scrubjay?” Then, running his hand appreciatively over the freshly

scrubbed wall, he added, “Good to see you, by the way.”

“Thank you, friend. You probably won’t want to stay on this ride,

though. We’re responding to an emergency in Lefthand. There are blackouts

and … infrastructure damage.” They didn’t mention the protesters. The

train wasn’t sure how much information was already circulating publicly,

and didn’t want to sensationalize an evolving situation. Renelf laughed. “You know my job is health and therapy, right?

I figured

it was a rescue mission and I brought my medkit.” He patted his satchel. Scrubjay had never bothered to find out exactly what Renelf did. “I

mean—I knew you were …” They trailed off before saying something even

more foolish. The arachnid spoke up, using the formal introduction style for

offworlders. “Hey, friends. I’m ERT Ranger Legs, using she/her pronouns.”

The cow continued the formal greetings. “Hey, friends. I’m ERT Ranger

Bruiser, using they/them pronouns.”

Legs was a rescue specialist, one of the mission’s key organizers. And

Bruiser was a corporate analyst—they were a liaison with the cities and

their owners. Both would bring valuable insights to the rescue mission. Everyone got acquainted while Moose silently reached out to their

contacts, trying to get information about Emerald from beyond the

wormhole. More and more rangers popped into view beside Scrubjay as

they sped east toward Lefthand, the planet’s biggest city, and usually

everyone’s first stop after landing at the port. People were swapping

updates through the bubble, very tersely. The ERT rangers on-site in Lefthand sent a snatch of video as they

approached through the northern suburbs, where many of Emerald’s slaved

workers and renters lived. Almost nobody was out on the late afternoon streets. Thick, spiny bark grew over shop doors and carts—all of it was

fresh, quick-grown by anxious merchants as the protests exploded. An

armored security remote, their body a cross between tank and biped,

patrolled alongside two Blessed H. diversus soldiers. The camera view

panned to the horizon, where smoke rose around the ziggurat, its tall tiers

flashing a blinding white beneath drone searchlights. Fireworks burst in the

air, probably thrown by protesters to confuse the drones. Even from this distance, the rangers’ camera picked up faint chanting. The words were mostly unintelligible but melodic, as if they had been

mixed down into a tune that was all drum and bass. Occasionally the sounds

would resolve into one phrase, repeated by the crowd: “PUBLIC PLANET!

PUBLIC PLANET!” As the ERT rangers’ POV passed the security patrol,

they received no acknowledgment, and the video continued down the

abandoned street. For now, it seemed, the ERT could still enter the city. Hopefully that would continue to hold true, but this was an unprecedented

situation and Emerald could change their border policy at any time. Silence descended on the train car as everyone immersed themselves in

the growing bubble of data. Scrubjay calculated optimal routes and sipped

from drone views to keep their map data from the Emerald Coast up-to-

date. There was a burst of comms from Peach, approaching Angst with their

passengers, reporting that the small mountaintop city still had a functioning

energy grid. A public park next to the town hall was hosting a rally that

sounded more like a picnic than a protest, and locals working at the station

had given the train permission to land. Scrubjay pulled down more live

maps, showing that the protests were expanding in Lefthand, with fires and

troops swirling in the alleys of downtown. In other cities, they saw nothing

more than boisterous marches and public speeches. So far, Emerald’s

military crackdown was centered on Lefthand. Moose had gotten some information back from his wormhole queries to

the League. It seemed that Emerald was trying to prevent any news of the

protests from making it offworld. Official reports said Emerald was

claiming temporary sovereignty over the spaceport, requesting that all

incoming vessels remain in orbit or off-load their passengers into an Emerald space habitat. Emerald would offer discounted housing and food

tickets for travelers while they waited to slide down the gravity well. The

corporation had effectively shut down all planetary access. Other companies, including Verdance’s parent corporation, were already

filing lawsuits. They argued that Emerald’s move was a violation of

everyone else’s property rights—essentially, it was a blockade. As far as

Moose could tell, nobody offworld was investigating why Emerald wanted

to take control of the port. They were just annoyed by the inconvenience. Then again, perhaps they did know, and didn’t care. Comments piled up in the ERT data bubble as the dispersed rescue team

chewed over the implications of Emerald’s audacious move. The good news was that it didn’t seem as if offworlders were taking

Emerald’s blockade seriously. A dinghy had just landed at the port, and a

massive ship was preparing to follow it. Passengers leaving the port by

ferry could dock at Kokowadoko to the north. But Emerald controlled most

of the coastal lands along the Comfort Sea. It would be hard to travel inland

from the spaceport with the Emerald cities closed to air and road traffic. When Scrubjay was only twenty minutes from reaching Lefthand,

reports from the city went from grim to terrifying. Transmissions came

from two ERT energy grid experts, who were trying to bring back power to

a high-density neighborhood near the ziggurat. The neighborhood also

happened to be where most of the protesters lived—many of them in the

supertalls targeted for what Emerald called “revitalizing demolition.”

