SLATE

A thump to the chest and a crack of electricity.

Back arches.

Dim sensations of pressure and release.

Whirr, click, slurp.

Short, shallow breaths in time to the beat, like a bomb counting down but double-time.

Tha-thump-tha-thump-tha-thump-tha-thump.

The sound from everywhere at once, the ribcage, the skull, limbs, toes, fingertips, with palpable force.

Veins open, blood vessels engorge.

Liquid fire rips through blood and nerve. Adrenalin grabs hold of the conscious mind and yanks.

Eyes open, wide and wild.

They have never opened so wide.

Blessedly, it is dark.

The breathing reflex triggers, hard; sharp and deep. And it clollides with automated breath. And I am wholly unprepared for the crash.

It is a single high note, an inverted scream.

More breaths between coughing — chest heaves, shoulders roll.

Am I?

To ask the question is to answer it.

But I need confirmation.

Fingers rake my chest. I feel the punch, as though the heart is attempting an escape.

Alive?

I force my hand to still, feeling the rhythmic kick.

This time, the scream isn’t inverted. I thump my beating chest and scream. It comes out high and thin like a breath, and with no more force, but with an overflow of…some new rush of feeling.

It creeps on me in stealth before launching the attack.

Alive. I’m alive.

I beat my fists, finding the blows compressed in a narrow space. The movements strike elastic force.

Another tangle of nerves explodes in equally tangled vocalization, as my resistance forms a bouncing rhythm.

Pops of violet light fill the small space.

My hand comes to rest on the roof of the chamber.

The control sphere, the phasing chamber. I was in the omnichair.

I was moved back to the stasis chamber.

That which I call coffin keeps me alive.

Carried by segmented ship’s limbs in artificial gravity.

I feel the wet of condensation, bringing it to my lips by instinct. The ceiling of the chamber is fogged and streaked with darkness. There is a rumble of sound like arks colliding. Dark shadows shift above. And cold radiates, numbing my fingers.

“No,” I say. “No, no, no.”

But the words are disbelieving rather than horrified.

I know one thing: I am not on the ship anymore.

And wherever I now am, the lid of this chamber is now my doorway to this new reality. And my only protection from it.

I do not believe it.

That this is a door to a new world and that I lie on it.

I want to stay in this chamber because what is our there cannot be what I hope. It cannot be a new hope for humanity or a new cradle for humankind.

It is pessimism that comforts me, relieving the weight of expectation. The air is poisonous. The radiation is deadly. The plants incompatible, their leaves like razors, their fibers like ground glass.

Opening the door will surely kill me.

And it is this that makes up my mind. The certainty of death holds no fear; it is hope that terrifies.

I fumble, pushing through the non-newtonian foam that molds around me. The chamber is not designed to keep prisoners.

I pause with my right hand on the release mechanism. Because that is what you do before you do something dumb, or important.

“Frag it.”

If I survive, I’ll just tell people I said something profound.

I release the lever.

A rush of cold is on me as the lid ejects, sliding smoothly over the curved outer walls of the chamber. The sound tells me the ground is near and soft.

Eyes widen, then shut tight. Heart slams into overdrive.

My hand is on my throat as I choke on the poison gases.

The nebulous enemy assaults my lungs, pushing needles into my skin.

But I don’t die immediately. And the longer I don’t die...

…the more I realize that the air isn’t poison; it isn’t corroding my skin. It’s just cold and — I can’t quite put my finger on — light, and whipping sharp.

It is what it is not…it is nothing.

Clean. It’s clean.

I gasp mouthfuls of frozen air and it’s beautiful. Yes, it's fragging beautiful.

By the first Sun, and by solarin, I swear it is the best thing I have ever tasted. A strange thing to say of a tasteless gas. But I know only small spaces, breathing heavy air, through bodies and ships and filters.

You don’t know what clean air is until you breathe it.

In denial of reality, I declare this to be my first true breath.

Awed, I watch steam from my mouth rise into the cold.

