A picture of a Vitrifer, a terrestrial jellyfish shaped like an upside-down ice-cream cone. The “cone” is a glassy, four-sided pyramid. The parts of the Vitrifer that protrude from the cone are its eyes (one at each corner of the cone), tentacles (one under each eye), and legs (between each set of eye-tentacle) [https://64.media.tumblr.com/59205cccdf77de2c81ce9f273f9ae523/1cf49688734a083b-e0/s640x960/ce52349eba09f2d3b5ab563fc5dc9570278682dc.pnj]

Picture by Timothy Morris

On one earth, jellyfish beat plants in the invasion of land. A colonial species with glassy shells and symbiotic algae grew to be the size and shape of trees, as the reader already knows. The reader might not be aware, however, of how jellyfish reproduce.

The larvae produced by the fusion of egg and sperm develop into polyps, which bud asexually and may form a colony like coral before they segment into a shape like a stack of bowls. Each of these bowls develops into a sexual medusa-stage, the familiar bell-with-tentacles.

The glass-barked trees of the Quotidian earth and many others correspond to the asexual polyp stage, and grow sexual medusae as the equivalent of fruits and seeds.1 For many of these species, the medusa is still mobile. For some, it is quite mobile indeed.

Imagine a jellyfish stuffed bell-first into a four-cornered glass cone, green with algae. Four sophisticated eyes, lens, retina and all, peek out from between four legs and four arms, each a concertina of folded silicone sandwiched between layers of flesh. Of the anus-mouth in the center, we will not speak.

As their asexual stage dominated the plant-niches of their earth, the sexual stage took on the roles of animals. They were born as the fruit of a precious child-bush, grew, loved, and planted leathery seed-eggs in good soil, so more children could be harvested in their season.

Tool use came when the glass shells of the dead were cleaned of algae and set in the sun, where they focused the light and produced temperatures hot enough to melt sand into glass. Even today, these lovers of tradition call themselves the Vitrifers: those who carry glass.

That's what was waiting for Laura in the lobby of the UN Embassy.

"Finally, you're here." The voice the translator chose was female and low. "Where are all the other audience members?"

"What?" said Laura.

"Oop?" said Mr. Grumbles.

The creature in the lobby shuffled around in its puddle of gel. It brought first one eye to bear on the kidnapped steed, then another. "Oh, is that Mark? He does look funny. Is he ready for the show to begin?"

Laura's hands wanted to rise to cover her face. She wouldn't let them. It was a scheduling error.

"I'm terribly sorry," she said. "The show already happened. It was in a performance space downtown."

Four tentacles curled sadly. "You mean I missed the performance?"

And you came to the wrong place. But Laura didn't say that. She walked slowly toward the lost nonhuman, trying to determine whose fault this was. "Did you receive some sort of promotional material? What date and time did it give?" No, wait, she needed to get rid of this thing. "Never mind about that. Once again, let me apologize. And instruct the omnivator to take you back to your home."

"Oh dear. And I was so looking forward to seeing the funny clown dance."

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

"Ee?" said Mr. Grumbles. His voice sounded suspiciously echoey and far away.

Laura glanced around at him. The omnivator doors were still open and Mr. Grumbles was still in there. He was crouched, eyeing the lobby of the UN embassy with extreme dubiousness.

Laura bit back a curse and said "Come out."

He cringed back.

"Hello," said the Vitrifer.

Laura turned back around. "He can't answer you. He's very tired." She gave a bow. "Yes, I don't know how exactly we made this mistake, but—"

"It must have been my mistake. I'm the only one who came here, and my memory hasn't been reliable since my husband died."

This time Laura's hands made it to shoulder level before she made them go back down again. "I'm sorry to hear that. Now, about that omnivator ride. Mr. … Mark, you come out right now!"

"Oo."

"We had a good life together," said the jellyfish-cone. "Two bushes we planted together, and they gave us three good children. Grown now. You know one of them works as a diplomat in the Zogreion?"

"Yes?" said Laura, and before she could say anything about the daughter's address, where this old cone-lady could go…

"I told her to leave me alone. I'm too old to travel. She all but pushed me into the accelerator! Said I needed to get out and have some fun. Well, I'll tell her I tried, but all I did was waste the time of a lovely young … well, whatever you are, dear. Some kind of vetulicolian?"

"I'm a…" Laura juggled words like 'chordate' and 'deuterostomes,' dropped them, and finished, "it doesn't matter. Honored Sophont, don't you need help getting home?"

"No, no. I'm using my daughter's private omnivator. I'll just tell it to take me to her apartment. I suppose I'll wait there until she gets home from work." The cone-lady sweated more gel. "She told me to stop trying to make dinner. I can never remember who to call to deliver groceries or what to tell them." She pointed a tentacle. "Why is Honored Mark pressing his face into the wall of the omnivator?"

"Eep!"

By the time Laura turned around, Mr. Grumbles had stopped doing whatever it was he was doing. He was looking at the nonhuman's pointing tentacle, smiling. He shuffled closer.

Laura looked from guest to erectus and let out a breath. A piece of panic flaked off, and a few things were suddenly obvious. She stepped toward the omnivator and held out her hand.

Mr. Grumbles took it in both of his. The tips of his fingers pressed delicately into the skin of her palm. Laura gave a gentle pull, and the erectus followed.

"Do you know how to order groceries, Honored Sophont?" That was the old cone-lady.

A string twanged between Laura's senses of pity and tradition. Also, she had a clear path to her rooms as long as the rest of the embassy was hiding like a bunch of cowards.

"Honored sophont," Laura began.

"I'm a Vitrifer, dear. I was harvested and lived my whole life on the estate of Chalk Dune, and my parents called me Sweet Rind. I worked as a Picketer until I met my husband, and we decided I should manage the Western Gate. This was after the Ceremonial Incursion from Coal Flats and Amber Beach, and I wore quite a large hat, as you can imagine. I was waiting for you to give me your species and name."

"Laura. Human." She glanced at Mr. Grumbles, who patting the sofa and cooing. She took her eyes off him for just one second. "I think we're some kind of salp? Now, how about we—"

"Human Laura, is your companion alright?"

Mr. Grumbles was preparing to pee in a corner.

Laura grabbed his arm. She pulled, and he stayed put, whimpering. His pants were tangled.

"He's fine," said Laura. "Vitrifer…Sweetrind, would you please come with me to my room? I'll see to my…friend here. And I'll serve you some tea."

"Oh, I couldn't possibly. Boiled land-weed sounds like it would be much too expensive."

Mr. Grumbles whimpered again as Laura snapped his waistband up.

"It would be. My pleasure."

1Let's set aside all the complicated business with symbiotic slime-molds.