Suddenly, everyone in the area was slammed with an emergency message

from the city’s command center, relayed instantly to the ERT bubble: We

will begin clear-cutting residential blocks Three through Seven immediately

for revitalization. You have five minutes to evacuate. It was chaos. People flew out of their windows, dragging their flightless

neighbors. But it was exceedingly rare for a slaved person to be built with

gravity mesh. Most had to get down from the upper floors using the

overcrowded gravity assist, the stairs, and whatever webs they could grow

down the walls in the few seconds they had. And then the first bolt hit, a fat

metal cylinder from space cleaving one of the supertalls in half, its guts

pouring out in the form of broken beloved furniture, shredded fabric whose colors once warmed rooms, and people whose bodies were so torn apart that

their bleeding pieces could hardly be distinguished from the infrastructure

around them. Standing beside Moose on the train seat, Bruiser emitted a siren noise. They just killed over fifty people!

Data slammed into the bubble: death stats, grid damage, atmospheric

particulates, ground toxins. A second bolt hit, and a third. An ERT drone circled warily and sent

video. The chanting had become screaming. Streets were piled with

splintered trellises, and split wall veins oozed metabolism sludge that

bubbled with nutrients and undigested shit. Still aloft in the air were flurries

of toys, foam figurines, fancy costumes—all the priceless baubles people

accumulate over a lifetime of tiny celebratory moments to counteract their

days of drudgery. And of course, there were more dead. Headless, footless,

limbless, faceless—clothes and fur torn from their backs by the impact,

sweetness torn from the hearts of everyone who loved them. Scrubjay had

to stop watching. It was the most horrifying thing they had ever witnessed,

and even as they looked away, they knew they would never stop seeing it. ERT rangers were trying to triage the injured as best they could while

more of the Emerald tank remotes rounded up fleeing protesters. The death

toll rose as reports came in. Scrubjay was only ten minutes out, and they

could see the city’s searchlights on the horizon. There were six live feeds in

the bubble now. Two other trains had arrived on the outskirts of the city

before Scrubjay, including Contrail, and rangers were loading injured

people inside. Hundreds were dead, and hundreds more injured. Thousands

had lost their homes. People wandered through the wreckage, crying and

calling to their friends. A hominin sat in the street, hugging a broken shop

sign to their chest, rocking back and forth. Scrubjay zoomed in and found

that the sign came from THE TONGUE FORKS, one of the neighborhood’s

oldest bars. Wedged next to Moose in Scrubjay’s front windows, the arachnid bot

Legs was deep in the data bubble, coordinating rescue efforts and

contacting nearby cities to find shelter for all the people whose homes had

been destroyed. It was slow going. Angst was too small to take more than a few hundred, and the entire coast belonged to Emerald. Comms were still

blacked out. Even if the cities had been willing to receive refugees, it was

hard to contact people there unless they had an independent system for local

feed access. “We need to fast-grow some shelters outside the Lefthand city limits,”

Legs announced. Inside the bubble, she was coordinating with rangers who

had access to trellis seeds; they networked with protesters who knew local

sources for construction enzymes and other supplies. People who could

walk started trudging toward the designated shelter zone in a strip of

unoccupied land between Emerald’s holdings and an inland garden city

called Thyme & Space. Another drone feed started, following a line of weaponized remotes and

soldiers blocking Emerald Way, the main artery linking worker

neighborhoods to downtown. The armored group marched slowly toward

the ziggurat. It was an obvious kettling move, intended to keep all the

protesters downtown where they would be—what?

Arrested?

Murdered?

Forced to sleep in piles of shit and guts?

Possible answers piled up in the

bubble. They needed to get those protesters out, before they were trapped. Scrubjay made a split-second decision to ignore the no-fly warnings. “I’m going in,” they announced tersely. “Please prepare to receive

passengers.” Approaching through the ERT-friendly agricultural lands to the

north, Scrubjay stayed low enough to evade antiaircraft weapons, floating

just two meters above Emerald Way. They took a side street to evade the

line of Emerald soldiers and shot toward the closest group of refugees, still

a klick south of the security forces. It wasn’t a soft landing, but it was a

relief to be on the ground. The three cars could hold a lot of people, especially if they were smaller

than the average hominin. When the train landed and opened their doors,

Legs scuttled out immediately to explain what they were doing. Bruiser, the

ERT diplomat, galloped downtown, occasionally flying, hoping to reach

one of their contacts inside the ziggurat and stop the kettling. Aggregating

all the current maps, Scrubjay calculated and recalculated the safest route to

the Lefthand border through the city’s back streets. Covered in foam, metabolic fluid, and soot, the refugees climbed into the

train cars. There were people of all sizes, from worms and naked mole rats

to a single moose whose fur was mostly burned off the left side of their

body. There were bots and biologicals and even a couple of H. sapiens. Nobody spoke. At last, one of the people sent a text to all who wanted to

read it: One day I hope that Cylindra chokes to death on her own rotted

blood. There were some murmurs and sobs, as plus signs of agreement piled up

under the dog’s message. Can I quote you on that?