I see the air move above me. A strange thing to say of an invisible gas. But it is filled with flecks of ash that appear from the black.

The ash pricks my skin and turns to water.

By the wet sun. By slagging Sol.

Snow. I think it is snow.

Could it be this…rain? What about hail?

I cross off competing hypotheses.

Snow?

It lands on my face and in my open mouth. I open wider, as though water should just fall from the sky directly into my mouth.

Which, of course, it does here. Wherever here is.

A drop of cold turns to moisture.

Snow. Snow is good. Cold, yes. I could die in the cold, but in extreme cold, there is no snow, and death is fast in arriving.

The possibility remains that the air is deadly, the drops of snow are poison.

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I can think of worse ways to die.

No. I can’t.

Dying even on a cold world would be unforgivable.

Move. I should get up and move. But I am not as cold as I should be. The black slag forms a tensile foam that has insulating properties. I can afford to lay here.

On the other hand, I’m not sure I can afford to move.

The air might not be poisonous, it may just be hallucinogenic.

It is dark. I will call it night but I cannot be sure. The landscape — what I can see of it — feels somehow familiar. No mistake, I have never seen anything like it, yet it looks like everything I have never seen, but felt to be. I can’t explain. I am filled with a sense of rightness. A sense that this is for me — and yet, that it is not the earth and the earth is nothing of mine anyway.

But the earth — is relevant.

I barely can acknowledge what I see.

This causes the mods to flip through old picture books, a dark forest in something called a fairy tale.

I shall need to make a study of it, for I am suddenly open to any possibility.

It is more than coincidence.

Black shadows move above me — branches. Diagrams do not show these from below, but I mark them as firs or pines or something close. The mods have settled into providing somewhat useful information. Trees — already I make dangerous assumptions. One is that these organisms fit into known categories. Two, that the mods are accurate and can be relied on.

They are alien life and all life must be assumed hostile and deadly until proven otherwise.

But that is not what makes me think I’m losing it.

Violet light flashes.

The wolf.

The wolf makes me think I’m breathing more than pure air.

It is close enough that I can stretch out my hand and touch it. Which is why I’m not about to make sudden movements.

Its pupils reflect light like silver opal and it watches me from a height.

If I did not notice it before, it is because of its stillness.

Unlike the trees. I have no problem assuming it's dangerous. Yet I cannot think of it as anything other than wolf. A dangerous, alien wolf, maybe, but wolf it is.

Snow settles on the animal's dark fur, between dark grey and black. Its eyes are cold iron, wreathed in dark. A long tongue lolls between massive teeth.

It looks worn down — another dangerous assumption, dangerous and stupid. But there is something in its leaning posture and drooping head, haggard fur, and slack jaw. It makes as though to howl and succeeds only in blowing hot steam.

There were many types of wolves, even before the changing. Some were never studied or recorded.

But there is one obvious difference.

Size.

I mark it as far larger than any wolf on record. Far larger than the timber wolf or even the extinct dire wolf. It looms over me, swaying with breath.

The height is uncanny. Its head is too high. It makes it seem human-like and intelligent. Like a wolf’s head on a man’s body.

It is also broader than any wolf.

I estimate it would come somewhere to my shoulder.

I decide to do something incredibly stupid.

Again, I trust the mods. Those famously idiosyncratic scrapings of human knowledge from questionable sources.

If it had wanted to eat me, it would have taken a bite.

Frag. Mod logic.

Slowly, I offer the great wolf my hand.

It huffs in the dark. I count its rising breaths by the steam as much as by the swell of its chest.

For eight breaths it wavers before dipping its head to sniff my hand for long enough that I think it sleeps. It looks at me then, sudden and full in the eye. Its eyes blaze with intelligent intention, and something passes between us. Something primal and old, that wakes buried paths in my mind. Something that belongs on paper and ink. A connection between two animals that have walked together for ten thousand generations and, it would seem, on distant worlds. Man and wolf, together once more.

Its rough tongue and warm breath break the spell.

I shake my head to clear it of strange thoughts.

But what I see is strange enough.

I can scarcely believe it. A living, breathing animal makes direct contact with me. Nothing in any manual, or sim, could prepare me for this.

My breath is halting through a manic half-grin that makes the wolf flinch.

It is tired again with none of its blazing intensity. It licks persistently, turning this way and that, with plaintiff sounds. I think it cleans the black slag. Its tongue is broader than my wrist. A not entirely unpleasant sensation, if rough.

“Good boy.” I repeat the phrase calculated to pacify the beast.

If anything, I would think calling it “boy” would cause insult. For it is no boy. A boy is a thing entirely different. Boy is small and weak and nothing like wolf.

But by mod think, it is the tone of voice, more than the words spoken, and I assume the phrase has some satisfying cadence.

The tone should be even and calm, a steady flow of soft words. I try to inflect the lowering and rising tones that are supposed to indicate encouragement.

It is the wrong thing to say.

The wolf turns away, its ears flicking.

It stands, peering into the dark. I scan it side-on, appreciating its full dimensions. I check whether it is not better categorized as a horse and check again.

Thick fur makes the wolf seem absurdly large over an already imposing frame. Only the sagging stomach seems out of place.

Well. I indulge in self-address, half believing myself still in a dream. I guess it's time to set my feet on an alien world.

If I ever get to make a report, there will be less lying around involved. Not that I could pass such liberties.

Getting out is easier than I expected. I expected to feel muscle pain, as I did on the ship, but I am renewed. I can thank the black crunk for that, and whatever cocktail was shot into me — that’s what the chest-piece is for: emergency medical intervention — grave-robbing, as it is known to a rougher sort.

I pool out ingloriously onto the dirt.

I lie there for a moment panting. No jaws close around me and I feel — happy is the word for it.

My hands close around soft earth — well, dirt at least.

I am seized by the urge to taste it, to roll in it, to throw it and let it land like snow.

An interstellar journey, a wake-clock from hell, and a crash landing on an alien planet — the wolf, admittedly, could still go either way.

I should be dead. In no way should I be the lucky bastard to make landfall in paradise. And it is a paradise. Breathable air, biological life analogous to earth life, a water and weather cycle. It doesn’t matter what other doom awaits in this world. Black as it is in the dark, it is already greater than any world that man has set foot on and lived to tell about. This is what we have dreamed about for long ages in the black. This is everything men went mad and died for but no more. A new home, a future for our species.

If we can take it.

I get to my feet slowly, feeling the weight of the moment.

Solarin feet on foreign world.

To survive is now my solemn duty, to thrive, to grow, and establish a foothold in this world. I am alone and I carry the hopes of my species alone. Whatever waits for me in this strange world, I will take. And when the scattered stars find their way to this paradise, I will stand here to greet them and say, “Welcome to your home.”

NOTHING

You suggest.” The Scribe’s throat warbles in discomfort. “That the host cares for its parasite?”

“My dear child. If they cared, would they have allowed them to fester so?” He waves an arm to the bodies, beckoning a clutch of bodies forward on their grav point.

The bodies jerk as their links reach their limits.

“Forgive Lord. This number shows his ignorance. This number should know better than to think in reasons.” The number’s words tumble onto one another.

“Oh come, now. Don’t be sad, poor thing. poor creature.” Long fingers bristle the number’s hair and trail his face. “I do so hate it when they’re sad.”

A small flight of Emotes land on his shoulder making cooing noises. They squeeze exploding faces and symbols with popping noises.

To a number the abstracted figures and motions mean nothing. It is a chaotic language best left to the Echelon and their many feelings.

“Forgiveness, Lord.” The number chastises. “Whys are not for numbers to know. This number will see himself punished most severely.”

“Shoo. Shoo. Speak not of indelicate things.” A hand pats circles on the Scribe’s round belly. “You may receive your punishment later, my chit, if you insist.”