Moose asked from the floor. I’m filing my story

with the La Ronge Messenger. Two cats trembled in the data historian’s

sleeper box, one licking blood off the other’s face. The dog growled, hackles rising, showing teeth edged with metal. You

can quote me on more than that. We’re going to take back our city. Our

neighborhood will grow again. Moose rumbled with a yowl-purr. I’m with you, friend. 41

THE MOOSE REPORT

—TEXT ONLY—

Protests in Lefthand Turn Deadly

Dateline: Lefthand, Emerald Development, Sask-E, May 15, 60,610 Byline: Moose [identifier attached]

Tonight in Lefthand, Emerald security forces destroyed six blocks of downtown housing with space-based railguns. Residents were given five minutes warning, and many were unable to make it to safety in time. Environmental Rescue Team rangers on the scene estimate the death toll to be over two hundred people and five buildings. Healthcare workers are on scene treating hundreds of injured, many of whom are not expected to make it through the night. The destruction started with a peaceful protest after Emerald VP Cylindra announced

a new housing mandate to the city’s five million residents. She said the city would be tearing down five residential blocks occupied by renters, who are mostly workers indentured to Emerald and contractors on loan from other corporations. In addition, Cylindra said, landlords will no longer be authorized to rent to anyone unless they are H. sapiens. She conceded that non–H. sapiens who are already renting will be allowed to stay. But the liquidation of the residential blocks downtown means that many renters are now homeless, and unable to secure new housing in any of the Emerald cities on Sask-E. Over two thousand people gathered to protest tonight outside Emerald headquarters in

Lefthand’s famous ziggurat building. I spoke with several of them. Pinkie [identifier pseudonymized], who lost their home in the railgun impact, said they had earned out their Emerald contract and worked in a store that was also destroyed. They are afraid that Lefthand’s new rules will mean people who are not H. sapiens will be pushed out entirely. “Emerald brought me here, along with a team of sixteen other diversus, and me and my friend Cram are all that’s left,” they said. “We’ve been living here for twenty years—it’s our home. We just want to stay. That’s why we are protesting.” [see attached video for full interview]

Another protester named Argyle [identifier attached], who worked at the historic

landmark bar THE TONGUE FORKS, was in tears. “It doesn’t make any sense,” they said. “Why would they destroy such a popular place?

We were bringing in lots of money for the city. This feels like spite, not economics.” [see attached gallery for a full history of THE TONGUE FORKS]

For its part, Emerald says the move tonight was legal, and that company leadership

had been planning it for several years. In a release, company reps said: “We have made it clear to everyone that we would revitalize downtown for new residents who want to settle on a pristine Pleistocene planet. Now they can have all the amenities of modern

life, but also experience what ancient Earth was like when H. sapiens ruled the roost. Lefthand is a fun, safe adventure for everyone, and our new downtown developments will be the crown jewels in a magical city.”

It’s unclear how this development can be for everyone when so many people have

been displaced. Locals are not the only ones who are upset by recent developments. Emerald is facing

lawsuits from companies for interfering with interplanetary traffic. [see attached documents] When it comes to these suits, there’s an interesting twist. A little-known fact about this planet is that Verdance allowed a city called Spider City to incorporate as a government sixteen hundred years ago. That means Sask-E is no longer strictly private property and may fall under League jurisdiction. Coslan, an expert on governance at the Free University on Mars [see attached identifiers] said that Sask-E might even qualify for League membership. Regardless of what the future brings, nobody feels safe on the streets of Lefthand

tonight. Dangerous rubble is piled up where supertalls once stood. The ERT has set up a mist energy grid for now, and several trains from the Flying Train Fleet are transporting refugees outside city borders. At least one refugee from the catastrophe still had hope. They spoke to the Messenger while traveling by train to a refugee camp outside the independent city Thyme & Space. “We’re going to take back our city,” they said [identifier anonymized].

“Our neighborhood will grow again.”

—END—

Life had gone off-route. Instead of optimizing the best course through

established flight paths while playing Sunbuilders with the other trains,

Scrubjay spent the next two weeks figuring out how to relocate refugees to

safe places. A lot of people were moving around or in hiding, which made

things difficult. Plus, Emerald kept undermining rescue efforts. One night,

after ERT rangers set up a safe haven outside Lefthand’s western border,

Cylindra ordered her security forces right up to the city’s perimeter. The

soldiers used shocking amounts of energy to aim powerful searchlights at