The Scribe makes a magnanimous gesture. And popping emotes clutch their hands and bow in effulgence showers of shining color.

“But speak freely. I order it of you.” The Scribe offers his hand theatrically to no obvious purpose. “And what is determined will be.”

“For I know nothing of lower things.” A bony finger lifts the numbers shin into his smiles. “So you will instruct me.”

The number is unable to control the shivers that unsteady it. He honors me.

This is not a good thing.

“A number is not worthy.” The number searches the floor desperately for some means whereby a fly may escape a spider’s web.

“Number!” The Scribe exclaims in cold laughter. “Ha, number!”

The scribe leans over, the ambulator wobbling perilously, as though he would swallow the number. He speaks as though forgetting to adjust his volume setting. “I will never understand why you call yourselves this.”

Drones buzz in angry swarms, so that the voice surrounds and outnumbers the number. Emotes erupt in red sprays that would make hardened soldiers evacuate their stomachs.

Fingers squeeze the number’s face like hydraulic claws. Bones crack. “You are no number.” Observation drones scan every inch of the number's face, scraping the caverns of the number’s pupils, illuminating them like a cat’s eyes. “Numbers are beautiful. Numbers have meaning.”

Crack. “And which number would you be?” The number feels the warmth on his legs even as tears from the Scribe’s mouth fall on its face. “Would you be a one, the number that is in all and over all?” He signs the Eye. “Would you be a two? A three!?” He signs the Eye twice and a third time for the Third Eye. “Indeed, and tell me, would you be an odd number or even?” The Scribe’s mouth twists in disgust, his tongue flicking pursed lips. He lifts the number by its broken face. “Or would, pray, you be a prime?”

The gold orb flashes, burning away layers of genetic fidelity. Not enough to kill, just to create lasting suffering.

No. No. No. No.

The pain of displeasure skewers the number. The shame that only numbers are worthy to possess.

“Perhaps…perhaps you would be a null? Is that it?” Microdrones swarm the corners of the number’s eyes, searching any trace of liquid, landing on skin and buzzing away. “But you are not even that. For even null has value.” The Scribe turns his head, observing for the first time through his oculars. And yet his gaze moves through the number as though cutting it in two. “No. You are nothing — the nothing that cannot be conceived. The nothing that does not exist.”

“And yet here I am” He looks around the hall. “In the arsehole of the underworld. My fingers touching that which it is impossible to touch, and the nothing will pay for having me comfort it.”

The number blubbers a response through his broken jaw, coloring its words with blood. “The nothing apologizes, most hum…”

The hand drives the number into the ground, with a flick from the Scribe’s finger.

“Poor thing. Poor, poor thing.” A hand smoothes the number’s face into the floor. “Can nothing speak?”

“Shhh. Shhh.” The Scribe soothes his hearts. “Would nothing become something?”

“Oh! Only something’s have the power to become nothings! Never the other way around.” The Scribe goes on. “Can nothing do nothing right?”

“Oh pish! Good, good.” Hands pick up the number like a thing broken into parts that barely holds, “Would I be so cruel? Am I not merciful?” Hands straighten the number’s grey uniform. “Do you think me so miserly?”

The number’s slack face and vacant eyes cannot force the red tears back into his body. It drips on the grey uniform.

“Look at you.” The face rocks side-to-side. “What a mess you’ve made! What happened to you? Speak freely.” The Scribe strokes the number’s hair and face in a circular motion coming to move the jaw, which it prods up and down. A voice drone strokes the numbers ears. “I will even permit you to call yourself nothing, if it is easier for you.”

“Are you not the number who submitted Kr3472?” The Scribe’s booming laughter once again forgets to adjust his volume setting to the ambient environment.

Blood trickles from the number’s ears and it murmurs with insensible wet syllables.

“Are you not the child who brought me, even me, to this charming place? After all.” The Scribe’s eyebrows raise. “It is not every span that a prisoner just…appears in our little dungeon, is it, my sweet nothing?”